The Orphan and the Mouse

Text copyright © 2014 by Martha Freeman
Drawings copyright © 2014 by David McPhail
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
www.holidayhouse.com

ISBN 978-0-8234-3259-2 (ebook)w
ISBN 978-0-8234-3260-8 (ebook)r

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Freeman, Martha, 1956–
The orphan and the mouse / by Martha Freeman;
illustrated by David McPhail. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: In 1949 Philadephia, Mary Mouse and an orphan named Caro embark on an adventure when they team up to expose criminals and make the Cherry Street Orphanage a safe haven for mice.
ISBN 978-0-8234-3167-0 (hardcover : alk. paper)
[1. Mice—Fiction.   2. Orphans—Fiction.   3. Orphanages—Fiction.
4. Human-animal relationships—Fiction.   5. Criminals—Fiction.]
I.  McPhail, David, 1940- illustrator.   II.  Title.
PZ7.F87496Or 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013045488

For every teacher and librarian who reads aloud to children, in particular Jean Anderson, my second grade teacher, who read us
Stuart Little
.

Crouched in the shadow of the door, Gallico watched the mouse approach. It was a full-grown male, no doubt a member of the colony that lived inside the walls.

Usually the mice stayed well out of Gallico's way. In fact, he had a hard time distinguishing one from another. Still, he knew a few things about them. They regularly raided the pantry and the dining room for crumbs. They maintained a system of portals between their territory and his own. On school days, two or three liked to hide themselves in a classroom and listen to stories told by the teacher called Miss Ragone.

Gallico found human stories boring. Unlike the mice, he was not a deep thinker. But in the end, where did all that thinking get them? In the end, who had the claws?

On this particular night, Gallico had found himself locked out of the boss's apartment on the third floor. It was winter, chilly even indoors, and he had come downstairs to see if he could insinuate himself into the soft bed of someone with warm feet. The most likely candidate was the human kitten called Bert, who slept in the boys' intermediate dormitory. Gallico had been on his way to see if the dormitory door might be open when his nose and whiskers detected the presence of a
mouse in the boss's office, and, bloodlust quickening, he went to investigate.

Gallico loved the taste of mouse—the sharp bones, pebbly teeth, chewy tail and all. It reminded him of when he was a kitten on the street, a time when fresh mouse was the most luscious delicacy he could hope to enjoy. In those days, there were never enough mice either for him or the tough crew he ran with. As often as not, he went hungry.

Gallico's fortunes changed when his looks attracted the attention of the boss, Mrs. Helen George, headmistress of the Cherry Street Home for Children. A pretty cat would add a cozy touch to her apartment, she thought. As a bonus, his natural instincts would dispatch any rodent trouble that might arise.

Gallico was lured indoors by a fish head in a saucer. After that, he never left.

Like most cats, Gallico was adept at personal grooming and adept at killing. Thus his responsibilities to the household aligned with his skills, which were also his pleasures. A vain cat leading a life of ease, he grew self-indulgent and self-satisfied without ever losing his taste for blood.

Now, as the cat watched, the mouse made his way toward the nearest portal, which meant he was moving in the cat's direction. This was strange. Strange, too, was the confident way it moved. As it came near, Gallico saw that it had squares of paper clutched in its jaws. Ah, yes. Now the cat remembered something else about the mice in the walls. Periodically, one of them would climb the boss's desk and steal a few of the paper squares she kept there.

Why they wanted to do such a thing, Gallico didn't know and didn't care.

By this time the cat's nose was quivering, his tail twitching. Still, he held himself in check, prolonging the delightful anticipation of the game to come. With its irritating nonchalance, this mouse had earned more than the usual torment. Gallico would squeeze every last drop of pleasure from the doomed creature's final moments.

At last, when the mouse was three lengths of a cat's tail distant, it turned its head and . . . looked squarely into the hot yellow eyes of its fate.

Zelinsky Mouse did not stop to wonder what had gone wrong with the Predator Warning System. He'd always believed it was fail-safe, but apparently not. With no time to spare, he dropped the pictures he'd been carrying, changed direction, and ran all out for the backup portal in the corridor.

The predator was bloodthirsty and cruel like every one of his kind, but he was also well fed, old, and slow. Zelinsky thought he could outrun him . . . and indeed achieved his goal before he felt the first brush of a claw.

He was safe!

Except . . . what was this? His nose hit solid wood, a barrier. The portal had been blocked!

Zelinsky died of a broken neck. There is no need to dwell on the crass details of what he endured before. Better to consider the sweet poignancy of his final thoughts for his loving mate and pups, the last meal they had shared, how they had laughed and squeaked and touched noses, not suspecting their goodbyes would be forever.

“Skitter safe, Papa,” said Margaret, his most anxious pup.

“Your papa always does,” said Mary, his mate.

Millie and Matilda both asked him to come home with a story.

In his mind's eye, Zelinsky saw each beloved face clearly. He might have had faults, but he knew he'd been a good family mouse.

And after that, he knew no more.

Every morning Jimmy Levine awoke before the other boys in the intermediate dormitory, put on his robe and slippers, then padded down the hall past the kitchen and dining room, through the foyer, out the front entrance, and down five steps to the walk. There he retrieved Mrs. George's copy of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
, which he carried into her office and laid on her desk.

Even though it meant getting up early, the job was coveted as a mark of Mrs. George's favor. The child who brought in the morning paper had to be both reliable and trustworthy—this last because he was allowed in Mrs. George's office alone. No other child, or adult, for that matter, ever went there in her absence.

Ten-year-old Jimmy had earned the job in the fall, and by this particular winter morning knew his way so well that he didn't bother turning on the lights. Thus it was pure chance when, leaving the office, he looked down and saw a tiny square of paper protruding from beneath the rug.

Ordinarily not a scrap was out of place, so Jimmy knelt to see what this could be and saw . . . a green three-cent postage stamp with an illustration of a man and a cart.
Minnesota Territorial Centennial 1849–1949
, it read,
Red River Ox Cart
.