Beans on the Roof
Page 1
OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:
THE NOT-JUST-ANYBODY FAMILY, Betsy Byars
THE BLOSSOMS MEET THE VULTURE LADY, Betsy Byars
THE BLOSSOMS AND THE GREEN PHANTOM, Betsy Byars
A BLOSSOM PROMISE, Betsy Byars
WANTED… MUD BLOSSOM, Betsy Byars
THE NIGHT SWIMMERS, Betsy Byars
THE ANIMAL, THE VEGETABLE, & JOHN D JONES, Betsy Byars
THE SKIRT, Gary Soto
THE POOL PARTY, Gary Soto
BOX TOP DREAMS, Miriam Glassman
YEARLING BOOKS are designed especially to entertain and enlighten young people. Patricia Reilly Giff, consultant to this series, received her bachelor’s degree from Marymount College and a master’s degree in history from St. John’s University. She holds a Professional Diploma in Reading and a Doctorate of Humane Letters from Hofstra University. She was a teacher and reading consultant for many years, and is the author of numerous books for young readers.
Contents
A Bean on the Roof
Two Beans on the Roof
Three Beans on the Roof
Four Beans on the Roof
Five Beans on the Roof
One Bean on the Roof
A Bean in the Bedroom
Beans at the Table
Beans Together
A Bean on the Roof
“Mama!”
George ran into the kitchen. “Mama!”
“Please don’t shout, George,” Mrs. Bean said.
“I have to shout! You have to hear this! Anna is on the roof! I saw her from Frankie’s window!”
“I know Anna is on the roof,” Mrs. Bean said.
“But you told us never to play on the roof. You said we’d bother Mr. Brown’s rabbits. You said we’d run into the clotheslines and dirty the clothes.”
“Anna is not playing, George,” Mrs. Bean said. “Anna is sitting.”
“Oh.”
George stopped. Then he said quickly, “I’m going up there and sit too.”
George had wanted to play on the roof since the day they moved into the apartment.
“No, George,” Mrs. Bean said.
George put his hands on his hips.
“Why not?” he said. “That’s not fair. Anna gets to do everything. She gets to stay up late. She gets to ride the bus. Now she gets to sit on the roof. It’s not fair!”
“George, will you be quiet and listen? Anna is on the roof because it is the only place she can write her poem.”
George’s mouth fell open.
“Anna is writing a poem?”
“That’s right, George.”
“I didn’t know Anna knew how to write a poem.”
“Yes, Anna is writing a poem. If the poem is good, it will be in a book at her school.”
“A real book?”
“Yes, Anna will be the first Bean to be in a book. I want everybody to leave her alone.”
George thought fast. He said, “Can I go up on the roof if I write a poem?”
“No.”
“Why not, Mama? That’s really not fair.”
“If you want to write a poem, George, you can do it at the table.”
George groaned.
“Here is a piece of paper, George. Here is a pencil.”
George said, “Why does Anna get to write on the roof and I have to write at the table?”
“Anna’s poem is a roof poem. Yours is not.”
George sat down at the table. He thought. He twirled his pencil. He bit it. He admired his teeth prints in the wood. He thought some more.
Finally he sighed. “I can’t write a poem at the table. I’m sorry. I just can’t. I have to be on the roof, like Anna.”
Mrs. Bean gave in.
“All right,” she said. “You may go up on the roof and write one poem. But you must not bother Anna.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it. Anna is the first Bean to be in a book.”
“I won’t bother her,” George said.
He crossed his heart.
“And thank you very much, Mama.”
George ran out of the apartment. He ran up the steps. He pushed open the door and stepped onto the roof.
Clean clothes snapped in the wind. Pigeons cooed in their cages. Rabbits hopped in theirs.
George took a deep breath of good roof air.
This was the place to write a poem. And George was going to write the best poem in the whole world.
Two Beans on the Roof
George sat down.
He said softly, “Hello, Anna.”
Anna did not answer. She was looking across the rooftops. George said, “Mama said I could come up and write a poem too.”
Anna did not answer.
George said, “I can write a poem if I don’t bother you. And I won’t bother you, Anna. I promise.”
Anna closed her eyes.
“I won’t bother you, no matter what.”
George watched Anna. Then he closed his eyes too.
It worked. He finished his poem at once.
“I am going to write my poem down,” he said. “That way I will always have it. I will never, ever forget it.”
George bent over his paper.
“You ought to write yours down too, Anna. That way you will always have it. You will never, ever forget it.”
George printed his poem on the paper. He was glad he could spell all the words. He did not have to bother Anna at all.
This was George’s poem:
The cat was fat.
It sat on a hat.
The hat got flat.
Then he wrote:
A poem by George (String) Bean.
The kids at school called George String Bean. They called his sister Jenny Jelly Bean. They called Anna Anna.
George was very happy with his poem. He read it three times to himself.
“Want to hear my poem?” George asked.
Anna was looking across the rooftops.
“It’s not a long poem, Anna, and it’s a funny poem. It will make you laugh.”
George laughed thinking about it.
“Do you want to hear it, Anna—yes or no?”
Anna didn’t answer.
Finally George got tired of waiting. He said, “Well, here goes, ready or not.”
He held up his paper. He began to read:
The cat was fat.
It sat—
“Mama,” Anna yelled, “String’s bothering me.”
Mrs, Bean stuck her head out the window. “Now, Anna,” she called, “you know I don’t like you to call your brother String. His name is George.”
Anna said, “All right, George is bothering me, Mama.”
“That’s better.”
“I can’t write a poem with George reciting his junk.”
George jumped up.
“Mama, it is not junk! It is a poem! It rhymes.”
“It may rhyme,” Anna said, “and it may be a poem. However, it is not a poem that has to be written on the roof. You could write a poem like that anywhere.”
“I could not! I tried to write it at the table. Mama saw me. I tried and I could not write one word.”
“I will show you a roof poem,” Anna said. “This is a roof poem.”
Mrs. Bean called, “Anna, if you’re going to say your poem, please say it real loud. I want to hear it.”
“I will, Mama.”
Anna stood up. She held her head high. She said her poem good and loud:
From my roof
I can see
Beyond the town,
Beyond the sea,
Beyond Africa,
Asia, too—
Anna stopped. “That’s all I’ve got so far, Mama,” she said. “I have to t
hink of something that rhymes with too.”
“Goo, boo, cuckoo,” said George.
“Do your own poem,” Anna said.
“I did!”
“The cat poem does not count. If you can’t do a roof poem, you have to go down stairs, and write at the table. Isn’t that right, Mama?”
George said quickly, “My cat poem was a practice poem. Now I will do my real poem. It will be a roof poem.”
To himself he said, And it will be the best roof poem in the whole world. It will even be better than Anna’s.
He turned his paper over. He twirled his pencil. He bit it. He admired his teeth prints in the wood.
He closed his eyes to think.
Three Beans on the Roof
George got up. “I need a break,” he told Anna. “This is hard work.”
George walked to the side of the roof. He looked over the wall.
His sister Jenny was on the sidewalk below. Jenny was jumping rope.
Instead of “Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear,” Jenny was saying:
Jelly Bean, Jelly Bean,
Turn around.
Jelly Bean, Jelly Bean,
Touch the ground.
Jelly Bean, Jelly Bean,
Shine your shoes.
Jelly Bean, Jelly Bean,
Read the news.
George yelled, “Jelly Bean! Look where I am!”
“Time out,” Jenny said. She stopped jumping and looked up at the roof of her apartment building.
George said, “Hello down there.”
Jenny said, “String, is that you on the roof?”
George said, “It’s not Santa Claus.”
Jenny said, “String Bean, you know we are not allowed on the roof. I’m going to tell Mama.”
Jenny ran upstairs and into the kitchen.
“Mama!”
“Don’t shout, Jenny,” Mrs. Bean said.
“I have to shout! You have to hear this! String is playing on the roof!”
Mrs. Bean said, “Jenny, I asked you not to call your brother String.”
“I forgot. I’ll start over. George is playing on the roof.”
“That’s better. Both George and Anna are on the roof, Jenny, but they are not playing.”
“They aren’t?”
“No.”
“Then what are they doing?”
“They are writing roof poems.”
Jenny’s mouth fell open. “I didn’t know they could write roof poems, Mama.”
“Yes, they can.”
“George too?”
“George is trying. The only place a Bean can write roof poems is on the roof.”
“Can I go up and write a poem?” Jenny asked quickly.
Jenny held her breath. After she wrote her poem, she would recite it for the rabbits. And the pigeons. It would be like a play! She was sure the rabbits and the pigeons had never seen a play.
“Oh, I guess so,” Mrs. Bean said. “But it has got to be a roof poem. Otherwise, you write at the table.”
“It will be a roof poem,” said Jenny. “That is a promise.” She crossed her heart.
“And don’t bother Anna.”
“I won’t. That’s another promise.”
“Or the pigeons or the rabbits.”
“I won’t. That’s—” Jenny stopped. “Does that mean I can’t say my poem for them?”
“Well …”
“Please, Mama, they never get to hear poems.”
“All right.”
Jenny stopped at the door. “And, Mama …”
“What?”
“Thank you very, very much.”
Jenny ran up the steps. She pushed open the door. She stepped out on the roof. She took a breath of good roof air.
Sheets snapped in the wind. Pigeons cooed. Rabbits hopped. Jenny smiled.
“I’m here, everybody,” she said. “Mama says I can write a roof poem too!”
“It’s not easy,” George warned.
Four Beans on the Roof
Jenny ran to the edge of the roof. She called to her friends, “I can’t jump rope anymore. I have to write a poem. Bye!”
Then she sat down between Anna and George.
She said to George, “I love it up here. I am on top of the world.”
She said to Anna, “This was a wonderful idea, Anna. I love being on the roof.”
Anna frowned. She said, “Jenny, I thought you came up here to write a poem.”
“I did.”
“Then write it.”
“I did.”
“You’ve already written your poem?” George asked in surprise.
George’s cat poem had come fast. His roof poem had not come at all.
“Yes,” said Jenny. “Do you want to hear it?”
“I do,” George said quickly.
“Here goes,” Jenny said:
I love the roof,
And that’s the truth.
“It’s short,” George said.
“I like short poems,” Jenny said.
“But it doesn’t rhyme.”
“It does when I say it,” Jenny said.
Jenny was missing two front teeth. She said her poem again to show that it did rhyme:
I love the roof,
And that’s the troof.
Then she said, “See?”
Anna said, “Yes. Now stop bothering me.”
Jenny got up. She went over to the rabbit cage. She said, “Want to hear my poem, rabbits? You too, pigeons?”
George said, “Mama said not to bother the rabbits and the pigeons.”
“I’m reciting a poem for them. That is not bothering them.” She grinned. “Come on, String, you can be my announcer.”
“Oh, all right.” George got up. He said to Anna, “I’ll do my poem later.” Then he went to the cages.
“Announce it the way they do on the radio, String. Say—”
“I know what to say. I listen to the radio too.” George cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen!”
“It would be better if you said, Rabbits and—”
George said, “Rabbits and gentlemen!”
“Not Rabbits and gentlemen! String, you’re making me laugh. I won’t be able to say my poem. Rabbits and pigeons!”
“Oh, all right! But this is the last time I’m doing it. Rabbits and pigeons! Here is a Bean saying a poem!”
“Thank you.” Jenny Bean stepped forward. She said:
I love the roof,
And that’s the troof.
“String!” a voice called. It was Frankie at the window across the street. “What are you guys doing on the roof?”
Jenny called back, “Oh, Frankie, we’re having so much fun. We’re making up poems.”
“Don’t tell him that!” George said. “Don’t—” He broke off. He went and sat down by Anna. His face was red.
Frankie said, “String is writing a po-em? String, can I hear your po-em?”
George didn’t answer.
“Can I come over and do a po-em?”
Mrs. Bean heard Frankie. She stuck her head out the window. “No, Frankie, you can’t come over. Only Beans on the roof.”
Frankie said, “Yes, Mrs. Bean.”
“And,” Mrs. Bean went on, “the word is poem, Frankie. Not po-em.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bean.” Frankie moved back from the window. Mrs. Bean did too.
Suddenly Jenny said, “Mama!”
“What? What happened?”
Mrs. Bean put her head out the window again.
“Nothing happened—I just had a wonderful idea. I want you to come up on the roof and write a poem.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Why, I could never write a poem. I didn’t even get to finish school.”
“Come on, Mama,” George said. “I will help you, and you can help me.”
“Yes, Mama, please try,” Anna said.
Mrs. Bean said, “Oh, all right.”
She came up the stairs, wiping her hands
on her apron.
Mrs. Bean stepped on the roof. She went over to the clothesline. She felt her clothes to see if they were dry. Then she sat down with Jenny, George, and Anna. She looked up at the sky. She smiled.
“I’ve got mine,” she said.
“Already?” asked George.
“Yes. Do you want to hear it?”
“Of course, Mama,” said Anna.
“Please,” said Jenny.
“I guess so,” said George.
“Well, if you really want to.” Mrs. Bean stood up. “Here it is.”
When I am on the roof with
George Bean,
Jenny Bean,
and Anna Bean,
I feel like a queen.
Mrs. Bean sat down. “It’s not a great poem,” she said, “but it is a true one.”
“It is a beautiful poem, Mama,” Anna said.
“Very, very beautiful,” said Jenny.
“I liked it too,” George admitted.
Now, George thought, I am the only Bean in the whole world who does not have a roof poem.
Five Beans on the Roof
“Beans! Yoo-hoo! Where are you?”
It was Mr. Bean. He was home from the store. Mr. Bean sold fruit and vegetables.
“Sam,” Mrs. Bean called back. “we’re up here on the roof.”
“The roof?”
Mr. Bean came up the stairs.
“Yes, Sam. We’ve been saying roof poems. Please come up and say one. It’s so much fun.”
Mr. Bean stuck his head out the door.
“Yes, Papa,” said Anna, “I would love to hear you say a roof poem.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Bean. “I don’t want to say a roof poem. I want to sing one.”
Mr. Bean had a good singing voice. He sang along with the radio at night.
“That would be wonderful, Papa,” Anna said.
“Oh, yes, Papa, please sing one,” Jenny said.
“I want to hear it too,” George said. He hoped it would give him an idea.
Mr. Bean came out on the roof.
Jenny said, “Wait, Papa. You want George to announce you?”
George groaned. “Please don’t make me do any more announcing.”
Mr. Bean smiled. “I will announce my-self. Here is Sam Bean singing a song for his beautiful children.”