course, since Raven Hall is so near the lake. The Kittredge children can’t take their naps, and poor Mrs. Kittredge gets a headache every time the thing flies.” (Mrs. Kittredge, as you may recall from earlier books, is the former Dimity Woodcock, Captain Woodcock’s sister.)
Bosworth shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me why Mr. Baum decided to invest his money in that scheme,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s not like him.”
The owl blinked. “Mr. Baum invested money? Mr. Baum—of Lakeshore Manor?”
Parsley laughed dryly. “It sounds contradictory, doesn’t it? He’s always been such an old skinflint. But maybe he thinks he can make money from it somehow.”
“Parsley,” Bosworth said, gently reprimanding. The badger practiced the Sixth Rule of Thumb, sometimes called the “To-Each-His-Own” rule. It suggests that a courteous animal did not criticize other animals’ choices, whether the subject is living arrangements, relationships, economic practices, or diet. Under this rule, ice cream and earthworms are both recognized as equally delicious, depending on what sort of animal you are and how you live. And however you spend your money (or not, as the case may be), it’s your choice.
But Parsley had always been an outspoken badger and was apt to call a spade a spade, regardless of who might be offended. “Mr. Baum is a skinflint,” she said hotly. “He refused to contribute to the school roof fund and he’s never given so much as tuppence to help the parish old folks, even though the vicar practically begs him every year. And now he’s investing in an aeroplane? No wonder people are angry at him!”
Now, you may think it odd that a badger would dare to venture an opinion about a gentleman’s reputation or his behavior. But if you pause to consider for a moment, perhaps you’ll see that it isn’t strange at all. Animals—whether they are cats and dogs and canaries who live in our houses, or cows and pigs and chickens in the barnyard, or birds and badgers and owls and voles in the meadows and woods—all know a great deal more about their fellow creatures (including humans) than we give them credit for. We may not notice them, but they’re often around, watching and listening, silent witnesses to our idiosyncrasies, faults, and foibles. (How many times have you smashed your thumb with a hammer and said a few words in front of your dog or cat that you would never have said in front of your children?) We may not know what our animals are saying, but they gossip about us behind our backs and under our tables. They have a right to their opinions every bit as much as we do.
“People blame Mr. Baum for the aeroplane?” Bosworth asked, frowning.
Parsley nodded vigorously. “My nephew was prowling around the back of the Tower Bank Arms night before last and overheard some of the pub conversation. Henry Stubbs promised to punch Mr. Baum in the nose and someone else thought he ought to be flogged. If I were Mr. Baum, I’d be worried.”
“Oh, surely not,” Bosworth said gently. “I doubt that anyone would harm him, no matter how people feel about the aeroplane.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Parsley muttered.
The owl thought it was time to change the subject, and besides, he had something on his mind. “I was admiring the family coat of arms over your bell pull,” he remarked, “and wondered how one might gooo about getting such a thing fooor oneself. If one’s family does not already have one, that is.” His family, while distinguished in its own right, had never seen the need for a coat of arms.
“I don’t suppose it’s all that difficult,” Bosworth replied. “Why don’t you choose a motto and have someone draw up an emblem for you?”
The owl frowned. “An emblem?”
“A picture. In your case, probably an owl. Perhaps an owl on a branch.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps an owl on a branch with a scroll in his claw, signifying great learning. Or a scroll in one
Bosworth shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me why Mr. Baum decided to invest his money in that scheme,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s not like him.”
The owl blinked. “Mr. Baum invested money? Mr. Baum—of Lakeshore Manor?”
Parsley laughed dryly. “It sounds contradictory, doesn’t it? He’s always been such an old skinflint. But maybe he thinks he can make money from it somehow.”
“Parsley,” Bosworth said, gently reprimanding. The badger practiced the Sixth Rule of Thumb, sometimes called the “To-Each-His-Own” rule. It suggests that a courteous animal did not criticize other animals’ choices, whether the subject is living arrangements, relationships, economic practices, or diet. Under this rule, ice cream and earthworms are both recognized as equally delicious, depending on what sort of animal you are and how you live. And however you spend your money (or not, as the case may be), it’s your choice.
But Parsley had always been an outspoken badger and was apt to call a spade a spade, regardless of who might be offended. “Mr. Baum is a skinflint,” she said hotly. “He refused to contribute to the school roof fund and he’s never given so much as tuppence to help the parish old folks, even though the vicar practically begs him every year. And now he’s investing in an aeroplane? No wonder people are angry at him!”
Now, you may think it odd that a badger would dare to venture an opinion about a gentleman’s reputation or his behavior. But if you pause to consider for a moment, perhaps you’ll see that it isn’t strange at all. Animals—whether they are cats and dogs and canaries who live in our houses, or cows and pigs and chickens in the barnyard, or birds and badgers and owls and voles in the meadows and woods—all know a great deal more about their fellow creatures (including humans) than we give them credit for. We may not notice them, but they’re often around, watching and listening, silent witnesses to our idiosyncrasies, faults, and foibles. (How many times have you smashed your thumb with a hammer and said a few words in front of your dog or cat that you would never have said in front of your children?) We may not know what our animals are saying, but they gossip about us behind our backs and under our tables. They have a right to their opinions every bit as much as we do.
“People blame Mr. Baum for the aeroplane?” Bosworth asked, frowning.
Parsley nodded vigorously. “My nephew was prowling around the back of the Tower Bank Arms night before last and overheard some of the pub conversation. Henry Stubbs promised to punch Mr. Baum in the nose and someone else thought he ought to be flogged. If I were Mr. Baum, I’d be worried.”
“Oh, surely not,” Bosworth said gently. “I doubt that anyone would harm him, no matter how people feel about the aeroplane.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Parsley muttered.
The owl thought it was time to change the subject, and besides, he had something on his mind. “I was admiring the family coat of arms over your bell pull,” he remarked, “and wondered how one might gooo about getting such a thing fooor oneself. If one’s family does not already have one, that is.” His family, while distinguished in its own right, had never seen the need for a coat of arms.
“I don’t suppose it’s all that difficult,” Bosworth replied. “Why don’t you choose a motto and have someone draw up an emblem for you?”
The owl frowned. “An emblem?”
“A picture. In your case, probably an owl. Perhaps an owl on a branch.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps an owl on a branch with a scroll in his claw, signifying great learning. Or a scroll in one
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