Greg clutched his precious paperback. It had to be protected from eager little hands that like to scribble.

Greg was just doing a favor-then the small boy appeared

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by Ed McNally1, March 27, 1965.

There was a small chunky boy, about five years old, sitting on Miss Pitchett’s doorstep.

I halted. I took a firmer grip on the book in my hand.

“Hi!” said the small boy.

“Hello, there,” I responded cautiously.

I advanced slowly up the walk, rearranging my tactics. For this was wholly at variance with my expectations.

Miss Pitchett, with whom I was not acquainted, had telephoned me before lunch.

“Mr. Clark,” she said, “our mutual friend, Mr. Gillis Purcell2, tells me you have a copy of old Tiger Dunlop’s Statistical Sketches3.”

“Yes,” I said, not without pride. “I have the 1832 edition, published by John Murray in London…”

“Oh, Mr. Clark,” said Miss Pitchett, “My ancestors came out to Canada in 1835, and they bought their land in the Huron Tract directly from Dr. Dunlop, who was the superintendent of the Canada Company. Could I POSSIBLY borrow the little book?”

“Why, of course,” I replied. “It is very fragile, you understand. A little paperback, 133 years old.”

“I would take the greatest care of it,” assured Miss Pitchett. “I live only four blocks over from you. I could drop by at your convenience.”

I did some fast and fancy thinking. Miss Pitchett sounded elderly to me. And it has been my experience that elderly ladies, especially unmarried elderly ladies, who are interested in family history and genealogy are inclined to be long-winded: I didn’t want to be stuck all afternoon with a long-winded lady.

“Why, Miss Pitchett,” I said, “I go for my constitutional every afternoon. And if you live only four blocks away, I’ll be delighted to drop the little book in to you.”

“Thank you,” exclaimed Miss Pitchett. “You can have no idea how I look forward to having this book in my hands. I have read everything about the old Doctor, and own most of the books about him. But I have never laid eyes…”

“It’s a delightful and humorous book,” I cut in. “He was a wonderful old scalawag.”

“My ancestors were terrified of him,” said she.

“Indeed?” said I.

“They were teetotallers.”

“Ah,” said I.

So after lunch, I got down my copy of Statistical Sketches Of Upper Canada, which, on account of its fragility, I keep in a hard-cover slip case. I glanced through it, to refresh my mind with the old boy’s hilarious descriptions of our pioneer cookery and our social customs of those gallant days. Then I set off for my walk.

And on Miss Pitchett’s doorstep sat this chunky small boy.

“Hi!” he repeated, as I came slowly up the steps.

When I rang the bell, he stood up and studied the object in my hand closely. I shifted it to the other hand.

When Miss Pitchett opened the door, he stepped in ahead of me and vanished, to my relief, when Miss Pitchett insisted that I take off my hat and coat for a few minutes.

Her living-room walls were stacked with books.

She took Statistical Sketches from me almost with reverence, and slid the slip case open.

“At last!” she said.

There was a loud clunk from back in the kitchen. It was a refrigerator door closing.

“He must be hungry,” said Miss Pitchett, jumping up. “Excuse me a moment, and I’ll get him something to eat.”

“Ah,” I said, taking Statistical Sketches back from her hand. “Little boys are always hungry.”

I could hear them chatting while I got up and studied Miss Pitchett’s shelves. It was a good collection. She had all 32 volumes of the Chronicles Of Canada (I counted them). She had the same green-and-gold bound complete works of Francis Parkman that I own. She had 10 or more of the Makers Of Canada.

“I had no peanut butter,” said Miss Pitchett, returning. “That’s what he wanted. But I gave him what we used to call a ‘piece’ when I was young.”

“I remember,” I said giving her back the book. “Thick bread and butter, plastered with brown sugar!”

“Right,” said Miss Pitchett, and we sat down to explore.

“I regret,” I said, “that I can’t leave the book with you Miss Pitchett. I remembered, after you phoned, that I had promised it to a young chap who is writing his Ph. D. thesis on the Canada Company.”

There was a sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen. Miss Pitchett sat up anxiously and listened.

“I was hoping,” she said, “to copy parts of it for my collection…”

“Well, perhaps some other time,” I suggested.

The little boy appeared at the dining-room entrance.

“I want another piece,” he said.

“Of course,” said Miss Pitchett, jumping up dutifully and accompanying the boy back to the kitchen.

I certainly was not going to leave Statistical Sketches, that fragile old treasure, in any house with any chunky small boys in it. The older the book, I recollected, the more a little boy thinks he should scribble in it, with pink or orange crayons preferred.

“Perhaps,” I said, when Miss Pitchett returned and began leafing tenderly amid the old brittle pages, “maybe toward summer, you might come over to my place and spend an afternoon or two copying out what you want.”

I figured by summer, this little boy might be off somewhere at a summer cottage with his parents.

“That would be splendid,” said Miss Pitchett, glancing up as the little boy passed in the hallway and proceeded upstairs.

So for a while we two elders sat engrossed with the little book, I finding some specially witty and ludicrous passages for her, which I read to her with what I think is a Scottish accent, like the old doctor’s. But Miss Pitchett could not pay full attention on account of various thumps and bangs coming through the ceiling.

“I had better,” she said, “slip up and see what he is doing.”

“Little boys,” I assured her, “are always up to something.”

So I had time to further inspect Miss Pitchett’s shelves, and they were full of all the right stuff.

“He’s made a sort of a den,” said Miss Pitchett, returning a little breathless, “out of chairs and my bedside table.”

“Small boys like dens,” I explained. “Little girls play house.”

“He’s got the counterpane4 off my bed, for a roof.”

So, a little regretfully, for that young scholar working on his Ph. D. was a sheer invention on my part, I stood up to say goodbye and put Dr. Dunlop in his slip case.

I could see Miss Pitchett was anxious to get back upstairs. The thumps and bangs were becoming a little more violent.

She helped me on with my coat and handed me my hat.

When I went to the door, she asked:

“Aren’t you taking your little boy?”

“MY little boy!” I said, astonished.

“Isn’t he yours?” she asked.

“My dear lady,” I said, “he was sitting on the doorstep when I arrived, and he stepped in ahead of me when you…”

“Good gracious!” said Miss Pitchett, heading for the foot of the stairs.

“Boy?” she called up.

“BOY!” I called up, more masterfully.

He came to the top of the stairs, holding a small china figurine in his arms.

“I found a doll,” he announced.

“Come down,” I commanded.

Miss Pitchett took the figurine from him gently. It was Royal Doulton, the one of the girl in the windswept frock.

“Boy,” I asked, “where do you live?” “Up the street.”

“How far up the street?”

“At the corner.”

“Ah,” said Miss Pitchett, “the apartment house. I THINK now I have noticed this little fellow playing about…”

We escorted him to the door. We watched him hippety-hopping down the walk and up the street.

“Miss Pitchett,” I said, “I have been thinking. I do not believe this young friend of mine, the one who is working on his Ph. D. thesis, will require Statistical Sketches for a couple of weeks or so.”

She took the slip case from my hand.

She understood perfectly.

“But,” I added, “whenever you put it down, I wonder would you be good enough to put it up there, on one of the higher shelves?”

“Oh,” cried Miss Pitchett, “you may be sure I won’t let him in again!”

We shook hands and I left.

But I will spend a couple of uneasy weeks, just the same.

Little boys can do anything.

Editor’s Notes: This story appeared in Ten Cents off Per Dozen (1979) and originally appeared in Weekend Magazine.

  1. Ed McNally was the editorial cartoonist for the Montreal Star and illustrated for Weekend Magazine. ↩︎
  2. Gillis Purcell was the general manager of Canadian Press from 1945 to 1969. ↩︎
  3. William “Tiger” Dunlop was known for a number of things, including  his work in the Canada Company, helping to develop and populate a large part of Southern Ontario. ↩︎
  4. An old-fashioned word for bedspread. ↩︎