CHAPTER VIJIP'S STORY

"The Doctor cut off all my fur"

"And then, hearing what difficulty I had had keeping away from cats, the Doctor gave me a home in his own house—in his own piano, in fact. And no mouse could wish for more than that. He even offered to send for the lady I was in love with, who would, no doubt, think differently about me, now that I was white again. But I said:

"'No, Doctor. Let her be. I'm through with women for good.'"

The next night Jip was called upon for a story. And after thinking a moment he said: "All right, I'll tell you the story of 'The Beggar's Dog.'" And the animals all settled down to listen attentively, because Jip had often told them stories before and they liked his way of telling them.

"Some time ago," Jip began, "I knew a dog who was a beggar's dog. We met by chance one day, when a butcher's cart had an accident and got upset. The butcher's boy who was driving the cart was a stupid boy whom all the dogs of that town heartily disliked. So when his cart hit a lamp-post and over-turned, spilling mutton chops and joints all over the street, we dogs were quickly on the scene and ran off with all his meat before he had time to pick himself up out of the gutter.

"It was on this occasion, as I said, that I fell in with the beggar's dog. I found him bolting down the street beside me, with a choice steak flapping merrily around his ears. Myself, I had pinched a string of sausages and the beastly things kept getting tangled up in my legs,—till he came to my rescue and showed me how to coil them up neatly so I could run with them without getting tripped.

"After that the beggar's dog and I became great friends. I found that his master had only one leg and was very, very old.

"'He's most frightfully poor,' said my friend. 'And he's too old to work, you see—even if he had two legs to get around on. And now he has taken to pavement art. You know what that is—you draw pictures on the pavement in colored chalks and you write under them: "All my own work." And then you sit by the side of them, with your cap in your hand, waiting for people to give you pennies.'

"'Oh, yes,' I said, 'I know. I've seen pavement artists before.'

"'Well,' said my friend, 'my beggar doesn't get any pennies. And I know the reason why: his pictures aren't good enough—not even for pavement art. Myself, I don't pretend to know much about drawing. But his pictures are just awful—awful. One kind old lady the other day stopped before our stand—wanting to encourage him, you know—and, pointing to one picture, she said, "Oh, what a lovely tree!" The picture was meant to be a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean, with a storm raging around it. That's the kind of an artist my man is. I don't know what to do about him.'

"His pictures are just awful"

"'Well, look here,' I said, 'I have an idea. Since your man can't work for himself, suppose you and I go into the bone-hiring business.'

"'What on earth is that?' he asked.

"'Well,' I said, 'people hire out bicycles and pianos for rent, don't they? So, why can't you and I rent out bones for dogs to chew? They won't be able to pay us in money of course, so we'll get them to bring us things, instead. Then the beggar can sell the things and get money.'

"'That's a good notion,' said he. 'Let's start to-morrow.'"

"So the following day we found an empty lot, where people used to dump rubbish, and dug an enormous hole, which was to be our bone shop. Then we went around the back doors of all the richest people's houses early in the morning and picked out the best bones from the garbage cans. We even snatched a few from other dogs who were tied to kennels and couldn't run after us—rather a dirty trick, but we were working in a good cause and were not particular. Then we took all these bones and put them in the hole we had dug. By night we kept them covered up with earth, because we didn't want them stolen—and, besides, some dogs prefer their bones buried a few days before they chew them. It gets them seasoned-like. And then by day we stood over our wares, calling out to all the dogs that passed by:

"'Bones for hire! Beef bones, ham bones, mutton bones, chicken bones! All juicy! Step up, gentlemen, and take your choice! BONES for hire!'

"Well, right from the start we did a roaring trade. All the dogs for miles around heard of us and came to hire bones. And we would charge them according to the length of time they wanted to hire them. For instance, you could rent a good ham bone for one day for a candlestick or a hair brush; for three days for a violin or an umbrella. And if you wanted your bone for a whole week you had to bring us a suit of clothes in payment.

"Well, for a while our plan worked splendidly. The beggar sold the things that we got in payment from the dogs and he had money to live on.

"But we never thought where the dogs might be getting all these things they brought us. The truth is, we didn't bother very much, I'm afraid. Anyway at the end of our first week of brisk trade we noticed a great many people going through the streets as though they were looking for something. And presently these people, seeing our shop in the empty lot, gathered around us, talking to one another. And while they were talking a retriever came up to me with a gold watch and chain in his mouth, which he wanted to exchange for a ham bone.

"A retriever came up with a gold watch and chain"

"Well, you should have seen the excitement among the people then! The owner of the watch and chain was there and he raised a terrible row. And then it came out that these dogs had been taking things from their masters' homes to hire bones with. The people were dreadfully annoyed. They closed up our bone shop and put us out of business. But they never discovered that the money we had made had gone to the beggar.

"Of course, we hadn't made enough to keep him in comfort for long and very soon he had to become a pavement artist again and was as badly off as he had ever been—and the pictures he drew were worse, if anything, than before.

"Now it happened one day, when I was wandering around in the country outside the town, that I met a most conceited spaniel. He passed me with his nose turned up in the air in such a cheeky manner that I said to him, I said: 'What makes you so stuck up?'

"'My master has been ordered to paint the portrait of a prince,' he said, putting on no end of elegance.

"'Who is your master?' I said. 'Anybody would think you were going to paint the portrait yourself.'

"'My master is a very famous artist,' said he.

"'What's his name?' I asked.

"'George Morland,' said the spaniel.

"'George Morland!' I cried. 'Is he in these parts now?'

"'Yes,' said the spaniel. 'We are staying atThe Royal George. My master is painting some pictures of the country and next week he is going back to London to commence on the portrait of the prince.'

"Now, it happened that I had met this George Morland, who was, and is still, perhaps the most famous painter of farm-life pictures the world has ever known. I am proud to be able to say that I knew him. He was especially good at painting horses in stables, pigs in stys, roosters and dogs hanging around kitchen doors, and things like that.

"So, without letting the spaniel see that I was following him, I went after him, to see where he was going.

"He led me to a lonely old farm out on the hills. And there, concealing myself in some bushes, I watched the great Morland painting one of his famous farm scenes.

"Presently he laid down his paint brush and muttered to himself: 'I need a dog—by the watering trough there—to fill out the picture. I wonder if I could get that fool spaniel to lie still for five minutes.... Here, Spot, Spot! Come here!'

"His spaniel, Spot, came up to him. And George, leaving his painting for a moment, placed the spaniel beside the watering trough and flattened him out and told him to keep still. I could see that George's idea was to have him look as though he were asleep in the sun. George simply loved to paint animals asleep in the sun.

"Well, that blockhead of a spaniel never kept still one minute. First, he was snapping at the flies that bit his tail; then he was scratching his ear, then barking at the cat—never still. And, of course, George couldn't paint him at all, and at last he got so angry he threw the paint brush at him.

"Then an idea came to me—one of the best ideas I ever had. I left the bushes and came trotting up to George, wagging my tail. And how I thrilled with pride as the great Morland recognized me! For, mind you, he had met me only once before—back in the autumn of 1802.

"'Why, it's Jip!' he cried. 'Good dog. Come here. You're the very fellow I want.'

"Then while he gathered up the things he had thrown at the spaniel he went on talking to me—the way people do talk to dogs, you know. Of course, he didn't expect me to understand what he said, but I did—every word.

"'I want you to come over here by the trough, Jip,' said he. 'All you've got to do is to keep still. You can go to sleep if you like. But don't move or fidget for ten minutes. Think you can do that?'

"'Come over here by the trough'"

"And he led me over to the trough, where I lay down and kept perfectly still while he painted me into the picture. That picture now hangs in the National Gallery. It's calledEvening on the Farm. Hundreds of people go to see it every year. But none of them know that the smart-looking dog sleeping beneath the watering trough is none other than myself—except the Doctor, whom I took in to see it one day when we were up in London, shopping.

"Well, now, as I told you, I had an idea in all this. I hoped that if I did something for George Morland perhaps I could get him to do something for me. But, of course, with him not knowing dog talk it was a bit difficult to make him understand. However, while he was packing up his painting things I disappeared for a while, just as though I was going away. Then I came rushing back to him in a great state of excitement, barking, trying to show him something was wrong and that I wanted him to follow me.

"'What's the matter, Jip?' said he. 'House on fire or something?'

"Then I barked some more and ran a little way in the direction of the town, looking back at him to show him I wanted him to come with me.

"'What ails the dog?' he murmured to himself. 'Can't be anybody drowning, because there's no river near.... Oh, all right, Jip, I'll come. Wait a second till I get these brushes cleaned.'

"Then I led him into the town. On the way there every once in a while he would say to himself: 'I wonder what can be the matter. Something's wrong, that's sure, or the dog wouldn't carry on so.'

"I took him down the main street of the town till we came to the place where the beggar had his pictures. And as soon as George saw the pictures heknewwhat was wrong.

"'Heaven preserve us!' he cried. 'What a dreadful exhibition! No wonder the dog was excited.'

"Well, it happened that as we came up the one-legged beggar, with his own dog beside him, was at work on a new drawing. He was sitting on the pavement, making a picture on canvas with a piece of chalk of a cat drinking milk. Now, my idea was that the great Morland—who, no matter what people say about him, was always a most kind-hearted man—should make some good pictures for the beggar to show, instead of the dreadful messes that he made himself. And my plan worked.

"'Man alive!' said George, pointing to the picture the beggar was doing, 'a cat's spine doesn't curve that way—here, give me the chalk and let me do it.'

"Then, rubbing out the whole picture, George Morland re-drew it in his way. And it was so lifelike you could nearly hear the cat lapping up the milk.

"'My! I wish I could draw that way,' said the beggar. 'And so quick and easy you do it—like it was nothing at all.'

"'Well, it comes easy,' said George. 'Maybe there's not so much credit in it for that. But, tell me, do you make much money at this game?'

"'Awful little,' said the beggar. 'I've taken only twopence the whole day. I suppose the truth is I don't draw good enough.'

"I watched Morland's face as the beggar said this. And the expression that came into it told me I had not brought the great man here in vain.

"'Look here,' he said to the beggar. 'Would you like me to re-draw all your pictures for you? Of course, those done on the pavement you couldn't sell, but we can rub them out. And I've got some spare canvases in my satchel here. Maybe you could sell a few. I can sell pictures in London any day in the week. But I've never been a pavement artist before. It would be rather a lark to see what happens.'

"Then Morland, all busy and excited, like a schoolboy, took the beggar's chalk pictures from against the wall and, rubbing them out, did them over the way they should be done. He got so occupied with this that he didn't notice that a whole crowd of people was gathering around, watching. His work was so fine that the people were spellbound with the beauty of the cats and dogs and cows and horses that he drew. And they began asking one another in whispers who the stranger could be who was doing the pavement artist's pictures for him.

"The crowd grew bigger and bigger. And presently some one among the people who had seen Morland's pictures before recognized the work of the great artist. And then whispers went through the crowd—'It's Morland—the great Morland, himself.' And somebody went off and told a picture dealer—that is, a man who buys and sells pictures—who had a shop in the High Street, that George Morland was drawing in the market-place for a lame beggar.

"And the dealer came down. And the Mayor came down—and all the rich folk and poor folk. So, when the whole town was gathered around, the people began offering to buy these pictures, asking the beggar how much he wanted for them. The old duffer was going to sell them at sixpence apiece, but Morland whispered to him:

"'Twenty guineas—don't sell a blessed one under twenty guineas. You'll get it.'

"And sure enough, the dealer and a few of the richer townsfolk bought the whole lot at twenty guineas apiece.

"And when I went home that night I felt I had done a good day's work. For my friend's master, the one-legged beggar, was now rich enough to live in comfort for the rest of his life."

All the animals had now told a story except Too-Too, the owl, and the pushmi-pullyu. And the following night, a Friday, it was agreed that they should toss a coin (the Doctor's penny that had a hole through it) to see which of these two should tell a tale. If the penny came down heads it was to be the pushmi-pullyu, and if it came down tails it was to be Too-Too's turn.

The Doctor span the penny and it came down tails.

"The Doctor span the penny"

"All right," said Too-Too. "Then that makes it my turn, I suppose. I will tell you a story of the time—the only time in my life—that I was taken for a fairy. Fancy me as a fairy!" chuckled the little round owl. "Well, this is how it happened: One October day, toward evening, I was wandering through the woods. There was a wintry tang in the air and the small, furred animals were busy among the dry, rustly leaves, gathering nuts and seeds for food against the coming of snow. I was out after shrew mice, myself—a delicacy I was extremely fond of at that time—and while they were busy foraging they made easy hunting.

"In my travels through the woods I heard children's voices and the barking of a dog. Usually I would have gone further into the forest, away from such sounds. But in my young days I was a curious bird and my curiosity often led me into many adventures. So instead of flying away, I went toward the noises I heard, moving cautiously from tree to tree, so that I could see without being seen.

"Presently I came upon a children's picnic—several boys and girls having supper in a grove of oak trees. One boy, much larger than the rest, was teasing a dog. And two other children, a small girl and a small boy, were objecting to his cruelty and begging him to stop. The bully wouldn't stop. And soon the small boy and girl set upon him with their fists and feet and gave him quite a fine drubbing—which greatly surprised him. The dog then ran off home and presently the small boy and girl—I found out afterwards they were brother and sister—wandered off from the rest of the picnicking party to look for mushrooms.

"I had admired their spirit greatly in punishing a boy so much bigger than they were. And when they wandered off by themselves, again out of curiosity, I followed them. Well, they traveled quite a distance for such small folk. And presently the sun set and darkness began to creep over the woods.

"Then the children thought to join their friends again and started back. But, being poor woodsmen, they took the wrong direction. It grew darker still, of course, as time went on, and soon the youngsters were tumbling and stumbling over roots they could not see and getting pretty thoroughly lost and tired.

"All this time I was following them secretly and noiselessly overhead. At last the children sat down and the little girl said:

"'Willie, we're lost! Whatever shall we do? Night is coming on and I'msoafraid of the dark.'

"'So am I,' said the boy. 'Ever since Aunt Emily told us that spooky story of the "Bogey in the Cup-board" I've been scared to death of the dark.'

"Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Of course, you must realize that was the first time I had ever heard of any one's being afraid of the dark. It sounds ridiculous enough to all of you, I suppose, but to me, who had always preferred the cool, calm darkness to the glaring, vulgar daylight, it seemed then an almost unbelievable thing that anyone could be afraid merely because the sun had gone to bed.

"Now, some people have an idea that bats and owls can see in the dark because we have some peculiar kind of eyes. It's not so. Peculiar ears we have—but not eyes. We can see in the dark because we practise it. It's all a matter of practice—the same as the piano or anything else. We get up when other people go to bed, and go to bed when other people get up, because we prefer the dark; and you'd be surprised how much nicer it is when you get used to it. Of course, we owls are specially trained by our mothers and fathers to see on very dark nights when we are quite young. So it comes easier to us. But anybody can do it—to a certain extent—if they only practise.

"Well, to return to the children: There they were, all fussed and worried and scared, sitting on the ground, weeping and wondering what they could do. Then, remembering the dog and knowing they were kind to animals, I thought I would try to help them. So I popped across into the tree over their heads and said in the kindliest, gentlest sort of a voice 'Too-wit, Too-hoo!'—which means in owl language—as you know—'It's a fine night! How are you?'

"Then you should have seen those poor children jump!

"'Ugh!' says the little girl, clutching her brother around the neck. 'What was that, a spook?'

"'I don't know,' says the little boy. 'Gosh, but I'm scared! Isn't the dark awful?'

"'What was that?'"

"Then I made two or three more attempts to comfort them, talking kindly to them in owl language. But they only grew scareder and scareder. First, they thought I was a bogey; then an ogre; then a giant of the forest—me, whom they could put in their pockets! Golly, but these human creatures do bring up their children in awful ignorance! If there ever was a bogey or a giant or an ogre—in the forest or out of it—I've yet to see one.

"Then I thought maybe if I went off through the woods too-witting and too-hooing all the way, they would follow me and I could then lead them out of the forest and show them the way home. So I tried it. But they didn't follow me, the stupid little beggars—thinking I was a witch or some evil nonsense of that kind. And all I got for my too-witting and too-hooing all over the place was to wake up another owl some distance off, who thought I was calling to him.

"So, since I wasn't doing the children any good, I went off to look up this other owl and see if he had any ideas to suggest. I found him sitting on the stump of a hollow birch, rubbing his eyes, having just got out of bed.

"'Good evening,' says I. 'It's a fine night!'

"'It is,' says he, 'only it's not dark enough. What were you making all that racket over there for just now? Waking a fellow out of his sleep before it's got properly dark!'

"'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but there's a couple of children over in the hollow there who've got lost. The little silly duffers are sitting on the ground, bawling because the daylight's gone and they don't know what to do.'

"'My gracious!' says he. 'What a quaint notion. Why don't you lead them out of the woods? They probably live over in one of those farms near the crossroads.'

"'I've tried,' I said. 'But they're so scared they won't follow me. They don't like my voice or something. They take me for a wicked ogre, and all that sort of rot.'

"'Well,' says he, 'then you'll have to give an imitation of some other kind of creature—one they're not scared of. Are you any good at imitations? Can you bark like a dog?'

"'No,' I said. 'But I can make a noise like a cat. I learned that from an American catbird that lived in a cage in the stable where I spent last summer.'

"'Fine,' says he. 'Try that and see what happens!'

"So I went back to the children and found them weeping harder than ever. Then, keeping myself well hidden down near the ground among the bushes, I went 'Meow! Me-o-w!' real catlike.

"'Oh, Willie,' says the little girl to her brother, 'we're saved!' ('Saved,' mark you, when neither of the boobies was in the slightest danger!) 'We're saved!' says she. 'There's Tuffie, our cat, come for us. She'll show us the way home. Cats can always find their way home, can't they, Willie? Let's follow her!'"

For a moment Too-Too's plump sides shook with silent laughter as he recalled the scene he was describing.

"Then," said he, "I went a little further off, still taking great care that I shouldn't be seen, and I meowed again.

"'There she is!' said the little girl. 'She's calling to us. Come along, Willie.'

"Well, in that way, keeping ahead of them and calling like a cat, I finally led the children right out of the woods. They did a good deal of stumbling and the girl's long hair often got caught in the bushes. But I always waited for them if they were lagging behind. At last, when we gained the open fields, we saw three houses on the sky line, and the middle one was all lighted up and people with lanterns were running around it, hunting in all directions.

"When I had brought the children right up to this house their mother and father made a tremendous fuss, weeping over them, as though they had been saved from some terrible danger. In my opinion grown-up humans are even more stupid than the young ones. You'd think, from the way that mother and father carried on, that those children had been wrecked on a desert island or something, instead of spending a couple of hours in the pleasant woods.

"'How ever did you find your way, Willie?' asked the mother, wiping away her tears and smiling all over.

"'Tuffie brought us home,' says the little girl. 'She came out after us and led us here by going ahead of us and meowing.'

"'Tuffie!' says the mother, puzzled. 'Why, the cat's asleep in the parlor in front of the fire—been there all evening.'

"'Well, it was some cat,' says the boy. 'He must be right around here somewhere, because he led us almost up to the door.'

"Then the father swings his lantern around, looking for a cat; and before I had time to hop away he throws the light full on me, sitting on a sage bush.

"'Why, it's anowl!' cries the little girl.

"'Meow!' says I—just to show off. 'Too-wit, Too-hoo! Meow! Meow!' And with a farewell flip of the wing I disappeared into the night over the barn roof. But as I left I heard the little girl saying in tremendous excitement:

"'Oh, mother, a fairy! It was a fairy that brought us home. It must have been—disguised as an owl! At last! At last I've seen a fairy!'

"Well, that's the first and last time I ever expect to be taken for a fairy. But I got to know those children quite well. They were a real nice couple of kiddies—even if the little girl did keep on insisting that I was a fairy in disguise. I used to hang around their barn, nights, looking for mice and rats. But if those youngsters ever caught sight of me they'd follow me everywhere. After bringing them safely home that evening I could have led them across the Sahara Desert and they'd follow—certain in their minds that I was the best of all good fairies and would keep them out of harm. They used to bring me mutton chops and shrimps and all the best tit-bits from their parents' table. And I lived like a fighting cock—got so fat and lazy I couldn't have caught a mouse on crutches.

"They were never afraid of the dark again. Because, you see—as I said to the Doctor one day, when we were talking over the multiplication tables and other philosophy—fear is usually ignorance. Once you know a thing, you're no longer afraid of it. And those youngsters got to know the dark—and then they saw, of course, that it was just as harmless as the day.

"I used to take them out into the woods at night and across the hills and they got to love it—liked the adventure, you know. And thinking it would be a good thing if some humans, anyway, had sense enough to travel without sunlight, I taught them how to see in the dark. They soon got on to it, when they saw how I always shaded my eyes in the light of a lantern, so as not to get the habit of strong light. Well, those young ones became real expert—not so good as an owl or a bat, of course, but quite good at seeing in the dark for anyone who had not been brought up that way.

"It came in handy for them, too. That part of the country got flooded one springtime in the middle of the night and there wasn't a dry match or a light to be had anywhere. Then those children, who had traveled all that country scores of times in the dark with me, saved a great many lives. They acted as guides, you understand, and took the people to safety, because they knew how to use their eyes, and the others didn't."

Too-Too yawned and blinked up sleepily at the lantern hanging above his head.

"Seeing in the dark," he ended, "is all a matter of practice—same as the piano or anything else."

And now it came, at last, to the pushmi-pullyu's turn for a story. He was very shy and modest and when the animals asked him the following night he said in his very well-bred manner:

"I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you, but I'm afraid I don't know any stories—at least none good enough to entertain you with."

"Oh, come on, Push," said Jip. "Don't be so bashful. We've all told one. You don't mean to say you've lived all your life in the African jungle without seeing any adventures? There must be lots of yarns you could tell us."

"But I've mostly led such a quiet life, you see," said the pushmi-pullyu. "Our people have always kept very much to themselves. We mind our own business and don't like getting mixed up in scandals and rows and adventures."

"Oh, but just think a minute," said Dab-Dab. "Something will come to you.... Don't pester him," she whispered to the others. "Just leave him alone and let him think—he's got two heads to think with, you know. Something will come to him. But don't get him embarrassed, whatever you do."

For a moment or two the pushmi-pullyu pawed the deck of the veranda with his dainty hoofs, as if wrapped in deep thought. Then, looking up with one of his heads, he began speaking in a quiet voice, while the other coughed apologetically below the level of the tea-table.

"Er—this isn't much of a story—not really. But perhaps it will serve to pass the time. I will tell you about the Badamoshi ostrich hunters. You must know, then, that the black peoples have various methods of hunting wild animals. And the way they go about it depends on the kind of animal they mean to hunt. For example, if they want giraffes they dig deep holes and cover them up with light boughs and grass. Next, they wait until the giraffe comes along and walks over the hole and falls in. Then they run up and catch him. For certain kinds of rather stupid deer they make a little screen of branches and leaves about the size of a man. And the hunter, holding the screen in front of him like a shield, creeps slowly forward until he is close to the deer and then fires his spear or arrow. Of course, the stupid deer thinks the moving leaves are just trees being swayed by the wind and takes very little notice, if the hunter is careful to approach quietly enough.

"They have various other dodges, more or less underhanded and deceitful, for getting game. But the one invented by the Badamoshi ostrich hunters was perhaps the meanest of them all. Briefly, this was it: Ostriches, you know, usually go about in small herds, like cattle. And they're rather stupid. You've heard the story about their sticking their heads in the sand when a man comes along, thinking that because they can't see the man, the man can't see them. That doesn't speak very well for their intelligence, does it? No. Very well then. Now, in the Badamoshi country there wasn't much sand for the ostriches to stick their heads in—which in a way was a good thing for them. Because there, when a man came along, they ran away instead—I suppose to look for sand. Anyhow, the running away saved their lives. So the hunters of Badamoshi had to think out some dodge of coming near enough to the ostriches to get among the herd and kill them. And the way they thought out was quite clever. As a matter of fact, I by chance came upon a group of these hunters in the woods one day, practising their new trick. They had the skin of an ostrich and were taking it in turns, putting it over their heads and trying to walk and look like a real ostrich, holding up the long neck with a stick. Keeping myself concealed, I watched them and saw at once what their game was. They meant to disguise themselves as ostriches and walk among the herd and kill them with axes which they kept hidden inside the skin.

"Now, the ostriches of those parts were great friends of mine—had been ever since they put the Badamoshis' tennis court out of business. The chief of the tribe some years before, finding a beautiful meadow of elephant grass—which happened to be my favorite grazing ground—had the fine hay all burnt off and made the place into a tennis court. He had seen white men playing that game and thought he'd like to play it, too. But the ostriches took the tennis balls for apples and ate them—you know, they're dreadfully unparticular about their food. Yes, they used to sneak around in the jungles on the edge of the tennis court and whenever a ball was knocked out of the court they'd run off with it and swallow it. By eating up all the chief's tennis balls in this way they put the tennis court out of business, and my beautiful grazing ground soon grew its long grass again and I came back to it. That is how the ostriches happened to be friends of mine.

"They'd run off with it and swallow it"

"So, seeing they were threatened by a secret danger, I went off and told the leader of the herd about it. He was frightfully stupid and I had the hardest work getting it into his head.

"'Now, remember,' I said as I was leaving, 'you can easily tell the hunter when he comes among your herd from the color and shape of his legs. Ostriches' legs are a sort of gray—as you see from your own—and the hunters' legs are black and thicker.' You see, the skin which the Badamoshis were going to use did not cover the hunters' legs. 'Now,' I said, 'you must tell all your birds when they see a black-legged ostrich trying to make friends with them to set on him and give him a good hiding. That will teach the Badamoshi hunters a lesson.'

"Well, you'd think after that everything should have gone smoothly. But I had not counted on the extraordinary stupidity of ostriches. The leader, going home that night, stepped into some marshy, boggy places and got his stupid long legs all over black mud—caked with it, thick. Then before he went to bed he gave all the ostriches the careful instructions which I had given to him.

"The next morning he was late in getting up and the herd was out ahead of him, feeding in a pleasant place on the hillside. Then that numbskull of a leader—the stupidest cock ostrich of them all—without bothering to brush the black mud off his legs which he had stepped into the night before, comes stalking out into the open space like a king, expecting a grand reception. And he got a grand reception, too—the ignoramus! As soon as the others saw his black legs they passed the word around quickly and at a given signal they set on the poor leader and nearly beat the life out of him. The Badamoshis, who had not yet appeared at all, arrived upon the scene at this moment. And the silly ostriches were so busy beating their leader, whom they took for a hunter in disguise, that the black men came right up to them and would have caught the whole lot if I hadn't shouted in time to warn them of their danger.

"So, after that, of course, I saw that if I wanted to save my good but foolish friends from destruction, I had better do something on my own account.

"And this was what I thought I'd do: When the Badamoshi hunters were asleep I would go and take that ostrich skin—the only one they had—away from them and that would be the end of their grand new hunting trick.

"So in the dead of night I crept out of the jungle and came to the place where the hunters' huts were. I had to come up from the leeward side, because I didn't want to have the dogs get my scent on the wind. I was more afraid of the hunters' dogs, you see, than I was of the hunters themselves. From the men I could escape quite easily, being much swifter than they were; but dogs, with their sense of smell, are much harder to get away from, even when you can reach the cover of the jungle.

"Well, then, coming up from the leeward side, I started searching around the huts for the ostrich skin. At first I couldn't find it anywhere. And I began to think they must have hidden it some place. Now, the Badamoshis, like a good many black races, when they go to bed for the night, always leave one of their number outside the huts to watch and keep guard. I could see this night-watchman at the end of the row of huts, and of course I was careful not to let him see me. But after spending some time hunting for this ostrich skin I noticed that the watchman had not moved at all, but stayed in the same place, squatting on a stool. Then I guessed he had probably fallen asleep. So I moved closer and I found, to my horror, that he was wearing the ostrich skin as a blanket—for the night was cool.

"How to get it without waking him was now the problem. On tiptoe—hardly breathing—I went up and began to draw it gently off his shoulders. But the wretched man had tucked part of it in under him and I couldn't get it free while he was sitting down.

"Then I was in despair and I almost gave up. But, thinking of the fate that surely awaited my poor, foolish friends if I didn't get that skin, I decided on desperate measures. Suddenly and swiftly I jabbed the watchman in a tender spot with one of my horns. With an 'Ouch!' you could hear a mile off, he sprang in the air. Then, snatching the bird skin from under him, I sped off into the jungle, while the Badamoshis, their wives, the dogs and the whole village woke up in an uproar and came after me like a pack of wolves.

"I jabbed the watchman"

"Well," the pushmi-pullyu sighed as he balanced his graceful body to the slight rolling of the houseboat, "I hope never again to have such a race for my life as I had that night. Cold shivers run down my spine still whenever I think of it—the barking of the dogs and the shouting of the men and the shrieking of the women and the crashing of the underbrush as my pursuers came tearing through the jungle, hot upon my trail.

"It was a river that saved me. The rainy season was on and the streams were in flood. Panting with terror and fatigue, I reached the bank of a swirling torrent. It was fully twenty-five feet wide. The water was simply raging down it. To try and swim it would be madness. Looking backward, I could see and hear my pursuers close upon my heels. Again I had to take desperate measures. Drawing back a little to get space for a run and still clutching that wretched ostrich skin firmly in my mouth, I rushed at the river at full speed and leaped—as I have never leaped in my life—clear across to the further bank. As I came down in a heap I realized I had only just been in time, for my enemies had already come up to the river on the side that I had left. Shaking their fists at me in the moonlight, they were trying to find a way to get across to me. The dogs, eagerest of all, tried, some of them, to swim; but the swift and raging waters swept them down the stream like corks and the hunters were afraid to follow their example.

"I leapt as I have never leapt before"

"With a thrill of triumph, I dropped the precious ostrich skin before their very eyes into the swirling river, where it quickly disappeared from view. A howl of rage went up from the Badamoshis.

"Then I did something I've been sorry for all my life. You know how my people have always insisted on good manners and politeness. Well—I blush to recall it—in the excitement of the moment I stuck out both my tongues at the baffled foe across the river. There was no excuse for it—there never is for deliberate rudeness. But it was only moonlight and I trust the Badamoshis didn't see it.

"Well, though I was safe for the present, my troubles were not over by any means. For some time the Badamoshis now left the ostriches alone and turned their whole attention to hunting me. They badgered my life out. As soon as I had moved from one part of the country to get away from their pestering they'd find out where I was and pursue me there. They laid traps for me; they set pitfalls; they sent the dogs after me. And although I managed for a whole year to keep away from them, the constant strain was very wearing.

"Now, the Badamoshis, like most savage peoples, are very superstitious. And they are terribly afraid—in the way that Too-Too was speaking of last night—of anything they can't understand. Nearly everything they can't understand they think is a devil.

"Well, after I had been hunted and worried for a long time, I thought I would take a leaf out of their own book, so to speak, and play something like the same trick on them as they had tried to play on the ostriches. With this idea in mind, I set about finding some means to disguise myself. One day, passing by a tree, I found a skin of a wild ox spread out by some huntsman to dry. This I decided was just the thing I wanted. I pulled it down and, lowering one of my heads, I laid one pair of my horns flat along my back—like this—and drew the cowhide over myself, so that only one of my heads could be seen.

"It changed my appearance completely. Moving through the long grass, I looked like some ordinary kind of deer. So, disguised in this manner, I sauntered out into an open meadow and grazed around till my precious Badamoshis should appear. Which they very shortly did.

"I saw them—though they didn't know it—creeping about among the trees on the edge of the meadow, trying to get near without scaring me. Now, their method of hunting small deer is this: they get up into a tree and lie along a lower branch, keeping very still. And when the deer passes under the tree they drop down upon his hindquarters and fell him to the ground.

"So presently, picking out the tree where I had seen the chief himself go and hide, I browsed along underneath it, pretending I suspected nothing at all. Then when the chief dropped on what he thought was my hindquarters, I struck upward with my other horns, hidden under the cowhide, and gave him a jab he will remember the rest of his days.

"With a howl of superstitious fright, he called out to his men that he had been stuck by the devil. And they all ran across the country like wildfire and I was never hunted or bothered by them again."

Everybody had now told a tale and theArctic Monthly's Prize Story Competitionwas declared closed. The first number of the first animals' magazine ever printed was, shortly after that, issued and circulated by Swallow Mail to the inhabitants of the frozen North. It was a great success. Letters of thanks and votes on the competition began pouring in from seals and sea-lions and caribou and all manner of polar creatures. Too-Too, the mathematician, became editor; Dab-Dab ran the Mothers' and Babies' Page, while Gub-Gub wrote the Gardening Notes and the Pure Foods Column. And theArctic Monthlycontinued to bring happiness to homes and dens and icebergs as long as the Doctor's Post office existed.

One day Gub-Gub came to the Doctor and said:

"Doctor, why don't you start a parcel post?"

"Great heavens, Gub-Gub!" the Doctor exclaimed. "Don't you think I'm busy enough already? What do you want a parcel post for?"

"I'll bet it's something to do with food," said Too-Too, who was sitting on the stool next to the Doctor's, adding up figures.

"Well," said Gub-Gub, "I was thinking of sending to England for some fresh vegetables."

"There you are!" said Too-Too. "He has a vegetable mind."

"But parcels would be too heavy for the birds to carry, Gub-Gub," said the Doctor—"except perhaps the small parcels by the bigger birds."

"Yes, I know. I had thought of that," said the pig. "But this month the Brussels sprouts will be coming into season in England. They're my favorite vegetable, you know—after parsnips. And I hear that a special kind of thrushes will be leaving England next week to come to Africa. It wouldn't be too much to ask them to bring a single Brussels sprout apiece, would it? There will be hundreds of birds in the flight and if they each brought a sprout we'd have enough to last us for months. I haven't tasted any fresh English vegetables since last Autumn, Doctor. And I'm so sick of these yams and okras and African rubbish."

"All right, Gub-Gub," said the Doctor, "I'll see what I can do. We will send a letter to England by the next mail going out and ask the thrushes to bring you your Brussels sprouts."

Well, that was how still another department, the Parcel Post, was added to the Foreign Mails Office of Fantippo. Gub-Gub's sprouts arrived (tons of them, because this was a very big flight of birds), and after that many kinds of animals came to the Doctor and asked him to send for foreign foods for them when their own ran short. In this way, too, bringing seeds and plants from other lands by birds, the Doctor tried quite a number of experiments in planting, and what is called acclimatizing, fruits and vegetables and even flowers.

And very soon he had an old-fashioned window-box garden on the houseboat post office blooming with geraniums and marigolds and zinnias raised from the seeds and cuttings his birds brought him from England. And that is why many of the same vegetables that grow in England can still be found in a wild state in Africa. They came there through Gub-Gub's passion for the foods he had been brought up on.

A little while after that, by using the larger birds to carry packages, a regular parcel post every two months was put at the service of the Fantippans; and alarm clocks and all sorts of things from England were sent for.

King Koko even sent for a new bicycle. It was brought over in pieces, two storks carrying a wheel each, an eagle the frame and crows the smaller parts, like the pedals, the spanners and the oil can.

When they started to put it together again in the post office a part—one of the nuts—was found to be missing. But that was not the fault of the Parcel Post. It had been left out by the makers, who shipped it from Birmingham. But the Doctor wrote a letter of complaint by the next mail and a new nut was sent right away. Then the King rode triumphantly through the streets of Fantippo on his new bicycle and a public holiday was held in honor of the occasion. And he gave his old bicycle to his brother, Prince Wolla-Bolla. And the Parcel Post, which had really been started by Gub-Gub, was declared a great success.

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