Mary Poppins in the Park

'What!' cried the geese. 'No grubs? No goslings?'

'Certainly not! But think of the honour!' The Tramp chuckled and turned away, bumping into a shaggy shape that was standing among the daisies.

The geese stood rigid in the grass, staring at each other.

Strawberry jam! Clipped wings! No hatching season! Could they have made a mistake, they wondered? Were they not, after all, just geese?

From something that once had been a pocket the Tramp extracted an apple.

'Pardon, friend!' he said to the Ass, as he took a juicy bite. 'I'd offer you half — but you don't need it. You've all this buttercup field.'

The Ass surveyed the scene with distaste. 'It may be all very well for donkeys, but don't imagine,' he remarked, 'that I'm such an ass as I look. As you may be interested to know, I'm an Arab steed in disguise!'

'Indeed?' The Tramp looked very impressed. 'How you must long, if that is so, for the country of your birth. Sandstorms! Mirages! Waterless deserts!'

'Waterless?' The Ass looked anxious.

'Well, practically. But that's nothing to you. The way you Arab animals can live for weeks on nothing — nothing to eat, nothing to drink, nowhere to sleep — it's wonderful!'

'But what about all those oases? Surely grass grows there?'

'Few and far between,' said the Tramp. 'But what of that, my friend? The less you eat the faster you go! The less you drink the lighter you are! It only takes you half a jiffy to fling yourself down and shelter your master when his enemies attack!'

'But,' cried the Ass, 'in that case, I should be shot at first!'

'Naturally,' the Tramp replied. 'That's why one admires you so — you noble Arab steeds. You're ready to die at any moment!'

The Ass rubbed his forehead against his leg. Was he ready to die at any moment? He could not honestly answer Yes. Weeks and weeks with nothing to eat! And here the buttercups and daisies were enough for a dozen asses. He might indeed be an Arab steed — but then again, he mightn't. Up and down went his shaggy head as he pondered the difficult problem.

'That's for you, old Natterjack!' The Tramp tossed the core of his apple under the steppingstone.

'Don't call me Natterjack!' snapped the Toad.

'Puddocky, then, if you prefer it!'

'Those are the names one gives to toads. I am a frog in disguise.'

'Oh, happy creature!' the Tramp exclaimed. 'Sitting on lily-leaves all night, singing a song to the moon.'

'All night? I'd take my death of cold!'

'Catching spiders and dragonflies for the lady-frog of your choice!'

'None for myself?' the Toad enquired.

'A frog that would a-wooing go — and you are certainly such a one! — wouldn't want to catch for himself!'

The Toad was, however, not so sure. He liked a juicy spider. He was just deciding, after all, that he might as well be a toad, when — plop! — went a pebble right beside him and he hurriedly popped in his head.

'Who threw that?' said the Tramp quickly.

'I did,' came the answer from the bridge. 'Not to hit him! Just to make him jump!'

'Good boy!' The Tramp looked up with a smile. 'A fine, friendly lad like you wouldn't hurt a toad!'

'Of course I wouldn't. Or anything else. But don't you call me boy or lad. I'm really a—'

'Wait! Don't tell me! Let me guess! An Indian? No — a pirate!'

'That's right!' said the Boy, with a curt nod, showing all the gaps in his teeth in a terrible pirate smile. 'If you want to know my name,' he snarled, 'just call me One-eyed Corambo!'

'Got your cutlass?' the Tramp enquired. 'Your skull-and-crossbones? Your black silk mask? Well, I shouldn't hang about here any longer! Landlubbers aren't worth robbing! Set your course away from the North. Make for Tierra del Fuego.'

'Been there,' the Boy said loftily.

'Well, any other place you like — no pirate lingers long on land. Have you been—' the Tramp lowered his voice, 'have you been to Dead Man's Drop?'

The Boy smiled and shook his head.

'That's the place for me,' he cried, reaching for his Monkey. 'I'll just go and say good-bye to my mother and—'

'Your mother! Did I hear aright? One-eyed Corambo hopping off to say good-bye to his mother! A pirate captain wasting time by running home — well, really!' The Tramp was overcome with amusement.

The Boy looked at him doubtfully. Where, he wondered, was Dead Man's Drop? How long would it take him to go and come? His mother would be anxious. And apart from that — as he'd reason to know — she was making pancakes for supper. It might be better, just for today, to be his outer self. Corambo could wait until tomorrow, Corambo was always there.

'Taking your monkey along as a mascot?' The Tramp looked quizzically at the toy.

He was answered by an angry squeal. 'Don't you call me a monkey!' it jabbered. 'I'm a little boy in disguise!'

'A boy!' cried the Tramp. 'And not at school?'

'School?' said the Monkey nervously. ''Two and two make five,' you mean, and all that sort of thing?'

'Exactly,' said the Tramp gravely. 'You'd better hurry along now before they find you're missing. Here!' He scrabbled among his rags, drew two chocolates from under his collar, and offered one to the Monkey.

But the little creature turned its back. School — he hadn't bargained for that. Better, any day of the week, to be a moth-eaten monkey. He felt a sudden rush of love for his old fur coat and his glass eyes and his wrinkled jungle tail.

'You take it, Corambo!' The Tramp grinned. 'Pirates are always hungry.' He handed one chocolate to the Boy and ate the other himself.

'Well,' he said, licking his lips. 'Time flies and so must I!' He glanced round at the little group and gave a cheerful nod.

'So long!' He smiled at them rosily. And thrusting his hands among his rags he brought out a piece of bread and butter and sauntered away across the bridge.

The Boy gazed after him thoughtfully, with a line across his brow. Then suddenly he threw up his hand.

'Hey!' he cried.

The Tramp paused.

'What is your name? You never told us! Who are you?' said the Boy.

'Yes, indeed!' came a score of voices. 'Who are you?' the Goose-girl asked; and the Swineherd, the geese, the swine and the Ass echoed the eager question. Even the Toad put out his head and demanded: 'Who are you?'

'Me?' cried the Tramp, with an innocent smile. 'If you really want to know,' he said, 'I'm an angel in disguise.'

He bowed to them amid his tatters and waved as he turned away.

'Ha, ha, ha! A jolly good joke!'

The Boy burst into a peal of laughter. Jug-jug-jug! in his throat it went. That tattered old thing an angel!

But suddenly the laugh ceased. The Boy stared, screwed up his eyes, looked again and stared.

The Tramp was skipping along the road, hopping for joy, it seemed. Each time he skipped his feet went higher and the earth — could it really be true, the Boy wondered? — was falling away beneath him. Now he was skimming the tops of the daisies and presently he was over the hedge, skipping higher and higher. Up, up he went and cleared the woodland, plumbing the depths of the sky. Then he spread himself on the sunny air and stretched his arms and legs.

And as he did so the tattered rags fluttered along his back. Something, the watchers clearly saw, was pushing them aside.

Then, feather by feather, from under each shoulder, a broad grey pinion showed. Out and out the big plumes