PETER'S GOAT
[Illustration: The Kensington Gardens are in London, where the King
lives]
[Illustration: DAVID]
COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
1. He was quite angry when these two ran away the moment they saw him
... _Frontispiece_
2. The Kensington Gardens are in London, where the King lives (missing
from book)
3. The lady with the balloons, who sits just outside
4. In the Broad Walk you meet all the people who are worth knowing
5. The Hump, which is the part of the Broad Walk where all the big
races are run
6. There is almost nothing that has such a keen sense of fun as a
fallen leaf (missing from book)
7. The Serpentine 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
8. The island on which all the birds are born that become baby boys and
girls (missing from book)
9. Old Mr. Salford was a crab-apple of an old gentleman who wandered
all day in the Gardens
10. Away he flew, right over the houses to the Gardens
11. The fairies have their tiffs with the birds
12. When he heard Peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip
13. A band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away,
leaving their tools behind them
14. Put his strange case before old Solomon Caw (missing from book)
15. Peter screamed out, 'Do it again!' and with great good-nature they
did it several times
16. A hundred flew off with the string, and Peter clung to the tail
17. After this the birds said that they would help him no more in his
mad enterprise
18. 'Preposterous!' cried Solomon in a rage
19. For years he had been quietly filling his stocking
20. When you meet grown-up people in the Gardens who puff and blow as
if they thought themselves bigger than they are
21. He passed under the bridge and came within full sight of the
delectable Gardens
22. There now arose a mighty storm, and he was tossed this way and that
(missing from book)
23. Fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk
24. When they think you are not looking they skip along pretty lively
(missing from book)
25. But if you look, and they fear there is no time to hide, they stand
quite still pretending to be flowers (missing from book)
26. The fairies are exquisite dancers
27. These tricky fairies sometimes slyly change the board on a ball
night
28. Linkmen running in front carrying winter cherries
29. When her Majesty wants to know the time
30. The fairies sit round on mushrooms, and at first they are well
behaved
31. Butter is got from the roots of old trees (missing from book)
32. Wallflower juice is good for reviving dancers who fall to the
ground in a fit
33. Peter Pan is the fairies' orchestra
34. They all tickled him on the shoulder (missing from book)
35. One day they were overheard by a fairy
36. The little people weave their summer curtains from skeleton leaves
37. An afternoon when the Gardens were white with snow
38. She ran to St. Govor's Well and hid
39. An elderberry hobbled across the walk, and stood chatting with some
young quinces
40. A chrysanthemum heard her, and said pointedly, 'Hoity-toity, what
is this?'
41. They warned her
42. Queen Mab, who rules in the Gardens
43. Shook his bald head and murmured, 'Cold, quite cold'
44. Fairies never say, 'We feel happy': what they say is, 'We feel
_dancey_'
45. Looking very undancey indeed
[Illustration: The lady with the balloons, who sits just outside]
46. 'My Lord Duke,' said the physician elatedly, 'I have the honour to
inform your excellency that your grace is in love'
47. Building the house for Maimie
48. If the bad ones among the fairies happen to be out (missing from
book)
49. They will certainly mischief you (missing from book)
50. I think that quite the most touching sight in the Gardens is the
two tombstones of Walter Stephen Matthews and Phoebe Phelps
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT
David
Kensington Gardens
Headpiece to 'The Grand Tour of the Gardens'
Porthos
One of the Paths that have Made Themselves
Tailpiece to 'The Grand Tour of the Gardens'
Headpiece to 'Peter Pan'
The birds on the island never got used to him. His oddities tickled
them every day
Tailpiece to 'Peter Pan'
Headpiece to 'The Thrush's Nest'
Tailpiece to 'The Thrush's Nest'
Headpiece to 'Lock-out Time'
They are so cunning
A fairy ring
Tailpiece to 'Lock-out Time'
Headpiece to 'The Little House'
There was a good deal going on in the Baby Walk
She escorted them up the Baby Walk and back again
Tailpiece to 'The Little House'
Headpiece to 'Peter's Goat'
Tailpiece to 'Peter's Goat'
[Illustration: Kensington Gardens]
[Illustration: In the Broad Walk you meet all the people who are worth
knowing]
[Illustration: Headpiece to 'The Grand Tour of the Gardens']
I
THE GRAND TOUR OF THE GARDENS
You must see for yourselves that it will be difficult to follow Peter
Pan's adventures unless you are familiar with the Kensington Gardens.
They are in London, where the King lives, and I used to take David
there nearly every day unless he was looking decidedly flushed. No
child 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, if
you are as small as David, 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 your nurse 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.
[Illustration: The Hump, which is the part of the Broad Walk where all
the big races are run]
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, until 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 them
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 Hewlett'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 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.
[Illustration: There is almost nothing that has such a keen sense of
fun as a fallen leaf (missing from book)]
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.
[Illustration: The Serpentine 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]
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 those 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 despatch, 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 afterwards.
But those yachts have nothing in their hold. Does any one 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.
[Illustration: The island on which all the birds are born that become
baby boys and girls (missing from book)]
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 hairdresser's, I am told,
he said good-bye to them without a tremor, though his mother has never
been quite the same bright creature since; so he despises the sheep as
they run from their shearer, and calls out tauntingly, 'Cowardly,
cowardly 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 sheep's
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 my St. Bernard dog, 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.
[Illustration: Porthos]
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.
[Illustration: One of the Paths that have Made Themselves]
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 Westminster Abbey 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.
[Illustration: Old Mr. Salford was a crab-apple of an old gentleman who
wandered all day in the Gardens]
[Illustration: Away he flew, right over the houses to the Gardens]
The two last places before you come to our gate are the Dogs' Cemetery
and the chaffinch's nest, but we pretend not to know what the Dogs'
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.
[Illustration: Tailpiece to 'The Grand Tour of the Gardens']
[Illustration: Headpiece to 'Peter Pan']
II
PETER PAN
If you ask your mother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a
little girl, she will say, 'Why, of course I did, child'; and if you
ask her whether he rode on a goat in those days, she will say, 'What a
foolish question to ask; certainly he did.' Then if you ask your
grandmother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a girl, she
also says, 'Why, of course I did, child,' but if you ask her whether he
rode on a goat in those days, she says she never heard of his having a
goat. Perhaps she has forgotten, just as she sometimes forgets your
name and calls you Mildred, which is your mother's name. Still, she
could hardly forget such an important thing as the goat. Therefore
there was no goat when your grandmother was a little girl. This shows
that, in telling the story of Peter Pan, to begin with the goat (as
most people do) is as silly as to put on your jacket before your vest.
Of course, it also shows that Peter is ever so old, but he is really
always the same age, so that does not matter in the least. His age is
one week, and though he was born so long ago he has never had a
birthday, nor is there the slightest chance of his ever having one.
The reason is that he escaped from being a human when he was seven days
old; he escaped by the window and flew back to the Kensington Gardens.
If you think he was the only baby who ever wanted to escape, it shows
how completely you have forgotten your own young days. When David
heard this story first he was quite certain that he had never tried to
escape, but I told him to think back hard, pressing his hands to his
temples, and when he had done this hard, and even harder, he distinctly
remembered a youthful desire to return to the tree-tops, and with that
memory came others, as that he had lain in bed planning to escape as
soon as his mother was asleep, and how she had once caught him half-way
up the chimney. All children could have such recollections if they
would press their hands hard to their temples, for, having been birds
before they were human, they are naturally a little wild during the
first few weeks, and very itchy at the shoulders, where their wings
used to be. So David tells me.
[Illustration: The fairies have their tiffs with the birds]
I ought to mention here that the following is our way with a story:
First I tell it to him, and then he tells it to me, the understanding
being that it is quite a different story; and then I retell it with his
additions, and so we go on until no one could say whether it is more
his story or mine. In this story of Peter Pan, for instance, the bald
narrative and most of the moral reflections are mine, though not all,
for this boy can be a stern moralist; but the interesting bits about
the ways and customs of babies in the bird-stage are mostly
reminiscences of David's, recalled by pressing his hands to his temples
and thinking hard.
Well, Peter Pan got out by the window, which had no bars. Standing on
the ledge he could see trees far away, which were doubtless the
Kensington Gardens, and the moment he saw them he entirely forgot that
he was now a little boy in a nightgown, and away he flew, right over
the houses to the Gardens. It is wonderful that he could fly without
wings, but the place itched tremendously, and--and--perhaps we could
all fly if we were as dead-confident-sure of our capacity to do it as
was bold Peter Pan that evening.
He alighted gaily on the open sward, between the Baby's Palace and the
Serpentine, and the first thing he did was to lie on his back and kick.
He was quite unaware already that he had ever been human, and thought
he was a bird, even in appearance, just the same as in his early days,
and when he tried to catch a fly he did not understand that the reason
he missed it was because he had attempted to seize it with his hand,
which, of course, a bird never does. He saw, however, that it must be
past Lock-out Time, for there were a good many fairies about, all too
busy to notice him; they were getting breakfast ready, milking their
cows, drawing water, and so on, and the sight of the water-pails made
him thirsty, so he flew over to the Round Pond to have a drink. He
stooped and dipped his beak in the pond; he thought it was his beak,
but, of course, it was only his nose, and therefore, very little water
came up, and that not so refreshing as usual, so next he tried a puddle
and he fell flop into it. When a real bird falls in flop, he spreads
out his feathers and pecks them dry, but Peter could not remember what
was the thing to do, and he decided rather sulkily to go to sleep on
the weeping-beech in the Baby Walk.
At first he found some difficulty in balancing himself on a branch, but
presently he remembered the way, and fell asleep. He awoke long before
morning, shivering, and saying to himself, 'I never was out on such a
cold night'; he had really been out on colder nights when he was a
bird, but, of course, as everybody knows, what seems a warm night to a
bird is a cold night to a boy in a nightgown. Peter also felt
strangely uncomfortable, as if his head was stuffy; he heard loud
noises that made him look round sharply, though they were really
himself sneezing. There was something he wanted very much, but, though
he knew he wanted it, he could not think what it was. What he wanted
so much was his mother to blow his nose, but that never struck him, so
he decided to appeal to the fairies for enlightenment. They are
reputed to know a good deal.
[Illustration: When he heard Peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a
tulip]
There were two of them strolling along the Baby Walk, with their arms
round each other's waists, and he hopped down to address them. The
fairies have their tiffs with the birds, but they usually give a civil
answer to a civil question, and he was quite angry when these two ran
away the moment they saw him. Another was lolling on a garden chair,
reading a postage-stamp which some human had let fall, and when he
heard Peter's voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip.
To Peter's bewilderment he discovered that every fairy he met fled from
him. A band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away,
leaving their tools behind them. A milkmaid turned her pail upside
down and hid in it. Soon the Gardens were in an uproar. Crowds of
fairies were running this way and that, asking each other stoutly who
was afraid; lights were extinguished, doors barricaded, and from the
grounds of Queen Mab's palace came the rub-a-dub of drums, showing that
the royal guard had been called out. A regiment of Lancers came
charging down the Broad Walk, armed with holly-leaves, with which they
jag the enemy horribly in passing. Peter heard the little people
crying everywhere that there was a human in the Gardens after Lock-out
Time, but he never thought for a moment that he was the human. He was
feeling stuffier and stuffier, and more and more wistful to learn what
he wanted done to his nose, but he pursued them with the vital question
in vain; the timid creatures ran from him, and even the Lancers, when
he approached them up the Hump, turned swiftly into a side-walk, on the
pretence that they saw him there.
[Illustration: A band of workmen, who were sawing down a toadstool,
rushed away, leaving their tools behind them]
Despairing of the fairies, he resolved to consult the birds, but now he
remembered, as an odd thing, that all the birds on the weeping-beech
had flown away when he alighted on it, and though this had not troubled
him at the time, he saw its meaning now. Every living thing was
shunning him. Poor little Peter Pan! he sat down and cried, and even
then he did not know that, for a bird, he was sitting on his wrong
part. It is a blessing that he did not know, for otherwise he would
have lost faith in his power to fly, and the moment you doubt whether
you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it. The reason birds
can fly and we can't is simply that they have perfect faith, for to
have faith is to have wings.
Now, except by flying, no one can reach the island in the Serpentine,
for the boats of humans are forbidden to land there, and there are
stakes round it, standing up in the water, on each of which a
bird-sentinel sits by day and night. It was to the island that Peter
now flew to put his strange case before old Solomon Caw, and he
alighted on it with relief, much heartened to find himself at last at
home, as the birds call the island. All of them were asleep, including
the sentinels, except Solomon, who was wide awake on one side, and he
listened quietly to Peter's adventures, and then told him their true
meaning.
'Look at your nightgown, if you don't believe me,' Solomon said; and
with staring eyes Peter looked at his nightgown, and then at the
sleeping birds. Not one of them wore anything.
'How many of your toes are thumbs?' said Solomon a little cruelly, and
Peter saw, to his consternation, that all his toes were fingers. The
shock was so great that it drove away his cold.
'Ruffle your feathers,' said that grim old Solomon, and Peter tried
most desperately hard to ruffle his feathers, but he had none. Then he
rose up, quaking, and for the first time since he stood on the window
ledge, he remembered a lady who had been very fond of him.
[Illustration: Put his strange case before old Solomon Caw (missing
from book)]
'I think I shall go back to mother,' he said, timidly.
'Good-bye,' replied Solomon Caw with a queer look.
But Peter hesitated. 'Why don't you go?' the old one asked politely.
'I suppose,' said Peter huskily, 'I suppose I can still fly?'
You see he had lost faith.
'Poor little half-and-half!' said Solomon, who was not really
hard-hearted, 'you will never be able to fly again, not even on windy
days. You must live here on the island always.'
'And never even go to the Kensington Gardens?' Peter asked tragically.
'How could you get across?' said Solomon. He promised very kindly,
however, to teach Peter as many of the bird ways as could be learned by
one of such an awkward shape.
'Then I shan't be exactly a human?' Peter asked.
'No.'
'Nor exactly a bird?'
'No.'
'What shall I be?'
'You will be a Betwixt-and-Between,' Solomon said, and certainly he was
a wise old fellow, for that is exactly how it turned out.
The birds on the island never got used to him. His oddities tickled
them every day, as if they were quite new, though it was really the
birds that were new. They came out of the eggs daily, and laughed at
him at once; then off they soon flew to be humans, and other birds came
out of other eggs; and so it went on for ever. The crafty
mother-birds, when they tired of sitting on their eggs, used to get the
young ones to break their shells a day before the right time by
whispering to them that now was their chance to see Peter washing or
drinking or eating. Thousands gathered round him daily to watch him do
these things, just as you watch the peacocks, and they screamed with
delight when he lifted the crusts they flung him with his hands instead
of in the usual way with the mouth. All his food was brought to him
from the Gardens at Solomon's orders by the birds. He would not eat
worms or insects (which they thought very silly of him), so they
brought him bread in their beaks. Thus, when you cry out, 'Greedy!
Greedy!' to the bird that flies away with the big crust, you know now
that you ought not to do this, for he is very likely taking it to Peter
Pan.
[Illustration: The birds on the island never got used to him. His
oddities tickled them every day]
Peter wore no nightgown now. You see, the birds were always begging
him for bits of it to line their nests with, and, being very
good-natured, he could not refuse, so by Solomon's advice he had hidden
what was left of it. But, though he was now quite naked, you must not
think that he was cold or unhappy. He was usually very happy and gay,
and the reason was that Solomon had kept his promise and taught him
many of the bird ways. To be easily pleased, for instance, and always
to be really doing something, and to think that whatever he was doing
was a thing of vast importance. Peter became very clever at helping
the birds to build their nests; soon he could build better than a
wood-pigeon, and nearly as well as a blackbird, though never did he
satisfy the finches, and he made nice little water-troughs near the
nests and dug up worms for the young ones with his fingers. He also
became very learned in bird-lore, and knew an east wind from a west
wind by its smell, and he could see the grass growing and hear the
insects walking about inside the tree-trunks. But the best thing
Solomon had done was to teach him to have a glad heart. All birds have
glad hearts unless you rob their nests, and so, as they were the only
kind of heart Solomon knew about, it was easy to him to teach Peter how
to have one.
[Illustration: Peter screamed out, 'Do it again!' and with great
good-nature they did it several times]
Peter's heart was so glad that he felt he must sing all day long, just
as the birds sing for joy, but, being partly human, he needed an
instrument, so he made a pipe of reeds, and he used to sit by the shore
of the island of an evening, practising the sough of the wind and the
ripple of the water, and catching handfuls of the shine of the moon,
and he put them all in his pipe and played them so beautifully that
even the birds were deceived, and they would say to each other, 'Was
that a fish leaping in the water or was it Peter playing leaping fish
on his pipe?' And sometimes he played the birth of birds, and then the
mothers would turn round in their nests to see whether they had laid an
egg. If you are a child of the Gardens you must know the chestnut-tree
near the bridge, which comes out in flower first of all the chestnuts,
but perhaps you have not heard why this tree leads the way. It is
because Peter wearies for summer and plays that it has come, and the
chestnut being so near, hears him and is cheated.
[Illustration: A hundred flew off with the string, and Peter clung to
the tail]
But as Peter sat by the shore tootling divinely on his pipe he
sometimes fell into sad thoughts, and then the music became sad also,
and the reason of all this sadness was that he could not reach the
Gardens, though he could see them through the arch of the bridge. He
knew he could never be a real human again, and scarcely wanted to be
one, but oh! how he longed to play as other children play, and of
course there is no such lovely place to play in as the Gardens. The
birds brought him news of how boys and girls play, and wistful tears
started in Peter's eyes.
Perhaps you wonder why he did not swim across. The reason was that he
could not swim. He wanted to know how to swim, but no one on the
island knew the way except the ducks, and they are so stupid. They
were quite willing to teach him, but all they could say about it was,
'You sit down on the top of the water in this way, and then you kick
out like that.' Peter tried it often, but always before he could kick
out he sank. What he really needed to know was how you sit on the
water without sinking, and they said it was quite impossible to explain
such an easy thing as that. Occasionally swans touched on the island,
and he would give them all his day's food and then ask them how they
sat on the water, but as soon as he had no more to give them the
hateful things hissed at him and sailed away.
Once he really thought he had discovered a way of reaching the Gardens.
A wonderful white thing, like a runaway newspaper, floated high over
the island and then tumbled, rolling over and over after the manner of
a bird that has broken its wing. Peter was so frightened that he hid,
but the birds told him it was only a kite, and what a kite is, and that
it must have tugged its string out of a boy's hand, and soared away.
After that they laughed at Peter for being so fond of the kite; he
loved it so much that he even slept with one hand on it, and I think
this was pathetic and pretty, for the reason he loved it was because it
had belonged to a real boy.
[Illustration: After this the birds said that they would help him no
more in his mad enterprise]
To the birds this was a very poor reason, but the older ones felt
grateful to him at this time because he had nursed a number of
fledglings through the German measles, and they offered to show him how
birds fly a kite. So six of them took the end of the string in their
beaks and flew away with it; and to his amazement it flew after them
and went even higher than they.
Peter screamed out, 'Do it again!' and with great good-nature they did
it several times, and always instead of thanking them he cried, 'Do it
again!' which shows that even now he had not quite forgotten what it
was to be a boy.
At last, with a grand design burning within his brave heart, he begged
them to do it once more with him clinging to the tail, and now a
hundred flew off with the string, and Peter clung to the tail, meaning
to drop off when he was over the Gardens. But the kite broke to pieces
in the air, and he would have been drowned in the Serpentine had he not
caught hold of two indignant swans and made them carry him to the
island. After this the birds said that they would help him no more in
his mad enterprise.
Nevertheless, Peter did reach the Gardens at last by the help of
Shelley's boat, as I am now to tell you.
[Illustration: Tailpiece to 'Peter Pan']
[Illustration: Headpiece to 'The Thrush's Nest']
III
THE THRUSH'S NEST
Shelley was a young gentleman and as grown-up as he need ever expect to
be. He was a poet; and they are never exactly grown-up. They are
people who despise money except what you need for to-day, and he had
all that and five pounds over. So, when he was walking in the
Kensington Gardens, he made a paper boat of his bank-note, and sent it
sailing on the Serpentine.
It reached the island at night; and the look-out brought it to Solomon
Caw, who thought at first that it was the usual thing, a message from a
lady, saying she would be obliged if he could let her have a good one.
They always ask for the best one he has, and if he likes the letter he
sends one from Class A, but if it ruffles him he sends very funny ones
indeed. Sometimes he sends none at all, and at another time he sends a
nestful; it all depends on the mood you catch him in. He likes you to
leave it all to him, and if you mention particularly that you hope he
will see his way to making it _a boy this time_, he is almost sure to
send another girl. And whether you are a lady or only a little boy who
wants a baby-sister, always take pains to write your address clearly.
You can't think what a lot of babies Solomon has sent to the wrong
house.
Shelley's boat, when opened, completely puzzled Solomon, and he took
counsel of his assistants, who having walked over it twice, first with
their toes pointed out, and then with their toes pointed in, decided
that it came from some greedy person who wanted five. They thought
this because there was a large five printed on it. 'Preposterous!'
cried Solomon in a rage, and he presented it to Peter; anything useless
which drifted upon the island was usually given to Peter as a plaything.
But he did not play with his precious bank-note, for he knew what it
was at once, having been very observant during the week when he was an
ordinary boy. With so much money, he reflected, he could surely at
last contrive to reach the Gardens, and he considered all the possible
ways, and decided (wisely, I think) to choose the best way. But,
first, he had to tell the birds of the value of Shelley's boat; and
though they were too honest to demand it back, he saw that they were
galled, and they cast such black looks at Solomon, who was rather vain
of his cleverness, that he flew away to the end of the island, and sat
there very depressed with his head buried in his wings. Now Peter knew
that unless Solomon was on your side, you never got anything done for
you in the island, so he followed him and tried to hearten him.
[Illustration: 'Preposterous!' cried Solomon in a rage]
Nor was this all that Peter did to gain the powerful old fellow's
good-will. You must know that Solomon had no intention of remaining in
office all his life. He looked forward to retiring by and by, and
devoting his green old age to a life of pleasure on a certain yew-stump
in the Figs which had taken his fancy, and for years he had been
quietly filling his stocking. It was a stocking belonging to some
bathing person which had been cast upon the island, and at the time I
speak of it contained a hundred and eighty crumbs, thirty-four nuts,
sixteen crusts, a pen-wiper, and a boot-lace. When his stocking was
full, Solomon calculated that he would be able to retire on a
competency. Peter now gave him a pound. He cut it off his bank-note
with a sharp stick.
This made Solomon his friend for ever, and after the two had consulted
together they called a meeting of the thrushes. You will see presently
why thrushes only were invited.
The scheme to be put before them was really Peter's, but Solomon did
most of the talking, because he soon became irritable if other people
talked. He began by saying that he had been much impressed by the
superior ingenuity shown by the thrushes in nest-building, and this put
them into good-humour at once, as it was meant to do; for all the
quarrels between birds are about the best way of building nests. Other
birds, said Solomon, omitted to line their nests with mud, and as a
result they did not hold water. Here he cocked his head as if he had
used an unanswerable argument; but, unfortunately, a Mrs. Finch had
come to the meeting uninvited, and she squeaked out, 'We don't build
nests to hold water, but to hold eggs,' and then the thrushes stopped
cheering, and Solomon was so perplexed that he took several sips of
water.
'Consider,' he said at last, 'how warm the mud makes the nest.'
'Consider,' cried Mrs. Finch, 'that when water gets into the nest it
remains there and your little ones are drowned.'
The thrushes begged Solomon with a look to say something crushing in
reply to this, but again he was perplexed.
'Try another drink,' suggested Mrs. Finch pertly. Kate was her name,
and all Kates are saucy.
[Illustration: For years he had been quietly filling his stocking]
Solomon did try another drink, and it inspired him. 'If,' said he, 'a
finch's nest is placed on the Serpentine it fills and breaks to pieces,
but a thrush's nest is still as dry as the cup of a swan's back.'
How the thrushes applauded! Now they knew why they lined their nests
with mud, and when Mrs. Finch called out, 'We don't place our nests on
the Serpentine,' they did what they should have done at first--chased
her from the meeting. After this it was most orderly. What they had
been brought together to hear, said Solomon, was this: their young
friend, Peter Pan, as they well knew, wanted very much to be able to
cross to the Gardens, and he now proposed, with their help, to build a
boat.
At this the thrushes began to fidget, which made Peter tremble for his
scheme.
Solomon explained hastily that what he meant was not one of the
cumbrous boats that humans use; the proposed boat was to be simply a
thrush's nest large enough to hold Peter.
But still, to Peter's agony, the thrushes were sulky. 'We are very
busy people,' they grumbled, 'and this would be a big job.'
'Quite so,' said Solomon, 'and, of course, Peter would not allow you to
work for nothing. You must remember that he is now in comfortable
circumstances, and he will pay you such wages as you have never been
paid before. Peter Pan authorises me to say that you shall all be paid
sixpence a day.'
Then all the thrushes hopped for joy, and that very day was begun the
celebrated Building of the Boat. All their ordinary business fell into
arrears. It was the time of the year when they should have been
pairing, but not a thrush's nest was built except this big one, and so
Solomon soon ran short of thrushes with which to supply the demand from
the mainland. The stout, rather greedy children, who look so well in
perambulators but get puffed easily when they walk, were all young
thrushes once, and ladies often ask specially for them. What do you
think Solomon did? He sent over to the house-tops for a lot of
sparrows and ordered them to lay their eggs in old thrushes' nests, and
sent their young to the ladies and swore they were all thrushes! It
was known afterwards on the island as the Sparrows' Year; and so, when
you meet grown-up people in the Gardens who puff and blow as if they
thought themselves bigger than they are, very likely they belong to
that year. You ask them.
[Illustration: When you meet grown-up people in the Gardens who puff
and blow as if they thought themselves bigger than they are]
Peter was a just master, and paid his work-people every evening. They
stood in rows on the branches, waiting politely while he cut the paper
sixpences out of his bank-note, and presently he called the roll, and
then each bird, as the names were mentioned, flew down and got
sixpence. It must have been a fine sight.
And at last, after months of labour, the boat was finished. O the
glory of Peter as he saw it growing more and more like a great thrush's
nest! From the very beginning of the building of it he slept by its
side, and often woke up to say sweet things to it, and after it was
lined with mud and the mud had dried he always slept in it. He sleeps
in his nest still, and has a fascinating way of curling round in it,
for it is just large enough to hold him comfortably when he curls round
like a kitten. It is brown inside, of course, but outside it is mostly
green, being woven of grass and twigs, and when these wither or snap
the walls are thatched afresh. There are also a few feathers here and
there, which came off the thrushes while they were building.
The other birds were extremely jealous, and said that the boat would
not balance on the water, but it lay most beautifully steady; they said
the water would come into it, but no water came into it. Next they
said that Peter had no oars, and this caused the thrushes to look at
each other in dismay; but Peter replied that he had no need of oars,
for he had a sail, and with such a proud, happy face he produced a sail
which he had fashioned out of his nightgown, and though it was still
rather like a nightgown it made a lovely sail. And that night, the
moon being full, and all the birds asleep, he did enter his coracle (as
Master Francis Pretty would have said) and depart out of the island.
And first, he knew not why, he looked upward, with his hands clasped,
and from that moment his eyes were pinned to the west.
He had promised the thrushes to begin by making short voyages, with
them as his guides, but far away he saw the Kensington Gardens
beckoning to him beneath the bridge, and he could not wait. His face
was flushed, but he never looked back; there was an exultation in his
little breast that drove out fear. Was Peter the least gallant of the
English mariners who have sailed westward to meet the Unknown?
At first, his boat turned round and round, and he was driven back to
the place of his starting, whereupon he shortened sail, by removing one
of the sleeves, and was forthwith carried backwards by a contrary
breeze, to his no small peril. He now let go the sail, with the result
that he was drifted towards the far shore, where are black shadows he
knew not the dangers of, but suspected them, and so once more hoisted
his nightgown and went roomer of the shadows until he caught a
favouring wind, which bore him westward, but at so great a speed that
he was like to be broke against the bridge. Which, having avoided, he
passed under the bridge and came, to his great rejoicing, within full
sight of the delectable Gardens. But having tried to cast anchor,
which was a stone at the end of a piece of the kite-string, he found no
bottom, and was fain to hold off, seeking for moorage; and, feeling his
way, he buffeted against a sunken reef that cast him overboard by the
greatness of the shock, and he was near to being drowned, but clambered
back into the vessel. There now arose a mighty storm, accompanied by
roaring of waters, such as he had never heard the like, and he was
tossed this way and that, and his hands so numbed with the cold that he
could not close them. Having escaped the danger of which, he was
mercifully carried into a small bay, where his boat rode at peace.
Nevertheless, he was not yet in safety; for, on pretending to
disembark, he found a multitude of small people drawn up on the shore
to contest his landing, and shouting shrilly to him to be off, for it
was long past Lock-out Time. This, with much brandishing of their
holly-leaves; and also a company of them carried an arrow which some
boy had left in the Gardens, and this they were prepared to use as a
battering-ram.
Then Peter, who knew them for the fairies, called out that he was not
an ordinary human and had no desire to do them displeasure, but to be
their friend; nevertheless, having found a jolly harbour, he was in no
temper to draw off therefrom, and he warned them if they sought to
mischief him to stand to their harms.
So saying, he boldly leapt ashore, and they gathered around him with
intent to slay him, but there then arose a great cry among the women,
and it was because they had now observed that his sail was a baby's
nightgown. Whereupon, they straightway loved him, and grieved that
their laps were too small, the which I cannot explain, except by saying
that such is the way of women. The men-fairies now sheathed their
weapons on observing the behaviour of their women, on whose
intelligence they set great store, and they led him civilly to their
queen, who conferred upon him the courtesy of the Gardens after
Lock-out Time, and henceforth Peter could go whither he chose, and the
fairies had orders to put him in comfort.
[Illustration: He passed under the bridge and came within full sight of
the delectable Gardens]
Such was his first voyage to the Gardens, and you may gather from the
antiquity of the language that it took place a long time ago. But
Peter never grows any older, and if we could be watching for him under
the bridge to-night (but, of course, we can't), I dare say we should
see him hoisting his nightgown and sailing or paddling towards us in
the Thrush's Nest. When he sails, he sits down, but he stands up to
paddle. I shall tell you presently how he got his paddle.
Long before the time for the opening of the gates comes he steals back
to the island, for people must not see him (he is not so human as all
that), but this gives him hours for play, and he plays exactly as real
children play. At least he thinks so, and it is one of the pathetic
things about him that he often plays quite wrongly.
You see, he had no one to tell him how children really play, for the
fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk, and so know nothing,
and though the birds pretended that they could tell him a great deal,
when the time for telling came, it was wonderful how little they really
knew. They told him the truth about hide-and-seek, and he often plays
it by himself, but even the ducks on the Round Pond could not explain
to him what it is that makes the pond so fascinating to boys. Every
night the ducks have forgotten all the events of the day, except the
number of pieces of cake thrown to them. They are gloomy creatures,
and say that cake is not what it was in their young days.
So Peter had to find out many things for himself. He often played
ships at the Round Pond, but his ship was only a hoop which he had
found on the grass. Of course, he had never seen a hoop, and he
wondered what you play at with them, and decided that you play at
pretending they are boats. This hoop always sank at once, but he waded
in for it, and sometimes he dragged it gleefully round the rim of the
pond, and he was quite proud to think that he had discovered what boys
do with hoops.
[Illustration: There now arose a mighty storm, and he was tossed this
way and that (missing from book)]
Another time, when he found a child's pail, he thought it was for
sitting in, and he sat so hard in it that he could scarcely get out of
it. Also he found a balloon. It was bobbing about on the Hump, quite
as if it was having a game by itself, and he caught it after an
exciting chase. But he thought it was a ball, and Jenny Wren had told
him that boys kick balls, so he kicked it; and after that he could not
find it anywhere.
Perhaps the most surprising thing he found was a perambulator. It was
under a lime-tree, near the entrance to the Fairy Queen's Winter Palace
(which is within the circle of the seven Spanish chestnuts), and Peter
approached it warily, for the birds had never mentioned such things to
him. Lest it was alive, he addressed it politely; and then, as it gave
no answer, he went nearer and felt it cautiously. He gave it a little
push, and it ran from him, which made him think it must be alive after
all; but, as it had run from him, he was not afraid. So he stretched
out his hand to pull it to him, but this time it ran at him, and he was
so alarmed that he leapt the railing and scudded away to his boat. You
must not think, however, that he was a coward, for he came back next
night with a crust in one hand and a stick in the other, but the
perambulator had gone, and he never saw any other one. I have promised
to tell you also about his paddle. It was a child's spade which he had
found near St. Govor's Well, and he thought it was a paddle.
Do you pity Peter Pan for making these mistakes? If so, I think it
rather silly of you. What I mean is that, of course, one must pity him
now and then, but to pity him all the time would be impertinence. He
thought he had the most splendid time in the Gardens, and to think you
have it is almost quite as good as really to have it. He played
without ceasing, while you often waste time by being mad-dog or
Mary-Annish. He could be neither of these things, for he had never
heard of them, but do you think he is to be pitied for that?
Oh, he was merry! He was as much merrier than you, for instance, as
you are merrier than your father. Sometimes he fell, like a
spinning-top, from sheer merriment. Have you seen a greyhound leaping
the fences of the Gardens? That is how Peter leaps them.
[Illustration: Fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk]
And think of the music of his pipe. Gentlemen who walk home at night
write to the papers to say they heard a nightingale in the Gardens, but
it is really Peter's pipe they hear. Of course, he had no mother--at
least, what use was she to him? You can be sorry for him for that, but
don't be too sorry, for the next thing I mean to tell you is how he
revisited her. It was the fairies who gave him the chance.
[Illustration: Tailpiece to 'The Thrush's Nest']
[Illustration: Headpiece to 'Lock-out Time']
IV
LOCK-OUT TIME
It is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies, and almost
the only thing known for certain is that there are fairies wherever
there are children. Long ago children were forbidden the Gardens, and
at that time there was not a fairy in the place; then the children were
admitted, and the fairies came trooping in that very evening. They
can't resist following the children, but you seldom see them, partly
because they live in the daytime behind the railings, where you are not
allowed to go, and also partly because they are so cunning. They are
not a bit cunning after Lock-out, but until Lock-out, my word!
[Illustration: They are so cunning]
[Illustration: When they think you are not looking they skip along
pretty lively (missing from book)]
When you were a bird you knew the fairies pretty well, and you remember
a good deal about them in your babyhood, which it is a great pity you
can't write down, for gradually you forget, and I have heard of
children who declared that they had never once seen a fairy. Very
likely if they said this in the Kensington Gardens, they were standing
looking at a fairy all the time. The reason they were cheated was that
she pretended to be something else. This is one of their best tricks.
They usually pretend to be flowers, because the court sits in the
Fairies' Basin, and there are so many flowers there, and all along the
Baby Walk, that a flower is the thing least likely to attract
attention. They dress exactly like flowers, and change with the
seasons, putting on white when lilies are in and blue for bluebells,
and so on. They like crocus and hyacinth time best of all, as they are
partial to a bit of colour, but tulips (except white ones, which are
the fairy cradles) they consider garish, and they sometimes put off
dressing like tulips for days, so that the beginning of the tulip weeks
is almost the best time to catch them.
When they think you are not looking they skip along pretty lively, but
if you look, and they fear there is no time to hide, they stand quite
still pretending to be flowers. Then, after you have passed without
knowing that they were fairies, they rush home and tell their mothers
they have had such an adventure. The Fairy Basin, you remember, is all
covered with ground-ivy (from which they make their castor-oil), with
flowers growing in it here and there. Most of them really are flowers,
but some of them are fairies. You never can be sure of them, but a
good plan is to walk by looking the other way, and then turn round
sharply. Another good plan, which David and I sometimes follow, is to
stare them down. After a long time they can't help winking, and then
you know for certain that they are fairies.
[Illustration: But if you look, and they fear there is no time to hide,
they stand quite still pretending to be flowers (missing from book)]
There are also numbers of them along the Baby Walk, which is a famous
gentle place, as spots frequented by fairies are called. Once
twenty-four of them had an extraordinary adventure. They were a girls'
school out for a walk with the governess, and all wearing hyacinth
gowns, when she suddenly put her finger to her mouth, and then they all
stood still on an empty bed and pretended to be hyacinths.
Unfortunately what the governess had heard was two gardeners coming to
plant new flowers in that very bed. They were wheeling a hand-cart
with the flowers in it, and were quite surprised to find the bed
occupied. 'Pity to lift them hyacinths,' said the one man. 'Duke's
orders,' replied the other, and, having emptied the cart, they dug up
the boarding-school and put the poor, terrified things in it in five
rows. Of course, neither the governess nor the girls dare let on that
they were fairies, so they were carted far away to a potting-shed, out
of which they escaped in the night without their shoes, but there was a
great row about it among the parents, and the school was ruined.
As for their houses, it is no use looking for them, because they are
the exact opposite of our houses. You can see our houses by day but
you can't see them by dark. Well, you can see their houses by dark,
but you can't see them by day, for they are the colour of night, and I
never heard of any one yet who could see night in the daytime. This
does not mean that they are black, for night has its colours just as
day has, but ever so much brighter. Their blues and reds and greens
are like ours with a light behind them. The palace is entirely built
of many-coloured glasses, and it is quite the loveliest of all royal
residences, but the queen sometimes complains because the common people
will peep in to see what she is doing. They are very inquisitive folk,
and press quite hard against the glass, and that is why their noses are
mostly snubby. The streets are miles long and very twisty, and have
paths on each side made of bright worsted. The birds used to steal the
worsted for their nests, but a policeman has been appointed to hold on
at the other end.
[Illustration: The fairies are exquisite dancers]
One of the great differences between the fairies and us is that they
never do anything useful. When the first baby laughed for the first
time, his laugh broke into a million pieces, and they all went skipping
about. That was the beginning of fairies. They look tremendously
busy, you know, as if they had not a moment to spare, but if you were
to ask them what they are doing, they could not tell you in the least.
They are frightfully ignorant, and everything they do is make-believe.
They have a postman, but he never calls except at Christmas with his
little box, and though they have beautiful schools, nothing is taught
in them; the youngest child being chief person is always elected
mistress, and when she has called the roll, they all go out for a walk
and never come back. It is a very noticeable thing that, in fairy
families, the youngest is always chief person, and usually becomes a
prince or princess; and children remember this, and think it must be so
among humans also, and that is why they are often made uneasy when they
come upon their mother furtively putting new frills on the basinette.