Centerburg Tales

by Robert McCloskey

  “I don’t think they’re going to bear anything,” the barber said one day at lunch in Uncle Ulysses’ lunchroom. “They’re using up all their strength putting out shoots and leaves. Dulcy should have pruned them down.”

  “It’ll be a big disappointment to Dulcy,” said Uncle Ulysses. “He’s worked harder on those plants of his than he has since he put up the street signs out at Enders Heights.”

  “He can try again next year and keep ’em pruned,” said the sheriff, brushing a doughnut crumb from his mustache. “He’s got plenty more seeds locked up in the bank.”

  The door opened and, in no special hurry, Homer walked in and sat down at the counter.

  “Hello, Homer,” said Uncle Ulysses. “Have a doughnut, fresh from the machine.”

  “No, thank you, Uncle Ulysses,” Homer replied, and he sat quietly at the counter, watching the automatic doughnut machine make doughnuts.

  “You not feeling well?” Uncle Ulysses inquired.

  “I’m feeling all right,” Homer replied. Then he announced, “I know what Dulcy’s plants are.”

  “You do?” asked Uncle Ulysses, and everyone rushed to the lunchroom window and looked across the square to where Dulcy’s plants rose high above the trees and buildings on the far side.

  “You can just make out from here,” said Homer. “There are thousands and thousands of buds on top.”

  “They look familiar,” said the barber.

  “That’s what I’ve thought for weeks,” said Homer. “It’s the size that fools you. Hold your hand so as to cover the trees and buildings and pretend for a minute that the plants are ordinary size.”

  Everybody did as Homer suggested; then one of the customers began to giggle, then another, and finally all the people in the lunchroom began to laugh.

  “Poor Dulcy!” laughed the barber, holding his sides.

  “He’ll never get over this,” chuckled Uncle Ulysses. “The town will never stop teasing him. Dulcy’s plants are just giant-size weeds!”

  “Yes, but what kind of weeds?” Homer asked without laughing.

  Everybody looked again. This time nobody laughed.

  “Jiminy Zeus!” cried Uncle Ulysses.

  The barber gulped and said, “I’ll have to leave town!”

  “So will I!” said another customer.

  “Me too, I’m leaving today!” said another.

  “Dad gum!” the sheriff said. “Now who’d ever thought them plants was wagreed!”

  “They’re ragweed, all right,” said Homer, “and I expect they’ll blossom in a few days.”

  “We’d better get the mayor and go see Dulcy,” Uncle Ulysses suggested, and the sober little group from the lunchroom started for the town hall. The dentist and several patients came out to see what was going on, and they joined the group. So did the plumber, the jeweler, the printer, and the druggist.

  “I have a feeling,” said the barber, taking leave of the gathering crowd, “that Dulcy will be in one of his arguing moods. I’m going right home and pack my bag. Just the thought of those things makes me sne-sn-s-hahuruschooh!—sneeze.”

  “An awful lot of folk are troubled with hay fever,” said the druggist. “Reminds me I had better order a carload of paper handkerchiefs.”

  “When all those thousands of buds open up and start filling the air with pollen, this place is going to look like the dust bowl,” said the dentist.

  Uncle Ulysses and the sheriff went on into the mayor’s office, while the others waited outside.

  Almost at once the mayor came rushing out of the town hall. He shaded his eyes with his hand, looked solemnly up and across the square at Dulcy’s thirteen colossal ragweeds silhouetted against the afternoon sky.

  Everybody knew that the mayor was susceptible to hay fever, so they were not at all surprised when he pulled out his handkerchief, just from force of habit. For a minute it looked as if the mayor might start running; but he tucked away his handkerchief, squared his shoulders, and started walking grimly toward Dulcy’s.

  The crowd followed along behind.

  Dulcy came running out to meet them. “They’re budding!” he shouted. “They got thousands and thousands of buds! Howdy, Mayor,” he greeted. “I was just about to come see you. I wanted to ask you, would you please send the Fire Department out here so’s I can cut off a few sprigs of buds to exhibit? My ladder is too small to reach to the lowest branches.”

  The mayor was slightly taken aback by Dulcy’s request and couldn’t think of what to say or how to begin.

  “I could cut off a few sprigs for you, Mayor,” said Dulcy generously, to help the mayor decide. “They’ll look mighty nice in a vase in your office when the blossoms come out.”

  “Dulcy, I—I—” the mayor began and could not continue.

  Dulcy Dooner looked around at the solemn faces of the crowd. “What’s the matter? This is a big thing for Centerburg! Don’t you frown at me, Sheriff, I’m bein’ a good citizen. My plants will put this town on the map. I’m doin’ a lot for this town, so how about loanin’ me the town hook and ladder?”

  “Dulcy, I—ah—we—” began the mayor unhappily. “As mayor of Centerburg, I am sorry to inform you that your plants are ragweeds.”

  Dulcy swallowed hard and craned his neck to look up at his tremendous weeds. In the unhappy silence the gay singing of the birds seemed out of place, and the slight rustle of the giant ragweed leaves suddenly sounded ominous in the summer afternoon.

  “Ragweeds? Why, durned if they ain’t!” said Dulcy. He seemed disappointed that there would be no fruit or berries to sell, but then he smiled and said, “Well, anyway, I got the biggest dang ragweeds in the world! That’ll make Centerburg famous! So look, Mayor, how about the ladder?” he asked.

  “See here, Dulcy,” said the mayor, “ragweed pollen gives people hay fever!”

  Dulcy looked around at the worried faces. “Shucks! Don’t you trouble yourselves about me. I’ll be all right. I never get hay fever.”

  “In the interest of public health and pursuit of happiness, for the best interest of the town of Centerburg, I ask you as a good citizen to cut down your ragweeds,” said the mayor.

  “Cut ’em down?” cried Dulcy. “Cut my ragweeds?” he asked as though he could not believe his ears. “No!” he shouted. “No, I won’t cut ’em down.” And the citizens watched Dulcy turn on his heel, stamp into his greenhouse, and slam the door.

  “Didn’t argue much,” said the sheriff tartly.

  The mayor glanced uneasily up at the thousands of giant ragweed buds swaying innocently in the breeze.

  “Sword of Damocles!” Uncle Ulysses exclaimed softly. “In a matter of hours the buds will open, the pollen will—I hate to think of it!”

  “Time is important,” said the mayor. “We must hold a special town meeting this very evening and decide what to do. Everyone come to the town hall at seven-thirty. Until then, I’ll be at my desk, and I will welcome any and all suggestions,” he added humbly, “of how to deal with this, the greatest and gravest threat our town has ever known.”

  “Homer,” Freddy said on the way back to town, “my grandmother was right—Experiment 13, thirteen plants.”

  “Superstitious!” Homer replied. “Let’s go along with Uncle Ulysses and see what’s going to happen.”

  Uncle Ulysses, the sheriff, the dentist, the printer, Homer, and Freddy found the barber, suitcase in hand, tucking the key to his shop into the crack in the barberpole. They persuaded him to wait over and attend the town meeting that evening, so he opened his shop and invited them all in.

  “If ordinary ragweed gives some people hay fever,” the printer reasoned, “then these things will be enough to affect everybody!”

  “This town will sneeze itself plumb out of the state of Ohio!” the sheriff declared.

  “They’re growing just west of town too,” the dentist said. “The prevailing winds will blow all the pollen smack down our throats.”

  “Ulysses, you’re a man of idea
s,” said the barber. “What are we going to do?”

  Uncle Ulysses was thinking hard. He paced the floor and said, “We could air-condition the town, but it would cost a lot. Not enough time either. Then again, we might drop dry ice in the clouds from an airplane and make it rain. That would keep down the pollen.”

  “What clouds?” the barber asked gloomily, looking out at the clear blue sky.

  “Dulcy might change his mind,” said the printer.

  “Not Dulcy,” said the sheriff. “We might as well decide to take what’s comin’ and all go to bed with a big supply of haper pand-kerchiefs—I mean perper kerpanchiefs—chaper handkepips—dad gum! You know what I mean—tensing clissues!”

  Nobody knew what to do. There was a long line of people waiting to buy tickets at the railroad station. Just like the barber, other businessmen, the plumber, the hardware dealer, the jeweler, even Lawyer Stobbs, were closing their shops and offices and hanging out cards saying:

  OUT OF TOWN

  REOPENING

  SHORTLY AFTER

  THE FIRST FROST

  But everybody stayed in town to attend the town meeting as a last hope.

  Toward seven o’clock Centerburg was a town of gloom. As the sun dropped lower in the sky, groups of residents gathered in the square, and as the sun dropped lower the shadows lengthened. The longest shadow by far was the shadow of Dulcy’s thirteen giant ragweeds; and the people watched them extend across and darken the square and ease slowly up and darken Uncle Ulysses’ lunchroom, up and darken the movie theater, and last of all the steeple of the Methodist church.

  From one corner of the square there came angry shouts, “Let s chop ’em down! Burn ’em! Spray ’em with weed killer! Spray Dulcy too!”

  But the sheriff was right on the job. “Hold on, boys!” he shouted. “You can’t destroy private property in this town. Let’s get on into the meeting and solve this thing regular!” And he headed the disturbers into the town hall along with everybody else.

  Everybody was there, yes, everybody. Dulcy came too. He walked into the hall at the very last minute, and all eyes were turned to the rear where Dulcy stood with the people who could not find seats.

  Seeing that his fellow citizens expected him to say something, Dulcy cleared his throat and said, “I been thinkin’. We could solve this problem the democratic way just as easy as that!” He snapped his fingers, and a murmur of hope sounded through the hall.

  “Yeah,” said Dulcy, gathering courage, “Centerburg doesn’t need no crop o’ ragweed!”

  At this the murmur grew louder, and someone shouted, “Good boy, Dulcy!”

  “This town doesn’t need ragweeds,” he repeated. Then he took a deep breath and said, “When the government decides the country doesn’t need cotton, the government pays the farmer to plow it under. When the government decides there’s too many potatoes, the government pays to have ’em destroyed. Now, I reckon, since Centerburg doesn’t need no ragweeds—well, I reckon the town ought to pay me so’s they can get rid of ’em. I figger a thousand dollars and expenses, paid in cash, ought to be a fair price.”

  Another murmur went through the hall. The printer rose from his seat and addressed the mayor. “Mr. Mayor, a thousand dollars seems a big price for a crop of ragweed.”

  “These are big ragweeds, Your Honor,” said Dulcy modestly.

  “This sum should be paid by the national government and not by the town of Centerburg,” said Lawyer Stobbs.

  At this the county agent jumped to his feet and cried, “I make a motion that the town pay Dulcy. By the time that we filled out all the papers and sent them to Washington, it would be too late.”

  “I second that motion!” the barber spoke up.

  Over the whispering of the audience the mayor called for silence and said, “A motion has been made and seconded that the town pay Dulcy Dooner one thousand dollars and expenses in cash for his ragweed plants. Because time is short and at any hour the plants may break into bloom, we will have an oral vote. All those in favor say ‘aye.’”

  “Aye!” said everyone.

  “Anyone against?” asked the mayor. No one spoke.

  “Majority rule,” said Dulcy. “It’s nice we could solve this problem so democratic like.”

  Then he made his way to the front of the hall and handed the mayor a paper listing his expenses:

  70 bags of vitamin plant food @ $4.00 a bag $280.00

  2 assistants @ $13.00 each 26.00

  Rubbing alcohol for lame back 7.13

  Total expenses $313.13

  The mayor read this aloud and then said, “Added on to the thousand dollars, the total amount due to Mr. Dooner is thirteen hundred and thirteen dollars and thirteen cents.”

  “Homer,” whispered Freddy, “there’re those numbers again. That means more trouble—”

  “Sh-h, Freddy,” said Homer. “Look, the town treasurer and the banker are leaving to get the cash for Dulcy.”

  When the treasurer returned from the bank he carefully counted out thirteen hundred and thirteen dollars in bills into Dulcy’s eager hand, and then just as carefully he counted out the dime and one, two, three pennies.

  Dulcy stuffed the money into his pockets, and the mayor announced that after the meeting the Fire Department, and any men who might care to volunteer, would cut down the giant ragweeds and attend to the burning of the trunks and stems and blossoms.

  The people applauded and cheered with relief, now that the threat had been dealt with. Life in Centerburg would not come to a sneezing halt, and business could be resumed as usual.

  The mayor held up his hand for silence. “Now that we are all assembled, is there anything else that should be brought before the meeting?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the town treasurer. “This business has left the town finances pretty low. We ought to discuss how to raise thirteen hundred and thirteen dollars and thirteen cents to make the budget come out right.”

  “We could have some new taxes!” Dulcy suggested happily. “An extra penny on ice-cream cones, a tax on movies, a penny tax here and there, and nobody’d hardly notice it.”

  “That’s impractical,” said the banker. “Think of the bookkeeping trying to keep track of a penny here and there. Borrow the money from the bank and take ten years to pay it back in easy installments.”

  “Oh, don’t do that!” Dulcy cautioned. “The town can’t be payin’ for this year’s ragweed next year. Ya see, I got lots more seed locked up in the bank, and next year I’m countin’ on a bumper crop o’ giant ragweed, maybe a hundred times as much!”

  “Homer,” whispered Freddy, “how much is a hundred times thirteen hundred and thirteen dollars and thirteen cents?” And the whisper sounded loud over the troubled silence.

  “Seems as if our troubles are never over,” the mayor said sadly.

  Dulcy Dooner seemed to be the only happy person in the whole population of Centerburg. “Say!” he suggested brightly. “How about a tax on doughnuts, say, twenty-five cents a dozen?”

  “No!” shouted Uncle Ulysses. “You can’t get away with that, Dulcy Dooner! It’s preposterous to think that the doughnut eaters of Centerburg are going to pay for your ragweed growing!”

  “No need to get mad, Ulysses,” said Dulcy. “Let’s do this thing democratic.”

  Uncle Ulysses called out, “Mr. Mayor, I move that we put a tax of twenty-five cents on a dozen ragweed seed!”

  “I second that motion,” said the printer over Dulcy’s shouts of “No! No!”

  When the mayor called for a vote the “ayes” won, and only one person voted “no.”

  “Mr. Mayor,” said the banker, “I move that this tax be collected immediately, in cash!”

  “I second that motion,” said the dentist with a chuckle.

  There was plenty of chuckling and laughing throughout the hall now and everybody gleefully voted “aye.”

  Everybody except Dulcy Dooner. He voted “NO—O!”

  “Mr. Dooner!” chuckl
ed the mayor, “majority rule, remember? Let’s be a good citizen about this!”

  “You’re steppin’ on the minority’s toes!” Dulcy shouted, but no one seemed to take notice.

  The mayor appointed Uncle Ulysses Ragweed Seed Counter and made him chairman of a committee to count the seeds and collect the tax from Dulcy.

  Then at last the meeting was over. The people were in a celebrating mood, the fire bell jangled merrily, and the Fire Department took over the rush job of disposing of Dulcy’s plants. Groups of singing people were soon clustered about fires of burning ragweed, and it made a pretty sight, what with spotlights of the fire truck alternating red and white flashes. There was the sound of axes and saws, and then the excited cry of “Timbe-e-er!” followed by the earth trembling crash as a stalk of giant ragweed hit the ground.

  “There goes the thirteenth ragweed plant,” said Freddy with relief.

  “You still worried about numbers, Freddy?” Homer asked. Then he said, “Let’s go back to the bank and see how Uncle Ulysses is getting on counting ragweed seeds.”

  Homer and Freddy peeked through the window of the bank; it was closed up tight, and Uncle Ulysses and his committee were not inside counting seeds. Then they looked in the barbershop; the mayor, the sheriff, the barber, and Lawyer Stobbs were playing rummy, but Uncle Ulysses and his committee were not there. They finally found the seed counters in the lunchroom. Uncle Ulysses was hunched over, squinting through a magnifying glass, counting the tiny giant ragweed seeds. Every time Uncle Ulysses counted twelve, the jeweler put down a mark, and the banker, who excelled at arithmetic, was multiplying the number of marks by twenty-five cents to find out how much the tax of twenty-five cents a dozen on ragweed seeds was mounting up to.

  And Dulcy—Dulcy was there, watching like a hawk to see that nobody made mistakes in his counting or marking or multiplying. All four were so intent upon their job that they did not notice when Homer and Freddy arrived.

  “Three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine,” said the jeweler.

  “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve,” counted Uncle Ulysses.