The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle (6 page)

"Are those deer over there?" I asked.

"DEER!" said the Doctor. "Where do you mean?"

"Over there," I said, pointing—"nibbling the grass border of the bed.
There are two of them."

"Oh, that," said the Doctor with a smile. "That isn't two animals:
that's one animal with two heads—the only two-headed animal in the
world. It's called the 'pushmi-pullyu.' I brought him from Africa. He's
very tame—acts as a kind of night-watchman for my zoo. He only sleeps
with one head at a time, you see very handy—the other head stays awake
all night."

"Have you any lions or tigers?" I asked as we moved on.

"No," said the Doctor. "It wouldn't be possible to keep them here—and
I wouldn't keep them even if I could. If I had my way, Stubbins, there
wouldn't be a single lion or tiger in captivity anywhere in the world.
They never take to it. They're never happy. They never settle down. They
are always thinking of the big countries they have left behind. You can
see it in their eyes, dreaming—dreaming always of the great open spaces
where they were born; dreaming of the deep, dark jungles where their
mothers first taught them how to scent and track the deer. And what are
they given in exchange for all this?" asked the Doctor, stopping in his
walk and growing all red and angry—"What are they given in exchange
for the glory of an African sunrise, for the twilight breeze whispering
through the palms, for the green shade of the matted, tangled vines,
for the cool, big-starred nights of the desert, for the patter of the
waterfall after a hard day's hunt? What, I ask you, are they given in
exchange for THESE? Why, a bare cage with iron bars; an ugly piece of
dead meat thrust in to them once a day; and a crowd of fools to come and
stare at them with open mouths!—No, Stubbins. Lions and tigers, the Big
Hunters, should never, never be seen in zoos."

The Doctor seemed to have grown terribly serious—almost sad. But
suddenly his manner changed again and he took me by the arm with his
same old cheerful smile.

"But we haven't seen the butterfly-houses yet—nor the aquariums. Come
along. I am very proud of my butterfly-houses."

Off we went again and came presently into a hedged enclosure. Here I
saw several big huts made of fine wire netting, like cages. Inside the
netting all sorts of beautiful flowers were growing in the sun, with
butterflies skimming over them. The Doctor pointed to the end of one of
the huts where little boxes with holes in them stood in a row.

"Those are the hatching-boxes," said he. "There I put the different
kinds of caterpillars. And as soon as they turn into butterflies and
moths they come out into these flower-gardens to feed."

"Do butterflies have a language?" I asked.

"Oh I fancy they have," said the Doctor—"and the beetles too. But so
far I haven't succeeded in learning much about insect languages. I have
been too busy lately trying to master the shellfish-talk. I mean to take
it up though."

At that moment Polynesia joined us and said, "Doctor, there are two
guinea-pigs at the back door. They say they have run away from the boy
who kept them because they didn't get the right stuff to eat. They want
to know if you will take them in."

"All right," said the Doctor. "Show them the way to the zoo. Give them
the house on the left, near the gate—the one the black fox had. Tell
them what the rules are and give them a square meal—Now, Stubbins, we
will go on to the aquariums. And first of all I must show you my big,
glass, sea-water tank where I keep the shellfish."

WELL, there were not many days after that, you may be sure, when I did
not come to see my new friend. Indeed I was at his house practically all
day and every day. So that one evening my mother asked me jokingly why
I did not take my bed over there and live at the Doctor's house
altogether.

After a while I think I got to be quite useful to the Doctor, feeding
his pets for him; helping to make new houses and fences for the zoo;
assisting with the sick animals that came; doing all manner of odd jobs
about the place. So that although I enjoyed it all very much (it was
indeed like living in a new world) I really think the Doctor would have
missed me if I had not come so often.

And all this time Polynesia came with me wherever I went, teaching me
bird language and showing me how to understand the talking signs of the
animals. At first I thought I would never be able to learn at all—it
seemed so difficult. But the old parrot was wonderfully patient with
me—though I could see that occasionally she had hard work to keep her
temper.

Soon I began to pick up the strange chatter of the birds and to
understand the funny talking antics of the dogs. I used to practise
listening to the mice behind the wainscot after I went to bed, and
watching the cats on the roofs and pigeons in the market-square of
Puddleby.

And the days passed very quickly—as they always do when life is
pleasant; and the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months; and
soon the roses in the Doctor's garden were losing their petals and
yellow leaves lay upon the wide green lawn. For the summer was nearly
gone.

One day Polynesia and I were talking in the library. This was a fine
long room with a grand mantlepiece and the walls were covered from the
ceiling to the floor with shelves full of books: books of stories, books
on gardening, books about medicine, books of travel; these I loved—and
especially the Doctor's great atlas with all its maps of the different
countries of the world.

This afternoon Polynesia was showing me the books about animals which
John Dolittle had written himself.

"My!" I said, "what a lot of books the Doctor has—all the way around
the room! Goodness! I wish I could read! It must be tremendously
interesting. Can you read, Polynesia?"

"Only a little," said she. "Be careful how you turn those pages—don't
tear them. No, I really don't get time enough for reading—much. That
letter there is a K and this is a B."

"What does this word under the picture mean?" I asked.

"Let me see," she said, and started spelling it out.
"B-A-B-O-O-N—that's MONKEY. Reading isn't nearly as hard as it looks,
once you know the letters."

"Polynesia," I said, "I want to ask you something very important."

"What is it, my boy?" said she, smoothing down the feathers of her right
wing. Polynesia often spoke to me in a very patronizing way. But I did
not mind it from her. After all, she was nearly two hundred years old;
and I was only ten.

"Listen," I said, "my mother doesn't think it is right that I come here
for so many meals. And I was going to ask you: supposing I did a
whole lot more work for the Doctor—why couldn't I come and live here
altogether? You see, instead of being paid like a regular gardener or
workman, I would get my bed and meals in exchange for the work I did.
What do you think?"

"You mean you want to be a proper assistant to the Doctor, is that it?"

"Yes. I suppose that's what you call it," I answered. "You know you said
yourself that you thought I could be very useful to him."

"Well"—she thought a moment—"I really don't see why not. But is this
what you want to be when you grow up, a naturalist?"

"Yes," I said, "I have made up my mind. I would sooner be a naturalist
than anything else in the world."

"Humph!—Let's go and speak to the Doctor about it," said Polynesia.
"He's in the next room—in the study. Open the door very gently—he may
be working and not want to be disturbed."

I opened the door quietly and peeped in. The first thing I saw was an
enormous black retriever dog sitting in the middle of the hearth-rug
with his ears cocked up, listening to the Doctor who was reading aloud
to him from a letter.

"What is the Doctor doing?" I asked Polynesia in a whisper.

"Oh, the dog has had a letter from his mistress and he has brought it
to the Doctor to read for him. That's all. He belongs to a funny little
girl called Minnie Dooley, who lives on the other side of the town. She
has pigtails down her back. She and her brother have gone away to the
seaside for the Summer; and the old retriever is heart-broken while the
children are gone. So they write letters to him—in English of course.
And as the old dog doesn't understand them, he brings them here, and the
Doctor turns them into dog language for him. I think Minnie must have
written that she is coming back—to judge from the dog's excitement.
Just look at him carrying on!"

Indeed the retriever seemed to be suddenly overcome with joy. As the
Doctor finished the letter the old dog started barking at the top of his
voice, wagging his tail wildly and jumping about the study. He took the
letter in his mouth and ran out of the room snorting hard and mumbling
to himself.

"He's going down to meet the coach," whispered Polynesia. "That dog's
devotion to those children is more than I can understand. You should
see Minnie! She's the most conceited little minx that ever walked. She
squints too."

PRESENTLY the Doctor looked up and saw us at the door.

"Oh—come in, Stubbins," said he, "did you wish to speak to me? Come in
and take a chair."

"Doctor," I said, "I want to be a naturalist—like you—when I grow up."

"Oh you do, do you?" murmured the Doctor. "Humph!—Well!—Dear me!—You
don't say!—Well, well! Have, you er—have you spoken to your mother and
father about it?"

"No, not yet," I said. "I want you to speak to them for me. You would do
it better. I want to be your helper—your assistant, if you'll have me.
Last night my mother was saying that she didn't consider it right for me
to come here so often for meals. And I've been thinking about it a good
deal since. Couldn't we make some arrangement—couldn't I work for my
meals and sleep here?"

"But my dear Stubbins," said the Doctor, laughing, "you are quite
welcome to come here for three meals a day all the year round. I'm only
too glad to have you. Besides, you do do a lot of work, as it is. I've
often felt that I ought to pay you for what you do—But what arrangement
was it that you thought of?"

"Well, I thought," said I, "that perhaps you would come and see my
mother and father and tell them that if they let me live here with you
and work hard, that you will teach me to read and write. You see my
mother is awfully anxious to have me learn reading and writing. And
besides, I couldn't be a proper naturalist without, could I?"

"Oh, I don't know so much about that," said the Doctor. "It is nice, I
admit, to be able to read and write. But naturalists are not all alike,
you know. For example: this young fellow Charles Darwin that people are
talking about so much now—he's a Cambridge graduate—reads and writes
very well. And then Cuvier—he used to be a tutor. But listen, the
greatest naturalist of them all doesn't even know how to write his own
name nor to read the A B C."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"He is a mysterious person," said the Doctor—"a very mysterious person.
His name is Long Arrow, the son of Golden Arrow. He is a Red Indian."

"Have you ever seen him?" I asked.

"No," said the Doctor, "I've never seen him. No white man has ever
met him. I fancy Mr. Darwin doesn't even know that he exists. He lives
almost entirely with the animals and with the different tribes of
Indians—usually somewhere among the mountains of Peru. Never stays long
in one place. Goes from tribe to tribe, like a sort of Indian tramp."

"How do you know so much about him?" I asked—"if you've never even seen
him?"

"The Purple Bird-of-Paradise," said the Doctor—"she told me all about
him. She says he is a perfectly marvelous naturalist. I got her to take
a message to him for me last time she was here. I am expecting her back
any day now. I can hardly wait to see what answer she has brought from
him. It is already almost the last week of August. I do hope nothing has
happened to her on the way."

"But why do the animals and birds come to you when they are sick?" I
said—"Why don't they go to him, if he is so very wonderful?"

"It seems that my methods are more up to date," said the Doctor. "But
from what the Purple Bird-of-Paradise tells me, Long Arrow's knowledge
of natural history must be positively tremendous. His specialty is
botany—plants and all that sort of thing. But he knows a lot about
birds and animals too. He's very good on bees and beetles—But now
tell me, Stubbins, are you quite sure that you really want to be a
naturalist?"

"Yes," said I, "my mind is made up."

"Well you know, it isn't a very good profession for making money. Not
at all, it isn't. Most of the good naturalists don't make any money
whatever. All they do is SPEND money, buying butterfly-nets and
cases for birds' eggs and things. It is only now, after I have been a
naturalist for many years, that I am beginning to make a little money
from the books I write."

"I don't care about money," I said. "I want to be a naturalist.
Won't you please come and have dinner with my mother and father next
Thursday—I told them I was going to ask you—and then you can talk to
them about it. You see, there's another thing: if I'm living with you,
and sort of belong to your house and business, I shall be able to come
with you next time you go on a voyage."

"Oh, I see," said he, smiling. "So you want to come on a voyage with me,
do you?—Ah hah!"

"I want to go on all your voyages with you. It would be much easier
for you if you had someone to carry the butterfly-nets and note-books.
Wouldn't it now?"

For a long time the Doctor sat thinking, drumming on the desk with his
fingers, while I waited, terribly impatiently, to see what he was going
to say.

At last he shrugged his shoulders and stood up.