Free The Old Meadow by George Selden Page A

last they agreed to collect the insect vote. It was, they all communicated to one another, the only way to get rid of Donald.
    After the bees reported in, the problem and the debate were over. So everyone thought. The animals voted to help Mr. Budd.
    â€œHaw! haw!” That’s great!” cawed J.J. His harsh cry didn’t sound one little bit defeated. “Now tell me, you sweet field people— awk! ” Even J.J. had to choke on the mean small pleasure he felt. It lodged in his throat and made his voice even uglier. “Just how are you going to help the old bum?”
    â€œMy Mr. Budd’s no bum!” woofed Dubber.
    â€œWhen they come with pickaxes at his house—just how —just what are you going to do?”
    With the furious grace of someone who had lost an election but made a point, J.J. flew away.
    Those two questions—how? what?—like invisible hummingbirds’ wings beat furiously in the thickening light of afternoon, even after the blue jay had gone.
    Chester suddenly realized, “We don’t know how—”
    â€œTchoor we do! At least”—Walter’s head drifted vaguely, like a little balloon at the end of a string—“we’ll think of something. Everybody go home and think!”
    Everybody went home and thought, all right. But as usual, this time of day, most field folk thought about dinner and sleep.
    Not Ashley and Chester, however. The mockingbird thought it best not to risk another flight with that wing, so he and the cricket hopped, side by side, to the cabin. They’d both been wanting to know each other—and more than just as respectful friends. This seemed a good time to hop the last step, or sing the last note of openness.
    â€œI surely am learnin’ a lot—up here in Connecticut,” said Ashley.
    â€œSo am I,” said Chester. “And a lot of what I’m learning I don’t like.”
    â€œDon’t take on, now. Things have a way of working out.”
    â€œMaybe in West Virginia,” said Chester. “The good Lord willin’—an’ the creek don’t rise.”
    Now solid friends, the two of them laughed. Ashley clapped the cricket on the back with the wing that wasn’t sore, and Chester pretended to give a hurt chirp.
    â€œI think I’ll sing Abner a special sundown song,” said Ashley. “It’s Eller’s favorite. I think she likes it because it reminds her of the quilt she’s stitchin’. Her grandmama started it—then Eller’s ma—an’ then her, too. It’s a beautiful thing that she’s tryin’ to do between housecleanin’ an’ changin’ diapers. I hope to weave in mah colors, too. Want to listen?”
    â€œThe Hawk couldn’t scare me away! Can you make it to the weather vane?”
    â€œI think I’ll settle for that little ol’ stool.”
    Ashley Mockingbird crutched up through the sunset, and landed, gladly, on Mr. Budd’s stool. He began his song. It was indeed a quilt of memory and new threads, fine filaments of music that Ashley seemed to spin from his throat.
    Chester cocooned himself in the beauty.
    Then—something got his attention.
    He chirped—urgently. And a cricket like Chester doesn’t chirp at sunset. Chester loved the night, which was punctured by stars. He chirped three more times. Ashley knew that the cricket was warning him. He dropped down from the stool, still favoring that wing, and asked, “Cricket friend, don’t you like mah ol’-fashioned song?”
    â€œI love it. But look over there.”
    On the other side of the brook, three people were watching. And listening.
    â€œI know who the kid is,” said Chester. “His name is Alvin, and he likes to tease us animals. I don’t know who the big guys are.”
    â€œThey do look pretty foolish to me,” said Ashley. “Those baggy pants—and an orange