Freddy Plays Football Read Free

Ha, there’s Freddy. He’s another lazy one.”
    The pig came down to the fence, rubbing his eyes. “Morning, Charles. Got your speech of welcome ready, I suppose?”
    â€œOh, I haven’t prepared anything,” Charles said. “I prefer to leave what I say to the inspiration of the moment. Sounds more sincere, I always think. Excuse me a second.” He crowed again, then said: “It’ll be the usual thing. Light and graceful, rather flowery, with a humorous anecdote or two.”
    â€œWell, make it short,” said Freddy.
    â€œI think I’m quite capable of handling a few informal remarks without any instructions from you,” Charles said huffily.
    â€œSure you are. Just see that it is a few. I don’t want this Mr. Doty to fall flat on his face with exhaustion before you finish.”
    Charles hopped down from the post and strutted off angrily, and Freddy walked down to the old elm that stood beside the house and rapped on the trunk. “Hi, Freddy,” said a small sleepy voice from high up among the branches.
    â€œMorning, J.J.,” said Freddy. “I’ve got everything ready. Drop around when you’ve had breakfast.”
    â€œI’m ready now,” said the voice. “I’ll have breakfast at Miss McMinnickle’s on the way to town. She’s been digging in her garden and I expect she’s turned up some nice fat worms.”
    Mr. J. J. Pomeroy flew down and lit on a branch above Freddy’s head. He was a plump and handsome robin, and the little spectacles which he wore for his nearsightedness glittered in the early sun. Every week, when Freddy had typed out all the stuff for the next issue of the Bean Home News, Mr. Pomeroy flew it down to the printer in Centerboro.
    Freddy shuddered at the thought of angleworms for breakfast, and he shuddered again when Mr. Pomeroy turned and called up to his wife that he would bring back a few for the children.
    â€œThose little green ones, dear,” Mr. Pomeroy called back. “The children are so fond of them.”
    Freddy hurried back to the pig pen and tied up the roll of typewritten sheets with string, and Mr. Pomeroy picked it up by the loop in the string and flew off to Centerboro. And the pig went back into his study and sat down in his big chair and put his feet up on the typewriter and took a little nap.
    Along about half past ten all the animals on the Bean farm suddenly stopped whatever they were doing and lifted their heads and listened. First they thought Mrs. Bean had fallen down the back stairs with her arms full of tin pans. But the sound kept on growing louder and louder, with sort of a sputtering under the tin pan clatter, and then down the road came a little rusty old car, and as everyone rushed out into the barnyard, it roared in the gate, gave a couple of extra loud bangs, and stopped with a jerk by the back door. And with a final bang a little man was blown right out of it and up the steps, and knocked on the door.
    He was a small wiry man in rather shabby clothes, and as he knocked, he shouted: “Hey, Martha! Martha Doty—I mean Bean! It’s me—it’s your long-lost brother Aaron.” And when Mrs. Bean came to the door he seized her and hugged her, and then held her off with his hands on her shoulders. “Well, well, well!” he exclaimed. “The same old Martha! Yessir, old Martha! well, well, well!”
    â€œOld, your grandmother!” said Mrs. Bean. “I’m five years younger than you are, Aaron. If you are Aaron!” She pushed him away and looked at him. “I’d certainly never have known you.”
    â€œWell, well, I’m Aaron all right,” he said. “And I’d certainly ’a’ known you. Look of father you’ve got—round the eyes. Not the beard, of course. Remember that beard, how it tickled when he kissed you goodnight? And how he used to put it in curl papers at