Georgeýs Pond: Created in the Beloved Tradition of Charlotteýs Web

GEORGE’S POND

Created in the Beloved

Tradition of Charlotte’s Web

A Novel

Scott C. Waring

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

George’s Pond

Created in the Beloved Tradition of Charlotte’s Web

Copyright © 2006 by Scott Waring

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-42135-0 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-86475-1 (ebook)

ISBN-10: 0-595-42135-0 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-86475-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 1

Pocket Pets

Where are you going with that box? asked West’s mother as she watched her ten year old son wander through the kitchen, towards the back porches screen door.

Out to the hen house, replied West, brushing one hand through his short brown hair. There were some baby chicks born this morning. His brown eyes were lit up with happiness.

Yes, but why do you need that box? continued Mrs. Tate, as she prepared breakfast for the family. The aroma of freshly cooked bacon and eggs filled the kitchen.

Well, said West. I’m making a new nest for the chicks. The old one is too small. All I need is some fresh hay for the nest and something to cut the door.

Don’t be too long. Breakfast will be ready soon and be careful with those chicks! Mrs. Tate shook her head in dismay. How could one boy love animals so much?

I will. West yelled back to his mother. The adventurous boy walked outside with his dog Friendly, who ran in between the thin boys legs and darted in the direction of the old chicken coop. The summer breeze was warm and gentle with the light scent of honeysuckle mingled in it. West looked up at the big oak tree, where his fort sat as he and Friendly passed under it. He had built it with his father last summer. It was perfect, he thought. He spent much of last summer vacation hiding up in his tree house with his beebee gun, defending it from intruding grasshoppers that enjoy dinning on the leaves of his favorite tree.

It had just rained the day before and West was really anxious to go out and explore the creek area to look for frogs. He didn’t complain when he had to stay indoors yesterday, because he knew the rain was helpful to the local farmers, but today was a warm sunny day, begging to be enjoyed. It was an ideal day for taking a dog for a walk down the many deer trails that led through the green meadows and past the many blackberry bushes. Being the only child in a five bedroom, two floor farmhouse, gave West a lot of space to explore, but having 7 acres of old, uncared for orchard fruit trees in back, gave West a treasure trove of delicious pears, apples and peaches. There weren’t many trees left since the orchard was about 80 years old, but there were a handful here and there and West had found the hiding place of each and every one.

West pushed open the door of the old chicken coop and walked into the dark square room, leaving the dog outside. All the adult chickens were out in the fenced yard, searching for juicy insects to eat. This left the baby chicks in the nest all alone. Hey little chicks, it looks like the five of you are going to need more room. West cut a doorway in the new box and placed fresh hay in it. There you go. It’s everything baby chicks could ask for. In a few days you will be able to follow your mother out into the yard and have some real fun chasing those plump grasshoppers. Until then, this nest is the safest place to be. The small yellow chicks looked up at him and peeped excitedly.

West picked each baby chick up, one by one, until all five were comfortably huddled together again within the new warm box. One yellow chick kept hopping out the door of the box. West stared at it and smiled. He picked it up again and began to gently rub its fuzzy yellow feathers.

How would you like to have breakfast with me? You look like you could use a good meal. I will give you some of my buttered toast. That will fatten you up some. West patted the little chick on its head and placed it carefully into his shirt pocket. The chick began to make small peeping noises again. Quiet! Mom doesn’t allow pets at the table. West opened the hen house door and walked back to the old gray farmhouse with Friendly close behind.

West! yelled Mrs. Tate. Hurry up, breakfast is getting cold.

All right Mom, replied West. Then he stopped in front of the screen door. He glanced down at the peeping chick within his pocket and whispered, Don’t make any more noise or I’ll get in trouble for sure.

Peep, peep, peep, went the baby chick and then it became silent.

West walked quickly to the table and sat down. His shirt pocket moved ever so slightly, but made no sounds. Mrs.

Tate brought her son’s plate to the table. It was eggs and toast, with a half a cup of milk. West looked down at his plate and thought the chick might enjoy some of the crumbs from his toast. His mother and father were too busy eating to notice West feeding the little yellow chick. He eyed his parents and then casually broke some crumbs off the crust and sprinkled them into his pocket.

Peep, peep, peep, begged the baby chick, eager to get more food.

Mr. And Mrs. Tate looked up at West with surprised expressions on their faces. They both angrily looked around the room, anxious to find the unusual noise.

Where did that sound come from? asked Mr. Tate. Did you bring an animal to the kitchen table, son? he asked, looking accusingly at West’s moving shirt pocket. West sadly looked down at his plate. You remember your mother’s rules about no animals in the kitchen, don’t you? his father asked. Well, let’s see it. Hand it over son. I like to know who and what I am having breakfast with.

West reached into his shirt pocket, causing the baby chick to again call out for more crumbs. Peep, peep, peep, cried the hungry chick as the boy placed the small yellow ball on the table in front of him. Instantly the little chick ran to the buttered toast on West’s plate and pecked at some bits of crust. I’m sorry, but I thought it was hungry. It’s so much smaller than the other chicks. I think its starving to death! explained West, hoping his parents would have sympathy for his new little friend.

We do not have chickens at the dinning table, unless of course it’s the main course. If we had every chicken we own eating at this table, there would be no room for our family, said Mr. Tate. Why don’t you pick up the chick and return it to its nest in the hen house, immediately.

Okay. West said sadly in a soft voice.

Then come back. Wash your hands and finish this wonderful breakfast that your mother prepared, said Mr. Tate watching his son get up from the table.

The doorbell suddenly rang twice. Mr. Tate got up and went to answer the front door. West looked thought the living room from the kitchen to see who was coming to visit so early in the morning. A man with a black hat and briefcase handed his father a paper. West couldn’t hear very much, but saw his father listening carefully to the man while looking sadly at that paper. He heard his father exclaim, One month? Where are we supposed to go? Then Mrs. Tate walked over to see what was going on, but she said nothing, only held on to her husbands arm tightly, as if she where trying to relax him. The man in the black suit nodded his head at West parents and wished them good day before he left and then the screen door slammed shut behind the strange man.

West knew that they had some money troubles, ever since his dad got laid off from the lumber mill last year. Jobs were really scarce in the tiny town of Sutherlin, Oregon. Mr. Tate was raised as a child in this very house and had no intention of leaving it to find a job in another city. So his father was always busy reading the newspaper searching for jobs, but lately, every employer he went in to see would tell him that he was just too old for the position. They only want to hire younger workers, not a decrepit and slow fifty two year old man. His age made it next to impossible for him to find any job anywhere, but he continually tried anyway. West scratched his head as his father and mother sat down in the living room and stared at the paper they where given. Dad. What’s that? he asked.

Nothing son, its nothing. his father muttered.

But West knew it was something. West picked up the chick and left the kitchen. He went outside and back to the old wooden stable that they converted into a chicken coop long ago. Gently he placed the little chick back into its nest. Then he placed a piece of broken toast next to it. He ran back to the house, letting the screen door slam behind him. He entered the kitchen, washed his hands and sat down to finish the rest of his eggs. The breakfast that his mother made for him was delicious, but he couldn’t help but wonder about that paper. How could one piece of paper make mom and dad so worried? He got distracted when he heard some barking coming from out back. It was his dog bouncing up and down outside the screen door on the back porch. I’m going outside Mom. I’ve got to save the universe from the cruel onslaught of alien invaders from planet X, laughed West, as he picked up his bee-bee gun that was leaning against a dark corner of the back porch. It was a fine looking daisy air-rifle, with a light brown wooden stock and lever with a shiny black barrel. He anxiously ran out the door, towards the big old oak tree. When he reached the tree, he walked to the tire swing that his dad had made for him last year. He looked around for his plastic army men that he often used as targets. West found them lying inside the tire swing and he placed them standing on the hen house window sill. The window hasn’t had glass in it for years and was board up, but it made a perfect battlefield to hold a tiny war.

West looked upwards at his triangle shaped tree house. He began walking towards its ladder. West put his foot on the first step. The ladder was made using many short boards that were nailed to the tree trunk, one above the other. They’re coming. Man the fort. Protect the station at all costs! he announced, while grabbing his air-rifle and climbing up the tree’s ladder. He entered through the fort floor and closed the lid to prevent him from falling through once he was inside. He looked over the walls and peered at the targets below. The aliens are upon us and I’m the only soldier left to protect the fort. They must be stopped, said West. Silently he pulled up his trusty air-rifle and took aim. Zing! sounded the rifle, as a single plastic army man flew backwards and fell to the ground. Got’em, it’s a dead bull’s eye. ‘Zing, zing, zing, zing,’ sounded the air rifle, releasing one after another, small copper bee-bees’ towards the enemy. Little green army men flew upwards in every direction. No survivors! Wow! Saved by the courage of General West Tate, he yelled and started looking around for other targets. Being so high up in his tree house, allowed him to see much of the back yard and beyond. All of a sudden, he saw the perfect target. It was sitting on top of a rubbish pile, consisting of dirt and tree limbs. An emerald soda bottle, in flawless condition, sat atop the pile. West could hardly believe his good fortune. He aimed carefully. This bottle was three times as far as the army men were on the hen house window, so accuracy was very important. He carefully lined up the rifle sights and fired. A small cloud of dust rose up next to the untouched bottle. No! It mustn’t escape! yelled West excitingly. He fired again, smash! Went the bottle as it shattered and collapsed upon it self, into many small pieces. Yeah! yelled West. A perfect shot. I never had a doubt.

Barking came from the base of the big oak tree. It was West’s floppy eared dog, Friendly. He wanted to be taken for a walk along the creek. West looked down at the floppy eared, barking dog and laughed.

Hey boy. Do you want to go for a walk? suggested West. The curly haired dog barked eagerly and jumped up and down some more. He tried to climb the ladder, but the heavy dog could only rest his front two paws on the second step, as his hind legs stood upon the ground.

OK boy, let’s go, said West, as he climbed down the wide trunk of the oak tree. Come on Friendly. We’ll find some frogs or rabbits for you to chase.

That was more incentive than Friendly needed and he barked excitedly to tell West to hurry up. Along one side of the back yard, flowed a crystal clear creek with a great deal of frogs and minnows and an occasional snake or muskrat. A person following the creek would, after a while encounter the small train bridge, blackened from the sticky tar that the railroad uses to protect its wood from the frequent rainy days of Oregon. The train tracks would lead you near a large open meadow. A mysterious place, that West and Friendly would try to locate a trail into. They have never been able to find a trail through the wall of blackberry bushes that surrounds the meadows edges. Although the blackberry bushes created hundreds of delicious berries per bush, they