The old parrot had grown very tired of the Indians and she made no secret of it.

“The very idea,” she said to me one day as we were walking on the seashore—­“the idea of the famous John Dolittle spending his valuable life waiting on these greasy natives!—­Why, it’s preposterous!”

All that morning we had been watching the Doctor superintend the building of the new theatre in Popsipetel—­there was already an opera-house and a concert-hall; and finally she had got so grouchy and annoyed at the sight that I had suggested her taking a walk with me.

“Do you really think,” I asked as we sat down on the sands, “that he will never go back to Puddleby again?”

“I don’t know,” said she.  “At one time I felt sure that the thought of the pets he had left behind at the house would take him home soon.  But since Miranda brought him word last August that everything was all right there, that hope’s gone.  For months and months I’ve been racking my brains to think up a plan.  If we could only hit upon something that would turn his thoughts back to natural history again—­ I mean something big enough to get him really excited—­we might manage it.  But how?”—­she shrugged her shoulders in disgust—­“How?—­when all he thinks of now is paving streets and teaching papooses that twice one are two!”

It was a perfect Popsipetel day, bright and hot, blue and yellow.  Drowsily I looked out to sea thinking of my mother and father.  I wondered if they were getting anxious over my long absence.  Beside me old Polynesia went on grumbling away in low steady tones; and her words began to mingle and mix with the gentle lapping of the waves upon the shore.  It may have been the even murmur of her voice, helped by the soft and balmy air, that lulled me to sleep.  I don’t know.  Anyhow I presently dreamed that the island had moved again—­ not floatingly as before, but suddenly, jerkily, as though something enormously powerful had heaved it up from its bed just once and let it down.

How long I slept after that I have no idea.  I was awakened by a gentle pecking on the nose.

“Tommy!—­Tommy!” (it was Polynesia’s voice) “Wake up!—­Gosh, what a boy, to sleep through an earthquake and never notice it!—­Tommy, listen:  here’s our chance now.  Wake up, for goodness’ sake!”

“What’s the matter?” I asked sitting up with a yawn.

“Sh!—­Look!” whispered Polynesia pointing out to sea.

Still only half awake, I stared before me with bleary, sleep-laden eyes.  And in the shallow water, not more than thirty yards from shore I saw an enormous pale pink shell.  Dome-shaped, it towered up in a graceful rainbow curve to a tremendous height; and round its base the surf broke gently in little waves of white.  It could have belonged to the wildest dream.

“What in the world is it?” I asked.