Digory And His Uncle Are Both In Trouble
You may think the animals were very stupid not to see at once that Uncle Andrew was the same kind of creature as the two children and the Cabby. But you must remember that the animals knew nothing about clothes. They thought that Polly’s frock and Digory‘s Norfolk suit and the Cabby’s bowler hat were as much parts of them as their own fur and feathers. They wouldn‘t have known even that those three were all of the same kind if they hadn’t spoken to them and if Strawberry had not seemed to think so. And Uncle Andrew was a great deal taller than the children and a good deal thinner than the Cabby. He was all in black except for his white waistcoat （not very white by now）， and the great grey mop of his hair （now very wild indeed） didn‘t look to them like anything they had seen in the three other humans. So it was only natural that they should be puzzled. Worst of all， he didn’t seem to be able to talk.
He had tried to. When the Bulldog spoke to him （or， as he thought， first snarled and then growled at him） he held out his shaking hand and gasped “Good Doggie， then， poor old fellow.” But the beasts could not understand him any more than he could understand them. They didn‘t hear any words： only a vague sizzling noise. Perhaps it was just as well they didn’t， for no dog that I ever knew， least of all a Talking Dog of Narnia， likes being called a “Good Doggie then”； any more than you would like being called “My Little Man”.
Then Uncle Andrew dropped down in a dead faint.
“There！” said a Warthog， “It‘s only a tree. I always thought so.” （Remember， they had never yet seen a faint or even a fall.）
The Bulldog， who had been sniffing Uncle Andrew all over， raised its head and said， “It’s an animal. Certainly an animal. And probably the same kind as those other ones.”
“I don‘t see that，” said one of the Bears. “An animal wouldn’t just roll over like that. We‘re animals and we don’t roll over. We stand up. Like this.” He rose to his hind legs， took a step backwards， tripped over a low branch and fell flat on his back.
“The Third Joke， the Third Joke， the Third joke！” said the Jackdaw in great excitement.
“I still think it‘s a sort of tree，” said the Warthog.
“If it’s a tree，” said the other Bear， “there might be a bees‘ nest in it.” “I’m sure it‘s not a tree，” said the Badger. “I had a sort of idea it was trying to speak before it toppled over.”
“That was only the wind in its branches，” said the Warthog.
“You surely don’t mean，” said the Jackdaw to the Badger， “that you think it‘s a talking animal！ It didn’t say any words.”
“And yet， you know，” said the Elephant （the She.Elephant， of course； her husband， as you remember， had been called away by Aslan）， “and yet， you know， it might be an animal of some kind. Mightn‘t the whitish lump at this end be a sort of face？ And couldn’t those holes be eyes and a mouth？ No nose， of course. But then.ahem.one mustn‘t be narrow.minded. Very few of us have what could exactly be called a Nose.” She squinted down the length of her own trunk with pardonable pride.
“I object to that remark very strongly，” said the Bulldog. “The Elephant is quite right，” said the Tapir.
“I tell you what！” said the Donkey brightly. “perhaps it’s an animal that can‘t talk but thinks it can.”
“Can it be made to stand up？” said the Elephant thoughtfully. She took the limp form of Uncle Andrew gently in her trunk and set him up on end： upside down， unfortunately， so that two half.sovereigns， three half.crowns， and a sixpence fell out of his pocket. But it was no use. Uncle Andrew merely collapsed again.
“There！” said several voices. “It isn’t an animal at all. It‘s not alive.” “I tell you， it is an animal，” said the Bulldog. “Smell it for yourself.” “Smelling isn’t everything，” said the Elephant.
“Why，” said the Bulldog， “if a fellow can‘t trust his nose， what is he to trust？”
“Well， his brains perhaps，” she replied mildly.
“I object to that remark very strongly，” said the Bulldog.
“Well， we must do something about it，” said the Elephant. “Because it may be the Neevil， and it must be shown to Aslan. What do most of us think？ Is it an animal or something of the tree kind？”
“Tree！ Tree！” said a dozen voices.
“Very well，” said the Elephant. “Then， if it’s a tree it wants to be planted. We must dig a hole.”
The two Moles settled that part of the business pretty quickly. There was some dispute as to which way up Uncle Andrew ought to be put into the hole， and he had a very narrow escape from being put in head foremost. Several animals said his legs must be his branches and therefore the grey， fluffy thing （they meant his head） must be his root. But then others said that the forked end of him was the muddier and that it spread out more， as roots ought to do. So finally he was planted right way up. When they had patted down the earth it came up above his knees.
“It looks dreadfully withered，” said the Donkey.
“Of course it wants some watering，” said the Elephant. “I think I might say （meaning no offence to anyone present） that， perhaps， for that sort of work， my kind of nose.”
“I object to that remark very strongly，” said the Bulldog. But the Elephant walked quietly to the river， filled her trunk with water， and came back to attend to Uncle Andrew. The sagacious animal went on doing this till gallons of water had been squirted over him， and water was running out of the skirts of his frock.coat as if he had been for a bath with all his clothes on. In the end it revived him. He awoke from his faint. What a wakening it was！ But we must leave him to think over his wicked deeds （if he was likely to do anything so sensible） and turn to more important things.
Strawberry trotted on with Digory on his back till the noise of the other animals died away， and now the little group of Aslan and his chosen councillors was quite close. Digory knew that he couldn‘t possibly break in on so solemn a meeting， but there was no need to do so. At a word from Aslan， the He.Elephant， the Ravens， and all the rest of them drew aside. Digory slipped off the horse and found himself face to face with Aslan. And Aslan was bigger and more beautiful and more brightly golden and more terrible than he had thought. He dared not look into the great eyes.
“Please.Mr Lion.Aslan.Sir，” said Digory， “could you.may I.please， will you give me some magic fruit of this country to make Mother well？”
He had been desperately hoping that the Lion would say “Yes”； he had been horribly afraid it might say “No”. But he was taken aback when it did neither.
