Read Online Taking Care of Terrific by Lois Lowry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lois Lowry
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booming voice, "Forward, MARCH!" By then we had already drawn quite a crowd of onlookers.
And they marched. Did they march! Weaving, shuffling, muttering, murmuring, the eighteen bag ladiesâwith a nineteenth,
our
bag lady, right at the head of the lineâheaded for the Popsicle cart. The man behind the cart looked up and grinned at first; then he read the signs. His grin disappeared.
On the street, a strange vehicle was passing. It was a replica of an old-fashioned trolley car that was used to take tourists around Boston for a sightseeing tour in the summer. In the front, a young man with a microphone was intoning in a
bored voice, "On your left you will see Boston's famous Public Garden, established by the legislature in 1856, designed by Boston architect George Meachum..." His voice trailed off suddenly. Heads craned from the vehicle, watching the parade of bag ladies carrying their signs. "We'll stop for a minute, ladies and gentlemen," said the tour guide, his voice more interested now, "and see what's going on here."
Standing on his bench, Tom Terrific's feet were keeping time, HUP two three four, and his little chest was still thrust forward.
Behind him, Hawk had taken out his saxophone and was playing "When the Saints Go Marchin' In."
A huge crowd had gathered now. Their faces were amused, interested, enthusiastic, sympathetic, in sharp contrast to the ruddy face of the Popsicle man, which had looked at first amused, then puzzled, next angry, and finally had settled into a mask of despair.
One of the bystanders, a young man in a yellow sweatsuit, had noticed the remaining signs stacked beside me in the grass. "You mind?" he asked, reaching down. I shook my head; he picked up a sign, BRING BACK DADDY'S ROOT BEER , and joined the shuffling bag ladies who
moved now in a wide circle around the Popsicle cart.
"Uh-oh," I said to myself when a mounted policeman trotted up on his horse to see what was going on. "Big trouble." But it wasn't. He frowned, leaned forward in his saddle to see what the signs said, and then smiled.
"My dad used to make root beer," he said to no one in particular as he patted the glistening neck of his horse.
An elderly, distinguished-looking man in a three-piece suit stood near me, with a pipe in his mouth. "It's not cricket to picket," he said in a British accent. Then, when he noticed me watching him, he explained, "That's Ogden Nash." He leaned over, picked up a sign, and joined the picket line.
People began to get their cameras out. Around me, I could hear wives say to their husbands, "Get a picture of the one with the cat in the sack!" "Quick, Harry! Get a shot of that lady in the orange wig before she goes past!"
In the background, I could see the Swan Boats slow from their graceful glide until they were almost motionless on the pond. Everyone in the boats was watching the commotion.
It was all over very quickly. The red-faced
man at the Popsicle cart began first to mutter, then to argue and complain; but finally, when the chant of the surrounding crowdâ"Root beer, root beer, root beer"âgrew louder and louder, he simply threw his hands into the air.
"You want root beer? So I'll give you root beer!" he shouted.
"When?" called the crowd; then that, too, became a chant. "When? When?"
"Tomorrow!" yelled the man, capitulating angrily.
The laughing policeman moved his horse through the crowd until he was in the midst of the circle of muttering, sign-wielding bag ladies and sympathizers.
"Let's break it up now, folks!" he called. "You've won your war!"
He turned to the Popsicle man. "Tomorrow," he said. "That was a promise."
The Popsicle man nodded grudgingly.
One by one the bag ladies and the others laid their signs in a stack on the grass. Gradually the crowd dispersed. The tourist trolley moved on; the Swan Boats began their silent glide across the pond again.
The bag ladies disappeared like shadows, moving singly away from the crowd and simply fading
from
And they marched. Did they march! Weaving, shuffling, muttering, murmuring, the eighteen bag ladiesâwith a nineteenth,
our
bag lady, right at the head of the lineâheaded for the Popsicle cart. The man behind the cart looked up and grinned at first; then he read the signs. His grin disappeared.
On the street, a strange vehicle was passing. It was a replica of an old-fashioned trolley car that was used to take tourists around Boston for a sightseeing tour in the summer. In the front, a young man with a microphone was intoning in a
bored voice, "On your left you will see Boston's famous Public Garden, established by the legislature in 1856, designed by Boston architect George Meachum..." His voice trailed off suddenly. Heads craned from the vehicle, watching the parade of bag ladies carrying their signs. "We'll stop for a minute, ladies and gentlemen," said the tour guide, his voice more interested now, "and see what's going on here."
Standing on his bench, Tom Terrific's feet were keeping time, HUP two three four, and his little chest was still thrust forward.
Behind him, Hawk had taken out his saxophone and was playing "When the Saints Go Marchin' In."
A huge crowd had gathered now. Their faces were amused, interested, enthusiastic, sympathetic, in sharp contrast to the ruddy face of the Popsicle man, which had looked at first amused, then puzzled, next angry, and finally had settled into a mask of despair.
One of the bystanders, a young man in a yellow sweatsuit, had noticed the remaining signs stacked beside me in the grass. "You mind?" he asked, reaching down. I shook my head; he picked up a sign, BRING BACK DADDY'S ROOT BEER , and joined the shuffling bag ladies who
moved now in a wide circle around the Popsicle cart.
"Uh-oh," I said to myself when a mounted policeman trotted up on his horse to see what was going on. "Big trouble." But it wasn't. He frowned, leaned forward in his saddle to see what the signs said, and then smiled.
"My dad used to make root beer," he said to no one in particular as he patted the glistening neck of his horse.
An elderly, distinguished-looking man in a three-piece suit stood near me, with a pipe in his mouth. "It's not cricket to picket," he said in a British accent. Then, when he noticed me watching him, he explained, "That's Ogden Nash." He leaned over, picked up a sign, and joined the picket line.
People began to get their cameras out. Around me, I could hear wives say to their husbands, "Get a picture of the one with the cat in the sack!" "Quick, Harry! Get a shot of that lady in the orange wig before she goes past!"
In the background, I could see the Swan Boats slow from their graceful glide until they were almost motionless on the pond. Everyone in the boats was watching the commotion.
It was all over very quickly. The red-faced
man at the Popsicle cart began first to mutter, then to argue and complain; but finally, when the chant of the surrounding crowdâ"Root beer, root beer, root beer"âgrew louder and louder, he simply threw his hands into the air.
"You want root beer? So I'll give you root beer!" he shouted.
"When?" called the crowd; then that, too, became a chant. "When? When?"
"Tomorrow!" yelled the man, capitulating angrily.
The laughing policeman moved his horse through the crowd until he was in the midst of the circle of muttering, sign-wielding bag ladies and sympathizers.
"Let's break it up now, folks!" he called. "You've won your war!"
He turned to the Popsicle man. "Tomorrow," he said. "That was a promise."
The Popsicle man nodded grudgingly.
One by one the bag ladies and the others laid their signs in a stack on the grass. Gradually the crowd dispersed. The tourist trolley moved on; the Swan Boats began their silent glide across the pond again.
The bag ladies disappeared like shadows, moving singly away from the crowd and simply fading
from
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