"Mr. Popper’s Penguins" by Florence Atwater and Richard Atwater, Chapters 1–4

He was spattered here and there with paint and calcimine, and there were bits of wallpaper clinging to his hair and whiskers, for he was rather an untidy man.

He was spattered here and there with paint and calcimine, and there were bits of wallpaper clinging to his hair and whiskers, for he was rather an untidy man.

He had never seen those great shining white expanses of ice and snow.

How he wished that he had been a scientist, instead of a house painter in Stillwater, so that he might have joined some of the great Polar expeditions.

When he came to the gate of the neat little bungalow at 432 Proudfoot Avenue, he turned in.

Mrs. Popper picked up her mending, while Mr. Popper collected his pipe, his book, and his globe.

As he put on his spectacles, he was quite pleased at the prospect of a whole winter of reading travel books, with no work to interrupt him.

As he put on his spectacles, he was quite pleased at the prospect of a whole winter of reading travel books, with no work to interrupt him.

She was not at all a disagreeable woman, but she sometimes got rather cross when she was worried about money.

They are the funniest birds in the world. They don’t fly like other birds. They walk erect like little men. When they get tired of walking they just lie down on their stomachs and slide. It would be very nice to have one for a pet.

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Popper in a shocked tone. “They sound to me like pretty heathen birds.”

Mr. Popper put down his book of Antarctic Adventures and moved hastily to the radio.

“What of it!” he repeated, pushing the switch. “Why, this is the night the Drake Antarctic Expedition is going to start broadcasting.”

“You wrote to Admiral Drake?”
“Yes, I did,” Mr. Popper admitted. “I wrote and told him how funny I thought the penguins were.”
“Well, I never,” said Mrs. Popper, very much impressed.

“Very well, my love,” said Mr. Popper meekly, and he settled down with his pipe, his globe, and his book of Antarctic Adventures.

But somehow, as he read today, he could not keep his mind on the printed words. His thoughts kept straying away to Admiral Drake.

But the penguin was not speechless. “Ork,” it said again, and this time it held out its flippers and jumped over the packing debris.

It was a stout little fellow about two and a half feet high.

Although it was about the size of a small child, it looked much more like a little gentleman, with its smooth white waistcoat in front and its long black tailcoat dragging a little behind.

Down the hall it went and into the bedrooms, with its strange, pompous little strut.

Down the hall it went and into the bedrooms, with its strange, pompous little strut.

Carefully Mr. Popper began to fill the bathtub with cold water. This was a little difficult because the inquisitive bird kept reaching over and trying to bite the faucets with its sharp red beak.

“Anyway, you’re not shy,” said Mr. Popper. “I guess you’ve got sort of used to playing around with those explorers at the Pole.”

Then it turned, and with outstretched flippers, tobogganed down on its white stomach.

"...He didn’t actually get to the South Pole, of course, but he made a lot of important scientific discoveries about the Antarctic regions. He was a brave man and a kind leader. So I think Captain Cook would be a very suitable name for our penguin here.”

“Gork!” said Captain Cook, suddenly getting lively again.

With a flap of his flippers he jumped from the tub to the washstand, and stood there for a minute surveying the floor.

Even Mrs. Popper had to smile as they watched Captain Cook, with the light of curiosity in his excited circular eyes, and his black tailcoat dragging pompously behind his little pinkish feet, strut from one upholstered chair to another, pecking at each to see what it was made of.

Mr. Popper opened the door for him, and Captain Cook stood very high and leaned his sleek black head back so that he could see inside.

The penguin jumped up onto a chair and from there onto the edge of the table, flapping his flippers again to recover his balance. Then he walked solemnly around the table, and between the dishes of food, inspecting everything with the greatest interest, though he touched nothing.

“O-r-r-r-r-h, o-r-r-r-h,” he trilled.
“That’s a penguin’s way of saying how pleased it is,” said Mr. Popper, who had read about it in his Antarctic books.

“Bad, bad penguin!” reproved Mrs. Popper, glaring down at Captain Cook.

Before she could do that again, Captain Cook hastily waddled out to the kitchen.

Mr. Popper turned the cold control switch to its coldest so that Captain Cook could sleep more comfortably. Then he left the door ajar so that the penguin would have plenty of fresh air to breathe.

“Tomorrow I will have the icebox service department send a man out to bore some holes in the door, for air,” he said, “and then he can put a handle on the inside of the door so that Captain Cook can go in and out of his refrigerator, as he pleases.”