The Adventures of Parsley the Lion

‘Either that,’ said Dill, nearly jumping out of his skin as there was another plop just behind him, ‘or it’s a ghost. I’m getting out of here. What with eggs and voices …’

‘Shh!’ said Parsley. ‘Listen. Talking of voices, that sounds like Lady Rosemary.’

Dill fell silent as Lady Rosemary’s voice floated across the shrubbery.

‘Sage!’ she cried. ‘You naughty owl! What are you doin’? Sittin’ on Sir Basil’s golf balls. He’s been lookin’ for them everywhere. Really! What will you be up to next?’

‘Golf balls?’ hooted Sage. ‘I’ve been trying tu whit, tu hatch golf balls?’ Sage sounded more than a trifle annoyed.

Parsley and Dill exchanged glances. ‘No wonder they felt hard,’ murmured Parsley.

‘Suppose one had landed on our heads,’ said Dill.

‘The mind boggles!’ agreed Parsley.

‘Fore!’* came a voice, closer at hand this time, and clearly recognisable as belonging to Sir Basil.

‘Watch out!’ cried Dill. ‘Sir Basil’s at it again!’

‘Come on,’ said Parsley. ‘I’m going!’

There was a plop beside them.

‘Sure you won’t have another?’ asked Dill.

‘No, thank you,’ said Parsley. ‘I’m trying to give them up! Once you’ve seen one you’ve seen the lot.’

* Sounds like ‘hay for horses’ – part of a joke alphabet

** Sounds like ‘gee, for goodness’ sake’

* Golfers shout ‘Fore!’ to warn others of flying golf balls.

There’s only one thing Parsley likes better than an hour’s nap after lunch, and that’s a two-hour’s nap.

The only trouble is the Herb Garden isn’t always as peaceful as it might be.

For instance, if there’s one thing Mr Bayleaf, the gardener, likes better than an hour’s nap after lunch it’s cutting Sir Basil’s lawn with his lawnmower. Give him a shower of rain followed by some sunshine to make the grass grow and he’s away.

And if it isn’t the sound of lawnmowers it’s police whistles. If Constable Knapweed caught a criminal every time he blew his whistle there would be nowhere to put them all.

On the other hand, even that isn’t as bad as the days when Mr Onion gives the Chives singing lessons.

They only know one song and Parsley’s heard it so many times he can sing it backwards – and often does when he’s trying to get to sleep!

It goes:

Because we are so many Chives,

And dressed like one another,

It makes it even hard to tell,

A sister from a brother.

But the worst time of all is when Sage is in one of his chirpy moods. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, no one, least of all Parsley, stands a chance of getting any sleep.

Sage’s chirp is a cross between a circular saw, a rusty mangle and a door badly in need of a spot of oil on its hinges.

It was on just such a day – a day when Bayleaf took it into his head to cut the grass, Constable Knapweed was at his most officious, the Chives’ voices had never been louder or shriller and Sage’s chirps never so ghastly – that Parsley decided to see what his friend Dill had to say on the matter.

He hurried along the path through the Herb Garden and had nearly reached Dill’s kennel when he trod on something sharp. In fact, not just something, but lots of things.

‘Oh!’ he cried. ‘Oooh! Ow! Oooooh!’

Dill appeared at his front door. ‘What’s up?’ he called. ‘Anything the matter? I was in the middle of a good after-lunch nap. You woke me up!’

‘I woke you up!’ snorted Parsley, hopping from one paw to the other. ‘I’ve just trodden on something sharp!’

‘I expect it was my tin-tacks,’ said Dill carelessly. ‘I sometimes put them down to keep away the wolves.’

‘Wolves?’ Parsley forgot about the pain in his paws and stared at his friend. ‘But there aren’t any wolves in the Herb Garden.’

‘There you are,’ said Dill. ‘That shows how well they work.’

‘It’s no good!’ groaned Parsley. ‘I shall either have to join the Noise Abatement Society or consult my book, and as I haven’t got any application forms to join the Noise Abatement Society on me I think I’d better consult my book.’

Leaving Dill to go back to sleep, Parsley returned to his den and was soon riffling through the pages of his book. Through the ‘needles’ and on past ‘noddles’ until he came to the section headed ‘noises’.

‘“Noises”,’ he read, ‘“are often caused by lawnmowers, constables blowing whistles, Chives singing and owls chirping.”’

He looked up. ‘It’s absolutely right, you know,’ he exclaimed. ‘It couldn’t be more right.

‘“These noises”,’ he read on, ‘“often happen because the people who make them have nothing better to do. Why not try giving them an endurance test!”’

Parsley looked up again. I suppose it’s worth a go, he thought. Or rather he tried to think, above the sound of the lawnmower, the whistles, the singing and the chirps. In fact, he thought, anything’s better than this!

For the next half hour or so Parsley was extremely busy with some paper, a pen and a ruler, and shortly after he had finished the rest of the Herb Garden was brought to life by the sound of the school bell.

Apart from early in the morning when Mr Onion called the Chives to their lessons, it was very rare for the school bell to be rung and everyone knew it must be something very important.

‘Oyez! Oyez!’ called Parsley as he pulled on the rope. ‘Hear ye! Hear ye!

‘Get your entry forms here for the Grand Endurance Test.

‘There will be a prize for whosoever does whatsoever for longer than ever.

‘Oyez! Oyez!’

Bayleaf picked up a form from the pile by Parsley’s side.

‘An endurance test?’ he said. ‘Oh, arrh. I got just the idea for that I ’ave.’ And he hurried off as fast as his legs would carry him.

A moment later his lawnmower burst into life and less than a moment after that he came shooting into view again.

‘I’m going to see how far I can go afore I’m worn out,’ he called as he shot past. ‘I be going to endure going farther and faster than anyone ever ’as afore.

Darned if I don’t reach Australia afore I’ve finished.’

‘Good,’ said Parsley, rubbing his paws together. ‘That’s one less noise to worry about.’

‘An endurance test?’ said Constable Knapweed, copying the particulars from the form into his notebook. ‘Whosoever does whatsoever for longer than ever. Well, now … that’s easy. There’s no problem there.’

Undoing the top pocket of his uniform, he withdrew a whistle and began to blow.

‘Peeeeeeeep!’ he went. ‘Peeeeeeeeeep! Peeeeeeeeeeeeep!’

‘I shall blow my whistle,’ he announced. ‘Peeeeeeeeep … longer … peeeeeeeeeeep … and harder … peeeeeeeeeeep … and more often than anyone ever has before.’

And to show that he meant business he gave his whistle such a hard blow his cheeks puffed out over the strap of his helmet.

But the noise that came out nowhere matched the effort that went into it.

In fact, as whistles go, it was definitely a non-starter, like the gurgling sound that might be made by the waste pipe on a very tiny washbasin.

Constable Knapweed took the whistle from his mouth and examined it carefully. ‘My pea’s gone soggy!’ he exclaimed at last. ‘That’s what’s happened. My pea’s gone soggy!’

‘Marvellous,’ said Parsley. ‘Couldn’t be better. I’ll have it with some chips for dinner tonight. Soggy pea and chips. Nothing nicer!’

Constable Knapweed was about to hold forth on the subject of whistles, peas and lions in general – not to mention Parsley in particular – when the sound of marching feet heralded the arrival of the Chives and Mr Onion.

Mr Onion brought his platoon to a halt in front of Parsley.

‘Now, Chives,’ he shouted, ‘as you all know we are about to enter for the Grand Endurance Test.

‘This endurance test will take the form of singing while on the march. The Chive who can march the furthest and sing the loudest will be the winner and will receive the Grand award. Chiiiives, marching and singing, by numbers, begin … Left … left … left, right, left.’

And the Chives all burst into song.

‘Because we are so many Chives,

And dressed like one another,

It makes it even hard to tell,

A sister from a brother.’

‘Phantasmagorical!’ said Parsley as the sound of their voices died away into the bushes. ‘That’s the only word for it.’

‘An endurance test?’ hooted Sage the owl, jumping down from his nest. ‘Tu whit, tu whoo. There’s no one who can tu whit, tu whistle louder and longer than I can!’

And to show the truth of what he was saying Sage let fly with a shrill whistle. He puffed out his cheeks and he lifted his beak high in the air and he let out such a shriek it looked as if he would fall over at any moment.

‘You’ll burst a blood vessel in one of your feathers if you carry on like that!’ said Parsley. ‘Your beak’s gone a very funny colour.’

‘Nonsense!’ hooted Sage. ‘Tu whit, tu nonsense!’ And he lifted up his head and had a second go.

‘That,’ said Parsley as Sage’s whistle died away in much the same way as Constable Knapweed’s had, ‘is what happens to owls who whistle tu whit, tu much!’

‘What am I going to do?’ hooted Sage. ‘What am I going tu whit, tu do now?’

‘I should take a trip down to the nearest pet shop,’ said Parsley. ‘You often find birds going cheep there. You might be able to buy one and borrow his whistle.’

As Sage hopped on his way Parsley settled down and closed his eyes.

How very peaceful it seemed. No lawnmowers. No whistles being blown. No singing. No owls cheeping. Not a sound to disturb the peace … except …

From somewhere close at hand there was a low rumbling. At least, it was a noise that started off as a low rumble but seemed to end as a kind of sizzling sound.

Parsley sat up and consulted his book.

‘“Low rumbling noises with sizzles at the end”,’ it said, ‘“are usually caused by dogs going in for snoring endurance tests.”’

And once again Parsley’s book was all too right. As he drew nearer and nearer to Dill’s kennel the snores grew louder and louder.

‘Have you come to give me my prize?’ asked Dill when Parsley shook him awake.

‘No, I haven’t,’ growled Parsley.

Dill smacked his lips. ‘I’m quietly confident,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t sound very quiet to me,’ replied Parsley.

‘I’ve been doing it for five minutes already,’ broke in Dill. ‘Do you think I shall win first prize?’

‘No,’ said Parsley. ‘I don’t. But move over … you’ve got some pretty stiff competition coming up. If you ask me my endurance has been tested as much as anyone’s today.’ He gave a large yawn. ‘I’m so tired now I could endure anything. Even your snores. Goodnight!’

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