Stuart Little, Page 3
E. B. White
“Dirty weather ahead, sir! Wind backing into the south-west, seas confused, glass falling.”
“Never mind the weather!” cried the owner.
“Watch out for flotsam dead ahead!”
Stuart peered ahead into the gathering storm, but saw nothing except gray waves with white crests. The world seemed cold and ominous. Stuart glanced behind him. There came the sloop, boiling along fast, rolling up a bow wave and gaining steadily.
“Look out, Stuart! Look out where you’re going!”
Stuart strained his eyes, and suddenly, dead ahead, right in the path of the Wasp, he saw an enormous paper bag looming up on the surface of the pond. The bag was empty and riding high, its open end gaping wide like the mouth of a cave.
Stuart spun the wheel over but it was too late: the Wasp drove her bowsprit straight into the bag andwitha fearful whooosh the schooner slowed down and came up into the wind with all sails flapping. Just at this moment Stuart heard a splintering crash, saw the bow of the Lillian plow through his rigging, and felt the whole ship tremble from stem to stern with the force of the collision.
“A collision!” shouted the crowd on shore.
In a jiffy the two boats were in a terrible tangle. Little boys on shore screamed and danced up and down. Meanwhile the paper bag sprang a leak and began to fill.
The Wasp couldn’t move because of the bag. The Lillian B. Womrath couldn’t move because her nose was stuck in the Wasp’s rigging.
Waving his arms, Stuart ran forward and fired off his gun. Then he heard, above the other voices on shore, the voice of the owner of the Wasp yelling directions and telling him what to do.
“Stuart! Stuart! Down jib! Down staysail!”
Stuart jumped for the halyards, and the jib and the forestaysail came rippling down.
“Cut away all paper bags!” roared the owner.
Stuart whipped out his pocketknife and slashed away bravely at the soggy bag until he had the deck cleared.
“Now back your foresail and give her a full!” screamed the owner of the Wasp.
Stuart grabbed the foresail boom and pulled with all his might. Slowly the schooner paid off and began to gather headway. And as she heeled over to the breeze she rolled her rail out from under the Lillian’s nose, shook herself free, and stood away to the southard. A loud cheer went up from the bank. Stuart sprang to the wheel and answered it. Then he looked back, and to his great joy he perceived that the Lillian had gone off in a wild direction and was yawing all over the pond.
Straight and true sailed the Wasp, with Stuart at the helm. After she had crossed the finish line, Stuart brought her alongside the wall, and was taken ashore and highly praised for his fine seamanship and daring. The owner was delighted and said it was the happiest day of his life. He introduced himself to Stuart, said that in private life he was Dr. Paul Carey, a surgeon-dentist. He said model boats were his hobby and that he would be delighted to have Stuart take command of his vessel at any time. Everybody shook hands with Stuart—everybody, that is, except the policeman, who was too wet and mad to shake hands with a mouse.
When Stuart got home that night, his brother George asked him where he had been all day.
“Oh, knocking around town,” replied Stuart.
VIII. Margalo
Because he was so small, Stuart was often hard to find around the house. His father and his mother and his brother George seldom could locate him by looking for him—usually they had to call him; and the house often echoed with cries of “Stuart! Stooo-art!” You would come into a room, and he might be curled up in a chair, but you wouldn’t see him. Mr. Little was in constant fear of losing him and never finding him again. He even made him a tiny red cap, such as hunters wear, so that he would be easier to see.
One day when he was seven years old, Stuart was in the kitchen watching his mother make tapioca pudding. He was feeling hungry, and when Mrs. Little opened the door of the electric refrigerator to get something, Stuart slipped inside to see if he could find a piece of cheese. He supposed, of course, his mother had seen him, and when the door swung shut and he realized he was locked in, it surprised him greatly.
“Help!” he called. “It’s dark in here. It’s cold in this refrigerator. Help! Let me out! I’m getting colder by the minute.”
But his voice was not strong enough to penetrate the thick wall. In the darkness he stumbled and fell into a saucer of prunes. The juice was cold. Stuart shivered, and his teeth chattered together. It wasn’t until half an hour later that Mrs. Little again opened the door and found him standing on a butter plate, beating his arms together to try to keep warm, and blowing on his hands, and hopping up and down.
“Mercy!” she cried. “Stuart, my poor little boy.”
“How about a nip of brandy?” said Stuart.
“I’m chilled to the bone.”
But his mother made him some hot broth instead, and put him to bed in his cigarette box with a doll’s hot-water bottle against his feet. Even so, Stuart caught a bad cold, and this turned into bronchitis, and Stuart had to stay in bed for almost two weeks.
During his illness, the other members of the family were extremely kind to Stuart. Mrs. Little played tick-tack-toe with him. George made him a soap bubble pipe and a bow and arrow. Mr. Little made him a pair of ice skates out of two paper clips.
One cold afternoon Mrs. Little was shaking her dustcloth out of the window when she noticed a small bird lying on the windowsill, apparently dead. She brought it in and put it near the radiator, and in a short while it fluttered its wings and opened its eyes. It was a pretty little hen-bird, brown, with a streak of yellow on her breast. The Littles didn’t agree on what kind of bird she was.
“She’s a wall-eyed vireo,” said George, scientifically.
“I think she’s more like a young wren,” said Mr. Little. Anyway, they fixed a place for her in the living room, and fed her, and gave her a cup of water. Soon she felt much better and went hopping around the house, examining everything with the greatest care and interest. Presently she hopped upstairs and into Stuart’s room where he was lying in bed.
“Hello,” said Stuart. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“My name is Margalo,” said the bird, softly, in a musical voice. “I come from fields once tall with wheat, from pastures deep in fern and thistle; I come from vales of meadowsweet, and I love to whistle.”
Stuart sat bolt upright in bed. “Say that again!” he said.
“I can’t,” replied Margalo. “I have a sore throat.”
“So have I,” said Stuart. “I’ve got bronchitis. You better not get too near me, you might catch it.”
“I’ll stay right here by the door,” said Margalo.
“You can use some of my gargle if you want to,” said Stuart. “And here are some nose drops, and I have plenty of Kleenex.”
“Thank you very much, you are very kind,” replied the bird.
“Did they take your temperature?” asked Stuart, who was beginning to be genuinely worried about his new friend’s health.
“No,” said Margalo, “but I don’t think it will be necessary.”
“Well, we better make sure,” said Stuart, “because I would hate to have anything happen to you. Here. ...” And he tossed her the thermometer. Margalo put it under her tongue, and she and Stuart sat very still for three minutes. Then she took it out and looked at it, turning it slowly and carefully.
“Normal,” she announced. Stuart felt his heart leap for gladness. It seemed to him that he had never seen any creature so beautiful as this tiny bird, and he already loved her.
“I hope,” he remarked, “that my parents have fixed you up with a decent place to sleep.”
“Oh, yes,” Margalo replied. “I’m going to sleep in the Boston fern on the bookshelf in the living room. It’s a nice place, for a city location. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I shall go to bed—I see it’s getting dark outside. I always go to bed at sundown. Good night, sir!”
“Very well,” said the bird. “Good night, Stuart!” And she hopped off, with light, bouncing steps.
“Good night, Margalo,” called Stuart. “See you in the morning.”
Stuart settled back under the bedclothes again. “There’s a mighty fine bird,” he whispered, and sighed a tender sigh.
When Mrs. Little came in, later, to tuck Stuart in for the night and hear his prayers, Stuart asked her if she thought the bird would be quite safe sleeping down in the living room.
“Quite safe, my dear,” replied Mrs. Little.
“What about that cat Snowbell?” asked Stuart, sternly.
“Snowbell won’t touch the bird,” his mother said. “You go to sleep and forget all about it.” Mrs. Little opened the window and turned out the light.
Stuart closed his eyes and lay there in the dark, but he couldn’t seem to go to sleep. He tossed and turned, and the bedclothes got all rumpled up.
He kept thinking about the bird downstairs asleep in the fern. He kept thinking about Snowbell and about the way Snowbell’s eyes gleamed. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he switched on the light. “There’s just something in me that doesn’t trust a cat,” he muttered. “I can’t sleep, knowing that Margalo is in danger.”
Pushing the covers back, Stuart climbed out of bed. He put on his wrapper and slippers. Taking his bow and arrow and his flashlight, he tiptoed out into the hall. Everybody had gone to bed and the house was dark. Stuart found his way to the stairs and descended slowly and cautiously into the living room, making no noise. His throat hurt him, and he felt a little bit dizzy.
“Sick as I am,” he said to himself, “this has got to be done.”
Being careful not to make a sound, he stole across to the lamp by the bookshelf, shinnied up the cord, and climbed out onto the shelf. There was a faint ray of light from the street lamp outside, and Stuart could dimly see Margalo, asleep in the fern, her head tucked under her wing.
“Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast,” he whispered, repeating a speech he had heard in the movies. Then he hid behind a candlestick and waited, listening and watching. For half an hour he saw nothing, heard nothing but the faint ruffle of Margalo’s wings when she stirred in dream. The clock struck ten, loudly, and before the sound of the last stroke had died away Stuart saw two gleaming yellow eyes peering out from behind the sofa.
“So!” thought Stuart. “I guess there’s going to be something doing after all.” He reached for his bow and arrow.
The eyes came nearer. Stuart was frightened, but he was a brave mouse, even when he had a sore throat. He placed the arrow against the cord of the bow and waited. Snowbell crept softly toward the bookshelf and climbed noiselessly up into the chair within easy reach of the Boston fern where Margalo was asleep. Then he crouched, ready to spring. His tail waved back and forth. His eyes gleamed bright. Stuart decided the time had come. He stepped out from behind the candlestick, knelt down, bent his bow, and took careful aim at Snowbell’s left ear—which was the nearest to him.
“This is the finest thing I have ever done,” thought Stuart. And he shot the arrow straight into the cat’s ear.
Snowbell squealed with pain and jumped down and ran off toward the kitchen.
“A direct hit!” said Stuart. “Thank heaven! Well, there’s a good night’s work done.” And he threw a kiss toward Margalo’s sleeping form.
It was a tired little mouse that crawled into bed a few minutes later—tired but ready for sleep at last.
IX. A Narrow Escape
Margalo liked it so well at the Littles’ house she decided to stay for a while instead of returning to the open country. She and Stuart became fast friends, and as the days passed it seemed to Stuart that she grew more and more beautiful. He hoped she would never go away from him.
One day when Stuart had recovered from bronchitis he took his new skates and put on his ski pants and went out to look for an ice pond. He didn’t get far. The minute he stepped out into the street he saw an Irish terrier, so he had to shinny up an iron gate and jump into a garbage can, where he hid in a grove of celery.
While he was there, waiting for the dog to go away, a garbage truck from the Department of Sanitation drove up to the curb and two men picked up the can. Stuart felt himself being hoisted high in the air. He peered over the side and saw that in another instant he and everything in the can would be dumped into the big truck.
“If I jump now I’ll kill myself,” thought Stuart. So he ducked back into the can and waited. The men threw the can with a loud bump into the truck, where another man grabbed it, turned it upside down, and shook everything out. Stuart landed on his head, buried two feet deep in wet slippery garbage. All around him was garbage, smelling strong. Under him, over him, on all four sides of him—garbage. Just an enormous world of garbage and trash and smell. It was a messy spot to be in. He had egg on his trousers, butter on his cap, gravy on his shirt, orange pulp in his ear, and banana peel wrapped around his waist.
Still hanging on to his skates, Stuart tried to make his way up to the surface of the garbage, but the footing was bad. He climbed a pile of coffee grounds, but near the top the grounds gave way under him and he slid down and landed in a pool of leftover rice pudding.
“I bet I’m going to be sick at my stomach before I get out of this,” said Stuart.
He was anxious to work his way up to the top of the pile because he was afraid of being squashed by the next can-load of garbage. When at last he did succeed in getting to the surface, tired and smelly, he observed that the truck was not making any more collections but was rumbling rapidly along. Stuart glanced up at the sun. “We’re going east,” he said to himself. “I wonder what that means.”
There was no way for him to get out of the truck, the sides were too high. He just had to wait.
When the truck arrived at the East River, which borders New York City on the east and which is a rather dirty but useful river, the driver drove out onto the pier, backed up to a garbage scow, and dumped his load. Stuart went crashing and slithering along with everything else and hit his head so hard he fainted and lay quite still, as though dead. He lay that way for almost an hour, and when he recovered his senses he looked about him and saw nothing but water. The scow was being towed out to sea.
“Well,” thought Stuart, “this is about the worst thing that could happen to anybody. I guess this will be my last ride in this world.” For he knew that the garbage would be towed twenty miles out and dumped into the Atlantic Ocean. “I guess there’s nothing I can do about it,” he thought, hopelessly. “I’ll just have to sit here bravely and die like a man. But I wish I didn’t have to die with egg on my pants and butter on my cap and gravy on my shirt and orange pulp in my ear and banana peel wrapped around my middle.”
The thought of death made Stuart sad, and he began to think of his home and of his father and mother and brother and of Margalo and Snowbell and of how he loved them (all but Snowbell) and of what a pleasant place his home was, specially in the early morning with the light just coming in through the curtains and the household stirring and waking. The tears came into his eyes when he realized that he would never see them again. He was still sobbing when a small voice behind him whispered:
“Stuart!”
He looked around, through his tears, and there,
sitting on a Brussels sprout, was Margalo.
“Margalo!” cried Stuart. “How did you get here?”
“Well,” said the bird, “I was looking out the window this morning when you left home and I happened to see you get dumped into the garbage truck, so I flew out the window and followed the truck, thinking you might need help.”
“I’ve never been so glad to see anybody in all my life,” said Stuart. “But how are you going to help me?”
“I think that if you’ll hang onto my feet,” said Margalo, “I can fly ashore with you. It’s worth tryi
ng anyway. How much do you weigh?”
“Three ounces and a half,” said Stuart.
“With your clothes on?” asked Margalo.
“Certainly,” replied Stuart, modestly.
“Then I believe I can carry you all right.”
“Suppose I get dizzy,” said Stuart.
“Don’t look down,” replied Margalo.
“Then you won’t get dizzy.”
“Suppose I get sick at my stomach.”
“You’ll just have to be sick,” the bird
replied. “Anything is better than death.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Stuart agreed.
“Hang on, then! We may as well get
started.”
Stuart tucked his skates into his shirt, stepped gingerly onto a tuft of lettuce, and took a firm grip on Margalo’s ankles. “All ready!” he cried.
With a flutter of wings, Margalo rose into the sky, carrying Stuart along, and together they flew out over the ocean and headed toward home.
“Pew!” said Margalo, when they were high in the air, “you smell awful, Stuart.”
“I know I do,” he replied, gloomily.
“I hope it isn’t making you feel bad.”
“I can hardly breathe,” she answered. “And my heart is pounding in my breast. Isn’t there something you could drop to make yourself lighter?”
“Well, I could drop these ice skates,” said Stuart.
“Goodness me,” the little bird cried, “I didn’t know you had skates hidden in your shirt. Toss those heavy skates away quickly or we will both come down in the ocean and perish.” Stuart threw his skates away and watched them fall down, down, till they disappeared in the gray waves below. “That’s better,” said Margalo. “Now we’re all right. I can already see the towers and chimneys of New York.”
Fifteen minutes later, in they flew through the open window of the Littles’ living room and landed on the Boston fern. Mrs. Little, who had left the window up when she missed Margalo, was glad to see them back, for she was beginning to worry. When she heard what had happened and how near she had come to losing her son, she took Stuart in her hand, even though his clothes smelled nasty, and kissed him. Then she sent him upstairs to take a bath, and sent George out to take Stuart’s clothes to the cleaner.
