Hugh Lofting: The Voyages of Doctor Dolittle

"Can this be Merrie England?" asked Bumpo, peering into the fog—"doesn't look like any place in particular. Maybe the snail hasn't brought us right after all."

"Yes," sighed Polynesia, shaking the rain oft her feathers, "this is England all right—You can tell it by the beastly climate."

"Oh, but fellows," cried Jip, as he sniffed up the air in great gulps, "it has a smell —a good and glorious smell!—Excuse me a minute: I see a water–rat."

"Sh!—Listen!" said Chee–Chee through teeth that chattered with the cold. "There's Puddleby church–clock striking four. Why don't we divide up the baggage and get moving. We've got a long way to foot it home across the marshes."

"Let's hope," I put in, "that Dab–Dab has a nice fire burning in the kitchen."

"I'm sure she will," said the Doctor as he picked out his old handbag from among the bundles—"With this wind from the East she'll need it to keep the animals in the house warm. Come on. Let's hug the river–bank so we don't miss our way in the fog. You know, there's something rather attractive in the bad weather of England—when you've got a kitchen–fire to look forward to…. Four o'clock! Come along—we'll just be in nice time for tea."

THE END