“I guess you’re right; he’ll have to go,” said Mrs. Wiggins. “But—” she looked hard at Freddy “—you didn’t intend to ask us to drive him away, did you?”
“I don’t know who else could tackle the job,” Freddy said.
Mrs. Wiggins shook her head. “We wouldn’t mind tackling him in the open, where we can swing our horns. But to go into the woods after him—thank you kindly!” And Mrs. Wogus and Mrs. Wurzburger shook their heads too. “Stumbling around, getting hooked in vines and creepers, and him on a limb overhead, like as not, just waiting to spring until we get stuck tight.”
“How about Jacob?” said Mrs. Wiggins. “He’s helped us before.”
“Jacob!” Freddy perked up. “By George, I think you’re right. I’ll go see him right away.”
Jacob was a wasp who lived in one of a row of wasp apartments under the eaves of the barn. When Freddy called to him he flew down and lit on the pig’s nose. He said: “I’d be delighted to help you, Freddy, but there’s the State Wasps’ Convention this week down at Binghamton and—well, you know how it is; maybe they won’t call on me for a speech at all, but after all I’m pretty prominent in a way—I mean I’ve won all those cross-country racing prizes and so on, and if they did call on me for a few words, I ought to have something ready. I’ve been throwing a few ideas together and I’ve got to whip them into shape. But if you can wait until Monday, I’ll rout out some of the boys and we’ll take care of that wildcat for you.”
There seemed to be nothing to do but to wait. Freddy went back to the pig pen but he was just going in the door when he noticed a very strange looking bird sitting on the roof. It had a sort of ruff around its neck of stiff white feathers, and its tail was a red, white and blue fan. It was certainly very striking looking, and Freddy was about to call to it when it flew down and lit beside him, and he saw that it was Mrs. Popinjay.
He noticed a very strange-looking bird sitting on the roof.
“My goodness,” he said, “you’ve certainly been out spending J. J.’s hard earned money, Mrs. P. Not that it isn’t very becoming—very fetching, in fact.”
Mrs. Popinjay cocked her head coquettishly. “Oh, Freddy! What things you say! But you ought to see some of the others. A lot of us have been down to Centerboro and Miss Peebles has been dressing us up. Then she puts us in the window, just as she did J. J., and sells us as hats. She got the idea from Mrs. Church. So many people admired Mrs. Church’s live popinjay hat at the wedding, and they all came to Miss Peebles to see if they couldn’t get one like it. So Miss Peebles spoke to J. J. and told him to bring some of his friends in to be trimmed. Of course she doesn’t really sell us; we’re just hired out. For instance, I’m Mrs. Weezer’s hat now, and when she’s going somewhere special, like a church supper or a card party, I go down so she can wear me.”
“Miss Peebles hasn’t wasted much time,” Freddy said. “The wedding was only yesterday.”
“Her store has been crowded all day long,” said Mrs. Popinjay. “I’ll bet she’s trimmed twenty bird hats today.”
“But what does she get out of it?”
“We give her half of what we make,” said the robin. “I get fifty cents for every appearance, and half of that goes to Miss Peebles.”
Freddy thought that was fair enough. “But that’s big money for a bird,” he said. “Of course you’ll want to spend some of it on a good time, but do put some aside for a rainy day. Come down to the First Animal Bank when you get the time and let me explain our Savings and Loan Service to you.”
Mrs. Popinjay chirped with amusement. “You’re getting as bad as Mr. Weezer,” she said. “Every nickel you see you want to roll it right into your bank. Well, I’ll be seeing you!” And with a flirt of her feathers she flew off.
“My goodness,” said Freddy, talking things over with Jinx a little later, “I don’t know whether all these fine clothes are such a good thing after all. That Mrs. Popinjay used to be such a quiet, modest little bird, but since she’s got all trimmed up she’s—well, she kind of poses all the time, as if she thought everybody was looking at her.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Jinx. “Kind of silly. It’s the same with her husband. When he was just plain Mr. Pomeroy I had nothing to say, for or against him, and that’s the way folks you don’t know very well ought to be. But since he got those fancy tail feathers it’s all strut and waggle. I’ve watched him. If a strange bird comes along, up he goes. ‘I’m J. J. Popinjay; maybe you’ve heard of me.’ Then he looks at ’em down his beak through those little spectacles, and the stranger kind of wilts. ‘Yes, sir; no, sir.’” Jinx held a paw up and examined his claws thoughtfully. “Some day I’m going to catch that bird on the ground, and then we’ll see what he’s like when he’s trimmed down to size again.”
“I’m just wondering,” said Freddy, “if we made a mistake in getting those new clothes for Jimmy.”
“You mean you wonder if they’ll make him into a popinjay too? I wouldn’t worry. Old Zenas will take care of that.”
Freddy shook his head. “They say fine feathers make fine birds. But I’m afraid they just make stuck-up ones. Well, we’ll have to wait and see.”
Chapter 15
Centerboro Main Street, as Freddy looked out at it the next afternoon through the window of Miss Peebles’ store, seemed more like a tropical jungle than the business section of a New York State town. Birds in brilliant plumage flashed to and fro among the lower branches of the trees, robins crested and plumed like birds of Paradise, sparrows in red and blue and green, woodpeckers and wrens and phoebes with long floating tails of every color of the rainbow. Half the population of Centerboro stood around the window watching the display, which Miss Peebles changed every ten minutes, as a different lot of birds took their places on the little hat stands.
“It’s the biggest day I’ve ever had, Freddy,” said Miss Peebles, as she stopped in her rush from one customer to another to speak to the pig. “I’ve sold twenty hats this morning, and I’ve had phone orders from as far away as Rochester. There’s no delivery problem, you see; the hats deliver themselves. I really believe we’ve started a fashion that will sweep the country. Popinjay Hats. Birds always make the prettiest hats, and this is a way to use them without breaking the law.”
“They’re better than regular hats in many ways,” said Freddy. “You don’t have to hang them up, and if somebody behind you in the movies leans forward and says: ‘Will you kindly remove your hat, madam?’ why off it flies—instantly. And waits for you in the lobby.
“And another thing you can do,” he said, “you can train them for tea parties. Train them to say ‘How do you do?’ and ‘How is your dear husband?’ and ‘Thank you for a lovely time,’ and such things, so that the one who wears the hat can really get somewhere with the refreshments while the hat takes care of the polite conversation.”
Miss Peebles thought this was a wonderful idea, but she was much too busy to discuss it then, and after congratulating her on her success Freddy was about to leave, when through the window he saw Mr. Witherspoon’s buggy, drawn by Jerry, come creaking along the street. In it were Mr. Witherspoon and Jimmy, and Jimmy had on the suit he had won at the tournament.
Freddy stayed where he was and watched. The buggy stopped in front of Jamberson’s hardware store across the street, and Mr. Witherspoon got out. A lot of the people who had been staring into Miss Peebles’ window now turned right around and stared at the Witherspoons, for to see Jimmy in a decent suit was almost as remarkable as to see a sparrow in red and green plumes. Mr. Witherspoon glowered at them for a moment, then turned into the store.
Aware that he was being stared at, Jimmy slid as far down as he could in the seat. A minute later two boys came along. They stared too, then they grinned and went up to the buggy and one of them said: “Hello, Jimmy. Going to the ball game?”
“Hullo,” Jimmy grunted. “No.”
“Better come along. Centerboro’s playing Gomorrah Center.” They hesitated a minut
e, then: “Well, be seeing you,” they said, and went on.
Jimmy was puzzled. Those boys had never paid any attention to him before. Of course he’d always been pretty surly to them. So why had they spoken to him now? It couldn’t be just the suit; boys didn’t care what kind of clothes you wore. Freddy could almost watch these thoughts going through Jimmy’s mind, but he was glad to see him straighten up a little in the seat.
A boy named Jason Brewer went past and took off his cap to Freddy. The pig ran after him. “Jason,” he said, “are you going to the ball game today?”
“Nope,” said Jason. “Can’t afford it.”
“Well, look,” said Freddy. “You know I always get two tickets to the games, so I can report them for The Bean Home News. I’ll give them to you—you can stop for them at Mr. Dimsey’s—if you’ll ask Jimmy Witherspoon to go with you.”
“Jimmy Witherspoon!” Jason exclaimed. “You can’t give Jimmy anything. And I don’t know that I’d want to go with him. We don’t like Jimmy much.”
“I know you don’t. But I don’t think that’s really Jimmy’s fault. And I have a special reason for asking you. Can you keep a secret?”
Jason grinned. “I can if I have lots of help.”
“I think you can,” said Freddy. “It’s a little too long to explain now, but I want Jimmy to go to that game. I’d ask him myself, but maybe he wouldn’t want to go with a pig—”
“With a pig!” said Jason. “Why I’ve seen you at ball games with Mr. Weezer and Judge Arnett. I guess if they can go with you, he needn’t be so high and mighty.” He sniffed angrily. “He’s so proud and stuck-up—and what’s he got to be stuck-up about anyway?”
“Nothing,” said Freddy; “and that’s really why he’s proud. His father won’t give him any spending money, or even decent clothes, and he’s ashamed not to have what other boys have. If people try to be nice to him, he thinks it’s because he’s poor, and he snubs them. You’d be the same way, Jason.”
“I never thought about it that way before,” Jason said, “but I expect I would. I suppose I’d be ashamed of my father, and then I’d be ashamed of being ashamed, and then—well, I’m getting all mixed up, I guess.”
“Jimmy is all mixed up,” said Freddy. “That’s the trouble. But I thought maybe you’d like to help him. He’s got a new suit today, and I think—well, I sort of think he’ll go with you. If you ask him in the right way—sort of offhand.”
“O.K.,” said Jason. He grinned. “I’m not a Boy Scout for nothing. And I sure do want to see that game.”
Freddy went back into Miss Peebles’ and watched. Jason did it pretty well. He walked past the buggy with a “Hi, Jimmy!” and then turned as if an idea had struck him and came back. “Got a couple tickets to the game,” he said. “Want to go?”
The question surprised a “Yes!” out of Jimmy before he had time to think. Then he started to make some objection, but Jason didn’t wait. “O.K.,” he said. “Meet you at the gate at two sharp.” And went on.
Jimmy sat scowling at nothing for a minute or two, then he shrugged his shoulders and sat up still straighter in the seat.
Pretty soon Mr. Witherspoon came out of the hardware store. Several people nodded coldly to him as he stowed some parcels under the seat of the buggy. But as he was getting in, Mr. Weezer came along.
“Good morning, Zenas, good morning,” he said. He looked at Jimmy, frowned, then looked again. “This your son, Zenas? Fine looking boy. Don’t remember to have seen him around before.”
“You ain’t seen him in those fancy duds, I guess,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “Well, they didn’t cost anything, so I guess there’s no harm. As long as folks don’t get the idea I’m throwing away my money on such foolishness. Anybody that asks, I hope you’ll tell ’em, Mr. Weezer. It would hurt my standing in the town if it got round that I was chucking my money away on such frippery.”
Mr. Weezer put his glasses firmly astride his nose and looked at Mr. Witherspoon. “Frippery?” He took hold of the lapel of his wellpressed coat and pulled it out. “Do you call this frippery, Zenas?”
“It ain’t the same thing,” Mr. Witherspoon said. “You’re a banker. You have to wear fine clothes or people wouldn’t trust you with their money.”
“There is something in that,” said Mr. Weezer. “But let’s put it that I feel it my duty to dress as well as the people I do business with. Whether I am a banker or a farmer, I should feel that. In short, Zenas …”
“In short” was a phrase that Mr. Weezer always used when he was about to explain things at great length, and Mr. Witherspoon leaned against the buggy wheel and made himself comfortable while Mr. Weezer went on to develop his argument. It was a good argument, but since it did not convince Mr. Witherspoon that he should go right into the Busy Bee and buy several fine suits of clothes, I won’t repeat it.
But when the argument was over, and the last point had been tapped home with Mr. Weezer’s glasses on the palm of his hand, and Mr. Weezer had gone into the bank, Mr. Witherspoon did seem rather thoughtful. Like any other father, he wanted to be proud of his son. But nobody had ever told him that Jimmy was a fine looking boy before. He eyed the boy cautiously. Certainly there was a difference. Was it the clothes? No, it was something that the clothes gave him, perhaps—but it was something in the boy himself.
He said suddenly: “You ought to have had your mother trim that shirt collar. It’s all frayed.”
“It’s been trimmed so often there’s hardly any collar left,” Jimmy grumbled.
Mr. Witherspoon grunted. “Well, it don’t matter; we’re going right home.”
“I’m not,” said Jimmy. “Jason asked me to go to the ball game. I’ll walk home after.”
“Who’s paying for the tickets?”
“I don’t know. Jason said he had some.”
Mr. Witherspoon grunted again. Then he grunted again. Then he made a face as if he had a terrible stomach-ache and put his hand in his pocket and brought out fifty cents. “Go get your hair cut. I’ll wait.”
When Jimmy had gone he waited until everybody was again looking at the new display in Miss Peebles’ window, and then he walked slowly past the Busy Bee, and when nobody was on the sidewalk he ducked quickly in. He came out a few minutes later with a parcel under his arm, and when Jimmy came back he gave it to him.
“What’s this?” Jimmy asked.
“Shirt,” Mr. Witherspoon mumbled. “Change somewhere before you go to the game. But wrap up the old one and bring it home. Your mother can patch it up for everyday.”
Freddy had watched the whole performance, and he was pretty pleased with it. Of course it was only a start, but as his old friend, Mr. Camphor, used to say: “It’s the first steps that count.” He was so pleased that he didn’t even mind having given away his tickets to the ball game. Of course he could afford to buy a ticket if he wanted to, but he decided that he wouldn’t. “My mood is poetic rather than sporting today,” he said, “and I shall give way to it. I shall go home and write a poem.”
Now one of the great difficulties of writing a poem—and I have mentioned several, but this is perhaps the greatest—is that poets feel like writing poems much oftener than they have anything to write about. Some poets don’t realize this, and they go on and write very nice poems which don’t say much of anything. But Freddy knew that today he had nothing to write about, and so he thought he’d see if he couldn’t write one that just didn’t mean anything at all. And this is what he wrote:
Let others sing of fall and spring,
Of love and dove, of eyes and sighs;
My song is not of anything;
It tells no whats, it gives no whys.
And is it sad? Or is it gay?
I do not know. I cannot say.
It seeks no meaning to convey,
It has no subject, point or plot.
It must mean something, you will say;—
But I assure you it does not.
No scowls across my features creep
,
No tears bedew my handkerchief;
I do not try to make you weep,
To moan with anguish, sob with grief.
Contrariwise, no smiles contort
My face; I wish to give no cause
For anyone to roar and snort
With uncontrollable guffaws.
And if you ask me: is this so?
I cannot say. I do not know.
Chapter 16
One afternoon several days later, Freddy was sitting in his study working, when he was awakened by a tap on the window. He hadn’t washed the window in two years so he couldn’t see who it was, and he went to the door. Jacob flew down and lit on his nose.
“Hi, Freddy,” said the wasp. “Well, I’m back. Boy, did we have a time at that convention! Did we turn Binghamton over on its other ear!”
“How did your speech go?” Freddy asked.
“Oh, the speech,” said Jacob. “All right, I guess. Though I don’t think anybody heard it. The boys were having such a good time singing and yelling that they didn’t pay much attention to the speeches. You know what conventions are, Freddy. Not that I’m kicking. They elected me Supreme Commander. Supreme Commander and Worthy Exalted Stinger-in-Chief of the L.O.W.—that’s what I am now.”
“L.O.W.?” Freddy asked.
“Loyal Order of Wasps. Some honor, eh?”
“It is indeed. I don’t suppose your high exalted mightiness would stoop to do a little wildcat chasing, would it?”
“Sure. That’s what I came down for. I brought the boys along—they’re up in that tree. Well, what are we waiting for?” And he took out his sting and tried the point on Freddy’s nose.
“Hey! Quit that!” said Freddy nervously.
Freddy and the Popinjay Page 11
