The Old Meadow

by George Selden

  But being asleep, Mr. Budd missed the sight, when it appeared.

  Ashley flew down from the weather vane and alighted beside Dubber Dog. He’d been exercising his wing since Mr. Budd went inside. “I never seen nothin’ like it.”

  “Me neither.” Dubber shook his head. “You better fly down and get Chester and Simon. They wouldn’t want to miss this. Oh!—and get Walt, too! This fits right in with his view of humanity. And also”—he lifted his ears quizzically, and then scratched the left one, although it didn’t itch—“my flea tells me this is just the beginning.”

  Ashley took off—sailed, for only a moment—and came down fast, on Chester’s log, like an airplane making a very short run.

  “Y’all better come upstream,” he said. “There’s weird things happenin’.”

  Simon Turtle had been basking—when wasn’t he? this time of day—and Chester had been watching a leaf that the brook kept pushing back, although it seemed to be desperate to leave the pool and join the stream. Walt was down below, but he saw the flicker of wings, a flashing that reached down into the depths and made him want to rise.

  “What’s happening?” the cricket asked.

  “Y’all better see for yourselves.”

  A short while later the friends were hidden inside the shade cast by Mr. Budd’s privet hedge.

  “You’re right,” pronounced Simon. “I never did see anything like that.” Even Simon had hurried.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” Chester Cricket wondered aloud.

  Across the brook were three Irvins on the march, or rather, on the prowl—the same three people that Chester and Ashley had seen just after the Great Debate. Young Alvin, who had recovered remarkably well from his single, mild whop, had gone home and told his father, Allen, and his uncle, Edward, about the ferocious beating that he had just endured. They listened with interest. And so did Alvin’s grandma, Malvina.

  The Irvins were a picturesque family. Some folk said eccentric. And some field folk said that, after Donald Dragonfly, the Irvins were about as tetched as anyone in the town of Hedley. Malvina ruled the family, both her sons and their wives and her grandson too, with a rod-of-iron authority. Since reading had always been Malvina’s favorite activity—next to ruling—she insisted that her whole family read. Like a lamp in a living room, a passion for reading lit up Malvina Irvin’s house.

  The passion burnt so bright in her sons that when it came time for them to grow up, instead of becoming insurance salesmen or doctors or lawyers—all honorable professions—they opened a rare-book shop. Which failed. The Irvin brothers were unsuccessful businessmen, although very successful readers. The trouble was, they liked rare books so much that whenever a new shipment came in they could hardly bear to part with a book before they both had pored over it. Many and many a customer had come into the store and asked to buy a particular volume, but either Allen or Edward would shout, “No! no! I haven’t finished with that one yet!” In fact, half their stock—they loved the old rare books so much, with their leather bindings that smelled like gravy—they refused to sell at all. But they loaned out some to friends.

  Like most dreamers, the Irvins had the idea, as their bookstore was going broke, that one great event would save them both and make them rich. So when Alvin, spanked, came tearfully home and told them what had happened, his father and uncle—and his grandmother—all put their heads together. That was a mistake. For when you add one fuzzy head to another—and then a third—you just get triple fuzziness.

  This made the whole situation worse, and started the Irvins off into the meadow. A month ago, a rare book about songbirds had been in a parcel that came from New York. It fascinated both of the brothers—so much that they locked the door to the shop and read it all up in one day. The part that interested them most had to do with mockingbirds. The book said that every now and then a mockingbird came along who could not only mimic, he could improvise, and even create a melody. They were very rare, these mockingbirds, and very valuable. That new bird, the Irvins decided, the one who’d been singing for days on that rickety cabin’s weather vane, he must be such a bird.

  “Go get him!” ordered Malvina. “Little Alvin had a good idea. A lovely pet. Especially singing in the bookstore window. He’ll attract a crowd and they’ll buy books—if any are for sale. Now catch him! And none of you gets a bite of supper until that bird is in a cage!”

  As Chester watched the three Irvins sneaking stealthily on the opposite side of the brook, he couldn’t help asking, “But why are the men wearing dirty clothes?”

  Behind bulrushes and marshy shrubs, the two grownup Irvins had on dull, faded green khaki pants and T-shirts Malvina had forgotten to wash with bleach.

  “I think it’s so they can fade into the scenery,” said Simon.

  “Tchoor! That’s it! Camouflage. What a couple of meatballs!”

  “But with those things hanging over their shoulders?” said Chester. “Fade into the scenery? How—?”

  Behind the backs of Allen and Edward, dangling almost to the ground, were two huge butterfly nets. They’d been left over, stored in the attic, from a time in the Irvins’ childhood when they’d wanted to collect rare insects. All the butterflies who lived in the meadow were greatly relieved when this phase passed, although the boys never caught a one. They did, however, catch several wasps and were stung accordingly.

  “They might as well be dressed up for Halloween,” said Dubber.

  “Shh!” Chester warned. “They’re coming over. I want to see just how far this will go.”

  With all the stealth and delicacy of two mules and one pony, the Irvins sloshed across the brook. Allen was holding a dish of something, which he set down at the edge of Mr. Budd’s vegetable patch. “Here, birdy-birdy-birdy!” he chirped.

  An amazed silence fell on the four animals. Then Ashley broke it. “Y’all know somethin’?—I think those jokers are after me! Perhaps I ought to let them catch me—they’re so miserable pitiful.”

  “Don’t you dare!” said Dubber. “Mr. Budd would have a fit!”

  “Here—birdy-birdy-birdy,” crooned Edward. “Where is it, anyway? It used to sit on the weather vane.”

  “What’s that they’re tryin’ to catch me with?” whispered Ashley. “Looks like a saucer of corn.” He flitted up a twig or two through the privet hedge—then dropped down amazed. “Halloween, did someone say? It’s corn candy left over from last October most likely!”

  “Do you like corn candy, Ashley?” asked Walt.

  “Don’t know. Never had none.” The mockingbird purled a chuckle. “One thing I do know, though—we got goofballs back in West Virginia—believe me, we do!—but you sure got your share in Connecticut, too!”

  “Shall I bark?”

  “Not yet, rub-a-dub-Dubber! Let’s have some fun!” The mockingbird flickered up and perched where he was expected to be. He stuck out his tongue and made a sound that wasn’t nearly as musical as most of the sounds he made.

  “There he is—!”

  “I’ll climb up—!”

  “Help!” Edward fell from his brother’s shoulders. “Ooo! Ow!”

  “Be quiet!” urged young Alvin.

  Too late.

  Mr. Budd had been drifting up from his nap. The commotion snapped him wide awake. He roared out of his house like a locomotive, wearing only his underwear. The day had grown hot. “Oh, you Irvins!” But he really did like the Irvins. Especially since that summer, years and years ago, when they’d tried to raise pedigreed Siamese, who all got loose and filled the town of Hedley with pedigreed alley cats. “Two times in one day is too much!”

  The fight was unfair. Without much effort, one old man who was overweight and had arthritis proceeded to trounce two men half his age. A good thing did come of it, however: Abner Budd discovered that, in his case at least, righteous indignation could cure arthritis.

  “You first!”

  Abner whipped a butterfly net over Edward’s head. It held him pinned down
to his knees and made him look like a crazy beehive, while Mr. Budd marched his brother off—then gave him some hang-gliding help that sent him sprawling into the brook.

  “Don’t want you to feel neglected.”

  Then Abner did the same for Edward.

  Young Alvin hadn’t waited. He was on the other side, shouting for help: his dad and his uncle were being killed.

  “This isn’t the end, old man!” shouted Edward, as he picked ferns out of his shirt.

  “Oh, isn’t it?”

  Even when the brook was rushy and full, as it was just now from a recent rain, Mr. Budd knew where the stepping-stones were. He’d put them there, before the Irvins had lived in Hedley. Still only clad in his underwear, he flew across the water.

  And the sight of this man who treated a stream as if it were the solid earth amazed and terrified the Irvins. They fled home. Where, after an hour of lecturing, Malvina relented and gave them dinner. But she never stopped nagging, and after two hours the Irvin brothers decided that they had to act, if only to silence their mother.

  “What a day,” murmured Ashley Mockingbird. “Well, I’ll have tales to tell—if I ever get back to West Virginia. Mmm-mm! What a day!”

  * * *

  This day was not yet over. Events went fast. They often do, if they move at all.

  Simon, Walter, and Chester had barely gotten home, ambling slowly through the lavender evening, when, with a whir of wings, the mockingbird appeared again.

  “Better come back. Quick.”

  “Not me.” Simon heaved out his breath as he clambered into his muddiest, most comfortable spot. “I’ve had enough excitement today.”

  “This here is serious.”

  “How serious?” Chester Cricket was worried, because Ashley’s voice was flat: for once, there was no music in it.

  “Better see for yourself.” Without waiting for an answer, the mockingbird flew back to Mr. Budd’s cabin.

  The cricket and the snake followed, fast.

  Around the cabin a crowd had gathered. There was Mr. Budd, the Irvin brothers, young Alvin, and even Grandma Malvina. The wives of the Irvin boys stayed home. When Malvina was out, they could watch TV instead of read. There were also three policemen, and that had been Malvina’s doing. When her sons and her grandson had gotten home soaked, she decided the family had been humiliated. And the more she lectured her sons, the more insulted the family became. Edward dialed the police station, but insisted that Allen speak and summon the cops.

  Malvina hadn’t yet decided whether the Irvins should sue Mr. Budd for all his money—not a promising prospect—or just demand an apology. Of one thing she was certain, though: the world must learn that no one could kick her two sons in a brook and get away with it. Someone else’s sons, yes, but not hers! She was the only one who could treat them that way.

  It was difficult for the officers. As little boys they’d all played in the meadow—they’d all known Mr. Budd—and now they’d been summoned to, maybe, arrest him.

  “Mike Gallagher, you should be ashamed!” Mr. Budd poked the chest of the tallest cop. “Coming over here to hassle me—when these goons tried to steal my bird!”

  “Gee, Mr. Budd—” Mike Gallagher began.

  “Don’t tell him ‘gee’!” Malvina rasped. She had a voice like a draft in a chimney from smoking cigarettes. “Put the handcuffs on him!”

  “Mr. Budd,” said Mike, and looked off toward the west, toward Avon Mountain, where the lingering rosy light could hide his blush, “you maybe should come downtown with us.” He didn’t actually take off his handcuffs, which were dangling from his belt, but he touched them.

  “Attack, you mutt!” shouted Mr. Budd to Dubber. “Don’t you care if these ungrateful bums arrest me? I took burrs out of little Mike Gallagher’s hair! If I’m in jail—who’ll tend my mockingbird?”

  “Oh, we will!” offered Malvina sweetly.

  Mr. Budd aimed a kick at Dubber, but missed. Lumbago, or else he changed his mind. “You lazy good-for-nothing you! You hear that? They want to kidnap my bird! Where were you the first time these imbecile Irvins came round? Just cowering underneath my hedge! And that darn jay! Because even if you—you dumb dog!—couldn’t warn me, at least that blue jay usually shrieks.”

  That was too much for Dubber: to be told that he’d failed—and like J.J.! When the officers and the Irvins appeared, he’d been munching on a cauliflower. There still were shreds of the white vegetable, spit too, clinging to his lips. In all the excitement and fright—Dubber didn’t like either Irvins or cops—he’d forgotten to lick his chops. And the sight of a blue-uniformed human being who might be about to arrest his master made Dubber lose his head. For the first time in years he growled very seriously, and tried to nip Mike Gallagher. But, being Dubber, he missed, of course—just like Mr. Budd—and bit the crease in the officer’s pants.

  “And look at that!” Malvina wheezed.

  “She sounds worse than Simon,” whispered Chester.

  “A mad dog!” coughed Malvina. “And foam all over his mouth! Call the pound!”

  “Can things get any worse?” Walt wondered.

  “Yes, they can!” said Chester. “And with these human beings—they probably will.”

  Things did get worse. The officers called the dog pound from a neat little phone that they had in their car. And in fifteen minutes a nice white truck from the pound arrived. It looked like a shrunken ambulance. Two men in clean white suits stepped out, said “Hi,” and led Dubber away.

  Two men in blue uniforms led Abner Budd to the cop car. He turned, and as Dubber was plodding into his prison on wheels, he tried to shout a few words to his dog. They got trapped in his throat.

  SEVEN

  Jailbreak—Number One

  “We’ve got to get them out,” said Ashley.

  John Robin had returned, and all he said was, “They’re still in jail. Both of them. A human jail and a dog jail—the pound.”

  Since he had wings, John Robin had been sent off to spy. Chester Cricket didn’t like to use a friend as a spy, but Mr. Budd was gone—Dubber Dog was gone—it had been two days, and those who lived around and under Simon’s Pool had to know! They were frantic. John Robin, who was familiar with all the byways of the town—he wormed everywhere—seemed to be the answer.

  “We do have to get them out!” said Walt.

  “They’d just put them both back in again,” sighed Simon Turtle, with age’s weary experience.

  There was a round wind blowing, under clouds that were hurrying somewhere. “Round wind” was one of the turtle’s favorite expressions. He had used it for years and years. It described a wind—a breeze or a gust, ordinarily, sometimes a steady breath of air—that came from nowhere and everywhere. It blew off the petals of purple irises, shook green reeds, and ruffled the pink of rugosa roses. But everybody, animal and human too, liked the young round wind that circled about them playfully.

  John fluffed his feathers. In a round wind, flying was difficult, but he enjoyed being surprised by it. “Simon’s right. Those men in uniforms will just come hunting—”

  “Tchoor! Of course they’ll come hunting, but we can hide them! We’ve got to get them out!” The water got a solid whop! It hurt Walter’s tail, and the water wasn’t changed at all.

  “Chester—” began Ashley.

  “All right, all right,” Chester Cricket agreed. “If they stay in jail too long, they’ll turn into half of themselves. Mr. Budd’ll be put in an old folks’ home—and Dubber—” The cricket refused to think about that. “But how—how do we get them out?”

  The wind coaxed thoughts on shells, scales, feathers—a cricket’s wing—but it whispered no answers.

  “Tchoor!” Walter Water Snake suddenly had an idea. “I’ll get them out. The thing I’ve hated all my life is how much the human beings hated me! And all us snakes. But now it pays off!” Walt raised up and glowered down onto his friends. “You’re lookin’ at a deadly serpent! Har! har! I’ll scare the guar
ds, and Dubber and Mr. Budd will go free. Simple—?”

  “Oh, simple!” said Chester. “But how are you going to get to those jails?”

  “I’ll creep, I’ll crawl, I’ll slither—if necessary, I’ll even writhe! But I hate that word. And I’ll get directions first. John Robin—where is the pound? I’ll rescue Dubber before Mr. Budd. They take less time to dispose of dogs than men. John—where?”

  “No problem,” said John. “You go six blocks on Mountain Road, take a left at Fisk, and then two blocks, hook a right at Hedley Avenue, but only one block, left at Santell, three blocks, then half a block on Salter Street—and there you are!”

  “You see?” Walter splashed some water at Chester. “Not a thing in the world could be more simple!”

  “Oh, nothing,” the cricket agreed heartily. “But Walt—let me ask you this—have you ever been out of this meadow before?”

  “I crossed Mountain Road once. The grass in front of the Andersons’ house looked so nice for basking.”

  “Oh, that’s a real long journey, all right!”

  “And I’m good at north and south—stuff like that,” Walter Water Snake insisted. “I’ve made up my mind! Here I go—”

  A silence held everyone still. It was full of both wonder and fear: Walter Water Snake was venturing out—way outside the meadow. The round wind had spun itself out into nothing by now. All the animals watched as Walt flicked his tail to wave goodbye—not a care in the world—and slithered off.