One day John Dolittle was walking alone in the Tuileries Gardens. He had
been asked to come to France by some French naturalists who wished to
consult him on certain new features to be added to the zoo in the Jardin
des Plantes. The Doctor knew Paris well and loved it. To his way of
thinking it was the perfect city—or would be, if it were not so
difficult to get a bath there.
It had been raining all day, but now the sun was shining, and the
gardens, fresh and wet, looked very beautiful. As the Doctor passed one
of the many shrubberies he came upon a sparrow wallowing in a puddle in
the middle of the gravel path.
“Why, I declare!” he muttered to himself, hurrying forward. “It’s
Cheapside!”
The small bird, evidently quite accustomed to human traffic, was far too
busy with his bathing to notice anyone’s approach.
“How do you do, Cheapside?” said the Doctor in sparrow language. “Who on
earth would ever have thought of finding you here?”
The sparrow stopped his fluttering and wallowing and looked up through
the water that ran down in big drops off his tousled head-feathers.
“Jiminy Crickets!” he exclaimed. “It’s the Doc himself!”
[Illustration: “‘HOW DO YOU DO, CHEAPSIDE?’ SAID THE DOCTOR IN SPARROW
LANGUAGE”]
“How do you come to be in Paris?” asked John Dolittle.
“Oh, it’s all Becky’s doing,” grumbled Cheapside, hopping out of the
puddle and fluttering his wings to dry them. “I’m satisfied to stay in
London, goodness knows. But every Spring it’s the same way: ‘Let’s take
a hop over to the Continong,’ says she. ‘The horse-chestnuts will just
be budding.’ ‘We got horse-chestnut trees in Regent’s Park,’ I says to
’er. ‘Ah,’ says she, ‘but not like the ones in the Twiddle-didee
Gardens. Oh, I love Paris in the Spring,’ she says.... It’s always the
same way: every year she drags me over ’ere. Sentiment, I reckon it is.
You see, Doc, me and Becky met one another first ’ere—right ’ere in the
Twiddle-didee Gardens. I recognised ’er as a London Sparrow—you can tell
’em the world over—and we got talkin’. You know the way those things
’appen. She wanted to build our first nest up there in the Lufer Palace.
But I says, ‘No,’ hemphatic. ‘Let’s go back to St. Paul’s,’ I says. ‘I
know a place in St. Edmund’s left ear what ’as all the stonework in
Paris beat ’ollow as a nestin’ place. Besides,’ I says, ‘we don’t want
our children growing up talkin’ no foreign language! We’re Londoners,’ I
says: ‘let’s go back to London.’”
“Yes,” said the Doctor. “Even I guessed you were a London sparrow,
before I recognised you, because——”
“Because I was washin’,” Cheapside finished. “That’s true: these ’ere
foreign birds don’t run to water much.”
“That’s a fine puddle you have there,” said the Doctor. “I’ve half a
mind to ask you to lend it to me. You know, I’ve been trying to get a
bath myself ever since I’ve been in Paris—without success so far. After
all, even a puddle is better than nothing. When I asked them at the
_pension_ where I’m staying could I have a bath, they seemed to think I
was asking for the moon.”
“Oh, I can tell you where you can get a bath, Doctor, a good one,” said
the sparrow. “Just the other side of that shrubbery over there there’s
an elegant marble pond, with a fountain and statues in the middle. You
can hang your bath-towel on the statue and use the fountain for a
shampoo. Just helegant!—But of course you’d have to do it after dark.
Anybody washin’ in Paris is liable to get arrested—not because you ’ad
no clothes on, mind you. Oh no, the French is very sensible about that.
Look at all these statues: they don’t wear no clothes—and in summertime
it’s much cooler for ’em. But washin’? That’s another matter. Over ’ere
they’re very suspicious of anybody washin’. Just the same you could
manage a tub in the marble pond late at night, easy—because there’s
hardly anybody in the gardens then.”
“My gracious! I’ve a good mind to try it, Cheapside,” said the Doctor.
“I haven’t had a bath in over a week.”
“Well,” said the Cockney sparrow, “you meet me here at midnight and me
and Becky will guide you to the pond and keep a look-out while you get a
wash.”
* * * * *
There was a half moon that night. And when, a few minutes before twelve
o’clock, John Dolittle came into the Tuileries Gardens with a bath-towel
over his arm, the first person he saw was a French policeman. Not
wishing to be taken for a suspicious character, he thrust the bath-towel
beneath his coat and hurried past the shrubbery as though bent on
important business.
But he had not gone very far before he was overtaken by Cheapside and
his wife, Becky.
“Don’t get worried, Doc, don’t get worried,” said the sparrow. “That
bobby only goes by about once every ’alf-hour. ’E won’t be back for a
while. Come over ’ere and we’ll show you your dressing-room.”
John Dolittle was thereupon conducted to a snug retreat in the heart of
a big shrubbery.
“Nobody can see you ’ere,” said Cheapside. “And as soon as you’re ready
all you’ve got to do is to ’op round that privet-’edge, sprint across
the little lawn and there’s your bath waitin’ for you. Me and Becky will
keep a look-out. And if any danger comes along we’ll whistle.”
Five minutes later the famous naturalist was wallowing luxuriously in
the marble pond. The night was softly brilliant with moonlight, and the
statues in the centre of the pool stood out palely against the dark mass
of the trees behind.
John Dolittle had paused a moment with a cake of soap uplifted in his
hand, utterly enchanted by the beauty of the scene, when he heard
Cheapside hoarsely whispering to him from a branch overhead.
“Look out! Hide quick! Someone coming!”
Now the Doctor had left his bath-towel on the base of the statue. At
Cheapside’s warning he splashed wildly out to get it before attempting a
retreat to the shrubbery. Breathless, he finally reached the fountain.
But just as he was about to grasp the towel Becky called from the other
side of the pond:
“Cheapside! There is another party coming in at the other gate! The
Doctor can never make it in time.”
John Dolittle, waist-deep in the water at the foot of the statue, looked
about him in despair.
“Gracious! What shall I do then?” he cried drawing the bath-towel over
his shoulders.
“You’ll have to be a statue,” hissed Cheapside the quick thinker. “Hop
up on to the pedestal. They’ll never know the difference in this light.
When they go by you can come down. Hurry! They’re quite close. I can see
their heads over the top of the hedge.”
Swiftly winding his bath-towel about him, John Dolittle sprang up on to
the pedestal and crouched in a statuesque pose. The marble group was of
Neptune the sea-god and several attendant figures. John Dolittle, M.D.,
became one of the attendant figures. His hand raised to shade his eyes
from an imaginary sun, he gazed seaward with a stony stare.
“Fine!” whispered Cheapside, flying on to the base of the statue. “No
one could tell you from the real thing. Just keep still and you’ll be
all right. They won’t stay, I don’t expect. Here they come. Don’t get
nervous, now. Bless me, I believe they’re English too!—Tourists. Well,
did you ever?”
A man and a woman, strolling through the gardens by one of the many
crossing paths, had now paused at the edge of the pond and, to John
Dolittle’s horror, were gazing up at the statue in the centre of it.
They were both elderly; they both carried umbrellas; and they both wore
spectacles.
“I’ll bet they’re short-sighted, Doc,” whispered Cheapside comfortingly.
“Don’t worry.”
“Dear me, Sarah,” sighed the man. “What a beautiful night! The moon and
the trees and the fountain. And such an imposing statue!—The sea-god
Neptune with his mermaids and mermen.”
“Lancelot,” said the woman shortly, “let us hurry home. You’ll get your
bronchitis worse in this damp air. I don’t like the statue at all. I
never saw such fat creatures. Just look at that one on the corner
there—the one with his hand up scanning the horizon. Why, he’s stouter
than the butcher at home!”
“Humph!” muttered Cheapside beneath his breath. “It don’t seem to me as
though _you_ ’ave any figure to write ’ome about, Mrs. Scarecrow.”
At this moment a large flying beetle landed on the Doctor’s neck and
nearly spoiled everything.
“Good gracious, Sarah!” cried the man. “I thought I saw one of the
figures move, the fat one.”
The tourist adjusted his spectacles and, coming a little closer to the
edge of the pond, stared very hard. But Cheapside, to add a touch of
convincing realism, flew up on to the merman’s shoulder, kicked the
beetle into the pond with a secret flick of his foot and burst into a
flood of carefree song.
“No, Sarah,” said the man. “I was mistaken. See, there is a bird sitting
on his shoulder. How romantic! Must be a nightingale.”
“_Will_ you come home, Lancelot?” snapped the woman. “You won’t feel so
romantic when your cough comes back. It must be after midnight.”
“But you know, Sarah,” said the man, as he was almost forcibly dragged
away, “_I_ don’t think he’s too fat. They had to be stout, those marine
people: they floated better that way. Dear me, Paris is a beautiful
city!”
As the footsteps died away down the moonlit path, John Dolittle sighed a
great sigh of relief and came to life.
“Cheapside,” said he, stretching his stiff arms, “you could never guess
who those people were. My sister Sarah and her husband, the Reverend
Lancelot Dingle. It’s funny, Cheapside, but whenever I am in an awkward
or ridiculous situation Sarah seems bound to turn up. Of course she and
her husband would just _have_ to come touring Paris at the exact hour
when I was taking a bath in the Tuileries Gardens. Ah well, thank
goodness the pond kept them off from getting any closer to me!”
“Well, listen, Doc,” said the London sparrow: “I think you had better be
gettin’ along yourself now. It’s about time for that bobby to be coming
round again.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said the Doctor. And he slid back into the water,
waded to the edge and stepped out on to dry ground.
But John Dolittle’s troubles were not over yet. While he was still no
more than half way to his “dressing-room” there came another warning
shout from Cheapside:
“Look out!—Here he comes!”
This time flight seemed the only course. The policeman had seen the
culprit disappear into the shrubbery. Breaking into a run, he gave
chase.
“Don’t stop, Doc!” cried Cheapside. “Grab your clothes and get out the
other side—Becky! Hey, Becky! Keep that policeman busy a minute.”
The Doctor did as he was told. Seizing his clothes in a pile as he
rushed through the shrubbery, he came out at the other end like an
express train emerging from a tunnel. Here Cheapside met him and led him
across a lawn to another group of bushes. Behind this he hurriedly got
into his clothes. Meanwhile Becky kept the policeman busy by furiously
pecking him in the neck and making it necessary for him to stop and beat
her off.
However, she could not of course keep this up for long. And if John
Dolittle had not been an exceptionally quick dresser he could never have
got away. In one minute and a quarter, collar and tie in one hand, soap
and towel in the other, he left his second dressing-room on the run and
sped for the gate and home.
The loyal Cheapside was still with him; but the sparrow was now so
convulsed with laughter that he could scarcely keep up, even flying.
“I don’t see what you find so funny about it,” panted the Doctor
peevishly as he slowed down at the gate and began putting on his collar.
“I had a very narrow escape from getting arrested.”
“Yes, and you’d have gone to jail, too,” gasped Cheapside. “It’s no
light offence, washing in this country. But that wasn’t what I was
laughing at.”
“Well, what was it, then?” asked the Doctor, feeling for a stud in his
pocket.
“The Reverend Dingle took me for a nightingale!” tittered the Cockney
sparrow. “I must go back and tell Becky that. So long, Doc! You’ll be
all right now. That bobby’s lost you altogether.... After all, you got
your bath. See you in Puddleby next month.”
Vice-versa
ANY FATHER TO ANY DAUGHTER