Crisis in Crittertown

Dedication

For all postal workers who deliver
happy thoughts along with the mail.

Copyright © 2014 by Justine Fontes

Cover illustrations by David Mar

Interior illustrations by Ron Fontes

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form

or by any means without the written permission of the copyright owner.

All inquiries should be addressed to:

Barron's Educational Series, Inc.

250 Wireless Boulevard

Hauppauge, NY 11788

www.barronseduc.com

Print edition ISBN: 978-1-4380-9244-7
eISBN: 978-1-4380-9245-4

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1
The Change

Chapter 2
“We're Doomed!”

Chapter 3
What's in Store?

Chapter 4
Checking Out the Library

Chapter 5
The Cat's Game

Chapter 6
The Noisy Dog

Chapter 7
Our First Day at School

Chapter 8
That Chatty Squirrel

Chapter 9
Trouble in the Tree House

Chapter 10
The Big Idea

Introduction

Dear Children,

Do you remember before you knew how to read? First you learned the shape of each letter. Then you learned how the letters fit together to form words. Eventually the words became sentences, paragraphs, and pages.

You can't remember learning how to speak. You were too young. And the process of learning was as slow as a plant growing from a seed.

For me all of that happened in a single morning! One day the sounds and symbols of human language were just squiggles and noise. Then suddenly they became words, ideas, feelings, and facts. It was amazing!

My friends and I call that sudden miracle “The Change,” because it changed everything.

Before The Change, we mice had our own squeaky language, just as cats meowed and dogs barked. Of course, there wasn't much to say.

Before The Change, my whole world was the dirt-floor basement under a small post office in Maine. Have you been to Maine? It's a nice place, even though winters are awfully cold.

Maine is remote and old-fashioned. Folks here like it that way. You should visit. If you don't have fur, bring sweaters.

My name is Cheddar, like the cheese. I bet you can guess why. If not, don't get your tail in a twist. Just keep reading, and everything will become clear.

If it doesn't, you can write me with questions. I promise to write back with answers, along with some…

…happy thoughts!

 

Cheddar Plainmouse

1138 Main Street

Crittertown, ME 04355

Chapter 1  
The Change

Before The Change, my thoughts were few and simple:

Don't get killed. Find food—hopefully cheese!

Back then I didn't even know what cheese was. I just liked to eat it more than anything else. I didn't know what a cow was, and I certainly had no clue about the chemicals that transform milk into the world's greatest food.

My knowledge barely reached beyond the basement of the post office in Crittertown, Maine, where my colony and I struggled to keep one jump ahead of hunger, cold, cats, brooms, and other disasters. People and all their amazing inventions meant only two things to us: food and danger. Then suddenly, one October day, everything changed.

The music started making sense. That's what I remember first. Music always sounded nice. But then there was that magical morning, when the songs on the radio suddenly had lyrics I could understand. It wasn't just mood and beat. The words made sense!

Everyone else in the colony felt it, too. Our minds sprang to life with words and ideas. We wondered what was happening! Was it only happening to us or to mice everywhere? Then a cricket chirped, “What's going on?” We wondered if it was happening to every critter.

Thanks to birds, word of The Change spread quickly. Birds get around and they gossip. The birds said it was occurring all around human talking machines, like telephones, radios, and TVs.

No critter knew why. We only knew that suddenly we understood human babble—and there was a lot of it!

Most of us felt like we'd snapped awake during a thrilling movie that might end in a happily-ever-after or a terrible tragedy. And we weren't just watching the movie. We were characters with an important part to play.

Before The Change, mice didn't have names. We knew each other by smell, sight, and relationships. After it, we quickly came up with names for ourselves—or each other.

Every mouse called me Cheddar because I'm crazy for cheese, especially that sharp, tangy delight known as cheddar. My best friend is the grandson of our leader, and his father is a handsome shade of gray. Therefore, my friend became Grayson. Maybe he'll grow into that dignified name someday. The Grayson I know is a hothead, always rushing into danger.

The morning of The Change was no different. As soon as we realized we could understand humans, Grayson squeaked, “We must explore! Let's go upstairs and find out what they do at the post office.”

Up until then we didn't know zip about zip codes. All we knew about the postal service was when the workers came and went, and what they left in the trash cans.

“No one's going anywhere!” our leader squeaked firmly. Brownback was a cautious mouse. Like his son, he was mostly gray, but with a stripe of brown down his back. His muzzle fur was white with age. We all respected him greatly—except Grayson.

“Aw, Pops! There's so much to learn. It could benefit the colony. I'll be careful,” Grayson promised. “I won't make a sound or let anyone see me. I'll…even take Cheddar along.”

To my surprise, this last phrase changed Brownback's expression.

Grayson saw that, too, because he squeaked on. “He'll keep me in line. You know Cheddar. He's always holding me back from fun…I mean danger.”

Brownback nodded. “Cheddar is cautious, and caution keeps a mouse alive.”

I felt flattered. “Cautious” sounds so much better than “coward.”

Grayson seized on this. “We won't stay long. We'll come home with lots of news for you.”

Brownback always said, “Facts help a leader make good decisions.” He liked news almost as much as I like cheese. Brownback nodded. “You and Cheddar may go upstairs.”

Grayson jumped so high, even his tail left the ground.

Brownback sighed. “Calm down, boy.” Then he told me, “Don't let him do anything foolish.”

I nodded, suddenly realizing what had happened. What happened?! When had I agreed to go upstairs?

This was even scarier than the time Grayson talked me into helping him use a pencil to trip a trap. I shuddered at that memory. How did I let him get me into these things?

The first part of our journey was familiar. Grayson and I often visited the parking lot shared by the post office and the Crittertown Market. But we always did this at night when there were no cars or trucks zooming around.

No one had to tell us these huge machines were dangerous. The noise, the smell, and the flattened remains of careless squirrels and unlucky cats told us that.

Seeing these machines in motion filled me with awe. How did people make such things?

Grayson squeaked, “I wish I were big enough to drive!”

I sighed. “Yes, I'm sure you'd like to drive very fast.”

Grayson smiled. “You know me so well.”

We were bald, blind infants together. Of course I knew him. I even liked him more than anyone else—when he wasn't scaring the fur off me.

We watched the cars come and go. How busy everything was during the day!

People carried bags out of the market, and packages to or from the post office. I squeaked, “They buy food at the market. What do they do at the post office?”

“Let's find out!” Grayson replied. Then he slid under the torn rubber trim at the bottom of the post office's rickety back door.

I looked around the parking lot. Staying there alone was almost as scary as following Grayson. Besides, I'd promised Brownback to keep both eyes on his grandson. I scurried under the door after my friend.

We caught our breath in the back room with the coats. We sniffed and listened. I smelled the postmaster's coffee and the clerk's perfume. I heard the radio playing the “morning mix” of love songs, news, and trivia.

Grayson tapped my shoulder and then slinked into the office itself. What choice did I have? Once again, I followed my friend into unknown danger.

Looking around, I found I could read human writing! Posters urged the mail carriers to “Buckle up for safety” and “Watch out for children! School is open.”

“What's school?” I asked.

Grayson shrugged.

Slowly some things started making sense. Mail turned out to be letters, catalogs, magazines, and packages. Packages contained all kinds of things: big, small, valuable, and some “just old baby clothes I'm sending to my sister.”

Grayson and I gradually grasped the postal basics. Workers delivered mail to the people of Crittertown and sent mail from Crittertown to humans elsewhere. Some of those places were very far away.

“What's your daughter doing in Gambia?” the postmaster asked.

The customer replied, “She's in a remote village teaching English at a school.”

There was that word again! At first we thought young humans were kept in schools until they were old enough to move around on their own without getting caught in traps. Later we figured out that schools were places where people learned things. And wasn't there a lot to learn!

People didn't just make nests. They built all kinds of places where they did so many strange things! Before long, Grayson and I felt stuffed with facts. How could we remember them all?

I suggested, “Let's report to your grandfather.”

Grayson argued, “Let's learn more.”

So we stayed until the mail carriers left on their routes. The carriers were the people who drove the mail to all the homes and businesses in Crittertown.

We watched the postmaster do his morning reports on the computer. Grayson crept closer to find out what this machine did. He whispered, “It sends messages. It records and calculates numbers.”

Numbers counted how much you had of something, and they were used in addresses, like the 1, 2, 3, third house on Berry Lane.

I felt smart, but also hungry. “Can't we go home?”

Grayson looked annoyed. “Don't you want to see the rest of the post office? Didn't you hear the Clerk mention the snack table?”

Grayson knew me too well. While the postmaster stared at his computer, we slinked to the front of the office.

I couldn't smell cheese, but I sensed its presence. Maybe cheese sends out a frequency, like a TV broadcast. Maybe my stomach is tuned to the cheese channel.