Stuart Little (7 page)

“Or a note in music,” said Elizabeth
Acheson.

“Or the way the back of a
baby’s neck smells if its mother keeps it tidy,” said Marilyn Roberts.

Stuart sighed. “Never forget
your summertimes, my dears,” he said. “Well, I’ve got to be getting along. It’s
been a pleasure to know you all. Class is dismissed!”

Stuart strode rapidly to the
door, climbed into the car, andwitha final wave of the hand drove off in a
northerly direction, while the children raced alongside and screamed “Good-by,
good-by, good-by!” They all wished they could have a substitute every day,
instead of Miss Gunderson.

XIII. Ames’ Crossing

In the loveliest town of
all, where the houses were white and high and the elm trees were green and higher
than the houses, where the front yards were wide and pleasant and the back
yards were bushy and worth finding out about, where the streets sloped down to
the stream and the stream flowed quietly under the bridge, where the lawns
ended in orchards and the orchards ended in fields and the fields ended in pastures
and the pastures climbed the hill and disappeared over the top toward the
wonderful wide sky, in this loveliest of all towns Stuart stopped to get a
drink of sarsaparilla.

Parking his car in front of
the general store, he stepped out and the sun felt so good that he sat down on
the porch for a few moments to enjoy the feeling of being in a new place on a
fine day. This was the most peaceful and beautiful spot he had found in all his
travels. It seemed to him a place he would gladly spend the rest of his life
in, if it weren’t that he might get homesick for the sights of New York and for
his family, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick C. Little and George, and if it weren’t for
the fact that something deep inside him made him want to find Margalo.

After a while the
storekeeper came out to smoke a cigarette, and he joined Stuart on the front steps.
He started to offer Stuart a cigarette but when he noticed how small he was, he
changed his mind.

“Have you any sarsaparilla
in your store?” asked Stuart. “I’ve got a ruinous thirst.”

“Certainly,” said the
storekeeper.

“Gallons of it. Sarsaparilla,
root beer, birch beer, ginger ale, Moxie, lemon soda, Coca Cola, Pepsi Cola, Dipsi
Cola, Pipsi Cola, Popsi Cola, and raspberry cream tonic. Anything you want.”

“Let me have a bottle of
sarsaparilla, please,” said Stuart, “and a paper cup.”

The storekeeper went back
into the store and returned with the drink. He opened the bottle, poured some
out into the cup, and set the cup down on the step below Stuart, who whipped
off his cap, lay down on his stomach, and dipped up some of the cool refreshing
drink, using his cap as a dipper.

“That’s very refreshing,”
remarked Stuart. “There’s nothing like a long, cool drink in the heat of the
day, when you’re traveling.”

“Are you going far?” asked
the storekeeper.

“Perhaps very far,” replied
Stuart. “I’m

looking for a bird named
Margalo. You haven’t sighted her, have you?”

“Can’t say I have,” said the
storekeeper.

“What does she look like?”

“Perfectly beautiful,”
replied Stuart, wiping the sarsaparilla off his lips with the corner of his
sleeve. “She’s a remarkable bird. Anybody would notice her. She comes from a place
where there are thistles.”

The storekeeper looked at
Stuart closely.

“How tall are you?” he
asked.

“You mean in my stocking feet?”
said Stuart.

“Yes.”

“Two inches nothing and a
quarter,” answered

Stuart. “I haven’t been
measured recently, however. I may have shot up a bit.”

“You know,” said the
storekeeper, thoughtfully, “there’s somebody in this town you really ought to
meet.”

“Who’s that?” asked Stuart,
yawning.

“Harriet Ames,” said the
storekeeper.

“She’s just your size—maybe a
trifle shorter, if anything.”

“What’s she like?” asked
Stuart. “Fair, fat, and forty?”

“No, Harriet is young and
she is quite pretty. She is considered one of the best dressed girls in this
town, too. All her clothes are tailored specially for her.”

“That so?” remarked Stuart.

“Yes. Harriet’s quite a
girl. Her people, the Ameses, are rather prominent in this town. One of her
ancestors used to be the ferryman here in Revolutionary days. He would carry
anybody across the stream—he didn’t care whether they were British soldiers or
American soldiers, as long as they paid their fare. I guess he did pretty well.
Anyway, the Ameses have always had plenty of money. They live in a big house with
a lot of servants. I know Harriet would be very much interested to meet you.”

“That’s very kind of you,”
replied Stuart, “but

I’m not much of a society man
these days. Too much on the move. I never stay long anywhere—I blow into a town
and blow right out again, here today, gone tomorrow, a will o’ the wisp. The
highways and byways are where you’ll find me, always looking for Margalo.
Sometimes I feel that I’m quite near to her and that she’s just around the turn
of the road. Other times I feel that I’ll never find her and never hear her
voice again. Which reminds me, it’s time I was on my way.” Stuart paid for his
drink, said good-by to the storekeeper, and drove off. But Ames’ Crossing
seemed like the finest town he had ever known, and before he reached the end of
the main street he swerved sharp left, turned off onto a dirt road, and drove
down to a quiet spot on the bank of the river. That afternoon he swam and lay
on his back on the mossy bank, his hands crossed under his head, his thoughts
returning to the conversation he had had with the storekeeper.

“Harriet Ames,” he murmured.

Evening came, and Stuart
still lingered by the stream.

He ate a light supper of a
cheese sandwich and a drink of water, and slept that night in the warm grass
with the sound of the stream in his ears.

In the morning the sun rose
warm and bright and Stuart slipped into the river again for an early dip. After
breakfast he left his car hidden under a skunk cabbage leaf and walked up to
the post office. While he was filling his fountain pen from the public inkwell
he happened to glance toward the door and what he saw startled him so that he
almost lost his balance and fell into the ink. A girl about two inches high had
entered and was crossing the floor toward the mail boxes. She wore sports
clothes and walked with her head held high. In her hair was a stamen from a
flower.

Stuart began to tremble from
excitement.

“Must be the Ames girl,” he
said to himself. And he kept out of sight behind the inkwell as he watched her
open her mail box, which was about a quarter of an inch wide, and pull out her letters.
The storekeeper had told the truth:

Harriet was pretty. And of
course she was the only girl Stuart had ever encountered who wasn’t miles and
miles taller than he was. Stuart figured that if the two of them were to walk
along together, her head would come a little higher than his shoulder. The idea
filled him with interest. He wanted to slide down to the floor and speak to
her, but he didn’t dare. All his boldness had left him and he stayed hidden
behind the inkwell until Harriet had gone. When he was sure that she was out of
sight, he stole out of the post office and slunk down the street to the store,
half hoping that he would meet the beautiful little girl, half fearing that he would.

“Have you any engraved
stationery?” he asked the storekeeper. “I’m behind on my correspondence.”

The storekeeper helped
Stuart up onto the counter and found some letter paper for him—small paper,
marked with the initial L. Stuart whipped out his fountain pen and sat down
against a five-cent candy bar and began a letter to Harriet:

“MY DEAR MISS AMES,” he wrote.
“I am a young person of modest proportions. By birth I am a New Yorker, but at
the moment I am traveling on business of a confidential nature. My travels have
brought me to your village. Yesterday the keeper of your local store, who has
an honest face and an open manner, gave me a most favorable report of your
character and appearance.”

At this point in the letter
Stuart’s pen ran dry from the long words and Stuart had to get the storekeeper
to lower him head-first into a bottle of ink so that he could refill the pen.
Then he went back to letter writing. ...

“Pray forgive me, Miss Ames,”
continued Stuart, “for presuming to strike up an acquaintance on so slender an
excuse as your physical similarity; but of course the fact is, as you yourself
must know, there are very few people who are only two inches in height. I say “two
inches”—actually I am somewhat taller than that. My only drawback is that I
look something like a mouse. I am nicely proportioned, however. Am also
muscular beyond my years. Let me be perfectly blunt: my purpose in writing this
brief note is to suggest that we meet. I realize that your parents may object to
the suddenness and directness of my proposal, as well as to my somewhat
mouselike appearance, so I think probably it might be a good idea if you just
didn’t mention the matter to them. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.
However, you probably understand more about dealing with your father and mother
than I do, so I won’t attempt to instruct you but will leave everything to your
good judgment.

“Being an outdoors person, I
am camped by the river in an attractive spot at the foot of Tracy’s Lane. Would
you care to go for a paddle with me in my canoe? How about tomorrow afternoon toward
sundown, when the petty annoyances of the day are behind us and the river seems
to flow more quietly in the long shadows of the willows? These tranquil spring
evenings are designed by special architects for the enjoyment of boatmen. I
love the water, dear Miss Ames, and my canoe is like an old and trusted friend.”
Stuart forgot, in the excitement of writing Harriet, that he did not own a
canoe.

“If you wish to accept my
invitation, be at the river tomorrow about five o’clock. I shall await your arrival
with all the eagerness I can muster. And now I must close this offensive letter
and catch up with my affairs.

Yours very truly,

STUART LITTLE.”

After Stuart had sealed his
letter in an envelope, he turned to the storekeeper.

“Where can I get hold of a
canoe?” he asked.

“Right here,” replied the
storekeeper. He walked over to his souvenir counter and took down a little
birchbark canoe with the words SUMMER MEMORIES stamped on the side. Stuart examined
it closely.

“Does she leak?” asked
Stuart.

“It’s a nice canoe,” replied
the storekeeper, bending it gently back into shape with his fingers. “It will
cost you seventy-five cents plus a penny tax.”

Stuart took out his money
and paid the man. Then he looked inside the canoe and noticed that there were no
paddles.

“What about paddles?” he
said, making his voice sound businesslike. The storekeeper hunted around among
the souvenirs but he couldn’t seem to find any paddles, so he went over to the
ice cream counter and came back with two little cardboard spoons—the kind you
use for eating ice cream on picnics.

“These will work out all
right as paddles,” he said.

Stuart took the spoons, but
he was disgusted with the looks of them.

“They may work out all
right,” said Stuart, “but I would hate to meet an American Indian while I had
one of these things in my hand.”

The storekeeper carried the
canoe and the paddles out in front of the store and set them down in the street.
He wondered what this tiny boatman would do next, but Stuart never hesitated.
Taking a piece of thread from his pocket, he lashed the paddles to the thwarts,
swung the canoe lightly up on his head, and walked off with it as calmly as though
he were a Canadian guide. He was very proud of his ability with boats and he
liked to show off.

XIV. An Evening on the
River

When Stuart arrived at his
camp site by the river, he was tired and hot. He put the canoe in the water and
was sorry to see that it leaked badly. The birch bark at the stern was held
together by a lacing, and the water came in through the seam. In a very few
seconds the canoe was half full of water.

“Darn it!” said Stuart, “I’ve
been swindled.” He had paid seventy-six cents for a genuine Indian birchbark
canoe, only to find that it leaked.

“Darn, darn, darn,” he
muttered.

Then he bailed out his canoe
and hauled it up on the beach for repairs. He knew he couldn’t take Harriet out
in a leaky boat—she wouldn’t like it. Tired though he was, he climbed a spruce
tree and found some spruce gum. With this he plugged the seam and stopped the
leak. Even so, the canoe turned out to be a cranky little craft.

If Stuart had not had plenty
of experience on the water, he would have got into serious trouble with it. It was
a tippy boat even for a souvenir. Stuart carried stones from the beach down to
the water’s edge and ballasted the canoe with the stones until it floated evenly
and steadily. He made a back-rest so that Harriet would be able to lean back
and trail her fingers in the water if she wished. He also made a pillow by
tying one of his clean handkerchiefs around some moss. Then he went for a paddle
to practise his stroke. He was angry that he didn’t have anything better than a
paper spoon for a paddle, but he decided that there was nothing he could do
about it. He wondered whether Harriet would notice that his paddle was really
just an ice cream spoon.

All that afternoon Stuart
worked on the canoe, adjusting ballast, filling seams, and getting everything
shipshape for the morrow. He could think of nothing else but his date with
Harriet. At suppertime he took his ax, felled a dandelion, opened a can of
deviled ham, and had a light supper of ham and dandelion milk. After supper, he
propped himself up against a fern, bit off some spruce gum for a chew, and lay
there on the bank dreaming and chewing gum. In his imagination he went over
every detail of tomorrow’s trip with Harriet. With his eyes shut he seemed to
see the whole occasion plainly—how she would look when she came down the path
to the water, how calm and peaceful the river was going to be in the twilight,
how graceful the canoe would seem, drawn up on the shore. In imagination he
lived every minute of their evening together.