The Old Meadow (15 page)

“My dog,” Mr. Budd kept saying. “I
am
so sorry I whopped you. And I kicked you, too, almost, that last day, when they took us away. My dog, my dog—my tomato dog—you're the best of the line. And I love you most. My little tomato pup.” He lifted up Dubber's head and kissed him on the short hairs of his nose. “You're the best dog, Dubber.”

Then Abner Budd began to cry.

“But, Dubber—I'm scared. I'm as scared as a little boy.”

Dubber licked his hands, to cheer him a little. But nothing could help.

“I'm so scared!” sobbed Mr. Budd. “I'm old, and nobody wants me at all.” He fell back against the home that he'd built. And his tears fell on Dubber's face. “Oh, Dubber, Dubber—my dearest friend—whatever will happen to both of us now?”

*   *   *

“I told you we shouldn't have watched,” said Chester. He jumped around so his back was to Mr. Budd's cabin. His heart seemed to shrink and expand, all at once. “I don't want to see things like this.”

“Let's go back to the pool right now,” said Simon.

On the way home, no one spoke.

But when they reached the little inlet where they knew they'd be safe for the rest of their lives, Chester Cricket blew up. When a cricket explodes—in anger or despair—not too many humans hear about it. It is a small rage, by the world's standards, but fierce. Chester's friends could see him, and hear him, trembling.

“I hate the world. I hate Hedley, Connecticut! I hate everybody! And most of all I hate myself! There's nothing that I can do—!”

“Now calm down, cricket,” said Walt.

“
It's just not right!
—to throw a man out of his home that he built with his own hands—just because it doesn't look like a pizza parlor, all neon and junk, on Hedley Avenue!”

“Chester, if I may—!” Walt began.

“And they'll come! I know they'll come tomorrow! To get him. We have to
do
something! It was so much easier the last time. We only had to save the Old Meadow. Fool 'em into thinking that this place was historical. Well, Mr. Budd is historical. And human, too!”

“Chester—” Walter tried to begin again.

“And more! The field folk decided that we'd try to help. We decided that at the Great Debate. But not one person had an idea!”

“I've got one,” said Simon. “Suppose we ask the people with teeth—like Frank Woodchuck—to dig holes around the cabin. Then the cops and the dogcatchers all would fall in, and—”

“That's ridiculous!”

Chester Cricket was not himself. No one ever had heard him shout like this. Everybody looked at everybody—Walt, Simon, J.J., Ashley—but nobody dared to say a word. Walt opened his mouth but snapped it shut: it wasn't the time, he decided.

“We
could
get the diggers to dig all around the cabin,” said J.J. “Then Mr. Budd would be an island.”

“You nutty bird!” squeaked Chester, in a cricket's shout. “That's the silliest thing I've ever heard! What are woodchucks—and even
moles
—against tractors and bulldozers? They'd fill up any little moat like a beaver would dam up a stream.”

“If I may suggest something—”

“Tchoor!”
Chester turned on Walt. “You suggest all you want. But just remember that Mr. Budd is the soul of the whole Old Meadow. If they take him away—our hearts go, too.”

Walter Water Snake had had enough. His tummy scales were still hurting, and although he had enjoyed his flight, his nerves were shot. “You crazy cricket! Now you shut up! I'll bite you in half! Just like a potato chip!”

“Folks—why don't we all relax?” sang Ashley. He'd learned, in his life in West Virginia, with coal miners especially, that a good tune sometimes could stop a fight. So he warbled a little ditty now.

It worked.

“Chester Cricket is right,” said Walter Water Snake, and he spoke with extravagant dignity. “My crispy friend is often right.” There was great dignity and respect in his voice, but also a little tooth of laughter began to make itself heard. “Mr. Budd
is
the heart and soul of this meadow of ours. We just need to make all the human beings see that. And if Mr. Budd was taken away—this meadow might just as well not exist.”

“Hey, wait—”

“Chester Cricket,” said Simon, “you have an idea. I can see it in your eyes.”

Chester glanced at the mockingbird nervously. “You haven't been singing on the weather vane, Ashley.”

“Y'all told me not to.”

Chester Cricket went on to explain his scheme. And then twice more, since the first few times no one could believe their ears.

“That's asking a lot from all the field folk.” Simon Turtle shook his head.

“It
is
the most outrageous thing I have ever heard!” said Walt.

“But y'all know somethin'—” Ashley whistled his courage up, at this great challenge. “It just might work—the good Lord willin'—”

“—an' the creek don't rise!”
all the other animals joined in.

ELEVEN

The Old Meadow

It wasn't yet sunrise. But already a brightening ruddy glow came flaming through the feathery green of the willow trees that bordered the brook just before it rushed under the bridge beneath Mountain Road and left the Old Meadow forever. Almost all the human beings who lived in Hedley were still asleep—and so were most field folk. But not the birds. Those early risers were up and chirping to the new day, each other, themselves—anybody who'd listen.

“Lord, what a glory!” Ashley whistled his wonder. “We've been given a good day.”

“The last,” said Chester.

Both were sitting on the topmost ridge of Chester's log, and both were thinking of how far off the nighttime was, and oh what a day the mockingbird had ahead of him.

“It's an awful lot to ask,” said the cricket. “Even of a person like you.”

Ashley chose not to hear the implied compliment. “Dubber doin' what he's supposed to?”

“He's already woken up Mr. Budd and started to tug him by his pants. To the overgrown part. J.J.'s tugging his collar, and singing up some encouragement. They'll be safe there—”

“For today maybe,” said Ashley. “One day.”

“You don't
have
to, Ashley!” Chester burst out. “It's a crazy idea—!”

“Oh yes, I have to! What's more—I have to start right now.” Ashley fluttered down and took a good big drink of brook water. “An' the Good Lord had
better
be
willin'!
He flew off toward his first tree. “Just hope the ol' throat don't give out!”

“Oh, and listen!” the cricket shouted after him. “The brook'll be here—if you need to moisten your throat, I mean.” But Ashley had disappeared into the leaves of Bill Squirrel's maple. It wasn't as lofty as his elm, but he'd learned to make do.

“And I'll be here, too,” murmured Chester Cricket helplessly. “Not that I'll do any good.”

“Is he gone?” Walt's head appeared above the surface.

“Were you listening?”

“No! I could see it was private, between you two. But I was looking—from down below. I've been awake half the night.”

“Yes, he's gone,” said Chester. “Is Simon up?”

“Not on your life! Sleep first, disaster after—that's his motto. He's under your log, and just as asleep as a bear in December.”

At that moment a carol of melody rang out of Bill's maple, which rose close to Mountain Road. A driver, who had to get up early and commute a long way to work, jammed on his brakes. His tires screamed. But the man had to hear that sound again.

“Well, it's started,” said Chester.

“It's started,” said Walt. “Meanwhile, you and I have got duties to do. I'm going to swim downstream and talk to Robert Rabbit. I'll send him back here. You hatched this plan. It's up to you to convince everyone.”

“I wish I had a shell, like Simon.”

“Too late now, creaky cricket! And I'll send up Frank Woodchuck, too. He swings a lot of weight with the bigger fur folk. And Donald—if he's on his twig—I'll tell him to come up toward noon. The insects are going to be awfully important!”

“You're telling me?” wailed Chester Cricket. “And here we're depending on one dragonfly! And a tetched one at that—tetched by sunlight, moonlight, the light of the stars—”

“—and the light in the eyes of his friends!” Walter splashed some water in Chester's face. “So cheer up—and chirp up!—Chester Cricket. This is the day when we field folk do or die for the sake of the one human being who loves us most.”

*   *   *

Chester sat on his log as the early morning blossomed around him. For a while he just listened to Ashley sing. And that helped a great deal. For inside himself he was summoning up all his strength and all his cricket's intelligence for the task that lay ahead of him: to persuade a whole meadow, with all its different animals, to act as if it were one living thing. His day would be almost as difficult as the mockingbird's, he thought.

Then he shook himself. No! The whole thing depended on Ashley. This day, Chester Cricket resolved, he wouldn't take any more thought for himself. He was just there to serve a mockingbird and a hopeless old man.

In a short while the field folk began to appear, routed out of their daily routines by Walter.

First came Frank Chuck and Robert Rabbit.

When he'd heard the scheme, Frank chewed it over with his big buck teeth. “And I can't even snore—?”

“Pretend to snore,” said Chester Cricket. “Then afterwards you can snore for real.”

Robert Rabbit took no convincing at all. “But I don't make noise,” was all he objected.

“I've heard that rabbits scream, sometimes—”

“—just when we're unnerved,” said Robert. “And a scream wouldn't be appropriate.”

“You're right,” said Chester. “I guess you'll just have to be quiet.”

“Like fur I will! I'll beat my flat feet on that hollow log near my house—”

“Great!” said the cricket. “It'll sound like the drum in an orchestra.”

The chipmunks, Emily and Henry, were a little reluctant at first. Then, when they'd talked it out with each other, they found that they both were excited—amazed! Emily was amazed, and Henry excited. They went home to their nook in the fallen-down stone wall where they lived and enjoyed their excitement—amazement—all day.

Chester Cricket was beginning to think that this day might not be so hard after all, when Donald Dragonfly flew up. Frank Chuck, Robert Rabbit, that crowd—they'd all been fairly cooperative, and Donald was—after all—an insect. As was Chester himself. He didn't anticipate problems. But he got them.

“Hi, Chister!” the dragonfly said, as he settled. His six wings took the sunlight and spread it all out on the pool. Light met water, and both exchanged hues. “What's up?”

“Donald—”

“I had the nicest thing this morning! One wing was dipping into the brook—and the other went up to the dawn, jist as I was waking up!”

“Donald, listen—there's something important—”

“That has niver happened to me before.”

“
Donald!
You dope—! I didn't mean that.” Chester touched a wing to Donald's wing: always a sign of peace, between insects. “But you have to listen! Because this is serious.”

Donald tried to remember his wings' serious positions. They got scrambled. But finally they folded into something like a dragonfly's earnest attention. “Yis, Chister?”

“The thing is this—!” Chester Cricket explained the problem, and his own unlikely solution.

“No! Chister—
no!
” shouted Donald.

“This is a hard time—”