The Old Meadow by George Selden Page A

streetlight—and chirping till my throat is sore! The wings, too. I’ll barely make it back to my nest. And what Dorothy will say—me coming back at this hour—I can’t even imagine.” Poor John was winded. His wing muscles ached, those miracle things that let him fly. And he felt guilty too, for having lost Walter. “I’m sorry,” his voice drooped sadly down. “I tried, but—”
    â€œShh! Hush!” Simon interrupted. “I hear panting.”
    â€œHuh-huh—!”
    â€œThere it is again!”
    â€œI don’t hear anything,” said John, but one note in his voice was hope.
    â€œHush again! Someone’s blundering through those bulrushes—?
    â€œIf it’s blundering,” said John Robin, “it’s got to be—”
    â€œDubber!” Chester shouted—squeaked, shrieked. He made the loudest sound ever heard from one lone Connecticut cricket. “You’re back!”
    â€œLet me get to the pool! Let me get to the pool—”
    â€œCome on, houn’ dog,” Ashley Mockingbird encouraged him. “It’s right here—”
    â€œNot for me—”
    Around Dubber’s neck, the animals saw, was what looked like a ruined shoelace. “Oooo-ssss!” it hissed pathetically.
    â€œThat’s him!” said John Robin. “My found-again friend!”
    â€œLet go, Walt,” Dubber encouraged. “We’re home.”
    With the weakest of “plops” the water snake dropped head first in the pool.
    â€œHe’s awfully dry!” Dubber counseled the others. “You’ve got to be patient.”
    â€œWhat happened? ” asked Chester.
    â€œYes—after I lost him—what—?”
    â€œWait. Just wait now. I want Walt to tell it.”
    The water snake stayed below for a worrying long time. No bubbles came up, no ripples to show that anyone was alive down there—just the pale echo of a moon smudge on the surface.
    â€œYou better go get him, Simon,” said Chester.
    â€œNo need,” said Simon.
    A head emerged from the depths. Then from that black head there emerged a long and luxurious sigh: “Oh, water—”
    â€œWelcome back,” said Chester. “I take it that city life didn’t agree—”
    â€œOh, water!” crooned Walter Water Snake. He addressed all his friends, sounding very much like his old self. “Have any of you sweet field folk here ever thought of the beauty of water?”
    â€œWhere were you?” asked John, who wanted not to feel so guilty.
    â€œWet brook of my heart! I will never leave you again!”
    â€œWalt—”
    â€œYes, water is my true home! It’s all around—it’s up and down—it’s here and there—when you’re in it, water is everywhere!” In a fit of relief, Walter kissed the surface of Simon’s Pool. Walter’s Pool now, too. “I love you, water.” He slurped up some. “It tastes good, too! Oh, water—!”
    â€œWhat happened?” hollered Chester.
    â€œThe cool comfort of water bathes every scale. If you’re lucky enough to have scales,” said Walt.
    â€œI really am going to get mad,” Chester Cricket decided.
    â€œAnyway,” said Walt, and his zig-zags in the pool suggested a story with lots of twists and turns, “fearlessly I went out into a world of concrete, bricks and cement, guided only by a robin—who soon took off through fear of the dark.”
    â€œI did not!”
    â€œWho soon got lost, through no fault of his own, in the gloaming.”
    â€œThat’s better.”
    â€œIt’s a horrible world of sidewalks, curbstones, and gutters. But one thing it taught me: I was not made for hard surfaces! ”
    â€œThat’s big-eared news,” said Robert Rabbit, who’d added himself to the group without anybody noticing.
    â€œDespite John