Animal Tales

by Terry Jones

  “Help!” cried the next row.

  “Stop!” roared Snag-Knees Rhino-Squasher the 3rd.

  “Stop!” cried another.

  “Stop! Stop!” cried even more of the Robber Ants.

  But it was too late! The Robber Ants at the back of the army couldn’t hear, and couldn’t stop anyway – they kept on pushing forward and falling over each other and nobody could stop even as they began to realize that the Golden Snail had set up his pile of leaves right in the middle of the Great Swamp of Surbiton! For, of course, a small snail can slide across the surface of a swamp, without even thinking about it. But not Giant Robber Ants the size of elephants!

  Before you could say “Rameses!” the Blind Swamp Lizard was on the attack, and the Swamp Rats were gnawing through the Giant Robber Ants, and the Venomous Snakes and Poisonous Toads were churning up the mud of the swamp in their rush to get at them.

  And that day the Vultures that circled above the Great Swamp of Surbiton had a feast the like of which they never had had before nor ever would have again.

  “And that,” said Great Grandfather Snail, “was how the Golden Snail of Surbiton rid the world of the Giant Robber Ants and made Surbiton the safe place it is today.”

  “But you still haven’t explained why he was called the Golden Snail of Surbiton!” the little snails would chorus.

  “Well,” Grandfather Snail would reply, “it was because he lived in Surbiton.”

  “But why was he called ‘Golden’, Grandfather?”

  “Ah! That was because he ate nothing but gold – he was just pretending to eat the leaves you see – and eating nothing but gold, of course, gave a golden hue to his shell. And in the night he would glow as if he were illuminated from within by his own daring and cleverness. He was the greatest snail that ever lived, and do you know what?”

  “No, Grandfather,” the little snails would say, although they knew perfectly well what was coming.

  “His name was Arthur.”

  “But that’s your name, Grandfather!” the little ones would chorus.

  “Yes,” Grandfather Snail would say. “It is…”

  WONDERS OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM

  MONEY SALAMANDERS

  These salamanders have acquired an extensive working knowledge of finance and are ready to advise anyone who is interested in investing large sums of money. However they are not trustworthy animals. If caught in some financial irregularity they will shed their tails, which will continue to wriggle for many minutes, distracting cheated investors and financial regulators, while the salamander hides itself in some tax haven.

  THE FROG WHO FOUND A FORTUNE

  A N UNUSUALLY SENSIBLE FROG was hopping along under a hedge when he happened to spot something bright and sparkling in amongst the leaves and mud. He pulled it out, and gasped.

  “If I didn’t know that such a thing were impossible, I would say that this was nothing less than an extremely valuable and precious Diamond!” he said to himself.

  He turned the jewel over and it glinted in the Spring sunshine with all the colours of the rainbow. It glittered and sparkled and somehow it took a remarkable hold on that unusually sensible frog’s mind.

  “I have no doubt,” he said to himself, “that many hundreds of years ago, the King of England rode by this very hedgerow, and as he passed this Precious Diamond fell out of his crown, and rolled under this very hedge where I discovered it today.

  “I must take it straight away to Buckingham Palace, where the Queen of England will be very glad to receive it. She will say: ‘This Precious Diamond was the greatest jewel in the Crown of England. It has been missing for hundreds of years, and us kings and queens have had to wear the Crown of England back-to-front so that no one would notice it was missing. But now, you, O Frog, have brought the Precious Diamond back. I must knight you at once!’

  “And Her Majesty will take out her sword, which she always carries by her side, and touch my shoulders with it and say: ‘Arise, Sir Frog!’

  “And she’ll probably reward me beyond my wildest dreams. Who knows? She might even offer me a whole barrow-load of slugs! But I would say:

  “Your Majesty! I could not possibly accept a whole barrow-load of slugs! Half a barrow-load would be more than sufficient!”

  “But,” Her Majesty will insist: “Sir Frog! Your modesty does you credit, but you have rendered the most noble and selfless service to me and to the people of England. No longer will their monarchs have to wear the Crown of England back-to-front! If my kingdom could supply three or even four barrow-loads of slugs, you should have them, for you so richly deserve them. Take the slugs and live happily ever after.”

  “And so she would order one of her servants to wheel the barrow-load of slugs back home for me. And then I would sell the slugs and become immensely wealthy. In fact I would become the richest frog who ever lived.

  “I would build a huge mansion on that hill over there, with turrets and battlements and my Dear Lady Frog would look out of the window in the high tower and wave her handkerchief to me when I came home in the evening, after a day out selling slugs.

  “But it may well be that such slugs as the Queen of England might pick out for her most favoured courtier would be the fattest and juiciest and most valuable slugs in existence, and after all she is giving me a whole barrow-load, so it might be that even building a huge mansion with turrets and battlements would not use up the money I should make from selling such slugs. So what should I do with the extra?

  “I should invest it in a Slug Farm, where I would breed slugs. I would look after them so well that the slugs would flourish and increase in size and number so that I would become the greatest slug farmer on Earth!

  “I would export vast shiploads of the Finest Slugs to South America, Africa, China and Australia. I would employ an army of book-keepers and managers and servants to help run the enterprise, and the money would keep pouring in so that eventually I would have to build an even bigger house with even more turrets and battlements, or else I should buy gowns and precious jewels for my Dear Lady Frog.”

  And the Frog sighed to himself with contentment, but then a shadow passed over his frog’s face.

  “There is, however, one snag,” he thought. “I have no idea in which direction Buckingham Palace lies! Is it this side of the hedge or the other side of the hedge? And should I follow the hedge to the East or follow it to the West? Or should I – perish the thought – leave the hedge entirely and venture out into the wide, wide world? Oh dear! This hedge is so nice and damp and shady, it would be a pity to leave it. It’s hard to know what to do – particularly as I don’t even know what Buckingham Palace looks like.

  “And, in any case, how am I going to carry the Precious Diamond? It is so big that I’ll be exhausted before I get to the end of the hedge whichever way I went.”

  Well, the more he thought about the problem of getting to Buckingham Palace, and how to carry the Precious Diamond, and what he would say to the footman who opened the door and demanded to know why a frog had rung the doorbell, and how on earth he’d manage to reach up to ring the doorbell in the first place, the more confused the poor Frog became, and the more confused he became, the more he couldn’t think of anything else except his problem, and he failed to notice a Notorious Magpie, creeping up on him.

  The first thing he knew was when the Notorious Magpie darted forward, snapped up the Precious Diamond in its beak and flew off with it – before the Frog could even croak: “Hey!”

  The Frog watched as the Notorious Magpie flew up into the high branches of a tree and dropped the Precious Diamond into its nest, far away out of the Frog’s reach.

  The Frog blinked and said: “I’ll not be going to Buckingham Palace after all! The Queen will never reward me with a whole barrow-load of the Best Slugs In The World, and I shall never build a huge mansion, nor sell a single slug, nor invest the money I make in a Slug Farm, and have to employ hundreds of people to export slugs around the world and take care of a
ll that money I should make. Well! Thank goodness for that!”

  And he hopped back under the lovely damp hedge and continued on his way. He was, as I mentioned before, an unusually sensible frog.

  THE FLYING BADGER

  THE BADGER, WHO KEPT OUR VILLAGE SHOP when I was a boy, was a grumpy sort of animal, and the shop had a very odd smell. When you walked in, Old Badger would emerge from the dimly-lit room behind the counter, and stand there watching you, as you tried to decide between a packet of sherbet with a liquorice straw or a gobstopper.

  He would often snort, as if he were urging you to make up your mind, and shuffle his feet and scratch his elbows with his sharp claws. He always wore grey woollen gloves with the fingers cut off, so he could count the money.

  Now why I’m telling you all this is because there was one kind of sweet we would always ask for even though we didn’t really like them. Now you are probably thinking: “Why ask for a sweet that you don’t like?” And that is a fair question.

  The reason was this: whenever you asked for almond crunches a momentary look of terror would pass across Old Badger’s face, and his paw would start to tremble. Then he would shut his eyes, take a deep breath, and say:

  “You’ll have to help me get them down.”

  Now Old Badger kept the almond crunches right up on the highest shelf. To get the jar he had to climb a stepladder, pull the jar off the shelf, and balance it on his fingertips. Then he would say in that quick, gruff way of his:

  “Come on, Boy! Take the jar!”

  He would stand there at the top of the stepladder, swaying dangerously and trying not to look down, and we would wait until it really looked as if he were going to fall, before we’d grab the jar of sweets.

  Then we’d look anxious and say: “Are you all right, Mr. Badger?”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he’d reply crossly. “Of course I’m all right!”

  And then he’d shut his eyes and climb down very slowly, until he was back on solid ground.

  But here’s the thing: he would always…always…forget to charge us for the almond crunches. So you see it didn’t matter that we didn’t like them, and they gave us a laugh at Old Badger’s expense.

  It was only much later, when I met the distinguished historian, Dame Polly Perrot, that I discovered what an amazing and extraordinary creature Old Badger really was.

  “Old Badger was the bravest of the brave,” Dame Polly said. “He was a revered figure and rightly so,” and she told me the following story.

  Before he ran the village shop, Old Badger had been a fighter pilot. He had flown Spitfires in the Second World War, being a member of RAF Badger Squadron. He flew over 149 ‘sorties’ and shot down an uncounted number of enemy planes.

  One particularly dark night, Badger Squadron was detailed to escort a bombing mission deep into enemy territory. Now badgers have superb night vision, and the Germans were baffled how we were able to fly and find the target no matter how black the night. But, of course, they didn’t have any badgers on active service.

  Well Old Badger was by then squadron leader, but most of the badgers under him were new to the game, and that sometimes caused problems.

  “Our job is to see these bombers get to their target and safely home again,” he told them. “You’ve got to stick with the bombers – even if it means passing up a chance to bag an enemy fighter!”

  Well the young badgers grumbled a good deal about this.

  “It’s all right for Old Badger,” they murmured. “He’s shot down lots of jerries, but he’s not giving us the chance!”

  They set off after sunset, and climbed through the thick clouds, until they came out above them, and there was the Moon, bright as a new shilling.

  Then all of a sudden, two squadrons of Messerschmitts came at them: one squadron from the east and the other from the west.

  Old Badger kept his head.

  “You bombers dive!” he radioed. “We’ll keep jerry occupied!” And the bombers dived into the clouds below, where the enemy couldn’t see them. Meanwhile Badger Squadron was attacking the enemy fighters.

  Old Badger was first to score a direct hit, sending an enemy plane spiralling down, while the pilot scrambled out in his parachute and soon disappeared into the clouds below.

  And soon the young badgers, with their superb night vision, were notching up hit after hit as well. Pretty soon the enemy decided it was too hot to stick around.

  “There they go!” shouted Old Badger over the radio. “Well played, you young badgers!”

  But the young badgers weren’t listening. Their blood was up, and they simply couldn’t stop themselves giving chase.

  “Tally ho!” they all started shouting. “Let’s get ‘em!” And they were making so much noise, none of them heard Old Badger shouting:

  “No! No! You’ve got to stay with the bombers!”

  Off went the Spitfires of Badger Squadron, and Old Badger was left to escort the bombing mission all on his own.

  “All clear!” he radioed to the bombers, and one by one they rose up out of the cloud below.

  “Lost a few friends?” asked the leading bomber sympathetically.

  “’Fraid so,” Old Badger radioed back, for he didn’t want to tell them that the young badgers had abandoned the mission.

  They flew on into Germany itself. At length, they dived down below the cloud, and there were the German bomb factories spread out below them. Their mission was to drop their bombs on as many bomb factories as possible. And pretty soon, the British bombers found themselves engulfed in enemy fire.

  Nonetheless, they dropped their bombs and quickly disappeared back up into the cloud.

  Old Badger knew that the return journey was just as dangerous as the trip out, so he kept his eyes open for any sign of the enemy. And sure enough, another squadron of Messerschmitts descended on them from above.

  “Dive!” he shouted to the bombers, as the enemy opened fire. The bomber pilots put their planes into a steep descent to take cover in the cloud below, but not before several bullets had found their mark.

  Old Badger, stayed up above the cloud and climbed even higher. Then he dived on first one Messerschmitt and then another. Two of them went down in flames, and Old Badger saw the parachutes of the pilots disappear into the cloud. Then another was coming straight for him and another was on his tail! Quick as a flash he dived again, and the two enemy planes collided in mid-air.

  The last remaining Messerschmitt came down at Old Badger from out of the Moon. It started firing straight at him but he banked, so the bullets went under his wheel case. But, as luck would have it, one bullet caught the Spitfire slap-bang in the fuel tank, and the petrol started gushing out behind him.

  Old Badger was done for, and he expected to be shot out of the sky at any moment. But the German pilot was a decent stick, who refused to shoot down a plane that was already a ‘goner’.

  Old Badger could see the German pilot giving him a salute as if to say: “You fought well, Old Badger! I’m sorry you won’t have enough fuel to get you home!”

  Then that gallant German turned his fighter around and headed off back to Germany – leaving Old Badger to run out of fuel and ditch in the cold North Sea.

  But Old Badger wasn’t thinking of his own plight. He was determined to see that the bombers all made it safely back to England, even if he didn’t.

  He radioed ‘All Clear!’ to the lead bomber, but there was no reply. Then a voice shouted: “The pilot’s copped a bullet! He’s alive but unconscious!”

  “Can any of you fly the plane?” asked Old Badger.

  “No,” came the reply, “none of us have a clue.”

  “Can you pull the plane up out of the cloud?” he asked.

  “I’ll give it a try!” replied the Navigator.

  So Old Badger told the Navigator what to do, and the rest of the bombers followed.

  Now this is where Old Badger showed what a truly amazing and extraordinary creature he was.

  “F
ly straight ahead and keep absolutely level!” he told the Navigator of the lead bomber.

  “Aye aye! Badger!” radioed back the Navigator.

  Then Old Badger flew his doomed Spitfire twenty feet above the bomber, slid back the canopy of his cockpit and hauled himself out into the icy wind.

  Can you guess what he did next? Yes! He jumped, falling through the cold night air from one plane to the other! Perhaps it was a foolhardy thing to do, but it was certainly the bravest act I’ve ever heard of. And do you know what? He was lucky. He landed fair and square on the nose of the bomber.

  The Navigator pulled Old Badger in, but the Spitfire had now run out of fuel, and it began to drop. So Old badger threw himself at the controls and gave the bomber a boost of speed, so that the Spitfire dropped harmlessly behind its tail, and fell through the cloud to crash into black North Sea.

  Well of course, the crews of the entire squadron of bombers burst into applause, and Old Badger flew that bomber safely back to England. By the time they landed, word had got about of Old Badger’s amazing feat, and for many weeks after that Old Badger was the toast of the RAF.

  But the strange thing was that, despite the glory, Old Badger seemed to lose his nerve after that. He never flew another mission, and when people asked him to tell the story he’d tell them to mind their own business.

  So no wonder Old Badger turned pale when boys asked for the almond crunches, and no wonder we laughed at him when we saw he was afraid of heights.

  But then none of us knew that Old Badger was one of the bravest of the brave.

  WONDERS OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM

  THE FAKE ELK

  The so-called “Fake Elk” is in fact a real elk that disguises itself as a plaster model and stands around, stock-still, at the back of cinemas. There it waits for some heart-breaking moment, or an exciting climax, and then it charges about the cinema, creating havoc with its loud bellowing and attacking the screen with its antlers. The result is that the audience’s appreciation of the film is ruined.