THREE

The Old Meadow

None of the animals could sleep very well. Tucker and Harry were too excited at being up in Connecticut at last. And Chester Cricket, overjoyed as he was to see his friends again, was too worried about the Old Meadow to do anything but doze awhile. So after a few hours of napping they all decided it was silly to pretend to sleep when you weren’t really sleeping, and got up.

The first thing they did was go down to the brook for a drink. “Delicious!” exclaimed Harry Cat as he tasted the icy, bubbling water. “It’s certainly fresher than that stuff we collect from the pipes in the subway walls.”

“Yes, but how many flavors does this brook come in?” said Tucker Mouse, who was thinking of all the soda pop he scrounged from the lunch counters in the station.

“Nothing tastes as good as my brook,” said Chester Cricket. With his two front legs he sloshed a little cold water in his face. It was his habit to do that first thing every morning, even on the coldest days in winter, to wake himself up. “Let’s go up on the stump again,” he said. “You can see what the meadow looks like in broad daylight.”

The cricket jumped up in one hop, and Tucker and Harry followed him. All around them the bright June morning sparkled on young leaves and blossoms newly opened. For a mouse whose only garden up till then had been three pathetic blades of grass, it was an overwhelming sight. Tucker felt his heart grow large with poetry. “Look how lovely, Harry!” he said. “Trees, flowers, little green growing things—ha-choo!” He gave a huge sneeze.

“God bless you,” said Harry Cat.

“Thank you, Harry,” said Tucker, and launched into a hymn in praise of Nature. “Oh, the countryside, the countryside!—ha-choo!” But it was interrupted by another sneeze, even larger than the first.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Harry.

Tucker wiped his nose on one front paw—not a very nice thing to do, but he had no newspapers handy. Then he rubbed his eyes, which he suddenly realized had begun to itch. “Harry,” he said gloomily, “I think I have hay fever.”

“Don’t tell me you’re allergic to all those lovely little green growing things!” said Harry Cat slyly.

“You wouldn’t rub it in, please, Harry,” said the mouse. “Chester, do you have a newspaper or a Kleenex or something in the stump? I have to blow my nose.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” said Chester Cricket.

“Then I’ll have to use a leaf,” said Tucker. He climbed down from the stump.

“Watch out you don’t use poison ivy!” Harry Cat called after him.

Tucker searched along the bank of the brook and finally found a clump of fern. They were nice and soft, like Kleenex, but weren’t really ideal for blowing the nose because they were very lacy and full of holes. Still, Tucker thought they were the best he could find. He picked a few extras and went back to the stump.

“Here’s our nature lover—back from the fields and the glens!” said Harry Cat when Tucker sat sniffling beside him and Chester again.

Tucker blew his nose on a fern and then threw it in the brook. “I may be the only mouse in the world who has to use ferns as handkerchiefs,” he said.

Harry Cat turned to Chester. “Now explain about the houses. Why do they worry you so much?”

Chester Cricket shook his head. “There’s just too many of them! That’s the whole problem. When I got back to Connecticut last fall, I found they’d built two new ones just in the time I was gone—down on the south side there. And this spring they’ve started three others. Besides those two in the east, across the road, there’s one going up near the north corner of the meadow. All the animals who live here in the Old Meadow are just scared to death that in a year or so there won’t be any Old Meadow at all! Up till now the brook has saved us. It’s marshy along the banks, and sometimes there’s a little flooding. But just two weeks ago Bill Squirrel—he’s a squirrel you’ll meet later on; he’s always swinging around in the trees near the houses, bringing back news—Bill said that he heard two homeowners talking about some plan the town of Hedley had to put the brook down in a conduit!”

“What’s a conduit?” asked Tucker Mouse.

“It’s like a big concrete pipe,” said Chester. “And the plan is to put the brook down in this pipe and make it run through concrete underground instead of up in the open where it belongs. Then they could drain the marshy parts. And if they do that, there won’t be any stopping them. They’ll put up houses everywhere!”

“Wonderful!” said Tucker. “It’ll be just like New York! Maybe they’ll even build a subway!”

“But we don’t want it to be like New York!” said Chester. “Now don’t misunderstand. I love New York, and I had a wonderful time when I was living there. But I love the country even more. I don’t have anything against houses either—if they stay where they should! Why, sometimes I even hop over just to be where the human beings live. I especially like the time around noon on a weekday. You can hear the housewives using the vacuum cleaner, or see them hanging the laundry up. And the dogs are snoozing in the sun on the doorsteps, waiting for kids to come home from school. I don’t know—it makes me feel all funny and happy. Everything is so busy, but peaceful too. Then I’ll hop back into the meadow—and I’m even happier here. Because this is my home!” The cricket took a long look around the meadow. In his eyes there was both love and ownership. Harry and Tucker glanced at each other.

“And it isn’t just me,” Chester went on. “What’s going to happen to everyone else who lives here? I could get by in any little old bush, houses or no houses. And so could John Robin and Bill Squirrel; they don’t mind houses, as long as there are trees around. But what about all the rabbits and the chipmunks and the pheasants? And Simon Turtle—it’ll be the death of him if they put the brook underground!” The cricket fell silent and shifted uneasily from one set of legs to another. Tucker and Harry had never seen such a fretful look on his face.

“Now don’t worry,” said Harry Cat. “We’ll think of something, Chester.”

“I certainly hope so!” said Chester. “All the meadow folks I know—we haven’t been able to come up with a single good idea!”

In order that the cat and the mouse might have a clear picture of the problem, and also to meet some of Chester’s friends, the cricket took them both on a tour of the Old Meadow. It was roughly in the shape of a square. The brook, which started out life as the overflow of a reservoir, entered the meadow from the west at the southwest corner. It bubbled along parallel to the southern border until it came to the hilly, woody land in the southeast. There, since its way was blocked, it turned back toward the center of the meadow and proceeded northward. But then, for no apparent reason, when the brook was approaching the northern border, it suddenly changed its mind. It made a sharp turn—that was where Chester’s stump was located—and flowed along in an eastern direction until it left the meadow at the northeast corner. It was as if the brook, like everyone else who lived in the Old Meadow, just simply loved the place and wanted to spend as much of its time as it could right there.

Chester first led his friends through what he called “Tuffet Country.” That was the stretch of land just south of his stump. And, naturally, it was full of tuffets. It was also full of various rabbits and sundry fieldmice. That was how Chester introduced them. “There are too many of you to call by name,” he said, “so I’ll just say, Harry Cat and Tucker Mouse, these are various rabbits and sundry fieldmice.”

Lots of timid little whiskered faces and soft brown rabbit eyes peeked out from around tuffets and through the tall grass. “I think the sundries are afraid of Harry,” said Tucker Mouse under his breath.

“Nobody be scared!” said Chester in a loud voice. “These are friends. They’ve come to help us.”

There was a rustling, whispery pause. Then a tiny voice, which probably came from the littlest sundry, shouted out, “Hooray!”

The three friends continued on through the meadow, walking beside the brook and stopping every now and again so that Tucker could pick a few more fern handkerchiefs. “Everybody is really counting on us, aren’t they, Chester?” said the mouse. “To save the meadow, I mean.”

“We certainly are!” said Chester. “We’ve been racking our brains for weeks and weeks, and not even Simon Turtle could think of anything.”

“When do we meet Mr. Turtle?” said Harry Cat.

“Very soon now,” answered Chester. “First we go through Pasture Land, and then we come to the pool where Simon lives. You know, the whole meadow used to be part of a farm. The farm house either burned down or fell down ages ago—the cellar is way over there in the west, across the brook, where those trees are—but the part where we are now, Pasture Land, is where the farmer kept his cows. See how nice and flat and green it is?”

And, indeed, the grass over which they walked now was as soft and thick as a tended lawn. Buttercups and forget-me-nots swarmed over the earth. And near the brook, where the soil was moist, tall irises lifted elegant purple blossoms. Tucker Mouse heaved a sigh. “Ah, the countryside!” Then he sneezed and blew his nose again.

At the end of Pasture Land they came to the hilly country where the brook turned in toward the center of the meadow. Beneath one of the rises the water had formed a deep, still pool. The current ran slow, and a glint of fish could be seen from the dark but living depths. This was Simon’s Pool. And despite the fish who lived there, two or three crafty water snakes, and half a dozen pompous bullfrogs, there was no question who ruled the water. Simon Turtle was by far the oldest and also one of the most revered dwellers in the Old Meadow—even if he did have a tendency, like many old souls, to reminisce a little too much.

Chester found him taking the sun on the back of a big log that had floated up beside the bank. “Mr. Turtle, these are my friends Harry Cat and Tucker Mouse—the ones I told you about.”

Simon craned his head out from under his black, wavy shell. His eyes were sharp and wise, but not unkind. He gave Harry and Tucker a long, hard look. And when those eyes had looked at you, you knew you’d been looked at! “Pleased to meet you,” said Simon in a raspy, soft voice. Harry and Tucker both said they were glad to meet him, too. “What do you think of our meadow?” the turtle went on.

“Wonderful!” said Harry.

“Beautiful!” said Tucker, suppressing a sneeze.

“You should have seen it the way it was when I was your age,” said Simon Turtle. “Now that was real country then! There were only three or four houses across the road there, in the east—and north and south, maybe one or two—and off west, none at all! Just good thick forested hills. Did you know there even used to be deer in the meadow?”

Chester Cricket could see that the old turtle was longing to share some of his recollections with Tucker and Harry. So he thought he’d just help him out with a hint. “One of Mr. Turtle’s best friends was a deer named Ned.”

“The best, Chester—the best,” said Simon, “until I met you. What a buck he was too, Ned Deer! So strong and handsome, with beautiful tall antlers. And for some reason we just hit it off together and got to be best friends. I’m not very good at walking, you know—but when Ned and I would go for a stroll, he’d lounge along beside me on those long legs of his, very steady and slow, so that I could keep up. My, what talks we had! And what days!” The turtle shook his head at the joy the memory brought back to him. “But Ned’s relations—they all used to live down here, too—and they knew what was happening. They could see what was written in the trees chopped down and the hills dug up. They told Ned they’d have to leave pretty soon—go out there west, beyond the reservoir, where it still was forested and good. And one by one they did leave. But not Ned. He stayed in the meadow—out of friendship for me, I think. Until finally he was the last deer left.”

Simon Turtle’s eyes went dark, and he pulled his head back under his shell a little, as if an old pain had been renewed. “Well, there came an autumn—October, it was—and on one afternoon both Ned and I realized that the whole west side had been built up just in one summer, while our backs were turned, you might say. That dreadful afternoon when we knew! For the first time I saw fear come in those beautiful great brown eyes of his. And my heart just shrank up inside me. I said to him, ‘Ned, you’ll have to go. No question about it. You wait till dark—and then run! There’s probably only a couple of rows of houses—you can get past them to the reservoir.’ Ned didn’t say anything—just nodded. And we started to work our way toward where the brook comes in. I can’t go back there any more—too much old sadness left for me there.”

Simon Turtle cleared his throat, and went on. “That night came chill and misty—which was lucky, since Ned could hide in it. But he still couldn’t bring himself to leave. We just stood there, beside the brook, and neither one of us said a word. At last I had to speak! I said, ‘Go, Ned! For pity’s sake—run!’ He looked down on me, frowning that such a bad thing could happen—then, without a word, turned his back and ran. And I still hear his hoofs, at first on the turf and then on the streets the humans had built. It is something that you remember, you know—the sound of your best friend running away for dear life, when you know that you’ll never see him again.”

The turtle fell silent, reliving the awful experience. Then, having gotten through it once more, he drew a deep breath and said, “And that was so long ago—ages!—I can’t even begin to remember the years. Poor Ned, poor Ned. The way they’ve been building since then, he’s probably been pushed all the way up to Maine by now!”

“At least he escaped,” said a small sad voice behind Tucker Mouse. “That’s more than we can.”

Tucker turned around. In back of him two funny little animals were sitting on their hind legs. They each had auburn fur and bright black eyes and worried expressions on their faces. “This is Henry Chipmunk and his sister Emily,” said Chester.

“How do you do?” said Emily Chipmunk, and made a short bow to the new arrivals. She was a few years older than Henry and very polite.

“We’re awfully glad you’re here,” said Henry. It was he who had spoken before. “We’ll be safe now, won’t we?”

“Well—I—I hope so.” Tucker Mouse was a bit flustered by the confidence everyone had in him. He glanced around and saw that they were completely surrounded by the animals of the meadow. While the turtle had been telling his story of Ned Deer, the various rabbits and sundry fieldmice had gone all over, telling everyone they met that Chester’s friends from the city had arrived and that now everything would be all right. “I certainly hope we can help you,” said Tucker nervously.

“I know you can!” said someone above them. Halfway up the hill grew an elm tree. And one of its branches extended out over the pool. A squirrel was perched there.

“That’s Bill,” said Chester.

“Hi!” Bill Squirrel called down. As quick as blue fire, he ran back on the branch, down the trunk, and dashed over to join them. “Now what’s the plan?”

“The plan?” Tucker looked helplessly at Harry Cat. “Harry—what’s the plan?”

“You’re the expert on the countryside,” said Harry. “What is the plan?”

“Um—the plan.” Tucker began thinking in earnest, pacing back and forth. “The plan, the plan—” And then suddenly he did have a plan! “Well, of course! The plan!” He shook his head at the ease of it all. “Really, Chester, it’s so obvious I’m surprised you didn’t think of it yourself.”

“What?” “What?” “What?” shouted everyone at once.

“All Chester has to do is chirp!” announced the mouse. “I mean, chirp human music! When the people all realize that the famous cricket from Times Square is now living in Connecticut, and giving concerts again, they won’t dare tear up his meadow!”

“Oh, Tucker, I did think of that already,” said Chester.

“Oh, you did, did you?” said Tucker. He was secretly a little put out that someone had thought of his plan before him. “Then why didn’t you do it?”

“It won’t work,” said the cricket. “In the first place, if I started giving concerts again, somebody would probably try to catch me. I wouldn’t mind that, though. If living in a cage could save the meadow, I’d be glad to. But even if I wasn’t caught—if I stayed right here—people would come pouring in to listen. You remember how crowded it got in the subway station when I played. Well, they’d come in cars, they’d come on foot, and they’d trample down everything! We want to keep the meadow the way it is.”

“Hmm,” mumbled Tucker Mouse. “I guess you’re right.”

“What’s the next plan?” asked Bill Squirrel.

Tucker looked at all the faces that were staring at him hopefully. He shifted from one foot to the other. “I can’t think of anything else. Right now.”

Gloom spread among the animals. And whispers went back and forth: “No plan,” “No other plan,” “The mouse has no more plans.”

Henry Chipmunk looked in Tucker’s eyes a moment and then glanced away. “We were—we were sort of—counting on you, Mr. Mouse. Chester told us how smart you were, and we thought—we thought—” But his voice broke. He put his two little front paws up to his own eyes and began to cry.

“Now, now, Henry—don’t do that.” Chester Cricket patted the chipmunk on the back. He was so little that Henry could hardly feel it through his fur, but it helped, and the chipmunk stopped crying. “Tucker and Harry only got here today. They’ll think of something before too long. Why don’t all you folks go home now? And try not to worry—it’ll just take a little time.”

Gradually the animals dispersed. As the chipmunks were turning to go, Emily said to Tucker and Harry, “Won’t you both please come and visit us some time? We live over in the west there—in the cellar of the old farm house.”

“Delighted to,” said Harry Cat. Tucker said nothing.

When everyone had left, Simon Turtle craned his head toward the mouse and said, “Don’t be too upset now. That Henry’s still a very young chipmunk. They’re an emotional breed, too. Always were.”

Tucker Mouse shook his head. “That was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Worse than being trampled on in the subway. I never saw a chipmunk cry before.”

“You never saw a chipmunk before!” said Harry Cat.

“But it was the crying that got me, Harry,” said Tucker. He stamped his foot impatiently. And it was only himself that he was impatient with. “We’ve got to think of something, Harry! We’ve just got to!”

“Now take it easy, Mousiekins.” Harry Cat put his paw on Tucker’s back—but gently this time. “We will.”