by Ruth Chew
“What are you doing with the new broom, Mother?” Amy asked.
“I was just going to use it to sweep the front walk. I wish children wouldn’t throw down bubble-gum wrappers.” Mrs. Perkins went into the house.
Amy chased after her. “Use the old broom, Mother, please,” she begged. “You’ll get the new one all dirty.”
While Mrs. Perkins was sweeping the front walk with the old broom, Amy was eating breakfast in the kitchen. Jean sat and watched her eat. The little blue broom leaned against the table.
“You ought to train Wispy to come when you whistle,” Jean said. “Then you wouldn’t always have to look for her.”
“What about it, Wispy?” Amy asked.
The broom nodded.
The girls heard the front door open. Mrs. Perkins had finished her sweeping and was coming back into the house.
“Quick, Wispy, go back to the laundry room,” Amy said. “And when I whistle, come as fast as you can.”
The broom flew down the basement stairs.
Amy’s mother walked into the kitchen. “I have to clean the house. It will be easier for me if there’s no one around. Why don’t you two go for a picnic?”
“I’ll have to ask Mom.” Jean got up from the table and went through the house to the front door. “See you later, Amy,” she called.
Jean lived right across the street. It wasn’t long before she was back again. Mrs. Perkins was getting ready to make sandwiches.
“Mom says it’s okay,” Jean said. “She told me to try not to get my feet wet.”
Mrs. Perkins laughed. “You fell in the lake last time you and Amy went to Prospect Park.” She began to slice up the end of a roast of beef. “Hand me the box of sandwich bags, please, Jean.” She pointed to the kitchen cabinet. “It’s on the second shelf, next to the jar of honey.”
Amy found a string bag to pack the lunch in. It had handles that she could loop over her arm. She looked in the refrigerator. “Mother, may we take a couple of cans of cherry soda?”
“Just be sure you don’t leave the poptops around.” Mrs. Perkins went to the sink to wash four peaches.
When the lunch was ready, the girls packed it in the string bag. Amy ran up to her room to get a sweater. She tied it around her waist.
“What do you need that for?” Jean asked. “It’s hot today.”
Amy remembered how cold she had been in her dream last night. “We don’t know where we’re going,” she said. “You’d better get a sweater too.”
Jean ran home to get one. Amy waited until her mother went upstairs with a pail of water. Then she gave a whistle. She heard a crash. Wispy had knocked over a chair as she flew through the dining room.
Amy opened the front door. The broom flew out and floated over the front stoop. Jean was just coming up the steps, carrying her red sweater. She climbed up on the broom behind Amy.
Amy gave the blue bristles a pat. “Take us for a ride, Wispy.”
Wispy took off at an angle and flew over the house across the street. Jean looked in an upstairs window. She saw her mother. Mrs. Remsen was smoothing the wrinkles out of the spread on Jean’s bed.
A minute later the girls and the broom were high in the air. A little gust of wind struck them. Wispy changed direction. A seagull flew past. Wispy started to chase it across the sky.
Amy and Jean held tight to the broomstick. Jean leaned forward and put her mouth to Amy’s ear. “Look! There’s the bridge to Staten Island!”
Amy saw water and ships far below them. They were flying over the harbor.
The seagull swooped down toward the ships. The broom followed.
Suddenly the gull caught sight of something floating in the water. He pounced on it.
Splash!
Wispy was so close behind the gull that her bristles hit the water.
At once the broom reared up. She tried to fly skyward again. Instead she kept sinking lower.
Amy held on to the broomstick and leaned back to help the broom point at the sky. “Up, Wispy, up!”
The choppy waves of the harbor washed under them. Jean’s feet dragged in the water. Amy held the string bag as high as she could to keep it from getting wet.
The little broom struggled. She strained forward and rose from the water. Then she started to drop down again. All her bristles sagged.
Wispy made a great effort. She coasted over the front of a boat and landed on the deck between two iron poles.
Amy and Jean stood up. Amy picked up the broom. She handed the string bag to Jean.
The two girls looked around. An iron gate stretched across the front of the boat. A man, a woman, and a little boy were standing by the gate. The man was staring at Jean and Amy. He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. The woman put her hand to her forehead as if she had a headache. And the little boy was trying to hide behind his mother.
Amy looked into the boat. “Jean, there are cars in there.”
“It’s the ferry,” Jean said.
The girls went up a stairway to the deck above. People were sitting on benches in a big cabin. Jean and Amy climbed another flight of stairs. On the top deck there was another cabin. Long benches faced the water on the outside deck. The girls found a seat on one of them.
A cool sea breeze blew across the deck. Amy and Jean put on their sweaters. They watched a tugboat pushing a big ocean liner up the channel. Two sailboats skimmed past the ferry. The sun glinted on the water.
“Isn’t this great?” Amy said.
When the boat docked at Staten Island, the iron gates were opened, and the cars drove off the ferry. A ramp was lowered for people to walk ashore. Jean and Amy decided to stay on board.
“The ferry sails back to Manhattan from here,” Amy said. “If Wispy can’t fly, we can get a subway that will take us home.”
“We don’t have any money for carfare,” Jean reminded her.
“Hand me the string bag, Jean,” Amy said. “We might as well have lunch.”
Jean gave her the bag. Amy opened it and handed Jean a peach. “This ought to make you feel better.”
Amy looked at the blue broom. “Your bristles are soggy, Wispy.” She remembered the way the broom had acted the day it rained and when her mother had talked about a shower. “Is that why you can’t fly?”
The broom nodded.
“My feet are soggy,” Jean said. “It doesn’t keep me from walking.”
The girls sat on the bench and ate their lunch. The wind tangled their hair.
The ferry sailed past the Statue of Liberty. It was headed for the tall buildings of Manhattan.
When they had drunk the last drop of cherry soda Jean and Amy went into the cabin to put their trash into a basket. Amy saw a sign saying Women’s Room Downstairs. “Come on, Jean. I have an idea.”
In the Women’s Room Amy took a paper towel and started to rub the blue bristles. The woman who had the job of keeping the room clean came over to see what she was doing.
“That’s not what those towels are put here for,” the woman said.
“I know,” Amy told her. “But if I don’t dry these bristles, the broom can’t fly. And we won’t be able to go home.”
For a moment the woman just looked at the two girls. Then she smiled. “In that case I suppose I’ll have to let you have some towels.” She pulled four paper towels from the dispenser and gave them to Amy. “Run along now, girls. I shouldn’t be doing this.”
Jean and Amy sat down in the big cabin to dry the bristles. They rubbed and rubbed. The paper towels were soaked through. But the bristles were still damp.
“We’d better not risk letting Wispy fly over water,” Jean said.
The ferry had reached the shore. It nosed its way between two rows of wooden pilings. Now everybody had to get off the boat.
Amy and Jean walked through the iron gate into the terminal building. They went down the stairs and out into the street.
“Now, Wispy,” Amy said, “do your best.”
She let go of the
broom. Wispy fell over onto her side and floated above the pavement. Amy and Jean sat down on her.
The broom began to fly forward. She hardly rose into the air at all. The girls’ feet dragged on the sidewalk. The people who noticed them seemed to think they were riding on a strange sort of bicycle.
They followed the signs to the Brooklyn Bridge and flew over the walkway. The cables of the bridge crisscrossed on each side of them like a giant spiderweb.
When they reached the Brooklyn side of the East River, Wispy began to fly higher. Amy felt the bristles. “They’re almost dry now,” she told Jean.
“I wonder what time it is,” Jean said. “My feet are soaking wet. I’d like to change my shoes.”
Suddenly the little broom gave a bounce. She zoomed straight up in the air and took a short cut toward Amy’s house. In almost no time they landed on the front stoop.
Amy stood up and picked up the broom. The front door opened. Mrs. Perkins looked out. “What are you doing with the new broom?” she asked.
“We were riding on it, Mother,” Amy said.
Mrs. Perkins laughed. She took the empty string bag. “I see you fell in the lake again, Jean. The broom must have come in handy to pull you out.”
“We couldn’t have gotten home without it,” Amy said.
At supper time Mrs. Perkins said, “There’s a bluejay in the yard. I can’t seem to drive her away.”
Amy put down her fork. “Mother, that’s the one I told you about. She’s a tame bird. She wants to come into the house.”
“When I was a boy,” Mr. Perkins said, “I always wanted a parrot. Maybe we could make a pet of this jay.”
“Nonsense.” Amy’s mother gave him a second helping of mashed potatoes. “Bluejays are not nice birds. And this one screams, ‘Thief! Thief!’ every time she sees me.”
Amy’s father laughed. “Maybe you have something that belongs to her.” He got up from the supper table and went to look out of the dining room window. It was still light outdoors. “There’s the bird sitting on the fence. Isn’t she beautiful?”
All at once Mr. Perkins dropped the table napkin he was holding. He ran into the kitchen and out the back door.
Amy and her mother got up from the table and followed him. When they went into the yard they saw Mr. Perkins standing beside the fence. He was holding the bluejay in his hands. “The neighbors’ cat caught her,” he said.
“Oh, the poor thing!” Mrs. Perkins turned her head away. “Is she dead?”
“I can feel her heart beating.” Mr. Perkins stroked the blue feathers. “Let’s take her into the house. She’ll be safer there.”
He carried the jay into the kitchen. Amy ran up to her room and brought down a shoe box. Mrs. Perkins lined the box with cotton and put the bird in it. “We’ll let her rest for a while,” she said. She put the shoe box on the kitchen table. The family went back into the dining room to finish supper.
After the meal they all carried their dishes out to the kitchen and put them into the dishwasher. While Amy’s mother was scrubbing the frying pan, Amy and her father went to look at the bluejay.
“Her eyes are open,” Mr. Perkins said. “I think she’s feeling better.”
Mrs. Perkins put down the frying pan and joined them. “Maybe she’s hungry. Amy, you know where the birdseed is.” She handed Amy an empty peanut butter jar. “You can put some in this.”
Amy took the jar down to the laundry room. The blue broom met her at the foot of the stairs. She poked her bristles into the jar.
“I’m sorry, Wispy. I can’t play with you now,” Amy said. “Be a good girl and don’t get into any mischief.” She went to fill the jar with birdseed from the bag on the clothes dryer.
Amy took the jar of birdseed up to the kitchen. Mr. Perkins tried to get the bluejay to eat it. The bird looked at the seed and wouldn’t open her beak.
“She’s still in a state of shock,” Mrs. Perkins said. “We ought to leave her alone for a while.”
When her mother and father went into the living room to watch television, Amy went down to the laundry room.
“You must be tired, Wispy, after all the flying you did today.” Amy felt the blue bristles. They were quite dry now. She put the broom into the box of rags and turned to go back upstairs.
Something rubbed against her shoulder. It was Wispy. She had hopped out of the box. Amy put her back again. “Go to sleep, Wispy.”
Amy went back up the basement stairs. She turned around before she went into the kitchen. The little broom was gliding behind her.
“Wispy,” Amy said. “I know you want to sleep in my bed, but my mother doesn’t like it.”
The blue bristles drooped. Amy carried the broom back down the stairs and once more put her in the box of rags. When she went back up to the kitchen she clicked the door to the basement stairs shut behind her.
Before she went to bed Amy peeked into the shoe box. The bluejay was fast asleep.
The next day was Sunday. When Amy came downstairs in the morning Mr. Perkins was at the kitchen table making pancakes in the electric frying pan. Mrs. Perkins was measuring coffee into the coffeepot on the stove.
Amy looked into the shoe box. The bluejay was all huddled up in it. Her eyes were open, but she was quite still.
“Maybe she’ll eat something now,” Amy said.
The bluejay stood up in the box and stretched her wings. She looked across the table at the frying pan.
Mrs. Perkins had put the peanut butter jar of birdseed in the kitchen cabinet. She went to get it. The bird took one look at the seed and put her head under her wing.
“She’s too frightened to eat. We’d better put her back outdoors.” Mrs. Perkins picked up the shoe box and took it to the back door. When Amy’s mother opened the door the bluejay flew up into the air. But instead of flying out into the yard she flew back into the kitchen. She perched on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
Mr. Perkins laughed. “I think the bird wants to stay in the house.”
“Of course she does.” Amy poured herself a glass of orange juice. “I told you she’s a tame bird.”
Mr. Perkins put a pancake on Amy’s plate.
The doorbell rang. Mrs. Perkins went to answer it. “Come in, Jean. You’re just in time to have some pancakes.”
“Thank you, but I’ve already eaten four this morning,” Jean told her.
“You’ll never guess who spent the night at our house,” Mrs. Perkins said.
Jean followed her to the kitchen. The bluejay was still perched on the back of the chair. Mr. Perkins had poured some birdseed into the palm of his hand. He offered it to the bird.
Jean stared. “I thought you said your mother hated bluejays, Amy.”
“This jay was caught by the neighbors’ cat yesterday,” Mrs. Perkins said. “We brought her into the house to keep her safe. And now she doesn’t want to leave.”
“We can’t get her to eat anything.” Amy’s father dumped the birdseed back into the peanut butter jar.
The bluejay watched him pour maple syrup on his pancakes. She chirped at him. Then she flew up onto the molding over the door.
Mrs. Perkins sat down at the table to eat her breakfast.
The bluejay was looking all around the room. The door of the kitchen cabinet was open a little. The jay walked quietly across the top of the door and then flew into the cabinet.
Jean had been watching the bird. “Amy,” she said, “look where the bluejay is.” She pointed.
Amy jumped up and ran to the cabinet. The jay was trying to get the top off the cookie jar.
“Silly!” Amy said. “You can’t eat cookies first thing in the morning.”
The bird fluttered up to the next shelf and began to poke her head into the cereal boxes.
Mrs. Perkins looked up. “Amy, get that bird out of there!”
Mr. Perkins walked over to the cabinet and reached up to grab the bluejay. She dodged him and knocked a box of cornflakes onto the floor. Then she flew down to
the kitchen table and peeked into the sugar bowl.
Mr. Perkins laughed. “I never saw such a nosy bird.”
The bluejay squawked at him. Amy’s father laughed again and sat down to finish his breakfast.
Mrs. Perkins went down the basement stairs. She came back with the little blue broom.
The bluejay took her beak out of the sugar bowl. She gave one look at the broom and then stared straight at Amy’s mother. “Thief! Thief!” she screamed.
Mrs. Perkins put the lid on the sugar bowl. “Thief yourself,” she said. She began to sweep up the cornflakes.
Amy put the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and wiped the crumbs from the table.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with this broom.” Mrs. Perkins stopped sweeping. She frowned. “It doesn’t sweep well at all.”
“Let me finish sweeping the kitchen, Mother,” Amy said. “There’s a trick to using this broom.”
Mr. and Mrs. Perkins went out of the kitchen. As soon as they had gone, Amy picked up the broom to carry it back to the laundry room.
“Watch out, Amy!” Jean ducked.
The bluejay flew over Jean’s head and perched on the broom handle. She started to chatter at the broom. She seemed to be asking Wispy something. Wispy wagged “no.” Then the bluejay looked at Amy and began to chatter again.
“She’s trying to tell me something,” Amy said.
The bird hopped off the broom and flew over to the toaster in the middle of the table.
“I wonder if she’d like some hot buttered toast.” At once Amy felt the broom tip back and forth. She propped Wispy against the table and went to get a slice of bread to drop into the toaster.
The bird sat and waited for the toast to pop up. When it was ready Amy buttered the toast and cut it into small squares. The bluejay picked up each piece with her claws and nibbled it down to the last crumb.
“She acts as if she hadn’t had anything to eat since our picnic the day before yesterday,” Jean said.