The Old Meadow
Page 13
“Anyway,” he went on, “they’re putting in plumbing, electricity. And the fights have been avoided so far. We had a near one, though. One plumber stepped on a squash. The foreman had to offer Abner a lettuce-and-tomato sandwich—or else there’d have been a brawl. Of course, Abner would have lost. Because the plumber was husky and young, and ready to take offense. But they shared a sandwich, and tempers cooled.”
Dubber Dog reflected. “Like an ornery bulldog, that plumber was. But I guess Abner, too, must have been like that—feisty—when he was young. Anyway, it’s all right now. Except Abner said, ‘If they tear up one tomato plant—or one string bean—watch out!’”
“Here he comes!” said Walter Water Snake. “And he hardly ever comes down to the pool.”
A lumbering was heard upstream.
“I came down myself,” said Dubber Dog, “’cause I did not like to hear Abner use awful words to the workmen. You’ve got to be nice if he swears a little.”
“Is swearing like—swearing to keep a promise?” asked Donald Dragonfly.
Mr. Budd lunged through thickets, shrubs, and bulrushes. “Where are you, dog—!” He broke through a patch of vines. “Oh, there you are—you Dubber you! My mutt—!”
There was that one tuffet that grew on the bank above Simon’s Pool. It seemed like a seat—an empty throne. Abner Budd sat on it. “Got lots of friends here, too, don’t you, dog?” Mr. Budd looked at all the animals—who were not afraid, and didn’t hide.
“I’m ready to give up,” said Abner. “Come here, Dubber—”
The dog jumped up in Abner’s lap—that was happening more often now—and Abner stroked his head.
“It’s not only plumbing and the electricity—they’re insulating my cabin now! Why, I don’t need insulation! Comes a cold night in February—I just put on two or three burlap blankets. You’ll lie beside me. I get to the spring. At least—I always have. So far. Perhaps we should go to Maine. They may not have ‘improvements’ there.”
Dubber slipped off Mr. Budd’s lap. He could see that his master was tired. And Abner eased off the tuffet. He rolled up his trousers, “These knees are hurtin’ again.” Abner Budd lay back and looked up at Bill Squirrel’s maple. Its green had reddened, the last few days. “Why, I didn’t know it was so near fall!” Abner mumbled something important about the fall, but no one could understand what he said. Then he fell asleep.
Dubber looked up sadly. “I guess he’ll be falling asleep more and more.” He was thinking of hours of loneliness, while he waited, as Mr. Budd slept. Then he stopped feeling sorry for himself. “All you guys here have to help me take care of him—!”
“We will,” said Chester. “And we’ll all keep both of you company, too.”
“We’ll never leave, though,” said Dubber.
In a silent reverie, the cricket was thinking—On Dark Night the insects seemed like the heart of the meadow. Now Mr. Budd and Dubber are. I guess the Meadow has many hearts. Chester hoped that he was one, too.
A hurrying of wings was heard in the air above the animals.
“Just had to have one last look around. With my virtuoso friend here.”
“Mm!” grumbled Walt. “‘One last look—’ I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Now, don’t go on. I told you right from the start that I had responsibilities, back in West Virginia. An’ J.J.’ll guard y’all—with a squawk or a trill—whatever he feels like makin’ that day, if somebody bad shows up. Like a kid with rocks or two men with butterfly nets. Funny, though,” the mockingbird thought, “that family turned out to be the Old Meadow’s best protection.” He whistled happily.
But his laughter didn’t work.
He’d meant to soothe all his friends’ disquiet. The field folk didn’t make a sound. They all fidgeted nervously and didn’t dare even glance at each other from the corner of worried eyes.
“Now don’t y’all do that!” hollered Ashley—and tried to make his mockingbird’s voice sound ugly. But couldn’t. “Don’t you dare to be miserable—!”
“But you’ll wait a while—” said Chester Cricket anxiously. He looked upwards, as if expecting something. “A week—or a couple of days—”
“Right now!” said Ashley.
“No—later,” pleaded Dubber Dog.
“This very second,” the mockingbird said. “It’s no use to make it worse—”
The field folk fell still. No one had a word to say.
But Walter Water Snake wouldn’t let this miserable silence go on. “Ashley—can I recite something? Just a little jingle that I composed.”
“Tchoor, Walt!” Ashley wouldn’t stop trying to cheer folks up.
“I composed this quite a while ago.” No one had seen Walt so upset before, almost tongue-tied—and for such a great talker, too. “I hadn’t made up my mind—that is—if you might like to hear—or if I should just forget the whole thing—and—”
“I’m sure he’d like to hear!” said Chester, still searching the sky.
“You got somethin’ to say?” Ashley asked.
“I think I do—”
“Then say it, snake! We’ve been up in the sky together, you and I.”
Walt’s voice was freed, and he blurted out:
A mockingbird with a golden throat
Flew out of the South, flew he.
We stopped—we wondered—each glorious note!—
We listened most gratefully.
In embarrassment Walt ducked to a deep depth of the pool where he could feel safe. Then curiosity overcame him. His eyes—just his eyes—appeared. Then his head! “You hated it, didn’t you?” he asked, in a poet’s agony.
“Walter Water Snake,” said Ashley, and his voice was somewhat husky now, “that was beautiful! I don’t deserve it—but it was beautiful, anyway.”
“Oh, yes, it was!” shouted Chester Cricket frantically. “It was—why—” He started to chirp as loud as he could.
“Have you gone off your antennae?” said Walt. “What’s wrong with you—?”
“Ashley!” begged Chester Cricket. “Please sing those up-and-downs, like you did on Dark Night—”
Without understanding why Chester had asked, the mockingbird sang his scales.
In the sky a shape that had wings was seen falling in lofty spirals, down to the earth. It seemed to the field folk as if Mr. Budd’s iron weather vane had taken on life and was flying to them.
“Thank goodness!—He heard!” said Chester Cricket. “He came here last night and made me promise I’d let Him know when Ashley was going to leave.”
In a moment, the Hawk was perched beside Chester. His feathers were somewhat dull in their color, but his eyes were fierce and bright, and His beak—that sharp beak—could have picked apart any soul in the whole Old Meadow. No one had seen Him this close up before, and no one could dare to look at Him for long. With rapid movements of His head, he jerked His eyes off one animal and fixed his glare on another.
Then, having examined them all, He pointed his gaze at Ashley.
“I’m—most proud to meet you, Hawk.” And even the mockingbird’s voice failed him now. He was just as stuttery and embarrassed as Walter Water Snake had been. “I’ve been wantin’ to thank you for Dark Night. Your scream is what did it.”
The Hawk lifted His enormous wings. They were powerful as the wind, expanded. He began a shriek—but then muffled it. All knew what He was saying was “No!” He made the melancholy sound that He’d made on Dark Night, when the world reappeared—melancholy and beautiful. All knew He was saying: “You made it happen.” His wings settled against Him again.
Still flustered, Ashley tried to ask, “Is there somethin’ you’d like, Hawk?”
The great bird stared.
“I was just about to tell my friends here—someday I’ll be back. They’ll see a little black speck come flyin’ over Avon Mountain—an’ it’ll be me!”
The Hawk ruffled his feathers. He looked at Ashley with eyes that held love and amusem
ent both. “Avon Mountain is my home,” he said, in his muffled thunder. “I’ll see you first. And I’ll conduct you here. Now sing for me!”
“Y’all want a song? Okay—!” The mockingbird flew to Mr. Budd’s tuffet and perched beside his head. “I don’t think I’ll wake him up. Some human bein’s hear best asleep.”
Ashley started to sing. This song was not about the Old Meadow. Or even about Connecticut. It was all about West Virginia and his people—“our people,” he always called them—Hank and Ella and the kids, and all the others who awaited him there. It was all about hollers that few human beings had ever seen. And pools in the hollers that no human being had seen at all. And the mountains in the distance, where blue mountains blended into blue sky, with no break between them at all.
The singing grew so sweet and real—and difficult to bear—that all who were there had to close their eyes.
In shreds of sound, the voice trailed off.
And when, eyes brimming, the animals dared to see again, the mockingbird, along with his song, had flown away.
ALSO BY GEORGE SELDEN
WITH PICTURES BY GARTH WILLIAMS
Chester Cricket’s Pigeon Ride
Chester Cricket’s New Home
The Cricket in Times Square
Harry Cat’s Pet Puppy
Harry Kitten and Tucker Mouse
Tucker’s Countryside
Text copyright © 1987 by George Selden
Pictures copyright © 1987 by Garth Williams
All rights reserved
Published simultaneously in Canada by Collins Publishers, Toronto
First edition, 1987
eISBN 9781466863668
First eBook edition: January 2014