the mosquito.
“That’s about all there is to life,” he thought. “A man ain’t no different than a mosquiter. Yer born, ya eat and drink, ya dump it out again and then you die. If you’re born ugly, or not too smart, ya might as well have your dump right away, die and get it over with.”
“You, little mosquiter, are prob’ly pretty for a mosquiter,” said Nutbeam and commenced to hold his breath. In a few seconds the capillary the mosquito was tapping tightened around its tiny proboscus, trapping it so that Nutbeam could reach out at his leisure, slap, pick off, or set it free. The mosquito’s fate depended on Nutbeam’s decision. Nutbeam’s decision came with a sigh. He took a breath (the sigh), the mosquito filled his tank and flew off. It’ll die soon enough Nutbeam thought and scratched the itch.
Nutbeam’s first year on Todder Brook had been a difficult one. He nearly froze to death. Without the few rabbits he managed to snare, he would have starved. On several occasions he came very close to seeking help from the Brennen Siding dwellers.
“I’m sure glad I didn’t have to do that,” he thought. “I’m all right now. I don’t need nobody now.”
He remembered that he had frozen his massive ears so many times and to such an extent that they flopped over and stayed that way. The experience turned out to be a beneficial one, however.
“Ya kin hear better with big floppy ears,” mumbled Nutbeam.
Nutbeam could hear a bird singing for a country mile. Nutbeam could hear a deer walking a hundred yards away. He could hear the mosquitoes humming outside his camp at night.
Nutbeam had no difficulty hearing Lindon Tucker’s radio and frequently stood outside Lindon Tucker’s house on Saturday nights, listening to Kid Baker singing.
Nutbeam recalled the night Lindon had taken an early break to see a man about a horse. Nutbeam had been standing in the shadows of a shed listening to Lee Moore sing “The Cat Came Back.”
“Lindon didn’t see me there in the dark, but he pissed all over me boot,” thought Nutbeam.
As he learned and practised the art of survival, life grew continually easier. He began taking the train into Newcastle once a month (at the risk of being seen) to trade his furs. At first, he traded for traps and snares; later, he traded for food and ammunition, fishing tackle, aspirins and candy. Later still, he traded for boots and the wonderful parka with the big hood that protected his ears and hid his face whenever he looked down. Last winter, Nutbeam lived very comfortably trading mostly for vegetables, Forest and Stream tobacco and money.
“I spent a bunch of money on that trumpet,” he thought, “and I doubt if I ever learn to play it.”
Nutbeam had been trying to play the trumpet for nearly three months and still couldn’t blow a recognizable melody. At first, he couldn’t even get a noise out of it, but now, after three months practice, he was making more noise than he realized. He was making enough noise to send chills down the backs of everyone in Brennen Siding.
Nutbeam always waited until nightfall to practise his trumpet playing. Somehow, playing in the dark seemed easier. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was his fear of being caught. He didn’t know why, but he knew he would die of embarrassment if anyone ever saw him playing an instrument. Nutbeam was very shy.
“I’m nearly a mile into the woods. Surely nobody kin hear me playing this far away. I might hear it, but I’ve got these big floppy ears. Nobody in Brennen Siding got big floppy ears.” After three months, Nutbeam was convinced that nobody could hear the trumpet. Nutbeam underestimated the ears of Brennen Siding.
When he felt it dark enough, Nutbeam went into his camp and fetched his trumpet.
“Tonight, I’ll practise that Earl Mitton tune,” he thought. “What’s it called? ‘Mouth of the Tobique’?”
When fishermen waded down Todder Brook, they could not see Nutbeam’s tiny camp
“That’s about all there is to life,” he thought. “A man ain’t no different than a mosquiter. Yer born, ya eat and drink, ya dump it out again and then you die. If you’re born ugly, or not too smart, ya might as well have your dump right away, die and get it over with.”
“You, little mosquiter, are prob’ly pretty for a mosquiter,” said Nutbeam and commenced to hold his breath. In a few seconds the capillary the mosquito was tapping tightened around its tiny proboscus, trapping it so that Nutbeam could reach out at his leisure, slap, pick off, or set it free. The mosquito’s fate depended on Nutbeam’s decision. Nutbeam’s decision came with a sigh. He took a breath (the sigh), the mosquito filled his tank and flew off. It’ll die soon enough Nutbeam thought and scratched the itch.
Nutbeam’s first year on Todder Brook had been a difficult one. He nearly froze to death. Without the few rabbits he managed to snare, he would have starved. On several occasions he came very close to seeking help from the Brennen Siding dwellers.
“I’m sure glad I didn’t have to do that,” he thought. “I’m all right now. I don’t need nobody now.”
He remembered that he had frozen his massive ears so many times and to such an extent that they flopped over and stayed that way. The experience turned out to be a beneficial one, however.
“Ya kin hear better with big floppy ears,” mumbled Nutbeam.
Nutbeam could hear a bird singing for a country mile. Nutbeam could hear a deer walking a hundred yards away. He could hear the mosquitoes humming outside his camp at night.
Nutbeam had no difficulty hearing Lindon Tucker’s radio and frequently stood outside Lindon Tucker’s house on Saturday nights, listening to Kid Baker singing.
Nutbeam recalled the night Lindon had taken an early break to see a man about a horse. Nutbeam had been standing in the shadows of a shed listening to Lee Moore sing “The Cat Came Back.”
“Lindon didn’t see me there in the dark, but he pissed all over me boot,” thought Nutbeam.
As he learned and practised the art of survival, life grew continually easier. He began taking the train into Newcastle once a month (at the risk of being seen) to trade his furs. At first, he traded for traps and snares; later, he traded for food and ammunition, fishing tackle, aspirins and candy. Later still, he traded for boots and the wonderful parka with the big hood that protected his ears and hid his face whenever he looked down. Last winter, Nutbeam lived very comfortably trading mostly for vegetables, Forest and Stream tobacco and money.
“I spent a bunch of money on that trumpet,” he thought, “and I doubt if I ever learn to play it.”
Nutbeam had been trying to play the trumpet for nearly three months and still couldn’t blow a recognizable melody. At first, he couldn’t even get a noise out of it, but now, after three months practice, he was making more noise than he realized. He was making enough noise to send chills down the backs of everyone in Brennen Siding.
Nutbeam always waited until nightfall to practise his trumpet playing. Somehow, playing in the dark seemed easier. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was his fear of being caught. He didn’t know why, but he knew he would die of embarrassment if anyone ever saw him playing an instrument. Nutbeam was very shy.
“I’m nearly a mile into the woods. Surely nobody kin hear me playing this far away. I might hear it, but I’ve got these big floppy ears. Nobody in Brennen Siding got big floppy ears.” After three months, Nutbeam was convinced that nobody could hear the trumpet. Nutbeam underestimated the ears of Brennen Siding.
When he felt it dark enough, Nutbeam went into his camp and fetched his trumpet.
“Tonight, I’ll practise that Earl Mitton tune,” he thought. “What’s it called? ‘Mouth of the Tobique’?”
When fishermen waded down Todder Brook, they could not see Nutbeam’s tiny camp
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