Doctor Dolittle's Garden

1 Insect Languages

There were to have been two volumes to that book, Tales of the Home for Crossbred Dogs. But it was around this time—when I was finishing the first of them—that I was asked by the Doctor to assist him in another department. This kept me writing so busily that everything else was laid aside for the time being.

It was the study of Insect Languages. For years and years the Doctor had been patiently working on it. He had, as I have told you, butterfly–breeding houses where the caterpillars of moths and butterflies were hatched out and liberated in a special enclosed garden, about the size of a room, full of flowers and everything needed for butterfly happiness.

"The moths and butterflies were liberated in an enclosed garden"

Then hornets, wasps, bees and ants—we had other special apparatus and homes for them too. Everything was designed with one foremost idea in view: to keep the insects happy and in normal conditions while they were being studied.

And the water–born creatures, like the dragon flies, the stone flies, etc., for them he had hundreds of small aquarium tanks with plants and grasses growing in them. Beetles, the same way. In fact there was practically no branch or department of Insect Life which the Doctor had not at one time or another studied with a view to establishing language contact with it. He had built many delicate machines which he called "Listening Apparatus."

About this time too Morse's experiments in electricity and telegraphy were attracting a good deal of public attention. And John Dolittle had been very hopeful that these sciences would aid him in some way. Bumpo and I had built him a shed especially for this and he had entirely filled it with electrical batteries and things which he felt confident would eventually solve some of his problems in connexion with insect languages.

But in spite of a tremendous amount of patient labour, trial and experiment, he had admitted to me only a week or so ago that he felt he had accomplished nothing. So you can imagine my surprise when, just as I was finishing the last chapter to the first volume for the mongrels' club, he came rushing into the Dogs' Dining Room, grabbed me by the arm and breathlessly asked me to come with him. Together we ran across to the insect houses. There, over the various listening apparatus, he attempted to explain to me how he had at last achieved results—results which, he was confidently sure, would lead to his dream being realized.

It was all highly scientific and frightfully complicated; and I am afraid that I did not understand a great deal of it. It seemed mostly about "vibrations per second," "sound waves" and the like. As usual with him on such occasions, everything else was laid aside and forgotten in his enthusiasm.

"Stubbins," said he, "I shall need your help for the secretarial work and the note–keeping—there's a tremendous lot of recording to be done. I am overwhelmed by my results. It all came at once—so suddenly. In one swoop I established what I believe are the beginnings of language–contact with five different kinds of insects: a wasp, a caterpillar—or rather a maggot—a house–fly, a moth and a water–beetle. If I am right in my surmises this is the greatest moment in my whole career. Let us go to work."

And then for many days—and most of the nights too—we laboured. Goodness, how we worked! Dab–Dab was in despair. We were late for all meals—for some of them we didn't turn up at all. A large part of the time I was asleep, or half asleep, because the Doctor not only worked regularly far into the night, but he was up early in the mornings as well. It reminded me of the time when he had met his first success in shellfish languages on the ship going to Spidermonkey Island.

He brought insects into the house in pails, in biscuit–tins, in tea–cups, in everything. You never saw such a mess. His bedroom, the kitchen, the parlour, the study—everywhere you went you found pots of maggots, glasses full of wasps, bowls full of water–beetles. Not content with that, he kept going out and getting more. We would walk miles and miles across country, armed with collecting–boxes, in search of some specially large beetle or some new kind of wasp which he felt sure would be better for experimenting purposes than any he had used so far.

"Gub–Gub was continually getting stung by the wasps"

Poor Gub–Gub was continually getting stung by the wasps—indeed the house seemed full of them. As for Dab–Dab, her indignation every time a new lot of maggots was brought in was quite indescribable. She threw several lots out of the window when the Doctor wasn't looking; but she was always brought to account for it. Because John Dolittle, no matter how many messy little cans he had placed around the house, knew immediately if a single one were missing.

2 Foreign Insects

For my part, I cannot truthfully say that I ever got into real, personal, conversational contact with the Insect World. But that John Dolittle did there can be no doubt whatever. This I have proof of from things that happened. You cannot make a wasp stand up on its front legs and wave its other four feet in the air unless you know enough wasp language to make him do so. And that—and a great deal more—I have seen the Doctor accomplish.

Of course it was never quite the free and easy exchange of ideas that his talking with the larger animals had come to be. But then insects' ideas are different; and consequently their languages for conveying those ideas are different. With all but the very largest insects the "listening," as it was called, was done with these quite complicated and very delicate instruments.

All draughts and vibrations had to be carefully shut off. Later on Bumpo and I made a second building specially for this, with a floor so solid that no footfall or shock, no matter how heavy, could jar the apparatus. It was also equipped with a very fine system for heating the atmosphere to exactly the right temperature. For the Doctor had found that most insects are inclined to go to sleep immediately the temperature falls below what is for them the normal climate of their active season. As a general rule, the hotter it was the more lively they were and the more they talked. But of course the air could not be allowed to get much warmer than full summer heat.

We called it listening for convenience. As a matter of fact, it more often consisted of recording vibrations, the pitch of a buzz, the velocity of the wing stroke and other slight noises and motions which insects make. With some of the very largest ones it was possible to hear the sounds given out with the naked ear. The clearest results that John Dolittle obtained were with imported insects, such as locusts and cicadas of different kinds. How he procured these foreign specimens was rather interesting. He asked several birds to make special trips abroad for him and to bring back the grubs and eggs of grasshoppers, crickets, etc. For this of course he employed insect–eating birds who would know where to look for the specimens and could recognize them when they found them. Then in his incubating boxes at home he hatched out the eggs and grubs into the full–grown insects.

"He asked several birds to make special trips abroad for him"

Most of the information that the Doctor gathered from this new study of insect languages was concerned with the natural history of the various species and genera. With this I filled over sixty thick notebooks for him. But we learned from certain cases, with which he was able to get into closer touch, many interesting personal stories of insect life and society. These, I think, might be more entertaining to the general reader than the purely scientific material which we gathered and stored away during the seven or eight months we spent on this work. We found that several kinds of butterflies had considerable imagination; and some of the yarns we were told I strongly suspect were made up out of whole cloth for our amusement. Others sounded as though they had the ring of truth to them. However I will shortly narrate one or two and then you can judge for yourselves.

All of the Dolittle household, with the exception of the harassed Dab–Dab, were greatly interested in this new departure of the Doctor's. And as soon as I had got a new section written into my note–books we were at once besieged by Chee–Chee or Polynesia or Too–Too or Gub–Gub to read it out loud. And that is how most of the following anecdotes came to be told round the kitchen fire in the manner of the good old days when the Doctor had amused his family every night with a fireside yarn.

3 Tangerine

One of our most interesting insects was a wasp. The Doctor had of course experimented with a considerable number of wasps. But with this one he had achieved better results than with any. The tiny creature seemed highly intelligent, was much given to talking, so long as the room was kept warm; and, after he had got used to John Dolittle, would follow him around the house like a pet cat wherever he went. He allowed the Doctor to handle him without apparently ever dreaming of stinging him and seemed happiest when he was allowed to sit on the Doctor's collar about an inch from his left ear. Gub–Gub it was who christened him with a name of his own Tangerine. This was because when the Doctor had been making inquiries of the wasp as to what foods he liked best he had said a certain yellow jam was his favourite. We tried apricot, peach, quince, Victoria plum. But we finally discovered that what he had meant was a marmalade made from Tangerine oranges.

"He seemed happiest when allowed to sit on the Doctor's collar"

He was then presented with his own private jar of marmalade—with which he seemed greatly delighted. But we saw almost right away that we would have to limit his allowance. He would eat such enormous quantities at one sitting. Then he'd fall asleep and wake up in the morning complaining of a dreadful headache. One evening he ate so much that he fell right into the pot and lay there on his back fast asleep, blissfully drowning in his favourite marmalade. We had to fish him out and give him a warm bath, because of course his wings and everything were all stuck together with the jam. In this the white mouse assisted us, as no one else's hands were small enough to wash a wasp's legs and face without doing damage.

"No one else's hands were small enough to wash a wasp's legs"

This passion for marmalade was Tangerine's only vice—otherwise he seemed to have a very nice disposition, not one that could be called waspish in the least. Gub–Gub having been stung by wasps before, was dreadfully scared of him. But for the rest of us he had no terrors, beyond a constant anxiety that we might sit on him—since he crawled over all the chairs and sofas and beds in the house as though he owned them.

Among the anecdotes and stories of the Insect World which Tangerine related to us that of "How I Won the Battle of Bunkerloo" was one of the favourites. And this is how he told it:

"The battlefield of Bunkerloo was situated in a pleasant valley between rolling hills covered with vineyards and olive–groves. Many battles had been fought in this historic spot. Because, for one thing, it formed a naturally good place for battles; and, for another, it was at an important point where the territories of three countries touched upon one another. In the fields and the boles of the olive trees round about there were several wasps' nests—as there naturally would be in a district of that size. They had always been there—though of course not the same wasps. Yet the traditions and folk–lore had been handed down from one generation to another. And the thing that we feared and hated most was battles. Dear me, how sick we were of war! For, mark you, even in my mother's lifetime there had been two battles fought out on that same ground.

"Yes, indeed, war to us was like a red rag to a bull. It seemed such a stupid waste. From either end of our beautiful valley armies would come with cannons and horses and everything. For hours they would shoot off evil–smelling gunpowder, blowing some of the trees right out of the ground by the roots and destroying simply no end of wasps' nests—some of them quite new ones which we had spent days and weeks in building. Then, after they had fought for hours, they would go away again, leaving hundreds of dead men and horses on the ground which smelt terribly after a few days—even worse than the gunpowder.

"And it never seemed to settle anything. Because in a year or two they'd be back again for another battle and ruin the landscape some more.

"Well, I had never seen any of these battles myself, being a young wasp. Nevertheless I had heard a whole lot about them from older relatives. But one evening, just as we were putting the finishing touches to a brand–new nest, one of my uncles came in and said:

"'Listen: you can all save yourselves the trouble of any further work on that job. There's going to be another battle.'

"'How do you know?' I asked.

"'How do you know?' I asked"

"'Because,' says he, 'I've seen them getting ready, up there at the mouth of the valley, digging in the big cannons on the hillside just the way they did last time. And that same general is there who was in charge last time too, General Blohardi, as they call him. His battles are always more messy than anybody else's.'

"Well, when I heard this I was fired with a great ardour to do something. Our nest which we had just finished should be, I felt, defended. The next day I went out to look over the situation. I flew down to the south end of the valley, and there, sure enough, were men in red coats digging in enormous cannon and making no end of a mess. Behind them as far as the eye could reach were tents and tethered horses and ammunition–wagons and all the other paraphernalia of war.

"I went down to the other end of the valley and there was another army doing the same thing. When they were ready the two armies would come forward into the middle of the valley and fight out their silly battle.

"On the following day, early in the morning, we were awakened by a great blowing of bugles and beating of drums. Still hopeful that I might do something on behalf of my fellow–wasps—though I had no idea what it could be—I left the nest and started out again to reconnoitre.

"About the centre of the valley, up on the hills to one side, there was an especially high knoll. On this I saw the figures of horses and men. I flew over nearer to investigate.

"I found a group of very grandly dressed persons gathered about a man on horseback who seemed to be a highly important individual. He kept looking through field–glasses this way and that, up and down the valley. Messengers were arriving and departing all the time bringing him news from every quarter.

"I decided that this must be the famous General Blohardi himself. Now about these names I am not very certain. They were names which we wasps gave and they may not be the right names at all. We called him General Blohardi because he was always blowing so hard through his long red moustache, which puffed out before him when he spoke like the whiskers on a walrus. The two armies were the Smithereenians and the Bombasteronians—but those also may not be the regular names. General Blohardi was the field marshal of the Bombasteronian army.

"His long red moustache puffed out like the whiskers on a walrus"

"It was clear that the general had come up to this high point so he could get a good view of the fight—also no doubt because he wanted to stay in a safe place himself. Evidently, from the way in which he kept blowing out his moustaches, he expected a very fine battle—one of his messiest. Before he would be done with our beautiful valley it would be just a howling wilderness full of broken trees, dead and wounded men and maimed horses.

"I felt so furious as I watched him there, snapping out his pompous orders, I was ready to do anything. Yet what could I do? I was such a tiny creature. A mere wasp!

"Presently a bugle blew far down the valley. It was followed almost immediately by the roar of cannon. All the horses moved restlessly and the general and his officers leaned forward in their saddles to see the show.

"The battle had begun!

"Now the whole object of the Battle of Bunkerloo was to gain what is called possession of this valley. What either army would do with the valley after they got it I don't imagine either of them knew. But that was what the battle was for: to win the valley. To us it didn't matter at all which side won it, because they would both make a nasty mess in getting it. What we wasps wanted was to stop the battle.

"As I noticed the horses move restlessly at the first roar of the cannon an idea came to me. It would be no use my going and stinging General Blohardi on the nose—though I would dearly have loved to do so. But if I stung his horse I might possibly accomplish something. The animal was a lovely steed, cream–coloured, groomed to perfection, high–spirited and as nervous as a witch.

"Well—no sooner thought than done. I hopped on to the horse behind the general and stung the poor fellow in the flank. It was a dirty trick to play on the horse and I wanted to apologize to him afterwards, but he was much too far away.

"The results were instantaneous and astounding. The horse gave one bound and shot off down the hill with me and the general, as fast as he could go. By this time the armies were on their way towards the centre of the valley. I had to cling for all I was worth not to be blown off by the rushing wind. I crawled along his flank and stung him in another place. Then he went faster still.

"The horse gave one bound"

"When we reached the level in the bottom of the valley where the cavalry were already charging I feared he might turn and join the other horses. So I stung him a third time. At this he put on such speed that I was blown off and had to fly behind—where I had great difficulty keeping up with him. On and on and on he went, straight across the flat and up the other slope.

"Now, as I have said, Blohardi was the commander–in–chief of the Bombasteronians. And when the cavalry of that army saw their famous general in full flight leaving the battlefield at goodness knows how many miles an hour it completely disheartened and demoralized them. They too took to their heels. And that was the end of the battle.

"The general of the Smithereenians got no end of decorations and honours for the victory of Bunkerloo. But," Tangerine ended modestly, "it was, as you see, really I who had won the battle…. Now I'd like a little more marmalade, please."

4 Domestic Insects

I have never seen poor Dab–Dab in such a state of fuss and annoyance in my life as she was these days.

"It was bad enough," she said to me one evening on the brink of tears, "when the Doctor used to fill the house with lame badgers and rheumatic field mice. But this is a thousand times worse. What's the use of my trying to keep the house clean when he does nothing but ruin and smother it with bugs and insects. The latest is he is making friends with the spiders in the cellar. Their webs, he says, mustn't be brushed away. For years I've been working to get the place free of cockroaches; and last night he was hunting everywhere with a lantern.

"'Surely, Dab–Dab,' says he, 'we have some cockroaches?'

"'Surely, Dab–Dab,' said he, 'we have some cockroaches!'"

"'Surely we have not,' says I. 'It took me a long time to get rid of them, but I succeeded at last. Not one roach will you find in my kitchen!'

"'Dear, dear!' he mutters. 'I wanted one to talk to. I wonder if Matthew Mugg would have any in his house!'

"And off he goes to get that good–for–nothing Matthew to supply him with cockroaches. Of course once they get back in the house they'll breed and be all over the place again in no time; and all because he wants to talk to them, mind you. And who cares, I'd like to know, what a cockroach might have to say—or a spider either? That's the worst of the Doctor, he has no—er—sense in some things."

"Well, Dab–Dab," said I consolingly, "this present study may not last very long, you know. There are so many fresh branches of natural history continually claiming his attention, it's quite possible that by next week he will be off on a new departure entirely and you will be able to get your house in order again."

Dab–Dab shook her head sadly.

"I haven't much hope," said she. "There's a whole lot of different bugs he has still to listen to, as he calls it. Why, do you know, Tommy, what I heard him saying the other day?"

The housekeeper dropped her voice and glanced guiltily over her shoulder.

"I heard him asking Jip if he thought fleas could talk!"

"And what did Jip say?" I asked. I confess I could not help smiling at the look of horroir on her face.

"Well," said she, "happily Jip gave him very little encouragement. 'Fleas?' he growled.—'All they can do is bite. Don't have anything to do with 'em, Doctor. They're a dirty lot!'"

"'Well,' said she, 'happily Jip gave him very little encouragement'"

At this moment John Dolittle came into the room bearing a small tray of maggots.

"Stubbins," said he, "I want to do some experimental work with these. If you will come with me we will begin with listening machine number seventeen."

"Ugh!" grunted Dab–Dab, glancing into the tray. "What gooey, messy–looking things!"

Without further delay the Doctor and I proceeded to our apparatus–sheds and set to work. We had quite good results. It seemed that several of the maggots—particularly one large and lively white one—had somehow got the drift of Dab–Dab's remark and were considerably offended by it.

"She has no right whatever to call us gooey and messy," said the Maggot. "Personally, to me ducks and people are much more gooey and messy than nice, clean, athletic maggots. And we would be glad if you would tell her so."

"And you know, Stubbins," said the Doctor after I had written this down into a note–book under the heading of Experiment No. 179, "I quite sympathize with their feelings in the matter. This idea of—er—revulsion and dislike on the part of one member of the animal kingdom for another is quite baseless and stupid. Myself, I've never felt that way towards any living thing. I won't say that I'd choose a maggot or a snail to make a warm personal friend of. But certainly I would not regard them as being unclean or less entitled to respect than myself. I will certainly speak to Dab–Dab. Now we want to get some information from these maggots about their geographical distribution. I would like to know roughly over what parts of the world their species is to be found. This big fellow seems quite lively and intelligent. Just raise the temperature another five degrees, will you?—And turn on a trifle more humidity. Then we will question him."

The subject of how various insects got scattered over the different countries and continents was one that greatly interested John Dolittle about this time and he was engaged in writing a pamphlet on it.

Well, the maggot told us a very entertaining story of travel and adventure, but he was not very helpful on the question of geographical distribution. He had not on the journey he described observed any of those things that would have been of scientific value to us.

"It's too bad, Stubbins," said the Doctor. "I fear we can't get any further on this experiment for the present. However, I have a water beetle in one of my glass tanks who, I think, can give me a much more definite record of his travels—a record which may help us to show pretty exactly how his species comes to be found on the American side of the Atlantic and on this side also. If you will come to the study with me we will see what we can do."

5 The Water Beetle

This next experiment which we made in insect language was entirely different from any we had conducted so far and turned out to be one of the most successful. It was much more like our research work in shellfish speech than anything we had done so far. By perfecting and extending the apparatus we had used for aquatic and marine creatures we managed to establish very good contact with the water beetle. His conversation was quite plain and John Dolittle seemed to have very little difficulty in following what he was trying to say. This surprised me somewhat because he never seemed to stay still an instant, but was for ever flying and shooting around this glass jar in which the Doctor kept him; now swimming freely in the clear water; now burrowing into the mud at the bottom; now perching on a water plant and polishing his nose with his front feet.

"He was for ever shooting around this glass jar"

After the Doctor had conveyed to him what it was he wanted to know, he told us the following story:

"It is about our travelling you want to know, huh!—Well, of course being able to swim and walk and fly, we do a good deal of touring. But this, I fancy, is not what you would call travelling. It is all short–distance work, though much of it is very interesting. We water beetles are very fortunate, I suppose, since there are hardly any animals that care to fight with us. The big pickerel and pike are about our only dangerous enemies; they have to be quite hungry before they will consider us good eating. I have occasionally had to leave the water and take to my wings when being chased by these ferocious fish and have even had to leave one pond or stream altogether, when they had become too numerous, and seek other water homes. But those times were happily rare. The first occasion that I took a really big journey was on the foot of a duck."

At this point the Doctor stopped the proceedings, fearing that he might not have heard aright.

"A journey on the foot of a duck?" he asked. "I don't quite understand. Would you mind explaining that?"

"Certainly," said the water beetle. "It is quite simple. You see, when we are not out swimming freely in the water in search of food we usually work our way down into the mud below, to the depth of, say, half an inch to two inches. This often enables us to hide away from the fish of prey who cannot dig for us. We are really very safe. Few water beetles ever fall victims to their enemies in their own element.

"But I and a friend of mine were once carried off from our native pond and transported an enormous distance—well, as I told you, on the foot of a duck. Our pond was away out in a lonely marshy stretch of country where few people ever came. Those who did, came in the Fall and Winter to shoot ducks. Of ducks there we had plenty, also every other kind of wild fowl—snipe, geese, plovers, redshanks, curlews, herons and what not. Even of these we water beetles were not afraid. We only had to burrow into the mud an inch or two and we were usually safe. But we didn't like the ducks. They used to come in from the sea and descend upon our pond in thousands at night–time. And such a quacking and a stirring up of the water they made! They'd gobble up the weeds like gluttons and any small fish such as fresh water shrimps or other pond creatures they could lay hold of.

"One night I and a friend of mine were swimming around peacefully and suddenly he said:

"'Look out!—Ducks!—I saw their shadow crossing the moon. Get down into the mud.'

"I took his advice right away. Together we burrowed into the mud without any further argument. The water over us was barely above three inches deep. In hundreds the ducks descended. Even below the surface of the mud we could hear their commotion and clatter. How they paddled and stirred around!

"Then suddenly—Bang! Bang!

"Some sportsmen near by who had laid in wait for them had opened fire. We had heard this happen before; and we were always glad because the sportsmen drove the ducks away and left our pond in peace.

"For part of what happened next I have to rely on another water beetle who chanced to return to our pond just at the moment when the sportsmen opened fire. Because of course, I and my friend, being below the mud, could neither see nor hear anything.

"Ducks were dropping in all directions, splashing into the water—some wounded, some killed outright. It was a terrible slaughter. Some of them who had been cruising in the water near where we were rose instantly on the first shot and were killed a few feet above the surface of the pond. But one it seems was sort of late in getting up and that very likely saved his life; for while the sportsmen were reloading their guns he got away. The water as I have told you was very shallow just there and he was actually standing on the muddy bottom, wading. As he gave a jump to take off, his broad webbed feet sank into the mud an inch or two. And he took to the air with a big cake of mud on each foot. I and my friend were in those cakes of mud.

"He took to the air with a cake of mud on each foot"

"Now this species of duck, which was not an ordinary or common one, was apparently about to make its migration flight that night. The flight was in fact already in progress and the flock had stopped at our pond to feed on its way. With this alarm the remainder of the ducks at once headed out to sea.

"As for me, I had no idea for some moments of what had happened. And I could not communicate with my friend because he was on one of the duck's feet and I was on the other. But with the rushing of the wind and the quick drying of the mud, I soon realized that something very unusual was taking place. Before the mud dried entirely hard I burrowed my way to the surface of the cake and took a peep outside.

"I saw then that I was thousands of feet up in the air. And from the shimmer of starlight on wide water far, far below, I gathered that I was being carried over the sea. I confess I was scared. For a moment I had a notion to scramble out and take to my own wings. But the duck's enormous speed warned me that we were probably already many miles from land. Even supposing that I could tell which direction to go back in—I knew of course nothing of this big–scale navigation such as birds use in their long nights—I was afraid of the powerful winds that were rushing by us. In strength, my own wings were not made for doing battle with such conditions.

"No, it was clear that whether I liked it or no I had got to stay where I was for the present. It was certainly a strange accident to happen to anyone, to be picked out of his native haunts and carried across the sea to foreign lands on the feet of a duck!

"My great fear now was that the mud might drop off in midnight and go splashing down into the sea with me inside it. As a precaution against this I kept near to the hole I had made to look out through, so that I would be able to take to my own wings if necessary. Through this I nearly froze to death. The rushing of the cold air was terrific. My goodness, what a speed that duck kept up! I drew back into the inner shelter of the mud cake. I knew that so long as I could hear that droning deafening whirl of the duck's wings that I was still attached to my flying steed.

"Pretty soon now the mud got so hard that any further drilling through it was out of the question. But as I had already made myself a little chamber runway by turning round and round in it before it hardened completely, I was quite comfortable so far as that was concerned. I remember as I peeped out of my little window—nearly freezing my nose—I saw the dawn come up over the sea. It was a wonderful sight; at that great height the sun's rays reached us long before they touched the sea. The ocean stretched, gloomy, black and limitless, beneath us while the many–coloured eastern sky glowed and reflected on the myriads of ducks who were flying along beside mine, necks outstretched, glowing golden and pink—all headed towards their new homeland.

"I was glad to see the day arrive for more reasons than one. It made the air warmer. And I could now see if any land were to come in sight.

"I was still very anxious about getting dropped into the sea. Once we got over land of any kind I would feel happier. The ducks started honking to one another as they saw the dawn. It almost seemed as though they were exchanging signals as conversation of some kind, because I suddenly saw that they somewhat changed direction following a leader, a single duck, who flew at the head of the V–shaped flock."

6 The End of the Journey

"The change of direction caused me to wonder why the leader of the flock had made it. I crept to the edge of my hole in the mud–cake and craned my neck out as far as I dared so as to get a view ahead.

"And there a little to the left of where the sun was rising lay a low line of something sitting on the sea. The morning rays made it glow like molten silver at one end; and at the other, where the light had not yet reached, it was dark and black.

"To the left of where the sun was rising lay a low line of something sitting on the sea"

"Land! The flock was heading for it. Would they rest there, or just take their bearings and pass on? My bird at all events didn't seen in need of a rest. After a whole night's going he seemed as fresh as a fiddle and was whacking away with those great wings of his, as though he had only just started.

"It didn't take the leader long to make up his mind. He came sailing over the low lying islands with his gallant band. He circled a couple of times while the others hung back, quacking. Then he shot off again, headed once more for the open sea where no land bounded the horizon.

"'Goodness!' I thought. 'How long is this life going to last?'

"But now the sea was all lit up and bright with the risen sun. It seemed to put new heart into the fliers, for their quacking and honking broke out louder than ever as they swung off in the new direction after their leader. I began to wonder how many other small creatures like myself had thus shared the flight of migrating birds. It was certainly an extraordinary experience. Also I wondered how my friend was getting on in the mud on my duck's other foot.

"I had a notion to crawl forth and go and see. But the moment I found my nose out of the hole in my mud–cake I realized that that would be madness. The rush of the air past the duck's stomach was enough to blow your eyes out and besides, if the bird should feel me creeping up one leg and down the other it was quite likely he would scratch his feet together to knock me off. I decided I had better not try to get into communication with my friend till we were on solid ground. Indeed it was lucky that the duck kept his feet tucked well back against his feathers. It was that, I am sure, that kept the mud from falling off and sending me to a watery grave in the wide sea below.

"Well, at last we came to the land the ducks were making for. We sighted it on the evening of that second day. Great rocky headlands jutted out into the ocean, some high, some low. The chief of the flock led his followers over it and then swung to the left. I imagine it was southward. It looked as though he now meant to follow the shore line down till he came to the exact region he was seeking.

"Anyway I felt more at ease. If I got dropped now—the ducks still maintained a considerable height—I could crawl out of the mud–cake before it struck the earth and on my own wings land safely in some sort of territory where I'd stand a chance of surviving.

"Not only did the ducks keep up at a great height, but they also kept up their perfectly incredible speed. And very soon I noticed that the climate was changing considerably. It got warmer and warmer. I became quite lively. And now I could look out of the hole in the mud–cake and watch the changing landscape below without any fear of getting frost–bitten. And my gracious, how that landscape did change! One moment we were over flat marshy fen–land which stretched away as though it would never end; and the next it was mountains, range upon range, with here and there a glimpse of the sea, where great crested capes stretched out into the surf; and you could see the waves breaking against the feet of high cliffs.

"The greenery also changed—now sparse, nothing but scrub shrubbery which barely covered the big expanse of smooth rock. Then came park lands where I could spy deer grazing and still larger creatures. And finally we flew over dense deep jungles where the trees were so thick and close–packed you felt you would alight on a velvet carpet if you just sailed down and landed.

"At length some signal seemed to be sent back from the leader up ahead. Because all the flock stopped and started circling and eddying away in the wildest manner. We had arrived over a wide, wide bay on the shore line. The coast seemed low; and behind it were many ponds and lagoons. I could tell from the dizzy singing in my ears that my duck was descending—like the rest—in widening circles to the flat marshlands they had come so far to seek."

7 The Colony of Exiles

"You can imagine how glad I was to reach real solid ground again. The duck's plump body came to rest in the marshy ground without noise or fuss. It seemed almost as though he had merely flown from one pond to another, instead of crossing those leagues of wild ocean and thousands of miles of land. He just shook himself, grunted and began to look about for something to eat.

"Of course as soon as he moved the cakes of dry English earth that had clung to his feet all the way came off in the wet mud of this foreign land. And poor little me with them. Oh, such a relief! At once I crept out of the hole and swam forth into the cool oozy mud of the lagoon. I was hungry myself. I too bustled around to raise some food.

"But for me the territory was new. The ducks had been there before. It was their winter home. They knew all the grasses, all the shellfish, all the water life fit to eat. But I! I suddenly found myself swimming about in a tropical lagoon full of large strange enemies and small new creatures which might be food or might be poison.

"I swam for hours before I dared act. I was taking no chances after coming through that long journey of danger and adventure. At last I met an insect that looked familiar. I manoeuvred about him for a while. The water was kind of muddy, stirred up from the paddling and wading of the ducks. Then I recognized him. It was my friend who had made the journey on the other foot of the same duck. We almost fell on one another's necks.

"I manoeuvred about him for a while"

"Tell me,' I said, 'where can I find something to eat. These waters contain nothing but strange sights for me.'

"He laughed.

"'Why,' said he, 'I've just had the grandest meal of my life—fish eggs in plenty. Come with me. I'll show you.'

"'But what about those dangerous–looking fellows?' I said. 'It seems to me we're surrounded by nothing but enemies.'

"He glanced back at me and chuckled over his shoulder as he led the way.

"'Don't forget that we are just as strange to these fellows here as they are to us,' said he. 'They don't know what to make of us—as yet anyway. They're just as scared of us as you are of them.'

"Now pond life is, as you probably know, a very strenuous business. All kinds of creatures—fish, beetles, worms, salamanders—every species has its enemies. And if you want to live to a ripe old age you've got to look out. And so as I followed my friend, and everything from great pike to ferocious–looking turtles, came up and glowered at us through murky waters, you may be sure I felt far from comfortable.

"Came up and glowered at us through murky waters"

"But in a little I realized that many of the larger species who in our own waters would not have hesitated to attack us, here were by no means so bold and seemed almost, as my friend had said, to be scared of us.

"After we had had something to eat we crept out of the lagoon on to the muddy bank to take a look around. The ducks were still feeding. All kinds of other water fowl, too, many of which I had never seen before. Some of them were quite curious and beautiful: long–legged fellows like great cranes with scarlet bills and wings; flat–headed smaller kinds like snipe, built for speed with tiny beaks and mincing gait; geese and wild swans of various sorts; and great big–mouthed pelicans that dived for fish with a mighty splash and gobbled up their prey by the bushel.

"It seemed a regular paradise for birds, no sign of human habitation in sight. On one side lagoon after lagoon led outward to the sea; on the other, flat marshland lay between us and the mountains.

"'This,' I said to my friend, 'seems like a very nice place we have come to.'

"'Yes,' he replied. 'I don't think we have done so badly. I wonder if any more of our kind ever came to these parts.'

"'You never can tell,' said I. 'Let's look around and find out.'

"So off we swam together down the lagoon to see if we could find any others of our own kin who had been exiled on these foreign shores.

"After about an hour's search–the lagoon was several miles long and had many lesser lagoons running off it in every direction—we came upon one or two solitary specimens of our own kind. They were very glad to see us and at once asked for news of the home–land. We told them what we could. But the information they could give us was much more important. They had been here some time and had already got acclimatized. Familiar as they were with the dangers and the advantages of the waters, they told us what parts to avoid and where the best feeding was to be found. The temperature of the water was of course, generally speaking, very much higher than that of our native haunts. But they had discovered that by seeking certain very shallow places at night, when the wind regularly blew down from the mountains, cooler territory could always be found. While by day special spots where rocky creeks ran into the lagoon afforded some relief from the tropical heat.

"Well, with these few fellow beetles whom we discovered here (it seems they had probably been imported the same way that we had) we formed a regular little colony. That is, it was little to begin with. But very soon we had large families of young ones growing up and after a few months we felt that we formed quite an important species in the pond life of that region. That, I think, is about all I have to tell you of how I went abroad."

"Oh, but listen," said the Doctor, "you haven't told us yet how you got back here."

"That is quite simple," said the beetle. "I came back by the same means as I went out: on the feet of some water–fowl. Only on the return journey I am not so sure what kind of bird it was that carried me. As soon as I realized I had been returned to England it did not take me long to find my way back to my own particular pond. My case was of course peculiar. I know now that quite a few small water creatures get carried abroad—sometimes in egg–form only—in that same way. But it is exceptionally rare, I fancy, for one individual to get back to the waters that he started from. I was given quite a wonderful reception. The beetles in my native pond turned out to do me honour. And I felt like a great traveller who had done something wonderful."

"The beetles in my native pond turned out to do me honour"

8 A Lifetime of Twenty-four Hours

At the conclusion of the water beetle's story the Doctor, as he had done with the other insects, put many questions to him by which he hoped to get some practical natural history out of his strange tale.

"Could you describe to me," he asked, "the appearance of that duck that carried you abroad on his feet?"

Thereupon the bettle told us what he remembered of this species of wild fowl which regularly visited his native pond–a splash of pink on the cheeks; grey wing feathers, etc.

When he had done the Doctor muttered to me:

"It wasn't a duck at all, Stubbins, I fancy. Sounds to me much more like one of the rarer geese. I had suspected that the feet of a duck could hardly accommodate a cake of mud big enough to carry him without discomfort. I think I know the bird he means. Only visits certain parts of England in the early Fall. Now we'll see what we can find out about the geography of the trip."

John Dolittle then asked him certain things about the winds on the voyage, the appearance of the islands the birds flew over, and of the coast line down which they travelled before they reached their final destination.

The beetle's answer to these questions seemed to please the Doctor a great deal. For before they were ended he suddenly grabbed me by the arm and said:

"It's Northern Brazil, Stubbins. I'm sure of it. This is quite valuable information. I had often wondered how that species got out on to the American side. Everything points to it: the bird that carried him, the islands, the coast line—everything. This will complete a very important chapter in my pamphlet. My gracious, if I could only train some of those insects to note the things I wanted to know! The whole trouble is of course that they only observe those things that are of value to themselves. But maybe—er—perhaps later on—"

He paused, silent.

"Why, Doctor," I laughed, "are you going to make naturalists out of beetles now?"

"If I only could," he replied quite seriously. "For mark you, Stubbins, there are many things in natural history that only a beetle gets the chance to observe."

After he had thanked the water beetle for his kind services we carried him down to the old fish–pond at the bottom of the garden and let him go.

Our next experiments in insect language were extremely interesting. They were concerned with a family of flies which, John Dolittle told me, were called the Ephemera. These creatures lived their whole life circle within the space of one day.

"I am very anxious, Stubbins," said he as we were beginning, "to learn what it feels like to be born, live a whole life and pass away, all in twenty–four hours. A dog lives from ten to twenty years; men from sixty to ninety; the mountains last many thousands before they crumble away. But these little fellows are content to pack all the joys and experiences of life into twenty–four hours. Some of their philosophy, their observations, should, I think, be very valuable to us."

And so with a pale, gossamer–like, green fly on the platform of our most delicate listening–machine, we set to work. The poor little creature was already middle–aged, because he had been born early that morning and it was now two o'clock in the afternoon. He seemed very frail; and one could easily understand that so unrobust a constitution wasn't made to last very long.

We worked on him for half an hour and our results were very meagre. He had things to say, we felt sure. But it was a language new to us. Clearly anyone who has to pack his whole life into one day must talk very fast. We soon got the impression that he was really pouring out hundreds of words a second. Only we weren't catching them quick enough.

"Look here, Stubbins," said the Doctor, "we are being entirely heartless. We can't let this poor fellow spend more than half an hour talking to us. Why, half an hour out of his life is a forty–eighth part of the whole. That would be nearly eighteen months for us. What must he think of us? Imagine anyone talking to you for a year and a half without stopping! Let him go at once. We must do this on a different system. We will catch several singly and only keep them in the apparatus for five minutes at a time, If we are swift enough with our note–taking, we shall perhaps be able to gather a little from what each one says and piece it all together afterwards and make something of it."

And so by catching a number of ephemera and listening to each for a very short period we went on with our experiment.

This wasn't easy. Because not only did the kind–hearted Doctor refuse to keep his captives in the listening apparatus for more than five minutes, but he would not on any account restrict their liberty, before or after the listening experiments, for a single moment. Consequently we were obliged to go out after each specimen singly, catch it and bring it back to our work sheds with all possible speed. Fortunately at that particularly season of the year, Spring, we were able to get those flies in abundance—for a week or so anyhow.

The results of our labours after ten or twelve days were really quite good—in the circumstances. By very exhaustive and continuous work we learned to follow the extraordinary language of this species with fair ease. It was the most tiring task I think I ever did as the Doctor's secretary. The speed of the flies' statements was positively staggering. We had to invent a sort of extra–rapid short–hand of our own, in which a single sign sometimes stood for a whole sentence. After each specimen was released we went over the notes together and put them into such form as would be later understandable, while what had been said was still fresh in our memories.

This chapter in the book which John Dolittle later completed on insect language was perhaps the most interesting in the whole work. For not only had this species a tremendously swift and condensed way of speaking, but its powers of observation were correspondingly quick. In any life that lasts only twenty–four hours your impressions of this world must of course be taken in at great speed. More than that, these impressions proved to be very original—quite different from those of any class of insects which we had so far studied. I think it is safe to say that the ephemera wasted less time in forming their opinions and making their decisions than any other class of animal life.

"You know, Stubbins," said the Doctor, "it is really too bad that these creatures have not a hand in many of the affairs which we humans think we are so good at. Imagine a Cabinet Minister or the Postmaster–General making all the decisions of his whole career within twenty–four hours! I know lots of Cabinet Ministers and heads of government departments that ought to be made to try it. One thing must be said for the poor little frail ephemera: they certainly know how to make up their minds—and act—quickly."

9 Dab-dab's Views on Insect Life

A fortnight later we were all gathered round the kitchen fire after supper. I had been working pretty hard at my secretarial duties and the Doctor had insisted that I take an evening off. But he of course, who never seemed to take, or need, a rest, was busy outside in his sheds, on some new phase of his studies in insect language.

"I wonder," said Chee–Chee looking dreamily into the fire, "how much longer he is going to occupy himself with these miserable bugs. Seems to me a sort of a dull study. It should be getting near the time for him to take a voyage, don't you think so, Tommy?"

"Well," I said, "let us see: How long is it since he went on one?"

"Five months, one week and three days," said Chee–Chee.

"We got back on the twenty–third of October—in the afternoon," Polynesia put in.

"Dear me! How precise you are!" said I. "I suppose you two old globe–trotters are hankering to be off again. Homesick for Africa?"

"Well, not necessarily Africa," said Chee–Chee. "But I admit I would like to see him get started on something more exciting than listening to cockroaches."

"The next voyage he goes on," said Gub–Gub, "he must take me with him. I haven't been abroad since he visited the Land of the Monkeys, and the Kingdom of the Jolliginki. It's my turn to go. Besides I need it in my education. There must be a chapter in my Encyclopedia of Food, on African and Pagan Cooking."

"Humph!" grunted Dab–Dab, who was clearing away the dishes from the table behind us. "I don't know where the funds are coming from if he does go on another voyage. There is precious little left in the money box."

"Thirteen pounds, nine shillings and twopence–halfpenny," put in Too–Too the accountant—"and the baker's bill for last month not paid yet."

"If you think you are going to get the Doctor to drop bug language for a long while yet, you are sadly mistaken," said Dab–Dab. "What do you think he was talking of last night?"

"I've no idea, Dab–Dab," said I.

"Well," continued the housekeeper in a weary voice, "he mentioned—just mentioned in passing, you know—that he thought it would be a good thing if he did something for—for" (she seemed to have great difficulty in bringing herself to pronounce the fatal word)—"for house–flies!"

"For house–flies!" I cried. "What on earth was he going to do for them?"

"The Lord only knows," groaned Dab–Dab, her voice full of patient weariness. "That's what I said to him: 'Doctor,' I said, 'what in the name of goodness can you do for house–flies, the greatest pest on earth—creatures which do nothing but carry disease and ruin good food?'

"'Well,' says he, 'that's just the point, Dab–Dab. The house–flies have no friends. Perhaps if some naturalist, and a really great naturalist, Dab–Dab—one who could look far, far ahead—were to take up their cause and see what could be done for them, they could be made into friends for the rest of creation instead of enemies. I would like, as an experiment, to start a Country House for House–Flies. I think it might lead to some very interesting results.'

"There," Dab–Dab continued, "I flew right off the handle. I admit I don't often lose my temper."—She swept some cheese–crumbs savagely off a chair–seat with her right wing—"'Doctor,' I said, 'that is the last straw. You've had a home for lost dogs; a rat and mouse club; a squirrels' hotel; a rabbits' apartment house and heaven only knows how many more crazy notions. But the idea, the very idea, of a Country House for House–Flies!—well, that to my way of thinking is about the end. Can't you see,' I said, 'that this encouragement of other animal species—without more er—er—discrimination, I think you call it—will lead to the ruin and destruction of your own kind and mine? Some creatures just can't be made friends of. Encourage the house–flies and Man disappears.'

"'Well,' he said, 'I've been talking to them. And I must confess there is a good deal to be said on their side. After all, they have their rights.'

"'Not with me, they haven't,' said I. 'They are a nuisance and a pest and cannot be treated as anything else.'—Such a man! What can one do with him?"

"Still," put in Gub–Gub, "it is a wonderful idea—a Country House for House–Flies! I suppose they would have a boy–swat for swatting boys who came in and disturbed them—the same as people have a fly–swat to kill flies…. And maybe have papers full of sticky goo near the door, in which people would get tangled up and stuck if they invaded the premises. It's quite an idea. I'd like to see it started."

"You'd like to see it started would you?" screamed Dab–Dab rushing at poor Gub–Gub with outstretched neck as though she meant to skewer him against the wainscot. "You haven't the wits of a cockroach yourself. You get started on your way to bed at once—or I'll get out the frying–pan as a pig–swat."

Gub–Gub retired into a corner.

"Just the same, it's a good idea," he muttered to Too–Too as he settled down where the irate housekeeper couldn't see him.

"'Just the same, it's a good idea,' he muttered to Too–Too"

I am glad to say that the Doctor did not, as a matter of fact, attempt this wild plan for the encouragement of house–flies. Heaven only knows what would have happened if he had. He mentioned it to me once or twice however.

"My idea was, Stubbins," he said, "that flies with a house of their own to go to—or several—would not bother to enter people's houses. This eternal war between the species—man against rats, rats against cats; cats against dogs, etc, etc.—there is no end to it—must lead finally to some sort of tyranny. Just now Man is on top as the tyrant. He dictates to the animal kingdom. But many of his lesser brothers suffer in that dictation. What I would like to see—and indeed it is my one ambition as a constructive naturalist—would be happy balance. I've never met any species, Stubbins, that did not do some good—general good—along with the harm. House–flies for example: I've no idea what good they do, but I'm sure it exists. By making them our friends we ought to be able to get together and improve conditions all round, instead of making war on one another. War gets us nowhere."

"But there were other insect species which you thought of investigating, were there not?" I asked, hoping to side–track him away from the house–flies, which to me sounded like a rather hopeless direction.

"Oh, yes, yes—to be sure, to be sure," said he hurriedly. "I've only just started. There are the moths and butterflies. From them I hope to learn a great deal. It is hardly the right season yet for the natural hatching out of butterflies and moths. But I have been working on my artificial incubators. We have a splendid supply of chrysales. I think I can turn out in the next few weeks about any kind of moth and butterfly I want—that is, of those varieties that are naturally found in these parts."

10 The Giant Moths

The following evening Chee–Chee, before the Doctor returned to his sheds outside the house, broached the subject of a voyage. This, rather to our surprise, had the effect of keeping the Doctor in the fireside circle for several hours later than was his custom.

"Well, Chee–Chee," said he, "I'd like to take a voyage—it's quite a while since I went abroad—but you see, there is so much work yet to be done on insect language here at home. I never believe in leaving anything unfinished—if I can possibly avoid it."

"Yes, but listen, Doctor," said Polynesia. "You will learn a whole lot more about insects and their languages abroad. It never seemed to me that travelling ever interrupted your studies. On the contrary the further you were from home, and the more difficult the conditions that faced you, the more you got done—so far as I could see."

"Humph!" muttered the Doctor. "That's quite a compliment, Polynesia, I wonder if it's true."

"In any case, Doctor," said I, "it's a long while since you were on a voyage. And you know one does miss a lot if he does not go abroad every so often."

"That's so," said he.—"That's true enough. But then the trouble is: where to go? You know, Stubbins, I'm afraid that in my old age I've got very hard to please in the matter of travel. All the big and important exploration has been done. If there was a job like that which Columbus did, or Magellan, or Vasco da Gama, still left to be accomplished, that would be different."

"What did Vasco da Gama do?" I asked.

"Oh," said Bumpo proudly, "he was the man who sailed around the Cake of Good Soap."

"The Cape of Good Hope, you mean," said John Dolittle patiently. "But the point is, Stubbins, that most of the big, the important, exploration is already carried out. Why should I worry about mapping the details of the smaller geography when there is the languages of the insects, with all they may have to tell us, still misunderstood, still a secret to Mankind? Why, I heard from some moths whom I questioned this afternoon the most extraordinary things that no one would believe if you told them. This study of insect languages may seem very unimportant to you when mentioned alongside a voyage to foreign shores. But I assure you it isn't. No one who hasn't studied insect language can have any idea what it may contribute to—er—modern thought and philosophy."

"Yes, but, Doctor," I said, "abroad, as Polynesia suggests, you might accomplish still better results in your studies."

"Abroad!"—John Dolittle's voice sounded to my surprise almost contemptuous. He walked over to the window and threw back the curtains. The light of the full moon poured into the room.

"Stubbins," he said suddenly in a strange, intense voice, "if I could get to the Moon! That would be worth while! Columbus discovered a new half of our own planet. All alone he did it, pitting his opinion against the rest of the world. It was a great feat. The days of big discovery, as I said, are gone by. But if I could reach the Moon then I could feel I was truly great—a greater explorer than Columbus. The Moon—how beautiful she looks!"

"Lord save us," whispered Polynesia. "What's come over the good man?"

"Humph!" muttered Bumpo. "It seems to me the Doctor is just talking happy–go–foolish, as it were. The Moon! How could he get there?"

"It is not such a wild notion, Stubbins," said John Dolittle leaving the window and appealing to me with outstretched hands. "Some one will do it—some day. It stands to reason. What a step it would be! The naturalist who first reached the Moon! Ah! He will be the one to make strides in science—maybe to give all investigation a new start."

"Listen, Doctor," said Polynesia, evidently anxious to call him back to earth and practical matters, "we haven't had a story from you in ever so long. How would it be if you told us one to–night?"

"Story—story?" mumbled the Doctor, in a faraway sort of voice. "My head is too full of problems. Get one of the family to tell one. Tell one yourself, Polynesia, you know plenty—or Chee–Chee, yours are always worth hearing."

"It would be better, Doctor," said Chee–Chee, "if you told us one. It isn't often, lately, that you've been home evenings."

"Not to–night, Chee–Chee, not to–night," said John Dolittle, going back to the window and looking up again at the Moon. "I told you: my head is full of problems—and moths."

"What do you mean, your head is full of moths, Doctor?" asked Dab–Dab in rather an alarmed voice.

"Oh," said the Doctor, laughing, "I just meant the study of moth language—and its problems. I've been at it now for several days and nights and my head is full of it."

"You should take a rest," said Chee–Chee. "A voyage would be a fine change for you—and all of us."

Now the Doctor had put in a good deal of time on the moths already, I knew, without my assistance. I was naturally keen to hear if he had made any special discoveries. I had become so much a part of his research work that I felt almost a bit jealous now if he went off on his own and left me out.

"Had you heard anything of unusual importance, Doctor," I asked, "in your work recently with the moths?"

"Well, yes," he said. "I hatched out one of the Hawks last night—a beautiful specimen. I put her—she was a lady moth—in a glass dome with a small light in it on the window sill. Great numbers of gentlemen Hawks came to call on her. How they gathered so suddenly when their species has never been seen within a hundred miles of here goodness only knows. I caught a few and experimented with them in the listening machines. And—er—"

He hesitated a moment with a puzzled look on his face.

"Well," I asked, "what did they tell you?"

"It was most extraordinary," he said at length. "They didn't seem to want to let me know where they came from, nor how they had found their way here. Quite mysterious. So I gave up that line of inquiry and asked for general information about their history and traditions. And they told me the wildest story. Perhaps it has no truth in it whatever. But—er—well, you know most of the members of the Hawk family are large—that is for this part of the world. So I got on to the subject of size, and they told me of a race of moths as big—well, I know it sounds crazy—as big as a house. I said at once of course, 'No. It can't be. There's some mistake'—thinking that my scanty knowledge of the language had led me astray. But they insisted. There was a tradition in moth history that somewhere there were moths as big as a house who could lift a ton weight in the air just as though it were a feather.—Extraordinary—mysterious! The moths are a curious race."

11 Otho the Prehistoric Artist

"Oh, well, come along now, Doctor," said Chee–Chee, "tell us a story, do."

"Not to–night," John Dolittle repeated. "You tell them one, Chee–Chee."

"All right," said Chee–Chee, "I will. But I am by no means sure this crowd will understand it. I'll tell you one that my grandmother used to tell us—in the jungle—a tale of long, long, long ago."

"Good!" grunted Gub–Gub, coming forward to the table. With the Doctor present he was no longer afraid of Dab–Dab the housekeeper.

"Thousands and thousands and thousands of years ago," Chee–Chee began, "there lived a man. Otho Bludge was his name. He had a whole country to himself, in those far off days when there weren't so many people in the world. He was an artist, was Otho. He lived to make pictures. Of course there wasn't any paper then and he had to use such materials as he could get. Reindeer horn was what he used mostly. There were plenty of reindeer about. For a pencil he used a stone knife. And with this he would cut his pictures on the flat part of the horn. Sometimes he used rocks, cutting and chiselling into the stone the ideas which occurred to him as worth while.

"He had made pictures of deer, fish, butterflies, bison, elephants and all the creatures which abounded around him. His one great ambition was to make a picture of Man. But Man was scarce. Otho himself was the only specimen in that district. He looked at himself and tried to make a picture of arms and legs. But it wasn't much good. Then he went down to a pool in the stream and tried to draw his own reflection. But he had to lean away over the water to see his image and that was hard too.

"'No,' he said, 'I've got to find another creature like myself and make him stand still. Then I'll draw my best picture—a portrait of Man.'

"So he set out hunting. And for days and weeks he wandered over the wide country which he had all to himself, and went outside and beyond it in search of a fellow man. But not one could he find. Many interesting new animals he saw—many of whom fought him and chased him across the landscape. Trees too which he had never seen before gave him many fresh ideas for pictures. But Man he could not find. As a matter of fact he had only a very vague idea of ever having seen another human. That was his mother. How she had become separated from him he could not remember—nor how he had managed to survive when left alone.

"Trees which he had never seen before gave him ideas"

"So, quite disconsolate and miserable, Otho returned to the place where he usually did his drawings and tried to make his picture of Man without anyone to draw from. But it didn't go any better. He could get a leg or an arm or a head to look pretty right but the whole body didn't seem to fit together at all.

"Then he said to himself aloud—he often talked to himself because he had no one else to talk to—'Oh, how I wish some one would spring out of the ground and stand on that rock over there so I could finish my portrait!'

"And then, what do you think? You could never guess. While he was looking at the rock there he saw a sort of pink fog gathering on top of it. Otho Bludge brushed the back of his hand across his face thinking that perhaps the glare of the sun was doing strange things with his eyesight. But the pink fog seemed real. Presently it began to clear away like the valley mists before the winds of dawn. And when at last it was gone he saw kneeling on the rock a beautiful little girl, just the way he wanted for the picture, a bow and arrow in her hands. She wore no clothes, because in those days the world was frightfully hot at all seasons, and of course skirts and bodices were nothing but a nuisance. About her right wrist, which was drawn back to hold the arrow on the bow–string, she wore a bracelet of blue stone beads.

"'About her right wrist she wore a bracelet of beads'"

"Otho was so delighted with his good luck that he didn't dare speak a word. He took a fresh piece of reindeer horn and set to work at once. He carved and carved and carved. Never had he drawn so well in all his life. He knew he was cutting his master picture. The little girl kept perfectly still like a statue for two whole hours. Otho knew afterwards that it was two whole hours because of the shadows that the rocks threw. He used to measure his time by the length of the shadows—having no watch of course.

"Finally he finished his picture. It was good. He knew it was. He held it off to look at it. But when he glanced back at the rock he noticed that the pink fog was beginning to return.

"'Good gracious!' said he to himself. 'Can it be that she is going to fade away again?'

"Yes, it seemed like it. The pink fog was growing and she was disappearing. Only a sort of shadow of her now remained. Otho was terribly upset.

"'Listen,' he called out, 'why are you going away? I've got a whole country to myself here—and it's much too big for just one. Why don't you stay and play at housekeeper with me?'

"But she only blushed all over, shook her head and went on disappearing.

"'At least you can tell me who you are before you go, can't you?' cried poor Otho, tears coming into his eyes.

"By this time she was nearly gone. Very little remained of her except her voice which said faintly but musically—

"'I am Pippiteepa. I am sorry, but I have to go back into the Unseen World. I have a very busy life before me. For I am to be the mother of all the Fairies. Farewell!'

"Nothing was now to be seen but just a thin ribbon of the pink fog curling slowly upward. Poor Otho rushed to the rock and clutched it as though by sheer force to keep her in his world where he wanted her so much. But she was gone. And lying on the place where she had stood was the bracelet of blue beads. That was all that was left of her. It must have fallen off while she was doing the disappearance magic. Otho put it on his own wrist and wore it all his life.

"For a long time he was dreadfully miserable, wandering around the rock for hours and hours hoping she might change her mind and come back. But she never came. It's a kind of sad story, but my grandmother swore it was true. Otho at last got into a fight with one of the big grazing beasts that lived in those times, a sort of cross between a giraffe and a giant lizard.

"This creature came up and wanted to crop the grass that grew around the now sacred rock and Otho tried to drive him off. He got nasty and put up a fight. This kept Otho so busy that it put Pippiteepa out of his mind for the rest of the day. And after a while he went back to making pictures of animals and trees. He carefully kept the portrait he had made of Pippiteepa but never again attempted to make a picture of Man. He went on hoping, always, that some day she would change her mind and come back."

12 "The Days Before There Was a Moon"

I don't know that I have ever seen the Doctor more interested in anything than he seemed to be in this story of Otho Bludge and Pippiteepa.

"Tell me, Chee–Chee," said he, "you say your grandmother told you this story, eh?"

"Yes," Chee–Chee replied, "it was one of her favourite ones. I must have heard her tell it at least a dozen times."

"'I must have heard her tell it at least a dozen times'"

"Humph!" the Doctor grunted, "very curious—most peculiar. Did she ever say anything which might give you an idea of when—how long ago—this took place?"

"Well," said Chee–Chee, "of course to me it only seemed like a—er—a legend, I think you call it—something that might have never happened but which was believed by almost every one."

"But the time?" the Doctor repeated. "You have no idea about when this was supposed to have happened—I mean anything else that was spoken of as belonging to the same period which might give us some clue?"

"No, I don't think so," Chee–Chee answered.—"And yet, wait, there was something. I remember she always began the story this way: 'In the days before there was a Moon,' I could never understand why. It didn't seem to me very important."

Doctor Dolittle almost leapt out of his chair.

"Did your grandmother ever speak of the Moon further, Chee–Chee—I mean anything more than just that?"

"Yes," said Chee–Chee, evidently cudgelling his brain to remember things long past. "It seems that in monkey history, which was of course always a mouth to mouth business, there was a belief that the Moon was once a part of the Earth. And there came a great explosion or something and part of it was shot off into the skies and somehow got stuck there. But how it became round like a ball I could never understand nor find anyone who could explain it to me. Because they used to say that the piece of the earth that got shot off was the land where the Pacific Ocean now is and that isn't round at all. But of course the whole thing is by no means certain. Myself, I've always had grave doubts about the truth of any part of the story."

The household was quite delighted over Chee–Chee's story, not only with the entertainment of the tale itself, but because the Doctor became so absorbed in the subject of the Moon and the legends of monkey history that he kept us all up till long after midnight.

"You know, Stubbins," he said to me, "no matter how wild this story may sound, it is curiously borne out by several things. For instance, I remember that in my conversation with the Giant Sea Snail he told me of a belief which was firmly held by the older forms of sea life that some such shooting off of part of the Earth's surface made the deep ocean and accounted for the Moon. Also my geological observations when we were travelling across the floor of the Atlantic certainly pointed to some such violent cleavage—only Chee–Chee says his grandmother spoke of the Pacific Ocean, not the Atlantic. You know it makes me almost want to go back to Africa and question some of the older monkeys there. I might get other versions and more details of this strange story of Otho Bludge and Pippiteepa."

"Well, Doctor," said I, scenting a chance to get him off on a voyage after all—for I felt he sorely needed one—"why not? Last time when you were in Africa, according to Polynesia anyway, you were so busy with hospital work and getting away from the Jolliginki army that there must have been a great deal of interesting work that had to go undone."

"Oh, but," said he, shaking his head impatiently, "I mustn't be tempted. One would never get anything accomplished by just running off after every attractive idea that pulled one this way or that. I must stick to this insect language game till I feel I have really done something worth while with it. I want to follow up the story the moth told me about a giant species. It is funny, these legends in animal history—the monkeys and the Moon: the moths and the Giants. There is something in that I feel sure. The moths are a very mysterious race. I don't believe that one tenth part of what they do in the general economy of the animal and vegetable kingdoms is appreciated. And imagine what a moth the size of a house might do!"

"But surely," said I, "if there were such enormous flies flopping about the world somewhere other people must have seen them. I confess I can hardly believe the story."

"It sounds incredible enough, I know," said he. "But I'm sure that if there were not something in it the story would not exist among the moths."

13 Memories of Long Arrow

For me one of the most interesting things in the Doctor's study of insect language was the hatching out of the moths and butterflies from the caterpillar or chrysalis forms. Throughout the previous Autumn and part of the Winter I had assisted him in the collection of caterpillars and chrysales and we had a fine stock in the hatching houses. The care of these required considerable knowledge and experience—of which I had not a great deal, though I was always learning. They had to be kept at the right temperature and moisture and each caterpillar had to be fed on a special kind of leaf till he had spun his web and retired into his chrysalis shell. But the Doctor who had studied butterflies ever since he was a boy of nine had a positively prodigious knowledge of the subject. He never seemed to make a mistake and in his hands a moth or butterfly could be made to hatch out with just as much ease and comfort as it would in the wild state. In fact conditions in the Dolittle hatching houses were rather more fortunate for these insects than those of the open; for they were protected from their enemies, which very frequently in the wild would devour a butterfly or moth almost directly it was born into the world.

"Each caterpillar had to be fed on a special kind of leaf"

With some of the rarer and more beautiful flies it was quite a thrilling thing to watch for their hatching. The Doctor usually gave each specimen at least a day's freedom in the little indoor flower–garden, which was prepared for his reception, before experimenting on him with the listening apparatus.

But one of the early discoveries we made was that the language, such as it was, had been apparently known to the insects before they were born into the fly state.

"I imagine, Stubbins," said the Doctor, when we were discussing this curious fact one day, "that one of the reasons for this is that the insects already have some life experience in the caterpillar form. Then the methods of conveying their ideas, which we call a language, cannot be called after all actual talking, in which the tongue has to be trained to make sounds. And for the rest there is no doubt that this form of life inherits a lot more experience and training than we or the larger animals do. Their memories go further back, beyond the short term of their own life, and carry over impressions and ideas that really belong to the herd—to the species."

This knowledge of things that lay outside their own experience in the moths and butterflies interested the Doctor a great deal. The case of the gentlemen visitors who mysteriously found their way to the Doctor's house to call on the lady Hawk was not by any means the only example of the astonishing things these creatures could do.

When it came to trying to find out how they accomplished these mysterious feats we discovered we were against a hard problem. They themselves did not seem to know how they found their way about as soon as they were born; how they knew the way to the kind of leaves and food they wanted, etc.

They seemed to be born also with a quite unexplainable store of legends and history about their own species and a knowledge of the enemies which they must avoid if they wished to survive. All they could tell us when we came to question them on how they got this knowledge was that they knew it.

"You know, Stubbins," said the Doctor, "that is what is called intuitive knowledge, by the philosophers, knowledge you are born with. With humans it is pretty small. As babies we know enough to cry when we want a bottle and we know enough to suck the bottle when it is given to us. That's about all. It isn't much. But it is something. Chickens, on the other hand, are born with a knowledge of how to walk and peck and how to run to their mothers when she gives the call of alarm if danger is near. That's better than we can do. But these fellows! Their intuitive knowledge is tremendous. Their mothers are nowhere near them when they come into the world. Yet they know how to fly, how to set about the whole business of life right away. But the part that fascinates me is their knowledge of legends and history belonging to their own race. That's something quite new, as far as I know—and also the main thing that makes me so hopeful that we can learn a great deal of real scientific value from them. It is the intuitive knowledge which we humans are so short on—especially the so–called civilized humans."

He paused a moment, thoughtful and silent.

"You see, the primitive people," he presently went on, "are much better. You remember Long Arrow?"

"Yes, indeed," I said. "Could I—could anyone—forget him?"

"Nearly all," said the Doctor, "of that perfectly wonderful botany work which he did was accomplished by intuitive investigation. The same with his navigation and geography. I used to question him for hours trying to find out how he had done these things. He didn't know. He just began along some line of instinct and followed it till he got results.–Long Arrow! My gracious, what a world he was! The greatest scientist of them all. And the big wigs up in London, the Royal Society, The Natural History Museum and the rest, they hardly know his name! When I tried to tell them about him they thought I was cracked, a sort of Münchhausen romancing about his voyages—Ah, well!"

This recalling of Long Arrow and our days on Spidermonkey Island put us both in a serious reminiscent mood. Chee–Chee, who had shared those days and adventures, had come into the study a moment or two before and was listening intently. I saw an expression on his face which told me he had the same thought in mind as I had. I turned back to the Doctor, who had moved over to the window and was once more gazing up at the full moon which flooded the garden outside with a ghostly light.

"Listen, Doctor," I said, "supposing you sought out Long Arrow again: isn't it quite possible, with his great knowledge of this intuitive kind of investigation, that he might be able to help you with your study of the moths—the language of insects? He has probably already done a great deal in the same direction himself."

I saw from the quick manner in which the Doctor swung away from the window and faced me that my dodge to get him again interested in the idea of voyages had had effect. But almost at once he frowned as though a second thought had interfered.

"Oh, but, Stubbins," said he, "goodness only knows where Long Arrow may be now. He never stayed many months, as you remember, in any place. It might take years to find him."

"Anyhow," said Chee–Chee, speaking up for the first time, "I don't see why you shouldn't go to Spidermonkey and take up the trail. You hadn't any more idea of his whereabouts last time you set out to seek him. And yet you found him."

Again the Doctor paused. I knew the wanderlust was on him—as it was on me, Chee–Chee and Polynesia. Yet he evidently felt that in following his impulse he was running away from a serious and important work.

"But, Chee–Chee," he said, "last time I had something to go on. Miranda, the Purple Bird of Paradise, had told me he was somewhere in the neighbourhood of Northern Brazil or Spidermonkey Island. While now?—No one on earth could tell us where to begin looking for him."

"Listen, Doctor," I said. "You remember the way we decided last time? You had given up all hope of finding him, when Miranda came and told you he had disappeared."

"Yes, I remember," said John Dolittle.

"So we played Blind Travel, the Atlas game, you remember that?"

"Yes, I do," said the Doctor.

Chee–Chee shuffled along the floor and drew a little nearer.

"Well," said I, "why not play it again? You don't know where he is. Last time we had good luck. Maybe we'll have as good—or better—this time. What do you say?"

For some moments John Dolittle hesitated. He went back to the window, drew aside the curtains and again gazed up at the Moon.

"How beautiful she looks!" he muttered.

"Well?" I repeated. "What do you say? Shall we play Blind Travel?"

This appeal to the boy in him was evidently too strong. The frown disappeared from his face and suddenly he smiled.

"I think it might be quite a good idea, Stubbins. It is supper time, I fancy. Bring along the atlas and I'll meet you in the kitchen."

14 Blind Travel Again

Chee–Chee was overjoyed. As the Doctor left the study to go to the kitchen, I moved towards the book–case. But the agile monkey was there before me. Scaling up the shelves as though they were a ladder, he had the big volume down off the top in less time than it takes to tell it. Together we carried it to the table and laid it down.

"Oh, my, Tommy," he whispered, "we're in luck!"

He began opening the pages. The first—how well I remembered it!—title page: "ATLAS OF THE WORLD. Giving the Latest Discoveries in Africa, the Arctic and Antarctic Continents, etc. Published by Green and Sons, Edinburgh, in the year," etc., etc. Then came the astronomic page—the signs of the Zodiac; phases of the Moon; precession of the Equinoxes, etc., etc.

"The Moon!" muttered Chee–Chee. "Poor old Doctor! He seems to have gone almost balmy about the Moon. My, but look at all the lands we might visit! Come on, Tommy, let's get to the kitchen and make him begin before he changes his mind."

Grabbing a sharp pencil off the Doctor's desk, I took the heavy volume under my arm and followed Chee–Chee out of the room.

In the kitchen we found all the family seated about the table waiting for us: Bumpo, Gub–Gub, Too–Too, Jip and the white mouse.

"Ah," said the Doctor, "you have the atlas, Stubbins—and a pencil? Good! Just hold back the dinner a moment, Dab–Dab, will you, while we see where we are to go?"

"Go? Go?–What does he mean?" asked Gub–Gub of Chee–Chee in an excited whisper.

"He has consented to play Blind Travel with us," Chee–Chee whispered back.

"What on earth is that?" asked Gub–Gub.

"Oh, you open the atlas with your eyes shut and put a pencil down. And whatever point it hits, that's the place you've got to go. Goodness, I'm all of a flutter! I do hope it's somewhere in Asia. I want to see the East."

Well, if Chee–Chee was in a flutter, as he called it, Gub–Gub was even more agitated over this momentous game we were about to play. He kept running around to a different place at the table, jumping up on some one else's chair, being sat on, upsetting people, overturning furniture and generally getting the whole gathering frazzled and confused.

Not that any of us were what you could call calm. A very great deal depended on this strange game which the Doctor had invented when he was a young man. Then it only affected him. In those days he was a free unattached bachelor and this odd method of determining his destination meant very little difference so far as preparations were concerned. But now (I did not yet know how many of the household he meant to take with him) its outcome might mean much for several of us.

"Listen," said the Doctor when he had the big book laid in the centre of the table: "Last time Stubbins held the pencil. How would it be if Bumpo did it this time? He is a lucky individual, I know."

"All right," said Bumpo. "But I hope I don't send you all to the middle of the Specific Ocean." (He was turning over the first few pages and had paused at one illustrating the proportions of the globe in land and water.)

"That's all right," said the Doctor. "One of the rules of the game is that if your pencil falls on water, you have a second try. And the same thing applies if you touch a town or a district where you have been before. You keep on trying till you strike land, land which you have never visited. Then you have to go there—have to—somehow."

"Very good," said Bumpo taking up the pencil and closing the book. "I hope this is one of my lucky nights."

'I hope this is one of my lucky nights'"

"I hope so too," whispered Gub–Gub nosing up his snout on to the table between the Doctor's elbow and mine. "I would like a warm country where there is plenty of sugar–cane. It's years since I tasted sugar–cane. In the Canaries it was, when we were hiding away from those wretched pirates. You remember, Polynesia?"

15 Gub-gub Halts the Game

It was quite a picture, that group around the table—and it will never fade from my memory while life lasts. Bumpo was the only one standing. He held the pencil in his enormous right fist. His left hand grasped the atlas, closed, and resting on the back of its binding, ready to let it fall open at whatever page Fate should decide. The rest of us were seated round in a circle tense with excitement, watching him. Four candles burned on the table in brass sticks. For a moment you could have heard a pin drop so perfect was the silence.

"Are you quite ready, Bumpo?" asked the Doctor in a strangely steady voice. "Remember, you close your eyes, let the book fall open and then stab down with the pencil point."

"Yes, Doctor," said Bumpo screwing up his face with a most comical grimace. "I'm quite ready."

"Splendid!" said the Doctor. "Go ahead."

Bumpo let go his left hand. The heavy book fell open with a bang. His right fist, describing circles in the air with the pencil, slowly lowered the point…. Then—Crash!

Gub–Gub in his eagerness to learn where we were to go had rocked the table as he lurched forward, and all four candles toppled over. The room was in darkness.

At once a babel of voices broke out everywhere. Every one shouted advice at once. But the Doctor's was too emphatic to be drowned.

"Hold it, Bumpo!" he cried. "Don't move your pencil. We will have a light here in a moment. Keep your pencil where it is."

Of course, as is always the way, the matches were not handy. Dab–Dab, whacking poor Gub–Gub over the ears with her wing, started out to find them. She was quite a long time about it. But soon we began to see dimly anyhow. For the full moon that flooded the garden outside the windows made it possible to make out the general shape of everything in the room. One of the curtains had not been completely drawn across.

"It's all right, Doctor," said Bumpo. "I'm hanging on to it. Get a match and let's see where we are to go."

The excitement, as you can imagine, was tremendous. The moonlight in the room was enough to see one another by but not enough to read by.

"I'll bet it's Africa," said Polynesia. "Well, I don't know as I shall mind—much. It is a good country. I don't care what anybody says."

"It isn't Africa," said Too–Too. "I know it."

"What is it then?" we all cried, remembering that Too–Too could see in the dark.

"I shan't tell," said Too–Too. "But you can take my word for it, it's a surprise!—Yes, it's certainly a surprise. We shall need all the money we can raise for this voyage."

"Oh, do please hurry up with the matches, Dab–Dab!" cried Gub–Gub. "I shall burst if I don't know soon where we're going. And this moonlight is giving me the jim–jams."

So intent was he on getting a light he left the table and groped his way out of the door to assist the housekeeper in her search. All he succeeded in doing however was to bump into her in the dark as she came in with her wings full of a fresh supply of candles and the much needed matches. Completely bowled over by her collision with the portly Gub–Gub, Dab–Dab dropped the matches, and in the scuffle they were kicked away into some corner where they couldn't be found.

Among us who remained in the kitchen the general excitement was not lessened by the sounds of Gub–Gub getting spanked and pecked by the indignant duck. Squeaking he ran for the scullery, where from further noises that followed, he apparently tripped over a mat and fell into a pail.

"Tripped over a mat and fell into a pail"

At last the Doctor himself went to the rescue. He succeeded in reaching the larder without mishap, where he found another box of matches and came back to us with a light shaded in his hands.

As the first beam fell across the open atlas my heart gave a big thump. Bumpo rolled his eyes towards the ceiling in superstitious horror. Polynesia gave a loud squawk. While Chee–Chee hissed beneath his breath a long low hiss of consternation.

The book had fallen open at the astronomic page. Bumpo's pencil had landed in a smaller illustration down in the left–hand corner. And its point still rested in the centre of the Moon!