Chester Cricket's New Home (8 page)

“Oh!” exclaimed Walter. “I'm going to faint!” And he fainted. At least he collapsed beneath the surface. And blew a few bubbles. And reappeared. “They're into flowers. I knew it!”

“They certainly are!” Chester Cricket went on. “Their two rooms are simply papered with petals! There's some of Uncle's best petals, of course, but there's also purple ones, from irises, and yellow daisy and crocus petals. The red ones from Uncle are the best, but they've got dried petals tacked up on their walls from every single kind of flower that grows in this whole Meadow! They start collecting and drying in March—they told me so.”

Simon Turtle sighed and shook his head—at the wonder and the diligence of little animals. He'd been listening silently all this while. “But how do they tack them up?”

“With Uncle's thorns. But they never pick one—they swore to that. He just seems to know. Whenever they need a thorn or two, to pin up a new petal, they find some out on the lawn in the morning. He's wonderful! He gives them whole blossoms, he gives them petals, he gives them leaves—and then thorns to hold it all together. I think he must love them an awful lot. Of course, being a plant, he never says much.”

“Itsy-bitsy chipsy munks! I love them, too,” said Walter. “More. More! Tell us
more
—of the tasteful decor that the chipmunks adore! How's the ceiling? The floor? Are there knickknacks galore? Wow!
Sssst!
I really feel great today!” Walt felt so great that he streaked up out of the water, turned a somersault in the air, and—straight as an arrow—plunged back in. He came up where Chester hadn't expected, behind the boat. “Some dive, huh? I'll show you a triple next time. But what else about Emmy and Hen—what else?”

“They have a fireplace—”

“That's good to hear! A fireplace is cozy at least.”

“It's never lit.”

“Oh, gosh!” Walter Water Snake sank down in despair. “An unlit hearth. That's sad, sad,
sad!
”

“They say it would smoke up the flowers, and maybe leave soot on the stones. They live in this old stone wall, you know, and on the inside those stones are
clean!
”

“I'll bet.”

“But the fireplace is very pretty. There's little dry branches crisscrossed in it, and crumpled dry leaves underneath, with a fan of ferns in the back. All it needs is a match.”

“I'm going to slither over there—”

“Oh no, you're not!” said Simon Turtle.

“I'll swipe a lighted cigarette—from a picnicker, whom I'll terrify first, of course—”

“You'll stay right in that pool where you belong. You'd scare the poor dears to death. So you didn't feel too much at home there, Chester?”

“I didn't dare to turn around! For fear of knocking down pussy willows. Whenever there's room between the blossoms, there are pussy-willow wands. I sat in a corner for an hour or so, and then it began to rain.”

“Don't tell me their house leaks.”

“Gracious no! The rain wouldn't dare leak on Emmy and Hen. But I like these sudden summer showers. It always feels as if someone decided to take a bath—all at once. I like to go for a hop in the rain. Especially toward the end of one, when the sun comes out and everything begins to glisten. I love to jump in the sparkle of things. And yesterday we had a rainbow. Only a short one, but long enough to make my wish.”

“I thought everybody packed his bags and went off to look for the pot of gold,” said Simon Turtle.

“Oh, I don't believe that. There's no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But I do believe you can wish on one.”

“I'll bet I know what your wish was, Chancy Chester!”

“Don't tell if you do!” the cricket warned. “It won't work if you say it. So, anyway, I had my hop and came back to Littleville.”

“Is
that
what they call it?” There seemed to be nothing of Walter underwater; the whole of him was stretched up in the air.

“No,
I
do,” said Chester. “But don't you dare tell them! I wouldn't hurt their furry feelings for the tastiest leaves in Connecticut. They were always extremely polite and nice. Even when insisting I wipe my feet.”

“Let me guess,” said Walter. “You came back from your walk in the rain—”

“—and my feet were dirty. Right. That is, there were two or three specks of mud, which I barely could see—on two or three feet—but Emily could. Oh, could she ever! As soon as I hopped in the door—”

“With a cheery ‘Hi, Itsy! Hi, Bitsy!' no doubt.”

“I didn't say
that!
” declared Chester. “I didn't have time to say a word before Emily started to wring her hands. She's very good at that, Emily is. Henry prefers to shake his head and say ‘Tsk! tsk!' Well, one said, ‘Oh dear, you've tracked—' and the other one finished it ‘—in dirt!'”

“O horror! O terror! O vilest of crimes!”

“Oh, Walt, keep quiet!” Chester Cricket exploded. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“I do,” said Walter gravely. “I'm deeply moved. And I bow most low in apology.” He bowed most low—so low, indeed, that he disappeared from sight. For a while. “Okay, I'm back. So
then
what happened?” He rested his chin on the bow of the boat.

“I was informed, very courteously, that there was a mat outside. Not outside the door, mind you. Oh no! It was just before you reached the lawn. They like for people to wipe their feet before they step on the polished stone path.”

“Ohhhh—”
Walter began.

“Are you going to sing something?”

“Maybe later. If the spirit moves.” The water snake coyly twitched his tail, sucked on a fang, and winked at Chester. “Please go on.”

“I cleaned my feet on the mat they'd made—knotted out of dry fern, and very nice—and scraped off the mud on a root of Uncle's that stuck above ground. Which I'm sure he didn't mind me doing. As a matter of fact, from the rustling going on all around, my guess is he found me hilarious. I didn't, though. I found me
absurd!
Standing there and balancing as I tried to wipe off all my feet on a fern!”

“I don't find you absurd.” As quick as a flash—but not to bite—Walter struck and gave Chester a peck of a kiss on the head. “I find you delightful. Pray continue.”

“Dinner time, it was by then. We washed our paws—that is, they did.
I
washed my two front feet again—in the chipmunk's thimble. And don't look at me with your snake eyes, Walter! They
do
have a thimble, which they keep all polished up with ferns. You know that old lady—the one who always wears the red shawl, on the hottest days, too; she comes once a week, and sits on a bench in Pasture Land, and sews all afternoon—you know her? Well, last July she lost a thimble, and she's never going to find it again—”

“—because Emry and Henly now have a silver cistern in their house!”

“Exactly! Which they fill with fresh water whenever it rains.”

“I see it! Oh, I do see it!” said Walter. His gaze was at something awesome. “The beauty of littleness! Little chipmunks! Little thimbles! Little wishes! And real
big
happiness! Oh, I love it! More!
More!
”

“We washed. And then wiped our paws, feet, whatever, on clean fern towels they have stacked by the thimble-cistern-sink.”

“Fern towels, fern towels.” Walter seemed dazed by the thought. “I never knew fern was so useful.”

“That isn't all. We sat at the table and ate off doilies made—”

“—of fern!”

“—and wiped our mouths with napkins—”

“—of fern! Hallelujah! And hooray for fern! That's what we'll call the chips' hideaway—Fern Lawn! How's that?”

“Terrific, Walter!” Chester almost forgot how tired he was in the rush of Walter's enthusiasm. “They may not be so mad at me for sneaking out this morning when they find we've invented a name for their place.”

“You snuck out?”

“Yes, while they were still asleep. Of course, I—who was so dead-tired my antennae were dragging, after my night in the willow tree—I didn't sleep at all.”

“Why not?” Walter wondered. “There were no fern mattresses? No fern blankets? Fern pillows? Green little fern dreams to dance in your head?”

“I snore!” declared Chester.

“A cricket snores?” Walter looked at Simon. “It must sound like a fluttering leaf in the breeze.”

“Like a buzz saw, I sound! Like a Mack truck! Like a hurricane roaring through a redwood forest! Like the subway—!”

“They said
that?
”

“No. They tapped me gently on my third left leg and said, ‘Chester dear, would you please—' ‘—roll over?' ‘Neither one of us—' ‘—can sleep a wink.' And the thing is—this really is what did me in—
they snore!
”

“O bitter irony!” Walter lifted his eyes toward the sky—where there was no bitter irony, so he smiled down on Chester again. “And what do
they
sound like, might I ask?”

Chester giggled. “I have to admit, it's very nice—like two cute music boxes.”

“I love it!” Walter thrashed his tail with delight. “Two musical little chipmunk snores—in a little house by itself at night—with the little darkness tight all around. I do love it!”

“And they sound absolutely identical, too! Exactly the same! I couldn't find a speck of difference.”

“So this is how you spent the night? In a scientific investigation, pacing from one room into the other in a vain attempt to find a single speck of difference between the beautiful, musical snores of Emily and Henry Chipmunk?”

“You might put it like that,” said Chester. “I don't know anyone but you who would—except maybe a mischievous bat—but, yes, that's how I spent the night. Anyway, though, I never could live with them. I just felt—with everything being so perfect, with the ferns and the flowers and the stones just so—I felt—”

“Maladjusted!” The water snake did a flip-flop. “It's something I rarely suffer from. But I know all about maladjustment, I do! That little boy, Jaspar—the one who helped you to save the Old Meadow—one day I heard him lamenting the trials of family life with his best friend, Ben Thompson. And he was complaining about just the same things that are bugging you. In Jaspar's case, it was his own devoted mama, not persnickety chipmunks, who was causing him such distress. She made him wipe feet, she made him wash hands. ‘She's making me maladjusted!' he screamed. Poor soul. You should have seen him chewing his gum and tearing his hair. I hope she let him snore, at least.”

“Mamas usually do,” said Simon Turtle, from ancient wisdom.

“I learned a lot about maladjustment that day,” Walter went on. “As a matter of fact—as a matter of fact!—
ohhhh—!
”

Chester put some grumpiness into his voice. “Now it comes:

“A cricket lived in a neat chip's lair—

In a sweet munk's lair lived he.

But he was maladjusted there—

And snored most dreadfully!”

SEVEN

Donald Dragonfly

“Well, I have to admit”—Chester Cricket lay back and just drifted—“it's an awfully nice day to be homeless on.”

For several hours, the three Meadow dwellers had gone boating. At least Walt and Chester went boating. Simon Turtle, with that solid black shell of his, was too heavy to float on the pieces of wood that were circling slowly around his pool. When he made the offhanded suggestion—“Might just lumber up and bite me off a big chunk near the top of my log”—Walter Water Snake glared at him sternly, behind Chester's back. Simon mumbled, “Oh,” and contented himself with offering bits of nautical advice, whenever the other two would listen.

The cricket invented a game he liked. He spread out his wings and turned himself into a sturdy little workable sail in the breeze. Walter Water Snake thought that was wonderful. He shouted, “Hey! Great!”—found a hunk of wood, slithered up on it, and hoisted his tail straight up in the air. It made the skinniest, silliest sail—like an upright rope—that was ever seen in Connecticut. And keeping his whole lower half like that, so rigid and stiff, in such a difficult position, was hard work for even the most supple creature. Walter toppled over constantly, with a whoop and laugh as he splashed out of sight. He made up his mind that instead of playing “sail,” he'd play “shipwreck,” and enjoyed his own game very much.

Chester called his skiff the
West Wind
—since that happened to be blowing—and Walter called his the
Curlicue,
named after himself, of course.

But evening came, and along with the shadows, in a twilight that lacked all coziness, the cricket's gloom returned. He eyed the log. “I guess I'll have to spend the night in that narrow old crack again.”