“It’s all very well to spend time in Expectations,” he thought, “but talking to that strange man all day would certainly get me nowhere. He’s the most peculiar person I’ve ever met,” continued Milo—unaware of how many peculiar people he would shortly encounter.
As he drove along the peaceful highway he soon fell to daydreaming and paid less and less attention to where he was going. In a short time he wasn’t paying any attention at all, and that is why, at a fork in the road, when a sign pointed to the left, Milo went to the right, along a route which looked suspiciously like the wrong way.
Things began to change as soon as he left the main highway. The sky became quite gray and, along with it, the whole countryside seemed to lose its color and assume the same monotonous tone. Everything was quiet, and even the air hung heavily. The birds sang only gray songs and the road wound back and forth in an endless series of climbing curves.
Mile after
mile after
mile after
mile he drove, and now, gradually, the car went slower and slower, until it was hardly moving at all.
“It looks as though I’m getting nowhere,” yawned Milo, becoming very drowsy and dull. “I hope I haven’t taken a wrong turn.”
Mile after
mile after
mile after
mile, and everything became grayer and more monotonous. Finally the car just stopped altogether, and, hard as he tried, it wouldn’t budge another inch.
“I wonder where I am,” said Milo in a very worried tone.
“You’re … in … the … Dol … drums,” wailed a voice that sounded far away.
He looked around quickly to see who had spoken. No one was there, and it was as quiet and still as one could imagine.
“Yes … the … Dol … drums,” yawned another voice, but still he saw no one.
“WHAT ARE THE DOLDRUMS?” he cried loudly, and tried very hard to see who would answer this time.
“The Doldrums, my young friend, are where nothing ever happens and nothing ever changes.”
This time the voice came from so close that Milo jumped with surprise, for. sitting on his right shoulder, so lightly that he hardly noticed, was a small creature exactly the color of his shirt.
“Allow me to introduce all of us,” the creature went on. “We are the Lethargarians, at your service.”
Milo looked around and, for the first time, noticed dozens of them—sitting on the car, standing in the road, and lying all over the trees and bushes. They were very difficult to see, because whatever they happened to be sitting on or near was exactly the color they happened to be. Each one looked very much like the other (except for the color, of course) and some looked even more like each other than they did like themselves.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” said Milo, not sure whether or not he was pleased at all. “I think I’m lost. Can you help me please?”
“Don’t say ‘think,’ ” said one sitting on his shoe, for the one on his shoulder had fallen asleep. “It’s against the law.” And he yawned and fell off to sleep, too.
“No one’s allowed to think in the Doldrums,” continued a third, beginning to doze off. And as each one spoke, he fell off to sleep and another picked up the conversation with hardly any interruption.
“Don’t you have a rule book? It’s local ordinance 175389-J.”
Milo quickly pulled the rule book from his pocket, opened to the page, and read, “Ordinance 175389-J: It shall be unlawful, illegal, and unethical to think, think of thinking, surmise, presume, reason, meditate, or speculate while in the Doldrums. Anyone breaking this law shall be severely punished!”
“That’s a ridiculous law,” said Milo, quite indignantly. “Everybody thinks.”
“We don’t,” shouted the Lethargarians all at once.
“And most of the time
“RUN!”
“WAKE UP!”
“RUN!”
“HERE HE COMES!”
“THE WATCHDOG!”
Great shouts filled the air as the Lethargarians scattered in all directions and soon disappeared entirely.
“R-R-R-G-H-R-O-R-R-H-F-F,” exclaimed the watchdog as he dashed up to the car, loudly puffing and panting.
Milo’s eyes opened wide, for there in front of him was a large dog with a perfectly normal head, four feet, and a tail—and the body of a loudly ticking alarm clock.
“What are you doing here?” growled the watchdog.
“Just killing time,” replied Milo apologetically. “You see——”
“KILLING TIME!” roared the dog—so furiously that his alarm went off. “It’s bad enough wasting time without killing it.” And he shuddered at the thought. “Why are you in the Doldrums anyway—don’t you have anywhere to go?”
“I was on my way to Dictionopolis when I got stuck here,” explained Milo. “Can you help me?”
“Help you! You must help yourself,” the dog replied, carefully winding himself with his left hind leg. “I suppose you know why you got stuck.”
“I guess I just wasn’t thinking,” said Milo.
“PRECISELY,” shouted the dog as his alarm went off again. “Now you know what you must do.”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” admitted Milo, feeling quite stupid.
“Well,” continued the watchdog impatiently, “since you got here by not thinking, it seems reasonable to expect that, in order to get out, you must start thinking.” And with that he hopped into the car.
“Do you mind if I get in? I love automobile rides.”
Milo began to think as hard as he could (which was very difficult, since he wasn’t used to it). He thought of birds that swim and fish that fly. He thought of yesterday’s lunch and tomorrow’s dinner. He thought of words that began with J and numbers that end in 3. And, as he thought, the wheels began to turn.
“We’re moving, we’re moving,” he shouted happily.
“Keep thinking,” scolded the watchdog.
The little car started to go faster and faster as Milo’s brain whirled with activity, and down the road they went. In a few moments they were out of the Doldrums and back on the main highway. All the colors had returned to their original brightness, and as they raced along the road Milo continued to think of all sorts of things; of the many detours and wrong turns that were so easy to take, of how fine it was to be moving along, and, most of all, of how much could be accomplished with just a little thought. And the dog, his nose in the wind, just sat back, watchfully ticking.
3. Welcome to Dictionopolis
“You must excuse my gruff conduct,” the watchdog said, after they’d been driving for some time, “but you see it’s traditional for watchdogs to be ferocious …”
Milo was so relieved at having escaped the Doldrums that he assured the dog that he bore him no ill will and, in fact, was very grateful for the assistance.
“Splendid,” shouted the watchdog. “I’m very pleased—I’m sure we’ll be great friends for the rest of the trip. You may call me Tock.”
“That is a strange name for a dog who goes tickticktickticktick all day,” said Milo. “Why didn’t they call you——”
“Don’t say it,” gasped the dog, and Milo could see a tear well up in his eye.
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” said Milo, not meaning to hurt his feelings.
“That’s all right,” said the dog, getting hold of himself. “It’s an old story and a sad one, but I can tell it to you now.
“When my brother was born, the first pup in the family, my parents were overjoyed and immediately named him Tick in expectation of the sound they were sure he’d make. On first winding him, they discovered to their horror that, instead of going tickticktickticktick, he went tocktocktocktocktocktock. They rushed to the Hall of Records to change the name, but too late. It had already been officially inscribed, and nothing could be done. When I arrived, they were determined not to make the same mistake twice and, since it seemed logical that all their children would make the same sound, they named me Tock. Of course, you know the rest—my brother is called Tick because he goes tocktocktocktocktocktocktock and I am called Tock because I go tickticktickticktickticktick and both of us are forever burdened with the wrong names. My parents were so overwrought that they gave up having any more children and devoted their lives to doing good work among the poor and hungry.”
“But how did you become a watchdog?” interjected Milo, hoping to change the subject, as Tock was sobbing quite loudly now.
“That,” he said, rubbing a paw in his eye, “is also traditional. My family have always been watchdogs—from father to son, almost since time began.
“You see,” he continued, beginning to feel better, “once there was no time at all, and people found it very inconvenient. They never knew whether they were eating lunch or dinner, and they were always missing trains. So time was invented to help them keep track of the day and get places when they should. When they began to count all the time that was available, what with 60 seconds in a minute and 60 minutes in an hour and 24 hours in a day and 365 days in a year, it seemed as if there was much more than could ever be used. ‘If there’s so much of it, it couldn’t be very valuable,’ was the general opinion, and it soon fell into disrepute. People wasted it and even gave it away. Then we were given the job of seeing that no one wasted time again,” he said, sitting up proudly. “It’s hard work but a noble calling. For you see”—and now he was standing on the seat, one foot on the windshield, shouting with his arms outstretched—“it is our most valuable possession, more precious than diamonds. It marches on, it and tide wait for no man, and——”
At that point in the speech the car hit a bump in the road and the watchdog collapsed in a heap on the front seat with his alarm again ringing furiously.
“Are you all right?” shouted Milo.
“Umphh,” grunted Tock. “Sorry to get carried away, but I think you get the point.”
As they drove along, Tock continued to explain the importance of time, quoting the old philosophers and poets and illustrating each point with gestures that brought him perilously close to tumbling headlong from the speeding automobile.
Before long they saw in the distance the towers and flags of Dictionopolis sparkling in the sunshine, and in a few moments they reached the great wall and stood at the gateway to the city.
“A-H-H-H-R-R-E-M-M,” roared the gateman, clearing his throat and snapping smartly to attention. “This is Dictionopolis, a happy kingdom, advantageously located in the Foothills of Confusion and caressed by gentle breezes from the Sea of Knowledge. Today, by royal proclamation, is market day. Have you come to buy or sell?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Milo.
“Buy or sell, buy or sell,” repeated the gateman impatiently. “Which is it? You must have come here for some reason.”
“Well, I——” Milo began.
“Come now, if you don’t have a reason, you must at least have an explanation or certainly an excuse,” interrupted the gateman.
Milo shook his head.
“Very serious, very serious,” the gateman said, shaking his head also. “You can’t get in without a reason.” He thought for a moment and then continued. “Wait a minute; maybe I have an old one you can use.”
He took a battered suitcase from the gatehouse and began to rummage busily through it, mumbling to himself, “No … no … no … this won’t do … no … h-m-m-m … ah, this is fine,” he cried triumphantly, holding up a small medallion on a chain. He dusted it off, and engraved on one side were the words “WHY NOT?”
“That’s a good reason for almost anything—a bit used perhaps, but still quite serviceable.” And with that he placed it around Milo’s neck, pushed back the heavy iron gate, bowed low, and motioned them into the city.
“I wonder what the market will be like,” thought Milo as they drove through the gate; but before there was time for an answer they had driven into an immense square crowded with long lines of stalls heaped with merchandise and decorated in gay-colored bunting. Overhead a large banner proclaimed:
“WELCOME TO THE WORD MARKET”
And, from across the square, five very tall, thin gentlemen regally dressed in silks and satins, plumed hats, and buckled shoes rushed up to the car, stopped short, mopped five brows, caught five breaths, unrolled five parchments, and began talking in turn.