Poor Cecco

by Margery Williams Bianco

  “Don’t be silly!” said Poor Cecco. “Can’t you see it’s only a map? The question is, where are we now?”

  “That isn’t the question at all,” put in Jensina, rather snappily, for she was getting bored with watching Poor Cecco stick in his twigs and stones. “I know perfectly well where we are now. I’m not an idiot! What I want to know is where we are going”

  “Can’t you have patience?” Poor Cecco exclaimed. “All you can put in a map are the places you’ve already been. That’s what a map’s for. No one ever heard of a map that showed the places people haven’t been yet. There’d be no sense to it.”

  “There’s no sense to this,” said Jensina, “so far as I can see! Look where you’ve put the river—just where Bulka’s going to step in it!”

  Bulka drew back, alarmed, but seeing only a line on the earth, stepped over it, and wandered off to look for huckleberries. Some one would have to find the way home; it didn’t trouble him.

  Poor Cecco folded his legs and lay down sulkily. He thought it was too bad of Jensina to be so critical when he really was trying his best.

  Suddenly Jensina sat up and thumped the ground.

  “Listen! I have an idea!”

  “Well?” said Poor Ceceo, still sulky.

  “Do you know the name of your house?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Poor Ceceo. “It’s just called the house.”

  “Do you know what house it is?” Jensina explained.

  “Of course I do!” said Poor Cecco.

  “Then if you can write what house it is,” Jensina cried. “And if we’ve got three pennies, we’ll go back by R.F.D.”

  Poor Cecco pricked up his ears.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a man in a car,” said Jensina, “and he rides up and down the world all day taking things where they have to go. He’s got to take them. And whatever you write the name of the place on he’s got to take it there.”

  “But why is he called R.F.D.?” Poor Cecco asked.

  Jensina thought a moment. “R.F.D. means Rides For Dolls, of course,” she returned, very superior. “Every one knows that.”

  “It might mean Rides for Dogs,” said Poor Cecco, who didn’t see why Jensina should have it all her own way.

  Just then Bulka poked his head up through the long grass. “Who’s going to ride?” he asked

  “All of us!” said Jensina promptly. “Dear me, Bulka, you do look a sight! Brush all that grass-seed off you, do, and Poor Cecco find a clean piece of paper, and we’ll write the address.”

  Bulka had been hunting huckleberries in the pasture. He hadn’t found one, but he had found a great many other things instead—hayseed and dried leaves and bits of twig and burrs—which were sticking all over him, and while he sat down obediently and began to pick them off, one by one, Poor Cecco found a clean bit of pasteboard, from a cigarette packet some one had thrown away, and dipping a twig into blackberry juice he began to write, while Jensina looked over his shoulder.

  This is what he wrote, in a fine round hand:

  THE-WOODEN-HOUSE-WITH-TWO-TREES-IN-FRONT

  Left-hand corner of the road

  Going to Strawberryville.

  It looked very well when he had done, but Poor Cecco was still a little doubtful.

  “Do you think he’ll find it?” he asked.

  “Of course he’ll find it,” said Jensina. “That’s what he’s for. And now we must go and wait by the letters-box.”

  So, Bulka being by now fairly tidy, Poor Cecco tucked the label under his arm, and with Jensina carrying her precious bundle they all three made their way under the pasture bars and back to the road. And sure enough, before they had gone very far, there was a grey box on a post by the roadside with R.F.D. written on it, just as Jensina had said.

  “You see I was right!” she exclaimed. “Here is the letters-box, and if you’ll help me up all we’ve got to do is to sit here till the letter-man comes by.”

  Poor Cecco climbed up first, by the help of a vine that twined about the post, and with a little pushing and pulling they were soon all three seated up there, safe and sound, with their legs dangling over the edge.

  Jensina set up the flag, to be sure the letter-man would stop for them, while Bulka, leaning over, peered into the box.

  “I don’t see any lettuce!” he cried.

  “Where?” Jensina asked.

  “In the box. You said it was a lettuce-box!”

  “It’s not that kind of lettuce,” explained Jensina. “I said letters-box, where they post the letters!”

  “There’s only one kind,” returned Bulka, offended. “I see the post all right, but there’s no lettuce. I’m hungry! I’m going back to look for huckleberries again.”

  “You can’t!” cried Jensina, and she caught him by one leg just as he was getting ready to slide down. “You mustn’t be hungry, Bulka. We’re going home!”

  At the word “home” Bulka ceased to resist, and sat down again beside them. For safety Jensina made him sit in the middle with the address label across his tummy, and then, taking a piece of pink string she had picked up by the roadside, she bound them all three firmly together, in case, as she explained, they might get separated on the journey.

  The three pennies, taken from the bundle, were laid on the letter-box beside them. It was agreed that Bulka should pay his own fare, while Poor Cecco would pay for himself and Jensina. Thus there was exactly one penny, belonging to Poor Cecco, left over.

  It was not very pleasant waiting there, for the sun beat down on their heads and the iron top of the letter-box soon became uncomfortably hot to sit upon; in fact it was almost like an oven. Poor Cecco had the idea of picking some leaves from the vine that grew near, and with these they contrived parasols to keep the glare from their faces.

  “I wish the letter-man would hurry!” said Jensina, examining her painted shoes, which were beginning to blister from the sun.

  Bulka was asleep, as usual.

  Presently, however, a little cloud of dust appeared far away on the road. It was the letter-man’s car, and at length, with much banging and rattling, it drew up before them. The driver was a pleasant-faced man. He stared hard at the little party sitting, all tied together, on the top of the letter-box, and he scratched his head.

  “That’s a queer sort of a parcel!” he said.

  Still, the label was there, in Poor Cecco’s beautiful round handwriting, and the pennies were there, so he had no choice but to pick them up, which he did rather gingerly and set them on the seat beside him, after first licking three stamps and sticking them, one on Poor Cecco’s forehead, one on Bulka’s forehead, and one on Jensina’s.

  Then the car went on its way, rattling and bumping, to the next letter-box.

  Scarcely had it started before two rats poked their noses from the tall weeds behind the post, and with one swift glance about them, set out on a steady businesslike trot along the road.

  Chapter XIII

  MURRUM’S REVENGE

  WHAT had been happening at home all this while?

  When the others woke up in the morning they rushed at once to the dolls’ cradle, and seeing the stick of wood lying there wrapped up in the blankets, they had a great shock. It really looked as if something dreadful had happened to Poor Cecco! Perhaps he had died in the night! But when they unrolled the covers and saw it was only a stick of firewood after all, and just another of Poor Cecco’s tricks, they were pretty angry. He had no business to go away and leave them like that, and worse still, he had taken Bulka with him.

  Poor Cecco often disappeared; they were used to that. Very likely he had just gone off early to get himself a new tail, to surprise them with. But Bulka was another matter; Bulka had never been known to go away before.

  Tubby in particular was very upset. She remembered how she had quarrelled with Bulka the night before, and called him a cry-baby. Now he had gone, and all her tears would not bring him back.

  All that day she sat in a co
rner, and thought of the terrible things that might be happening to him, one worse than another. Even Ida, with all her soothing ways, could not console her. If Bulka ever came back, Tubby thought, she would tell him how much she really loved him. But she couldn’t wait for that; she must write a letter, before she forgot all the things that she wanted to say, and after hunting about for a scrap of paper and a stub of lead-pencil she seated herself in a corner behind the coal-scuttle and began to write.

  DEAR BULKA:

  I love you and I sorry I called you a crybaby and if you come back I will make you icecream and a cake with ammons on and I’ll take you to Tubbyland

  Yours loving

  TUBBY.

  That looked very nice, but not quite nice enough, so sticking her tongue out carefully she began again.

  DEAR BULKA:

  I miss you very much and if you come back I will make you a orange cake with icing and ammons on top and I love you and I hope you come back, there is no more nues at present with love from

  TUBBY.

  The third was like this:

  DEAR BULKA:

  I love you more than the sky and more than the blue and when you come back I will make you a cake with orange icing and ammons and silver balls and you are not a crybaby

  TUBBY.

  PS I love you more than Christmas and Easter and Fairyland

  By the evening Tubby had written thirty-seven letters and had used up nearly all the paper out of the wastepaper basket. She folded the letters very small and sealed them S.W.A.K. Where to post them was the question, but after thinking a little while Tubby decided what to do. She gathered up all the letters in her pinafore, and creeping up very quietly, she posted them all inside the Money-Pig while he wasn’t looking.

  Now she had no more paper, but the Easter Chicken settled that. He came running up, dragging a nearly clean paper bag which he had found by the pantry door.

  “Here’s paper, Tubby!” he cried. “I’ll find you all the paper you want! I know where there’s a whole lot of it!”

  So, greatly cheered, Tubby settled down once more to her letter-writing. So deep was she in her task, clutching the pencil tightly and with a tip of her tongue stuck out, that she never even heard the other toys calling her.

  They were going on a picnic.

  “Where’s Tubby?” asked Anna, when Tubby didn’t answer.

  “Sh-sh!” returned Gladys. “She’s behind the coal scuttle, writing letters to Bulka.”

  Tubby heard this, but she made no sound, only turned very red and went on with her letter.

  “Well, we needn’t bother about her,” said Virginia May. “If she doesn’t want to come she can stay behind.”

  And they all set off, with a great clatter and shouting, as usual; all except the Easter Chicken and the Money-Pig, who complained of indigestion and wanted to sleep. No wonder, with all those letters inside him!

  The house grew very still and lonely, but Tubby didn’t mind. She sat and wrote; her pencil went scratch-scratch busily on the paper without stopping. She was writing Bulka all the most lovely things she could think of. It is true that her letters were all rather alike, but that didn’t matter; one can’t always be saying something different. She was having a wonderful time. And meanwhile the Easter Chicken ran to and fro, fetching Tubby all the scraps of paper he could find, and as soon as each letter was finished he went over on tiptoe and posted it in the Money-Pig.

  Ding-dong! chimed the clock, twelve times. A beam of moonlight came through the window. It moved slowly nearer, till it lit up the dark corner behind the coal scuttle where Tubby sat writing. A tear stood on her nose, for at that moment she was wondering where Bulka was, and the thought that something might have happened to him, and that perhaps he would never read the letters she had written, was almost too much for her. But there was no use dwelling on dreadful thoughts, so she rubbed the tear off with her pencil and went on writing more busily than ever.

  A shadow moved in the far corner by the door. It was Murrum, just returned through the kitchen window from his prowling. He caught sight of Tubby sitting there in the moonlight, and pricked up his ears.

  Murrum was in a very bad temper. Things were going from bad to worse. He had not caught a single mouse in the last three nights. He blamed this entirely on the toys, and for a long time he had been planning revenge. Only this very day he had gone his rounds, sniffing everywhere; there was just one hole in the room, he knew, where a mouse might possibly be, and as luck would have it that hole was exactly in the corner by the fireplace, behind the coal scuttle, where Tubby sat writing her letters.

  Murrum’s tail twitched angrily. It was too bad! There she sat, right in his way. “Stop rustling that paper!” he growled. “What are you doing there?”

  “I won’t tell you,” said Tubby, and her pencil went straight on—scratch—scratch—on the paper.

  “You’re making a noise!” cried Murrum. “How dare you? Get out of my corner at once!”

  Tubby made no answer, though the Easter Chicken plucked anxiously at her skirt. Murrum’s tail was twitching to and fro, and his eyes shone like green lamps.

  “Will you get out from there?” he hissed.

  “No,” said Tubby. “I won’t. So Hinksman!”

  This was more than Murrum could endure. He made one furious bound, and seized Tubby then and there by the neck. The Easter Chicken gave a piteous squawk, but there was no one to hear. In two jumps Murrum crossed the floor and was out through the kitchen window, with Tubby in his mouth. Down the path he sped, and across the parsley border to the big willow tree in the corner by the fence, and climbing up the trunk he dropped poor Tubby—plong—right down the dark hole in the middle!

  “Now we’ll see,” said Murrum, “who’s master in this house!”

  Chapter XIV

  WHERE IS TUBBY?

  THE poor Easter Chicken did not know which way to turn. He rushed to the Money-Pig and shook him violently.

  The Money-Pig, who had seen everything that happened, pretended to be asleep. He was really a terrible coward.

  “Leave me alone!” he grumbled. “What’s the matter?”

  “Tubby!” cried the Easter Chicken. “Murrum has carried off Tubby!”

  “I’ll say she deserved it!” said the Money-Pig. “I can’t do anything, can I?”

  But the Easter Chicken continued to beat him with his wings, shouting: “Tubby’s gone! You must wake up! Murrum has stolen her!”

  “Can’t you leave me alone?” the Money-Pig complained. “Isn’t it enough that you must be stuffing goodness knows what all down my back all day! It isn’t money, I’m sure; I never felt so sick in my life. If Tubby’s gone, good riddance! I’m not going to worry about her. Let me sleep, for goodness” sake. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” And he pretended to groan.

  “Mind Your Own Business,” said Murrum the Cat

  (page 12)

  Poor Cecco Goes Into Business

  (page 39)

  Jensina’s Cottage

  (page 62)

  Jensina Proves a Born Housewife

  (page 85)

  Murrum’s Revenge

  (page 111)

  In the Toy Cupboard

  (page 122)

  The Peace Treaty

  (page 151)

  Just then the rest of the party returned from their picnic. They trooped in laughing, chattering and shouting, making such a noise that it was several minutes before the Easter Chicken could even make himself heard, though he did his best, running from one to another, flapping his wings and chirping piteously.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Gladys at last. “What’s all this fuss? You should have been in bed hours ago!”

  “Tubby’s gone! Tubby’s gone!” the Easter Chicken cried. And he poured out a story in which Tubby, Murrum and the Money-Pig were so mixed up that Gladys could make out nothing at all.

  “Come here!” she called to the others. “What’s he fussing about, do you suppose? He’s got some silly id
ea in his head but I can’t understand a word of it!”

  “It’s Tubby!” he sobbed.

  “Well, what about Tubby?” asked Virginia May tartly, for she had been interrupted in a conversation with Harlequin, and Harlequin’s conversations were rare.

  “Tubby has gone!” said the Easter Chicken.

  “Is that all? Well, she’s gone to Tubbyland, I suppose! She’s done it dozens of times before,” said Gladys. “Nothing to get so excited about.”

  For it had long been Tubby’s habit, especially when she felt herself slighted, to retire into hiding in some spot known only to herself, and from which she would reappear later, telling every one, with a most superior air, that she had just been to Tubbyland—a habit which annoyed the rest of the Toys unutterably, for they none of them really believed her.

  “She’ll come back when she gets tired of it,” said Anna wisely. “Stop chattering so much. Little chickens should be seen and not heard!”

  “But she hasn’t gone to Tubbyland,” the Easter Chicken insisted. “I tell you she’s stolen! Murrum stole her!”

  “Now you’re telling fibs!” exclaimed Virginia May severely. “You know you are always making things up. I don’t believe you.”

  “He’s had a nightmare,” suggested the Lion. “Go back to bed, Chicken, and keep quiet!”

  “But it’s true! It’s true! The Money-Pig saw him!”

  “I didn’t!” cried the Money-Pig hastily, for he was afraid of being blamed. “I was fast asleep. He woke me up. I’m feeling very unwell!”

  “Of course she’s gone to Tubbyland!” said Gladys. “She was always talking about it. Besides, no one’s seen Murrum for two days.”

  But at the word “Murrum” an uncomfortable chill fell on the party. However boldly they might talk when they were together, there was not one of them would have liked to meet Murrum alone, especially at night, unless it was Poor Cecco, and Poor Cecco was away. They shifted their feet and looked at one another uneasily. If only Poor Cecco were here this question would soon be settled. Meantime, if only to try and pacify the Easter Chicken, they began to hunt about for Tubby.