NINE

The Picket Line

Early next day Chester and Tucker were down beside the brook next to the stump, having their morning wash and drink. Their backs were toward the bank. “Good morning,” said a voice behind them. They both looked up, and there sat Harry Cat.

“What are you doing here?” said Tucker.

“Ellen and the little kids are out in the meadow,” Harry answered.

“So early?” said Chester.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Come on. I want you to see something.”

Tucker knew that something was wrong. Harry Cat had a way of flicking his tail to right and to left when he was upset or angry, and right now his tail was lashing like a whip. “What’s the matter, Harry?” said the mouse.

“You’ll see,” said Harry. “Just come on.”

No one spoke as they walked through Tuffet Country and Pasture Land. When they got to the foot of the hill, Tucker could see what was wrong. Up on top of it there was a picket line. Ellen and the little kids were marching around in a circle. Each one of them was carrying a sign, and they were marching right next to the hole the steam shovel had made yesterday, so that everyone could tell exactly what the signs referred to. Ellen’s sign said LET THE MEADOW ALONE. Nancy was carrying one with STOP BUILDING printed on it. Anne was holding up a sign almost as big as she was herself. It read DOWN WITH HOUSES. John was the little kid who most liked to sit beside the water and just look at the fishes and frogs and things. His sign said HELP THE BROOK. And Jaspar had demanded to carry the sign printed in the biggest letters of all: SAVE NATURE!

“Ellen spent all yesterday afternoon making those signs,” said Harry. “That’s the third set. She decided the letters in the first two weren’t big enough. And she also made those poles that the cardboard’s attached to. She hammered them together out of that wood we saw in the cellar.” Harry was speaking in a very flat voice. But Tucker knew there was stony anger inside him. “She got three splinters, too. Her mother had to take them out with a needle.”

The three animals looked at the children on the hill, marching in their picket line. “I hate Connecticut!” Chester Cricket burst out.

“Chester!” said Tucker Mouse in amazement. “You say you hate Connecticut? The way you love it—?”

“I don’t care!” said the cricket. “It’s not right when kids have to do things like that!”

“The mothers think so, too,” said Harry. He led the mouse and the cricket up the side of the hill.

On the other side of the road a little crowd had gathered. The mothers of the little kids were standing with Mrs. Hadley at the edge of the Hadleys’ front yard. Some big kids were there too, sitting on the grass. David, Jaspar’s brother, was fourteen years old, and he was definitely a big kid. He had taken a course in civics the year before in school, and he was very proud of all he knew about society. “Hey, Jaspar!” he shouted. “Who’s your union leader?”

Jaspar didn’t understand that he was being laughed at. “Ellen Hadley!” he called back happily.

David looked at his and Jaspar’s mother. “I think that’s a dopey thing to do!” he scoffed. “Marching around like that.”

But his mother cut him off with a glance. “Be quiet, David,” she said softly. And sometimes the softness in a mother’s voice can be much worse than her loudness is.

The big kids hung around a little longer—then they went off to play by themselves. But the mothers stayed on. Mothers do, when things like this happen. “Do you suppose they have to put up apartment houses right here?” said Anne’s mother.

John’s mother shifted uneasily. “I suppose that’s what they call ‘progress.’”

“I don’t call it progress!” exploded Jaspar’s mother furiously. “I call it a shame!” Jaspar took after his mother in many ways.

Ruff Saint Bernard, who happened to be sitting nearby, scratching one ear, caught the mood of the mothers and began to bark furiously. Jaspar’s mother shushed him. “That won’t do any good!” she said. Ruff gave one last frustrated ‘woof!’ and went back to scratching his ear.

“I think I’ll make some lemonade for everybody,” said Nancy’s mother. She went off toward her own home, which was next door to the Hadleys’: a brick house with red shutters.

“You know what we ought to do?” said Mrs. Hadley. “We ought to take those signs ourselves and go down and march around City Hall!”

“Yes, we really should,” said John’s mother. “But I’ve got such a tubful of laundry to do this afternoon—”

“—and there’s the marketing for the whole weekend.” Anne’s mother sighed and shook her head.

The mothers stood silent, thinking of what they ought to do and of all the little, necessary chores that would keep them from doing it. In a few minutes Nancy’s mother came back with a big pitcher of lemonade and some paper cups. The five women crossed the road. Tucker Mouse, who had one encounter with Mrs. Hadley already, was careful to stay out of sight.

“How about some lemonade?” said Nancy’s mother cheerfully.

“We don’t have time,” said Ellen.

“No time!” said Jaspar sternly.

“Oh, just for a minute you could stop,” said Anne’s mother.

The sweat was standing out in beads on John’s forehead. He wiped them off and said hopefully, “It is getting hot, Ellen—”

“All right,” said Ellen. “But everybody keep your signs pointing toward the road.”

“I wouldn’t mind a slug of lemonade myself,” Tucker whispered to Chester.

Nancy’s mother poured out lemonade for all the children. Picketing in August is very hot work, and it tasted delicious.

“Ellen,” said Mrs. Hadley, “I know how you feel about the meadow, and keeping it the way it is, but—do you really think this marching will do any good?”

“Well, it could,” said Ellen. “We ought to go and march where the Town Council meets, but I can’t take the little kids way downtown.” The mothers glanced at one another, but their eyes didn’t like to meet. “And I was hoping,” Ellen went on, “that people who drive by here would see us. And then they’d go downtown and tell everybody we were marching. And if enough people did it—well, maybe they wouldn’t dig up the meadow.” She looked from one mother to another. “Isn’t that possible?”

“It’s possible,” said Mrs. Hadley without much hope, “but—”

“That’s all it has to be,” said Ellen. “Just possible. Thank you for the lemonade. Everybody in line now!” She marshaled the little kids again. “And hold your signs so the people in cars can see.”

Nancy’s mother held up the pitcher. “I think there’s probably going to be a steady supply of lemonade in my kitchen today. Anybody who gets thirsty—just come over.”

“Oh boy!” said Jaspar. He looked at Ellen, and then back at Nancy’s mother, and said firmly, “I mean—no time!” And the picket line began its march again.

Jaspar’s mother shook her head. “The least we can do is to make sure that this is the best Hedley Day the children have ever had.”

“Good heavens! Is it time for Hedley Day already?” said John’s mother. “How the summer flies!”

Ellen’s mother looked out across the meadow. “This is the last year we’ll be able to have the picnic here.” Her eyes traced the rambling course of the brook. “It does seem a pity.”

All the mothers agreed that it was a pity. Then they returned to their separate homes and began the necessary little chores that filled up ordinary days.

“It’s Friday today,” said Ellen to the little kids as they marched in their circle. “If we picket today and tomorrow and Hedley Day too, a lot of people are sure to see us!”

“What’s ‘Hedley Day’?” whispered Tucker to Chester Cricket.

“The last Sunday in August is Hedley Day,” Chester told him. “All around town everybody has picnics and makes speeches. It’s in honor of that man, Joseph Hedley.”

“Was it his birthday?” asked Tucker.

“No,” said the cricket. “That is, I guess it might have been. No one knows just which day he was born. They don’t even know where he lived, exactly. But he was so important that they have a celebration anyway. I think most folks enjoy the food more than the speeches. The kids do, at least. But everyone seems to have a good time. In this neighborhood the mothers divide up who makes what to eat, and if the weather’s nice, they have the picnic in the meadow.”

By now the morning was well along. For a while the three animals sat and watched the picket march in silence. Then Tucker Mouse sighed and said, “I wish I was big enough to carry a sign.”

“I know what it would say,” said Harry Cat. “BEWARE! FEROCIOUS MOUSE! THIS MEANS YOU!”

Just then a dump truck pulled up beside the road. It was brand new and painted a bright green. The man driving it was named Frank. Sitting beside him in the front seat were Sam and Lou. They both got out, and Frank grinned at them through the open window. He thought it was much more important work to drive a brand-new dump truck than to run a rickety old steam shovel. “Now remember what the boss said, boys,” he called. “If Bertha needs two new spark plugs today, she’s going to need two new guys to work her!”

“Yeah!” muttered Lou.

“Wise guy!” growled Sam. He and Lou climbed the hill and saw the picket line. They stopped, and for a moment stood frozen. Sam’s face went tight, as if he was trying not to see what he saw.

“Hi,” said Ellen. She thought the men were angry with her, and tried to apologize. “We’re not doing anything wrong. Honestly!”

“I know you’re not, honey,” said Sam. “But you’ve got to go back to your own yard now. Lou an’ me are in big trouble. We have to do two days’ work today—to make up for yesterday afternoon. Go on now.” He touched Ellen’s shoulder. She made the little kids take hands. “And Ellen—I really am—” Sam was about to say “sorry,” but the word felt so empty in his mind that he didn’t even want to hear himself say it. Ellen took the signs under one arm and led the little kids across the road.

All day Bertha worked—without stopping for the noon hour even. First Lou had her dig up the pile of dirt left from yesterday morning and lift it into the dump truck. Frank drove it over to another part of town where a site was being filled in for a factory. Then, when Sam began his turn, he made her bite into the living ground. By the time the men left, late Friday afternoon, half the hill had been eaten away.

On the other side of the street, at the edge of the Hadleys’ lawn, the picket line went on. There were two or three breaks for lemonade, and a longer stop for lunch, but the children marched until six o’clock. The mothers were amazed. Usually little kids like to change their games often, but on this particular summer day no one, not even Jaspar, suggested that they do anything else—because this was not a game. At supper-time, however, the mothers insisted that the picket line be disbanded—temporarily, at least. And as a matter of fact, suppers were especially good in the neighborhood that night; many favorite dishes were served. But before she had her dinner, Ellen stored the signs in the Hadleys’ garage, where they’d be waiting for tomorrow.

All during the day the usual stream of cars had flowed along the road. Quite a few of the drivers slowed down to watch the picket line. Some shook their heads, some only stared in amazement. And no one laughed. But no one went down to the City Hall either, to tell the Town Council that children with signs were marching beside the Old Meadow.

At dusk, when the children and the workmen had gone, the animals gathered beside the steep hollow that gaped in the side of the hill. Bill Squirrel was there, and Henry Chipmunk, and so were various rabbits and sundry fieldmice. The roots of the elm tree where Bill had his nest had just begun to show. “One more day,” said Bill. “That’s all it’ll take.”

Tucker Mouse wished that it was already dark so he couldn’t see the others and nobody could see him. “I’m a failure,” he said. “I failed. I couldn’t think of anything.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Chester. “I guess there are some things you just can’t stop.”

The animals sat on the verge of the pit, and the August night came on.