Chapter VI: The Poodle That Didn’t Know English

It was about a month after the King of France had been to visit Pudding Lane that the stagecoach from Dover brought the Jack of Hearts on a visit to Old King Cole and the Queen of Hearts. As you remember, the Jack had no use for Pudding Lane because it wasn’t Paris, and nobody quite knew, indeed, why he ever came to the little village which he held in such scorn. Mrs. Grundy said he came when he ran out of funds and wanted to live a while on his relatives. Perhaps that was merely Mrs. Grundy’s rather vulgar way of putting it, and perhaps it was true. Anyway, he came and upset the palace quite as much as usual with his French and his fine manners and his old habit of stealing tarts.

But on the same stagecoach from Dover came a present from the King of France to Mrs. Claus, which was far more exciting to Pudding Lane than the presence of the Jack of Hearts. You remember, of course, what an impression Mrs. Claus had made on His Majesty on May Day, but did you ever dream he would go so far as to send her a gift? Well, nobody else did, least of all Mrs. Claus herself, who almost fainted when the coach drove up to her house and the driver climbed down and handed her a large square wooden box.

“Whatever--?” shrieked Mrs. Claus excitedly.

“Great snakes!” ejaculated the baker, who was standing by.

“What could be in such a box?” inquired Mrs. Claus of the world at large.

“Fine French china,” guessed Mr. Claus.

Mrs. Claus’s eyes glittered hopefully.

“A lamp,” suggested the candlestick-maker, who was there too.

“A dog,” burst out Santa Claus.

Santa was right. The King’s present was a French poodle, as jolly a little puppy as Pudding Lane had ever seen. It was surely very kind of the King of France, and Mrs. Claus was deeply sensible of the honor paid her by His Majesty, but what did she want with a puppy dog, she who had six children? as she rather clumsily put it. Santa Claus and the twins begged so hard to keep him, however, that Mrs. Claus said well, if they would feed him and wash him and make him mind, he might stay.

But the Clauses could not keep the poodle, after all, and all because of Misery. For that wretched cat began to act like a feline possessed the minute he laid his green eyes on the newcomer, and clawed and scratched and spat at the poor little dog until he squealed with terror.

After a few hours of this, Mrs. Claus shut Misery up in the woodhouse and locked the poodle in the kitchen and ran over to Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater’s.

“But I thought Misery loved company,” said Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, when the story was finished.

“Not when the company’s a dog,” said Mrs. Claus. “And, oh, dear, Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, I don’t know what we’ll do unless--unless--well, unless you’ll take the dog off our hands as a kind and neighborly act.”

“But, Mrs. Claus,” objected Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, “isn’t the pumpkin shell too small for a poodle? There is really so little room here.”

Mrs. Claus looked around the pumpkin shell appraisingly.

“It is a bit small; he’s a fat poodle.” Then she brightened. “But perhaps the carpenter would build you a kennel in the back garden, Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, and you could keep the poodle there.”

And so it was decided, and that very afternoon the carpenter built the kennel and the poodle was brought over to the Pumpkin-Eaters.

The Pumpkin-Eaters were rather nervous over the prospect of keeping a poodle, but they did consider it an honor to have a gift that the King of France had sent, and so they met the situation unflinchingly. Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater fed the poodle with the rarest of titbits, beef-steak, and cream, and mashed potatoes with gravy, until the greedy little puppy was panting and breathless. Mr. Pumpkin-Eater diddle-daddled around the kennel, patting the poodle and talking to him, and when Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater wasn’t looking, he brought his own pillow from their bed, so that the poodle should lie comfortably in his new home. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater were just as kind as people could be to that poodle, and there was no earthly excuse for his acting the way he did.

But it soon became apparent that he was just about the most troublesome poodle that ever lived. Not that he was really bad; you could hardly say that of him. He just acted as if he didn’t have any sense.

It began after he had recovered his breath from eating. Until then he was very quiet, except for little grunts, just little happy, eating grunts that nobody could have objected to. Then, when he did get his breath, up he jumped from his pillow, and the trouble began.

The first thing he did was to run straight from the kennel into the pumpkin shell and upset every stick of the tiny furniture that the poor Pumpkin-Eaters were so proud of. I don’t think he meant to upset the furniture, but puppies are not the most graceful beasts in the world, and so as he waddled through the shell, which was pretty small for him anyway, he just naturally bumped into the tables and chairs and sent them spinning.

How agitated Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater was then.

“Shush!” she called imperiously. “Shoo! Get out! Scat!” She said everything she could think of, and still the puppy kept running around, knocking over more things, until he finally bumped into Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater and knocked her over too! Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater was extremely small, as you know, and I suppose it didn’t take much to upset her. She screamed weakly as she hit the floor, at which Mr. Pumpkin-Eater came running in from the garden.

“Hey!” called out Mr. Pumpkin-Eater angrily to the poodle. Then he shushed and shooed and scatted at the poodle, but the blessed dog just jumped up against him as if he had done something praiseworthy, and the next thing they all knew, Mr. Pumpkin-Eater was flat on his back too, bellowing for help, as the poodle ran excitedly about, yelping with joy.

The neighbors came running in to help, the Clauses, the butcher, Mrs. Dumpty (who was sure somebody else must have fallen off the wall), the Old Woman, Mr. Horner, Mr. and Mrs. Flinders, all of them. Of course, they didn’t all go inside the shell, for there wasn’t room. But Mr. Horner did and gallantly picked up the prostrate Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater, and the butcher squeezed his way in and lifted Mr. Pumpkin-Eater to his feet. Then Mr. Pumpkin-Eater made a dive for the poodle, who by that time was on the bed, chewing up Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater’s best lace spread. The puppy, still thinking it all the greatest joke in the world, ran out of the shell into the garden and jumped right up into the Old Woman’s arms, squealing as happily as if he had found an old friend.

“Well,” said the Old Woman, “here he is.”

“Put him in the kennel!” cried everybody.

The Old Woman started for the kennel with the puppy wriggling delightedly in her arms--he still thought it all a lovely lark--and maybe all would have been well then, if a certain perky little sparrow had not chosen that particular moment in which to poke his nose into the kennel.

He did choose that moment, however, and so the tragedy happened. The sparrow was halfway into the kennel, pecking at some toothsome crumbs, when the poodle suddenly leaped from the Old Woman’s arms full on the back and tail of the unsuspecting little bird. A cry of joy from the poodle, a shower of feathers, then out backed the poor sparrow, tottering and surprised, with his tail nipped off.

How indignant Pudding Lane was at that! How they all scolded the poodle and sympathized with the sparrow. Sparrows until then had not had very good standing in the village, as perhaps they have not in yours, but this calamity made the people forget their old grievances against the _passeres_ (that’s the sparrow’s dress-up name) and they could only feel sorry now for the particular _passer_, oh, very sorry. True, the sparrow, though he staggered uncertainly around and blinked in amazement, did not act as if he were in pain. But if you’re used to tails, of course you miss them, and the sparrow’s had disappeared so suddenly.

Meanwhile, the poodle was acting just as absurdly as before. He was running and rolling and yapping in a perfectly abandoned way, and the more the Old Woman and the butcher and all the rest of them scolded him, ordered him down and bade him be quiet, the more he cut up. It was almost as if he were a mad dog, and yet you could see, just by looking at him, that he was innocent as could be, that he didn’t know in the least he was doing wrong. Puppies don’t naturally have morals, you know, and this one apparently hadn’t been taught any.

Well, things finally got to such a pitch that Mr. Pumpkin-Eater said firmly that he wouldn’t have such a beast about any more, and Mrs. Claus declared she wouldn’t have him either, even if he were a royal poodle straight from the King of France. They decided that the only thing to do was to put the poodle back in the box and send him home to Paris.

“But the King!” remonstrated Mrs. Flinders.

“I know,” said Mrs. Claus. “But Pudding Lane would be in ruins if we let this dog stay.”

“But nobody ever sends presents back to a king,” chimed in Mrs. Grundy.

“Well, I know somebody that’s a-going to,” said Mrs. Claus stubbornly.

“He might throw you in prison or something,” suggested Mrs. Grundy.

At which Mrs. Claus turned white, but stood her ground: she’d have no dog that threatened the future happiness and safety of Pudding Lane.

Just then who should come dawdling down Pudding Lane but the Jack of Hearts, airy as usual? When he saw the commotion in the Pumpkin-Eaters’ garden, he stepped in. The people curtseyed obediently; they had manners, even though they didn’t like the Jack. Then they told him what was the matter.

“And he won’t do a thing you tell him to!” concluded Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater. “I never saw such a disobedient dog.”

At that, the poodle leaped up against Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater’s skirts.

“Down!” she commanded.

He barked joyously and leaped the higher.

“Hush!” she ordered.

But he didn’t down and he didn’t hush.

“There!” exclaimed Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater exasperatedly to the Jack. “You see, he doesn’t mind a single thing.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” replied the Jack of Hearts quietly.

“Of course!” repeated Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater. “I don’t see any ‘of course’ about it.”

“Well,” said the Jack of Hearts with his best sneer, “I suppose you don’t. But didn’t you say the poodle was from France?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater. She did wish the obnoxious fellow would go away and stop interfering.

“And haven’t you been talking to this French poodle in English?” he demanded further.

“Yes. Well--oh, I see,” cried Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater suddenly.

“Oh!” murmured everybody else. “Of course!”

The dog just then sprang higher against the wee Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater and began to lick her face. She cast a beseeching look at the Jack.

“_Va te coucher!_” commanded that fine fellow to the dog. The poodle instantly quieted down at Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater’s feet and began to whine a little.

“_Veux-tu te taire!_” he demanded further, and the whining stopped at once.

The Jack of Hearts looked at the abashed Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater and the rest of the Pudding Laners, who stood there stupefied.

“I guess you wouldn’t understand it either, if somebody talked to you in another language,” he said crushingly, and walked indolently away, swinging his cane.

The people of Pudding Lane could have kicked themselves for their stupidity, they said. Of course, a French poodle straight from Paris could not understand English. Why had they supposed that he could? And they were disgusted still more to have been humiliated by the disagreeable Jack of Hearts.

But kicking themselves wouldn’t do any good now. There was only one thing left to do, and that was to present the poodle to the Jack, whether they wanted to or not, for Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater couldn’t learn French for any dog. And if she could have, she wouldn’t have, for Mrs. Pumpkin-Eater had an idea that foreign languages were an indulgence, like mince pie at night or two dresses in one year, and she wouldn’t have yielded to it for anything.

So that’s what they did. They handed the puppy over to the Jack of Hearts, who could speak to him in his native tongue and make him mind like an angel.

As for the sparrow, he soon recovered; that is, he learned to walk as smartly and perkily as ever without a tail; he even learned to fly without it, which, as any bird will tell you, is quite a feat. He looked funny, with his swelled-out chest and airy manners and poor little chopped-off stumpy back view. But the Pumpkin-Eaters didn’t care how he looked, for he just exactly fitted the pumpkin shell now and at last they had a pet, did the Pumpkin-Eaters, just exactly suited to their needs. So that if you ever pass by the pumpkin shell and look in at the window, you’ll see him there. But if he turns his back, don’t laugh at the poor little fellow. It might hurt his feelings. He’s never seen his back and doesn’t know how funny he looks.