The Middle Moffat (3 page)

But he didn't.

Every time Jane met Mr. Buckle on the street, he would pull his cap down over his eyes and play the game of Hawkshaw. And Jane would stoop her head and shoulders and tiptoe past him in the most mysterious way she knew. This game they played every time they saw each other, no matter where they were. There were times when Jane wished she didn't have to play this game, but she didn't know how to stop.

One day Jane decided to tell him again there was nothing mysterious about her. "...you see?" she said. "I don't pretend to be a princess in disguise. Just the middle Moffat. That's enough."

"Sh-sh" was all he said, going off to blow cotton to the birds.

Another warm evening, all the Moffats went together to the Green to see the fireworks. Mama put on her hat with the forget-me-nots that matched her eyes, and she put on her gloves. For she had been born and brought up in New York City and she never went out without her hat and her gloves. When the Moffats arrived at the Green, a big crowd had gathered and the people were eating popcorn and Cracker Jacks, and drinking soda water. The peanutman's whistle rang in their ears.

On a beach beside the drinking trough sat old Mr. Buckle, enjoying the scene. Jane was walking between Mama and Sylvie. She really hoped that this time the oldest inhabitant wouldn't see her. What would the other Moffats think of

this mysterious act of hers? But Mr. Buckle did see her and he played Hawkshaw as usual. Jane smiled at him but she did not join in the game. It was the first time she hadn't since they had begun.

When they passed his bench, Mama said, "He is a wonderful old man, Mr. Buckle is. Imagine! Ninety-nine years old. Nearly a century!"

Jane felt sorry she had acted the way she had. What did it matter what the other Moffats thought? This was the oldest inhabitant and he was going to live to be one hundred. If he wanted to play detective, the least she could do was to play detective, too. She ran back, said "Sh-sh-sh," tiptoed around his bench, and then rejoined her family.

"Why did you do that?" they demanded.

But fortunately Jane didn't have to explain, because the Roman candles and the skyrockets began. When the fireworks were over, the rest of the Moffats had forgotten about Janey's odd behavior, and they all drank orange whistle before going home.

They had forgotten, but Jane hadn't. And she wondered how she was ever going to persuade the oldest inhabitant she was not the mysterious middle Moffat but just the middle Moffat.

A lot of people in the town gave the Moffats things they did not want anymore. Some of these presents, such as croquet sets with half the balls missing, were a disappointment. Even these were useful though, for by combining several old sets, the children almost had a complete outfit.

But some presents they liked very much. One of their favorite presents was a collection of flat, glass-covered boxes filled with butterflies, moths, flies, dragonflies, and other insects mounted on pins. Each box was labeled with a strange name. One box was called
Musca domestica.
Just plain flies, they looked like, and why should anyone collect them, Jane wondered, and stick them on pins?

"Aren't these what we swat all the time in the kitchen?" she asked Joey.

"Look the same to me," said Joe. But he added thoughtfully, "I suppose it's all in the interest of science."

"Collecting flies is science?" Jane asked in dismay.

The Moffats were happy because they knew they would get one hundred percent in nature study when they took these exhibits to school. Nobody had ever had such a collection of
Insecta
as this.

Then the week that Professor Fairweather lectured to his Browning Society on Thoreau, the Moffats received quite a windfall.

Everybody in the club must read
Walden
by Thoreau, advised the professor. So the ladies went home and read
Walden.
They found that Thoreau was against accumulating too many possessions. Then they started giving things away.

One of the ladies was Miss Nellie Buckle, the daughter of the oldest inhabitant. After reading Thoreau she had cleaned out her attic and what had she found? A whole lot of mildewed old books stored away. She certainly should dispose of these. First she thought of the library. But the library did not want them because they were so out of date. Then she thought of the Moffats. At first Mama refused, too, for she wondered where she could put them. But the children seemed so disappointed, Mama finally said, "Well, all right."

So, with Joey behind her, Miss Buckle bustled busily with her short springy steps back and forth from her house to the Moffats' house with piles of books. Now she was living the way Thoreau advocated, she told herself. She kept shaking her head and straightening her shoulders as though she had just rid herself of a tremendous burden.

Joey piled the books on the little square porch. My, they were musty! The pages were brown with age and crackling at the edges. Even Mama was interested. She sat down on the top step and looked through the books. They were chiefly about the work of missionaries among the cannibals. Rufus and Joey loved them. And before anyone could stop him, Rufus painted the faces of all the cannibals with bright red mustaches. After Rufus had touched up the pictures with crayon, Janey never again found them as scary as she first had.

So that had been another present the Moffats liked.

But the most important present was the one Mrs. Price gave them. After Professor Fairweather's lecture on Thoreau, she, too, had gone home and looked about. Should she part with this? Should she part with that? Her eyes scanned the parlor. They rested lovingly on the little mahogany parlor organ. Well, that was one thing, Thoreau or no Thoreau, that she would keep. Not that she played it. But where else could she keep the photographs of all her nephews?

Since she could reach no decision as to what to give away, she closed her eyes, turned herself around three times, and pointed. Then she opened her eyes. No! She couldn't believe it. But yes, it was true. She was pointing right straight at that little parlor organ. She'd try again. This time she went out of the room, came back, closed her eyes, turned herself around three times and pointed. Ridiculous! Out of all the things there were in the room, here she was pointing at the organ again. A third time Mrs. Price tried this. She covered her eyes with her right arm, turned dizzily around, and pointed. She peeked out from under her arm. Incredible! Three times she had pointed at this organ. Well, all right then. If it was the organ, let it be the organ.

Mrs. Price put on her black clothes. She went next door to the Moffats' house, and she asked them if they would like to have her little parlor organ.

Would the Moffats like to have Mrs. Price's little parlor organ? Well! What a question! Music! Bach! An organ! The Sunday afternoon organ recitals at Woolsey Hall! The great cathedrals and the churches! "Seated one day at the organ." These were the thoughts that raced through their heads. Other people in the town owned pianos, but they were going to own an organ. Sylvie sighed, for she wished it were a piano. Still, an organ would be nice. She did not want to appear ungrateful and tried to act as pleased as the rest.

Joey, Jane, and Rufus were really very pleased. They knew they could sit right down and play something.

"I tried it on the parish house piano once," said Jane.