"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!"
"Please don't call me 'sir,'" cried Stuart. "Call me Stuart."
"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 trying 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.
"What was it like, out there in the Atlantic Ocean?" inquired Mr. Little, who had never been very far from home.
So Stuart and Margalo told all about the ocean, and the gray waves curling with white crests, and the gulls in the sky, and the channel buoys and the ships and the tugs and the wind making a sound in your ears. Mr. Little sighed and said some day he hoped to get away from business long enough to see all those fine things.
Everyone thanked Margalo for saving Stuart's life; and at suppertime Mrs. Little presented her with a tiny cake, which had seeds sprinkled on top.
X. Springtime
SNOWBELL, the cat, enjoyed nighttime more than daytime. Perhaps it was because his eyes liked the dark. But I think it was because there are always so many worth-while things going on in New York at night.
Snowbell had several friends in the neighborhood. Some of them were house cats, others were store cats. He knew a Maltese cat in the A & P, a white Persian in the apartment house next door, a tortoise-shell in the delicatessen, a tiger cat in the basement of the branch library, and a beautiful young Angora who had escaped from a cage in a pet shop on Third Avenue and had gone to live a free life of her own in the tool house of the small park near Stuart's home.
One fine spring evening Snowbell had been calling on the Angora in the park. He started home, late, and it was such a lovely night she said she would walk along with him to keep him company. When they got to Mr. Little's house, the two cats sat down at the foot of a tall vine which ran up the side of the house past George's bedroom. This vine was useful to Snowbell, because he could climb it at night and crawl into the house through George's open window. Snowbell began telling his friend about Margalo and Stuart.
"Goodness," said the Angora cat, "you mean to say you live in the same house with a bird and a mouse and don't do anything about it?"
"That's the situation," replied Snowbell. "But what can I do about it? Please remember that Stuart is a member of the family, and the bird is a permanent guest, like myself."
"Well," said Snowbell's friend, "all I can say is, you've got more self-control than I have."
"Doubtless," said Snowbell. "However, I sometimes think I've got too much self-control for my own good. I've been terribly nervous and upset lately, and I think it's because I'm always holding myself in."
The cats' voices grew louder, and they talked so loudly that they never heard a slight rustling in the vine a few feet above their heads. It was a gray pigeon, who had been asleep there and who had awakened at the sound of cats and begun to listen. "This sounds like an interesting conversation," said the pigeon to himself. "Maybe I'd better stay around and see if I can learn something."
"Look here," he heard the Angora cat say to Snowbell, "I admit that a cat has a duty toward her own people, and that under the circumstances it would be wrong for you to eat Margalo. But I'm not a member of your family and there is nothing to stop me from eating her, is
there?"
"Nothing that I can think of offhand," said Snowbell.
"Then here I go," said the Angora, starting up the vine. The pigeon was wide awake by this time, ready to fly away; but the voices down below continued.
"Wait a minute," said Snowbell, "don't be in such a hurry. I don't think you'd better go in there tonight."
"Why not?" asked the other cat.
"Well, for one thing, you're not supposed to enter our house. It's unlawful entry, and you might get into trouble."
"I won't get into any trouble," said the Angora.
"Please wait till tomorrow night," said Snowbell, firmly. "Mr. and Mrs. Little will be going out tomorrow night, and you won't be taking such a risk. It's for your own good I'm suggesting this."
"Oh, all right," agreed the Angora. "I guess I can wait. But tell me where I'll find the bird, after I do get in."
"That's simple," said Snowbell. "Climb this vine, enter George's room through the open window, then go downstairs and you'll find the bird asleep in the Boston fern on the bookcase."
"Easy enough," said the Angora, licking her chops. "I'm obliged to you, sir."
"Well, the old thing!" whispered the pigeon to himself, and he flew away quickly to find a piece of writing paper and a pencil. Snowbell said goodnight to his friend and climbed up the vine and went in to bed.
Next morning Margalo found a note on the branch of her fern when she woke. It said: BEWARE OF A STRANGE CAT WHO WILL COME BY NIGHT. It was signed A WELL WISHER. She kept the note under her wing all day long, wondering what she had better do, but she didn't dare show it to anyone--not even to Stuart. She couldn't eat, she was so frightened.
"What had I better do?" she kept saying to herself.
Finally, just before dark, she hopped up to an open window and without saying anything to anybody she flew away. It was springtime, and she flew north, just as fast as she could fly, because something inside her told her that north was the way for a bird to go when spring comes to the land.