_Sarah Addington_
It seemed to Jerry that he would really die if he didn’t get a book
that Christmas. Here he was, eight years old, learning to read, liking
to read better than almost anything else in the world, and he had no
book to read from. He read at school in books furnished by somebody
or other, Jerry didn’t know who, but that wasn’t enough. Jerry wanted
a book for his very own. He wanted it big enough to carry under his
arm, and small enough to put under his pillow at night. He wanted it
to have stories in it about bears and St. Bernards and dragons and
boys--no girls; stories, too, about snakes and explorers and boats and
soldiers. He wanted the book to have red and yellow and green pictures
of airplanes and lions and pirates, one picture on every page.
This was the book Jerry wanted. This was the book he dreamed of in bed
at night and thought about in the daytime, the book he pretended to
carry under his arm and made believe was under his pillow. But there
wasn’t the slightest chance of Jerry’s getting that book, or any book.
Indeed, Jerry would have been ashamed to mention the word “book” at
home. People don’t talk airily about blue-and-gold books when their
mothers don’t have enough breakfast and their fathers don’t have enough
supper and nobody in the whole family ever has enough dinner, even on
Sunday.
And that was the appalling state of affairs at the Juddikins’. Nobody
ever mentioned it, but there it was. They hadn’t enough food, they
hadn’t enough fire, they hadn’t enough clothes. There were five
Juddikins: Mr. Juddikins, Mrs. Juddikins, Jerry Juddikins, the baby
Juddikins, and Mutt Juddikins, who, though he was only a dog and, as
dogs go, not of high social position, yet was a highly important member
of the Juddikins family. He was a mutt dog, the Juddikins frankly
called him Mutt, yet this dog was far from a mutt at heart. Indeed, he
had a thoroughbred soul, such as some of your blue-blooded aristocratic
dogs never dream of having. He never whined when he was hungry, like
the fussy little Pomeranian next door. He didn’t need a silk pillow to
sleep on, like the lazy Pekingese across the street. Not much. Mutt
was a real sport. He took what he got, which wasn’t much, but it was
always all that the Juddikins could give him; bread and gravy, potatoes
sometimes, even a bone now and then, a skimpy, dry bone, to be sure,
but none the less a bone. Mutt took these and was grateful and happy,
even put on airs as if it were a feast that the Juddikins had set
before him.
For Mutt was not only a sport, he was also a swell. He carried his
tail at the most elegant angle. He picked up his feet with style and
dignity. His were drawing-room manners. He had shameful ancestors;
his grandfather on his mother’s side had been a mere roustabout dog,
one of those villains who spend their lives fighting and stealing and
cheating man and beast alike. Mutt remembered him well; he had died in
a brawl which was the talk of the alley for days. Then there was Mutt’s
grandmother on his father’s side, a dissolute old dog who ate a cat a
day when she was home, and who, when she wasn’t home, wandered abroad
pillaging and plundering like a very pirate among dogs. She dined on
garbage and slept in ash cans. Mutt’s own mother was far from a lady,
his father was a brute, and their home life was deplorable.
And yet along came Mutt, their descendant, a gentleman if not a
scholar, a dog well-mannered, refined, gallant, heroic. The last of
a long line of ruffians, thieves, bullies and traitors, Mutt was a
cavalier among dogs, and he lived with the Juddikins and was the very
center of their small and humble universe.
Some people said the Juddikins ought not to keep Mutt: they were too
poor. But, as Mrs. Juddikins said, when you’re poor you need a dog the
most of all, and as for giving up Mutt, rich or poor, the Juddikins
would as soon have considered giving up the baby, I do believe. Of
course the baby was very sweet and cunning, but Mutt was far more
intelligent, and one thing he didn’t do, he didn’t swallow buttonhooks
and hairbrushes all day long, as the foolish Juddikins baby tried to
do.
The Juddikins would have been a very happy family, then, if only they
hadn’t been so poor. But they were poor. There was hardly any money at
all in Mr. Juddikins’ pocket, none at all in Mrs. Juddikins’ pocket,
less than none in the brown box on the mantelpiece, for there, where
the money used to be, were now only bills. Bills for the rent of the
Juddikins’ tiny house, bills for the doctor--for once the baby really
swallowed part of the hairbrush, and old Doctor Jollyman had to come
running and fish out the bristles.
It was all because Mr. Juddikins didn’t have a job. Fathers have to
have jobs, it seems, to keep families going, and Mr. Juddikins didn’t
have one, so his family wasn’t kept going very well. It scared Mr.
Juddikins half to death sometimes to think that the whole family
depended on him like this. Mrs. Juddikins, Jerry Juddikins, the baby
Juddikins, Mutt--all had stomachs to fill, all had bodies to be warmed
at the fire, and this not to mention Mr. Juddikins, who was hungry and
cold himself all the time.
Every morning Mr. Juddikins would start out to look for a job. First he
would rise early and call everybody. “Get up, mother! Get up, Jerry!
Get up, baby!” Mutt was the only one who didn’t have to be told to
get up. Then Mr. Juddikins would bustle around and make a fire, oh,
a very small one, and while Mrs. Juddikins was making the tea, oh, a
very small pot, Mr. Juddikins would put on his clean collar and his
stringy black tie, and sing as he looked at himself in the mirror.
Mr. Juddikins was, you see, of a cheerful disposition. If he had not
been, he could never have sung as he looked at himself in the mirror.
Mr. Juddikins would then take his tea. He made dreadful faces over the
tea, for he didn’t like it without milk and the Juddikins had no milk,
except the baby, who had nothing else, unless you count the bristles.
After drinking tea and making faces for a while, Mr. Juddikins would
put on his shabby hat and his skimpy overcoat, kiss them all around
and go off. In one pocket he carried a bit of lunch, in the other a
letter of recommendation. In his heart Mr. Juddikins bore a strange and
thrilling hope: Today he would get the job, and henceforth all would
be rosy and jolly for the Juddikins family. But somehow to-day was
never the day, and every night Mr. Juddikins would come home tired and
discouraged, his cheerful eyes clouded, his smile gone, his perky tie
sagging at a most dejected angle. It was all very bad, and Jerry felt
so sorry for his father. Book indeed! What kind of boy would he be to
mention book at a time like this?
Jerry went to school on Peppermint Place. It was a lovely school,
where canaries sang in little glittering cages and geraniums bloomed
like red soldiers in straight rows at the windows, and where in winter
a fire boomed in a big, deep fireplace, and in summer the peppermint
trees flung white-blossomed arms in at the windows. Were they really
peppermint trees? I confess I don’t know. The grown-ups said not, and
called them lindens and catalpas and chestnuts. But the children said
they were: else why should the square be called Peppermint Place?
Grown-ups have a tiresome way of being right about things like that,
yet why should a square be called Peppermint Place if the trees aren’t
peppermint trees? Moreover, the children said that if you went to the
square at midnight the flowers were peppermint, and they said they
could smell them in the early morning when they first got to school--a
left-over, faint, but delicious smell that was nothing if it was not
peppermint blossoms washed over with midnight dew. Nobody had ever been
at Peppermint Place at midnight, so nobody could really deny what the
children said. So I am inclined to believe that for once the grown-ups
were wrong, and that the trees were really peppermint--at midnight
anyway.
From nine to ten the children at this school read and did arithmetic
problems. Jerry had struggled from nine to ten many mornings with the
queer marks in his primer, until, lo, one morning he found he could
read--all as sudden and surprising as that. From ten to eleven they
sang and drank cocoa and played games around the fire. From eleven to
twelve they took naps, then read some more, and looked up cities and
rivers on the big globe over by the red soldiers in the window, and
wrote on the blackboard. From twelve to one they played in the garden
behind the school. This was a special garden, just for children. It
had signs up like these: “Parents and Dogs Not Allowed”; “Please Walk
on the Grass”; “Trespassing Allowed.” And at one o’clock the children
went home.
Jerry loved school. He loved the reading and the cocoa and the
geraniums on parade, though he did wonder sometimes about those
geraniums. Didn’t they get tired of just being dressed up and parading,
and long to break ranks and have a good fight? Even toy soldiers have
wars; these were such peaceful soldiers. But you can’t fight if you
don’t have any enemies, and the geranium soldiers didn’t. Everybody
loved them; consequently their life was one long peace. Jerry liked
the boys at school, too--Peter the Little, and Johnnie O’Day, and
the Bumpus twins who had such interesting pockets, fishing worms and
marbles and snake skins and arrows and tops and kite strings and
magnets, all in one inviting jumble. He even liked the butterflies on
top of the girls’ heads, pink and brown and red ribbons that perched
there and looked always ready to fly.
But he didn’t like the girls. He simply couldn’t stand the girls. Girls
swished their skirts, for one thing, the important silly creatures;
swished them into the room and down the aisles, and even when they got
safely into their seats they swished and fidgeted and squirmed around,
spread out those skirts in wide circles around them, and patted them
down in such an utterly silly way. They snickered, too, all the time.
Hee, hee, hee! Tee, hee, hee! Jerry could positively hear them in his
sleep; he could see them in the dark, putting up small hands before
their faces, hee-heeing and tee-heeing behind them, and rolling foolish
eyes around. Also, they were cowards and cravens--squealed at the sight
of a spider, couldn’t climb a tree worth a cent, sniffled when their
feelings were hurt. A detestable tribe, girls!
Jerry used to wonder if his baby sister would grow up to be one of
them, swishing her skirts and giggling and sniffling. Most likely.
Anybody that would eat hairbrushes would no doubt grow up just as
silly. And he used to wonder, too, how it was that women like his
mother and the teacher, such utterly lovely people as they now were,
had ever been just girls. Could his teacher really have been like
these? Did she never throw a ball right, or climb a tree decently, or
carry a toad in her pocket? Oh, yes, toads! The girls said they made
warts. Fancy that, if you can. Warts! And supposing toads did make
warts, who cared? No, Jerry couldn’t endure girls, and that was why he
didn’t want a single girl in his whole book when he got it, if he ever
did get it. A world without girls was impossible, it seemed; there were
such hordes and swarms of them; but a book without girls was entirely
feasible, and that was the kind of book Jerry wanted.
And then one day, two weeks before Christmas, it suddenly began to look
as though Jerry might get his book after all. It was the teacher’s
idea, and when she had suggested it Jerry wondered why in the world he
hadn’t thought of such a simple thing. The teacher said: “Now today
we’re going to write our letters to Santa Claus. Peter, you pass the
pencils, please, and Katinka may distribute the papers. And you must
all tell Santa just what you want, and don’t forget commas and periods.
Santa Claus is very partial to commas and periods. Last week Katinka
wrote a whole page without a single comma. I can’t think what made her.”
Katinka, who was passing papers blushed guiltily, and Jerry, though
he hated girls, felt a little sorry for her. Katinka was hardly as
odious as most girls. She had reddish short curls, and she wore green
butterflies on them. She was fattish, her face was usually sticky from
lollipops, her aprons were always torn and dirty, but even she switched
herself around a good deal; couldn’t help it, being a girl, Jerry
supposed. And once she had stopped in front of Jerry’s house to pat
Mutt with a grimy, affectionate paw.
Well, Jerry wrote his letter. He knew precisely what he wanted. So he
told Santa Claus all about it, told him about the dragons and pirates
and lions and soldiers he wanted in the book, mentioned the blue cover,
explained the size, called Santa’s attention to his record as a good
boy all year, and stated that there must be no girls in the book. Then
he went over the letter, scattering commas and periods lavishly in
every sentence, and signed his name, Jerry Juddikins, 123 Whippoorwill
Road. As Jerry watched it go up the chimney, he felt a tug at his heart
he had never quite felt before; he would get his precious book on
Christmas morning; Santa Claus would see to that.
Benjamin Bookfellow came into his workshop the next morning rubbing his
hands and telling himself what a really fine job he had in the world,
anyway. To live in the North Country with Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus
and all the toymakers, to write books all year long for children’s
Christmas stockings--what could be finer than that, asked Benjamin
Bookfellow of himself. Most of all, he thought, he liked this cozy
room of his where the sun shone in so gayly and the Plot Tree, thick
with plots for stories, reared its beautiful branches over his head.
Benjamin Bookfellow was very happy that morning as he settled down to
Page Twenty-four of “Chief Thunder-cloud’s Revenge,” a book he was
writing for a little tomboy of a girl, named Katinka, who liked Indian
stories almost as much as she liked lollipops, which was saying a good
deal.
Pretty soon Hickety-Stickety came in. Hickety-Stickety was the
postmaster of the Claus establishment. He had a letter in his hand and
he looked worried.
“Santy Claus sent ye this here,” he began. “It’s from a boy as goes to
Peppermint Place school. He wants a queer thing, he do. He wants a book
as hasn’t got no girls in it.”
Benjamin Bookfellow reached out for the letter. “Pyrits,” it said,
“soldieres, draggens”; all that was easy. “no, girls, in it Santa
Claus not; one.” A book without girls in it? Benjamin Bookfellow had
never heard of such a thing. Girls were absolutely necessary to books.
Dragons had to eat them, knights had to rescue them; how could you
possibly have a book without a girl in it?
And yet maybe the Plot Tree would have that kind of story on it after
all. Benjamin reached up and picked off a luscious fruit. He opened it
carefully and out fell the plot, a little round ball with words written
all over it. He read it hastily. No, here was a girl right off, a girl
and a gnome and a prince, quite obviously a fairy story.
He pulled down another plot, then more plots and more plots and more
plots, cut them open and took out the round ball and still not a single
story without a girl in it, just as he had feared. Poor Benjamin
Bookfellow! His face was as long as your arm.
At supper that night in Santa Claus’ dining room, when Benjamin and
Hickety-Stickety and the Twelve Toymakers were all at table with the
Clauses, Santa Claus said first thing: “Well, Bookfellow, and did you
find a story without a girl in it?”
“I didn’t, sir,” replied Benjamin sadly. “I took off every single plot
from the tree, and they all had girls in them.”
Santa Claus’ rosy chops fell. “Have you called in the Authors,
Bookfellow?” Santa Claus wanted to know.
Benjamin Bookfellow knew what was coming. The Authors sometimes wrote
books to help Benjamin when he got crowded with work.
“No, sir, I haven’t yet.”
“Then do send for them immediately,” said Santa Claus. “We must get
Jerry Juddikins’ book, you know, at any cost.”
The next morning Santa Claus sent the reindeer down to the edge of the
North Country to meet the Authors, while Benjamin Bookfellow fidgeted
and fussed around his study.
At last they came, a whole sleighful--stylish authors, down-at-the-heel
authors, shy authors, important authors, authors with fur overcoats,
authors with no overcoats, lady authors twittering, authors, authors,
authors. But the interview was short. Not a single author could even
imagine a book without a girl in it, much less produce one.
“I give it up,” said Benjamin Bookfellow. “Jerry Juddikins will just
have to take a regular book, a book with girls in it, and try to be
contented with it.”
So he set to work on all the other books he had to finish before
Christmas.
Whereupon he discovered, to his horror and dismay, that there wasn’t a
plot in the place. He had plucked them yesterday and laid them on his
work table, and now they were gone, every single one of them, gone.
Benjamin Bookfellow, in great agitation, looked high and low for his
plots, in every corner and crevice. He moved the furniture and looked
behind the pictures.
And then Benjamin Bookfellow knew the worst. The Authors had stolen his
plots, and now he couldn’t write his Christmas books. With a groan
Benjamin Bookfellow sank in his chair.
Great was the sorrow of jolly old Santa Claus and great was the sorrow
of Mrs. Claus and the Twelve Toymakers when they learned the dreadful
news. No Christmas books for children! What a terrible thing!
Well, there they were, Santa Claus and all his helpers, with Christmas
not two weeks off, and no books for children’s stockings. Oh, there
were some books of course. Benjamin Bookfellow had been writing books
all year long, but there was no book for Katinka, for hers was only
half finished; and there was no book for Jerry Juddikins, who didn’t
want anything but a book for Christmas.
Santa Claus thought maybe the Plot Tree would grow some new plots for
the rest of the books, but Benjamin Bookfellow said no. There were some
buds on the trees, but you can’t expect buds to be fruit in a week.
“Perhaps if you watered it an extra lot the plots would grow,” said
Santa Claus at dinner next day.
“Perhaps if you pruned it--” began Toymaker Number Five, but that was
no good either; the Plot Tree had been beautifully pruned just a few
weeks before and now was a marvel of perfect branches and healthy sap.
“Did you ever try using a little imagination on it?” asked Toymaker
Number Eleven timidly. Everybody stared.
“What’s imagination?” asked Hickety-Stickety.
“Why--” commenced Santa Claus and stopped.
“Why--” began Mrs. Claus and stopped.
“Why--” Benjamin Bookfellow started and stopped.
So Toymaker Number Eleven finished up for them.
“Why, Hickety-Stickety,” he said in a little thin voice, “if you think
up a lovely story that never happened, but is better than anything
that ever did happen, that’s imagination. There’s a spring,” he added
dreamily, “where the waters of imagination grow. I know where that
spring is.”
“You do?” everybody at the table cried.
“Yes,” answered Toymaker Number Eleven, still in the same musing voice.
“It’s in the deep woods down between green banks. Even in winter the
banks are green; the snow melts when it touches them. A hawthorn tree
almost hides the spring from view, but at night when the moon is
shining you can see the water quite plainly; it’s silver and black and
it sings a little song.”
“Well,” boomed Santa Claus in a big voice, “that solves the whole
thing. To-night we’ll get some of that wonderful water, and sprinkle it
on the Plot Tree and then it will burst forth with plots and Bookfellow
can write his books.”
Which is just what happened. When the moon came up that night Benjamin
Bookfellow, led by Toymaker Number Eleven, went in the deep woods
down to the green banks behind the hawthorn, scooped up a pailful of
the wonderful water and took it back to the Plot Tree. At the first
sprinkle the buds began to flower; at the next sprinkle the flowers
bloomed into green fruit; at the last sprinkle the green fruit turned
yellow like oranges and seemed ready to burst. Three sprinkles, and
the buds were full-grown plots, ready to be nipped off by Benjamin
Bookfellow and used for children’s books. A wonderful thing,
imagination. Nobody ever need scoff at it again.
But still Jerry Juddikins’ book was not forthcoming, for even the new
plots all had girls in them. Jerry didn’t know he wouldn’t get his book
of course. He didn’t dream that in all the store of Santa’s treasures
there wouldn’t be a book without a girl in it. So he was very happy.
It was in the evening of two days before Christmas, and already the
air of Christmas was abroad. The air crackled with Christmas, the
windows of people’s houses flaunted Christmas, the snow crunched with
Christmas in every crunch, and everywhere there was that tingling feel
of Christmas. Even Mutt had Christmas in his bones and had gone off on
an adventure, tail up, nose up, barking with Christmas joy. And then to
cap the climax, Mr. Juddikins came home with a job in his pocket! Oh,
such joy in the Juddikins’ house! They were all quite delirious with it.
They wished Mutt would come back though. They knew how happy he would
be when they told him. Mr. Juddikins hurried out and bought a fat bone
for him, such a bone as Mutt had dreamed of all his life but had never
yet set teeth upon. They unbolted the door, the more quickly to open
it when Mutt came back. Then they sat down and waited, the bone on a
plate, the door unlatched.
But Mutt did not come back. Six o’clock came, and half-past six and
seven. Eight o’clock came, and half-past eight and nine. The Juddikins
went out into the snow-covered garden calling, “Mutt, Mutt, Mutt.” They
went up and down Whippoorwill Road hunting and calling and searching.
But he was gone and they sat around the fire, Mr. Juddikins and Mrs.
Juddikins and Jerry, with terror and ache in their hearts. Even the
baby looked sad as she slept in her high chair.
Then, all at once, as they sat there, they heard steps up the walk; not
dog steps but human steps, a big, long stride like a man’s and a little
short hippety-hop like a girl’s. A knock came at the door, a big rap
from a man’s hand, a little tattoo from a girl’s hand. Mr. Juddikins
looked fearfully at Mrs. Juddikins, and Jerry looked at them both. Here
was somebody to tell them Mutt was dead. They couldn’t move.
The knock came again.
“Go,” said Mrs. Juddikins to Mr. Juddikins.
Mr. Juddikins went, and in tumbled a bundle of red curls, sticky lips,
smeared hands, torn coat. It was Katinka. At her heels followed a tall
black overcoat with a kind face; Katinka’s father.
“He’s all right, Jerry!” cried Katinka falling into the room. “Mutt’s
all right! He’s just a little hurt, and he’s asleep now by our fire. I
wrapped his leg up and gave him an enormous supper.”
Katinka’s father spoke next, smiling kindly. “Your dog had a little
accident, Mr. Juddikins,” he said.
Accident! Jerry turned white, and Katinka struck in again. “But he’s
quite all right, Jerry. He gave me the sweetest looks when I was fixing
his leg, and we’ll bring him home in the morning.”
Then Katinka’s father explained to the anxious and bewildered Juddikins
what had happened. “It was about seven o’clock,” he said, “and the
butcher boy was hurrying his horse down the road, to get home to his
supper, I suppose. We heard the horse; he was going like lightning.
Katinka was in the yard, and the next thing my wife and I knew was a
noise in the road. Katinka was screaming, a dog was yelping. It was
your dog, Mr. Juddikins. He had run in front of the cart, and Katinka
had run in front of it, too, and had snatched the dog from the horses’
feet.” He looked at Katinka with the proudest eyes. “She really saved
him from being killed, I think.”
Katinka had saved Mutt from being killed! That little girl with her
sticky hands had run right under the horses’ hoofs and brought their
Mutt to safety. The Juddikins couldn’t speak. Their hearts seemed to
choke into their very mouths, but they looked at her as if she were
something holy.
Katinka started for the door. “It’s all right now,” she said. “I wanted
you to know. Oh, he’s a darling dog, Jerry. And his leg is only cut a
little because I had to throw him, and he hit the curb.”
“And weren’t you hurt?” asked Mr. Juddikins, the first word any of them
had spoken.
“Me? Oh, no. I never get hurt,” answered Katinka loftily, and made for
the door.
* * * * *
The next morning Santa Claus received the most surprising letter. He
thought it was too late for Christmas letters, but here came one on
this very day before Christmas. It was from Jerry Juddikins, and it was
written in the wildest haste. You could tell that by the handwriting.
It said: _Dear Santa Claus: I, love girls now, please, please. put a
girl just like Katinka in my book,._
So Benjamin Bookfellow wrote all morning and all afternoon, a beautiful
blue book with pirates and dragons and soldiers in it and a heroine
who was just like Katinka, and that night Santa Claus took it to
Whippoorwill Road and put it in Jerry’s stocking.
And every day after that Jerry carried his precious book under his
arm, and every night he slept with it under his pillow, and he was the
happiest boy in the whole world and Katinka was his best friend.
[16] Reprinted from “Jerry Juddikins” by special permission of David
McKay Company, publishers, and the author.