Chapter 12: To the Airport

The pigs, Gus and Gertrude, (who had set out to look for the two sisters) and Francis the Famous French, Child-Poet slept soundly on the rocking train. They snored and dreamed.

Gertrude oinked and snuffled as she dreamed about butterfly friends, the sisters Julia and Rosey, behind-the-ear scratches and her cool, cozy mud hole.

Gus dreamed about the fun they had out-running Grandfather's threats to turn them into bacon. And Francis twitched in agony as he dreamed that he was the last being on earth who honored the flowers and appreciated the butterfly.

They awoke to the call of the train master, "last stop to the airport."

Dreams suddenly aborted, the three became sullen and moody. Gertrude was homesick. Gus felt responsible when his dream, at the last minute, switched adventuring into homelessness. And Francis felt friendless, his dark side blanketing him like the night.

But moroseness cannot cling long to pig's skin. Gus shook his body. The jiggling of his fat, roly-poly pig belly made the depression slide off like Jell-O from a spoon. Soon he and Gertrude were snorting, squealing and slapping the table with their bare hands. The simplicity of their laughter lifted the darkness from Francis and before long, he joined the two jolly pigs slapping the corn splattered table and flailing his arms around his head and stabbing the air with his fingers.

"You two are wonderful," Francis said after the howling subsided to snickers and smirks. "You two are the salt of the earth. Your feet are in the dirt and your hands are in the mud. I like you!"

"Last call for the airport," the train master interpreted.

The aisle was crowded with people pushing and shoving.

"This is where I get off," said Francis as he stood up and took his child sized cane and his Mama's hand. He was then pushed down the aisle by the crowd even before Gertrude could say good-bye or offer him an ear of corn for the road.

"I guess we'd better get off the train too," said Gus. "Are you ready for one more adventure?"

Gertrude sighed, "not really; but let's go."

They were the last couple to leave the train and when the station master helped them disembark, Gertrude looked down and saw something black on the train platform. It looked like a black pie pan or a hole in the wood. She went to see. It was Francis' black beret!

"It must have fallen off his head in the crowd," she said picking it up and putting it on Gus's head. She then stepped back to admire the new addition to their wardrobe.

"No, not quite," she said and pulled the beret over Gus's left ear, just so. "That's better. Now you look more like a child-poet then a grandfather."

Gus waved his stubby arms in circles mimicking Francis. "I feel more like a poet," he said. "I talk to butterflies. I would fly with the birds if I could. I'm an adventure seeker. I think...I...I am indeed a poet."

The two pig looked as one another. Here we are, they thought, two pig-pen pals who missing ear scratches from far away sisters, had a disagreement about leaving the pen, got caught in the cornfield, were chased by Grandfather and his ax, became tangled in the clothesline and somehow ended up wearing Grandmother's blue flowered dress and Grandfather's jacket and trousers. We were then mistaken for the elderly couple and taken into town by a nearsighted truck driving farmer. We found delicious corn soup, a kerchief and a name at Pete's restaurant; money and another death threat from Grandfather at the auction and a ticket out of town at the train station. We shared a meal with a delightful but somewhat quirky, French child-poet and are now wearing his beret cocked, just so over the left ear.

The couple then doubled over haw-hawing, hee-hawing, tee-heeing, giggling, snickering, guffawing, shrieking 'till tears spritzed out of their eyes, held their fat bellies, yucked, chortled and squealed until their ribs ached and their joules throbbed.

They were just two regular pigs standing on the train platform, not too bright, not too brave and possessing the not-too-out-of-the-ordinary pig sense of humor and keen sense of the ridicules.

After they wiped their eyes and picked themselves up from rolling around the platform, they practiced human speech and then went across the street to the airport.

Chapter 13: The Kooca Berry Bushes

Little Julia felt sorry for herself as she sat on the small patch of grass holding her stubbed and bloody toe. "I want my pigs. I want my pigs," she said softly over and over again. Suddenly her mantra was interrupted by obnoxious voices shouting in the distance.

Julia looked up and saw a gang of her classmates down the street. "I must not let them see me," she panicked. "Hide! Quick, hide!" "But where?" The dreadful classmates got closer and closer. "I can't let them tease me anymore. Where? Where to hide?" Just as the fiendish troop got near Julia's patch of grass, she grabbed her shoes, socks, schoolbooks and dove into the kooca berry bushes that bordered the grass.

Kooca bushes have large waxy leaves. The leaves grow only on the perimeter of the plant and face outward. This characteristic phenomenon shields the interior of the bush and makes a safe haven for synergistic animals and frightened little girls.

Crouching like a scarred rabbit, Julia could see the band of intimidators but they could not see her among the brown velvety branches.

Little Sister spent the entire day under the kooca berry bushes. She laid in the dirt and watched an ant family as it caravanned to a new part of the world. "I'm sure if ants had pigs they would take them along," she thought whimsically. At about noon a pair of French butterflies fluttered into her shade and spoke gently with Julia in the universal language of the animals. All in all, a June Bug, a grand daddy spider, a red and black lady bug,(with all her children), a frog, a sparrow, a wiggly worm and a green chameleon came to keep Julia company. They discussed various topics, played games and even took a nap.

Hours later, the same band of classmates returning home from school, passed the same patch of grass, and the same kooca berry bush but not the same Little Sister. She felt strong, safe and relaxed for the first time since she left the farm.

"Good-bye, ants," she said after the school children passed. "I have to go home now but I'll come back tomorrow."

When she came into the house, Mother was in the kitchen.

"Did you have a good day?" she called out.

"I guess so," stammered Julia.

"Then come into the kitchen."

Just as Julia entered the kitchen Mother looked up. "What happened to you today?" she demanded.

The School-skipper froze in her tracks. Her heart stopped beating. Mother knows! But how can she know already? Julia instantly struck the guilty child pose: shoulders squared, hands behind the back, chin resting on chest. She stole the allowed guilty glance. Mother stood, a giant Houdini with her hands on her hips.

This is the end of everything, Julia thought in a flash. The end of my new ant friends. Its "so long," to the butterflies and bugs, safety, sunshine and velvet kooca branches. Its "hello again," to the grim darkness and the hostile fortress of school.

"What happened to you?" Mother repeated but with a smile.

Mother's words and Houdini stance said, "I know all about skipping school and the kooca bush hideout and I'm angry." But her smile said something different. But what? Julia put on a syrupy smile and asked innocently, "What do you mean?"

"Your dress. Your hands. They're filthy!"

Dirt and grime clung to every inch of the Little Sister. Her once starched collar sagged gray and heavy with ground earth. Her bodice and skirt rumpled, soiled from a day under the bushes. Her face, arms and legs hung powdered with soot. Dust shook from her hair and hem with every breath. Not knowing what to say, Julia just stood in front of her mother, studied her crumpled socks and shoes and tried to suppress an encroaching smile.

"Well, don't just stand there," said Mother not suspecting her daughter had played hooky but had a frolicking day at school. "Get cleaned up before your sister and Father come home." When Mother added, "Do I smell kooca berries?" Little sister leaped from the room and into a steamy bubble bath.

The next morning, Julia tried to make the day appear normal. She whimpered about school and fiddled with this and that until Rosey left. She was secretly proud of her performance as she reluctantly picked up her books, pecked a kiss to Mother and stomped out of the house.

Once out of sight, Julia tore down the street to a big pine tree that stood sentry in her neighbor's yard. There she scooped up handfuls of dried pine needles and stuffed her pockets. Then, making sure no one was looking, she ran to the kooca berry bushes. Still keeping an eye out for the band of heckling classmates, she sprinkled the dried pine needles under the kooca bush making a soft and clean nest for herself. She crouched under the bushes just as the classmates pushed and shoved each other down the street and just as the sparrow and frog began to harmonize in a "good morning" duet.

Chapter 14: The Airport

Meanwhile, Gus and Gertrude found their way to the airport information booth. "Who are you and where do you want to go?" asked the lady at the booth.

"I am a poet," answered Gus twirling his short piggy arms and stabbing the air just like Francis. "We want to find the two sisters and live with them again." While Gus entertained the information lady with air stabbings and pig garble, Gertrude rustled through the basket searching for the letter. But the letter wasn't in her basket.

"The letter," squealed Gertrude. "Francis must have taken the letter! He scribbled his poem on it and never gave it back. Gus, stop talking. Stop waving your arms around. The letter! It's gone! How will we know where the Sisters live without the address on the letter?"

As the two distraught pigs ran around in circles whining and wailing, the information lady picked up the receiver of her telephone, dialed and began to talk. "Yes, I found him," she said. "Yes. Yes, I'm sure it's him. Come right away."

Gus and Gertrude looked up from their squalling. Three burly guards stared down at them. "It is him!" exclaimed one of the guards. The guard then grabbed Gus's jacketed arm and began to pump it up and down. "Francis, the Famous French Child-Poet. I'm so honored to meet you. I recognized your stout hairs, black beret and your famous walking stick anywhere. I'm one of your biggest fans."

"We got to get going. Your plane is about to take off. They were waiting for you," interrupted the other burly guard.

Everyone had such admiration for Gus, or rather Francis the Famous French Child-Poet, that no one remembered to check for tickets and passports. They ran down the corridor, five abreast. Gus and Gertrude flanked on either side by a guard. As if to hurry the waddling pair along, the guards held Gus and Gertrude by the elbow. This raised the pigs off the ground by at least five inches. They pumped their stubby pig legs kicking wildly in the air.

Even before Gertrude's dimpled knees could begin to tremble from this new adventure, seatbelts clicked tightly around their bellies with a cheery, "It should be snug, Monsieur Francis." And "Have a bag of peanuts, a coke, earphones."

"Gus, where are we going?" whispered Gertrude.

"I don't know. But from now on you'd better call me Francis. Francis the Famous French Child-Poet." Gus then whirled his hand, stabbed the air, adjusted his beret and slurped up his coke.

After the take off, the two pigs hankered down in their seats. Gertrude snarfed down bags of peanuts, listened to videos and movies, and exercised her tongue and jowl muscles so she could pronounce Francis and other necessary words. Gus practiced poetry.

Chapter 15: Mama Calls Home

While they were in flight, the real Francis, and his mother wandered around the airport until they found an ice cream shop.

"All right, Mama," said Francis. "Just leave me here and make your telephone calls."

While she was gone Francis ordered a slice of chocolate cake with whipped cream, strawberry ice cream, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, hot peach pie, a chocolate malted milk, two side orders of mashed potatoes and coffee for Mama.

"Coffee, for Mama," he told the waitress and then added, "would you re-boil it for an extra ten minutes? We've been away from Paris for so long. She'll probably need a real cup of coffee. Merci."

The child size cane slipped off the back of the Francis's chair with a thud onto the floor. Francis picked it up and laid it gently on the table. He stroked it and remembered how he came to get it. It was a cloudless spring day. A slight triumphant glint flashed over Francis's Methuselah old eyes when he remembered his dear Mama's exasperated voice saying, "Francis you are making me gray. Why do you always have to push life to its limits?"

Mama doesn't understand, he thought. Sky diving, falling freely through the air, mingling with the eagles, has the irresistible power to hush my tumult mind.

Hum, how I love to I hang out the airplane's hatch. I look down at the patchwork earth. I feel the rush. The fire. The explosion of excitement. And then the jump, the somersault, tumble and whoosh...I'm watching the plane speed away from me. I'm alone in the heavens. The wind roars in my ears. It's hard to breath. Wind pushes my arms and legs up as I free fall down, down, down. Mother Earth calls me. Seduces me. I want to plunge to my death and become one with the earth forever. But then... Swish... my parachute opens. The thunder in my ears ceases. I am no longer on my stomach in a bed of upcoming air but yanked perpendicular, feet pulled down by gravity. All is quiet. As I drift like a giant thistle down, the smell of lilacs whiffs up to me. I see a rabbit in the meadow. I hear a bleating lamb. Once more I'm a bird, a hawk, an eagle, a warbler, a songbird. But today the wind picks up. It blows me off course. I hear Mama calling, "Francis, Francis! Are you hurt? Francis, where are you?"

I'm a cub bear rolling playfully in the soft spring grass until I bump into my precious stick with the crooked handle. How poetic, I think, as I lay enjoying the tepid sun. They'll call me brave, valiant, adventurous. I'll hobble. But my spirit will be dauntless. And I'll never be required to play soccer again. Never again will I be humiliated at basketball, baseball...

"Your cake'n stuff and condensed coffee," the waitress interrupted Francis's thoughts and yanked him off the meadow mountain and back to the airport.

Presently Mama returned looking agitated. "We lost our apartment again," she reported sipping her welcomed thick brew. "Whenever we're gone over two months the crazy landlords rented our flats."

"What about Cluck?" asked Francis in a solemn frightened voice.

"I'm sorry Francis," was all Mama answered.

But Francis knew...it was chicken stew for his pet chicken.

They sat in silence. Mama then kissed her precocious, friendless, child-poet on the forehead. "I need to make some more phone calls," she said with restrained excitement. "The Ladies Geranium Society need you to give them a poetry reading tonight, just as soon as we get into Paris. Don't be nervous but they've invited a duchess and a queen! A queen!" she repeated for emphasis. They were worried that we might be late but I reassured them that nothing would stop your reading.

You finish eating and I'll make the final arrangements. And don't be nervous""

"Ah, moi, moi, moi," Francis said out loud when Mama left. "Moi, moi." And then thunked his head on the table, smashing his nose against the Formica. I am so miserable, he thought. I have no home. I've lost my one true friend... again. I am heart-broken, crushed. I am truly the most miserable, retched child in the whole world. His arms began to wave above his prone torso as he unconsciously punctuated his throbbing thoughts. And then somehow, from someplace, a mist of pride eked into and trickled around his woeful thoughts. No one is as forlorn as I. I am wretched, pitiable and pious. I'm the king of the downhearted.

But again the waitress interrupted. "Ahem," she looked down at his thumping head and waving arms, and cleared her throat once more, "ahem. I'm going off duty. Can you pay for your coffee now?"

"Moi, moi," he answered and followed the waitress to the cash register. He paid the bill, bent smartly from his stubby waist and kissed her hand. "You are so beautiful, mademoiselle," he said and then wandered into the airport lobby. The waitress looked at her just kissed hand and then at the table to see if he left a tip.

Francis checked the time and gate on his ticket, met his Mama at the telephone and together they found gate 23, now boarding to Paris. At the gate, no one recognized Francis and his Mama. He had lost his beret and now his stout hair stood on end like an old bristle brush. His pudgy pink cheeks were drawn with sorrow at the lose of his one true chicken friend. He still looked a little like Francis the Famous French Child-Poet but he also held a close resemblance to an upright pig dressed in a jacket and trousers.

Chapter 16: The Thief

While Francis and Mama were in flight to Paris, Gertrude and Gus (also known as) Francis were landing at the airport in France.

"Look at this!" exclaimed Gus. Both he and Gertrude smashed their piggy snouts against the plane's porthole window. They squiggled their heads as they looked at the ground and the runway getting closer and closer. They looked, squinted and gasped until the window became so smeared with pig drool and condensation that the pair could no longer see out. Just as Gus started to wipe the marbled window with his jacket sleeve, and make up his first poem, the plane stopped and a stewardess came to escorted the celebrity child-poet and his Mama to the airport lobby.

Gertrude didn't say anything until the stewardess left them in the middle of the large busy lobby. The two pigs, dressed in Grandmother's blue flowered dress with Pete's table cloth kerchief and Grandfather's jacket and trousers with the Famous French Child-Poet's beret slung over the left ear, just so, clung to one another.

"Gus, Gus, I mean Francis, I'm scarred," quivered Gertrude. "Look at all these people. And look, they all have little thin books that they show to those uniformed policemen." Gertrude then started pawing through her basket. "We don't have a little thin book," she said. "We don't have the sisters' letter. We don't know where we want to go. We don't have much money; we ate all the corn and we don't have many chestnuts left either. I cannot take all this excitement. I don't want to wear Grandmother's dress anymore. I just want to be me again; a real pig who sleeps in a pig-pen and eats from a trough."

I had been having fun adventuring, thought Gus, up until now. Now I'm tired. Tired of airports and tired of Gertrude's worries. I shouldn't have let her follow me to the cornfield. She could be safe in the pig-pen right now and I could be a free spirited world traveling, poet-sightseer.

A commotion in the back of the room interrupted Gus's thoughts. A tall thin man with a ski mask covering his face ran toward them. As he ran, he snatched women's purses with his left hand and purses with his right hand. He galloped toward Gertrude grabbed her basket and continued running past the uniformed police and out the door.

A horde of purseless women trampled past the uniformed police shrieking, "stop, thief. Stop, thief." The uniformed police screamed, "stop, passport control, Stop passport control and took off after the horde of shrieking purseless women. Gus and Gertrude followed the screaming uniformed police who were following the shrieking purseless women who were chasing the masked purse thief out the door.

Gertrude heard thundering footsteps behind her. She hesitated, turned slightly and was almost trampled by cavalry of demanding husbands trailing the screaming uniformed police who were after the horde of shrieking purseless women who chased the masked purse thief out the door.

In all the hubbaloo, Gertrude's little pig hooves slipped on the waxed floor. Down she fell. She crouched and put her hands over her eyes as the thundering cavalry of demanding husbands flowed around her like she was a rock in a stream.

When all was quiet, she looked up. There were no more demanding husbands. No more screaming uniformed police. No shrieking purseless women, no masked thief running out the door and...no Gus. Every one was gone. Gertrude stood up, brushed the dust off her blue flowered dress and looked around. There, pushed in a corner was Gus's rough hewn cane. Gertrude picked it up and in a daze made her way outside. Fear of being alone outside the pig-pen, numbed her body and mind. She got tangled up with a fraternity of glassy eyed business men and followed them onto a waiting mini bus. The driver, seeing a short pudgy being with an extraordinarily pink nose, huddled in the back of his mini bus, decided she was definitely not Parisian. He also decided that it wouldn't be worth his time or energy to question her about tickets or destinations.

Chapter 17: Gertrude in Paris

The mini bus driver made everyone, including Gertrude, get off the bus at Quai D'Orsay. This road follows the Seine River as it meanders through the Left bank of Paris. The sun was low on the water. Uniform ripples, reflected an unknown source and turned the entire river brilliant turquoise. Then, as if a lever had been pulled or a switch snapped, the ripples reflected soft pink. The color concert again changed it's tune and the river harmoniously reflected jade green, pearl gray, crimson and then melodiously turned back to turquoise.

Gertrude stood a long time being hypnotized by the ever changing Seine, before she noticed a stone stairway leading down to the river's edge. Before she knew what happened, she was pulled by the tranquillity of the river down the stairway. There on the bank's walkway, she stared at two grizzly haired women. The women sat side by side on an old granite bench. They wore matching gray sweaters with holes in the elbows, high lace-up boots, and were sharing a baguette, a can of beans and a bottle of Burgundy wine.

"Come over here," called out one of the women in a friendly voice.

Gertrude didn't budge.

"Come, come, share our bread and beans," invited the other grizzly haired women.

When Gertrude heard food, her stomach took control of the situation. Her cloven hoofs bolted toward the two women and quick as a butterfly's wings, she was between the two women, hard baguette in one hand and the can of beans in the other.

The old women giggled like school girls, took sips from the Burgundy bottle and then put it up to Gertrude's lips. "Oui, oui," chorused the women. "Oui, oui is the first French word women learn to say. Oui, oui" they passed the bottle again.

Gertrude practiced saying, "oui, oui" so much that by the time she had polished off the bread and beans she was feeling like her old piggy self again even maybe, a little bit better. The evening air, the symphonic colored Seine, the food, the wine and the unpretentious companions made Gertrude bounced off the granite bench and dance in circles like she and Gus used to do in the corn mush in the pig trough. The grizzly haired women clapped in time as Gertrude whirled and spun and sang, "Oui, oui, oui, oui. Oui, oui, oui, oui. Oui, oui, oui. Oink, oink grunt."

Chapter 18: Gus (AKA Francis) in Paris

Gus searched the airport for Gertrude. He looked up and down corridors, under chairs, in closets and behind desks. He then took the "down" escalator. A mob of people stood waiting with suitcases and bags on a platform. Suddenly a cold wind blasted out of a tunnel hole followed by a loud whoosh noise and then the clank and clatter of a French underground train. People pushed, babies cried, lights flashed and then just as suddenly the train whooshed away leaving Gus standing alone on the platform watching a neon sign blink, "Paris."

"Paris," Gus mouthed. "That train goes to Paris. All I have to do is board a train and whoosh, I'll be in Paris. The birds at home have all flown to Paris. Now I can go to Paris too. What should I do?" he asked himself with a guilty smirk.

As he pondered, bags, suitcases, people and crying babies filled the platform again. He felt the cold air basting out of the tunnel. He heard the whooshing. The sign blinked.

Gus's brow furrowed. "Should I stay here and keep looking for Gertrude," he asked himself as he was getting pushed toward the open train door. "But I've already looked everywhere." Gus allowed himself to be pushed closer and closer to the yawning door marked, "Paris."

"Maybe I should take this train, zoom into Paris, take a quick look around and zoom back. I'm sure Gertrude is hiding someplace and by then she'll come out."

Gus felt himself being lifted up in the air and carried by the mass of people squeezing and shoving through the train door. Elbows jabbed. Bellies squashed. Noses jammed. The train went whoosh. The light blinked, "Paris" and Gus let out a squeally giggle. "Paris, I'm on my way. I'm a real adventuring poet. Hee-he he."

Feeling light, unburdened, free and adventurous, Gus disembarked the train at Champ-de-Mars. He sauntered down the Rue feeling dapper with his beret cocked over his left ear, just so. He hummed softly thinking that this is the way touring adventures should be; unimpeded, spontaneous, free and easy.

He rounded the corner and there before him, steel girders rose up, up out of the concrete. He let his eyes follow the sleek girders up, up, and up farther. Chin lifted, head tilted, up, up, ascending up, towering up, up until Gus fell, plop, down, defeat first on the side walk. Never taking his eyes from the image of his pig-pen dreams, he whispered with breathless reverence, "Gertrude, look! Gertrude, its the El..El..Eiffel Tower. Look at the cross struts, its sleek lines. Now is the time to be a poet. Oh how I wish I were a poet and with only two or three words capture this sight, this feeling forever." Without looking, Gus reached for Gertrude. He patted the cold sidewalk. "Gertrude?"

Gus pulled his eyes from the tower and looked to his left. He looked to his right. "Gertrude? Where are you?" Then he remembered the purse snatcher, the horde of shrieking women, the pass port police, the stampede of demanding husbands and worst of all he remembered his guilty smirk and care free spirit. "Dear, dear Gertrude."

Gus slowly pushed himself onto his hind legs. He walked over to a couple standing with their heads tilted admiring the steel structure. "Beautiful isn't it?" he asked timidly as he tried to share the moment of discovery he felt with someone, anyone, even strangers. But the couple looked at him coldly and moved away.

Studs, struts, cross beams and girders, Gus tried to re-infect himself with the ecstasy he had felt just moments before. But no matter how hard he stared, no matter how far he tilted his piggy-wiggly neck, no matter how hard he scrutinized the famed landmark, without someone to share it with...without Gertrude...the legendary Eiffel Tower was nothing more then a carnival gimmick.

Turning his back on the tower, Gus shuffled down the street. He wiped a small tear from his eye. "Gertrude, dear, dear Gertrude. I must find you."

Where ever Gus went the smells of Paris reminded him of his lost companion. Popcorn vendors wooed the evening air with fresh popped aroma. How could Gus not be reminded of the farm, the trough and dancing in corn mush?

Gus's nose quivered this way and that; amaretto crepes, sizzling over open flames, window shoppers, enraptured with themselves, confectioneries and titillating chocolate shops, park bench lovers sharing tangerines. Everywhere blue shadows hid couples reeking of the perfume called Evening in Paris.

Chapter 19: The Impersonator

Alone, friendless, afraid for his pig-pen companion, Gus felt forsaken. "I sure hope Mantis is praying now," said Gus out loud in a squeaky forlorn voice. Just then a women carrying a bouquet of red geraniums hurried past, bumping him off the sidewalk. Gus watched the bustling woman cross the street. She climbed a wide stairway and disappeared into a pillared building. Another woman followed her and then another, all caring bouquets of geraniums.

A large banner slung across the building's grandiose entrance. Gus couldn't read any of it except for one word...Francis.

Gus didn't hesitate. He darted across the street, dodged honking cars, scrambled up the wide stairway, started to follow the women through the grandiose entrance when he was stopped. "Where's your ticket. Monsieur?" asked a sleekly coiffured dame. "No ticket, no child-poetry reading," she added."

Gus was desperate. Francis can help. Francis has the sisters' letter.

"But I have to see Francis," argued Gus.

"No ticket, no entry."

"Please, I must," Gus pleaded.

"No!"

"I must see him. I...I have his beret! See," said Gus hopefully as he whipped the black beret from his left ear.

The coiffured dame looked down at Gus, then at the at the beret.

"It does look like Francis's beret; I have to admit," said the dame. "He's due to go on stage any minute now. I'll escort you to his dressing room."

Mama opened the dressing room door, saw Gus and recognized him as the funny looking fellow from the train that lifted her son's dark mood and made him howl with laughter.

""Come in. Come in," she said in a hurried way and then pulled him into the chambers and gave the pudgy pig a quick hug. "I'm so upset," she lamented. "Francis is do to recite his brand new poems for The Geranium Society but he developed a case of laryngitis. I don't know what to do. The Queen and Duchess are waiting. I gave them our word. I promised that Francis would recite. They're depending on us."

Francis sat in front of a large mirror. When he saw Gus in the reflection, his mouth rapidly opened and closed but no sound came out. He waved his hands over his head, stabbed his fingers the air but still no sound.

Gus saw desperation in the Methuselah eyes. He went to the youth and put his pig arm on his shoulder. The two friends then regarded each other in the mirror for a long time. They noticed their look-alike bristle brush hair. They studied each others crinkled foreheads, blue eyes and dumpling cheeks. In the mirror they scrutinized twin necks, identical bellies and chubby arms. Finally Francis's lips turned up in a little smile.

"No," shouted Gus suddenly. "Oh, no, no!"

But Francis nodded his head, "yes." Then he picked up Gus's jacked arm and twirled it high in the air.

"No, no," squalled Gus (AKA Francis) as Mama readjusted the black beret, over Gus's left ear, just so, and handed him Francis's rough hewn cane with the crooked handle.

Chapter 20: Gertrude's Friends

In the mean time, along the banks of the Seine River, Gertrude whirled and spun to the clapping of the of the two grizzly haired women. She sang her oui oui song and danced until she collapsed on her backside in a heap of riotous gaiety and laughter.

In contagious revelry, the grizzly haired women tumbled to the ground beside Gertrude. The three laughed and kicked their feet until they laid prone with exhaustion.

"What brings you to these parts?" asked one of the grizzly haired women after the hoots and howls subsided and she caught her breath.

Gertrude wanted to share the whole story with the two kind women but said instead, "I lost Gus."

"We will help you find him. What does he look like?"

Gertrude thought a while before she answered, "he looks exactly like our friend Francis the Famous French Child-Poet. Have you ever heard of Francis?"

"Heard of him!! Everyone in Paris knows of Francis. In fact, he's performing tonight for The Geranium Society, right in our own neighborhood. But we weren't able to get tickets."

"Oh, how I would love to hear him perform," sighed the other grizzly haired women.

"You said he's your friend?"

"Yes, he took the sisters' letter and scribbled a poem on it." The two grizzly haired women looked quizzical at the mention of sisters and letter. "You see," explained Gertrude, "Gus and I came here to visit the sisters because Little Sister said she missed us. We took the letter because it had their address on the upper left corner of the envelope. It was on the train to the airport where we met Francis, and the letter was the only paper I could find. Francis snatched it like a hungry wolf and wrote his poem on it. All that pen scratching made me so nervous that I forgot to get the envelope back. Francis must have put it in his jacket pocket."

The two women stroked their chins in contemplation. "Hum," they said in unison. "Let's take Gertrude to the pillared building where Francis is performing tonight. Even if we don't find Gus, we can at least try to get the letter back."

The pillared building was only a few streets away. Gertrude and the two grizzly haired women climbed the wide stairway and approached the grandiose entrance when they were stopped by the same coiffured dame.

"Ticket please," she demanded.

"We have no ticket," the three confessed. "But we have to see Francis. It's very, very important."

"No ticket, no entry!"

"Please, I must," Gertrude pleaded.

"No!"

"I must see him. I...I have his cane! See," said Gertrude hopefully holding up Gus's look alike rough hewn cane with the crooked handle.

The coiffured dame looked down at Gertrude, then at the at the cane. "It does look like Francis's cane; I have to admit," she said with confusion. "Ah, no! No ticket, no entry. Enough of this deja vu stuff. Get out of the doorway. You are blocking true ticket holders. Go stand over there and I'll attend to you later." The coiffured dame then pointed to a spot at the far corner of the grandiose entrance.

The three shuffled to their indicated place. They huddled patiently as the dame busily greeted The Geranium Society members and tore their tickets.

They felt small and invisible as The Society's members paraded through the grandiose entrance. When a tiara'ed noblewoman approached the door, the three gawked and shuffled a teensy-weensy bit back toward the coiffured dame and the busy entrance. They leaned together goggling over a Countesses who flounced ruby rings on every finger. Closer still, invisible Gertrude and the two grizzly haired women scuttled as they checked out Madames, Mademoiselles and Duchesses.

No one noticed the three spectators inching and gaping, shuffling and ogling. The three became spellbound, mesmerized by a majestic queen covered head to toe with diamonds, and emeralds. They couldn't take their eyes off her. Holding each other close, the three drooled and slobbered and shadowed the queen through the grandiose entrance and into the pillared building's foyer.

Only when the queen disappeared behind the double doors leading to the main lecture hall, did she brake her spell.

"Oh, my, my," exclaimed one of the grizzly haired women. "We're in! We're actually in the building and no one even noticed. Quick let's look for Francis."

Together they cracked open the double doors and peered into the lecture hall. They were in the back of rows and rows of cushioned pews filled with bejeweled women all facing a large stage. Red curtains framed the stage which was barren except for a tall four legged stool. Perched on the stool was a pudgy figure with a black beret slung over his left ear, just so. The figure timidly raised his arms and poked the air with his fingers. He stammered. He stuttered.

Francis hid behind the red curtain rooting silently for his new friend. "Come on Gus. You can do it. I know you can."

A mummer rose in the audience. Taffeta dresses rustled. Feet shuffled. Gus paused. He faltered. He looked at his aristocratic audience and was voiceless.

"Gus, please, don't let me down. Say something," Francis rasped from his hiding place.

Seeing his look-alike friend's dependency, Gus (AKA Francis) tried to begin. He opened his mouth. A nervous giggle fell out.

The audience giggled.

"That's it!" Francis managed to croak. "Make them laugh. Make them laugh, Gus."

Unnerved, Gus glanced at his desperate friend. But this time Francis wasn't wringing his hands. Instead he bobbed up and down flapping his arms like a giant songbird learning to fly.

Gus snickered.

The audience snickered.

The flickering thought of countesses, duchesses and grand dames snickering and giggling make Gus utter a quick snorting laugh.

Snickering, giggling and quick snorting laughs came from the audience. "You're doing it Gus!"

He's my very first friend, thought Francis.

"Make them laugh, Gus."

I'm more excited about Gus being on stage as I was about my first jump from the air plane.

"Come on, Gus."

Totally devoted followers of Francis The Child-Poet, The Geranium Society followed Gus The Impostor as he lead them snickering and snorting to the farm, the pig-pen and the mud hole.

Francis could hardly breath. He felt a rush, a fire, an explosion of excitement that until now--until friendship, was only possible through the adrenaline rush of free-falling from the clouds.

Farms, pig-pens and mud holes, Gus was now on his own terrain. He waved his arms and stabbed the air with his fingers. He sang a piggy-wiggy song. The audience roared with joviality. He rhymed a ditty about the splat of a corn mush tower. The noblewoman cackled. The ringed countess shrieked. The coiffured dame chortled. And the Queen's diamonds and emeralds shimmied as she yucked and doubled over in side-splitting laughter. Mademoiselles and Madames rolled in the aisles slapping their bejeweled hands on the thick carpet. They laughed, shook, jiggled, and uproariously split their taffeta seams.

Poetry of the highest order gushed over the hysterical elite freeing them, uniting them, and drawing them into the hilarious world of pigs.

Lace handkerchiefs could be seen everywhere, dabbing tears of laughter. And when all the nose honing and tear dabbing stopped, Gus (AKA Francis) finished his last poetic line and then hung his head, in true humility. For a brief twinkle, all hearts beat as one. A hallowed instant followed and then...uproarious applause. The women of The Geranium Society cheered, howled and threw ribboned bouquets. Some hooted and some even whistled.

Gertrude, who had seen and heard it all from the back of the lecture hall could not be fooled. She and only she, could tell the difference between Francis the Famous French Child-Poet and her pig-pen pal. Proud, awed and in love, Gertrude slowly, instinctively, moved down the aisle leading directly to the stage. She passed pew after pew oblivious to the dismayed looks coming from the elite society women.

"Who is this woman?" they whispered to one another as she passed. "Who is this dumpy woman dressed in a blue flowered dress with an extraordinarily pink nose? How dare she approach the famed Francis wearing only a kerchief tied under her double chin? Stop her. Stop her at once!"

But before anyone could rally into stopping Gertrude, she climbed the stage steps. Gus could not believe his eyes. "Gertrude it's you. Really you," he choked. "It's you!"

"Yes, Gus, I mean Francis, it really is me and I saw it all. You are indeed a true poet." The two embraced right there on stage. The coiffured dame and the bejeweled crowd applauded, hooted and hollered once again. The two piggy arms could not quite reach around each others piggy bellies but their love and ridicules pig humor easily stretched over them and the entire lecture hall.

Watching from behind the stage curtain, Francis also blew his nose. He looked up at Mama, "I found a true friend," he managed to rasp. "A friend worthy of my sensitivity."

Chapter 21: Gus's Secret Plan

After three encores, Francis lead the way back to the dressing room while Gertrude searched unsuccessfully for the two grizzly haired women.

Mama, Francis, Gus and Gertrude then went to a cafe to drink espresso, praise Gus for his stupendous poetry and impersonation, pledge lifelong friendship and to make plans for finding the sisters.

"We can start out first thing in the morning," said Mama. "We can take the bus. I know the place where the sisters live. It's just outside of Paris."

The next morning Mama showed the letter with the address on the upper left corner to the bus driver. "Oui, Oui, this is the correct bus. All aboard."

Francis and Mama sat next to each other in front of Gus and Gertrude.

"I don't want to be Gertrude and wear Grandmother's dress forever. I want to be my true self again," whispered Gertrude as the bus bumped along the rue.

"I agree," said Gus. "I love adventure but there's nothing like a good pig-pen, to rest one's nerves."

"I could use a long mud bath myself," added Gertrude. "Besides, how can we get behind-the-ear scratches of we are dressed as people? Somehow we have to revert back to our true pig form."

They sat quietly for a while. Their pig fat jostling and vibrating with each bounce of the bus.

Finally Gus leaned real close to Gertrude's ear. "I have a plan that might work," he said and whispered it in her ear.

"I can't ask that!" said Gertrude a bit too loudly.

"You have to," answered Gus. "We don't have any other plan. Now don't forget the signal. I'll stomp my hove three times and then you start the plan."

"But I just can't. It's too ridicules, " responded Gertrude and let out a squealing giggle.

Gus caught her squealing giggle and added a chuckle.

Gertrude received her squealing giggle back, Gus's chuckle and tagged on two snorts.

Gus then seized the squealing giggle, his chuckle, her two snorts and they both began to roll back and forth in their seats making a tremendous racket. When Francis and Mama turned around to see what all the noise was about, they saw the couple rolling back and forth in their seats, squealing, giggling, chuckling and snorting.

Francis could not resist. He took up the squealing, giggling, chuckling, snorting and added arm waving and finger stabbing. They were making so much noise that the bus driver finally asked the foursome to get off the bus. They were only one stop away from where they had planed to disembark so they left the bus taking all their ludicrousness with them.

Chapter 22: Crazy Gertrude

Little sister didn't go to school again today. She hid in her pine needle nest under the kooca berry bush. As she crouched there, she made a tiny stick fence and corralled two stones. She sang softly and pretended to feed two stone pigs.

As she was patted the biggest stone she heard shuffling feet on the sidewalk. Peeking out from behind a waxy leaf, she saw a mama, a dumpling boy with a child sized cane, a pudgy women in a familiar looking blue flowered dress, and a short rotund man with a head that looked like a bristle brush.

"We just have to go to the end of this street," said Mama.

Gus looked at his feet as if they had mud on them and then quickly stomped three times.

"The signal! That's the signal," thought Gertrude. "I can't. . . I must. . . I must ask it."

"Where are we going again?" asked Gertrude at last with a ridiculously stupid look on her face.

""Why, dear Gertrude, we are all going to the sister's house," answered Mama.

"Sisters? What sisters? I don't remember any sisters," said Gertrude in a very confused tone.

"What's come over you, Gertrude? We are going to find the sisters who wrote you this letter."

"Letter? The sisters only wrote me one letter? How could they say they love and miss me and then only write one letter? Nonsense," shouted Gertrude. "I won't visit anyone who writes me only one letter. I'm going home."

Gertrude then stomped off in the opposite direction.

"You go to the sisters' house if you want," said Gus. "But I agree with Gertrude. Someone who writes only one letter doesn't deserve to be visited." He whirled and marched after Gertrude.

Gus and Gertrude then quick-stepped around the corner.

"Don't start giggling," commanded Gus when they were out of sight. We have to beat them to the sisters' house.

But Gertrude squeaked a tee-hee-hee at the thought of her great performance. Gus let go of a hardy har-har and then took Gertrude's hand and they both ran as fast as their little piggy legs could run to their beloved sisters.

Francis and Mama looked at one another in disbelief.

"What happened to Gus and Gertrude?" asked Mama in total bewilderment.

"I don't know," confessed Francis. "It's as if presto, they both went crazy. He's my best friend. I'm going after them."

Francis bounced and waddled in his tubby run while Mama waited still very confused. A few minutes later Francis returned huffing and puffing.

"No sign of them," he said between gasps.

"Let's go find the sisters anyway," said Mama. "They're just a few houses away."

Chapter 23: Mother Meets Mama

Julia did not understand what she just saw but she did know that the mama and the dumpling boy were headed to her very own house. She crept out of the kooca bush, took a shortcut past the sentinel pine and skidaddled through the back door before the two arrived at the front.

She surprised her mother who spun around with an angry look. "Where have you been all day?" she scolded. "Your teacher called again and said you hadn't been in school all week."

Before Little Sister could make up an excuse the front door bell rang. "Go to your room," chided Mother.

"We have a strange story to tell you," said Mama as she stood in the open doorway.

"Please come in," said Mother, pleased to have visitors. She was lonely too. "Come, sit down. I will make some tea."

"Oh no, don't bother," answered Mama seating herself on the sofa.

Mother sat timidly next to Mama. "What is it? What is the story?" she asked.

Mama reached into her pocket and handed Mother the envelope with the sisters' letter. Mother wasn't sure what the significance of this scribbled on envelope meant until turning it over, she recognized Big Sister's handwriting and her own return address. Hesitantly she pulled out the folded letter and read. She read about the rainy night. How her littlest daughter cried, how she was teased at school, made fun of, how no one played her games and how she mourned and grieved for the farm and especially the pigs.

Mother began to sniffle. She felt sorry for her darling daughters. She was sorry she had been so harsh on them. She felt sorry for herself. She whimpered. Mama opened her arms. Mother slid into them and then sobbed. The two women were strangers but not to the pain and loneliness of child rearing. Mother wailed and wept for a long time. Finally the tears washed the helplessness from Mother and she wiped her eyes.

"I'll have that tea now," said Mama soothingly.

Tea cups clinked, spoons rattled. Francis peeked into the kitchen. The mothers sat, head to head at the kitchen table. They were instant sole-mates lamenting about the trials of motherhood. Mother told how Little Julia couldn't make friends and refused to go to school. Mama divulged that she had to tutor her precocious son.

Chapter 24: Francis Meets Julia

Francis, bored with mother-talk heard a rustling somewhere down the hallway. He tip-toed to investigate the noise coming from behind a door. He opened the door and to his surprise, on the floor, sat Little Sister Julia.

"Who are you," she asked looking up from her drawing paper.

"I'm Francis the world's one and only Famous French Child-Poet."

Julia returned to her art work, sullen and unimpressed.

"What are you drawing?" asked Francis disturbed that something might be more important then his title.

"A picture of my farm," answered Julia. "Here's the rusty gate, here's the yellow butterfly, here's the praying Mantis and here are my two wonderful pig friends."

"Pig friends?"

"Yes, Pigs!"

Francis looked at Julia. He felt more out of breath then when he had bobbed down the street searching for Gus. "You have pig friends?" he exclaimed.

"Pigs make wonderful friends. They love be-behind-the-ear-scratches and head pats."

"But I heard that pigs are dirty and they roll in mud. You're a girl. You're not suppose to like dirt and mud."

"They are not dirty!" screamed little Sister. "Pigs are very clean. They play in the mud to watch the mud ooze up between their cloven hooves. But also they can't sweat like you and me to keep cool, so they use the mud like a cooling blanket."

"Humph." Francis wondered around marveling at the twigs and stones in Little sister's room.

"Pigs are naturally house broken and they don't mess up their yard like a dog or cow."

Francis didn't seem to be convinced so Julia continued, "Pigs are more loyal then dogs. They make great pets. They are lovable, smart, have great memories, can be trained to do tricks and best of all they have a wonderfully ridicules sense of humor."

Francis didn't want to look at Julia. He had never been so close to a girl before, especially one that had pig friends and liked dirt. He didn't know how to act so he looked out the bedroom window. He took a deep breath for courage and then asked, "are those your friends? The two pigs in your back yard?"

Julia looked up from her drawing. "Pigs? Backyard?" She ran to the window with Francis. Instantly she recognized her farm friends. "Its them. Its them!" she shouted. "I would recognize that extraordinarily pink nose anywhere." She burst out of her room and through the back door. "Oh, my pigs. My beautiful pigs," she whooped scratching behind their ears. "Where did you come from? How did you get here?" she asked patting the three stout hairs that grew out of the bristle brush head.

Francis joined her and soon the two once morose children were rolling around the grass getting juicy wet pig kisses on their noses, cheeks, eyes, behind their ears, on their stomachs, under their arms and the bottoms of their feet.

The children were having so much fun that Mother invited Mama and Francis to have supper with them and spend the night. "We have two extra rooms," pleaded Mother, anxious for company and motherly support.

"We would love to stay," accepted Mama and then the two women returned to the kitchen to peel potatoes for supper.

After super, Mama said, "Francis before you draw pig pictures with Julia, you must do your lessens."

"Can Julia learn with me?" asked Francis hopefully.

Mama, a talented teacher, became Little Sister's tutor from that moment on. Julia no longer had to attend the fortress school but studied her lessons at home. Between botany and zoology she scratched, patted and fed her pigs. And when Francis was out of town to poetry readings, she also sprinkled corn to Cluck the Second and Cluckette.

Francis and Julia became best friends and spent many late nights wondering what ever happened to Gus and Gertrude and how two pigs could cross an ocean.

Late one morning, after the birds delivered the morning news and Little Sister slopped a warm full-to-the-brim bucket of mush, Gus and Gertrude eased down into their new mud hole.

"Hum, a new pig-pen," sighed Gus in a sleepy voice.

"It is cozy," replied Gertrude. "But Gus, do you remember where you stashed the table cloth bundle of Grandmother's flowered dress and Grandfather's jacket and trousers?"

Gus's eyes snapped open. His three stout hairs stood upright. "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

Timidly Gertrude answered, "Maybe, just maybe, we could...go on another...another adventure or a teeny-weenie tour."

Gus let out a snort and a chuckle. Gertrude bantered with a giggle. They both tee-heeed, haw-hawed, hooted, grunted, squealed wee, wee, wee and slapped the mud sending a spray of black goo high into the air. They laughed and howled at Gertrude's joking remark. Or was she?

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