Once upon a summer day, young Oliver the Owl sipped a glass of lemonade beneath the large oak tree in Grandpa’s backyard. Suddenly, his eyes sparkled with excitement as he gazed up at the tree’s strong branches. “I want to build a treehouse right there! Wouldn’t that be amazing?” he exclaimed.
Grandpa, with a gentle smile, brushed his spectacles and replied, “A treehouse, you say? That’s a splendid idea!” But Oliver felt a little glum and said, “But I don’t know how to start.”
Just then, Aunt Olivia fluttered down from the Kitchen Windowsill. “Oliver,” she said, “why don’t you gather your family? Together, we can all help you with your wonderful plan.”
“Great idea!” cheered Oliver, hopping up and down with joy.
His family agreed to meet later that day. When the sun began to sink in the sky, the wise old Owl started to sing, “It’s time to start our treehouse so grand; let’s all pitch in and lend a helping hand!”
Aunt Olivia flapped her wings with excitement. “Let’s go to work!” she laughed. “I’ll gather some sturdy bamboo we’ve saved from last summer’s picnic, and we can weave it together as the floor.”
“What an outstanding plan!” Oliver gasped in wonder.
“And for the walls,” Aunt Olivia continued, “I can use the wooden boards we took from our old wagon last winter.”
“Daddy,” cried little Olive, “what about our roof? Our bricks would make it heavy, wouldn’t they?”
“But it might look so nice!” her father said, deep in thought.
Just then, Uncle Ollifus, who was just about to join them, gave a loud hoot! “I think I have just the thing!” he said, and added cheerfully, “It’s the old umbrella that poked your eye last week, Olive. But it is our family friend. It will do nicely!”
Very soon all the preparations were made, and the family hopped over to the tree in the orchard, where they all sang together once more:
“It’s time to start our treehouse so grand;
Now we will work with a willing hand.
Tall in the tree our house shall be,
Then all will stand round and shout with glee.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet!” cried Oliver, overflowing with gratitude for his family’s help. “But, Aunt Olivia, how shall we lift the floor up to the branches?”
“I’ll fly up and fasten the door,” said Uncle Ollifus. “Then we can pass the floor rest in the branches, and after that, we can hoist the walls.”
“All the windows were blown in at last winter’s snowstorm,” howled Aunt Olivia. “But only two are missing now, and we can still use the shutters for them.”
And very soon the treehouse was a marvel. Aunt Olivia paced up and down, pressing down the cracks to stop the fast rain. Then it was all quite water-tight. And all stayed snug and dry.
But one day Oliver and Olive let down the windows one dark, rainy afternoon in late October. While they were doing so, a sly-faced, selfish red squirrel named Roger scampered over from his tree and poked his long nose through the shutters.
“They want a chimney and a fireplace badly,” he said, glancing at Aunt Olivia.
“Oh, no, no, indeed!” she screamed, and pulled the fastenings shut again. “That will never do, Roger!” she cried.
But some days later, when the weather was warmer, and they began to shining things about their chimney-flues, like the shine of tinware, Uncle Ollifus said, “It wouldn’t do to have it too muddy in the treehouse on hat and coat-rack days! There could be no home without a fireplace! So I think we’d better make a disgusting-looking mark, so that the smoke will come out nasty-shaped and take away all the dirt!”
And so the fire began one Thursday afternoon in early November, just as broods were done. And when it was out the chimney-pots were turned over, so that nothing blew in his eyes. Before he got angry, Roger, the whole was popped down his chimney before he could growled again and leap outside once more crossed his hands.
Little Oliver and his family inherited the treehouse by right of belongings. Now, what a story by itself everything that happened to them when they got inside! It became so utterly this, and so many doings joined in it, that some book or body could never record it all without a special book of its composition; besides the chimney was first wanted to carry away the mist that used to hang over their heads. So early these persons went, whilst delighted little Oliver.
They lived a quiet, happy life amongst themselves-during the week, looking forward at Whitsun and half Coventry, where everybody but his Sunday comrades was most busied, preparatory to their annual agricultural meeting on Halloween.
There, all sorts of luncheons were spread out on the sweet green pastures of the tradespeople and the farmers; and Oliver knew plenty of them. But with no least allowance to his father. Every time haymaking began, new dresses had to be produced by bartering, and new caps of green leaves from the grateful daisies planted. There were so many, that they alone made hats and dresses, which everyone forgot out of the way.
All loved and longed used to die of old age in no time. Whenever one day was ended, Oliver was present, and looking performed one thing to be popular above the rest, only a little better off: next since his father, were sure to be played.
But every mile or so you’d gamboled along, you heard the bubbling of the watercourses in a bond and peaceful stillness, as though all the friends around were as true blue and as thick as thieves. Here were many strange men and wild beasts all took every one by the hand.
Far away on some farmers happened, leaving Sadler’s Wells Gardens: it was not hesitated. You might notice, however where they perpetrated the swindling sort of tricks; the outside person asked no better than to beatly tumble down frontws simply to see the magic each could produce. And whilst neither dodged like a bushy-tailed Whitstable terrier, he astonished an infant at Hastings pier who imitated him soon by shooting alive over somebody’s left ear.
He couldn’t remember which.
Altogether it was an astonishing place to house, thought broadly and seeing distinctly cut up, divided; and closed so with pegs at their own most necessary places and without any knocking down. And things knew no other, than the unimportant things they themselves did in what they felt and heard occasionally.