The Middle Moffat

Illustrated by Louis Slobodkin

AN ODYSSEY/HARCOURT YOUNG CLASSIC
HARCOURT, INC.
Orlando Austin New York San Diego London

Copyright © 1942 by Eleanor Estes
Copyright renewed 1970 by Eleanor Estes

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Estes, Eleanor, 1906–
The middle Moffat/Eleanor Estes; illustrated by Louis Slobodkin.
p. cm.
Sequel to:
The Moffats.
Sequel:
Rufus M.
"An Odyssey/Harcourt Young Classic."
Summary: Follows the adventures and misadventures of ten-year-old
Jane Moffat living with her widowed mother and three siblings in their new
home in Cranbury, Connecticut, in the early twentieth century.
[1. Family life—Connecticut—Fiction. 2. Moving, Household—Fiction.
3. Connecticut—Fiction.] I. Slobodkin, Louis, 1903–, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.E749Mi 2001
[Fic]—dc21 00-37030
ISBN 978-0-15-202523-6 ISBN 978-0-15-202529-8 (pb)

Printed in the United States of America
DOM
15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8
4500230569

To Clarence

Jane, the Middle Moffat
[>]

The Organ Recital
[>]

Best Friends
[>]

An Afternoon with the Oldest Inhabitant
[>]

The Mechanical Wizard
[>]

A Letter from Santa Claus
[>]

The Middle Bear
[>]

Eclipse over Cranbury
[>]

Janey Takes Up Sports
[>]

Best Friends Again
[>]

The Big Celebration
[>]

"This is Jane, the middle Moffat," said Jane, trying to act as though she were Mama, introducing her to one of the ladies she sewed for. That is not the way Mama actually introduced her to these ladies. Mama merely said, "This is Jane." She never added "the middle Moffat." Jane was adding that now to see how it sounded.

She was sitting under the big elm tree at the end of the long green lawn in front of the Moffats' new house. In her lap was a round rag rug she was crocheting. It kept humping up in the middle. Right now it looked more like a giant's skullcap than a rug. Perhaps when all the Moffats began to walk on it the hump would flatten out. They would stand on it often enough because it was going to be placed on the burnt spot in front of the potbellied stove.

"I'm the middle Moffat," Jane repeated. "Not the oldest, not the oldest son, not the youngest, just the middle."

Sylvie was the oldest Moffat. When Mama introduced Sylvie to the ladies who came to try on, she always said, "This is Sylvie, my oldest child."

Sylvie was sweet sixteen. On her last birthday her aunt had sent her sixteen lumps of sugar tied with pink ribbons all in a cluster. They were not to eat even though sugar was scarce.

"When you're sweet sixteen you get these things and you keep 'em," Jane explained to Rufus, who looked wide-eyed at the idea of sugar you kept and did not eat.

Naturally Rufus did not know about these things. He was the youngest, just six, in fact. He was in Room Two. In school he remembered to do almost everything the right way except to carry the one in arithmetic. He often forgot to do that. In the Moffats' house you were apt to hear someone say, "Watch out for Rufus because he is the littlest." Or, "Let Rufus do it first because he is the youngest." When Mama introduced Rufus to the ladies who came to try on, she said, "This is Rufus, the baby in the family."

And when Mama introduced Joey to people, she would say, "This is Joey, my oldest son." Ever since Papa had died, Joey had become more and more important in this family. He was thirteen. He locked the doors and closed the shutters at night. He kept the coal scuttles filled and he took care of the stoves. Joey, the oldest son.

But when Mama introduced Jane, she just said, "This is Jane." Because Mama had not figured out that Jane was the middle Moffat. Nobody had figured that out but Jane.

"Yes. This is Jane, the middle Moffat," Jane repeated out loud, addressing nobody in particular, though Catherine-the-cat gave her an inquiring glance and paused with her front paw on a grasshopper.

Why, even Catherine was called Catherine-the-cat. Never just Catherine. And the sewing figure which the Moffats called Madame was usually referred to as Madame-the-bust. Jane should be called Jane, the middle Moffat. It sounded good.

Jane wound a strip of bright red cloth around her crochet hook. The middle of other things was good, too, she thought. The middle of a sandwich and the middle of a pie. The middle of the night, when exciting things happened in books. The middle of the day, lunchtime. The Middle Ages, though what they were Jane was not certain.

Ouch! Jane's back was getting stiff. She stretched and then settled herself comfortably against the elm tree again. If someone came walking along Ashbellows Place and asked her who she was, she was going to say, "I'm Jane, the middle Moffat." If it sounded as good to others as it did to her, she would ask Mama to introduce her that way to the ladies who came to try on.

The Moffats had not been living on this street very long, and everybody didn't know them yet. Very likely there were lots of people who would like to know who this girl was, sitting under this tree, how old she was, and what room she was in in school. Natural to want to know. She remembered when a family moved to New Dollar Street, where the Moffats used to live, she would want to know the same things when she saw a strange girl.

Jane looked down the street, hoping someone would come along. Ah! Here came a girl around the corner from Pleasant Street, pulling a little boy in a red tin express wagon. The girl kept her eye on Jane all the way up the street. She walked very slowly. Jane could see that the girl was wondering who she was. Jane raised her head and gave her an expectant and encouraging look, but waited for the girl to speak first.

She didn't though. She drew up beside Jane. She and the little boy were licking pink lollipops. They watched Jane but said nothing.

Well,
thought Jane,
if she doesn't ask me, I'll have to ask her.

"What's your name?" she said.

"Clara Pringle. This is my brother. Brud, we call him."

"Oh..." said Jane.
Now you ask me,
she thought.

And after watching Jane for a while in silence, Clara did ask her.

"What's your name?" she finally asked. Jane was relieved. Now she could say it.