Tucker's Countryside Read online

  “What’s a picket line?” said Ellen. Sam had been on strike a few times and he explained about picket lines: how people marched back and forth carrying signs that said what they thought was wrong with something. It was a way of making everyone pay attention to something that they didn’t know, or didn’t want to know, or had forgotten. “And if there’s a picket line, then—then, can you change things?” asked Ellen.

  “Sometimes you can,” said Sam. “Sometimes not.”

  Lou had finished lifting the little kids into the cab and brought them back to Ellen. “Your turn,” he said to her.

  “Don’t bother about me,” said Ellen. “I’ve got something important I have to do this afternoon!” She made the little kids take hands and get ready to cross the road.

  “Listen, Ellen,” said Sam. “Would you do me a favor now? Would you all please stop starin’ at us? It gets under our skin—you know?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Ellen. “We won’t watch you any more.” She told the little kids to say thank you—which they did, one by one, Nancy, Anne, John, and last Jaspar—and quickly took them back to the houses. They wanted to stay with her, but she sent them off to play hide-and-seek and then hurried home to take care of her own important business.

  Sam watched her go. “Nice kid,” he said.

  “They’re all nice,” said Lou.

  Sam was silent for a while. Then he said, “Listen—I’m goin’ to take out Bertha’s spark plugs.”

  “You’re what?” said Lou.

  “Bertha’s gett’n’ old,” said Sam. He patted the steam shovel’s side. “She has a right to a breakdown.”

  “Boy, are you goin’ crazy!” said Lou. “The boss’ll—”

  “Forget about the boss!” Sam interrupted. He looked at Lou sharply. “You aren’t goin’ to tell him, are you?”

  “Course not!” said Lou. Sam stepped up into the cab and opened the door to the motor’s compartment. He unscrewed two little things and put them in his pocket. “It won’t do any good,” said Lou. “She’ll be outa commission this afternoon, but they’ll fix her by tomorrow.”

  “That’s right,” said Sam. “But at least this afternoon we won’t have to dig up this hill.” He gave the big caterpillar tread of the steam shovel another friendly pat. “You take a rest, ol’ girl!”

  And Lou and he walked down the road, toward the corner where a larger avenue crossed it. They could get a bus there downtown.

  For a minute the hill seemed deserted. It wasn’t, however. Tucker Mouse and Chester Cricket crept out from the bushes where they’d been hiding. “Those men are nice,” said Tucker.

  “Most people are,” said the cricket. “If they just get left alone. It’s when they all get together that they start doing stupid things—like digging up meadows!”

  Tucker looked at the steam shovel towering above them. “Um—Chester—I know Bertha shouldn’t be here, but as long as she is—um—”

  “Go ahead,” said Chester. “Go sit in the cab if you want to.”

  “You wouldn’t think I’m joining the enemy, would you?”

  “No, no,” said the cricket. “Go on.”

  The mouse scrambled up over the tread and into the cab. He made his way up, gear by gear, until he was sitting in the driver’s seat. It occurred to him that he might be the only mouse in the world who had ever sat in the driver’s seat of a steam shovel. But, under the circumstances, the thought didn’t make him very happy.

  NINE

  The Picket Line

  Early next day Chester and Tucker were down beside the brook next to the stump, having their morning wash and drink. Their backs were toward the bank. “Good morning,” said a voice behind them. They both looked up, and there sat Harry Cat.

  “What are you doing here?” said Tucker.

  “Ellen and the little kids are out in the meadow,” Harry answered.

  “So early?” said Chester.

  “Yes,” said Harry. “Come on. I want you to see something.”

  Tucker knew that something was wrong. Harry Cat had a way of flicking his tail to right and to left when he was upset or angry, and right now his tail was lashing like a whip. “What’s the matter, Harry?” said the mouse.

  “You’ll see,” said Harry. “Just come on.”

  No one spoke as they walked through Tuffet Country and Pasture Land. When they got to the foot of the hill, Tucker could see what was wrong. Up on top of it there was a picket line. Ellen and the little kids were marching around in a circle. Each one of them was carrying a sign, and they were marching right next to the hole the steam shovel had made yesterday, so that everyone could tell exactly what the signs referred to. Ellen’s sign said LET THE MEADOW ALONE. Nancy was carrying one with STOP BUILDING printed on it. Anne was holding up a sign almost as big as she was herself. It read DOWN WITH HOUSES. John was the little kid who most liked to sit beside the water and just look at the fishes and frogs and things. His sign said HELP THE BROOK. And Jaspar had demanded to carry the sign printed in the biggest letters of all: SAVE NATURE!

  “Ellen spent all yesterday afternoon making those signs,” said Harry. “That’s the third set. She decided the letters in the first two weren’t big enough. And she also made those poles that the cardboard’s attached to. She hammered them together out of that wood we saw in the cellar.” Harry was speaking in a very flat voice. But Tucker knew there was stony anger inside him. “She got three splinters, too. Her mother had to take them out with a needle.”

  The three animals looked at the children on the hill, marching in their picket line. “I hate Connecticut!” Chester Cricket burst out.

  “Chester!” said Tucker Mouse in amazement. “You say you hate Connecticut? The way you love it—?”

  “I don’t care!” said the cricket. “It’s not right when kids have to do things like that!”

  “The mothers think so, too,” said Harry. He led the mouse and the cricket up the side of the hill.

  On the other side of the road a little crowd had gathered. The mothers of the little kids were standing with Mrs. Hadley at the edge of the Hadleys’ front yard. Some big kids were there too, sitting on the grass. David, Jaspar’s brother, was fourteen years old, and he was definitely a big kid. He had taken a course in civics the year before in school, and he was very proud of all he knew about society. “Hey, Jaspar!” he shouted. “Who’s your union leader?”

  Jaspar didn’t understand that he was being laughed at. “Ellen Hadley!” he called back happily.

  David looked at his and Jaspar’s mother. “I think that’s a dopey thing to do!” he scoffed. “Marching around like that.”

  But his mother cut him off with a glance. “Be quiet, David,” she said softly. And sometimes the softness in a mother’s voice can be much worse than her loudness is.

  The big kids hung around a little longer—then they went off to play by themselves. But the mothers stayed on. Mothers do, when things like this happen. “Do you suppose they have to put up apartment houses right here?” said Anne’s mother.

  John’s mother shifted uneasily. “I suppose that’s what they call ‘progress.’”

  “I don’t call it progress!” exploded Jaspar’s mother furiously. “I call it a shame!” Jaspar took after his mother in many ways.

  Ruff Saint Bernard, who happened to be sitting nearby, scratching one ear, caught the mood of the mothers and began to bark furiously. Jaspar’s mother shushed him. “That won’t do any good!” she said. Ruff gave one last frustrated ‘woof!’ and went back to scratching his ear.

  “I think I’ll make some lemonade for everybody,” said Nancy’s mother. She went off toward her own home, which was next door to the Hadleys’: a brick house with red shutters.

  “You know what we ought to do?” said Mrs. Hadley. “We ought to take those signs ourselves and go down and march around City Hall!”

  “Yes, we really should,” said John’s mother. “But I’ve got such a tubful of laundry to do this afternoon—”
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  “—and there’s the marketing for the whole weekend.” Anne’s mother sighed and shook her head.

  The mothers stood silent, thinking of what they ought to do and of all the little, necessary chores that would keep them from doing it. In a few minutes Nancy’s mother came back with a big pitcher of lemonade and some paper cups. The five women crossed the road. Tucker Mouse, who had one encounter with Mrs. Hadley already, was careful to stay out of sight.

  “How about some lemonade?” said Nancy’s mother cheerfully.

  “We don’t have time,” said Ellen.

  “No time!” said Jaspar sternly.

  “Oh, just for a minute you could stop,” said Anne’s mother.

  The sweat was standing out in beads on John’s forehead. He wiped them off and said hopefully, “It is getting hot, Ellen—”

  “All right,” said Ellen. “But everybody keep your signs pointing toward the road.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a slug of lemonade myself,” Tucker whispered to Chester.

  Nancy’s mother poured out lemonade for all the children. Picketing in August is very hot work, and it tasted delicious.

  “Ellen,” said Mrs. Hadley, “I know how you feel about the meadow, and keeping it the way it is, but—do you really think this marching will do any good?”

  “Well, it could,” said Ellen. “We ought to go and march where the Town Council meets, but I can’t take the little kids way downtown.” The mothers glanced at one another, but their eyes didn’t like to meet. “And I was hoping,” Ellen went on, “that people who drive by here would see us. And then they’d go downtown and tell everybody we were marching. And if enough people did it—well, maybe they wouldn’t dig up the meadow.” She looked from one mother to another. “Isn’t that possible?”

  “It’s possible,” said Mrs. Hadley without much hope, “but—”

  “That’s all it has to be,” said Ellen. “Just possible. Thank you for the lemonade. Everybody in line now!” She marshaled the little kids again. “And hold your signs so the people in cars can see.”

  Nancy’s mother held up the pitcher. “I think there’s probably going to be a steady supply of lemonade in my kitchen today. Anybody who gets thirsty—just come over.”

  “Oh boy!” said Jaspar. He looked at Ellen, and then back at Nancy’s mother, and said firmly, “I mean—no time!” And the picket line began its march again.

  Jaspar’s mother shook her head. “The least we can do is to make sure that this is the best Hedley Day the children have ever had.”

  “Good heavens! Is it time for Hedley Day already?” said John’s mother. “How the summer flies!”

  Ellen’s mother looked out across the meadow. “This is the last year we’ll be able to have the picnic here.” Her eyes traced the rambling course of the brook. “It does seem a pity.”

  All the mothers agreed that it was a pity. Then they returned to their separate homes and began the necessary little chores that filled up ordinary days.

  “It’s Friday today,” said Ellen to the little kids as they marched in their circle. “If we picket today and tomorrow and Hedley Day too, a lot of people are sure to see us!”

  “What’s ‘Hedley Day’?” whispered Tucker to Chester Cricket.

  “The last Sunday in August is Hedley Day,” Chester told him. “All around town everybody has picnics and makes speeches. It’s in honor of that man, Joseph Hedley.”

  “Was it his birthday?” asked Tucker.

  “No,” said the cricket. “That is, I guess it might have been. No one knows just which day he was born. They don’t even know where he lived, exactly. But he was so important that they have a celebration anyway. I think most folks enjoy the food more than the speeches. The kids do, at least. But everyone seems to have a good time. In this neighborhood the mothers divide up who makes what to eat, and if the weather’s nice, they have the picnic in the meadow.”

  By now the morning was well along. For a while the three animals sat and watched the picket march in silence. Then Tucker Mouse sighed and said, “I wish I was big enough to carry a sign.”

  “I know what it would say,” said Harry Cat. “BEWARE! FEROCIOUS MOUSE! THIS MEANS YOU!”

  Just then a dump truck pulled up beside the road. It was brand new and painted a bright green. The man driving it was named Frank. Sitting beside him in the front seat were Sam and Lou. They both got out, and Frank grinned at them through the open window. He thought it was much more important work to drive a brand-new dump truck than to run a rickety old steam shovel. “Now remember what the boss said, boys,” he called. “If Bertha needs two new spark plugs today, she’s going to need two new guys to work her!”

  “Yeah!” muttered Lou.

  “Wise guy!” growled Sam. He and Lou climbed the hill and saw the picket line. They stopped, and for a moment stood frozen. Sam’s face went tight, as if he was trying not to see what he saw.

  “Hi,” said Ellen. She thought the men were angry with her, and tried to apologize. “We’re not doing anything wrong. Honestly!”

  “I know you’re not, honey,” said Sam. “But you’ve got to go back to your own yard now. Lou an’ me are in big trouble. We have to do two days’ work today—to make up for yesterday afternoon. Go on now.” He touched Ellen’s shoulder. She made the little kids take hands. “And Ellen—I really am—” Sam was about to say “sorry,” but the word felt so empty in his mind that he didn’t even want to hear himself say it. Ellen took the signs under one arm and led the little kids across the road.

  All day Bertha worked—without stopping for the noon hour even. First Lou had her dig up the pile of dirt left from yesterday morning and lift it into the dump truck. Frank drove it over to another part of town where a site was being filled in for a factory. Then, when Sam began his turn, he made her bite into the living ground. By the time the men left, late Friday afternoon, half the hill had been eaten away.

  On the other side of the street, at the edge of the Hadleys’ lawn, the picket line went on. There were two or three breaks for lemonade, and a longer stop for lunch, but the children marched until six o’clock. The mothers were amazed. Usually little kids like to change their games often, but on this particular summer day no one, not even Jaspar, suggested that they do anything else—because this was not a game. At supper-time, however, the mothers insisted that the picket line be disbanded—temporarily, at least. And as a matter of fact, suppers were especially good in the neighborhood that night; many favorite dishes were served. But before she had her dinner, Ellen stored the signs in the Hadleys’ garage, where they’d be waiting for tomorrow.

  All during the day the usual stream of cars had flowed along the road. Quite a few of the drivers slowed down to watch the picket line. Some shook their heads, some only stared in amazement. And no one laughed. But no one went down to the City Hall either, to tell the Town Council that children with signs were marching beside the Old Meadow.

  At dusk, when the children and the workmen had gone, the animals gathered beside the steep hollow that gaped in the side of the hill. Bill Squirrel was there, and Henry Chipmunk, and so were various rabbits and sundry fieldmice. The roots of the elm tree where Bill had his nest had just begun to show. “One more day,” said Bill. “That’s all it’ll take.”

  Tucker Mouse wished that it was already dark so he couldn’t see the others and nobody could see him. “I’m a failure,” he said. “I failed. I couldn’t think of anything.”

  “It’s not your fault,” said Chester. “I guess there are some things you just can’t stop.”

  The animals sat on the verge of the pit, and the August night came on.

  TEN

  Henry’s House

  “I wish you’d come, Mr. Mouse. I really do!”

  It was Saturday morning. Chester and Tucker and several of the other animals were sitting on the hill watching Ellen and the little kids picket. The children had gotten up just as early today as they had yesterday, and right after breakfast they w
ere out on the Hadleys’ lawn, marching around in the same circle.

  “Please come, Mr. Mouse.” Henry Chipmunk was talking. “I’ve been asking you and Mr. Cat to come and visit me and Emily at our house all summer long. And by next week we won’t have any house! It’s really very interesting, where we live. You’ll enjoy it!” A forlorn expression came over the chipmunk’s face. “And if you don’t come, Emily’s going to think you don’t like us.”

  Harry Cat had come over to join his friends. “Come on, Tucker,” he said. “We can’t have Emily thinking that.”

  “All right.” Tucker sighed. He could not take his eyes off the marching children. “But I wish there was some way I could help those kids. Maybe if I threw myself in front of the next car that comes—”

  “What kind of help would that be?” said Chester.

  “Well, the car might stop, and Ellen could tell the driver what they’re doing, and—”

  “Come on.” Harry gently prodded the mouse. “Let’s go see where Henry and Emily live.”

  With Chester hopping along beside them, the animals went down the hill, walked around Simon’s Pool, past Ellen’s Special Place, and came to a spot where a big log was caught against the bank of the brook. It projected out into the water, and from the end of it an easy jump could be made to the farther bank. When everyone was on the other side, Tucker Mouse looked back. The morning sun made a golden picture that knitted together the birches of Ellen’s Special Place, the glittering surface of Simon’s Pool, and the hill above, where Bill Squirrel’s elm was growing. The yawning cavity on the other side could not be seen—only the steam shovel’s roof. But since it was Saturday, Bertha would not be working today.

  Tucker shook his head. “To think of everything—just gone!”

  “Don’t think of it,” said Chester.

  Henry Chipmunk led them off toward the West, through land that was very much like Pasture Land: flat grass with daisies and buttercups and low, blue forget-me-nots growing in it. On any other day it would have been a happy parade that tramped through the fields, surrounded by flowers. Soon the ground began to rise, and they came to a hilly country where tangled old trees were planted in rows. “These are apple trees,” Henry explained. “Ages ago, when there used to be a farm here, the farmer had an orchard. You should smell how sweet it smells in the fall, when all the apples are lying on the ground!”