Doctor Dolittle and the Green Canary

1 The Green Canary Learns to Fly

'AFTER about half an hour the storm abated, the rain stopped and the sun come out. I at once left my rat hole and started to fly around in the open to get the wet shaken out of my feathers.

'I was astonished to discover that I could hardly fly at all, I decided that this was due to the soaking I had had—and to exhaustion from want of food. But even when, by constant fluttering, I got perfectly dry I found that the best I could do was just tiny, short distance; and that the effort of these was frightfully tiring. As a cage bird I had learned to keep up a flight only from one perch to another—hardly flying at all, you might say. Before I could take to the air like a regular free bird I had to learn—just as though I were a baby leaving the nest for the first time.

'Well, there was no food here. And if I was to go foraging for any I had better get busy. So I set to work practising my flight. There was an old packing–case close to the door of the mill and I began by flying up on to it and down again. Presently while I was doing this I noticed a lean, hungry–looking cat watching me. "Ha, ha, my beauty," I thought. "I may be a very green cage bird, but I know you and your kind."

'And by short stages I flew up on to the roofs of some old tumble–down outhouses that stood near. She followed me up there. Then I returned to the yard. In spite of my poor flying I could keep out of her claws so long as I knew where she was. And I never lingered anywhere in the neighbourhood of an ambushing place, where she could pounce out on me unawares.

'In the meantime I kept on practising. And although it was very exhausting work, I felt I was improving hourly and would soon be able to make the top of the mill tower on one flight. From there I hoped I would be able to get inside the building through a hole in the roof and make my way down to the kitchen, where I could find some food.

'Seeing what a poor flyer I was, Mme Pussy, in the mean–souled way that cats have, had made up her mind that I was injured or a weakling and would be easy prey. And she stayed around and watched and waited. She was determined to get me. But I was equally determined that she wouldn't.

'Most people would think, I suppose, that it is a very simple matter for a cage bird to change herself in a moment into a wild one. But it isn't easy—not by a great deal. You see, wild birds are taught when they are very young to take care of themselves. They learn from their parents and from watching and imitating other birds, where to search for water, at what seasons seed is to be found, where and when to look for certain kinds of berries, what places to roost in at night so they'll be protected from winds and safe from pouncing weasels, and—well, a million and a half other things. All this education I had missed. And for me my freedom at its beginning was just about the same as it would be for Gub–Gub there suddenly to find himself in the jungle with wild boars and tigers and snakes, after spending his life in a nice, comfortable sty.'

'Pardon me,' said Gub–Gub, turning up his nose. 'But I have already been in the jungle and enjoyed it greatly.'

'Yes, and got lost there,' growled Jip. 'Dry up!'

'Well,' Pippinella continued, 'I realized this at once, I saw that if I was to escape the dangers that threatened me and to survive in the open I would have to be very careful, to depend on common sense and take no risks. That was the chief reason why I began by making my way into the inside of the building. Within its walls I should be safe. I knew that owls and hawks and shrikes swept around this hill every once in a while on the lookout for anything small enough to kill. And until my flying was a great deal better I would stand no earthly chance of escape, once a bird of prey started out to get me.

'I found a hole in the top of the tower and I made my way downward through all sorts of funny dark flues and passages till I came to the kitchen door. This was locked. But luckily the old things was all wrapped and it didn't fit very well. There was a space over the top big enough for me to slip through.

'I lived in that kitchen for a week. I found my seed where I knew the window–cleaner always kept it, in a paper bag on the mantelshelf. In the corner by the stove there was a bucket of water. So I was well stocked with provisions, besides being snugly protected behind solid stone walls from my natural enemies and the cold of the nights. There I went on practising my flying. Round and round that kitchen I flew, counting the number of laps. And after I had got as high as a thousand I thought, "Well, I don't know just how far that would be in a straight line, but it must be a good long way."

'Still I wasn't satisfied. I knew that often in the open I would have to fly miles and miles at high speed. And I kept on circling the kitchen by the hour. One morning, when I rested on the mantelpiece after two hours of steady flying, I suddenly spied that wretched cat, squatting behind the stove, watching me. How she had got in I don't know—certainly not the way I had come. But cats are mysterious creatures and can slip through unbelievably small spaces when they want to.

'Well, anyway, there she was. My comfortable kitchen wasn't safe any more. However, I found a place to rest at night—the funniest roosting–place you ever saw; on a string of dried onions that hung from the ceiling. I knew she couldn't reach me there and I could go to sleep in safety.

'But, as a matter of fact, I got very little rest. The cat was on my mind all the time. And although I knew perfectly well that she couldn't jump as high as that string, somehow—they're such horribly clever things—every time she moved I woke up, thinking that perhaps she'd discovered some devilish trick to reach me after all.

'Finally I said to myself: "Tomorrow I will leave the mill and take to the open. It's a little earlier than I had planned to go, but I'll get no peace, now she has found her way here. Tomorrow I will journey forth to seek my fortune."

'Back I travelled through the little space above the door, up the dark, dusty, dilapidated mill tower, until I came to the hole in the stonework at the top. It was a beautiful morning. A lovely scene lay before me as I―'

'But when's the window–cleaner coming back?' whined Gub–Gub. 'I want to know what happened to that window–cleaner.'

'Be patient,' said the Doctor. 'Pippinella has told you to wait and see.'

'A lovely scene,' the canary repeated, 'lay before me as I gazed out over the countryside. For a moment I felt almost scared to launch myself down upon the bosom of the air from that height. I picked out a little copse over to the eastward. "That can't be more than a quarter of a mile away," I said to myself. "I can surely fly that far. All right—here goes!"

'And I shot off the tower top in the direction of the little wood. And now once more I found myself faced with the problems of my own inexperience. I had never before flown high up in the open air. I had no idea of how to tackle the winds and the air currents that pushed me and turned me this way and that. Any ordinary bird would have reached that copse with hardly a flutter—just sailed down to it with motionless, outstretched wings. But I—well, I was like some badly loaded boat without a rudder in a gale. I pitched and tossed and wobbled and staggered. I heard some crows who passed laughing at me in their hoarse, cracky voices.

'"Haw, haw!" they crackled. "Look at the feather–duster the wind blew up! Put your tail down, chicken! Stick to it! Mind you don't fall!—Whoa!"

'They're vulgar, low birds, crows. But I suppose I must have looked comical enough, flustering and flapping around at the mercy of the fitful wind. I got down to the woods somehow and made a sort of wild spreadeagle landing in the top boughs of an oak. I was all exhausted. But I felt encouraged, anyway. I had proved that I could get where I wanted to, even with a moderate wind against me.

'I rested awhile to regain my breath and then started hopping around through the woods. I found it much easier to get my wings all caught up in the blackberry brambles than to shoot in and out of the thickets like the other birds did. But I took the crow's advice and stuck to it, knowing that the only way to learn even this was by practice.

'While I was hopping about, making discoveries and collecting experience, I became aware that once more I was being watched by enemies. This time it was a large sparrow hawk. Whenever I came out into a clearing I'd see the same round–shouldered bird, sitting motionless at the top of small tall tree. He pretended to be dozing in the sun. But I felt quite certain that he had noticed my awkward, clumsy flight and was only waiting for a chance to swoop on me. I knew that so long as I stayed near the bramble thickets I was safe. For with his wide wings he couldn't possibly follow me into the little tiny spaces of the thorny blackberry tangles.

'After a while I supposed he had given me up as a bad job. For he flew off with easy, gliding flight and made away over the tree–tops as though leaving the woods for good. Then, feeling safe once more I proceeded with further explorations and after a little I decided to venture out in the open again.

'This time I thought I'd try travelling downwind. And I set out flying back in the general direction from which I had approached the wood. It was much easier work, but required quite a lot of skill to keep a straight line with the wind at my back.

'About half–way across the fields that lay beneath the copse and the windmill hill I noticed a flock of sparrows rise out of a hedge below me in a great state of alarm. They were looking upwards at the sky as they scattered, chattering, in all directions. They were evidently in a panic about something. And suddenly I guessed what it was—I had forgotten all about the hawk. I turned my head, and there he was, not more than a hundred and fifty yards behind, speeding after me like a bullet. I never had such a fright in my life. There was no place in the fields where I could hide.

'"The hole in the tower," I thought to myself. "If I can reach that I am safe. He isn't small enough to follow me into that hole in the roof."

'And putting on the best speed I could I shut my beak tight and made for the old mill.

'It was a terrible race,' Pippinella went on, shaking her head. 'That hawk had the speed of the wind itself and there were times when I thought I'd never get away from him. I was afraid to look back, lest even the turning of my head delay my flight. I could hear the swish, swish, swish of his great wings beating the air behind me.

'But fortunately the rising sparrows had warned me in time, so I had a pretty fair start on him. And in so short a flight even he was not swift enough to overtake me. He came awfully close to it, though. As I shot into the mill roof and tumbled down gasping for breath among the cobwebs I saw his great shadow sweep over the hole not more than a foot behind me.

'"You wait!" I heard him hiss as he tilted upwards and veered away over the mill roof. "I'll get you yet!"'

'You haven't forgotten about the window–cleaner, have you?' asked Gub–Gub. 'What's happening to him all this time?'

'Oh, be quiet,' snapped Jip.

'I spent the night in the tower,' Pippinella continued. 'The cat did not know I was there yet, so I wasn't bothered by her. But I felt very miserable as I settled down to sleep. An ordinary free bird, I suppose, would have not been greatly disturbed by being chased by a hawk—so long as he got away. But it was my first experience in the wild. And it seemed to me as though the whole world was full of enemies, of creatures that wanted to kill me. I felt dreadfully friendliness and lonely.

'After a fitful, nightmary sort of sleep I was awakened in the morning by a very agreeable sound, the love song of a greenfinch. Somewhere on a ledge just outside the hole a bird was singing. And he was singing to me. I was, as it were, being serenaded at my window. I got up, brushed the cobwebs out of my tail, spruced up my feathers and prepared to go out and take a look at my caller.

'I peeped out cautiously through the hole and there he was—the handsomest little cock you ever saw in your life. His head was thrown back, his wings slightly raised and his throat puffed out. He was singing away with all his might. I do not know any song, myself, that I like better than the love song of the greenfinch in the spring. There's a peculiar dreamy, poetic sort of quality to it that no other bird melody possess. You have no idea what it did for me that morning. In a moment I had forgotten about the hawk and the cat and all my troubles. The whole world seemed changed, friendly, full of pleasant adventures. I waited there, listening in the dark, till he had finished. Then I stepped out of the hole on to the roof.

'"Good morning," he said, smiling in an embarrassed sort of way. "I hope I didn't wake you too early."

'"Oh, not at all." I answered. "It was very good of you to come!"

'"Well," he said, "I saw you being chased by that beastly sparrow hawk last night. I had noticed you in the copse earlier. From your sort of stiff way of flying I guessed you were a cage bird just newly freed. I'm glad you got away from the old brute. I was awfully afraid you wouldn't. You are partly a greenfinch yourself, are you not?"

'"Yes," I replied. "My mother was a greenfinch and my father a canary."

'"I guesed that, too, from your feathers," said he. "I think you're very pretty—with those fine yellow bars in your wings."

'"Would you care to take a fly around the woods?" my new acquaintance asked me. "It's a pleasant morning."

'"Thank you," I said. "I certainly would. I'm very hungry and I don't know very much as yet about foraging for food in the open."

'"Well, let's be off, then," he said. "Wait till I take a look around to make sure the squint–eyed old hawk isn't snooping about. Then we'll go across to Eastdale Farm. I know a granary there where there are whole sacks of millet seed kept. And some of it is always lying around loose near the door where the men load it in. Ha, the coast is clear! Come along."

'So off we went, as happy as you please—for all the world like two children out for a romp. On the way my friend, whose name I found was Nippit, gave me no end of new tips about flying—how to set the wings against a twisting air current, what effect had the spreading of the tail fan–like when the wind was behind me, dodges for raising myself without the work of flapping, how to drop or dive without turning over.

'We reached the farm he had spoken of. A fine, substantial, old–fashioned place, it looked just charming in early morning sunlight.

'"I don't think the men are up yet," he said—"not that they would bother us even if they were. But it's more comfortable getting your breakfast without disturbances. There's the granary, that big brick building with the elms hanging over it."

'He led me to the door at the back, and there, as he had said, was quite a lot of millet seed scattered around loose, where it had fallen from the sacks on their way into the storerooms.

'While we were gobbling away he suddenly shouted, "Look out!" at the top of his voice. And we both leaped into the air in the nick of time. The farm dog, one of those spaniels they use for shooting, had made a rush at us from behind. I hadn't seen him coming at all. But my friend's eyes were twice as sharp as mine and he never ate near the ground without keeping one eye constantly on the lookout all around. His vigilance had saved my life.'

2 Nippit, the Greenfinch

'NIPPIT and I became closer friends than ever, and I often think that if it had not been for him I would never have survived the life of the open or be here now to tell the tale. His experience not only protected me from my enemies, but his wisdom provided me with food. He took me under his care, as it were, and with great patience he taught me the things a wild bird needs to know.'

To the animals' great surprise, Pippinella, who had always seemed a very practical sort of bird, at this point, sniffed slightly, as thought for the moment overcome with emotion.

'You must excuse me,' she gulped. 'I know it's very silly of me, but whenever I think of Nippit I nearly always get sentimental and wobbly in the voice—I mean when I think about the part I am now going to tell you …I was terribly fond of him—more fond than I have ever been of any one or anything. And he was most frightfully in love with me. One moonlight night we swore to be true to one another till death, to go off and find a place to build a nest and raise a family of young ones. We described to one another what the place should look like. We were terribly particular about the details. It was a real romance.

'Next day we started off. We journeyed a great distance. The spot we had determined on for our home was very hard to find. And finally we came to the seashore. We explored a little bay—the very loveliest thing you could wish to see. Big drooping willows hung down off rocks and dabbled their wands in the blue water. Beautiful wild flowers and coloured mosses carpeted the shore. It was a secluded little cove where people never came. The peace and the beauty of it were just ideal. And there at the bottom of the bay, where a little sparkly mountain stream fell laughing into the sea, we found the spot we had come so far to seek—exact in every detail.'

'Maybe the window–cleaner sprained his ankle,' murmured Gub–Gub, 'or ate something that disagreed with him and had to go to a hospital. But I would like to know why he didn't send some one to take his canary in.'

'For heaven sakes, will you wait?' growled Jip. 'Keep quiet! Wait and see what happened!'

'But I don't like waiting,' said Gub–Gub. 'I never was a good waiter. Why doesn't she come right out with it? She knows what happened to her friend.'

'Gub–Gub,' said the Doctor wearily, 'if you don't keep quiet you will have to leave the wagon.'

'Right away,' Pippinella continued, 'we set to work hunting for materials to build a nest. You know, each kind of bird has fads and fancies about nest building—each one uses materials of his own special kind. The greenfinch's nest is not more extraordinary in this than any others; but some of the stuffs used are not always easily found. In these parts they were exceptionally scarce. So we went off hunting in different directions, agreeing that either should come and let the other know as soon as the stuff we were after was discovered.

'I went a long way down the shore and after about an hour's search I came upon the material we sought. It was a special kind of grass. I marked the spot in my mind and set off back to tell my mate. I had some difficulty in finding him, but eventually I did—and' (again Pippinella's voice grew tearful) 'he was talking to a greenfinch hen. She was very handsome, slightly younger than either Nippit or myself. The instant I saw them talking together something told me the end of our romance had come.

'He introduced me to her—rather awkwardly. And she smirked and smiled like the brazan hussy that she was. It was now too late in the evening to go on with the nestbuilding; and anyway, I had no heart for it. After we had had something to eat and taken a drink in the little sparkling stream we all three roosted on a flowering hawthorn bush.

'I cannot believe that it was all Nippit's fault. But by morning I knew what I must do. Quietly, while my faithless mate and that hypocritical minx still slept, I dropped to a lower branch of the hawthorn bush and made my way down to the edge of the sea.'

The sadness in Pippinella's silvery voice reminded John Dolittle of that first evening when he had brought her home. You will remember how after her covered cage had been put up on a shelf she had sung for him for the first time through the wrapping paper.

Now, as she paused a moment in her story, evidently very close to the verge of tears, the Doctor was glad of an interruption which arrived just at the right moment to cover her embarrassment. It was the chief tent rigger, who wished to consult Manager Dolittle about buying a new tent for the snakes. The old one, he said, was so full of mends and patches that he felt it would be better economy to throw it away and buy a new one—especially in view of the circus's coming visit to London, where they would want everything to be as smart and up to date as possible.

When the discussion was over and the tent rigger had departed Pippinella took a sip of water and presently went on with her story.

'The day was rising in the east. The calm water reflected the mingled grey and pink of the dawn sky and away out on the horizon little flashes of gold here and there showed where the sun would soon come up.

'It was a lovely scene. But I didn't care. I hated everything about this place now; the snug bay, the weeping willows, the murmuring mountain brook—everything.

'Some birds near by started their morning song. A finch flew past and twittered a greeting to me on the wing. But still I sat on there gazing out from the sands towards the wide–stretching sea. It seemed to yawn and roll lazily, rubbing the sleep out of its eyes as the night retired from the face of the waters and the rising sun glowed around its rim. Its mystery, its vastness, called to me, sympathizing with my mood.

'"The sea!" I murmured. "I've never crossed the salt water. I've never looked on foreign lands, as all the other wild birds have. Those jungles my mother told me of, where blue and yellow macaws climb on crimson flowering vines, they must be nice, they would be new. There surely, among fresh scenes and different company, I shall be able to forget. Everything around me here I hate, for it reminds me of my mate who was false, of my love that was spurned."

'You see, it was my first romance, so I felt specially sentimental. "Very well," I said, "I will leave this land and cross the sea."

'I went down closer to the breaking surf and stood upon the firm, smooth, hard–packed sand of the beach. I noticed a small bird, a goldfinch, coming inland. He looked as though he had flown a long way. I hailed him.

'"What country," I asked, "lies beyond this ocean?"

'With a neat curve he landed on the sand beside me, I noticed him eyeing my cross–bred feathers with curiosity.

'"Many lands," he answered. "Where do you want to go?"

'"Anywhere," I answered—"anywhere, so long as I get away from here."

'"That's odd," said he. "Most birds are coming this way now. Spring and summer are the seasons here. I came over with the goldfinches. The main flock arrived last night. But I was delayed and followed on behind. Did you ever cross the ocean before? Do you know the way?"

'"No," I said, bursting into tears. "I know no geography nor navigation. I'm a cage bird. My heart is broken. I want to reach the land where the blue and yellow macaws climb ropes of crimson orchids."

'"Well," said he, "that could be almost anywhere in the tropics. But it's pretty dangerous, you know, ocean travel, if you're not experienced at it."

'"I don't care anything about the danger," I cried. "I'm desperate. I want to go to a new land and begin life all over again. Good–bye!"

'And springing into the air I headed out over the sea just as the full glory of the rising sun flooded the blue waters in dazzling light.'

3 Ebony Island

JOHN DOLITTLE stared at Pippinella in amazement.

'That was an extremely dangerous thing for you to have undertaken,' he said. 'I'm surprised you are here at all to tell the story.'

Pippinella smiled sadly, nodding her head in agreement. 'Yes, Doctor,' she replied. 'But I had no thought for the dangers I was facing. All I wanted to do was get away—as far away as my wings would carry me.

'Had I been a regular wild bird I would have known some of the geography of the land. Then such a journey would not have been so hazardous. From time beyond remembrance the goldfinch or swallow, or any one of the migrating birds has made his two yearly journeys from one land to another—one way in the spring, the other in the fall. They would no more dream of getting lost than they would of forgetting how to fly. After they have made the first trip with the flock it becomes a perfectly simple matter for them, and I really believe most of them could do it with their eyes shut.

'But for me? Well, if I hadn't been desperate with grief, I would never have embarked upon such a mad adventure. It was only after I had flown steadily for two hours, and then on looking behind me found I had passed beyond sight of land, that I fully realized what I had done. On all sides North, East, South, and West, the sky met the sea in a flat ring. No clouds marred the even colour of the heavens, nothing broke the smoothness of the blue–green sea. In turning my head to look back I had changed my direction without thinking. Now I didn't even know if I was going the same way or not. I tried to remember from what quarter the wind had been blowing when I started. But I couldn't recollect. And anyway there was no wind blowing now. So I could get no guidance from that.

'A terrible feeling of helplessness came over me as I gazed down. I was flying at a great height—at the wide–stretching water below me. Where was I? Whither was I going?

'And then it occurred to me that in this, as in my other first difficulties of freedom, I had got to learn—to learn or perish. "Well," I thought, "I'll go and take a closer look at the surface of the water. I'm too high up to see anything here. Perhaps I can learn something from that."

'So I shut my wings and dropped a couple of thousand feet. As I came nearer to the water I noticed many little patches of brown on it, thousands of them. They were evidently some kind of seaweed or grass. They floated in straggly chains, like long processions of tortoises or crabs. But these chains all lay in the same direction.

'"Ah, hah!" I said. "That's a current." I had seen something of the same kind before, grasses and leaves pushed across a lake by a river that flowed into it. And I knew there was a force in that water down below me that drove all those weed clumps the same way.

'"I'll follow the drift of that weed," I thought. "It will anyhow keep me in a straight line and maybe bring me to the mouth of the river from which the current flows."

'Well, my idea would have been all right if my strength had held out. You must remember that it wasn't many months since I had flown at all in the open. And suddenly as I skimmed over the weed chains I got an awful cramp in my left wing muscle. I just felt I had simply got to stop and rest. But where? I couldn't sit on the water like a duck. There was nothing for it but to keep on. I had been going three hours at seventy miles an hour, some two hundred miles—by far the longest flight I had ever made. The wonder was that I hadn't given out before.

'Things looked bad. In spite of all my efforts to keep at the same level I was coming down nearer the water all the time. Finally I was skimming along only a few feet above the swells. I was so near now I could see the tiny sea beetles clinging to the weed tufts. In between, in the clear spaces, I saw my own reflection looking up at me, a tiny fool of a land bird with wildly flapping outstretched wings, trying to make her way across a never–ending ocean, lost, giving out, coming nearer to a watery grave second by second.

'The thing that saved me was the little sea beetles that crawled upon the floating weed. They gave me an idea. If the shred of weed could carry them, I thought, why wouldn't larger clumps of it carry me? I looked along the straggling chains that wound over the sea ahead of me. About a hundred years further on I spied a bigger bunch of the stuff. Making a tremendous effort, I spurted along and just gained it in time. I dropped on it as lightly as I could in the exhausted condition I had reached. To my great delight it bore me up—for the moment. The relief of being able to relax my weary muscles and rest was wonderful. For the present I didn't bother about anything else, but just stood there on my little seaweed boat and rose and fell on the heaving bosom of the sea.

'But soon I noticed that my feet were getting wet. The water had risen right over my ankles. My odd craft would carry my small weight for a few moments only; then it had gone slowly under. It was of the utmost importance that I should not, in my exhausted state, get my feathers waterlogged. I looked around. Not more than six feet away another clump of weed was floating about the size of a tea–tray. With a spring and a flip I leaped from my old raft to the new one. Being a little larger, it carried me a moment or two longer than the one I had left. But it, too, sank in time and the warning water rising around my feet drove me on to yet another refuge.

'It wasn't the most comfortable way in the world to take a rest—hoping from one sinking island to another. Still, it was better than nothing. In the short jumps I did not have to use my wings much and I already felt the cramp in my left shoulder improving. I decided that I could keep this up as long as I liked. It was the steady drive of constant flying that tired me. So long as there were large weed clumps enough and no storms came I was safe.

'But that was all. I wasn't going ahead. The current was moving very slowly—and that in the wrong direction for me. I was hungry and thirsty. There was no food here, and no prospect of getting any. There were, it is true, the tiny sea creatures that crawled upon the weed. But I was afraid to eat them, saturated in salt water, lest the thirst I had already should grow worse. The only thing to do for the present was to be thankful for this assistance, to rest up and then go on again.

'Presently I began to notice the sun. It had been getting higher and higher all the time since I had left land, but soon it seemed to be standing still and then to descend. That meant that midday had been passed. I began to wonder if I could get much further before night fell. There was no moon. I knew, till early morning, and in the darkness flying for me would be impossible if I could not see my guiding current.

'While I was wondering I suddenly spied a flock of birds coming towards me in the opposite direction to my own. They were evidently land birds, and when they got nearer I saw that they were finches, though of a kind that I had never seen before. They were slamming along at a great pace and their freshness and speed made me feel very foolish and weak, squatting on my lump of seaweed like a turtle. It occurred to me that this was a chance to get some advice which might not come again in a long while. So, putting my best foot forward, as you might say, I flew up to meet them in mid–air. The leaders were very decent fellows and pulled up as soon as I called to them.

'"Where will I get to anyway if I keep going straight along this current?" I asked.

'"Oh, GREAT heavens!" they said. "That currents meanders all the way down into the Antarctic. Where do you want to get to?"

'"The nearest land—now, I suppose," said I. "I'm dead beat and can't go many more hours without something to eat and a real rest."

'"Well, turn and cut right across the current, then," said they—"to your left as you're flying now. That'll bring you to Ebony Island. Keep high up and you can't miss it. It's got mountains. That's the nearest land. About a two–hour fly. So long!"

'Without wasting further daylight—for it was now getting late in the afternoon—I took the finches' advice and headed away to the left of the current in search of Ebony Island. This time I kept direction by flying square across the drifting chains of seaweed instead of following their course.

'Well, it may have been only a two–hour trip for those finches, but it was a very different thing for me. After three hours of steady going my wing began to trouble me again. The big setting sun was already standing on the skyline like an enormous plate. It would be dark in twenty minutes more. Here the seaweed was no longer visible. I had passed beyond the path of the current. And still no land had come in sight. I took a sort of bearing by the position of the sun and plugged along.

'Darkness came, but with it came a star. It twinkled out of the gloomy sky right ahead of me as the sun disappeared beneath the sea's edge. And although I knew that the stars do not stand still I reckoned that this one couldn't move very much in a couple of hours, and that was certainly as long as I would be able to keep going with a groggy wing. So, heading straight for that guiding silver point in a world of blackness, I ploughed on and on.

'Another hour went by. Weary and winded, I now began to wonder if the finch leader could have made a mistake. He had said there were mountains on the island. As more and more stars had come twinkling out into the gloomy bowl of the sky the night had grown lighter. And although there was no moon, the air was clear of mist and I could see the horizon all around me. And still no land!

'"Perhaps I wasn't high enough," I thought. With a tremendous effort I tilted my head upwards, and still ploughing forward on the line of my big star, I raised my level a thousand feet or so. And suddenly, slightly to the left of my direction, I spied something white and woolly–looking, apparently floating between sky and sea.

'"That surely can't be land!" I thought. "White in colour! It looks more like clouds."

'Presently as I flapped along like a machine, just dumb and stupid with weariness, exhaustion and thirst, strange new smells began to reach me—vaguely and dimly—sort of spicy odours, things that I hadn't smelt before, but which I knew did not belong to the sea. My floating clouds grew bigger as I approached. As I realized how high up in the sky they hung I became surer than ever that they were just white clouds or mist. Then the air seemed to change its temperature fitfully. Little drafts and breezes, now warm, now freezing cold, beat gently in my face.

'And then! At last I saw that my clouds were not floating at all. They were connected with the sea, but that which they stood on, being darker in colour, had been invisible until I got close. The white snow–capped tops of mountains, glistening in the dim starlight, had beckoned to me across the sea. From the icy wastes of the upper levels had come the chilly winds; but down lower, now visible right under me, tangled sleeping jungles of dark green sent forth the fragrance of spices and tropic fruits. I was hovering over Ebony Island.

'With a cry of joy I shut my aching wings and dropped like a stone through the eight thousand feet of air, which grew warmer and warmer as I came down.

'I landed beside a little purling stream that carried the melting snows of the peaks down through the woodlands to the sea. And, wading knee deep in the cold fresh water I bathed my tired wings and drank and drank and drank!

'In the morning, after a good sleep, I went forth to hunt for food and explore my new home. Nuts and seeds and fruit I found in abundance. The climate was delightful, hot down by the sea—quite hot—but you could get almost any temperature you fancied just by moving to the higher levels up the mountains. It was uninhabited by people and almost entirely free from birds of prey. What there were were fish eagles—who would not bother me—and one or two kinds of owls, who preferred mice to small birds. I decided that it was an ideal place that I had come to.

'"So!" I said, "here I will settle down and live an old maid. No more will I bother my head about fickle mates. I'm a mongrel, anyway. Never again will I risk being deserted for a thoroughbred minx. I'll be like Aunt Rosie—live alone and watch the world pass by and the year go round in peace. Poof! What do I care for all the cocks in the world! This beautiful island belongs to me. Here will I live and die, a crossbred but dignified hermit."

'My island was large and its scenery varied. There were always new parts to explore—mountains, valleys, hillsides, meadows, jungles, sedgy swamps, golden–sanded, laughing shores and little inland lakes. Later, as I came to the shore on the far side, I could see, in the distance, another piece of land. I decided it must be another island such as the one on which I had landed.

'Later I explored this island, too, and found it only one of many more which lay in a sort of chain. There was no end of variety in the scenery and of beautiful flowers and I began to think of the whole string of islands as belonging to me. I composed some wonderful poetry and many excellent songs and kept my voice in good form practising scales three hours a day.

'But all my verses had a melancholy ring. I couldn't seem to convince myself that living alone like this was the happiest way to exist. That was the first sign I had that something funny was happening to me.

'"Look here," I said. "This won't do. Even if you're going to be an old maid you needn't be a sour old maid. This is a beautiful and cheerful island. Why be sad?"

'And I set deliberately to work to make up a cheerful song. It went all right for the first two or three verses, but it ended mournfully, like the rest.

'Then I tried to get to know the other finches and small birds that lived on the island. They were very hospitable and nice to me. And the cocks vied with one another to be seen in my company. To them, of course I was a foreigner. I never said anything about my romance or where I had come from. And I aroused considerable interest among them as a bird with a mysterious past. But, after all, it was only a sort of idle curiosity on their part and I found them intensely dull and somewhat stupid. I tried hard to overcome it and take part in their society chatter and community life, but I just couldn't.

'And then another curious thing: the window–cleaner kept coming to my mind.'

'Ah!' said Gub–Gub. But Jip promptly put a large paw over his mouth and Pippinella went on.

'In some mysterious way, my good friend of the windmill—well, I can't quite explain it—but it almost seemed at times as though I felt him near me somewhere. I spent hours and hours working out all the things that could have happened to him—that might have prevented him from coming back that night when he left me hanging on the wall exposed to the storms of heaven.

'And then it suddenly occurred to me that I should never have left the neighbourhood of the mill. Something told me that he wasn't dead. And if he was still alive he would certainly return some day—the first moment that he could. And I should have been there to welcome him back—as I always had done when he returned from work. I started to blame myself.

'"If you had been a dog," I said, "you would never have come away. You would have stayed on and on, knowing that you could trust him—knowing that if he still lived, in the end he would come back."'

4 Pippinella Finds a Clue

THE next evening as the Dolittle household took their places as the little table in the wagon to hear the continuation of the canary's story, Gub–Gub appeared to be in a great state of excitement. He was the first to sit down. He provided himself with an extra high cushion and he kept whispering to his neighbours.

'The window–cleaner's coming back this time. I know it. Goodness! He has taken an age, hasn't he? But it's all right. He wasn't killed. He's coming back into the story tonight, sure as you're alive.'

'Sh!' said the Doctor, tapping his notebook with a pencil.

When everyone was settled Pippinella hopped up on to the tobacco box and began:

'One day, about a week after I had left the company of the other birds and returned to my solitary life, I decided to fly over to the small island which lay south of Ebony Island. Perhaps it would help to take my mind off my loneliness; for my friend, the window–cleaner, was still very much in my thoughts. It was the first clear day we had had for weeks and I was able to see again the shore of the smaller island. I came to a place where big shoulders of rocks jutted right down into the sea. In such places as this little berry bushes often grew. I flew up on to the rocks to hunt for fruit. On the top I found a flat, level place from which you could get a fine view of the sea in front. Behind one the mountains rose straight, like a wall. And in the face of this wall of rock there was an opening to a cave.

'Out of idle curiosity I went into the cave to explore it. It wasn't very deep. I hopped around the floor awhile and then started to come out. Suddenly I stood back still, my attention held spellbound by a stick that leaned against the wall of the cave near the entrance. The stick, about six feet long, had a square piece of rag tied to its top, like a flag. There was nothing very extraordinary in that. Even though I felt sure the island wasn't inhabited now, there was no reason why it shouldn't have been in times past—by some shipwrecked seamen who had taken refuge in this cave. But it was the rag that held me there, gazing motionless with open bill and staring eyes. For I knew that rag as well as I know my own feathers. It was the cloth my friend the window–cleaner used to clean windows with!

'How often had I studied it as he rubbed it over the glass not more than six inches from my nose at Aunt Rosie's! How many times had I watched him wash it out in the kitchen sink at the windmill when he returned from work and then hang it up to dry, close to my cage over the stove! I remembered that it had a rent close to one corner which had been stitched up clumsily with heavy thread. I sprang up on to the top of the stick and pulled its hanging folds out with my bill. And there was the mended tear. There could be no mistake. It was my window–cleaner's rag.

'Suddenly I found myself weeping. Just why I didn't know. But one thing was made clear to me at last! I knew now why I couldn't settle down a happy old maid; I knew why all my songs were sad; I knew why I couldn't content myself with the company of other island birds. I was lonely for people. It was natural. I had been born and bred a cage bird. I had grown to love the haunts of men. And all this time I had been longing to get back to them. I thought of all the good people—friends that I had known—old Jack, the merry driver of the night coach from the North; the kindly Marchioness who lived in the castle; the scarred–faced old sergeant and my comrades of the Fusiliers, and, finally, the one I had loved the best of all, the odd, studious window–cleaner who wrote books in a windmill. What had I to do with the blue and yellow macaws that climbed the orchid vines in gorgeous jungle land? People was what I wanted. And him whom I wanted most, he had been here, lived in this cave! Yet I was certain, after my thorough exploration of the island, that he was here no longer. Where—where was he now?

'After that I thought of nothing else but getting away—or getting back to civilization and the haunts of men. I would return, I was determined, to the windmill, and there I would wait till my friend the window–cleaner made his way back to his old home.

'I returned to the main island and prepared to set out for home. But getting away was no easy matter. The autumnal equinox was just beginning. For days on end strong winds blew across my island and whipped the sea into a continuous state of unrest. Such birds of passage as passed over were all going the wrong way for me. It was now the Season of Return. Once again I, the exile, the cage bird, was trying to make my way against the current of traffic, instead of with it.

'I was afraid, alone and inexperienced, to pit my feeble strength against tempestuous weather. This time I was not desperate or in any such foolhardy state of mind as when I launched out after I left Nippit. Now life meant much; the future held promise. And if I was to get back to my window–cleaner philosopher I must not take any crazy chances.

'For days I watched the sea, waiting for calmer weather. But the blustering winds continued, and when I tried my strength against them over the land, to see if I could make any headway, I found that I was like a feather and they could drive me where they would.

'One afternoon when I was sitting on the rocks looking out to sea I saw a big ship come over the horizon. The wind had changed its direction earlier in the day, and now, with a powerful breeze behind it, this boat was travelling along at quite a good speed. It seemed to be going pretty much the way I wanted. And it occurred to me that if I followed this boat I might easily come to the land I had left. At the worst, if I got exhausted, I would have something to land on.

'The ship came nearer and nearer. At one time I thought it was actually going to call at the islands. But I was wrong. When it had come within less than half a mile of a steep mountainous cape at one corner it changed its course slightly, rounded the angle of the coast and passed on. At that close range I could see men moving on the deck. The sight of them made me more homesick than ever for human company. As the boat grew smaller, moving away from me now, I made up my mind. I leaped off the rocks and shot out over the sea to follow it.

'Well, I was still an inexperienced navigator. I very soon found out that my little plan, which had seemed perfectly simple, just didn't work. For one thing, on the side of the island where I had been standing one was protected from the weather. And it was only after I had got well out away from the shore that the full strength of the wind hit me. When it had changed it had changed for the worse—growing stronger with its new direction.

'Further, on getting close to the ship, I found that its pace was dreadfully slow, in spite of the wind behind it. It was pitching clumsily in the swell and seemed heavy laden. If it had taken me a whole day to make the voyage at seventy miles an hour it would take this vessel a week at least. During that week I would be starved to death twice over. I realized in a moment that my plan was no good. I must head back for the island and reach it before that drenching shower reached me.

'I returned. And, oh, my! I thought I had known how strong that wind was. But I hadn't any idea of it until I swung around and faced it. It was a veritable gale. I flapped my wings as fast as I could, and the only result I got was to stand still. Even that I couldn't keep up. And soon, slowly, I found I was moving backwards while working to get forwards like mad.

'And, then, slish! The rain squall hit me in the face and in a moment I was drenched to the skin.

'So there I was, fairly caught, a good three miles off shore, unable to regain the land in the teeth of that terrible wind. What a fool I had been to leave my snug, safe harbour before calm weather came!

'The soaking of the rain squall made flying doubly hard. After a few moments of it I decided not to try to beat into the wind at all. That was hopeless. I must wait till the fury of the gale let up. In the meantime I was compelled to give all my attention to keeping up above the level of the sea, for with my drenched and soggy feathers I found myself descending all the time nearer and nearer to the tossing surface of the water.

'But far from weakening the force of the wind got suddenly stronger. I felt myself now being swept along like a leaf. The curtain of the rain had shut out all view of the island. You couldn't see more than a few yards in any direction. Above and below and around all was grey—just grey wetness.

'As the wind hurled me along over the sea I presently caught sight of the ship. The gale was driving me right past it—beyond into the hopeless waste of the angry ocean. I remember the picture of it very clearly as it hove up in the dim veil of rain. It looked like a great grey horse mired and floundering in a field of grey mud. I suddenly realized that this vessel was my last and only chance. If I got driven beyond it, it was all up with me.

'Frantically I flapped at the wet air to change the angle of my flight—to descend sideways and strike the vessel's deck.

'Well, somehow I managed it. As the squall drove me through the rigging I clutched at a rope ladder stretched between the rail and the masthead. I grabbed it with my claws and threw my wings around it, rather like a monkey climbing on a pole. For the present I didn't attempt to move up or down. I decided to let well enough alone. I was on the ship. That was the main thing. I would stay where I was until the rain shower passed on.

'By that time I was numbed with the cold and the wet. The air cleared and the sun came out, as it does, suddenly, after those squalls at sea. But still the wind held very strong. I set about making my way down to some more sheltered place. For the first time I had a chance to look around me and take in the details of the ship I had boarded. I was about seven feet above the level of the deck. Not far away from me there was a little house with round windows and a door in it. If I could get close up against the wall of this, I thought I would be protected from the wind and would still have the sunshine to dry my feathers in. I was afraid to fly the short distance, lest the wind catch me up and carry me overboard. So, like a sailor, I started climbing down my rope ladder hand over hand.

'In my hurry to get to some warmer, safer place I had not noticed much about the ship beyond just a glimpse which told me it was a vessel of considerable size. And on my way down the rope I was much too busy clinging tight and battling with the wind—which seemed determined to tear me loose and hurl me into the sea—to notice anything around me.

'Anyway, suddenly I felt a large hand close around my whole body and lift me off the rope like a fly. I looked up and found myself staring into the brown face of an enormous sailor dressed in a tarpaulin coat and hat. A wild bird, I suppose, would have been scared to death. But I had often been held in people's hands before and that in itself did not greatly alarm me. The sailor had kind eyes and I knew he would do me no harm. But I also knew that this probably meant the end of my freedom for the present, because sailors are fond of pets and most ships have one cage of canaries at least aboard them.

'"Hulloa, hulloa!" said the big man. "What's cher climbing in the rigging for? Don't you know no better than that? You ain't been to sea long, I'll warrant. Why, if we was to ship water with you tight–rope walking like that you'd go overboard before you could blink! I reckon you signed on as we passed the island, eh? Well, well! Bless me, ain't you wet! You come below, mate, and get dried out where it's snug and warm."

'Then the man moved forward across the pitching, rolling deck to the little house and opened the door. Inside there was a flight of steps and down this he carried me. We entered a small, low room, with beds set in the wall all around, like shelves. A lamp hung from the centre of the ceiling and swung from side to side with the motion of the ship. On the tables and chairs coats and capes had been thrown. There was a warm smell of tar and tobacco and wet clothes. In two of the bunks men were snoring, with their mouths open.

'My captor, still holding me firmly in his hand, opened a heavy wooden locker and brought forth a small cage. Into this he put me and then filled the drawer with seed and the pot with water.

'"There you are, mate," says he. "Now you're all fixed up. Get your feathers dry and then you'll feel better."

'And so I entered on still another chapter in my varied career. After the dead quiet of the island, the cheerful bustle of that ship was most invigorating. It was, as I have told you, quite a large vessel, and it carried both cargo and passengers. To begin with, my cage was kept in that little cabin to which I had first been taken. It was the bunkroom for the crew. There was nearly always somebody sleeping there, because the men took it in turn in watches to work the ship.

'Later, when the weather got fair again, I was put outside on the wall of the little deckhouse. This was much nicer. Lots and lots of people came to talk to me—especially the passengers, who seemed to have nothing to do to occupy their time beyond walking up and down the deck in smart clothes.

'And, although I was terribly annoyed at being caged up again before I had got back to my window–cleaner, I counted myself lucky on the whole. I had escaped the dangers of the sea when escape seemed impossible. There was always a good chance that I might still get away and reach the windmill—after we got to land—if I kept my eye open for the opportunity. In the meantime, I was back again among pleasant people and agreeable scenes.

'There was another canary aboard the ship. I heard him singing the first day that I was put outside on the deck. Singing is hardly the word for it, for the poor fellow had only a few squeaky calls without any melody to them. But he was very persevering and seemed determined to work up a song of some kind. Just whereabouts on the vessel he was I couldn't make out—nearer amidships than I was, by the sound if it. His unmusical efforts sort of annoyed me after a while and presently I gave a performance myself—more to drown his racket in self–defence than anything else.

'But my singing caused something of a sensation. Passengers, sailors, stewards and officers, gathered around to listen to me. Inquiries were made as to whom I belonged. And finally I was bought from the big sailor who had caught me and taken to quite a different part of the ship.

'The man who bought me turned out to be the ship's barber. I was carried to a little cabin on the main deck, in the centre of the passenger's quarters. This was the barber's shop, all fitted up with shaving chairs and basins, like a regular hairdressing establishment on land.

'And there I discovered the other canary, hanging in a cage from the ceiling. It was the barber's idea, apparently, that I should teach this other bird how to sing.

'I was now in a very much better position to keep in touch with the life of the ship than I was before. For nearly everyone on board came, sooner or later, to the barber's shop. My new master was patronized not only by the passengers, but the officers and even the crew, in the early hours of the morning before the shop was supposed to be open, came to be shaved or to have their hair cut.

'And while the customers were being attended to or waiting their turn the barber would chat and gossip with them. And from their conversation I learned a good deal. And then the other canary, the funny little squeaker to whom I was supposed to give singing lessons, he had been on the ship quite a number of voyages, and he, too, gave me a lot of information.

'He was really a decent sort of a bird—even if he couldn't sing. And he explained many things to me about the life of the sea and the running of a ship that I had never known before. As for teaching him to sing, that was a pretty hopeless task, for he had no voice to speak of at all. Still, he improved a good deal, and after about a week his gratey squeaks and shrill whistles were not nearly so harsh to the ear.

'One song that I composed at this time I was rather proud of. I called it The Razor Strop Duet. Listening to the barber stropping this razor gave me the idea, the motif, for it. You know the clip–clop, clip–clop, clip–clop that a razor makes when it is sharpened on leather? Well, I imitated that and mixed it up with the sound of a shaving brush lathering in a mug. But it was a little difficult to do the two with one voice. So I did the razor and I made the other canary do the shaving brush. As a song it could not compare with some of my other compositions—with The Midget Mascot, for instance, or The Harness Jingle. It was a sort of comic song. The Razor Strop Duet. But it was a great success and the barber was forever showing us off to his customers by giving his razor an extra stropping, for he knew that that would always set us going.

'I questioned the other canary very minutely as to the places we would touch and about our port of destination. For all this time, you must understand, I had one idea very much in mind, that was to escape from my cage and the ship as soon as we dropped anchor in a convenient harbour. I gathered from what he told me that our next port of call was the land which I had left—the land of the windmill and the window–cleaner.

'Continually now I was trying my utmost to show the barber how tame I was. When he cleaned out the cage I would hop on to his finger. And after a little he would sometimes close the doors and windows and allow me to go free in the room. I would fly from the floor to the table on to his hand. And finally he would let me out even with the doors open. This was what I wanted. I did not attempt to escape yet, of course, because we were still at sea. And whenever he wished me to return into the cage I would go back as good as gold.

'But I was only biding my time. When we were in port he would, if all went well, let me out of my cage once too often.'

5 The Window-cleaner at Last!

'ONE day towards evening there was a great commotion on the deck. Passengers were running forward with spyglasses and pointing over the sea. Land had been sighted. We were now only half an hour or so from the port where I hoped to escape.

'It was very amusing to me to see how carefully and with what a lot of trouble and fuss a ship is brought to the land. On the sea, with their sails all billowing in the wind, they are such graceful things; but at the docks they become great clumsy masses of wood and canvas: difficult to handle and always in danger of being rammed on the pilings by the waves washing towards the shore.

'As we neared the land men came out in boats to guide us into the harbour; there was no end of signalling and shouting between the ship and the shore and finally when we did creep in at a snail's pace they tied the vessel down from every angle. I could not help comparing all this with the carefree, simple manner in which birds make their landing in a new country after a voyage of many thousands of miles.

'From my position hanging inside the barber's shop I could not see a great deal of the port in which we had come, beyond little glimpses through the door and porthole. But from them I recognized the place. It was a town not more than fifty miles from the hill on which the windmill stood. Shortly after we were moved up to a wharf some friends of the barber came aboard to see him. They sat around drinking beer and chatting and presently one of them said to him:

'"I see you've got another canary, Bill?"

'"Yes," said the barber. "A good singer, too. And he's that tame he'll come right out on to my hand. Wait a minute and I'll show you."

'"Ah, ha!" I thought to myself. "Now my chance is coming."

'Then the barber opened my cage door and, standing a few paces off, he held out his hand and called to me to fly out on to it. Through the open door of the shop I could see part of the town, steep streets straggling up towards hills and pleasant rolling pasture land. I hopped on to the sill of my cage and stood a moment, half in and half out.

'"Now, watch him," called the barber to his friends. "He'll fly right on to my finger. He's done it lots of times. Come on, Dick! Here I am. Come on!"

'And then I flew—but not on to his finger. Taking a line on those steep streets that I could see in the distance straggling up the hill, I made for the open door.

'But, alas! Such off chances can upset the best plans! Just as I was about to skim through the doorway it was suddenly blocked by an enormous figure. It was my big sailor. Of course, it would be—pretty nearly the largest man that ever walked, coming through the smallest doorway ever built. There were just two narrow little places either side of his head through which I might get by him. I tilted upwards and made for one of them.

'"Look out!" yelled the barber. "The bird's getting away. Grab him!"

'But the big sailor had already seen me. As I tried to slip out over his shoulder he clapped his two big hands together and caught me just like a ball that has been thrown to him.

'And that was the end of my great hopes and careful scheming! Because, of course, after that the barber never trusted me out with the door or windows open again. I was put back into the cage and there I stayed.

'Well, after six or seven hours the ship began to make ready to put to sea again.

'"What's the next port of call at which we stop?" I asked the other canary.

'"Oh, a long ways on," said he. "We go pretty nearly the whole length of the sea we're in now and touch at a group of islands at the mouth of a narrow straight. It takes nine days. But the islands are very pretty and worth seeing."

'But what did I care for the beauty of the islands! As the ropes were untied and the vessel moved out away form the wharf I saw the steep streets growing smaller. Beside myself with disappointment and annoyance, I beat the bars of my cage in senseless fury. I was sailing away from my friend, from the land of the windmill. And now, with my owner suspicious, heaven only knew when I'd ever have a chance to get back to it again!

'For the next three days our voyage was uneventful. Calm sunny weather prevailed. And the barber's shop was kept quite busy, because passengers aboard ship don't seem to bother very much about shaving or having their hair cut when the sea is rough, but in calmer weather it serves as a pastime to break the monotony of the voyage.

'On the fourth day we had a little excitement. A wreck was sighted. Unfortunately my cage was not hung outside that day and I could see practically nothing of the show. But from conversation and a little guesswork on my part I managed to piece most of the story together.

'About noon some kind of craft was seen by the man in the crow's nest—as the lookout on the mast is called. It was evidently in distress. There was a lot of signalling and a good deal of running about and looking through telescopes. Our ship's course was changed and we headed in the direction of the stranger.

'On closer inspection it was found not to be a wreck but a raft with one man on it. The man was either unconscious or dead. He lay face downwards and gave no answer when he was hailed. A boat was lowered and he was brought aboard. There was much cheering among the passengers when it was announced that he was still breathing. He was, nevertheless, in a terrible state of exhaustion from hunger and exposure. He was handed over into the care of the ship's doctor, and, still unconscious, was taken below and put to bed. Then our boat was set back upon her course and on we went.

'I though no more about the incident after the customers who came to the barber's had ceased to talk about it. The weather continued fair. And, for want of something better to do—also to keep my mind off my own troubles—I went on giving the other canary singing lessons.

'One day about a week later, when we were supposed to be getting near our next port of call, a most extraordinary–looking man entered the barber's shop. His strange appearance seemed to cause him a good deal of embarrassment. Without looking around at all, he sat down in the barber's chair. The barber must have expected him. For he set to work at once, without asking any questions, shaving off his beard and cutting his hair. The man's back was turned to me as he sat in the chair, and all I could see of him after the white apron was tied about his chin, was the top of his wild–looking head of tangled, matted hair.

'In the middle of the clipping and shaving the barber went to the door to speak to someone. And I gathered from the conversation that the man in the chair was he who had been saved from the raft. He was only now recovered enough to leave his bed for the first time. This made me more interested in him than ever. And, fascinated, I watched in silence as the barber clipped away at that enormous shock of hair. I fell to wondering what he would look like when that beard had been removed.

'At last the barber finished and with a flick and a flourish removed the apron from around his customer's neck. Weakly the man got out of the chair and stood up. He turned around and I saw his face.

'You could never guess who it was.'

'The window–cleaner!' yelled Gub–Gub, slipping off his cushion and disappearing under the table in his excitement.

'Yes,' said Pippinella quietly, 'it was the window–cleaner.'

Gub–Gub's sudden disappearance caused a short interruption and some two or three minutes were spent fishing him out from under the table and putting him and his cushion back on the stool. There, slightly bruised but otherwise none the worse for his accident, he continued to show intense interest in the canary's story while occasionally rubbing the side of his head, which he had bumped on the leg of the table.

'Well,' Pippinella continued, 'I was greatly shocked at my friend's appearance. I recognized him, beyond all doubt, instantly, of course. But, oh so thin he looked, pale, weary and weak! As yet he had not noticed me. Standing by the barber's chair, embarrassed, staring awkwardly at the floor, he started to put his hand in his pocket. Then, seeming to remember half–way that he had no money, he murmured something to the barber in explanation and hurried to leave the shop.

'There was a certain call that I used to give—a kind of greeting whistle—whenever he returned in days gone by to the windmill of an evening after his work was over. As he took hold of the door–handle to go out on to the deck I repeated it twice. Then he turned around and saw me.

'Never have I seen anyone's face so light up with joy and gladness.

'"Oh, Pip!" he cried, coming close up to my cage and peering in. "Is it really you? Yes. There could be no doubt about those markings. I could pick you out from a million!"

'"Pardon me," said the barber. "Do you know my canary?"

'"Your canary!" said the window–cleaner. "There is some mistake here. The bird is mine. I am quite sure of it."

'And then began a long argument. Of course, quite naturally, the barber wasn't going to give me up just on the other man's saying so. The sailor who had first caught me was called in. Then various stewards and other members of the crew joined the discussion. My friend, the window–cleaner, was a very polite through it all, but very firm. He was asked how long ago it was that I had been in his possession. And when he said it was many months since he had seen me last the others all laughed at him, saying that his claim was simply ridiculous. Never have I wished harder that I could talk the language of people, so that I might explain to them beyond all doubt which one was my real owner.

'Well, finally the matter was taken to the captain. Already many of the passengers were interested in the argument and when he came down to the barber's shop the place was crowded with people who were all giving advice and taking sides.

'The captain began by telling everybody to keep quiet while he heard both versions of the story. Then the barber and the window–cleaner in turn put forward their claims, giving reasons and particulars and all the rest. Next, the big sailor stated how he had found me in the rigging, during a rain squall and had taken me below and later sold me to the barber.

'When they had all done the captain turned to the window–cleaner and said:

'"I don't see how you can claim ownership of the bird on such evidence. There could easily be many birds marked the same as this one. The chances are that this was a wild bird which took refuge on this ship during bad weather. In the circumstances I feel that the barber has every right to keep it."

'Well, that seemed to be the end of the matter. The question had been referred to the captain, the highest authority on the ship, and he had decided in favour of the barber. It look as though I was going to remain in his possession.

'But the window–cleaner and his romantic rescue from the sea had greatly interested the passengers. His face was the kind of face that everyone would instinctively trust as honest. Many people felt that he would not have laid claim to me with such sureness and determination if he was not really my owner. And as the captain stepped out on to the deck one of the passengers—a funny, fussy old gentleman with side–whiskers—followed him and touched him on the arm.

'"Pardon me, captain," said he. "I have a feeling that our castaway is an upright and honourable person. If his claim to the canary should be just, possibly the bird will know him. Perhaps he can even do tricks with it. Would it not be as well to try some test of that kind before dismissing the case?"

'The captain turned back and all the other passengers who had been leaving now re–entered the barber's shop, their interest reviving at the prospect of a new trial.

'"Listen," said the captain, addressing the window–cleaner: "You say you know the canary well. Does the bird know you at all? Is there anything you can do to prove that what you say is true?"

'"Yes, the bird knows me, sir," said the barber. "He'll hop right out of the cage on to my hand when I call him. If you'll shut the door I'll show you."

'"Very good," said the captain. "Close the door."

'Then, with the little cabin crowded with people, the barber opened my cage, held up his hand and called to me to come out. I did—and, of course, flew straight to the window–cleaner's shoulder.

'A whisper of astonishment ran around among the passengers. Then I climbed off my friend's shoulder and clawed my way down his waistcoat. I wanted to remind him of an old trick he used to do with me at the mill. At supper he would sometimes put a lump of sugar in his waistcoat pocket and I would fish it out and drop it in his teacup. As soon as I started to walk down off his shoulder he remembered it and asked for a lump of sugar and a cup. They were brought forward by a steward. Then he explained to the captain what he was going to do, put the sugar in his pocket and the teacup on the barber's washstand.

'Well, I wish you could have seen the barber's face when I pulled that sugar out, flew to the cup, and dropped it in.

'"Why, captain," cried the old gentleman with the side–whiskers, "there can be no question now, surely, as to who is the owner. The bird will do anything for this man. I thought he wouldn't have claimed it if it wasn't his own."

'"Yes," said the captain, "the canary is his. There can be no doubt of that."

'And amid much talking and congratulations from the passengers the window–cleaner prepared to take me away. Then came the question of the ownership of the cage. That belonged to the barber, of course. But as there was no other empty one to be had aboard the ship my friend couldn't very well take me without it. However, the old gentleman with the side–whiskers, who seemed genuinely interested in the strange story of my funny owner and myself, came forward and volunteered to pay the barber the value of the cage.

'The window–cleaner thanked him and asked him for his name and address. He hadn't any money now, he said, but he wanted to send it to him after he got to land. Then I and my friend from whom I had been separated so long left the barber's shop and proceeded to the forward part of the ship, where he had his quarters.

'"Well, Pip," said he, shaking up the mattress of his bed, "here we are again! The captains's been pretty generous. Gave me a first class cabin for nothing. Of course I can't expect to have the services of a steward as well. So I make my own bed—where the dickens did that pillow get to? Oh, there it is, on the floor … . poor old Pip! What ages it is since we talked to one another. And then to find you aboard the ship that rescued me, living in the barber's shop! Dear, dear, what a strange world it is, to be sure! There goes five bells. That means half–past six. It'll soon be dinner–time. Are you hungry, Pip? Let's see. Oh, no, you've got plenty of seed. And I'll bring you a piece of apple from the dining saloon. What a decent chap that be–whiskered old fellow was, wasn't he—paying for your cage and all like that? Heaven only knows when he'll get his money back. I haven't a penny in the world. But I must see that he gets it somehow."

'While he finished making the bed he went vaguely about this and that, gradually coming to the part I wanted to hear the most.

'"Pip," he said finally in a more confidential tone. "I sometimes believe you understand every word I say. Do you know why? Whenever I talk, you keep silent. Is it possible you do know what I am saying?"

'I tried to make sound similar to the human word for yes but it just came out a peep which surprised him a little for he looked at me sharply and smiled.

'"Never mind, Pip," he said. "Whether you understand or not I still get great comfort from talking to you. Oh, goodness, I feel weak!" he said, dropping down on to the bunk. "I better sit down awhile. The least exertion tires me out now. I haven't got over that starving and the sun. Listen, Pip, would you like to know the real reason why I never came back to the mill that night? Just a minute—"

'He went over to the door, opened it and looked outside.

'"It's all right," he said, coming back to his seat on the bunk. "There's no one eavesdropping."

'His voice sank to a whisper as he leaned forward towards my cage, which stood on a table near this bunk. He seemed to be suddenly overcome with a spell of dizziness for he closed his eye a moment. I felt that he really ought to be in bed, recovering from his terrible trip. But I also felt very proud, because I realized that what he was about to tell me had most likely never been told to a living soul.'

6 The Window-cleaner's Adventures

'"YOU remember those books I used to write, Pip?" the window–cleaner began. "Well, they were books about governments—foreign governments. Before you knew me—before I was a window–cleaner—I had travelled the world a great deal. And in many countries I found that the people were not treated well. I tried to speak about it. But I wasn't allowed to. So I decided that I would go back to my own land and write about it. And that is what I did. I wrote in newspapers and magazines. But the government there didn't like the sort of thing I wrote—although it had not been written against them exactly. They sent to the editors of these magazines and newspapers and asked them not to allow me to write for them any more.

'"In those days I had a great many friends—and a good deal of money, too, for I was born of quite wealthy parents. But when my friends found that I was getting into hot water with the government many of them wouldn't be seen with me any more. Some of them thought I was just as harmless crank, sort of crazy, you know—the way people always do regard you if you do anything different from the herd.

'"And so," he went on, "I set out to disappear. One day I took a boat and went for a row on the sea. When there was no one around I upset the boat and swam to shore. Then I made my way secretly on foot a long distance from those parts and was never seen again by any of my friends or relatives. Of course, when the upturned boat was found people decided that I had been drowned. Most of my money and houses and property went to my younger brother as the next of kin and very soon I was forgotten.

'"In the meantime I had become a window–cleaner in the town where you met me. I rented that old ramshackle mill from a farmer for five shillings a month. And there I settled down to write the books with which I hoped to change the world. I have never been so happy in my life as I was there, Pip. I had never been so free before. And the first book that I wrote did change things—even more than I expected. It was printed in a foreign country and read by a great number of people. They decided that what I wrote was true and they began to make a whole lot of fuss and to try to change their government.

'"But they were not quite strong enough and their attempt failed. In the meantime the government men of that particular country got very busy trying to find out who had written the book that caused so much trouble and which nearly lost them their jobs."

'At that point,' Pippinella continued, 'the window–cleaner was interrupted by the ringing of six bells and the bugle for dinner. He excuses himself and left the cabin.

'In about half an hour he returned, bringing with him a piece of apple, a stump of celery and some other titbits from the table for me. While he was putting them in my cage the ship's doctor came to see him. He was still, of course, more or less under his care. The doctor examined my friend and seemed satisfied with his progress. But on leaving he ordered him to go to bed early and to avoid all serious exertion for the present.

''After the doctor had gone my friend started to undress and I supposed that I should have no more of the story for the present. But after he had got into the bed he continued talking to me. I have since thought that this was perhaps a sign that he was still very weak from all he had gone through. It seemed as though he just had to talk—but he was afraid to do it when they were any people around to hear him. So I, the canary, was his audience.

'"How that foreign government," he went on, "found out that it was I who wrote the books I do not know to this day. But I suppose they must have traced my letters because, after calling at the post office that Saturday when I left you outside on the wall, I was followed by three men as I came away. I did not see them until it was too late. At a lonely part of the road leading back towards the mill I was struck to the ground with a blow on the head.

'"When I woke up I was aboard a ship far out at sea. I demanded to know why I had been kidnapped. I was told that the ship was short of crew and they had to get an extra man somehow. This, of course, is—or was—often done by ships that were short–handed. But from the start I was suspicious. The town they had taken me from was a long way from the sea. And no ship would send so far in–land to shanghai sailors. Besides, nobody would ever take me for a seaman. Further, I soon noticed that there were a group of foreigners on board; and later I learned that the port we were bound for was in that country about which I had written my book.

'"I knew what would happen to me if I ever landed there, I would be arrested and thrown into prison on some false charge. So far as my relatives and friends were concerned, was I not dead long ago? No one in my own land would make inquiries. Once in the clutches of the government I had made an enemy of, I would never be heard of again."

'The window–cleaner lay back on his pillow as though exhausted from the effort of talking. He remained motionless so long that I began to think he had fallen asleep. And I was glad, because I did not want him to over tire himself. But presently he sat up again and drew my cage nearer to him across the table. With his feverish eyes burning more brightly than ever, he went on.

'"As the ship carried me away one thing, Pip, besides my own plight worried me dreadfully. And that was you—you, my companion, my only friend. I had left your cage outside hanging on the wall. Would you be frozen to death by the cold night? Who would feed you? I remembered what a lonely place that old mill was. What chance was there that any passer by would see you? And even if he did, there would be nothing to show him, unless he broke in and found the kitchen empty, that you had been deserted. I imagined what you must be thinking of me as the hours and days went by—starving days and freezing nights—waiting, waiting for me to return, while all the time that accursed ship carried me further and further away! … Poor Pip! Even now I can't believe it's you. Still, there you are, sure enough, with the yellow bars on your wings and the funny black patch across your throat and that cheeky trick of cocking your head on one side when you're listening—and—and everything."

'And then, still murmuring fitfully, at last the window–cleaner fell asleep. From my cage I looked at his haggard, pinched face on the pillow. I felt stupidly useless. I wished I were a person so I could take care of him and nurse him back to full health. For I realized now that he was still dreadfully ill. However, it was a great deal to be with him again. I put my head under my wing and prepared to settle down myself. But I didn't get much rest. For all night long he kept jumping and murmuring in his sleep.'

'But how did the window–cleaner come to be on the raft?' whined Gub–Gub. 'You've let him go to sleep now without telling us.'

'Well, he hasn't gone to sleep for ever,' said the white mouse. 'Give him a chance, can't you?'

'Oh, that pig,' sighed Dab–Dab. 'I don't know why we always have him in the party.'

'Myself,' growled Jip, 'I'd sooner have a nice, smooth round stone for company.'

'Quiet, please!' said the Doctor. 'Let Pippinella go on.'

'Well,' said the canary, 'in the morning while he was dressing, the window–cleaner told me the rest of his story. Realizing that if he had remained on that ship till the end of its journey he would be cast into prison—probably for the rest of his days—he determined to escape from it at any cost before it reached port. He had been given work to do about the ship like the other sailors; so fortunately he was still free—in appearance at all events. He bided his time and pretended not to be suspicious concerning his captor's intentions.

'After some days of sailing they passed an island at night time. The land was some three miles away at least, but its high mountain tops were visible in the moonlight. On account of the distance the men never dreamed that he would attempt to swim ashore. It was very late and no one was on deck. Taking a lifebelt from the rail my friend slipped quietly into the sea near the stern of the boat and struck out for the island.

'It was a tremendous, long swim. And if it had not been for the belt, he told me, he could never have done it. But finally, more dead than alive from exhaustion, he staggered up on to the beach in the moonlight and lay down to rest and sleep.'

Pippinella paused a moment while the whole Dolittle family waited eagerly for the rest of her story.

'I know!' shouted Gub–Gub. 'Don't tell me. Let me guess. He landed on Ebony Island—the same as you did!'

'No,' said the canary shaking her head. 'It would have been simple had he done that.—No, the island on which he landed was one of the same group—but it lay two or three miles to the South of my island. I only found that out later as he described his further adventures.'

'Incredible!' exclaimed John Dolittle. 'Why, he must have been there at the same time you were living on the larger one. I know that group of islands well; they're close enough together to make visibility very good. Strange you didn't see him.'

'Well, no, Doctor,' replied the canary. 'You see, it was the time of the autumn rains and the sky was overcast and grey from one day to the next. I could never have seen him from my island. But you will remember that I told you I occasionally visited the other islands just to relieve the monotony. I must have been on his while he was on mine. You'll see, as my story progresses, how that could have happened.'

'Quite so,' said the Doctor. 'Do go on Pippinella. I've never heard a more astonishing example of sheer coincidence.'

'When the window–cleaner awoke,' continued the canary, 'it was daylight and the first thing he saw was the ship about six or seven miles off, coming back to look for him.

'Fortunately he had lain down in the shadow of some bushes and had not yet been seen through the telescopes from the ship. Like a rabbit he made his way inland, keeping always in the cover of the underbrush. Reaching the far side of the island he crept up into the higher mountain levels, where from vantage points he could see without being seen.

'He watched the vessel draw near and send boats ashore with search parties. Then began a long game of hide–and–seek. About two dozen men in all were brought on to the island. And from these twenty–four he had to remain hidden.

'All day long my friend watched like a hunted fox, peering out from the bushes and rocks at his pursuers. Darkness began to fall and he supposed that the men would now return to their ship. But to his horror he saw that they were settling down for the night, putting up bivouacs of boughs and lighting camp fires.

'For two days this continued. You might wonder why I didn't see the ship and the fires and the boats going back and forth from the ship to the shore. But it all must have taken place on the other side of the island—out of sight of where I stayed most of the time. And then, too, the fog was so thick that seeing more than a few feet in any direction was impossible.

'Finally, when it began to look as though his pursuers were never going to leave the island, my friend hit upon a plan. At night time he went down to the beach on that side of the island where the ship had come to anchor. You remember the lifebelt that he used to come ashore with?'

'Yes,' said Gub–Gub, sneezing heartily.

'Well, he took that lifebelt, which had the ship's name written on it, and he flung it out beyond the surf. He watched it for a little to make sure that it was not washed back inshore, and then he made his way up again to his mountain retreats.

'Now at least once a day, sometimes more, boats passed between the island and the ship to get news of how the hunt was progressing or to bring supplies to the search parties. The following morning one of these boats sighted the lifebelt floating in the sea. It was captured and taken aboard the ship. When news of its discovery was brought to the captain he decided that my friend had been drowned in his attempt to reach the island, and he signalled to the search parties to rejoin the ship.

'About half an hour later the window–cleaner, watching from his mountain hiding places, saw the vessel weigh anchor and sail away. He described to me his great joy when he first realized that his plan had worked, that his enemies had at last departed and left him in peace. The first thing he did was to have a good sleep. Anxiety about the movements of his hunters had prevented his getting any real rest since he had seen the ship return.

'But after a while he found that his situation was by no means good anyway. Immediate danger from the men who had kidnapped him was over, to be sure. But he was now marooned on an uninhabited island, with every prospect of staying there indefinitely. As week after week went by and he never even sighted the sail of a passing ship, he came to the conclusion that this island was far out of the paths of ocean traffic.

'All this time anxiety about the safety of his book added to his other troubles. He begrudged every day—every hour—spent here in useless idleness when his enemies might be busy behind his back, ransacking his home for the work on which he had laboured so long.

'For food he subsisted on nuts, fish and fruit mostly. He took his quarters in that cave which I had explained. On the peak just above this he erected a flag made out of the cleaning rag which I found tied to the stick. This, he hoped, might catch the attention of some passing vessels. But none ever came.

'At last, when he had given up all hope of rescue from chance visitors, he decided that his only way of escape was to set out on a raft and try to get into the path of ships. So, somehow, with great patience, he fastened together a number of dry logs upon the beach. He fashioned a mast out of a pole and wove a sail by plaiting vines and leaves. Big sea shells and other queer vessels were prepared to carry a supply of fresh water. He laid in a large store of nuts and bananas. When everything was ready, he thrust his raft out into the surf and prepared to sail away.

'But everything was against him. The weather, which had been fairly decent for some days, suddenly worsened just as he put out to sea. A violent wind blew the small, ill–fitted raft in a wide circle and flung it—all battered and broken—on to the beach of Ebony Island. Of course, he didn't realize at first that he wasn't back on his own island; he only found it out after he had dragged himself to shelter and waited out the storm.

'It must have been during this same storm that I foolishly tried to follow the vessel which later was the means of saving my life. I suppose the reason he didn't see the ship was that he was lying exhausted in a small cove, waiting for the storm to subside.

'He told me how he began all over again to rebuild the raft; how he waited each day for some vessel to show up; and how, finally in desperation, he set out.

'I don't know when I have ever heard,' said Pippinella, 'anything more terrible than the window–cleaner's description of his voyage on that raft. With all his careful and thoughtful preparations, and because of the overcast sky, I suppose, he had neglected one important thing: some protection from the fierce rays of the sun. The first two days he had not realized his oversight, for a continual drift of light clouds across the sky shaded him even better than a parasol. But when on the third day the full glare of the tropical sun beat down on him, his little sailing boat had made such good progress before the wind, that he calculated he was three hundred miles from the island and going back was out of the question.

'For five days the window–cleaner drifted. By that time his fresh water was all gone and most of his food. A good deal of the time now he was out of his head entirely. He kept seeing imaginary ships appear on the skyline, he told me. He would get up and wave to them frantically, like a madman, then fall down in a state of utter collapse.

'Luckily he had not taken down his basketwork sail to use as a sunshade—sorely through he needed it. He was always hoping that a wind would come along and he feared that if he unlashed it from the mast he would not have strength to get it up again. It was this that saved him. Long after he had fallen unconscious for the last time it was sighted by the ship in which I was travelling. The captain told him afterwards that it was very doubtful if the raft would have been seen at all if it had not been for that queer sail—which stood up high above the water—especially as the ship's course was by no means heading in that direction, but would have carried us by him at a distance of over twelve miles.

'"However," the window–cleaner said to me, "all is well that ends well, Pip. Somehow my coming through this, my escape from the kidnappers, my rescue from the sea, make me feel I'm going to win through after all—so that the work I have begun will go forward to a successful end. It was a terrible experience. But I'm getting over it. And it has given me faith, Pip, faith in my star. I will yet upset that thieving government. I will yet live to see those people freed and happy."

'That morning it was announced that we would most likely reach our next port the day after tomorrow. The kind old passenger with the side–whiskers still stuck to my friend, the window–cleaner. He had gathered at the time of the discussion about the cage that my friend had no money. He came to our cabin later in the day and asked him what he proposed to do when he landed. The window–cleaner shrugged his shoulders and, with a smile, said:

'"Thank you, I don't just know exactly. But I'll manage somehow—get a job, I suppose, till I've made enough to buy a passage home."

'"But, look here," said the old gentleman, "this port we're coming to is inhabited by natives—very few white men, indeed. You'll have great difficulty, I fear, in securing employment. Besides, you're still far from well."

'Nevertheless, my friend insisted, while thanking the other for his kind interest, that he would be able to get along somehow. But the old gentleman shook his head. And as he left the cabin he murmured:

'"You're not strong enough yet. I must see if something can't be arranged."

'That old gentleman reminded me a good deal of Aunt Rosie. He was one of those unfortunate elderly person who, while apparently leading rather stupid lives, yet spend much time and thought doing good to others. He did arrange something, and that was a concert among the passengers. And the money they collected was presented to us. The window–cleaner for a long time refused to take it. But in the end they made him.

'And it was a good thing they did, too, for heaven only knows how we would have got along without it. Because when we finally reached the port we found it little more than a collection of huts. It was hard enough to get a bed and a decent meal there, let alone a job. None of the other passengers was landing here and our ship had only stopped to unload part of her cargo. The window–cleaner, after thanking everybody aboard for his kindness, was given a great send–off as he walked down the gangplank, his only baggage a bird cage beneath his arm. Both he and I were, I think, a little sorry to see the good ship weigh anchor and sail away. Certainly if it had not been for her hospitality both of us would have succumbed to the perils of the sea. He had paid the barber for his hair cut and shave out of the money he had received from the concert. In this way the barber suffered no loss. And I was glad of that. Because he was a real, decent fellow, that man, and his hair–dressing parlour had been quite a pleasant place to live in.'

7 The Ragged Tramp

'AFTER that we settled down in such quarters as the port afforded to wait for a vessel homeward bound. Boats' arrivals and departures were not so certain then as they are now—particularly in that outlandish spot. We were told that a ship was expected in a fortnight, but that it might be three weeks before it came.

'This was a great disappointment to my friend, who was still itching to get back and find out about the fate of his book. And it seemed as though the nearer he got to his goal the harder it became for him to wait.

'"You see, the trouble is, Pip," he kept on saying as he walked the sea wall with my cage beneath his arm, scanning the horizon for an approaching sail, "the trouble is that mill is so unprotected. Those fellows could take up their quarters there and stay as long as they liked and no one would know the difference. And you can be sure, once they're certain they have found the house where I lived and wrote, they won't rest till they've discovered my papers."

'Well, at last a ship came—not a very fine craft, far smaller and less elegant than the one which had brought us here. This was a cargo vessel pure and simple. My friend made arrangements with the captain to take us as far as a certain port in his own country. Some hours were spent in unloading freight and taking on supplies—and one or two more in signing papers and talking about manifests, port dues, customs, quarantines, and all the other things which a ship has to fuss with when she enters or leaves a harbour.

'Finally, near nightfall, we got away. The window–cleaner now appeared to throw care aside and regain some thing of his old habitual jolliness. It was the feeling of motion, action at last, after all the waiting that buoyed him up. As the vessel ploughed merrily forward through the water he paced up and down the deck with a firmer, more vigorous manner than I had seen in him since we had rejoined each other.

'We had at least a two week's voyage ahead of us. My friend procured pens and ink and reams of paper. And hour after hour he would sit in his cabin, writing, writing, writing. He was describing his adventures with the agents or spies of the enemy government, he told me. He was going to add it to his book—if it still existed. Watching him scribbling away at his desk, stopping every once in a while to try to remember some detail of his life on the islands or what not, gave me the idea to record in some way the story of my own life. For it was then for the first time that it occurred to me that perhaps my days had been adventurous enough to be worth telling.

'Now, I'm happy that I did. For if I had not composed those verses and songs it would not be so easy for me to recall all the details so that you could put them down in a regular book.'

'Indeed,' said the Doctor. 'I'm glad you did, too. This, I'm sure, will be a most unique book—a real animal biography—such as I've wanted to do for so long. Shall we go on or are you too tired?'

'Not at all,' replied Pippinella, 'I want to finish tonight, if possible.

'While the window–cleaner scribbled away at his desk over the story of his kidnapping and escape at sea, I warbled away in my cage, trying out phrases and melodies till I had put together the whole song of my life in a manner that seemed musically fitting. Occasionally he would look up from his work and smile. He liked it. He always liked to hear me sing. But he seemed particularly struck by the love song of the greenfinch in the spring. It's funny how everyone seems to like that best. You remember yourself, John Dolittle, how when I sang for you that first time through the wrapping paper of my cage, it was the greenfinch's spring song?'

'Yes, I recollect,' said the Doctor. 'Sing it for us again, will you, please?'

'Certainly,' said Pippinella, 'I'll be glad to.'

While the canary sang the beautiful and sad love story of the greenfinch, with the Doctor writing it all down in his notebook, the idea for a Canary Opera came to John Dolittle. It would be the most unusual dramatic production the world had ever seen, with Pippinella as the heroine with a cast of singing birds in the supporting roles. He determined to talk it over with her the moment her life story was finished.

The awful silence which greeted Pippinella at the end of her song convinced the Doctor more than ever that she was just the star he needed to take London by storm. Gub–Gub was sitting—silently, for a change—on his stool with a big tear standing on the end of his nose. Dab–Dab was trying self–consciously to hide the emotion she was feeling at the conclusion of the song. And the other animals, Too–Too, Whitey, and Jip were frankly wiping their eyes and snuffling their noses.

After a moment or two, while everyone composed himself again, the Doctor asked the canary to continue her story. Pippinella took another small sip of water and went on:

'At last our journey came to its end, as all journeys do, and we went ashore one fine morning and set out about finding some means of transportation to get us to the town of the windmill.

'My friend's money was not yet exhausted, so happily we were able to pay for the journey by coach. The window–cleaner's anxiety and excitement about the fate of his book continued to grow as we drew nearer to his home. As we rumbled along over the country roads he kept muttering about the slowness of the horses and wondering aloud if the old mill had been burned to the ground or been struck by lightning or pulled down to make room for another building and a hundred and one other possibilities which might prevent him from regaining his papers, even if his enemies had not stolen them.

'And when finally the coach set us down at an inn in the town where Aunt Rosie lived he took my cage beneath his arm and fairly ran along the road that led towards the mill. At the corner of the street he gave a cry:

'"Thank goodness, Pip! It's still there. Look, the mill is all right. The next thing is to see whether the kitchen has been broken into."

'And he ran stumbling on. The road up the hill was quite steep and he was all out of breath by the time he reached the little tumble–down fence that surrounded the bit of ground in which the mill tower stood. The place looked even more decayed and dilapidated than when we had seen it last. Long, lanky weeds grew in the chinks between the stones of the front walk. The little gate by which we entered hung by a single hinge.

'But the thing that struck us both was the fact that the front door of the mill had boards nailed across it.

'"Humph!" I heard him mutter. "The old farmer's been around and found the door letting the weather in."

'Then he went to the side of the tower where the kitchen window was. And that, too, had been nailed up.

'"Look as though we're going to have a job to get in, Pip," said he. "I think I'll set you down here while I run over to the outhouse and find a ladder. That second story window seems about the only entrance—unless I break in. You wait here. I won't be a minute."

'And he set my cage down on an old packing–case near the front door and ran off towards the outhouse.'

Pippinella paused.

'It's funny,' she said presently, 'what odd things happen at odd places. At that moment I was just as excited as he to know the fate of his papers. But when he disappeared into that outhouse that was the last I ever saw of him.'

'Why, what happened?' asked Gub–Gub. 'Was he kidnapped again?'

'No,' said Pippinella, 'but I was. While I listened to him rummaging around in that old shed, searching for a ladder, I saw a ragged person, very evidently a tramp, creep out from behind the tower. His appearance at once made me suspicious. And I started to call for the window–cleaner at the top of my voice. But I suppose the noise that he was making himself prevented him from hearing anything else. The tramp, with a glance over his shoulder, drew nearer. I hoped my friend would show up again any minute, for I knew at once what was going to happen. But he didn't. He was evidently entirely absorbed in his hunt for the ladder. As I gave an extra loud scream the tramp whipped my cage up, thrust it under his coat to muffle the sound of my voice, tiptoed out of the gate and set off quickly down the hill.

'It would be impossible to describe to you how I felt. After all my striving, after all my travelling, there on the very doorstep of the mill, within a few moments of knowing what had happened to the book, within earshot of my beloved friend to whom I had only just been reunited, to be stolen by a tramp while his back was turned! Fortune has dealt me some bitter blows, but none quite as bad as that.

'I think he was some kind of a gypsy. He looked like one. And later he fell in with a caravan of gypsies, who seemed to know him, and travelled part of the way with them.

'I guessed at once that he had not stolen me because he was fond of birds. His idea was to sell me. He had lifted me up and taken me along just as he would a knife or any other bit of movable property, when the owner wasn't looking. And now he just awaited opportunity to dispose of me for money.

'He was a strange individual—like most gypsies. His hand seemed to be set, his heart hardened, against everyone in the world except the other members of this mysterious tribe to which he belonged. He begged and stole his way across the country, sleeping in barns, under hayricks or in some caravan whose brown–faced owners offered him hospitality.

'And for two weeks I shared this wandering, hand–to–mouth existence. Often I was hungry; often I was cold; often I was wet. Still, I saw a tremendous lot of the countryside, and when the weather was fair I felt that I might easily be worse off, so far as the mere comforts of life were concerned.

'I tried to mark the way, to notice the road we followed, so that in case an opportunity to escape should occur I would know how to come back. But the course of his journeys was too meandering to keep track of it for long. I calculated at the end of ten days that we had covered a hundred and fifty miles or so. But how much it would be in a straight line I had no idea.

'At one place my tramp nearly got caught picking a farmer's pocket at a cattle show. And I thought perhaps my chance to escape was at hand when the crowd started to come after him. But he was a wily rascal. He gave them the slip and got away.

'The tramp had tried several times to sell me at fairs and at wayside houses that he had passed. And, for my part, I hoped he would succeed. But somehow he didn't. Perhaps people had an uncomfortable feeling that he may have stolen me—for he looked like a very suspicious sort of character.

'Anyway, after a while I saw that what I feared most would probably come to pass—he would sell me at a bird shop. On early morning he made his way into a small town and, with my cage under his arm, presented himself at an animal store just as the doors were being opened and the place swept out. My heart sank as we entered. The smell and the noise and the crowding! Oh, my! They are still a sort of nightmare to me. I yet clung to the hope as we went in that the proprietor wouldn't buy me or would offer a price so low that the tramp would keep me. For, naturally rascal though he was, his open, wandering life through the countryside was better by far than the close quarters of that noisome establishment.

'But, alas! He was apparently desperately in need of a little money, and while he struck a good a bargain as he could, he was evidently determined to sell me this time for anything he could get. And, after a little haggling, he left me on the counter, took the money and went a way.

'And then began what was, I think—after my experience of the coal–mine—the unhappiest chapter in my life's story. Why should I tell you all the drab details of that miserable existence? You probably know them already, and for my part, I hate to recall them. An animal shop! Heaven preserve all animals from sinking to that dreary state. There's no reason, of course, why these places shouldn't be run properly—so far as the cage birds are concerned, at all events. But the fact remains that they very seldom are. I found that all my parents had told me about them was true—and a good deal more in this case.

'The main trouble is the crowding. No one person—nor two people—can look after a couple of hundred birds, several dozen rabbits, six pairs of guinea–pigs, four tanks of goldfish, a score of dogs, cases upon cases of pigeons, ten parrots, a monkey or two, white mice, squirrels, ferrets and heaven knows what more, and give proper attention to them all. Yet this is what they try to do. It isn't that they want to be unkind. They are just careless—horribly careless. They want to make money. That's the main idea.

'Right from the start I was taken out of my little wooden cage, where I had lived since I'd been aboard ship, and pushed into a larger one that was crowded with other cross–bred canaries. We stood on a shelf, one in a long line of cages, and over us and under us and all around us there were more cages still. My partners who shared my miserable box were a motley crew of half–moulted hens, some of them with sore feet, others with colds in the head—hardly one of them a decent full–blooded member of society. In the middle of the room parrots on stands screeched and squawked all day long. Twice a day—but why go on? There is only one good thing that I can say about that animal shop, John Dolittle. And it is: that there I first heard about you from the other poor creatures who shared my miserable fate; and it was there you found me and rescued me from existence too horrible to describe further.'

'My, my!' said the Doctor. 'A most dramatic turn of events! Just right for an opera.'

'Opera?' screamed Gub–Gub. 'You mean we're going to do an opera? How elegant. I shall sing the baritone's role—Figaro! Figaro! Figaro–Figaro–Figaro!'

'Oh, be quiet!' scolded Dab–Dab. 'Nobody said we were going to do an opera. You're always jumping to conclusions.'

'The Doctor said Pip's life was just right for an opera,' said Gub–Gub crossly. 'That's what you said, John Dolittle, didn't you?'

'Yes, I did,' replied the Doctor. 'But the opera I have in mind is for birds only. You—and the rest of the family—may help with the production. That is, if Pippinella is willing.'

Then the Doctor outlined his plan to the canary and asked her if she would be willing to assume the leading role. He explained that he would use the exact story of her life for the plot and hire other birds to play the supporting roles. It was just the idea he had been hunting for, he told her, and he felt sure London audiences would be charmed by such a production.

'Thank you, John Dolittle,' Pippinella said. 'It is a very great compliment. I hope you won't be disappointed in me. I shall need a great deal of coaching—opera is another thing again from singing just for the pleasure of it. But I have a small favour to ask of you. Doctor.'

'Anything, Pippinella,' said the Doctor. 'What is it?'

'John Dolittle,' replied the canary. 'I want you to find my friend the window–cleaner. If we go up to London, as you planned, we may just find some trace of him there.'

'It is little enough to ask,' said the Doctor. 'And London will be a good place to start. We have many friends there. Cheapside, the London sparrow, who makes his home on St Paul's Cathedral, can give us some valuable help, I'm sure.'

Gub–Gub bounced down off his stool and, grabbing Dab–Dab around the middle, began to waltz her round and round, singing:

'We're off to London to see the Queen! Tra–la–la–la, la–la–la, la–la!'

'Oh, stop it!' cried Dab–Dab. 'You're making me dizzy!' But she was smiling just the same and joined in the jubilation with the others.