Arthur Read online

  ARTHUR

  by Rhoda Levine

  Illustrated by Everett Aison

  THE NEW YORK REVIEW CHILDREN’S COLLECTION, NEW YORK

  THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK

  PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS

  435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  www.nyrb.com

  Copyright © 1962 by Everett Aison and Rhoda Levine

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Louise Fili, Ltd.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged an earlier printing of this book as follows:

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Levine, Rhoda.

  Arthur / by Rhoda Levine ; illustrated by Everett Aison.

  pages cm — (New York Review children's collection)

  Summary: When Arthur misses the chance to migrate with the other birds, he discovers a winter wonderland in New York City.

  ISBN 978-1-59017-935-2 (hardback)

  [1. Birds—Fiction. 2. Winter—Fiction. 3. Christmas—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction.] I. Aison, Everett, illustrator. II. Title.

  PZ7.L5785Ar 2015

  [E]—dc23

  2015016481

  ISBN 978-1-59017-942-0

  v1.0

  For a complete list of books in the New York Review Children's Collection, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:

  Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright and More Information

  Dedication

  ARTHUR

  Biographical Notes

  FOR MY MOTHER AND FATHER

  It has been a fine lush summer in New York. All the birds agreed that Central Park had never been greener. With the coming of autumn, however, they knew they must go south for the winter. All such birds go south for the winter.

  When the time came to fly away, the birds counted their number. Someone was missing! Arthur was not there! “Really,” all the birds croaked, “why must Arthur be so ... ‘inconvenient.’ He is never around when important moves are being made.”

  At that moment, Arthur was riding through the park. He was gazing at himself in the taillight of a hansom cab. He was enjoying himself immensely!

  The birds began to search for him. “The time has come, Arthur,” they chattered, “to fly south to a warmer climate.”

  But Arthur could not hear them. He had left the cab and was perched on the prow of a rowboat. He was looking into the lake, dreaming of wider seas!

  All the birds grew tired

  “Maybe Arthur does not want to go South,” one bird suggested.

  “Not go!” the other birds cried in amazement. “Why any bird worthy of the name goes South for the winter.”

  Arthur heard none of this. Now he was enjoying the sound of a calliope as he rode around on the wooden ear of a carousel pony.

  The birds grew exhausted. They huddled together to rest.

  “Maybe Arthur has decided to stay here for the winter,” another bird ventured. He is such an odd bird, such a strange bird, such a very private bird. This is the kind of decision he would make.”

  All the birds nodded. This must be the answer. Suddenly a gust of wind blew up. It lifted the birds off the ground. It was a strong wind indeed! It lifted them higher and higher into the air. They were on their way. There was no turning back.

  The birds looked down for one final look. And then they saw Arthur. He was far below them, peering at himself in a puddle.

  “Last chance to join the crowd, Arthur,” the birds chirped as the wind drove them on.

  Arthur did not move. He was taking a drink. He was lost in thought.

  Arthur preened a feather.

  “I could do with a game of hide and seek,” he said suddenly. “I think I'll find a friend to play with.”

  A cool wind chilled him as he started in search of a playmate. “Feels like autumn,” he said to himself. “I'd best suggest to all the birds that the time has come to fly to a warmer climate.”

  Arthur searched for an hour. He looked all about him. But hard as he tried, he could not find a friend.

  Arthur began to feel uneasy. Where could all the birds be? You don't suppose…, he thought. He dared not think on. But when another hour passed, he had to admit it. The birds had gone South without him.

  Arthur shook himself. “I have long been curious about New York in the time that is not summer,” he said. “It might be an adventure to stay.” Yet his heart sank slightly, and he felt a little left alone.

  “I shall take courage and toss my head proudly,” he said. He tossed his head back, but he was still worried. “Time to whistle a tune,” he said. Arthur listened to his song. “What fine tone!” he exclaimed. “These chilly winds may do wonders for my voice.”

  His song finished, he flew off to his nest. But when he got there, he found that the winds had blown his nest into a hundred scattered pieces. For the first time he noticed that all the trees stood bare. “Something has happened to the trees,” he said. “It is most peculiar. Surely the leaves will grow back again tomorrow.”

  Arthur chuckled carelessly. But he was not at ease.

  Happily he found one leaf that still clung to a branch. He huddled behind it. It would serve as shelter for the night. “There is nothing like a good dependable leaf,” he said aloud.

  Early next morning, Arthur awoke shivering. His dependable leaf had joined the others. It lay on the ground.

  I'm in need of a real home, he thought; a place I can count on.

  He found a dried acorn and had breakfast.

  Then he flew off in search of a new home. Everyone in the city was still asleep.

  “I am an early bird,” Arthur said. Suddenly he saw what seemed to be the perfect solution to his housing problem. Arthur discovered a warm metal grate in the middle of a midtown sidewalk.

  “This is a fine location for a home,” Arthur chirped as he settled down. Warm air rose from the grate. Arthur dozed.

  It was almost nine in the morning when he was rudely awakened. He found himself trapped among running boots, galoshes, shoes, and rubbers. His heart stopped. He rose quickly into the air.

  There must be a fire somewhere, he concluded. But he saw no smoke.

  At last the grate was free of feet, save for one or two passers-by. Arthur settled down again to enjoy the grate's warmth. Once more, however, as evening approached he was roused by those same boots, galoshes, shoes, and rubbers running in the opposite direction.

  “There must be a foot race in progress,” he said.

  He felt strengthened in his conclusion when a lagging lady muttered, “Rush hour,” and took to a taxi.

  The next day the races occurred just as before, one in the morning and one in the evening. Arthur flew to a traffic light before they began. He tried to pick a winner on one occasion. He chose a man with glasses and whistled and chirped encouragement to him. But with all Arthur's urging, it seemed to him that no one really won. The only thing accomplished was a great deal of push and shove.

  How odd all this is, Arthur thought.

  Two days passed. The sun had gone on vacation. The wind was sharper. The air was colder. Arthur made an observation.

  “New Yorkers are changing shape,” he said. Everyone was wrapped in hats and coats and scarves. Children tottered as they waddled about in bulky outfits. Everyone hunched against the winds.

  “People can be entertaining,” Arthur commented as he watched the world walk by. “I am growing. I am learning. I am an acute observer.”

  Arthur, too, hunched against the cold when he left his warm grate. He had to be more and more away from it. Breakfasts, lunches, and dinners were becoming harder and harder to find.

  Arthur thought of consu
lting the pigeons about this problem. They always looked fit and well fed. But he felt, after all, that they did not speak the same language.

  One morning when there was not a seed, an acorn, or a worm to be dug up anywhere, Arthur sat sadly on the back of a park bench. He was very hungry.

  “This situation is not funny,” Arthur said. “I am feeling very fragile, indeed.”

  Suddenly he heard a most unbirdlike whistle. Arthur cocked his head. As he did so, a spray of soft white crumbs fell all around him. The spray had come from the hand of an old man who stood nearby. The man was smiling.

  “This certainly looks like an invitation to me,” Arthur murmured. Without a moment's hesitation, he devoured all the crumbs in sight. “Here is a man whose hand understands a bird,” Arthur said to himself.

  This breakfast was the first of daily breakfasts that Arthur enjoyed that winter. For the man with the generous hand was at the bench to greet him each morning; and each morning, Arthur feasted.

  “New York is a pretty fine place when it comes to bread crumbs,” Arthur declared each day.

  “Subway grates are fine for a while,” said Arthur one well-fed morning. “But flitting from grate to street lamp twice a day is not my idea of real comfort. I must find a home without interruptions.”

  So Arthur devoted himself to house hunting. The weather was cold. But Arthur persisted.

  “It may be cold,” Arthur said to himself, “but I am strong in heart.”

  Days passed. Arthur's strong heart grew faint. Pigeons roosted everywhere, and they did not seem inclined to move over. Arthur perched finally on the head of a statue in the park one afternoon. He was exhausted.

  “It is to the pigeon's credit,” he declared, “that they are so wise when it comes to housing; but I do wish they were more eager to share.”

  Arthur looked down at his feet. They were so cold he could hardly stand up.

  “Maybe if I stand on my head,” he said, “I shall be able to think more clearly.”

  From this new view, Arthur discovered a wonderful thing. The statue held a book that might be as useful to a bird as it was to a statue.

  Quickly he turned himself right side up. He collected blades of dried grass from around the statue's foot and arranged them tastefully in the statue's book. He nestled among the grass. “Most comfortable this,” he said. Arthur had found a permanent home.

  Yet, as the days wore on, Arthur felt strangely uneasy. Housed and fed as I am, he thought, I do need a little recreation. He pondered a game of hide and seek. But there was no place to hide and no one to seek.

  “I cannot go gameless an entire winter!” Arthur finally declared. “I must look for something to do.”

  One evening during his search he saw a strange, misty spot in the street. Arthur approached the spot. Here it was that he finally found his game. Arthur had discovered the “steaming manhole cover.”

  Now he could play hide and seek. But since he had no companion, he had to call the game “Find Arthur.”

  It could best be played in the evening. Then the street was free of cars and the steam was at its best. The game was played by strict rules. First Arthur took a deep breath and advanced on the manhole cover. He then took three one-legged hops and landed smack in the center of the cover. He lost himself in the steam.

  “Where is Arthur?” he would cry.

  Then turning himself round and round, and counting to seven, he would take one big hop and emerge from the mist.

  “Here I am!” he would chirp with delight. Arthur had found a sport that even a private bird could play.

  Days of flying and feasting and fun followed for Arthur. New York surely is a fine place to be in winter, he decided.

  Yet one night Arthur felt unnerved. He was awakened by a most curious sound. His statue seemed to ring and ping. A hard icy rain was falling. It fell through the whole, long night.

  The next morning when Arthur awoke, the trees were sheathed in ice. The ground was wet and cold below him, and something glistened and gleamed before his eyes.

  “What can this be?” Arthur asked as he looked at the shiny point that hung before him. “It looks like water, yet it hangs in the air.”

  Gazing at it, Arthur forgot about breakfast. Arthur forgot about everything. He looked at the shiny surface the whole day long.

  “If I were good at naming things,” Arthur said finally, “I should call this an icicle.”

  Suddenly he felt fired to poetry.

  “Icicle, Icicle,

  I'd like to ride a bicycle.”

  Arthur languished in these lines.

  I may be a poet, he thought. He pondered this for several days.

  Then one morning Arthur began to hear new sounds. Bells rang out with great frequency. People began to sing.

  Arthur saw a group of New Yorkers gather to sing “Gloria” on a terribly cold night.

  “Surely the world wants to be a bird,” Arthur said as he sat on his statue's finger. The world might make a very good bird, indeed, he reflected.

  During this time of song, Arthur had a strange and happy surprise. A huge evergreen tree appeared suddenly in a public square not far from Arthur's nest. It was the biggest tree he had ever seen.

  “Well, that's a fast growing tree,” Arthur declared in amazement. “I am delighted to see so much green once again.”

  So great was his joy that Arthur decided to go on vacation. He would spend a few days among the green boughs.

  The next day he flew to the tree. Arthur looked out on the world through a lacework of green twigs. The odor of pine was lovely. He felt happy. He felt contented. But that night as he settled down to sleep, an unforgettable thing happened. The tree did something shocking! It did not whisper in the wind. It did not lose its greenery. It did, however, light up!

  Arthur was dazzled. Arthur was frazzled. Arthur was terrified. Arthur swallowed a big swallow. But he could not leave. He was held by the bright colors that blazed before him.

  “I’ve never heard of such a tree,” Arthur said. “It must be a new variety.”

  “Look at the Christmas tree,” someone shouted from below.

  I guess this is a Christmas tree, thought Arthur. He remained there for several days.

  But on the fourth day he left. The dazzle had become too much for him to bear.

  During the week that followed he often returned to enjoy the sight of the tree. One day, however, when he got to the square, he found that the tree had disappeared.

  Strange tree, Arthur thought. I am learning many new things. I have really set sail on a great sea of discovery and exploration. I am truly an admirable bird.

  The next morning Arthur the discoverer, Arthur the explorer, opened his eyes. He promptly closed them again. Then he opened them very slowly. The brilliance he had seen the first time was still before him. Though Arthur had discovered many surprising things, no surprise was as great as this.

  A white blanket lay humped and piled over everything in sight. Could this be the New York he had known in the green of summer? The city was silent, except for the sounds of shovels scraping and children shouting. There was not a car to be seen. Arthur felt some hesitation about leaving his nest.

  “Courage and humor, Arthur,” he said to himself. “The children aren't afraid. The children are laughing.”

  Arthur flew off through the wondrous white park to his breakfast place. The hand was there to greet him.

  Once in flight Arthur enjoyed the day, although he could not bring himself to touch the white stuff. He flew and hovered above the park until he was quite exhausted. He felt he could hover no longer. He must land. He closed his eyes and plunged.

  He landed and opened his eyes. The ground was fearfully cold. Arthur jumped back into the air at once. But as he jumped, he looked down. He saw, to his delight, that his footprints remained below.

  Immediately he set about hopping up and down in the snow. Once he did a somersault and landed on one foot!

  “I feel I am a d
ancer,” he sang. To finish his footprint pattern with a touch of elegance, he flew an S curve and landed beak first. Arthur sneezed.

  “This is really for the birds,” he said.

  The day of dancing footprints tired him. That night, Arthur did not even mind that his nest was cold. He fell asleep quickly.

  The next morning, Arthur turned a phrase. “New York is a winter wonderland,” he said. He had every reason to feel this. For in the days that followed, he saw strange and wonderful things.

  Once he saw children slide down hills on their bellies. Looks like fun, Arthur thought. I think I'll try it myself.

  So he did. He found a snowcovered rock and belly-slid from top to bottom.

  “Good game,” Arthur sang after this first trip. “It even beats a carousel ride.”

  Another day Arthur found the air filled with snowballs. Arthur declared a race between the balls and himself. But snowballs proved poor competition. They always fell to earth.

  “White balls are low on flying power,” Arthur declared; and he turned to watching other things.

  Sometimes he sat on a curb and watched car wheels as they spun and tossed snow into the air. He preferred them to the wheels that were chained and moved slowly.

  “Spinning car wheels are fun,” Arthur said. “And spinning people are more fun.” He moved to the lakeside to watch the skaters whirl on ice.

  But the thing that brought greatest joy to Arthur was the sight of people who slithered and slid about on the soft white ground. Arthur tried sliding about and falling over, himself. It amused him no end. He giggled himself into a state of sheer exhaustion.