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 and with a 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 screwdriver, a bradawl, 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.
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 exercise you want up there in the bathroom, banging around, waking all the rest of us up trying to get that water started so you can brush your teeth. Your teeth aren’t really big enough to brush anyway. Want to see a good set? Look at mine!’ Snowbell opened his mouth and showed two rows of gleaming white teeth, sharp as needles.
‘Very nice,’ said Stuart. ‘But mine are all right, too, even though they’re small. As for exercise, I take all I can get. I bet my stomach muscles are firmer than yours.’
‘I bet they’re not,’ said the cat.
‘I bet they are,’ said Stuart. ‘They’re like iron bands.’
‘I bet they’re not,’ said the cat.
Stuart glanced around the room to see what he could do to prove to Snowbell what good stomach muscles he had. He spied the drawn window shade on the east window, with its shade cord and ring, like a trapeze, and it gave him an idea. Climbing to the windowsill he took off his hat and laid down his cane.
‘You can’t do this,’ he said to the cat. And he ran and jumped on to the ring, the way acrobats do in a circus, meaning to pull himself up.
A surprising thing happened. Stuart had taken such a hard jump that it started the shade: with a loud snap the shade flew up clear to the top of the window, dragging Stuart along with it and rolling him up inside, so that he couldn’t budge.
‘Holy mackerel!’ said Snowbell, who was almost as surprised as Stuart Little. ‘I guess that will teach him to show off his muscles.’
‘Help! Let me out!’ cried Stuart, who was frightened and bruised inside the rolled-up shade, and who could hardly breathe. But his voice was so weak that nobody heard. Snowbell just chuckled. He was not fond of Stuart and it didn’t bother him at all that Stuart was all wrapped up in a window shade, crying and hurt and unable to get out. Instead of running upstairs and telling Mr and Mrs Little about the accident, Snowbell did a very curious thing. He glanced around to see if anybody was looking, then he leapt softly to the windowsill, picked up Stuart’s hat and cane in his mouth, carried them to the pantry and laid them down at the entrance to the mousehole.
When Mrs Little came down later and found them there, she gave a shrill scream which brought everybody on the run.
‘It’s happened,’ she cried.
‘What has?’ asked her husband.
‘Stuart’s down the mousehole.’
GEORGE was in favour of ripping up the pantry floor. He ran and got his hammer, his screwdriver, and an ice pick.
‘I’ll have this old floor up in double-quick time,’ he said, inserting his screwdriver under the edge of the first board and giving a good vigorous pry.
‘We will not rip up this floor till we have had a good search,’ announced Mr Little. ‘That’s final, George! You can put that hammer away where you got it.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said George. ‘I see that nobody in this house cares anything about Stuart but me.’
Mrs Little began to cry. ‘My poor dear little son!’ she said. ‘I know he’ll get wedged somewhere.’
‘Just because you can’t travel comfortably in a mousehole doesn’t mean that it isn’t a perfectly suitable place for Stuart,’ said Mr Little. ‘Just don’t get yourself all worked up.’
‘Maybe we ought to lower some food to him,’ suggested George. ‘That’s what the State Police did when a man got stuck in a cave.’ George darted into the kitchen and came running back with a dish of applesauce. ‘We can pour some of this in, and it will run down to where he is.’ George spooned out a bit of the applesauce and started to poke it into the hole.
‘Stop that!’ bellowed Mr Little. ‘George, will you kindly let me handle