TWELVE

Hedley Day

The weather on Sunday was clear and bright and a little brisk—not really summer weather at all, but one of those September days that drop in unexpectedly early, in August. It was a fine day for a picnic, however, and toward noon the families of the neighborhood began coming over into the meadow. Some had folding chairs and tables, and others, who wanted to feel the good ground beneath them, brought only comfortable blankets to sit on. One thing they all had, though, and that was bulging picnic baskets.

Tucker Mouse was sitting up in the hills, with the other animals, amid the trees of the old orchard. They were waiting to see who would be first to discover the ruins of what they now all solemnly spoke of as “the Joseph Hedley homestead.” But the sight of those picnic baskets drove every thought but one out of Tucker’s mind. “Chester,” he said, “I was wondering—the humans being what they are, and wasting so much, there’s bound to be a lot of food scattered around—and I was thinking, after they go home, maybe we could have a picnic ourselves—on what they leave.”

“If you want to,” said Chester. “But honestly, at a time like this I can’t think about food.”

Tucker asked himself if there could ever be a time when he couldn’t think about food. He decided it was simply out of the question, but in deference to Chester’s feelings he kept quiet anyway.

By one o’clock all the families had arrived. From the hills where the animals were watching them, they made a pretty sight, scattered through the fields below. Everyone was wearing bright summer clothes, but most had brought sweaters because of the coolness in the air. With its members all gathered together, each separate family looked like a different cluster of flowers.

“I wish somebody would come up,” said Henry Chipmunk.

“So do I,” said Chester.

Tucker Mouse began to fidget. He had caught the smell of broiling meat and had about decided to creep down and see if he couldn’t scrounge up a shred of coleslaw or something. But before he could leave, Harry Cat came strolling up. After they’d put the sign in the cellar, Harry had gone back to the Hadleys’ house so he’d be there, just as usual, when the family woke up. “Nobody’s discovered the homestead yet?” he asked.

“No,” said Chester nervously.

“What’s that on your whiskers?” said Tucker.

Harry licked off his whiskers. “Ketchup. Mr. Hadley’s cooking hamburgers. It’s one of Ellen’s favorites—”

“It’s one of mine, too!” muttered Tucker.

“—and they want her to have a good time. She isn’t, though. She’s not hungry at all. She said she’d rather picket. But Mrs. Hadley told her that everybody, even pickets, have to have one day off.”

“So how many hamburgers did you have, Harry?” asked Tucker gloomily.

“Just the half that Ellen couldn’t finish,” said Harry.

“You do think that somebody’ll find the things, don’t you, Harry?” said Chester.

“I don’t see why not,” said Harry.

“You know—” Henry began to speak, but then stopped. “Well—I’m not saying it’ll happen today—but sometimes the mothers tell the kids not to come up this far. They say it’s all full of poison ivy and things. But I’m not saying that’ll happen today.”

For several minutes no one spoke. Chester Cricket shifted his weight from one set of legs to the other. “How long has it been since anyone was up here?” he asked quietly.

“Well, I guess it’s been—it’s been almost—over a year,” Henry Chipmunk’s voice trailed off.

Again there was stillness. In the distance the sound of the human beings laughing over their picnics could be heard. But the silence that gripped the animals was worse than worrying out loud. “Now let’s not get ourselves riled up!” said Harry Cat. “They’re all still eating. Just let’s let them finish, and then see what happens.”

In an hour there could be no doubt: no one was going to come up to the old cellar. The picnics were over—except for Jaspar’s second dessert; some of the big kids had already drifted off by themselves, and the grownups were sitting chatting over their coffee. From the edge of the orchard the animals stared down, helpless and hopeless.

“And all that work we did,” said Henry sadly.

“Not only are those humans stupid—they’re lazy!” said Tucker Mouse. “They should get around more—go exploring!”

Harry Cat had been watching Jaspar and his family. He stood up and gave his tail a snap. “Only one thing left.”

“There’s nothing left,” said Chester.

“Oh yes, there is,” said Harry. “Now when I come back here, I’m going to be running. So everybody get out of my way!”

“Harry,” said Chester anxiously, “what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to pick a fight with Fido.”

Before anyone even knew what he meant, the big cat had darted out from the last row of trees and was speeding down the hill. Jaspar’s family had come across the log to have their picnic on this side of the brook. They were all sitting on blankets, including Ruff, who was looking at Jaspar expectantly, hoping to get the last of his ice cream. Harry dashed toward them, leaped over a pile of paper plates, and as the Saint Bernard simply stared in amazement—no one had ever picked a fight with him before—the cat reared up on his hind legs and took a hefty claw at the dog’s tender nose. Then, for good measure, he jumped up in the air, over Ruff’s head, and landed, with all claws extended, on his rump. That is what you call adding insult to injury, and Ruff reacted as any self-respecting Saint Bernard would. He let loose a roar of rage and whirled around, scattering paper plates and human beings in every direction. Harry flew off his back and began a mad race toward the orchard. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life—faster even than he thought he could—because he knew that if Ruff ever caught him, there was going to be one cat less in Hedley, Connecticut.

In amazement the animals clustered at the edge of the trees watched all that was happening. It took place so quickly—a minute at most—that they barely had time to tumble aside before Harry flashed past, with Ruff thundering after him. The cat streaked between the two great oak trees—and then pulled his trick. On the very brink of the cellar he swerved aside and darted down the ledge that led to Henry’s house. But Ruff knew of no such secret path. He had been up to the ruins of the farm house a few times, sniffing around, but in his present fury he’d forgotten about the great hole that suddenly yawned before him. He tried to brake himself, skidded forward, and then, with a howl of fear now, not anger, he toppled forward, into the cellar.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Tucker Mouse came scrambling breathlessly down the ledge.

“I’m all right,” panted Harry. “But you’re right—I am out of shape. Whee-oo! What a chase!” He looked over the edge. “I hope Fido didn’t hurt himself.” Ruff wasn’t hurt. He had landed on a rather large thicket that broke his fall, and he now was searching for a way out of the cellar, yelping for help. “He doesn’t sound quite so indignant now, does he?” Harry laughed.

Henry Chipmunk darted up, with Chester Cricket hopping behind him. As soon as they saw that Harry was safe, they joined him and Tucker peering over the ledge. “Let’s just hope it takes a lot of people to get him out of there!” said the mouse.

Ruff tried to climb up the tumbled-down west bank of the cellar. But he couldn’t make it. The earth there could support the weight of a flock of fieldmice and even a big cat like Harry, but not a Saint Bernard. He kept slipping backward, and his barking grew louder.

“Here they come,” whispered Chester.

On the south bank of the cellar Jaspar and his family appeared. They could tell from the note of fear in his barking that their dog was in trouble, and they followed the sound till they found him. Ellen was with them, but it was her kitty she was worried about. She saw him sitting on the ledge and called him. “I better go over to her,” whispered Harry. “Keep your claws crossed.” He padded around the rim of the cellar. Ellen picked him up, saw that he wasn’t hurt, gave him a kiss on the head, and told him that he was a bad cat for quarreling with Saint Bernards.

“I’ll go down and lift him up to you, Dad,” said David, Jaspar’s brother.

“I’m goin’ too!” said Jaspar. Before his mother could say no—which she certainly would have—he was sliding down into the cellar.

David pulled Ruff up the bank as far as he could. Then he grabbed the big dog around the middle and lifted him until his father could reach his front paws. The older man hauled away, managed to roll Ruff over the rim, and got a big sloppy kiss of gratitude. David was pulled up in much the same fashion.

“Jaspar, come out of there this instant!” his mother called.

“I’m comin’,” said Jaspar. But he didn’t come. He browsed leisurely through the cellar, just seeing what he could see.

“Look at that kid scrounge!” Tucker whispered to Chester with admiration. “I knew he was a great boy the first day I saw him. Come on, Jaspar! Don’t let us down!”

And Jaspar did not let the animals down. He first discovered the Bible, and turned the cover over with interest. But since he was too young to have learned how to read, he didn’t realize that it was the family Bible of Joseph He—. Then, on the other side of the rosebush, he saw something else that looked fascinating. With the glee of all great explorers, he held up the sign and called to his parents, “Look what I found!”

“What is it?” said David.

Jaspar crawled up the bank on his hands and knees and handed his brother the sign. “It’s mine now!” he said proudly. “I found it.”

“Hey, Dad!” David said excitedly. “Look at this!”

David and Jaspar’s father examined the sign. “Dear,” he called to his wife, “David found a sign down there—and it says Hedley. What do you think that means?”

“I found it!” shouted Jaspar. “I found it! It’s mine.” He couldn’t climb over the brink of the bank. “Get me outta here!” David pulled him up, and the little boy immediately began whacking his big brother on the chest. “I found it!”

“All right, you found it!” said David, warding off the blows. “Just stop pounding on me!”

“David,” said his father, “run down and tell the others what’s happened. This may be important.” The boy trotted off through the orchard.

And over in Henry’s house a feeling of joy grew thicker and thicker. It lifted the breathless animals up and held them suspended as if in the air. “Well,” said Chester Cricket finally, “it’s begun!”

Within half an hour the cellar of the old farm house was full of grownups and children, all prowling around discovering things. Many curious old objects were unearthed, and several cases of poison ivy were caught. The grownups all agreed that the Town Council should be notified right away—about the discoveries, not the poison ivy. None of them knew personally any members of the Council, but Nancy’s father had a friend who knew the chairman. He took the sign and drove off in his car. An hour later he was back, and with him was the chairman of the Town Council himself.

The chairman was a rather fat man named Veasy. He had to be helped, puffing, down into the cellar. And what he saw there moved him profoundly. It moved him so much that he had to make a speech. After all, it was Hedley Day, and the politicians were allowed to make speeches. “Dear friends,” he began, “I cannot tell you how touched I am by the discovery of the foundations of the Joseph Hedley homestead! It is a matter of the highest—of the very greatest—”

Just above Chairman Veasy’s head, on the ledge outside Henry’s house, the animals were listening to his speech, too. “Here it comes!” whispered Tucker Mouse.

The chairman groped for exactly the right words: “—a matter of the deepest historical significance!”

“Didn’t I tell you?” squeaked the mouse. “Hic! hic! hic! hic!”

Mr. Veasy went on to say that because of the momentous importance of the discovery, plans to build apartment houses in the Old Meadow would have to be reconsidered. He himself intended to propose, at a special meeting of the Town Council to be called that very night, that the whole area be left just as it was—“as a natural shrine in memory of the great pioneer.”

Like all the other boys and girls, Ellen was listening to the chairman’s speech as politely as she could. But when she heard those words—about leaving the meadow just as it was—her eyes shone and she had to hold her hands together tight to keep from shouting out loud. When the speech was done, she and Jaspar clapped harder than anyone. (Except for Henry Chipmunk, that is. But he had such tiny hands to clap that none of the humans heard him at all.)

It was truly a marvelous afternoon. The animals watched as the wonderful sign, so fortunately recovered after all these years, was passed from hand to hand. When it came to be Ellen’s turn to look at it and hold it, something about the iron letters struck her as familiar. Without knowing what she was doing, she said, “Mother, do you remember that old wooden sign we used to have in our front yard?”

“Oh, my gosh!” burst out Tucker Mouse. “She’s going to give the whole thing away!”

Mrs. Hadley was standing nearby, chatting with the other ladies. Jaspar’s mother had just been saying how grand she thought it all was, and just to think—there they were, standing in the cellar of history! “What, dear?” Mrs. Hadley said to her daughter. “I’m sorry—I didn’t hear.”

“I said, do you remember—” Ellen began. But abruptly she stopped, looked quickly up at her mother, and then glanced down at the sign in her hand. A kind of smile came over her face. “It was nothing, Mother,” she said. “I forgot what I was going to say.” She lowered the sign behind her back, and as soon as she could, she passed it on to Jaspar, who kept insisting that it rightfully was his.

From the ledge above the ladies a sigh of relief so great went up that it raised a cloud of dust. The dust settled serenely over the now historic foundations of the homestead of Joseph Hedley.

All the rest of the day that sly smile lingered on Ellen’s face, the kind of smile you have when you know a secret. She didn’t say a word to anyone, but she kept wandering off by herself and looking around the meadow, as if she was searching for someone—but someone she didn’t know. Her mother noticed how strangely she was behaving and asked her if she wasn’t happy, now that the Old Meadow had been saved. Ellen said she was very happy, but her happiness, too, was private and quiet, like her smile.

Many other people, including several members of the Town Council, came to inspect the cellar. And they were all just as thrilled—a few gave speeches—as Chairman Veasy had been. It became very crowded around the rim, with the human beings all staring down. When they got the chance, the animals crept off to be by themselves. Harry Cat, too, slipped away from Ellen. He wanted to spend this great afternoon with his friends.

But history, to say nothing of speeches, can become a little tiring. At twilight the people began to leave. When they reached the road, most turned to look back. The meadow looked the same—the hill, the brook, the darkening fields—but somehow now it felt truly important: a “historical” place. They should have known better. The meadow had been important for years, and beautiful, too—and not because of history.

Tucker Mouse, in the meantime, had not been idle. He had done some extensive exploring and scrounging, and what he had found delighted him! “Harry!” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it! The whole place is littered with ends of hot dogs, chunks of hamburgers, great gooey gobs of potato salad—!”

“The mind reels!” Harry Cat laughed.

“I tell you what!” said Chester. “Let’s have a party! Goodness knows, we’ve got something to celebrate! And everybody’s invited!”

“Hooray!” came a cry from sundry fieldmice.

“We’ll collect all the food and take it down to my stump,” said Chester.

“And I want to hear you play,” said Tucker. “Some of the human things you learned. Especially that one from the farewell concert you gave in New York.”

Henry Chipmunk began jumping up and down. “Let’s start right now! All the people have gone.”

“Not all of them,” said Harry. “Look.”

On top of the hill above Simon’s Pool, Ellen Hadley was standing. The animals heard her mother call her. “Ellen—it’s getting pretty chilly. Don’t you think you ought to come in?”

“I will,” the girl called back. “In a minute.”

“She’s been acting funny all afternoon,” said Tucker.

“It’s that sign,” said Chester. “She knows she knows something—but she doesn’t know what it is.”

Ellen began to walk down the hill, toward her Special Place beside the brook. “Let’s see what she’s going to do,” said Harry. The animals padded and crept and hopped to the thickets surrounding the Special Place.

There was a shiver in the air, a promise of autumn to come, and winter after that. But within the shiver there was also the promise of spring beyond winter, and then the summer, and all the changing, circling seasons that now would be able to come to the meadow. Ellen stood for a moment, looking, listening. Then very softly she said, “I feel sort of silly, talking to no one—but whoever you are—thank you.”

She turned, climbed the hill without looking back, crossed the road, and went home.

*   *   *

That night, the night of the day of the Great Discovery, as it came to be known in Hedley, Connecticut, is well remembered by many people.

It is especially well remembered by Mr. Frank Lawler and his wife. Mr. Lawler taught music in one of the Hedley public high schools. On this particular night Mr. Lawler and his wife were driving by the meadow. Just over the bridge where the brook flowed out, Mr. Lawler stopped his car.

“What’s wrong?” said his wife.

“Don’t you hear that?” said Mr. Lawler.

“Hear what?”

“There’s a melody out there in the darkness.”

“A what?” said Mrs. Lawler.

“It’s an insect!” said Mr. Lawler, and his voice began to shake—not from fear. “And it’s playing—why, I know that piece! I’ve heard it on Saturday afternoon, when the Metropolitan Opera is broadcast. It’s playing the sextet from Lucia di Lammermoor!”

“Dear,” said Mrs. Lawler quietly, “if you want to believe that some bug in that meadow knows how to play opera, I don’t mind, Frank. I honestly don’t. I love you, dear. But please—let’s go home.”

In a state of perplexed amazement and pleasure Mr. Lawler started his car and drove off.

But perhaps the person who best remembers the night of the wonderful day is Ellen Hadley. Long after she had gone to bed, she had the feeling that the great events of the afternoon were still not over. Her bedroom faced the meadow, and she kept tiptoeing to the window, to peer out under the blind. Off down to the right, where the willow tree grew, there seemed to be a haze of light: the full moon, she thought, glancing off the brook—and fireflies flickering much later in the season than they should. And often she thought she heard strange sounds—like music at times, and then like clapping, and then like laughter. Could animals laugh, she wondered. Could insects laugh? Could the trees and the brook and even the grass laugh? She didn’t know. But whatever the magic of the meadow was, on this special night it was clearly collected beneath the branches of the willow tree, where there was an old stump that the brook curved around. She was almost tempted to put on her clothes and go out in the night and try to see the mystery. But she didn’t. It would have made her parents angry. That wasn’t the real reason, though. Ellen wisely realized that there are certain kinds of magic which are best left undisturbed.