Freddy Goes to Florida

Mrs. Wiggins he dotted all over
.

Freddy Goes to Florida

Walter R. Brooks

Illustrated by Kurt Wiese

The Overlook Press

New York

To

ANNE AND NANNIE

I

Charles, the rooster, came out of the front door of the chicken coop and walked slowly across the barn-yard. It was still very dark in the barn-yard, for it was half past four in the morning, and the sun was not yet up. He shivered and thought of his nice warm perch in the coop, but there was a reason why he did not go back to it. Mr. Bean, the farmer, did not have very much money, and could not afford to buy an alarm-clock, and he relied on the rooster to wake him up bright and early in the morning. The last time Charles had overslept, Mr. Bean had been very angry and had threatened to have him fricasseed with baking-powder biscuit for Sunday dinner. Charles did not like getting up early, before any of the other birds and animals were stirring, but he felt that it was better to get up than to be fricasseed. And so this morning he hopped sleepily on to a post and, after clearing his throat several times, began to crow: “Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo-oo-oo!!”

After clearing his throat he began to crow.

The eastern sky grew brighter and brighter and pinker and pinker, and for a long time nothing else happened. Then some robins began talking together in little quiet voices in the big elm-tree that grew by the barn, and a young chipmunk came scampering along the fence and stopped on the post next to Charles and started to wash his face with his paws, and down in the house where the pigs lived there was a great grunting and squealing, so that Charles knew that the pigs were beginning to think about breakfast. And he crowed some more.

And at last, far off across the fields, where the sky came down to meet them, there appeared a little spark of bright gold, that grew and grew until it looked like a bonfire, and then like a house on fire, and then like a whole city burning up. And that was the upper edge of the sun, coming up from the other side of the world, where all night long it had been shining on Chinese pagodas and the Himalayas and jungles in Africa and all the queer places where people work and play while we are sound asleep.

And just as the edge of the sun came into sight, the head of Mr. Bean, the farmer, appeared at his bedroom window. He had on a white cotton nightcap with a red tassel, and his face was completely hidden behind his bushy, grey whiskers, so that nobody, not even his wife, had ever seen what he really looked like. And he was looking out to see what kind of a day it was going to be.

As soon as Mr. Bean poked his head out of the window, Charles hopped down from the post. His day's work was already done, but although he was still cold and sleepy, he did not go back to the hen house. For his wife and her eight sisters were up by that time. “And nobody could get a minute's peace in all that cackle,” he muttered angrily. “I'll go take forty winks in the barn.”

“Good-morning, Charles,” said Hank, the old, white horse, whose stall was nearest the door. “Touch of winter in the air this morning.”

Charles flew up and perched on the edge of Hank's manger.

“Touch of winter!” he exclaimed. “I guess there is! It's cold, that's what it is—downright cold!”

“Well, we've got to expect it now,” said Hank. “Snow will be flying in another month or two.”

“Ugh!” said Charles, and shivered.

“There's less work for me in winter,” said Hank; “though I must say I prefer the summer. I've got a touch of rheumatism in my off hind leg, and these cold nights set it aching.”

“Of course,” said Charles sympathetically. “They would! It's a shame. You ought to have a blanket or something to cover you, and this barn is a terribly draughty old place. But Mr. Bean, he never thinks how the animals and birds suffer; he sleeps warm under his feather-bed and four patchwork quilts—
he
doesn't care as long as
he's
warm! Now, take me. Every morning, winter and summer, I have to get up before daylight, crawl out of my comfortable coop, and crow and get things started on the farm, just because he's too stingy to buy himself an alarm-clock. Doesn't matter how cold and rainy it is, it has to be done. And if I miss a morning, what do I get? I get fricasseed, that's what!”

“It seems sort of hard,” said Hank.

“I guess it does! And now winter's coming. I detest winter! But I've got to get out, just the same, and wade around in the snow and freeze my bill. I wouldn't mind so much if I was warm the rest of the time. If there was a stove in the hen house, and a couple of good wool blankets to sleep under. That hen house ought to have a cellar under it, too—the floor's as cold as stone.”

Hank sighed. “Yes,” he agreed, “it's a hard life. There's no denying it. But what can we do about it?”

A little twittering voice answered from high up under the roof. “Why don't you migrate?” it said.

They looked up, but it was dark in the roof, and they could not see anything.

“Who are you?” asked Charles. “And what are you talking about?”

“I'm a barn swallow,” said the voice, “and I'm talking about migrating. We birds all migrate every year, and I don't see why you can't do it too, if you don't like the winter.”

“Oh, you don't!” said Charles rather crossly. “Well, suppose you tell us what you're talking about. If it's worth listening to. We can't keep track of everything you little unimportant birds do.”

Charles, being a farm bird, felt very superior to all the wild birds, and he puffed out his chest with importance. But the swallow only laughed chirpingly.

“You needn't be so grand,” she said. “After all, you've never been outside your own barn-yard, and you have to do as you're told, or you get fricasseed. And I've travelled thousands of miles in my time, and I don't take orders from anyone.”

“Well, of all the—!” Charles began angrily. But Hank shook his head at him.

“She may have something interesting to tell us,” he said. And then he asked the swallow politely if she would explain to them what migrating was.

So she told them that every fall, when it began to get cold, the birds gathered together in big flocks and started south. They travelled hundreds of miles, and some of them went to Florida, and some went to Central or South America. All winter long, she said, it was sunny and warm down south. There was never any snow, never any cold winds, and there was always plenty to eat. And then in the spring they came back north again.

When she had told them this, she dropped with a twitter from the roof and shot like an arrow out through the open door into the warm sunshine.

“Do you believe it?” Charles asked when she had gone. He felt it beneath his dignity to pay much attention to anything a swallow could tell him, although he was really very much interested.

“Yes,” said Hank. “I have heard of it before. And it sounds pretty good. But it wouldn't do for me, I'm afraid. It's a long road to Florida. If I could fly, though, I won't say that I wouldn't try it.”

“I can't fly,” said Charles. “Not much, that is. But I would walk a good many miles to find a place where it is warm and sunny all winter, and where I shouldn't have to get up in the morning till I got good and ready. It wouldn't be any fun going alone, of course, but if we could get up a party——”

“If you could get up a party,” said Hank, “I won't say I shouldn't like to go myself.”

Charles jumped down from the manger. “I'm going to see some of the other animals,” he said. “If they're interested, we'll have a meeting to-night and talk it over.” And he went out into the yard.

The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. He went out into the orchard and talked to an oriole and a couple of blackbirds, and the tales they told him of the lazy life they led in the tropical, southern sunshine fairly made his mouth water. Then he went to see the pigs and the cows and the other animals, and they were very much interested and said that they had all been dreading the long, cold winter, and that if he really knew of a place where it was warm and sunshiny they would be very glad to go there. So he invited them to come to a meeting that evening in the cow barn, where he would tell them all about it, and those who wanted to go could talk it over and decide when to start.

II

Now, all this time Charles had not said anything to his wife and her eight sisters about what the birds had told him, and he had not invited them to the meeting.

“She always disapproves of everything I do,” he grumbled, “and her sisters always agree with her. It will be a much better meeting if she doesn't come. I can tell her about it afterwards.” His wife's name was Henrietta, and she was a very busy hen, for she had ten little chickens to take care of. And so she was sometimes rather cross to Charles, who never did much work and used to get in her way a good deal.

That night, when Charles started out, she called him back and asked him where he was going.

“I have to attend a business meeting,” he said importantly. “I'm expected to make a speech.”

“H'm, much good
your
speech will do anybody!” said Henrietta; but she was busy putting the chickens to bed, and Charles slipped out before she had time to say any more.

The meeting was a great success. Nearly all the animals on the farm came, and the cow barn was crowded to the doors. Charles spoke long and eloquently and drew glowing pictures of what their life would be like in a southern land, lolling under the orange-trees and telling stories and cracking jokes all day long. The pigs, who had come in a body and sat in the front row, applauded heartily, and the cows mooed and the ducks quacked and the dogs barked, and even the mice, who sat in a row on one of the rafters, squeaked excitedly.