JUST SO STORIES

By Rudyard Kipling

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

HOW THE WHALE GOT HIS THROAT
HOW THE CAMEL GOT HIS HUMP
HOW THE RHINOCEROS GOT HIS SKIN
HOW THE LEOPARD GOT HIS SPOTS
THE ELEPHANT'S CHILD
THE SING-SONG OF OLD MAN KANGAROO
THE BEGINNING OF THE ARMADILLOS
HOW THE FIRST LETTER WAS WRITTEN
HOW THE ALPHABET WAS MADE
THE CRAB THAT PLAYED WITH THE SEA
THE CAT THAT WALKED BY HIMSELF
THE BUTTERFLY THAT STAMPED

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HOW THE WHALE GOT HIS THROAT

Once upon a time, in the sea, O my Best Beloved, there lived a Whale who ate fish. He ate the starfish and the garfish, the crab and the dab, the plaice and the dace, the skate and his mate, the mackerel and the pickerel, and the truly twisty, curly eel. Every fish he could find in the whole sea, he swallowed with his enormous mouth—just like that! At last only one small fish remained in the entire ocean: a clever little fish known as the 'Stute Fish (short for astute, meaning sharp and quick-witted). He swam just behind the Whale's right ear, staying close enough to be safe but far enough to avoid danger.

Then the Whale rose up on his tail and announced, "I'm hungry."

The small 'Stute Fish answered in his clever little voice, "Noble and generous Cetacean" (that's a fancy word for a sea mammal like a whale), "have you ever tasted Man?"

"No," said the Whale. "What's he like?"

"Delicious," said the 'Stute Fish. "Delicious, but a bit lumpy going down."

"Then bring me some," said the Whale, churning the sea to froth with his tail.

"One at a time is plenty," said the 'Stute Fish. "If you swim to latitude Fifty North, longitude Forty West—that's a kind of magic direction—you'll find a shipwrecked sailor sitting on a raft in the middle of the sea. He'll be wearing nothing but blue canvas trousers, a pair of suspenders (don't forget the suspenders, Best Beloved!), and carrying a jack-knife. And I should warn you: he is a man of endless cleverness and good sense."

So the Whale swam and swam as fast as he could to latitude Fifty North, longitude Forty West. And there, on a raft in the middle of the sea, wearing nothing but blue canvas trousers, suspenders (remember those suspenders!), and holding a jack-knife, sat one solitary shipwrecked sailor, dangling his toes in the water. His mother had given him permission to paddle there—otherwise he never would have gone, since he was, after all, a man of endless cleverness and good sense.

The Whale opened his mouth wider and wider, until it nearly touched his own tail, and swallowed the sailor whole—raft, canvas trousers, suspenders, and jack-knife all together—down into his warm, dark inner chambers. Then he smacked his lips and spun around three times on his tail in satisfaction.

But the moment the clever sailor found himself inside the Whale's warm, dark belly, he began to thrash about wildly. He stomped and jumped, thumped and bumped, pranced and danced, banged and clanged, bit and kicked, crawled and howled, hopped and dropped, cried and sighed—he even danced jigs where no dancing belonged. The Whale grew thoroughly miserable. (Have you forgotten the suspenders?)

So he said to the 'Stute Fish, "This man is far too lumpy, and now he's giving me hiccups. What should I do?"

"Tell him to come out," said the 'Stute Fish.

So the Whale called down his own throat, "Come out and behave yourself! You've given me the hiccups!"

"No, indeed!" replied the sailor. "Not unless you carry me home to my native shore, to the white cliffs of England. Then I'll think it over." And he danced harder than ever.

"You'd better take him home," the 'Stute Fish told the Whale. "I should have mentioned—he's a man of endless cleverness and good sense."

So the Whale swam and swam and swam, using both flippers and his tail, hiccupping the entire way, until at last he spotted the sailor's homeland and its white cliffs. He rushed halfway up the beach, opened his mouth wide, and announced, "Change here for Winchester, Ashuelot, Nashua, Keene, and all stations on the Fitchburg line!"—and just as he said "Fitch," the sailor stepped calmly out of his mouth.

But during the long swim, the clever sailor had been busy. Using his jack-knife, he'd cut the raft into a small square grate, crisscrossed like a lattice, and tied it firmly together with his suspenders (now you understand why you couldn't forget them!). He wedged this grate deep into the Whale's throat, where it stuck fast. Then he recited this little rhyme:

By means of a grating
I have stopped your eating.

The sailor—who happened to be of Irish descent, hence the pun—stepped out onto the shingle beach and walked home to his mother, who had given him leave to paddle. He married and lived happily ever after. So did the Whale, in his own way. But from that day forward, the grate stuck in his throat—one he could neither cough up nor swallow down—and it allowed him to eat nothing larger than very small fish. That is why whales, to this day, never eat men, boys, or little girls.

The small 'Stute Fish swam off and hid himself in the mud beneath the equator, fearing the Whale might hold a grudge against him.

The sailor kept the jack-knife and carried it home. He was still wearing his blue canvas trousers when he stepped onto the beach. But the suspenders stayed behind, tying the grate in place—and that's the end of that story.

When the cabin portholes glow dark and green
Because of the seas outside;
When the ship goes wop (with a wiggle between)
And the steward tumbles into the soup tureen,
And the trunks begin to slide;
When Nursey lies crumpled on the floor,
And Mummy says, "Let her sleep some more,"
And no one's washed you or dressed you yet,
Well then you'll know, if you haven't guessed—
You're "Fifty North and Forty West!"

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HOW THE CAMEL GOT HIS HUMP

Now here's the next tale—the story of how the Camel got his large hump.

Long ago, when the world was still new, and the Animals had just begun working for Man, there lived a Camel out in the middle of a Howling Desert. He lived there because he refused to work, and besides, he was quite a howler himself. He ate sticks, thorns, tamarisk branches, milkweed, and prickly plants, living a life of complete and torturous idleness. Whenever anyone spoke to him, all he said was "Humph!"—just that, and nothing more.

On Monday morning, the Horse came to him, wearing a saddle and bit, and said, "Camel, O Camel, come out and trot like the rest of us."

"Humph!" said the Camel, and the Horse went off to report this to the Man.

Next the Dog came along, carrying a stick in his mouth, and said, "Camel, O Camel, come fetch and carry like the rest of us."

"Humph!" said the Camel, and the Dog went off to tell the Man.

Then the Ox arrived, yoke around his neck, and said, "Camel, O Camel, come plow like the rest of us."

"Humph!" said the Camel, and the Ox went off to tell the Man.

At day's end, the Man gathered the Horse, the Dog, and the Ox together and said, "I'm sorry for you three—especially with the world still so new—but that stubborn 'Humph' creature out in the desert clearly won't work, or he'd be here by now. I'm going to leave him be, but you three will have to work double to make up for it."

This made the three animals furious. They held a palaver, an indaba, a punchayet, and a pow-wow—all different words from different cultures meaning basically the same thing: a serious meeting to discuss a problem. They gathered at the edge of the desert, and the Camel wandered over, chewing milkweed in his usual maddening idleness, and laughed at them. Then he said "Humph!" and wandered off again.

Just then, along came the Djinn—a kind of powerful magical spirit—in charge of all deserts, rolling in on a cloud of dust (Djinns always travel this way; it's part of their magic). He stopped to discuss matters with the three animals.

"Djinn of All Deserts," said the Horse, "is it right for anyone to be idle, with the world still so new?"

"Certainly not," said the Djinn.

"Well," said the Horse, "there's a creature out in the middle of your Howling Desert—and he's quite a howler himself—with a long neck and long legs, who hasn't done a single stroke of work since Monday morning. He won't trot."

"Whew!" whistled the Djinn. "That's my Camel, sure as gold in Arabia! What does he say about all this?"

"He just says 'Humph!'" said the Dog. "And he won't fetch or carry."

"Does he say anything else?"

"Only 'Humph!' And he won't plow," said the Ox.

"Very well," said the Djinn. "I'll humph him properly, if you'll just wait a moment."

Wrapping himself in his dust-cloak, the Djinn took his bearings across the desert and found the Camel, lazy as ever, admiring his own reflection in a pool of water.

"My tall and windy friend," said the Djinn, "what's this I hear about you refusing to work, with the world still so new?"

"Humph!" said the Camel.

The Djinn sat down, chin resting in his hand, and began thinking up a powerful piece of magic, while the Camel kept gazing at his reflection.

"You've made the other three do extra work since Monday morning, all because of your maddening laziness," said the Djinn, still thinking