Passage Category: Upper Primary

It was a beautiful morning.  A bluebird sat on a small branch in the flowering cherry tree and swayed gently back and forth.  A crocus pushed his golden head through the tender green grass and blinked in the sudden sunlight.  Mrs. Carmody hummed as she laid slices of bacon in the black iron skillet. “Spring is my favorite time of year” she said to Mandy the dog who was lying in the kitchen doorway scratching a flea and waiting to trip somebody.

Mrs. Carmody plugged in the toaster, got out the raspberry jam then went to the front hall and called up stairs to her husband, “Jordan, breakfast!” and to her little boy “Phillip, are you up?”

Phillip who was ten years old and still under the covers, called out sleepily, “Practically all dressed, Mom.  Be right down.”

Constance, his sister who was eleven and three quarters, yelled from the bathroom where she was testing how lipstick would look when she was thirteen, “Phillip isn’t even up, Mom.  He won’t be down for about ten hours.”

Phillip shouted, “Old spy.  Tattletale.”

Constance said, “Be quiet, little boy. You bore me.”

Mrs. Carmody called again louder, “Phillip get out of bed this instant.  Connie, wipe off that lipstick.  Hurry, Jordan, dear, while the toast is hot.”

She went back to the kitchen and gave the percolateor a little shake to hurry it up.  Then she walked over and stood by the open back door breathing deeply of the fragrant early morning air.  Her pleasant reverie was suddenly broken by Mr. Carmody who came grumpily into the kitchen, tripped over Mandy and stepped heavily into her water bowl which was on the floor beside the stove.

Mrs. Carmody grabbed the sink sponge and began wiping up the water.

Mr. Carmody growled, “Well, that’s certainly a nice morning greeting”

Mrs. Carmody said, “Oh, Jordan, dear, I’m so sorry.  Did you get wet?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Carmody mournfully.  “Nothing matters any more.”

“’What do you mean ‘nothing matters any more’?” said Mrs. Carmody as she squeezed out the sponge.

“Just that,” said Mr. Carmody sadly pouring almost the whole pitcher of cream on his shredded wheat biscuit.

Mrs. Carmody buttered the toast, put the plates in to warm, stirred the eggs, lifted the bacon on to a paper towel to drain, checked the color of the coffee, refilled Mandy’s water bowl, then said, “What in the world are you talking about, Jordan? You don’t make sense.”

Fern loved Wilbur more than anything.  She loved to stroke him, to feed him, to put him to bed.  Every morning, as soon as she got up, she warmed his milk, tied his bib on, and held the bottle for him.  Every afternoon, when the school bus stopped in front of her house, she jumped out and ran to the kitchen to fix another bottle for him.  She fed him again at suppertime, and again just before going to bed.  Mrs. Arable gave him a feeding around noontime each day, when Fern was away in school.  Wilbur loved his milk, and he was never happier than when Fern was warming up a bottle for him.  He would stand and gaze up at her with adoring eyes.

For the first few days of his life, Wilbur was allowed to live in a box near the stove in the kitchen.  Then, when Mrs. Arable complained, he was moved to a bigger box in the woodshed.  At two weeks of age, he was moved outdoors.  It was apple-blossom time, and the days were getting warmer.  Mr. Arable fixed a small yard specially for Wilbur under an apple tree, and gave him a large wooden box full of straw, with a doorway cut in it so he could walk in and out as he pleased.

“Won’t he be cold at night?” asked Fern.

“No,” said her father. “You watch and see what he does.”

Carrying a bottle of milk, Fern sat down under the apple tree inside the yard.  Wilbur ran to her and she held the bottle for him while he sucked.  When he had finished the last drop, he grunted and walked sleepily into the box.  Fern peered through the door.  Wilbur was poking the straw with his snout.  In a short time he had dug a tunnel in the straw.  He crawled into the tunnel and disappeared from sight, completely covered with straw.  Fern was enchanted.  It relieved her mind to know that her baby would sleep covered up, and would stay warm.

Every morning after breakfast, Wilbur walked out to the road with Fern and waited with her till the bus came.  She would wave good-bye to him, and he would stand and watch the bus until it vanished around a turn.  While Fern was in school, Wilbur was shut up inside his yard.  But as soon as she got home in the afternoon, she would take him out and he would follow her around the place.  If she went into the house, Wilbur went, too.  If she went upstairs, Wilbur would wait at the bottom step until she came down again.

Andrew Marcus wanted freckles. Nicky Lane had freckles. He had about a million of them. They covered his face, his ears and the back of his neck. Andrew didn’t have any freckles. He had two warts on his finger. But they didn’t do him any good at all. If he had freckles like Nicky, his mother would never know if his neck was dirty. So he wouldn’t have to wash. And then he’d never be late for school.

Andrew had plenty of time to look at Nicky’s freckles. He sat right behind him in class. Once he even tried to count them. But when he got to eighty-six Miss Kelly called, “Andrew… are you paying attention?”

“Yes, Miss Kelly,” Andrew said.

“Good, Andrew. I’m glad to hear that. Now will you please pick up your chair and your reading group? We’re all waiting for you.”

Andrew stood up in a hurry. His reading group giggled. Especially Sharon. He couldn’t stand that Sharon. She thought she knew everything! He picked up his chair and carried it to the corner where his reading group sat.

“You may begin, Andrew,” Miss Kelly said. “Page sixty-four.”

Andrew turned the pages in his book. Sixty-four…sixty-four. He couldn’t find it. The pages stuck together. Why did Miss Kelly have to pick him?

Everybody else already had their books opened to the right page.

Sharon kept giggling. She covered her mouth to keep in the noise, but Andrew knew what was going on. He finally found page sixty-four. Right where it was supposed to be…between pages sixty-three and sixty-five. If he had his own freckles he wouldn’t have to count Nicky Lane’s. Then he’d here Miss Kelly when she called reading groups. And nobody would laugh at him.

Later, when the bell rang, Andrew poked Nicky Lane.

“What do you want?” Nicky asked, turning around. “I was wondering about your freckles,” Andrew said.

“Oh yeah? What about them?”

Andrew felt pretty stupid. “Well, how did you get them?”

“What do you mean how? You get born with them. That’s how!”

Andrew thought that’s what Nicky would say. Some help he was!

“Line up, boys and girls,” Miss Kelly said. “Time to go home now. Sharon, you may lead the girls. Andrew, you may lead the boys.”

Some luck! Just when he got to be leader he had to stand next to Sharon!

When they were in line Sharon whispered to Andrew. “Psst… I know how to get them.”

“How to get what?” Andrew asked.

“Freckles,” Sharon said.

“Who asked you?”

“I heard you ask Nicky about his.” Sharon ran her tongue along her teeth. She was always doing that. “Do you want to know how to get them?” Sharon asked.

“Maybe,” Andrew told her.

“It’ll cost you fifty cents. I have a secret recipe for freckle juice,” Sharon whispered.

Our second story is about Bebe.  Bebe was the fastest draw in Mrs. Jewls’ class. She could draw a cat in less than forty-five seconds, a dog in less than thirty, and a flower in less than eight seconds! But of course, Bebe never drew just one dog, or one cat, or one flower.  Art was from 12:30 to 1:30. Why, in that time, she could draw fifty cats, a hundred flowers, twenty dogs, and several eggs or watermelons! You see, it took her the same time to draw a watermelon as an egg.  Calvin sat next to Bebe. He didn t think he was very good at art. It took him the whole period just to draw one airplane.  So instead, he just helped Bebe. He was Bebe’s assistant.  As soon as Bebe would finish one masterpiece, Calvin would take it from her and set down a clean sheet of paper.  Whenever her crayon ran low, Calvin was ready with a new crayon.  That way, Bebe didn’t have to waste any time. And in return, Bebe would draw five or six airplanes for Calvin.

It was 12:30, time for art. Bebe was ready. On her desk was a sheet of yellow construction paper. In her hand was a green crayon.  Calvin was ready. He held a stack of paper and a box of crayons.

“Ready, Bebe?” asked Calvin.

“ Ready, Calvin,” said Bebe.

“All right, class,” said Mrs. Jewls “Time for art.” She had hardly finished her sentence when Bebe had drawn a picture of a leaf.  Calvin took it from her and put down another piece of paper.

“Red!” said Bebe.

Calvin handed Bebe a red crayon.

“Blue!”

He gave her a blue crayon.  They were quite a pair! Their teamwork was remarkable. Bebe drew pictures as fast as Calvin could pick up the old paper and set down the new.  A fish.  An apple. Three cherries bing, bing, bing. At 1:30, Mrs. Jewls announced, “Okay, class, art is over.”  Bebe dropped her crayon and fell over on her desk. Calvin sighed and leaned back in his chair. He could hardly move. They had broken their old record. Bebe had drawn three hundred and seventy-eight pictures! They lay in a pile on Calvin s desk.

Mrs. Jewls walked by and said “Calvin, did you draw all these pictures?”

Calvin said “No, Bebe drew them all.”

“ Well then, what did you draw?”

“I didn’t draw anything. “

“Why not? Don t you like art?”

“I love art. That’s why I didn’t draw anything.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It would have taken me the whole period just to draw one picture. And Bebe would only have been able to draw a hundred pictures. But with the two of us working together, she was able to draw three hundred and seventy-eight pictures! That’s a lot more art.”

Keith, the boy in the rumpled shorts and shirt, did not know he was being watched as he entered room 215 of the Mountain View Inn. Neither did his mother and father, who both looked hot and tired. They had come from Ohio and for five days had driven across plains and deserts and over mountains to the old hotel in the California foothills twenty-five miles from Highway 40.

Alone in room 215 and unaware that he was being watched, the boy began to explore. He got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. He leaned out the open window as far as he could and greedily inhaled deep breaths of pine-scented air. He turned the hot and cold water on and off in the washbasin and slipped one of the small bars of paper-wrapped soap into his pocket. Under the window he discovered a knothole in the pine wall down by the floor and squatting, poked his finger into the hole. When he felt nothing inside he lost interest.

Next Keith opened his suitcase and took out an apple and several small cars-a sedan, a sports car, and an ambulance about six inches long, and a red motorcycle half the length of the cars-which he dropped on the striped bedspread before he bit into the apple. He ate the apple noisily in big chomping bites, and then laid the core on the bedside table between the lamp and the telephone.

Keith began to play, running his cars up and down the bedspread, pretending that the stripes on the spread were highways and making noises with his mouth-vroom vroom for the sports car, wh-e-e wh-e-e for the ambulance and pb-pb- b-b-b for the motorcycle, up and down the stripes.

Once Keith stopped suddenly and looked quickly around the room as is he expected to see something or someone but when he saw nothing unusual he returned to his cars. Vroom, vroom. Bang! Crash! The Sports car hit the sedan and rolled off the highway stripe. Pb-pb-b-b-b-. The motorcycle came roaring to the scene of the crash.

“Keith,” his mother called from the next room.

“Time to get washed for dinner.”

“O.K.” Keith parked his cars in a striaght line on the bedside table beside the telephone where they looked like a row of real cars only much, much smaller.

The first thing Mrs. Gridley noticed when she and Mr. Gridley came into the room was the apple core on the table. She dropped it with a thunk into the metal wastebasket beside the table as she gave several quick little sniffs of the air and said, looking perplexed, “I don’t care what the bellboy said. I’m sure this hotel has mice.”

I hope so,” muttered Keith.