The Old Meadow (9 page)

“You Alvin—I'll whop your bottom!” This attack by a boy on a rabbit had ruined a wonderful game.

The cabin door burst open. Arthritis and age were left inside. Mr. Budd dashed out barefoot. A privet hedge, which he'd planted twenty years ago, had hidden Alvin and his sinister cardboard box from the old man smiling behind his window. Otherwise, Alvin would have been stopped before he reached the lettuce.

Ashley Mockingbird, his wing getting better day by day, flew out of the cabin, too, and made it, like a mountain climber, to the beak of the weather vane.

In his darkness, trapped, Robert Rabbit felt the cardboard box shake, as Alvin—whoever he was—ran away. Then he got tipped over. Mr. Budd's big feet had run by. Robert dashed to freedom. But he didn't dash too far. He felt free by the end of the last row of beans. And he wanted to watch the ruckus that he knew was about to occur.

“You, Alvin Irvin—you stay right here!”

As if there was anything Alvin could do. A shivering boy of ten was held by the hair in the grasp of a man old enough to be his granddad. Abner Budd had won that race, toward the brook, through the vegetable garden.

“Lemme go!”

“I will not! Why are you persecuting my rabbit?”

“I
felt
like it—you old goat!”

Mr. Budd sat down and with his right leg locked the boy firmly across his left knee.

On the other side of the yard, Dubber winced. He knew what was coming, and he knew how it felt. On the weather vane, Ashley sang a pacifying song, but Mr. Budd was too furious to hear.

His flattened right hand—a silent whop—was lifted in the air. He knew he'd have to force himself to spank this boy, but a good rabbit was a good rabbit, and a bad kid was—

“You're just like my grandma!” Alvin wailed.

“Why am I like your grandma?” The whop was stayed where it was, uplifted. This bad kid was miserable, in his tie-dyed T-shirt, raggedy short pants, and dirty sneakers. Even his freckles, as he craned his face around, looked like a map of unhappiness.

“She's mean, too. Like you!
All
old folks are mean!”

“How's your grandma mean?”

“She won't let me learn to hang-glide,” gleeped Alvin.

“Hang-gliding! Well, I should think not!” The undelivered whop lowered. Abner's hand rested gently on Alvin's back, though his right leg, still strong despite the arthritis, kept him tackled across his knee. “How old are you, Alvin Irvin?” From listening and listening down through the years, Mr. Budd knew the names, first and last, of all the children—and all the adults who had once been children—who roamed through the Old Meadow. But not one of them knew that his first name was Abner.

“I'm 'leven!” said Alvin. “And I'm grown up! I want to hang-glide down from Avon Mountain and fly over everywhere. Especially the meadow. There's a hang-glider takeoff place up there. I know—my dad and my uncle took me.”

Abner Budd released the boy. The young fellow didn't move, however. There was no whop anywhere now.

“It would be nice,” murmured Abner. The dream of flight, to feel finally at home, in the sky, set his spirit soaring. “If I could do it, I'd follow the course of the brook first: down from Avon Mountain, then over the dam at the reservoir—then zigzag through the meadow—”

“Me, too!” peeped Alvin, whose voice hadn't changed.

“Then I'd zoom back over Pasture Land, Tuffet Country, and look at my cabin—from way up high! Lordy me—that would be strange—to see my home like a bird.” Mr. Budd had a reverie, for a minute. “And if I ever came down again—which I might not—and got back, I'd feel as if my place was blessed. Since it had been seen from someplace up high.”

The thought was so new that it made Abner tremble. But it was the best kind of chill to feel: a shudder before something wonderful.

“But look here, boy”—he stood Alvin up and held him steady, with two big hands on little thin shoulders—“even if you and me got the same kind of dreams, and even if you can't hang-glide yet, that's no reason for you to capture my rabbit. And not even if you was to make him a pet.” Abner hoped that that was the explanation.

“But I can't reach that bird.”

“
What
—!”

“Well, if I can't fly, I want to have a pet who can—”

“In a
cage?
”

“—and who also sings. Like that one on your weather vane. My dad and my uncle and I have been listening all this week.”

“Oh, you boy!”

Alvin Irvin was whirled around, bottom up, and—

Whop!

Only one
whop
was heard in the vegetable garden, but many “
ow
's” resounded through the whole Old Meadow. They bounded loudly off the stone wall and ricocheted among the trees. Alvin was sure that he'd felt more than one
whop!
He hadn't.

“Now you get outa here, you boy!” shouted Abner Budd. “And tell your grandma that if I ever catch you again—puttin' boxes on my rabbit, or even
thinkin'
of catchin' my bird!—well, I'll, I'll kick your little behind so hard that you'll hang-glide all right! But no wings! Get
goin
'!”

*   *   *

It was later on that day, when the sun had just begun to slide down the round afternoon, that the strangest sight ever seen—so far—in the history of the Old Meadow appeared.

Mr. Budd had spent the rest of the morning fuming and mumbling to Dubber. “The idea” he muttered. “To catch my rabbit and my mockingbird. Can you imagine? The nerve of that brat—!”

“Woof!” said Dubber indignantly. In dog talk, in this case, “woof” meant “outrageous!” Sometimes it meant “terrific!” or “Gee, I'm sorry!” or just “I'm bored,” depending on how Dubber woofed. The dog usually knew what his Mr. Budd needed to hear and provided the most appropriate “woof.”

Toward noon, however, Mr. Budd's knees began to ache. All the exercise that morning, spanking Alvin and dashing around his vegetable garden, trying not to hurt a one, brought on a bad attack of arthritis. “Lumbago,” Mr. Budd called it in his old-fashioned way, but it was up-to-date arthritis—and in the joints especially bad. He sunned his knees in his yard, sitting on his stool with his trousers pulled up, and that helped some—but not enough. Perhaps his noon nap would bring relief, he hoped, as he hobbled inside. It was very hard to fall asleep. But at last he did, helped by Ashley Mockingbird, who sang about a sleepy bear who hibernated too early and woke up on New Year's Eve. He couldn't understand the rumpus the winter animals made all around.

But being asleep, Mr. Budd missed the sight, when it appeared.

Ashley flew down from the weather vane and alighted beside Dubber Dog. He'd been exercising his wing since Mr. Budd went inside. “I never seen nothin' like it.”

“Me neither.” Dubber shook his head. “You better fly down and get Chester and Simon. They wouldn't want to miss this. Oh!—and get Walt, too! This fits right in with his view of humanity. And also”—he lifted his ears quizzically, and then scratched the left one, although it didn't itch—“my flea tells me this is just the beginning.”

Ashley took off—sailed, for only a moment—and came down fast, on Chester's log, like an airplane making a very short run.

“Y'all better come upstream,” he said. “There's weird things happenin'.”

Simon Turtle had been basking—when wasn't he? this time of day—and Chester had been watching a leaf that the brook kept pushing back, although it seemed to be desperate to leave the pool and join the stream. Walt was down below, but he saw the flicker of wings, a flashing that reached down into the depths and made him want to rise.

“What's happening?” the cricket asked.

“Y'all better see for yourselves.”

A short while later the friends were hidden inside the shade cast by Mr. Budd's privet hedge.

“You're right,” pronounced Simon. “I never did see anything like that.” Even Simon had hurried.

“What
do
you think they're doing?” Chester Cricket wondered aloud.

Across the brook were three Irvins on the march, or rather, on the prowl—the same three people that Chester and Ashley had seen just after the Great Debate. Young Alvin, who had recovered remarkably well from his single, mild whop, had gone home and told his father, Allen, and his uncle, Edward, about the ferocious beating that he had just endured. They listened with interest. And so did Alvin's grandma, Malvina.

The Irvins were a picturesque family. Some folk said eccentric. And some field folk said that, after Donald Dragonfly, the Irvins were about as tetched as anyone in the town of Hedley. Malvina ruled the family, both her sons and their wives and her grandson too, with a rod-of-iron authority. Since reading had always been Malvina's favorite activity—next to ruling—she insisted that her whole family read. Like a lamp in a living room, a passion for reading lit up Malvina Irvin's house.

The passion burnt so bright in her sons that when it came time for them to grow up, instead of becoming insurance salesmen or doctors or lawyers—all honorable professions—they opened a rare-book shop. Which failed. The Irvin brothers were unsuccessful businessmen, although very successful readers. The trouble was, they liked rare books so much that whenever a new shipment came in they could hardly bear to part with a book before they both had pored over it. Many and many a customer had come into the store and asked to buy a particular volume, but either Allen or Edward would shout, “No! no! I haven't finished with that one yet!” In fact, half their stock—they loved the old rare books so much, with their leather bindings that smelled like gravy—they refused to sell at all. But they loaned out some to friends.

Like most dreamers, the Irvins had the idea, as their bookstore was going broke, that one great event would save them both and make them rich. So when Alvin, spanked, came tearfully home and told them what had happened, his father and uncle—and his grandmother—all put their heads together. That was a mistake. For when you add one fuzzy head to another—and then a third—you just get triple fuzziness.

This made the whole situation worse, and started the Irvins off into the meadow. A month ago, a rare book about songbirds had been in a parcel that came from New York. It fascinated both of the brothers—so much that they locked the door to the shop and read it all up in one day. The part that interested them most had to do with mockingbirds. The book said that every now and then a mockingbird came along who could not only mimic, he could improvise, and even create a melody. They were very rare, these mockingbirds, and very valuable. That new bird, the Irvins decided, the one who'd been singing for days on that rickety cabin's weather vane, he must be such a bird.

“Go get him!” ordered Malvina. “Little Alvin had a good idea. A lovely pet. Especially singing in the bookstore window. He'll attract a crowd and they'll buy books—if any are for sale. Now catch him! And none of you gets a bite of supper until that bird is in a cage!”

As Chester watched the three Irvins sneaking stealthily on the opposite side of the brook, he couldn't help asking, “But why are the men wearing dirty clothes?”

Behind bulrushes and marshy shrubs, the two grownup Irvins had on dull, faded green khaki pants and T-shirts Malvina had forgotten to wash with bleach.

“I think it's so they can fade into the scenery,” said Simon.

“Tchoor! That's it! Camouflage. What a couple of meatballs!”

“But with those things hanging over their shoulders?” said Chester. “Fade into the scenery? How—?”

Behind the backs of Allen and Edward, dangling almost to the ground, were two huge butterfly nets. They'd been left over, stored in the attic, from a time in the Irvins' childhood when they'd wanted to collect rare insects. All the butterflies who lived in the meadow were greatly relieved when this phase passed, although the boys never caught a one. They did, however, catch several wasps and were stung accordingly.

“They might as well be dressed up for Halloween,” said Dubber.

“Shh!” Chester warned. “They're coming over. I want to see just how far this will go.”

With all the stealth and delicacy of two mules and one pony, the Irvins sloshed across the brook. Allen was holding a dish of something, which he set down at the edge of Mr. Budd's vegetable patch. “Here, birdy-birdy-birdy!” he chirped.

An amazed silence fell on the four animals. Then Ashley broke it. “Y'all know somethin'?—I think those jokers are after me! Perhaps I ought to let them catch me—they're so miserable pitiful.”

“Don't you dare!” said Dubber. “Mr. Budd would have a fit!”

“
Here
—birdy-birdy-birdy,” crooned Edward. “Where is it, anyway? It used to sit on the weather vane.”