THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

“You’ve gotta be kidding! I don’t want to hear, or smell, any power mowers on my property! In that wide open space beyond the bird garden Kevin Doone is putting in a meadow of native grasses, wildflowers, and forbs. He’s made a study of natural landscaping.”

“What are forbs?”

“To tell the truth, I’m not sure. Some kind of plant. My dictionary is vague about forbs, but I trust Kevin.”

Mildred said, “He’s very good. He’s landscape consultant for Indian Village. Otherwise, the developers would have the whole complex looking like a golf course.”

Arch said, “For someone who grew up on the sidewalks of Chicago, Qwill, you’ve become a sudden lover of nature.”

“Only if I don’t have to water it, fertilize it, weed it, spray it, or prune it.”

There was a startling interruption as a crow chased a squirrel, the one flapping its wings threateningly and the other running for its life. Qwilleran explained the social situation: “Small birds throw seeds out of the feeder; large birds pick them up off the ground, but the squirrels try to muscle in. The politics and economics of a bird garden are more complicated than I care to contemplate. Let’s talk about something simple, like the newspaper business.”

“Okay,” Arch said. “You saw the announcement of the adult spelling bee to benefit the literacy program. We’re underwriting it, and I’m happy to say the business community is very supportive.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“Hixie suggested it, although it’s been done in cities Down Below - quite successfully, I understand.”

Qwilleran thought, Here we go again! Hixie Rice, the newspaper’s promotion director, had a long history of brilliant ideas that ended in disaster, through no fault of her own. Her most recent debacle had been the Moose County Ice Festival that melted into oblivion in February. Failure never daunted her; she bounced back with yet another worthwhile idea.

Arch said, “We lost our shirt on the Ice Festival, but an adult spelling bee should be foolproof. Business firms and other organizations pay a fee to enter a team and compete for atrophy, and the public pays an admission fee to applaud their favorite spellers. The audience has fun, and the sponsors get favorable publicity. I don’t see how anything can go wrong… You’re looking dubious, Qwill.”

“Not at all! I’m all in favor of promoting literacy. The more people who can read, the greater our circulation and the more ads we sell and the more fan

mail I get.”

“Oh, Qwill! I hope you’re joking and not just being cynical,” Polly protested.

“I was recently shocked,” he said, “to learn that a well-known businessman in Pickax can neither read nor write. He’s gone to great lengths to conceal the fact.”

“Who? Who?” they clamored.

“That’s privileged information.”

A beeper sounded, and the two women jumped up. “Time to start the frittata,” Polly said. “We’ll ring the dinnerbell when we’re ready.” They returned to the bam, laughing and chattering.

The men sat back in their chairs and gazed into the woods, at peace with the world. Neither of them spoke. They had been friends long enough to make silences comforting.

After a while Arch said, “When are we going to fly Down Below for a weekend ballgame?”

“Exactly what was on my mind! We should check the schedules.”

“Do you think the girls will want to go along?”

“They enjoyed it last year - the shopping, that is, and the show Saturday night,” Qwilleran recalled. “Let’s sound them out.”

“I noticed a new baseball book on your coffee table. Don’t tell me you broke down and bought a book that’s less than fifty years old!”

“I didn’t buy it. Polly brought it from the library. My record remains clean… Meanwhile, though, I picked up three interesting World War Two books from Eddington’s dustbin: The Pacific War, Fire Over London, and The Last 100 Days. They came from an estate on Purple Point.”

At that point Koko attracted their attention by raising himself into a long-legged stretch with back humped and tail stiff. Then he lowered his front half and stretched his forelegs against the floor, after which he stretched one hind leg. Finally he confronted the men. “Yow!” he said with a volume and clarity that reverberated through the woods.

“What’s bugging him?” Arch asked.

“He knows the dinnerbell is about to ring.”

In a few seconds it rang.

“See? What did I tell you?” Qwilleran said with a touch of pride. “Can you beat that!” Koko was already standing over the canvas tote bag, and with a little assistance from Qwilleran both cats hopped into it, wriggling into place, and the four of them returned to the barn.

The dinnerbell that had summoned them was standing on the console table in the foyer - a cast brass handbell with a coiled serpent for a handle.

“Dutch Baroque,” said Arch, who had learned about antiques from his first wife, Down Below. “Where’d you get it?”

“Amanda’s studio. She said it came from Stockholm.”