The Four-Story Mistake by Elizabeth Enright Page B

Melendys went about in shorts and bare feet, breathing the air luxuriously and hating to go indoors. Hickory trees abounded on the place, and black walnuts and butternuts. The old orchard had a russet tree whose apples tasted sweeter and sharper and better than any apples the children had ever eaten. When they were at home, they were always biting and nibbling, breaking nuts with big stones, or wandering through the high, dry grass of the orchard looking for windfalls. “I loved the old house,” Randy said sadly. “But I’m afraid I’m going to love this one even better.”
    One day Rush came home early from school. The man from Freebush’s grocery store brought him home with the delivery. Two pounds of bacon, a roast of beef, a bushel of potatoes, six cans of peaches, and Rush arrived together at eleven-thirty in the morning.
    â€œWhy, what’s the matter?” inquired Cuffy, wiping her hands on her apron. “Why’re you home so early? Been bad?”
    â€œNo, Cuffy,” Rush said. “But Miss Holsinger thinks I’ve got a temperature. My throat’s sore.”
    â€œThroat’s sore!” exclaimed Cuffy. “Why didn’t you say so this morning? You come right in and go to bed. I’ll give you some aspirin and a gargle.”
    Rush followed her unhappily into the house. It was a lovely day and he hated to go to bed.
    Except for when I swallow, I feel perfectly okay, he thought.
    After a delicate invalid lunch, a long nap, and a half hour’s perusal of his algebra book, Rush felt well and in need of entertainment. He went out on the landing and called for Cuffy. There was no answer. She had gone to Carthage in the Motor with Willy Sloper. Father was in New York, Rush knew; everybody else was at school. Even Isaac failed to respond to his whistle; Cuffy must have taken him to Carthage with her.
    Disconsolately Rush went back to bed. Once more he studied his algebra book, unhappily. He looked at his other books in their cases, but he had read them all at least twice. He lay back on his pillow, but it felt full of lumps, and he wasn’t sleepy.
    â€œDarn it, I’m bored!” Rush said crossly to his room. The cool, white walls stared back at him indifferently. He rolled over and gazed gloomily out his window at the black boughs of the Norway spruce. Just about now the guys in his class would be out on the field for football practice. He hated like the dickens to miss it.
    The dark branches lifted a little and swayed against the window. Rush sat up.
    â€œNo one’s here to tell me not to. Why don’t I try it?”

    He got out of bed, put on his sweater, a bathrobe and a pair of felt slippers, and opened the window. Just as he had one leg over the sill, a thought occurred to him: he went back to his bed and buried a pillow under the blankets in a lifelike mound. “Just in case,” said Rush prudently. He returned to the window, straddled the sill and reached for the nearest spruce branch. It was quite easy. Feeling clever and adventurous, he reached back and closed his window. Then he continued his investigation of the tree; he had been meaning to do it for weeks. There were a great many scratchy needles and inconvenient twigs, but the boughs were not too far apart. Bleeding slightly from several scratches, with a tear in his bathrobe, and the greater portion of an abandoned bird’s nest draped about his head and shoulders, Rush finally reached the bottom. First he brushed and shook himself and got rid of the pieces of bird’s nest which had gone down his neck and felt exactly as if he were wearing a shirt made of shredded wheat. Then he ambled lightheartedly (and a little lightheadedly, too, owing to his temperature) across the lawn. It was delightful to know that everybody was away. The place was his and his alone. He sang to himself as he floated across the grass, and up into the woods. He sang a good, loud sea song that