Stuart Little (6 page)

Stuart didn’t mind. He was
very careful not to press the button which had caused so much trouble the day
before. He made up his mind that he would never use that button again.

Just as the sun was coming
up, Stuart saw a man seated in thought by the side of the road. Stuart steered his
car alongside, stopped, and put his head out.

“You’re worried about
something, aren’t you?” asked Stuart.

“Yes, I am,” said the man,
who was tall and mild.

“Can I help you in any way?”
asked Stuart in a friendly voice.

The man shook his head. “It’s
an impossible situation, I guess,” he replied. “You see, I’m the Superintendent
of Schools in this town.”

“That’s not an impossible
situation,” said Stuart. “It’s bad, but it’s not impossible.”

“Well,” continued the man, “I’ve
always got problems that I can’t solve. Today, for instance, one of my teachers
is sick—Miss Gunderson her name is. She teaches Number Seven school. I’ve got
to find a substitute for her, a teacher who will take her place.”

“What’s the matter with her?”
asked Stuart.

“I don’t know, exactly. The
doctor

says she may have rhinestones,”
replied the Superintendent.

“Can’t you find another
teacher?” asked Stuart.

“No, that’s the trouble.
There’s nobody in this

town who knows anything; no
spare teachers, no anything. School is supposed to begin in an hour.”

“I will be glad to take Miss
Gunderson’s place for a day, if you would like,” suggested Stuart agreeably.

The Superintendent of
Schools looked up.

“Really?”

“Certainly,” said Stuart. “Glad
to.”

He opened the door of the
little car and stepped out. Walking around to the rear, he opened the baggage compartment
and took out his suitcase. “If I’m to conduct a class in a schoolroom, I’d better
take off these motoring togs and get into something more suitable,” he said.
Stuart climbed the bank, went into the bushes, and was back in a few minutes
wearing a pepper-and-salt jacket, old striped trousers, a Windsor tie, and spectacles.
He folded his other clothes and packed them away in the suitcase.

“Do you think you can
maintain discipline?” asked the Superintendent.

“Of course I can,” replied
Stuart. “I’ll make the work interesting and the discipline will take care of
itself. Don’t worry about me.”

The man thanked him and they
shook hands.

At quarter before nine the scholars had gathered in School Number Seven. When they missed Miss Gunderson
and word got round that there would be a substitute, they were delighted.

“A substitute!” somebody
whispered to somebody else. “A substitute, a substitute!”

The news traveled fast, and
soon everyone in the schoolroom knew that they were all to have a rest from Miss
Gunderson for at least a day and were going to have the wonderful experience of
being taught by a strange teacher whom nobody had ever seen before.

Stuart arrived at nine. He
parked his car briskly at the door of the school, stalked boldly into the room,
found a yardstick leaning against Miss Gunderson’s desk, and climbed hand-over-hand
to the top. There he found an inkwell, a pointer, some pens and pencils, a bottle
of ink, some chalk, a bell, two hairpins, and three or four books in a pile. Stuart
scrambled nimbly up to the top of the stack of books and jumped for the button
on the bell. His weight was enough to make it ring, and Stuart promptly slid
down, walked to the front of the desk, and said:

“Let me have your attention,
please!”

The boys and girls crowded
around the desk

to look at the substitute.
Everyone talked at once, and they seemed to be very much pleased. The girls
giggled and the boys laughed and everyone’s eyes lit up with excitement to see
such a small and good-looking teacher, so appropriately dressed.

“Let me have your attention,
please!” repeated Stuart. “As you know, Miss Gunderson is sick and I am taking
her place.”

“What’s the matter with her?”
asked Roy Hart, eagerly.

“Vitamin trouble,” replied
Stuart. “She took Vitamin D when she needed A. She took B when she was short of
C, and her system became overloaded with riboflavin, thiamine hydrochloride,
and even with pyridoxine, the need for which in human nutrition has not been
established. Let it be a lesson for all of us!” He glared fiercely at the
children and they made no more inquiries about Miss Gunderson.

“Everyone will now take his
or her seat!” commanded Stuart. The pupils filed obediently down the aisles and
dropped into their seats, and in a moment there was silence in the classroom.
Stuart cleared his throat. Seizing a coat lapel in either hand, to make himself
look like a professor, Stuart began:

“Anybody absent?”

The scholars shook their
heads.

“Anybody late?”

They shook their heads.

“Very well,” said Stuart, “what’s
the first

subject you usually take up in
the morning?”

“Arithmetic,” shouted the
children.

“Bother arithmetic!” snapped
Stuart.

“Let’s skip it.”

There were wild shouts of
enthusiasm at this suggestion. Everyone in the class seemed perfectly willing
to skip arithmetic for one morning.

“What next do you study?”
asked Stuart.

“Spelling,” cried the
children.

“Well,” said Stuart, “a

misspelled word is an
abomination in the sight of everyone. I consider it a very fine thing to spell words
correctly and I strongly urge every one of you to buy a Webster’s Collegiate
Dictionary and consult it whenever you are in the slightest doubt. So much for
spelling. What’s next?”

The scholars were just as
pleased to be let out of spelling as they were about arithmetic, and they
shouted for joy, and everybody looked at everybody else and laughed and waved
handkerchiefs and rulers, and some of the boys threw spit balls at some of the girls.
Stuart had to climb onto the pile of books again and dive for the bell to
restore order. “What’s next?” he repeated.

“Writing,” cried the
scholars.

“Goodness,” said Stuart in
disgust, “don’t you

children know how to write
yet?”

“Certainly we do!” yelled
one and all.

“So much for that, then,”
said Stuart.

“Social studies come next,”
cried Elizabeth Gardner, eagerly.

“Social studies? Never heard
of them,” said Stuart. “Instead of taking up any special subject this morning,
why wouldn’t it be a good idea if we just talked about something.”

The scholars glanced around
at each other in expectancy.

“Could we talk about the way
it feels to hold a snake in your hand and then it winds itself around your wrist?”
asked Arthur Greenlaw.

“We could, but I’d rather
not,” replied Stuart.

“Could we talk about sin and
vice?” pleaded Lydia Lacey.

“Nope,” said Stuart. “Try
again.”

“Could we talk about the fat
woman at the circus and she had hair all over her chin?” begged Isidor
Feinberg, reminiscently.

“No,” said Stuart. “I’ll
tell you, let’s talk about the King of the World.” He looked all around the
room hopefully to see how the children liked that idea.

“There isn’t any King of the
World,” said Harry Jamieson in disgust.

“What’s the diff?” said
Stuart. “There ought to be one.”

“Kings are old-fashioned,”
said Harry.

“Well, all right then, let’s
talk about the

Chairman of the World. The
world gets into a lot of trouble because it has no chairman. I would like to be
Chairman of the World myself.”

“You’re too small,” said
Mary Bendix.

“Oh, fish feathers!” said
Stuart. “Size has nothing to do with it. It’s temperament and ability that
count. The Chairman has to have ability and he must know what’s important. How many
of you know what’s important?”

Up went all the hands.

“Very good,” said Stuart,
cocking one leg across the other and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.
“Henry Rackmeyer, you tell us what is important.”

“A shaft of sunlight at the
end of a dark afternoon, a note in music, and the way the back of a baby’s neck
smells if its mother keeps it tidy,” answered Henry.

“Correct,” said Stuart. “Those
are the important things. You forgot one thing, though. Mary Bendix, what did
Henry Rackmeyer forget?”

“He forgot ice cream with
chocolate sauce on it,” said Mary quickly.

“Exactly,” said Stuart. “Ice
cream is

important. Well now, if I’m
going to be

Chairman of the World this
morning, we’ve got to have

some rules, otherwise it will
be too confusing, with

everyone running every which
way and helping himself to things and

nobody behaving. We’ve got to
have some laws if we’re going to play this game. Can anybody suggest any good
laws for the world?”

Albert Fernstrom raised his
hand. “Don’t eat mushrooms, they might be toadstools,” suggested Albert.

“That’s not a law,” said
Stuart, “that’s merely a bit of friendly advice. Very good advice, Albert, but
advice and law are not the same. Law is much more solemn than advice. Law is
extremely solemn. Anybody else think of a law for the world?”

“Nix on swiping anything,”
suggested John Poldowski, solemnly.

“Very good,” said Stuart. “Good
law.”

“Never poison anything but
rats,” said

Anthony Brendisi.

“That’s no good,” said
Stuart. “It’s unfair to rats. A law has to be fair to everybody.”

Anthony looked sulky. “But
rats are unfair to us,” he said. “Rats are objectionable.”

“I know they are,” said
Stuart. “But from a rat’s point of view, poison is objectionable. A Chairman
has to see all sides to a problem.”

“Have you got a rat’s point
of view?” asked Anthony. “You look a little like a rat.”

“No,” replied Stuart, “I
have more the point of view of a mouse, which is very different. I see things
whole. It’s obvious to me that rats are underprivileged. They’ve never been
able to get out in the open.”

“Rats don’t like the open,”
said Agnes Beretska.

“That’s because whenever
they come out, somebody socks them. Rats might like the open if they were
allowed to use it. Any other ideas for laws?” Agnes Beretska raised her hand.
“There ought to be a law against fighting.”

“Impractical,” said Stuart. “Men
like to fight. But you’re getting warm, Agnes.”

“No scrapping?” asked Agnes,
timidly. Stuart shook his head.

“Absolutely no being mean,”
suggested Mildred Hoffenstein.

“Very fine law,” said
Stuart. “When I am Chairman, anybody who is mean to anybody else is going to
catch it.”

“That won’t work,” remarked
Herbert Prendergast. “Some people are just naturally mean. Albert Fernstrom is
always being mean to me.”

“I’m not saying it’ll work,”
said Stuart.

“It’s a good law and we’ll
give it a try.

We’ll give it a try right here
and now. Somebody do something mean to somebody. Harry Jamieson, you be mean
to Katharine Stableford. Wait a minute, now, what’s that you’ve got in your
hand, Katharine?”

“It’s a little tiny pillow
stuffed with sweet balsam.”

“Does it say “For you I
pine, for you I balsam” on it?”

“Yes,” said Katharine.

“Do you love it very much?”
asked Stuart.

“Yes, I do,” said Katharine.

“O.k., Harry, grab it, take
it away!”

Harry ran over to where
Katharine sat, grabbed the little pillow from her hand, and ran back to his seat,
while Katharine screamed.

“Now then,” said Stuart in a
fierce voice, “hold on, my good people, while your Chairman consults the book
of rules!” He pretended to thumb through a book. “Here we are. Page 492. “Absolutely
no being mean.”

Page 560. “Nix on swiping
anything.” Harry Jamieson has broken two laws—the law against being mean and
the law against swiping. Let’s get Harry and set him back before he becomes so
mean people will hardly recognize him any more! Come on!”

Stuart ran for the yardstick
and slid down, like a fireman coming down a pole in a firehouse. He ran toward
Harry, and the other children jumped up from their seats and raced up and down
the aisles and crowded around Harry while Stuart demanded that he give up the
little pillow. Harry looked frightened, although he knew it was just a test. He
gave Katharine the pillow.

“There, it worked pretty
well,” said Stuart.

“No being mean is a perfectly
good law.” He

wiped his face with his
handkerchief, for he was quite warm

from the exertion of being
Chairman of the World. It had taken more running and leaping and sliding than
he had imagined. Katharine was very much pleased to have her pillow back.

“Let’s see that little
pillow a minute,” said Stuart, whose curiosity was beginning to get the better
of him. Katharine showed it to him. It was about as long as Stuart was high,
and Stuart suddenly thought what a fine sweet-smelling bed it would make for
him. He began to want the pillow himself.

“That’s a very pretty thing,”
said Stuart, trying to hide his eagerness. “You don’t want to sell it, do you?”

“Oh, no,” replied Katharine.
“It was a present to me.”

“I suppose it was given you
by a boy you met at Lake Hopatcong last summer, and it reminds you of him,”
murmured Stuart, dreamily.

“Yes, it was,” said
Katharine, blushing.

“Ah,” said Stuart, “summers
are wonderful,

aren’t they, Katharine?”

“Yes, and last summer was
the most wonderful summer I have ever had in all my life.”

“I can imagine,” replied
Stuart. “You’re sure you wouldn’t want to sell that little pillow?” Katharine
shook her head.

“Don’t know as I blame you,”
replied Stuart, quietly. “Summertime is important. It’s like a shaft of
sunlight.”