The Curious World of Calpurnia Tate Read Free Page B

cannot be domesticated, for reasons that are not well understood. It isn’t only the armadillo. Consider the beaver, the zebra, and the hippopotamus, to name a few others. Many people have tried to domesticate them and all have failed miserably, often in a spectacular and sometimes deadly fashion.”
    I could just imagine Mother’s reaction to Travis coming home with a baby hippopotamus on the end of a string, and I thanked my lucky stars we lived in a hippo-free county. I opened my reference text, and Granddaddy and I worked together in contented silence.
    Right before bed, Travis and I checked on Armand. (We had agreed to call him Armand, even though we still couldn’t rule out Dilly.) He rooted and scrabbled and ignored us, so we left him to it.
    The next morning, Travis gave him another boiled egg. He ate it, ignored us, and retired to his burrow.
    Travis said, “I wish he’d be my friend. I bet if I keep feeding him, he’ll be my friend.”
    â€œThat’s only ‘larder love.’ Do you really want a pet that’s only glad to see you because you bring it food?”
    I told him what I’d learned about the species from Granddaddy, but he shrugged it off. I figured he’d have to find out for himself. Some lessons can only be learned the hard way.

 
    CHAPTER 2
    THE ARMADILLO CRISIS
    In the Pampæan deposit at the Bajada I found the osseous armour of a gigantic armadillo-like animal, the inside of which, when the earth was removed, was like a great cauldron.
    A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER , Travis appeared at breakfast with dark circles ringing his eyes. And he smelled something fierce.
    Mother, alarmed, said, “Do you feel all right? What’s that terrible odor?”
    â€œI’m all right,” he mumbled. “It’s the rabbits. I fed them early.”
    â€œHmm,” said Mother. “Perhaps you need a teaspoon of cod-liv—”
    â€œNo, I’m fine!” he shouted. “Time for school!” And he bolted from the room.
    He’d come perilously close to being dosed with the dreaded cod-liver oil, Mother’s all-purpose remedy for whatever ailed you, and the foulest substance known to man. If you weren’t sick before taking a dose, you certainly were afterward; the mere threat of one small spoonful was enough to cause the sickest child to levitate from his deathbed and gallop off to school or church or whatever onerous chore awaited him in a state of glossy good health.
    On our way to school, I asked Travis what was wrong.
    He said, “I brought Armand in last night.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œHe slept in my bedroom.”
    I stared at him. “You’re kidding me. You brought his cage inside?”
    â€œNo, just him.”
    I stared at him some more. “You mean … he was loose in your room?”
    â€œYes, and you should have heard the noise he made.”
    The mind reeled. He went on, “He wouldn’t go to sleep, so I sneaked down to the pantry and got him an egg, but he still wouldn’t settle down. He kept digging in the corners and rubbing his armor against the legs of my bed. A horrible scraping noise, all night long.”
    â€œI don’t believe it,” I said. “What about the others?” Travis shared a room with the little boys, Sul Ross and Jim Bowie.
    â€œThey both slept right through it,” he said bitterly. “They didn’t even notice.”
    â€œYou know keeping Armand isn’t a good idea,” I said, and was about to deliver a sisterly lecture on the many reasons why not, when we were joined by my friend and classmate Lula Gates, who sometimes walked to school with us. A whole bunch of my brothers—including Travis—were sweet on her. Lula wore a new ribbon in her long silvery-blond hair that made her eyes look especially green. Mermaid eyes, Travis called them. When he saw her, all his fatigue dropped away. (I should mention