Contents
Dick Whittington and His Cat
St Ives
A Hand in the Bird
The Tortoise and the Hare
The Price of Debauchery
Physical Training
The Emperor’s New Clothes
A Little Nut-Tree
The Dentist and the Crocodile
Hot and Cold
Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
Hey Diddle Diddle
Mary, Mary
Hansel and Gretel
Aladdin and the Magic Lamp
ABOUT ROALD DAHL AND QUENTIN BLAKE
Roald Dahl was born in 1916 in Wales of Norwegian parents. He was educated in England before starting work for the Shell Oil Company in Africa. He began writing after a ‘monumental bash on the head’ sustained as an RAF fighter pilot during the Second World War. Roald Dahl is one of the most successful and well known of all children’s writers. His books, which are read by children the world over, include James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Magic Finger, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, Fantastic Mr Fox, Matilda, The Twits, The BFG and The Witches, winner of the 1983 Whitbread Award. Roald Dahl died in 1990 at the age of seventy-four.
Quentin Blake was born in the suburbs of London in 1932. He read English at Cambridge, and did a postgraduate certificate in education at London University. From 1949 he worked as a cartoonist for many magazines, most notably The Spectator and Punch. He moved into children’s book illustration where his inimitable style has won him enormous acclaim. Alongside this he has pursued a teaching career: he was head of the illustration department at the Royal College of Art and is now an Honorary Professor. In 1999 Quentin Blake was chosen to be the first Children’s Laureate, and in 2005 he was awarded the CBE for services to children’s literature.
Books by Roald Dahl
THE BFG
BOY: TALES OF CHILDHOOD
CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY
CHARLIE AND THE GREAT GLASS ELEVATOR
DANNY THE CHAMPION OF THE WORLD
GEORGE’S MARVELLOUS MEDICINE
GOING SOLO
JAMES AND THE GIANT PEACH
MATILDA
THE WITCHES
For younger readers
THE ENORMOUS CROCODILE
ESIO TROT
FANTASTIC MR FOX
THE GIRAFFE AND THE PELLY AND ME
THE MAGIC FINGER
THE TWITS
Picture books
DIRTY BEASTS (with Quentin Blake)
THE ENORMOUS CROCODILE (with Quentin Blake)
THE GIRAFFE AND THE PELLY AND ME (with Quentin Blake)
THE MINPINS (with Patrick Benson)
REVOLTING RHYMES (with Quentin Blake)
Plays
THE BFG: PLAYS FOR CHILDREN (Adapted by David Wood)
CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY: A PLAY (Adapted by Richard George)
DANNY THE CHAMPION OF THE WORLD: PLAYS FOR CHILDREN (Adapted by David Wood)
FANTASTIC MR FOX: A PLAY (Adapted by Sally Reid)
JAMES AND THE GIANT PEACH: A PLAY (Adapted by Richard George)
THE TWITS: PLAYS FOR CHILDREN (Adapted by David Wood)
THE WITCHES: PLAYS FOR CHILDREN (Adapted by David Wood)
Teenage fiction
THE GREAT AUTOMATIC GRAMMATIZATOR AND OTHER STORIES
RHYME STEW
SKIN AND OTHER STORIES
THE VICAR OF NIBBLESWICKE
THE WONDERFUL STORY OF HENRY SUGAR AND SIX MORE
Collections
THE ROALD DAHL TREASURY
SONGS AND VERSE
For Liccy
Dick Whittington and His Cat
Dick Whittington had oft been told
That London’s streets were paved with gold.
“We’d better have a look at that,”
He murmured to his faithful cat.
And finally they made it there
And finished up in Berkeley Square.
So far so good, but Dicky knew
That he must find some work to do.
Imagine, if you can, his joy
At being made the pantry-boy
To Lord and Lady Hellespont!
What more could any young lad want?
His Lordship’s house was huge and warm,
Each footman wore a uniform,
Rich carpets lay on all the floors,
And big brass door-knobs on the doors.
Why, Whittington had never seen
A house so marvellously clean,
Although, regrettably, his cat
Soon did some things to alter that.
His Lordship kicked the cat so hard
It landed in a neighbour’s yard,
But still each morning on the floor
It did what it had done before.
His Lordship shouted, “Fetch my gun!
I’ll nail the blighter on the run!
Call up the beaters! Flush him out!
I know he’s somewhere hereabout!”
It is a fact that wealthy men
They shoot at partridge, pheasant, grouse,
Though not so much inside the house.
But now His Lordship stalks the brute
With gun in hand, prepared to shoot.
He crouches down behind a chair.
Ah-ha! What’s moving over there?
Of course the poor sap couldn’t know
His wife was on the portico,
Locked in a passionate embrace
With second footman, Albert Grace.
The gun goes off, bang-bang, boom-boom!
The noise explodes around the room.
You should have seen the lady jump
As grapeshot struck her in the rump,
And in the kitchen, washing up,
Dick jumps and breaks a precious cup.
This is a crime no decent cook
Could bring herself to overlook.
This cook, a brawny powerful wench,
Put Whittington across the bench
And systematically began
To beat him with a frying-pan
Which she had very quickly got
From off the stove, all sizzling hot.
Poor Whittington, his rump aflame,
At last escapes the fearsome dame
And runs outside across the street,
Clutching his steaming smoking seat.
The cat, now very frightened, said,
“Let’s beat it quick before we’re dead.”
At that point, with an angry shout
Her Ladyship comes flying out.
(Although indeed she had been shot,
It wasn’t in a vital spot.)
She yells, “I’m on the run as well!
Old Hellespont can go to hell!”
Just then, a peal of bells rings out.
Each bell begins to sing and shout,
And Dick could quite distinctly hear
A message coming through the air.
He actually could hear his name!
He heard the Bells of Bow proclaim –
Turn again, Whittington,
Thou worthy citizen,
Turn again, Whittington,
Lord Mayor of London!
“Lord Mayor of London!” cries the cat.
“I’ve never heard such rot as that!”
Her Ladyship butts in and yells,
“The cat is right! That’s not the bells!
Bow church has got a crazy vicar,
A famous and fantastic tricker,
A disco king, a hi-fi buff,
A whizz on electronic stuff.
He’s rigged up speakers in the steeple
To fool dim-witted c
ountry people.
Listen, you poor misguided youth,
In London no one tells the truth!”
She looks at Dick. Dick looks at her.
She smiles and says, “My dear sir,
I must say I prefer your face
To second footman, Albert Grace.
I think we’d make a nifty team,
With me the strawberries, you the cream.”
The cat cries, “Dick, you do not want
To fool with Lady Hellespont!
These females from the upper-classes
Spend their lives in making passes!”
At this point, with a mighty roar,
Lord Hellespont bursts through the door.
He sees his wife. He lifts his gun.
The lady screams and starts to run.
Once more, with a colossal thump,
The grapeshot strikes her in the rump.
“Oh gosh!” Dick cries. “I do declare
That no one’s bum seems safe in here!”
The furious red-faced lady stands
Clutching her bottom in her hands,
And shouts, “You quite deliberately
Pointed that filthy gun at me!”
He cries, “I aimed it at the cat.”
The lady shouts, “The cat my hat!
You don’t think I’m believing that!”
“Oh yes, you must!” His Lordship cries,
Blinking his crafty boozy eyes.
“I simply cannot be to blame
Because all cats look much the same.”
The cat cried, “That’s a vicious slur!
How dare you say I look like her!”
Now Whittington pulls out his sword
Shouting, “Gadzooks! Hooray! There passes
One member of the upper-classes!”
Her Ladyship leaps high with joy
And cries, “Well done, my scrumptious boy!
The old goat’s clobbered once for all!
Now you and I can have a ball!”
The cat shouts, “Dick, do not succumb
To blandishments from that old crumb!
And by the way, the man who told
That London’s streets were paved with gold
Was telling dreadful porky-pies.”
(That’s cockney rhyming-slang for lies.)
The cat went on, “To me it seems
These streets are paved with rotten dreams.
Come home, my boy, without more fuss.
This lousy town’s no place for us.”
Dick says, “You’re right,” then sighs and mumbles,
“Well well, that’s how the cookie crumbles.”
St Ives
As I was going to St Ives
I met a man with seven wives.
Said he, “I think it’s much more fun
Than getting stuck with only one.”
A Hand in the Bird
I’m a maiden who is forty,
And a maiden I shall stay.
There are some who call me haughty,
But I care not what they say.
I was running the tombola
At our church bazaar today,
And doing it with gusto
In my usual jolly way…
When suddenly, I knew not why,
There came a funny feeling
Of something crawling up my thigh!
I nearly hit the ceiling!
A mouse! I thought. How foul! How mean!
How exquisitely tickly!
Quite soon I know I’m going to scream.
I’ve got to catch it quickly.
I made a grab. I caught the mouse,
Now right inside my knickers.
A mouse my foot! It was a HAND!
Great Scott! It was the vicar’s!
The Tortoise and the Hare
The Tortoise long ago had learned
(So far as eating was concerned)
That nothing in the world could match
Old Mister Roach’s cabbage-patch.
Potatoes, lettuce, cabbage, peas
Could all be had with perfect ease
(Provided you had first checked out
That Mister Roach was not about.)
The Tortoise had for very long
Enjoyed this lovely restaurant,
But all at once – Oh, shame! Disgrace!
A ghastly thing was taking place!
That horrid Hare began to poach
The sacred land of Mister Roach.
And worst of all, the Hare got rid
Of far more than the Tortoise did.
With beans he’d eat up every one
Before the Tortoise had begun!
The carrots all were out of sight
Before poor Torty had one bite!
The lettuce, succulent and green,
Was suddenly no longer seen!
And so the Tortoise now began
To hatch a very subtle plan.
He came across the Hare at dawn
Demolishing a row of corn,
And said to him, “Would you agree
To have a sporting bet with me?
I don’t believe I’ve ever met
A hare who could refuse a bet.”
Hare said, “I must admit I play
The horses almost every day.”
The Tortoise said, “I’m betting you
I’d win a race between us two.”
“You’re round the twist!” the Hare cried out.
“You’re bonkersville! You’re up the spout!
Why, I could run to Equador
Before you’d even crossed the floor!
I’d run from here to Cowdenbeath
Before you’d even brushed your teeth!
I’d run to Poole and Beachy Head
Before you’re hardly out of bed!
Don’t talk to me of how to run!
A hare can outpace anyone!”
The Tortoise said, “Although you’re fast
I’m betting you you’ll come in last.
And by the way, you might recall
Pride always comes before a fall.”
The Hare was so convulsed with scorn
He nearly choked upon his corn.
He gagged and coughed, but when he spake
He cried, “You’re on! So what’s the stake?”
The Tortoise after saying, “Well,”
Produced from underneath his shell
A pen, a contract and a seal
And then began to read the deal:
“If I do lose I hereby swear
That I will nevermore go near
Or take the tiniest of nibbles
From Mister Roach’s vegitibbles.”
The Hare considered for a while,
Then answered with a knowing smile,
“That all seems eminently fair,”
And signed it with a flourish – Hare.
The Hare was later heard to say
Quite loudly, in a scornful way,
“Well Torty, when this race is run,
When you have lost and I have won,
I don’t know where you’ll go to dine,
But that is no concern of mine.”
The Tortoise now went on to call
On Mister Rat at evenfall,
And found him in his workshop where
The Rat was trying to repair
A fascinatingly bizarre
Bright saffron-yellow motor-car.
The Rat was famous everywhere
As being a brilliant engineer,
But just like all the ratty clan
He was a crafty business man
And well-nigh guaranteed to rob
His customers on every job.
“Hello, old Rat,” the Tortoise cries,
Regarding him through scaly eyes.
“I’ve come along tonight to ask
About a highly secret task.”
Rat, slo
wly putting down his spanner,
Assumed a sympathetic manner.
“My dear old Torty,” he declared,
“Now if you want your car repaired…”
“No, no!” the Tortoise cried. “You’re wrong.
Now here’s the burden of my song.”
He then explained with skill and flair
The details of his bet with Hare.
The Rat said, “Ho! I do believe
There’s something fishy up your sleeve.
It’s obvious if the race was fair
You’d have no chance against the Hare.
In fact, however much you cheat,
You’ll never never never beat
That speedy Hare. You are a dope
To think you have the slightest hope.”
The Tortoise said, “There is, old Rat,
More ways than one to skin a cat.”
Rat cried, “Be sensible, old man!
Look, even if I were to ram
A red-hot poker up your blaster,
You wouldn’t travel any faster.”
“Hold it!” the Tortoise cried. “My wheeze,
And listen carefully if you please,
My brilliant wonderful idea
Is that you build for me right here
A little four-wheeled motor-car
That travels fast and very far,
Which you can screw beneath my shell
In such a way no man can tell,
Not even bright-eyed Mister Hare,
That I’ve got anything down there.
I’ll wave my legs and off I’ll go
And Mister Hare will never know
What’s giving me this wondrous power
To run at sixty miles an hour.
Oh Rat, I know you’ll do it right –
The little wheels just out of sight,
The engine tucked away as well,
All hidden underneath my shell!”
The Rat was stunned. He stretched his eyes,
He stood and shouted with surprise,
“By gum, I never would have guessed
An ancient bird like you possessed
Such genius in your upper storey!
This has to be your path to glory!
I’ll do the job this very night
Provided that the price is right.”