It's Thursday.

Chapter 03: Little Georgie Sings a Song

IT was barely daylight when Little Georgie started his journey. In spite of her worrying, Mother had managed to put up a small but nourishing lunch. This, along a letter to Uncle Analdas, was packed in a little knapsack and slung over his shoulder. Father went along as far as the Twin Bridges. As they stepped briskly down the Hill the whole valley was a lake of mist on which rounded treetops swam like floating islands. From old orchards rose a mounting chorus as the birds greeted the new day. Mothers chirped and chuckled and scolded as they swept and tidied the nests. On the topmost branches their menfolk warbled and shrilled and mocked one another. The houses were all asleep, even the Dogs of the Fat-Man-at-the-Crossroads were quiet, but the Little Animals were up and about. They met the Gray Fox returning from a night up Weston way. He looked footsore and sleepy, and a few chicken feathers still clung to his rug. The Red Buck trotted daintily across the Black Road to wish them good luck and good morning, but Father, for once, had no time for long social conversation. This was business, and no Rabbit in the county knew his business any better than Father- few as well. "Now, son," he said firmly, "your mother is in a very nervous state and you are not to add to her worries by taking unnecessary risks or by carelessness. No dawdling and no foolishness. Keep close to the road but well off it. Watch your bridges and your crossings. What do you do when you come to a bridge?" "I hide well," answered Georgie, "and wait a good long time. I look all around for Dogs. I look up the road for cars and down the road for cars. When everything's clear I run across --fast. I hide again and look around to be sure I've not been seen. Then I go on. The same thing for crossings. "Good," said Father. "Now recite your Dogs." Little Georgie closed his eyes and dutifully recited, "Fat-Man-at-the-Crossroads: two Mongrels; Good Hill Road: Dalmatian; house on Long Hill: Collie, noisy, no wind; Norfield Church comer: Police Dog, stupid, no nose; On the High Ridge, red farmhouse: Bulldog and Setter, both fat, don't bother; farmhouse with the big barns: Old Hound, very dangerous..." and so on. He recited every dog on the route clear up to Danbury way. He did it without a mistake and swelled with pride at Father's approving nod. "Excellent," said Father. "Now do you remember your checks and doublings?" Little Georgie closed his eyes again and rattled off, quite fast, "Sharp right and double left, double left and double right, dead stop and back dip, right jump, left jump, false trip, and briar dive." "Splendid," said Father. "Now attend carefully. Size up your Dog; don't waste speed on a plodder, you may need it later. If he's a rusher, check, double, and freeze. Your freeze, by the way, is still rather bad. You have a tendency to dick your left ear; you must watch that. The High Ridge is very open country so keep in the shadow of the stone walls and mark the earth piles. Porkey has lots of relatives along there, and if you are pressed hard any of them will gladly take you in. Just tell them who you are, and don't forget to thank them. After a chase, hide up and take at least ten minutes' rest. And if you have to really run, tighten that knapsack strap, lace back your cars, put your stomach to the ground, and RUN! "Get along with you now, and mind - no foolishness. We shall expect you and Uncle Analdas by tomorrow evening at the latest." Little Georgie crossed the Twin Bridges in perfect form, returned Father's approving wave, and was off on his own. It was gray and misty as he crossed Good Hill Road, and the Dalmatian still slept. So, apparently, did the Collie up the road, for all was quiet as he plodded up Long Hill. People were beginning to stir as he approached Norfield Church corner; little plumes of blue smoke were rising from kitchen chimneys, and the air was pleasant with the smell of frying bacon. As he expected, the Police Dog rushed him there, but he wasted little time on that affair. Loping along with tantalizing slowness until they were almost on an old fallen apple tree buried in briars, he executed a dead stop, a right jump, and a freeze. The bellowing brute over-ran him and plunged headlong into the thorny tangle. His agonized howls were sweet music to Little Georgie as he hopped sedately along toward the High Ridge. He wished Father had been there to see how skillfully he had worked and to note that during the freeze his left ear hadn't flickered once. The sun was well up when he emerged on the High Ridge. On the porch of the red farmhouse the Fat Bulldog and the Setter slept soundly, soaking up its warmth. On any other occasion Little Georgie would have been tempted to wake them to enjoy their silly efforts at running, but, mindful of Father's instructions, he kept dutifully on his way. The High Ridge was a long and open strip of country, very uninteresting to Little Georgie. The view, over miles and miles of rolling woods and meadows, was very beautiful, but he didn't care especially about views. The brilliant blue sky and the bright little cream-puff clouds were beautiful too. They made him feel good; so did the warm sun, but frankly he was becoming slightly bored. So to ease his boredom he began to make a little song. The words had been rattling around in his head for some days now, and the music was there too, but he couldn't quite get them straight and fitted together. So he hummed and he sang and he whistled. He tried the words this way and that way, he stopped and started and changed the notes around, and finally he got the first line so that it suited him. So Georgie sang that line over and over again to be sure that he wouldn't forget it when he started on the second line. It must have been this preoccupation with his song that made Little Georgie careless and almost led to his undoing. He scarcely noticed that he had passed the house with the big barns, and he was just starting to sing his first line for the forty-seventh time when there came the roaring rush of the Old Hound right on his heels, so close that he could feel the hot breath. Instinctively Little Georgie made several wild springs that carried him temporarily out of harm's way. He paused a fraction of a second to tighten the knapsack strap and then set off at a good steady pace. "Don't waste speed on a plodder" was Father's rule. He tried a few checks and doubles and circling, although he knew they were pretty useless. The great fields were too bare, and the Old Hound knew all the tricks. No matter how he turned and dodged, the Hound was always there, coming along at his heavy gallop. He looked for Woodchuck burrows, but there were none in sight. "Well, I guess I'll have to run it out," said Little Georgie. He pulled the knapsack strap tighter, laced hack his ears, put his stomach to the ground, and RAN. And how he ran! The warm sun had loosened his muscles; the air was invigorating; Little Georgie's leaps grew longer and longer. Never had he felt so young and strong. His legs were like coiled spring of steel that released themselves of their own accord. He was hardly conscious of any effort, only of his hind feet pounding the ground, and each time they hit, those wonderful springs released and shot him through the air. He sailed over fences and stone walls as though they were mole runs. Why, this was almost like flying! Now he understood what Zip the Swallow had been driving at when he tried to describe what it was like. He glanced back at the Old Hound, far behind now, but still coming along at his plodding gallop. He was old and must be tiring, while he, Little Georgie, felt stronger and more vigorous at every leap. Why didn't the old fool give up and go home? And then, as he shot over the brow of a slight rise, he suddenly knew. He had forgotten Deadman's Brook! There it lay before him, broad and deep, curving out in a great silvery loop. He, the son of Father, gentleman hunter from the Bluegrass, had been driven into a trap, a trap that even Porkey should have been able to avoid! Whether he turned to right or left the loop of the creek hemmed him in and the Old Hound could easily cut him off. There was nothing for it but to jump! This sickening realization had not reduced his speed; now he redoubled it. The slope helped, and his soaring leaps became prodigious. The wind whistled through his laced-hack ears. Still he kept his head, as Father would have wished him to. He picked a spot where the bank was high and firm; he spaced his jumps so they would come out exactly right. The take-off was perfect. He put every ounce of leg muscle into that final kick and sailed out into space. Below him he could see the cream-puff clouds mirrored in the dark water, he could see the pebbles on the bottom and the silver flash of frightened minnows dashing away from his flying shadow. Then, with a breath-taking thump, he landed, turned seven somersaults, and came up sitting in a clump of soft lush grass. He froze, motionless except for heaving sides, and watched the Old Hound come thundering down the slope, slide to a stop and, after eying the water disgustedly, take his way slowly homeward, his dripping tongue almost dragging the ground. Little Georgie did not need to remember Father's rule for a ten-minute rest after a good run. He was blown and he knew it, but he did remember his lunch, so he un-strapped the little knapsack and combined lunch and rest. He had been really scared for a moment, but as his wind came back and his lunch went down, his spirits came up. Father would he angry, and rightly, for he had made two very stupid mistakes: he had let himself be surprised, and he had run right into a dangerous trap. But that leap! Never in the history of the county had any rabbit jumped Deadman's Brook, not even Father. He marked the exact spot and calculated the width of the stream there - at least eighteen feet! And with his rising spirits the words and the notes of his song suddenly tumbled into place. Little Georgie lay back in the warm grass and sang his song - New Folks coming, oh my! New Folks coming, oh my! New Folks coming, oh my! Oh my! Oh my! There weren't many words and there weren't many notes, and the notes just went up a little and down a little and ended where they began. Lots of people might have thought it monotonous, but it suited Little Georgie completely. He sang it loud and he sang it soft, he sang it as a paean of triumph, a saga of perils met and overcome. He sang it over and over again. Red-bellied Robin, flying northward, paused in a sapling and called down, "Hi, Little Georgie, what're you doing way up here?" "Going to fetch Uncle Analdas. Have you been by the Hill?" "Just left there," Robin answered. "Everybody's excited. Seems there's new Folks coming." "Yes, I know," cried Little Georgie eagerly. "I've just made a song about it. Wouldn't you like to hear it? It goes like-" "No, thanks," called Robin. "Getting along-" And he flew on. Not in the least discouraged, Little Georgie sang his song a few times more while he strapped on his knapsack and took up his journey. It was a good song to walk to, too, so he sang it as he tramped the rest of the High Ridge, as he went down the Windy Hill and circled around George town. He was still singing it in the late afternoon when he got clear up Danbury way. He had just finished "Oh my!" for the four-thousandth time when a sharp voice from the bushes broke in with. "Oh my -what?" Little Georgie whirled." "Oh my-goodness!" he cried. "Why - why it's Uncle Analdas." "Sure is." The voice chuckled. "Uncle Analdas as ever was. Come in, Little Georgie, come in -- you're a long way from home. Ef I'd been a Dog I'd got you. Surprised yer Old Man ain't learned you more care. Come in anyhow." Although Mother had worried about the state of Uncle Analdas' home with no feminine hands around to keep things neat, she could never, in her most pessimistic moments, have pictured anything quite so disorderly as the burrow to which Little Georgie was welcomed. It was a man's home there could be no doubt about that, and while Little Georgie rather admired the bachelor freedom of the place he was forced to admit that it really was extremely dirty and the fleas numerous and active. After Iris day in the open air the atmosphere indoors seemed stifling and not at all fragrant. Perhaps it was the sort of tobacco, that Uncle Analdas smoked - Little Georgie hoped so. His Uncle's cocking too left something to be desired - their supper consisted of one very ancient and dried-up turnip. After this meager meal they sat outside, at Little Georgie's suggestion, and Mother's letter was produced. "S'pose you read it to me, Georgie," said Uncle Analdas. "Seem to've mislaid them dingblasted spectacles." Little Georgie knew that he hadn't mislaid them, in fact that he didn't own any; he'd just never learned to read, but this formality always had to be gone through with, so he dutifully read: Dear Uncle Analdas: I hope this finds you well but I know you are lonesome with Mildred married and gone away and all and we are hoping you will spend the summer with us as we have new Folks coming and we hope they are planting Folks and if they are we will all eat good but they may have Dogs or poison or traps and spring-guns and maybe you shouldn't risk your life although you haven't much of it left hut we will be looking forward to seeing you anyway. Your loving niece, Mollie. There was a postscript which said, 'P.S. Please don't let Little Georgie get his feet wet," but Georgie didn't read that out loud. The idea! He, Little Georgie, who had jumped Deadman's Brook, Little Georgie the Leaper, getting his feet wet! "Well now," cried Uncle Analdas. "Well now, that's a real nice letter, real nice. Don't know but what I will. Certainly is dingblasted lonesome 'round here now, with Millie gone and all. And as for food-of all the carrot-pinchin', stingy folks I ever see, the Folks around here is the stingiest, carrot-pinchin'est. Yes sir, I think I will. Course new Folks comin' may be good it may be bad. Either way I don't trust them. Don't trust old Folks neither. But with old Folks you kin tell just how much you can't trust'em and with new Folks you can't tell nothing. Think I'll do it, though, think I will. Does yer maw still make the peavine and lettuce soup as good as she used to?" Little Georgie assured him that she still did and wished he had a bowl of it right then. "I've made up a song about the new Folks," he added eagerly. "Would you like to hear it?" "Don't think I would," answered Uncle Analdas. "Sleep anywhere you've a mind to, Georgie. I've got a few knick-knacks to pack up, and we'd ought to get an early start. I'll wake you." Little Georgie decided to sleep outside under the bushes. The evening was quite warm and the burrow was really pretty strong. He hummed his song, as a lullaby now, and it was a good lullaby, for before he'd finished it the third time he was sound asleep.