It's Tuesday.

I am going to read another book in my list, Rabbit Hill.

Chapter 01: New Folks Coming   

ALL THE Hill was boiling with excitement. On every side there rose a continual chattering and squeaking, whispering and whistling, as the Animals discussed the great news. Through it all could be heard again and again the words, "New Folks coming." Little Georgie came tumbling down the Rabbit burrow, panting out the tiding. "New folks coming" he shouted. "New Folks coming, Mother- Father, new Folks coming into the Big House!" Mother looked up from the very thin soup that she was stirring. "Well; it's high time there were new Folks in the big House, high time, and I do hope they're planting Folks, not shiftless like the last ones. Three years now since there's been a good garden on this piece. Never enough to put any- thing up for the winters and last winter the worst in years. I don’t know how we ever got through it and I don’t know how we’ll ever make out if they're not planting Folks, I just don’t know, with food getting scarcer all the time and no place to get a vegetable except the Fat-Man's-at-the-Crossroads and him with his Dogs and all, and crossing the Black Roads twice a day to get there. I just don't know; I just don't know-" Mother was quite a worrier. "Now, my dear," said Father, "do try to adopt a more optimistic attitude. This news of Georgie’s may promise the approach of a more felicitous and bountiful era. Perhaps it would be well if I were to indulge in a short stroll about the neighborhood and seek confirmation of this most auspicious  rumor,"  Father was a Southern Gentleman and  always talked like that. As he picked his way through the long neglected garden the big brick house loomed up dark and lonely in the twilight. It looked very gloomy, no lights in the windows, no Folks about. The roof shingles were curled and rotting blinds hung crookedly. In the walks and driveway tall, dried weeds rattled and scraped whenever a breeze stirred. Now that all the earth was stirring with spring it seemed even more depressing. There had been a time, he remembered it wistfully, when things had been quite different here on the Hill. The lawns then had been thick carpets of delicious grass, the fields heavy with clover. Garden vegetables had been plentiful; he and Mother and all their numerous offspring had lived well, all the Little Animals had lived well. There had been good Folks there in those days, children too, who had played tag with them evenings, who had squealed with delight when mother Skunks, their little ones strung out behind in solemn Indian file, had paraded across the lawn. There had been a Dog, a lady Spaniel, old and fat, who carried on endless noisy arguments with the Woodchucks, but had never been known to harm anyone. In fact she had once found a lost Fox cub and nursed it and raised it with her own puppies. Let's see, that cub would be Foxy's uncle, or was it his father? He couldn't remember; it seemed so long ago. Then evil days had fallen upon the Hill. The good Folks had moved away and their successors had been mean, shiftless, inconsiderate. Sumac, bayberry, and poison ivy had taken over the fields, the lawns had gone to crab grass and weeds, and there was no garden. Last autumn even they had gone, leaving the empty house with its desolate black windows and its shutters flapping through the winter storms. He passed the tool-house where in the old days bags of seed and chicken feed had always rewarded the hungry field mice. It had been empty for years; every grain of food had been searched out during the cold, hard winters. None of the Animals ever went there any more. Porkey the Woodchuck was on the side lawn, hungrily snatching at the straggly patches of grass. His fur looked moth-eaten and he was quite thin - a very different animal from the fat, waddling Porkey who last fall had squeezed himself down his borrow to sleep away the winter. Now he was trying to make up for lost time. After each mouthful he would raise his head, look all around and grumble, then snatch another mouthful. It made his grumbling come in short bursts. "Look at this lawn," he growled, “just look at it-gulp-gulp-not a leaf of clover in it, nothing but crab grass and chickweed - gulp-gulp- time new Folks was coming- gulp-gulp - high time - " He paused and sat up as Father courteously greeted him. "Good evening, Porkey, good evening. It is indeed a pleasure to see you about again. I trust you passed a comfortable winter and that this pleasant spring evening finds you in the best of health." "Dunno," grumbled Porkey. "Health's all right, I guess, but I'm thin as all get out and how in tarnation's a fellow going to put any fat on his ribs with this stuff?" He waved disgustedly at the weed-choked fields, the patchy lawn. "Them last Folks were slops, that's what they were, slops. Never done nothing, never planted nothing, never took care of nothing, let everything run down. Time they were gone, good riddance, I say, time there was new Folks coming, high time." "That is precisely the subject on which I wished to consult you," said Father. "I have heard certain talk concerning the possibility of new arrivals and wondered if you had any definite knowledge of the facts of the case. Is there any clear proof of this most desirable addition to our neighborhood, or is it mere hearsay?" "Hearsay, hearsay?" said Porkey a little doubtfully. He scratched his ear and spat thoughtfully. "Well now, I'll tell you. I hear say as how that real-estate fellow was up to the house two-three days ago with a couple of people, going all around inside and outside. I hear say as Bill Hickey, the carpenter fellow, was up here yesterday a-poking at the roof and at the tool-house and the chicken house and figgerin' figgers on a bit of paper. I hear say as Louie Kernstawk, the mason, was up here today kicking and poking around them old stone walls and them tumble-down steps and figgerin figgers too. And I hear say this, and this is important." He hitched himself closer and banged the ground with his paw. "This is real important. I hear say as Tim McGrath - you know, the fellow in the cottage: down to the fork, does plowing and planting and such - I hear say as he was up here this afternoon looking over the old garden and the lawn and the North Field here, and he was figgerin' figgers too. Now what do you think of that?" "I think," said Father, "that it all sounds extremely auspicious. There seems no doubt that new Folks are coming, and all signs seem to indicate that they are planting Folk. We could well do with some good planting Folk hereabout. A nice field of bluegrass now- " Father had come from Kentucky many years ago, and his talk of the bluegrass had become just a trifle tiresome. "'Twon't grow good here," Porkey interrupted, "'twon't grow good here in Connecticut at all. Myself I could do with a good field of clover and timothy, though, I could do fine. Timothy and clover and maybe some decent lawn grass - and a garden." His eyes grew watery at the thought. "Some beet tops, now, and maybe some green peas and a mouthful of verbena to top off with -- " He suddenly went back to his frantic tearing at the sparse grass patches.      Father continued his stroll in a happier frame of mind. After all, times had been pretty hard these last few years. Many of their friends had deserted the Hill; all their married children had sought other homes; Mother really was looking peaked and seemed to worry more and more. New Folks in the house might bring back the good old days- "Good evening, sir, and good luck to you," said the Gray Fox politely. "New Folks coming, I understand." "A pleasant good evening to you, sir," answered Father. "All indications seem to point to that happy event." "I must thank you," the Fox went on, "for taking those Dogs off my trail yesterday morning. I wasn't in very good condition to deal with them. You see, I had been away up Weston way to bring home a hen-pickings are pretty scarce hereabouts these days. Eight miles it is, there and back, and she was a tough old girl. She was sitting pretty heavy and I was tuckered out when those Dogs jumped me. You handled them very skillful, very, and I am obliged to you." "Not at all, my boy, not at all. Pray don't mention it," said Father. "I always enjoy a run to hounds. Brought up on it, you know. Why down in the Bluegrass Country." "Yes, I know," said the Fox hastily. "What did you do with them?" "Oh, just took them on a Little romp down the Valley, through a few briar patches, ended them up on that electric fence of Jim Coley's. Stupid brutes, though. Hardly could call it sport, very low class. Now down in the Bluegrass Country the hounds were real thoroughbreds. Why, I can remember." "Yes, I know," said the Fox, melting into the hushes. "Thanks just the same, though." The Gray Squirrel was digging around rather hopelessly. He never could quite remember where he'd buried his nuts, and there had been very few to bury last autumn anyway. "Good evening, sir, and good luck to you," said Father. 'The good luck, however, seems to be what you most require." He smiled as he eyed the futile diggings. "Your memory, old fellow, if you’ll forgive my saying so, is not what it used to be." "It never was," sighed the Squirrel. "Never could recollect where I put things." He paused to rest and looked out over the valley. "I can recollect other things, though, real dear. Do you remember the old days when things were good here on the Hill, when there was good Folks here? Mind the tree the young ones always used to fix for us, come Christmas? That spruce over there it was, only smaller then. Little lights onto it, carrots and cabbage leaves and celery for your folks, seed and suet for the birds (used to dip into them a bit myself), nuts, all kinds of nuts for us - and all hung pretty-like on the branches?" "Indeed I do," said Father. 'The memory of those times is deeply cherished by all of us, I am sure. Let us hope that the anticipated arrival of new Folks may, in some degree, bring about a renaissance: of the old and pleasanter days." "New Folks coming?'' inquired the Squirrel quickly. "It is so rumored, and recent developments seem to indicate such a possibility." "Good," said the Squirrel, resuming his explorations with more energy. " Hadn't heard of it-been too busy scrabbling around. I've got the most forgetful memory-" Willie Field mouse galloped along to the end of the mole ridge and whistled shrilly. "Mole," he shouted, "Mole, come up. News, Mole, news!" Mole heaved head and shoulders up out of the earth and turned his blind face toward Willie, pointed snout quiver- "Well, Willie, well," he said, "what's all the excitement? What news is news?"      "News enough," Willie cried breathlessly. "Oh, Mole, what news! Everybody's talking about it. New Folks coming Mole, NEW FOLKS COMING! In the Big House, new Folks ... Everybody says they're planting Folks, Mole, and maybe there'll be seeds again in the tool-house, seeds and chicken feed. And it'll fall through the cracks and we'll have all we can eat all winter, just like in summer...and there'll be heat in the cellar and we can build burrows right against the walls and be warm and snug again. And maybe they'll plant tulips, Mole, and scillas and chionodoxas. Oh, what wouldn't I give for a nice crisp tulip bulb right now!" "Oh, that old bulb game." The Mole chuckled. "I know. I do all the digging and you follow up the burrow and eat the bulbs. That's fine for you, but what do I get out of it? Nothing but the blame, that's all I get." "Why, Mole," said Willie, very hurt. "Why, Mole, that's unfair of you, it really is. You know what pals we've always been, always share and share alike. Why, Mole, I'm surprised-" He was snuffling slightly. The Mole laughed and clapped Willie on the back with his broad, leathery paw. "Come, come" -he laughed- "don't be so everlastingly sensitive. I was only joking. Why, how could I get along without you, how could I know what was going on? How could I see things? What do I say when I want to see anything?" Willie wiped away his snuffles. "You say, "Willie, be eyes for me. "Of course I do," said the Mole heartily. "I say, 'Willie, be eyes for me,' and you are eyes for me. You tell me just how things look and the size of'em and the colors of’em. You tell it real good too. Nobody could tell it better." Willie had lost his hurt now. "And I do tell you when mole traps have been set, don't I, or poison put out, and when they're going to roll the lawn, though nobody's rolled this lawn in a long time?" "Of course you do." The Mole laughed. "Of course you do. Now blow your nose and run along. I've got my dinner to get, and grubs are scarce around here nowadays." He ducked back into his run, and Willie watched the ridge lengthen slowly down the lawn. the end of it heaving and quivering with the Mole’s digging. He scampered down and rapped on the ground.. "Mole," he cried. "I'll be eyes for you when they come. I'll tell you real good." "Of course you will." Mole's voice was muffled by the earth. "Of course you will -- and I wouldn't be surprised if there was tulips."      Phewie the Skunk stood up by the edge of the pine wood, looking down at the Big House. There was a slight rustle and the Red Buck appeared beside him. "Good evening, sir, and good luck to you," said Phewie. "New Folks coming." "So I understand," said the Deer. " So I understand, and high time too, not that it matters to me especially. I roam a lot. But things have been poorly here on the Hill for some of the little fellows, very poorly. "Yes, you roam," Phewie answered, "but you're not above a mess of garden sass now and then, are you?"      "Well, no, not if it's right to hand," the Buck admitted. He sniffed slightly. "I say, Phewie, you wouldn't mind moving over a bit, would you, a little to the leeward? There, that's fine. Thanks lots. As I was saying, I'm fairly fond of a mess of greens now and then, a row of lettuce, say, or some  young cabbage, very young - the old ones give me indigestion-but of course what I really crave is tomatoes-are tomatoes. You take a nice young ripe tomato, now." "You take it," interrupted Phewie. "Personally myself I don't care whether they're planting Folks or not, except for the rest of you, of course. Gardens are nothing in my life. What I'm looking forward to is their garbage." "You do have such low tastes, Phewie," said the Buck. "Er - by the way, the breeze seems to have shifted -would you mind? There, that's fine, thanks. As I was saying." "Low taste nothing," answered Phewie indignantly. "You just don't understand garbage. Now there's garbage and garbage, just like there's Folks and Folks. Some Folks' gabage just ain't fit for--well, it ain't even fitten for garbage. But there's other garbage; now, you couldn't ask for anything nicer." "I could," said the Deer firmly, "much nicer. By the way, just to change the subject, Foxy's rather counting on there being chickens, perhaps ducks, even. That ought to interest you." "Chickens is all right-young ones," admitted Phewie, "and ducks is all right. But to get back to garbidge." "Oh dear," the buck groaned, "the wind's changed again." And he backed into the woods.        Deep down in the cold ground, where some frost still lingered, the old Grandfather of all the Cutworms uncoiled his dirty gray length and stretched his stiff joints. His voice was a hissing whisper, but it served to waken from their winter sleep all the thousands of his offspring. "New Folks coming," he hissed. "New Folks coming." Through all the sluggish mass the sound spread. Slowly a quiver ran through their ugly forms, slowly they uncoiled and began the long climb up through the clammy earth to be ready at the surface when the tender new plants should appear. So it went on all over the Hill. Through the bushes and the tall, unkempt grass there was a continual stirring and rustling as the Little Animals rushed about, gossiping and speculating on the great event. The Squirrels and Chipmunks skittered along the stone walls, barking out the news. In the dark Pine Wood the Owl, the Crow, and the Blue jays argued over it loudly. Down in the burrows there was a ceaseless coming and going of visitors and above it all the ever recurring phrase, NEW FOLKS COMING.