Mean Margaret

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  Contents

  A Cold Shoulder

  Greenhouse Blues

  The Snake’s Tip

  A Nice Smile

  March 5

  A Rainbow

  Nine

  Lousy Luck

  The Houseguest

  Milk and Honey

  The Cave

  Mud

  Moving Day

  Cave Life

  Fun

  More Fun

  The Snake’s Aches

  A Direct Hit

  Lightning Strikes Again

  Homecoming

  A Good-Night Kiss

  Searching

  A Return Journey

  Patience

  About Tor Seidler and Jon Agee

  For Holly McGhee

  A Cold Shoulder

  One spring afternoon Fred was out foraging for food in the meadow when an inky cloud seeped over the sun. He was a good ways from his burrow—nearly to the pig farm, judging by the whiff of the sloppy beasts he’d just caught. Since there was nothing he hated more than getting his fur wet, Fred scampered up into a hole in a maple by the roadside. This required little effort—woodchucks are distant relatives of squirrels—but the hole was a dreadful mess.

  “Woodpeckers,” Fred muttered.

  When he poked his head out to look for something better, he was momentarily blinded by a flash of lightning. Then he was nearly deafened by a clap of thunder, and right after that a violent cracking sound set his very bones vibrating.

  Seconds later, the skies opened.

  “Of all the rotten luck,” Fred said.

  Stuck, Fred passed the time complaining about the filthy habits of woodpeckers. “Don’t they know what a broom is . . .” Being a woodchuck who lived alone, he often talked to himself. But he turned silent when a pair of fat, ugly human beings came running in under the tree.

  “Goodness!” said the woman.

  “We’re soaked to the skin,” said the man, who had a big ham under his arm.

  Fred held his nose. The odor of the human beings’ wet clothing wasn’t much better than the whiff of pig he’d gotten earlier.

  “You know, Mr. Hubble,” the woman said after a while, “this really isn’t so bad, is it?”

  “Nice break from the kids,” the man agreed.

  Eventually the rain stopped and the sun returned, scattering the meadow with diamonds of light. But, to the woodchuck’s dismay, the fat, smelly people stayed put.

  “Look, Mrs. Hubble,” the man said. “A rainbow.”

  “Where?”

  “There—right over the pigsty.”

  “Oh, my, yes. How beautiful!”

  Fred noticed the rainbow, too. However, it was small comfort to him. For now Mr. Hubble put his free arm around Mrs. Hubble’s middle, and Mrs. Hubble leaned her head on Mr. Hubble’s shoulder.

  “Good grief,” Fred said under his breath. “I’m going to be here forever.”

  But rainbows rarely last very long, and when this one faded away, Mrs. Hubble let out a sigh and said, “I suppose we better head back. They’ll be turning the place upside down.”

  As soon as the Hubbles waddled off down the road, Fred evacuated the nasty hole. He’d never been happier to get home—though, even so, he didn’t forget to wipe his feet thoroughly just inside the entrance mound. He took great pride in his burrow. It was the tidiest, most private place imaginable. Digging it had been the low point of his life—nothing soiled your paws like digging—but at least he would never have to go through that horror again. He’d gritted his teeth and dug extra deep, ensuring that he would never be subjected to the creeping of centipedes or the squawking of blue jays. The only time he was ever disturbed was when a certain striped snake chased some prey down his bolt hole. And this was only a minor annoyance, since the snake was a creature of few words—even when his mouth wasn’t full of frog or mouse.

  Climbing the maple had mussed up Fred’s fur, so the first thing he did was carefully clean and brush himself. Then he sat down in his favorite armchair, the one by his jar of glowworms, and recovered from his ordeal, basking in the neatness, the dryness, the luxurious peace of his home. Instead of the glare of lightning, there was the soft glow of the worms. Instead of smelly human beings, there was the pleasant fragrance of his pine furniture. And instead of bone-vibrating cracks, there was sublime silence. He didn’t hear a single sound till his own stomach began to growl.

  Fred padded into his kitchen and fixed himself a special treat: three snails on a bed of clover. After dinner, he began to feel pleasantly drowsy, and once he’d cleaned up the kitchen, he covered the glowworms with a leaf, crept into his bedroom, and snuggled into bed. He said his prayers, thanking heaven for giving him everything a woodchuck could possibly want, and closed his eyes.

  The bed was nice and warm, so when a shiver went through him, he sat up in surprise. “Could I have caught cold in that miserable tree?” he asked himself. “It was damp.” He swallowed. “My throat’s not sore, though.”

  Fred checked himself for swollen glands. None. The only thing out of the ordinary was a slight chill in his shoulder. He lay back down, burying his chilly shoulder under the covers. Suddenly he was a married woodchuck, with a wife who warmed his shoulder by leaning her head on it.

  Fred woke up in alarm.

  “Whew,” he said, realizing he was alone. “What a terrible dream!”

  In the morning the dream seemed the height of silliness. “A wife, what a ridiculous idea,” he said as he did his sweeping. “How could you keep things just so with another woodchuck around?”

  But come evening, the chill crept into his shoulder again, and that night the same dream woke him in the small hours. It became a nightly ritual—a nightly torture for a woodchuck who hated having his routine disturbed as much as Fred did. He tried everything he could think of: sleeping on his back, cutting out strong foods like mint and dandelion greens, counting field mice. But nothing helped. Time and again he sat bolt upright in his bed in the middle of the night, shuddering from the dream of being married.

  Greenhouse Blues

  Woodchucks will nibble nearly any plant, but most of them are partial to vegetables, and at this time of year—it was April—the only place in Fred’s neighborhood where vegetables were readily available was the greenhouse across the meadow. Early in the morning, before the arrival of the gardener, this greenhouse was a very popular woodchuck gathering place. But Fred never went near it. He liked to sleep till nine, and besides, he hated exposing his fur to morning dew. Furthermore, he wasn’t crazy about mixing with others.

  Still, the greenhouse was the obvious spot for wife-hunting, and after being plagued by his dream every night for over a week, Fred was desperate enough to try anything. He didn’t really want a mate, of course. But if he went through the motions of looking for one, maybe the nightmare would leave him alone and life would return to normal.

  When the dream woke him for the tenth time, he dragged himself out of his cozy bed and up to his entrance mound. “You’ve lost your mind, Fred,” he said bluntly, staring into the chilly darkness. All he could make out was the white bark of a nearby birch tree. But he forced himself on, devising a greenhouse strategy as he felt his way along. If he spotted a potential wife there, he would go up to her and say, “Excuse me for disturbing you, but I was w
ondering if you could direct me to the beans . . .”

  By the time Fred was halfway across the meadow, he was dew-drenched. But the sun was poking up over the horizon, and once he reached the greenhouse, he went over to the east side and positioned himself on a rock so that the sun’s rays hit his right side directly and bounced off the greenhouse glass to toast his left. When he was reasonably dry, he gave his fur a quick once-over and followed the scent of his fellow woodchucks behind a shrub and through a missing glass pane.

  Though comfortably warm, the greenhouse was a bit humid for Fred’s taste. But as he made his way around some rather noxious-smelling marigolds, he spotted an attractive female woodchuck over by a row of peas.

  “Excuse me for disturbing you,” he said, going up to her, “but I was wondering if you could direct me to the beans.”

  The female looked surprised. “Why?”

  “Well, I thought I might sample one.”

  “But the beans are so stringy. Try one of these.” She held out a pawful of peas.

  “Um, no thanks.” It was too early for breakfast, and besides, he liked to wash his food before eating it.

  “Oh, go on,” she said, popping a couple of peas into her mouth. “They’re yummy.”

  She smiled as she chewed, to show how delicious they were. But all Fred saw was her pea-green teeth. She chewed with her mouth open!

  He was so disgusted he slipped out of the greenhouse and went straight home. But that night the chill snuck back into his shoulder, and the same dream disturbed his slumber. So he went through the whole ordeal again: dragging himself out of bed and across the sodden meadow, drying himself on the rock, slipping into the muggy greenhouse.

  This time he made his way over to the carrots. Carrots were said to be “brain food”; maybe there he would find a woodchuck intelligent enough to chew with her mouth closed. And, indeed, he saw a very appealing-looking female crouched among the carrot tops.

  “Excuse me for disturbing you, but I was wondering if you could direct me to the beans.”

  “Green, wax, or lima?” she asked with a friendly smile.

  “Green, I guess,” he said, noting her sparkling teeth.

  “I believe they’re over there, under the second-to-last sprinkler head.” She stood up on her hind legs and pointed—with the filthiest front paw he’d ever seen. Of course, she’d been digging for carrots, but still . . .

  “That does it,” Fred muttered on the trek home. “No more getting up before dawn for this woodchuck.”

  But the bad dream continued to haunt him, and he eventually resorted to giving the greenhouse a third try. This time he weaved his way into the far end, where the sugar beets grew. Turning between two rows of them, he spied a woodchuck with the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. The closer he got, however, the clearer it was that she had a sweet tooth as well. She completely filled the furrow. In fact, she was over twice his size.

  This distressing experience put him off the greenhouse for several days. But the dream persisted, and he ended up going back again and again. Every female he met was flawed. If she was a good conversationalist, her fur was every which way. If her fur was well-groomed, she didn’t take care of her teeth.

  “It’s hopeless,” he finally decided. “I’ll just have to live with a chilly shoulder.” So he returned to his old routine of getting up at nine, eating a civilized breakfast, and cleaning house.

  One day, while he was dusting, the striped snake burst into his living room. “Brown toad come through here?” the snake asked.

  Fred shook his head, and the snake turned to leave. But instead of letting him go, as he usually would have, Fred cleared his throat and said, “Snake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You get around, don’t you? I mean, over and under ground both.”

  “True.”

  “In your travels have you happened to notice any single females?”

  “There’s a garter snake over by the bridge. But she’s too skinny for me. Besides, marriage is a fatal mistake.”

  “I meant woodchucks.”

  “Oh.” The snake coiled himself up and scratched his head with the end of his tail. “Single female woodchucks. I can think of at least a dozen.”

  “Any you could recommend?”

  The snake made a face.

  “No?”

  “It’s hard for me to judge, woodchuck. You’re all so furry, and you eat so much. And those shrill whistles. Other animals call you whistle pigs, you know.”

  Fred, who never whistled, frowned. “Thanks anyway,” he said stiffly.

  The snake uncoiled himself and headed for the bolt hole. But just before leaving he looked back.

  “There is one with a nice smile.”

  “She likes sugar beets, right?” Fred said, remembering the giantess.

  “No, she never goes to that greenhouse. She hardly goes out at all. I believe she’s in mourning for her mother.”

  “Do you know where she lives?” Fred asked. A woodchuck who skipped meals to mourn her mother sounded promising.

  “Under the big stump.”

  Fred thanked the snake for the tip and offered him a snack for the road. “A snail, perhaps?”

  But the snake just made another face and slithered away.

  The Snake’s Tip

  The big stump was on the other side of the stream. Fred had crossed it in the fall, when the stream was low, but now that it was spring the water level was quite high. Woodchucks can swim. Some even enjoy it. But not Fred. Nor did he like the idea of using the bridge. Cars and trucks were dangerous, and worse, they spewed exhaust fumes that soiled and stunk up your fur.

  “Nobody could be worth getting all wet or dirty for,” he decided.

  The next time Fred went over to the stream to wash his supply of food, he was surprised to see a fir tree lying across the rushing torrent. “Beavers,” he said to himself. But on closer inspection he saw that the trunk had been blasted, not gnawed, and he recalled the bone-shivering crack that had followed the thunderclap the day he’d been stuck in the tree.

  “Lightning,” he murmured.

  It was as if this car-free bridge had fallen here specially for him, and as he made his way across it, he wondered if the mourning woodchuck might somehow be his destiny. But when he got to the big stump he hesitated. Though the entrance to her burrow was in plain sight, between two roots, he wasn’t the sort of woodchuck to walk into a stranger’s house unannounced. He waited and watched, half hidden by a clump of wild columbine.

  In a few minutes a young raccoon ambled up to the burrow entrance and called in:

  “Babette?”

  Out skipped a female woodchuck—a ravishing creature with a brilliant coat and sparkling eyes.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “Want to play hide-and-seek?” the raccoon asked.

  “Hide-and-seek. Um, I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Sorry, I’m not in a hide-and-seek kind of mood. Maybe another time.”

  The woodchuck ducked back into her burrow, and the raccoon heaved a sigh and trudged away. He was hardly out of sight when a mink showed up, holding a pinecone behind his back.

  “Babette?”

  The woodchuck reappeared.

  “Hi!” said the mink. “It’s been three days!”

  “Has it?” said Babette.

  “Three days and two hours. Look what I found!” The mink revealed his pinecone. “Better than that stick, huh?”

  “What stick?”

  “The one we threw in the water and followed downstream. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!”

  “Oh, yeah, the stick.”

  “Go ahead.” The mink presented her with the pinecone, and she stepped closer to the bank and threw it into the stream.

  “Great toss!” cried the mink. “Let’s go!”

  “You go,” Babette said. “Last time those prickers caught in my fur.”

  Fred sympathized about the prickers but wonder
ed if this could really be the woodchuck the snake had mentioned, the one who hardly went out at all. Instead of chasing after the pinecone, she ambled down the bank and checked her reflection in the water. The mink remained behind, a statue of devastation.

  “Excuse me, mink,” Fred said softly, coming out from behind the columbine. “Do you know this woodchuck well?”

  “Babette?” The mink sighed. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her. But she barely knows I exist.”

  Babette started whistling a tune, and a dreamy expression crossed the mink’s face. “Isn’t it heavenly?” he murmured.

  But they weren’t the only ones to hear the whistling.

  “Now who can that be?” the mink said, scowling at the head that had popped out of the water.

  “How about a dip, Babette?” called the swimmer.

  “Not today, muskrat,” Babette called back. “But thanks anyway.”

  “My goodness, she certainly is popular,” Fred remarked.

  “Everybody’s crazy about Babette,” the mink said, none too cheerfully.

  “Do you happen to know if she lost her mother recently?”

  “I believe she did, yes.”

  With that, the disconsolate mink slouched off into the underbrush. It wasn’t long before Babette climbed back up the bank.

  “Hiya,” she said, spotting Fred. “Seen the otter?”

  “The otter?”

  “I think I’m in a mud-sliding mood. How about you?”

  There were few things Fred was less in the mood for than sliding in mud, but before he could reply, three little woodchucks came tumbling out of the burrow, two so young they didn’t even have fur coats yet.

  “Where you going, Mama?” said the biggest, tugging on Babette’s tail.

  “I may go mud-sliding,” she said.

  “Can we come?”

  “Not today, Matt.”

  “You always say that!”

  “You know, I have a great idea. Why don’t you all take a nice, long nap?”