But outside?
Well, outside Hurricane Lobelia was over. She hadn't stayed long. Here in Washington, D.C., they had just gotten the edge of it. While Jimmy McGee had been having songs, parties, electrical walks, and Snakey high jinks, the wind and the rain had stopped. No longer was water splashing over Beaver's dam and keeping Eely good and wet! And nowhere else in headquarters had any water seeped in. Now the little waterfall was falling straight down, not being swept off to Dunbarton Oaks or somewhere!
"Be prepared for the exodus," said Jimmy McGee to Beaver, keeper of the dam.
"I am ready," said Beaver, quivering with his importance. He had the guest list in his hands to check people off as they left. "But," he said wistfully, "I never had a chance to jump through the hoop snake!"
"You still may," Jimmy McGee assured him. "Snakey still has the tip of her tail in her mouth. And she is still rolling around slowly ... slowly. Check the guests off your list as they depart. Women and children first. So Ms. Red Hen and Chickie should be the first ones out. Though she grew fast because of the magic, Chickie is still a baby!"
Now Beaver was happy. He began to take down his dam of nuts and bolts. He could build himself a real, right beaver dam of twigs and roots and branches, an old shoe, anything that floated by down the brook a ways.
Jimmy McGee stood up on his own special rock chair, his throne. A plumber usually, not a speechmaker, Jimmy McGee was now about to make a speech.
"Attention! My friends ... guests..." he said. "The party is over. Hurricane Lobelia has blown out to sea. Now the sky is a beautiful deep blue. You are freed from the terror of high winds and rain. You may go home now.
"Everybody queue up at the entranceway, everybody. No more bulges in Snakey. Beaver will check you off the list as you leave. Thank you for coming. You were wonderful guests! Each one of you was wonderful. Don't wait for the next hurricane to visit me. So now, my friends, line up!"
Although Jimmy McGee's farewell address was rather long, it did not seem so because he gave it in the bebop way. Each one said, "Thank you," in his or her own special zoomie bebop way, the magic of this rare condition lingering on.
Then they lined up for the exodus parade with Ms. Red Hen and little Chickie beside her in the lead. No one was jealous of her. She had been so spectacular, laying an egg just like that in the middle of a hurricane and in curious surroundings! Squirrel was the last in line. The zoomie-zoomies had really helped his tail, which he waved like a plume. It still had some soft golden zigzags in its fur, which might be there forever more.
Raccoon was not jealous. His bushy tail was spectacular enough already and did not need any improvement.
But now, suddenly Snakey, in a final burst of the magic still within her, rolled over to the entrance way just a second before the exodus began and suspended herself on a jagged root right behind the little waterfall. There she swung prettily in the breeze.
Everybody clapped, and as each guest left, he or she now had one last leap through Snakey, still with her tail in her mouth, still lighting up like pinwheel fireworks. The force of their leaps landed them on the other side of the waterfall. They zoomied through so fast that Beaver had trouble keeping track of them.
Even Eely made it through with a boost from Beaver. After all, he was little more than a baby electric eel, or he would not have been acquired by the keepers of the aquarium. Into the brook he made it, beyond the waterfall, but the water was not as warm as he would have liked. He was bound to reach warmer waters in the South, however, by means of his own brand of electricity unless, of course, the keepers of the aquarium were on the lookout for him and had perhaps even caught him before the exodus ended.
"
Quién sabe?
" said Filibuster, who had picked up that word, new to him, during the party from Eely himself. Eely had flashed it on his back, and Filibuster saw it and put it in his repertoire.
Jimmy McGee shouted a warning. "Everybody help everybody!"
He need not have said a word, for Ms. Red Hen, standing on a rock on the far side of the brook, with Chickie beside her, turned, looked through the sparkling waterfall at Jimmy McGee, and said, "Mr. McGee. We all thank you. We have formed a club. We ... all of us, and all our descendents hereafter ... hereby establish a society named Refugees from Hurricane Lobelia in the Headquarters of Mr. Jimmy McGee.
"Our headquarters are going to be in the gardener's tool shed in Dunbarton Oaks Park, right across the brook. Those who like the water may stay outside, in or out of the brook. Those who like trees can perch in them and sing 'Tweet tweet-tweet' early in the morning. And those who care for neither can come into the gardener's shed with Chickie and me.
"Owl already knows that shed. Filibuster does, too. Some senators practice speeches there; otherwise it is very quiet! Cluck-cluck, catawcut!" she exclaimed as her grand finale.
"Voilà!" screamed Filibuster. Nevertheless, he sped from tree to tree to Ms. Red Hen's distinguished headquarters. Knowing the shed, he wanted to take immediate possession of his favorite listening perch.
Now only Beaver and Snakey were left. Snakey was still swaying in the entranceway and enjoying a mist from the waterfall that cooled her off somewhat. Also she liked the reflection of herself in the sunlit waterfall, so she swang and swang. Now Beaver had his chance after all to jump through her! He handed Jimmy McGee his list of guests. He said, "All are accounted for except for myself and Snakey. So, will you please check us off, Snakey and me, when we go?"
Then Beaver plunged through Snakey, not only the famous little hoop snake herself, but also her reflection in the waterfall. Right away he headed downstream, where he soon caught up with the others.
Now Snakey was the last to leave the camp of the refugees. "You were the best, Snakey," said Jimmy McGee. "You kept Little Lydia safe and sound for me all through Hurricane Lobelia at a time when she was most afflicted with magic. You kept the party moving ... rolling, I should say. Everyone had a good time. Maybe I'll see you again some day, perhaps during the next hurricane to hit these parts, or just for a visit to your friends up yonder, the other side of the brook."
Snakey slowly let the tip of her tail slip out of her mouth. She grinned at Jimmy McGee. It was a sort of comradeship. She then slithered away and disappeared in the direction of the gardener's tool shed in Dunbarton Oaks Park.
There they were all having so much to do! All had to build new homes. How fast Beaver was piling things up! "Much more elegant than nuts and bolts," he muttered to Badger, who tried to help.
Too bad Jimmy McGee couldn't help! But he had a very important task to do ... getting Little Lydia safely back home at last to Amy, the
Who's Who
writer, before anything else happened to her.
He was sure she was cured of that "Z" condition in Amy's book, cured completely. Safe she was still in his bombazine bag. The thunder and lightning bolt box was far, far away from her up in his stovepipe hat.
"Let's go!" he said. "Make ready for our last-time zoomie-zoomie ride!"
Little Lydia said nothing. Not even "
Fun!
"
A very little do-nothing doll again, at last. And himself, Jimmy McGee, a little fellow, a plumber, a banger on pipes ... a hero? At last?
Jimmy McGee stood for a moment on the other side of the waterfall. The whole world was washed clean and fresh after Lobelia. The sky was a deep, clear blue ... not a cloud anywhere. The sun, about to set, was a lovely rose-red. There was a rainbow. He smiled. The refugees should try to jump through that!
But now did he ever have work to do! Even though the entire force of Hurricane Lobelia had not struck here, still there was much hard work ahead ... wires down, trees blown over, and pipes out of order. But right now, the important, the most important, thing was to get Little Lydia back to Amy. Then he would be worthy of having the word
hero
tacked onto his name in the M's in Amy's
Who's Who Book.
So with Little Lydia safe in the bombazine bag slung over his shoulder and with the thunder and lightning bolt box securely balanced in his stovepipe hat, he sped over to 3017 Garden Lane.
Down in the cellar, right under the narrow, dusty window that opened onto Garden Lane, he saw Amy's carton of toys and dolls and books. This carton had been the last one put in the old gray Dodge in Truro and the first to be hoisted out in front of 3017 Garden Lane and then dragged down into the cellar!
Here, on top of the box, just as it had been there in Truro, was Amy's little red-brown notebook, the
Who's Who Book,
which had Little Lydia's hand-crocheted blue shawl wrapped around it. Jimmy McGee started to open the book. But, as always, it opened itself to the page where he and Little Lydia were listed. "Lydia, Little: a teeny, tiny doll with bright blue eyes.... Can't walk, can't talk, can't say 'Mama.' Has bristly, curly, long golden hair.... Lost in the ocean. Captured by a Monstrous wave! But I hope she will be rescued by a Hero!"
A
hero
! The rescue part was right, but until Amy held this little doll in her hands, only that would make the hero part right. Well! That's what he hoped to do right now.
He took Little Lydia out of his bombazine bag and looked at her for one-two sees. "Well," he said. "Good-by, now. Don't get lost again. If you do, try to remember the bebops and
the fun
word. I'll hear you."
Then he placed her on the L and M page in Amy's
Who's Who Book.
When Amy came down to get her things and take them upstairs, Little Lydia would be the first thing she would see lying there on top of her book, with her little blue shawl beside her.
"Bye, then!" he said.
Little Lydia stared at the sooty ceiling. Cobwebs were in the corners, but she didn't see them or anything. So bright a blue her eyes were, though, that even in this dusky cellar they shone with their blueness. And her pretty flowered dress looked brighter than it had, perhaps because of all the curious adventures she had been through. But now she was truly a do-nothing doll again, no longer an electrified bebopping doll!
Jimmy McGee took one last look at her. Nuisance though she had been ... think of all the things he had
not
done while he was busy trying to earn the name of being a hero ... still he would miss Little Lydia more than a little ... her and her bebops and her "
Get to work, lazy-Jimmy McGee!
"
"Well, bye again," he said. And he sprang into action.
He had to get on with his plan. He had to make certain that Amy would come down to the cellar soon and see her lost Little Lydia!
Suppose this carton was thought to be just summer toys and books of Amy's? Leave it down here all winter, until off again the family would go to Truro? Well, he must not let that happen! Little Lydia was not a cellar doll, a tiny banger on pipes, a tiny plumber. She belonged upstairs with Amy and her family, with her friend, Clarissa, and with Wags, with Bear and all her other dolls, Lydia, Big, who had swallowed a thermometer ... all the friends and family listed in Amy's
Who
's
Who Book.
He zoomied open the dusty cellar window above Amy's carton, then he sped across the street to the top of a lamppost, where he had a fine view of number 3017!
Amy and Clarissa were standing at the open bay window of the big second-floor bedroom where they always played, drew pictures, wrote stories or made them up, or listened to records. The curtains were parted and the window flung open as far as possible. Amy and Clarissa were stretching out their arms as though to bring in all the beauty of the washed-clean outside world. They opened their mouths wide to gulp down some of this beauty.
"Why, Clarissa!" exclaimed Amy. "There's a rainbow! Suppose we had the zoomie-zoomies and could fly through it!"
On the floor beneath them, the first floor, Papa and Mama were standing in the bay window of the parlor, looking up and down the street, getting used to being home. Some branches had broken off, but none from their old gingko tree with its strong-smelling orange fruit, rolling about like Ping-Pong balls in the last slight breeze of the storm.
Wags was standing close to Papa, front paws on the windowsill. He was sniffing the air and looking happy and ridiculous with Papa's old sock dangling lopsided from the side of his mouth. Once in a while he went to the door leading to the cellar, scratched at it, said "Woof!" and came back.
Jimmy McGee, from the top of his lamppost, took all this in. Now for his plan!
He took his strong little thunder and lightning bolt box out of his stovepipe hat. He put it to his ear and listened. Good! There were still faint rumblings of thunder, and he felt tingly little lightning vibrations along with the thunder. He was happy that neither of his prized little thunder and lightning bolts had worn out all their strength while handing it out, by means of the bolt box, right and left to the refugees in the winter headquarters.
This tiny little streak of lightning, not even as large as a lightning bug, could not now possibly hurt anybody, not even an ant. But he hoped the rumbly little thunderbolt was still loud enough for people in Number 3017 to hear it and wonder what it was.
All of them then would race for the cellar to look and to listen. Then Amy, of course, would spot her little long-lost do-nothing doll, Little Lydia!
He took careful aim at the cellar window he had left ajar. Then he opened up his thunder and lightning bolt box, and out shot his tiny zigzag tail of lightning and along with it the comfortable rumbling of his thunderbolt, somewhat louder than even Jimmy McGee, the expert, had expected. Its comfortable rumbly-jumbly rolling sound could be heard not only in the cellar of Amy's house, but all up and down Garden Lane!
Cardinal Bird, refugee, singing "Tweet tweet-tweet," flew to the tiptop of Jimmy McGee's lamppost and settled there. Along with Jimmy McGee, he waited.
Jimmy McGee grinned. He waited for the people. They came.