Mr. Pudgins (Nancy Pearl's Book Crush Rediscoveries)

by Ruth Christoffer Carlsen

  When we finished eating the ice cream and cake, Mr. Pudgins said, “Why, we forgot the snappers.” And sure enough, we had. So each of us took our red crepe-paper snappers in our hands and pulled on the white tab. Bang! Bang! Bang! I pulled out a jockey cap, Pete found a clown hat in his, and Janey got a flowered dunce cap.

  Bang! Mr. Pudgins’s snapper finally exploded, and he perched a red bellhop’s cap on his head. We giggled. At the other end of the table the donkey was pulling with his chin tail and teeth at his snapper. Bang! Boy, that was a loud one. The donkey went over backward in surprise. With a sad expression he showed us his soldier cap. Janey took it, punched a hole in the top for the head tail to go through, and then placed it on his head between his ears. “Now,” said the donkey in a solemn way, “I am the handsomest donkey here.” And we agreed he was.

  “Look for the favors,” said Mr. Pudgins. “There should be favors in those snappers, too.”

  Janey found hers first. It was a little gold ring that just fit her finger. Petey found a tiny gun that would really shoot water. I had an airplane pin with a propeller that would spin. And Mr. Pudgins had a tiny silver whistle on a chain.

  “Oh, what wonderful gifts,” sighed Janey.

  “Bang, bang,” shouted Pete as he squirted us.

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. Pudgins,” I said, as I pinned the airplane on my shirt.

  “I don’t suppose,” said the donkey’s mournful voice, “that I have anything. I never do.” And he tugged at his snapper. Whoosh! Something flew out, and it went so fast that for a moment we couldn’t see it.

  “Why . . . why!” said Janey. “It’s an elf.”

  “My goodness. A tomte,” said Mr. Pudgins.

  “A what ee?” said Pete.

  “A tomte,” said Mr. Pudgins. “A Scandinavian household elf. Is anyone Swedish here?”

  “My mother is,” I said.

  “Have you ever had an elf before?” asked Mr. Pudgins.

  “I don’t think so,” said Janey, hesitatingly.

  The elf was sitting on Mr. Pudgins’s water glass, kicking his heels. “High time, I’d say,” came a little voice, “that they got one.”

  “Is he a good elf?” asked Pete.

  “Why, of course,” said the elf. “But only as long as you are good. When the children in the house are naughty, I’m naughty, too. Otherwise I look after you and keep you all happy and pleasant.”

  “I don’t think my mother is going to like him,” I said. “She doesn’t hold with elves and fairies.”

  “Well, after all,” said the donkey almost crying. “He is my present. I want my present.” And then he began to “He haw” so loudly that he blew us right into the living room.

  “Perhaps we can catch the tomte,” I suggested. And we did try. We chased that elf over the chairs, up on the drapes, across the bookshelves. But he was never there when we grabbed. Mr. Pudgins just sat down in his chair and laughed at us. I guess we did look pretty silly. Finally we gave up, and the tomte giggled and hooted at us from the molding. “I’ve come to stay,” he called in a tinkly voice. “Remember to be kind and helpful, or I’ll be naughty, too.” And then whoof, he disappeared!

  “I want my present,” yowled the donkey. “He haw . . . he haw.”

  “Here, here,” said Mr. Pudgins, “take mine.” And he handed the donkey his silver whistle.

  “Whatever use is that?” mourned the donkey.

  “Look,” said Janey, “I’ll put a ribbon through the chain, and you can tie it round your neck. You certainly are the handsomest donkey here now.”

  “So I am,” said the donkey, modestly. Then he blew a tiny toot on his whistle.

  “Time for bed,” said Mr. Pudgins.

  We knew there was no point in arguing. It just did no good with Mr. Pudgins, so we quickly trooped off. It had been a wonderful party. And to think we had a tomte! That was pretty exciting. As we fell asleep, we could hear the distant sounds of the little whistle.

  In the morning the donkey and Mr. Pudgins were both gone when we got downstairs. We were all a little tired and cross from the excitement the night before. Petey hit Jane for knocking over his blocks, and then I got into the squabble by spanking Pete, who kicked and hit at me. Janey screamed for Mother. She was exasperated with us and made us each sit in a chair, facing the wall.

  Then from the kitchen we heard more exasperated sounds. “Oh dear, what is the matter this morning?” said Mother. “Just everything is going wrong. I reached for the oatmeal, and the Cream of Wheat tipped over into the silver drawer. I pulled out the drawer to wipe it, and the whole thing fell on the floor. Oh, dear.”

  We all looked at each other. We knew who that was. It was the tomte doing all that mischief.

  “Father, come help,” called Mother. “Now I’ve spilled the milk!”

  We didn’t tell Mother about the tomte, but ever after that, when we were cross and unkind, things fell from shelves, doors banged, and bottles broke. But when we were good, the whole house seemed to sing with happiness. Yes, a tomte was worth the trouble.

  Dad was all dressed up in a Santa Claus suit, and Mother was standing back a way looking at him.

  “No, you need more stomach,” said Mother.

  “Not another pillow,” moaned Dad. “I’m so loaded that I can hardly move.”

  “Will you shake like a bowlful of jelly?” asked Pete.

  “More like a sackful of pillows, I’m thinking,” said Dad. “Oho . . . ohohoho,” he roared. “Hey, cut out the tickling, John.”

  “Okay. But it really is a pretty good effect,” I said. “You laugh pretty well.”

  “Here, Jack, stick this in.” Mother handed Dad another sofa pillow.

  Dad shoved the pillow under his belt. “Frankly,” he said, “I’m going to look more like an ad for overstuffed furniture than Santa Claus if you keep this up.”

  “Dear me, look at the time! Did I hear Mr. Pudgins’s car?” said Mother.

  “Yep! Here he comes,” yelled Pete.

  Mr. Pudgins and Dad met at the door, and we kids just roared as they tried to go through together. Both were so plump. They got stuck.

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Pudgins, stepping back.

  “Sorry,” gruffed Dad, stepping back in the house. “You first, sir,” he said, sweeping low with his red Santa Claus hat.

  “No, no, you go first,” insisted Mr. Pudgins.

  Then they both stepped forward and tried to get through the door at the same time. Now they were really stuck. Wedged tight.

  “Jack, please, stop this nonsense,” said Mother. She shoved at Dad, and I shoved on her, and we pushed Dad right through the door. We were pushing so hard that all three of us landed in a heap in the snowbank outside the door.

  “Humph!” said Dad. “Fine way to treat Santa Claus.” But we could see that he was having fun.

  “Put on a good show for those orphan kids,” I yelled. Pete and Janey were squealing with laughter and scattering snow in the air as the car left. Mother waved to us until the car disappeared.

  Mr. Pudgins was sitting in the big armchair, smoking his pipe and watching the fire. I was glad to see that pipe. Maybe tonight would be another of those exciting times. As a special favor, Mother had allowed us a log fire. After all, it was almost Christmas, and the flames did make the room cozy and festive.

  Every few minutes Pete ran to the window, pressed his nose against the glass, and crooned, “It’s snowing. It’s snowing.” Peter was eager to have plenty of snow for Santa’s sleigh.

  “Only three more days till Christmas,” sighed Janey. “I wish it were here now.”

  “Me too,” chimed in Pete. “I wanta decorate the tree. Can’t we, Johnny?”

  “Now look here, kids,” I said. “You know what a fuss Mom made about even setting up the tree. She likes to wait until Christmas Eve. And we promised not to nag her about decorating it now. Gosh, it does make the house Christmasy! Smell?”

  We all sniffed the air.

  “Per
haps we could decorate the tree, Johnny.”

  “But, Mr. Pudgins . . .”

  “If we made our own decorations.”

  “Please, please, Johnny. Let’s.” Janey was excited.

  “Well, all right,” I said grudgingly. “Maybe if we made them.”

  “Let’s start right now,” said Janey. She was all set to go.

  “What’ll we make them of?” asked Pete. He sat down with his scissors.

  “What about paper?” suggested Mr. Pudgins.

  “Too much mess,” I said rather shortly.

  “Popcorn?” Mr. Pudgins looked at me inquiringly.

  “Naaaah!” I was in a bad mood.

  “Well . . .” Mr. Pudgins looked very thoughtful. “Perhaps I could blow a few.”

  “Will you? Oh, will you?” squealed Janey.

  That sounded pretty interesting even to me. “What will you blow them with?” I asked.

  “With my pipe, of course,” said Mr. Pudgins. And he leaned back in his chair, ready to start. “I warn you, though, they won’t last.” Slowly he started to puff. And out from the bowl of his pipe came a small smoke ball. It grew and grew until it was just the right size for the tree, and then it floated off from his pipe. I grabbed and missed. Pete grabbed and missed. But Janey jumped onto the davenport and caught it.

  “Gently now, my girl,” said Mr. Pudgins.

  And Jane carefully brought the ball to us. I glanced at it just casually. It was grayish transparent stuff. Then I gasped. For there on the inside were all of us and Mr. Pudgins. We were sitting in Annabelle way up on the coal truck. And when you moved the ball, the truck bounced and moved about.

  “Oh,” sighed Jane. “What a wonderful ball!” And she hung it very carefully on the tree halfway up.

  Now from the pipe came a reddish smoke, and it bulged into a pear-shaped ball. I caught this one just as it broke loose from the pipe. Jane and Pete crowded around. We peered into the pinky stuff and there . . .

  “Oh, look! See us in the bathtub,” giggled Petey. And we all started to laugh, for we could well remember the fun of the night the bathtub floated. “This one goes up very high,” I said. “It’s special.”

  “Me next,” called Pete. He ran back to Mr. Pudgins and watched a yellow football shape take form. He grabbed as it floated past him, but he missed. ’Round and ’round the room he ran chasing his ball. It drifted always ahead of him.

  “You’re making such a breeze,” suggested Mr. Pudgins, “that the ball can’t settle. Why don’t you sit down for a moment?”

  Pete perched on the edge of a chair, and so did the rest of us. Lower and lower came the ball and very gently eased onto Pete’s head. He got slightly frantic because he couldn’t see to get the ball and was afraid he might smash it. Janey hopped up, picked the ball off his head, and handed it to him. Then we all looked. There was our lemonade stand with Pete and Janey, slightly purple, standing beside me as we sold the elegant pop that ran from our faucets. Pete hated to hang that ball on the tree. It was such fun to jiggle the ball and watch the little figures move, especially since they were us.

  We looked so long that a pure white ball floated off before we got back to Mr. Pudgins. We couldn’t catch it. We tried sitting, but it just wouldn’t come down. We gave up and watched a green bumpy caterpillar ball blow up, and, believe me, I took hold before this one could drift away. And there were the mirror children and us staring at each other. Janey gave them a shake to make them all dance.

  “Weren’t they fun?” sighed Janey.

  I knew just how she felt. It was fun to remember our good times, but I felt a little sad, too. I hung that ball where Petey could watch the figures.

  “There’s that darn white ball again,” I muttered, watching it trying to land near Mr. Pudgins’s head. Then I forgot it when I saw the delicate blue ball floating in Jane’s hand. We peered in and laughed as we saw the whole birthday party again. How that donkey was he-hawing, and if we were very quiet, we could hear his faint “He haw.”

  “Oh, the darling,” murmured Jane. “Aren’t these just perfect balls?”

  I nodded and turned to see Mr. Pudgins brushing off the white ball from his ear. “Bouncing butterballs,” he muttered. “Wish that thing wouldn’t keep pestering me.” Now an orange ball broke loose, and Pete caught it with a whoop. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” he yelled. “Oh, it’s the train. The wonderful train.” And we all listened for a faint whistle. Yes, there it was.

  Now Janey grabbed and held a lavender cylinder and almost cooed over it. For all the little animals from the circus—Podo as a clown, the rabbits, the little mice and kittens, why, even the skunks—were caught inside it. A jounce of the ball, and they wiggled around.

  “If this ball!” Mr. Pudgins was really exasperated. He brushed away the white ball which was tickling his ear. From his pipe bowl rose a green and yellow ball. I snatched it, and we could hear birds even before we looked inside. Yes, there they were—our Whizzle birds. They were flying ’round and ’round, and three little children were chasing them.

  Now we stood back for a moment and looked at the tree. The balls glowed slightly in their different colors, and we could just make out the scenes inside them.

  “Oh, Mr. Pudgins, do blow one of you now,” said Janey.

  “One of me?” He sounded surprised.

  “Yes, a special one to keep,” she said.

  “Well . . .” He seemed to be considering the situation. And then the white ball bounced on his head, down his nose, past his chin, and back up to his eyes.

  “This dratted ball,” growled Mr. Pudgins. “I didn’t even think this one up, and now it’s pestering me. Pestering me? I wonder.” Gently he took it in his hand and looked inside. “Oh my! Dear me!” he murmured.

  We leaned over the ball, too, and there inside was another scene, but not of our happy times. A little girl was sitting beside a still smaller boy lying on a bed. He looked sick. Mr. Pudgins held the ball to his ear and listened. “I must go!” He said it so firmly that my heart jumped. I thought he’d leave right that minute.

  “Don’t look so worried, kiddies.” He smiled. “I will wait until morning. But I just heard Betty. . . . Can you see her in here?”

  We all nodded. “She’s trying to play with Tim and amuse him. But Tim keeps saying, ‘Six months in bed. Oh, Betty . . . !’” We looked in the ball, and we could see him sobbing. “So I must go,” continued Mr. Pudgins. “I am needed there. And after all, you are getting pretty old for a babysitter.”

  He was right about that, too. Mother had been slightly provoked the last few times at our insisting on having Mr. Pudgins, for she thought we could stay alone.

  “I always keep in touch with you with these smoke balls so I am never far away. If you need me, I will know.”

  “But it’s Christmas,” Janey said and started to cry. “It won’t seem like Christmas with you gone away.”

  I could feel a lump rising in my throat, too. I choked it back. I was too big to cry.

  “Don’t go, Mr. Pudgins,” sobbed Petey.

  “I am sorry, lad, but I must. However, I shall leave a very special ball for you. After you are in bed, I will blow it, and this one will last. Shall we play some Christmas music on the phonograph?” he asked.

  “Yes! Yes!” we all shouted.

  It was so peaceful to sit and watch the dancing balls while a choir sang lovely Christmas songs. It was as if the loveliness soaked right into us. Quietly Mr. Pudgins’s voice said, as we shut off the last record, “Bedtime now. And I will remember your ball.”

  We trudged off sadly, although we were a little heartened by the thought that Mr. Pudgins could always check on us through his own special television. It gave you a cozy feeling.

  The next morning Mother was a little surprised that we jumped out of bed so quickly and raced for the tree. The balls were all gone, though here and there on the tree was a little touch of color where they had hung. Then, at the very top, we spied a silvery ball. It s
eemed to shimmer. We gasped. “Oh yes,” said Mother, “Mr. Pudgins left that for you children. It is lovely, isn’t it?”

  She let me hold it for a minute, and as I looked in it, I could see Mr. Pudgins riding along in Annabelle with Podo beside him. He waved.

  “Can you see it? The picture?” I asked.

  From Mother’s surprised expression, I knew she couldn’t so I let the matter drop. But Jane and Pete could.

  “Hi,” said Pete.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Pudgins. Good-bye,” I murmured.

  “Come back. Come back sometimes,” called Janey.

  And I think—yes, I know—that Mr. Pudgins nodded his head and smiled.

  About the Author

  Ruth Christoffer Carlsen was a noted author of eight children’s books. She grew up in the Midwest and graduated from the University of Minnesota in 1939 with a degree in journalism. Her father, a railroad man with a twinkle in his eye, ran the St. Paul Union Depot and partially inspired the character of Mr. Pudgins. Ruth married and settled with her family in Boulder, Colorado, where Mr. Pudgins was written. She tested each chapter of the book on her young family. After publication, the family moved to Austin, Texas, and then Iowa City, Iowa, where Ruth’s husband was a professor. Together, they edited and wrote textbook and educational materials. Ruth C. Carlsen is included in the Iowa City Literary Walk, which celebrates Iowa writers.