By that time, things were civilized. A village had appeared, and a great many little farms, and everyone mostly raised turnips, since they grew so well there. And one day some new people came to the place and picked out a spot for farming that was near where the idol’s head lay resting underground. These people were a father and a mother and their big, slow son, Beevis. They put up a shack to live in, and next they tried to figure out where to dig a well.
“It ought to be over there,” said Beevis.
“No, here,” said Mother, “next to the shack.”
“Not here,” said Father. “Too risky. Beevis would only fall into it.”
“Would not,” said Beevis.
“Probably would, at that,” said Mother.
“Would not,” said Beevis, who had got his feelings hurt. “You never listen to me.” And this was true. They didn’t.
In any case, the end of it was that Beevis was sent to dig the well exactly at the spot where the idol’s head was buried. The digging took a while because Beevis was big but he wasn’t very strong, and with his feelings hurt he wasn’t inclined to hurry. “They never listen to me,” he said, this time to himself, as he chunked away at the soil with his shovel. Still, slow as he was, after a little while he had dug down to the place where his shovel went chink instead of chunk. “Rock,” said Beevis. He brushed away the soil at the bottom of the hole to see how large the rock might be, and there, exposed to the sunlight after all those years and earthquakes, was the Pishpash idol’s ear, big as a washtub but plainly an ear for all that, and altogether unexpected.
Beevis climbed out of the hole and stood gazing at the ear for a long, long time, so long that at last his father came over and stood beside him.
“Why aren’t you digging, Beevis?” said Father.
“There’s an ear down there,” said Beevis.
“What?” said Father.
“An ear,” said Beevis, pointing. “Down there.”
So Father looked and saw the ear as plain as day at the bottom of the hole. And then they both stood gazing at it.
After a while, Mother peered through a window of the shack and called, “What in the World are you doing?”
Father beckoned to her, so out she came and looked down into the hole. “What’s that?” she said.
“It’s an ear,” said Father. “Beevis found it.”
“It’s ugly,” said Mother.
“Button your lip,” said Beevis. “It’ll hear you.”
And indeed, at that very moment, a minor earthquake shook the ground just hard enough to make their feet tingle.
“It heard you,” said Beevis.
After this, they went inside the shack to talk it over.
“It’s a dangerous ear, that’s clear enough,” said Mother. “If it can make the ground shake.”
“Likely so,” said Father. “What do you think we should do?”
“I think,” said Mother, “we should cover it up. Fill in the hole again.”
“No!” said Beevis. “That ear is mine. I found it, and I like it.”
“Cover it up, Beevis,” said Father. “It’s the only thing to do. Go out right now and fill in the hole.”
“You never hear a word I say,” said Beevis. He went back out to the hole and stood there, looking down at the ear. “Zum zum zum,” he crooned softly so that no one but the ear could hear him.
“Fill in the hole, Beevis,” called Father from the shack, so Beevis picked up his shovel and pretended to begin. But when they weren’t watching, he took some boards left over from the shack and laid them across the top of the hole and covered them over with dirt so that it looked as if he’d done what they told him. And then he went and dug the well in quite another spot, on the opposite side of the shack.
The weeks went by with no more earthquakes. Beevis and Mother and Father plowed their field and planted turnips and nothing more was said about the ear. But every night, when the old folks were asleep, Beevis would creep out and uncover the ear and talk to it. He told it all his troubles, and he tried out all his thoughts about life and the World, and the ear, lit up by moonlight shining into the hole, would listen to every word. And every night he would croon to it ever so softly—zum zum zum—before he covered it up again. But he never gave it turnips, for Beevis wasn’t silly like the Pishpash.
These midnight meetings with the ear did a lot for Beevis. He began to feel more confident. He stood up straighter, and wasn’t nearly so slow.
“Beevis has changed since we came here,” said Father to Mother. “He’s turning into quite a man!”
“Fresh air, hard work, and healthy food,” said Mother, who was cooking up turnips at the stove. “That, and no mollycoddling. That’s what’s done it.”
So of course it was clear they didn’t understand at all.
And then one night, while Beevis was out in the moonlight, talking to the ear and explaining his dreams for the future, Mother woke up and went to the window and saw him. “Beevis!” she called. “What in the World are you doing?”
“Phooey,” said Beevis to the ear. “Looks like the jig is up.”
But not at all. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a more-than-minor earthquake shook the land so hard you’d have thought the whole place was a dust mop. The shack fell down, and so did Mother, and out on the other side, the walls of the well collapsed. And Father got a bump on the knee when the stove fell over. But Beevis, standing by the ear, wasn’t so much as toppled off his feet, and the walls of the ear’s hole stayed firm.
Next day, when they’d calmed themselves down, Mother said, “It’s an evil omen. We’d better leave this place. It’s no good after all.”
And Father said, “Beevis, pack up what’s still in one piece and we’ll move along.”
“I’ll pack,” said Beevis, “but I won’t leave. I like it here.”
For once, they heard him. “But, Beevis,” said Mother, “how will you manage without us?”
“I’ll manage,” said Beevis. “I’ll manage very well. It’s time.”
And it was. Beevis managed. He waved goodbye to Mother and Father and sent them on their way. He rebuilt the shack and dug a new well. Then he pulled up all the turnips and planted beets instead, and became a successful farmer. And he made a round sort of cover for the ear’s hole and told people it was a dry well and to keep away, which they did, having no reason not to. And every night, unless it rained, Beevis went out in the moonlight and told his hopes and joys to the ear. And every night the ear heard every word.
Books by Natalie Babbitt
Dick Foote and the Shark
Phoebe’s Revolt
The Search for Delicious
Kneeknock Rise
The Something
Goody Hall
The Devil’s Storybook
Tuck Everlasting
The Eyes of the Amaryllis
Herbert Rowbarge
The Devil’s Other Storybook
Nellie: A Cat on Her Own
Go Fish!
QUESTIONS FOR THE AUTHOR
Natalie Babbitt
What did you want to be when you grew up?
When I was a preschooler, I wanted to be a pirate, and then when I started school, I wanted to be a librarian. But in the fourth grade, I got my copy of Alice in Wonderland / Alice Through the Looking-Glass and decided once and for all that I wanted to be an illustrator of stories for children.
When did you realize you wanted to be a writer?
I didn’t even think about writing. My husband wrote the story for the first book. But then he didn’t want to do it anymore, so I had to start writing my own stories. After all, you can’t make pictures for stories unless you have stories to make pictures for.
What’s your first childhood memory?
I have a lot of preschool memories, all from when we lived in a little town just south of Columbus, Ohio. I kind of remember sitting in a high chair. And when I was a little older, I remember seeing Jack Frost looking in
through the kitchen window. That was pretty surprising.
What’s your most embarrassing childhood memory?
I don’t remember any. I’m probably just suppressing them all.
What’s your favorite childhood memory?
I think I liked best the times when my sister and I would curl up next to our mother while she read aloud to us.
As a young person, who did you look up to most?
No question: my mother.
What was your worst subject in school?
Arithmetic. I think you call it math now.
What was your best subject in school?
Art. And after that, English.
What was your first job?
It was when I was a teenager. I worked in what we called the College Shop in a big downtown Cleveland (Ohio) department store called Higbee’s. But after that, I mostly worked in the pricing department of a washing machine factory.
How did you celebrate publishing your first book?
I don’t think I did anything special. By that time, I was beginning to get over my absolute astonishment at having found my editor in the first place. That was the most wonderful moment of all.
Where do you write your books?
I think about them for a long time before I actually start putting words on paper, and I think about them all over the place. Then, when I’m ready, I work at my computer in my workroom. But before, I always wrote them out longhand, sitting on my sofa in the living room. I wrote on a big tablet, and then I typed everything, paragraph by paragraph, on my typewriter, making changes as I went along.
Where do you find inspiration for your writing?
I mostly write about all the unanswered questions I still have from when I was in elementary school.
Which of your characters is most like you?
The main characters in all of my long stories are like me, but I think Winnie Foster, in Tuck Everlasting, is most like me.
When you finish a book, who reads it first?
Always my editor, Michael di Capua. His opinion is the most important one.
Are you a morning person or a night owl?
Neither one, really. I’m mostly a middle-of-the-day person.
What’s your idea of the best meal ever?
One that someone else cooked. And it has to have something chocolate for dessert.
Which do you like better: cats or dogs?
Cats to look at and to watch, but dogs to own.
What do you value most in your friends?
Good talk and plenty of laughing.
Where do you go for peace and quiet?
Now that my children are grown and gone into lives of their own, I have plenty of peace and quiet just sitting around the house.
What makes you laugh out loud?
Words. My father was very funny with words, and I grew up laughing at the things he said.
What’s your favorite song?
Too many to mention, but most of them are from the ’30s and ’40s, when songs were to sing, not to shout and wiggle to.
Who is your favorite fictional character?
No question: Alice from Alice in Wonderland and Alice Through the Looking-Glass.
What are you most afraid of?
I have a fear that is very common when we are little, and I seem to have hung on to it: the fear of being abandoned.
What time of year do you like best?
May is my favorite month.
What is your favorite TV show?
I don’t watch many shows anymore—just CNN News and old movies.
If you were stranded on a desert island, who would you want for company?
My husband, Sam.
If you could travel in time, where would you go?
Back to Middletown, Ohio, to Lincoln School on Central Avenue, to live through fifth grade again. And again and again.
What’s the best advice you have ever received about writing?
No one single thing. Too many good things to list.
What do you want readers to remember about your books?
The questions without answers.
What would you do if you ever stopped writing?
Spend all my time doing word puzzles and games, and practicing the good old songs on my piano.
What do you like best about yourself?
That I can draw, and play the good old songs on my piano.
What is your worst habit?
Always expecting things to be perfect.
What is your best habit?
Trying to make things as perfect as I can.
What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment?
Right now, it’s a picture of a man in a washtub, floating on the ocean in a rainstorm. I’m really proud of that picture.
Where in the world do you feel most at home?
That’s a hard question. My family moved away from Middletown, Ohio (see the question/answer about time travel), when I was in the middle of sixth grade, and we never went back. Even after all these years, though, Middletown is the place I think of when I think about “home.” I’ve lived in a lot of different places, though, and liked them all, so I don’t feel sorry for myself. It’s just that the word “home” has its own kind of special meaning.
What do you wish you could do better?
Everything. Cook, write, play the piano, everything.
What would your readers be most surprised to learn about you?
Maybe that I believe writing books is a long way from being important. The most important thing anyone can do is be a teacher. As for those of us who write books, I often think we should all stop for fifty years. There are so many wonderful books to read, and not enough time to get around to all of them. But we writers just keep cranking them out. All we can hope for is that readers will find at least a little time for them, anyway.
Willet Goody’s father has disappeared.
With the help of his tutor, Willet is determined
to discover the truth about what happened.
Hidden treasure, a gypsy seance, and a frightening
exploration of a tomb all help unravel the mystery in
Natalie Babbitt’s Goody Hall.
CHAPTER 1
The blacksmith stood in the door of his shop and sniffed the May breeze hopefully. “There’s something in the air, no doubt about it,” he said to himself with satisfaction. “Something’s going to happen.” He fixed a pipeful of tobacco and lit it contentedly, sorting over in his mind a number of possibilities. There was the baker’s daughter, Millie, who had been in love with the new parson all winter and was said to be pining away because he refused to notice her. Perhaps she would throw herself off the church roof —that would be interesting! There was Alf Hulser’s son Fred, who had been jailed for stealing a cow—maybe he would try to escape. And then, wasn’t it time for Pooley’s barn to catch fire again? It burned to the ground about once every five years. The blacksmith scanned the skies for signs of a storm. Lightning was always good for starting fires. But the sky was clear, so he leaned against the door frame and thought about the last fire. “Five years ago exactly,” he nodded to himself, counting back. “One of the best fires we ever had.” And it had happened the very day before that rich fellow Midas Goody fell off his horse and killed himself.
“Yoo-hoo there!” called a voice. The blacksmith peered down the street through a cloud of pipe smoke and saw a big, heavy woman dressed in black hurrying toward him. “Good morning, Henry!” she said breathlessly as she came up. “What are you standing out here for? Let’s go inside. I’ve been marketing all morning and I want to rest up before I start back to the Hall.”
“Come in then,” said the blacksmith, “and tell me the news.”
The big woman in the black dress was the blacksmith’s sister and her name was Dora Tidings. Mrs. Dora Tidings. “A widow—a very respectable widow,” the villagers declared, “who supports herself by keeping house for that woman out to Goody Hall. You know the place, like a regu
lar palace—if you like palaces. Well, Mrs. Goody’s rich, all right, but it takes more than money to make a fine lady, and that poor little boy of hers, cooped up away from natural play and exercise, although they do say he’s a regular holy terror. Mrs. Goody hasn’t changed her ways one bit since her husband was killed so suddenly that night, and no one ever saw her shed a tear over him. Not that anyone ever knew much about them, coming out of nowhere the way they did—but he was a fine gentleman, you know, or at least that’s what Dora Tidings says.”
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