Smudge and the Book of Mistakes by Gloria Whelan Page B

monastery’s finest scribe. An amazing accomplishment for one so young.”
    Smudge, overwhelmed at being in the presence of the abbot, found his words all glued together so that he could not separate one from the other.
    The abbot was not unhappy to see how properly awed the young man was in his presence. “Now, now, speak up.”
    â€œOh, dear Abbot, please don’t mock me. I know very well my lettering is messy and scrawly.”
    â€œModesty is fine up to a point. I suppose Brother Bede has told you that you have been chosen to work with Brother Gregory?”
    â€œNo, indeed. He didn’t say a word to me. I would be so honored to assist Brother Gregory.” Smudge saw himself scrubbing Brother Gregory’s floors and dusting his manuscripts.
    â€œNo daydreaming!” the abbot interrupted Smudge’s thoughts. “Now off you go to Brother Gregory.”

    Brother Gregory noticed Smudge standing at his doorway. “What do you want?” he asked. “I can’t be disturbed now, I’m expecting someone.”
    â€œThe abbot sent me. I’m Smudge, the scribe. I’m very sorry.”
    â€œWhat are you sorry about? And why are you shaking?”
    â€œI’m shivering.”
    â€œCome in, come in. Put down your hood and let me see your face. Why, you are just a youth! Warm your hands by the fire and then show me a sample of your script.”
    Smudge felt the warmth of the room comfort him like a mother’s arms. Oh, to spend his days in this room . . . but why was Brother Gregory asking to see a sample of his script when all he would be doing would be keeping Brother Gregory’s cell tidy? Smudge knew he would be sent away the moment Brother Gregory saw his rude and shapeless scribbles. Who would want so careless a creature cleaning his precious brushes and paints?
    To gain a few moments in the warm room, Smudge said, “I’m afraid my hands have gone all numb from the cold.”
    â€œHold them near the fire and while they are thawing you can tell me something of your approach to letters.”

    Here was something Smudge could talk about. “I’m very fond of letters, Brother Gregory. I love the way each letter has its own little story to tell. The H with the two little rooms just alike. The ups and downs of the M and W . The X , like crossed swords.”
    Brother Gregory was delighted. Here was a monk who thought for himself. He would be a pleasure and an inspiration to work with. Who would have believed someone so young would be so clever?
    But there was something else that had to be asked. “Do you have any ideas about my illuminations?”
    â€œIdeas for you ? Oh my, I know nothing about illuminating a story. You are the very best in Ireland. How could I presume to give you ideas?”
    Brother Gregory smiled with satisfaction. “Your fingers should be thawed out. Let me see a sample of your lettering.”
    â€œI am only going to tidy your room, Brother Gregory. Why would you wish to see my lettering?”
    â€œTidy my room? What are you talking about? You are going to provide the lettering for the Christmas Story.”
    He handed Smudge a goose quill, some ink, and a small sheet of parchment which Brother Gregory kept just for practice.

    Smudge took the quill with trembling hands. He dipped it in the black ink. He made his favorite letter, H . The sides were wriggly. The middle sloped. There was a blot of ink as large as a raisin.
    Brother Gregory covered his eyes with his hands to shut out the horror. Hopeless. He would have to go to the abbot and tell him he must have Brother Ethbert. Then what? Neat but boring lettering. Brother Ethbert’s endless interference with his painting.
    Yet here was this boy who loved letters. Who thought about them all the time. He would mind his own business. Given time and practice might he learn to be a scribe?
    Brother Gregory said, “Smudge, you are to be here tomorrow