This is the next chapter of my middle grade novel, Squirrel Tales. Previous chapters were published earlier this month. I plan to publish one chapter each week from here on out until reaching the gripping conclusion! Thanks for reading! Please leave comments!
SQUIRREL TALES: Chapter 8
by Mary Lee Corlett
PILE TWO: MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE
It is sometimes entertaining to
watch Boxel antics from high up in the branches. On a clear day, you can really see a
lot. Yesterday Nutmeg and I watched
Boxel pandemonium on the Dodgeway below.
If the rattling and rumbling of all the big Boxel Trucks roaring through
the neighborhood hadn’t already gotten our attention, then that dirty orange
metal beast with a scooping box and huge teeth on one end and the long arm with
another scoop on the other end that they were towing along the Dodgeway on a
Boxel Flat Rolling Thing surely would have!
I don’t think the Boxels planned it, because right after it happened
they were shouting at each other and waving their arms and pointing all at the
same time, but the scoop arm got caught in the low branches of the sycamore
tree on the other side of the Dodgeway.
It dragged some of the lower branches with it before the Boxels realized
what was happening, which was not until branches finally began snapping and
went flying up into the high wires directly overhead. Then the Pole Box sparked
and exploded, wires popped off their connections on the Poles and leaves and
wood scattered everywhere! What a mess! It might have been rather funny to
watch the Boxels cope with their own mayhem, except that it was one of the most
important treetop routes across the Dodgeway--our own Sycamore Crossing--that was
involved and we held our breath until at last they drove away leaving behind
our sycamore tree—badly damaged but at least it was still standing—and lots and
lots of dirt, bark, leaves and branches on the ground in their wake.
As the days passed,
the sisters were mastering their nuts and berries and growing more and more
independent. And they were more daring,
too, now able to leap effortlessly from branch to branch, when the distance
wasn’t too great, as they used the canopy to race from one side of the yard to
the other and back again. It was interesting, seeing the yard from all of its
different corners, but so far, it had always been from above.
But she didn’t
move. She found herself frozen in place,
unsure of how to pick up one foot in order to move it forward. “Well,” she thought, “These are my options: I
stand here upside down all day. Not the
best choice,” she decided. She was already beginning to feel the blood rushing
to her head a bit. “Or, I back up until I am on the branch again. But then I have the problem of figuring out
how to move my foot backward.
Same basic problem, different direction.” Besides, she knew that by this time Nutmeg
was surely watching, and she would not go back up there (even if she
could) and face her laughter. No
self-respecting squirrel ever backed up. Anywhere. She blinked once. Twice.
Sometimes, when once you’ve begun a thing, she thought, especially when
it’s a challenge like this, the best course of action is not to think about it
too much. Just give it your best shot and hope it ends well.
So Hazel chose
option three: “Close my eyes and run
like crazy!” She ran head first, and
fast, until she was about three feet from the base of the tree. Then, with a great leap, she found herself in
the grass. She’d done it! She’d actually done it! She was “down!” “Hmmm,” she thought. “That really wasn’t so bad after all. Really, it was almost…fun. Well, it was fun!” She wanted to try it again. So, with a bound she was up the tree again,
back to her starting branch, and again and again, she raced down, climbed up,
each time more confident than the last.
She was chirruping and giggling as she went. She even ran out to the end of the starting
branch a time or two so that she could get a running leap onto the massive
trunk and, in a flash, find herself once again in the soft grass below. Finally satisfied with her achievement, she
relaxed under the tree, her belly pressed against the cool earth beneath her,
her legs extended outward in the front and back in an elongated body
stretch. She was panting as she
recovered her breath. As she rested, she
looked around.
The garden sure
looked different from down here.
Interspersed among the plantings were three curious little stone pile
walls, none of which, from Hazel’s treetop view, had looked very imposing, but
now that she was on the ground she could see that they were actually taller
than they had looked from up above. When
standing directly in front of them, even up on her hind legs, she now realized,
she wouldn’t quite be able to see over the top of them. And the hydrangeas, which from above had
looked so dense with flowers and leaves as to seem impenetrable, actually offered
secret hiding places beneath their blooms and foliage.
Nestled in among
the plantings around the garden, Hazel could now see that there were other
little creatures. She was a little
afraid when she first realized they were there, but as she watched them warily,
she saw they stood still as stone. She
watched them for a long time, waiting for just one of them to flinch, even just
a little, but they did not. One looked
like a dog, but it was the smallest dog she had ever seen, even smaller than
she was. It was tucked under the hosta
leaves, curled up, as if asleep. There
was a bird-like creature, with an oversized square beak, perched upon one of
the rock walls. In the dirt near the
stepping-stones that led to the garden gate was a tortoise. It too, stood absolutely motionless. Under the hydrangeas was a stone-still bunny,
barely visible under the leaves. And on
top of the rock wall that was directly in front of the hydrangeas stood the
most curious creature of all. Hazel
clambered up to the top of the little stone wall to get a better look. She thought this one must be a porcupine, but
she was unlike any she had ever heard about.
For one thing, she stood on her hind feet, and she was wearing a dress,
with an apron tied at her waist. Her
head was covered with some sort of cap, but many pointy spines were still able
to poke through it. Her front paws were
clasped in front of her, and she too, was absolutely still—never twitched,
fidgeted, blinked, coughed, or cleared her throat. Hazel watched her for a very long time,
entranced. She was so absorbed in her
observations that when the nearby hydrangea leaves suddenly began to rustle and
out popped an energetic chipmunk, seemingly from nowhere, Hazel jumped up and
twisted around all at once, falling right off of the stone wall where she had
been sitting.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you,” said the
chipmunk. “You’ve met Mrs. Tiggy-winkle,
I see.”
“Mrs. Tiggy-winkle?” asked Hazel.
“Well, that’s what I call her now,
because once I heard the little Boxel call her that—so I figure that must be
her name. She’s never confirmed it for
me, though. She just stands there, still
as stone. Never says a word.” The chipmunk chattered on: “She’s a good
listener, though. I find I talk to her a
lot. Tell her my troubles.”
“You talk to her?”
“Yes. All the time, like I said. I always feel better after I’ve had a little
chat with Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.”
“But if she never talks back…”
“Doesn’t matter, really. I always seem to be able to work out my
problems when I talk them over with Mrs. T.
My Name’s Dart, short for Dartanian. What’s yours?”
“I’m Hazel.”
“Nice to meet you Hazel. Well, gotta
go.” And living up to his name, Dart was
gone in a flash.
Hazel decided that this garden was
proving to be even more interesting from the ground than she could’ve imagined.
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