margalo liked it so well at the littles’ house she decided to stay for a while instead of returning to the open country. she and stuart became fast friends, and as the days passed it seemed to stuart that she grew more and more beautiful. he hoped she would never go away from him.

one day when stuart had recovered from bronchitis he took his new skates and put on his ski pants and went out to look for an ice pond. he didn’t get far. the minute he stepped out into the street he saw an irish terrier, so he had to shinny up an iron gate and jump into a garbage can, where he hid in a grove of celery.

while he was there, waiting for the dog to go away, a garbage truck from the department of sanitation drove up to the curb and two men picked up the can. stuart felt himself being hoisted high in the air. he peered over the side and saw that in another instant he and everything in the can would be dumped into the big truck.

“if i jump now i’ll kill myself,” thought stuart. so he ducked back into the can and waited. the men threw the can with a loud bump into the truck, where another man grabbed it, turned it upside down, and shook everything out. stuart landed on his head, buried two feet deep in wet slippery garbage. all around him was garbage, smelling strong. under him, over him, on all four sides of him—garbage. just an enormous world of garbage and trash and smell. it was a messy spot to be in. he had egg on his trousers, butter on his cap, gravy on his shirt, orange pulp in his ear, and banana peel wrapped around his waist.

still hanging on to his skates, stuart tried to make his way up to the surface of the garbage, but the footing was bad. he climbed a pile of coffee grounds, but near the top the grounds gave way under him and he slid down and landed in a pool of leftover rice pudding.

“i bet i’m going to be sick at my stomach before i get out of this,” said stuart.

he was anxious to work his way up to the top of the pile because he was afraid of being squashed by the next can-load of garbage. when at last he did succeed in getting to the surface, tired and smelly, he observed that the truck was not making any more collections but was rumbling rapidly along. stuart glanced up at the sun. “we’re going east,” he said to himself. “i wonder what that means.”

there was no way for him to get out of the truck, the sides were too high. he just had to wait.

when the truck arrived at the east river, which borders new york city on the east and which is a rather dirty but useful river, the driver drove out onto the pier, backed up to a garbage scow, and dumped his load. stuart went crashing and slithering along with everything else and hit his head so hard he fainted and lay quite still, as though dead. he lay that way for almost an hour, and when he recovered his senses he looked about him and saw nothing but water. the scow was being towed out to sea.

“well,” thought stuart, “this is about the worst thing that could happen to anybody. i guess this will be my last ride in this world.” for he knew that the garbage would be towed twenty miles out and dumped into the atlantic ocean. “i guess there’s nothing i can do about it,” he thought, hopelessly. “i’ll just have to sit here bravely and die like a man. but i wish i didn’t have to die with egg on my pants and butter on my cap and gravy on my shirt and orange pulp in my ear and banana peel wrapped around my middle.”

the thought of death made stuart sad, and he began to think of his home and of his father and mother and brother and of margalo and snowbell and of how he loved them (all but snowbell) and of what a pleasant place his home was, specially in the early morning with the light just coming in through the curtains and the household stirring and waking. the tears came into his eyes when he realized that he would never see them again. he was still sobbing when a small voice behind him whispered:

“stuart!”

he looked around, through his tears, and there,

sitting on a brussels sprout, was margalo.

“margalo!” cried stuart. “how did you get here?”

“well,” said the bird, “i was looking out the window this morning when you left home and i happened to see you get dumped into the garbage truck, so i flew out the window and followed the truck, thinking you might need help.”

“i’ve never been so glad to see anybody in all my life,” said stuart. “but how are you going to help me?”

“i think that if you’ll hang onto my feet,” said margalo, “i can fly ashore with you. it’s worth trying anyway. how much do you weigh?”

“three ounces and a half,” said stuart.

“with your clothes on?” asked margalo.

“certainly,” replied stuart, modestly.

“then i believe i can carry you all right.”

“suppose i get dizzy,” said stuart.

“don’t look down,” replied margalo.

“then you won’t get dizzy.”

“suppose i get sick at my stomach.”

“you’ll just have to be sick,” the bird

replied. “anything is better than death.”

“yes, that’s true,” stuart agreed.

“hang on, then! we may as well get

started.”

stuart tucked his skates into his shirt, stepped gingerly onto a tuft of lettuce, and took a firm grip on margalo’s ankles. “all ready!” he cried.

with a flutter of wings, margalo rose into the sky, carrying stuart along, and together they flew out over the ocean and headed toward home.

“pew!” said margalo, when they were high in the air, “you smell awful, stuart.”

“i know i do,” he replied, gloomily.

“i hope it isn’t making you feel bad.”

“i can hardly breathe,” she answered. “and my heart is pounding in my breast. isn’t there something you could drop to make yourself lighter?”

“well, i could drop these ice skates,” said stuart.

“goodness me,” the little bird cried, “i didn’t know you had skates hidden in your shirt. toss those heavy skates away quickly or we will both come down in the ocean and perish.” stuart threw his skates away and watched them fall down, down, till they disappeared in the gray waves below. “that’s better,” said margalo. “now we’re all right. i can already see the towers and chimneys of new york.”

fifteen minutes later, in they flew through the open window of the littles’ living room and landed on the boston fern. mrs. little, who had left the window up when she missed margalo, was glad to see them back, for she was beginning to worry. when she heard what had happened and how near she had come to losing her son, she took stuart in her hand, even though his clothes smelled nasty, and kissed him. then she sent him upstairs to take a bath, and sent george out to take stuart’s clothes to the cleaner.

“what was it like, out there in the atlantic ocean?” inquired mr. little, who had never been very far from home.

so stuart and margalo told all about the ocean, and the gray waves curling with white crests, and the gulls in the sky, and the channel buoys and the ships and the tugs and the wind making a sound in your ears. mr. little sighed and said some day he hoped to get away from business long enough to see all those fine things.

everyone thanked margalo for saving stuart’s life; and at suppertime mrs. little presented her with a tiny cake, which had seeds sprinkled on top.