Austine waved her hand and said that geraniums were perennials.
“They are not,” said Linda, without even raising her hand. “They don’t count, because they grow in pots.”
“They do not! In California…” Austine glanced at Ellen and continued. “Where I used to live they grow for years and years. They grew in our yard and they were higher than the fence.”
Miss Joyce smiled. “Austine is right, Linda. Geraniums are perennials, even though we cannot grow them outdoors in winter in Oregon.”
Miss Joyce went on to explain that biennials were plants that took two years to grow and produce seed. The class thought and thought, but no one could think of even one biennial.
Finally Miss Joyce said, “I can think of two very common biennials—beets and carrots. You probably have never seen a beet or a carrot that has grown a flower and seeds, because we eat them before they are that old.”
Then Ellen remembered the beet she had seen in a vacant lot several blocks from her house. It had been growing for months in a lot where someone had once had a vegetable garden. Ellen always looked for the beet when she went down that street, because it was the biggest beet she had ever seen. The last time she had looked, the stalk growing out of it was over two feet high. Now that she thought about it, the stalk did have a funny thing at the top. She supposed it was the beet flower, but it certainly wasn’t very pretty.
Ellen raised her hand. “I know where there is a beet with a flower on top. If you want, I could bring it to school to show the class.”
“Thank you, Ellen,” said Miss Joyce. “I think that is an excellent idea. We do not often see a beet blossom. If the weather is unusually cold, the plants must be dug up and buried in pits and then replanted in the spring. However, we had such a mild winter last year that perhaps it wasn’t necessary.”
Ellen smiled happily. At last she had thought of something that would please Miss Joyce. Surely she would get to clap erasers if she brought a rare biennial beet flower to school.
Early the next morning Ellen ran up on Austine’s porch out of the rain and in her rubber boots tap-danced, hop, one-two-three. This was the way the girls summoned each other instead of calling or ringing the doorbell. She waited and danced again. Hop, one-two-three, slap down, slap down.
Austine’s brother Bruce came to the door. “Austine isn’t ready,” he said.
Then Austine came to the door in her stocking feet and with her hair uncombed.
“Oh, Austine. Couldn’t you have been ready on time for once in your life?” Ellen asked. “I’ve just got to get that beet so Miss Joyce will like me.”
“I tried to be early,” replied Austine. “I can’t help it if I broke both shoelaces and had to look all over for a pair of socks that matched.”
Ellen sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at school then. I’ve got to hurry if I’m going to get over to the lot and pull that beet.”
It was three blocks to the vacant lot. Running made Ellen so warm that she unbuttoned her raincoat, even though the rain was falling faster every minute. It was hard to run in her rubber boots, because they made her feet so heavy. And she had to hold the hood of her raincoat in place or the wind blew it off. As she ran, she began to be afraid the beet might be gone when she got there. It was such a big beet someone might have pulled it up and eaten it.
But when Ellen climbed up the bank of the vacant lot, the beet was still there. It was growing on the edge of the lot next to a white house. With her boots squshing in the mud, Ellen walked through the weeds. The beet was even larger than she had realized. The stalk was at least three feet high.
She took hold of the stem near the ground and tugged. Nothing happened. She examined the lower part of the stalk and saw that it was growing out of an immense beet. Part of it showed above the ground.
Ellen found a stick and scraped away some of the dirt. She grasped the stalk and pulled again. The beet did not budge.
Ellen did not know what time it was, but she knew she must hurry. She found a bigger stick and dug away some more dirt from the vegetable.
She pulled again. The beet did not move.
Ellen was getting desperate. She decided to use her hands. They were already dirty from the beet stalk anyway, so she might as well get them dirtier. She would be very, very careful not to touch her dress. She squatted and began to claw the dirt away from the beet. The soil was cold and heavy. It stuck to her fingers. When she had uncovered half the beet, she saw that it was nearly six inches across.
Once more she grasped the stalk and pulled, bracing her feet. The beet began to come slowly out of the ground.
Just then a window in the house next door flew open and a woman’s voice called out through the rain, “What are you doing, little girl?”
Ellen started. The long, thin taproot broke and Ellen sat down in the mud with a thump. She had the beet in her hands!
“Pulling a beet,” answered Ellen guiltily. It had not occurred to her that the beet might have an owner. She thought things growing in vacant lots belonged to everybody.
Sitting on the ground in the pouring rain and holding the precious vegetable, she asked timidly, “Is it your beet?”
“Yes, it is,” said the woman crossly. “What do you want it for?”
“I want to take it to school to show the class how beet seeds grow,” said Ellen politely, “but if it is your beet you may have it. I didn’t know it belonged to anyone.”
“No, I don’t want it,” snapped the woman. “It’s too old and tough to eat. Take it, but after this, don’t go pulling things up on other people’s property!” She slammed the window.
Ellen felt bad, because she would not have touched the plant if she had thought it belonged to anyone. Holding the beet carefully so she wouldn’t knock off any of the blossoms, she got up from the wet ground and twisted around to look at herself. The backs of her legs were muddy. Her raincoat, which she was outgrowing, was covered with mud. So was the bottom of her dress hanging below the raincoat. She found it useless to try to wipe off the mud, because her hands were even muddier than her clothes. Maybe she could wipe it off at school. Or maybe the rain would wash it off. She didn’t have any time to waste.
It was not until Ellen was back on the sidewalk that she noticed how the broken beet root had smeared juice all over the front of her freshly starched dress, her pretty green one with yellow flowers printed on it. The red juice stood out in ugly contrast. Oh dear, she thought, what if it doesn’t wash out? What will Mother say?
Ellen had never been tardy in her life. Now she ran as fast as she could through the downpour in her heavy boots. Even though her starched dress wilted, she could not take time to put down her beet and button her raincoat. Her hood blew back as soon as she pulled it in place. She tried to hold the dirty vegetable away from her clothes, but that made running more difficult.
Finally she decided she was already so dirty that more dirt couldn’t make any difference. She clutched the beet against herself with both hands and ran faster, her boots clumping on the sidewalk and her raincoat flying out behind. When her hood blew off again, she gave up trying to keep it in place. Her hair whipped around her face in wet strings.
She was still several blocks from school when she heard the first bell ring. I’ll never make it, she thought. I’ll be tardy and Miss Joyce won’t like it. I’ve just got to run faster.
“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” Ellen heard someone call. Without stopping, she looked around and saw Bruce, Austine’s big brother, riding his bicycle along the curb beside her.
“To—school,” she gasped.
“What are you doing with that beet?”
“Miss Joyce—wants me—to—bring it.” Ellen slowed down. She was so out of breath she couldn’t run another step. “I guess I’m going to have to be tardy.”
Bruce looked disgusted. “Oh, come on,” he said. “I’ll give you a lift. You can sit in the basket.”
“Would you?” asked Ellen gratefu
lly.
“Sure. Here, let me hold your beet while you climb up.”
“Be careful. Don’t break the stalk.” Ellen stepped up on the front tire of the bicycle and scrambled into the basket. It was not very comfortable and her feet stuck out awkwardly. Bruce handed her the beet and began to pedal.
Ellen found it exciting to ride in the basket with the rain in her face. When Bruce steered the bicycle by turning the handle bars, he steered Ellen, too. Ellen hoped it wouldn’t tip over. She held her beet in one hand and grasped the edge of the basket with the other.
Wet and dirty though she was, Ellen was secretly pleased. None of the other girls ever rode to school in the bicycle basket of an eighth-grade boy. Ellen was glad he was wearing his boy scout uniform under his raincoat. He looked so handsome in his uniform.
They reached Rosemont School just as the last boys and girls were straggling into the building.
“Look at Ellen!” shouted Linda. A group of girls from Miss Joyce’s room paused to watch.
Bruce held the beet while Ellen climbed down out of the basket. As she jumped from the bicycle, the hem of her dress caught on the wire basket and tore.
“Oh my,” said Ellen, as she looked at the tear. It was such a pretty dress and now it was spoiled. What would her mother say?
“Here, take your old beet,” said Bruce, who did not enjoy having a lot of third-grade girls staring at him. “I haven’t got all day.”
“Thanks a lot, Bruce,” said Ellen shyly.
“Aw, that’s all right. Now I’ve done my good deed for the day,” said Bruce, and pedaled off to the bicycle racks.
“Broth-er! Are you a mess!” yelled Otis cheerfully, when he saw Ellen. “When Miss Joyce sees you, I bet she sends you home!”
Such a thought had not occurred to Ellen. “She will not send me home,” she answered, but her voice quavered. Otis was probably right. She was so wet and muddy Miss Joyce would send her home to change her clothes. Then she would not get to show her beet to the class and would never get to clap erasers.
Otis, who never cared about being tardy, splashed through the rain to Ellen. “You tore your dress,” he announced.
“I know it,” said Ellen crossly.
Otis began to chant loudly, “I see London, I see France, I see somebody’s under…”
Ellen clutched her raincoat around her and shouted, “Otis Spofford, you keep quiet!” Then she burst into tears.
“I see London, I see France, I see somebody’s…”
“Otis Spofford, you shut up this very instant!” It was Austine. She ran splashing through the puddles. “Come on, Ellen,” she said, taking her by the arm. “I’ll help you get cleaned up.”
“But it’s time for the second b-bell,” said Ellen, as she tried to wipe her eyes with the back of one muddy hand. “You’ll be tardy.”
“No, I won’t,” said Austine. “When I saw you might be late, I asked Miss Joyce if I could go help you get the beet and she said I could. Come on.”
“I see London, I see France,” sang Otis. “I see…”
“Otis Spofford! You mind your own business,” snapped Austine. “Ellen is my best friend and I won’t have you picking on her!”
3
Leave It to Otis
Soap, water, and lots of paper towels removed much of the mud from Ellen. “I’m beginning to look cleaner,” she said, “but what shall I do about this awful tear in my skirt and this beet juice? It won’t wash off.”
Austine thought a while. “I know,” she said. “You keep on scrubbing. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She returned with a roll of Scotch tape that she always kept in her pencil box and her extra sweater. Quickly she tore off pieces of tape and stuck Ellen’s dress together.
“There. That ought to hold if you don’t move around too much. Mother always says just about anything can be mended with Scotch tape or a hairpin.” Austine gave Ellen’s skirt a final pat. “Now put on my sweater and button it all the way down the front.”
Ellen’s fingers were so cold she could hardly push the buttons through the holes. “Your sweater is awfully big on me,” she said, thinking how lucky she was to have Austine for her best friend. And they really were best friends now. Austine had said so herself.
“That’s better,” said Austine. “You stand by the radiator for a while and dry off some more.”
“I guess I am pretty wet,” said Ellen. “How do I look?” she asked anxiously.
Austine studied her critically. “Well, you don’t look as good as you did when you started for school, but at least your collar is pretty clean and my sweater is so long on you, it covers up a lot of the beet juice. You look better than you did a little while ago.”
“You don’t think Miss Joyce will send me home, do you?” Ellen tried to smooth some of the wrinkles out of her skirt. “Otis said she would.”
“I don’t think so,” said Austine. “When you sit at your desk, the dirt will hardly show at all. Don’t pay any attention to that old Otis Spofford. He just thinks he’s smart.”
Ellen tried to fluff out her hair with her fingers. “Maybe we better not stay here any longer. Miss Joyce might send someone to look for us.” She picked up her beet.
“That’s the biggest beet I’ve ever seen,” whispered Austine, as they walked quietly through the empty halls to their room. “I know Miss Joyce will ask you to clap erasers now.”
Miss Joyce was listening to part of the class recite from the Away We Go reader at a circle of chairs in the front of the room. The boys and girls were taking turns reading aloud slowly and with expression. Ellen tiptoed across the room and laid her precious beet on the teacher’s desk. Miss Joyce nodded and smiled at her.
Then Ellen quickly slipped into her seat, so her muddy skirt wouldn’t show. She took her arithmetic workbook out of her desk and started to work her problems for the day. Miss Joyce had smiled, so she must be pleased. Now Ellen would surely get to clap erasers. And not only that; she would also get to tell the class about her biennial beet during science period. Ellen could hardly wait.
She glanced at the plant on Miss Joyce’s desk. She hoped some of the other children were looking at it, too. It was such a big beet. Probably no one in the room had ever seen such a big beet before. And just think, it had taken two whole years for the plant to grow that flower. Why, when that beet was a seed, Ellen was a little girl in the first grade.
Ellen looked around to see if anyone else was admiring her beet. George, who sat in front of her, was looking at something, but it was not her beet. He was leaning across the aisle, staring at something on Otis’s desk.
Ellen looked too. She saw four small brown objects, about the size of peas. They were rolling from side to side. Ellen couldn’t imagine what they were or what made them move. As she watched, one of the brown objects hopped.
By this time some of the other boys and girls were staring at Otis’s desk.
“What are they?” whispered George.
Otis did not answer. He swept the objects into the palm of his hand and watched them rock back and forth. Ellen still couldn’t understand what made them move. Otis was not moving them. He held his hand still. Then he put them back on his desk. The things continued to rock.
Ellen, leaning farther out of her seat to watch the mysterious things, accidentally knocked her arithmetic workbook on the floor. The noise made Miss Joyce look up, and all the boys and girls who had been watching Otis were instantly busy with their arithmetic. Otis was busiest of all.
Ellen hastily picked up her workbook. Goodness, she had better be more careful. Miss Joyce certainly wouldn’t send her out to clap erasers if she interrupted the lesson. However, the teacher did not say anything, but went on with the reading.
In a few minutes Otis was playing with the little brown objects again.
“Aw, come on, Otis. What are they?” whispered George once more.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” answered Otis.
Ellen couldn’t
keep still any longer. “What makes them move?” she whispered.
“I see London, I see France,” murmured Otis, as he watched the little brown objects in his hand.
“You do not!” said Ellen, and quickly returned to her arithmetic.
Linda, who sat in front of Otis, turned around to watch. “I know what they are,” she boasted.
Just then the little group noticed that the reading circle in the front of the room had stopped reciting. Miss Joyce had closed her book and was watching Otis and the boys and girls who sat near him.
“Otis, what do you have in your hand?” Miss Joyce asked.
“Nothing,” answered Otis. Miss Joyce looked at him, but did not speak. “Aw, just some Mexican jumping beans,” he admitted.
“I’m sure all the boys and girls are interested in your jumping beans, Otis,” said Miss Joyce, “but instead of interrupting our lessons by playing with them, I think it would be much nicer if you showed them to the class during our science lesson.”
“I know what makes them jump,” said Linda eagerly, without even raising her hand. “It’s a little worm…”
“Never mind, Linda,” interrupted Miss Joyce. “Otis will tell us about the jumping beans during the science lesson. Put them in your pocket until this afternoon, Otis.” Then Miss Joyce went on with the reading lesson.
Ellen and Austine exchanged worried glances. They both knew everyone would rather hear about jumping beans that came from far-off Mexico and jumped all by themselves than about Ellen’s beet, which just grew in a vacant lot a few blocks from school and didn’t do anything.
That old Otis Spofford, thought Ellen. He would have to bring his jumping beans to school today. Why couldn’t he have brought them yesterday or tomorrow? And after I worked so hard to bring the beet to show Miss Joyce. It’s just like Otis. If I had brought jumping beans to school, he’d probably walk in leading a kangaroo or something. Now Miss Joyce is more interested in his beans than my beet. He’ll probably get to clap erasers, and he’s already clapped them three times since school started. It just isn’t fair.
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