Suddenly Stuart opened his eyes and sat up. He thought about the letter he had sent and he wondered whether it had ever been delivered. It was an unusually small letter, of course, and might have gone unnoticed in the letterbox. This idea filled him with fears and worries. But soon he let his thoughts return to the river, and as he lay there a whippoorwill began to sing on the opposite shore, darkness spread over the land, and Stuart dropped off to sleep.
The next day dawned cloudy. Stuart had to go up to the village to have the oil changed in his car, so he hid the canoe under some leaves, tied it firmly to a stone, and went off on his errand, still thinking about Harriet and wishing it were a nicer day. The sky looked rainy.
Stuart returned from the village with a headache, but he hoped that it would be better before five o'clock. He felt rather nervous, as he had never taken a girl canoeing before. He spent the afternoon lying around camp, trying on different shirts to see which looked best on him and combing his whiskers. He would no sooner get a clean shirt on than he would discover that it was wet under the arms, from nervous perspiration, and he would have to change it for a dry one. He put on a clean shirt at two o'clock, another at three o'clock, and another at quarter past four. This took up most of the afternoon. As five o'clock drew near, Stuart grew more and more nervous. He kept looking at his watch, glancing up the path, combing his hair, talking to himself, and fidgeting. The day had turned chilly and Stuart was almost sure that there was going to be rain. He couldn't imagine what he would do if it should rain just as Harriet Ames showed up to go canoeing.
At last five o'clock arrived. Stuart heard someone coming down the path. It was Harriet. She had accepted his invitation. Stuart threw himself down against a stump and tried to strike an easy attitude, as though he were accustomed to taking girls out. He waited till Harriet was within a few feet of him, then got up.
"Hello there," he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
"Are you Mr. Little?" asked Harriet.
"Yes," said Stuart. "It's nice of you to come."
"Well, it was very good of you to ask me," replied Harriet. She was wearing a white sweater, a tweed skirt, short white wool socks, and sneakers. Her hair was tied with a bright colored handkerchief, and Stuart noticed that she carried a box of peppermints in her hand.
"Not at all, glad to do it," said Stuart. "I only wish we had better weather. Looks rather sticky, don't you think?" Stuart was trying to make his voice sound as though he had an English accent.
Harriet looked at the sky and nodded. "Oh, well," she said, "if it rains, it rains."
"Sure," repeated Stuart, "if it rains, it rains. My canoe is a short distance up the shore. May I help you over the rough places in the path?" Stuart was a courteous mouse by nature, but Harriet said she didn't need any help. She was an active girl and not at all inclined to stumble or fall. Stuart led the way to where he had hidden the canoe, and Harriet followed, but when they reached the spot Stuart was horrified to discover that the canoe was not there. It had disappeared.
Stuart's heart sank. He felt like crying.
"The canoe is gone," he groaned.
Then he began racing wildly up and down the bank, looking everywhere. Harriet joined in the search, and after a while they found the canoe--but it was a mess. Some one had been playing with it. A long piece of heavy string was tied to one end. The ballast rocks were gone. The pillow was gone. The back rest was gone. The spruce gum had come out of the seam. Mud was all over everything, and one of the paddles was all bent and twisted. It was just a mess. It looked just the way a birchbark canoe looks after some big boys are finished playing with it.
Stuart was heartbroken. He did not know what to do. He sat down on a twig and buried his head in his hands. "Oh, gee," he kept saying, "oh, gee whiz."
"What's the trouble?" asked Harriet.
"Miss Ames," said Stuart in a trembling voice, "I assure you I had everything beautifully arranged--everything. And now look!"
Harriet was for fixing the canoe up and going out on the river anyway, but Stuart couldn't stand that idea.
"It's no use," he said bitterly, "it wouldn't be the same."
"The same as what?" asked Harriet.
"The same as the way it was going to be, when I was thinking about it yesterday. I'm afraid a woman can't understand these things. Look at that string! It's tied on so tight I could never get it off."
"Well," suggested Harriet, "couldn't we just let it hang over in the water and trail along after us?"
Stuart looked at her in despair. "Did you ever see an Indian paddling along some quiet unspoiled river with a great big piece of rope dragging astern?" he asked.
"We could pretend we were fishing," said Harriet, who didn't realize that some people are fussy about boats.
"I don't want to pretend I'm fishing," cried Stuart, desperately. "Besides, look at that mud! Look at it!" He was screaming now.
Harriet sat down on the twig beside Stuart. She offered him a peppermint but he shook his head.
"Well," she said, "it's starting to rain, and I guess I'd better be running along if you are not going to take me paddling in your canoe. I don't see why you have to sit here and sulk. Would you like to come up to my house? After dinner you could take me to the dance at the Country Club. It might cheer you up."
"No, thank you," replied Stuart. "I don't know how to dance. Besides, I plan to make an early start in the morning. I'll probably be on the road at daybreak."
"Are you going to sleep out in all this rain?" asked Harriet.
"Certainly," said Stuart. "I'll crawl in under the canoe."
Harriet shrugged her shoulders. "Well," she said, "good-by, Mr. Little."
"Good-by, Miss Ames," said Stuart. "I am sorry our evening on the river had to end like this."
"So am I," said Harriet. And she walked away along the wet path toward Tracy's Lane, leaving Stuart alone with his broken dreams and his damaged canoe.
XV. Heading North
STUART slept under the canoe that night. He awakened at four to find that the rain had stopped. The day would break clear. Already the birds were beginning to stir and make bright sounds in the branches overhead. Stuart never let a bird pass without looking to see if it was Margalo.
At the edge of the town he found a filling station and stopped to take on some gas.
"Five, please," said Stuart to the attendant.
The man looked at the tiny automobile in amazement.
"Five what?" he asked.
"Five drops," said Stuart. But the man shook his head and said that he couldn't sell such a small amount of gas.
"Why can't you?" demanded Stuart. "You need the money and I need the gas. Why can't we work something out between us?"
The filling station man went inside and came back with a medicine dropper. Stuart unscrewed the cap of the tank and the man put in five drops of gasoline. "I've never done anything like this before," he said.
"Better look at the oil, too," said Stuart.
After everything had been checked and the money had been paid, Stuart climbed in, started the engine, and drove out onto the highway. The sky was growing brighter, and along the river the mists of morning hung in the early light. The village was still asleep. Stuart's car purred along smoothly. Stuart felt refreshed and glad to be on the move again.
Half a mile out of town the road forked. One road seemed to go off toward the west, the other road continued north. Stuart drew up to the side of the northbound road and got out to look the situation over. To his surprise he discovered that there was a man sitting in the ditch, leaning against a signpost. The man wore spurs on his legs. He also wore a heavy leather belt, and Stuart realized that he must be a repairman for the telephone company.
"Good morning," said Stuart in a friendly voice. The repairman raised one hand to his head in a salute. Stuart sat down in the ditch beside him and breathed deeply of the fresh, sweet air. "It's going to be a fine day," he observed.
"Yes," agreed the re
pairman, "a fine day. I am looking forward to climbing my poles."
"I wish you fair skies and a tight grip," said Stuart. "By the way, do you ever see any birds at the tops of your poles?"
"Yes, I see birds in great numbers," replied the repairman.
"Well, if you ever run across a bird named Margalo," said Stuart, "I'd appreciate it if you would drop me a line. Here's my card."
"Describe the bird," said the repairman, taking out pad and pencil.
"Brown," said Stuart. "Brown, with a streak of yellow on her bosom."
"Know where she comes from?" asked the man.
"She comes from fields once tall with wheat, from pastures deep in fern and thistle; she comes from vales of meadowsweet, and she loves to whistle."
The repairman wrote it all down briefly. "Fields--wheat--pastures, fern & thistle. Vales, meadowsweet. Enjoys whistling." Then he put the pad back in his pocket, and tucked Stuart's card away in his wallet. "I'll keep my eyes open," he promised.
Stuart thanked him. They sat for a while in silence. Then the man spoke.
"Which direction are you headed?" he asked.
"North," said Stuart.
"North is nice," said the repairman. "I've always enjoyed going north. Of course, south-west is a fine direction, too."
"Yes, I suppose it is," said Stuart, thoughtfully.
"And there's east," continued the repairman. "I once had an interesting experience on an easterly course. Do you want me to tell you about it?"
"No, thanks," said Stuart.
The repairman seemed disappointed, but he kept right on talking. "There's something about north," he said, "something that sets it apart from all other directions. A person who is heading north is not making any mistake, in my opinion."
"That's the way I look at it," said Stuart. "I rather expect that from now on I shall be traveling north until the end of my days."
"Worse things than that could happen to a person," said the repairman.
"Yes, I know," answered Stuart.
"Following a broken telephone line north, I have come upon some wonderful places," continued the repairman. "Swamps where cedars grow and turtles wait on logs but not for anything in particular; fields bordered by crooked fences broken by years of standing still; orchards so old they have forgotten where the farmhouse is. In the north I have eaten my lunch in pastures rank with ferns and junipers, all under fair skies with a wind blowing. My business has taken me into spruce woods on winter nights where the snow lay deep and soft, a perfect place for a carnival of rabbits. I have sat at peace on the freight platforms of railroad junctions in the north, in the warm hours and with the warm smells. I know fresh lakes in the north, undisturbed except by fish and hawk and, of course, by the Telephone Company, which has to follow its nose. I know all these places well. They are a long way from here--don't forget that. And a person who is looking for something doesn't travel very fast."
"That's perfectly true," said Stuart. "Well, I guess I'd better be going. Thank you for your friendly remarks."
"Not at all," said the repairman. "I hope you find that bird."
Stuart rose from the ditch, climbed into his car, and started up the road that led toward the north. The sun was just coming up over the hills on his right. As he peered ahead into the great land that stretched before him, the way seemed long. But the sky was bright, and he somehow felt he was headed in the right direction.
Excerpt from Charlotte's Web
Read on for an excerpt from Charlotte's Web
I. Before Breakfast
WHERE'S Papa going with that ax?" said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.
"Out to the hoghouse," replied Mrs. Arable. "Some pigs were born last night."
"I don't see why he needs an ax," continued Fern, who was only eight.
"Well," said her mother, "one of the pigs is a runt. It's very small and weak, and it will never amount to anything. So your father has decided to do away with it."
"Do away with it?" shrieked Fern. "You mean kill it? Just because it's smaller than the others?"
Mrs. Arable put a pitcher of cream on the table. "Don't yell, Fern!" she said. "Your father is right. The pig would probably die anyway."
Fern pushed a chair out of the way and ran outdoors. The grass was wet and the earth smelled of springtime. Fern's sneakers were sopping by the time she caught up with her father.
"Please don't kill it!" she sobbed. "It's unfair."
Mr. Arable stopped walking.
"Fern," he said gently, "you will have to learn to control yourself."
"Control myself?" yelled Fern. "This is a matter of life and death, and you talk about controlling myself." Tears ran down her cheeks and she took hold of the ax and tried to pull it out of her father's hand.
"Fern," said Mr. Arable, "I know more about raising a litter of pigs than you do. A weakling makes trouble. Now run along!"
"But it's unfair," cried Fern. "The pig couldn't help being born small, could it? If I had been very small at birth, would you have killed me?"
Mr. Arable smiled. "Certainly not," he said, looking down at his daughter with love. "But this is different. A little girl is one thing, a little runty pig is another."
"I see no difference," replied Fern, still hanging on to the ax. "This is the most terrible case of injustice I ever heard of."
A queer look came over John Arable's face. He seemed almost ready to cry himself.
"All right," he said. "You go back to the house and I will bring the runt when I come in. I'll let you start it on a bottle, like a baby. Then you'll see what trouble a pig can be."
When Mr. Arable returned to the house half an hour later, he carried a carton under his arm. Fern was upstairs changing her sneakers. The kitchen table was set for breakfast, and the room smelled of coffee, bacon, damp plaster, and wood smoke from the stove.
"Put it on her chair!" said Mrs. Arable. Mr. Arable set the carton down at Fern's place. Then he walked to the sink and washed his hands and dried them on the roller towel.
Fern came slowly down the stairs. Her eyes were red from crying. As she approached her chair, the carton wobbled, and there was a scratching noise. Fern looked at her father. Then she lifted the lid of the carton. There, inside, looking up at her, was the newborn pig. It was a white one. The morning light shone through its ears, turning them pink.
"He's yours," said Mr. Arable. "Saved from an untimely death. And may the good Lord forgive me for this foolishness."
Fern couldn't take her eyes off the tiny pig. "Oh," she whispered. "Oh, look at him! He's absolutely perfect."
She closed the carton carefully. First she kissed her father, then she kissed her mother. Then she opened the lid again, lifted the pig out, and held it against her cheek. At this moment her brother Avery came into the room. Avery was ten. He was heavily armed--an air rifle in one hand, a wooden dagger in the other.
"What's that?" he demanded. "What's Fern got?"
"She's got a guest for breakfast," said Mrs. Arable. "Wash your hands and face, Avery!"
"Let's see it!" said Avery, setting his gun down. "You call that miserable thing a pig? That's a fine specimen of a pig--it's no bigger than a white rat."
"Wash up and eat your breakfast, Avery!" said his mother. "The school bus will be along in half an hour."
"Can I have a pig, too, Pop?" asked Avery.
"No, I only distribute pigs to early risers," said Mr. Arable. "Fern was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice. As a result, she now has a pig. A small one, to be sure, but nevertheless a pig. It just shows what can happen if a person gets out of bed promptly. Let's eat!"
But Fern couldn't eat until her pig had had a drink of milk. Mrs. Arable found a baby's nursing bottle and a rubber nipple. She poured warm milk into the bottle, fitted the nipple over the top, and handed it to Fern. "Give him his breakfast!" she said.
A minute later, Fern was seated on the floor in the corner of the kitchen with her infant be
tween her knees, teaching it to suck from the bottle. The pig, although tiny, had a good appetite and caught on quickly.
The school bus honked from the road.
"Run!" commanded Mrs. Arable, taking the pig from Fern and slipping a doughnut into her hand. Avery grabbed his gun and another doughnut.
The children ran out to the road and climbed into the bus. Fern took no notice of the others in the bus. She just sat and stared out of the window, thinking what a blissful world it was and how lucky she was to have entire charge of a pig. By the time the bus reached school, Fern had named her pet, selecting the most beautiful name she could think of.
"Its name is Wilbur," she whispered to herself.
She was still thinking about the pig when the teacher said: "Fern, what is the capital of Pennsylvania?"
"Wilbur," replied Fern, dreamily. The pupils giggled. Fern blushed.
Excerpt from The Trumpet of the Swan
Read on for an excerpt from The Trumpet of the Swan
CHAPTER 1
SAM
Walking back to camp through the swamp, Sam wondered whether to tell his father what he had seen.
"I know one thing," he said to himself. "I'm going back to that little pond again tomorrow. And I'd like to go alone. If I tell my father what I saw today, he will want to go with me. I'm not sure that's a very good idea."
Sam was eleven. His last name was Beaver. He was strong for his age and had black hair and dark eyes like an Indian. Sam walked like an Indian, too, putting one foot straight in front of the other and making very little noise. The swamp through which he was traveling was a wild place--there was no trail, and it was boggy underfoot, which made walking difficult. Every four or five minutes Sam took his compass out of his pocket and checked his course to make sure he was headed in a westerly direction. Canada is a big place. Much of it is wilderness. To get lost in the woods and swamps of western Canada would be a serious matter.