She went out to greet their guest and to meet him, for he had never been east before and the farthest west that she had ever been was Hoboken. "Your wife didn't come?" she said.
"No," said Mr. Bish. "She is visiting friends in Washington. She is very upset over the loss of our little owl and blames herself largely for his disappearance."
"We read about your little owl," said Mama, "just yesterday in the newspaper that was wound around the mackerel. What a shame to lose him and in such a curious fashion!"
"Yes," said Mr. Bish in a low and solemn voice. "And right off this island of yours. Mm-m-m. That was some blow you had! Mm-m-m."
Mr. Bish had a way of saying "mm-m-m" at the end of sentences, and somehow this "mm-m-m" made the children feel guilty. It wasn't their island anyway, and it hadn't been their blow.
Mr. Bish sighed. "He was so little, Owlie was. He let us scratch his head. Looked fierce but liked us. Let Myra carry him around. We've had him since he was right out of the egg. He was a nice owl and a rare one that the zoo, which hasn't much in the way of owls, was very anxious to acquire. Mm-m-m."
The children listened attentively and respectfully. Mama, after a polite pause, not wanting to change the subject in a second, even though it was a painful one, said, "Could you have luncheon with us? We'd love to have you."
Mr. Bish cleared his throat and said, why yes he could, if it were not too much trouble.
Glad to have a free meal,
thought Jerry.
"That will be so nice," said Mama, going in and hoping that the man liked potato pancakes fried in diced bacon and served with homemade applesauce, which was the menu for today.
"Hurray!" said Uncle Bennie. "What a lunch!" He watched Mama grind the raw potatoes and marveled at the way they turned pink when the air hit them. "Why do they?" he asked.
"They just do," explained Mama.
"Oh, I see," said Uncle Bennie, nodding understandingly, and he hungrily sniffed the bacon sizzling in the skillet.
When luncheon was over (and did Mr. Bish go for those pancakes! "My, he certainly ate with great relish," said Mama privately and with satisfaction to Uncle Bennie. "May I have some sometime?" asked Uncle Bennie. "Some what?" asked Mama. "Great Relish," said Uncle Bennie. "Certainly," said Mama), all adjourned again, hoping the dishes would wash themselves. They sat under the green umbrella and listened to stories that Mr. Bish had to tell of his little pygmy owl.
"Did he like to be petted?" Rachel asked, imagining what a wonderful soft little pet a baby owl would make.
"No," said Mr. Bish. "He was a fierce little fellow. But he got so he let Myra pick him up. She was his favorite. But no one else."
"He'd let me," said Rachel confidently.
"He was awfully cute-looking and we were very fond of him, and he did like to have his head scratched."
"Woe," said Pinky, who was dreamily watching Gracie, who was, as usual, up on the little roof, turned inward, thumping her tail and staring.
The man on the ferryboat, as the children called him, stayed all afternoon, going for a swim with them, and so then he stayed for supper; and then he said he guessed it was time for him to find a place to sleep, mm-m-m. Mama said apologetically that although she would love for him to stay here in The Eyrie, they did not have an extra bed. Mr. Bish said that he was so used to sleeping in odd places on his bird trips that he did not mind sleeping on the floor in his sleeping bag, which he had brought with him.
Mama had been wondering what the grayish-looking object out on the porch was and was glad to have the object explained. She wondered, "Is it polite to let our guest sleep on the floor while all five of us and also Ginger and Pinky are sleeping on a bed, if we can sleep, that is, with worrying about the man's hard floor?"
The children were waiting with bated breath to hear what Mama would say, but before she could reply, Mr. Bish said that he had changed his mind and he had decided that, since it was a pleasant night, he would prefer to sleep in his sleeping bag down on the sand instead of on the floor. Jerry and Rachel had previously shown him the very spot.
Of course he would rather do that,
thought Rachel ecstatically.
Who wouldn't want to sleep in sleeping bags under stars if one could?
"Oh, come now, Bish," said Papa. "Sleep here with us. On Fire Island there's quite a heavy mist every night."
Then it seemed that Mr. Bish appeared to be willing to change his mind again, and he consented to sleep here rather than under the stars.
Well, he'd probably like a vacation from sleeping under stars or in a mist, a moist mist,
Rachel reasoned.
Then it became quite apparent that Jerry would like to sleep in the sleeping bag. "You could sleep in my bed," said Jerry to Mr. Bish. "And I could sleep in your sleeping bag," he suggested.
Uncle Bennie wanted to sleep in it, too. "I don't take up much room," he said, watching delightedly as the man spread out the wonderful sleeping bag.
"This is my lost owl's cage," said Mr. Bish, removing it from its safe place in the middle of the bag. "I don't know why I brought it along. I just did, mm-m-m."
Uncle Bennie wanted to say that if the man did not need his cage anymore, his owl being gone, he, Uncle Bennie, would like it for his crickets and grasshoppers. Of course he knew it is not polite to ask for things, so he didn't say this out loud. But he certainly wished that his latest cricket, one that he and Rachel had ornamented with a pale blue thread, could sleep in the owl's cage—he in the man's sleeping bag, the cricket in the man's cage. That would be fair, wouldn't it? he said to himself. If the cricket could not squeeze out of the cage, that is.
Pinky smelled the cage delicately, thoughtfully, and she sat and pondered. Gracie smelled it, and she looked wild. Her tail twitched nervously, and she made an audible crunching sound with her mouth. "An old experienced cat, mm-m-m?" observed Mr. Bish.
When the sleeping bag was spread out, Uncle Bennie, having clean feet, crawled in. Pinky cautiously and curiously followed. The others had to laugh as her stiff little black tail disappeared within. "Woe." They heard her smothered cry as she encountered Bennie.
Ginger was also anxious to explore, so he and Jerry crawled in next. "I hope you do not mind all these intruders in your little house," Mama said.
Mr. Bish laughed. "There have been many less desirable intruders than these nice tame ones," he said ruefully, and described how once, in the desert, a lizard had crawled in. "We took him home to Owlie, and Owlie ate him up with great relish."
"Oh, couldn't I have Great Relish with my food too someday?" begged Uncle Bennie. This was the second time in one day he had heard of great relish, and it sounded good.
"Sure, sure," said Mama, stroking his sleepy, hot little face sticking halfway out of the bag.
"Well, can we sleep in the sleeping bag?" asked Jerry. "Please. That is, if Mr. Bish doesn't mind sleeping on a bed instead."
"Ah, not at all, not at all," said the man warmly.
"All right, Jerry," said Mama.
So it was arranged that Mr. Bish would sleep in Jerry's cot and Jerry and Uncle Bennie would sleep in his sleeping bag, the other members of the family sleeping as they always did. Mama hoped that this arrangement would be only for tonight, for she imagined she herself would not get much sleeping done with children on floors in bags. And Bennie would probably get too hot and catch cold, or else he would take up all the room so Jerry would not be able to sleep. And Jerry needed his sleep; he'd just got over the measles in May. Well...
Suddenly, to take them by surprise, for of course they had all forgotten she was still in it, Pinky thrust her pert little face out of the sleeping bag. "Woe," she said.
"Oh-h-h," they all gasped, hardly able to bear such adorable ways.
Uncle Bennie now got ready for bed, or rather for sleeping bag. He was rather shy in front of strangers like Mr. Bish, especially when he had on only his sleepers, so he crawled quickly into the sleeping bag. He made a desperate and victorious effort not to put his thumb in his mouth or the man might not let him, a baby, sleep in his manly sleeping bag. He breathed a sigh of bliss. To sleep always in sleeping bags! That was the way to give up sucking thumbs and pulling on blankets. He wished the man would stay all summer, all, all summer.
Finally everyone was in his respective bed. The Pyes felt as though they were visiting in another house, having this man who had come over on the boat staying with them, and with Jerry and Uncle Bennie sleeping in this unusual style on the floor in a puffy sleeping bag.
Outside, the waves and the peepers made their usual sort of music; the breezes made gulping noises with the green umbrella, trying to carry it off; and inside, quiet settled over The Eyrie. But the quiet was that of nonsleepers, not of sleepers.
On this first night of the visiting bird man's stay with the Pye family, no one, not those in the sleeping bag, not those out of the sleeping bag, could get to sleep. They tried. They tried all the ways they knew of for going to sleep, counting sheep, kicking off blankets, pulling up blankets (that was those out of the sleeping bag), groaning "O-o-oh" (that was those in the sleeping bag). Everyone tried to be quiet because everyone thought everyone else was sound asleep except himself.
Mama had begun to think about what kind of eggs people would want for breakfast. This kept her awake. She wondered if the man liked scrambled eggs for breakfast or what kind. She hadn't asked, for the man might not know the night before what sort of egg he would fancy in the morning.
I hope it's not omelette,
Mama thought,
because I'm not so good at omelette.
Her family always knew what sort of egg they preferred. Each one had an egg prepared in a different way. Rachel had a hard, hard fried egg. Jerry had a hard fried egg but not
quite
so hard as Rachel's and with just a very little of the yellow way inside soft. Uncle Bennie had his like an Easter egg, hard-boiled, and with a little mayonaise if possible. Odd for breakfast, but that's what he liked. Papa liked scrambled eggs. The cats and dog ate any sort of leftover egg with equal interest. Mama herself also liked any sort of egg. And whatever sort of egg Mr. Bish liked he could have. Probably every way of cooking an egg that she knew of would have to be put into operation in the morning.
Mama tried to count sheep in order to stop thinking about eggs, but she soon lost track and fell back on the eggs and hoped she would not be too tired to prepare a wonderful breakfast for their guest. After all, one needs a good night's sleep in order to fry one's best egg.
The clock struck eleven. How late it was! Mama began to worry about the sleeping-bag sleepers. Was that contraption warm enough? She should have crawled in and felt it. It was probably not warm enough for damp seashore life. If she got up and threw the old green comfortable on them, everyone would surely wake up, and in the morning what a lot of tired and grumpy people there would be! She listened hard to the quiet breathing and tried to count the breathers. The clearest breathing she heard was, naturally, that of her husband. But his breathing did not sound like that of a sleeper, it sounded like the breathing of a listener.
Mama liked the idea of his being awake. It was company for her, and if they had been at home instead of here, they could have had a nice conversation about something, like that time on the escalator. But what, she wondered, was keeping him awake? She hoped his foot did not hurt him. And then she thought she heard a rustle in the eaves. She had often, being a light sleeper, heard this sort of rustle in the eaves, and Papa had always said, "Wind in crannies." There wasn't any wind at all tonight; not a breeze was stirring and still there was a rustle. It must have been made by an escaped cricket of Uncle Bennie's. Uh! The house was probably full of escaped crickets! Why didn't they sing? The least they could do was sing.
Papa heard the rustle too and he listened as hard as he could, for next to watching, listening is probably the second greatest art of the bird man. But he didn't hear the rustle again. Seeing Gracie's gleaming yellow eyes slanted in the direction of the eaves, he, too, thought "cricket."
Must be one of the little fellow's pets,
he said to himself.
Papa had been feeling disconsolate, and his foot did hurt him, not much, but enough to keep him awake. Or perhaps the animated bird conversations with Hi Bish had aroused him so he couldn't go to sleep. They had been interesting, but they made Papa feel dissatisfied with himself. He had meant to accomplish so very much this summer. And so far what had he been doing? Nursing a sore foot and just sitting typing, with Pinky.
Well, Papa and Mama were not the only listeners in this cottage tonight, for it happened to be a night of hard listening for every member of the family, pets and all—even guest.
In their sleeping bag, which, in the beginning, had seemed to be such a marvelous idea, the boys were doing a great deal of tossing around. Each thought the other was taking up too much room and tried to shove the other over. Moreover, the floor was very hard and could be felt through the sleeping bag from any position.
Oh,
thought Jerry.
If only the man from the boat had taken a room somewhere like other people who come over on boats!
Mr. Bish could then have left his sleeping bag here for safekeeping, and Jerry and Uncle Bennie could have slept in it; but they could have slept in it on top of a soft bed. Then they would be in a sleeping bag and on a comfortable bed, both. And they would not be feeling all these boards in the floor of knotty pine.
The truth is he and Uncle Bennie were too much for this one single sleeping bag. Each of them should have one. And now here came Ginger. Not content with staying at the foot of the bag where he belonged, he had to come up and lick Jerry's face; and then he noisily began to lick himself and,
thump, thump,
to scratch fleas. Jerry was embarrassed. How could the man sleep with such a racket? "Sh-sh-sh," he whispered. Finally Ginger lay down with his head between Jerry's and Uncle Bennie's, like another person.