by A. A. Milne
“My poodle,” said Celia, “was a lovely dog.”
(Of course, she was only a child then. She wouldn’t know.)
“The point is this,” I said firmly, “our puppy is meant for a Pekinese—the pedigree says so. From the look of him it will be touch and go whether he pulls it off. To call him by the name of a late poodle may just be the deciding factor. Now I hate poodles; I hate pet dogs. A Pekinese is not a pet dog; he is an undersized lion. Our puppy may grow into a small lion, or a mastiff, or anything like that; but I will not have him a poodle. If we call him Bingo, will you promise never to mention in his presence that you once had a—a—you know what I mean—called Bingo?”
She promised. I have forgiven her for having once loved a poodle. I beg you to forget about it. There is now only one Bingo, and he is a Pekinese puppy.
However, after we had decided to call him Bingo, a difficulty arose. Bingo’s pedigree is full of names like Li Hung Chang and Sun Yat Sen; had we chosen a sufficiently Chinese name for him? Apart from what was due to his ancestors, were we encouraging him enough to grow into a Pekinese? What was there Oriental about “Bingo”?
In itself, apparently, little. And Bingo himself must have felt this; for his tail continued to be nothing but a rat’s tail, and his body to be nothing but a fat tub, and his head to be almost the head of any little puppy in the world. He felt it deeply. When I ragged him about it he tried to eat my ankles. I had only to go into the room in which he was, and murmur, “Rat’s tail,” to myself, or (more offensive still) “Chewed string,” for him to rush at me. “Where, O Bingo, is that delicate feather curling gracefully over the back, which was the pride and glory of thy great-grandfather? Is the caudal affix of the rodent thy apology for it?” And Bingo would whimper with shame.
Then we began to look him up in the map.
I found a Chinese town called “Ning-po,” which strikes me as very much like “Bing-go,” and Celia found another one called “Yung-Ping,” which might just as well be “Yung-Bing,” the obvious name of Bingo’s heir when he has one. These facts being communicated to Bingo, his nose immediately began to go back a little and his tub to develop something of a waist. But what finally decided him was a discovery of mine made only yesterday. There is a Japanese province called Bingo. Japanese, not Chinese, it is true; but at least it is Oriental. In any case conceive one’s pride in realizing suddenly that one has been called after a province and not after a poodle. It has determined Bingo unalterably to grow up in the right way.
You have Bingo now definitely a Pekinese. That being so, I may refer to his ancestors, always an object of veneration among these Easterns. I speak of (hats off, please!) Ch. Goodwood Lo.
Of course you know (I didn’t myself till last week) that “Ch.” stands for “Champion.” On the male side Champion Goodwood Lo is Bingo’s great-great-grandfather. On the female side the same animal is Bingo’s great-grandfather. One couldn’t be a poodle after that. A fortnight after Bingo came to us we found in a Pekinese book a photograph of Goodwood Lo. How proud we all were! Then we saw above it, “Celebrities of the Past. The Late—”
Champion Goodwood Lo was no more! In one moment Bingo had lost both his great-grandfather and his great-great-grandfather!
We broke it to him as gently as possible, but the double shock was too much, and he passed the evening in acute depression. Annoyed with my tactlessness in letting him know anything about it, I kicked Humphrey off his stool. Humphrey, I forgot to say, has a squeak if kicked in the right place. He squeaked.
Bingo, at that time still uncertain of his destiny, had at least the courage of the lion. Just for a moment he hesitated. Then with a pounce he was upon Humphrey.
Till then I had regarded Humphrey—save for his power of rolling the eyes and his habit of taking long jumps from the music-stool to the bookcase—as rather a sedentary character. But in the fight which followed he put up an amazingly good resistance. At one time he was underneath Bingo; the next moment he had Bingo down; first one, then the other, seemed to gain the advantage. But blood will tell. Humphrey’s ancestry is unknown; I blush to say that it may possibly be German. Bingo had Goodwood Lo to support him—in two places. Gradually he got the upper hand; and at last, taking the reluctant Humphrey by the ear, he dragged him laboriously beneath the sofa. He emerged alone, with tail wagging, and was taken on to his mistress’s lap. There he slept, his grief forgotten.
So Humphrey was found a job. Whenever Bingo wants exercise, Humphrey plants himself in the middle of the room, his eyes cast upwards in an affectation of innocence. “I’m just sitting here,” says Humphrey; “I believe there’s a fly on the ceiling.” It is a challenge which no great-grandson of Goodwood Lo could resist. With a rush Bingo is at him.
“I’ll learn you to stand in my way,” he splutters. And the great dust-up begins…
Brave little Bingo! I don’t wonder that so warlike a race as the Japanese has called a province after him.
A Warm Half-Hour
Whatever the papers say, it was the hottest afternoon of the year. At six-thirty I had just finished dressing after my third cold bath since lunch, when Celia tapped on the door.
“I want you to do something for me,” she said. “It’s a shame to ask you on a day like this.”
“It is rather a shame,” I agreed, “but I can always refuse.”
“Oh, but you mustn’t. We haven’t got any ice, and the Thompsons are coming to dinner. Do you think you could go and buy threepennyworth? Jane’s busy, and I’m busy, and—”
“And I’m busy,” I said, opening and shutting a drawer with great rapidity.
“Just threepennyworth,” she pleaded. “Nice cool ice. Think of sliding home on it.”
Well, of course it had to be done. I took my hat and staggered out. On an ordinary cool day it is about half a mile to the fishmonger; to-day it was about two miles and a quarter. I arrived exhausted, and with only just strength enough to kneel down and press my forehead against the large block of ice in the middle of the shop, round which the lobsters nestled.
“Here, you mustn’t do that,” said the fishmonger, waving me away.
I got up, slightly refreshed.
“I want,” I said, “some—” and then a thought occurred to me.
After all, did fishmongers sell ice? Probably the large block in front of me was just a trade sign like the coloured bottles at the chemist’s. Suppose I said to a fellow of the Pharmaceutical Society, “I want some of that green stuff in the window,” he would only laugh. The tactful thing to do would be to buy a pint or two of laudanum first, and then, having established pleasant relations, ask him as a friend to lend me his green bottle for a bit.
So I said to the fishmonger, “I want some—some nice lobsters.”
“How many would you like?”
“One,” I said.
We selected a nice one between us, and he wrapped a piece of “Daily Mail” round it, leaving only the whiskers visible, and gave it to me. The ice being now broken—I mean the ice being now—well, you see what I mean—I was now in a position to ask for some of his ice.
“I wonder if you could let me have a little piece of your ice,” I ventured.
“How much ice do you want?” he said promptly.
“Sixpennyworth,” I said, feeling suddenly that Celia’s threepennyworth sounded rather paltry.
“Six of ice, Bill,” he shouted to an inferior at the back, and Bill tottered up with a block about the size of one of the lions in Trafalgar Square. He wrapped a piece of “Daily News” round it and gave it to me.
“Is that all?” asked the fishmonger.
“That is all,” I said faintly; and, with Algernon, the overwhiskered crustacean, firmly clutched in the right hand and Stonehenge supported on the palm of the left hand, I retired.
The flat seemed a very long way away, but having bought twice as much ice as I wanted, and an entirely unnecessary lobster, I was not going to waste still more money in taxis. Hot though it was,
I would walk.
For some miles all went well. Then the ice began to drip through the paper, and in a little while, the underneath part of “The Daily News” had disappeared altogether. Tucking the lobster under my arm I turned the block over, so that it rested on another part of the paper. Soon that had dissolved too. By the time I had got half-way our Radical contemporary had been entirely eaten.
Fortunately “The Daily Mail” remained. But to get it I had to disentangle Algernon first, and I had no hand available. There was only one thing to do. I put the block of ice down on the pavement, unwrapped the lobster, put the lobster next to the ice, spread its “Daily Mail” out, lifted the ice on to the paper, and—looked up and saw Mrs. Thompson approaching.
She was the last person I wanted at that moment. In an hour and a half she would be dining with us. Algernon would not be dining with us. If Algernon and Mrs. Thompson were to meet now, would she not be expecting him to turn up at every course? Think of the long drawn-out disappointment for her; not even lobster sauce!
There was no time to lose. I decided to abandon the ice. Leaving it on the pavement I clutched the lobster and walked hastily back the way I had come.
By the time I had shaken off Mrs. Thompson I was almost at the fishmonger’s. That decided me. I would begin all over again, and would do it properly this time. “I want three of ice,” I said with an air.
“Three of ice, Bill,” said the fishmonger, and Bill gave me quite a respectable segment in “The Morning Post.”
“And I want a taxi,” I said, and I waved my lobster at one.
We drove quickly home.
But as we neared the flat I suddenly became nervous about Algernon. I could not take him, red and undraped, past the hall-porter, past all the other residents who might spring out at me on the stairs. Accordingly, I placed the block of ice on the seat, took off some of its “Morning Post,” and wrapped Algernon up decently. Then I sprang out, gave the man a coin, and hastened into the building.
“Bless you,” said Celia, “have you got it? How sweet of you!” And she took my parcel from me. “Now we shall be able—Why, what’s this?”
I looked at it closely.
“It’s—it’s a lobster,” I said. “Didn’t you say lobster?”
“I said ice.”
“Oh,” I said, “oh, I didn’t understand. I thought you said lobster.”
“You can’t put lobster in a cider cup,” said Celia severely.
Of course I quite see that. It was foolish of me. However, it’s pleasant to think that the taxi must have been nice and cool for the next man.
Wrongly Attributed
You’ve heard of Willy Ferrero, the Boy Conductor? A musical prodigy, seven years old, who will order the fifth oboe out of the Albert Hall as soon as look at him. Well, he has a rival.
Willy, as perhaps you know, does not play any instrument himself; he only conducts. His rival (Johnny, as I think of him) does not conduct as yet; at least, not audibly. His line is the actual manipulation of the pianoforte—the Paderewski touch. Johnny lives in the flat below, and I hear him touching.
On certain mornings in the week—no need to specify them—I enter my library and give myself up to literary composition. On the same mornings little Johnny enters his music-room (underneath) and gives himself up to musical composition. Thus we are at work together.
The worst of literary composition is this: that when you have got hold of what you feel is a really powerful idea, you find suddenly that you have been forestalled by some earlier writer—Sophocles or Shakespeare or George R. Sims. Then you have to think again. This frequently happens to me upstairs; and downstairs poor Johnny will find to his horror one day that his great work has already been given to the world by another—a certain Dr. John Bull.
Johnny, in fact, is discovering “God Save the King” with one finger.
As I dip my pen in the ink and begin to write, Johnny strikes up. On the first day when this happened, some three months ago, I rose from my chair and stood stiffly through the performance—an affair of some minutes, owing to a little difficulty with “Send him victorious,” a line which always bothers Johnny. However, he got right through it at last, after harking back no more than twice, and I sat down to my work again. Generally speaking, “God Save the King” ends a show; it would be disloyal to play any other tune after that. Johnny quite saw this…and so began to play “God Save the King” again.
I hope that His Majesty, the Lord Chamberlain, the late Dr. Bull, or whoever is most concerned, will sympathize with me when I say that this time I remained seated. I have my living to earn.
From that day Johnny has interpreted Dr. John Bull’s favourite composition nine times every morning. As this has been going on for three months, and as the line I mentioned has two special rehearsals to itself before coming out right, you can easily work out how many send-him-victoriouses Johnny and I have collaborated in. About two thousand.
Very well. Now, you ask yourself, why did I not send a polite note to Johnny’s father asking him to restrain his little boy from over-composition, begging him not to force the child’s musical genius too quickly, imploring him (in short) to lock up the piano and lose the key? What kept me from this course? The answer is “Patriotism.” Those deep feelings for his country which one man will express glibly by rising nine times during the morning at the sound of the National Anthem, another will direct to more solid uses. It was my duty, I felt, not to discourage Johnny. He was showing qualities which could not fail, when he grew up, to be of value to the nation. Loyalty, musical genius, determination, patience, industry—never before have these qualities been so finely united in a child of six. Was I to say a single word to disturb the delicate balance of such a boy’s mind? At six one is extraordinarily susceptible to outside influence. A word from his father to the effect that the gentleman above was getting sick of it, and Johnny’s whole life might be altered.
No, I would bear it grimly.
And then, yesterday, who should write to me but Johnny’s father himself. This was the letter:
“Dear Sir—I do not wish to interfere unduly in the affairs of the other occupants of these flats, but I feel bound to call your attention to the fact that for many weeks now there has been a flow of water from your bathroom, which has penetrated through the ceiling of my bathroom, particularly after you have been using the room in the mornings. May I therefore beg you to be more careful in future not to splash or spill water on your floor, seeing that it causes inconvenience to the tenants beneath you?
“Yours faithfully, Jno. McAndrew.”
You can understand how I felt about this. For months I had been suffering Johnny in silence; yet, at the first little drop of water from above, Johnny’s father must break out into violent abuse of me. A fine reward! Well, Johnny’s future could look after itself now; anyhow, he was doomed with a selfish father like that.
“Dear Sir,” I answered defiantly, “Now that we are writing to each other I wish to call your attention to the fact that for many months past there has been a constant flow of one-fingered music from your little boy, which penetrates through the floor of my library and makes all work impossible. May I beg you, therefore, to see that your child is taught a new tune immediately, seeing that the National Anthem has lost its first freshness for the tenants above him?”
His reply to this came to-day.
“Dear Sir,—I have no child.
“Yours faithfully, Jno. McAndrew.”
I was so staggered that I could only think of one adequate retort.
“DEAR SIR,” I wrote,—“I never have a bath.”
So that’s the end of Johnny, my boy prodigy, for whom I have suffered so long. It is not Johnny but Jno. who struggles with the National Anthem. He will give up music now, for he knows I have the bulge on him; I can flood his bathroom whenever I like. Probably he will learn something quieter—like painting. Anyway, Dr. John Bull’s masterpiece will rise no more through the ceiling of the flat below.
On referring to my encyclopedia, I see that, according to some authorities, “God Save the King” is “wrongly attributed” to Dr. Bull. Well, I wrongly attributed it to Johnny. It is easy to make these mistakes.
A Hanging Garden in Babylon
“Are you taking me to the Flower Show this afternoon?” asked Celia at breakfast.
“No,” I said thoughtfully; “no.”
“Well, that’s that. What other breakfast conversation have I? Have you been to any theatres lately?”
“Do you really want to go to the Flower Show?” I asked. “Because I don’t believe I could bear it.”
“I’ve saved up two shillings.”
“It isn’t that—not only that. But there’ll be thousands of people there, all with gardens of their own, all pointing to things and saying, ‘We’ve got one of those in the east bed,’ or ‘Wouldn’t that look nice in the south orchid house?’ and you and I will be quite, quite out of it.” I sighed, and helped myself from the west toast-rack.
It is very delightful to have a flat in London, but there are times in the summer when I long for a garden of my own. I show people round our little place, and I point out hopefully the Hot Tap Doultonii in the scullery, and the Dorothy Perkins doormat, but it isn’t the same thing as taking your guest round your garden and telling him that what you really want is rain. Until I can do that, the Chelsea Flower Show is no place for us.
“Then I haven’t told you the good news,” said Celia. “We are gardeners.” She paused a moment for effect. “I have ordered a window-box.”
I dropped the marmalade and jumped up eagerly.
“But this is glorious news! I haven’t been so excited since I recognized a calceolaria last year, and told my host it was a calceolaria just before he told me. A window-box! What’s in it?”
“Pink geraniums and—and pink geraniums, and—er—”
