The Story of Doctor Dolittle

Once upon a time, many years ago⁠—when our grandfathers were little children⁠—there was a doctor; and his name was Dolittle⁠—John Dolittle, M.D. “M.D.” means that he was a proper doctor and knew a whole lot.

He lived in a little town called, Puddleby-on-the-Marsh. All the folks, young and old, knew him well by sight. And whenever he walked down the street in his high hat everyone would say, “There goes the Doctor!⁠—He’s a clever man.” And the dogs and the children would all run up and follow behind him; and even the crows that lived in the church-tower would caw and nod their heads.

The house he lived in, on the edge of the town, was quite small; but his garden was very large and had a wide lawn and stone seats and weeping-willows hanging over. His sister, Sarah Dolittle, was housekeeper for him; but the Doctor looked after the garden himself.

He was very fond of animals and kept many kinds of pets. Besides the goldfish in the pond at the bottom of his garden, he had rabbits in the pantry, white mice in his piano, a squirrel in the linen closet and a hedgehog in the cellar. He had a cow with a calf too, and an old lame horse⁠—twenty-five years of age⁠—and chickens, and pigeons, and two lambs, and many other animals. But his favorite pets were Dab-Dab the duck, Jip the dog, Gub-Gub the baby pig, Polynesia the parrot, and the owl Too-Too.

“Oh, there are plenty of animal-doctors,” said John Dolittle, putting the flowerpots outside on the windowsill to get the rain.

“Yes, there are plenty,” said Polynesia. “But none of them are any good at all. Now listen, Doctor, and I’ll tell you something. Did you know that animals can talk?”

“I knew that parrots can talk,” said the Doctor.

“Oh, we parrots can talk in two languages⁠—people’s language and bird-language,” said Polynesia proudly. “If I say, ‘Polly wants a cracker,’ you understand me. But hear this: Ka-ka oi-ee, fee-fee?”

“Good Gracious!” cried the Doctor. “What does that mean?”

“That means, ‘Is the porridge hot yet?’⁠—in bird-language.”

“My! You don’t say so!” said the Doctor. “You never talked that way to me before.”

“What would have been the good?” said Polynesia, dusting some cracker-crumbs off her left wing. “You wouldn’t have understood me if I had.”

“Tell me some more,” said the Doctor, all excited; and he rushed over to the dresser-drawer and came back with the butcher’s book and a pencil. “Now don’t go too fast⁠—and I’ll write it down. This is interesting⁠—very interesting⁠—something quite new. Give me the Birds’ A.B.C. first⁠—slowly now.”

So that was the way the Doctor came to know that animals had a language of their own and could talk to one another.

One day a plow-horse was brought to him; and the poor thing was terribly glad to find a man who could talk in horse-language.

“You know, Doctor,” said the horse, “that vet over the hill knows nothing at all. He has been treating me six weeks now⁠—for spavins. What I need is spectacles. I am going blind in one eye. There’s no reason why horses shouldn’t wear glasses, the same as people. But that stupid man over the hill never even looked at my eyes. He kept on giving me big pills. I tried to tell him; but he couldn’t understand a word of horse-language. What I need is spectacles.”

“Of course⁠—of course,” said the Doctor. “I’ll get you some at once.”

“I would like a pair like yours,” said the horse⁠—“only green. They’ll keep the sun out of my eyes while I’m plowing the Fifty-Acre Field.”

“Certainly,” said the Doctor. “Green ones you shall have.”

“You know, the trouble is, Sir,” said the plow-horse as the Doctor opened the front door to let him out⁠—“the trouble is that anybody thinks he can doctor animals⁠—just because the animals don’t complain. As a matter of fact it takes a much cleverer man to be a really good animal-doctor than it does to be a good people’s doctor. My farmer’s boy thinks he knows all about horses. I wish you could see him⁠—his face is so fat he looks as though he had no eyes⁠—and he has got as much brain as a potato-bug. He tried to put a mustard-plaster on me last week.”

“Where did he put it?” asked the Doctor.

“Oh, he didn’t put it anywhere⁠—on me,” said the horse. “He only tried to. I kicked him into the duck-pond.”

“Well, well!” said the Doctor.

The Queen was away at a dance that night at her cousin’s; but the King was in bed fast asleep.

Polynesia crept in, very softly, and got under the bed.

Then she coughed⁠—just the way Doctor Dolittle used to cough. Polynesia could mimic anyone.

The King opened his eyes and said sleepily: “Is that you, Ermintrude?” (He thought it was the Queen come back from the dance.)

Then the parrot coughed again⁠—loud, like a man. And the King sat up, wide awake, and said, “Who’s that?”

“I am Doctor Dolittle,” said the parrot⁠—just the way the Doctor would have said it.

“What are you doing in my bedroom?” cried the King. “How dare you get out of prison! Where are you?⁠—I don’t see you.”

But the parrot just laughed⁠—a long, deep, jolly laugh, like the Doctor’s.

“Stop laughing and come here at once, so I can see you,” said the King.

“Foolish King!” answered Polynesia. “Have you forgotten that you are talking to John Dolittle, M.D.⁠—the most wonderful man on earth? Of course you cannot see me. I have made myself invisible. There is nothing I cannot do. Now listen: I have come here tonight to warn you. If you don’t let me and my animals travel through your kingdom, I will make you and all your people sick like the monkeys. For I can make people well: and I can make people ill⁠—just by raising my little finger. Send your soldiers at once to open the dungeon door, or you shall have mumps before the morning sun has risen on the hills of Jolliginki.”

Pushmi-pullyus are now extinct. That means, there aren’t any more. But long ago, when Doctor Dolittle was alive, there were some of them still left in the deepest jungles of Africa; and even then they were very, very scarce. They had no tail, but a head at each end, and sharp horns on each head. They were very shy and terribly hard to catch. The black men get most of their animals by sneaking up behind them while they are not looking. But you could not do this with the pushmi-pullyu⁠—because, no matter which way you came towards him, he was always facing you. And besides, only one half of him slept at a time. The other head was always awake⁠—and watching. This was why they were never caught and never seen in Zoos. Though many of the greatest huntsmen and the cleverest menagerie-keepers spent years of their lives searching through the jungles in all weathers for pushmi-pullyus, not a single one had ever been caught. Even then, years ago, he was the only animal in the world with two heads.

Well, the monkeys set out hunting for this animal through the forest. And after they had gone a good many miles, one of them found peculiar footprints near the edge of a river; and they knew that a pushmi-pullyu must be very near that spot.

Then they went along the bank of the river a little way and they saw a place where the grass was high and thick; and they guessed that he was in there.