Copyright

This edition first published in hardback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020 Published in this ebook edition in 2020 Part 1 first published as Parsley the Lion in Great Britain in Young Lions by William Collins Sons and Co. Ltd in 1972 Part 2 first published as Parsley Parade in Great Britain in Armada Lions by William Collins Sons and Co. Ltd in 1972 William Collins Sons and Co. and HarperCollins Children’s Books are divisions of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is www.harpercollins.co.uk Text copyright © Michael Bond 1972, 2020 Cover illustration © Rob Biddulph 2020 Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020 Michael Bond and Rob Biddulph assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780007982974 Ebook Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008422325 Version: 2020-11-06

For Sharon and Peter

– R. B.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PART 1

Chapter One Dill’s Dabbles

Chapter Two Egg Trouble

Chapter Three Parsley’s Endurance Test

Chapter Four Parsley’s Invention

Chapter Five Mr Onion and Self-defence

Chapter Six Dill’s Television

Chapter Seven Parsley’s Car

Chapter Eight Parsley’s Breakdown

Chapter Nine Dill’s Who’s Who Entry

PART 2

Chapter Ten The Sound of the Sea

Chapter Eleven Holiday Time

Chapter Twelve Looking into the Future

Chapter Thirteen Exam Time

Chapter Fourteen Looking for Work

Chapter Fifteen Parsley’s Telegram

Chapter Sixteen Dill’s Stately Kennel

Chapter Seventeen Dill’s Restaurant

Chapter Eighteen Dill’s Pop Group

About the Publisher

One of the nicest things about being a lion called Parsley and living in the Herb Garden is that he is never, ever quite sure what’s going to happen to him next.

The only thing he is completely sure about is the fact that when it does happen his friend, Dill the dog, won’t be far away.

Dill is the kind of dog who always has some surprise or other up his paw; and if it isn’t up his paw it’s just as likely to be hanging from the nearest bush.

For instance, there was the time he held his ‘dabbles’ exhibition.

Being fond of an early morning stroll, Parsley was first on the scene and he stopped in his tracks, hardly able to believe his eyes, as he peered along the path leading between Dill’s kennel and Mr Bayleaf’s greenhouse.

Lining the banks on either side, and stretching away into the distance as far as the eye could see, were pieces of cardboard. There were square pieces, tall pieces, long pieces; some with squiggles on them, some without. There were large ones, small ones, blank ones and black ones. Parsley had never seen anything quite like it before and he blinked several times in order to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.

‘It’s either been raining cardboard,’ he said, addressing the world in general, ‘or else Mr Bayleaf’s had a nasty accident with his dustbin.’ And he was about to set to work clearing things up when a familiar, if slightly muffled, voice made him stop in his tracks.

Parsley looked round and then did a large double-take. The voice was Dill’s. The size and shape of the owner of the voice was definitely Dill-like – short, round, furry and doglike. But there the resemblance ended, for if there was any fur it was safely hidden beneath an enormous brightly coloured smock, and the head – or what little could be seen of it – was encased in a large black beret, which flopped down on either side over both ears, and beneath which hung a loosely knotted cravat.

‘How do you like my ensemble?’ enquired Dill.

‘I don’t know about your ensemble,’ replied Parsley. ‘I’m more worried about the way you’re dressed. What’s going on? And what are all these bits of cardboard everywhere?’

‘Bits of cardboard?’ repeated Dill stiffly. ‘Bits of cardboard? I’ll have you know these “bits of cardboard”, as you call them, happen to be works of art!’

Parsley stared at Dill as if he could hardly believe his ears – which he couldn’t. ‘Works of art?’ he exclaimed. ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve taken up painting?’

Dill lowered his gaze modestly. ‘I dabble a bit,’ he said carelessly. ‘I’m holding a one-dog exhibition of some of my best dabbles at the moment. It’s in aid of National Dog Bone Week.’

‘It looks more like National Rubbish Week to me,’ said Parsley. He peered at a piece of plain white cardboard hanging from a nearby bush. ‘What’s that meant to be, for goodness’ sake?’

Dill followed his gaze and then consulted a large catalogue on the ground by his paws. ‘Number thirty-one,’ he said, riffling through the pages. ‘I’ve called it White Cat in a Snowstorm. Do you like it?’

‘Do I like it?’ repeated Parsley doubtfully. ‘Er … well, yes … and then again … no.’

He stood back and examined it carefully for a moment or two between half-closed eyelids, trying hard to think of something to say.

‘It has length … and breadth … and, er …’

‘It’s for sale,’ broke in Dill hopefully.

‘In that case,’ said Parsley hastily, ‘I definitely don’t like it.’

Dill’s face dropped. ‘I was hoping I might be able to put you down for a dozen or so,’ he announced.

‘A dozen or so?’ repeated Parsley in alarm. ‘I have a job finding room for Christmas cards in my den, let alone paintings.’

‘Well, perhaps a couple, then,’ said Dill. He nodded towards a piece of black card hanging from a bush on the opposite side of the track. ‘That one’s called Black Cat in a Coal Cellar. I can let you have the two as a matching pair for the price of one if you like.’

‘I can let you have a hollow laugh for nothing,’ said Parsley.

‘You wait,’ exclaimed Dill. ‘They used to laugh at Picasso. Give it a while and these’ll be selling like hot cakes.’

‘Hot cakes, maybe,’ began Parsley. ‘But paintings … never!’

‘Shh!’ Dill put a paw to his lips as he caught the sound of footsteps coming along the path. ‘This could be a buyer. Let’s hide and see what happens.’

‘That’s not a buyer,’ said Parsley as a wheelbarrow came into view. He peered through a gap in the shrubbery. ‘That’s Bayleaf!’

Sir Basil’s gardener seemed to be reacting to Dill’s exhibition in much the same way as Parsley had.

He took off his hat and stood for a moment or two scratching his head in disbelief as he took in the scene. Then he went up to the nearest painting and examined it more closely. After that he stood back and began viewing it from all angles, first with his head to one side, then with it on the other. Then he took a tape measure from his pocket and held it up to the frame.

‘Arrh!’ he said at last. ‘Oooh, arrrh! Arrrh, that’s fine, that is. That be just what I need to ’ang in my greenhouse.’

Dill nudged Parsley triumphantly. ‘There you are!’ he cried. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘Wonders will never cease,’ murmured Parsley.

‘I reckon,’ continued Bayleaf to himself, ‘I reckon that’d be just the right size for bunging up that there ’ole behind my begonias. Keep the draught out a treat that would.’

‘Ahem,’ said Parsley as Bayleaf picked up his barrow and went on his way. ‘So much for art.’

‘Typical!’ snorted Dill in disgust. ‘No soul – that’s Bayleaf’s trouble. No appreciation of the finer things in life.’

Parsley turned his attention to another painting further along the row and standing a little apart from the rest. It was large and brown and smeary.

‘I should think your trouble’s lack of paint,’ he exclaimed, sniffing the canvas. ‘What’s all this stuff?’

‘Ah, that was something I did during my gravy period,’ said Dill vaguely. ‘I knocked a jug over by mistake one Sunday lunchtime and when I licked it up that’s what happened!’

Parsley took a closer look at the work in question and then shuddered. ‘It figures,’ he said, hurrying on to the next painting. ‘And what’s this one?’

‘Ah,’ said Dill dreamily. ‘Now you really need to stand back to appreciate that one. That’s my masterpiece. Who does it remind you of?’

Parsley considered the matter for a moment or two.

‘If I said the word “Monet” to you,’ prompted Dill, mentioning the first famous painter he could think of, ‘what would you say?’

‘I’d say your pronunciation wasn’t very good,’ said Parsley. ‘The word I was thinking of was monstrous. How can you?’

‘Oh, it’s quite easy really,’ panted Dill, running round and round in circles. ‘I get some bones and boil them all up to make the gravy. Then I pour it over the canvas, and then …’

‘I know,’ shuddered Parsley. ‘You lick it up …’

‘You may scoff,’ said Dill, ‘but it must be nice to leave something behind when you go. I’d like to think that people will remember me long after the time comes for the big Vet on high to call me to the kennel in the sky.’

Parsley cast his eye along the row of paintings. ‘If you leave things like that behind,’ he said, ‘I should think your wish will be granted. They’ll never forget you.’

‘Ahem,’ said Dill, giving his friend a nudge, ‘I don’t wish to say “I told you so”, but you must admit I did tell you so.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Look over your shoulder. This could be my big breakthrough.’

Parsley followed the direction of Dill’s gaze towards a small group at the far end of the path. It was made up of Sir Basil, Lady Rosemary and Constable Knapweed, and they were peering hard at a large and rather evil-looking head-and-shoulders portrait, which appeared to be hung in a place of honour.

Constable Knapweed in particular seemed most impressed by it and he was holding forth at great length to the others.

His voice floated along the path. ‘Now this is what I call a good picture,’ he announced. ‘When I ’eard what was going on I did ’ave ’alf a mind to speak to young Dill about it, but I take it all back now.’

Dill’s cravat began to tremble with excitement. ‘You see,’ he hissed. ‘What did I tell you? Fame at last!’

Lady Rosemary examined the picture carefully through her lorgnette. ‘It’s certainly most unusual,’ she agreed. ‘Most unusual.’

‘Reminds me of someone,’ said Sir Basil. ‘Can’t think who.’

‘Whoever it is,’ said Constable Knapweed, ‘young Dill’s really captured the full villainy of the person behind the face. Got under the skin as you might say. Look at those shifty eyes. And that chin. He’s a nasty piece of work, all right. I wouldn’t touch ’im with a barge pole – not unless it was in the line of duty as you might say. Shows you the sort of character we in the force are up against. I’d like to buy that and ’ave some copies made so as I could ’ang them up on all the trees in the Herb Garden to act as a warning.’

‘Jolly good idea,’ interrupted Sir Basil. ‘What’s it called, Rosemary?’

Lady Rosemary ran her eyes down the catalogue. ‘Number twenty-four,’ she said. ‘Portrait of Constable Knapweed.’

‘What’s that?’ bellowed Constable Knapweed, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. ‘A portrait of me?’

As if by magic his notebook appeared in one hand, his pencil in the other.

‘Where is he? I’ll throw the book at him! … I’ll ’ave him for painting without a licence! … I’ll ’ave him for leaving litter about unattended! I’ll …’

‘I have a feeling,’ began Parsley, ‘that Constable Knapweed wants you for something!’ But Dill had already disappeared behind the nearest bush.

‘Do you want to buy a genuine Constable painting?’ he called. ‘I know where there’s one going cheap. It hasn’t even been to the cleaner’s yet. The paint’s still wet.’

Constable Knapweed tapped Parsley on his mane. ‘Where is he? Which way did he go?’ he demanded.

Parsley did an imitation of Dill and turned round and round several times quickly before replying. ‘Er … I’m not quite sure,’ he answered truthfully, for by then he was feeling so giddy one bush looked very like another. He looked to his right. ‘It may have been that way. On the other hand –’ he looked to his left – ‘it may have been that way.’

‘Well, whichever way it was,’ growled Constable Knapweed, ‘I’ll ’ave him. Make no mistake. I’ll ’ave him before the day’s out.’

As Constable Knapweed hurried on his way the leaves on a nearby bush parted and Dill poked his head out. ‘Has he gone?’ he asked. ‘I say, do you think you could put me up in your den for a day or two? Just until all the fuss dies down. I’ll paint your portrait for nothing if you’ll let me.’

Parsley looked at him disbelievingly. ‘Let you paint my portrait?’ he exclaimed. ‘After all that’s happened? You must be joking.’

‘Don’t move,’ called Dill as Parsley made to leave. ‘Stay exactly as you are.’

Parsley paused, interested in spite of himself. ‘Why?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, nothing really,’ said Dill. ‘It’s just that it’s difficult finding faces of real character these days. That firm jaw … that forehead … those cheekbones … The light was catching you in a certain way and for a moment I thought perhaps … but never mind …’

Parsley looked round at all the paintings and then gave a deep sigh. Somehow, with Dill, even when he knew he was letting himself in for something he still managed to let himself in for it, despite all the warning voices.

‘Come on,’ he called. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Dill needed no second bidding. ‘I’ll just get my brushes and my palette and my easel,’ he called as he rushed on ahead. ‘And while I’m doing all that …’

‘I know,’ said Parsley resignedly. ‘I’ll put the gravy on to boil!’

One morning, soon after Dill’s painting exhibition, Parsley was having a quiet doze in the Herb Garden when he was wakened by a loud thud.

When he opened his eyes he found a small, round object by his side.

‘That’s very strange,’ he said, looking up at the sky. ‘There was nothing in the weather forecast this morning about gale-force eggs!’

In the end he decided to go and see his friend Dill about the matter and, picking the egg up carefully in his mouth, he made his way towards Dill’s kennel.

‘Knock! Knock!’ he called as he stood outside the door.

‘Who’s there?’ came an answering voice.

‘It’s me,’ said Parsley.

The door opened and Dill stood there rubbing his eyes.

‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ said Parsley.

‘That’s all right,’ said Dill. ‘I had to get up anyway. There was somebody at the door. What’s the trouble?’

Parsley laid the egg on Dill’s doorstep. ‘That!’ he said simply. ‘What have you got to say about that?’

Dill peered at the object from several angles. ‘Yums,’ he said at last.

‘Is that all?’ asked Parsley.

‘Well,’ said Dill, ‘I mean, it’s obviously an egg of some kind. And once you’ve seen one you’ve seen the lot. I mean, what can you say about an egg?’

‘I was hoping for something better than “yums”,’ said Parsley.

‘All right, then,’ said Dill. He took a deep breath and put on his best reciting voice. ‘Eggs come in many sizes and colours. They can be fried, boiled, poached, scrambled, dropped—’

‘And they can be thrown,’ broke in Parsley meaningly. ‘Thanks for your help. I don’t know what I would have done without it.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Dill as he closed his door. ‘Give me a shout when it’s cooked,’ he called. ‘I’ll come and help you eat it.’

‘Dogs!’ exclaimed Parsley, addressing the letter box. ‘I shall take my problem elsewhere.’

So he took it to Aunt Mint.

Aunt Mint laid down her knitting and peered at the object through her glasses.

‘What a strange-looking egg,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a perfectly round egg before. I shall knit it a cosy. That’s what I shall do. Knit it a nice, round cosy.’

Parsley’s next visit was to Pashana Bedhi, the chef who lived at the back of the Herb Garden and who knew about most things.

Pashana Bedhi was standing by the path stirring his lunch with a long silver spoon when Parsley arrived.

Taking the spoon out of the pot, he tried tapping it on the egg, but it seemed to do more harm to the spoon than the egg.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘this is a very hard egg. A very hard egg indeed. In all my years of cooking I have never come across anything as hard as this egg. If you are trying to crack this egg, I should be very careful of your spoon, otherwise it may end up like mine!’

Next Parsley tried Mr Onion.

Mr Onion was the schoolmaster and Parsley felt sure he would know all there was to know about eggs, but as it turned out Mr Onion was no more help than the others.

‘This egg,’ he said, holding it up to the light, ‘is round and covered all over with small spots. It is obviously the egg of the lesser-spotted whatjemecallit. A bird noted for the fact that it lays round eggs … er … covered all over with small spots.’

‘Isn’t it amazing,’ said Parsley as Mr Onion went on his way. ‘You’d think if people didn’t know the answer to something they’d say so.

‘I mean –’ he took a closer look at the object – ‘anyone can see it’s an egg and it’s got spots.’

He placed it on the ground and tried jumping on it. ‘Ow! And you only have to jump on it to see that it’s hard.’

Parsley tried looking for Constable Knapweed, but he was out on his rounds; and Mr Bayleaf, the gardener, was much too busy with his vegetable patch to bother about such trifling matters as eggs. Even Sir Basil and Lady Rosemary were nowhere to be seen, so Parsley decided to do what he knew he ought to have done in the first place – consult his book.

Parsley had the most marvellous book. Within its covers it had everything about everything, and he was soon flipping through the pages. Past A for ’orses,* through the Bs and Cs and the Ds … past G for goodness’ sake** and – at last – back a page or two, he peered at the entry under E for eggs.

‘If you want to find out more about an egg,’ it said, ‘why not try hatching it and see what comes out!’

‘What a masterly plan!’ exclaimed Parsley, gazing at the page in admiration.

‘I suppose I could try sitting on it …’ He lowered himself gently on to the egg. It was very uncomfortable. ‘On the other hand …’ He gazed upwards and as he did so a slow smile came over his face. ‘On the other hand, it’s really much more of a job for an owl.’

‘What’s that?’ called Sage the owl as he hopped down beside Parsley. ‘What did you tu whit, tu say?’

Parsley pointed to the object at his feet. ‘I was about to say,’ he continued, ‘that you have been selected from thousands of applicants for the honour of hatching this most unusual egg.’

‘Tu whit, tu whoooo!’ hooted Sage excitedly. ‘How many applicants did you say?’

‘Well, er … two or three …’ said Parsley.

‘Tu whit, tu or three,’ hooted Sage disappointedly.

‘Look,’ said Parsley impatiently, ‘you’re the only bird we’ve got. If you’re going to be difficult … Besides, one egg’s not going to hurt you …’

‘I shouldn’t speak too soon,’ said Dill, hurrying on to the scene. ‘Look!’ And he laid a second egg alongside the first one. ‘And there are plenty more where this one came from. Come and have a look.’

‘Two eggs?’ hooted Sage. ‘Tu whit, tu whoo eggs?’

Parsley gazed after Dill, who had just disappeared behind a bush. ‘Er, I have to go and see a dog about some eggs,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be long …’

‘Here you are,’ said Dill when Parsley joined him. He nodded towards a small pile of eggs he’d collected, all exactly the same as each other. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Parsley. ‘They either belong to a very tall bird or it’s been raining eggs. That’s six!’

‘Fore!’ said a voice from behind him.

‘Six,’ said Parsley. ‘There are four here and I had two. Four and two is six.’

‘I didn’t say anything!’ exclaimed Dill. ‘Don’t grumble at me.’

As he spoke there was a plop and yet another ‘egg’ landed on the ground beside them.

‘Heavens above!’ cried Parsley. ‘That makes seven!’

‘Fore!’ said the voice behind him again.

‘Look,’ said Parsley impatiently. ‘You’ve got four on the brain. It’s about time you went back to school. Five and two is seven.’

‘I haven’t even opened my mouth,’ wailed Dill.

‘Well, someone did,’ said Parsley.

‘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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