Then Jip went up to the front of the ship and smelt the wind; and he started muttering to himself,Tar; Spanish onions; kerosene oil; wet raincoats; crushed laurel-leaves; rubber burning; lace-curtains being washed--No, my mistake, lace-curtains hanging out to dry; and foxes--hundreds of 'em--cubs; and--Can you really smell all those different things in this one wind? asked the Doctor.Why, of course! said Jip. And those are only a few of the easy smells--the strong ones. Any mongrel could smell those with a cold in the head. Wait now and I'll tell you some of the harder scents that are coming on this wind--a few of the dainty ones.Then the dog shut his eyes tight, poked his nose straight up in the air and sniffed hard with his mouth half-open.For a long time he said nothing. He kept as still as a stone. He hardly seemed to be breathing at all. When at last he began to speak, it sounded almost as though he were singing, sadly, in a dream.Bricks, he whispered, very low--old yellow bricks, crumbling with age in a garden-wall; the sweet breath of young cows standing in a mountain-stream; the lead roof of a dove-cote--or perhaps agranary--with the mid-day sun on it; black kid gloves lying in a bureau-drawer of walnut-wood; a dusty road with a horses' drinking-trough beneath the sycamores; little mushrooms burstingthrough the rotting leaves; and--and--and--Any parsnips? asked Gub-Gub.No, said Jip. You always think of things to eat. No parsnips whatever.
Hugh Lofting