Centerburg Tales

by Robert McCloskey

  “Is that a true story?” Max finally managed to ask.

  “Often think o’ that gold o’ Hopper’s,” answered Grampa Herc. “Think mebbe someday I’ll go back west and see if I can find it.”

  “There’s something wrong with that story,” grumbled the sheriff, scratching his head, “but hanged if I can figger out what!”

  “It would seem a man couldn’t hop like that,” said Uncle Ulysses. “But I guess he could.” He changed his mind quickly, with a glance at Grampa Herc.

  “You can’t pick that story to pieces!” said Grampa Herc triumphantly.

  “It’s just like when you roller skate,” Homer explained. “After you take off the heavy skates, your feet feel light like feathers, and you keep lifting them higher than natural.”

  “It’s gravity, I expect,” Uncle Ulysses elaborated. “Gold and rocks have got gravity pulling them down all the time, just like apples falling off o’ trees, and when a man loses all that gravity all of a sudden, he’s bound to cut loose with one heck of a hop!”

  “Hold everything!” shouted Mr. Gabby with a wild light in his eye. “What an idea!” he raved. “It’s better than Vimmy-Swimmys!”

  Max seemed to understand what it was all about, and he said, “We could change the box, and we wouldn’t have to waterproof them!”

  Then Mr. Gabby and Max both started talking at once. “What’s the Lonely Ranger got that this old guy hasn’t got? Better than Super-Duper! The kids’ll go for his line! Let’s make him a partner in the firm! Okay? Okay.”

  “Gramps,” said Mr. Gabby, pumping Grampa Herc’s hand, “you’re a member of the Gabby, Maxwell, and Hercules Container Package and Advertising Company.”

  “I made a lot of barrels and kegs in my day,” reminded Grampa Herc, hearing the words container and package mentioned.

  “You don’t have to make barrels, Gramps,” said Mr. Gabby. “All you gotta do is tell your stories.”

  “But,” cautioned Max, “don’t tell them to anybody except partners in the company! We don’t want anybody to steal our ideas!”

  “What an idea!” raved Mr. Gabby. “C’mon, Max, let’s get going!”

  “Aren’t you goin’ to eat your blue-plate specials?” Uncle Ulysses asked with alarm, and he reached quickly to catch up with a bottle of catsup that Max sent rolling along the counter in his enthusiasm.

  “We could have singing commercials,” Mr. Gabby chuckled, slapping Max on the shoulder.

  “‘Merrily we hop along!’” sang Max, to the tune of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” and he and Mr. Gabby went out the door arm in arm, singing, “‘Merrily we hop a-long, hop a-long, hop a-long,’” and roared away in their car.

  Uncle Ulysses stood shaking his head over the two untouched blue-plate specials, and the sheriff looked over his glasses and said, “First time I set eyes on that Gabby fellow I thought he ought to be locked up!”

  Grampa Hercules apparently still had his mind on his story because he stroked his old chin and said, “You never can tell how gold will affect a fellow!

  “Wu-a-ll! Got to get home and feed my chickens,” the old man said suddenly. “Nope, no more stories today,” he told the children, expertly freeing himself from pleading girls hanging onto sleeves and boys clutching coat tails. He untangled somebody’s top string from around his left foot, then promised “some other time,” and strode off down the street.

  IV. THE GRAVITTY-BITTIES

  The following Monday afternoon Homer’s mother met him at the door. “Homer, the station agent has just phoned and said that a large express package has arrived for your Grandfather Hercules. Would you please run over and tell him about it?”

  “Yup,” said Homer.

  “And don’t stay too long,” she reminded quickly, because Homer was already down the steps and almost to the road.

  “Where’re you going, Homer?” called Freddy from his front porch.

  “Grampa Herc has a package at the express office,” said Homer, “and I’m on my way over to tell him about it.”

  “I could come along and help you tell him, Homer,” Freddy offered, falling into step beside Homer.

  “There he is,” said Homer, pointing across the road and up toward the little knoll where Grampa Herc’s house and chicken-coops stood.

  “You’ve got a package!” panted Freddy, out of breath from running up the hill.

  “At the express office,” explained Homer. “The station agent just phoned. Perhaps you’d like to have us come along and see what’s in it.”

  “Wu-a-ll now!” said Grampa Hercules. “Wonder who could be sendin’ me an express package? Haven’t ordered anything, no birthdays or anniversaries this month. Just let me get my hat and we’ll walk down to the station and see what this is all about.”

  As they crossed the town square the sheriff came out of the barbershop and called, “You’ve got a package down at the station—came on the afternoon train!”

  Grampa Hercules nodded his head and kept right on striding, followed by Homer and Freddy. Ginny Lee and several other girls and boys collected from around the monument and followed, so that by the time Grampa Herc reached the station he had a considerable crowd to help him claim his package. There on the station platform stood a tremendous carton.

  “Nothing pasted on it to tell what’s inside,” Uncle Ulysses stated. “Just says, ‘USE NO HOOKS’ and ‘HANDLE WITH CARE.’”

  “Hercules!” called the station agent, pushing through the crowd and handing Grampa Herc a yellow paper. “This telegram just arrived from New York.”

  Grampa Herc fumbled in his pocket. “Forgot my glasses. Here, Homer, read this for me like a good young un.”

  Homer read: “‘Have sent you four months’ supply of sensational new breakfast food. Stop. Please use as instructed by directions on box. Stop. Anxiously await your experienced reaction before selling product to buying public. Gabby and Maxwell.’”

  “Four months’ supply of breakfast food!” said Uncle Ulysses with a chuckle.

  “That’s certainly a lot of food!” said the station agent, starting back to his office.

  “And a lot of box tops!” said Homer.

  “Oh, boy!” shouted Freddy. “Let’s open the carton and see what they’re giving away.”

  Grampa Hercules took out his pocketknife and carefully slit the tape that sealed the carton. He picked out one of the boxes and read “GRAVITTY-BITTIES” printed in large letters across the front. Then, after squinting a bit, Grampa Herc handed the box to Homer so he could read the fine print.

  “‘Gravitty-Bitties,’” read Homer, “‘the breakfast food of champion jumpers. The sensational cereal of packaged power with the Gravitty Box Bottom.’”

  “What’s that?” Ginny Lee asked.

  “‘See directions on reverse side,’” Homer read. Then he turned the box over and continued, “‘Eat a box of feather-light Gravitty-Bitties for breakfast every morning for four months and become a champion jumper. All you have to do is this:

  “‘First—Eat the Gravitty-Bitties.

  “‘Second—Pin the Gravitty-Bitty box bottom, which is made of pure lead, to the inside of your coat or jacket. Each Gravitty-Bitty box bottom comes complete with attached safety-catch pin.

  “‘And last—Practice jumping.

  “‘Be Sure you eat your box of feather-light enriched Gravitty-Bitties every morning for four months and

  “‘Be sure you pin another pure lead Gravitty-Bitty box bottom inside your jacket every morning for four months. Then, take off your jacket and JUMP! Your friends will be SURPRISED!’”

  “I’ll be durned,” said Uncle Ulysses, scratching his head.

  “Don’t this setup remind you of a story, Hercules?” asked the sheriff slyly.

  “Hercules,” called the station agent, “it looks like you’re getting to be a popular fellow. Here’s another telegram.”

  “Uh-h? Oh, yes,” said Grampa Hercules in a dazed sort of way. He motioned for Homer to read it.r />
  “It says,” Homer began, “‘Please time four months’ test of Gravitty-Bitty breakfasts to end morning of July Fourth. Stop. Arranging with radio, television, and news services to cover jump. Gabby and Maxwell.’”

  “Well, Grampa Hercules,” said Uncle Ulysses, “it looks like we’ll have a chance to find out what’s wrong with that story of yours.”

  “Now look here!” cried Grampa Hercules. “There’s not a thing wrong with that story in its place. These two crazy fellas ‘re tryin’ to put my story in a box and make it something to eat! The trouble with these advertising people is that they don’t know where words and stories stop and what isn’t words and stories begin. They get it all confused and printed on a fancy package and commence to believe it’s every word true!”

  “Well,” said Uncle Ulysses, “in a world full of television and rocket ships, it’s sort of hard for anybody not to be confused. I’ll admit I’m puzzled,” Uncle Ulysses continued. “This theory sounds good, but I don’t think that gold or rocks or Gravitty-Bitty box bottoms can help a man jump like that. Still, I can’t understand why it wouldn’t work.”

  “Oh, pshaw!” said the sheriff. “It’s just like all of Hercules’ tales—just like breakin’ through the ice, like the clock spull of farrows—I mean birds. There’s some catch to it, something that’s not quite right.”

  “Now, Sheriff!” began Grampa Hercules.

  Ginny Lee put her small hand in Grampa Hercules’ wrinkled brown one and said, “Don’t you worry about what he says. We all like your stories!”

  “You bet!” said Freddy.

  “And,” continued Ginny Lee, turning toward the sheriff and Uncle Ulysses, “Grampa Herc will show you men on the Fourth of July, so there!”

  A loud cheer of approval went up from the crowd of children. Grampa Herc stroked his chin, looking uncomfortable.

  Ginny Lee turned to him and inquired anxiously, “Won’t you, Grampa Herc?”

  “U-u-u-uh-h,” mumbled Grampa Hercules in a flustered sort of way, while some of the children cheered and whistled their approval.

  “Come on, everybody,” Ginny Lee commanded the children. “We’ll help Grampa Herc carry his Gravitty-Bitties home.”

  She supervised most efficiently while each of the children filed by and received several boxes of Gravitty-Bitties. Then Ginny Lee, still hand in hand with Grampa Hercules, led the way, and all the girls and boys carrying heavy lead-bottomed boxes of breakfast food followed behind, leaving the sheriff and Uncle Ulysses standing on the station platform with the large empty carton.

  That evening after supper Homer and Freddy sat on a fence, discussing the happenings of the afternoon.

  “That will be more exciting than the Fourth of July fireworks, Homer, watching Grampa Herc make his big jump!” said Freddy.

  “Ya-ah,” said Homer, kicking at a clump of weeds. “I tell you, Freddy, it never fails! Doggonit, you can’t trust ’em!”

  “But, Homer, don’t you think it’ll work?” asked Freddy.

  “Mebbe,” said Homer with a scowl. “It’s the sort of thing that nobody can be sure of until it’s tried, but did you see the way she looked at him—with her eyes I mean! Puts her hand in his and says, ‘Won’t you, Grampa Herc?’ I tell you, Freddy, you just can’t trust girls!” Ginny Lee managed and bossed and persuaded Grampa Herc into this mess!”

  “But, Homer, it’s just got to work! If you work up to it gradual like, almost anything is possible—like lifting up a bull. I know that can be done, I’ve seen pictures.”

  “Yeah, that’s so,” said Homer.

  “And like everybody knows,” Freddy continued, “right after you take off roller skates your feet sort of hop up off the ground. I sorta suppose if you carried a little bit more, and a little bit more weight every day, why, when you all of a sudden one day didn’t—why, shucks, Homer, I bet you could almost feel like flying!”

  “It could be,” said Homer hopefully, “and then, too, there’s the Gravitty-Bitty stuff.”

  “Sa-a-a-y, Homer,” Freddy interrupted, “did you see that stuff? It’s really and truly feather-light exactly like it says on the box. You can hardly breathe without blowing it all over the place!”

  “Yeah, Freddy, but its being feather-light couldn’t help you hop and jump—I don’t think. But they’re enriched, and that might help a little bit in hopping and jumping. Vitamins do a lot, you know. I read an article that said vitamins can make a man happy, or well, or brave—all kinds of things, and Mr. Biggs said down at the barbershop that vitamins are supposed to grow hair on bald heads even!”

  “Well, see, Homer, it could possibly really and truly work,” said Freddy. “Mebbe not work so well as to make a guy jump three hundred feet, but just a hundred feet mebbe, say just to the top of the courthouse steeple, so what are you worried about?”

  “Because,” said Homer, “if anything should go wrong, Uncle Ulysses and the sheriff would never stop teasing Grampa Herc—and Posty Pratt and the barber and the judge, you know how they would laugh. Why, Grampa Herc would never hear the end of it!”

  “It would make him mad,” Freddy admitted.

  “And,” said Homer, “it would hurt his feelings! If that ever happens, Grampa Herc would probably retire from storytelling and never tell another!”

  “Gosh, Homer, that would be terrible!” Freddy agreed. “Perhaps we could persuade him to call the whole thing off.”

  “It’s too late,” Homer said sadly. “The men would laugh about his being afraid to try. He should have sent the whole four months’ supply of Gravitty-Bitties right back to Mr. Gabby, box bottoms and all.”

  “We should have told him,” said Freddy.

  “Shucks,” said Homer, “I think Grampa Herc would’ve thought of it himself if it hadn’t been for—” Homer picked up a rock and hurled it at a mailbox. Then both boys walked silently along the side of the road.

  “She is sort of bossy,” Freddy said finally. “But you know, Homer, I think I’d have done the same thing myself if I thought she wanted me to.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Homer, nodding his head grimly. “You can’t trust girls! Be seeing you, Freddy.” Homer waved, and after hurling one more rock at the mailbox he scuffled off across the yard.

  During the next week it became the children’s custom to stop by Grampa Hercules’ place every day after school to see how he was getting on with his jumping. Although the old man never said as much, everyone thought he seemed just as curious as the next person to see how the experiment would turn out. So curious, in fact, that he started pinning on four Gravitty-Bitty box bottoms every morning after breakfast.

  “Fourth of July’s too long to wait,” he said. “This way I’ll be all weighted down and rarin’ to jump on Saint Patrick’s Day!”

  Grampa Hercules also had very definite ideas about where to pin on box bottoms, pinning them here and there, on sleeves, suspenders, pants, shirt, and even shoes.

  “Distributes the weight better, just like I did with the rocks when I rescued Hopper,” he said.

  Grampa Hercules did his jumping practice back and forth across the little brook near his place, the one that empties into Curbstone Creek.

  Uncle Ulysses stopped by with the sheriff one morning to have a look at Grampa Hercules jumping across the brook.

  “You ought to have followed the directions more closely,” Uncle Ulysses criticized, “and been more scientific.”

  “Umpf-f!” grunted Grampa Hercules, taking a hop and straining under the weight of all the lead box bottoms.

  “System and science be hanged!” he shouted. Then “Umpf-f!” he grunted and hopped again. “I didn’t use that stuff—uhp-f-f!—when I worked up to liftin’ bulls—uhmp-f-f!—and horses—uhnpff!” he grunted, taking another jump, “and I’m not gonna start usin’ it now! I declare,” he scolded, wiping his brow, “it’s a strange world you people’re livin’ in today. A person can’t pick up a pin without peekin’ at a statistic. An old storyteller like me
can’t open his mouth without somebody sayin’, ‘That ain’t accordin’ to scientific fact—that ain’t been proved!’ you say. In the early days people took a man’s word for a few things, everybody, that is, but a few so-and-so’s from Missouri. I’ll prove it for you!” said Grampa Hercules, and “Hu-m-m-phf!” he hopped again.

  Grampa Hercules remained close to home. Homer and Freddy ran errands and tended the chickens, and Ginny Lee and her friends helped out around the house, because the weight of the pure lead Gravitty-Bitty box bottoms was beginning to have considerable effect on the old man’s ability to get about. He kept right at it, though, pinning on four more box bottoms every day and practicing his jumping, rain or shine, without fail.

  And the sun always shone. There was no rain, and there was no wind. The month of March (as in the old saying) had come in like a lamb. But on the morning of the day before Saint Patrick’s Day, the wind started up with a roar. The rain began pelting down too, and March (as in the old saying) seemed bent on going out like a lion.

  Of course everyone in town, when they got up that morning, immediately started hoping for good weather on Saint Patrick’s Day for the sake of Grampa Hercules’ big jump. With such strong winds and driving rain, everyone kept under cover as much as possible. Children scurried in and out of school and school busses, and citizens like the sheriff and Uncle Ulysses kept close to the stove in the barbershop or in the cozy Ulysses Lunch. Nobody dropped in to see Grampa Hercules during his final day of training.

  Saint Patrick’s Day morning was bright and clear. Uncle Ulysses’ lunchroom was already crowded with interested spectators when Grampa Hercules came in.

  “Where’re we goin’ to run this thing off, Hercules?” asked the sheriff. “Should I stake off an area and block off traffic on the square?”

  “Wu-a-ll,” said Grampa Hercules, “I hate to disappoint you fellas, but to tell the truth I’ve already jumped! Yup,” he said, “already jumped. You see, I’m an old hand at this kind of thing, and I’ve known all along that this is the sort of affair that you can’t run accordin’ to a clock or a schedule. You have to sorta feel when the time is right to jump. You know I’ve been practicing my jumping and hopping down back of my house—hopping back and forth across the brook near where it empties into Curbstone Creek. Well, yesterday evening I was taking a few practice hops, after pinning on the last four box bottoms, when this feeling came on. My coordination was perfect, and I could feel every muscle in my body quivering and surging with power, felt like a race horse clamoring to be off.”