I Know a Secret/Chapter 8

by Christopher Darlington Morley

The Unamiable Child

BUDGET, the teddy bear, had been left out in the rain; and you know how wet a large, fat, fleecy, stomachy bear can get. So he was pinned up on the clothes line to dry. The easiest way to fasten a teddy bear to a clothes line is to pin him by his ears. So there he hung, with the forked pegs tightly pinched on his two tender flaps of ear. He was surprisingly patient. His yellow glass eyes looked a bit wild, and his mouth, sewn in black wool, drooped in a mournful curve, and the palms of his muddy paws hung soggy, but for a long while he was silent. Then he could endure it no more, and the animals in the Grape Arbor Tea Room heard him utter a scream of bad temper.

"You make me sad! You make me terribly sad!" he yelled (it was a phrase he had caught from four-year-old Blythe). "I hope you'll all go to Bide-a-Wee! You sit there telling stories, and I'm pinned up by my ears and can't hear a word!"

The animals gazed in astonishment. They had been so busy enjoying their tea and talk it had never occurred to them that Budget might like to hear what was going on. They had never taken Budget very seriously, or regarded him as a real animal. Now they gathered under the clothes line and looked up in concern.

Budget, after suffering so long in silence, was in a fierce tantrum. He hung there trembling with rage. He had caught a cold from getting so wet, the kind of cold that is always referred to as "nasty," and that also added to his irritation. Now he kept shouting out all the rude words he could remember from listening to croquet games. He shouted very loud, too; louder than he realized, for with his ears pinned up he could not hear himself.

"Dumb-bells!" he screamed. "Big simps! Boobs! Poor fish! Haven't you any manners for other people's feelings? My gracious! You just sit there and have a good time and never think about me. Roughnecks! You better go to Bide-a-Wee, bettn't you!"

They were all scandalized by this outburst. Donny and Fritz tried to jump up to reach his feet, but the line had been put high on purpose. It was the squirrels who saved the day. Two of them ran out on the rope, one from each end. With their clever little paws they unfastened the clothes-pins from his ears. He dropped onto Donny's broad back, and they carried him over to the grape arbor and propped him in a comfortable chair. A cup of hot cambric tea made him feel better, though his ears were still sore. It was agreed that as he had been so ill treated, a story should be told for his special benefit.

"What kind of story would you like?" asked Escargot, the wise snail who always acted as host at these meetings.

"A story in which children get the worst of it," he said peevishly. "I shall never forget their carelessness in leaving me out in the rain. I do think, after all I've done for them, they might be more thoughtful. Four children have used me to go to bed with, one after the other, all these years. Every night of my life, as soon as they're comfortably asleep, I get crowded out of bed. I'm all bruises from falling on the floor. I hope they'll get punished some day. I hope—gosh, I hope they'll all grow up and marry people who kick in their sleep. Yes, tell me a story in which children get the worst of it."

The animals looked at each other in some embarrassment. They could think of a number of stories of that sort, but it is dangerous to repeat them. For they had all been carefully trained to idealize children, to say of them "they are just little animals." But they knew well enough that children are powerful and uncertain, and that no animal is as full of dangerous energy as a child.

The big gray squirrel who had unpinned Budget's left ear volunteered to tell the story. Squirrels are reckless, because they are so agile and live safely in trees. This one took up a comfortable position on top of the grape arbor, shifted the nuts out of his mouth, and looked sharply round to make sure that no outsiders could overhear.

 

This isn't really a Roslyn Fairy Tale, he said. It happened in the city. Nothing so scandalous could happen out here. My cousin told it to me, he is one of the squirrels in Riverside Park.

There was once a very small boy called Philip who used to go walking in the park with his nurse. And like all proper boys, he always took along a bag of peanuts to feed the squirrels.

I think that in the beginning the trouble was more the nurse's fault than Philip's. Her father had been in the circus business and perhaps for that reason she had a strong passion for peanuts. As they walked along the streets on the way to Riverside Drive she could not resist eating them, and just to be fair she allowed Philip to have some too. The five-cent bag of peanuts, as every squirrel knows, does not hold nearly as many as it used to in the good old days; and sometimes by the time they got to the park there were hardly any nuts left for the squirrels.

That, of course, was regrettable; but it could be forgiven. Any squirrel can understand other people too having a weakness for peanuts. What was really unfair was that Philip learned that the squirrels were easily fooled by empty shells. It was quite easy to hold out the end of a shell in such a way that it looked like an unopened nut. The hopeful animals would come scampering and this mischievous boy would lure them on until they even climbed up his legs and clustered about his hands. Then they would discover it was only a trick. They would look at him reproachfully with their bright eyes, and he would shout with laughter at their disappointment.

If his nurse had been the right sort, she would soon have taught him not to do this sort of thing. She might have reminded Philip, my cousin said, that in Riverside Park there is the famous little memorial of the Amiable Child, which so many visitors to New York have seen. This very small tomb of a peaceful child, right next to the huge tomb of a very warlike man, General Grant, should have suggested to her that the Riverside children ought all to be Amiable. But she was sitting on a bench reading one of those small newspapers that are so popular in the park. My cousin used to wonder what there can be in those papers that is so nourishing? Evidently they have the same attraction for nurse-maids that peanuts have for squirrels. Anyhow, this

The hopeful animals would come scampering

shabby behaviour of Philip's went on until all the squirrels knew him by sight. Then he could not hoax them any more. When they saw him holding out peanut shells and calling to them, they paid no attention.

All this did not matter much in summer, when peanuts are plentiful. In summer the city squirrels get probably more nuts than are good for them. That little groaning you sometimes hear in the trees along Riverside Drive at night comes from some young squirrels with stomach-ache, due to an excess of rich diet. But winter came, when peanuts mean much to the New York squirrels, For they have been so spoiled by having food scattered about for them, my cousin says, that they have lost their thrifty habit of storing up a supply for the barren season. And then, when Philip and his nurse still continued to eat most of the peanuts before they got to the park, and still amused themselves by offering the empty husks, it was determined to do something.

The boy and his companion did not notice, as they walked home one snowy dusk, that two watchful gray squirrels were following. Up the steep hill from the Drive, hiding now and then behind the piles of snow along the curb, hurrying into doorways to avoid being seen, darting briskly across streets when the traffic was halted, these two trailed Philip and the nurse. In their handsome gray fur they looked like two small busy postmen delivering letters. In that December season the streets are full of all sorts of cheerful doings and even if the two squirrels were noticed they were merely supposed to be hurrying on Christmas errands. Their sharp little faces were full of purpose, and they followed the unsuspecting pair until they reached the big apartment house on West End Avenue where Philip lived. Even then their task was not finished. They ran up to the top of a tree in front of the building. Swaying about in the bare branches and arguing briskly together, they waited along time. They kept careful watch on all the windows of the apartment house. Then they saw Philip's face appear at one of those windows. He saw them too, and was pleased, for he thought that here were two squirrels who had not yet been fooled. He threw down some empty peanut shells that had remained in his overcoat pocket. The squirrels disregarded this unmannerly gesture, and hurried back to the park.

 

A few days later it was Christmas Eve. It seemed to Philip that an afternoon had never gone so slowly. Along Broadway the shops were bright with toys and pretty things; as he walked with his nurse he wondered impatiently what surprises he was going to get the next day. He had heard the papery rustle of wrappings in his mother's room, the constant buzz of the doorbell as mysterious bundles were delivered at the apartment. He had no brothers and sisters, so he had no one's pleasure to consider but his own. The nurse kept him out late so that he would be sleepy, and then after a light supper he was put to bed. When he was sound asleep his father and mother began setting up the Tree.

Meanwhile, down in Riverside Park, a remarkable thing was happening. From every corner of the grounds squirrels were assembling at the appointed meeting place—the little rocky hill near 84th Street which is where they hold their parliament. It was an extraordinary gathering. The biggest, strongest, most active squirrels had been chosen. There must have been nearly a hundred of them, they covered the outcrop of rock and all chattered together. On any other evening such a crowd would have been noticed, but on Christmas Eve everyone was busy with his own concerns. Windows hung with wreaths shone in the tall cliffs of building along the Drive, the busses were full of people carrying parcels wrapped in red ribbon, the sky was clear and dark and frosty, all the gaiety of that ten© der evening sparkled in the air.

The two squirrels who knew the way acted as leaders. At their command all conversation ceased; with well-drilled swiftness the furry regiment set off in column of twos. Their plumy tails flirted with nervous excitement as they advanced, in short quick scampers, along the wall that bounds the Drive. The policeman at the crossing was startled when they approached, but he knew that on Christmas Eve you must not be surprised at anything. He saluted them, and held up the busses while they crossed in an orderly rush. They ran swiftly up to West End Avenue. There, in front of the apartment house, they paused in a long line while the leaders pointed out Philip's window. It was open, as healthy bedroom windows ought to be at night. There was a sharp squeak of command, and the army of squirrels charged upon the tall building.

No one but squirrels could have done it! My cousin, who was one of them, says it was a thrilling sight. Some scuttled up the trees and sprang from there onto window sills; others scaled straight up the front of the wall. They darted in quick zigzags up the face of the cliff, their strong toes took advantage of every little ornament and roughness in the stone. The sills were slippery and required careful going, but these were the picked athletes of all the Riverside squirrels, and they were lean and agile with winter hunger. Before you could have guessed what was happening the whole pack had swarmed up to the twelfth floor and entered through Philip's window.

There lay the Unamiable Child, fast asleep; and there in the next room was the beautiful Christmas Tree. Parents and nurse had trimmed it well and gone to bed exhausted. From every fragrant bough hung tinsel ornaments, peppermint canes, cornucopias, coloured bulbs, popcorn strings, shining trinkets. It is sad to have to tell it, but the angry squirrels made short work of that Tree. The Star at the top they did not touch, for squirrels respect the Christmas Star as much as anyone; and the glass and tinsel decorations didn't interest them; but everything else they raided to their hearts' content. They stripped the tree of everything eatable, they hung the popcom strings out of the window to make a rope by which they could get down again. Imagine their pleasure when they found a large box of peanut brittle underneath the tree. Among so many sharp teeth it did not last long. They did not care much for the sweet part, but they carefully ate out every peanut imbedded in the candy and left the box a mass of sticky crumbs.

They worked quietly and fast. If anyone heard the rustle of their movements he would have thought it only the secret wrapping of packages. They did not bother the presents piled beside the Tree, for they did not want to spoil Philip's Christmas altogether, merely to give him a hint. Then each squirrel hooked a tiny peppermint cane around his neck. They gave a satisfied look at the devastated tree, then they were out of the window and ran nimbly down the long chains of pink and white popcorn.

There was a silence when the squirrel finished this story. The animals looked at each other rather doubtfully. Only the indignant Budget, still remembering his woes, seemed entirely pleased.

"That's fine, that's fine!" he exclaimed. "An excellent story. I think they let him off very easily. He ought to have been hung up by his ears. That story ought to be printed where people could read it."

But Donny was shocked. "Rubbish!" he growled. "It's a terrible story. It could never be published."

The squirrel twitched his tail anxiously as he looked down on his troubled audience. "I don't know whether it's part of the story or not," he said, "but my cousin added that the squirrels ate the peppermint canes for Christmas dinner, and felt very poorly afterward."

It was left to Escargot, the French snail, who was always tactful, to turn their thoughts into a happier mood.

"The French word for peanuts," he said solemnly, "is cacahuètes. Very few Americans know that."

They all burst into a laugh. Cacawate, cacawate! they shouted, imitating—his delicate pronunciation. And the big gray squirrel is nicknamed Cacahuète to this day.