because he was so small, stuart was often hard to find around the house. his father and his mother and his brother george seldom could locate him by looking for him—usually they had to call him; and the house often echoed with cries of “stuart! stooo-art!” you would come into a room, and he might be curled up in a chair, but you wouldn’t see him. mr. little was in constant fear of losing him and never finding him again. he even made him a tiny red cap, such as hunters wear, so that he would be easier to see.
one day when he was seven years old, stuart was in the kitchen watching his mother make tapioca pudding. he was feeling hungry, and when mrs. little opened the door of the electric refrigerator to get something, stuart slipped inside to see if he could find a piece of cheese. he supposed, of course, his mother had seen him, and when the door swung shut and he realized he was locked in, it surprised him greatly.
“help!” he called. “it’s dark in here. it’s cold in this refrigerator. help! let me out! i’m getting colder by the minute.”
but his voice was not strong enough to penetrate the thick wall. in the darkness he stumbled and fell into a saucer of prunes. the juice was cold. stuart shivered, and his teeth chattered together. it wasn’t until half an hour later that mrs. little again opened the door and found him standing on a butter plate, beating his arms together to try to keep warm, and blowing on his hands, and hopping up and down.
“mercy!” she cried. “stuart, my poor little boy.”
“how about a nip of brandy?” said stuart.
“i’m chilled to the bone.”
but his mother made him some hot broth instead, and put him to bed in his cigarette box with a doll’s hot-water bottle against his feet. even so, stuart caught a bad cold, and this turned into bronchitis, and stuart had to stay in bed for almost two weeks.
during his illness, the other members of the family were extremely kind to stuart. mrs. little played tick-tack-toe with him. george made him a soap bubble pipe and a bow and arrow. mr. little made him a pair of ice skates out of two paper clips.
one cold afternoon mrs. little was shaking her dustcloth out of the window when she noticed a small bird lying on the windowsill, apparently dead. she brought it in and put it near the radiator, and in a short while it fluttered its wings and opened its eyes. it was a pretty little hen-bird, brown, with a streak of yellow on her breast. the littles didn’t agree on what kind of bird she was.
“she’s a wall-eyed vireo,” said george, scientifically.
“i think she’s more like a young wren,” said mr. little. anyway, they fixed a place for her in the living room, and fed her, and gave her a cup of water. soon she felt much better and went hopping around the house, examining everything with the greatest care and interest. presently she hopped upstairs and into stuart’s room where he was lying in bed.
“hello,” said stuart. “who are you? where did you come from?”
“my name is margalo,” said the bird, softly, in a musical voice. “i come from fields once tall with wheat, from pastures deep in fern and thistle; i come from vales of meadowsweet, and i love to whistle.”
stuart sat bolt upright in bed. “say that again!” he said.
“i can’t,” replied margalo. “i have a sore throat.”
“so have i,” said stuart. “i’ve got bronchitis. you better not get too near me, you might catch it.”
“i’ll stay right here by the door,” said margalo.
“you can use some of my gargle if you want to,” said stuart. “and here are some nose drops, and i have plenty of kleenex.”
“thank you very much, you are very kind,” replied the bird.
“did they take your temperature?” asked stuart, who was beginning to be genuinely worried about his new friend’s health.
“no,” said margalo, “but i don’t think it will be necessary.”
“well, we better make sure,” said stuart, “because i would hate to have anything happen to you. here. ...” and he tossed her the thermometer. margalo put it under her tongue, and she and stuart sat very still for three minutes. then she took it out and looked at it, turning it slowly and carefully.
“normal,” she announced. stuart felt his heart leap for gladness. it seemed to him that he had never seen any creature so beautiful as this tiny bird, and he already loved her.
“i hope,” he remarked, “that my parents have fixed you up with a decent place to sleep.”
“oh, yes,” margalo replied. “i’m going to sleep in the boston fern on the bookshelf in the living room. it’s a nice place, for a city location. and now, if you’ll excuse me, i think i shall go to bed—i see it’s getting dark outside. i always go to bed at sundown. good night, sir!”
“please don’t call me “sir,”” cried stuart. “call me stuart.”
“very well,” said the bird. “good night, stuart!” and she hopped off, with light, bouncing steps.
“good night, margalo,” called stuart. “see you in the morning.”
stuart settled back under the bedclothes again. “there’s a mighty fine bird,” he whispered, and sighed a tender sigh.
when mrs. little came in, later, to tuck stuart in for the night and hear his prayers, stuart asked her if she thought the bird would be quite safe sleeping down in the living room.
“quite safe, my dear,” replied mrs. little.
“what about that cat snowbell?” asked stuart, sternly.
“snowbell won’t touch the bird,” his mother said. “you go to sleep and forget all about it.” mrs. little opened the window and turned out the light.
stuart closed his eyes and lay there in the dark, but he couldn’t seem to go to sleep. he tossed and turned, and the bedclothes got all rumpled up.
he kept thinking about the bird downstairs asleep in the fern. he kept thinking about snowbell and about the way snowbell’s eyes gleamed. finally, unable to stand it any longer, he switched on the light. “there’s just something in me that doesn’t trust a cat,” he muttered. “i can’t sleep, knowing that margalo is in danger.”
pushing the covers back, stuart climbed out of bed. he put on his wrapper and slippers. taking his bow and arrow and his flashlight, he tiptoed out into the hall. everybody had gone to bed and the house was dark. stuart found his way to the stairs and descended slowly and cautiously into the living room, making no noise. his throat hurt him, and he felt a little bit dizzy.
“sick as i am,” he said to himself, “this has got to be done.”
being careful not to make a sound, he stole across to the lamp by the bookshelf, shinnied up the cord, and climbed out onto the shelf. there was a faint ray of light from the street lamp outside, and stuart could dimly see margalo, asleep in the fern, her head tucked under her wing.
“sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast,” he whispered, repeating a speech he had heard in the movies. then he hid behind a candlestick and waited, listening and watching. for half an hour he saw nothing, heard nothing but the faint ruffle of margalo’s wings when she stirred in dream. the clock struck ten, loudly, and before the sound of the last stroke had died away stuart saw two gleaming yellow eyes peering out from behind the sofa.
“so!” thought stuart. “i guess there’s going to be something doing after all.” he reached for his bow and arrow.
the eyes came nearer. stuart was frightened, but he was a brave mouse, even when he had a sore throat. he placed the arrow against the cord of the bow and waited. snowbell crept softly toward the bookshelf and climbed noiselessly up into the chair within easy reach of the boston fern where margalo was asleep. then he crouched, ready to spring. his tail waved back and forth. his eyes gleamed bright. stuart decided the time had come. he stepped out from behind the candlestick, knelt down, bent his bow, and took careful aim at snowbell’s left ear—which was the nearest to him.
“this is the finest thing i have ever done,” thought stuart. and he shot the arrow straight into the cat’s ear.
snowbell squealed with pain and jumped down and ran off toward the kitchen.
“a direct hit!” said stuart. “thank heaven! well, there’s a good night’s work done.” and he threw a kiss toward margalo’s sleeping form.
it was a tired little mouse that crawled into bed a few minutes later—tired but ready for sleep at last.
