“It does begin to come back，” said the Horse thoughtfully. “Yes. Let me think now， let me think. Yes， you used to tie a horrid black thing behind me and then hit me to make me run， and however far I ran this black thing would always be coming rattle.rattle behind me.”
“We ‘ad our living to earn， see，” said the Cabby. “Yours the same as mine. And if there ’adn‘t been no work and no whip there’d ‘ave been no stable， no hay， no mash， and no oats. For you did get a taste of oats when I could afford ’em， which no one can deny.”
“Oats？” said the Horse， pricking up his ears. “Yes， I remember something about that. Yes， I remember more and more. You were always sitting up somewhere behind， and I was always running in front， pulling you and the black thing. I know I did all the work.”
“Summer， I grant you，” said the Cabby. “‘Ot work for you and a cool seat for me. But what about winter， old boy， when you was keeping yourself warm and I was sitting up there with my feet like ice and my nose fair pinched off me with the wind， and my ’ands that numb I couldn‘t ’ardly ‘old the reins？”
“It was a hard， cruel country，” said Strawberry. “There was no grass. All hard stones.”
“Too true， mate， too true！” said the Cabby. “A ’ard world it was. I always did say those paving.stones weren‘t fair on any ’oss. That‘s Lunn’on， that is. I didn‘t like it no more than what you did. You were a country ’oss， and I was a country man. Used to sing in the choir， I did， down at ‘ome. But there wasn’t a living for me there.”
“Oh please， please，” said Digory. “Could we get on？ The Lion‘s getting further and further away. And I do want to speak to him so dreadfully badly.”
“Look ’ere， Strawberry，” said the Cabby. “This young gen‘leman ’as something on his mind that he wants to talk to the Lion about； ‘im you call Aslan. Suppose you was to let ’im ride on your back （which ‘e’d take it very kindly） and trot ‘im over to where the Lion is. And me and the little girl will be following along.”
“Ride？” said Strawberry. “Oh， I remember now. That means sitting on my back. I remember there used to be a little one of you two. leggers who used to do that long ago. He used to have little hard， square lumps of some white stuff that he gave me. They tasted.oh， wonderful， sweeter than grass.”
“Ah， that’d be sugar，” said the Cabby.
“Please， Strawberry，” begged Digory， “do， do let me get up and take me to Aslan.”
“Well， I don‘t mind，” said the Horse. “Not for once in a way. Up you get.”
“Good old Strawberry，” said the Cabby. “’Ere， young ‘un， I’ll give you a lift.” Digory was soon on Strawberry‘s back， and quite comfortable， for he had ridden bare.back before on his own pony.
“Now， do gee up， Strawberry，” he said.
“You don’t happen to have a bit of that white stuff about you， I suppose？” said the Horse.
“No. I‘m afraid I haven’t，” said Digory.
“Well， it can‘t be helped，” said Strawberry， and off they went.
At that moment a large Bulldog， who had been sniffing and staring very hard， said：
“Look！ Isn’t there another of these queer creatures.over there， beside the river， under the trees？”
Then all the animals looked and saw Uncle Andrew， standing very still among the rhododendrons and hoping he wouldn‘t be noticed.
“Come on！” said several voices. “Let’s go and find out.” So， while Strawberry was briskly trotting away with Digory in one direction （and Polly and the Cabby were following on foot） most of the creatures rushed towards Uncle Andrew with roars， barks， grunts， and various noises of cheerful interest.
We must now go back a bit and explain what the whole scene had looked like from Uncle Andrew‘s point of view. It had not made at all the same impression on him as on the Cabby and the children. For what you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing： it also depends on what sort of person you are.
Ever since the animals had first appeared， Uncle Andrew had been shrinking further and further back into the thicket. He watched them very hard of course； but he wasn’t really interested in seeing what they were doing， only in seeing whether they were going to make a rush at him. Like the Witch， he was dreadfully practical. He simply didn‘t notice that Aslan was choosing one pair out of every kind of beasts. All he saw， or thought he saw， was a lot of dangerous wild animals walking vaguely about. And he kept on wondering why the other animals didn’t run away from the big Lion.
When the great moment came and the Beasts spoke， he missed the whole point； for a rather interesting reason. When the Lion had first begun singing， long ago when it was still quite dark， he had realized that the noise was a song. And he had disliked the song very much. It made him think and feel things he did not want to think and feel. Then， when the sun rose and he saw that the singer was a lion （“only a lion，” as he said to himself） he tried his hardest to make believe that it wasn‘t singing and never had been singing.only roaring as any lion
might in a zoo in our own world. “Of course it can’t really have been singing，” he thought， “I must have imagined it. I‘ve been letting my nerves get out of order. Who ever heard of a lion singing？” And the longer and more beautifully the Lion sang， the harder Uncle Andrew tried to make himself believe that he could hear nothing but roaring. Now the trouble about trying to make yourself stupider than you really are is that you very often succeed. Uncle Andrew did. He soon did hear nothing but roaring in Aslan’s song. Soon he couldn‘t have heard anything else even if he had wanted to. And when at last the Lion spoke and said， “Narnia awake，” he didn’t hear any words： he heard only a snarl. And when the Beasts spoke in answer， he heard only barkings， growlings， bayings， and howlings. And when they laughed.well， you can imagine. That was worse for Uncle Andrew than anything that had happened yet. Such a horrid， bloodthirsty din of hungry and angry brutes he had never heard in his life. Then， to his utter rage and horror， he saw the other three humans actually walking out into the open to meet the animals.