Free The Old Meadow by George Selden

my beech and stretch my wings—and more of those town inspectors came down. Mr. B. was asleep—old geezers sleep more and more as they age. And our musical star from the South was asleep too, I would guess. I didn’t hear any soulful tunes emanating from that ramshackle shack. Aw! haw!” J.J. taunted, and fluffed up his feathers.
    â€œI did take a nap. The wing heals in sleep.”
    â€œThe neckties from the Town Council agreed that that ‘unsightly’ cabin—”
    â€œThere’s that word again!” groaned Dubber.
    Chester Cricket groaned, too. And in his mind he agreed. Words were powerful. If someone would just call Mr. Budd’s dilapidated cabin “picturesque” or “quaint,” there might not be all this worry all over.
    â€œThey also agreed,” went on J.J., “to vote on the matter this week.”
    â€œY’all do a lot of votin’ up here,” said Ashley.
    â€œThis is New England,” Simon Turtle explained. “Town meetings—you know—all that.”
    â€œBut then we still have time!” exclaimed Chester. “A week.”
    â€œTime for what? ” the blue jay demanded.
    â€œWhy, to help Mr. Budd.”
    â€œOh, help,” squawked J.J. “And just how do you know that all of us field folk want to help? He’s old, Mr. Budd is—and getting foolish.”
    â€œI like old folks!” shouted Henry Chipmunk. “They’re nice.”
    â€œGood for you,” wheezed Simon, who’d had his shell quite a while himself.
    â€œLet’s everybody vote,” said Ashley. “Since that’s what y’all seem to like the most.”
    â€œI propose a motion,” said J.J., “that we let the old fool get thrown out. They’ll make a nice park space where that rickety shanty is now. And also, that ugly weather vane—which he throws vegetables at, when I sit there—well, it’ll be gone! For good!”
    â€œHold on,” Ashley said. “Now I know I’m a stranger, but what would your Ol’ Meadow be without Mr. Budd?” Ashley sang a tune with a questions hidden in its notes. “You meadow folk—what would y’all be without a single human bein’? A different kind of soul in your world.”
    â€œWe’d be better off!” squawked J.J.
    A commotion of animal sounds broke out. Ashley Mockingbird had meant to say and sing more of his thought, but he couldn’t be heard.
    To silence the din, the oldest voice in the meadow spoke out: “And I propose”—Simon Turtle couldn’t quite make the climb to the tuffet—“that we field folk help Mr. Budd.”
    Both motions were seconded, thirded, and fourthed, and were thoroughly confused in a storm of voices that demanded that they be heard.
    But voting began, somehow.
    The large animals were no problem: they just shouted “Yes!” or “No!”—and some added that everyone else was a nitwit. Beatrice Pheasant and her obedient husband, of course, voted no. Robert Rabbit voted yes twice, but Chester saw him, when he sneaked around, and ruled out the second yes. Paul Mole didn’t vote at all. He abstained. In a private debate, he was thinking about half a lawn. After all, it might be better than none.
    The insects were difficult. Apart from the job of collecting votes from so many of them, some insects can’t decide on a thing. They dither and fidget—oftentimes in the air. Donald Dragonfly took an hour to make up his mind himself. He finally voted yes, but mostly because he didn’t know what no meant. Despite his blurred mind, however, which was often just as kaleidoscopic as the light on his wings, Donald organized a hive of bees. They lived in the ruins of Chester’s old home, that broken-down stump. He kept saying, “Hey, you guys—you’ve got enough honey. We need your help.” Bees are reasonable people, and at