The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle. Hugh Lofting

seemed a bit stupid. Chee-Chee said he had noticed it too. But I suppose it wasn’t they who had changed; it was we who were different. When I left, poor old Chee-Chee broke down and cried. He said he felt as though his only friend were leaving him—though, as you know, he has simply millions of relatives there. He said it didn’t seem fair that I should have wings to fly over here any time I liked, and him with no way to follow me. But mark my words, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he found a way to come—some day. He’s a smart lad, is Chee-Chee.”

      At this point we arrived at my home. My father’s shop was closed and the shutters were up; but my mother was standing at the door looking down the street.

      “Good evening, Mrs. Stubbins,” said the Doctor. “It is my fault your son is so late. I made him stay to supper while his clothes were drying. He was soaked to the skin; and so was I. We ran into one another in the storm and I insisted on his coming into my house for shelter.”

      “I was beginning to get worried about him,” said my mother. “I am thankful to you, Sir, for looking after him so well and bringing him home.”

      “Don’t mention it—don’t mention it,” said the Doctor. “We have had a very interesting chat.”

      “Who might it be that I have the honor of addressing?” asked my mother staring at the gray parrot perched on the Doctor’s shoulder.

      “Oh, I’m John Dolittle. I dare say your husband will remember me. He made me some very excellent boots about four years ago. They really are splendid,” added the Doctor, gazing down at his feet with great satisfaction.

      “The Doctor has come to cure my squirrel, Mother,” said I. “He knows all about animals.”

      “Oh, no,” said the Doctor, “not all, Stubbins, not all about them by any means.”

      “It is very kind of you to come so far to look after his pet,” said my mother. “Tom is always bringing home strange creatures from the woods and the fields.”

      “Is he?” said the Doctor. “Perhaps he will grow up to be a naturalist some day. Who knows?”

      “Won’t you come in?” asked my mother. “The place is a little untidy because I haven’t finished the spring cleaning yet. But there’s a nice fire burning in the parlor.”

      “Thank you!” said the Doctor. “What a charming home you have!”

      And after wiping his enormous boots very, very carefully on the mat, the great man passed into the house.

      THE SIXTH CHAPTER

      THE WOUNDED SQUIRREL

      INSIDE we found my father busy practising on the flute beside the fire. This he always did, every evening, after his work was over.

      The Doctor immediately began talking to him about flutes and piccolos and bassoons; and presently my father said,

      “Perhaps you perform upon the flute yourself, Sir. Won’t you play us a tune?”

      “Well,” said the Doctor, “it is a long time since I touched the instrument. But I would like to try. May I?”

      Then the Doctor took the flute from my father and played and played and played. It was wonderful. My mother and father sat as still as statues, staring up at the ceiling as though they were in church; and even I, who didn’t bother much about music except on the mouth-organ—even I felt all sad and cold and creepy and wished I had been a better boy.

      “Oh I think that was just beautiful!” sighed my mother when at length the Doctor stopped.

      “You are a great musician, Sir,” said my father, “a very great musician. Won’t you please play us something else?”

      “Why certainly,” said the Doctor—“Oh, but look here, I’ve forgotten all about the squirrel.”

      “I’ll show him to you,” I said. “He is upstairs in my room.”

      So I led the Doctor to my bedroom at the top of the house and showed him the squirrel in the packing-case filled with straw.

      The animal, who had always seemed very much afraid of me—though I had tried hard to make him feel at home, sat up at once when the Doctor came into the room and started to chatter. The Doctor chattered back in the same way and the squirrel when he was lifted up to have his leg examined, appeared to be rather pleased than frightened.

      I held a candle while the Doctor tied the leg up in what he called “splints,” which he made out of match-sticks with his pen-knife.

      “I think you will find that his leg will get better now in a very short time,” said the Doctor closing up his bag. “Don’t let him run about for at least two weeks yet, but keep him in the open air and cover him up with dry leaves if the nights get cool. He tells me he is rather lonely here, all by himself, and is wondering how his wife and children are getting on. I have assured him you are a man to be trusted; and I will send a squirrel who lives in my garden to find out how his family are and to bring him news of them. He must be kept cheerful at all costs. Squirrels are naturally a very cheerful, active race. It is very hard for them to lie still doing nothing. But you needn’t worry about him. He will be all right.”

      Then we went back again to the parlor and my mother and father kept him playing the flute till after ten o’clock.

      Although my parents both liked the Doctor tremendously from the first moment that they saw him, and were very proud to have him come and play to us (for we were really terribly poor) they did not realize then what a truly great man he was one day to become. Of course now, when almost everybody in the whole world has heard about Doctor Dolittle and his books, if you were to go to that little house in Puddleby where my father had his cobbler’s shop you would see, set in the wall over the old-fashioned door, a stone with writing on it which says: “JOHN DOLITTLE, THE FAMOUS NATURALIST, PLAYED THE FLUTE IN THIS HOUSE IN THE YEAR 1839.”

      I often look back upon that night long, long ago. And if I close my eyes and think hard I can see that parlor just as it was then: a funny little man in coat-tails, with a round kind face, playing away on the flute in front of the fire; my mother on one side of him and my father on the other, holding their breath and listening with their eyes shut; myself, with Jip, squatting on the carpet at his feet, staring into the coals; and Polynesia perched on the mantlepiece beside his shabby high hat, gravely swinging her head from side to side in time to the music. I see it all, just as though it were before me now.

      And then I remember how, after we had seen the Doctor out at the front door, we all came back into the parlor and talked about him till it was still later; and even after I did go to bed (I had never stayed up so late in my life before) I dreamed about him and a band of strange clever animals that played flutes and fiddles and drums the whole night through.

      THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

      SHELLFISH TALK

      THE next morning, although I had gone to bed so late the night before, I was up frightfully early. The first sparrows were just beginning to chirp sleepily on the slates outside my attic window when I jumped out of bed and scrambled into my clothes.

      I could hardly wait to get back to the little house with the big garden—to see the Doctor and his private zoo. For the first time in my life I forgot all about breakfast; and creeping down the stairs on tip-toe, so as not to wake my mother and father, I opened the front door and popped out into the empty, silent street.

      When I got to the Doctor’s gate I suddenly thought that perhaps it was too early to call on any one: and I began to wonder if the Doctor would be up yet. I looked into the garden. No one seemed to be about. So I opened the gate quietly and went inside.

      As I turned to the left to go down a path between some hedges, I heard a voice quite close to me say,

      “Good morning. How early you are!”

      I turned around, and there, sitting on the top of a privet hedge, was the gray parrot, Polynesia.

      “Good morning,” I said. “I suppose I am rather early. Is the Doctor still in bed?”

      “Oh