Homer looked at the clock and saw that it was five minutes of nine. In five minutes the library would close for two weeks!
“We just got to find that book right away!” Homer thought. “We just got to get-gat-gittle that book from the library, no matter what!”
He waited for a moment, until the soprano finished off a particularly high and ear-piercing passage, then jumped up on the counter and soloed, “Every-body follow me-e-e, over to the librar-re-e-e!”
The soprano, having the loudest voice, spoke or rather sang for the entire group, “We will follow Homer Price, he can help us, ain’t that nice?”
And they all danced out of the door after Homer, singing:
“. . . hi-diddle-diddle,
For a silly little vittle.
Sing get-gat-gittle,
Got a hole in the middle.
Sing dough-de-dough-dough,
There’s dough, you know.
There’s not no nuts
In you-know-whats.
In a whole doughnut
There’s a nice whole hole.
When you take a big bite
Hold the whole hole tight.
If a little bit bitten,
Or a great bit bitten,
Any whole hole with a hole bitten in it,
Is a holey whole hole
And it JUST—PLAIN—ISN’T!”
It was closing time, and the librarian had just finished counting thirty-one pennies in fines from overdue books. She glanced quickly around the library to see if there was any last minute thing to attend to before she locked the door and went off on her vacation. She glanced thoughtfully down the neat shelves of books. Then she looked at the carefully stacked periodicals and made a quick mental note to renew the subscription to the Musical Monthly as soon as she returned. Then she closed the big dictionary that Freddy had left open, so dust would not settle on the page of “Ps” during the next two weeks. At last everything was neat as a pin. Every chair and table was placed just so, and every last book was resting in its proper place, on its proper shelf.
“Now,” she thought happily, “I can go on my vacation. This is the moment I have been waiting for!”
And that was the moment that Homer danced diddledy-viddledy in through the vestibule and crash! tripped over the standing sign that said “Quiet, please.”
The soprano hit high A flat right on the nose as she fell on top of him, followed by a mixed quartet, a trio, a couple of septets, a few odd stray singers, and Freddy, who had not had much previous musical experience.
Before this heap of melody had untangled itself completely, the mayor crescendoed into Uncle Ulysses’ well-padded musical coda. Then the judge, a couple of city councilmen, and the dog warden sang in next, all dancing in an appropriate dignified manner.
Posty Pratt sang his way in at the head of his family of wife, daughters, sons-in-law, eight grandchildren, and an elderly second cousin of Mrs. Pratt’s, who was having herself a high old time keeping time with her cane.
Homer wiggled to his feet and danced straight for the librarian. “We’re a little bit bitten!” he sang. And the entire group chorused, “A little bit bitten, or a great bit bitten . . .” They sang the whole song for her, better than they had ever sung it. It really did sound wonderful, and it certainly showed what a little practice can accomplish.
The librarian could not help but be impressed with such beautiful singing, but after listening to three or four renditions she began to worry about catching her train and tried to ease people politely toward the door. When she began to have an irresistible urge to sing too, she began to understand the unhappy predicament of all of these forlorn souls who were singing such a gay and carefree little song.
“What can I do to help?” whimpered the librarian, trying her utmost not to sing the question.
“There’s a book here on the shelves that’ll tell us how to cure ourselves,” Homer soloed.
“What’s the title?’ yelled the librarian, losing complete control of her library manner. “Do you know the author’s name? What’s the book’s catalogue number?” she screamed.
“Dough-de-dough-dough, I do not know,” sang Homer. “Those things I cannot remember, but I read it last September.”
“Then there’s nothing I can do, get-gat-gittle, I can’t help you,” the librarian chanted, beginning to be a wee bit bitten herself.
“We have to find a black-backed book, or maybe it’s a brown-backed book,” sang Homer. “And I think it was a little bit battered!”
Then everybody, the poor librarian included, joined in singing, “Find a black-backed book that’s a little bit battered, or a brown-backed book that’s a little bit battered.” And at the same time everybody, the poor librarian included, started dancing past the shelves, snatching out every single brown-backed and black-backed book they came to.
“. . . dough-de-dough-dough,
There’s dough, you know.
There’s not no nuts
In you-know-whats!”
They all sang as they danced back and forth and in and out among the shelves of books. They started carrying an endless stream of brown-backed and black-backed books to where Homer was dancing and singing on the largest reading-room table. To most of these, which were the wrong shade of brown, or too thin, or too fat, or too battered, or too new, he just sang, “No!” or shook his head in time with the music. The books that Homer rejected were tossed in a disorderly heap that brought tears to the eyes, and a sob to the contralto voice, of the librarian.
Any books that looked about right as to size, color, or amount of battering, Homer quickly thumbed through, to see if he could find the story that he was sure would cure them of their terrible affliction.
“In a whole doughnut there’s a nice whole hole,” everybody was singing and singing and then singing some more. The volume would gradually diminish as voices tired, and then someone’s eye would light on a letter “O,” or a number “800,” and burst out with a loud “Holey whole hole!” and that was enough to set everybody off at full blast again. They just couldn’t stop singing the silly song. The more they sang, the more they danced past the shelves; the more they danced past the shelves, the more books they collected; and before very long Homer was perched in the middle of a tremendous pile of brown-backed and black-backed books that were a little bit battered, more or less.
There were books of art and biography, history and literature, philosophy, geography, geology, philology, zoology, and even economics, but Homer still hadn’t found the book that he remembered reading last September. He courageously kept on looking, and everybody else kept on singing and dancing past the shelves, and bringing more and more books.
Freddy started dancing precariously along the balcony, and books started sailing over the railing to Homer, who caught them expertly to the tune of “High-diddle-diddle, for a silly little vittle,” without skipping a single beat in the rhythm.
Suddenly the books that Freddy was lobbing from the balcony started sailing right on past Homer, because Homer was giving his undivided attention to a story in a slightly battered brown-backed book.
Almost before you could sing “Tom Robinson” everybody had gathered in a rhythmically swaying group around the base of the mountainous pile of books.
“Looky-look-look, it’s a brown-backed book,” sang the weary soprano.
“Get-gat-gittle, he’s got a story in the middle,” Uncle Ulysses sang hopefully in his tired tenor.
Suddenly Homer stopped swaying and bobbing. He smiled and kept reading, and then he started to sway and bob again. But while everybody else was swaying, Homer was bob-bobbing, and when the others bobbed, Homer swayed. Homer was caught by a new rhythm all his own. Then from the top of the pile of books he began to shout at the top of his voice:
“Conductor, when you receive a fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
A blue-trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
A buff-trip slip for a six-cent
fare,
A pink-trip slip for three-cent fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!
CHORUS
Punch, brothers, punch with care!
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!”
Before Homer started shouting the second chorus of “Punch, brothers, punch with care!” the singers began to falter in their rhythm for the first time that evening. Then one by one they began to shout along with Homer, “A pink-trip slip for a three-cent fare,” until everybody, yes, everybody, began to stamp his tired feet for joy and shout, “Punch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare!”
That is, everybody except Homer. He sat smiling and out of breath on his perch atop the pile of books.
Everybody else was yelling, “Punch, brothers, punch!” and stamping so hard that the chandelier shook. The few red and blue and yellow books that remained on the shelves shook, even the “Quiet, please” sign shook and rocked on its legs to the rhythm of the stamping. But not Homer. Homer was cured.
After he had rested for a moment and caught his breath, he slid unobserved down the pile of books.
“A blue-trip slip for an eight-cent fare!” Everybody was shouting and stamping so loud and so hard that Homer was completely ignored. He dodged expertly through the group without being stamped on, receiving only a light unintentional clip from the cane of Mrs. Pratt’s elderly second cousin.
Homer needed somebody to help complete the cure—anybody who had not yet heard the “Punch, brothers, punch” jingle. He rushed out of the door to bring back the very first person he should meet.
The chances were one hundred and two to one that it wouldn’t be the person it was—there were at least one hundred and two Centerburg citizens who were not inside the library, but there she was, coming right up the library steps. It was the sixth-grade teacher!
“What has happened to Lucy?” she cried, referring to the librarian. “It’s almost train time!”
“You’ve got to help,” Homer said. “Come inside so they can tell you.”
As they came in through the door Homer shouted as he had never shouted before. “Tell it to her!” he bellowed, pointing to the sixth-grade teacher.
And they told her:
“Punch, brothers, punch with care!
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!”
They very generously told her two times, all the way through, without holding back a single “Punch” or “Pink-trip slip.”
Like all sixth-grade teachers, she was very quick to catch on—caught it good and perfect:
“A blue-trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
A buff-trip slip for a six-cent fare,
A pink-trip slip for a three-cent fare,
Punch in the presence of the passenjare!”
Then, as suddenly as they had started shouting and stamping out the jingle, everybody stopped, just as Homer knew they would—everybody, that is, except the sixth-grade teacher. She’d caught it just too perfect, and she went right on shouting and stamping. Everybody else sat down, gasping for breath, right where they were, to rest their tired and aching feet.
Freddy, being young, recovered his wind quickly and edged his way over to where Homer stood.
“Now, what,” he asked, nodding at the howling, stamping sixth-grade teacher, “are we going to do with her?”
“She’ll be all right,” Homer said confidently, “as soon as she tells it to somebody else. Just like I was cured when I told it to you, and you were cured when you told it to her.”
“You mean to tell me that after you tell that jingle to somebody you forget it and are cured?” Freddy asked.
“Yep, that’s the way it goes,” said Homer, “just like in the book.”
Freddy thought for a moment and then asked, “And the person she tells it to has to tell it to somebody else?”
“Yep, Freddy, somebody’s always gonna be saying it,” Homer admitted.
“Gets to be monotonous, doesn’t it, Homer?” Freddy commented, shaking his head sadly toward the sixth-grade teacher, who was just beginning another chorus. “It will be terrible to have to listen to somebody around town keep on saying and saying that jingle forever and ever!”
“That will be better than having everybody in Centerburg keep on singing forever and ever,” Homer argued. “And besides,” he continued, “she’s going on a vacation, isn’t she? We’ll just have to make sure that she gets on that train without telling somebody, and all our troubles will be over! C’mon, Freddy, we gotta get busy.”
The two boys went around rousing everybody, making them put on their shoes, and explaining what had to be done about the poor teacher.
The mayor acted at once. While lacing his shoes, he appointed a committee of the two councilmen and the dog warden to collect baggage and to see the librarian and the teacher to the train.
Everybody filed out of the library. The librarian turned out the lights on the still swaying chandelier and locked the door on the shambles of her Dewey Decimal System. She helped lead the helplessly reciting teacher to a waiting car, and they were whisked away to catch the train.
“Golly, Uncle Ulysses,” Homer said, suddenly remembering, “nobody has been looking after the lunchroom for a whole hour!”
“By jingo!” Uncle Ulysses snapped his fingers. “You’d better run right on back there, Homer. I’ve got a little matter to talk over with the barber and the mayor. Are you coming too, Posty?” he asked the postmaster.
Mrs. Pratt frowned, and Posty sheepishly said, “No,” and marched away home at the head of his family.
Uncle Ulysses, the barber, and the mayor headed for the barbershop, and the soprano and all the others walked off on their tired and aching feet.
“We were awfully lucky, Homer, that somebody hadn’t borrowed that book from the library,” Freddy said as they settled down once more with their books. “We’d be singing yet!”
Homer nodded thoughtfully and didn’t answer.
“What’s the name of that book?” Freddy demanded.
“It’s a book of stories by Mark Twain,” Homer replied. “He’s the same guy that wrote Tom Sawyer, and Life on the Mississippi, and a lot of other good stories.”
“It’s sure a good book to know about,” Freddy commented. “In case you ever need it again, you know just what to ask for. Say, Homer, how did that jingle go?”
“I can’t remember, Freddy,” Homer said. “That’s the kind of jingle it is—you can’t stop saying it until you tell it to somebody else, and then you forget all about it. I wish I’d thought to write the jingle down on a piece of paper and keep it handy. It’s like you said, Freddy, a guy might need a jingle like that in a terrible hurry some time, and it could save an awful lot of trouble.”
“I’ll help you copy it, Homer,” Freddy offered, “just as soon as the librarian gets back from Yellowstone Park.”
“Why, hello, Sheriff,” Homer greeted as the sheriff walked in the door. “Where have you been all evening?” he asked, remembering that the sheriff had not been a part of the strange singing and reciting.
“Over to the state capital,” the sheriff said, nodding his greetings. “I was attending a meeting. I’m hungry, Homer. How about a cup of coffee and a piece of apple pie?”
“Sure thing, Sheriff,” Homer said. “Freddy, you start some fresh coffee while I get the pie.”
Both boys were hustling around behind the counter when they heard a cl-l-lick! that made their hair stand on end. When they turned, there was the sheriff, all grass green and smiling, standing next to the jukebox with his coin purse still in his hand.
“What one are you playing?” Freddy yelled, making a quick end run around the counter to look.
“It’s—it’s—” said Freddy in a terrified voice as he watched the disgustingly unbreakable record slide out of the stack.
Then Freddy sighed with relief and changed to a brighter shade of lavender as the magic-like machinery quickly and silently flipped th
e record over.
“Golly, that was a close call!” cried Freddy. “For a moment I thought—”
Then a gay and lilting little melody began pouring out of the jukebox.
“That’s nighty mice music,” the sheriff said, beginning to nod in time with the melody.
And then the song began flowing out:
“A hip-high hippopotamus
Said, ‘Hips and lips make most of us.
From tip to tip a five-foot lip,
From hip to tip a three-foot foot.
With three-foot feet,
Our four feet meet
The ground, so we won’t tip a bit.
I bet you never yet have met
A tippy, lippy, hip-high hippopotamus.’”
“Homer,” Freddy gulped, “we got to get hold of that book—the one by the guy that wrote Tom Sawyer and Life on the Mississ—”
“Aht, aht, aht, aht!” Homer interrupted violently. “Don’t say Mississi—the name of that river!”
Then he right away, fast as he could, filled two glasses with water. The two boys solemnly held their breath and counted to ten and drank the water down.
“There!” said Freddy, smiling once more, “that always cures my hi—makes them go away. I guess the whole thing was just our imaginations, eh, Homer?”
“Yeah, Freddy,” said Homer, “we must have just dreamed the whole thing.” Then, as the music coming from the jukebox ended with a spasmodic chord, Homer turned to the sheriff and said, “Sheriff, here’s your piece of hip pie.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert McCloskey was born in Hamilton, Ohio, and lived there until he won a scholarship to the Vesper George Art School in Boston. After two years there he went back to his home town to carry out his first important commission, the bas-reliefs for the municipal building. Several months later he moved to New York and entered the National Academy of Design. While in New York he went to call on an editor of children’s books, with his portfolio under his arm. “She looked at the examples of ‘great art’ that I had brought along (they were woodcuts, fraught with black drama). I don’t remember just the words she used to tell me to get wise to myself and to shelve the dragons, Pegasus, and limpid pool business, and learn how and what to ‘art’ with. I think we talked mostly of Ohio.”