Part 7

“I was christened Elizabeth Veronica Sybella—now, what do _you_ call me?”

“Never mind. Don’t ask questions. It’s bad manners.”

Veronica felt annoyed, but she put her pride in her pocket and asked: “If I do what you want me to do—will you tell me then?”

“I shall if you deserve it.”

What a horrid thing to say! How like a holiday governess!—the sort that Veronica and her brother had had last summer.

“We must be gone. You have been wasting _our_ time. Not that time is money to me.”

“Isn’t it? It is to father, though how he makes it into money I don’t know. I have so much time I could make such a lot of money if only I knew how to do it.”

“Money is silly stuff. Look how easily it burns. Only yesterday I saw the kitchenmaid at No. 5 throw a five-pound note on to the fire. She didn’t know what it was, poor silly girl, though she is very clever at washing cups and saucers. Come on now!”

Veronica jumped out of bed, and ran over to the fireplace.

“Do we go up there?” she said, looking at the chimney and then at the dying fire. “Won’t it burn?”

“Not when you are with me. Fire is my servant. I am fire’s lord and master. But if you feel at all nervous I will command it to die.”

With these dramatic words Mr. Snoogles clapped his hands together and cried out: “Servant, hide thyself! Let thy light burn dim while we pass over you.”

Instantly the coals grew grey and dusty.

Mr. Snoogles put out his hand, and taking Veronica’s fingers firmly in his, he pulled her up, and soon she found herself being drawn up higher and higher.

“When we get to the top I will explain what you have to do.”

Veronica said nothing. Adventure had come at last—the real thing, better than any story-book she had ever read, because it was happening to her—actually to her.

They suddenly came out into the night air. To the right, to the left, in fact, wherever she looked, were chimney pots. Some had strange things on them like hats.

Then it was that Veronica noticed she had become about the same size as Mr. Snoogles. She did not feel cold, either, which was stranger still. But she sat down as she had been told, and gazed about her. High above, the stars were twinkling and the young moon was shining.

Mr. Snoogles coughed.

“Have you finished thinking your thoughts, and will you now think of mine?” he said crossly.

“I am so sorry. Please tell me yours.”

“My business—and soon it will be _your_ business, don’t forget—is to be the Watchman of Fire and Smoke. Smoke is used for punishment because it is unpleasant. But Fire brings warmth and happiness. You will have power over them both, but you must keep Fire in his proper place. When you see things not going well in a house then send down Smoke. If they bear it well, and cease to think of themselves, call it back and ask Fire to burn brightly to warm them, and to make them feel happy and cheerful. If a live coal flies out on the mat, you must be there to make it go out. A house on fire is a terrible thing, and means you have not been doing your work properly.” He waited a moment, then exclaimed: “I must be going soon, so do your best!”

[Illustration: “HAVE YOU FINISHED THINKING YOUR THOUGHTS”]

“But how shall I——?” Veronica looked round, but Mr. Snoogles had vanished, and she found herself alone on the roof.

“I can’t do it, it’s too difficult,” she said to herself, “much more difficult than learning a long speech out of Shakespeare. One can always do that if one really tries, but this——?”

* * * * *

“Veronica, Veronica, I have been screaming at you for ages. There is a big fire outside! That empty house is burning down, I can see it from my window——”

Teddy was jumping about in his pyjamas. “Come along! Hurry up!” he shouted.

Veronica got out of bed as if she was dreaming. Then she cried in great distress, “It’s my fault—that fire. Mr. Snoogles said I must not allow it to happen.”

“Don’t be so silly. Mr. Snoogles isn’t real. Come along!”

The two children ran to the window, and in the excitement of watching the fire engines arrive, and the water pouring out of the great hose pipes Veronica forgot her part in this tragedy.

Later in the morning, as they were coming in from a walk, Veronica said, “Teddy, what was Mr. Snoogles really like when you saw him? Do tell me and I will tell you a great secret.”

“Mr. Snoogles? I will show him to you.”

Teddy took off his coat and hat, and running halfway up the stairs, he threw his coat round a pillar which marked the half landing. Then he put his cap on the round knot at the top.

“Veronica! Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Snoogles!”

“Teddy! D’you mean you never saw him really? I have.”

“Of course I didn’t. And you haven’t either!”

Veronica said nothing to that. She knew better.

[Illustration]

Eggs

HERBERT ASQUITH

Bob has blown a hundred eggs, Blue and olive, white and grey; Warbler, nightingale, and thrush, Bob has blown their songs away!

Low in spotless wool they rest, Purest blue and clouded white, Streaked with cinnamon and red, Flecked with purples of the night;

Mute and gleaming, row on row, Lie the tombstones of the spring! What a chorus would there be If those eggs began to sing!

The Two Sailors

[Illustration]

JOHN LEA

_This was one_

There once was a sailor who never could bear To rub any oil on the top of his hair, And no one who loved him at sea or at home Would offer the use of a brush and a comb. He said (and what reason for doubting the tale?) The very best brush is the breath of a gale, While as to the comb—seek a better, in vain, Than jolly good torrents of tropical rain. So all round the world (and no cruise did he miss) That singular sailor looked something like _this_.

_This was the other one_

[Illustration]

There once was a sailor who lavished with care Whole buckets of oil on the top of his hair, And no one who loved him omitted to speak In rapture of tresses so splendidly sleek. He said (and who questions what mariners say?) He brushed them and combed them each hour of the day. For, up on the mast in the wildest of seas, He never neglected such duties as these. And so, as no chance he would lazily miss, That singular sailor looked something like _this_.

Doctor Dolittle meets a Londoner in Paris

HUGH LOFTING

One day John Dolittle was walking alone in the Tuileries Gardens. He had been asked to come to France by some French naturalists who wished to consult him on certain new features to be added to the zoo in the Jardin des Plantes. The Doctor knew Paris well and loved it. To his way of thinking it was the perfect city—or would be, if it were not so difficult to get a bath there.

It had been raining all day, but now the sun was shining, and the gardens, fresh and wet, looked very beautiful. As the Doctor passed one of the many shrubberies he came upon a sparrow wallowing in a puddle in the middle of the gravel path.

“Why, I declare!” he muttered to himself, hurrying forward. “It’s Cheapside!”

The small bird, evidently quite accustomed to human traffic, was far too busy with his bathing to notice anyone’s approach.

“How do you do, Cheapside?” said the Doctor in sparrow language. “Who on earth would ever have thought of finding you here?”

The sparrow stopped his fluttering and wallowing and looked up through the water that ran down in big drops off his tousled head-feathers.

“Jiminy Crickets!” he exclaimed. “It’s the Doc himself!”

[Illustration: “‘HOW DO YOU DO, CHEAPSIDE?’ SAID THE DOCTOR IN SPARROW LANGUAGE”]

“How do you come to be in Paris?” asked John Dolittle.

“Oh, it’s all Becky’s doing,” grumbled Cheapside, hopping out of the puddle and fluttering his wings to dry them. “I’m satisfied to stay in London, goodness knows. But every Spring it’s the same way: ‘Let’s take a hop over to the Continong,’ says she. ‘The horse-chestnuts will just be budding.’ ‘We got horse-chestnut trees in Regent’s Park,’ I says to ’er. ‘Ah,’ says she, ‘but not like the ones in the Twiddle-didee Gardens. Oh, I love Paris in the Spring,’ she says.... It’s always the same way: every year she drags me over ’ere. Sentiment, I reckon it is. You see, Doc, me and Becky met one another first ’ere—right ’ere in the Twiddle-didee Gardens. I recognised ’er as a London Sparrow—you can tell ’em the world over—and we got talkin’. You know the way those things ’appen. She wanted to build our first nest up there in the Lufer Palace. But I says, ‘No,’ hemphatic. ‘Let’s go back to St. Paul’s,’ I says. ‘I know a place in St. Edmund’s left ear what ’as all the stonework in Paris beat ’ollow as a nestin’ place. Besides,’ I says, ‘we don’t want our children growing up talkin’ no foreign language! We’re Londoners,’ I says: ‘let’s go back to London.’”

“Yes,” said the Doctor. “Even I guessed you were a London sparrow, before I recognised you, because——”

“Because I was washin’,” Cheapside finished. “That’s true: these ’ere foreign birds don’t run to water much.”

“That’s a fine puddle you have there,” said the Doctor. “I’ve half a mind to ask you to lend it to me. You know, I’ve been trying to get a bath myself ever since I’ve been in Paris—without success so far. After all, even a puddle is better than nothing. When I asked them at the _pension_ where I’m staying could I have a bath, they seemed to think I was asking for the moon.”

“Oh, I can tell you where you can get a bath, Doctor, a good one,” said the sparrow. “Just the other side of that shrubbery over there there’s an elegant marble pond, with a fountain and statues in the middle. You can hang your bath-towel on the statue and use the fountain for a shampoo. Just helegant!—But of course you’d have to do it after dark. Anybody washin’ in Paris is liable to get arrested—not because you ’ad no clothes on, mind you. Oh no, the French is very sensible about that. Look at all these statues: they don’t wear no clothes—and in summertime it’s much cooler for ’em. But washin’? That’s another matter. Over ’ere they’re very suspicious of anybody washin’. Just the same you could manage a tub in the marble pond late at night, easy—because there’s hardly anybody in the gardens then.”

“My gracious! I’ve a good mind to try it, Cheapside,” said the Doctor. “I haven’t had a bath in over a week.”

“Well,” said the Cockney sparrow, “you meet me here at midnight and me and Becky will guide you to the pond and keep a look-out while you get a wash.”

* * * * *

There was a half moon that night. And when, a few minutes before twelve o’clock, John Dolittle came into the Tuileries Gardens with a bath-towel over his arm, the first person he saw was a French policeman. Not wishing to be taken for a suspicious character, he thrust the bath-towel beneath his coat and hurried past the shrubbery as though bent on important business.

But he had not gone very far before he was overtaken by Cheapside and his wife, Becky.

“Don’t get worried, Doc, don’t get worried,” said the sparrow. “That bobby only goes by about once every ’alf-hour. ’E won’t be back for a while. Come over ’ere and we’ll show you your dressing-room.”

John Dolittle was thereupon conducted to a snug retreat in the heart of a big shrubbery.

“Nobody can see you ’ere,” said Cheapside. “And as soon as you’re ready all you’ve got to do is to ’op round that privet-’edge, sprint across the little lawn and there’s your bath waitin’ for you. Me and Becky will keep a look-out. And if any danger comes along we’ll whistle.”

Five minutes later the famous naturalist was wallowing luxuriously in the marble pond. The night was softly brilliant with moonlight, and the statues in the centre of the pool stood out palely against the dark mass of the trees behind.

John Dolittle had paused a moment with a cake of soap uplifted in his hand, utterly enchanted by the beauty of the scene, when he heard Cheapside hoarsely whispering to him from a branch overhead.

“Look out! Hide quick! Someone coming!”

Now the Doctor had left his bath-towel on the base of the statue. At Cheapside’s warning he splashed wildly out to get it before attempting a retreat to the shrubbery. Breathless, he finally reached the fountain. But just as he was about to grasp the towel Becky called from the other side of the pond:

“Cheapside! There is another party coming in at the other gate! The Doctor can never make it in time.”

John Dolittle, waist-deep in the water at the foot of the statue, looked about him in despair.

“Gracious! What shall I do then?” he cried drawing the bath-towel over his shoulders.

“You’ll have to be a statue,” hissed Cheapside the quick thinker. “Hop up on to the pedestal. They’ll never know the difference in this light. When they go by you can come down. Hurry! They’re quite close. I can see their heads over the top of the hedge.”

Swiftly winding his bath-towel about him, John Dolittle sprang up on to the pedestal and crouched in a statuesque pose. The marble group was of Neptune the sea-god and several attendant figures. John Dolittle, M.D., became one of the attendant figures. His hand raised to shade his eyes from an imaginary sun, he gazed seaward with a stony stare.

“Fine!” whispered Cheapside, flying on to the base of the statue. “No one could tell you from the real thing. Just keep still and you’ll be all right. They won’t stay, I don’t expect. Here they come. Don’t get nervous, now. Bless me, I believe they’re English too!—Tourists. Well, did you ever?”

A man and a woman, strolling through the gardens by one of the many crossing paths, had now paused at the edge of the pond and, to John Dolittle’s horror, were gazing up at the statue in the centre of it. They were both elderly; they both carried umbrellas; and they both wore spectacles.

“I’ll bet they’re short-sighted, Doc,” whispered Cheapside comfortingly. “Don’t worry.”

“Dear me, Sarah,” sighed the man. “What a beautiful night! The moon and the trees and the fountain. And such an imposing statue!—The sea-god Neptune with his mermaids and mermen.”

“Lancelot,” said the woman shortly, “let us hurry home. You’ll get your bronchitis worse in this damp air. I don’t like the statue at all. I never saw such fat creatures. Just look at that one on the corner there—the one with his hand up scanning the horizon. Why, he’s stouter than the butcher at home!”

“Humph!” muttered Cheapside beneath his breath. “It don’t seem to me as though _you_ ’ave any figure to write ’ome about, Mrs. Scarecrow.”

At this moment a large flying beetle landed on the Doctor’s neck and nearly spoiled everything.

“Good gracious, Sarah!” cried the man. “I thought I saw one of the figures move, the fat one.”

The tourist adjusted his spectacles and, coming a little closer to the edge of the pond, stared very hard. But Cheapside, to add a touch of convincing realism, flew up on to the merman’s shoulder, kicked the beetle into the pond with a secret flick of his foot and burst into a flood of carefree song.

“No, Sarah,” said the man. “I was mistaken. See, there is a bird sitting on his shoulder. How romantic! Must be a nightingale.”

“_Will_ you come home, Lancelot?” snapped the woman. “You won’t feel so romantic when your cough comes back. It must be after midnight.”

“But you know, Sarah,” said the man, as he was almost forcibly dragged away, “_I_ don’t think he’s too fat. They had to be stout, those marine people: they floated better that way. Dear me, Paris is a beautiful city!”

As the footsteps died away down the moonlit path, John Dolittle sighed a great sigh of relief and came to life.

“Cheapside,” said he, stretching his stiff arms, “you could never guess who those people were. My sister Sarah and her husband, the Reverend Lancelot Dingle. It’s funny, Cheapside, but whenever I am in an awkward or ridiculous situation Sarah seems bound to turn up. Of course she and her husband would just _have_ to come touring Paris at the exact hour when I was taking a bath in the Tuileries Gardens. Ah well, thank goodness the pond kept them off from getting any closer to me!”

“Well, listen, Doc,” said the London sparrow: “I think you had better be gettin’ along yourself now. It’s about time for that bobby to be coming round again.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said the Doctor. And he slid back into the water, waded to the edge and stepped out on to dry ground.

But John Dolittle’s troubles were not over yet. While he was still no more than half way to his “dressing-room” there came another warning shout from Cheapside:

“Look out!—Here he comes!”

This time flight seemed the only course. The policeman had seen the culprit disappear into the shrubbery. Breaking into a run, he gave chase.

“Don’t stop, Doc!” cried Cheapside. “Grab your clothes and get out the other side—Becky! Hey, Becky! Keep that policeman busy a minute.”

The Doctor did as he was told. Seizing his clothes in a pile as he rushed through the shrubbery, he came out at the other end like an express train emerging from a tunnel. Here Cheapside met him and led him across a lawn to another group of bushes. Behind this he hurriedly got into his clothes. Meanwhile Becky kept the policeman busy by furiously pecking him in the neck and making it necessary for him to stop and beat her off.

However, she could not of course keep this up for long. And if John Dolittle had not been an exceptionally quick dresser he could never have got away. In one minute and a quarter, collar and tie in one hand, soap and towel in the other, he left his second dressing-room on the run and sped for the gate and home.

The loyal Cheapside was still with him; but the sparrow was now so convulsed with laughter that he could scarcely keep up, even flying.

“I don’t see what you find so funny about it,” panted the Doctor peevishly as he slowed down at the gate and began putting on his collar. “I had a very narrow escape from getting arrested.”

“Yes, and you’d have gone to jail, too,” gasped Cheapside. “It’s no light offence, washing in this country. But that wasn’t what I was laughing at.”

“Well, what was it, then?” asked the Doctor, feeling for a stud in his pocket.

“The Reverend Dingle took me for a nightingale!” tittered the Cockney sparrow. “I must go back and tell Becky that. So long, Doc! You’ll be all right now. That bobby’s lost you altogether.... After all, you got your bath. See you in Puddleby next month.”

Vice-versa ANY FATHER TO ANY DAUGHTER

HENRY NEWBOLT

If buttercups were white and pink, And roses green and blue, Then you instead of me could think, And I instead of you.

Then I could daily give your doll Her early evening tub, While you in easy-chairs could loll At some or other Club.

Then I could spell p-i-g pidge, And learn to sew like Nurse; While you could take a hand at bridge, And murmur “Zooks!” or worse.

Oh, it would be as fresh a sight As ever yet was seen, If buttercups were pink and white And roses blue and green.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

KITTEEN

BY

MARGARET KENNEDY

I sat beside the ingle-nook, The fire was glowing; The pot was bubbling on the hook, The wind was blowing. In the shadows of the room Ghosts were hiding; From the furthest, deepest gloom They came gliding. At the back of me I knew Crowds were creeping. Through the house the storm-wind blew, Flames went leaping, Awful shadows on the wall Set me screaming. Close at hand came Someone’s call: “Sure she’s dreaming! What have you seen? Kitteen! Tell us, what have you seen?”

In the brown bog by the lake There are stacks of drying peat; When by chance that way I take, Past I run with flying feet; For once when, wandering carelessly, I came into that lonely place, I watched a peat stack close to me And saw it had a wrinkled face! All old women sitting round, Each one in a long brown cloak; They gazed and gazed upon the ground With eyes like stones, and never spoke. Then I turned my back and fled Up our hill, with stumbling feet; In a doorway Someone said: “She’s as white as any sheet! What did you see? Kitteen machree! Tell us, what did you see?”

Gilbert

CLEMENCE DANE

I am the aunt of Annabel. Annabel is coming next Friday to the birthday party she ought to have had a month ago; but she had measles instead. I am anxious for Annabel to enjoy herself. Whom shall I ask to meet her?

Annabel is five—a gracious-mannered five, with a smooth bobbed head of red hair, eyes like lilacs, and a generously curved mouth. She is a darling. She is also a devil. She never allows me or anyone else a quiet moment with her mother when she is in the room: indeed, she owns her parents and regards all visitors as her perquisites. She owns also, and can use with disastrous effect on my borders, a scooter and a tricycle. She can adjust the wireless set and listen in at her pleasure to Bournemouth, Cardiff or London. She swears at the dog in broad Devon, and has her ideas about her frocks. But she cannot read or tie her own shoes or tell the time.

Annabel is coming to tea on Friday. How am I to keep her amused? Shall I invite Philip Collins, that hard-working child, proprietor of stickle-backs, my particular friend? Will there be anything left of Philip if I do—or of Annabel? Philip is seven. With only a year or so between them they ought to get on. And yet, how did I feel towards seven when I was five? Across the white magic-lantern circle of my memory a shadow flits, a leggy, olive-green shadow, with fur at its neck and wrists, and I recognise Gilbert, and pause.

Annabel is so much more sophisticated and so much more of a baby than we were ever allowed to be, that the Gilbert adventure could hardly happen to her. She would say she didn’t like him and be done with it. And yet—suppose she didn’t! Suppose she suffered him in silence like her aunt before her! I do want Annabel to enjoy herself.

[Illustration: “SHE OWNS ALSO, AND CAN USE WITH DISASTROUS EFFECT ON MY BORDERS, A SCOOTER AND A TRICYCLE.”]