Doctor Dolittle's Garden

1 Bumpo and Magic

The Doctor himself was, I think, the only one who made no remark at all. Silent and thoughtful, he stood gazing down at the atlas over which Bumpo's huge black fist still hung, holding the pencil point into the heart of the Moon.

"Shiver my timbers!" growled Polynesia hitching herself along the table with her funniest sailor gait. "What a voyage, my lads, what a voyage! Yes, it's the Moon all right.—Well, I suppose he might have hit the Sun. Its picture's there and all the other blessed heavenly bodies. Could be worse."

"'Shiver my timbers!' growled Polynesia"

"I wonder," said Gub–Gub, who had returned from the scullery and was now also leaning over the page, "what sort of vegetables they have in the Moon."

"Tee–hee!" tittered the white mouse. "Such a joke I never heard!"

"I don't see why there shouldn't be rats," said Jip. "The Moon always looks to me as though it was full of holes."

"It should be a cheap place to live," said Too–Too. "I don't suppose they use money there at all."

"Yes, but it would cost a pretty penny to get there, don't forget!" muttered Dab–Dab.

Bumpo's feelings about the strange outcome were quite curious. He seemed dreadfully frightened. I noticed his big hand was trembling as it still grasped the pencil in place. Yet Bumpo was no coward, that we all knew. It was the Unknown, the source of all human fear, that now shook his courage. Gently John Dolittle leaned over and took the pencil from his paralysed hand.

"I don't like it, Doctor," he said in a weak voice at last. "I don't like it a bit. There is ju–ju business here. Witchcraft and magic. Why, only last night you were saying you wanted to go to the Moon. And now when we play this game, with eyes shut, I hit it right in the centre, the Moon itself!"

Beneath his dusky skin he looked quite pale. He drew away from the book and the table as though he feared the baleful influence of that mysterious force which had guided his hand.

"Oh, it's just a coincidence, Bumpo," said the Doctor. "It is odd. I admit—most odd. But—er—well, it's a coincidence, that's all."

"All right," said Dab–Dab finally breaking into the discussion with a more practical voice, "coincidence or not, in the meantime the supper is getting cold. If you'll take that wretched book off the table, Tommy, we will bring in the soup."

"But shouldn't we play it over again, Doctor?" asked Jip. "That's a place no one could get to, the Moon. We are entitled to another try, are we not? according to the rules of Blind Travel."

"Maybe," snapped Dab–Dab, "according to the rules of Blind Travel, but not according to the rules of this kitchen—not before supper anyway. The food's been delayed half an hour as it is. Sit down, every one, and let's begin before it is ruined entirely."

We all took our places at the board and the meal was begun in rather an odd general silence which was broken only by Gub–Gub's noisy manner of drinking soup.

"Well, anyway, Doctor," said Bumpo after a few moments, "you couldn't get there, could you?—To the Moon, I mean."

"Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say that, Bumpo," replied the Doctor. "On the contrary, I'm convinced some one will some day get there. But of course, for the present until science has provided us with new methods of aerial travel it is pretty much out of the question. As a matter of fact in a way, I'm glad the game turned out the fashion it did. I was already beginning to regret that I had promised Stubbins and Chee–Chee we would play it. I really should stick to my work here. I am awfully keen to get to the bottom of this story the moths told me about a giant race. The more I think of that, and the further I follow it up, the surer I become that it has a foundation of truth."

"You mean you won't take another try at Blind Travel, Doctor?" said Chee–Chee in a sadly disappointed voice.

"Well," said John Dolittle, "I have fulfilled my promise, haven't I? The pencil struck land which no one could reach for the present anyhow. If you'll show me some way I can get to the Moon, we'll go. In the meantime—well, we have our work to do."

2 The Tapping on the Window

And so there followed on the general feeling of consternation one of acute disappointment. The whole household, with the possible exception of Dab–Dab (and I'm by no means sure she too would not have welcomed the idea of a voyage at this time) had been keyed up to the promise of departure for foreign shores. Now with the prospect of remaining home indefinitely, there was quite a let–down all round. Promptly remarks began to break forth.

"Well, but, Doctor," said Chee–Chee, "how about Long Arrow? You agreed that he might be most helpful in this study of insect language and er—What did you call it?—intuitive investigation. Are you going to give up the idea of consulting him, just because Bumpo struck the astronomic page in the atlas?"

"Chee–Chee," said the Doctor, "didn't I tell you that I don't know where he is and that I know of no way of finding out? I agree he might be most helpful—and perhaps the only scientist in the world who could aid me. But if I don't know where he is how can I get at him?"

This argument convinced me and, I must confess, saddened me quite a little. For I had really set my heart on a voyage with John Dolittle, which was an experience, I knew, like nothing else in life. But to my great joy another ally came to the aid of Chee–Chee and myself.

"Doctor," said Polynesia suddenly and severely, "you know you are just trying to fool us. Do you mean to say that with your knowledge of the animal world you couldn't find out where that man is—with all the birds and the beasts and the fishes of the seven seas more than anxious to assist you in anything you want?—Tut, tut!"

The Doctor for a moment looked almost guilty. And I suddenly realized that he had taken advantage of the outcome of our game of Blind Travel to put off any voyage for the present, deliberately, because he felt he ought to stick to his work at home.

"Oh, well, Polynesia," he said finally in some little confusion, "you must admit I have fulfilled my promise. We have obeyed the rules of the game. The land we hit on was an impossible destination. I repeat: if you can show me a way to get to the Moon, I'll take you there."

The shrewd old parrot, who had after all given John Dolittle his first lessons in animal language, was not easily fooled. She put her head on one side, dropped the piece of toast she had been chewing and regarded him with a very knowing expression.

"You haven't answered my question, Doctor," said she. "Do you, or do you not, believe it is impossible for you to find out where Long Arrow now is?"

"Well," said John Dolittle, "you remember what a dickens of a job we had in finding him last time we set out to hunt him?"

"Yes," said Polynesia, "but that was because he had got trapped in the cave by the falling rocks. If he is free now, as he probably is, it would be no great matter—for you."

For a moment the Doctor squirmed in his chair. Polynesia was the best arguer I have ever known.

"But don't you see," he said at last spreading out his hands in front of him, "I have such a tremendous lot of work here still unfinished. I told you this legend the moths spoke of, about a race of giant flies—moths as big as a house, who could lift a ton weight as though it were an ounce. That is something that must be looked into. Goodness only knows what it might lead to."

"And goodness only knows what your going abroad might lead to either," said Polynesia. "But the truth is, I suppose, you just don't want to go. You're tired of just ordinary exploration and voyaging. The Moon is the only thing that would satisfy you—like a baby."

A little silence fell on the assembly. Dab–Dab had not yet begun to clear away. Everybody seemed to be thinking hard.

And then there came the most mysterious tapping on the window, an odd, heavy, muffled sort of tapping.

"Boo!" grunted Gub–Gub, "Spookish!" and he crawled under the table.

"I'm not going to pull back the curtains," said Bumpo—"not for a fortune. You go, Tommy."

I was after all the nearest to that window. I guessed it was Cheapside, as usual, asking to come in. But I should have known. No sparrow ever made a noise like that. I swung aside the curtains and gazed out into the moonlit garden. Then I clapped my hand to my mouth to stop the yell of surprise that rose to my lips.

3 The Giant Race

I shall never forget the feeling I had as my eyes made out the strange picture there on the lawn beneath the eerie light of the Moon. It wasn't so much that I was frightened but that I was astonished, overwhelmed—so overwhelmed that for some moments after I had stifled my first impulse to yell, I could not speak at all. Presently I looked back at the Doctor and opened my mouth, but no words came.

"What is it, Stubbins?" said he, rising and joining me at the window.

Used as John Dolittle was to strange sights and unusual things, this vision outside the glass for a moment staggered even him. There was a face looking in at us. To begin with it took one quite a while to realize that it was a face. It was so large that you did not take it in or see the connexion, at first, between the various features. In fact the entire window, at least six feet high by three feet wide, only encompassed part of it. But there was no mistaking the eyes—strange and very beautiful eyes. Anyone but those who, like the Doctor and myself, were intimately familiar with the anatomy of insects, would quite possibly have taken them for something else. But to us, in spite of their positively gigantic size, they were unmistakably the eyes of a moth.

Set close together, bulging outward, shimmering like vast iridescent opals in the pale candlelight from the room, they made us feel as though we were gazing through a powerful magnifying–glass at an ordinary moth's head.

"Heaven preserve us!" I heard the Doctor mutter at my elbow. "It must be the Giant Race. Snuff the candles out, Stubbins. Then we'll be able to see the rest of him better."

With trembling hands I did as I was told—then sped back to the window and the fascination of this astonishing apparition. And now, when the candlelight did not interfere with the Moon's rays in the garden, it was possible to see more. The moth positively seemed to fill the whole garden.

His shoulders behind the head, which was pressed close against the panes, towered up to a height of at least two storeys. The enormous wings were folded close to the thick furry body, giving the appearance of the gable–end of a house—and quite as large. The enormous foot which had softly struck the window still rested on the sill. The great creature was quite motionless. And even before the Doctor spoke of it, I got the impression that he was injured in some way. Of course, the excitement among those in the room was terrific. Every one, with the exception of Gub–Gub and Bumpo, rushed to the window and a general clatter broke forth which the Doctor at once hushed. Poor Bumpo seemed to feel that whatever strange sight it was that lay outside in the garden must surely have been conjured up by the same evil spirits that guided his hand over the atlas; and nothing would induce him to go and take a look at it. As for Gub–Gub, he preferred the safety of his retreat beneath the table to any moonlight encounters with the supernatural.

"Come, Stubbins," said the Doctor, "get some lanterns and we will go out. Chee–Chee, bring me my little black bag, will you, please?"

Followed by Jip, Polynesia and Too–Too, the Doctor hurried out into the back garden. You may be sure I was not far behind them with the lanterns—nor was Chee–Chee with the bag.

That whole night was one long procession of surprises. As soon as I got out into the garden I became conscious of something funny happening to my breathing. The air seemed unusual. As I paused, sniffing and half gasping, Chee–Chee overtook me. He too seemed to be affected.

"What is it, Tommy?" he asked. "Feels like sniffing a smelling–bottle—sort of takes your breath away."

I could give him no explanation. But on reaching the Doctor we found that he also was suffering from some inconvenience in breathing.

"Give me one of those lanterns, Stubbins," said he. "If this moth is injured I want to see what I can do to help him."

It was a curious fantastic sight. The Doctor's figure looked so absurdly small beside the gigantic form of his "patient." Also it was very hard to see at such close quarters and by such a small light where the patient left off and where the garden began. One enormous thing, which I had at first thought to be a tree he had knocked down in landing, turned out to be his middle left leg. It was hairy and the hairs on it were as thick as twigs.

"What do you reckon is the matter with him, Doctor?" I asked.

"I can't just tell yet," said John Dolittle, bending, and peering around with his lantern. "His legs seem to be all right and I should judge that his wings are too. Of course I couldn't get up to examine them without a good big ladder. But their position seems natural enough. It would almost appear as though exhaustion were the trouble. From the general collapsed condition of the whole moth he looks to me as though he were just dead beat from a long journey."

"What is this business that keeps catching our throats, Doctor?" asked Chee–Chee.

"The air is surcharged with oxygen," said the Doctor. "Though what the source of it is I haven't yet discovered. Possibly the creature's fur, or maybe his wing powder. It is quite harmless, I think, if a bit heady and exhilarating. Bring along that second lantern, Stubbins, and let's take another look at his head. How on earth he managed to land down on a lawn this size without ripping himself on the trees I have no idea. He must be a very skilful flier in spite of his great size."

With the aid of the two lights we carefully made our way towards the creature's head, which was almost touching the side of the house. We had to pull bushes and shrubs aside to get up close.

Here we found the peculiar quality of the air on which we had already remarked more pronounced than ever. It was so strong that it occasionally made the head reel with momentary fits of dizziness but was not otherwise unpleasant. Lying on the ground beneath the moth's nose were several enormous orange–coloured flowers. And the Doctor finally detected the oxygen, as he called it, as coming from these. We were both nearly bowled over as we stooped to examine them. The Doctor, bidding me also retire for a while, withdrew into the house, where from the surgery he produced cloths soaked in some chemical liquid to counteract the effect of the potent perfumed gas from the flowers. With these tied about our noses and mouths we returned to our investigations.

"I don't think it's pure oxygen," said the Doctor as he examined one of the enormous blossoms. "If it were I don't imagine we could stand it even as well as this. It is a powerful natural scent given out by the flowers which is heavily charged with oxygen. Did you ever see such gigantic blooms? Five of them. He must have brought them with him. But from where?—And why?"

"'I don't think it's pure oxygen,' said the Doctor"

Bending down, the Doctor placed one of the flowers under the moth's nose.

"He couldn't have brought them for nothing," said he. "Let's see what effect their perfume has on him."

4 The Awakening of the Giant

At first it appeared as though the Doctor's experiment was going to have no result. The huge head of the moth rested on the ground almost as if dead. But knowing how long even our own kinds of moths could stay motionless, we did not yet have any fears on that score.

"It's the position that's curious," muttered the Doctor, still holding the huge bell of the flower over the moth's nose. "The head is thrust forward in quite an unnatural pose. That's what makes me feel he may have actually lost consciousness from exhaustion—Oh, but see, wasn't that a tremor in the antennæ?"

"'Wasn't that a tremor in the antennæ?'"

I looked up at the feathery palm–like wands that reared upward from the head (they reminded you of some fantastic decorations in the turban of a rajah), and, yes—there was no doubt of it—the ends were trembling slightly.

"He's coming to, Doctor," I whispered. "Hadn't you better stand further away in case he struggles to get up? To be stepped on by one of his feet would be no joke."

The Doctor's utter fearlessness in the presence of this unbelievable monster was quite typical. The animal kingdom had no terrors for him. And a moth the size of a large building disturbed him no more so far as his personal safety was concerned than a newborn lamb. And that strange trust was always shared by the animals themselves. I have never seen any creature that was afraid of the Doctor or disposed to fight him. It was this perhaps, above all things, that set him apart among mankind and made him the naturalist he was. Every living thing appeared to have confidence in him from the moment it set eyes on him.

And so it seemed to be with this great insect that looked as though it belonged to some other world than ours. You could not say it opened its eyes—because a moth's eyes, having no lids, are always open. But presently when by various little signs, like the increased trembling of the antennæ, small shiftings of the legs, a slight raising of the head, etc., it showed us that it was really alive and conscious, it seemed quite unalarmed. I noticed those enormous eyes, now glowing with newer, more conscious, light, turn and take in the figure of the Doctor busying himself with various little jobs for the comfort of his patient. The Giant Moth made no struggle to get up. On the contrary, he gave a sort of deep sigh which indicated he was almost pleased on waking to find the Doctor fussing round him. As I looked at them, John Dolittle and his gigantic patient, I began to wonder what would have taken place if this creature had fallen into another garden and into other hands. Fear, on account of his great size, superstition and ignorance, would most likely have brought about some violent attack upon him and his unnatural death. I thought of Bumpo and his dread of the Unknown, gentle enough though he usually was. I thought of Chee–Chee's prehistoric artist, Otho Bludge. Would not his first impulse have been to destroy this enormous creature as soon as it appeared—to be the first in attack, lest it destroy him?

But with the Doctor, no. Size, foreign characteristics and qualities, did not incur fear or distrust. On the contrary, anything new attracted him, always, rather than scared him. And by being with him I, in a lesser measure, had grown to share something of this confidence—even if I had not yet learned to impress the same feeling of trust on creatures I met with.

I was sharply reminded of what the Doctor had said about intuitive knowledge also as I watched these two. The moth of course could not speak one word of the Doctor's language nor the Doctor, so far, a syllable of the moth's. And yet, without language, they seemed to be conveying certain things to one another with fair ease. For example, the Doctor evidently wished to climb up and examine the moth's wing muscles, which he expected had been overstrained in the long flight. Somehow, goodness only knows by what means, he conveyed this idea to the patient. Anyway it suddenly contracted its chest and let its front pair of legs spread apart, so that the summit of its shoulders was lowered a good ten feet. Then very carefully, lest he hurt the moth's skin, the Doctor clambered up in the deep fur that covered the middle trunk (I think he called it the thorax) until he stood where the enormous wings were joined to the body.

Up there where no rays from the lamp could reach him he was quite invisible to Chee–Chee and me. But presently he called down to me to open his little black bag and throw him up a bottle of liniment.

5 Keeping a Secret

Of course on an exciting occasion of this kind the Doctor, who always seemed to be able to do without sleep if necessary, outstayed all of us in the garden. Polynesia was deeply interested also, but by three o'clock in the morning she retired to the house and took a nap on top of the grandfather clock on the stair–landing. Chee–Chee finally fell asleep under the bushes. I, by pinching myself at five–minute intervals, managed to carry on till dawn showed over the roof–ridge of the house. Too–Too of course could always apparently stay awake with more comfort during night hours than in daylight. He and the Doctor were, I think, the last left on deck. He told me next day that John Dolittle had not gone to bed before 6 a.m.

Staggering around the garden with one eye open and the other shut, I had managed to act the part of the Doctor's assistant almost as long as that. When I woke up (about two o'clock the following afternoon) I found myself on the hall settee with the carpet drawn over me for bed–clothes. I learned, when I went to the kitchen and found Dab–Dab frying eggs, that John Dolittle had made the Giant Moth comfortable in the garden and was planning to see him early the following day.

Luckily the night had been mild. I took the cup of tea and piece of toast which Dab–Dab offered me and went out into the garden. Here of course I discovered the Doctor, who after a couple of hours' nap somewhere between six and nine in the morning, was continuing his study of the strange visitor. He had evidently been trying out various foods, because great quantities of different edibles lay about the lawn. What strange instinct had guided the Doctor finally to honey I do not know, for certainly this giant specimen did not look like any of the honey–sucking moths with which we were familiar. But certainly John Dolittle had hit upon a food agreeable to the creature even if it was not his natural one. When I came up to them he was just setting to on a new comb while the empty frames of six others lay around him on the grass.

"I took the cup of tea and piece of toast that Dab–Dab offered me"

The Doctor had managed by this to get the moth to move back somewhat from the house. He now stood, or sat, comfortably, on the lawn; and while he occupied most of the turf, we could approach him from all sides and get a much better idea of what he looked like.

In colour he was a light brown in the body with very gorgeous wings of red and blue. His legs were green, the rest of him black. In shape he was of the type that keeps the wings closely folded to the body when at rest, though, to be sure, his general lines and appearance were only vaguely suggestive of any species we knew among earthly moths.

"I moved him over here," said the Doctor, "so that there should be less chance of anyone seeing him from the front garden."

"But how did you manage to make him understand you wished him to move?" I said. "Can you speak his language already?"

"Oh, no—not a word," he said. "But—well—I suppose I really don't know just how I did it. I moved over there and beckoned to him and put the food down. And—well—anyhow he seemed most well disposed towards me and anxious to co–operate in any way."

I laughed.

"That, Doctor," I said, "is the thing that has made you succeed in animal languages where so many naturalists have failed. I'm not so sure that Long Arrow was much better than you when it comes to doing things by instinct rather than by science. But why are you so afraid the people will see the moth?"

"Why, Stubbins," said he—"most important. If the townsfolk get wind of this extraordinary creature being here we would be besieged, just besieged, by visitors. He doesn't like strangers. Of that I'm sure –naturally timid, you know, in spite of his size.—No, whatever happens his presence here must be kept secret. And by the way, if Matthew should call—and you know he usually drops in almost every night after supper—don't let him come into the back garden, whatever you do. We will have to bind Bumpo and the animals to secrecy in this. Because while Gub–Gub and Jip can't talk with Matthew, they might easily give the moth's presence away. And the one thing Matthew can't do is to keep a secret."

And so that afternoon we called the household together and swore them all in to absolute secrecy. More than that, the Doctor was so afraid that some one might discover the moth's presence and spread the news abroad, he instituted a system of sentries. Bumpo, Jip and I took it in turns to mount guard at the front gate to make sure that no one strayed in by accident. We did duty in three–hour shifts, night and day. To make extra sure, Too–Too and Polynesia, who were both good hands at keeping awake, watched alternately from the ridge of the roof where they could see anyone approach from any direction.

"Too–Too and Polynesia watched from the ridge of the roof"

And it was a good thing that we did take those precautions. I had never realized before how many people ordinarily came to our quiet establishment in the course of a day. Tradesmen's boys delivering groceries; animal patients calling at the surgery; people dropping in to ask the way; the man from the Water Company to look at the meter; pedlars who wished to sell things, etc., etc.

But with our system of sentries no one ever got a glimpse of the giant moth nor a suspicion that he was hidden in the Doctor's garden.

"Have you any idea, Doctor," I asked one evening, "where this creature has come from?"

"As yet I have not," said he. "I have been trying to find that out, as you can easily imagine, ever since he arrived. I have examined his feet most carefully, hoping that that might give me a clue. But so far it has led to nothing. I even put some particles of dust I found under a microscope. But I am sure, from my examination, that they were picked up after his arrival here in the garden—while landing, no doubt. What I hope to do now is to get into communication with him through some form of vibration–record, just as we did with the ordinary moths and flies. But of course it isn't going to be easy with a creature of this size. We will have to devise special apparatus to fit the job. I fear it may take a lot of work. But it doesn't matter. I feel I am on the eve of discovering big things. I am quite content to spend a long time on this. It is worth it."

6 The Butterflies' Paradise

And thus we settled down, with our sentries to keep the world out, to try and get in touch with this strange creature who had visited us from parts unknown.

To begin with, of course, the Doctor, with his extraordinary knowledge of the moths and butterflies of almost every part of the civilized world, was able to eliminate a great deal of territory as an impossible source for the moth to come from. He had one theory which he followed for quite a time and that was that it had come from what is called the Subarctic Regions. Very little was known so far, he told me, about insect life in those parts.

Then he got another idea, very far removed from the first. He had noticed that the Giant Moth was very cold at night. John Dolittle was quite upset over this. He made all sorts of arrangements about warming the garden. He worried Dab–Dab to death by buying oil stoves by the dozen to set around the garden and supplemented these by hot–water bottles actually in hundreds. We had the most terrible time getting them in secretly, because of course the dealers insisted on delivering them by wagon. But we had to be just insistent and bring them up to the house ourselves. They of course wanted to know what on earth we were going to do with so many hot–water bottles. A small town is a difficult place to keep a secret in.

Then the Doctor, following up the idea that the moth might have come from the tropics, started to question Chee–Chee. He asked him if he had ever heard his grandmother speak of giant insects at any time.

Poor Chee–Chee thought very hard for quite a while. He could not seem to remember any occasion on which his grandmother had referred to such creatures. But presently he said:

"Oh, wait now—yes, I remember, there was something."

"Good!" said the Doctor. "What was it?"

And all the animals, hoping for another of Chee–Chee's stories of the Ancient World, gathered about him to listen with attention.

"Well," said he, "there is no record that I know of, of any such insects belonging to the tropics—I mean especially to those parts—either in past times or nowadays. But I do remember my grandmother saying that in those days before there was a Moon the world had no end of perfectly enormous creatures running about it and that Man had a terribly hard time to survive. This was particularly so at certain times when various species like the dinosaurs and some of the more dangerous animals multiplied in such quantities that they crowded everything else out of certain sections. It wasn't only by chasing Man and destroying him that they had made life hard for him. But for instance, when a swarm of these giant lizards descended on a farm where he had been growing corn and raising a few goats, they would eat up the whole crop, roots and all, in a few minutes, or clear off all the natural turf down to the bare ground so that there was nothing left for the goats to feed on."

"A swarm of giant lizards descended"

"Yes, yes," said the Doctor, "but the insects, Chee–Chee. Do you recall your grandmother speaking of any giant moths, beetles or butterflies?"

"Yes, I was coming to that," said the monkey. "She used to tell us of one time—again in the days before there was a Moon—when a certain valley lay for a considerable time undisturbed by most creatures. You see, although there was occasional crowding in some areas, the world at that time had lots and lots of room in it. And, as I was saying, in this quiet forgotten valley a giant race of butterflies is said to have flourished. Of course my grandmother never saw them, they were millions of years before her time, and she only handed on the story to us as she had heard it. But she said it was still believed that these butterflies with their wings outspread were a hundred paces across from tip to tip."

"Had your grandmother ever spoken of other giant insects, Chee–Chee," asked the Doctor—"of moths, for example?"

"Oh, well," said the monkey, "when I called them butterflies I was merely thinking of the general term in our language for all big flies of that sort. It is quite possible that the insects she spoke of were really moths. In fact I think it is more likely, since they appear to have been exceedingly strong; and moths would be stronger than butterflies, wouldn't they?"

"Er—yes—generally speaking," said the Doctor, "they would. But how do you know they were strong?"

"Well, it seems," said Chee–Chee, "that when Man first came into the valley he found it full of extraordinary flowers and vegetation of all kinds. The soil seems to have been very, very rich there. It had been a lake up in the hills many years before, simply filled with fish. Then suddenly, through an earthquake or something, all the water drained away through a crack in the mountains and the fish of course died in the mud that was left. The smell of the rotting fish at first drove every living thing away. But it also seems to have fertilized the valley in a very extraordinary manner. After a while of course seeds from the ordinary wild flowers and weeds began blowing in across the mountains. They took root, sprouted, bloomed and died down. Then their seed was blown about and did the same thing. But the new seed was very much better than the old, for the plants from which it came had grown strong in the most fertile ground in the world. And so it went on, each spring bringing forth finer and larger plants until, they say, many little wild flowers that in other parts were no bigger than a button, had become here gigantic blossoms growing on bushes as high as an elm tree.

"And of course where there are flowers, butterflies and moths and bees and beetles will always come. And thus in time this deserted valley, once a dried–up sea of mud, stinking of rotten fish, grew into a butterflies' paradise. It was set deep down in a canyon whose walls were sheer and unscalable. Neither man nor beast came to disturb this flower–filled playground where the butterflies and bees led a happy gorgeous life of sunshine, colour and peace."

Chee–Chee's story of the Butterflies' Paradise—as did most of his yarns of the Ancient World—got us all deeply interested. From Gub–Gub to the Doctor, we were all listening intently as the little monkey, squatting tailor–fashion on the corner of the table, retold the legends of prehistoric times which his ancestors had handed down to him.

"Well," he went on, "as it was with the flowers that fed and grew larger on the rich soil of the valley, so it was with the butterflies and bees who fed on the flowers. They became enormous. The honey they got from the blossoms made—"

"Excuse me," the Doctor interrupted.—"Honey, did you say?"

"Yes," said Chee–Chee, "that was the food they got from the flowers of course. So it was believed that it was the honey, peculiarly rich in that district, which made them so big."

"Humph!—Yes, yes. Pardon me. Go on," said the Doctor.

"A party of baboons were the first to enter it"

"But naturally sooner or later such an extraordinary valley, filled with such extraordinary creatures, would have to be discovered and disturbed by strangers. There was a tradition among the monkey people, my grandmother said, that a party of baboons was the first to enter it. They however, when they had finally scaled the rocky heights surrounding the canyon and looked down into the valley filled with gaudy–coloured flies as big as ships, were so scared that they bolted and never went back there again. But some men who had watched the baboons climbing up and made a note of how they reached the top, followed over the same trail. Among this party there was one very bold spirit who often led the others in attacks upon the large animals. While the others hung back in hesitation he descended the break–neck precipices, determined to investigate those lovely giants. He reached the bottom and there, from the ambush of an enormous leaf big enough to hide a regiment under, he suddenly sprang out on to one of the butterflies as he crawled over the ground in the sun. The big insect, thoroughly frightened, took to his wings at once; and with the wretched man clinging to his shoulders, he soared away over the mountain–tops. Neither of them was ever seen again."

7 The Home of the Giant Moth

A general chatter of comment and criticism broke out around the kitchen table as Chee–Chee brought his story to an end.

"It's a good yarn, Chee–Chee," said Gub–Gub—"quite good. But I don't like it as well as the one about Otho Bludge."

"Why, Gub–Gub?" the Doctor asked.

"Oh, well," said the pig, "Otho's story was more romantic. I have a natural preference for romantic stories. I liked that part about the bracelet of stone beads which Pippiteepa left on the rock behind her—which Otho took and wore on his own wrist the rest of his days. That's a very romantic idea. It is dreadfully sad that he never met her any more. I wish Chee–Chee would tell us that one over again."

"Some other night perhaps," said the Doctor. "It is getting late now and we should be thinking of bed."

The Doctor was almost as interested in the great orange–coloured flowers which the moth had brought with him as he was in the moth himself. To begin with, he had almost immediately on discovering them taken the greatest pains to preserve the great blooms. Huge quantities of ice (which was quite an expensive luxury in Puddleby) were procured from the fishmonger to keep the flowers fresh as long as possible. Meantime John Dolittle experimented with one specimen to find out what gases its perfumes contained, etc.

The work apparently proved very interesting for him. He was quite good at analytical chemistry and he told me that the flowers presented problems which he felt had never been encountered by chemists before.

When he was done with this he turned his attention again to the moth himself, but took precautions in the meantime that the remaining flowers should be given the best of care and made to last as long as possible.

In his study of the moth progress was slow. If it had not been for the fact that the giant insect itself was most kindly disposed towards his investigations and did his best to help the Doctor in every way, I doubt if he would have got anywhere. But one day I gathered from the fact that John Dolittle had stayed out on that particular subject for nearly twenty–four hours at a stretch, and had missed his night's sleep altogether, that he was most likely achieving something important.

Well, the outcome of these long sessions of study on the Doctor's part was that one very early morning he rushed into my room his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"One very early morning he rushed into my room"

"Stubbins," he said, "it's too good to be true. I'm not certain of anything yet, but I think—I think, mind you—that I've discovered where this creature comes from."

"Goodness!" I said. "That's news worth a good deal.—Where?"

"I guessed," he said, "that it couldn't be Europe. The more remote corners of the world, like the sub–arctic and the tropics, didn't quite—well, they didn't exactly fit in either."

"Anyway, you know now," I said. "Tell me quick, I'm dying to hear."

"I have every reason," he said, looking sort of embarrassed lest I should disbelieve him, "to suppose that he comes from the Moon!"

"Heaven preserve us!" I gasped—"The Moon?"

"I have very little doubt," he answered. "I managed to rig up some sort of apparatus—after a good many trials and a good many failures—which should convey his vibrations. If it had not been that he was just as anxious as I to get in contact I could never have done it. He came as a messenger, it seems. You remember Polynesia has told you, I know, of the time when the monkeys in Africa sent word to me by a swallow that they were suffering from an epidemic—that they had heard of me and wanted me to come to the rescue?"

"Yes," I said, "Polynesia has told me many times."

"Well," said he, "this is something of the same kind. It seems unbelievable. And every once in a while I wake up, as it were, and pinch myself for fear I am trying to believe in some extraordinary and delightful dream—something that I have conjured up myself because I wanted it so to be true. And yet I think I have real reason to believe it. If so, this is by far the greatest moment of my career. To be called to Africa by the monkeys on the strength of my reputation, to cure them in the hour of their distress, that was a great compliment. To let loose Long Arrow, the Indian naturalist, from his prison in the cave, that was a moment well worth living for. But to be summoned to another world by creatures that human eyes have never seen before, that, Stubbins, is—"

He waved his hand without further words. His voice sounded strangely chokey. It was not often that I had seen John Dolittle overcome by emotion.

8 Flowers of Mystery

Anyone can very readily imagine into what a condition of extraordinary excitement this statement of the Doctor's would be likely to put me. All sorts of visions and possibilities passed before my mind. But so anxious was he that no false alarm should be spread abroad till he was certain of his facts, that he strictly forbade me to whisper a word of the matter to anyone before he gave me permission. He said nothing annoyed him so much as the half–baked announcements of scientists promising all sorts of wonders that never come true. And it must be said for John Dolittle himself that he never published a word that he was not prepared to stand by and prove. But then he very seldom "talked for the newspapers," as it is called, anyway.

Before many days had passed we decided that the flowers the moth had brought with him were almost as complicated a mystery as the great insect himself. The Doctor was, as I have said, in constant anxiety lest they should wither. It was not to be hoped of course that they would last more than a few days. His progress with the moth's "language" continued to be tantalizingly slow; and every morning he would go to the little special greenhouse where he kept the blossoms, expecting to find his treasures had wilted and passed away. But morning after morning they seemed as fresh as ever; and he was greatly puzzled. The ice and spraying and other care we gave them could not account for such extraordinary endurance.

The Doctor was pretty good at botany, as he was in all branches of natural history. He found on careful examination that the flowers had certain bulbous knobs just where the stem joined the bell of the blossom itself. These he told me were something quite different from the anatomy of any flower known to the Earth's vegetable kingdom. Of course he had long since supposed that if the moth came from the Moon, he brought the flowers also from that world. He was sure that these knobs or glands, as he called them, accounted for the flower being able to endure so long in a state of perfect freshness after it had been plucked from its plant. He wondered if all moon flowers had the same quality.

But what mystified us a great deal more was that the flower apparently had the power actually to move itself—not only to change its position from that in which it had been laid down, but also, we finally proved, to shift itself from place to place.

The way the Doctor discovered that peculiar quality of the Moon Bells, as we called the flowers, was this: he was in the habit of bringing one of the blossoms twice a day to the moth to smell. He had discovered that the insect derived great benefit from this daily tonic. He told me he was sure that the Moon moth found our earthly atmosphere entirely too sluggish and lacking in oxygen. If we left him for more than about twelve hours without a sniff he got sleepier and sleepier and would finally almost collapse.

At night–time, after the moth had had his final sniff, the Doctor always took the blooms back to the special ice–cooled conservatory to be stored till the next day. Of the five blooms, he used each one conscientiously in turn—thinking thus to economize the precious perfume. But that, by the way, proved to be unnecessary. For the flowers were as good a tonic at the end of the week as they were when we first discovered them. This treatment, with vast quantities of honey for food (which we actually supplied to the insect in barrow–loads), was practically the only treatment which we gave our strange visitor.

Well, as I said, the Doctor would with the greatest care take the flowers back to the greenhouse and lay them down on a thick bed of asparagus fern. But the following morning, as regular as clockwork, he would find the flowers in different positions.

In the beginning, he had not laid any importance to this. But one evening he had put a bloom down almost touching the door of the conservatory because the others were occupying almost the entire space of the small house with their enormous bulk. When he came in the morning, expecting to find the flower he had used the night before close against the door, he was astonished to see that it and all the blossoms had rolled away toward the far end, and that last night's one had swung right around so that the stem instead of the bell was facing the door.

At first he thought some one must have been in during the night and shifted the flowers. But the same thing occurred the following day. As usual he didn't speak of it to me till he was sure of his facts. We sat up one night and watched with a lantern, and both of us distinctly saw the flower nearest the door roll over and change its position.

At first, for my part, I wasn't satisfied.

"Why, Doctor," I said, "that could have been an accident. The way the flower was laid on the uneven bed of fern could account for its rolling a short distance like that!"

"All right," said he, "we will watch again tomorrow night. I am convinced—and I think I can prove to you—that the flowers do not like the draught from the door. They move away from it of their own accord, by rolling."

So the next night we repeated our watch. And this time I was completely convinced. We put two flowers close against the door. After about an hour one of them deliberately began to roll away towards the other end of the conservatory, A little later the other followed, both crowding in on the remainder of the specimens, huddling like sheep that wished to escape a storm. I could hardly believe my eyes. There was no question of accident here.

On our way back to the house the Doctor said: "You know, Stubbins, I feel we are here presented with an almost entirely new problem. There are flowers in our own vegetable kingdom which catch flies and close up at night and things like that. But one that can move itself after it is cut off from its plant is something quite new. You know, Stubbins—er—of course—" (The Doctor hesitated a moment in one of his moods of half embarrassment which had been pretty common of late.) "Er—this whole thing is so new and perplexing—but, well, I've had a notion for some days now that those flowers can communicate with one another."

"You mean that they can talk!" I cried.

"Just that," said he. "The way that they arrange themselves when they crowd up together at the far end of the conservatory—and—and I have even thought I could detect some exchange of conversation. But of course, as I said, it is all so new. I may be wrong."

"Goodness!" I said. "That's a new idea, with a vengeance, isn't it?"

"It is," said he. "But in the Moon?—It may be the oldest idea there is—that flowers can talk. Certainly you and I have evidence already that they can think—and move."

9 Smoke on the Moon

The night following that on which we had finally determined that the Moon Bells could move of their own accord I came into the Doctor's study about nine o'clock. At first I thought there was no one in the room and was about to go out to the kitchen. But presently I heard Polynesia whisper:

"Is that you, Tommy?"

And then I made out Chee–Chee's form also squatting on the floor by the window.

I must confess that by this time I was getting sort of prepared for anything. I had even told my parents that I might leave any day on a voyage for parts unknown. The Doctor had become so—so secretive. Try as hard as I might to keep track of what was going on, I still had an uncomfortable feeling that John Dolittle was making discoveries and plans which he was telling to no one—at least not to me. That feeling had disturbed me a great deal.

"Yes, Polynesia," said I. "This is Tommy. What's going on here?"

"Oh," said she, and I knew at once from the tone of her voice that she was on her guard, "the Doctor is just taking a few observations through his new telescope."

I realized right away that the Doctor was doing nothing of that kind. He was looking through his new telescope, it was true—an instrument which it had cost him just mints of money to buy. He had even kept its purchase a secret from Dab–Dab who always scolded him whenever he laid out large sums on scientific instruments. But I saw at once that he wasn't taking observations.

"He was looking through his new telescope"

"What are you doing, Doctor?" I asked, coming up to where he handled the telescope in the dark.

"Oh, well, Stubbins," said he, "I'm—er—I'm trying to see if they're signalling."

"What do you mean—they?—signalling?" I asked.

"Well, you see," said he, "I thought that if they sent down this moth with some sort of a message to me—which I really believe they did—that maybe they, those folk in the Moon—I have no idea yet what sort of creatures they are of course—would possibly give out some sort of signal to get in touch with him and see how his expedition was getting on…. There! Did you see that? I'll swear I saw a puff—a sort of puff of smoke coming out from the Moon's left side. You look in, Stubbins. Maybe I'm dreaming again!"

I looked into the telescope. But I must confess I could see little beyond the ordinary map of the Moon. This I was already somewhat familiar with. The Doctor had several pamphlets issued by various astronomical observatories that gave details and maps of that side of the Moon which was the only one we earthly people had ever seen. He and I had during the last few days studied these with a good deal of interest and attention. The Doctor himself was very familiar, I knew, with everything that had been learned and published on Moon geography up to that time. He seemed disappointed when I told him I could see nothing unusual in the Moon's appearance to–night.

"Strange—very strange!" he muttered. "I could have sworn I saw something—like a cloud, suddenly appearing and then fading away like smoke, on the left side.—But there! This is all new. So much of it is guess work as yet. And I'm always afraid that I'm being carried away by my own ideas and hopes."

I must confess that for my part I felt he had on this occasion been misled, until I happened to meet Too–Too later in the evening, coming off duty from his post on top of the roof. He and Polynesia still took it in turns religiously to watch for intruders visiting the Doctor's premises who might hear of the moth's presence in his garden and carry the news abroad before the Doctor wished it known.

The little owl whispered that he would like to see me alone a minute. I took him on to my shoulder and proceeded upstairs to my room. There, with his usual accurate behaviour in the complete darkness, he found the matches for me, carried them to the candle and rattled them till I found my way to him.

"Shut the door, Tommy," said he mysteriously as soon as I had struck a light, "and take a look outside to make sure no one has followed us."

This I did.

"Well," said I, coming back to where he stood blinking beside the lighted candle, "what is it, Too–Too? Has anyone heard about the moth being here?"

"No," said he. "So far, I think I can say with absolute certainty the moth's presence here is a secret. Though I have serious fears about that gossip Gub–Gub. If he tells any other pigs, you can be sure we'll have all the porkers in the neighbourhood nosing round to see what's going on. But as yet I fancy he hasn't had a chance. That's not the point. What I wanted to see you about was this: Did you happen to look at the Moon at all this evening?"

"Yes," I said, "I looked at it through the Doctor's new telescope. Why?"

"Did you see anything—er—unusual?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I did not. The Doctor asked me the same question. He was sure he had seen something out of the ordinary."

"Ah!" grunted Too–Too. "There you are. I thought so."

"Why, what happened?" I asked.

"Well, you know," said he, "we owls are pretty familiar with the Moon. Her phases are, I suppose, more important to us than to almost any animal family. The light, you understand, for hunting and travelling by night is very important. Well, to–night happened to be the full moon—exactly full at ten o'clock. I was looking up at it thinking how bright it would be in the woods for hunting—too bright in fact—when suddenly I saw a small cloud puff out from the left side, like smoke it was. It didn't last more than a couple of seconds and then it was gone. But—well, I'm sure it was done deliberately."

"How do you mean?" said I.—"By some one in the Moon itself?"

"Well, of course," replied the owl. "I know it most likely sounds crazy to you. But after all, there's no use you and I pretending to one another that we haven't guessed where this moth comes from, is there? We don't have to let the world in on this secret. But—well, after all we know, don't we? If he hasn't come from the Moon, where else could he have come from? And what's he doing here, hanging around in very uncomfortable circumstances? He has come for some purpose, hasn't he?"

10 Too-too's Warning

The difference between Too–Too and Polynesia in this matter, as far as I was concerned, was very noticeable. Polynesia had seemed as though she wanted to keep things from me: Too–Too was for taking me into his confidence. I had had an uncomfortable feeling that the old parrot was looking towards some occasion where—as I mentioned before—the Doctor also might wish me to be left in ignorance regarding his plans. How far John Dolittle himself was in agreement with her in this, and how far she was acting on her own, I did not know. But it had caused me a good deal of anxiety.

To find that Too–Too was willing and anxious to be quite frank with me cheered me up considerably.

"You mean," said I, "that this moth is staying here in the hopes that he may take the Doctor back with him to the Moon?"

"What else?" said Too–Too, spreading out his wings in a funny argumentative gesture. "After all, you know the great man's reputation. There's nothing very surprising in that it should have reached the Moon. No one can say yet what their civilization up there may have grown into. But naturalists like John Dolittle are not born every day—nor every century. They want him, I suppose, to solve some problem. And you may be sure that the Doctor will not be slow to answer their call for help. And what is more, he will certainly keep his going a secret till the last possible moment."

"'What else?' said Too–Too"

"Humph!" I muttered. "You think then that he might hop off any minute?"

"I don't know," said Too–Too. "There is no telling. They certainly haven't let me in on any secrets. But I'm sure that giant moth came with some orders about bringing the Doctor back with him. How long it may take the Doctor to learn enough of the insect's language to know what they want, I cannot tell. But if you are interested I would advise you to keep a very close watch on John Dolittle's movements for the next few days. A word to the wise, you know—"

I pondered a moment before answering.

"All right," I said at last.—"Thank you, Too–Too, for warning me."

"It was not only on your own account," said the owl, "that I dropped this word of caution. If he goes, we animals would be much happier if he had some other human with him. Getting to the Moon is—well—a risky business, to say the least—and it is my guess that he will avoid taking any more company than he can possibly help on account of the risk."

It was only very shortly after that conversation with Too–Too that I made it my business to question the Doctor about his plans.

"So it is true," I said, "that you have hopes of getting to the Moon with the help of this moth?"

"Well," said he, "it will depend of course on how things pan out. But, yes, I think I can certainly say that I have hopes in that direction. As I told you, it seems pretty certain now that this moth was sent down specially to fetch me."

"It is a very thrilling idea," said I. "But to be quite honest, I don't see how you're going to manage it. They say there is no air there, don't they?"

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders.

"There is animal life there anyway," said he. "These moths can manage very well. It is probably a different kind of air, that is all. I am faced with the problem of finding out what sort of atmosphere it is they have there. Once I've done that I shall be in a very much better position to say whether or no the earthly human can subsist in the Moon. I am beginning to come to the conclusion that up there the vegetable kingdom is relatively much more active and important than the animal kingdom. Of course that's only guess work so far. But everything points to it. I believe that the atmosphere, whatever air they have, is created or influenced very largely by the vegetable kingdom. That is why the moth brought along with him those flowers whose perfumes seem so important to him."

"But," said I, "scientists have said there is no water there, haven't they?—That if there were there would be clouds?"

"Oh, well," said the Doctor, shrugging his shoulders, "how do they know—without having been there? Perhaps the Moon water is of a different kind—one that does not volatilize and go off into clouds—the way it does with us. Perhaps the air, the heat, is of a different kind. Who shall say? The only way to know is to go there and see."

"That's all very well," I replied. "But in the job of finding out you could, so far as I can tell, very easily give your life without anyone thanking you."

The Doctor pondered seriously a moment.

"Yes," he said at last, "I admit it may sound sort of crazy to most people. But I have a confidence in animals. The lunar animal kingdom wants me up there for something. As yet I haven't been able to find out exactly what it is. But so far all my life, as you know, I have trusted the animal kingdom and I have never had that confidence imposed on. If the Moon animals want me, I'll go. And I have no fear about their finding a way to get me there—and a way to get me back."

"Humph!" I said. "But even if there should be air—of a sort—on the Moon itself, there is none in between, is there? My understanding of this situation is that when you get away from the Earth a certain distance you come to the end of the air envelope. How can anyone fly when there is no air for his wings to beat against?"

Once more John Dolittle shrugged his shoulders. "The moth managed it," he said. "I imagine that so far as a medium for flying is concerned the gravity of the Earth, being stronger than the gravity of the Moon, he was pulled down here, without much effort on his own part, as soon as he got outside the Moon's attraction. That would make it look as though it were easier to get here from the Moon than from here to the Moon. However the most important thing would seem to carry enough atmosphere with you to support life on the voyage."

"Is it far," I asked, "to the Moon?"

"'Is it far,' I asked, 'to the Moon?'"

"Far enough," said he. "But after all only about one fourteen–hundredth part of the distance to the Sun. As soon as I am convinced that they, that is the Moon's animal kingdom, wants to have me come, then I'll go. I'm not afraid. They will take care of me. If they can get one of their people down to me, I should be able to get up to them. It is merely a question of knowing conditions and making provisions for perfectly natural, if new, conditions."

Of course when the Doctor put it in that way there was after all very little to be said. That sublime confidence of his in the animal kingdom, whether it was of the Moon or the Earth, overcame all difficulties in a manner that left you almost gasping. If the Moon creatures wanted him, he would go. That was the end of the matter.

For the rest, everything now depended on the development of conversation between himself and the giant moth. We had successfully kept the secret of its presence with us from the outside world—so far.

"You know, Stubbins," said he to me one evening when we were talking this over, "I am not even telling the animals, my own household, I mean, about any plans I may have for a possible journey to the Moon. One cannot be too careful. If it ever leaked out that I was contemplating such a thing we would have a reporter from every paper in the country clamouring at our gates for an interview within twenty–four hours. The world may call me a crank. But anything sensational like this can start an avalanche of publicity which nothing will stop. Polynesia is about the only one I have taken into my confidence. I suspect of course that Too–Too, Chee–Chee and Jip have some idea of what is going on. But I haven't discussed the matter with them and I know I can trust them to keep their suspicions to themselves."

"Have you," I asked, "decided yet, if you do go, whom you would take with you? I presume you hadn't thought of going entirely alone?"

"Urn—er–" the Doctor murmured, "that is a bit hard to settle yet. The—er—well, the risks, you know, Stubbins, are great. There is no sense in trying to hide that. It is something so entirely new. Sometimes I feel I should take no one with me at all—that I haven't the right to. If I go alone and I fail to get back, well, I'll have given my life in a cause worth while. As I said, for my own safety I haven't much fears. But I'm not so sure that the same protection would necessarily be given to the rest of my party. I have made no final decisions yet. Polynesia I would like to take—and Chee–Chee. I feel they both might be very useful; but for the rest, much as I would like to have them with me, I think they are better off where they are—at home."

And now of course the most important question for me was: would I, Tommy Stubbins, be of the Doctor's party on the voyage to the Moon? I was almost afraid to ask the question of him direct. Never have I been so divided in my feelings about anything. One minute I was just crazy to go. The next I realized what a mad wild expedition it was and felt that the chances of anyone returning alive from such a voyage were too slight to be worth mentioning. Then followed the picture of how I would feel if I let him go alone and stayed behind myself. That finally decided me. Scared blue as I was of the whole scheme, I knew I just had to do my utmost to accompany him. I couldn't let him go without me. The following evening I broached the subject.

"Doctor," I said, "you are of course counting on taking me with you on this trip?" (I felt it best to begin by supposing that he was.) "You would find it hard to do without a secretary, wouldn't you? There is bound to be an enormous lot of note–taking to be done, eh?"

I watched his face keenly as he pondered a moment before answering.

"Well—er—Stubbins," he began at length, "you know how I feel about taking anyone with me—even those animal friends of mine, members of my household, who have no one to mourn over their loss if they should not come back. And—er—in your case, Stubbins, you must realize that it is—quite difficult. Please do not think that I don't appreciate the fact that you want to share the dangers of this entirely new enterprise with me. I admit I would be more than glad of your company. I expect to be faced with situations when the companionship of another human might be a tremendous comfort and help. But—well, you know, Stubbins, as well as I do, how your parents would feel if I took you with me on such a trip. To the Moon! Compared with that our other voyages look like a twopenny coach ride to the outskirts of London. Then again, remember, Stubbins, I am flying in the face of all scientific authority. Whatever my own doubts may be, the fact remains that all astronomers, from Newton down, who have studied the Moon emphatically declare that no life can exist there—that the Moon is a dead world. I am gambling, like Columbus, on my own opinion pitted against the rest of mankind…. No—I'm sorry. But nothing would excuse me, in my own eyes—let alone the eyes of your mother and father—for taking you with me. You—you must stay behind. You will be needed here. I—I can't take you, Stubbins."

I felt crushed. It seemed as though there was nothing more to be said. And yet his final decision left me a little unsatisfied. When I had warned him of the dangers for himself in going to the Moon he had argued one way, making light of the risk; and when I had asked to be allowed to come along he had argued the other way, and laid stress upon the dangers of the enterprise.

Resolving to make just one more try, I pointed this out to him and ended by saying:

"If the flowers the moth brought, Doctor, grew on the Moon, there must be water there. Isn't that so?"

To my surprise he did not seem embarrassed by my stroke of logic at all.

"Probably, Stubbins, that is true. But do not forget that we are facing the problems and natural history of a life wholly unknown to us. The chemistry of these plants is something utterly new to our own science. That I know by pretty thorough investigation of them. To us the idea of producing plants without water is something quite impossible. But in the Moon, again, who shall say? They may be air plants, parasites like our orchids, living on the moisture of the atmosphere. Or anything. No one can tell how they get their nourishment or carry on life till he has seen them growing in their native surroundings. Listen, Stubbins: if I had ever seen a tree growing on the Moon I would feel I could answer your question better. But I haven't. And I have no idea whatever as yet from what source these flowers derive their life."

He paused a moment, then rose and approaching my chair where I sat gloomily scowling at the table with my head in my hands, he clutched my shoulder in a kindly grasp.

"Good friend," said he in a funny chokey sort of voice, "let's not discuss it any more. You know, don't you, how much I'd love to have you. But I can't, Stubbins—I just can't take you."

11 Our Midnight Visitors

Often, when I look back on the past, I realize that the Doctor's answer to my request to let me accompany him had the opposite effect to that which he hoped for—or expected. I made no answer whatever to his decision that night. I went to bed. But there I lay awake thinking.

What might happen if I let him go alone? I recalled what Too–Too had said: "We, the animal members of his household, would be much happier if he had some other human with him." And then, I suppose, just the fact that my coming was forbidden made it seem all the more desirable and put me on my mettle.

Anyhow, after many hours of sleeplessness, I decided that I would say nothing, lie low, and remember Too–Too's advice about keeping a very close watch on John Dolittle's movements for the next few days.

And as it turned out, it was a good thing that I did so. It is without question the proudest thing that I can boast of in my whole record that this determination, which the Doctor's refusal of my company bred in me, led to my eventually going with him.

From that night when I made up my mind I hardly let him out of my sight. No detective ever played a game of closer shadowing than I did. Whenever he sent me off on an errand I pretended to go, but sent Jip or Chee–Chee instead. From moment to moment I did not know when he might depart; but I knew where he was and exactly what he was doing. For I was quite determined that when he went he would not go without me.

In this Too–Too was the only one who helped me. There were hours of course when I could not be on the watch myself. I had to sleep. At such times the little owl did duty for me. I don't think that the Doctor ever realized how closely shadowed he was.

The hour came at last. I was fast asleep. Too–Too woke me by gently pulling my hair. In a second I was wide awake.

"Tommy!" I heard. "Get up!—Tommy! Tommy!"

"What is it?" I whispered. "What's happening?"

"Get your clothes on," whispered the owl. "The Doctor has gone out into the garden. He has his little black bag with him—and his overcoat. I have a feeling that things may be happening. Come down into the garden—Don't strike a light. Better be on the safe side. I can see. I'll guide you. But hurry—for goodness' sake!"

My bedroom was so small and I knew the exact position of everything in it so well, that it was no great feat for me to dress myself in the dark. I remember, as I felt for my clothes and finally drew them on, wondering what I had better take with me for this strange new voyage. What would one need most in the Moon?—Who could say? For who had been there? I had given this problem some thought already and decided that the freer we were of luggage the better. That had always been the Doctor's principle; and considering how impossible it was to make a choice in these circumstances, it seemed here a particularly good rule to follow.

My new big pocket knife! Yes, I must take that. I got it out of the bureau–drawer. It, with a box of matches, was all the dunnage I took. Many a time afterwards I laughed at the solution. And yet of course I did not know for certain that night, as I hunched on my overcoat in the dark, whether or no I was leaving the house and the Earth for the great voyage. Still something told me that the little owl had probably guessed right. I could hear him fidgeting and muttering somewhere near the door, impatient for me to be going. He gave a grunt of relief when I finally felt my way towards him and whispered that I was ready.

Hopping down the pitch–black stairs ahead of me he led the way, by means of his funny little grunts for signals, to the kitchen. Here I very stealthily undid the bolts of the back door which led into the garden.

I had not the vaguest notion what time it was. I knew Too–Too could tell me roughly at all events, but I was afraid to call to him. The Moon was visible, but only by fits and starts; because the gentle wind was blowing clouds across the sky in a constant procession.

Too–Too waited a moment for me to get used to the dim light of the garden. He knew that my stumbling or stepping on a cracking twig might easily give us away. He whispered that he would go forward alone and reconnoitre. I saw him crouch for a spring as though he meant to take to his wings. Flying he could see more than walking and be less likely to be noticed himself.

But he did not leave the ground. Suddenly, sharply, he turned his head. Then he came back to me.

"Tommy!" he whispered. "There are strangers in the garden. Two men have just come in at the front gate."

As I bent down to listen to him, he hopped on to my knee, and from there to my shoulder, a favourite travelling place of his when we went about together. From this lookout he could easily whisper into my ear.

"Who do you reckon they are, Too–Too?" I asked.

"Goodness only knows," he replied. "We've got to keep a close watch on them anyway. Then we'll soon know, I fancy. They're behaving mighty queerly—evidently anxious not to be seen."

"Do you think they might be burglars trying to get into the house?" I asked.

"Not the slightest chance of that," said the owl promptly. "No one in his senses would pick out the Doctor's establishment as a house to rob. Everybody knows he is almost always penniless. Everything in the house of real value John Dolittle has sold long ago. We must watch these birds and see what their game is. But it isn't plunder."

So, under whispered orders from the owl, I crept along in the shadow of bushes and hedges and tried to find out what our strange visitors had come for.

Very soon we saw it was a case of spying on spies. The two men, for the present at all events, wanted nothing more than an opportunity to find out what the Doctor was doing. There was no question now that the secret of the giant moth's presence in our garden was out. His gigantic form, lit up by the Moon's paling light, occupied the greater part of the back lawn. The black figure of the Doctor could be plainly seen scouting around it.

As a matter of fact I found myself playing a double part and watching both the Doctor and the men. I very soon saw from John Dolittle's movements that Too–Too had guessed right and that to–night was the date that the Doctor had decided on for his departure. Several suspicious–looking packages lying about the lawn, besides the black bag, showed me that John Dolittle had made preparations of a more extensive kind than he usually did for his voyages. The question now that seemed most important was: would these men try to interfere with his departure before he got away?

Altogether it was for me a strange and crazy night of adventure. At no time could I make up my mind whether it was more important to watch the Doctor than to keep my eye on the men. The men, I felt, were a menace, a danger, which at any moment might interfere with John Dolittle and with plans that could very possibly mean a great, great deal to the advancement of science and knowledge for the human race. On the other hand, if I neglected to watch the Doctor himself, he might quite possibly take flight with the moon moth and leave me behind.

While Too–Too and I were trying to make up our minds which we should give our best attention to, the men, to our great astonishment, came out from their concealment in the shrubbery and boldly walked up to the Doctor on the lawn.

"Good evening, Doctor Dolittle," we heard them say. "We represent the Slopshire Courier. We understand that you are interested in certain experiments and natural history research of a novel and sensational character. Would you be so good as to answer a few questions?"

"There you are, they're reporters!" whispered Too–Too. "I had expected as much. I wonder how on earth they heard of the moth's being here though."

"Well—er–" the Doctor began, "this is a very unconventional hour for you to call on me. But perhaps, if you came back in a few hours—say at ten or eleven in the morning—I might find time to give you an interview. Just now I am very busy."

The reporters who were clearly anxious to get the information they wanted right away (so as to be ahead of the other papers in their announcements) conversed together a moment before replying. Then they turned back to the Doctor. Neither Too–Too nor I heard exactly what they said. But whatever it was it seemed to be agreeable to the Doctor and in keeping with his wishes. For immediately after, the two men retired and the Doctor disappeared into another part of the garden.

It is quite certain that without Too–Too's aid in this night's work things could never have turned out as successfully as they did. I have often thought since that if the little owl had ever wanted to enter the profession of animal detective the great Kling could have been easily surpassed.

For Too–Too certainly had a gift for seeing things without being seen. Directly the men parted from the Doctor, he parted from me.

"Listen," said he before he left my shoulder: "I don't trust those gentlemen. We have a double job to–night. The Doctor should be the easier of the two, because he will be less suspicious. You watch him. I'll keep an eye on the newspaper fellows. It may be that they'll clear out, as they said they would. And then again they may not. We can't afford to risk it. You go ahead and watch John Dolittle and I'll let you know if the Slopshire Courier's men do anything out of the ordinary. Remember, whatever happens, the Doctor must not go on this voyage alone."

"All right, Too–Too," I said, "I'm ready for all emergencies. Go ahead."

With a little flirt of his wings, the owl left my shoulder and soared away into the darkness of the night. Then very, very stealthily and cautiously I made my way along the garden, keeping always in the shadow of hedges and shrubs, towards the great figure of the moon moth squatting on the lawn.

It wasn't easy work. For one thing I could not locate the Doctor himself for quite a while. And I was scared that any minute I might run into him and have to confess that I'd been spying. I didn't feel at all guilty about that. If Too–Too, speaking for the animal household in general, felt it necessary that he should be watched, I was very willing to do it without any qualms of conscience at all. What might not depend on my vigilance and skill? He must not go alone.

What was that?—Yes, the Doctor's figure coming out from behind the shadow of the moth. In his hands he held two packages. I wished that I had Too–Too's trick of seeing clearly in the dark. Dare I move a little closer?

As a matter of fact I did not have a chance to, before I found Too–Too back on my shoulder. With a gentle fanning of wings he dropped down beside my right ear as gently as a butterfly landing on a leaf.

"They haven't gone, Tommy," he whispered.—"Never had any intention to, I imagine. They clattered down the front steps, making a great noise, but almost immediately came back again on tip–toe. They are now hanging around the front garden close to the wall."

"What do you think we had better do?" I asked. "Well, as far as I can see it's a choice of two things," said he. "Either we continue to watch them and see how much they find out; or we wake up Bumpo and get him to chuck them off the premises. Myself, I'm all for throwing them out. I think it can be done too without the Doctor's realizing that you've been watching him. That's important of course."

"I think you are right," said I. "Suppose you take a spell at watching the Doctor while I go and wake Bumpo. I don't imagine they'll hang about long after he has recommended an early departure to them."

To this the owl agreed. And I wasted no time in getting to the business of rousing Bumpo—always a long job at best.

I found His Highness the Crown Prince of the Jolliginki snoring away in the deadest sleep a simple nature ever slept. By ten solid minutes of vigorous pummelling I managed finally to get a grunt out of him, and by keeping at the work without pity for another five I got him to sit up.

"Is it a conflagration, Tommy?" he asked sleepily rubbing his enormous fists into his still more enormous face. "It can't be time to get up yet. It's still dark."

"Listen, Bumpo," said I shaking him: "pull yourself together. It's important, serious. I'm awfully sorry to disturb you but it just couldn't be helped. Two men have come into the garden. They're newspaper reporters, it seems, spying on the Doctor. The Doctor himself is still working with the giant moth. We didn't want to disturb him. But these strangers must be got out, off the premises, you understand. You're the only one who can make them go. Get up and dress—quick."