Ralph S. Mouse

by Beverly Cleary

  “Sure you are,” said Ryan out of the corner of his mouth, so no one would notice he was talking to Ralph. “I’m new in this school, and nobody paid any attention to me until I pulled you out of my pocket. You have to run the maze.”

  Ralph became stubborn. “No, I don’t,” he contradicted, “and you can’t make me.”

  Ryan ignored this remark. “Do you want to change your mind about staying here? You can go back to the inn with me.”

  “I’ll stay here,” answered Ralph, thinking of that long smooth hall waiting for his motorcycle. “I can’t let Matt lose his job.”

  Ryan looked around to make sure no one was watching before lifting Ralph out of his pocket and placing him in an overturned boot. “So long. See you tomorrow,” he said.

  “Who’re you talking to?” a boy asked.

  “Me?” Ryan was all innocence. “Nobody. I’m just practicing to be a ventriloquist. I’m working up an act—”

  “Some act,” remarked the boy.

  Ryan held up one hand and waggled his fingers as if he were working a puppet’s mouth. “What did one dandelion say to the other dandelion?” he asked in a squeaky voice without moving his lips. “I don’t know,” he said in a normal voice. Then he answered in his squeaky voice, “Take me to your weeder.”

  All this nonsense made Ralph frantic. “Hey, gimme my motorcycle!” he ordered, as soon as the other boy had gone.

  Ryan tried to speak without moving his lips. “And have you riding all over school? Not a chance. You’d get lost or get into trouble or someone would see you.”

  “It’s my motorcycle,” squeaked Ralph at the top of his lungs. “You give it to me. Now.”

  Ryan was last to leave the room. “We’ll see about that,” he said, as he bent over to speak to Ralph, “after you run the maze on Friday.” With that ultimatum, he snatched his backpack off the hook and hurried away to catch the bus that would take him back up the mountain to the hotel.

  Ralph was so angry he sank his teeth into Melissa’s boot. Ugh. It had a nasty taste—half rubber, half dust. And he had thought Ryan was his friend. Not anymore. He was mean, he wasn’t fair….

  Ralph felt terrible, but he was not going to run that maze in front of Room 5. Ryan couldn’t make him. Maybe he would even hide and refuse to be guest of honor. Ryan would learn not to try to order him around then.

  Ralph sat in Melissa’s boot and sulked. Without his motorcycle, he felt mad at the whole world. Of course, he was a smart mouse. Why should he have to prove it? Ralph felt as if nothing was fair and nobody loved him.

  4

  Life at School

  Dusk began to fall in Room 5, making the inside of Melissa’s boot even darker, when suddenly Ralph heard music, the lights were turned on, and a man with a transistor radio fastened to his belt came into the room and lifted chairs onto tables. He began to sweep with a wide broom while the radio poured forth sad songs about lonely highways, broken hearts, and jail.

  The songs made Ralph feel gloomy as well as sulky. He began to feel sorry for himself—the long hall so perfect for motorcycle riding was dark and empty, his heart was broken over the loss of his motorcycle, and he might as well be in jail as in this old boot.

  When the man swept his way to the back of the room, he unexpectedly set Melissa’s boots upright side by side, tumbling Ralph down to the foot, where he sat trembling with nerves and self-pity until his ears told him the man had replaced the chairs on the floor, turned off the lights, and left.

  Because he was a mouse, Ralph found sleeping at night almost impossible. Without the grandfather clock to mark the hours, the night seemed endless. Why should I sit here in this smelly old jail of a boot when everyone is so mean to me? Ralph asked himself. And with the cruelty of the world as an excuse for breaking his promise to Ryan, he used his sharp claws to climb the boot lining. Quickly he leaped out and squeezed under the door of Room 5. Nobody was going to stop him from exploring the Irwin J. Sneed Elementary School.

  After a long and wistful look at the lonely highway of the hall, Ralph found exploration more interesting and profitable than he had expected. In Room 4, he discovered strange-looking pictures spread out on the floor beneath the blackboard. They were made by gluing different kinds of seeds to heavy paper and had been left on the floor to dry. Ralph made a nutritious meal of split peas, rice, and lentils before moving on to another room where he found an open jar of library paste—delicious! Another room, furnished with long tables and benches, was near a kitchen, where Ralph chewed into a bag of sugar and enjoyed a fine dessert.

  After this gourmet meal, Ralph walked rather than scampered down the hall, that perfect place for riding his motorcycle if Ryan had not been so mean, to a room with a carpet and bookshelves about the walls.

  A boring place for a mouse, Ralph decided, until he discovered something interesting on a bottom shelf behind a big desk. It turned out to be a book inside a bag made of two layers of brown paper. A tear in the outer layer revealed something unexpected in the lining.

  Ralph could not believe the treasure he had found. Between the layers of paper was ready-chewed mouse nest! Ralph pulled out some of the nest to examine its delicate texture—first quality, grade-A mouse nest. He made the hole in the bag still larger, crawled inside, and curled up in the coziest bed he had ever known.

  Ralph intended to rest there while he plotted to get his motorcycle away from Ryan, but his full meal made him drowsy, and instead he fell asleep. Awaking to the sound of school buses, he ran back to Room 5 just in time as his former friend was hanging up his parka.

  Ralph ran up the leg of Ryan’s jeans and onto his shirt. “You gimme my motorcycle,” he demanded, trying to sound fierce.

  Ryan quickly faced the corner so no one could see Ralph. “Be quiet. You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispered. “Like I said, I’ll give it to you after you run the maze.”

  “Who says I’m going to run it?” Ralph was sullen about this whole affair.

  “I do.” Ryan tried to speak without moving his lips. “If you want your motorcycle back.”

  “Where is it?” Ralph wanted to know.

  “Right here.” Ryan removed the motorcycle from his parka and placed it in one of his shirt pockets. “Now go back to your boot.”

  “Don’t call it my boot,” said Ralph. “It’s dusty and smelly.”

  “Will you be quiet if I let you stay in my pocket?”

  “Sure.” A shirt was warm and soft and had a good view of the classroom if a hole was nipped in the pocket.

  As he dropped Ralph into his pocket, Ryan said, “And another thing. Don’t chew any more holes in my pockets. Mom didn’t like it when she saw holes in the new shirt I wore yesterday.”

  We’ll see about that, thought Ralph, determined not to let the lub-dub of Ryan’s heart lull him to sleep again until he figured out how to get that motorcycle back. For a better view of Room 5, he bit a careful peephole—one thread down and one thread across—in Ryan’s pocket.

  Ralph watched with puzzled interest while the class worked with numbers and words. Late in the morning the children formed a double line, something Ralph had never before witnessed, and walked quietly to the library, where they selected books to read. Why can’t mice behave like that? Ralph wondered.

  When Ryan had found the book he wanted, he took the little red motorcycle out of his pocket and amused himself by running it back and forth across a table while softly going, “Pb-b-b-.” The sound was enough to break a mouse’s heart.

  The most interesting part of the day turned out to be late in the afternoon when the class worked on their projects for what the children called the Great Mouse Exhibit. Miss K read a poem that Ralph found difficult to understand, something about a “wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie” while the class worked with crayons and paper. Ralph saw strange pictures of himself beginning to emerge. They were making him look very big except for one boy who drew a cat that filled up the whole paper and then added a tiny
mouse down in one corner.

  Other boys and girls bent over their paper, writing, pausing to gnaw their pencils, writing again. Others behaved strangely, nodding their heads, tapping their pencils, and softly chanting ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-dum or ta-ta-dum, ta-ta-dum. The noises sounded something like an Indian war dance in an old movie on TV, thought Ralph, puzzled.

  Ryan and Brad worked with glue and some old cartons on a table at the back of the room. They moved around so much and Ralph’s peephole was so small he could not get a very clear idea of what they were building. Apparently they did not have a very clear idea themselves, for they argued about the way to make the partitions of the maze stand up, about the height of the partitions (“We don’t want him to be able to see over them, even if he stands on his hind legs”), and the length and number of the blind alleys. Mostly they argued about the difficulty of the maze.

  “Let’s make it really hard,” said Brad.

  Ralph decided he did not like Brad with his tousled hair, grubby T-shirt, and unfriendly ways.

  “Not too hard,” said Ryan.

  “Aw, come on,” said Brad. “Making tunnels and trapdoors would be fun.”

  “Real mazes aren’t like that, and it wouldn’t be fair,” protested Ryan. “He’s just a little mouse. Besides, we haven’t figured out how to make the partitions stand up.”

  “You’re scared he can’t do it,” said Brad.

  “Of course, he can do it.” Ryan was at least loyal.

  But what if I can’t do it? Ralph worried. What if I run around bumping my nose against dead ends? Then how would Ryan feel after all his bragging? A terrible thought occurred to Ralph. If he failed and everyone laughed, Ryan might not give back the motorcycle after all.

  Ralph decided there was only one thing to do—get up on that table at night and practice. He would memorize the maze so he could dash through the passages without bumping his nose even once.

  Ralph had no sooner made this decision than part of the maze must have fallen down, for Ryan said, “See, I told you it wouldn’t work that way.”

  Brad lost patience. “All right,” he said, “since you’re so smart, you can make your own dumb maze for your own dumb mouse. I’ll write a poem instead.”

  “You don’t like to write poems,” Ryan reminded him.

  “I’d rather write a poem than work on your dumb maze for your dumb mouse,” answered Brad. “His name should be Ralph D. Mouse. D for Dumb.”

  “OK,” said Ryan. “Suit yourself, but I don’t see why you have to be so touchy all the time.”

  Good, thought Ralph. Ryan will make it easy.

  When the last bell rang, Ryan asked permission to work on the maze at home because he still hadn’t figured out how to make the partitions stand up.

  “Of course, you may,” Miss K told him, thereby destroying Ralph’s plan to practice. “I hoped you and Brad might become friends if you worked together.” She raised her voice above the scramble for jackets and caps. “Class, I have a surprise,” she announced. “Someone who writes stories for the Cucaracha Voice heard about our mouse exhibit and wants to write it up for the paper. She is going to come Friday afternoon and bring a photographer.” Cucaracha, although it had grown since gold-rush days, was still a small town. News traveled fast.

  There was a buzz of excitement. Room 5 was going to have its picture in the newspaper!

  When Ryan plucked Ralph from his pocket, Ralph asked in his tiniest voice, “Do I get a chance to practice running through that thing before Friday?”

  “That would be cheating,” said Ryan through stiff lips. “The same as looking at test questions before a test.”

  “Just one little peek?” coaxed Ralph.

  “Nope.” Ryan poked Ralph into Melissa’s boot and ran off to catch his bus.

  Ralph crawled down around the bend to the toe of the boot, where he sat brooding in the dusty, musty dark. For the first time since he had left the inn, he began to wonder if anyone missed him in his old home.

  5

  The Great Mouse Exhibit

  Ralph spent the rest of the week dreading Friday. The days, in spite of all that went on in Room 5, dragged, but the nights passed more quickly. As soon as the man with the transistor radio and broom left Room 5, Ralph squeezed under the door and ran into the next classroom. The pictures made of seeds were now hanging above the blackboard, but enough split peas and lentils had fallen to the floor to make a good meal for Ralph. In the kindergarten room, he discovered a doll’s house, which he enjoyed exploring. Still, even though it had a mouse-sized bed, it lacked the comfort of the ready-chewed mouse nest in the library.

  One night, however, Ralph had a narrow escape. Beside the book bag on the library shelf, he discovered an interesting contraption, something like a metal snail. Of course, Ralph had to investigate and found his back stuck to something he had not known about—Scotch tape. The rest of the night was spent trying to free himself. When he had almost pulled his back free, his paws were stuck. When his front paws were unstuck, the strange sticky tape trapped his back paws and tail. Exhausted, Ralph managed to free himself as the first bus rolled up to the school.

  Wednesday morning Ryan informed Ralph he could not sleep in his pocket any longer, because Ryan’s mother said his shirts smelled funny. Once again Ralph’s feelings were hurt. Ryan also said his mother had discovered the tiny peephole Ralph had nipped in his shirt.

  “She would,” said Ralph.

  Ryan defended his mother. “Maybe she’s fussy, but she’s a good housekeeper. That’s why the hotel hired her, which was lucky for us. She really needed the job.”

  Probably all mothers found something to fuss about, Ralph decided, even though his own mother was a poor housekeeper. He wished Melissa were fussier as he retired to the dark and dirty tunnel of her left boot. He missed the lulling lub-dub but found staying awake in class and paying attention to Miss K much easier. The next day someone dropped a woolly mitten, and it made a restful change from the boot.

  Thursday afternoon Miss K said, “Ryan, don’t forget to bring our guest of honor tomorrow.”

  “I won’t forget,” promised Ryan, as if he did not know Ralph was lurking at the back of the room.

  The next morning, after his usual night of enjoying all that the school had to offer a lonely mouse, Ralph stayed awake to groom himself because he wanted to look his best when he was the honored guest. The members of Room 5 also wanted to look their best for their picture in the newspaper, and they came to school looking neater than usual. Even Brad was wearing a clean T-shirt. Ryan brought the finished maze to school and placed it on the table at the back of the room far above Ralph’s head.

  Drat, thought Ralph, and he ran up Ryan’s leg in hopes of a glimpse of the test that lay ahead. Ryan quickly popped Ralph into his pocket before he had a chance to look.

  Just before the last period, when the Great Mouse Exhibit was about to take place, Ryan pulled Ralph out and took him to Miss K. “Welcome, Ralph,” she said. To Ryan, she said, “Put our little guest of honor in the fishbowl on my desk. Then everyone can see him.”

  To Ralph’s horror, he found himself placed in a slippery glass bowl. Frantically he scrabbled about, trying to find a way out. When he found there was no way to escape and no place to hide, he sat quaking with indignation, a wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie, just as the poem said.

  As the bell for the last period rang, the guests arrived. They were Mr. Tanner, the principal; Mrs. Seeger, the librarian; Mr. Costa, the custodian; and Room 5’s room mother, who brought twenty-six little bags of popcorn for a treat. The Great Mouse Exhibit was about to begin.

  “Where’re the reporter and photographer?” someone asked.

  “I’m sure they’ll be along soon,” answered Miss K, and she welcomed the visitors. Then she introduced the guest of honor, who turned his back and tried to become invisible. She pointed out all the pictures of Ralph above the blackboard. As if I looked like those, thought Ralph with a sneer.


  Then Miss K said some members of the class had stories and poems about mice they wanted to share with their guests. She called on Brad, who slouched to the front of the room, announced that he wasn’t much good at poems, and that his poem was sort of dumb. He read:

  “Ralph is a mouse.

  He’s stupid, he’s dumb.

  He’s as bad as a louse.

  He belongs in a slum.”

  With a triumphant look at Ryan, Brad slouched back to his seat.

  “Thank you, Brad,” said Miss K, who seemed uncertain as to an appropriate comment. “That was—very amusing.”

  Ralph thought of several impolite things she could have said as he walked nervously around his prison, wondering how much longer before he would have to run that maze. He sniffed to test his sense of smell. Enclosed in glass, all he could smell was himself.

  A girl named Janet was next. “My poem is a limerick,” she told the audience and read:

  “A mouse once came to our school

  And quickly broke every rule.

  He got stuck in our paste

  For he liked its good taste,

  So he said, ‘I’ll just sit here and drool.’”

  The audience laughed, and Janet, flushed with pleasure at her success, returned to her seat.

  That’s a lie. I didn’t go near Room 5’s paste, thought Ralph, as he trotted nervously around the fishbowl to make sure his legs worked.

  Gordon, the boy who did not like to write stories and poems, was next, but before he could begin his essay, the door opened and a young woman entered, followed by a man hung with cameras. “Sorry to be so late. We had to cover a big story about a truckload of chickens loose on the highway.” The reporter from the Cucaracha Voice was out of breath. “Now go ahead with your program, and pretend we aren’t here.”

  Flustered by the photographer prowling around adjusting his lens, Gordon began to read, “Mice are rodents. They gnaw things and they multiply rapidly.”