Norwood Read Free Page A

working too hard.”
    â€œWell, I will for just a minute.”
    Bill Bird tapped the newspaper with his pipe. “I was reading an interesting little piece there in the Grit . A retired high school band director in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, has taught his fox terrier to play “Springtime in the Rockies” on the mouth harp. He holds it on with a little wire collar device. Like this.”
    â€œWell, I’ll be,” said Vernell. “A dog playing songs. I’d like to see that. I bet that’s cute.”
    â€œThat wasn’t what I meant,” said Bill Bird. “I mean I suppose it is cute, but it’s more than that. It goes to show that animals are a lot smarter than people think. I honestly believe that one day we may be able to talk to them. By that I mean communicate in some fashion. There’s a lot of interesting research going on in that field.”
    â€œWhat else can he sing, that dog?”
    â€œWell, it doesn’t say. It just says he is limited to a few simple melodies because of his small lungs. Now he doesn’t sing, Vernell. He plays these songs on a mouth organ. A harmonica. His name is Tommy.”
    â€œI’d like to hear that scamp play. They ought to put him on television sometime.”
    Bill Bird hummed the opening of “Springtime in the Rockies” and thought about it for a minute. “That’s not exactly a simple tune, you know. I think it represents a pretty amazing range for a dog.”
    â€œYou must know something about every subject in the world, Bill. Somebody could sit here and write a book just listening to you.”
    â€œOh I don’t know about that, Vernell. I will admit this: I have always been curious about things. The world about me. Like most of your scientists I am interested in the why of things, and not just the what . Sometimes I think I might have been happier if I didn’t have such a searching mind.”
    â€œYou couldn’t be any other way. You know that.”
    â€œSome people go through their entire lives and are completely satisfied with the what . They don’t ask questions.”
    â€œThey don’t know any better.”
    â€œThey are content to go along in the old patterns, the same old ruts, never realizing how much richer and fuller their lives could be.”
    â€œThat’s all they know.”
    â€œHow much does your man on the street know of psychology?”
    â€œNothing. They don’t know anything.”
    â€œHow many of them can even vote intelligently? I was reading in Parade the other day that more people can identify Dick Tracy than the Vice President.”
    â€œPeople ought to read more. And not just the funnies either.”
    Norwood knew Bill Bird on sight and he had heard Vernell speak of him often enough but he had no idea anything was up. And now here he was, this middle-aged stranger, in Norwood’s home, at his breakfast table, in his bathroom. It was not clear how or where or even in what war Bill Bird had fallen. Sometimes he spoke of Panama. There seemed to be nothing much wrong with him, apart from irregularity and low metabolism. He had all his limbs, his appetite was good.
    Bill Bird received a lot of official brown mail, and, no doubt, a regular check, but he did not offer to pay anything toward the general household expenses. After meals he would excuse himself and go to the bedroom and close the door. He kept a little duffel bag in there filled with supplementary treats for his own exclusive use—Vienna sausages, olives, chocolate chip cookies. He had no problem adjusting from hotel life to home life. He bumped around the house, sockless, in some tan, army-looking dress shoes and an old corduroy VA robe. He was in and out of the bathroom with his magazines. He made an hourly circuit through the kitchen to look in the stove and the refrigerator and all the cabinets and the breadbox and indeed into everything that had a door.
    Norwood