would be sure to step in it. The holes in the bottom of Thomas’s old boots are bigger than ever, and I forgot to put new cardboard inside.
I try and hold my breath the whole time I am digging. Then I step away from the privy and take many gulps of air. Already Anna May and Belle are up on their feet, wondering what that terrible smell is. I tell them, do not blame me, blame Mirabel.
I am also keeping watch for wasps. They live under the shingles on the privy and on the inside of the door and near the spot where we keep the old Sears catalog.
It takes me a long, long time to fill the wheelbarrow, partly because the job is so hard and partly because Olympia and Minnie and Bea keep trying to get down there.
My head gets all dizzy from holding my breath so much, and I smack the side of the privy with my full shovel, dropping a load of muck on the ground and sending a swarm of wasps into the air.
Oh, no, says Anna May.
Oh, no, says Belle.
I rush out of the way, stepping in the muck, and then I have to go rest for a while with Anna May and Belle, at least until things calm down with the wasps. I tell them how the privy smell is the worst smell on the farm. Cow manure and horse manure and pig manure and even chicken manure are small potatoes compared to the smell that comes from a privy.
“Ghastly,” I say.
Terrible, says Anna May.
The worst, Belle agrees.
Pretty soon Mirabel comes out on the porch and sees me resting next to Anna May and Belle. She puts her hands on her hips and turns her face into one big frown.
I don’t want to go to bed hungry again, so I hurry and push the wheelbarrow off to the woods. I think the stink is getting into my cuts and making them hurt even worse.
Ivy is sitting out on the fence pulling a daisy apart, petal by petal, and throwing them at me. “What’s that terrrrrrible smell, Charlie Anne? Oh, it’s yooouuuuuu!”
I make a beeline for her, waving my shovel, chasing her all the way up through the yard and straight through the blankets hanging on the line, and when she gets all tangled up and falls down, pulling the clean blankets with her, I hurry up and go back to the privy before Mirabel thinks it’s all my fault.
Anna May and Belle are looking at me like maybe I should not have done that, like I’m really going to get the what-for now, and that’s when I hear someone squealing over at Old Mr. Jolly’s house. I prop my shovel against the privy and walk down past the blackberries and the barn and the grapevines and the stone wall, and the whole time I am noticing how everything still smells like I am standing in muck. I sniff under my arms and along the inside of my elbows, and when I look up, that’s when I see it is Phoebe who is screeching, Phoebe who is soaring through the sky on a swing like I have never seen before.
I watch without breathing as she pulls the swing into the barn and then comes shooting out, fast as a bullet, screaming the whole way. She sticks her legs straight out in front of her and sweeps one arm way out to the side and bends over backward, as if she’s about to back-flip. She sees me and I wave to her and my feet start telling me they just about cannot stand the wait anymore. Don’t worry about Mirabel one bit, they tell me, and what’s taking so long, anyway, and hurry up.
“Want to try?” she asks when I get across the road, and I nod yes, yes, I surely do.
“I’ll show you how to do it,” and she soars back into the barn. Then she makes me stand and watch her for about a hundred minutes to see how fine the swing is and how good she is at swinging, and how to swing just like she does.
Then she waves for me to come into the barn so I can see how she climbs up to the loft (I know all about haylofts) and how she jumps onto the sitting board (I know all about jumping up like that) and how she takes off and soars out of the barn. Then she comes back and lands on a special platform that Old Mr. Jolly must have built for her.
“See?
I try and hold my breath the whole time I am digging. Then I step away from the privy and take many gulps of air. Already Anna May and Belle are up on their feet, wondering what that terrible smell is. I tell them, do not blame me, blame Mirabel.
I am also keeping watch for wasps. They live under the shingles on the privy and on the inside of the door and near the spot where we keep the old Sears catalog.
It takes me a long, long time to fill the wheelbarrow, partly because the job is so hard and partly because Olympia and Minnie and Bea keep trying to get down there.
My head gets all dizzy from holding my breath so much, and I smack the side of the privy with my full shovel, dropping a load of muck on the ground and sending a swarm of wasps into the air.
Oh, no, says Anna May.
Oh, no, says Belle.
I rush out of the way, stepping in the muck, and then I have to go rest for a while with Anna May and Belle, at least until things calm down with the wasps. I tell them how the privy smell is the worst smell on the farm. Cow manure and horse manure and pig manure and even chicken manure are small potatoes compared to the smell that comes from a privy.
“Ghastly,” I say.
Terrible, says Anna May.
The worst, Belle agrees.
Pretty soon Mirabel comes out on the porch and sees me resting next to Anna May and Belle. She puts her hands on her hips and turns her face into one big frown.
I don’t want to go to bed hungry again, so I hurry and push the wheelbarrow off to the woods. I think the stink is getting into my cuts and making them hurt even worse.
Ivy is sitting out on the fence pulling a daisy apart, petal by petal, and throwing them at me. “What’s that terrrrrrible smell, Charlie Anne? Oh, it’s yooouuuuuu!”
I make a beeline for her, waving my shovel, chasing her all the way up through the yard and straight through the blankets hanging on the line, and when she gets all tangled up and falls down, pulling the clean blankets with her, I hurry up and go back to the privy before Mirabel thinks it’s all my fault.
Anna May and Belle are looking at me like maybe I should not have done that, like I’m really going to get the what-for now, and that’s when I hear someone squealing over at Old Mr. Jolly’s house. I prop my shovel against the privy and walk down past the blackberries and the barn and the grapevines and the stone wall, and the whole time I am noticing how everything still smells like I am standing in muck. I sniff under my arms and along the inside of my elbows, and when I look up, that’s when I see it is Phoebe who is screeching, Phoebe who is soaring through the sky on a swing like I have never seen before.
I watch without breathing as she pulls the swing into the barn and then comes shooting out, fast as a bullet, screaming the whole way. She sticks her legs straight out in front of her and sweeps one arm way out to the side and bends over backward, as if she’s about to back-flip. She sees me and I wave to her and my feet start telling me they just about cannot stand the wait anymore. Don’t worry about Mirabel one bit, they tell me, and what’s taking so long, anyway, and hurry up.
“Want to try?” she asks when I get across the road, and I nod yes, yes, I surely do.
“I’ll show you how to do it,” and she soars back into the barn. Then she makes me stand and watch her for about a hundred minutes to see how fine the swing is and how good she is at swinging, and how to swing just like she does.
Then she waves for me to come into the barn so I can see how she climbs up to the loft (I know all about haylofts) and how she jumps onto the sitting board (I know all about jumping up like that) and how she takes off and soars out of the barn. Then she comes back and lands on a special platform that Old Mr. Jolly must have built for her.
“See?
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