The Old Meadow

by George Selden

“For now,” echoed Chester.

  “Look,” said Ashley. “He’s stirrin’, up there.”

  Mr. Budd was mumbling something—the animals couldn’t quite understand—it sounded like “Lived too long.” Then he shifted positions on the stool, and fell into deep sleep again. Half the moonlight was blocked by the roof of his cabin. But part of his beard, as the moon eased away, was touched by the brilliance of the bright night.

  “He’s dreaming,” said Dubber. “He dreams of the past. And the future he dreams might be.”

  “He was calling for you, earlier,” said Chester Cricket.

  “Me—?”

  “Even when he knew you’d been taken away. And he tried to whistle, too.”

  “He always knew I loved that whistle. You know”—Dubber grinned, beneath his whiskers, and his eyes got shy—“we dogs do love to be whistled for.”

  “Then I guess he got tired. Who wouldn’t? That long race from the jail—”

  “He’s waking up again!” Simon Turtle insisted. “I think his back hurts. Mine would, too—shell and all—if I’d leaned against that cabin so long.”

  “Dubber,” said Chester—and his voice was firm, ruthless almost. “This is up to you now. Go to him.”

  “Okay. But after today he’ll probably just whop me again. I don’t blame him.”

  The dog lumbered to Mr. Budd’s feet. He took a look up. The man’s face was working in dream-thoughts—just on the margin of waking up.

  Then Dubber jumped: a big heave, but the dog accomplished it as gracefully as a cat.

  “Who’s that?” yelled Mr. Budd, thrown pell-mell from the end of his sleep.

  Dubber whined in a voice that he knew his master would recognize.

  “Why, Dubber—!”

  A great big lapful of dog was nestling in Mr. Budd’s arms.

  “Oh, Dubber—it’s you, it’s you! You escaped, like me!”

  Mr. Budd stroked Dubber’s head. Then he scratched, because Dubber had twisted his neck: dogtalk for “Scratch me here, please.” And this was a scratch in the back of the neck that Dubber had waited for for so long—this dog who had once only dreamed of ice cream.

  “My dog,” Mr. Budd kept saying. “I am so sorry I whopped you. And I kicked you, too, almost, that last day, when they took us away. My dog, my dog—my tomato dog—you’re the best of the line. And I love you most. My little tomato pup.” He lifted up Dubber’s head and kissed him on the short hairs of his nose. “You’re the best dog, Dubber.”

  Then Abner Budd began to cry.

  “But, Dubber—I’m scared. I’m as scared as a little boy.”

  Dubber licked his hands, to cheer him a little. But nothing could help.

  “I’m so scared!” sobbed Mr. Budd. “I’m old, and nobody wants me at all.” He fell back against the home that he’d built. And his tears fell on Dubber’s face. “Oh, Dubber, Dubber—my dearest friend—whatever will happen to both of us now?”

  * * *

  “I told you we shouldn’t have watched,” said Chester. He jumped around so his back was to Mr. Budd’s cabin. His heart seemed to shrink and expand, all at once. “I don’t want to see things like this.”

  “Let’s go back to the pool right now,” said Simon.

  On the way home, no one spoke.

  But when they reached the little inlet where they knew they’d be safe for the rest of their lives, Chester Cricket blew up. When a cricket explodes—in anger or despair—not too many humans hear about it. It is a small rage, by the world’s standards, but fierce. Chester’s friends could see him, and hear him, trembling.

  “I hate the world. I hate Hedley, Connecticut! I hate everybody! And most of all I hate myself! There’s nothing that I can do—!”

  “Now calm down, cricket,” said Walt.

  “It’s just not right!—to throw a man out of his home that he built with his own hands—just because it doesn’t look like a pizza parlor, all neon and junk, on Hedley Avenue!”

  “Chester, if I may—!” Walt began.

  “And they’ll come! I know they’ll come tomorrow! To get him. We have to do something! It was so much easier the last time. We only had to save the Old Meadow. Fool ’em into thinking that this place was historical. Well, Mr. Budd is historical. And human, too!”

  “Chester—” Walter tried to begin again.

  “And more! The field folk decided that we’d try to help. We decided that at the Great Debate. But not one person had an idea!”

  “I’ve got one,” said Simon. “Suppose we ask the people with teeth—like Frank Woodchuck—to dig holes around the cabin. Then the cops and the dogcatchers all would fall in, and—”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  Chester Cricket was not himself. No one ever had heard him shout like this. Everybody looked at everybody—Walt, Simon, J.J., Ashley—but nobody dared to say a word. Walt opened his mouth but snapped it shut: it wasn’t the time, he decided.

  “We could get the diggers to dig all around the cabin,” said J.J. “Then Mr. Budd would be an island.”

  “You nutty bird!” squeaked Chester, in a cricket’s shout. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard! What are woodchucks—and even moles—against tractors and bulldozers? They’d fill up any little moat like a beaver would dam up a stream.”

  “If I may suggest something—”

  “Tchoor!” Chester turned on Walt. “You suggest all you want. But just remember that Mr. Budd is the soul of the whole Old Meadow. If they take him away—our hearts go, too.”

  Walter Water Snake had had enough. His tummy scales were still hurting, and although he had enjoyed his flight, his nerves were shot. “You crazy cricket! Now you shut up! I’ll bite you in half! Just like a potato chip!”

  “Folks—why don’t we all relax?” sang Ashley. He’d learned, in his life in West Virginia, with coal miners especially, that a good tune sometimes could stop a fight. So he warbled a little ditty now.

  It worked.

  “Chester Cricket is right,” said Walter Water Snake, and he spoke with extravagant dignity. “My crispy friend is often right.” There was great dignity and respect in his voice, but also a little tooth of laughter began to make itself heard. “Mr. Budd is the heart and soul of this meadow of ours. We just need to make all the human beings see that. And if Mr. Budd was taken away—this meadow might just as well not exist.”

  “Hey, wait—”

  “Chester Cricket,” said Simon, “you have an idea. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Chester glanced at the mockingbird nervously. “You haven’t been singing on the weather vane, Ashley.”

  “Y’all told me not to.”

  Chester Cricket went on to explain his scheme. And then twice more, since the first few times no one could believe their ears.

  “That’s asking a lot from all the field folk.” Simon Turtle shook his head.

  “It is the most outrageous thing I have ever heard!” said Walt.

  “But y’all know somethin’—” Ashley whistled his courage up, at this great challenge. “It just might work—the good Lord willin’—”

  “—an’ the creek don’t rise!” all the other animals joined in.

  ELEVEN

  The Old Meadow

  It wasn’t yet sunrise. But already a brightening ruddy glow came flaming through the feathery green of the willow trees that bordered the brook just before it rushed under the bridge beneath Mountain Road and left the Old Meadow forever. Almost all the human beings who lived in Hedley were still asleep—and so were most field folk. But not the birds. Those early risers were up and chirping to the new day, each other, themselves—anybody who’d listen.

  “Lord, what a glory!” Ashley whistled his wonder. “We’ve been given a good day.”

  “The last,” said Chester.

  Both were sitting on the topmost ridge of Chester’s log, and both were thinking of how far off the nighttime was, and oh what a day the mockingbird had ahead of him.

  “
It’s an awful lot to ask,” said the cricket. “Even of a person like you.”

  Ashley chose not to hear the implied compliment. “Dubber doin’ what he’s supposed to?”

  “He’s already woken up Mr. Budd and started to tug him by his pants. To the overgrown part. J.J.’s tugging his collar, and singing up some encouragement. They’ll be safe there—”

  “For today maybe,” said Ashley. “One day.”

  “You don’t have to, Ashley!” Chester burst out. “It’s a crazy idea—!”

  “Oh yes, I have to! What’s more—I have to start right now.” Ashley fluttered down and took a good big drink of brook water. “An’ the Good Lord had better be willin’! He flew off toward his first tree. “Just hope the ol’ throat don’t give out!”

  “Oh, and listen!” the cricket shouted after him. “The brook’ll be here—if you need to moisten your throat, I mean.” But Ashley had disappeared into the leaves of Bill Squirrel’s maple. It wasn’t as lofty as his elm, but he’d learned to make do.

  “And I’ll be here, too,” murmured Chester Cricket helplessly. “Not that I’ll do any good.”

  “Is he gone?” Walt’s head appeared above the surface.

  “Were you listening?”

  “No! I could see it was private, between you two. But I was looking—from down below. I’ve been awake half the night.”

  “Yes, he’s gone,” said Chester. “Is Simon up?”

  “Not on your life! Sleep first, disaster after—that’s his motto. He’s under your log, and just as asleep as a bear in December.”

  At that moment a carol of melody rang out of Bill’s maple, which rose close to Mountain Road. A driver, who had to get up early and commute a long way to work, jammed on his brakes. His tires screamed. But the man had to hear that sound again.

  “Well, it’s started,” said Chester.

  “It’s started,” said Walt. “Meanwhile, you and I have got duties to do. I’m going to swim downstream and talk to Robert Rabbit. I’ll send him back here. You hatched this plan. It’s up to you to convince everyone.”

  “I wish I had a shell, like Simon.”

  “Too late now, creaky cricket! And I’ll send up Frank Woodchuck, too. He swings a lot of weight with the bigger fur folk. And Donald—if he’s on his twig—I’ll tell him to come up toward noon. The insects are going to be awfully important!”

  “You’re telling me?” wailed Chester Cricket. “And here we’re depending on one dragonfly! And a tetched one at that—tetched by sunlight, moonlight, the light of the stars—”

  “—and the light in the eyes of his friends!” Walter splashed some water in Chester’s face. “So cheer up—and chirp up!—Chester Cricket. This is the day when we field folk do or die for the sake of the one human being who loves us most.”

  * * *

  Chester sat on his log as the early morning blossomed around him. For a while he just listened to Ashley sing. And that helped a great deal. For inside himself he was summoning up all his strength and all his cricket’s intelligence for the task that lay ahead of him: to persuade a whole meadow, with all its different animals, to act as if it were one living thing. His day would be almost as difficult as the mockingbird’s, he thought.

  Then he shook himself. No! The whole thing depended on Ashley. This day, Chester Cricket resolved, he wouldn’t take any more thought for himself. He was just there to serve a mockingbird and a hopeless old man.

  In a short while the field folk began to appear, routed out of their daily routines by Walter.

  First came Frank Chuck and Robert Rabbit.

  When he’d heard the scheme, Frank chewed it over with his big buck teeth. “And I can’t even snore—?”

  “Pretend to snore,” said Chester Cricket. “Then afterwards you can snore for real.”

  Robert Rabbit took no convincing at all. “But I don’t make noise,” was all he objected.

  “I’ve heard that rabbits scream, sometimes—”

  “—just when we’re unnerved,” said Robert. “And a scream wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “You’re right,” said Chester. “I guess you’ll just have to be quiet.”

  “Like fur I will! I’ll beat my flat feet on that hollow log near my house—”

  “Great!” said the cricket. “It’ll sound like the drum in an orchestra.”

  The chipmunks, Emily and Henry, were a little reluctant at first. Then, when they’d talked it out with each other, they found that they both were excited—amazed! Emily was amazed, and Henry excited. They went home to their nook in the fallen-down stone wall where they lived and enjoyed their excitement—amazement—all day.

  Chester Cricket was beginning to think that this day might not be so hard after all, when Donald Dragonfly flew up. Frank Chuck, Robert Rabbit, that crowd—they’d all been fairly cooperative, and Donald was—after all—an insect. As was Chester himself. He didn’t anticipate problems. But he got them.

  “Hi, Chister!” the dragonfly said, as he settled. His six wings took the sunlight and spread it all out on the pool. Light met water, and both exchanged hues. “What’s up?”

  “Donald—”

  “I had the nicest thing this morning! One wing was dipping into the brook—and the other went up to the dawn, jist as I was waking up!”

  “Donald, listen—there’s something important—”

  “That has niver happened to me before.”

  “Donald! You dope—! I didn’t mean that.” Chester touched a wing to Donald’s wing: always a sign of peace, between insects. “But you have to listen! Because this is serious.”

  Donald tried to remember his wings’ serious positions. They got scrambled. But finally they folded into something like a dragonfly’s earnest attention. “Yis, Chister?”

  “The thing is this—!” Chester Cricket explained the problem, and his own unlikely solution.

  “No! Chister—no!” shouted Donald.

  “This is a hard time—”

  “Is it?” asked Donald. “I didn’t know that.” The dragonfly never thought of the world as a difficult place. The news that it was came as an unwelcome surprise. “I thought times were good, not hard.” He lifted his wings and peeped, “I thought times were grand! It’s August, Chister, and you know what that means: insect time! Oh-boy-oh-boy-oh-boy! You loud ones git to make your noises—and I git to shine my best!”

  Chester loved Donald dearly, but he never knew whether to talk to him seriously—bug to bug—or just laugh his antennae off. “Now, Donald”—he touched one of Donald’s wings with a wing—“we have a problem. Mr. Budd’s in a fix.” Chester patiently went over—and over—and over—Mr. Budd’s trouble. Each time, though, Donald understood a bit more. But unless a discussion was all about light, Donald hardly ever remembered it. “Has Mr. Budd ever hurt any one of you dragonflies—?”

  “No—”

  “Or killed a firefly—?”

  “No. I knew one named Pete who sat on his shoulder, and Mr. Budd didn’t stir a hair. So’s not to scare Pete.”

  “Well, all right, then!” said Chester. “You have got to contact the cicadas and katydids. All those critters that make August August. And the fireflies, too, who still can blink—it’s been a wet summer—there must be some, even if their time is earlier. You have got to get the insects all ready!”

  “Oh, all right. It won’t hurt me—though I do like to go to sleep early. Unliss disturbed. And I’m not oftin disturbed. But the night fliers, Chester—and the night chirpers too, like yourself—and the full moon is tonight! I forgot!”

  “It’ll just be a little time,” said Chester. “And then—” He went over the plan once more.

  “But there’s hundrids and hundrids of us,” said Donald. “I can’t link antennae with every one!”

  “You don’t need to. Just touch ten and tell them to get the message spread. By nightfall every insect in the meadow will know.”

  “Okay,” said Donald, doubtfully.

  �
�And, Donald,” said Chester with a lot of confidence—to reassure his friend, “this is going to be the great night in your life.”

  “Oh! I didn’t know that!” Donald suddenly believed. And hurried off through the morning air to do his task. Which was only to mobilize every insect in the whole meadow. Donald couldn’t fly without showering colors all around. But he just took glory for granted.

  “If it isn’t your greatest night,” said Chester Cricket to himself, “it’ll be my fault—not yours.”

  The cricket was thinking of responsibility, the leaden weight of it, like a thunderhead, when J.J. alighted beside him.

  “I’ve got them hidden. There’s a stretch of grass behind a bramble—poor Abner was so tired this morning, we woke him up early—but Dubber and him are sleeping there. Dubber knows to keep him quiet, too, when he wakes up, until tonight.”

  “You’ve been great—” began Chester.

  “Y’all don’t know how great! I’ve got all the birds in line, too! Took a little bit of persuading—since all of them think you’re crazy. But even the sparrows came around.”

  “I’m sure,” said Chester. “Poor things! They’re probably all black and blue—”

  “When you bash them, sparrows don’t get black and blue,” J. J. Bluejay explained. “Their feathers just fall off. But I’ve done with those tactics. I was sweet and—kind and reasonable. And all the birds were so amazed that J. J. Bluejay was sweet and kind and reasonable—they all agreed to everything! How about that? And even—they all agreed to staying up late! All night, if necessary. And we like to turn in early.”

  “Donald said the same thing.”

  “But we’ll be up! Or else this meadow will be littered with feathers! Tomorrow morning. And listen now, Chester—” J.J. treated himself to a trill. “I got the Hawk to cooperate—”

  “I don’t believe it!”

  “When all the little chirpies had agreed—John Robin helped a lot, too—I decided, why not? I had the grackles under my wing, those bums! Why not try for the highest bird. So I flew!”

  J.J. choked at the great experience. It was probably the highest point in his life. “I got higher than I’d ever been before. Then the Hawk was there! He was amazed that I’d gotten so far up. We talked on the wind. He was still puzzled that I could fly so high—so was I!—and He said, ‘What in the name of thunder and lightning are you doing up here?’ I explained—and He shrieked. And what He was shrieking was ‘Me—?’ ‘Just once,’ I explained. ‘And if you do—I’ll teach you to sing—’” J.J. fumbled for his voice. “He knew that I’d made a fool of myself. But instead of knocking me down to earth, He just laughed. And He said He’d shriek. Swoop, too.”