The moonlight piece was his favorite, his particular favorite, for it was slow and thoughtful, moving along at a quiet dreamy pace like the moon gently drifting through the branches of trees, throwing one shadow after another.
As Mr. Mendelson listened to it, a tear rolled down each side of his nose. He thought to himself, “I shall never see the moon again. The nights will always be dark from now on.”
But then—all of a sudden—he noticed that the tears rolling down his nose each had a silvery dot of moon reflected in them. And when he raised his head, there was the moon itself, just climbing out of a hawthorn bush.
“Bertha! Gertrude!” he shouted. “Look! Look! The moon has come back! Your music must have put it together again!”
All three of them sat gazing in silent amazement as the moon disentangled itself from the bush and moved up into the sky.
Then the Old Lord said, “Well, well, it’s my bedtime. And it’s your bedtime too, Mr. Mendelson. I brought your blanket tonight. Winter’s just around the corner.”
And he buckled a warm tartan blanket around the old pony’s barrel-stomach, before rolling himself away in his wheelchair.
“What did he mean, winter is just around the corner?” said Gertrude.
“Maybe he meant, just around the cornfield,” suggested Bertha.
“Well anyway,” said Mr. Mendelson, “now we know for certain what the moon is made of. The moon is made of ice cream. And at least we know, too, that if Dan Sligo should steal it again, you can always get it back with your music.”
So that night Mr. Mendelson slept soundly in his blanket, without a single dream. And the mice slept soundly in their mouse hole, which was warmly lined with combings from Mr. Mendelson’s thick coat.
Overhead, the moon drifted through the sky, and what it was made of, who can say?
The Fiery Christmas Trees
ONE AUTUMN DAY THERE WAS a lot of unusual activity in Midnight Park. At the north end of the park, which was farthest from the town, dozens of men were digging hundreds of holes. The Old Lord, who lived in a stable since his house had burned down, went to watch them, rolling himself over the grass in his wheelchair.
Mr. Mendelson, the old Orkney pony, was being given his daily brush-down by the two field mice, Bertha and Gertrude.
“Look at those great wagons coming into the park,” said Gertrude, disentangling a knot in Mr. Mendelson’s mane.
“Look at the size of the horses pulling them!” said Bertha. “They make Mr. Mendelson look like a foal.” Mr. Mendelson walked up to the north end of the park to see what was happening, while his two friends busily went on with their work.
Out of the wagons, which were drawn by huge Shire horses, the men were unloading many, many little fir trees, and these were carefully planted in the holes which had already been dug for them.
At last every tree was in place, the tools were loaded back into the wagons, the drivers cracked their whips, and the great horses broke into a slow trot. Soon everybody was gone, except for Mr. Mendelson, thoughtfully blowing air down his long nose, and the two mice, and the Old Lord, who sat in his wheelchair looking round him at all the little trees.
“Well, Mr. Mendelson,” said the Old Lord. “One day this will be a forest of trees as tall as the stable clock tower. I shan’t be here to see it,” he said, sighing, “and you won’t see it, Mr. Mendelson, for trees take a long time to grow—but young Sam will see it.”
Young Sam was the Old Lord’s grandson, who was away at school.
“Young Sam will be home before that, though,” the Old Lord went on kindly, noticing that Mr. Mendelson looked rather sad at the mention of his name. “Yes, he’ll be home in a couple of months to give you your Christmas apple. And he’ll have a Christmas tree too. But not one of these. No, no—these trees will be allowed to grow tall; perhaps they will be the masts of ships in fifty years’ time, Mr. Mendelson.”
And the Old Lord, having satisfied himself that all his little trees were safely settled, rolled away in his wheelchair, back to the stables.
“What are Christmas trees?” Mr. Mendelson asked the mice, who had finished his coat by now and were brushing his furry ears.
“We’ve told you about Christmas trees dozens of times,” said Bertha severely.
“So tell me again! Oy, my! I find it hard to remember things, now I’m so old,” sighed Mr. Mendelson.
Really he just liked hearing about Christmas trees.
“Young Sam has a Christmas tree every year. So do all the children in the town. The trees are covered with gold and silver, and with red and blue and green fruits.”
“And nuts,” put in Gertrude.
“And nuts of course, and raisins and oranges and colored flowers.”
“That I should like to see,” said Mr. Mendelson.
“Why don’t they do it to all the trees in the park?”
“It only happens to trees inside houses,” said Gertrude.
“That’s not true, excuse me,” said Bertha. “Sometimes the big tree in the town square is all covered with shining things at Christmas.”
“Well, anyway, it never happens to trees in this park,” said Gertrude.
A week or so after the trees were planted, a surprising thing did happen in the park, however. The two mice were playing their evening music to Mr. Mendelson on his piano when, over at the south end, near the town, a whole fountain of wonderful sparkling lights suddenly shot up into the black night sky.
“Oy! May the wind blow me away!” exclaimed Mr. Mendelson. “Bertha! Gertrude! Look at the sky! Did you ever see such a sight?”
For once, the mice stopped playing their beautiful tunes on Mr. Mendelson’s piano and watched with their mouths wide open as more and more lines and circles and clusters and cascades of lights climbed up into the sky. Some of the lights were like flowers, and some were like birds or ships flying through the air. Gertrude and Bertha leapt from the piano on to Mr. Mendelson’s back, and he trotted down to the south end of the park so that they could watch what was happening from near at hand.
“Tchkk! Tchkk!” said Bertha. “One thing you can be sure of—there’s always something going on in this park.”
Near the south end of the park they found the Old Lord in his wheelchair.
“Come to watch the fireworks, Mr. Mendelson?” he said. “I wouldn’t go too close or a spark might singe your coat!”
So Mr. Mendelson stood still and watched a beautiful waterfall of yellow and silver sparks, which poured up into the air and then peeled back in curving lines, as if somebody were drawing pine trees on the sky with a gold pencil.
“I know what those are,” he said to the mice.
“Those are Christmas trees.”
“No, no, no!” said Bertha testily. “Those aren’t Christmas trees.”
“Christmas trees are completely different,” said Gertrude.
“But you said that Christmas trees were covered with gold and silver. And they are just the shape of trees.”
“Well they aren’t Christmas trees!”
“It’s no use trying to explain to him,” said Bertha.
“You’ll see a real Christmas tree some time, Mr. Mendelson, and then you’ll understand.”
“Don’t do me any favors!” said the old pony. “I’d rather have these beautiful gold trees up in the sky.”
He stood gazing and gazing upwards, while the mice, who always wanted to know how things were done, looked sharply about and noticed how children tied their fireworks to sticks and lit them, how they went up, and how the burnt-out cases and sticks fell back and thumped on the ground after the fireworks had burst in lights and colors up in the air.
At last the show was over and everybody went home to bed.
Now winter had come to the park. The birds were silent all day long, sitting huddled up in their feathers.
Sometimes snow fell. But Mr. Mendelson stayed warm in his thick blanket, which the Old Lord had strapped round his middle, and the two mice kept warm by scampering about, or by energetically playing Mr. Mendelson’s piano. At night they were snug in their nest, which was lined with fur from Mr. Mendelson’s thick shaggy coat. And although there was not much food in the park, sometimes the Old Lord rolled over in his wheelchair with a bundle of hay, or a handful of oats, which Mr. Mendelson shared with the mice.
Then, late one cold night, long after the mice had played their night music on Mr. Mendelson’s piano and gone to nest, they were suddenly woken again by Mr. Mendelson blowing down their mouse hole. “Oy, Bertha! Oy, Gertrude! Something bad is happening in the park!”
“Mr. Mendelson! Why are you waking us in the middle of the night? What’s the matter? Have you got a pain? Did your blanket fall off? Did you have a nightmare? Why are you blowing down our hole? It’s not morning yet!”
The two mice came scrambling out of their hole, rather crossly, for the air outside was very cold indeed. “Listen!” said Mr. Mendelson. He was very excited and upset. “Listen—Dan Sligo the gypsy has come into the park with some other men and a big cart drawn by two horses. I heard the horses whinny, so I went up to the north end of the park to see what they were doing.”
“And what are they doing?” yawned Gertrude. But Bertha looked very wide awake at once, for Dan Sligo was a notorious thief, who could steal somebody’s bed while they were asleep, and leave them with nothing but the pillowcase.
“They are stealing all the Old Lord’s little trees!
“They are digging them up and putting them in the cart. And I heard Dan Sligo say that he was going to sell them for Christmas trees.”
“But that’s very bad!” said Bertha. “The Old Lord wants them to grow into a forest. Those men ought to get their Christmas trees somewhere else.”
“But how are we going to stop them taking these ones?” said Mr. Mendelson.
“We could wake the Old Lord. If he weren’t so deaf.”
“But he is so deaf,” said Mr. Mendelson. “Already I neighed and whinnied and stamped outside his window and he didn’t wake.”
“If only he would wake,” said Gertrude thoughtfully, “he could shoot his blunderbuss at those men and frighten them away. How can we make a loud enough noise to scare those men?”
“I know!” said Bertha. “The fireworks. The fireworks made a lot of noise!”
“How do you mean, the fireworks, idiot?” said her sister, giving her a bite. “The fireworks were weeks ago.”
“Yes, but there are some left, don’t you remember? We found some that never got used, hidden in a hollow tree.”
“But you have to set light to them. How are you going to do that?”
This was a hard question. Both mice frowned and knitted their whiskers for some time, while Mr. Mendelson stood chewing a hank of grass. “We need fire,” said Gertrude.
“We haven’t got any,” said Bertha.
Mr. Mendelson chewed a bit more. Then he said, “The hedge cutters were burning all the hedge clippings in a big bonfire this afternoon.”
“So they were!” said Gertrude, giving his ear a loving tweak. “Good for you, Mr. Mendelson. Let’s go and see if there’s any fire left.”
So Mr. Mendelson carried the two mice to the big black patch near the hedge, where all afternoon a fire of brushwood and brambles and twigs had fiercely burned.
With great care the two mice poked and raked among the blackened ashes. At last Bertha shouted, “I’ve found a bit. I’ve found a twig which shines red when I blow on it!”
“Bring it here quickly, then,” said Mr. Mendelson.
So the two mice scurried up his tail, Bertha carrying the glowing twig, and Gertrude blowing on it to keep it bright.
“Mind you don’t singe Mr. Mendelson’s tail!”
“Can’t you see that I’m carrying it as far away as I can?”
Mr. Mendelson trotted as fast as he could to the hollow tree where, by mistake, some children had left a whole bag of unused fireworks. Bertha carefully slid the glowing twig underneath the paper bag.
“Now we’d better go away quickly,” she said. “We don’t want any of those fireworks to bump into us. Besides, we want to see if the noise frightens Dan Sligo.”
“Suppose the fireworks don’t light up?” said Mr. Mendelson.
“Let’s worry about one thing at a time!” So the mice ran back up Mr. Mendelson’s tail and he carried them towards where the new little trees had been planted.
Just as they were passing the stable, Whizz! Whoosh! Whumpf! Cracketa-cracket! Smack! Geshwoff! All the fireworks burst out of the tree together, and the tree, which was only an old hollow stump, went with them into the air. The sky was full of golden rain and about a hundred tremendously loud bangs exploded at the same moment. There was so much noise, indeed, that even the Old Lord woke up, and came rolling out of the stable in his wheelchair to see what was going on.
He found Mr. Mendelson just outside, looking at the sky in amazement, and the two mice on his back, huddling together with their paws over their ears.
“What are you doing, what in the name of goodness is happening?” said the Old Lord indignantly. “Do you have to fight the battle of Waterloo just outside my window?”
The sky was still full of exploding fireworks, and by their light, which colored the whole park bright yellow, the Old Lord saw the wagon and horses, and Dan Sligo, and the men with spades and hatchets, interrupted in their work of stealing the little Christmas trees.
“HEY! YOU!” shouted the Old Lord, in a voice like thunder. “You stop that—before I get out my blunderbuss and blow you all into bramble jelly!” The thieves were so terrified that they jumped into their wagon and drove off at a gallop, leaving their tools behind—not to mention the trees they had dug up.
Next day the Old Lord had all his trees carefully replanted in the holes from which they had been taken. All except for one. And that he had planted by Mr. Mendelson’s piano.
“There! That one’s for you, Mr. Mendelson,” said the Old Lord. “And for Bertha and Gertrude. That’s for saving my forest.”
Next month, when Christmas Day came, and young Sam was home from school, the little fir tree by the piano was decorated all over with gold and silver tinsel, and sugared apples and nuts and oranges and raisins. So that year Gertrude, Bertha, and Mr. Mendelson had a Christmas tree of their very own.
Looking After Rosa
JUST BEFORE HE WENT BACK to school for the autumn term, little Sam, who was the Old Lord’s grandson, came to say goodbye to Mr. Mendelson, the old Orkney pony who lived in Midnight Park. It was a fine, sunny September day; the starlings were chittering and gargling in the oak tree under which Mr. Mendelson kept his piano, and the two field mice, Bertha and Gertrude, were hard at work collecting little piles of acorns and beechnuts.
“I’ve come to ask a favor, Mr. Mendelson,” said little Sam, giving the old pony a hug. “While I’m away, would you very kindly keep an eye on Rosa for me? Otherwise she might feel a bit lonely. Grandfather says he’s too old to look after a bird.”
Rosa was a tumbler pigeon. She had been given to little Sam for his birthday six weeks ago, by Tim Lee, the blacksmith in the village, who bred pigeons in his spare time. Rosa was white, with pink eyes like spindleberries; she had a very fat chest and a very silly giggling coo. She giggled most of the time.
Tim Lee swore that she could fly a hundred miles an hour, but nobody had ever seen her go at even a quarter of that speed.
“Pigeons are not allowed at my school,” little Sam explained to Mr. Mendelson. “You won’t have to worry about feeding her, because she can fly into the stable loft through the hole where there’s a tile missing in the roof, and I’ve left a sack of grain there for her. So all you have to do is talk to her and keep an eye on her.
”
Mr. Mendelson was not very happy at being asked to keep an eye on Rosa.
Look after a pigeon?
How was he supposed to do that?
But while he was collecting his slow old wits to say: “Excuse me: I don’t think I know how to look after a pigeon,” little Sam gave him another hug and ran off to the wagonette which was waiting to take him to the station.
Mr. Mendelson stood thoughtfully staring after the wagonette as it rolled away, and Rosa sat on top of his head, cooing softly to herself. She was still there ten minutes later when Mr. Mendelson’s friends, Bertha and Gertrude, the field mice, arrived to give him his daily brush-down.
“Why is Rosa sitting on your head, Mr. Mendelson?” inquired Bertha briskly, combing the old pony’s mane with a teasel.
“Little Sam asked me to keep an eye on her,” Mr. Mendelson said doubtfully.
He could feel Rosa’s prickly toenails digging into his scalp, and he was rather dismayed at the thought of having them there for the next three months, until Sam came home for Christmas.
However just at that moment Rosa launched herself into the air, and flew up to the topmost twig of the oak tree, where she perched, bending down the twig into a hoop with her substantial weight.
“Oy—Rosa!” shouted Mr. Mendelson, very agitated.
“Don’t go so high! You might fall!”
“Vrrrrreroo!” giggled Rosa gaily in reply. “Ricketty coo!”
She sat swaying about on the thin twig, puffing out her white chest in the sunshine. And she showed no sign whatever of any intention to obey Mr. Mendelson.
“Am I glad that I don’t have to look after that nitwit!” muttered Bertha, brushing away at Mr. Mendelson’s mane. “I don’t believe she’s got so much as two ideas in her noddle. All she can do is coo.”
“Oh well, I daresay she can take care of herself,” said Gertrude, watching Rosa, who was now performing some complicated antics in the air up above them, pretending to fall, and then fluttering up at the last moment, just before she seemed bound to hit the ground. “She certainly knows some fancy ways of flying.”