Paul commanded his mother’s attention, allowing Mrs. Tweedlebare to drift back into her private jungle in the hope that she would stumble across something a mite scary. A jaguar lying stock-still on a branch waiting awhile for the right moment to drop in on an unwary crocodile for a spot of lunch was just the thing that got her going.
Readers of Tweedlebare mysteries, had to be constantly on guard for ferocious action such as jaguars taking on crocodiles. What a thrashing that promises to be! Readers also needed to be wary of rats as big as cats. At least one reader had become so absorbed that he entangled himself in the conjecture that a ravishing rodent had taken gigantic nibbles out of his morning toast. When he happened to glance in the mirror, his anxiety was eased by the blueberry jam on his face.
The occasional boy would scurry to the encyclopedia to ferret out rats bigger than cats and come away knowing that the world’s largest rodents were known as capybara. Others questioned whether such horrific creatures did in fact exist. Nevertheless, they continued to delve into her stories. Mrs. Tweedlebare tended to write about stuff that even the most gullible found hard to accept. A rodent as big as a cat is the sort of thing that causes readers to exclaim, ‘Oh, Rats!’ and throw the book down, which is not a nice way to treat books. This sometimes proved embarrassing, especially when the reader has a Tweedlebare yarn inside his Social Studies text. As you are undoubtedly aware, girls are generally too well endowed with good sense to behave in such fashion but that is not to suggest they do not enjoy Tweedlebare tales nor do they fail to enjoy the misery of those readers who are given to exclamation at inappropriate times. Boys’ antics are good for a giggle.
“Pardon me, William. Are you having trouble with question six?”
Those of her readers, who stay with her are rewarded with rodents that are bigger than ocelots. Lots bigger, would you believe? At some point, the truly unruly reader forgives Mrs. Tweedlebare for writing such rot and is soon dutifully bent to the task of unraveling the enigmatic knot that Mrs. Tweedlebare has tied.
Mrs. Tweedlebare is disconcerted by her readers’ insistence that her endings are the best part. Like most writers, she is insecure about the sway she holds. She often has trouble determining whether her fans are relieved the story has petered out or if the ending itself hangs on such superb suspense that the reader wants more. Be that as it may, loyal readers learn to relish rodents bigger than ocelots, lots bigger than ocelots but that is asking a lot.
The moment Mrs. Melancholy banished her children from the table, Mrs. Tweedlebare came to. She was about to lift her cup but wisely refrained from doing so. A sixth sense alerted her. It was in a manner akin to the way that birds become deathly still as clouds gather. Those in the know anticipate the crack of lightning. Mrs. Tweedlebare tries to stay in tune with nature.
At the moment, Mrs. Tweedlebare feels as though she has jumped right off her chair. She senses an ocelot about to pounce from the second floor landing, an anaconda slithering through the gingersnaps and a monkey to swinging from the chandelier. She suffers from dry mouth. She realizes that there has been a ghastly squawk. Actually, it was more of a SQUAWK! She reminds herself that ocelots don’t squawk. She decides to risk a sip of tea but is stopped by a second even louder SQUAWK! The rattle of cup colliding with saucer is lost in the din from the back of the house.
The squawk was a medley of foghorn and siren, as removed from melody as Heavy Metal is from Mendelssohn. Whatever it is, Mrs. Tweedlebare has never heard the like of it and wishes never to hear it again. It is as horrendous as the horrid screech that young Jimmy used to make. Under duress, Mrs. Tweedlebare cannot remember Jimmy’s last name but decides that it doesn’t really matter because she is the one who invented him. If anyone has the right to forget his last name, she does. That horrid squawk has gone right through her the way that the screech made by James Bloomfield, that’s the name, used to. The shrill of his chalkboard fingernails were sheer murder. Right then and there, Mrs. Tweedlebare decides that if obnoxious young Jimmy ever shows up again, she will write him right out of her story right away. After all is said and done, readers will only put up with so much. Of course, getting rid of Jimmy would do little to prevent the horrid Squawk from returning, not that she was all that frightened. That squawk was the stuff she seeks. Her desire makes scare skedaddle.
“Oh don’t mind, Freddie,” Barbara Melancholy said, her tone comforting.
Although, right after the initial squawk, she had managed a shaky sip, Mrs. Tweedlebare suddenly suffered from dry mouth.
“What’s Freddie?” Mrs. Tweedlebare asked thinking that for a frog he had a rather shrill croak.
“Freddie Fudge,” Small Paul said, back for his fifth gingersnap. “He’s an amazing parrot.”
“My parrot’s proper name is Freddie Fudge the Amazon Parrot.” Mary had apparently taken full rights to the bird.
“Mary thinks she owns Freddie, except of course when it’s her turn to clean out the aviary," Mrs. Melancholy said.
“When we got him, my adorable little brother couldn’t manage Amazon, so Freddie became Amazing.”
“He does have an amazing squawk,” Mrs. Tweedlebare agreed.