Mary Poppins in the Park. P. Travers L.

spite of all the stories, instead of the prince killing the monster, the monster should kill the prince? He was not, you understand, afraid. But he wondered whether, after all, he were not a simple swineherd.

      “A fine lot of porkers you’ve got there!” The Tramp glanced appreciatively from the swine to his piece of sausage.

      A snort of disgust went up from the herd. A raggedy tramp to be calling them porkers!

      “Perhaps you are not aware,” they grunted, “that we are sheep in disguise!”

      “Oh, dear!” said the Tramp, with a doleful air. “I’m sorry for you, my friends!”

      “Why should you be sorry?” demanded the swine, sticking their snouts in the air.

      “Why? Surely you know that the people here are extremely partial to mutton! If they knew there was a flock of sheep – however disguised – in this meadow—” He broke off, shaking his head and sighing. Then he searched among his tattered rags, discovered a piece of plum cake and munched it sombrely.

      The swine, aghast, looked at each other. Mutton – what a frightful word! They had thought of themselves as graceful lambs prancing for ever in fields of flowers – never as legs of mutton. Would it not be wiser, they cogitated, to decide to be merely pigs?

      “Here, goosey-ganders!” chirruped the Tramp. He tossed his crumbs to the Goose-girl’s flock.

      The geese, as one bird, raised their heads and let out a snake-like hiss.

      “We’re swans!” they cackled in high-pitched chorus. And then, as he did not seem to believe them, they added the word, “Disguised!”

      “Well, if that’s the case,” the Tramp remarked, “you won’t be here very long. All swans, as you know, belong to the King. Dear me, what lucky birds you are! You will swim on the ornamental lake, and courtiers with golden scissors will clip your flying feathers. Strawberry jam on silver plates will be given you every morning. And not a care in the world will you have – not even the trouble of hatching your eggs, for these His Majesty eats for breakfast.”

      “What!” cried the geese. “No grubs? No goslings?”

      “Certainly not! But think of the honour!” The Tramp chuckled and turned away, bumping into a shaggy shape that was standing among the daisies.

      The geese stood rigid in the grass, staring at each other.

      Strawberry jam! Clipped wings! No hatching season! Could they have made a mistake, they wondered? Were they not, after all, just geese?

      From something that once had been a pocket the Tramp extracted an apple.

      “Pardon, friend!” he said to the Ass, as he took a juicy bite. “I’d offer you half – but you don’t need it. You’ve all this buttercup field.”

      The Ass surveyed the scene with distaste. “It may be all very well for donkeys, but don’t imagine,” he remarked, “that I’m such an ass as I look. As you may be interested to know, I’m an Arab steed in disguise!”

      “Indeed?” The Tramp looked very impressed. “How you must long, if that is so, for the country of your birth. Sandstorms! Mirages! Waterless deserts!”

      “Waterless?” The Ass looked anxious.

      “Well, practically. But that’s nothing to you. The way you Arab animals can live for weeks on nothing – nothing to eat, nothing to drink, nowhere to sleep – it’s wonderful!”

      “But what about all those oases? Surely grass grows there?”

      “Few and far between,” said the Tramp. “But what of that, my friend? The less you eat the faster you go! The less you drink the lighter you are! It only takes you half a jiffy to fling yourself down and shelter your master when his enemies attack!”

      “But,” cried the Ass, “in that case, I should be shot at first!”

      “Naturally,” the Tramp replied. “That’s why one admires you so – you noble Arab steeds. You’re ready to die at any moment!”

      The Ass rubbed his forehead against his leg. Was he ready to die at any moment? He could not honestly answer Yes. Weeks and weeks with nothing to eat! And here the buttercups and daisies were enough for a dozen asses. He might indeed be an Arab steed – but then again, he mightn’t. Up and down went his shaggy head as he pondered the difficult problem.

      “That’s for you, old Natterjack!” The Tramp tossed the core of his apple under the stepping-stone.

      “Don’t call me Natterjack!” snapped the Toad.

      “Puddocky, then, if you prefer it!”

      “Those are the names one gives to toads. I am a frog in disguise.”

      “Oh, happy creature!” the Tramp exclaimed. “Sitting on lily-leaves all night, singing a song to the moon.”

      “All night? I’d take my death of cold!”

      “Catching spiders and dragon-flies for the lady-frog of your choice!”

      “None for myself?” the Toad enquired.

      “A frog that would a-wooing go – and you are certainly such a one! – wouldn’t want to catch for himself!”

      The Toad was, however, not so sure. He liked a juicy spider. He was just deciding, after all, that he might as well be a toad, when – plop! – went a pebble right beside him and he hurriedly popped in his head.

      “Who threw that?” said the Tramp quickly.

      “I did,” came the answer from the bridge. “Not to hit him! Just to make him jump!”

      “Good boy!” The Tramp looked up with a smile. “A fine, friendly lad like you wouldn’t hurt a toad!”

      “Of course I wouldn’t. Or anything else. But don’t you call me boy or lad. I’m really a—”

      “Wait! Don’t tell me! Let me guess! An Indian? No – a pirate!”

      “That’s right!” said the Boy, with a curt nod, showing all the gaps in his teeth in a terrible pirate smile. “If you want to know my name,” he snarled, “just call me One-eyed Corambo!”

      “Got your cutlass?” the Tramp enquired. “Your skull-and-crossbones? Your black silk mask? Well, I shouldn’t hang about here any longer! Landlubbers aren’t worth robbing! Set your course away from the North. Make for Tierra del Fuego.”

      “Been there,” the Boy said loftily.

      “Well, any other place you like – no pirate lingers long on land. Have you been –” the Tramp lowered his voice – “have you been to Dead Man’s Drop?”

      The Boy smiled and shook his head.

      “That’s the place for me,” he cried, reaching for his monkey. “I’ll just go and say goodbye to my mother and—”

      “Your mother! Did I hear aright? One-eyed Corambo hopping off to say goodbye to his mother! A pirate captain wasting time by running home – well, really!” the Tramp was overcome with amusement.

      The Boy looked at him doubtfully. Where, he wondered, was Dead Man’s Drop? How long would it take him to go and come? His mother would be anxious. And apart from that – as he’d reason to know – she was making pancakes for supper. It might be better, just for today, to be his outer self. Corambo could wait until tomorrow; Corambo was always there.

      “Taking your monkey along as a mascot?” The Tramp looked quizzically at the toy.

      He was answered by an angry squeal. “Don’t you call me a monkey!” it jabbered. “I’m a little boy in disguise!”

      “A boy!” cried the Tramp. “And not at school?”

      “School?”