The Old Meadow (16 page)

“Is it?” asked Donald. “I didn't know that.” The dragonfly never thought of the world as a difficult place. The news that it was came as an unwelcome surprise. “I thought times were good, not hard.” He lifted his wings and peeped, “I thought times were
grand!
It's August, Chister, and you know what that means:
insect time!
Oh-boy-oh-boy-oh-boy! You loud ones git to make your noises—and I git to shine my best!”

Chester loved Donald dearly, but he never knew whether to talk to him seriously—bug to bug—or just laugh his antennae off. “Now, Donald”—he touched one of Donald's wings with a wing—“we have a problem. Mr. Budd's in a fix.” Chester patiently went over—and over—and
over
—Mr. Budd's trouble. Each time, though, Donald understood a bit more. But unless a discussion was all about light, Donald hardly ever remembered it. “Has Mr. Budd ever hurt any one of you dragonflies—?”

“No—”

“Or killed a firefly—?”

“No. I knew one named Pete who sat on his shoulder, and Mr. Budd didn't stir a hair. So's not to scare Pete.”

“Well, all
right,
then!” said Chester. “You have
got
to contact the cicadas and katydids. All those critters that make August August. And the fireflies, too, who still can blink—it's been a wet summer—there must be some, even if their time is earlier. You have
got
to get the insects all ready!”

“Oh, all right. It won't hurt me—though I do like to go to sleep early. Unliss disturbed. And I'm not oftin disturbed. But the night fliers, Chester—and the night chirpers too, like yourself—
and the full moon is tonight!
I forgot!”

“It'll just be a little time,” said Chester. “And then—” He went over the plan once more.

“But there's hundrids and hundrids of us,” said Donald. “I can't link antennae with every one!”

“You don't need to. Just touch ten and tell them to get the message spread. By nightfall every insect in the meadow will know.”

“Okay,” said Donald, doubtfully.

“And, Donald,” said Chester with a lot of confidence—to reassure his friend, “this is going to be the great night in your life.”

“Oh! I didn't know that!” Donald suddenly believed. And hurried off through the morning air to do his task. Which was only to mobilize every insect in the whole meadow. Donald couldn't fly without showering colors all around. But he just took glory for granted.

“If it isn't your greatest night,” said Chester Cricket to himself, “it'll be my fault—not yours.”

The cricket was thinking of responsibility, the leaden weight of it, like a thunderhead, when J.J. alighted beside him.

“I've got them hidden. There's a stretch of grass behind a bramble—poor Abner was so tired this morning, we woke him up early—but Dubber and him are sleeping there. Dubber knows to keep him quiet, too, when he wakes up, until tonight.”

“You've been great—” began Chester.

“Y'all don't know how great! I've got all the birds in line, too! Took a little bit of persuading—since all of them think you're crazy. But even the sparrows came around.”

“I'm sure,” said Chester. “Poor things! They're probably all black and blue—”

“When you bash them, sparrows don't get black and blue,” J. J. Bluejay explained. “Their feathers just fall off. But I've done with those tactics. I was sweet and—kind and reasonable. And all the birds were so amazed that J. J. Bluejay was sweet and kind and reasonable—they all agreed to everything! How about that? And even—they all agreed to staying up
late!
All night, if necessary. And we like to turn in early.”

“Donald said the same thing.”

“But we'll be up! Or else this meadow will be littered with feathers! Tomorrow morning. And listen now, Chester—” J.J. treated himself to a trill. “I got the
Hawk
to cooperate—”

“I don't believe it!”

“When all the little chirpies had agreed—John Robin helped a lot, too—I decided, why not? I had the grackles under my wing, those bums! Why not try for the highest bird. So I flew!”

J.J. choked at the great experience. It was probably the highest point in his life. “I got higher than I'd ever been before. Then the Hawk was there! He was amazed that I'd gotten so far up. We talked on the wind. He was still puzzled that I could fly so high—so was I!—and He said, ‘What in the name of thunder and lightning are you doing up here?' I explained—and He shrieked. And what He was shrieking was ‘
Me
—?' ‘Just once,' I explained. ‘And if you do—I'll teach you to sing—'” J.J. fumbled for his voice. “He knew that I'd made a fool of myself. But instead of knocking me down to earth, He just laughed. And He said He'd shriek. Swoop, too.”

“The Hawk! Wow!” said Chester. “Someone has to tell Ashley—”

“I will,” said J.J. “He's got to take a break between songs.”

“That's the trouble,” said Chester. He looked up at Bill Squirrel's maple. “He's got to sing all day. Find a quiet song—and then whisper to him about the Hawk. And the time. He'll understand. Great birds always recognize one another.”

*   *   *

“So far, so good.”

It was almost noon, and J. J. Bluejay had flown back to the log. He'd been following Ashley all morning, since he got back from the wild part, mostly to keep him informed of the progress of the plan, but also to give him encouragement and keep him company. Once Ashley had darted down himself, to take a drink and have a gargle, but he hadn't said a single word. Everyone knew he was saving his voice.

“Where is he now?” asked Chester.

“Up toward the reservoir. He stopped fifty cars this morning, on Mountain Road, and decided he'd better move on.”

“That's what we decided last night,” said Chester. “That he'd move around. It's safer for Ashley, too.”

“I hope those cars get gridlocked!” Walt snapped his tail like a whip.

“What's a gridlock?!” asked J.J.

“Ask Chester. He's lived in New York.”

“It's when cars get all packed together so tight that not one of them can move. The human beings all swear and shout, and honk their horns—”

“—and serves them right!” said Walt.

“One funny thing did happen, though,” J.J. laughed. “On the way to the reservoir Ashley perched on Mr. Budd's weather vane. Not for long! Don't look so concerned now, cricket. He knows what we're saving that for. But he sang a while—and ‘ol' Malvina heard him. She made her boys carry her favorite armchair all the way out to the edge of the brook. And it is big! But there she sits, even though the mockingbird has moved on. She hears him faintly—and that's enough.”

J.J. reverted to an “awk! squawk!” laugh. “And she said, ‘I'm so glad that you two didn't catch him!' ‘But Grandma,' says Alvin, ‘it was your idea!' ‘Hush, child,' Malvina says grandly, ‘and listen to beauty. But before you do—go get my footstool.'”

The animals took a long laugh at that; it broke the tension of the day.

“And then,” J.J. went on, since he was as nervous as all the rest, “she made one of her sons get a saucer of real corn kernels! Not corn candy.”

“Did Ashley eat some?” asked Chester.

“No. I thought they might give him strength, but he just shook his head and said, ‘Don't sing well on a full belly, J.J.'”

“That Ashley—” Walt shook his head, in awe. “He's a wonder—”

“Hush! Listen! There he goes,” said the blue jay.

In the distance, a far-off song seemed to float to the north. “He's heading for the wild part.”

“Not too near, I hope!” said Chester. “That's where Dubber and Mr. Budd are hidden.”

“Oh, no,” said J.J. “But he told me he needs to sing on every side. He has to turn this Old Meadow into a magnet made of music. So the humans will all be drawn to it everywhere. The Hawk's hidden somewhere up there, too—”

“The Hawk—! Already?”

“I think so. He heard the singing way up in the sky, and came down to hear it clearer. I saw a shape, falling,” said J.J. “But I'm not sure. Don't worry, though, Chester. Tonight he'll do what He promised He would.”

“I hope!” said Chester.

No one spoke. In the silence, their ears could get sharp. They all followed the mockingbird's traveling song.

All day he'd been singing, from tree to tree, never lingering long in one place. But what all the field folk didn't know—he was singing of
them.
Some suspected—like Chester—even though they weren't sure. His first joyous greeting, from Bill Squirrel's maple, had been for the summer day itself. But after that carefree serenade, the mockingbird had to think of
things.
Sometimes Ashley made up a melody just for melody's sake, but most often a mockingbird thinks of things. Not necessarily all the things that his voice imitates: sometimes he need only think of—a tree, say, or a daisy, or rapids where a stream runs on under the sun. He needn't be seeing or hearing them now, just only imagining them. Faced with all those hours that he knew he had to fill with music, Ashley summoned up thoughts of the world he knew and the worlds he'd only dreamed about.

But since there he was in the midst of the Old Meadow, he decided to start with the friends he had there. In a rippling little ditty Henry and Emily Chipmunk were discussing whether to bite their lawn—that's how they mowed it—or polish the white stones that formed their front walk. A fanfare, which Ashley announced around ten o'clock in the morning, lead into a solemn parade: Bea Pheasant, followed by her mate, was strutting past Tuffet Towers, her home. And at high noon, as a special present that he knew would not be received, when the sun was dazzling everyone, Ashley sang a song about the light on Donald's wings and the colors they cast on Simon's Pool. Of course Donald didn't understand, although he did hear. He was too busy rousing fireflies—they do get tired in August—and telling them they had one more job to do.

Donald Dragonfly didn't understand that this song was for him, and neither did the human beings who heard it. But they all knew, the people who screeched to a halt on the roads surrounding the meadow, that something strange—a few called it “unnerving”—was happening in this quaint little space, grass, flowers, trees, that had been declared “A monument” amid concrete and brick.

On the local radio station, a diligent announcer kept commenting on Ashley: at nine in the morning, the early news, he was “an unusual event”—by noon he was “something very special”—and by three in the afternoon “a miraculous phenomenon!” Word spread among the human beings almost as fast as among the insects that Donald Dragonfly kept stirring up.

By four o'clock, cars started to block one another. The drivers first honked, and then got out to shout at anyone who was handy. The gridlock built, all during the evening.

It wasn't evening that Ashley feared. Or Chester Cricket, on his log. His antennae twitched at the sounds all around—brakes, doors slamming, voices arguing—but they were the daytime human noises. It was the night Chester Cricket dreaded—and Ashley, too, as he sang. This night. When the Meadow saved Mr. Budd—or all the field folk failed together.

*   *   *

Then the August darkness finally was there. The human beings, clustered around the Old Meadow, were full of wonder at Ashley's song. And the animals, clustered within green boundaries, were full of fear—could Ashley's song work? The full moon rose in the southeast sky, silvering the green willow trees. It was neither worried nor wondering. For itself the full moon was only fulfilled, like a wish come true.

The human beings were watching the moon, too. But few of them suspected what Chester Cricket could hear: that as the moon rode higher and higher, the mockingbird was working its light artfully into his song. Still, some people had the cloudy thought, somewhere in their minds, that the light of a full moon and a mockingbird's singing might both be part of one single day.

Ashley had circled the meadow five times, in the course of the hours, perching here, perching there, but always careful to avoid the same trees. Now, however, he decided that this was the time to return to Bill Squirrel's maple. The largest crowd of human beings was gathered there, and Ashley knew that, for better or worse, the final moments of this day were approaching.

First he needed a drink. From a willow tree beside the bridge he flew to Simon's Pool. In the darkness, his fluttering arrival surprised everyone.

“Time's gett'n' near.”

“Ashley Mockingbird,” began Chester Cricket, “you are a wonder!”

“Yup. The ol' throat's holdin' up. So far.”

“You get better and better! How
do
you do it?”

“When the voice is workin', I think it's better not to question it.” Ashley took his drink. Then looked up at the sky. “Sure is a lovely night. Just so balmy an' beautiful. Reminds me of West Virginia—”

“I wish it was absolutely black!” said Chester. “That's what we need. Complete darkness.”

“May get your wish,” said the mockingbird. “Look yonder—in the west. Those big clouds still are gatherin'.” He took a second drink and sloshed it around in his throat. “Has somebody fetched Mr. Budd and Dubber?”

“I got them as soon as the night settled in,” said J.J.

“The whole day's a bust, if Abner's not here.”

“They're back in the cabin,” the blue jay explained. “Keeping very quiet! Mr. Budd doesn't know what's happening—but he sure knows that
something
is!”

Ashley glanced up and searched the night sky. “If that Hawk now just sticks to his word—”