Mamma Squirrel marveled at it all. “No wonder he did not want to stay home,” she whispered. “And how nice that that lady loved her mother.” She told the children not to make any noise.
“Your father is a hero,” she warned, “though you might not have guessed it. He is writing it all down, and I won’t have him disturbed. You shall hear his adventures when they are published.”
She considered herself the most fortunate of women. Of course, Felix was her favorite visitor. Nothing was ever too good for him. She declared that his bright face was enough to bring anyone luck.
There were others who shared that opinion—there wasn’t a creature in the forest who disliked Felix. He was welcome everywhere.
One evening when the dwarfs were enjoying a quiet supper of corn mush, stewed mushrooms, and elderberry wine, Felix came flying into the house, blazing with excitement. “Do you know what Mamma Squirrel told me?” he cried, clapping his hands. “There’s going to be a party here in the forest, a wonderful party, and it’s called Halloween! Everybody is going, and I want to go too! I’ve thought of a costume already; I want to dress up as a firefly!”
The dwarfs sat stiff and still. Their eyes were cast down.
“What’s the matter?” asked Felix. “It will be quite safe, you know. Mr. Squirrel has promised I may join his group, and the Skunk-Phoos have invited me too. They are all going—even Professor Hoot. It is everyone’s party—you can come too. We are going to dress up and knock at people’s doors and cry ‘tricks or treats.’ And then—do you know what will happen then? We’ll get apples and nuts and all sorts of other nice foods. Mamma Squirrel says Ross fetched her a month’s supply last year.” Felix looked around, expecting to see glad, or at least tolerant, smiles. But instead he saw the same wooden faces.
“Don’t you like Halloween?” he asked, astonished.
Brother Alban cleared his throat. “Do you see now,” he said in a voice vibrant with emotion, while he banged his fist on the table. “Do you see now the trick they played on us? They counted on that innocent child, they counted on our affection for him, to get the better of us. If you want to be fools, go ahead. But count me out.” And he left the table.
“Yes,” said Brother Botolph, “I agree. Count me out too.”
Only Brother Ubald remained sitting at the table. He looked very sad.
“What’s the matter?” asked Felix. “Can’t I go?”
“Son,” said Brother Ubald tenderly, “sit on my knee and I shall try to explain it to you. You see, long, long ago, before you were born, your papas had trouble with the other forest people. Your papas believed that they should be free to live their own lives, unmolested by the demands and pleasures of others.” Here Brother Ubald stopped to blow his nose. “The forest people don’t agree with us. They say we belong to them. They want us to pay taxes in the form of nuts and apples, and partake of their vulgar gaiety. Therefore a feud has developed. We cannot possibly let you join the forest people at Halloween. It would be like joining the enemy.”
“But they’re not enemies!” cried Felix, bewildered.
He remembered the cozy stove in Mamma Squirrel’s hole, and she herself sitting beside it, knitting socks for the triplets, who were asleep in their beds. He remembered Mr. Squirrel with his slippers on and his feet on the mantelpiece, reading the Forest Gazette. He also remembered Mrs. Skunk-Phoo’s boudoir, with Mrs. Skunk-Phoo sitting in front of her mirror while Miss Rosie Chipmunk, her maid, brushed her hair and Archibald hunted in her drawers and boxes for bonbons—and poor Mrs. Powderpuff’s home, with all the children fighting and quarreling on the dirty floor while she, in a tattered pink kimono, sat curled up on the sofa, reading comics.
“They are not enemies,” he said.
“You don’t understand,” Brother Ubald explained sadly. “There are things little children have to accept from their elders. I’m afraid we’ll have to forbid you to go to this party. You’ll have to stay with us. Brother Alban always closes up the house so we can’t hear or see anything. It is, I’m afraid, a dull and tiresome evening.”
“Oh, Papa Ubald,” said Felix, tears springing into his eyes, “they will all be so disappointed! I promised to help the chipmunks with their costumes; Mamma Squirrel wants me to keep an eye on the triplets for her; Professor Hoot said he’d lend me a lantern if I’d curl his wig for him. And I promised everyone that you’d give plenty of apples and nuts, because Papa Botolph has had such a good harvest. What shall I say to them? They’re my friends.“
Brother Ubald stroked his beard and looked at Felix pensively. “It’s hard luck,” he admitted. “But I’m afraid you can’t go.”
Felix could not understand it. He naturally believed that the dwarfs knew best; he did not question their judgment; but it puzzled and saddened him.
All over the forest his friends were preparing for the party. They asked Felix to admire their costumes, they begged for his help, they shared their plans with him—in fact, they chattered of nothing else. Felix tried to echo their gaiety, but tears kept pricking in his eyes. He no longer recounted his forest adventures at home—what was there to tell that would please the dwarfs? And he no longer mentioned the dwarfs to his friends—why hurt their feelings? He thought more and more about his meeting with the king.
He became quiet and pensive and suddenly grew taller. His cheeks lost their roundness and pink color. The dwarfs noticed it, but it did not alter their resolution.
“It’s only a child’s whim,” they said. “He’ll get over it.”
On Halloween night they would not let Felix out of their sight, though he had shown no spirit of rebellion. The temptation to sneak out might prove too much for him. They locked the door as usual and closed the shutters. Felix complained of a headache—a very unusual malady for a fairy—so they sent him to bed. Brother Ubald felt anxious about him and put an extra blanket over him. Several times that evening one of the dwarfs went to look at him. He was lying very still and pale, with his eyes shut.
Presently there was the usual knocking on the door, and the dwarfs remembered their former quarrel with the forest, but it was a tame night. Nothing exciting happened—no shaking of the tree, no eerie noises, no laughter.
“I think we have beaten them!” Brother Alban cried triumphantly. “They see their tricks didn’t work. Now we can go to bed.”
“First let’s look once more at Felix, poor boy,” said Brother Ubald, taking the candle and mounting the winding stairs to Felix’s bedroom. But when he opened the door he gasped, and the candle almost dropped out of his hand. “Felix is gone!” he exclaimed.
“Gone? But the door was locked. That can’t have happened!” the others protested.
They rushed into the room. It had happened. Felix’s bed was empty, and no matter how the dwarfs searched and called, they could not find him. Felix had vanished as mysteriously as he had come.
5. Sickness and Sorrow
Mr. Squirrel didn’t enjoy this Halloween as much as he had the last one. Pretty Miss Rosie Chipmunk had got herself engaged to a rather dull fellow, a cousin, and would dance with no one else. The weather was damp and chilly. There were too many spiders and not enough glowworms. (It is impossible to realize what this means unless you know both intimately. Without wanting to detract from spiders, who are excellent and virtuous creatures in their own way, one must admit that they have sour dispositions and are not given to affectionate gaiety. Glowworms, on the other hand, are cordial fellows who can make a feast out of a funeral.)
The fairies didn’t dance, and left before midnight; the only witch who arrived had a cold, kept sneezing, and refused to fly on her broomstick because she said it was hard on the lungs. The food was poor and there wasn’t enough elderberry wine to make a mouse merry. Something had gone wrong with the forest, whatever it was.
Everyone felt it.
No one was gay.
Oh yes, there were the usual handouts, but presents aren’t enough to make a party; there must be a spirit of
friendship, the wish to be together and to celebrate. This year the most intimate friends seemed strangers.
“Come on, Ross,” Mr. Squirrel said finally, after having waited in vain for the evening to warm up, “let’s go home to Mamma.”
A slight drizzle wetted their coats. Other people were going home too.
“Why wasn’t Felix there?” asked Ross.
Mr. Squirrel stood still. Of course, that was it—why hadn’t he thought of it before?—he’d missed Felix. Yet last year Felix had not been there either, so to speak! That’s why he hadn’t realized it.
“Why wasn’t he?” Ross repeated.
Mr. Squirrel didn’t know. “Perhaps he is ill … or something happened to the dwarfs …”
“Listen,” said Ross. They heard a faint call echoing through the wood, and saw three threads of light, wavering threads, that terminated in luminous points. These points bobbed up and down, and the threads of light wandered about drunkenly, now parallel, now crisscrossing.
“Lanterns,” said Ross.
“Whose lanterns?” asked Mr. Squirrel.
“Listen,” said Ross.
They could faintly hear a call of “Felix—Felix—”
“It’s the dwarfs. That means Felix is not home. Let’s find out what’s the matter,” proposed Ross. The two squirrels ran to meet the lanterns.
And that’s how the forest folk found out what had happened. For this was not another trick of the animals. Whatever had caused Felix’s disappearance, the forest had had nothing to do with it. Felix was a universal favorite, and the dwarfs were not alone in their grief. Nor were they alone in their search for Felix. The Gazette came out with black borders the next day, and an editorial about the lost fairy. A reward was promised to whoever brought him back. It was rumored that this reward would be paid by Mr. Skunk-Phoo, president of the Prudential Perfume Company (though this was to be kept a secret). However, no efforts succeeded in retrieving Felix, though there were plenty of false alarms. Obscure little animals such as groundhogs and field mice would come hopefully with worthless “clues,” their tiny eyes glistening with greed for the reward. There were constant whispers about someone who had spoken to somebody who had seen Felix somewhere! But it never led to anything. It only unsettled the dwarfs and kept them in a state of constant expectation and disappointment.
Gradually hopes faded. The forest began to mourn its loss. The few leaves left on the trees turned black at the edges. Chokecherries and other berries turned black too, and Mrs. Powderpuff called her new baby Sympathy.
And so the dwarfs were left alone again—free to read, free to be tidy, free to be quiet and alone. But, like the contrary creatures they were, they now wept for the happy days when little footsteps sounded in or around the house; when a little fairy voice hummed tunes; when the rustle of wings filled the passage and two slender arms would go around their necks in the warmest of fairy hugs.
“I never knew I’d miss him so,” sobbed Brother Alban, letting big tears fall into the soup.
“What’s the use of reading when there’s no one to ask me questions?” Brother Ubald sighed, wiping his glasses for the hundredth time.
“Why should I plant bulbs when he isn’t there to pick the flowers?” wailed Brother Botolph, blowing his nose.
Somehow all the zest had gone out of the dwarfs’ lives. They had got accustomed to someone who ran in and out of their house and brought them news of the forest. They felt lonely. They wondered how they had ever been content without Felix.
When Brother Alban found a pair of Felix’s shoes behind the stove he gilded them and put them on the mantelpiece under a glass cover with a sprig of dried forget-me-nots pasted on it.
When Brother Botolph found a lock of Felix’s hair hanging from a thorn bush he made a ring out of it which he wore on his little finger.
When Brother Ubald found a dirty footprint of Felix’s on the library carpet he would not let Brother Alban clean it up. He put a little fence around it instead, to protect it. And often he would sit in his chair and gaze at it tearfully.
Of course the three brothers talked it all over endlessly. Why had Felix left? Had he gone by himself or had he been taken?
“If only he is well and looked after!” Brother Botolph sighed.
“I hope someone washes his clothes and feeds him,” moaned Brother Alban.
“Perhaps he didn’t believe we loved him,” murmured Brother Ubald. As he had read the most, he could think the best. “Do you know,” he said, “I believe it is our own fault. We never were grateful for Felix. We kept complaining. We never appreciated him—his cheerfulness, his affection.”
“That is true.” The brothers nodded sadly.
“Besides,” said Brother Ubald, putting his finger to his nose and looking very wise, “I believe Felix was the sort of fairy who has to be friends with everyone. When we forced him to share our quarrel, he could not live.”
“It is possible,” sobbed the brothers.
“Perhaps, come to think of it, we’ve been rather selfish,” Brother Ubald continued relentlessly. “Selfish and obstinate.” There was a silence. Brother Botolph and Brother Alban were blushing.
But all this remorse did not bring Felix back. And the days were dreary without him. The dwarfs lost their appetites and became pale and wan.
Brother Alban suffered the most. “I don’t know what it is,” he said. “I seem to have no energy any more. I can hardly get through the day’s work, and my head aches dreadfully.”
The others thought it was just Brother Alban’s usual play for sympathy; they realized that something was seriously wrong only when Brother Alban fainted dead away in the middle of frying a delicious mushroom omelette. Brother Botolph rescued the omelette, which was burning, while Brother Ubald poured water on Brother Alban. It took quite a lot of water and rubbing and shaking to bring Brother Alban to, and even then he wasn’t fit for anything but to be put to bed.
The other dwarfs were in a state about it. Brother Alban had never been ill before. They were lost without him. They decided to call in Dr. Gray Owl, a cousin of Professor Hoot. Dr. Gray Owl made a careful examination of Brother Alban and prescribed complete rest for at least a month.
“It’s overwork, and worry,” he said. “The heart isn’t what it should be. Take care of him.”
Brother Ubald and Brother Botolph looked at each other in consternation. They could not take care of themselves, let alone of Brother Alban. For the first time they realized how much work that little dwarf had accomplished.
“We should have helped him more,” Brother Ubald muttered remorsefully. “Then he would not have got ill. We’ve been selfish.”
“Well, let’s make it up to him now,” proposed Brother Botolph. “If I only knew how.” He sneaked up to Brother Alban’s bedside, fluffed his pillows, and gazed at him affectionately, but Brother Alban was too far gone to notice.
The forest soon heard of Brother Alban’s illness, for Dr. Gray Owl had a talkative wife.
“Did you hear,” she said, “those unfortunate dwarfs have more trouble! The middle one, whom I always thought the least attractive—he has a sort of whiny scowl; you know what I mean—well, my dears, he’s ill. Seriously ill too, Gray says. Heart.… Yes.… Well, I don’t know what the others will do; he always looked after the housekeeping. Isn’t it terrible? Just after losing that boy of theirs too. Well, they say troubles never come singly. Now don’t repeat this; Gray told me in confidence …”
But, of course, there wasn’t a soul in the forest who hadn’t heard by the next day. Numerous little housewives shook their heads, murmured, “Dear, dear, the poor creatures,” and baked little pies and cakes or made delicious soups, which they brought to the oak-tree house wrapped in checked napkins or packed into pretty little baskets.
“We thought you might find a use for this,” they’d say timidly. Brother Ubald or Brother Botolph always received these gifts with such enthusiasm that the housewives were encouraged to give more.
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br /> Soon there was a regular path worn into the dwarfs’ front lawn by the little feet of mercy. There was so much concern and interest taken in the progress of Brother Alban’s health that Brother Ubald wrote out a bulletin every day, which Brother Botolph pinned on the oak tree. There usually were animals in front of it, studying it, and somehow this comforted the two brothers during the worst period, when it was still touch and go whether Brother Alban would pull through. Then came a long period of convalescence, in which Brother Alban had to be coaxed to eat.
“Do try some of Mamma Squirrel’s delicious honeycake,” Brother Botolph would murmur. “Or would you rather have the colts-foot jelly Mrs. Powderpuff sent—or a few spoonfuls of Mrs. Skunk-Phoo’s chickory-noodle soup?”
Brother Alban would look up languidly and take the jelly, with an effort. Then he would relapse into a kind of coma.
The house was getting very dirty. The sink was stacked with unwashed dishes. Several families of mice had moved underneath it and were living entirely on the provisions that fell to the floor. Spiders also moved in and hung their apartments from the ceiling. Though they were clean and respectable, and made less noise than the mice, they were unpleasant neighbors, passing critical remarks on whatever the dwarfs happened to do.
“You’ll never get that clean,” they’d say, when they saw Brother Botolph struggling to mop the floor. “Clumsy idiot,” they’d remark, when he dropped a plate. Brother Botolph thought of raising the rent on them; but then he realized that he wasn’t up to the arguments that would ensue.
Perhaps of all the creatures in the forest, Mamma Squirrel had the softest heart, and she was therefore the most perturbed about the dwarfs’ plight.
“I wish I were nearer them,” she decided one day. “Why don’t we move into the oak tree? Then I could keep an eye on them and lend a hand once in a while. It’s not as if this house is so ideal, with those vulgar chipmunks right next door. One of the triplets said a rude word yesterday—copied from them, of course. The dwarfs live in a more genteel part of the forest, and there is a bit of open space around it on which the triplets can play games and that sort of thing. What do you say, Red?”
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