by Natale Ghent
“How about a story?” the pig asked in desperation.
The babies suddenly sat up, their eager eyes glinting, their little gray paws clapping with approval. “Tell us a story, Santa,” they sweetly chirped.
Millhouse scratched his head and worried his beard, trying to think of a story that would entertain such little mice. “Nothing in my repertoire will hold their interest,” he agonized, afraid the baby mice would go off again. But then his face lit up. “I know just the thing,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I shall recite a poem. But we must have atmosphere!”
Milly slid down a leg of the chair, the chamois flapping behind him. The baby mice cheered, following the pig in a gray waterfall to the pet shop floor.
Millhouse retrieved the matchbox from the prop room. Opening it partway, he stood it on end then called the firefly down and gently placed it inside the box. He produced a piece of orange cellophane—a candy wrapper that had escaped the Weekend Boy’s broom—and crumpled it into the opening. The firefly beamed, its phosphorescent glow lighting the wrapper like a tiny, flickering wood fire.
Milly lay the chamois in front of the hearth and stood before the cellophane fire, the baby mice reclining at his feet. He cleared his throat, soft and low so as not to wake the others, then began to bob up and down, one finger held in the air. “Some of the actors would recite this late at night,” he explained, and he started to sing:
Shakespeare was a writer
Who lived so long ago.
He wrote great plays and poetry
And put on quite a show.
He wrote to please the ladies.
He chose each word just so,
But sometimes in the black of night,
The words they wouldn’t flow—
Oh! The words they wouldn’t flow.
Now Shakespeare was a fighter
Who wouldn’t just give in.
He’d pull his hair and rub his hands
And pluck his bearded chin.
But when he was exhausted
And his muse could not be found,
He’d lay upon the wooden floor
And make a snoring sound—
Oh! He’d make a snoring sound.
That’s when the mice came creeping,
To whisper in his bonnet,
And tell him all the words he’d need
To finish his new sonnet.
And Shakespeare he would listen
And think it was a dream,
Then wake and take to writing
A poem or a scene.
So the next time you read Shakespeare,
At school or in your house,
Remember that the mighty Bard
Owes so much to a mouse—
Oh! Owes so much to a mouse!
Squeak, squeak, squeak!
Milly bowed deeply as the little mice cheered and clapped, hooting for more.
“Another!” they begged. “Give us another!”
“Sweet Bard,” Milly moaned. “I’ll give you one more, but you must promise to go to bed afterward.”
The babies nodded and clapped.
“This is a poem taught to me by the late great Sir Roderick Lord Kingswagger, my own dear thespian.” The guinea held his head high and bravely began:
I have a cat with an electric tail.
She walks on the tips of her toes,
And everywhere puss decides to go,
Her tail, decidedly, goes …
Millhouse recited at length, spinning out the story of the seafaring cat and her electrical tail. The mice huddled at his feet, hypnotized by the poem, even though it was about one of their most feared enemies. Somehow the cat seemed kind and caring in the world of Milly’s rhyme.
When he was finished reciting, the pig sighed deeply, wiping a big tear from his eye. “Dear, dear Sir Roderick,” he said, placing his small pink paw over his heart. “And now it is time for all good mice to go to bed.”
The baby mice groaned and shuffled reluctantly across the floor, clutching their gifts in their paws. Milly stood beside the hole in the wall beneath the pet shop window, waving good-bye as the baby mice left. One little mouse dashed back through the hole and hugged the guinea around the legs one last time.
“Thank you, Santa,” he whispered.
Milly patted the little mouse on the top of his head in a fatherly fashion.
When he was sure that his young charges were safely off to bed, the pig freed the firefly from the matchbox hearth and picked up his chamois from the floor. He dragged the cloth and the hearth to the prop box, then pulled the red sock from his head. Closing the door behind him, he crept to the bottom of the pet food boxes and stared up at his lonely wire cage. “And so, I am still here,” he announced to the dark. “Perhaps I am not strong enough to truly leave. Perhaps I was simply fooling myself. Perhaps I will live out the rest of my days here, unwanted and unloved, plagued by misery and loneliness—”
There was a small sniff from across the room.
“Who’s there?” Milly demanded.
Another sniff.
“I say, who’s there?” Milly asked again. “It is much too late for mice or men.”
“What about rats?” a disembodied voice whistled through the dark.
Milly peered across the room. Elliot surfaced from his papers, his eyes streaming with tears.
“That was the most beautiful poem I ever overheard,” he blubbered, wiping his eyes with the small white cloth. He blew his nose with a loud honk, then rolled the cloth behind one ear. “And you know,” he continued, his voice rising and cracking uncontrollably, “I don’t even like cats!” He pointed mutely to the faint scar on his elbow, his face crumpling with emotion.
“Yes, well, thank you,” the guinea said, genuinely moved by the rat’s admission. But he was tired after such a long and emotional day, and he pined for the comfort of his cage. He gave a polite and dignified bow, then excused himself, leaving the rat blubbering and sniffling across the room.
Climbing the pet food boxes, Millhouse made his way back to his cage. He grunted contentedly as he dug beneath his shavings, the familiar cedar smell tickling his nose. He thought about the events of the night. He thought about the baby mice and how good it felt to have an adoring audience. He thought about the rat’s teary appreciation of his poem. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. Maybe it was okay to stay and make the best of things. This thought opened a tiny window in his guinea pig heart, and for the first time in a very long time, a small flicker of hope glimmered there. Milly lay awake beneath his blanket of shavings, marveling at the glimmer for a great long while before curling into a warm ball and drifting into a deep, deep sleep.
9
Operation Pip-Squeak
Despite his late night, Millhouse rose early on Christmas morning to discover a small package placed with obvious care beside his cage. It was wrapped, neat and perfect, in several layers of newspaper and tied with a bright green string.
“Why, what on earth?” The pig looked around the room for a clue to the origin of the package. The other animals were still asleep, exhausted from the day before. There seemed to be no one awake but him.
“Well, I guess I shall just have to unwrap it,” Milly said, staring at the package with excitement, because nothing lifts the spirits like a gift from a secret admirer. Opening his cage door, he snuck the package inside. When he was sure no one was watching, he pulled one end of the string, freeing the wrapping.
“Why, it’s my magical dice!” Milly exclaimed. He looked up to see Elliot beaming back at him through the bars of his cage.
“Read them papers,” the rat whistled, blinking his eyes. “I ripped ’em just for you.”
Milly placed the dice lovingly to one side, then carefully smoothed the newspaper wrappings. “It’s a quotation,” he said.
“Read it,” the rat encouraged. “Read it out loud.”
Milly read aloud, projecting his voice as though speaking to a large audience:
; Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.
—Albert Einstein
“Rubbish,” the Pepper Brown growled.
“Is there no peace around here?” the White Collar complained from his high-rise.
“I thought it must be about you,” Elliot said, ignoring the ferret and the other guinea.
Milly looked at the rat, his eyes damp with emotion. “I—I don’t know what to say,” he whispered, swallowing hard against the lump growing in his throat. “This is the nicest thing anyone here has ever done for me.”
“Read that other one,” Elliot said, his eyes blinking. “You’ll like that one, too.”
Milly unfurled the second paper. It was a schedule for the theater. “Sweet Bard! Where did you get this?” he cried.
Elliot grinned, his face glowing with pride. “I knew you’d fancy it!” he said, snapping his fingers. “And them wild mice—they’re gonna help you.”
“The babies?” Milly asked. “But they’re only weeks old. Mind you, they do seem to enjoy my performances. And there’s an endless stream of them, though I don’t know where they go as they get older—”
“Not the babies!” Elliot interrupted. “Bigger ones. I’ve got connections.”
Milly blinked back. “What do you mean?”
The rat squinted as he looked around the room, then he spoke from the corner of his mouth. “How do you think I sent that package?” He pointed to the dice.
“I haven’t the foggiest notion,” Milly said.
Elliot licked his lips. “Them wild mice—they’ve got quite a tail line going.” He gave a big wink.
“A tail line?” Milly echoed.
Elliot nodded, then whipped his head from side to side, searching for eavesdroppers. Millhouse did the same.
“They’ve got tails all over,” Elliot continued, making a broad sweep of the room with one paw. “They’ve got tails a-n-y-where you want to go.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.
“A-n-y-where I want to go?” Milly repeated, unsure of what the rat was implying.
Elliot winked.
Millhouse clung to the bars of his cage in confusion. He looked down at the paper clippings at his feet. The schedule lay there, half curled. And then he understood. “Oh, you mean the theater!”
“Blast the theater!” the Pepper Brown snarled and began clawing at the door of his cage.
“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” the rat shushed, flapping his paws in front of his face.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Milly apologized. “I don’t have much experience with these clandestine affairs.”
Elliot wiped his brow with the little white cloth.
“How can the mice help me?” Milly asked in a soft voice.
The rat tucked the white cloth behind his ear. “O-per-ation Pip-Squeak. Top secret. Highly co-vert.”
Millhouse mouthed the words to himself, afraid to set the rat off again.
“You can’t go to the theater,” Elliot whispered, “so we bring the theater to you!” He smiled at Milly as though he had just solved a great riddle.
The pig stared back at the rat. He didn’t understand a word the rodent had said. “I—I see.”
Elliot sighed with frustration. “Look,” he said, squaring himself. He spoke each word clearly and slowly, so as not to be misunderstood. “Them mice can sniff out the theater”—he wiggled his fingers in front of his nose—“then scuttle back here and tell you what you want to know!”
“Oh, I do see!” Milly exclaimed. “Why, that’s brilliant!”
The rat smiled. “You know, for such a sharp stick, you’re a little bit thick in the thinker.” He tapped his forehead. “No offense,” he added, raising his paw in the air.
“None taken,” Milly said. “It’s just that I never thought of it myself. It’s actually quite ingenious. How am I supposed to let them know?”
To Milly’s dismay, the rat began to cough, embarking on one of his fits. He waved one finger in the air as he searched for his thimble. When he found it, he took a deep swig, choked on it and instantly spit the water in a plume across his cage, his body heaving. Milly held his breath, waiting.
“Just p-p-put that sche-dule up when you want them t-t- to go. And m-m-make s-s-sure you in-dee-cate w-w-which sh-sh-show,” Elliot finally managed to hack out.
“Thank you!” Milly exhaled with relief, clapping his paws together. “You are most kind! You know, when I woke up this morning I had no idea what the day would bring. I said to myself, ‘Milly—’ ”
But before the guinea could finish this thought, the rat heaved and capsized, sinking like a torpedoed ship beneath his sea of newspaper.
The rest of the day was decidedly uneventful, except for the special Christmas treat the Weekend Boy left in each animal’s dish. The Pepper Brown spent the entire day gnawing at the wire that fastened his cage. The gerbils spun around and around in their exercise wheel. The chameleons clung to their branch. The other guineas ignored Millhouse as usual, and the White Collar threw his Christmas treat on the floor with disgust.
“What a waste,” Milly sighed as he munched on his own little bit of holiday green. He studied his new theater schedule, reading it over and over until it was nighttime and the other animals were fast asleep again. When he was sure he was not being watched, he decided to test the operation. Hanging the schedule on his cage door, he put a small scratch beside the performance he wanted to “see.”
“How exciting!” he said as he hunkered down in his cedar shavings and waited.
But in the morning, everything looked the same. There had been no visitors and no indication that there ever would be any. The pig waited all day for something—anything—to show that the mice had actually received his message. He was almost ready to forget about the theater altogether when two wild mice arrived at nightfall. They saluted smartly when they reached the guinea’s cage.
“Privates M. and M. Mousekins reporting, sir,” the mice said, then they began rapidly recounting the plot of The Taming of the Shrew. The whole time the mice were talking, their commander was keeping careful watch from the hole in the wall.
“But what of the costumes?” Milly asked. “And the crowd? Was it a lively one? And who were the principal players? Anyone famous?”
Milly asked so many questions and demanded so many details that the mice got completely confused, and they were finally ushered away by a loud squeak from their commander.
“I must have more!” Milly said, posting the schedule again that night. Two different mice appeared the next evening, full of sights and sounds from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. But Milly once again peppered them with so many questions that the mice began arguing savagely about the finer points of the play until the pig tore at his beard and shouted at them to stop.
“Oh, it’s no use,” Milly sighed, dismissing the mice and slumping off to bed.
In the morning, Millhouse was surprised to find a bona fide theater program shoved between the bars of his cage.
“How wonderful!” he said, beaming at the program.
“Hey, look! Baldy’s got mail,” the Abyssinian jeered.
“It’s not reaaal mail,” the Honey Cream drawled. “It’s just some old junk someone else caaahhst aside.”
The gerbils quickly joined in, racing in their exercise wheel with mock enthusiasm as they cheered:
P-p-postman, p-p-postman, don’t be slow,
B-b-be like Mill-house,
G-g-go, go, go!
But Milly was undaunted. He dragged the program into his cage, ignoring the silly jibes. He was so thrilled to receive such a wonderful gift from the outside world that he forgot his frustration from the night before and began happily perusing the glossy photos promoting the many different productions. He turned page after glorious page and soon found himself staring at one of his most beloved actors, Sir Peter Ustinov, starring in a production of King Lear.
“Sir Peter Ustinov!” the pig cooed, gazing at the photo longingly. “Oh, if only
I could see King Lear for myself.”
“Not safe,” whistled the rat, popping up from beneath his papers.
“What do you mean, not safe?” Milly asked.
“Seeing that play-a-ma-bub with your own beads. Not safe at all,” Elliot said, shaking his head. “People everywhere—stepping on you, throwing things, screaming in your face. Not to mention the cats.” He snapped his fingers and blinked nervously.
“But I’m not afraid of people,” Milly said. “I’ve been around them my entire life.”
Elliot scrunched up his face. “Did I mention the cats?”
“What cats?”
“Them the-a-ter cats,” the rat said, whipping his head from side to side as though expecting a cat to appear at any second. “They keep ’em there … to catch … to catch …” His chest started to heave and his eyes bulged dangerously.
“Mice?” Milly offered, hoping to prevent one of the rat’s outbursts.
“Ahhhhhh!” Elliot howled. “Don’t say things like that out loud! You’re gonna curse us!”
“Well, good heavens, I used to live in the theater,” Milly said. “I know all about cats.”
“You lived in a cage,” Elliot countered. “Not the same as roaming about.”
The pig frowned. “But I did roam about. In fact, I didn’t mind the cats at all. Some of them were quite jovial. And if the mice can move freely back and forth, why can’t I?”
“They’re pro-fessionals,” the rat replied. “And if you don’t mind me saying, you’re even more … uhhhh, tempting than a mouse, having no coating and all—if you catch my drift. You may as well hang a sign around your neck that says l-u-n-c-h!”
“Ahhhh, lunch,” the Pepper Brown said, smacking his lips.
Milly shuddered as the rat disappeared beneath his papers.
“Heavenly Bard,” the pig sighed. “I just have to see Sir Peter Ustinov. I will never forgive myself if I miss him.”
That night, Milly thought of a plan—a plan that could change everything.