You must see for yourselves that it will be difficult to follow our
adventures unless you are familiar with the Kensington Gardens, as they
now became known to David. They are in London, where the King lives, and
you go to them every day unless you are looking decidedly flushed, but
no one has ever been in the whole of the Gardens, because it is so soon
time to turn back. The reason it is soon time to turn back is that you
sleep from twelve to one. If your mother was not so sure that you sleep
from twelve to one, you could most likely see the whole of them.
The Gardens are bounded on one side by a never-ending line of omnibuses,
over which Irene has such authority that if she holds up her finger
to any one of them it stops immediately. She then crosses with you in
safety to the other side. There are more gates to the Gardens than one
gate, but that is the one you go in at, and before you go in you speak
to the lady with the balloons, who sits just outside. This is as near to
being inside as she may venture, because, if she were to let go her hold
of the railings for one moment, the balloons would lift her up, and she
would be flown away. She sits very squat, for the balloons are always
tugging at her, and the strain has given her quite a red face. Once she
was a new one, because the old one had let go, and David was very sorry
for the old one, but as she did let go, he wished he had been there to
see.
The Gardens are a tremendous big place, with millions and hundreds of
trees, and first you come to the Figs, but you scorn to loiter there,
for the Figs is the resort of superior little persons, who are forbidden
to mix with the commonalty, and is so named, according to legend,
because they dress in full fig. These dainty ones are themselves
contemptuously called Figs by David and other heroes, and you have a key
to the manners and customs of this dandiacal section of the Gardens when
I tell you that cricket is called crickets here. Occasionally a rebel
Fig climbs over the fence into the world, and such a one was Miss Mabel
Grey, of whom I shall tell you when we come to Miss Mabel Grey's gate.
She was the only really celebrated Fig.
We are now in the Broad Walk, and it is as much bigger than the other
walks as your father is bigger than you. David wondered if it began
little, and grew and grew, till it was quite grown up, and whether the
other walks are its babies, and he drew a picture, which diverted
him very much, of the Broad Walk giving a tiny walk an airing in a
perambulator. In the Broad Walk you meet all the people who are worth
knowing, and there is usually a grown-up with them to prevent their
going on the damp grass, and to make them stand disgraced at the corner
of a seat if they have been mad-dog or Mary-Annish. To be Mary-Annish
is to behave like a girl, whimpering because nurse won't carry you, or
simpering with your thumb in your mouth, and it is a hateful quality,
but to be mad-dog is to kick out at everything, and there is some
satisfaction in that.
If I were to point out all the notable places as we pass up the Broad
Walk, it would be time to turn back before we reach them, and I simply
wave my stick at Cecco's Tree, that memorable spot where a boy called
Cecco lost his penny, and, looking for it, found twopence. There has
been a good deal of excavation going on there ever since. Farther up the
walk is the little wooden house in which Marmaduke Perry hid. There is
no more awful story of the Gardens by day than this of Marmaduke Perry,
who had been Mary-Annish three days in succession, and was sentenced to
appear in the Broad Walk dressed in his sister's clothes. He hid in
the little wooden house, and refused to emerge until they brought him
knickerbockers with pockets.
You now try to go to the Round Pond, but nurses hate it, because they
are not really manly, and they make you look the other way, at the Big
Penny and the Baby's Palace. She was the most celebrated baby of the
Gardens, and lived in the palace all alone, with ever so many dolls, so
people rang the bell, and up she got out of her bed, though it was past
six o'clock, and she lighted a candle and opened the door in her nighty,
and then they all cried with great rejoicings, “Hail, Queen of England!”
What puzzled David most was how she knew where the matches were kept.
The Big Penny is a statue about her.
Next we come to the Hump, which is the part of the Broad Walk where all
the big races are run, and even though you had no intention of running
you do run when you come to the Hump, it is such a fascinating,
slide-down kind of place. Often you stop when you have run about
half-way down it, and then you are lost, but there is another little
wooden house near here, called the Lost House, and so you tell the man
that you are lost and then he finds you. It is glorious fun racing down
the Hump, but you can't do it on windy days because then you are not
there, but the fallen leaves do it instead of you. There is almost
nothing that has such a keen sense of fun as a fallen leaf.
From the Hump we can see the gate that is called after Miss Mabel Grey,
the Fig I promised to tell you about. There were always two nurses with
her, or else one mother and one nurse, and for a long time she was a
pattern-child who always coughed off the table and said, “How do you
do?” to the other Figs, and the only game she played at was flinging a
ball gracefully and letting the nurse bring it back to her. Then one
day she tired of it all and went mad-dog, and, first, to show that she
really was mad-dog, she unloosened both her boot-laces and put out her
tongue east, west, north, and south. She then flung her sash into a
puddle and danced on it till dirty water was squirted over her frock,
after which she climbed the fence and had a series of incredible
adventures, one of the least of which was that she kicked off both her
boots. At last she came to the gate that is now called after her, out of
which she ran into streets David and I have never been in though we have
heard them roaring, and still she ran on and would never again have been
heard of had not her mother jumped into a bus and thus overtaken her.
It all happened, I should say, long ago, and this is not the Mabel Grey
whom David knows.
Returning up the Broad Walk we have on our right the Baby Walk, which is
so full of perambulators that you could cross from side to side stepping
on babies, but the nurses won't let you do it. From this walk a passage
called Bunting's Thumb, because it is that length, leads into Picnic
Street, where there are real kettles, and chestnut-blossom falls into
your mug as you are drinking. Quite common children picnic here also,
and the blossom falls into their mugs just the same.
Next comes St. Govor's Well, which was full of water when Malcolm the
Bold fell into it. He was his mother's favourite, and he let her put her
arm round his neck in public because she was a widow, but he was also
partial to adventures and liked to play with a chimney-sweep who had
killed a good many bears. The sweep's name was Sooty, and one day when
they were playing near the well, Malcolm fell in and would have been
drowned had not Sooty dived in and rescued him, and the water had washed
Sooty clean and he now stood revealed as Malcolm's long-lost father. So
Malcolm would not let his mother put her arm round his neck any more.
Between the well and the Round Pond are the cricket-pitches, and
frequently the choosing of sides exhausts so much time that there is
scarcely any cricket. Everybody wants to bat first, and as soon as he
is out he bowls unless you are the better wrestler, and while you are
wrestling with him the fielders have scattered to play at something
else. The Gardens are noted for two kinds of cricket: boy cricket, which
is real cricket with a bat, and girl cricket, which is with a racquet
and the governess. Girls can't really play cricket, and when you
are watching their futile efforts you make funny sounds at them.
Nevertheless, there was a very disagreeable incident one day when some
forward girls challenged David's team, and a disturbing creature called
Angela Clare sent down so many yorkers that--However, instead of telling
you the result of that regrettable match I shall pass on hurriedly to
the Round Pond, which is the wheel that keeps all the Gardens going.
It is round because it is in the very middle of the Gardens, and when
you are come to it you never want to go any farther. You can't be good
all the time at the Round Pond, however much you try. You can be good in
the Broad Walk all the time, but not at the Round Pond, and the reason
is that you forget, and, when you remember, you are so wet that you may
as well be wetter. There are men who sail boats on the Round Pond,
such big boats that they bring them in barrows and sometimes in
perambulators, and then the baby has to walk. The bow-legged children
in the Gardens are these who had to walk too soon because their father
needed the perambulator.
You always want to have a yacht to sail on the Round Pond, and in the
end your uncle gives you one; and to carry it to the Pond the first
day is splendid, also to talk about it to boys who have no uncle is
splendid, but soon you like to leave it at home. For the sweetest
craft that slips her moorings in the Round Pond is what is called a
stick-boat, because she is rather like a stick until she is in the water
and you are holding the string. Then as you walk round, pulling her,
you see little men running about her deck, and sails rise magically and
catch the breeze, and you put in on dirty nights at snug harbours which
are unknown to the lordly yachts. Night passes in a twink, and again
your rakish craft noses for the wind, whales spout, you glide over
buried cities, and have brushes with pirates and cast anchor on coral
isles. You are a solitary boy while all this is taking place, for two
boys together cannot adventure far upon the Round Pond, and though you
may talk to yourself throughout the voyage, giving orders and executing
them with dispatch, you know not, when it is time to go home, where you
have been or what swelled your sails; your treasure-trove is all locked
away in your hold, so to speak, which will be opened, perhaps, by
another little boy many years afterward.
But those yachts have nothing in their hold. Does anyone return to this
haunt of his youth because of the yachts that used to sail it? Oh, no.
It is the stick-boat that is freighted with memories. The yachts are
toys, their owner a fresh-water mariner, they can cross and recross
a pond only while the stick-boat goes to sea. You yachtsmen with your
wands, who think we are all there to gaze on you, your ships are only
accidents of this place, and were they all to be boarded and sunk by the
ducks the real business of the Round Pond would be carried on as usual.
Paths from everywhere crowd like children to the pond. Some of them are
ordinary paths, which have a rail on each side, and are made by men
with their coats off, but others are vagrants, wide at one spot and at
another so narrow that you can stand astride them. They are called Paths
that have Made Themselves, and David did wish he could see them doing
it. But, like all the most wonderful things that happen in the Gardens,
it is done, we concluded, at night after the gates are closed. We have
also decided that the paths make themselves because it is their only
chance of getting to the Round Pond.
One of these gypsy paths comes from the place where the sheep get their
hair cut. When David shed his curls at the hair-dresser's, I am told, he
said good-bye to them without a tremor, though Mary has never been quite
the same bright creature since, so he despises the sheep as they run
from their shearer and calls out tauntingly, “Cowardy, cowardy custard!”
But when the man grips them between his legs David shakes a fist at him
for using such big scissors. Another startling moment is when the man
turns back the grimy wool from the sheeps' shoulders and they look
suddenly like ladies in the stalls of a theatre. The sheep are so
frightened by the shearing that it makes them quite white and thin, and
as soon as they are set free they begin to nibble the grass at once,
quite anxiously, as if they feared that they would never be worth
eating. David wonders whether they know each other, now that they are
so different, and if it makes them fight with the wrong ones. They are
great fighters, and thus so unlike country sheep that every year they
give Porthos a shock. He can make a field of country sheep fly by merely
announcing his approach, but these town sheep come toward him with no
promise of gentle entertainment, and then a light from last year breaks
upon Porthos. He cannot with dignity retreat, but he stops and looks
about him as if lost in admiration of the scenery, and presently he
strolls away with a fine indifference and a glint at me from the corner
of his eye.
The Serpentine begins near here. It is a lovely lake, and there is a
drowned forest at the bottom of it. If you peer over the edge you can
see the trees all growing upside down, and they say that at night there
are also drowned stars in it. If so, Peter Pan sees them when he is
sailing across the lake in the Thrush's Nest. A small part only of the
Serpentine is in the Gardens, for soon it passes beneath a bridge to
far away where the island is on which all the birds are born that become
baby boys and girls. No one who is human, except Peter Pan (and he is
only half human), can land on the island, but you may write what you
want (boy or girl, dark or fair) on a piece of paper, and then twist
it into the shape of a boat and slip it into the water, and it reaches
Peter Pan's island after dark.
We are on the way home now, though, of course, it is all pretence that
we can go to so many of the places in one day. I should have had to be
carrying David long ago and resting on every seat like old Mr. Salford.
That was what we called him, because he always talked to us of a lovely
place called Salford where he had been born. He was a crab-apple of
an old gentleman who wandered all day in the Gardens from seat to seat
trying to fall in with somebody who was acquainted with the town of
Salford, and when we had known him for a year or more we actually did
meet another aged solitary who had once spent Saturday to Monday in
Salford. He was meek and timid and carried his address inside his hat,
and whatever part of London he was in search of he always went to the
General Post-office first as a starting-point. Him we carried in triumph
to our other friend, with the story of that Saturday to Monday, and
never shall I forget the gloating joy with which Mr. Salford leapt at
him. They have been cronies ever since, and I notice that Mr. Salford,
who naturally does most of the talking, keeps tight grip of the other
old man's coat.
The two last places before you come to our gate are the Dog's Cemetery
and the chaffinch's nest, but we pretend not to know what the Dog's
Cemetery is, as Porthos is always with us. The nest is very sad. It
is quite white, and the way we found it was wonderful. We were having
another look among the bushes for David's lost worsted ball, and instead
of the ball we found a lovely nest made of the worsted, and containing
four eggs, with scratches on them very like David's handwriting, so we
think they must have been the mother's love-letters to the little ones
inside. Every day we were in the Gardens we paid a call at the nest,
taking care that no cruel boy should see us, and we dropped crumbs,
and soon the bird knew us as friends, and sat in the nest looking at us
kindly with her shoulders hunched up. But one day when we went, there
were only two eggs in the nest, and the next time there were none. The
saddest part of it was that the poor little chaffinch fluttered about
the bushes, looking so reproachfully at us that we knew she thought we
had done it, and though David tried to explain to her, it was so
long since he had spoken the bird language that I fear she did not
understand. He and I left the Gardens that day with our knuckles in our
eyes.