Stuart Little Read online

  Stuart arrived at nine. He parked his car briskly at the door of the school, stalked boldly into the room, found a yardstick leaning against Miss Gunderson’s desk, and climbed hand-over-hand to the top. There he found an inkwell, a pointer, some pens and pencils, a bottle of ink, some chalk, a bell, two hairpins, and three or four books in a pile. Stuart scrambled nimbly up to the top of the stack of books and jumped for the button on the bell. His weight was enough to make it ring, and Stuart promptly slid down, walked to the front of the desk, and said:

  “Let me have your attention, please!”

  The boys and girls crowded around the desk

  to look at the substitute. Everyone talked at once, and they seemed to be very much pleased. The girls giggled and the boys laughed and everyone’s eyes lit up with excitement to see such a small and good-looking teacher, so appropriately dressed.

  “Let me have your attention, please!” repeated Stuart. “As you know, Miss Gunderson is sick and I am taking her place.”

  “What’s the matter with her?” asked Roy Hart, eagerly.

  “Vitamin trouble,” replied Stuart. “She took Vitamin D when she needed A. She took B when she was short of C, and her system became overloaded with riboflavin, thiamine hydrochloride, and even with pyridoxine, the need for which in human nutrition has not been established. Let it be a lesson for all of us!” He glared fiercely at the children and they made no more inquiries about Miss Gunderson.

  “Everyone will now take his or her seat!” commanded Stuart. The pupils filed obediently down the aisles and dropped into their seats, and in a moment there was silence in the classroom. Stuart cleared his throat. Seizing a coat lapel in either hand, to make himself look like a professor, Stuart began:

  “Anybody absent?”

  The scholars shook their heads.

  “Anybody late?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Very well,” said Stuart, “what’s the first

  subject you usually take up in the morning?”

  “Arithmetic,” shouted the children.

  “Bother arithmetic!” snapped Stuart.

  “Let’s skip it.”

  There were wild shouts of enthusiasm at this suggestion. Everyone in the class seemed perfectly willing to skip arithmetic for one morning.

  “What next do you study?” asked Stuart.

  “Spelling,” cried the children.

  “Well,” said Stuart, “a

  misspelled word is an abomination in the sight of everyone. I consider it a very fine thing to spell words correctly and I strongly urge every one of you to buy a Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary and consult it whenever you are in the slightest doubt. So much for spelling. What’s next?”

  The scholars were just as pleased to be let out of spelling as they were about arithmetic, and they shouted for joy, and everybody looked at everybody else and laughed and waved handkerchiefs and rulers, and some of the boys threw spit balls at some of the girls. Stuart had to climb onto the pile of books again and dive for the bell to restore order. “What’s next?” he repeated.

  “Writing,” cried the scholars.

  “Goodness,” said Stuart in disgust, “don’t you

  children know how to write yet?”

  “Certainly we do!” yelled one and all.

  “So much for that, then,” said Stuart.

  “Social studies come next,” cried Elizabeth Gardner, eagerly.

  “Social studies? Never heard of them,” said Stuart. “Instead of taking up any special subject this morning, why wouldn’t it be a good idea if we just talked about something.”

  The scholars glanced around at each other in expectancy.

  “Could we talk about the way it feels to hold a snake in your hand and then it winds itself around your wrist?” asked Arthur Greenlaw.

  “We could, but I’d rather not,” replied Stuart.

  “Could we talk about sin and vice?” pleaded Lydia Lacey.

  “Nope,” said Stuart. “Try again.”

  “Could we talk about the fat woman at the circus and she had hair all over her chin?” begged Isidor Feinberg, reminiscently.

  “No,” said Stuart. “I’ll tell you, let’s talk about the King of the World.” He looked all around the room hopefully to see how the children liked that idea.

  “There isn’t any King of the World,” said Harry Jamieson in disgust.

  “What’s the diff?” said Stuart. “There ought to be one.”

  “Kings are old-fashioned,” said Harry.

  “Well, all right then, let’s talk about the

  Chairman of the World. The world gets into a lot of trouble because it has no chairman. I would like to be Chairman of the World myself.”

  “You’re too small,” said Mary Bendix.

  “Oh, fish feathers!” said Stuart. “Size has nothing to do with it. It’s temperament and ability that count. The Chairman has to have ability and he must know what’s important. How many of you know what’s important?”

  Up went all the hands.

  “Very good,” said Stuart, cocking one leg across the other and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Henry Rackmeyer, you tell us what is important.”

  “A shaft of sunlight at the end of a dark afternoon, a note in music, and the way the back of a baby’s neck smells if its mother keeps it tidy,” answered Henry.

  “Correct,” said Stuart. “Those are the important things. You forgot one thing, though. Mary Bendix, what did Henry Rackmeyer forget?”

  “He forgot ice cream with chocolate sauce on it,” said Mary quickly.

  “Exactly,” said Stuart. “Ice cream is

  important. Well now, if I’m going to be

  Chairman of the World this morning, we’ve got to have

  some rules, otherwise it will be too confusing, with

  everyone running every which way and helping himself to things and

  nobody behaving. We’ve got to have some laws if we’re going to play this game. Can anybody suggest any good laws for the world?”

  Albert Fernstrom raised his hand. “Don’t eat mushrooms, they might be toadstools,” suggested Albert.

  “That’s not a law,” said Stuart, “that’s merely a bit of friendly advice. Very good advice, Albert, but advice and law are not the same. Law is much more solemn than advice. Law is extremely solemn. Anybody else think of a law for the world?”

  “Nix on swiping anything,” suggested John Poldowski, solemnly.

  “Very good,” said Stuart. “Good law.”

  “Never poison anything but rats,” said

  Anthony Brendisi.

  “That’s no good,” said Stuart. “It’s unfair to rats. A law has to be fair to everybody.”

  Anthony looked sulky. “But rats are unfair to us,” he said. “Rats are objectionable.”

  “I know they are,” said Stuart. “But from a rat’s point of view, poison is objectionable. A Chairman has to see all sides to a problem.”

  “Have you got a rat’s point of view?” asked Anthony. “You look a little like a rat.”

  “No,” replied Stuart, “I have more the point of view of a mouse, which is very different. I see things whole. It’s obvious to me that rats are underprivileged. They’ve never been able to get out in the open.”

  “Rats don’t like the open,” said Agnes Beretska.

  “That’s because whenever they come out, somebody socks them. Rats might like the open if they were allowed to use it. Any other ideas for laws?” Agnes Beretska raised her hand. “There ought to be a law against fighting.”

  “Impractical,” said Stuart. “Men like to fight. But you’re getting warm, Agnes.”

  “No scrapping?” asked Agnes, timidly. Stuart shook his head.

  “Absolutely no being mean,” suggested Mildred Hoffenstein.

  “Very fine law,” said Stuart. “When I am Chairman, anybody who is mean to anybody else is going to catch it.”

  “That won’t work,” remarked
Herbert Prendergast. “Some people are just naturally mean. Albert Fernstrom is always being mean to me.”

  “I’m not saying it’ll work,” said Stuart.

  “It’s a good law and we’ll give it a try.

  We’ll give it a try right here and now. Somebody do something mean to somebody. Harry Jamieson, you be mean to Katharine Stableford. Wait a minute, now, what’s that you’ve got in your hand, Katharine?”

  “It’s a little tiny pillow stuffed with sweet balsam.”

  “Does it say “For you I pine, for you I balsam” on it?”

  “Yes,” said Katharine.

  “Do you love it very much?” asked Stuart.

  “Yes, I do,” said Katharine.

  “O.k., Harry, grab it, take it away!”

  Harry ran over to where Katharine sat, grabbed the little pillow from her hand, and ran back to his seat, while Katharine screamed.

  “Now then,” said Stuart in a fierce voice, “hold on, my good people, while your Chairman consults the book of rules!” He pretended to thumb through a book. “Here we are. Page 492. “Absolutely no being mean.”

  Page 560. “Nix on swiping anything.” Harry Jamieson has broken two laws—the law against being mean and the law against swiping. Let’s get Harry and set him back before he becomes so mean people will hardly recognize him any more! Come on!”

  Stuart ran for the yardstick and slid down, like a fireman coming down a pole in a firehouse. He ran toward Harry, and the other children jumped up from their seats and raced up and down the aisles and crowded around Harry while Stuart demanded that he give up the little pillow. Harry looked frightened, although he knew it was just a test. He gave Katharine the pillow.

  “There, it worked pretty well,” said Stuart.

  “No being mean is a perfectly good law.” He

  wiped his face with his handkerchief, for he was quite warm

  from the exertion of being Chairman of the World. It had taken more running and leaping and sliding than he had imagined. Katharine was very much pleased to have her pillow back.

  “Let’s see that little pillow a minute,” said Stuart, whose curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. Katharine showed it to him. It was about as long as Stuart was high, and Stuart suddenly thought what a fine sweet-smelling bed it would make for him. He began to want the pillow himself.

  “That’s a very pretty thing,” said Stuart, trying to hide his eagerness. “You don’t want to sell it, do you?”

  “Oh, no,” replied Katharine. “It was a present to me.”

  “I suppose it was given you by a boy you met at Lake Hopatcong last summer, and it reminds you of him,” murmured Stuart, dreamily.

  “Yes, it was,” said Katharine, blushing.

  “Ah,” said Stuart, “summers are wonderful,

  aren’t they, Katharine?”

  “Yes, and last summer was the most wonderful summer I have ever had in all my life.”

  “I can imagine,” replied Stuart. “You’re sure you wouldn’t want to sell that little pillow?” Katharine shook her head.

  “Don’t know as I blame you,” replied Stuart, quietly. “Summertime is important. It’s like a shaft of sunlight.”

  “Or a note in music,” said Elizabeth Acheson.

  “Or the way the back of a baby’s neck smells if its mother keeps it tidy,” said Marilyn Roberts.

  Stuart sighed. “Never forget your summertimes, my dears,” he said. “Well, I’ve got to be getting along. It’s been a pleasure to know you all. Class is dismissed!”

  Stuart strode rapidly to the door, climbed into the car, andwitha final wave of the hand drove off in a northerly direction, while the children raced alongside and screamed “Good-by, good-by, good-by!” They all wished they could have a substitute every day, instead of Miss Gunderson.

  XIII. Ames’ Crossing

  In the loveliest town of all, where the houses were white and high and the elm trees were green and higher than the houses, where the front yards were wide and pleasant and the back yards were bushy and worth finding out about, where the streets sloped down to the stream and the stream flowed quietly under the bridge, where the lawns ended in orchards and the orchards ended in fields and the fields ended in pastures and the pastures climbed the hill and disappeared over the top toward the wonderful wide sky, in this loveliest of all towns Stuart stopped to get a drink of sarsaparilla.

  Parking his car in front of the general store, he stepped out and the sun felt so good that he sat down on the porch for a few moments to enjoy the feeling of being in a new place on a fine day. This was the most peaceful and beautiful spot he had found in all his travels. It seemed to him a place he would gladly spend the rest of his life in, if it weren’t that he might get homesick for the sights of New York and for his family, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick C. Little and George, and if it weren’t for the fact that something deep inside him made him want to find Margalo.

  After a while the storekeeper came out to smoke a cigarette, and he joined Stuart on the front steps. He started to offer Stuart a cigarette but when he noticed how small he was, he changed his mind.

  “Have you any sarsaparilla in your store?” asked Stuart. “I’ve got a ruinous thirst.”

  “Certainly,” said the storekeeper.

  “Gallons of it. Sarsaparilla, root beer, birch beer, ginger ale, Moxie, lemon soda, Coca Cola, Pepsi Cola, Dipsi Cola, Pipsi Cola, Popsi Cola, and raspberry cream tonic. Anything you want.”

  “Let me have a bottle of sarsaparilla, please,” said Stuart, “and a paper cup.”

  The storekeeper went back into the store and returned with the drink. He opened the bottle, poured some out into the cup, and set the cup down on the step below Stuart, who whipped off his cap, lay down on his stomach, and dipped up some of the cool refreshing drink, using his cap as a dipper.

  “That’s very refreshing,” remarked Stuart. “There’s nothing like a long, cool drink in the heat of the day, when you’re traveling.”

  “Are you going far?” asked the storekeeper.

  “Perhaps very far,” replied Stuart. “I’m

  looking for a bird named Margalo. You haven’t sighted her, have you?”

  “Can’t say I have,” said the storekeeper.

  “What does she look like?”

  “Perfectly beautiful,” replied Stuart, wiping the sarsaparilla off his lips with the corner of his sleeve. “She’s a remarkable bird. Anybody would notice her. She comes from a place where there are thistles.”

  The storekeeper looked at Stuart closely.

  “How tall are you?” he asked.

  “You mean in my stocking feet?” said Stuart.

  “Yes.”

  “Two inches nothing and a quarter,” answered

  Stuart. “I haven’t been measured recently, however. I may have shot up a bit.”

  “You know,” said the storekeeper, thoughtfully, “there’s somebody in this town you really ought to meet.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Stuart, yawning.

  “Harriet Ames,” said the storekeeper.

  “She’s just your size—maybe a trifle shorter, if anything.”

  “What’s she like?” asked Stuart. “Fair, fat, and forty?”

  “No, Harriet is young and she is quite pretty. She is considered one of the best dressed girls in this town, too. All her clothes are tailored specially for her.”

  “That so?” remarked Stuart.

  “Yes. Harriet’s quite a girl. Her people, the Ameses, are rather prominent in this town. One of her ancestors used to be the ferryman here in Revolutionary days. He would carry anybody across the stream—he didn’t care whether they were British soldiers or American soldiers, as long as they paid their fare. I guess he did pretty well. Anyway, the Ameses have always had plenty of money. They live in a big house with a lot of servants. I know Harriet would be very much interested to meet you.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” replied Stuart, “but

  I’m n
ot much of a society man these days. Too much on the move. I never stay long anywhere—I blow into a town and blow right out again, here today, gone tomorrow, a will o’ the wisp. The highways and byways are where you’ll find me, always looking for Margalo. Sometimes I feel that I’m quite near to her and that she’s just around the turn of the road. Other times I feel that I’ll never find her and never hear her voice again. Which reminds me, it’s time I was on my way.” Stuart paid for his drink, said good-by to the storekeeper, and drove off. But Ames’ Crossing seemed like the finest town he had ever known, and before he reached the end of the main street he swerved sharp left, turned off onto a dirt road, and drove down to a quiet spot on the bank of the river. That afternoon he swam and lay on his back on the mossy bank, his hands crossed under his head, his thoughts returning to the conversation he had had with the storekeeper.

  “Harriet Ames,” he murmured.

  Evening came, and Stuart still lingered by the stream.

  He ate a light supper of a cheese sandwich and a drink of water, and slept that night in the warm grass with the sound of the stream in his ears.

  In the morning the sun rose warm and bright and Stuart slipped into the river again for an early dip. After breakfast he left his car hidden under a skunk cabbage leaf and walked up to the post office. While he was filling his fountain pen from the public inkwell he happened to glance toward the door and what he saw startled him so that he almost lost his balance and fell into the ink. A girl about two inches high had entered and was crossing the floor toward the mail boxes. She wore sports clothes and walked with her head held high. In her hair was a stamen from a flower.

  Stuart began to tremble from excitement.

  “Must be the Ames girl,” he said to himself. And he kept out of sight behind the inkwell as he watched her open her mail box, which was about a quarter of an inch wide, and pull out her letters. The storekeeper had told the truth:

  Harriet was pretty. And of course she was the only girl Stuart had ever encountered who wasn’t miles and miles taller than he was. Stuart figured that if the two of them were to walk along together, her head would come a little higher than his shoulder. The idea filled him with interest. He wanted to slide down to the floor and speak to her, but he didn’t dare. All his boldness had left him and he stayed hidden behind the inkwell until Harriet had gone. When he was sure that she was out of sight, he stole out of the post office and slunk down the street to the store, half hoping that he would meet the beautiful little girl, half fearing that he would.