The Old Meadow

by George Selden

  Ashley Mockingbird was standing just below Chester. His wing was still sore, and he’d barely been able to limp through the air down to Pasture Land. There was a very difficult minute between J.J. and Ashley: that moment between confused guys who’ve had a fight and can’t yet reach each other again. Eyes avoided eyes.

  As soon as Walter saw J.J. glide down, he raced like black lightning straight up to the tuffet. “I mean this, J.J.!—my teeth have been a joke up till now—but I’ll take off your legs if you lay one feather on Ashley!”

  “Oh, don’t worry!” J.J. scoffed. “I won’t beat up on this wimp again.”

  “Take that back—!”

  “Forget it, Walt.” Ashley patted the snake on the back of his head. That’s something that doesn’t happen often. Even under the binding spell of the Truce. A snake and a bird. All the animals looked up in awe at this gesture of friendship. “I got the respect of the people I like.”

  “Aw, haw!” laughed J.J. “You field fools can just stop your talkin’! You can’t save the old geezer, anyway. I happened to be near the cabin this morning—had to get off my beech and stretch my wings—and more of those town inspectors came down. Mr. B. was asleep—old geezers sleep more and more as they age. And our musical star from the South was asleep too, I would guess. I didn’t hear any soulful tunes emanating from that ramshackle shack. Aw! haw!” J.J. taunted, and fluffed up his feathers.

  “I did take a nap. The wing heals in sleep.”

  “The neckties from the Town Council agreed that that ‘unsightly’ cabin—”

  “There’s that word again!” groaned Dubber.

  Chester Cricket groaned, too. And in his mind he agreed. Words were powerful. If someone would just call Mr. Budd’s dilapidated cabin “picturesque” or “quaint,” there might not be all this worry all over.

  “They also agreed,” went on J.J., “to vote on the matter this week.”

  “Y’all do a lot of votin’ up here,” said Ashley.

  “This is New England,” Simon Turtle explained. “Town meetings—you know—all that.”

  “But then we still have time!” exclaimed Chester. “A week.”

  “Time for what?” the blue jay demanded.

  “Why, to help Mr. Budd.”

  “Oh, help,” squawked J.J. “And just how do you know that all of us field folk want to help? He’s old, Mr. Budd is—and getting foolish.”

  “I like old folks!” shouted Henry Chipmunk. “They’re nice.”

  “Good for you,” wheezed Simon, who’d had his shell quite a while himself.

  “Let’s everybody vote,” said Ashley. “Since that’s what y’all seem to like the most.”

  “I propose a motion,” said J.J., “that we let the old fool get thrown out. They’ll make a nice park space where that rickety shanty is now. And also, that ugly weather vane—which he throws vegetables at, when I sit there—well, it’ll be gone! For good!”

  “Hold on,” Ashley said. “Now I know I’m a stranger, but what would your Ol’ Meadow be without Mr. Budd?” Ashley sang a tune with a questions hidden in its notes. “You meadow folk—what would y’all be without a single human bein’? A different kind of soul in your world.”

  “We’d be better off!” squawked J.J.

  A commotion of animal sounds broke out. Ashley Mockingbird had meant to say and sing more of his thought, but he couldn’t be heard.

  To silence the din, the oldest voice in the meadow spoke out: “And I propose”—Simon Turtle couldn’t quite make the climb to the tuffet—“that we field folk help Mr. Budd.”

  Both motions were seconded, thirded, and fourthed, and were thoroughly confused in a storm of voices that demanded that they be heard.

  But voting began, somehow.

  The large animals were no problem: they just shouted “Yes!” or “No!”—and some added that everyone else was a nitwit. Beatrice Pheasant and her obedient husband, of course, voted no. Robert Rabbit voted yes twice, but Chester saw him, when he sneaked around, and ruled out the second yes. Paul Mole didn’t vote at all. He abstained. In a private debate, he was thinking about half a lawn. After all, it might be better than none.

  The insects were difficult. Apart from the job of collecting votes from so many of them, some insects can’t decide on a thing. They dither and fidget—oftentimes in the air. Donald Dragonfly took an hour to make up his mind himself. He finally voted yes, but mostly because he didn’t know what no meant. Despite his blurred mind, however, which was often just as kaleidoscopic as the light on his wings, Donald organized a hive of bees. They lived in the ruins of Chester’s old home, that broken-down stump. He kept saying, “Hey, you guys—you’ve got enough honey. We need your help.” Bees are reasonable people, and at last they agreed to collect the insect vote. It was, they all communicated to one another, the only way to get rid of Donald.

  After the bees reported in, the problem and the debate were over. So everyone thought. The animals voted to help Mr. Budd.

  “Haw! haw!” That’s great!” cawed J.J. His harsh cry didn’t sound one little bit defeated. “Now tell me, you sweet field people—awk!” Even J.J. had to choke on the mean small pleasure he felt. It lodged in his throat and made his voice even uglier. “Just how are you going to help the old bum?”

  “My Mr. Budd’s no bum!” woofed Dubber.

  “When they come with pickaxes at his house—just how—just what are you going to do?”

  With the furious grace of someone who had lost an election but made a point, J.J. flew away.

  Those two questions—how? what?—like invisible hummingbirds’ wings beat furiously in the thickening light of afternoon, even after the blue jay had gone.

  Chester suddenly realized, “We don’t know how—”

  “Tchoor we do! At least”—Walter’s head drifted vaguely, like a little balloon at the end of a string—“we’ll think of something. Everybody go home and think!”

  Everybody went home and thought, all right. But as usual, this time of day, most field folk thought about dinner and sleep.

  Not Ashley and Chester, however. The mockingbird thought it best not to risk another flight with that wing, so he and the cricket hopped, side by side, to the cabin. They’d both been wanting to know each other—and more than just as respectful friends. This seemed a good time to hop the last step, or sing the last note of openness.

  “I surely am learnin’ a lot—up here in Connecticut,” said Ashley.

  “So am I,” said Chester. “And a lot of what I’m learning I don’t like.”

  “Don’t take on, now. Things have a way of working out.”

  “Maybe in West Virginia,” said Chester. “The good Lord willin’—an’ the creek don’t rise.”

  Now solid friends, the two of them laughed. Ashley clapped the cricket on the back with the wing that wasn’t sore, and Chester pretended to give a hurt chirp.

  “I think I’ll sing Abner a special sundown song,” said Ashley. “It’s Eller’s favorite. I think she likes it because it reminds her of the quilt she’s stitchin’. Her grandmama started it—then Eller’s ma—an’ then her, too. It’s a beautiful thing that she’s tryin’ to do between housecleanin’ an’ changin’ diapers. I hope to weave in mah colors, too. Want to listen?”

  “The Hawk couldn’t scare me away! Can you make it to the weather vane?”

  “I think I’ll settle for that little ol’ stool.”

  Ashley Mockingbird crutched up through the sunset, and landed, gladly, on Mr. Budd’s stool. He began his song. It was indeed a quilt of memory and new threads, fine filaments of music that Ashley seemed to spin from his throat.

  Chester cocooned himself in the beauty.

  Then—something got his attention.

  He chirped—urgently. And a cricket like Chester doesn’t chirp at sunset. Chester loved the night, which was punctured by stars. He chirped three more times. Ashley knew that the cricket was warning him. He dropped down from the stool, still favoring that wing, a
nd asked, “Cricket friend, don’t you like mah ol’-fashioned song?”

  “I love it. But look over there.”

  On the other side of the brook, three people were watching. And listening.

  “I know who the kid is,” said Chester. “His name is Alvin, and he likes to tease us animals. I don’t know who the big guys are.”

  “They do look pretty foolish to me,” said Ashley. “Those baggy pants—and an orange T-shirt—?”

  “Foolish can be dangerous.” Chester hated to sound like a judge. But he did, quite frequently, and often—despite himself—he was right. “They’re—observing you! Will you sing in the house from now on? It’s too easy to attract a crowd. I did it myself when I lived in New York.”

  “What a life!” said Ashley. “I was hopin’ mah voice could help Mr. Budd—”

  “It still may—”

  “—an’ now I’ve got to sing indoors!” The mockingbird whistled his anger and disbelief. “Cooped up! Confined!” He trilled a lullaby. “I suppose I’ll have to learn to be cozy!”

  SIX

  Fights!

  Robert Rabbit liked vegetables almost as much as Abner Budd did.

  Robert lived in a very private place. An elm tree, blighted, had fallen down, and its branches, all tangled, got overgrown with vines. There were shady, lovely, secret spaces where a rabbit could relax and feel safe.

  Every day, when Robert woke up, the first thing he did was his wake-up shake. Then a rabbit’s steady hunger set in. Most often Robert Rabbit said to himself, “Might see how Mr. Budd’s doing today.”

  On the way to inquire after Mr. Budd’s health, Robert did his exercises. It helped that there was a flat piece of Pasture Land that he passed where the grass was worn down. No need to try to eat here, he knew, because something much better was up ahead. His exercise he called “getting my running feet.” That meant that on the smooth green turf he ran round and round in widening circles until his flying feet felt like wings. Then he knew he was ready for the whole full day, rain or shine. And especially ready for Mr. Budd’s garden.

  Yesterday, on the morning of the debate, he’d had—what had he had? Rabbits scratch their ears like dogs, with their hind legs: tckktchktchk!—just like that, much faster than human eyes can see.

  He’d had beet greens!

  Robert Rabbit arrived at his favorite spot: the exact center of his half of Mr. Budd’s garden. Around him glowed all the vegetables. The beet greens—their red hearts were underground. The frilly fronds of carrot tops. And the gangly string beans, too, like awkward boys, were ripening. Robert loved even the vegetables that he didn’t eat himself—unless famished. Their colors were so beautiful. The mysterious purple of the royal eggplant. What secrets did its full roundness contain? The sunny yellow of squash, always on vacation. Rich, red tomatoes, fat and satisfied with their full piggy bank. Robert sighed in delight: the glory of vegetables—everywhere!

  Best of all, his favorite if there had just been a rain—though the human beings didn’t think much of it—the ordinary, good green grass. It was especially luscious in the little lawn Mr. Budd had created in front of his home. Robert always saved that for dessert.

  He settled in for his morning’s breakfast of sheer contentment.

  And before he took a bite of bean a cardboard box was all around him.

  “I’ve gotcha now!” a mean voice snickered above the darkness where Robert was caught. Of course, his capture could never have happened at all if Robert hadn’t been so greedy that he forgot his animal’s attention. It’s a lesson they all have to learn: be wary at all times—of everything!

  “You Alvin, you!” But somebody had been paying attention.

  Inside his cabin, Mr. Budd had silently lifted a corner of glassine window to watch Robert nibble his dewy meal. He didn’t need to be quiet about it. The rabbit had caught him often enough. But secrecy—the sly lifting and looking—was most of the joy of a man peeking at a rabbit. That long-eared friend. Then, too, he liked to make sure that Robert—but Mr. Budd called him Longears—stayed in his half of the garden.

  “You Alvin—I’ll whop your bottom!” This attack by a boy on a rabbit had ruined a wonderful game.

  The cabin door burst open. Arthritis and age were left inside. Mr. Budd dashed out barefoot. A privet hedge, which he’d planted twenty years ago, had hidden Alvin and his sinister cardboard box from the old man smiling behind his window. Otherwise, Alvin would have been stopped before he reached the lettuce.

  Ashley Mockingbird, his wing getting better day by day, flew out of the cabin, too, and made it, like a mountain climber, to the beak of the weather vane.

  In his darkness, trapped, Robert Rabbit felt the cardboard box shake, as Alvin—whoever he was—ran away. Then he got tipped over. Mr. Budd’s big feet had run by. Robert dashed to freedom. But he didn’t dash too far. He felt free by the end of the last row of beans. And he wanted to watch the ruckus that he knew was about to occur.

  “You, Alvin Irvin—you stay right here!”

  As if there was anything Alvin could do. A shivering boy of ten was held by the hair in the grasp of a man old enough to be his granddad. Abner Budd had won that race, toward the brook, through the vegetable garden.

  “Lemme go!”

  “I will not! Why are you persecuting my rabbit?”

  “I felt like it—you old goat!”

  Mr. Budd sat down and with his right leg locked the boy firmly across his left knee.

  On the other side of the yard, Dubber winced. He knew what was coming, and he knew how it felt. On the weather vane, Ashley sang a pacifying song, but Mr. Budd was too furious to hear.

  His flattened right hand—a silent whop—was lifted in the air. He knew he’d have to force himself to spank this boy, but a good rabbit was a good rabbit, and a bad kid was—

  “You’re just like my grandma!” Alvin wailed.

  “Why am I like your grandma?” The whop was stayed where it was, uplifted. This bad kid was miserable, in his tie-dyed T-shirt, raggedy short pants, and dirty sneakers. Even his freckles, as he craned his face around, looked like a map of unhappiness.

  “She’s mean, too. Like you! All old folks are mean!”

  “How’s your grandma mean?”

  “She won’t let me learn to hang-glide,” gleeped Alvin.

  “Hang-gliding! Well, I should think not!” The undelivered whop lowered. Abner’s hand rested gently on Alvin’s back, though his right leg, still strong despite the arthritis, kept him tackled across his knee. “How old are you, Alvin Irvin?” From listening and listening down through the years, Mr. Budd knew the names, first and last, of all the children—and all the adults who had once been children—who roamed through the Old Meadow. But not one of them knew that his first name was Abner.

  “I’m ’leven!” said Alvin. “And I’m grown up! I want to hang-glide down from Avon Mountain and fly over everywhere. Especially the meadow. There’s a hang-glider takeoff place up there. I know—my dad and my uncle took me.”

  Abner Budd released the boy. The young fellow didn’t move, however. There was no whop anywhere now.

  “It would be nice,” murmured Abner. The dream of flight, to feel finally at home, in the sky, set his spirit soaring. “If I could do it, I’d follow the course of the brook first: down from Avon Mountain, then over the dam at the reservoir—then zigzag through the meadow—”

  “Me, too!” peeped Alvin, whose voice hadn’t changed.

  “Then I’d zoom back over Pasture Land, Tuffet Country, and look at my cabin—from way up high! Lordy me—that would be strange—to see my home like a bird.” Mr. Budd had a reverie, for a minute. “And if I ever came down again—which I might not—and got back, I’d feel as if my place was blessed. Since it had been seen from someplace up high.”

  The thought was so new that it made Abner tremble. But it was the best kind of chill to feel: a shudder before something wonderful.

  “But look here, boy”—he stood Alvin up and
held him steady, with two big hands on little thin shoulders—“even if you and me got the same kind of dreams, and even if you can’t hang-glide yet, that’s no reason for you to capture my rabbit. And not even if you was to make him a pet.” Abner hoped that that was the explanation.

  “But I can’t reach that bird.”

  “What—!”

  “Well, if I can’t fly, I want to have a pet who can—”

  “In a cage?”

  “—and who also sings. Like that one on your weather vane. My dad and my uncle and I have been listening all this week.”

  “Oh, you boy!”

  Alvin Irvin was whirled around, bottom up, and—

  Whop!

  Only one whop was heard in the vegetable garden, but many “ow’s” resounded through the whole Old Meadow. They bounded loudly off the stone wall and ricocheted among the trees. Alvin was sure that he’d felt more than one whop! He hadn’t.

  “Now you get outa here, you boy!” shouted Abner Budd. “And tell your grandma that if I ever catch you again—puttin’ boxes on my rabbit, or even thinkin’ of catchin’ my bird!—well, I’ll, I’ll kick your little behind so hard that you’ll hang-glide all right! But no wings! Get goin’!”

  * * *

  It was later on that day, when the sun had just begun to slide down the round afternoon, that the strangest sight ever seen—so far—in the history of the Old Meadow appeared.

  Mr. Budd had spent the rest of the morning fuming and mumbling to Dubber. “The idea” he muttered. “To catch my rabbit and my mockingbird. Can you imagine? The nerve of that brat—!”

  “Woof!” said Dubber indignantly. In dog talk, in this case, “woof” meant “outrageous!” Sometimes it meant “terrific!” or “Gee, I’m sorry!” or just “I’m bored,” depending on how Dubber woofed. The dog usually knew what his Mr. Budd needed to hear and provided the most appropriate “woof.”

  Toward noon, however, Mr. Budd’s knees began to ache. All the exercise that morning, spanking Alvin and dashing around his vegetable garden, trying not to hurt a one, brought on a bad attack of arthritis. “Lumbago,” Mr. Budd called it in his old-fashioned way, but it was up-to-date arthritis—and in the joints especially bad. He sunned his knees in his yard, sitting on his stool with his trousers pulled up, and that helped some—but not enough. Perhaps his noon nap would bring relief, he hoped, as he hobbled inside. It was very hard to fall asleep. But at last he did, helped by Ashley Mockingbird, who sang about a sleepy bear who hibernated too early and woke up on New Year’s Eve. He couldn’t understand the rumpus the winter animals made all around.