The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle (5 page)

The Doctor was standing at the main table in his dressing-gown. At first
I thought he was washing his face. He had a square glass box before him
full of water. He was holding one ear under the water while he covered
the other with his left hand. As I came in he stood up.

"Good morning, Stubbins," said he. "Going to be a nice day, don't
you think? I've just been listening to the Wiff-Waff. But he is very
disappointing—very."

"Why?" I said. "Didn't you find that he has any language at all?"

"Oh yes," said the Doctor, "he has a language. But it is such a poor
language—only a few words, like 'yes' and 'no'—'hot' and 'cold.'
That's all he can say. It's very disappointing. You see he really
belongs to two different families of fishes. I thought he was going to
be tremendously helpful—Well, well!"

"I suppose," said I, "that means he hasn't very much sense if his
language is only two or three words?"

"Yes, I suppose it does. Possibly it is the kind of life he leads.
You see, they are very rare now, these Wiff-Waffs—very rare and very
solitary. They swim around in the deepest parts of the ocean entirely
by themselves—always alone. So I presume they really don't need to talk
much."

"Perhaps some kind of a bigger shellfish would talk more," I said.
"After all, he is very small, isn't he?"

"Yes," said the Doctor, "that's true. Oh I have no doubt that there
are shellfish who are good talkers—not the least doubt. But the big
shellfish—the biggest of them, are so hard to catch. They are only to
be found in the deep parts of the sea; and as they don't swim very much,
but just crawl along the floor of the ocean most of the time, they are
very seldom taken in nets. I do wish I could find some way of going down
to the bottom of the sea. I could learn a lot if I could only do that.
But we are forgetting all about breakfast—Have you had, breakfast yet,
Stubbins?"

I told the Doctor that I had forgotten all about it and he at once led
the way into the kitchen.

"Yes," he said, as he poured the hot water from the kettle into the
tea-pot, "if a man could only manage to get right down to the bottom
of the sea, and live there a while, he would discover some wonderful
things—things that people have never dreamed of."

"But men do go down, don't they?" I asked—"divers and people like
that?"

"Oh yes, to be sure," said the Doctor. "Divers go down. I've been down
myself in a diving-suit, for that matter. But my!—they only go where
the sea is shallow. Divers can't go down where it is really deep. What
I would like to do is to go down to the great depths—where it is miles
deep—Well, well, I dare say I shall manage it some day. Let me give you
another cup of tea."

JUST at that moment Polynesia came into the room and said something to
the Doctor in bird language. Of course I did not understand what it was.
But the Doctor at once put down his knife and fork and left the room.

"You know it is an awful shame," said the parrot as soon as the Doctor
had closed the door. "Directly he comes back home, all the animals over
the whole countryside get to hear of it and every sick cat and mangy
rabbit for miles around comes to see him and ask his advice. Now there's
a big fat hare outside at the back door with a squawking baby. Can she
see the Doctor, please!—Thinks it's going to have convulsions. Stupid
little thing's been eating Deadly Nightshade again, I suppose. The
animals are SO inconsiderate at times—especially the mothers. They come
round and call the Doctor away from his meals and wake him out of his
bed at all hours of the night. I don't know how he stands it—really I
don't. Why, the poor man never gets any peace at all! I've told him time
and again to have special hours for the animals to come. But he is so
frightfully kind and considerate. He never refuses to see them if there
is anything really wrong with them. He says the urgent cases must be
seen at once."

"Why don't some of the animals go and see the other doctors?" I asked.

"Oh Good Gracious!" exclaimed the parrot, tossing her head scornfully.
"Why, there aren't any other animal-doctors—not real doctors. Oh of
course there ARE those vet persons, to be sure. But, bless you, they're
no good. You see, they can't understand the animals' language; so how
can you expect them to be any use? Imagine yourself, or your father,
going to see a doctor who could not understand a word you say—nor even
tell you in your own language what you must do to get well! Poof!—those
vets! They're that stupid, you've no idea!—Put the Doctor's bacon down
by the fire, will you?—to keep hot till he comes back."

"Do you think I would ever be able to learn the language of the
animals?" I asked, laying the plate upon the hearth.

"Well, it all depends," said Polynesia. "Are you clever at lessons?"

"I don't know," I answered, feeling rather ashamed. "You see, I've never
been to school. My father is too poor to send me."

"Well," said the parrot, "I don't suppose you have really missed
much—to judge from what I have seen of school-boys. But listen: are
you a good noticer?—Do you notice things well? I mean, for instance,
supposing you saw two cock-starlings on an apple-tree, and you only took
one good look at them—would you be able to tell one from the other if
you saw them again the next day?"

"I don't know," I said. "I've never tried."

"Well that," said Polynesia, brushing some crumbs off the corner of
the table with her left foot—"that is what you call powers of
observation—noticing the small things about birds and animals: the way
they walk and move their heads and flip their wings; the way they sniff
the air and twitch their whiskers and wiggle their tails. You have to
notice all those little things if you want to learn animal language. For
you see, lots of the animals hardly talk at all with their tongues; they
use their breath or their tails or their feet instead. That is because
many of them, in the olden days when lions and tigers were more
plentiful, were afraid to make a noise for fear the savage creatures
heard them. Birds, of course, didn't care; for they always had wings
to fly away with. But that is the first thing to remember: being a good
noticer is terribly important in learning animal language."

"It sounds pretty hard," I said.

"You'll have to be very patient," said Polynesia. "It takes a long time
to say even a few words properly. But if you come here often I'll give
you a few lessons myself. And once you get started you'll be surprised
how fast you get on. It would indeed be a good thing if you could learn.
Because then you could do some of the work for the Doctor—I mean the
easier work, like bandaging and giving pills. Yes, yes, that's a good
idea of mine. 'Twould be a great thing if the poor man could get some
help—and some rest. It is a scandal the way he works. I see no reason
why you shouldn't be able to help him a great deal—That is, if you are
really interested in animals."

"Oh, I'd love that!" I cried. "Do you think the Doctor would let me?"

"Certainly," said Polynesia—"as soon as you have learned something
about doctoring. I'll speak of it to him myself—Sh! I hear him coming.
Quick—bring his bacon back on to the table."

WHEN breakfast was over the Doctor took me out to show me the garden.
Well, if the house had been interesting, the garden was a hundred
times more so. Of all the gardens I have ever seen that was the most
delightful, the most fascinating. At first you did not realize how big
it was. You never seemed to come to the end of it. When at last you were
quite sure that you had seen it all, you would peer over a hedge, or
turn a corner, or look up some steps, and there was a whole new part you
never expected to find.

It had everything—everything a garden can have, or ever has had. There
were wide, wide lawns with carved stone seats, green with moss. Over the
lawns hung weeping-willows, and their feathery bough-tips brushed the
velvet grass when they swung with the wind. The old flagged paths had
high, clipped, yew hedges either side of them, so that they looked like
the narrow streets of some old town; and through the hedges, doorways
had been made; and over the doorways were shapes like vases and peacocks
and half-moons all trimmed out of the living trees. There was a lovely
marble fish-pond with golden carp and blue water-lilies in it and big
green frogs. A high brick wall alongside the kitchen garden was all
covered with pink and yellow peaches ripening in the sun. There was a
wonderful great oak, hollow in the trunk, big enough for four men to
hide inside. Many summer-houses there were, too—some of wood and some
of stone; and one of them was full of books to read. In a corner, among
some rocks and ferns, was an outdoor fire-place, where the Doctor used
to fry liver and bacon when he had a notion to take his meals in the
open air. There was a couch as well on which he used to sleep, it seems,
on warm summer nights when the nightingales were singing at their best;
it had wheels on it so it could be moved about under any tree they
sang in. But the thing that fascinated me most of all was a tiny little
tree-house, high up in the top branches of a great elm, with a long rope
ladder leading to it. The Doctor told me he used it for looking at the
moon and the stars through a telescope.

It was the kind of a garden where you could wander and explore for days
and days—always coming upon something new, always glad to find the old
spots over again. That first time that I saw the Doctor's garden I was
so charmed by it that I felt I would like to live in it—always and
always—and never go outside of it again. For it had everything within
its walls to give happiness, to make living pleasant—to keep the heart
at peace. It was the Garden of Dreams.

One peculiar thing I noticed immediately I came into it; and that was
what a lot of birds there were about. Every tree seemed to have two
or three nests in it. And heaps of other wild creatures appeared to be
making themselves at home there, too. Stoats and tortoises and dormice
seemed to be quite common, and not in the least shy. Toads of different
colors and sizes hopped about the lawn as though it belonged to them.
Green lizards (which were very rare in Puddleby) sat up on the stones in
the sunlight and blinked at us. Even snakes were to be seen.

"You need not be afraid of them," said the Doctor, noticing that I
started somewhat when a large black snake wiggled across the path right
in front of us. "These fellows are not poisonous. They do a great deal
of good in keeping down many kinds of garden-pests. I play the flute
to them sometimes in the evening. They love it. Stand right up on their
tails and carry on no end. Funny thing, their taste for music."

"Why do all these animals come and live here?" I asked. "I never saw a
garden with so many creatures in it."

"Well, I suppose it's because they get the kind of food they like; and
nobody worries or disturbs them. And then, of course, they know me. And
if they or their children get sick I presume they find it handy to be
living in a doctor's garden—Look! You see that sparrow on the sundial,
swearing at the blackbird down below? Well, he has been coming here
every summer for years. He comes from London. The country sparrows round
about here are always laughing at him. They say he chirps with such a
Cockney accent. He is a most amusing bird—very brave but very cheeky.
He loves nothing better than an argument, but he always ends it by
getting rude. He is a real city bird. In London he lives around St.
Paul's Cathedral. 'Cheapside,' we call him."

"Are all these birds from the country round here?" I asked.

"Most of them," said the Doctor. "But a few rare ones visit me every
year who ordinarily never come near England at all. For instance,
that handsome little fellow hovering over the snapdragon there, he's a
Ruby-throated Humming-bird. Comes from America. Strictly speaking, he
has no business in this climate at all. It is too cool. I make him sleep
in the kitchen at night. Then every August, about the last week of the
month, I have a Purple Bird-of-Paradise come all the way from Brazil
to see me. She is a very great swell. Hasn't arrived yet of course. And
there are a few others, foreign birds from the tropics mostly, who drop
in on me in the course of the summer months. But come, I must show you
the zoo."

I DID not think there could be anything left in that garden which we
had not seen. But the Doctor took me by the arm and started off down a
little narrow path and after many windings and twistings and turnings
we found ourselves before a small door in a high stone wall. The Doctor
pushed it open.

Inside was still another garden. I had expected to find cages with
animals inside them. But there were none to be seen. Instead there were
little stone houses here and there all over the garden; and each house
had a window and a door. As we walked in, many of these doors opened and
animals came running out to us evidently expecting food.

"Haven't the doors any locks on them?" I asked the Doctor.

"Oh yes," he said, "every door has a lock. But in my zoo the doors
open from the inside, not from the out. The locks are only there so the
animals can go and shut themselves in any time they want to get away
from the annoyance of other animals or from people who might come here.
Every animal in this zoo stays here because he likes it, not because he
is made to."

"They all look very happy and clean," I said. "Would you mind telling me
the names of some of them?"

"Certainly. Well now: that funny-looking thing with plates on his back,
nosing under the brick over there, is a South American armadillo. The
little chap talking to him is a Canadian woodchuck. They both live in
those holes you see at the foot of the wall. The two little beasts doing
antics in the pond are a pair of Russian minks—and that reminds me:
I must go and get them some herrings from the town before noon—it is
early-closing to-day. That animal just stepping out of his house is an
antelope, one of the smaller South African kinds. Now let us move to the
other side of those bushes there and I will show you some more."