 Part 3, Chapter 5 of Dr. Doolittle's post office, by Hugh Lofting. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 3, Chapter 5, The White Mouse's Story. "'Whose turn is it to give us a story now?' asked the doctor, when the supper things were cleared away the following evening. "'I think the white mouse ought to tell us one,' said Jip. "'Very well,' said the white mouse. "'I will tell you one of the days of my youth.' The doctor knows this story, but the rest of you have never heard it. And smoothing back his white whiskers and curling his pink tails snugly around his small sleek body, he blinked his eyes twice and began. When I was born I was one of seven twins, but all my brothers and sisters were ordinary mouse-color and I alone, out of the whole family, was white. My color worried my mother and father a great deal. They said I was so conspicuous and would certainly, as soon as I left the nest, get caught by the first owl or cat that came along. We were city folk, my family were, and proud of it. We lived under the floor of a miller's shop. Across the street from our place was a butcher's shop, and next door to us was a dyer's, with a dyed cloth different colors before it went to the tailors to be made into suits. Now when we children grew up big enough to go off for ourselves, our parents gave us all sorts of careful instructions about escaping cats and ferrets and weasels and dogs. But over, poor me, they shook their heads. They really felt that there was not much hope of my leading a peaceful life with white fur that could be seen a mile off. Well, they were quite right. My color got me into trouble the first week that I set out to seek my fortune, but not in the way they thought it would. The son of the miller who owned the shop where we lived found me one morning in a bin of oats. Ah-ha! he cried, a white mouse, the very thing I've been wanting. And he caught me in a fishing net and put me in a cage to keep as a pet. I was very sad at first, but after a while I got sort of used to the life. The boy, he was only eight years old, treated me kindly and fed me regularly each day. I grew almost fond of the funny snub-nosed lad, and became so tame that he would let me out of my cage sometimes, and I would run up and down his sleeve, but I never got a chance to escape. After some months I began to grow weary of the silly life I was leading, and then too the wild mice were so mean to me, they used to come around at night and pointed me through the wire of my cage, saying, Look at the tame white mouse, tea-hee-hee, a play-thing for children, good little mousy, come and have him's facey-washed, the stupid little idiots. Well, finally I set to work and thought of a clever plan of escape. I gnawed a hole through the wooden floor of my cage and kept it covered with straw, so the boy couldn't see it. And one night, when I heard him safely snoring, he always kept my cage at the head of his bed. I slipped out of the hole and got away. I had many adventures with cats. It was wintertime, and the snow lay thick upon the ground. I started off to explore the world, rejoicing in my liberty. Going around to the back of the house, I passed from the miller's yard into the dyer's yard and next door. In the yard was a dying shed, and I noticed two owls sitting on the top of it in the moonlight. Entering the shed, I met a rat, very old and very thin, said he to me. I am the oldest rat in the town, and I know a great deal. But tell me, why do you come here into the dying shed? I was looking for food, I said. The old rat laughed a cracked and quavering laugh, with no joy in it at all. Eh, eh, eh, there's no food here, he said, only dyes of different colors. And he pointed to the big divots all in a row that towered in the half-darkness above our heads. Any food there was here I've eaten, he went on, sadly. And I dare not go out for more, because the owls are waiting on the roof. They'd see my dark body against the snow, and I'd stand no chance of escape. I am nearly starved, and he swayed weakly on his old feet. But now you come as different. Some good fairy must have sent you to me. I've been sitting here for days and nights on end, hoping a white mouse might come along. With your white fur you understand, the owls can't see you so well against the snow. That's what's called protective coloration. I know all about natural history, I'm very old, you see. That is why you managed to get in here without being caught. Go out now, for pity's sake, and bring me the first food of any kind that you find. The owls by night and the cats by day have kept me shut in here since the snow came without a bite to eat. You are only just in time to save my life. So off I went across the moon with snow, and the blinking owls on the roof of the dying shed never spotted me. Against the whiteness I was nearly invisible. I felt quite proud. At last my white fur was coming in handy. I found a garbage can, and, picking out some bacon rinds, I carried them back to the starving rat. The old fellow was ever so grateful. He ate and ate. My whiskers how he ate. Finally he said, ah, now I feel better. You know, said I, I have only just escaped from captivity. I was kept as a pet by a boy. So far being white has only been a great inconvenience to me. The cats could see me so well life wasn't worth living. Well now, while tell you what we'll do, said he, you come and live in this dying shed with me. It isn't a bad place, quite warm and snug under the floors, and the foundations are simply riddled with holes and corridors and hiding places. And while the snow is here, you can go out and get the food for both of us, because you can't be seen so well against the snow. And when the winter is over and the earth is black again, I will do the food hunting outside and you can do the staying at home. You see, this is a good place to live in, in another way. There is nothing for rats and mice to destroy here, so people don't bother about you. Other places, like houses and food shops and mills, folks are always setting traps and sending ferrets after you. But no one minds rats living in a dying shed, see? Foolish young rats and mice go and live where there's lots of food. But not for me, I am a wise one I am. Now we agreed upon this arrangement, and for a whole year I lived at the dyers with the old wise rat, and we lived high no mistake. Not a soul ever bothered us. In the winter days I did the foraging, and when summer came my old partner, who knew where to get the choicest foods in town, kept our larders stocked with the daintiest delicacies. Ah, many's the jolly meal I've had under the floor of the dyeshed with that old veteran, chuckling and whispers as we heard the dires overhead, mixing the dyes and the great big vats and talking over the news of the town. But none of us are ever content for a long, you know, foolish creatures that we are, and by the time the second summer was coming I was longing to be a free mouse, to roam the world and all that sort of thing, and then too I wanted to get buried. Maybe the spring was getting into my blood. So one night I said to the old rat, Rat, I said, I'm in love. All winter, every night I went out to gather fodder. I've been keeping company with a lady mouse. Well, bread she is with elegant manners. I have a mind to settle down and have a family of my own. Now here comes the summer again, and I've got to stay shut up in this miserable shed on account of my beastly color. The old rat gauged at me thoughtfully a moment, and I knew that he was going to say something particularly wise. Young man, says he at last, if you've a mind to go, I reckon I can't stop you. Foolish young madcap, though I thank you. And how I'll never shift for myself after you've gone, goodness only knows. But seeing you have been so useful to me this past year and more, I'll help you. So saying, he takes me upstairs to where the die-vats stood. It was twilight, and the men were gone. But we could see the dim shapes of the big vats towering above our heads. Then he takes a string that lay upon the floor, and scaling up the middle vat, he lets the string down inside. What's that for, I asked? That's for you to climb out by after you've taken a bath. For you to go abroad in summer with a coat like yours would mean certain death. So I'm going to die you black. Jumping cheese, I cried. Die me black? Just that, says he. It's quite simple. Scale up the middle vat now onto the edge and dive right in. Don't be afraid. There's a string there for you to climb out by. Well, I was always adventurous by nature, and plucking up my courage. I scrambled up the vat onto the edge of it. It was awful dark, and I could just see the dye glimmering mercury and dim far down inside. Go ahead, said the old rat. Don't be afraid, and be sure you dip your head in all under. Well, it took an awful lot of nerve to take that plunge. And if I hadn't been in love, I don't suppose I'd ever have done it. But I did. I dove right down into the dye. I thought I'd never come up again, and even when I did, I nearly drowned before I found the string in the dark and scrambled, gasping for breath, out of the vat. Fine, says the old rat. Now run around the shed a few times so you won't take a chill, and then go to bed and cover up. In the morning, when it's light, you'll find yourself very different. Well, tears come to my eyes when I think of it. The next day, when I woke up, expecting to find myself a smart, decent black, I found instead that I had dyed myself a bright and gaudy blue. That stupid old rat had made a mistake in the vats. The white mouse paused a moment in his story as though overcome with emotion. Presently he went on. Never have I been so furious with anyone in my life as I was with that old rat. Look, look what you've done to me now, I cried. It isn't even a navy blue. You've made me just hideous. I can't understand it, he murmured. The middle of that used to be the black one, I know. They must have changed them. The blue one was always the one on the left. You're a stupid old duffer, I said. And I left the dye shed in great anger and never went back to it again. Well, if I had been conspicuous before, now I was a hundred times more so. Against the black earth or the green grass or the white snow or brown floors, my loud sky blue coat could be seen as plain as a pike staff. The minute I got outside the shed, a cat jumped for me. I gave her the slip and got out into the street. There some wretched children spotted me and calling to their friends that they had seen a blue mouse. They hunted me along the gutter. At the corner of the street two dogs were fighting. They stopped their fight and joined the chase after me. And very soon I had the whole blessed town at my heels. It was awful. I didn't get any peace till after night had fallen. And by that time I was so exhausted with running I was ready to drop. About midnight I met the lady mouse with whom I was in love beneath a lamppost. And would you believe it, she wouldn't speak to me. Cut me dead, she did. It was for your sake I got myself into this beastly mess. I said as she stalked by me with her nose in the air. You're an ungrateful woman, that's what you are. Oh la la la, said she, smirking. You wouldn't expect any self-respecting person to keep company with a blue mouse, would you? Later, when I was trying to find a place to sleep, all the mice I met, wherever there was any light at all, made fun of me and pointed to me and cheered. I was nearly in tears. Then I went down to the river, hoping I might wash to die off and so get white again. That at least would be better than the way I was now. But I washed and I swum and I rinsed, all to no purpose. Water made no impression on me. So I sat there, shivering on the river bank in the depths of despair. And presently I saw the sky in the east growing pale, and I knew that morning was coming, daylight. That for me meant more hunting and running and jeering, as soon as the sun should show my ridiculous color. And then I came to a very sad decision, probably the saddest decision that a free mouse ever made. Rather than be hunted and jeered at any more, I decided that I would sooner be back in a cage, a pet mouse. Yes, there at least I was well treated and well fed by the snub-nosed miller-lad. I would go back and be a captive mouse. Was I not spurned by my lady-love and jeered at by my friends? Very well then. I would turn my back upon the world and go into captivity. And then my lady-love would be sorry, too late. So picking myself up wearily, I started off for the miller-shop. On the threshold I paused a moment. It was a terrible step I was about to take. I gazed miserably down the street, thinking about the hardness of life and the sadness of love. And there, coming toward me with a bandage around his tail, was my own brother. As he took a seat beside me on the doorstep, I burst into tears and told him all that had happened to me since we left our parents home. I am terribly sorry for your bad luck, said he when I had ended, but I am glad I caught you before you went back into captivity, because I think I can guide you to a way out of your troubles. What way is there? I said. For me life is over. Go and see the doctor, said my brother. What doctor? I asked. There is only one doctor, he answered. You don't mean to say you've never heard of him. And then he told me all about Dr. Doolittle. This was around the time when the doctor first began to be famous among the animals. But I, living alone with the old rat at the dire shed, had not heard the news. I've just come from the doctor's office, said my brother. I got my tail caught in a trap, and he bandaged it up for me. He's a marvellous man, kind and honest, and he talks animals language. Go to him, and I'm sure he'll know some way to clean Blue Dye off a mouse. He knows everything. So that is how I first came to John Doolittle's house in Puttleby. The doctor, when I told my troubles to him, took a very small pair of scissors and cut off all my fur, so I was bald and pink as a pig. Then he rubbed me with some special hair restore for mice, a patent invention of his own, and very soon I grew a brand new coat of fur as white as snow. And then, hearing what difficulty I had had keeping away from cats, the doctor gave me a home in his own house, in his own piano, in fact. And no mouse could wish for more than that. He even offered to send for the lady I was in love with, who would no doubt think differently about me, now that I was white again. But I said, no doctor, let her be. I'm through with women for good. End of part three, chapter five. Part three, chapter six of Dr. Doolittle's post office. By Hugh Lofting, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part three, chapter six, Jip's story. The next night, Jip was called upon for a story, and after thinking a moment, he said, All right, I'll tell you the story of the beggar's dog. And the animals all settled down to listen attentively, because Jip had often told them stories before, and they liked his way of telling them. Some time ago, Jip began, I knew a dog who was a beggar's dog. We met by chance one day when a butcher's cart had an accident and got upset. The butcher's boy who was driving the cart was a stupid boy, whom all the dogs of that town heartily disliked. So when his cart hit a lamppost and overturned, spilling mutton chops and joints all over the street, we dogs were quickly on the scene and ran off with all his meat before he had time to pick himself up out of the gutter. It was on this occasion, as I said, that I fell in with the beggar's dog. I found him bolting down the street beside me with a choice steak flapping merrily around his ears. Myself, I had pinched a string of sausages and the beastly things kept getting tangled up in my legs till he came to my rescue and showed me how to corral them neatly so I could run with them without getting tripped. After that, the beggar's dog and I became great friends. I found that his master had only one leg and was very, very old. He's most frightfully poor, said my friend, and he's too old to work, you see, even if he had two legs to get around on. And now he has taken to pavement art. You know what that is, you draw pictures on the pavement in colored chalks and you write under them all my own work. And then you sit by the side of them with your cap in your hand, waiting for the people to give you pennies. Oh, yes, I said, I know. I've seen pavement artists before. Well, said my friend, my beggar doesn't get any pennies, and I know the reason why. His pictures aren't good enough, not even for pavement art. Myself, I don't pretend to know much about drawing, but his pictures are just awful, awful. One kind old lady the other day stopped before our stand, wanting to encourage him, you know, and pointing to one picture she said, Oh, what a lovely tree. The picture was meant to be a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean with a storm raging around it. That's the kind of an artist my man is. I don't know what to do about him. Well, look here, I said I have an idea. Since your man can't work for himself, suppose you and I go into the bone hiring business. What on earth is that, he asked? Well, I said, people hire out bicycles and pianos for rent, don't they? So why can't you and I rent out bones for dogs to chew? They won't be able to pay us in money, of course, so we'll get them to bring us things instead. Then the beggar can sell the things and get money. That's a good notion, said he. Let's start tomorrow. So the following day we found an empty lot where people used to dump rubbish and dug an enormous hole which was to be our bone shop. Then we went around the back doors of all the richest people's houses early in the morning and picked out the best bones from the garbage cans. We even snatched a few from other dogs who were tied to kennels and couldn't run after us. Rather a dirty trick, but we were working in a good cause and were not particular. Then we took all these bones and put them in the hole we had dug. By night we kept them covered up with earth because we didn't want them stolen, and besides, some dogs prefer their bones buried a few days before they chew them. It gets them seasoned like. And then by day we stood over our wares calling out to all the dogs that passed by. Bones for hire, beef bones, ham bones, mutton bones, chicken bones, all juicy. Step up gentlemen and take your choice. Bones for hire. Well, right from the start we did a roaring trade. All the dogs from miles around hurt us and came to hire bones. And we would charge them according to the length of time they wanted to hire them. For instance, you could rent a good ham bone for one day for a candlestick or a hairbrush, for three days for a violin or an umbrella, and if you wanted your bone for a whole week, you had to bring us a suit of clothes and payment. Well, for a while our plan worked splendidly. The beggar sold the things that we got in payment from the dogs and he had money to live on. But we never thought where the dogs might be getting all these things they brought us. The truth is, we didn't bother very much, I'm afraid. Anyway, at the end of our first week of brisk trade, we noticed a great many people going through the streets as though they were looking for something. And presently these people seeing our shop in the empty lot gathered around us talking to one another. And while they were talking a retriever came up to me with a gold watch and chain in his mouth which he wanted to exchange for a ham bone. Well, you should have seen the excitement among the people there. The owner of the watch and chain was there and he raised a terrible row. And then it came out that these dogs had been taking things from their master's homes to hire bones with. The people were dreadfully annoyed. They closed up our bone shop and put us out of business. But they never discovered that the money we had made had gone to the beggar. Of course, we hadn't made enough to keep him in comfort for long and very soon he had to become a pavement artist again and was as badly off as he had ever been. And the pictures he drew were worse if anything than before. Now it happened one day when I was wondering around the country outside the town that I met a conceited spaniel. He passed me with his nose turned up in the air in such a cheeky manner that I said to him, I said, What makes you so stuck up? My master has been ordered to paint the portrait of a prince, he said, putting on no end of elegance. Who is your master? I said. Anybody would think you were going to paint the portrait yourself. My master is a very famous artist, said he. What's his name? I asked. George Moorland, said the spaniel. George Moorland, I cried. Is he in these parts now? Yes, said the spaniel. We are staying at the Royal George. My master is painting some pictures of the country and next week he is going back to London to commence on the portrait of the prince. Now it happened that I had met this George Moorland, who was and still is, perhaps the most famous painter of form life pictures the world has ever known. I am proud to be able to say that I knew him. He was especially good at painting horses and stables, pigs and sties, roosters and dogs hanging around kitchen doors and things like that. So without letting the spaniel see that I was following him, I went after him to see where he was going. He led me to a lonely old farm out on the hills, and there, concealing myself in some bushes, I watched the great Moorland painting one of his famous form scenes. Presently he laid down his paintbrush and butter to himself. I need a dog by the watering trough there to fill out the picture. I wonder if I could get that fool's spaniel to lie still for five minutes. His spaniel spot came up to him, and George, leaving his painting for a moment, laced the spaniel beside the watering trough and flattened him out and told him to keep still. I could see that George's idea was to have him look as though he were asleep in the sun. George simply loved to paint animals asleep in the sun. Well, that blockhead of a spaniel never kept still one minute. First he was snapping at the flies that bit his tail, then he was scratching his ear, then barking at the cat. Never still. And of course, George couldn't paint him at all, and at last he got so angry he threw the paintbrush at him. Then an idea came to me, one of the best ideas I ever had. I left the bushes and came trotting up to George, wagging my tail. And how I thrill with pride as the great Moorland recognized me, for my new, he had met me only once before, back in the autumn of 1802. Why, it's jib, he cried. Good dog, come here. You're the very fellow I want. Then, while he gathered up the things he had thrown at the spaniel, he went on talking to me. The way people do talk to dogs, you know, of course he didn't expect me to understand what he said, but I did, every word. I want you to come over here by the trough, Jip, said he. All you've got to do is to keep still. You can go to sleep if you like, but don't move or fidget for ten minutes. Think you can do that? And he led me over to the trough where I lay down and kept perfectly still while he painted me into the picture. That picture now hangs in the National Gallery. It's called Evening on the Farm. Hundreds of people go to see it every year, but none of them know that the smart-looking dog sleeping beneath the watering trough is none other than myself, except the doctor whom I took in to see it one day when we were up in London shopping. Well, now as I told you, I had an idea in all this. I hoped that if I did something for George Moreland, perhaps I could get him to do something for me. But of course, with him not knowing dog talk, it was a bit difficult to make him understand. However, while he was packing up his painting things, I disappeared for a while, just as though I was going away. Then I came rushing back to him in a great state of excitement, barking, trying to show him something was wrong and that I wanted him to follow me. What's the matter, Jip, said he, house on fire or something? Then I barked some more and ran a little way in the direction of the town. Looking back at him to show him, I wanted him to come with me. What ails the dog, he murmured to himself. Can't be anybody drowning because there's no river near. Oh, all right, Jip, I'll come. Wait a second till I get these brushes cleaned. Then I led him into the town. On the way there, every once in a while, he would say to himself, I wonder what can be the matter. Something's wrong, that's sure, or the dog wouldn't carry on so. I took him down the main street of the town till we came to the place where the beggar had his pictures. And as soon as George saw the pictures, he knew what was wrong. Heaven preserve us, he cried. What a dreadful exhibition! No wonder the dog was excited. Well it happened that as we came up, the one-legged beggar with his own dog beside him, was at work on a new drawing. He was sitting on the pavement making a picture on canvas with the piece of chalk of a cat drinking milk. Now, my idea was that the great Morland, who no matter what people say about him, was always a most kind-hearted man, should make some good pictures for the beggar to show instead of the dreadful messes that he made himself. And my plan worked. Man alive, said George, pointing to the picture the beggar was doing. A cat's spine doesn't curve that way. Here, give me the chalk and let me do it. Then rubbing out the whole picture, George Morland re-drew it in his way. And it was so lifelike you could nearly hear the cat lapping up the milk. My! I wish I could draw that way, said the beggar. And so quick and easy you do it like it was nothing at all. Well, it comes easy, said George. Maybe there's not so much credit in it for that. But tell me, do you make much money at this game? Awful little, said the beggar. I've taken only two pence the whole day. I suppose the truth is I don't draw good enough. I watched Morland's face as the beggar said this. And the expression that came into it told me I had not brought the great man here in vain. Look here, he said to the beggar. Would you like me to re-draw all your pictures for you? Of course those done on the pavement you couldn't sell, but we can rub them out. And I've got some spare canvases in my satchel here. Maybe you could sell a few. I can sell pictures in London any day in the week, but I've never been a pavement artist before. It would be rather a lark to see what happens. Then Morland, all busy and excited like a schoolboy, took the beggar's chalk pictures from against the wall and, rubbing them out, did them over the way they should be done. He got so occupied with this that he didn't notice that a whole crowd of people was gathering around watching. His work was so fine that the people were spellbound with the beauty of the cats and dogs and cows and horses that he drew. And they began asking one another in Whispers who the stranger could be who was doing the pavement artist pictures for him. The crowd grew bigger and bigger, and presently some one among the people who had seen Morland's pictures before recognized the work of the great artist. And then Whispers went through the crowd. It's Morland, the great Morland himself. And somebody went off and told a picture dealer, that is the man who buys and sells pictures, who had a shop in the high street that George Morland was drawing in the market place for a lame beggar. And the dealer came down, and the mayor came down, and all the rich folk and poor folk. So when the whole town was gathered around, the people began offering to buy these pictures, asking the beggar how much he wanted for them. The old duffer was going to sell them at six pence apiece, but Morland whispered to him, Twenty guineas, don't sell a blessed one under twenty guineas, you'll get it. And sure enough, the dealer and a few of the richer town folk bought the whole lot at twenty guineas apiece. And when I went home that night, I felt I had done a good day's work. For my friend's master, the one-legged beggar was now rich enough to live in comfort for the rest of his life. All the animals had now told a story except Tutu the owl and the push-me-pull you. And the following night, a Friday, it was agreed that they should toss a coin, the doctor's penny, that had a hole through it, to see which of these two should tell a tale. If the penny came down heads it was to be the push-me-pull you, and if it came down tails it was to be Tutu's turn. The doctor spun the coin, and it came down tails. All right, said Tutu, then that makes it my turn, I suppose. I will tell you a story of the time, the only time in my life, that I was taken for a fairy, fancy me a fairy, chuckled a little round owl. Well, this is how it happened. One October day toward evening I was wandering through the woods. There was a wintery tang in the air, and the small, furred animals were busy among the dry rustling leaves, gathering nuts and seeds for food against the coming snow. I was out after shoemice myself, a delicacy I was extremely fond of at that time, and while they were busy foraging they made easy hunting. In my travels through the woods I heard children's voices and the barking of a dog. Usually I would have gone further into the forest away from such sounds, but in my young days I was a curious bird, and my curiosity often led me into many adventures. So, instead of flying away, I went toward the noises I heard, moving cautiously from tree to tree so that I could see without being seen. Presently I came upon a children's picnic, several boys and girls having supper in a grove of oak trees. One boy, much larger than the rest, was teasing a dog, and two other children, a small girl and a small boy, were objecting to his cruelty and begging him to stop. The bully wouldn't stop, and soon the small boy and girl set upon him with their fists and feet and gave him a fine drubbing, which greatly surprised him. The dog then ran off home and presently the small boy and girl, I found out afterwards they were brother and sister, wandered off from the rest of the picnic-ing party to look for mushrooms. I had admired their spirit greatly in punishing a boy so much bigger than they were, and when they wandered off by themselves, again out of curiosity, I followed them. Well, they traveled quite a distance for such small folk, and presently the sunset and darkness began to creep over the woods. Then the children thought to join their friends again and started back, but being poor woodsmen, they took the wrong direction. It grew darker still, of course, as time went on, and soon the youngsters were tumbling and stumbling over routes they could not see and getting pretty thoroughly lost and tired. All this time I was following them secretly and noiselessly overhead. At last the children sat down, and the little girl said, Really? We're lost. Whatever shall we do? Night is coming on, and I'm so afraid of the dark. So am I, said the boy. Ever since Aunt Emily told us that spooky story of the bogey and the cupboard I've been scared to death of the dark? Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Of course you must realize that was the first time I had ever heard of anyones being afraid of the dark. It sounds ridiculous enough to all of you, I suppose, but to me, who had always preferred the cool calm darkness to the glaring vulgar daylight, it seemed then an almost unbelievable thing that anyone could be afraid merely because the sun had gone to bed. Now some people have an idea that bats and owls can see in the dark because we have some peculiar kind of eyes. It's not so. Procure ears we have, but not eyes. We can see in the dark because we practice it. It's all a matter of practice. The same as the piano or anything else. We get up when other people go to bed and go to bed when other people get up because we prefer the dark, and you'd be surprised how much nicer it is when you get used to it. Of course, we owls are specially trained by our mothers and fathers to see on very dark nights when we are quite young, so it comes easier to us. But anybody can do it, to a certain extent, if they only practice. Well, to return to the children. There they were, all fussed and worried and scared, sitting on the ground, weeping and wondering what they could do. Then, remembering the dog and knowing that they were kind to animals, I thought I would try to help them. So I popped across into the tree over their heads and said, in the kindliest, gentlest sort of voice, to it, to who? Which means in our language, as you know, it's a fine night. How are you? Then you should have seen those poor children jump. Oh, said the little girl clutching her brother around the neck. What was that, a smoke? I don't know, said the little boy. Gosh, but I'm scared. Isn't the dark awful? Then I made two or three more attempts to comfort them, talking kindly to them in our language. But they only grew scarier and scarier. First they thought I was a bogey, then an ogre, then a giant in the forest, me whom they could put in their pockets. Golly, but these human creatures do bring up their children in awful ignorance. If there ever was a bogey or a giant or an ogre in the forest or out of it, I'd yet to see one. Then I thought maybe if I went off through the woods too witting and too hoeing all the way, they would follow me. And I could then leave them out of the forest and show them the way home. So I tried it. But they didn't follow me, the stupid little beggars, thinking I was a witch or some evil nonsense of that kind. And all I got from my too witting and too hoeing all over the place was to wake up another owl some distance off who thought I was calling to him. So, since I wasn't doing the children any good, I went off to look up this other owl and see if he had any ideas to suggest. I found him sitting on the stump of a hollow birch, rubbing his eyes having just got out of bed. Good evening, says I. It's a fine night. It is, says he, only it's not dark enough. What were you making all that racket over there for just now, waking a fellow out of his sleep before it got properly dark? I'm sorry, I said. But there's a couple of children over in the hollow there who've got lost. The silly little duffers are sitting on the ground, balling because the daylight's gone and they don't know what to do. My gracious, says he. What a quaint notion. Why don't you lead them out of the woods? They probably live over in one of those farms near the crossroads. I've tried, I said, but they're so scared they won't follow me. They don't like my voice or something. They take me for a wicked ogre and all that sort of rot. Well, says he, then you'll have to give an imitation of some other kind of creature, one they're not scared of. Are you any good at imitations? Can you bark like a dog? No, I said. But I can make a noise like a cat. I learned that from an American cat bird that lived in a cage in the stable where I spent last summer. Fine, says he. Try that and see what happens. So I went back to the children and found them weeping harder than ever. Then, keeping myself well hidden down near the ground among the bushes, I went meow, meow. Real catlike. Oh, Willie, says the little girl to her brother. We're saved. Saved, mark you, when neither of the boobies was in the slightest danger. We're saved, says she. There's a toughy, our cat come for us. She'll show us the way home. Cats can always find their way home, can't they, Willie? Let's follow her. For a moment Tutu's plump sides shook with silent laughter as she recalled the scene he was describing. Then, says he, I went a little further off, still taking great care that I shouldn't be seen, and I meowed again. There she is, said the little girl. She's calling to us. Come along, Willie. Well, in that way, keeping ahead of them and calling like a cat, I finally led the children right out of the woods. They did a good deal of stumbling and the girl's long hair often got caught in the bushes, but I always waited for them if they were lagging behind. At last, when we gained the open fields, we saw three houses on the skyline, and the middle one was all lighted up, and people with lanterns were running around it hunting in all directions. When I brought the children right up to this house, their mother and father made a tremendous fuss weeping over them, as though they'd been saved from some terrible danger. In my opinion, grown-up humans are even more stupid than the young ones. You think, from the way that mother and father carried on, that those children had been wrecked on a desert island or something instead of spending a couple of hours in the pleasant woods? However, did you find your way, Willie? asked the mother, wiping away her tears and smiling all over. Tuffy brought us home, says the little girl. She came out afterwards and let us here by going ahead of us and meowing. Tuffy, says the mother, puzzled. Why, the cat's asleep in the parlor in front of the fire, been there all evening. Well, it was some cat, says the boy. He must be right around here somewhere because he let us almost up to the door. Then the father swings his lantern around, looking for our cat, and before I had time to hop away, he throws the light full on me sitting on a sage-bush. Why, it's an owl, cries the little girl. Meow, says I, just to show off. Toot, toot, meow, meow. And with a farewell flip of the wing, I disappeared into the night over the barn roof. But as I left, I heard the little girl saying in tremendous excitement, oh, mother, a fairy. It was a fairy that brought us home. It must have been disguised as an owl. At last, at last I've seen a fairy. Well, that's the first and last time I ever expect to be taken for a fairy. But I got to know those children quite well. They were a real nice couple of kitties, even if the little girl did keep on insisting that I was a fairy in the skies. I used to hang around their barn nights looking for mice and rats. But if those youngsters ever caught sight of me, they'd follow me everywhere. After bringing them safely home that evening, I could have let them across the Sahara desert and they'd follow, certain in their minds that I was the best of all good fairies and would keep them out of harm. They used to bring me mutton chops and shrimps, and all but the best tidbits from their parents' table. And I lived like a fighting cock. Got so fat and lazy I couldn't have caught a mouse on crutches. They were never afraid of the dark again, because, you see, as I said to the doctor one day when we were talking over the multiplication tables and other philosophies, fear is usually ignorance. Once you know a thing, you're no longer afraid of it. And those youngsters got to know the dark, and then they saw, of course, that it was just as harmless as the day. I used to take them out into the woods at night and across the hills, and they got to love it. Like the adventure, you know. And thinking it would be a good thing if some humans anyway had sensed enough to travel without sunlight, I taught them how to see in the dark. They soon got on to it, when they saw how I always shaded my eyes in the light of a lantern, so as not to get the habit of strong light. Well, those young ones became real expert, not so good as an owl or a bat, of course, but quite good at seeing in the dark for anyone who has not been brought up that way. It came in handy for them, too. That part of the country got flooded one spring time in the middle of the night, and there wasn't a dry, maturated light to be had anywhere. Then those children, who had traveled all that country's scores of times in the dark with me, saved a great many lives. They acted as guides, you understand, and took the people to safety because they knew how to use their eyes, and the others didn't. Tutu yawned and blinked up sleepily at the lantern hanging above his head. Seeing in the dark, he ended, is all a matter of practice, same as the piano or anything else. And now it came at last to the push me pull use turn for a story. He was very shy and modest, and when the animals asked him the following night, he said in his very well bred manner, I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you, but I'm afraid I don't know any stories, at least none good enough to entertain you with. Oh, come on, push, said Jip, don't be so bashful. We've all told one. You don't mean to say you've lived all your life in the African jungle without seeing any adventures? There must be lots of yarns, you could tell us. But I've mostly led such a quiet life, you see, said the push me pull you. Our people have always kept very much to themselves. We mind our own business and don't like getting mixed up in scandals and rows and adventures. Oh, just think a minute, said Dab-Dab. Something will come to you. Don't pester him, she whispered to the others. Just leave him alone and let him think. He's got two heads to think with, you know. Something will come to him, but don't get him embarrassed, whatever you do. For a moment or two, the push me pull you, pawed the deck of the veranda with his dainty hoofs, as if wrapped in deep thought. Then, looking up with one of his heads, he began speaking in a quiet voice while the other coughed apologetically below the level of the tea table. Uh, this isn't much of a story, not really, but perhaps it will serve to pass the time. I will tell you about the Badamoshi Ostrich hunters. You must know, then, that the black peoples have various methods of hunting wild animals, and the way they go about it depends on the kind of animal they mean to hunt. For example, if they want giraffes, they dig deep holes and cover them up with light bows and grass. Next, they wait until the giraffe comes along and walks over the hole and falls in. Then they run up and catch him. For certain kinds of rather stupid deer, they make a little screen of branches and leaves about the size of a man, and the hunter, holding the screen in front of him like a shield, creep slowly forward until he is close to the deer, and then fires his spear or arrow. Of course, the stupid deer thinks the moving leaves are just trees being swayed by the wind and takes very little notice if the hunter is careful to approach quietly enough. They have various other dodges, more or less underhanded and deceitful for getting game. But the one invented by the Badamoshi Ostrich hunters was perhaps the meanest of them all. Briefly, this was it. Ostriches, you know, usually go about in small herds, like cattle, and they're rather stupid. You've heard the story about their sticking their heads in the sand when a man comes along, thinking that because they can't see the man, the man can't see them. That doesn't speak very well for their intelligence, does it? No. Very well, then. Now, in the Badamoshi country there wasn't much sand for the Ostriches to stick their heads in, which in a way was a good thing for them, because there, when a man came along, they ran away instead. I supposed to look for sand. Anyhow, the running away saved their lives. So the hunters of Badamoshi had to think out some dodge of coming near enough to the Ostriches to get among the herd and kill them. And the way they thought out was quite clever. As a matter of fact, I by chance came upon a group of these hunters in the woods one day, practicing their new trick. They had the skin of an Ostrich and were taking it in turns, putting it over their heads and trying to walk and look like a real Ostrich, holding up the long neck with a stick. Keeping myself concealed, I watched them and saw at once what their game was. They meant to disguise themselves as Ostriches and walk among the herd and kill them with axes, which they had hidden inside the skin. Now the Ostriches of those parts were great friends of mine, had been ever since they put the Badamoshi's tennis court out of business. The chief of the tribe some years before, finding a beautiful meadow of elephant grass, which happened to be my favorite grazing ground, had the fine hay all burnt off and made the place into a tennis court. He had seen the white men playing that game and thought he'd like to play it too. But the Ostriches took the tennis balls for Apple and ate them, you know, they're dreadfully unparticular about their food. Yes, they used to sneak around in the jungles on the edge of the tennis court and whenever a ball was knocked out of the court, they'd run off with it and swallow it. By eating up all the chief's tennis balls in this way, they put the tennis court out of business and my beautiful grazing ground soon grew its long grass again. And I came back to it. That is how the Ostriches happened to be friends of mine. So seeing they were threatened by a secret danger, I went off and told the leader of the herd about it. He was frightfully stupid and I had the hardest work to getting it into his head. Now remember, I said as I was leaving, you can easily tell the hunter when he comes among your herd from the color and shape of his legs. Ostriches legs are a sort of gray as you see from your own and the hunter's legs are black and thicker. You see the skin which the bottomoshes were going to use did not cover the hunter's legs. Now, I said, you must tell all your birds when they see a black-legged Ostrich trying to make friends with them to set on him and give him a good hiding. That will teach the bottomoshi hunter's a lesson. Well, you'd think after that everything should have gone smoothly, but I had not counted on the extraordinary stupidity of the Ostriches. The leader, going home that night, stepped into some marshy, bulky place and got his stupid long legs all over black mud caked with it thick. Then before he went to bed he gave all the Ostriches the careful instructions which I had given him. The next morning he was late in getting up and the herd was out ahead of him feeding in a pleasant place on the hillside. Then the numb skull of a leader, the stupidest cock Ostrich of them all, without bothering to brush the black mud off his legs which he has stepped into the night before, comes stalking out into the open space like a king expecting a grand reception. And he got a grand reception to the Ignoramus. As soon as the others saw his black legs they passed the word around quickly and at a given signal they set on the poor leader and nearly beat the life out of him. The Badamoshi, who had not yet appeared at all, arrived upon the scene at this moment and the silly Ostriches were so busy beating their leader whom they took for a hunter in disguise that the black men came right up to them and would have caught the whole lot if I hadn't shouted in time to warn them of their danger. So after that I saw that if I wanted to save my good but foolish friends from destruction I had better do something on my own account. And this was what I thought I'd do. When the Badamoshi hunters were asleep I would go and take that Ostrich's skin, the only one they had, away from them and that would be the end of their grand new hunting trick. So in the dead of night I crept out of the jungle and came to the place where the hunters huts were. I had to come up from the leverage side because I didn't want to have the dogs get my scent on the wind. I was more afraid of the hunters dogs you see than I was of the hunters themselves. From the men I could escape quite easily being much swifter than they were. But dogs, with their sense of smell, are much harder to get away from even when you can reach the cover of the jungle. Well then coming up from the leverage side I started searching around the huts for the Ostrich's skin. At first I couldn't find it anywhere and I began to think they must have hidden it someplace. Now the Badamoshi, like a good many black races, when they go to bed for the night always leave one of their number outside the huts to watch and keep guard. I could see this night watchman at the end of the row of huts and of course I was careful not to let him see me. But after spending some time hunting for this Ostrich's skin I noticed that the watchman had not moved at all but stayed in the same place squatting on a stool. Then I guessed he had probably fallen asleep. So I moved closer and I found to my horror that he was wearing the Ostrich's skin as a blanket for the night was cool. How to get it without waking him was now the problem. On tiptoe, hardly breathing, I went up and began to dry gently off his shoulders. But the wretched man had tucked part of it under him and I couldn't get it free while he was sitting down. Then I was in despair and I almost gave up. But thinking of the fate that surely awaited my poor foolish friends if I didn't get that skin I decided on desperate measures. Suddenly and swiftly I jabbed the watchman in a tender spot with one of my horns. With an ouch you could hear a mile off he sprang in the air. Then snatching the bird's skin from under him I sped off into the jungle while the bottom moshi, their wives, the dogs, and the whole village woke up in an uproar and came after me like a pack of wolves. Well, the push me pull you side as he balanced his graceful body to the slight rolling of the houseboat. I hope never again to have such a race for my life as I had that night. Cold shivers run down my spine still whenever I think of it. The barking of the dogs and the shouting of the men and the shrieking of the women and the crashing of the underbrushes my pursuers came tearing through the jungle hot upon my trail. It was a river that saved me. The rainy season was on and the streams were in flood. Panting with terror and fatigue I reached the banks of a swirling torrent. It was fully twenty-five feet wide. The water was simply raging down it. To try and swim it would be madness, looking back where I could see and hear my pursuers close upon my heels. Again I had to take desperate measures, drying back a little to get space for a run and still clutching that wretched ostrich skin firmly in my mouth. I rushed at the river at full speed and leaped as I have never leaped in my life clear across to the further bank. As I came down in a heap I realized I had only been just in time for my enemies had already come up to the river on the side that I had left. Shaking their fists at me in the moonlight they were trying to find a way to get across to me. The dogs, eagerest of all, tried some of them to swim, but the swift and raging waters swept them down the stream like corks and the hunters were afraid to follow their example. With a thrill of triumph I dropped the precious ostrich skin before their very eyes into the swirling river where it quickly disappeared from view. A howl of rage went up from the Balamoshi. Then I did something I've been very sorry for all my life. You know how my people have always insisted on good manners and politeness. Well, I blushed to recall it. In the excitement of the moment I stuck out both my tongues at the baffled foe across the river. There was no excuse for it. There never is for deliberate rudeness. But it was only moonlight and I trust the Balamoshi didn't see it. Well, though I was safe for the present, my troubles were not over by any means. For some time the Balamoshi now left the ostriches alone and turned their whole attention to hunting me. They badgered my life out. As soon as I had moved from one part of the country to get away from their pestering, they'd find out where I was and pursue me there. They laid traps for me. They set pitfalls. They sent the dogs after me. And although I managed for a whole year to keep away from them, the constant strain was very wearing. Now the Balamoshi, like most savage peoples, are very superstitious. And they are terribly afraid, in the way that Tutu was speaking of last night, of anything that they can't understand. Nearly everything they can't understand they think is a devil. Well, after I had been hunted and worried for a long time, I thought I would take a leaf out of their own book so to speak and play something like the same trick on them as they had tried to play on the ostriches. With this idea in mind, I set about finding some means to disguise myself. One day, passing by a tree, I found a skin of a wild ox spread out by some huntsman to dry. This I decided was just the thing I wanted. I pulled it down and lowering one of my heads. I laid one pair of my horns flat along my back, like this, and drew the cowhide over myself so that only one of my heads could be seen. It changed my appearance completely. Moving through the long grass, I looked like some ordinary kind of deer. So disguised in this manner, I sauntered out into an open meadow and gazed around till my precious monomoshies should appear, which they very shortly did. I saw them, though they didn't know it, creeping about among the trees on the edge of the meadow, trying to get near without scaring me. Now, their method of hunting small deer is this. They get up into a tree and lie along a lower branch, keeping very still. And when the deer passes under the tree, they drop down upon his hindquarters and fell him to the ground. So, presently, picking out the tree where I had seen the chief himself go and hide, I browsed along underneath it, pretending I suspected nothing at all. Then, when the chief dropped on what he thought was my hindquarters, I struck upward with my other horns, hidden under the cowhide, and gave him a jab he will remember the rest of his days. With a howl of superstitious fright, he called out to his men that he had been struck by the devil, and they all ran across the country like wildfire, and I was never hunted or bothered by them again. Everybody had now told a tale, and the Arctic Monthly's Prize story competition was declared closed. The first number of the first animals magazine ever printed was, shortly after that, issued and circulated by Swallow Mail to the inhabitants of the frozen north. It was a great success. Letters of thanks invoked on the competition began pouring in from seals and sea lions and caribou, and all manner of polar creatures. Tutu, the mathematician, became editor. Dab-dab ran the Mother's and Baby's page, while Gub-Gub wrote the gardening notes and the pure foods column, and the Arctic Monthly continued to bring happiness to homes and dens and icebergs as long as the doctor's post office existed. End of Part 3, Chapter 8. Part 4, Chapter 1 of Dr. Doolittle's Post Office by Hugh Lofting This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 4, Chapter 1, Parcel Post One day, Gub-Gub came to the doctor and said, Doctor, why don't you start a Parcel Post? Great heavens, Gub-Gub, the doctor exclaimed. Don't you think I'm busy enough already? What do you want a Parcel Post for? I'll bet it's something to do with food, said Tutu, who was sitting on the stool next to the doctor's, adding up figures. Well, said Gub-Gub, I was thinking of sending to England for some fresh vegetables. There you are, said Tutu, he has a vegetable mind. But parcels would be too heavy for the birds to carry, Gub-Gub, said the doctor, except perhaps the small parcels by the bigger birds. Yes, I know I had thought of that, said the pig. But this month the Brussels Sprouts will be coming into season in England. They're my favourite vegetable, you know, after parsnips. And I hear that a special kind of thrushes will be leaving England next week to come to Africa. It wouldn't be too much to ask them to bring a single Brussels Sprout a piece, would it? There will be hundreds of birds in the flight, and if they each brought a Sprout, we'd have enough to last us for months. I haven't tasted any fresh English vegetables since last autumn, doctor. And I'm so sick of these yams and okras and African rubbish. All right, Gub-Gub, said the doctor, I'll see what I can do. We will send a letter to England by the next mail going out and ask the thrushes to bring you your Brussels Sprouts. Well, that was how still another department, the parcel post, was added to the foreign mail's office at Fentipo. Gub-Gub Sprouts arrived. Tons of them be, because this was a very big flight of birds. And after that, many kinds of animals came to the doctor and asked him to send for foreign foods for them when their own ran short. In this way, too, bringing seeds and plants from other lands by birds, the doctor tried quite a number of experiments in planting and what is called acclimatizing fruits and vegetables and even flowers. And very soon, he had an old-fashioned window box garden on the houseboat post office, blooming with geraniums and marigolds and zinnias, raised from the seeds and cuttings his birds brought him from England. And that is why many of the same vegetables that grow in England can still be found in a wild state in Africa. They came there through Gub-Gub's passion for the foods he had been brought up on. A little while after that, by using the larger birds to carry packages, a regular parcel post every two months was put at the service of the Phantippians and alarm clocks and all sorts of things from England were sent for. King Coco even sent for a new bicycle. It was brought over in pieces, two storks carrying a wheel each, and eagled the frame and crows the smaller parts like pedals, the spanners, and the oil can. When they started to put it together again in the post office, a part, one of the nuts, was found to be missing. But that was not the fault of the parcel post. It had been left out by the makers who shipped it from Birmingham. But the doctor wrote a letter of complaint by the next mail, and a new nut was sent right away. Then the king rode triumphantly through the streets of Phantippo on his new bicycle, and a public holiday was held in honour of the occasion. And he gave his old bicycle to his brother, Prince Wallabala, and the parcel post, which had really been started by Gub-Gub, was declared a great success. Some weeks later, the doctor received this letter from a former in Lincolnshire. Dear sir, thank you for your excellent weather reports. By their help, I managed to raise the finest crop of Brussels sprouts this year ever seen in Lincolnshire. But the night before I was going to pick them from market, they disappeared from my fields every blessed one of them. How I don't know. Maybe you could give me some advice about this. Your obedient servant Nicholas Skrognans. Great heavens, said the doctor, I wonder what happened to them. Gub-Gub ate them, said Tutu. Those are the sprouts, no doubt that the thrush is brought here. Dear me, said the doctor, that's too bad. Well, I daresay I'll find some way to pay the farmer back. For a long time, Dab-Dab, the motherly housekeeper, had been trying to get the doctor to take a holiday from his post office business. You know, doctor, said she, you're going to get sick, that's what's going to happen to you, as sure as you're alive. No man can work the way you've been doing for the last few months and not pay for it. Now you've got the post office going properly. Why don't you hand it over to the king's postman to run and give yourself a rest. And anyway, aren't you ever going back to Puttleby? Oh yes, said John Doolittle, all in good time, Dab-Dab. But you must take a holiday, the doc insisted. Get away from the post office for a while, go up to the coast in a canoe for a change of air, if you won't go home. Well, the doctor kept saying that he would go, but he never did, until something happened in the natural history line of great enough importance to take him from his post office work. This is how it came about. One day the doctor was opening the mail address to him when he came upon a package about the size and shape of a large egg. He undid the outer wrapper which was made of seaweed. Inside he found a letter and a pair of oyster shells tied together like a box. Somewhat puzzled the doctor first read the letter, while Dab-Dab, who was still badgering him about taking a holiday, looked over his shoulder. The letter said, Dear doctor, I am sending you enclosed some pretty pebbles which I found the other day while cracking open oysters. I never saw pebbles of this color before, though I live by the seashore and have been opening shellfish all my life. My husband says they're oyster eggs, but I don't believe it. Would you please tell me what they are? And be careful to send them back, because my children use them as playthings and I have promised them they shall have them to keep. Then the doctor put down the letter end, taking his penknife, cut the seaweed strings that neatly tie the oyster shells together. And when he opened the shells, he gave a gasp of astonishment. Oh, Dab-Dab, he cried. How beautiful! Look, look! Pearls whispered Dab-Dab in an odd voice, gazing down into the doctor's palm. Pink pearls. My, aren't they handsome? murmured the doctor. And did you ever see such large ones? Each one of those pearls, Dab-Dab, is worth a fortune. Who the dickens is this that sent them to me anyhow? And he turned to the letter again. It's from a spoon-bill, said Dab-Dab. I know their writing. They are a sort of cross between a curlew and a snipe. They like messing around lonely seacoast places, hunting for shellfish and sea worms and stuff like that. Well, where is it written from? asked the doctor. What do you make that address out to be at the top of the page there? Dab-Dab screwed up her eyes and peered at it closely. It looks to me, she said, like the harmattan rocks. Where is that? asked the doctor. I have no idea, said Dab-Dab, but Speedy will know. And she went off to fetch the skimmer. Speedy said yes, he knew. The harmattan rocks were a group of small islands off the coast of West Africa, about sixty miles further to the northward. That's curious, said the doctor. I wouldn't have been so surprised if they had come from the South Sea Islands. But it is rather unusual to find pearls of any size or beauty in these waters. Well, these must be sent back to the Spoonbills children by registered parcel post, of course. Though to tell you the truth, I hate to part with them. They are so lovely. They can't go before tomorrow, anyway. I wonder where I can keep them in the meantime. One has to be frightfully careful with gems as valuable as these. You had better not tell anyone about them, Dab-Dab, except Jip the Watchman and the Push-Me-Pull-You. They must take it in turns to mount guard at the door all night. Men will do all sorts of things for pearls. We'll keep it a secret and send them right back first thing tomorrow morning. Even while the doctor was speaking, he noticed a shadow fall across the desk at which he was standing. He looked up. And there, at the information window, was the ugliest man's face he had ever seen, staring in at the beautiful pearls that still lay on the palm of his hand. The doctor, annoyed and embarrassed, forgot for the first time in his post off his career to be polite. What do you want? he asked, thrusting the pearls into his pocket. I want a postal order for ten shillings, said the man. I am going to send some money to my sick wife. The doctor made out the postal order and took the money which the man handed through the window. Here you are, he said. Then the man left the post office and the doctor watched him go. That was a queer-looking customer, wasn't he? he said to Dab-Dab. He was indeed, said the duck. I'm not surprised his wife is sick if she has a husband with a face like that. I wonder who he is, said John Doolittle. It isn't often we have white men coming in here. I don't much like the looks of him. The following day the pearls were wrapped up again the way they had arrived, and after a letter had been written by the doctor, explaining to the spoon-bill what the pebbles really were, they were sent off by registered parcel-post to the Hormatan Rocks. The bird chosen to take the package happened to be one of the thrushes that had brought the Brussels sprouts from England. These birds were still staying in the neighborhood. And though a thrush was a somewhat small bird to carry parcel-post, the package was a very little one, and the doctor had nobody else to send. So, after explaining to the thrush that registered males should be guarded very carefully by postman, the doctor sent the pearls off. Then he went to call on the king, as he did every so often. And in the course of conversation John Doolittle asked his majesty if he knew who the white stranger might be that had called at the houseboat for a postal order. After he had listened to the description of the man's cross-eyed, ugly face, the king said, yes, he knew him very well. He was a pearl fisherman who spent most of his time in the Pacific Ocean where fishing for pearls was more common. But the king said he often came hanging around these parts where he was known to be a great villain who would do anything to get pearls or money. Jack Wilkins was his name. The doctor on hearing this felt glad that he had already got the pink pearls safely off to their owner by registered male. Then he told the king that he hoped shortly to take a holiday because he was overworked and needed a rest. The king asked where he was going and the doctor said he thought he would take a week's canoe trip up the coast toward the Armattan Rocks. Well, said his majesty, if you were going in that direction you might call on an old friend of mine, chief Nyam Nyam. He owns the country in those parts and the Armattan Rocks themselves. He and his people are frightfully poor though, but he is honest and I think you will like him. All right, said the doctor, I'll call on him with your compliments. The next day, leaving speedy, cheap side, and jib in charge of the post office, the doctor got into his canoe with dab-dab and paddled off to take his holiday. On the way out he noticed a schooner, the ship of Jack Wilkins, the pearl fisherman, an anchor near the entrance to Fantipo Harbor. Toward evening the doctor arrived at a small settlement of Straw Huts, the village of chief Nyam Nyam. Calling on the chief with an introduction from King Coco, the doctor was well received. He found, however, that the country over which this chief ruled was indeed a very poor state. For years powerful neighbors on either side had made war on the old chief and robbed him of his best farming lands, till now his people were crowded onto a narrow strip of rocky shore, where very little food could be grown. The doctor was particularly distressed by the thinness of the few chickens pecking about in the streets. They reminded him of old broken down cab horses, he said. While he was talking to the chief, who seemed to be a kindly old man, speedy swept into the chief's hut in a great state of excitement. Doctor, he cried, the mail has been robbed. The thrush has come back to the post office and says his package was taken from him on the way. The pearls are gone. End of part four, chapter one. Part four, chapter two of Dr. Doolittle's post office, by Hugh Lofting. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part four, chapter two, the great mail robbery. Great heavens cried the doctor springing up. The pearls gone, and they were registered too. Yes, said speedy, here's the thrush himself. He'll tell you all about it. And going to the door, he called in the bird who had carried the registered package. Doctor, said the thrush, who was also very upset and breathless, it wasn't my fault. I never let those pearls out of my sight. I flew straight off for the Hormatin Rocks. But part of the trip I had to go over land if I took the shortest cut, and on the way I saw a sister of mine whom I hadn't met in a long time sitting in a tree in the jungle below me, and I thought it would be no harm if I went and talked to her a while. So I flew down, and she was very glad to see me. I couldn't talk properly with the string of the package in my mouth, so I put the parcel down on the bow of the tree behind me, right near me, you understand, and went on talking to my sister, and when I turned around to pick it up again, it was gone. Perhaps it slipped off the tree, said the doctor, and fell down into the underbrush. It couldn't have, said the thrush. I put it into a little hollow in the bark of the bow. It just couldn't have slipped or rolled. Somebody must have taken it. Dear me, said John Doolittle, robbing the males. That's a serious thing. I wonder who could have done it. I'll bet it's Jack Wilkins, the cross-eyed pearl fisherman, whispered Dab-Dab. A man with a face like that would steal anything. And he was the only one besides us, and Speedy, who knew the pearls were going through the males. It's Wilkins. Sure is you're alive. I wonder, said the doctor. They do say he is a most unscrupulous customer. Well, there's nothing for it, I suppose, but that I should paddle back to Fentipo right away and try to find him. The post office is responsible for the loss of registered male, and if Mr. Wilkins took those pearls, I'm going to get them back again. But after this, we will make it a post office rule that carriers of registered male may not talk to their sisters or anyone else while on duty. And in spite of the lateness of the hour, John Doolittle set a hasty farewell to chief Yem-Yem and started off by moonlight for Fentipo harbor. In the meantime, Speedy and the Thrush flew over the land by the shortcut to the post office. What are you going to say to Wilkins, doctor? Asked Dab-Dab as the canoe glided along over the moon, let's see. It's a pity you haven't got a pistol or something like that. He looks a desperate character, and he isn't likely to give up the pearls without a fight. I don't know what I'll say to him. I'll see when I get there, said John Doolittle. But we must be very careful how we approach so that he doesn't see us coming. If he should pull up his anchor and sail away, we would never be able to overtake him by canoe. I tell you what, doctor, said Dab-Dab. Let me fly ahead and do a little spying on the enemy. Then I'll come back and tell you anything I can find out. Maybe he isn't on his schooner at all at present, and we ought to be hunting him somewhere else. All right, said the doctor, do that. It will take me another four hours at least to reach Fentipo at this pace. So Dab-Dab flew away over the sea, and John Doolittle continued to paddle his canoe bravely forward. After about an hour, he heard a gentle sort of whispered quacking high overhead, and he knew that his faithful housekeeper was returning. Presently, with a swish of feathers, Dab-Dab settled down at his feet, and on her face was an expression which meant great news. He's there, doctor, and he's got the pearls all right, said she. I peeked through the window, and I saw him counting them out from one little box into another by the light of a candle. The villain grunted the doctor, putting on all the speed he could. Let's hope he doesn't get away before we reach Fentipo. Don was beginning to show before they came inside of the ship they sought. This made approaching the schooner without being seen extremely difficult. And the doctor went all the way around the island of No Man's Land, so as to come upon the ship from the other side, where he would not have to cross so large an open stretch of sea. Paddling very, very softly, he managed to get the canoe right under the bow of the ship. Then, tying his own craft so it wouldn't float away, he swarmed up the schooner's anchor chain and crept onto the boat on hands and knees. Full daylight had not yet come, and the light from a lamp could be seen palely shining up the stairs which led to the cabin. The doctor slid forward like a shadow, tiptoed his way down the stairs, and peered through the partly opened door. The cross-side Wilkins was still seated at the table, as Dab-Dab had described, counting pearls. Two other men were asleep in bunks around the room. The doctor swung open the door and jumped in. Instantly Wilkins sprang up from the table, snatched a pistol from his belt, and leveled it at the doctor's head. Move an inch and you're a dead man, he snarled. The doctor, taking it back for a moment, gazed at the pistol muzzle, wondering what to do next. Wilkins, without moving his eyes from the doctor for a second, closed the pearl box with his left hand and put it into his pocket. While he was doing this, however, Dab-Dab sneaked in under the table unseen by anyone, and suddenly she bit the pearl fisherman in the leg with her powerful beak. With a howl, Wilkins bent down to knock her off. Now's your chance, doctor, yelled the duck. And in the second, while the pistol was lowered, the doctor sprang onto the man's back, gripped him around the neck, and with a crash, the two of them went rolling on the floor of the cabin. Then a tremendous fight began. Over and over and over they rolled around the floor, upsetting things in all directions. Wilkins fighting to get his pistol hand free, the doctor struggling to keep it bound to his body. Dab-Dab hopping and flying and jumping and flapping to get a bite in on the enemy's nose whenever she saw a chance. At last, John Doolittle, who for his size was a very powerful wrestler, got the pearl fisherman in a grip of iron where he couldn't move at all. But just as the doctor was forcing the pistol out of his enemy's hand, one of the other men, who had been aroused by the noise of the fight, woke up. And leaning out of his bunk from behind the doctor's back, he hit him a tremendous blow on the head with a bottle. Stunned and senseless, John Doolittle fell over in the heap and lay still upon the floor. Then all three men sprang on him with ropes, and in a minute his arms and legs were tied and the fight was over. When he woke up, the doctor found himself lying at the bottom of his own canoe, with Dab-Dab tugging at the ropes which bound his wrists to get him free. Where is Wilkins? he asked in a dazed, sleepy kind of way. Gone, said Dab-Dab, and the pearls with him, the scoundrel, as soon as they had dumped you in the canoe they pulled up the anchor, hoisted sail, and got away. They were in an awful hurry and kept looking out to sea with telescopes and talking about the revenue cutter. I guess they are wanted by the government for a good many bad deeds. I never saw a tougher looking crowd of men in all my life. See, I've got the rope around your hands free now. You can do the rest better yourself. Does your head hurt much? It's a bit dizzy still, said the doctor, working at the rope about his ankles, but I'll be all right in a little. Presently, when he had undone the cord that tied his feet, John Doolittle stood up and gazed over the ocean, and there on the skyline he could just see the sails of Wilkins Schooner disappearing eastward. Villain was all he said between his clenched teeth. Hugh Lofting This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 4 Chapter 3 Pearls and Brussels Sprouts Disappointed and sad, Dab-Dab and the doctor started to paddle their way back. I think I'll stop in at the post office before I return to Chief Yamyam's country, said the doctor. There's nothing more I can do about the pearls, I suppose, but I'd like to see if everything else is going all right. Wilkins may get caught yet by the government, said Dab-Dab, and if he does, we might get the pearls back after all. Not much chance of that, I'm afraid, said John Doolittle. He will probably sell them the first chance he gets. That's all he wants them for, for the money they'll bring in, whereas the young Spoonbills appreciated their beauty. It's a shame they should lose them, and when they were in my care too. Well, it's no use crying over spilt milk. They're gone, that's all. As they were approaching the houseboat, they noticed a large number of canoes collected about it. Today was not one of the outgoing or incoming mail-days, and the doctor wondered what the excitement could be. Fastening up his own canoe, he went into the post office, and inside was quite a crowd. He made his way through it with Dab-Dab, and in the registered mail booth he found all the animals gathered around a small black squirrel. The little creature's legs were tied with post office red tape, and he seemed very frightened and miserable. Speedy and cheap side were mounting guard over him, one on each side. What's all this about? asked the doctor. We've caught the fellow who stole the pearl's doctor, said Speedy. And we've got the pearls too, cried Tutu. They're in the stamp drawer, and Jip is guarding them. But I don't understand, said John Doolittle. I thought Wilkins had made off with them. Those must have been some others stolen pearl's doctor, said Dab-Dab. Let's take a look at the one's Jip has. The doctor went and opened the stamp drawer, and there, inside, sure enough, were the three pink beauties he had sent by registered mail. How did you find them? he asked, turning to Speedy. Well, after you had set off in the canoe, said the skimmer, I and the thrush stopped on our way back here at the tree where he had lost the package. It was too dark then to hunt for it, so we roosted in the tree all night, intending to look in the morning. Just as dawn was breaking, we saw this wretched squirrel here, flirting about in the branches with an enormous pink pearl in his mouth. I had once pounced on him and held him down, while the thrush took the pearl away from him. Then we made him tell us where he had hidden the other two. And after we had got all three of them, we put the squirrel under a rest and brought him here. Dear me, said the doctor, looking at the miserable culprit who was all tied up with red tape, what made you steal the pearls? At first the squirrel seemed too frightened to speak, so the doctor took a pair of scissors and cut the bonds that held him. Why did you do it? he repeated. I thought they were brussel sprouts, said the squirrel timidly. A few weeks ago when I and my wife were sitting in a tree, we suddenly smelled the smell of brussel sprouts awful strong all about us. I and my wife were very fond of this vegetable, and we wondered where the smell was coming from. And then looking up, we saw thousands of thrushes passing overhead, carrying brussel sprouts in their mouths. We hoped they would stop so we could get a few, but they didn't. So we agreed that perhaps more would be coming over in a few days, and we arranged to stay around that same tree and wait. And sure enough, this morning, I saw one of these same thrushes, a light in the tree, carrying a package. I whispered to my wife, more brussel sprouts, let's bag this parcel while he's not looking. And bag it, I did. But when we opened it, we found nothing but these wretched G-jaws. I thought they might be some new kind of rock candy, and I was on my way to find a stone to crack them with. When this bird grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and arrested me, I didn't want the beastly pearls. Well, said the doctor, I'm sorry you've been put to such inconvenience. I'll have Dab-Dab carry you back to your family. But, you know, robbing the registered mail is a serious thing. If you want to some brussel sprouts, you should have written to me. After all, you can't blame the birds for putting you under arrest. Stolen fruits the sweetest, doctor, said cheap side, and if you had given him a ton of othouse grapes, he wouldn't have enjoyed them as much as something he pinched. I'd give him a couple of years' hard labor, if I was you, just to learn him to leave the males alone. Well, never mind, we'll forget it, said the doctor. It's only a boy's escapade. Boyish Phil's fix, growled a cheap side, is the father of a large family and a natural-born pickpocket. All squirrels are like that. Don't I know him in the city parks, with their mints and ways that the folks call cute. Cheekiest beggar that ever was. Pinch a crumb from under your nose and pop into an hole with it before you could get your breath. Boyish escapade. Come along, said Dab-Dab, picking the wretched culprit up in her big webbed feet. I'll take you back to the mainland. Now you can thank your lucky stars, that is the doctor who's in charge of this post office. It's the jail you really ought to go. Oh, and hurry back, Dab-Dab. The doctor called after her as she flapped her way through the open window and set off across the sea with her burden. I'm going to start right away for Chief Nyamyam's country as soon as you are ready. I'll take the pearls myself this time, he said to Speedy, and hand them over to the spoon-bill in person. We don't want any more accidents happening to them. About noon the doctor started out a second time upon his holiday trip, and as gub-gub, jip, and the white mouse begged to be taken along, the canoe was well loaded. They reached Nyamyam's village about six o'clock in the evening, and the old chief prepared a supper for his guests. There was very little to eat at it, however, and the doctor was again reminded how poor these people were. While talking with the old chief, the doctor found out that the worst enemy his country had was the kingdom of Dahomey. This big and powerful neighbor was, it seemed, always making war upon Chief Nyamyam, and cutting off parts of his land and making the people poorer still. Now the soldiers of Dahomey were Amazons, that is, they were women soldiers. And although they were women, they were very big and strong, and there were a terrible lot of them, so whenever they attacked the small country next to them, they easily won and took what they wanted. As it happened, they made an attack that night while the doctor was staying with the chief, and about ten o'clock everybody was awakened out of his sleep with cries of, war, war, the Amazons are here. There was terrible confusion, and until the moon had risen people were hitting and falling over one another everywhere in the darkness, not knowing friend from enemy. When it was possible to see, however, the doctor found that most of Chief Nyamyam's people had fled off into the jungle, and the Amazons in thousands were just going through the village taking anything they fancied. The doctor tried to argue with him, but they merely laughed at him. Then the white mouse who was watching the show from the doctor's shoulder whispered in his ear, if this is an army of women, doctor, I think I know of a way to deal with him. Women are terribly afraid of mice, you know. I'll just go off and collect a few in the village and see what we can do. So the white mouse went off and gathered an army of his own, about two hundred mice, which lived in the grass walls and floors of the huts. And then suddenly they attacked the Amazons and began nipping them in the legs with shrieks and howls. The fat women soldiers dropped the things they had been stealing and ran helter-skelter for home. And that was one time the famous Amazons of Dahomey didn't have it all their own way. The doctor told his pet he could be very proud of himself, for he was surely the only mouse in the world that ever won a war. End of Part 4, Chapter 3 Part 4, Chapter 4 of Dr. Doolittle's Post Office by Hugh Lofting This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Part 4, Chapter 4, Pearl Divers The next morning the doctor was up early. After a light breakfast it was impossible to get any other kind in that poverty-stricken country. He asked Yam Yam the way to the Hermatin Rocks. And the chief told him they were just beyond sight from here, about an hour and a half's paddle straight out into the ocean. So the doctor decided that he had better have a seabird to guide him, and Dab Dab went and got a curlew who was strolling about on the beach, doing nothing in particular. This bird said he knew the place quite well and would consider it an honor to act as a guide to John Doolittle. Then with Jip, Dab Dab, Gub Gub and the White Mouse, the doctor got into his canoe and started off for the Hermatin Rocks. It was a beautiful morning and they enjoyed the paddle, though Gub Gub came very near to upsetting the canoe more than once, leaning out to grab for passing seaweed, which he had noticed the curlew eating. Finally, for safety's sake, they made him lie down at the bottom of the canoe where he couldn't see anything. About eleven o'clock, a group of little rocky islands were sighted, which their guide said were the Hermatin Rocks. At this point in their journey, the mainland of Africa was just disappearing from view on the skyline behind them. The rocks they were coming to seemed to be the home of thousands of different kinds of seabirds. As the canoe drew near, gulls, terns, gannets, albatrosses, cormorants, oculets, petrels, wild ducks, even wild geese came out full of curiosity to examine the stranger. When they learned from the curlew that this quiet little fat man was none other than the great doctor Doolittle himself, they passed word back to the rocks, and soon the air about the canoe was simply thick with wings flashing in the sunlight. And the welcome to their home that the seabirds screeched to the doctor was so hearty and noisy you couldn't hear yourself speak. It was easy to see why this place had been chosen for a home by the seabirds. The shores all around were guarded by half-sunkin' rocks, on which the waves roared and broke dangerously. No ship was ever likely to come here to disturb the quiet life of the birds. Indeed, even with a light canoe that could go in shallow water the doctor would have had hard work to make a landing. But the welcoming birds guided him very skillfully around to the back of the biggest island where a bay with deep water formed a pretty sort of toy harbor. The doctor understood now why these islands had been left in the possession of the poor chief. No neighbors would consider them worth taking. Hard to approach, with very little soil in which crops could be grown, flat and open to all the winds and gales of heaven, barren and lonesome, they tempted none of the chief's enemies, and so for many, many years they remained the property of Yam-Yam and his people, though indeed they hardly ever visited them. But in the end the Hormatin rocks proved to be of greater value than all the rest of the lands this tribe had lost. Oh, I think this is an awful place, said Gub-Gub, as they got out of the canoe. Nothing but waves and rocks. What have you come here for, doctor? I hope to do a little pearl fishing, said John Doolittle, but first I must see the spoon-bill and give her this registered package. Dab-dab, would you please try to find her for me? With so many millions of seabirds around, myself I wouldn't know how to begin to look for her. All right, said Dab-dab, but it may take me a little time. There are several islands and quite a number of spoon-bills. I shall have to make inquiries and find out which one sent you the pearls. So Dab-dab went off upon her errand, and in the meantime the doctor talked and chatted with various seabird leaders, who had already made his acquaintance at the great conference in the Hollow of No Man's Land. These kept coming up to him, anxious to show off before their fellows the fact that they knew the great man personally, and once more the doctor's notebook was kept busy with new discoveries to be jotted down about the carriage of male by birds that live upon the sea. The birds, who at first followed the doctor and drove around the main island wherever he went, presently returned to their ordinary doings when the newness of his arrival had worn off. And after Dab-dab had come back from her hunt and told him the spoon-bill lived on one of the smaller islands, he got back into his canoe and paddled over to the rock she pointed out. Here the spoon-bill was waiting for him at the water's edge. She apologized for not coming in person to welcome him, but said she was afraid to leave her babies when there were sea eagles around. The little ones were with her, two scrubby, greasy youngsters who could walk but not fly. The doctor opened the package and gave them back their precious toys, and with squawks of the light they began playing marbles on the flat rocks with the enormous pink pearls. What charming children you have, said the doctor to the mother's spoon-bill, who was watching them proudly. I'm glad they got their plaything safely back. I wouldn't have had them lose them for anything. Yes, they are devoted to those pebbles, said the spoon-bill. By the way, were you able to tell me what they are? I found them as I wrote you inside an oyster. They are pearls, said the doctor, and worth a tremendous lot. Ladies in cities wear them around their necks. Oh, indeed, said the bird. And why don't the ladies in the country wear them too? I don't just know, said the doctor. I suppose because they're too costly. With any one of those pearls, you could buy a house and garden. Well, wouldn't you like to keep them thin, said the spoon-bill. I could get the children something else to play with, no doubt. Oh, no, said the doctor. Thank you. I have a house and garden. Yes, doctor, dab-dab put in. But you wouldn't be bound by a second one with the money you would get for the pearls. It would come in real handy for something else, you know. The baby spoon-bills want them, said John Dolittle. Why should I take them away from them? Balls of pink putty would suit them just as well, snorted dab-dab. Putty is poisonous, said the doctor. They appreciate the beauty of the pearls. Let them have them. But, he added to the mother's spoon-bill. If you know where any more are to be found, I should be glad to know. I don't, said she. I don't even know how these came to be in the possession of the oyster I ate. Pearls always grow in oysters, where they grow at all, said the doctor. But they are rare. This is the point that most interests me, the natural history of pearls. They are said to form around a grain of sand that gets into the oyster shell by accident. I had hoped that if you were in the habit of eating oysters, you could give me some information. I'm afraid I can't, said the spoon-bill. To tell you the truth, I got those oysters from a pile which some other bird had left on the rock here. He had eaten his fill, I suppose, and gone away. There are a good many left still. Let's go over to the pile and crack a few. Maybe they've all got pearls in them. So they went across to the other side of the little island and started opening oysters. But not another pearl did they find. Where are the oyster beds around here, asked the doctor. Between this island and the next, said the spoon-bill. I don't fish for them myself because I'm not a deep diver. But I've seen other kinds of seabirds fishing in that place, just about half way between this island and that little one over there. I'll go out with her, doctor, said dab-dab, and do a little fishing on my own account. I can dive pretty deep, though I'm not a regular diving duck. Maybe I can get some pearls for you. So dab-dab went out with the spoon-bill and started pearl fishing. Then, for a good hour and a half, the faithful housekeeper fished up oyster after oyster and brought them to the doctor on the island. He and the animals found opening them quite exciting work, because you never knew what you might discover. But nothing was found in the shells but fat oysters and thin oysters. I think I'd like to try my hand at diving myself, said the doctor, if the water is not too deep. I used to be quite good at fishing up six pincers from the bottom of the swimming pool when I was a boy. And he took off his clothes, got into the canoe, and paddled out with the animals till he was over the oyster beds. Then he dove right down into the clear green water, while Jip and Gub-Gub watched him with intense interest. But when he came up blowing like a seal, he hadn't even got an oyster. All he had was a mouthful of seaweed. Let's see what I can do, said Jip, and out of the canoe jumped another pearl fisherman. Then Gub-Gub got all worked up, and before anybody could stop him, he had to take a plunge. The pig went down so quick and so straight, he got his snout stuck in the mud at the bottom, and the doctor, still out of breath, had to go down after him and get him free. The animals by this time were at such a pitch of excitement that even the white mouse would have jumped in if Gub-Gub's accident hadn't changed his mind. Jip managed to bring up a few small oysters, but there were no pearls in them. I'm afraid we're pretty poor fishers, said John Doolittle. Of course it's possible that there may not be any more pearls there. No, I'm not satisfied yet, said Dab-Dab. I'm pretty sure that there are plenty of pearls there. The beds are enormous. I think I'll go around among the seabirds and try to find out who it was. Got those oysters, our spoonbill found the pearls in. The bird that fished up that pile was an expert oyster diver. So while the doctor put his clothes on and Gub-Gub washed the mud out of his ears, Dab-Dab went off on a tour of inquiry around the islands. After about twenty minutes she brought back a black duck-like bird with a tuft on his head. Big Hummerunt, doctor, said she, fished up that pile of oysters. Ah, said Dr. Doolittle, perhaps we shall find out something now. Can you tell me, he asked the Hummerunt, how to get pearls? Pearls? What do you mean, said the bird. Then Dab-Dab went and borrowed the play-things from the spoonbill's children to show him. Oh, those things, said the Hummerunt. They come in bad oysters. When I go oyster fishing I never pick up that kind except once in a while by accident, and then I never bother to open them. But how do you tell oysters of that kind from the others, asked the doctor. By sniffing them, said the Hummerunt. The ones that have those things in them don't smell fresh. I'm frightfully particular about my oysters. Do you mean to say that even when you are right down under the water, you could tell an oyster that had pearls in it from one that didn't, just by sniffing it? Certainly, so could any Hummerunt. There you are, doctor, said Dab-Dab. The trick's done. Now you can get all the pearls you want. But these oyster-beds don't belong to me, said John Doolittle. Oh, dear, sighed the duck. Did anyone ever see a man who could find so many objections to getting rich? Who do they belong to, then? Too chief yam-yam, and his people, of course. He owns the Harmatten Rocks. Would you mind, the doctor asked, turning to the Hummerunt, getting me a few oysters of this kind to look at? With the greatest pleasure, said the Hummerunt. And he flew out over the oyster-beds and shot down into the sea like a stone. In a minute he was back again with three oysters, two in his feet and one in his mouth. The animals gather around with bated breath while the doctor opened them. In the first was a small gray pearl, in the second a middle-sized pink pearl, and in the third two enormous black ones. Gosh, how lovely, murmured Gub-Gub. Pearls before swine, giggled the white mouse. Tee-hee! How uneducated you are, snorted the pig, turning up his snout. Ladies and gentlemen, swine before pearls.