ONE early morning in the Springtime, when I was wandering among the hills at the back of the town, I happened to come upon a hawk with a squirrel in its claws. It was standing on a rock and the squirrel was fighting very hard for its life. The hawk was so frightened when I came upon it suddenly like this, that it dropped the poor creature and flew away. I picked the squirrel up and found that two of its legs were badly hurt. So I carried it in my arms back to the town. When I came to the bridge I went into the mussel-man’s hut and asked him if he could do anything for it. Joe put on his spectacles and examined it carefully. Then he shook his head. “Yon crittur’s got a broken leg,” he said—“and another badly cut an’ all. I can mend you your boats, Tom, but I haven’t the tools nor the learning to make a broken squirrel seaworthy. This is a job for a surgeon—and for a right smart one an’ all. There be only one man I know who could save yon crittur’s life. And that’s John Dolittle.” “Who is John Dolittle?” I asked. “Is he a vet?” “No,” said the mussel-man. “He’s no vet. Doctor Dolittle is a nacheralist.” “What’s a nacheralist?” “A nacheralist,” said Joe, putting away his glasses and starting to fill his pipe, “is a man who knows all about animals and butterflies and plants and rocks an’ all. John Dolittle is a very great nacheralist. I’m surprised you never heard of him—and you daft over animals. He knows a whole lot about shellfish—that I know from my own knowledge. He’s a quiet man and don’t talk much; but there’s folks who do say he’s the greatest nacheralist in the world.” “Where does he live?” I asked. “Over on the Oxenthorpe Road, t’other side the town. Don’t know just which house it is, but ’most anyone ’cross there could tell you, I reckon. Go and see him. He’s a great man.” So I thanked the mussel-man, took up my squirrel again and started off towards the Oxenthorpe Road. The first thing I heard as I came into the market-place was some one calling “Meat! M-E-A-T!” “There’s Matthew Mugg,” I said to myself. “He’ll know where this Doctor lives. Matthew knows everyone.” So I hurried across the market-place and caught him up. “Matthew,” I said, “do you know Doctor Dolittle?” “Do I know John Dolittle!” said he. “Well, I should think I do! I know him as well as I know my own wife—better, I sometimes think. He’s a great man—a very great man.” “Can you show me where he lives?” I asked. “I want to take this squirrel to him. It has a broken leg.” “Certainly,” said the cat’s-meat-man. “I’ll be going right by his house directly. Come along and I’ll show you.” So off we went together. “Oh, I’ve known John Dolittle for years and years,” said Matthew as we made our way out of the market-place. “But I’m pretty sure he ain’t home just now. He’s away on a voyage. But he’s liable to be back any day. I’ll show you his house and then you’ll know where to find him.”