It's Saturday.
Thirteen Fame
The music editor of the New York Times was quite surprised to get Mr. Smedley’s letter, but he believed in the freedom of the press and had it printed on the theatrical and musical page of the paper. The next morning, thousands of people—at home over the breakfast table and on buses and trains coming into New York—read about Chester. The Bellinis got to the newsstand very early. Papa opened the Times bundle and thumbed through a copy looking for the letter. When he found it, he read it aloud to Mama and Mario. Then he folded the paper and put it back on the stack to be sold. “So,” said Papa. “We have a celebrity in our midst.” The celebrity was just at that moment having himself a big yawn in the cricket cage. He had been up most of the night with his manager and Harry Cat, learning new pieces. After eating breakfast and having another stretch, he tested his wings against each other, like a violinist making sure that his violin is in tune. The wings were fine. This time of year they almost itched to chirp. Chester ran over the scales a few times and started to play. His first selection was something he had heard the night before called “A Little Night Music.” It was by a man named Mozart. Chester and Tucker and Harry had all been delighted by “A Little Night Music.” They thought it was a very good piece for the cricket to learn because they had heard it first at night, and also because Chester was quite a little person himself. It was lovely music too, with little tunes that sounded like insects hopping around and having a grand time. As Chester played, the station began to fill up with the usual commuters. People collected around the newsstand—some drawn by the chirping, and others because they wanted to see the cricket they’d read about. And as always in New York, when a little crowd formed, more people came just to see what the others were looking at. Bees do that, and so do human beings. Somebody asked who was playing. “A cricket,” a man answered. “Oh, stop joking!” the first man said, and burst out laughing. In front of him a little lady with a feather in her hat, who was enjoying the music, turned around and whispered “Shhhh!” very angrily. In another part of the station a man was reading Mr. Smedley’s letter, and two other men were also reading it over his shoulders. “My gosh!” said the one on the right. “A cricket. Who would have believed it?” “It’s a fake,” said the man on the left. “Probably a record.” The man in the middle, who owned the paper, snapped it shut. “It isn’t a fake!” he said. “It’s a little living creature—and it sings beautifully! I’m going to give up my season ticket to the Philharmonic.” Everywhere people were talking and arguing and listening to Chester. Mario made a pile of old magazines and put the cricket cage on top of them so everyone could see better and hear more clearly. When Chester finished one number, a shout of “More! More!” rang through the station. The cricket would catch his breath, have a sip of water, flex his wings, and begin a new selection as fast as he could. And the crowd grew and grew. Mama Bellini had never seen such a crowd around the newsstand. But she wasn’t one to be so dazed by good fortune that she missed out on such a chance. Taking a bundle of the Times under one arm, she worked her way around, murmuring softly—so as not to disturb the music lovers—“Read about the cricket, read about the cricket, it’s in The New York Times.’ People snapped up the papers like candy. Mama had to keep going back to the newsstand for new loads. And in less than half an hour the whole stock of the Times had been sold. “Don’t sit with your eyes shut,” Mama whispered to Papa. (Papa Bellini was one of those people who enjoy listening to music most with their eyes closed.) She put a bunch of Musical America into his arms. “Try these—it’s a good time now.” Papa sighed, but did as she asked him. And in a little while all the copies of Musical America were gone too. It is safe to say that there had never been such an interest in music in the Times Square subway station as there was on the morning. Over in the drain pipe Tucker Mouse and Harry Cat were listening too—Harry with his eyes closed like Papa Bellini. There were so many human beings that they couldn’t even see the newsstand. But they could hear Chester, chirping away, on the other side of all the heads and legs and backs. His clear notes filled the station. “Didn’t I tell you?” said Tucker between pieces. “Look at them all. There’s a fortune in this. I wish one of us was big enough to pass the hat.” But Harry only smiled. He was happy right where he was, just sitting, enjoying the music. And the crowd kept on growing. That first day alone, there were seven hundred and eighty-three people late to work because they had stopped to listen to Chester. During the next few days, other papers besides the Times began to run articles on the cricket. Even Musical America sent an editor (an assistant editor) down to hear a recital. And Chester was news on radio and television. All the announcers were talking about the remarkable insect who was delighting throngs in the Times Square subway station. The Bellinis decided that the best times for Chester to play were early in the morning and late in the afternoon, since that was when the station was fullest. Concerts began at 8:00 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. and usually lasted an hour and a half—not including encores. Business boomed at the newsstand. Mama made sure that extra loads of magazines and newspapers were delivered. But even so, by closing time they had sold out completely. Mama Bellini, by the way, turned out to be the best friend a cricket ever had. At noon she would rush home and fix Chester some delicacy for lunch, like a midget fruit or an entire vegetable dinner so small you could serve it on a silver dollar. Chester really preferred his mulberry leaves, but he ate everything so as not to hurt her feelings. Sai Fong, who had seen Chester’s picture in the paper, kept Mario supplied with leaves. He and the Chinese gentleman dug out two collapsible chairs from his attic and came uptown every day at eight and four-thirty to hear Chester’s new programs. Mr. Smedley was there at least once a day too. He brought a tape recorder and made recordings of all the new pieces Chester learned. And during the intermissions—there was always an intermission of ten minutes halfway through the concert—he delivered short talks on musical appreciation to the audiences. So by Thursday Chester Cricket was the most famous musician in New York City. But now here is a strange thing: he wasn’t really happy—not the way he used to be. Life didn’t seem to have the fun and freedom it had had before. For one thing, although he thought that glory was very nice, Chester found that it made you tired. Two concerts a day, every day, was an exhausting program. And he wasn’t used to playing on schedule. Back home in the meadow, if the sun felt nice, or the moon was full, or if he wanted to have a musical conversation with his friend the lark, he would chirp because the mood was on him. But here he had to begin performing at eight and four-thirty whether he felt like it or not. Of course he was very glad to be helping the Bellinis, but a lot of the joy was gone from his playing. And there was something else: Chester didn’t like being looked at. It wasn’t so bad while he was playing. Everyone was quiet, enjoying the music. But after the performance was over, the human beings crowded around and put their faces down close to the bars and poked their fingers through. Souvenir hunters had taken his paper cup and even the pieces of mulberry leaves that were left over. Chester knew they didn’t mean any harm—but he couldn’t get used to the idea that millions of eyes were staring at him. It got so bad that when the concerts were over, he took to crawling into the matchbox and pushing up a piece of Kleenex to block the entrance. Then, on Thursday, three things happened that upset him very much. The first was September. It was the first day of a new month. Chester happened to glance up at the top of a copy of the Times, where the date was, and there he saw it: SEPTEMBER 1—a new month, and a new season too. Autumn was almost upon them. For some reason the thought of September, with all its changes, made Chester feel very small and lost. And that evening, while he was playing, a brown leaf, the first leaf of the fall, blew into the station and landed right next to the cricket cage. Now, this leaf had come from New Jersey. A playful gust of wind danced it over the Hudson River, and up Forty-second Street, and whisked it down the subway entrance. Chester was in the middle of a song when the leaf came down. It was such a shock to see this little reminder of all that was happening in the country that for a moment he couldn’t continue. But then he realized where he was and forced himself to go on. Mario was the only one who noticed the break in the playing. But the worst thing happened after the concert was over. Chester was leaning up against the matchbox when suddenly two fingers began to work their way through the bars of the cage toward the little silver bell. They weren’t Mama’s fingers, or Papa’s, or Mario’s—Chester knew the hands of the Bellinis. Somebody was trying to steal the bell! The cricket chirped an alarm just as the man was about to pull it down. Papa turned around, saw what was happening, and shouted, “Hey! What are you doing?” the man disappeared into the crowd. Mama and Mario had been outside selling off the last of the day’s papers. They came running back to the newsstand. “What is it?” panted Mama. “A thief,” said Papa. “Is my cricket all right?” asked Mario anxiously. “Yes,” said Papa. “He’s in the matchbox.” Mario picked up the box and looked in. There was Chester, piling a Kleenex against the opening. “You can come out now,” the boy said. “It’s safe,” but Chester wouldn’t come out. Mario had noticed that the cricket took to hiding after each recital, and it worried him. Mama Bellini was convinced that the man was a kidnapper—or rather, cricketnapper—not just a thief. But Papa told them how he had been going straight for the bell. “That bell belongs to my cricket,” said Mario. “Mr. Fong gave it to him.” He unfastened the bell and put it way back in the cash register drawer, next to Mama’s earring, so it wouldn’t tempt anyone else. Chester was still hiding in the matchbox. Mario gently pulled the Kleenex away and whispered, “Please come out.” Chester stirred and chirped, but stayed where he was. “What’s the matter with him?” said Papa. “I think he may be sick,” said Mario. He coaxed Chester with a mulberry leaf. The cricket poked his head out of the matchbox. When he saw that the crowd had broken up, he jumped into the palm of Mario’s hand. “You should take him to a bug doctor,” said Mama. “What do you call them?” “Entomologist,” said Mario, holding the leaf for Chester to nibble. “Take him to an entolologist,” said Mama. “He might just be tired,” said Papa. “We could give him a rest for a few days.” Chester had eaten as much of the leaf as he wanted. He gave a short chirp for “Thank you” and jumped back in the box. “He isn’t happy anymore,” said Mario. “How do you know?” said Mama. “I can tell,” said Mario. “I know how I’d feel if I were a cricket.” Mario put the matchbox in the cricket cage. “Next week school begins,” he said. “You’ve got to promise you’ll take good care of him while I’m not here.” “We will, Mario,” said Papa. “We like him too, you know.” The boy stood looking down at the cage. His forehead was drawn together in a worried frown. “I almost wish he hadn’t come to New York—if he isn’t going to be happy here,” he said finally. Chester heard him and thought about what he had said. He thought about it while the Bellinis were fitting on the cover. And later, in the darkness, after they’d gone home, he was still thinking about it. Then, quickly, like a lock snapping into place, something was decided in his mind. Chester felt very relieved after the decision had been made. He sighed, and his wings and his legs all relaxed as he waited there for Tucker Mouse.