Stuart Little Read Free

tightly around his waist,
and start for the bathroom, creeping silently through the long dark hall past
his mother’s and father’s room, past the hall closet where the carpet sweeper
was kept, past George’s room, and along by the head of the stairs till he got
to the bathroom.
    Of course, the bathroom
would be dark, too, but Stuart’s father had thoughtfully tied a long string to
the pull-chain of the light. The string reached clear to the floor. By grasping
it as high up as he could and throwing his whole weight on it, Stuart was able to
turn on the light. Swinging on the string this way, with his long bathrobe
trailing around his ankles, he looked like a little old friar pulling the bellrope
in an abbey.
    To get to the washbasin,
Stuart had to climb a tiny rope ladder which his father had fixed for him.
    George had promised to build
Stuart a small special washbasin only one inch high andwitha little rubber tube
through which water would flow; but George was always saying that he was going
to build something and then forgetting about it. Stuart just went ahead and
climbed the rope ladder to the family washbasin every morning to wash his face
and hands and brush his teeth. Mrs. Little had provided him with a doll’s size
toothbrush, a doll’s size cake of soap, a doll’s size washcloth, and a doll’s
comb—which he used for combing his whiskers. He carried these things in his
bathrobe pocket, and when he reached the top of the ladder he took them out, laid
them neatly in a row, and set about the task of turning the water on. For such
a small fellow, turning the water on was quite a problem.
    He had discussed it with his
father one day after making several unsuccessful attempts.
    “I can get up onto the
faucet all right,” he explained, “but I can’t seem to turn it on, because I
have nothing to brace my feet against.”
    “Yes, I know,” his father
replied, “that’s the whole trouble.”
    George, who always listened
to conversations whenever he could, said that in his opinion they ought to
construct a brace for Stuart; and with that he got out some boards, a saw, a
hammer, a screw driver, a brad-awl, and some nails, and started to make a terrific
fuss in the bathroom, building what he said was going to be a brace for Stuart.
But he soon became interested in something else and disappeared, leaving the
tools lying around all over the bathroom floor.
    Stuart, after examining this
mess, turned to his father again. “Maybe I could pound the faucet with something
and turn it on that way,” he said.
    So Stuart’s father provided
him with a very small, light hammer made of wood; and Stuart found that by
swinging it three times around his head and letting it come down with a crash
against the handle of the faucet, he could start a thin stream of water flowing—enough
to brush his teeth in, anyway, and moisten his washcloth. So every morning,
after climbing to the basin, he would seize his hammer and pound the faucet,
and the other members of the household, dozing in their beds, would hear the
bright sharp plink plink plink of Stuart’s hammer, like a faraway blacksmith,
telling them that day had come and that Stuart was trying to brush his teeth.
    IV. Exercise
    One fine morning in the
month of May when Stuart was three years old, he arose early as was his custom,
washed and dressed himself, took his hat and cane, and went downstairs into the
living room to see what was doing. Nobody was around but Snowbell, the white
cat belonging to Mrs. Little. Snowbell was another early riser, and this
morning he was lying on the rug in the middle of the room, thinking about the
days when he was just a kitten.
    “Good morning,” said Stuart.
    “Hello,” replied Snowbell,
sharply.
    “You’re up early, aren’t you?”
    Stuart looked at his watch. “Yes,”
he said, “it’s only five minutes past six, but I felt good and I thought I’d
come down and get a little exercise.”
    “I should think you’d get
all the