The Brave Little Toaster

“Tell them,” Majorie continued, “the one about the three squirrels out in the snow.” She turned to the lamp confidingly. “This will lay you out. Believe me.”

As Harold told the joke about the three squirrels in the snow, the appliances exchanged glances of guarded disapproval. It wasn’t just that they disapproved of dirty jokes (especially the old Hoover); in addition, they didn’t find such jokes amusing. Gender and the complications it gives rise to simply aren’t relevant to the lives appliances lead.

Harold finished his joke, and Marjorie laughed loyally, but none of the appliances cracked a smile.

“Well,” said Harold, miffed, “I hope you enjoy your stay under our oak.”

With which, and a flick of their big furry tails, the two squirrels scampered up the trunk and out of sight.

In the small hours of the night the toaster woke from a terrible nightmare in which it had been about to fall into a bathtub full of water to discover itself in a plight almost as terrible. Thunder was thundering, and lightning was streaking the sky, and rain was pelting it mercilessly. At first the toaster couldn’t remember where it was or why it was there, and when it did remember, it realized with dismay that the electric blanket, which ought to have been spread out and sheltering the other four appliances, had disappeared! And the rest of them? They were still here, thank heaven, though in a state of fearful apprehension, each one of them.

“Oh dear,” groaned the Hoover, “I should have known, I should have known! We never, never should have left our home.”

The lamp in an extremity of speechless agitation was twisting its head rapidly from side to side, casting its little beam of light across the gnarled roots of the oak, while the radio’s alarm had gone off and would not stop ringing. Finally the toaster went over to the radio and turned the alarm off itself.

“Oh, thank you,” said the radio, its voice blurry with static. “Thank you so much.”

“Where is the blanket?” the toaster demanded apprehensively.

“Blown away!” said the radio. “Blown off to the far end of the forest, where we shall never be able to find it!”

“Oh, I should have known!” groaned the Hoover. “I should have known!”

“It’s not your fault,” the toaster assured the vacuum, but it only groaned the louder.

Seeing that it could not be of any help to the vacuum, the toaster went over to the lamp and tried to calm it down. Once its beam was steady, the toaster suggested that it be directed into the branches above them, on the chance that the blanket, when it was blown away, might have been snagged on one of them. The lamp did so, but it was a very faint light and a very tall oak and a very dark night, and the blanket, if it were up there, was not to be seen.

All of a sudden there was a flash of lightning. The radio’s alarm went off again, and the lamp shrieked and folded itself up as small as could be. Of course it’s silly to be afraid of lightning, since it’s only another form of electricity. But such a large form—and so uncontrolled! If you were a person, instead of an appliance, and you encountered a berserk giant many times larger than yourself, you’d have some idea how the average electric appliance feels about lightning.

In the brief moment that the lightning was lighting everything up, the toaster, who had been peering up into the oak, was able to make out a shape—all twisted about—that might have been the blanket. The toaster waited until there was another lightning flash; and, yes, definitely, it was the yellow blanket, which had indeed become snagged on one of the highest branches of the tree.

Once they all knew that the blanket was nearby, even though they still had no idea how they’d be able to get it down, the storm ceased to seem quite so scary. The rain made them quite miserable, as rain will do, but their worst anxieties were over. Even the occasional bolt of lightning was now something to be wished for rather than dreaded, since by its brightness they could glimpse their companion high above them, clutching to the limb of the oak and flailing in the ceaseless winds. How could they feel afraid, or even sorry for themselves, when they considered the terrors the poor blanket must be experiencing?

By morning the storm had abated. The radio, at top volume, called up to the blanket, but the blanket made no response. For one horrible moment the toaster thought its friend might have stopped working altogether. But the radio kept on calling to the blanket, and after a time it made a feeble reply, waving one wet bedraggled corner at its friends.

“YOU CAN COME DOWN NOW,” the radio shouted. “THE STORM IS OVER.”

“I can’t,” said the blanket with a whimper. “I’m stuck. I can’t get down.”

“You must try,” the toaster urged.

“What’s that?” said the blanket.

“THE TOASTER SAYS YOU MUST TRY!”

“But I told you—I’m stuck. And there’s a great rip right through the center of me. And another by my hem. And I hurt.” The blanket began to wring itself convulsively, and a steady patter of droplets fell from its rain-soaked wool into the puddles below.

“What the deuce is all this racket about?” Harold demanded imperiously, stepping forth from his nest high in the trunk of the oak. “Do you have any idea what time it is? Squirrels are trying to sleep.”

The radio apologized to Harold and then explained the cause of the commotion. Like most squirrels, Harold was essentially kind-hearted, and when he saw what had happened to the blanket, he immediately offered his assistance. First he went into his nest and woke his wife. Then together the two squirrels began to help the blanket to loosen itself from where it had been snared. It was a long and—to judge by the blanket’s cries—painful process, but at last it was done, and with the squirrels’ help the liberated blanket made its way, slowly and carefully, down the trunk of the tree.

The appliances gathered round their friend, commiserating over his many injuries and rejoicing at his rescue.

“How shall we ever be able to repay you?” said the toaster warmly, turning to Harold and Marjorie. “You’ve saved our friend from a fate too terrible to imagine. We’re so grateful.”

“Well,” said Marjorie cagily, “I can’t remember whether or not you said you had any nuts with you. But if you do…”

“Believe me,” said the Hoover, “if we did, you would have them all. But you can see for yourselves that my bag contains nothing but dust and dirt.” Whereupon it opened its dustbag and a thick brown sludge of rain-sodden topsoil oozed forth.

“Though we don’t have nuts,” said the toaster to the disconsolate squirrels, “perhaps there is something I could do for you. That is, if you like roasted nuts.”

“Indeed, yes,” said Harold. “Any kind will do.”

“Then if you can provide me with some nuts, I shall roast them. As many as you like.”

Harold narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You mean you want us to give you the nuts we’ve been storing up all this summer?”

“If you’d like me to roast them,” answered the toaster brightly.

“Oh, darling, do,” Marjorie urged. “I don’t know what he means to do, but he seems to. And we might like it.”

“I think it’s a trick,” said Harold.

“Just two or three of the ones that are left from last year. Please?”

“Oh, very well.”

Harold scampered up the tree trunk to his nest and returned with four acorns stuffed in the pouches of his cheeks. At the toaster’s bidding Harold and Marjorie cracked them open, and then Harold placed them carefully on the thin strips of metal that went up and down inside the toaster’s slots. As these strips were meant to accommodate large slices of bread, it had to be very careful lest the tiny round acorns should roll off as it lowered them into itself. When this was done it turned on its coils and commenced toasting them. When the acorns were starting to turn a crispy brown, the toaster lifted them up gently as far as it could, turned off its coils, and (when it