[Part 2] "Stuart Little" by E. B. White
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CHAPTER X. SPRINGTIME
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Snowbell, the cat, enjoyed nighttime more than daytime.
Perhaps it was because his eyes liked the dark.
But I think it was because there are always so many worth-while things going on in New York at night.
Snowbell had several friends in the neighborhood.
Some of them were house cats, others were store cats.
He knew a Maltese cat in the A & P, a white Persian in the apartment house next door, a tortoise-shell in the delicatessen, a tiger cat in the basement of the branch library, and a beautiful young Angora who had escaped from a cage in a pet shop on Third Avenue and had gone to live a free life of her own in the tool house of the small park near Stuart’s home.
One fine spring evening Snowbell had been calling on the Angora in the park.
He started home, late, and it was such a lovely night she said she would walk along with him to keep him company.
When they got to Mr. Little’s house, the two cats sat down at the foot of a tall vine which ran up the side of the house past George’s bedroom.
This vine was useful to Snowbell, because he could climb it at night and crawl into the house through George’s open window.
Snowbell began telling his friend about Margalo and Stuart.
“Goodness,” said the Angora cat, “you mean to say you live in the same house with a bird and a mouse and don’t do anything about it?”
“That’s the situation,” replied Snowbell.
“But what can I do about it?
Please remember that Stuart is a member of the family, and the bird is a permanent guest, like myself.”
“Well,” said Snowbell’s friend, “all I can say is, you’ve got more self-control than I have.”
“Doubtless,” said Snowbell.
“However, I sometimes think I’ve got too much self-control for my own good.
I’ve been terribly nervous and upset lately, and I think it’s because I’m always holding myself in.”
The cats’ voices grew louder, and they talked so loudly that they never heard a slight rustling in the vine a few feet above their heads.
It was a gray pigeon, who had been asleep there and who had awakened at the sound of cats and begun to listen.
“This sounds like an interesting conversation,” said the pigeon to himself.
“Maybe I’d better stay around and see if I can learn something.”
“Look here,” he heard the Angora cat say to Snowbell, “I admit that a cat has a duty toward her own people, and that under the circumstances it would be wrong for you to eat Margalo.
But I’m not a member of your family and there is nothing to stop me from eating her, is there?”
“Nothing that I can think of offhand,” said Snowbell.
“Then here I go,” said the Angora, starting up the vine.
The pigeon was wide awake by this time, ready to fly away; but the voices down below continued.
“Wait a minute,” said Snowbell, “don’t be in such a hurry.
I don’t think you’d better go in there tonight.”
“Why not?” asked the other cat.
“Well, for one thing, you’re not supposed to enter our house.
It’s unlawful entry, and you might get into trouble.”
“I won’t get into any trouble,” said the Angora.
“Please wait till tomorrow night,” said Snowbell, firmly.
“Mr. and Mrs. Little will be going out tomorrow night, and you won’t be taking such a risk.
It’s for your own good I’m suggesting this.”
“Oh, all right,” agreed the Angora.
“I guess I can wait.
But tell me where I’ll find the bird, after I do get in.”
“That’s simple,” said Snowbell.
“Climb this vine, enter George’s room through the open window, then go downstairs and you’ll find the bird asleep in the Boston fern on the bookcase.”
“Easy enough,” said the Angora, licking her chops.
“I’m obliged to you, sir.”
“Well, the old thing!” whispered the pigeon to himself, and he flew away quickly to find a piece of writing paper and a pencil.
Snowbell said goodnight to his friend and climbed up the vine and went in to bed.
Next morning Margalo found a note on the branch of her fern when she woke.
It said: BEWARE OF A STRANGE CAT WHO WILL COME BY NIGHT.
It was signed A WELL WISHER.
She kept the note under her wing all day long, wondering what she had better do, but she didn’t dare show it to anyone—not even to Stuart.
She couldn’t eat, she was so frightened.
“What had I better do?” she kept saying to herself.
Finally, just before dark, she hopped up to an open window and without saying anything to anybody she flew away.
It was springtime, and she flew north, just as fast as she could fly, because something inside her told her that north was the way for a bird to go when spring comes to the land.
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CHAPTER XI. THE AUTOMOBILE
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For three days everybody hunted all over the house for Margalo without finding so much as a feather.
“I guess she had spring fever,” said George.
“A normal bird doesn’t stay indoors this kind of weather.”
“Perhaps she has a husband somewhere and has gone to meet him,” suggested Mr. Little.
“She has not!” sobbed Stuart, bitterly.
“That’s just a lot of nonsense.”
“How do you know?” asked George.
“Because I asked her one time,” cried Stuart.
“She told me she was a single bird.”
Everybody questioned Snowbell closely, but the cat insisted he knew nothing about Margalo’s disappearance.
“I don’t see why you have to make a pariah out of me just because that disagreeable little chippy flew the coop,” said Snowbell, irritably.
Stuart was heartbroken.
He had no appetite, refused food, and lost weight.
Finally he decided that he would run away from home without telling anybody, and go out into the world and look for Margalo.
“While I am about it, I might as well seek my fortune, too,” he thought.
Before daybreak next morning he got out his biggest handkerchief and in it he placed his toothbrush, his money, his soap, his comb and brush, a clean suit of underwear, and his pocket compass.
“I ought to take along something to remember my mother by,” he thought.
So he crept into his mother’s bedroom where she was still asleep, climbed the lamp cord to her bureau, and pulled a strand of Mrs. Little’s hair from her comb.
He rolled the hair up neatly and laid it in the handkerchief with the other things.
Then he rolled everything up into a bundle and tied it onto one end of a wooden match.
With his gray felt hat cocked jauntily on one side of his head and his pack slung across his shoulder, Stuart stole softly out of the house.
“Good-by, beautiful home,” he whispered.
“I wonder if I will ever see you again.”
Stuart stood uncertainly for a moment in the street in front of the house.
The world was a big place in which to go looking for a lost bird.
North, south, east, or west—which way should he go?
Stuart decided that he needed advice on such an important matter, so he started uptown to find his friend Dr. Carey, the surgeon-dentist, owner of the schooner Wasp.
The doctor was glad to see Stuart.
He took him right into his inner office where he was busy pulling a man’s tooth.
The man’s name was Edward Clydesdale, and he had several wads of gauze in his cheek to hold his mouth open good and wide.
The tooth was a hard one to get out, and the Doctor let Stuart sit on his instrument tray so they could talk during the operation.
“This is my friend, Stuart Little,” he said to the man with the gauze in his cheek.
“How ’oo oo, Soo’rt,” replied the man, as best he could.
“Very well, thank you,” replied Stuart.
“Well, what’s on your mind, Stuart?” asked Dr. Carey, seizing hold of the man’s tooth with a pair of pincers and giving a strong pull.
“I ran away from home this morning,” explained Stuart.
“I am going out into the world to seek my fortune and to look for a lost bird.
Which direction do you think I should start out in?”
Dr. Carey twisted the tooth a bit and racked it back and forth.
“What color is the bird?” he asked.
“Brown,” said Stuart.
“Better go north,” said Dr. Carey.
“Don’t you think so, Mr. Clydesdale?”
“’ook in ’entral ’ark,” said Mr. Clydesdale.
“What?” cried Stuart.
“I ’ay, ’ook in ’entral ’ark,” said Mr. Clydesdale.
“He says look in Central Park,” explained Dr. Carey, tucking another big wad of gauze into Mr. Clydesdale’s cheek.
“And it’s a good suggestion. Oftentimes people with decayed teeth have sound ideas.
Central Park is a favorite place for birds in the spring.”
Mr. Clydesdale was nodding his head vigorously, and seemed about to speak again.
“If ’oo ’on’t ’ocate a ’ird in ’entral ’ark, ’ake a ’ew ’ork ’ew ’aven & ’artford ’ailway ’n ’ook in ’onnecticut.”
“What?” cried Stuart, delighted at this new kind of talk.
“What say, Mr. Clydesdale?”
“If ’oo ’on’t ’ocate a ’ird in ’entral ’ark, ’ake a ’ew ’ork ’ew ’aven & ’artford ’ailway ’n ’ook in ’onnecticut.”
“He says if you can’t locate the bird in Central Park, take a New York New Haven & Hartford Railway train and look in Connecticut,” said Dr. Carey.
Then he removed the rolls of gauze from Mr. Clydesdale’s mouth.
“Rinse, please!” he said.
Mr. Clydesdale took a glass of mouthwash that was beside the chair and rinsed his mouth out.
“Tell me this, Stuart,” said Dr. Carey.
“How are you traveling?
On foot?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stuart.
“Well, I think you’d better have a car.
As soon as I get this tooth out, we’ll see what can be done about it.
Open, please, Mr. Clydesdale.”
Dr. Carey grabbed the tooth with the pincers again, and this time he pulled so long and so hard and with such determination that the tooth popped out, which was a great relief to everybody, particularly to Mr. Clydesdale.
The Doctor then led Stuart into another room.
From a shelf he took a tiny automobile, about six inches long—the most perfect miniature automobile Stuart had ever seen.
It was bright yellow with black fenders, a streamlined car of graceful design.
“I made this myself,” Dr. Carey said.
“I enjoy building model cars and boats and other things when I am not extracting teeth.
This car has a real gasoline motor in it.
It has quite a good deal of power—do you think you can handle it, Stuart?”
“Certainly,” replied Stuart, looking into the driver’s seat and blowing the horn.
“But isn’t it going to attract too much attention?
Won’t everybody stop and stare at such a small automobile?”
“They would if they could see you,” replied Dr. Carey, “but nobody will be able to see you, or the car.”
“Why not?” asked Stuart.
“Because this automobile is a thoroughly modern car.
It’s not only noiseless, it’s invisible.
Nobody can see it.”
“I can see it,” remarked Stuart.
“Push that little button!” said the Doctor, pointing to a button on the instrument panel.
Stuart pushed the button.
Instantly the car vanished from sight.
“Now push it again,” said the Doctor.
“How can I push it when I can’t see it?” asked Stuart.
“Feel around for it.”
So Stuart felt around until his hand came in contact with a button.
It seemed like the same button, and Stuart pushed it.
He heard a slight grinding noise and felt something slip out from under his hand.
“Hey, watch out!” yelled Dr. Carey.
“You pushed the starter button.
She’s off!
There she goes!
She’s away!
She’s loose in the room—now we’ll never catch her.”
He grabbed Stuart up and placed him on a table where he wouldn’t be hit by a runaway car.
“Oh, mercy!
Oh, mercy!” Stuart cried when he realized what he had done.
It was a very awkward situation.
Neither Dr. Carey nor Stuart could see the little automobile, yet it was rushing all over the room under its own power, bumping into things.
First there came a crashing noise over by the fireplace.
The hearth broom fell down.
Dr. Carey leapt for the spot and pounced on the place where the sound had come from.
But though he was quick, he had hardly got his hands on the place when there was another crash over by the wastebasket.
The Doctor pounced again.
Pounce! Crash! Pounce! Crash!
The Doctor was racing all over the room, pouncing and missing.
It is almost impossible to catch a speedy invisible model automobile even when one is a skillful dentist.
“Oh, oh,” yelled Stuart, jumping up and down.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Carey, I’m dreadfully sorry!”
“Get a butterfly net!” shouted the Doctor.
“I can’t,” said Stuart.
“I’m not big enough to carry a butterfly net.”
“That’s true,” said Dr. Carey.
“I forgot.
My apologies, Stuart.”
“The car is bound to stop sometime,” said Stuart, “because it will run out of gas.”
“That’s true, too,” said the Doctor.
And so he and Stuart sat down and waited patiently until they no longer heard any crashing sounds in the room.
Then the Doctor got down on his hands and knees and crawled cautiously all over, feeling here and there, until at last he found the car.
It was in the fireplace, buried up to its hubs in wood ashes.
The Doctor pressed the proper button and there it stood in plain sight again, its front fenders crumpled, its radiator leaking, its headlights broken, its windshield shattered, its right rear tire punctured, and quite a bit of yellow paint scratched off the hood.
“What a mess!” groaned the Doctor.
“Stuart, I hope this will be a lesson to you: never push a button on an automobile unless you are sure of what you are doing.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Stuart, and his eyes filled with tears, each tear being smaller than a drop of dew.
It had been an unhappy morning, and Stuart was already homesick.
He was sure that he was never going to see Margalo again.
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CHAPTER XII. THE SCHOOLROOM
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While Dr. Carey was making repairs on the car, Stuart went shopping.
He decided that, since he was about to take a long motor trip, he should have the proper clothes.
He went to a doll’s shop, where they had things which were the right size for him, and outfitted himself completely, with new luggage, suits, shirts, and accessories.
He charged everything and was well pleased with his purchases.
That night he slept at the Doctor’s apartment.
The next morning, Stuart started early, to avoid traffic.
He thought it would be a good idea to get out on the road before there were too many cars and trucks.
He drove through Central Park to One Hundred and Tenth Street, then over to the West Side Highway, then north to the Saw Mill River Parkway.
The car ran beautifully and although people were inclined to stare at him, Stuart didn’t mind.
He was very careful not to press the button which had caused so much trouble the day before.
He made up his mind that he would never use that button again.
Just as the sun was coming up, Stuart saw a man seated in thought by the side of the road.
Stuart steered his car alongside, stopped, and put his head out.
“You’re worried about something, aren’t you?” asked Stuart.
“Yes, I am,” said the man, who was tall and mild.
“Can I help you in any way?” asked Stuart in a friendly voice.
The man shook his head.
“It’s an impossible situation, I guess,” he replied.
“You see, I’m the Superintendent of Schools in this town.”
“That’s not an impossible situation,” said Stuart.
“It’s bad, but it’s not impossible.”
“Well,” continued the man, “I’ve always got problems that I can’t solve.
Today, for instance, one of my teachers is sick—Miss Gunderson her name is.
She teaches Number Seven school.
I’ve got to find a substitute for her, a teacher who will take her place.”
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Stuart.
“I don’t know, exactly.
The doctor says she may have rhinestones,” replied the Superintendent.
“Can’t you find another teacher?” asked Stuart.
“No, that’s the trouble.
There’s nobody in this town who knows anything; no spare teachers, no anything.
School is supposed to begin in an hour.”
“I will be glad to take Miss Gunderson’s place for a day, if you would like,” suggested Stuart agreeably.
The Superintendent of Schools looked up.
“Really?”
“Certainly,” said Stuart.
“Glad to.”
He opened the door of the little car and stepped out.
Walking around to the rear, he opened the baggage compartment and took out his suitcase.
“If I’m to conduct a class in a schoolroom, I’d better take off these motoring togs and get into something more suitable,” he said.
Stuart climbed the bank, went into the bushes, and was back in a few minutes wearing a pepper-and-salt jacket, old striped trousers, a Windsor tie, and spectacles.
He folded his other clothes and packed them away in the suitcase.
“Do you think you can maintain discipline?” asked the Superintendent.
“Of course I can,” replied Stuart.
“I’ll make the work interesting and the discipline will take care of itself.
Don’t worry about me.”
The man thanked him and they shook hands.
At quarter before nine the scholars had gathered in School Number Seven.
When they missed Miss Gunderson and word got round that there would be a substitute, they were delighted.
“A substitute!” somebody whispered to somebody else.
“A substitute, a substitute!”
The news traveled fast, and soon everyone in the schoolroom knew that they were all to have a rest from Miss Gunderson for at least a day and were going to have the wonderful experience of being taught by a strange teacher whom nobody had ever seen before.
Stuart arrived at nine.
He parked his car briskly at the door of the school, stalked boldly into the room, found a yardstick leaning against Miss Gunderson’s desk, and climbed hand-over-hand to the top.
There he found an inkwell, a pointer, some pens and pencils, a bottle of ink, some chalk, a bell, two hairpins, and three or four books in a pile.
Stuart scrambled nimbly up to the top of the stack of books and jumped for the button on the bell.
His weight was enough to make it ring, and Stuart promptly slid down, walked to the front of the desk, and said: “Let me have your attention, please!”
The boys and girls crowded around the desk to look at the substitute.
Everyone talked at once, and they seemed to be very much pleased.
The girls giggled and the boys laughed and everyone’s eyes lit up with excitement to see such a small and good-looking teacher, so appropriately dressed.
“Let me have your attention, please!” repeated Stuart.
“As you know, Miss Gunderson is sick and I am taking her place.”
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Roy Hart, eagerly.
“Vitamin trouble,” replied Stuart.
“She took Vitamin D when she needed A.
She took B when she was short of C, and her system became overloaded with riboflavin, thiamine hydrochloride, and even with pyridoxine, the need for which in human nutrition has not been established.
Let it be a lesson for all of us!”
He glared fiercely at the children and they made no more inquiries about Miss Gunderson.
“Everyone will now take his or her seat!” commanded Stuart.
The pupils filed obediently down the aisles and dropped into their seats, and in a moment there was silence in the classroom.
Stuart cleared his throat.
Seizing a coat lapel in either hand, to make himself look like a professor, Stuart began: “Anybody absent?”
The scholars shook their heads.
“Anybody late?”
They shook their heads.
“Very well,” said Stuart, “what’s the first subject you usually take up in the morning?”
“Arithmetic,” shouted the children.
“Bother arithmetic!” snapped Stuart.
“Let’s skip it.”
There were wild shouts of enthusiasm at this suggestion.
Everyone in the class seemed perfectly willing to skip arithmetic for one morning.
“What next do you study?” asked Stuart.
“Spelling,” cried the children.
“Well,” said Stuart, “a misspelled word is an abomination in the sight of everyone.
I consider it a very fine thing to spell words correctly and I strongly urge every one of you to buy a Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary and consult it whenever you are in the slightest doubt.
So much for spelling.
What’s next?”
The scholars were just as pleased to be let out of spelling as they were about arithmetic, and they shouted for joy, and everybody looked at everybody else and laughed and waved handkerchiefs and rulers, and some of the boys threw spit balls at some of the girls.
Stuart had to climb onto the pile of books again and dive for the bell to restore order.
“What’s next?” he repeated.
“Writing,” cried the scholars.
“Goodness,” said Stuart in disgust, “don’t you children know how to write yet?”
“Certainly we do!” yelled one and all.
“So much for that, then,” said Stuart.
“Social studies come next,” cried Elizabeth Gardner, eagerly.
“Social studies?
Never heard of them,” said Stuart.
“Instead of taking up any special subject this morning, why wouldn’t it be a good idea if we just talked about something.”
The scholars glanced around at each other in expectancy.
“Could we talk about the way it feels to hold a snake in your hand and then it winds itself around your wrist?” asked Arthur Greenlaw.
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“We could, but I’d rather not,” replied Stuart.
“Could we talk about sin and vice?” pleaded Lydia Lacey.
“Nope,” said Stuart.
“Try again.”
“Could we talk about the fat woman at the circus and she had hair all over her chin?” begged Isidor Feinberg, reminiscently.
“No,” said Stuart.
“I’ll tell you, let’s talk about the King of the World.”
He looked all around the room hopefully to see how the children liked that idea.
“There isn’t any King of the World,” said Harry Jamieson in disgust.
“What’s the diff?” said Stuart.
“There ought to be one.”
“Kings are old-fashioned,” said Harry.
“Well, all right then, let’s talk about the Chairman of the World.
The world gets into a lot of trouble because it has no chairman.
I would like to be Chairman of the World myself.”
“You’re too small,” said Mary Bendix.
“Oh, fish feathers!” said Stuart.
“Size has nothing to do with it.
It’s temperament and ability that count.
The Chairman has to have ability and he must know what’s important.
How many of you know what’s important?”
Up went all the hands.
“Very good,” said Stuart, cocking one leg across the other and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
“Henry Rackmeyer, you tell us what is important.”
“A shaft of sunlight at the end of a dark afternoon, a note in music, and the way the back of a baby’s neck smells if its mother keeps it tidy,” answered Henry.
“Correct,” said Stuart.
“Those are the important things.
You forgot one thing, though.
Mary Bendix, what did Henry Rackmeyer forget?”
“He forgot ice cream with chocolate sauce on it,” said Mary quickly.
“Exactly,” said Stuart.
“Ice cream is important.
Well now, if I’m going to be Chairman of the World this morning, we’ve got to have some rules, otherwise it will be too confusing, with everyone running every which way and helping himself to things and nobody behaving.
We’ve got to have some laws if we’re going to play this game.
Can anybody suggest any good laws for the world?”
Albert Fernstrom raised his hand.
“Don’t eat mushrooms, they might be toadstools,” suggested Albert.
“That’s not a law,” said Stuart, “that’s merely a bit of friendly advice.
Very good advice, Albert, but advice and law are not the same.
Law is much more solemn than advice.
Law is extremely solemn.
Anybody else think of a law for the world?”
“Nix on swiping anything,” suggested John Poldowski, solemnly.
“Very good,” said Stuart.
“Good law.”
“Never poison anything but rats,” said Anthony Brendisi.
“That’s no good,” said Stuart.
“It’s unfair to rats.
A law has to be fair to everybody.”
Anthony looked sulky.
“But rats are unfair to us,” he said.
“Rats are objectionable.”
“I know they are,” said Stuart.
“But from a rat’s point of view, poison is objectionable.
A Chairman has to see all sides to a problem.”
“Have you got a rat’s point of view?” asked Anthony.
“You look a little like a rat.”
“No,” replied Stuart, “I have more the point of view of a mouse, which is very different.
I see things whole.
It’s obvious to me that rats are underprivileged.
They’ve never been able to get out in the open.”
“Rats don’t like the open,” said Agnes Beretska.
“That’s because whenever they come out, somebody socks them.
Rats might like the open if they were allowed to use it.
Any other ideas for laws?”
Agnes Beretska raised her hand.
“There ought to be a law against fighting.”
“Impractical,” said Stuart.
“Men like to fight.
But you’re getting warm, Agnes.”
“No scrapping?” asked Agnes, timidly.
Stuart shook his head.
“Absolutely no being mean,” suggested Mildred Hoffenstein.
“Very fine law,” said Stuart.
“When I am Chairman, anybody who is mean to anybody else is going to catch it.”
“That won’t work,” remarked Herbert Prendergast.
“Some people are just naturally mean.
Albert Fernstrom is always being mean to me.”
“I’m not saying it’ll work,” said Stuart.
“It’s a good law and we’ll give it a try.
We’ll give it a try right here and now.
Somebody do something mean to somebody.
Harry Jamieson, you be mean to Katharine Stableford.
Wait a minute, now, what’s that you’ve got in your hand, Katharine?”
“It’s a little tiny pillow stuffed with sweet balsam.”
“Does it say ‘For you I pine, for you I balsam’ on it?”
“Yes,” said Katharine.
“Do you love it very much?” asked Stuart.
“Yes, I do,” said Katharine.
“O.K., Harry, grab it, take it away!”
Harry ran over to where Katharine sat, grabbed the little pillow from her hand, and ran back to his seat, while Katharine screamed.
“Now then,” said Stuart in a fierce voice, “hold on. my good people, while your Chairman consults the book of rules!”
He pretended to thumb through a book.
“Here we are.
Page 492. ‘Absolutely no being mean.’
Page 560. ‘Nix on swiping anything.’
Harry Jamieson has broken two laws—the law against being mean and the law against swiping.
Let’s get Harry and set him back before he becomes so mean people will hardly recognize him any more!
Come on!”
Stuart ran for the yardstick and slid down, like a fireman coming down a pole in a firehouse.
He ran toward Harry, and the other children jumped up from their seats and raced up and down the aisles and crowded around Harry while Stuart demanded that he give up the little pillow.
Harry looked frightened, although he knew it was just a test.
He gave Katharine the pillow.
“There, it worked pretty well,” said Stuart.
“No being mean is a perfectly good law.”
He wiped his face with his handkerchief, for he was quite warm from the exertion of being Chairman of the World.
It had taken more running and leaping and sliding than he had imagined.
Katharine was very much pleased to have her pillow back.
“Let’s see that little pillow a minute,” said Stuart, whose curiosity was beginning to get the better of him.
Katharine showed it to him.
It was about as long as Stuart was high, and Stuart suddenly thought what a fine sweet-smelling bed it would make for him.
He began to want the pillow himself.
“That’s a very pretty thing,” said Stuart, trying to hide his eagerness.
“You don’t want to sell it, do you?”
“Oh, no,” replied Katharine.
“It was a present to me.”
“I suppose it was given you by a boy you met at Lake Hopatcong last summer, and it reminds you of him,” murmured Stuart, dreamily.
“Yes, it was,” said Katharine, blushing.
“Ah,” said Stuart, “summers are wonderful, aren’t they, Katharine?”
“Yes, and last summer was the most wonderful summer I have ever had in all my life.”
“I can imagine,” replied Stuart.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t want to sell that little pillow?”
Katharine shook her head.
“Don’t know as I blame you,” replied Stuart, quietly.
“Summertime is important.
It’s like a shaft of sunlight.”
“Or a note in music,” said Elizabeth Acheson.
“Or the way the back of a baby’s neck smells if its mother keeps it tidy,” said Marilyn Roberts.
Stuart sighed.
“Never forget your summertimes, my dears,” he said.
“Well, I’ve got to be getting along.
It’s been a pleasure to know you all.
Class is dismissed!”
Stuart strode rapidly to the door, climbed into the car, and with a final wave of the hand drove off in a northerly direction, while the children raced alongside and screamed “Good-by, good-by, good-by!”
They all wished they could have a substitute every day, instead of Miss Gunderson.
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CHAPTER XIII. AMESS' CROSSING
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In the loveliest town of all, where the houses were white and high and the elm trees were green and higher than the houses, where the front yards were wide and pleasant and the back yards were bushy and worth finding out about, where the streets sloped down to the stream and the stream flowed quietly under the bridge, where the lawns ended in orchards and the orchards ended in fields and the fields ended in pastures and the pastures climbed the hill and disappeared over the top toward the wonderful wide sky, in this loveliest of all towns Stuart stopped to get a drink of sarsaparilla.
Parking his car in front of the general store, he stepped out and the sun felt so good that he sat down on the porch for a few moments to enjoy the feeling of being in a new place on a fine day.
This was the most peaceful and beautiful spot he had found in all his travels.
It seemed to him a place he would gladly spend the rest of his life in, if it weren’t that he might get homesick for the sights of New York and for his family, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick C. Little and George, and if it weren’t for the fact that something deep inside him made him want to find Margalo.
After a while the storekeeper came out to smoke a cigarette, and he joined Stuart on the front steps.
He started to offer Stuart a cigarette but when he noticed how small he was, he changed his mind.
“Have you any sarsaparilla in your store?” asked Stuart.
“I’ve got a ruinous thirst.”
“Certainly,” said the storekeeper.
“Gallons of it.
Sarsaparilla, root beer, birch beer, ginger ale, Moxie, lemon soda, Coca Cola, Pepsi Cola, Dipsi Cola, Pipsi Cola, Popsi Cola, and raspberry cream tonic.
Anything you want.”
“Let me have a bottle of sarsaparilla, please,” said Stuart, “and a paper cup.”
The storekeeper went back into the store and returned with the drink.
He opened the bottle, poured some out into the cup, and set the cup down on the step below Stuart, who whipped off his cap, lay down on his stomach, and dipped up some of the cool refreshing drink, using his cap as a dipper.
“That’s very refreshing,” remarked Stuart.
“There’s nothing like a long, cool drink in the heat of the day, when you’re traveling.”
“Are you going far?” asked the storekeeper.
“Perhaps very far,” replied Stuart.
“I’m looking for a bird named Margalo.
You haven’t sighted her, have you?”
“Can’t say I have,” said the storekeeper.
“What does she look like?”
“Perfectly beautiful,” replied Stuart, wiping the sarsaparilla off his lips with the corner of his sleeve.
“She’s a remarkable bird.
Anybody would notice her.
She comes from a place where there are thistles.”
The storekeeper looked at Stuart closely.
“How tall are you?” he asked.
“You mean in my stocking feet?” said Stuart.
“Yes.”
“Two inches nothing and a quarter,” answered Stuart.
“I haven’t been measured recently, however.
I may have shot up a bit.”
“You know,” said the storekeeper, thoughtfully, “there’s somebody in this town you really ought to meet.”
“Who’s that?” asked Stuart, yawning.
“Harriet Ames,” said the storekeeper.
“She’s just your size—maybe a trifle shorter, if anything.”
“What’s she like?” asked Stuart.
“Fair, fat, and forty?”
“No, Harriet is young and she is quite pretty.
She is considered one of the best dressed girls in this town, too.
All her clothes are tailored specially for her.”
“That so?” remarked Stuart.
“Yes.
Harriet’s quite a girl.
Her people, the Ameses, are rather prominent in this town.
One of her ancestors used to be the ferryman here in Revolutionary days.
He would carry anybody across the stream—he didn’t care whether they were British soldiers or American soldiers, as long as they paid their fare.
I guess he did pretty well.
Anyway, the Ameses have always had plenty of money.
They live in a big house with a lot of servants.
I know Harriet would be very much interested to meet you.”
“That’s very kind of you,” replied Stuart, “but I’m not much of a society man these days.
Too much on the move.
I never stay long anywhere—I blow into a town and blow right out again, here today, gone tomorrow, a will o’ the wisp.
The highways and byways are where you’ll find me, always looking for Margalo.
Sometimes I feel that I’m quite near to her and that she’s just around the turn of the road.
Other times I feel that I’ll never find her and never hear her voice again.
Which reminds me, it’s time I was on my way.”
Stuart paid for his drink, said good-by to the storekeeper, and drove off.
But Ames’ Crossing seemed like the finest town he had ever known, and before he reached the end of the main street he swerved sharp left, turned off onto a dirt road, and drove down to a quiet spot on the bank of the river.
That afternoon he swam and lay on his back on the mossy bank, his hands crossed under his head, his thoughts returning to the conversation he had had with the storekeeper.
“Harriet Ames,” he murmured.
Evening came, and Stuart still lingered by the stream.
He ate a light supper of a cheese sandwich and a drink of water, and slept that night in the warm grass with the sound of the stream in his ears.
In the morning the sun rose warm and bright and Stuart slipped into the river again for an early dip.
After breakfast he left his car hidden under a skunk cabbage leaf and walked up to the post office.
While he was filling his fountain pen from the public inkwell he happened to glance toward the door and what he saw startled him so that he almost lost his balance and fell into the ink.
A girl about two inches high had entered and was crossing the floor toward the mail boxes.
She wore sports clothes and walked with her head held high.
In her hair was a stamen from a flower.
Stuart began to tremble from excitement.
“Must be the Ames girl,” he said to himself.
And he kept out of sight behind the inkwell as he watched her open her mail box, which was about a quarter of an inch wide, and pull out her letters.
The storekeeper had told the truth: Harriet was pretty.
And of course she was the only girl Stuart had ever encountered who wasn’t miles and miles taller than he was.
Stuart figured that if the two of them were to walk along together, her head would come a little higher than his shoulder.
The idea filled him with interest.
He wanted to slide down to the floor and speak to her, but he didn’t dare.
All his boldness had left him and he stayed hidden behind the inkwell until Harriet had gone.
When he was sure that she was out of sight, he stole out of the post office and slunk down the street to the store, half hoping that he would meet the beautiful little girl, half fearing that he would.
“Have you any engraved stationery?” he asked the storekeeper.
“I’m behind on my correspondence.”
The storekeeper helped Stuart up onto the counter and found some letter paper for him—small paper, marked with the initial “L.”
Stuart whipped out his fountain pen and sat down against a five-cent candy bar and began a letter to Harriet:
“MY DEAR MISS AMES,” he wrote.
“I am a young person of modest proportions.
By birth I am a New Yorker, but at the moment I am traveling on business of a confidential nature.
My travels have brought me to your village.
Yesterday the keeper of your local store, who has an honest face and an open manner, gave me a most favorable report of your character and appearance.”
At this point in the letter Stuart’s pen ran dry from the long words and Stuart had to get the storekeeper to lower him head-first into a bottle of ink so that he could refill the pen.
Then he went back to letter writing. . . .
“Pray forgive me, Miss Ames,” continued Stuart, “for presuming to strike up an acquaintance on so slender an excuse as our physical similarity; but of course the fact is, as you yourself must know, there are very few people who are only two inches in height.
I say ‘two inches’—actually I am somewhat taller than that.
My only drawback is that I look something like a mouse.
I am nicely proportioned, however.
Am also muscular beyond my years.
Let me be perfectly blunt: my purpose in writing this brief note is to suggest that we meet.
I realize that your parents may object to the suddenness and directness of my proposal, as well as to my somewhat mouselike appearance, so I think probably it might be a good idea if you just didn’t mention the matter to them.
What they don’t know won’t hurt them.
However, you probably understand more about dealing with your father and mother than I do, so I won’t attempt to instruct you but will leave everything to your good judgment.
“Being an outdoors person, I am camped by the river in an attractive spot at the foot of Tracy’s Lane.
Would you care to go for a paddle with me in my canoe?
How about tomorrow afternoon toward sundown, when the petty annoyances of the day are behind us and the river seems to flow more quietly in the long shadows of the willows?
These tranquil spring evenings are designed by special architects for the enjoyment of boatmen.
I love the water, dear Miss Ames, and my canoe is like an old and trusted friend.”
Stuart forgot, in the excitement of writing Harriet, that he did not own a canoe.
“If you wish to accept my invitation, be at the river tomorrow about five o’clock.
I shall await your arrival with all the eagerness I can muster.
And now I must close this offensive letter and catch up with my affairs. Yours very truly, STUART LITTLE.”
After Stuart had sealed his letter in an envelope, he turned to the storekeeper.
“Where can I get hold of a canoe?” he asked.
“Right here,” replied the storekeeper.
He walked over to his souvenir counter and took down a little birchbark canoe with the words SUMMER MEMORIES stamped on the side.
Stuart examined it closely.
“Does she leak?” asked Stuart.
“It’s a nice canoe,” replied the storekeeper, bending it gently back into shape with his fingers.
“It will cost you seventy-five cents plus a penny tax.”
Stuart took out his money and paid the man.
Then he looked inside the canoe and noticed that there were no paddles.
“What about paddles?” he said, making his voice sound businesslike.
The storekeeper hunted around among the souvenirs but he couldn’t seem to find any paddles, so he went over to the ice cream counter and came back with two little cardboard spoons—the kind you use for eating ice cream on picnics.
“These will work out all right as paddles,” he said.
Stuart took the spoons, but he was disgusted with the looks of them.
“They may work out all right,” said Stuart, “but I would hate to meet an American Indian while I had one of these things in my hand.”
The storekeeper carried the canoe and the paddles out in front of the store and set them down in the street.
He wondered what this tiny boatman would do next, but Stuart never hesitated.
Taking a piece of thread from his pocket, he lashed the paddles to the thwarts, swung the canoe lightly up on his head, and walked off with it as calmly as though he were a Canadian guide.
He was very proud of his ability with boats and he liked to show off.
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CHAPTER XIV. AN EVENING ON THE RIVER
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When Stuart arrived at his camp site by the river, he was tired and hot.
He put the canoe in the water and was sorry to see that it leaked badly.
The birch bark at the stern was held together by a lacing, and the water came in through the seam.
In a very few seconds the canoe was half full of water.
“Darn it!” said Stuart, “I’ve been swindled.”
He had paid seventy-six cents for a genuine Indian birchbark canoe, only to find that it leaked.
“Darn, darn, darn,” he muttered.
Then he bailed out his canoe and hauled it up on the beach for repairs.
He knew he couldn’t take Harriet out in a leaky boat—she wouldn’t like it.
Tired though he was, he climbed a spruce tree and found some spruce gum.
With this he plugged the seam and stopped the leak.
Even so, the canoe turned out to be a cranky little craft.
If Stuart had not had plenty of experience on the water, he would have got into serious trouble with it.
It was a tippy boat even for a souvenir.
Stuart carried stones from the beach down to the water’s edge and ballasted the canoe with the stones until it floated evenly and steadily.
He made a back-rest so that Harriet would be able to lean back and trail her fingers in the water if she wished.
He also made a pillow by tying one of his clean handkerchiefs around some moss.
Then he went for a paddle to practise his stroke.
He was angry that he didn’t have anything better than a paper spoon for a paddle, but he decided that there was nothing he could do about it.
He wondered whether Harriet would notice that his paddle was really just an ice cream spoon.
All that afternoon Stuart worked on the canoe, adjusting ballast, filling seams, and getting everything shipshape for the morrow.
He could think of nothing else but his date with Harriet.
At suppertime he took his ax, felled a dandelion, opened a can of deviled ham, and had a light supper of ham and dandelion milk.
After supper, he propped himself up against a fern, bit off some spruce gum for a chew, and lay there on the bank dreaming and chewing gum.
In his imagination he went over every detail of tomorrow’s trip with Harriet.
With his eyes shut he seemed to see the whole occasion plainly—how she would look when she came down the path to the water, how calm and peaceful the river was going to be in the twilight, how graceful the canoe would seem, drawn up on the shore.
In imagination he lived every minute of their evening together.
They would paddle to a large water-lily pad upstream, and he would invite Harriet to step out on the pad and sit awhile.
Stuart planned to wear his swimming trunks under his clothes so that he could dive off the lily pad into the cool stream.
He would swim the crawl stroke, up and down and all around the lily pad, while Harriet watched, admiring his ability as a swimmer.
(Stuart chewed the spruce gum very rapidly as he thought about this part of the episode.)
Suddenly Stuart opened his eyes and sat up.
He thought about the letter he had sent and he wondered whether it had ever been delivered.
It was an unusually small letter, of course, and might have gone unnoticed in the letterbox.
This idea filled him with fears and worries.
But soon he let his thoughts return to the river, and as he lay there a whippoorwill began to sing on the opposite shore, darkness spread over the land, and Stuart dropped off to sleep.
The next day dawned cloudy.
Stuart had to go up to the village to have the oil changed in his car, so he hid the canoe under some leaves, tied it firmly to a stone, and went off on his errand, still thinking about Harriet and wishing it were a nicer day.
The sky looked rainy.
Stuart returned from the village with a headache, but he hoped that it would be better before five o’clock.
He felt rather nervous, as he had never taken a girl canoeing before.
He spent the afternoon lying around camp, trying on different shirts to see which looked best on him and combing his whiskers.
He would no sooner get a clean shirt on than he would discover that it was wet under the arms, from nervous perspiration, and he would have to change it for a dry one.
He put on a clean shirt at two o’clock, another at three o’clock, and another at quarter past four.
This took up most of the afternoon.
As five o’clock drew near, Stuart grew more and more nervous.
He kept looking at his watch, glancing up the path, combing his hair, talking to himself, and fidgeting.
The day had turned chilly and Stuart was almost sure that there was going to be rain.
He couldn’t imagine what he would do if it should rain just as Harriet Ames showed up to go canoeing.
At last five o’clock arrived.
Stuart heard someone coming down the path.
It was Harriet.
She had accepted his invitation.
Stuart threw himself down against a stump and tried to strike an easy attitude, as though he were accustomed to taking girls out.
He waited till Harriet was within a few feet of him, then got up.
“Hello there,” he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
“Are you Mr. Little?” asked Harriet.
“Yes,” said Stuart.
“It’s nice of you to come.”
“Well, it was very good of you to ask me,” replied Harriet.
She was wearing a white sweater, a tweed skirt, short white wool socks, and sneakers.
Her hair was tied with a bright colored handkerchief, and Stuart noticed that she carried a box of peppermints in her hand.
“Not at all, glad to do it,” said Stuart.
“I only wish we had better weather.
Looks rather sticky, don’t you think?”
Stuart was trying to make his voice sound as though he had an English accent.
Harriet looked at the sky and nodded.
“Oh, well,” she said, “if it rains, it rains.”
“Sure,” repeated Stuart, “if it rains, it rains.
My canoe is a short distance up the shore.
May I help you over the rough places in the path?”
Stuart was a courteous mouse by nature, but Harriet said she didn’t need any help.
She was an active girl and not at all inclined to stumble or fall.
Stuart led the way to where he had hidden the canoe, and Harriet followed, but when they reached the spot Stuart was horrified to discover that the canoe was not there.
It had disappeared.
Stuart’s heart sank.
He felt like crying.
“The canoe is gone,” he groaned.
Then he began racing wildly up and down the bank, looking everywhere.
Harriet joined in the search, and after a while they found the canoe—but it was a mess.
Some one had been playing with it.
A long piece of heavy string was tied to one end.
The ballast rocks were gone.
The pillow was gone.
The back rest was gone.
The spruce gum had come out of the seam.
Mud was all over everything, and one of the paddles was all bent and twisted.
It was just a mess.
It looked just the way a birchbark canoe looks after some big boys are finished playing with it.
Stuart was heartbroken.
He did not know what to do.
He sat down on a twig and buried his head in his hands.
“Oh, gee,” he kept saying, “oh, gee whiz.”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Harriet.
“Miss Ames,” said Stuart in a trembling voice, “I assure you I had everything beautifully arranged—everything.
And now look!”
Harriet was for fixing the canoe up and going out on the river anyway, but Stuart couldn’t stand that idea.
“It’s no use,” he said bitterly, “it wouldn’t be the same.”
“The same as what?” asked Harriet.
“The same as the way it was going to be, when I was thinking about it yesterday.
I’m afraid a woman can’t understand these things.
Look at that string!
It’s tied on so tight I could never get it off.”
“Well,” suggested Harriet, “couldn’t we just let it hang over in the water and trail along after us?”
Stuart looked at her in despair.
“Did you ever see an Indian paddling along some quiet unspoiled river with a great big piece of rope dragging astern?” he asked.
“We could pretend we were fishing,” said Harriet, who didn’t realize that some people are fussy about boats.
“I don’t want to pretend I’m fishing,” cried Stuart, desperately.
“Besides, look at that mud!
Look at it!”
He was screaming now.
Harriet sat down on the twig beside Stuart.
She offered him a peppermint but he shook his head.
“Well,” she said, “it’s starting to rain, and I guess I’d better be running along if you are not going to take me paddling in your canoe.
I don’t see why you have to sit here and sulk.
Would you like to come up to my house?
After dinner you could take me to the dance at the Country Club.
It might cheer you up.”
“No, thank you,” replied Stuart.
“I don’t know how to dance.
Besides, I plan to make an early start in the morning.
I’ll probably be on the road at daybreak.”
“Are you going to sleep out in all this rain?” asked Harriet.
“Certainly,” said Stuart.
“I’ll crawl in under the canoe.”
Harriet shrugged her shoulders.
“Well,” she said, “good-by, Mr. Little.”
“Good-by, Miss Ames,” said Stuart.
“I am sorry our evening on the river had to end like this.”
“So am I,” said Harriet.
And she walked away along the wet path toward Tracy’s Lane, leaving Stuart alone with his broken dreams and his damaged canoe.
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CHAPTER XV. HEADING NORTH
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Stuart slept under the canoe that night.
He awakened at four to find that the rain had stopped.
The day would break clear.
Already the birds were beginning to stir and make bright sounds in the branches overhead.
Stuart never let a bird pass without looking to see if it was Margalo.
At the edge of the town he found a filling station and stopped to take on some gas.
“Five, please,” said Stuart to the attendant.
The man looked at the tiny automobile in amazement.
“Five what?” he asked.
“Five drops,” said Stuart.
But the man shook his head and said that he couldn’t sell such a small amount of gas.
“Why can’t you?” demanded Stuart.
“You need the money and I need the gas.
Why can’t we work something out between us?”
The filling station man went inside and came back with a medicine dropper.
Stuart unscrewed the cap of the tank and the man put in five drops of gasoline.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” he said.
“Better look at the oil, too,” said Stuart.
After everything had been checked and the money had been paid, Stuart climbed in, started the engine, and drove out onto the highway.
The sky was growing brighter, and along the river the mists of morning hung in the early light.
The village was still asleep.
Stuart’s car purred along smoothly.
Stuart felt refreshed and glad to be on the move again.
Half a mile out of town the road forked.
One road seemed to go off toward the west, the other road continued north.
Stuart drew up to the side of the northbound road and got out to look the situation over.
To his surprise he discovered that there was a man sitting in the ditch, leaning against a signpost.
The man wore spurs on his legs.
He also wore a heavy leather belt, and Stuart realized that he must be a repairman for the telephone company.
“Good morning,” said Stuart in a friendly voice.
The repairman raised one hand to his head in a salute.
Stuart sat down in the ditch beside him and breathed deeply of the fresh, sweet air.
“It’s going to be a fine day,” he observed.
“Yes,” agreed the repairman, “a fine day.
I am looking forward to climbing my poles.”
“I wish you fair skies and a tight grip,” said Stuart.
“By the way, do you ever see any birds at the tops of your poles?”
“Yes, I see birds in great numbers,” replied the repairman.
“Well, if you ever run across a bird named Margalo,” said Stuart, “I’d appreciate it if you would drop me a line.
Here’s my card.”
“Describe the bird,” said the repairman, taking out pad and pencil.
“Brown,” said Stuart.
“Brown, with a streak of yellow on her bosom.”
“Know where she comes from?” asked the man.
“She comes from fields once tall with wheat, from pastures deep in fern and thistle; she comes from vales of meadowsweet, and she loves to whistle.”
The repairman wrote it all down briefly.
“Fields—wheat—pastures, fern & thistle.
Vales, meadowsweet.
Enjoys whistling.”
Then he put the pad back in his pocket, and tucked Stuart’s card away in his wallet.
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” he promised.
Stuart thanked him.
They sat for a while in silence.
Then the man spoke.
“Which direction are you headed?” he asked.
“North,” said Stuart.
“North is nice,” said the repairman.
“I’ve always enjoyed going north.
Of course, south-west is a fine direction, too.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Stuart, thoughtfully.
“And there’s east,” continued the repairman.
“I once had an interesting experience on an easterly course.
Do you want me to tell you about it?”
“No, thanks,” said Stuart.
The repairman seemed disappointed, but he kept right on talking.
“There’s something about north,” he said, “something that sets it apart from all other directions.
A person who is heading north is not making any mistake, in my opinion.”
“That’s the way I look at it,” said Stuart.
“I rather expect that from now on I shall be traveling north until the end of my days.”
“Worse things than that could happen to a person,” said the repairman.
“Yes, I know,” answered Stuart.
“Following a broken telephone line north, I have come upon some wonderful places,” continued the repairman.
“Swamps where cedars grow and turtles wait on logs but not for anything in particular; fields bordered by crooked fences broken by years of standing still; orchards so old they have forgotten where the farmhouse is.
In the north I have eaten my lunch in pastures rank with ferns and junipers, all under fair skies with a wind blowing.
My business has taken me into spruce woods on winter nights where the snow lay deep and soft, a perfect place for a carnival of rabbits.
I have sat at peace on the freight platforms of railroad junctions in the north, in the warm hours and with the warm smells.
I know fresh lakes in the north, undisturbed except by fish and hawk and, of course, by the Telephone Company, which has to follow its nose.
I know all these places well.
They are a long way from here—don’t forget that.
And a person who is looking for something doesn’t travel very fast.”
“That’s perfectly true,” said Stuart.
“Well, I guess I’d better be going.
Thank you for your friendly remarks.”
“Not at all,” said the repairman.
“I hope you find that bird.”
Stuart rose from the ditch, climbed into his car, and started up the road that led toward the north.
The sun was just coming up over the hills on his right.
As he peered ahead into the great land that stretched before him, the way seemed long.
But the sky was bright, and he somehow felt he was headed in the right direction.
THE END.