The Old Meadow (18 page)

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 amusement 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