Read Online The Tale of Applebeck Orchard by Susan Albert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Albert
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galleries, even on holiday abroad. When Fritz and his master walked around the streets of London, the ferret wore a collar and a leash. When they were traveling, he had his own special ferret cage, custom-made and furnished with a comfortable sleeping hammock, a food bowl, and everything that might entertain a ferret on a long journey. And their journeys were frequently very long, for Fritz’s master was fond of travel. Fritz had been to Paris, to Rome, to Berlin. He’d been to the Brighton Pier, to the Cornwall Lizard, to the Highlands of Scotland, and to the world-renowned Lake District.
And it was in the Lakes—just here, in fact, near Wilfin Beck, on the road between Far Sawrey and Near Sawrey—that the worst had happened, the very worst. There had come an immense storm of blinding rain and thunder and lightning. Frightened, the horses ran away with the coach in which his master was riding and it overturned. The master was carried off to the Sawrey Hotel, where he died the next day. Fritz himself was not injured, but when the coach overturned, his cage was thrown into the brambles. The door popped open and Fritz, frightened nearly out of his ferret wits, slithered through the prickles and down a muddy bank, where he hid in an abandoned weasel’s burrow under the bridge. He waited patiently for his master to come and rescue him, but as the days went by and no one came, it dawned on him that he was now on his own. No human was going to provide his meals, a place for him to sleep, and entertainment. If he were to survive, he should have to pay strict attention to the basics—food, water, shelter. And he should have to depend entirely on his own resources.
Thankfully, this was not difficult. Like all ferrets, Fritz had a natural taste for mice, voles, rabbits, and other small, furry creatures, and since his teeth were quite sharp and his sense of smell even sharper, he had no trouble making a decent living—at least as far as his meals were concerned. A large rabbit warren was conveniently located on one side of the road and Wilfin Beck lay at his door, so he never went to bed hungry or thirsty.
I am sure you are thinking that, having escaped into the wild and gained his freedom, this ferret must be very happy. He was decently fed, he lived under a bridge where people’s comings and goings kept him amused, and he had a comfortable hole in the ground in which to sleep.
Within a few months, however, Fritz realized that mere survival was not enough. He missed the cultured life, the concerts and museums and art galleries. But he was an intelligent and resourceful ferret. The first thing he did was to move house, to a larger burrow farther downstream, where the Coniston coach rumbling overhead did not wake him in the mornings. The burrow had once belonged to a badger family and was quite extensive, needing only a little remodeling—a skylight in the central parlor, windows in the rooms on the side of the hill, that sort of thing. He furnished it with odd bits he borrowed from the village, and when that was done, he turned his attention to something he had long wanted to do. Ever since he and his master had visited Paris, where he had seen the work of Toulouse-Lautrec and Vincent Van Gogh, Fritz the ferret had wanted to be a painter.
It wasn’t hard to contrive a painter’s kit. He made a wooden easel, found scraps of canvas in the shed behind the Tower Bank Arms, and raided Miss Potter’s collection of water colors and brushes at Hill Top Farm. His first two or three paintings were not very good, but it wasn’t long before he began to feel at home with his art, and to work away at it in earnest. He settled into a routine, foraging at night, sleeping in the morning, and, when the early-afternoon light flooded his new burrow, settling down to paint. He even found some clay and began to create sculptures. He was perfectly happy, as well he might be. But I am sad to say that he was also perfectly lonely.
“Ah,”
And it was in the Lakes—just here, in fact, near Wilfin Beck, on the road between Far Sawrey and Near Sawrey—that the worst had happened, the very worst. There had come an immense storm of blinding rain and thunder and lightning. Frightened, the horses ran away with the coach in which his master was riding and it overturned. The master was carried off to the Sawrey Hotel, where he died the next day. Fritz himself was not injured, but when the coach overturned, his cage was thrown into the brambles. The door popped open and Fritz, frightened nearly out of his ferret wits, slithered through the prickles and down a muddy bank, where he hid in an abandoned weasel’s burrow under the bridge. He waited patiently for his master to come and rescue him, but as the days went by and no one came, it dawned on him that he was now on his own. No human was going to provide his meals, a place for him to sleep, and entertainment. If he were to survive, he should have to pay strict attention to the basics—food, water, shelter. And he should have to depend entirely on his own resources.
Thankfully, this was not difficult. Like all ferrets, Fritz had a natural taste for mice, voles, rabbits, and other small, furry creatures, and since his teeth were quite sharp and his sense of smell even sharper, he had no trouble making a decent living—at least as far as his meals were concerned. A large rabbit warren was conveniently located on one side of the road and Wilfin Beck lay at his door, so he never went to bed hungry or thirsty.
I am sure you are thinking that, having escaped into the wild and gained his freedom, this ferret must be very happy. He was decently fed, he lived under a bridge where people’s comings and goings kept him amused, and he had a comfortable hole in the ground in which to sleep.
Within a few months, however, Fritz realized that mere survival was not enough. He missed the cultured life, the concerts and museums and art galleries. But he was an intelligent and resourceful ferret. The first thing he did was to move house, to a larger burrow farther downstream, where the Coniston coach rumbling overhead did not wake him in the mornings. The burrow had once belonged to a badger family and was quite extensive, needing only a little remodeling—a skylight in the central parlor, windows in the rooms on the side of the hill, that sort of thing. He furnished it with odd bits he borrowed from the village, and when that was done, he turned his attention to something he had long wanted to do. Ever since he and his master had visited Paris, where he had seen the work of Toulouse-Lautrec and Vincent Van Gogh, Fritz the ferret had wanted to be a painter.
It wasn’t hard to contrive a painter’s kit. He made a wooden easel, found scraps of canvas in the shed behind the Tower Bank Arms, and raided Miss Potter’s collection of water colors and brushes at Hill Top Farm. His first two or three paintings were not very good, but it wasn’t long before he began to feel at home with his art, and to work away at it in earnest. He settled into a routine, foraging at night, sleeping in the morning, and, when the early-afternoon light flooded his new burrow, settling down to paint. He even found some clay and began to create sculptures. He was perfectly happy, as well he might be. But I am sad to say that he was also perfectly lonely.
“Ah,”
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