Poor Cecco

by Margery Williams Bianco

  Suddenly there was a whirr of wings, and a spotted woodpecker with a scarlet head flew down inside the tree. He looked very astonished.

  “Hallo!” he exclaimed. “Where did you come from?”

  “I come from Tubbyland,” said Tubby instantly, “and I would like some breakfast.”

  “Tubbyland—” said the woodpecker, clinging upsidedown to the wall in a way that made Tubby dizzy to look at. “Hm. I don’t know where that is! And as for breakfast, I’ve enough to do getting that for my own family, but if there’s any left over you shall have it.”

  He flew off, as good as his word, and in a few minutes he was back again but the breakfast he brought was not at all what Tubby had hoped for. It was a great fat worm, squirmy and unpleasant, and he dropped it so nearly into Tubby’s mouth, as she sat looking up, that she gave a little scream. He was off again instantly, and to hide her disappointment, and not to hurt the woodpecker’s feelings, she buried the worm as quickly as she could under the loose earth on the floor, where she would not be obliged to see it.

  She had only just finished, and was scraping the earth together again, when—bang—something hit her right on the nose. This time it was a nut, neatly cracked, so that Tubby had no trouble at all in getting the kernel out and eating it. It belonged to a squirrel, who was watching Tubby so intently that he let his nut fall without meaning to.

  Whirr! The woodpecker was back again, and with another worm, even fatter and squirmier than the first, dangling from his bill.

  “Open your mouth!” he called cheerfully.

  “I’ve had plenty!” Tubby cried. “Indeed I have! Please don’t trouble any more!”

  “Nonsense!” said the woodpecker. “Young people must eat. I don’t know where you come from, but we’ll see to it that you don’t starve. The children send this with their love!”

  And he dropped the worm plop into her lap.

  Luckily he didn’t wait to see what became of it.

  “I hate breakfast!” thought Tubby. For one worm after another, every few minutes, came tumbling down on her head. It kept her busy burying them all, and even then their tails would come wriggling up again, in a way that was most unpleasant. But presently, to her relief, the supply of worms gave out, or else the woodpecker thought she had had enough, for he ceased to appear, and Tubby was just shovelling the earth over the last and biggest worm of all when a voice overhead said:

  “What are you doing down there?”

  Tubby looked up. She was getting a crick in her neck from having to tilt her head back so often. This time it was the squirrel again.

  “None of your business!” cried Tubby, for she was afraid he would tell the woodpecker. “I’m tidying my house,” she added with dignity.

  “Are you the new Janitor?”

  “Indeed I’m not,” Tubby replied.

  “Then I don’t know why you are here,” said the squirrel. “You look like some kind of an orphan. Why did you eat my nut?”

  “I was hungry,” said Tubby. “I thought it was meant for me.”

  “Never mind,” the squirrel said. “Plenty more where that came from.” And he slapped his pocket. “I’ll come down and talk to you, if you like.”

  He came skipping down the side of the wall and dropped neatly to the floor, where he sat watching her with his bright beady eyes.

  “This basement isn’t so bad,” he remarked presently, “if you were to fix it up a little. Myself, I always prefer living in the upper story. But perhaps you had no choice.”

  “Indeed I hadn’t,” thought Tubby, but she didn’t tell the squirrel so. Instead she kept silence, and merely occupied herself with walking round and round the room, staring hard at the grey walls and humming as she did so, till at last the squirrel exclaimed: “Don’t do that! It makes me giddy! What are you looking for?”

  “I’m looking for a place to post my letter,” Tubby explained.

  “Oh, I thought you might be looking for a job,” said the squirrel, “and you certainly won’t find one there. Can you read and write?”

  “Of course!” said Tubby proudly.

  “Then stop poking your fingers into those cracks and listen to me. I’ve got three children at home. They’re smaller than you, but about the same colour. That’s why I thought you might be an orphan. Do you want to come and teach them?”

  “Teach them what?” Tubby asked.

  “Anything you like,” said the squirrel, waving his tail vaguely.

  Tubby thought a little while.

  “I’d like to see the house first,” she said.

  “It’s just up there,” said the squirrel. Looking up, Tubby saw for the first time a big hole halfway up the wall of the tree, which she had not noticed the night before.

  “How do you get up?” she asked.

  “This way,” said the squirrel, and he ran up and down the wall two or three times, clinging with his claws and making a funny scratchy sound as he went.

  “I can’t do that!” Tubby said.

  “I’ll help you,” said the squirrel. And he did, pushing her from behind and showing her where to put her paws.

  It was easier than she expected. “If he can help me so far,” Tubby thought, “he might be able to help me right up to the top.” But first she wanted to see the squirrels’ home.

  It was in a hollow limb of the tree, that reached a long way back like a passage. It was stuffy in there and very warm, and it smelled of fur and hay and nutshells; either the squirrels ate all their meals in the bedroom or else they slept in the pantry, Tubby could not quite make up her mind which. But the sight of the baby squirrels, sitting up in bed with their little paws clasped and their round eyes gazing up at her, pleased her so much that she sat down then and there among the hay and nutshells and took them all three on her lap.

  “We want a story!” cried the baby squirrels. “Tell us a story!”

  Tubby began immediately:

  “Once there was a little mouse and he lived in Tubbyland and he wore blue trousers, and one day he said to his mother, ‘Mother, I would like a party!’ ‘Very well,’ said his mother, ‘you have been a good child,’ and she took him down a long passage and opened the door, and there was a Christmas tree with candles on it and shiny lights—”

  “I want to go down the passage!” cried the three baby squirrels all at once, and they began to jump up and down.

  “Wait a minute,” said Tubby. “I haven’t told you what they had to eat at the party, yet.”

  “What had to eat?” asked the baby squirrels, clasping their paws.

  Tubby went on hurriedly: “They had all kinds of cake and biscuits, and carrots and nuts and peppermint, and a great be-yootiful cake with orange icing and silver balls on it, and three candles—”

  “Want some nuts!” the baby squirrels began again. “Want some nuts!”

  “Don’t be little pigs!” said Tubby severely, for she didn’t like being interrupted. “How can I tell you stories if you jump up and down all the time? So they lived happily ever after,” she finished in a loud firm voice. “And now one of you find me the comb and I’ll comb your hair.”

  After much hunting the baby squirrels found the comb under the bedclothes, and Tubby set about making them tidy. This was a task she thoroughly enjoyed; their hair was so soft and silky and parted so perfectly down the back, and it was such fun to comb out those long feathery tails till they shone like spun glass. The only trouble was that as soon as she finished one squirrel and set him aside, he at once began bouncing about in the hay and made himself all untidy again, until Tubby was almost in despair.

  “Were there ever such wriggly children!” she exclaimed. “Be quiet, do!” And she sat the last squirrel down very hard, hoping that he would stay this time, for she wanted to explore the rest of the house.

  Beyond the squirrels’ living-room the passage grew very narrow, so Tubby had hard work to squeeze herself along. It began to smell musty and wormy, too; evidently no one had used it for a long while.
But Tubby wriggled on, for she was bound to see what lay at the end.

  Soon it grew lighter. There was a small knothole in the wall, near the end of the passage, and as soon as Tubby caught sight of this she thought: “Now I can post my letter at last!” And pulling the letter from her pocket she poked it through the knothole and let it fall.

  As she turned round she bumped against something sharp. It was the corner of a box that had been pushed into a hollow right at the end of the passage. It was wedged there so tightly, covered over with dust and cobwebs, that Tubby had difficulty in pulling it out. But she managed it at last, and saw scratched on the lid the initials T. L.

  “That’s for Tubbyland,” thought Tubby. “Perhaps there are chocolates in!” And lifting up the lid she looked inside.

  There were no chocolates in, but there was something far more interesting. There was, first of all, a gold thimble, and then a silver dime with a hole in it, and a bit of tinsel and some red worsted, and a ring with a bright green stone, and a bit of broken looking-glass and three safety-pins and a gilt watch and chain, just the right size for Poor Cecco. And when she had pulled all these things out, there, folded away at the bottom, under some scraps of coloured paper and silk, was a brand-new red velvet coat with gold buttons, and a little pair of sky-blue trousers trimmed with silver braid!

  They might have been made to the very measure of Bulka!

  Tubby’s paws shook with excitement as she folded the clothes up again and tumbled everything back into the box. She could hear footsteps along the passage. It was the squirrel, come back to see how she was getting along.

  “Look what I found!” cried Tubby. “Look what I found! There’s T.L. on it. It came from Tubbyland!”

  “That’s a queer thing!” said the squirrel, peering into the box with his head on one side. “That must have belonged to old Miss Magpie. She rented this house before we had it, and from what I hear she was a terrible old miser. All sorts of things she had, stored away, and they do say she didn’t come by the half of them honestly, either. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she stole these! Anyway you’re welcome to them if they’re any use to you, for I’m sure I don’t want the house cluttered up.”

  And while Tubby held her pinafore out he very obligingly stowed everything into it, the box being too big to carry.

  That evening, after she had tucked the baby squirrels into bed, tidied up the nutshells, and bidden Mr. Squirrel good-night, Tubby sat on the floor at the bottom of the tree, with her treasures spread about her. She unfolded the little coat and trousers, folded them again, laid them in every possible position to see how beautiful they looked. How pleased Bulka would be! How fine he would look with these elegant blue trousers on, and the red coat buttoned down the front!

  Oh, why wasn’t Bulka here!

  A great tear rolled down and splashed on the blue velvet. Anxiously Tubby wiped it off with the hem of her pinafore, but it was no use; another fell, and another—She pushed the clothes aside and sat very still, blinking hard.

  Dusk fell; the walls about her shone once more with their soft greenish light. Poor Tubby felt very lonely and very homesick. Never had she missed Bulka so much. She groped in her pocket for the pencil. There was just one tiny scrap of paper left, all crumpled, and smoothing it out she tried to write. But the words wouldn’t come, and the pencil danced up and down before her eyes.

  Suddenly, on the outside wall of the tree she heard, very faint and far off, a tiny tapping!

  Chapter XVII

  THE LETTER FROM THE SKY

  “YOU see,” explained Poor Cecco, “if Murrum happens to walk by here, and if he only happens to put his paw on that piece of wood, then this will pull that, and that this—and then the whole stick will fall down right on his back!”

  “A lot of good that will do!” said Jensina.

  They were in the garden, by the onion bed, looking at the trap which Poor Cecco had invented, while Harlequin stood by, well pleased with his share in the work.

  “Anyway it will give him a good fright,” Poor Cecco retorted.

  “Why did you put it here?” Jensina objected. “Murrum doesn’t eat onions, does he?”

  “Because it’s the only place where the earth is soft enough. You don’t seem to understand, Jensina,” he went on indignantly, “that it took ages digging that hole out!”

  “I’ve known a lot of cats,” Jensina remarked, “but I’ve only known one that was an idiot, and he got drowned in the buttermilk pail!”

  “I wonder where Bulka is?” said Poor Cecco after a moment, wishing to change the conversation.

  “I thought I heard him calling a minute ago,” Harlequin replied. “Look, there he comes!” And he pointed down the garden path.

  Bulka, when he left the house, had, after some search for a quiet nook, settled down with his armful of letters under the shade of a rhubarb plant. The rhubarb stems were tall; the broad leaves spread out like a tent, and beneath thir shelter he felt secure from prying eyes. Spreading the letters out, he read them all through, one by one, and as he read his little heart trembled with emotion. Dear Tubby, what beautiful things she had written here and all for him alone!

  He couldn’t sit still any longer; he must jump up and wander about in the sunshine and think of it all. With the precious letters, tied all together by a strong grassblade, clutched close to his heart, he skipped along, up one border and down the next, paying no particular attention to where he was going and only thinking of his dear Tubby, when, just as he paused to give an extra skip and wriggle—ping!—something fell right on the top of his head!

  It was the very letter which Tubby, as you will remember, had posted through the hole in the willow tree branch!

  Certainly that letter had lost no time on the way.

  Bulka rubbed his head, looked up at the green branches above him, down at the ground, and saw the letter lying there, addressed to him, on the garden path. His first thought was that it had somehow dropped from the packet in his arms. But no, the grass band was still unbroken; nothing was missing.

  He opened the letter and read:

  DEAR BULKA:

  I am in a funny place it is a house in a tree Murrum brought me It is lited with green lites—

  When he had read as far as this Bulka started off at a run, across the herb borders, through the marigold thicket, up one path and down the next, calling loudly for Poor Cecco and Harlequin.

  “I’ve got a letter from Tubby!” he cried breathlessly, when at last he caught sight of Harlequin’s head above the onion tops.

  “We know,” Jensina said. “You told us. Goodness, Bulka, you’re out of breath!”

  “It’s a new letter,” he told them. “It fell out of the sky!”

  “Show me!” said Poor Cecco. And he read it aloud.

  Plainly, if the letter were true, Tubby was in a tree. But which tree? They looked round. The whole garden was full of trees.

  “Where did you find it?” Poor Cecco asked.

  Bulka thought, staring about him, and his face grew doubtful. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “It just fell on me.”

  “But surely you remember? Where were you walking?”

  “I was walking—I was walking everywhere!” said Bulka. Which was very nearly true. “I’d been all over the garden, and then it fell on me, and I ran—and I ran, and I couldn’t find you!”

  “I call that silly!” said Jensina.

  But Poor Cecco, seeing that Bulka was very near to tears—a thing that had not happened for a long time, for during his travels he head learned to be quite brave—said kindly: “Never mind, Bulka! Tubby’s in a tree, that we know, and we’ll hunt the garden over till we find her, if it takes us all night!”

  All the others came running when they heard the glad news—even the Express Wagon rumbled along, in case he should be needed on ambulance duty—and together they set out to search the garden from end to end.

  It took them a long while. They began with the smallest trees fir
st—like the rose trees—because they were the easiest. Some of them were so small that it would hardly have been possible for the Easter Chicken, let alone Tubby, to have been hidden in them, but as Poor Cecco said, it was best to leave nothing untried. So at each one they peered and tapped and listened.

  There was some discussion between Harlequin and the Wooden Engine as to whether the raspberry canes were trees or flowers, but this Poor Cecco decided. He said they were vegetables. While they ran to and fro among the garden beds the Express Wagon kept pace with them, as nearly as he could, on the path.

  They all worked with a will. Anna got tangled in a fallen pea-vine. Bulka scratched himself in the currant bushes, but still they kept on, tapping and calling, till gradually the sun sank lower and the shadows began to lengthen.

  It was nearly dusk when they found themselves, thoroughly disheartened, in the corner beyond the parsley bed. Suddenly Anna, whose upturned eyes were invaluable in a search of this kind, exclaimed:

  “Isn’t that a tree?”

  It was the willow, its huge grey trunk looming above them, grey and enormous. It was so big to their eyes that none of them before had even thought of it as a tree at all. Now, at Anna’s remark, they looked up. Certainly there were branches on it, and sprays of green leaves here and there.

  “It’s a mountain,” said the Engine.

  “No,” said Poor Cecco, “it is a tree. It has bark. But it is a much too large tree.”

  “Do you suppose Tubby’s there?” Gladys whispered, overawed.

  Bulka’s heart sank at the thought of Tubby, shut up in that enormous fortress. But he rushed up and began to pound on the rough grey bark.

  There was no answer.

  “We must try all the way round,” Poor Cecco said.

  So all the way round they walked, tapping and listening. Suddenly Bulka, who had his ear glued to the trunk, cried, “Listen, all of you! I hear something!”

  Instantly they all stood still. Somewhere within the tree could be heard a distinct answering tap.