Free Chester Cricket's New Home by George Selden

persnickety chipmunks, who was causing him such distress. She made him wipe feet, she made him wash hands. ‘She’s making me maladjusted!’ he screamed. Poor soul. You should have seen him chewing his gum and tearing his hair. I hope she let him snore, at least.”
    â€œMamas usually do,” said Simon Turtle, from ancient wisdom.
    â€œI learned a lot about maladjustment that day,” Walter went on. “As a matter of fact—as a matter of fact!— ohhhh—! ”
    Chester put some grumpiness into his voice. “Now it comes:
    â€œA cricket lived in a neat chip’s lair—
    In a sweet munk’s lair lived he.
    But he was maladjusted there—
    And snored most dreadfully!”

SEVEN
    Donald Dragonfly
    â€œWell, I have to admit”—Chester Cricket lay back and just drifted—“it’s an awfully nice day to be homeless on.”
    For several hours, the three Meadow dwellers had gone boating. At least Walt and Chester went boating. Simon Turtle, with that solid black shell of his, was too heavy to float on the pieces of wood that were circling slowly around his pool. When he made the offhanded suggestion—“Might just lumber up and bite me off a big chunk near the top of my log”—Walter Water Snake glared at him sternly, behind Chester’s back. Simon mumbled, “Oh,” and contented himself with offering bits of nautical advice, whenever the other two would listen.
    The cricket invented a game he liked. He spread out his wings and turned himself into a sturdy little workable sail in the breeze. Walter Water Snake thought that was wonderful. He shouted, “Hey! Great!”—found a hunk of wood, slithered up on it, and hoisted his tail straight up in the air. It made the skinniest, silliest sail—like an upright rope—that was ever seen in Connecticut. And keeping his whole lower half like that, so rigid and stiff, in such a difficult position, was hard work for even the most supple creature. Walter toppled over constantly, with a whoop and laugh as he splashed out of sight. He made up his mind that instead of playing “sail,” he’d play “shipwreck,” and enjoyed his own game very much.
    Chester called his skiff the West Wind —since that happened to be blowing—and Walter called his the Curlicue, named after himself, of course.
    But evening came, and along with the shadows, in a twilight that lacked all coziness, the cricket’s gloom returned. He eyed the log. “I guess I’ll have to spend the night in that narrow old crack again.”
    â€œNo!” blurted Walt. “We need some more time. I mean—I mean—it’s uncomfortable. Isn’t it, Chester? Uncomfortable?”
    â€œWell, yes,” began Chester, “but if that’s all there is—”
    â€œThat isn’t all there is!” said Walter. “There’s—there’s—the West Wind! A sleeper ship, if ever I saw one. She may not have staterooms or bunk beds, Chester—or even a hammock, spun by a spider—but she’ll rock you asleep on the bosom of the deep, ol’ pal. Won’t she, Simon? Your pool is the deep.”
    â€œIt’s deep enough for me, ol’ pal.” Simon treated himself to a long and leisurely yawn. “And time to be turning in.” He crept to his favorite resting place. The old turtle had several comfortable beds, but this time of year there was one special spot, where the bank overhung his pool and the mud was soft and oozy and good, that felt most right, most covered and snug. He stretched his legs, then pulled them in, beneath his shell. His head was last. A final “Good night” echoed out in the dark.
    For the first time ever, Chester envied his friend his safe, secure shell. When all else failed, that at least was a very private home.
    Walter Water Snake whisked to a clump of reeds where he usually spent the