It's Saturday.

Chapter 05: Porkey Sits Tight

NEXT few days saw great doings on the Hill. In there was so much going on that Father was fairly worn out, keeping an eye on things. The vegetable garden was plowed, harrowed, and raked. It was a good generous garden, double its former size, and to everyone's relief there was no fence around it. The flower beds had been cultivated and fertilized, all the lawns dug up, raked, and rolled, ready for reseeding. Now the North Field was being plowed. Tim McCrath, riding his roaring tractor, whistled happily as he watched the brown earth roll from the plowshare in clean, straight furrows. From the door of Porkey's home Porkey and Father watched the proceedings approvingly. As the tractor ceased its roaring momentarily, Louie Kernstawk, rebuilding a stone wall, called to Tim, "What're they going to plant there, Tim?" "Buckwheat," he replied. "Buckwheat now. Later turn it under and plant clover and timothy. "Did you hear that?" Porkey nudged Father gleefully. "Buckwheat! Why, I ain't had myself into a good field of buckwheat in I don't know when. Oh my, oh my!" "You haven't heard any mention of bluegrass, have you?" asked Father hopefully. "No, I ain't," said Porkey. "But I can do with buckwheat, not having no fancy Kentucky stummick. Reckon your old lady will be glad to hear about this too. Them little buck- wheat cakes she used to make was mighty fine. Jus' think!" He sighed ecstatically. "A whole field of buckwheat, and right in my front yard, as you might say. "Mention of your front yards reminds me, Porkey," Father began, "that I must talk seriously with your concerning the dangers inherent in your present location. Should the newcomers-" Porkey interrupted him rudely. "If all them words mean that you're starting in again to talk about my moving, you might as well save your wind. I ain't a-goin' to do it." He hunched his shoulders stubbornly. "I just ain't a-goin' to do it, and that's that. There ain't a finer burrow nowheres on this Hill. I've worked hard on this place and -I ain't a- goin' to do it." "As I was saying," Father continued, "should the new- comers introduce Dogs to our midst, your situation here, immediately adjacent to the house, would be perilous in the extreme." "Kin take care of myself," Porkey muttered. "No one desires to cast reflections on your personal courage, Porkey, nor on your ability to fend for yourself," Father was becoming slightly impatient now, "but your stubborn and unreasonable attitude is causing your friends- a great deal of pain. "I have talked the matter over with the Buck and the Gray Fox, and we are firmly resolved that should there be Dogs and you still persist in your refusal to listen to reason, we shall, much as we might regret it, be reduced to the use of force to remove you bodily to a safer location. We have also talked it over with Phewie who is in perfect agreement with us. He can, as you know, render your home unfit for habitation in a very few moments and is fully prepared to do so, should it become necessary." Having delivered this ultimatum, Father stalked away, but Porkey merely humped his shoulders more stubbornly and continued to mutter, "Ain't agoin' to do it. Ain't a-goin' to do it." Father found Phewie and the Gray Fox inspecting the newly repaired chicken house and run. The run was built of stout wire but the Gray Fox had already chosen and marked the spot where he planned to tunnel under it. Phewie, who preferred the younger chicks, was contemplating digging under the coop itself. "A nice tender one now and then is fine," he was saying, "but I wouldn't be bothering with them if I was sure what the garbidge situation's going to be. What I hope is they ain't going to have one of them new-fangled garbidge cans that's buried in the ground, them ones with heavy iron lids. Why, they're downright dangerous, oughtn't to be allowed. "Had a cousin over here to Charcoal Hill got caught in one of'em. Got it open all right and was enjoying himself when ker-bam, down come the lid and there he was. In there all night. He sure had enough of garbidge, time the maid come out next morning. She got enough of Skunk, too, when she opened up that lid." He chuckled. "Left that day, she did. Served them Folks right, having any such dangerous contraption." "Perhaps they will dig a pit and bury it," Father suggested. "Don't hold with that neither," Phewie answered. "A plumb waste that is, mixing nice fresh garbidge with old stale garbidge and tin cans and dirt and all. No sir, what I like to see is a good old-fashioned garbidge can with a nice, loose-fitting lid, and if these Folks is thoughtful, considerate-acting Folks, that's the kind of can they'll have." Father found the subject a bit distasteful so he continued his stroll and soon came across Willie Fieldmouse and his friend Mole. "Good evening, William," said Father. "I trust that all your friends and relatives succeeded in removing their mousehold goods from the North Field before the plowing began?" "Yes indeed, sir, thank you kindly," answered Willie politely. "And they are all very grateful to you for warning them in time." "Not at all, not at all," replied Father. "I merely chanced to overhear Mr. McGrath remark that he was starting it next day and was thus enabled to spread the word. I only wish that certain other people were as quick to respond to suggestions made for their own good." "You mean Porkey?" asked Willie. "Ain't he the stubborn old codger?" Father regarded Willie severely. "Mister Porkey, William, is one of the very oldest and most highly regarded members of our community and as such he is entitled to a certain amount of respect from flippant young people. "Yes sir," said Willie. "Mole," Father went on, surveying the smoothly raked front lawn, "this is a very beautiful piece of grading. You should enjoy some splendid burrowing here. The Mole picked up a bit of soil and crumbled it in his paw. "A little soft yet for good digging," he said, "and then all the grubs are scattered and scared away. But in two- three weeks now, when the young grass gets a good start and the grubs gather again (nothing they love like good tender grass roots, you know), then I'm going to have myself some real hunting." At this moment Little Georgie galloped up, fairly bursting with news. "Coming tomorrow, Paw," he shouted. "Coming tomorrow. I just heard Louie Kernstawk telling Tim McGrath they ought to get those holes in the driveway filled up on account of the moving vans are coming tomorrow. The Folks too-coming tomorrow. "Splendid," said Father. "At last we shall be enabled to ascertain the character and disposition of our new neighbors and learn what canine or feline hazards may accompany them. By the way, Georgie, do not mention moving vans in your Mother's presence. You remember Little Throckmorton?" Little Georgie did, very well, for Throckmorton had been one of Mother's very favorite grandchildren. A moving van had been the cause of his taking off, and Mother had had an unreasoning terror of them ever since. The news, of course, spread like wildfire; all that evening the burrow was filled with chatter and speculation and the coming and going of callers. Father's caution about the mention of vans was futile, for the moment Mother learned that the arrival of the new Folks was imminent she cried, "Moving vans," and burst into tears. She threw her apron over her head and wept for some time, demanding that Little Georgie be confined to the burrow on the morrow until all danger was past. "Naow Mollie, don't take on so," consoled Uncle Analdas. "Ain't no sense to it. Why with that bumpity, twisty driveway full of holes like it is, couldn't no dingblasted movin' van make speed enough to danger a box turtle. Besides, I'll be there, and what I don't know about movin' vans, and Folks and Dogs and Cats, nobody don't know." Mother vowed that she would not stir from the burrow the entire day, but Uncle Analdas poked Father in the ribs. "Don't worry." He chuckled. "She'll be out there, right along of all the rest of us, a-lookin' and a-watchin'. I know about women too."