On a cold grey day in the month of May
In
the middle of town, not up, not down,
A
Pottamouse escaped from a train,
Shortly
before it started to rain.
The
circus alerted the local gendarmes
Who
ran into the streets and sounded alarms
But
the rain washed away every trace of a trail
The
Pottamouse hunt was destined to fail.
The
people, they said, should stay in bed,
Or
hide in a box with very strong locks
While
the experts plotted the plan
To
begin a nationwide scan.
But
progress was halted before they began.
Despite
all their knowledge, not one, to a man
Could
honestly claim they had seen such a beast,
Not
even a picture, or heard one at least!
They
scratched and they fumed and they rolled-up their eyes,
They
pulled at their beards, they pulled at their ties,
They
called out the experts, consulted rare books,
They
pondered their findings with serious looks,
They
stood on their chairs and commanded attention,
The
crisis demanded some sort of invention,
That
once it was started would seek out the place
Where
the Pottamouse hid, if even a trace
Of
the creature in all of the land could be found.
A
device which was some sort of ‘Pottamouse hound’.
They
printed a poster asking for those
Who
had built such machines or thought they would know
How
such a contraption could perhaps be constructed
Or
at least how this project should best be conducted.
How
many people, what tools one should use
Which
widget? What gidget? The length of the screws?
What
size are the questions you feed in the top?
How
long do you wait for the thinking to stop?
They
posted the posters across all the land
And
hoped that their message would soon reach their man.
Then
off in the distance a huffing and puffing
Came
Alistair Harold McLester Von Something.
An
eminent maker of things most peculiar
Late
of Vienna the son of a jeweler,
Who
once in his youth had designed a device
That
everyone said had done something quite nice
For
which he'd been given all kinds of awards
Which
he kept on the wall of his office,
in
Lourdes
He
ran in a clatter of people and things
His
coattails shot out at the back like great wings
His
face was as big and as round and as red
As
the face of the sun when it slips into bed
And
all of the people who lived in the town
Came
out of their houses and danced all around,
But
cries of great joy soon turned to dismay,
For
the great Alistair was in much disarray.
He
rummaged through bags,
Throwing
clothes here and there,
Pantaloons,
socks and huge underwear.
All
were amazed by his wonderful garments ,
While
he searched every trunk, every secret compartment.
He
stopped for an instant, his chin held in thought,
Then
dove back right in to the chest he had brought
home
from a visit to a land in the East
Where
he'd built a Caboozle for an eminent High Priest.
But
all of his searching and all of his fussing
Gave
rise to nought, in his hand he held nothing.
And
the people looked on thinking maybe they oughtn't,
But
what could be missing that he found so important?
Then
he turned to the crowd, and they each backed away
And
heard Alistair state with sombre dismay,
"I
have mislaid by glasses and without them can't find
Not
even my own shadow. I'm rendered quite blind.
They're
made from rare crystal from Solomon's mines
and
have some kind of magic which helps me draw lines
Of
fantastic inventions born in my brain
But
without them, I tell you, my ideas are quite lame.
The
crowd had gone silent, their hopes all subdued,
When
a girl about eight said, "I don't mean to be rude,
But
I think you're quite silly, Mr Alistair Von Something,
For
while you were fussing and fretting and frumping,
And
getting all hot and turning quite red,
Your
glasses were all along perched on your head"
Quite
true! Quite true! Now
we're getting somewhere!
He
snatched his bifocals from under his hair
And
perching them high on the bridge of his nose
Set
about digging through all of the clothes
He
kept in the marvelous bag at his feet
There
was something for everyone
Right
down the street.
There
were cottons from Persia and silks from Beijing
There
were tweeds from South London fit for a king!
There
were satin penumbras and linen cravats
And
fantastic, fabulous, outrageous hats!
He
was crying "No questions! Don't
ask! Put them on!"
"One
to each, don't be greedy! Go on!
Do go on!"
There
were hats made with feathers from Nightengale Swans
There
were hats made from fruit and from chocolate bon bons,
There
were hats made from things that you can't say out loud,
And
he threw every one of them out to the crowd.
Now
all of the people in their marvelous regalia
Found
a new faith in this man from Westphalia.
Surely
a gent who had traveled so far,
Dined
with Kings, danced with Queens, met a venerable Czar,
Talked
with the gurus in far flung Tibet,
Taught
princes in Prussia how to fish with a net,
Would
not fail in his task to build a device
That
could hunt down the Pottamouse in less than a trice.
"I
will need a large table and big sheets of paper.
A
long pointy pencil, and a rubber eraser,
I'll
need Indian ink, the best you can buy,
And
a pen that won't squirt any back in my eye.
I
want a room in an attic so I can see far
And
a big brass telescope to find the North Star.
For
every inventor must know where he's going
To
prevent his attention from to-ing and fro-ing.
They
did all he asked with greatest of speed
They
did all they could, satisfied every need.
And
soon all was ready for him to begin,
So
he opened the door and strode right on in.
A
vast table before him and diverse utensils:
The
ink that he'd asked for and long pointy pencils.
He
rested his coat on the back of a chair,
Looked
out of the window and ruffled his hair.
His
brain started whirring as he paced back and forth.
Then
he felt that familiar seed of a thought.
He
sent to the East for a barrel of springs,
He
sent to the West for some bob-a-ma-things,
He
sent to the North for two dozen fly-wheels ,
He
sent to the South for electrical
eels.
Then
he stuck them together in shapes most profound
With
some stick-em-up-stuff he had lying around.
Then
he gave it a kick to start the unwinder,
And
lo and behold! A Pottamouse finder!
He
leaped at the door just in time to unlock it,
The
Pottamouse finder was out like a rocket.
It
sped up the street with the best of intentions,
It
was one of his very most awesome inventions!
The
people, they scattered as it ran through the town,
Sniffing
them up and sniffing them down.
It
looked under benches and round the town clock.
It
searched all the boats tied up at the dock.
It
spun round three times wond’ring where to go next,
Then
spun round five more, looking quite perplexed,
When
Alistair at last came huffing and blowing, saying,
“Of
course my machine doesn’t know where it’s going!”
I
must give it these questions which I have in my vest,
Which
are quite fundamental for completing the quest.”
He
held up the papers and read them out loud,
Listened
to now by a gathering crowd.
“Is
it ten feet tall, or four-feet three?
Does
it live in a hole, or on top of a tree?
Is
it covered in fur, or is it’s skin colored red?
Did
anyone find one hiding under their bed?
Can
it swim in the ocean like a great blue whale?
Does
it have a tuft at the end of its tail?
Does
it come out at night and creep all around?
Or
curl up to doze in a cave under ground?”
He
rolled up the questions and stuffed them right in,
Hoping
the search would right ‘way begin.
Have
you ever seen something that’s started to boil,
With
it’s lid screwed down tight ‘til the rivets uncoil.
It
bulges and chatters and whistles and steams,
Then
just before blowing it sits there and screams?
Well,
that’s just how the thing-a-ma-whatzit looked then,
As
it scanned all the data, then scanned it again.
Then,
just as the crowd was beginning to cringe,
It
blew off two widgets and half of a hinge.
Up
like a tornado, or whirly-ma-gig.
Leaving
dresses a-swirling, dancing a jig.
Wrapped
in a cloud of dust and of leaves,
It
rose from the ground, up over the trees.
Over
the steeple, leaving church bells a-clanging.
Over
the houses, their shutters a-banging.
Up
to the sky in a great arc it rose,
‘til
it looked no bigger than Tom Thumb’s nose.
The
people, they stood there in utter amazement.
You
could say that their look was one of agazement.
The
dust settled round them, as they looked to the sky.
Then
Alistair shouted, “My gosh. It can fly!”
The
crowd was astounded, astonished and quiet,
They
were perfectly flummoxed, and none could deny it.
Then
Alistair cried, “It’s coming back down!
On
the top of that hill on the far edge of town!”
The
townspeople clustered much closer together,
Wondering
how, what, why, when, where, whether.
None
dared to be first to rush to the hill,
So
they watched as the Pottamouse finder stopped still
Next
to some creature as big as a house,
That
was shaped like a teapot and also a mouse.
With
ears and a tail, three feet and a spout,
With
hairy chin whiskers, a quivering snout,
And
eyes big as cartwheels, stuck on a head
Exactly
the shape of a loaf of French bread.
The
Pottamouse, terrified, trembled a mite,
Afraid
that the finder was going to bite.
For
this creature, though seeming a fierce apparition,
Possessed
a perfectly mild disposition.
Misjudged
for its looks at a very young age,
It
was sold to a circus and locked in a cage.
Thought
to be vicious and strong as an ox,
They
kept it locked up in it’s cage in a box.
They
added a hole so you could see through
For
a dollar a look, or one-fifty for two.
They
fed it with mice and rats and live snakes,
But
eventually discovered it ate only
cakes!
Black
Forest and Angel and sometimes Dundee,
And
anything with chocolate it scoffed up with glee.
But
now this poor creature, alone and quite scared,
By
the Pottamouse finder, was securely ensnared.
Over
the hill, the people came running,
Headed
by the venerable Mr. Von Something.
Drawing
close to the scene, he slowed down and then stopped.
His
eyes grew quite wide and his bottom jaw dropped.
He
could hardly believe what he saw with his eyes.
It
was bigger and older, but he still recognized
His
first great creation he’d made in his youth
From
an old china teapot and a very sweet tooth;
Some
things from the shed at the back of the house;
French
bread for a head and some essence of mouse.
Some
stories they end with a bang and a shout.
Some
stories linger then fade slowly out,
Some
stories just seem to go on forever,
But
this story that we have been telling together,
Ends
in a spot on the top of hill,
With
everyone gathered round tightly to thrill
To
the sight of the fabulous Pottamouse thing,
Which,
happy to see them, had started to sing
A
song that was sung when the world was still new,
Of
things half-remembered, as old the day grew.
And
when at the very far end of the song,
The
shadows behind them had stretched out so long
That
they reached as far as the village below,
They
bade their farewells and made quickly to go,
While
professor McLester Von Something looked down
On
the day fading over the roofs of the town,
And
the houses with windows that sparkled with light,
He
searched for some words to set everything right.
Then
at last with a sigh, a smile, now at ease,
He
lifted his forefinger into the
breeze,
And
patting the Pottamouse on it’s forehead
Looked
into it’s eyes and affectionately
said,
“Oh
what a magnificent thing I’ve created!”
(The
Pottamouse purred and grew slightly inflated).
Then
patting him under the base of his spout,
He
turned, and with no one to see them about,
As
night gathered closely to bid them farewell,
And
down in the village they rang the church bell,
Professor
Von Something, the finder and “Pot”,
(The
name he affectionately called his what-not)
Were
lost to the present and part of the past,
And
so is our story – so long,
At long last.
T. M. Clarke & B.F.Clark copyright 1996