The Brave Little Toaster

When dawn attempts to rival you,
That single perfect coiling root—
Imperishable! Absolute!
O beautiful! O half-divine!
Weave your thick black root with mine.”

“Now really,” said the toaster in a tone of gentle reprimand, “there’s no cause to be carrying on like this. We scarcely know each other, and, what’s more, you seem to be under a misapprehension as to my nature. Can’t you see that what you call my root is an electric cord? As to petals, I can’t think what you may mean, for I simply don’t have any. Now—I really must go and join my friends, for we are journeying to our master’s apartment far, far away, and we shall never get there if we don’t get a move on.”

“Alas the day and woe is me!
I tremble in such misery
As never flower knew before.
If you must go, let me implore
One parting boon, one final gift:
Be merciful as you are swift
And pluck me from my native ground—
Pluck me and take me where you’re bound.
I cannot live without you here:
Then let your bosom be my bier.”

Feeling truly shocked by the daisy’s suggestion and seeing that the creature was deaf to reason, the toaster hastened to the other side of the meadow and began to urge his friends to set out at once on their journey. The blanket protested that it was still somewhat damp, the Hoover that it was still tired, and the lamp proposed that they spend the night there in the meadow.

And that is what they did. As soon as it grew dark the blanket folded itself into a kind of tent, and the others all crawled inside. The lamp turned itself on, and the radio played some easy-listening music—but very quietly, so as not to disturb other denizens of the forest who might already be asleep. Soon they were asleep themselves. Travel does take it out of you.

The alarm clock had set itself, as usual, for seven-thirty, but the appliances were awake well before that hour. The vacuum cleaner and the lamp both complained, on rising, of a certain stiffness in their joints. However, as soon as they were on their way, the stiffness seemed to melt away.

In the morning light the forest appeared lovelier than ever. Cobwebs glistening with dew were strung like miniature power lines from bough to bough. Pretty mushrooms sprouted from fallen logs, looking for all the world like a string of frosted light bulbs. Leaves rustled. Birds chirped.

The radio was certain that it saw a real fox and wanted to go off after it. “Just to be sure, you know, that it is a fox.”

The blanket grew quite upset at this suggestion. It had already snagged itself once or twice on low-hanging branches. What ever would become of it, it wanted to know, if it were to venture from the path and into the dense tangle of the forest itself.

“But think,” the radio insisted. “—a fox! We’ll never have such a chance again.”

“I’d like to see it,” said the lamp.

The toaster, too, was terribly curious, but it could appreciate the blanket’s point of view, and so it urged them to continue along the path. “Because, don’t you see, we must reach the master as soon as we possibly can.”

This was so inarguably true that the radio and lamp readily assented, and they continued on their way. The sun rose in the sky until it had risen all it could, and the path stretched on and on. In the midafternoon there was another shower, after which they once again made camp. Not, this time, in a meadow, for the woods were now quite dense, and the only open places were those under the larger trees. So instead of sunning itself on the grass (for there was neither grass nor sunlight to be found) the blanket hung itself, with the Hoover’s help, from the lowest limb of an immense and ancient oak. In minutes it had flapped itself dry.

At twilight, just as the lamp was thinking of turning itself on, there was a stir among the leaves on the branch to the right of the branch from which the blanket was contentedly hanging.

“Hello!” said a squirrel, emerging from the clustered leaves. “I thought we had visitors.”

“Hello,” replied all the appliances together.

“Well, well, well!” The squirrel licked his whiskers. “What do you say then, eh?”

“About what?” asked the toaster, who was not being unfriendly, but who could be a little literal-minded at times, especially when it was tired.

The squirrel looked discountenanced. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Harold.” Having pronounced his name, his good humor seemed completely restored. “And this fair creature—”

Another squirrel dropped from a higher branch and lighted beside Harold.

“—is my wife Marjorie.”

“Now you must tell us your names,” said Marjorie, “since we’ve just told you ours.”

“We don’t have names, I’m afraid,” said the toaster. “You see, we’re appliances.”

“If you don’t have names,” Harold demanded, “how do you know which of you are men and which are women?”

“We aren’t either. We’re appliances.” The toaster turned to the Hoover for confirmation.

“Whatever that may mean,” said Marjorie brusquely. “It can’t alter a universal law. Everyone is either a man or a woman. Mice are. Birds are. Even, I’m given to understand, insects.” She held her paw up to her lips and tittered. “Do you like to eat insects?”

“No,” said the toaster. “Not at all.” It would have been more trouble than it was worth to explain to the squirrels that appliances didn’t eat anything.

“Neither do I, really,” said Marjorie. “But I love nuts. Do you have any with you? Possibly in that old sack?”

“No,” said the Hoover stiffly. “There is nothing in that old sack, as you call it, but dirt. About five pounds of dirt, I’d estimate.”

“And what is the use, pray, of saving dirt?” asked Harold. When no answer seemed forthcoming, he said, “I know what we’d all enjoy doing. We can tell jokes. You start.”

“I don’t think I know any jokes,” said the Hoover.

“Oh, I do,” said the radio. “You’re not Polish, are you?”

The squirrels shook their heads.

“Good. Tell me—why does it take three Poles to screw in a light bulb?”

Marjorie giggled expectantly. “I don’t know—why?”

“One to hold the light bulb, and the other two to turn the ladder around.”

The squirels looked at each other with bewilderment.

“Explain it,” said Harold. “Which are the men and which are the women?”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re just very stupid. That’s the whole idea of Polish jokes, that Poles are supposed to be so stupid that no matter what they try and do they misfunction. Of course, it’s not fair to Poles, who are probably as bright as anyone else, but they are funny jokes. I know hundreds more.”

“Well, if that was a fair sample, I can’t say I’m very keen to hear the rest,” said Marjorie. “Harold, you tell him—”

“It,” the radio corrected. “We’re all it’s.”