Part II Chapter 7 Doctor Dolittle and the Green Canary by Hugh Lofting
The Ragged Tramp
'After that we settled down in such quarters as the port afforded to wait for a vessel homeward bound. Boats' arrivals and departures were not so certain then as they are now—particularly in that outlandish spot. We were told that a ship was expected in a fortnight, but that it might be three weeks before it came.
'This was a great disappointment to my friend, who was still itching to get back and find out about the fate of his book. And it seemed as though the nearer he got to his goal the harder it became for him to wait.
'"You see, the trouble is, Pip," he kept on saying as he walked the sea wall with my cage beneath his arm, scanning the horizon for an approaching sail, "the trouble is that mill is so unprotected. Those fellows could take up their quarters there and stay as long as they liked and no one would know the difference. And you can be sure, once they're certain they have found the house where I lived and wrote, they won't rest till they've discovered my papers."
'Well, at last a ship came—not a very fine craft, far smaller and less elegant than the one which had brought us here. This was a cargo vessel pure and simple. My friend made arrangements with the captain to take us as far as a certain port in his own country. Some hours were spent in unloading freight and taking on supplies—and one or two more in signing papers and talking about manifests, port dues, customs, quarantines, and all the other things which a ship has to fuss with when she enters or leaves a harbour.
'Finally, near nightfall, we got away. The window–cleaner now appeared to throw care aside and regain some thing of his old habitual jolliness. It was the feeling of motion, action at last, after all the waiting that buoyed him up. As the vessel ploughed merrily forward through the water he paced up and down the deck with a firmer, more vigorous manner than I had seen in him since we had rejoined each other.
'We had at least a two week's voyage ahead of us. My friend procured pens and ink and reams of paper. And hour after hour he would sit in his cabin, writing, writing, writing. He was describing his adventures with the agents or spies of the enemy government, he told me. He was going to add it to his book—if it still existed. Watching him scribbling away at his desk, stopping every once in a while to try to remember some detail of his life on the islands or what not, gave me the idea to record in some way the story of my own life. For it was then for the first time that it occurred to me that perhaps my days had been adventurous enough to be worth telling.
'Now, I'm happy that I did. For if I had not composed those verses and songs it would not be so easy for me to recall all the details so that you could put them down in a regular book.'
'Indeed,' said the Doctor. 'I'm glad you did, too. This, I'm sure, will be a most unique book—a real animal biography—such as I've wanted to do for so long. Shall we go on or are you too tired?'
'Not at all,' replied Pippinella, 'I want to finish tonight, if possible.
'While the window–cleaner scribbled away at his desk over the story of his kidnapping and escape at sea, I warbled away in my cage, trying out phrases and melodies till I had put together the whole song of my life in a manner that seemed musically fitting. Occasionally he would look up from his work and smile. He liked it. He always liked to hear me sing. But he seemed particularly struck by the love song of the greenfinch in the spring. It's funny how everyone seems to like that best. You remember yourself, John Dolittle, how when I sang for you that first time through the wrapping paper of my cage, it was the greenfinch's spring song?'
'Yes, I recollect,' said the Doctor. 'Sing it for us again, will you, please?'
'Certainly,' said Pippinella, 'I'll be glad to.'
While the canary sang the beautiful and sad love story of the greenfinch, with the Doctor writing it all down in his notebook, the idea for a Canary Opera came to John Dolittle. It would be the most unusual dramatic production the world had ever seen, with Pippinella as the heroine with a cast of singing birds in the supporting roles. He determined to talk it over with her the moment her life story was finished.
The awful silence which greeted Pippinella at the end of her song convinced the Doctor more than ever that she was just the star he needed to take London by storm. Gub–Gub was sitting—silently, for a change—on his stool with a big tear standing on the end of his nose. Dab–Dab was trying self–consciously to hide the emotion she was feeling at the conclusion of the song. And the other animals, Too–Too, Whitey, and Jip were frankly wiping their eyes and snuffling their noses.
After a moment or two, while everyone composed himself again, the Doctor asked the canary to continue her story. Pippinella took another small sip of water and went on:
'At last our journey came to its end, as all journeys do, and we went ashore one fine morning and set out about finding some means of transportation to get us to the town of the windmill.
'My friend's money was not yet exhausted, so happily we were able to pay for the journey by coach. The window–cleaner's anxiety and excitement about the fate of his book continued to grow as we drew nearer to his home. As we rumbled along over the country roads he kept muttering about the slowness of the horses and wondering aloud if the old mill had been burned to the ground or been struck by lightning or pulled down to make room for another building and a hundred and one other possibilities which might prevent him from regaining his papers, even if his enemies had not stolen them.
'And when finally the coach set us down at an inn in the town where Aunt Rosie lived he took my cage beneath his arm and fairly ran along the road that led towards the mill. At the corner of the street he gave a cry:
'"Thank goodness, Pip! It's still there. Look, the mill is all right. The next thing is to see whether the kitchen has been broken into."
'And he ran stumbling on. The road up the hill was quite steep and he was all out of breath by the time he reached the little tumble–down fence that surrounded the bit of ground in which the mill tower stood. The place looked even more decayed and dilapidated than when we had seen it last. Long, lanky weeds grew in the chinks between the stones of the front walk. The little gate by which we entered hung by a single hinge.
'But the thing that struck us both was the fact that the front door of the mill had boards nailed across it.
'"Humph!" I heard him mutter. "The old farmer's been around and found the door letting the weather in."
'Then he went to the side of the tower where the kitchen window was. And that, too, had been nailed up.
'"Look as though we're going to have a job to get in, Pip," said he. "I think I'll set you down here while I run over to the outhouse and find a ladder. That second story window seems about the only entrance—unless I break in. You wait here. I won't be a minute."
'And he set my cage down on an old packing–case near the front door and ran off towards the outhouse.'
Pippinella paused.
'It's funny,' she said presently, 'what odd things happen at odd places. At that moment I was just as excited as he to know the fate of his papers. But when he disappeared into that outhouse that was the last I ever saw of him.'
'Why, what happened?' asked Gub–Gub. 'Was he kidnapped again?'
'No,' said Pippinella, 'but I was. While I listened to him rummaging around in that old shed, searching for a ladder, I saw a ragged person, very evidently a tramp, creep out from behind the tower. His appearance at once made me suspicious. And I started to call for the window–cleaner at the top of my voice. But I suppose the noise that he was making himself prevented him from hearing anything else. The tramp, with a glance over his shoulder, drew nearer. I hoped my friend would show up again any minute, for I knew at once what was going to happen. But he didn't. He was evidently entirely absorbed in his hunt for the ladder. As I gave an extra loud scream the tramp whipped my cage up, thrust it under his coat to muffle the sound of my voice, tiptoed out of the gate and set off quickly down the hill.
'It would be impossible to describe to you how I felt. After all my striving, after all my travelling, there on the very doorstep of the mill, within a few moments of knowing what had happened to the book, within earshot of my beloved friend to whom I had only just been reunited, to be stolen by a tramp while his back was turned! Fortune has dealt me some bitter blows, but none quite as bad as that.
'I think he was some kind of a gypsy. He looked like one. And later he fell in with a caravan of gypsies, who seemed to know him, and travelled part of the way with them.
'I guessed at once that he had not stolen me because he was fond of birds. His idea was to sell me. He had lifted me up and taken me along just as he would a knife or any other bit of movable property, when the owner wasn't looking. And now he just awaited opportunity to dispose of me for money.
'He was a strange individual—like most gypsies. His hand seemed to be set, his heart hardened, against everyone in the world except the other members of this mysterious tribe to which he belonged. He begged and stole his way across the country, sleeping in barns, under hayricks or in some caravan whose brown–faced owners offered him hospitality.
'And for two weeks I shared this wandering, hand–to–mouth existence. Often I was hungry; often I was cold; often I was wet. Still, I saw a tremendous lot of the countryside, and when the weather was fair I felt that I might easily be worse off, so far as the mere comforts of life were concerned.
'I tried to mark the way, to notice the road we followed, so that in case an opportunity to escape should occur I would know how to come back. But the course of his journeys was too meandering to keep track of it for long. I calculated at the end of ten days that we had covered a hundred and fifty miles or so. But how much it would be in a straight line I had no idea.
'At one place my tramp nearly got caught picking a farmer's pocket at a cattle show. And I thought perhaps my chance to escape was at hand when the crowd started to come after him. But he was a wily rascal. He gave them the slip and got away.
'The tramp had tried several times to sell me at fairs and at wayside houses that he had passed. And, for my part, I hoped he would succeed. But somehow he didn't. Perhaps people had an uncomfortable feeling that he may have stolen me—for he looked like a very suspicious sort of character.
'Anyway, after a while I saw that what I feared most would probably come to pass—he would sell me at a bird shop. On early morning he made his way into a small town and, with my cage under his arm, presented himself at an animal store just as the doors were being opened and the place swept out. My heart sank as we entered. The smell and the noise and the crowding! Oh, my! They are still a sort of nightmare to me. I yet clung to the hope as we went in that the proprietor wouldn't buy me or would offer a price so low that the tramp would keep me. For, naturally rascal though he was, his open, wandering life through the countryside was better by far than the close quarters of that noisome establishment.
'But, alas! He was apparently desperately in need of a little money, and while he struck a good a bargain as he could, he was evidently determined to sell me this time for anything he could get. And, after a little haggling, he left me on the counter, took the money and went a way.
'And then began what was, I think—after my experience of the coal–mine—the unhappiest chapter in my life's story. Why should I tell you all the drab details of that miserable existence? You probably know them already, and for my part, I hate to recall them. An animal shop! Heaven preserve all animals from sinking to that dreary state. There's no reason, of course, why these places shouldn't be run properly—so far as the cage birds are concerned, at all events. But the fact remains that they very seldom are. I found that all my parents had told me about them was true—and a good deal more in this case.
'The main trouble is the crowding. No one person—nor two people—can look after a couple of hundred birds, several dozen rabbits, six pairs of guinea–pigs, four tanks of goldfish, a score of dogs, cases upon cases of pigeons, ten parrots, a monkey or two, white mice, squirrels, ferrets and heaven knows what more, and give proper attention to them all. Yet this is what they try to do. It isn't that they want to be unkind. They are just careless—horribly careless. They want to make money. That's the main idea.
'Right from the start I was taken out of my little wooden cage, where I had lived since I'd been aboard ship, and pushed into a larger one that was crowded with other cross–bred canaries. We stood on a shelf, one in a long line of cages, and over us and under us and all around us there were more cages still. My partners who shared my miserable box were a motley crew of half–moulted hens, some of them with sore feet, others with colds in the head—hardly one of them a decent full–blooded member of society. In the middle of the room parrots on stands screeched and squawked all day long. Twice a day—but why go on? There is only one good thing that I can say about that animal shop, John Dolittle. And it is: that there I first heard about you from the other poor creatures who shared my miserable fate; and it was there you found me and rescued me from existence too horrible to describe further.'
'My, my!' said the Doctor. 'A most dramatic turn of events! Just right for an opera.'
'Opera?' screamed Gub–Gub. 'You mean we're going to do an opera? How elegant. I shall sing the baritone's role—Figaro! Figaro! Figaro–Figaro–Figaro!'
'Oh, be quiet!' scolded Dab–Dab. 'Nobody said we were going to do an opera. You're always jumping to conclusions.'
'The Doctor said Pip's life was just right for an opera,' said Gub–Gub crossly. 'That's what you said, John Dolittle, didn't you?'
'Yes, I did,' replied the Doctor. 'But the opera I have in mind is for birds only. You—and the rest of the family—may help with the production. That is, if Pippinella is willing.'
Then the Doctor outlined his plan to the canary and asked her if she would be willing to assume the leading role. He explained that he would use the exact story of her life for the plot and hire other birds to play the supporting roles. It was just the idea he had been hunting for, he told her, and he felt sure London audiences would be charmed by such a production.
'Thank you, John Dolittle,' Pippinella said. 'It is a very great compliment. I hope you won't be disappointed in me. I shall need a great deal of coaching—opera is another thing again from singing just for the pleasure of it. But I have a small favour to ask of you. Doctor.'
'Anything, Pippinella,' said the Doctor. 'What is it?'
'John Dolittle,' replied the canary. 'I want you to find my friend the window–cleaner. If we go up to London, as you planned, we may just find some trace of him there.'
'It is little enough to ask,' said the Doctor. 'And London will be a good place to start. We have many friends there. Cheapside, the London sparrow, who makes his home on St Paul's Cathedral, can give us some valuable help, I'm sure.'
Gub–Gub bounced down off his stool and, grabbing Dab–Dab around the middle, began to waltz her round and round, singing:
'We're off to London to see the Queen! Tra–la–la–la, la–la–la, la–la!'
'Oh, stop it!' cried Dab–Dab. 'You're making me dizzy!' But she was smiling just the same and joined in the jubilation with the others.