Nothing comforted us so much whilst Mother and Chris were away as
being allowed to play in the library.
We were not usually allowed to be there so often, but when we asked
Father he gave us leave to amuse ourselves there at the time when
Mother would have had us with her, provided that we did not bother him
or hurt the books. We did not hurt the books, and in the end we were
allowed to go there as much as we liked.
We have plenty of books of our own, and we have new ones very often:
on birthdays and at Christmas. Sometimes they are interesting, and
sometimes they are disappointing. Most of them have pretty pictures.
It was because we had been rather unlucky for some time, and had had
disappointing ones on our birthdays, that Arthur said to me, "Look
here, Mary, I'm not going to read any books now but grown-up ones,
unless it is an Adventure Book. I'm sick of books for young people,
there's so much _stuff_ in them."
We call it _stuff_ when there seems to be going to be a story and it
comes to nothing but talk; and we call it _stuff_ when there is a very
interesting picture, and you read to see what it is about, and the
reading does not tell you, or tells you wrong.
Both Arthur and Christopher had had disappointments in their books on
their birthdays.
Arthur jumped at his book at first, because there were Japanese
pictures in it, and Uncle Charley had just been staying with us, and
had brought beautiful Japanese pictures with him, and had told us
Japanese fairy tales, and they were as good as Bechstein. So Arthur
was full of Japan.
The most beautiful picture of all was of a stork, high up in a tall,
tall pine tree, and the branches of the pine tree, and the cones, and
the pine needles were most beautifully drawn; and there was a nest
with young storks in it, and behind the stork and the nest and the
tall pine the sun was blazing with all his rays. And Uncle Charley
told us the story to it, and it was called "the Nest of the Stork."
So when Arthur saw a stork standing among pine needles in his new
book he shouted with delight, though the pine needles were rather
badly done, with thick strokes. But presently he said, "It's not
nearly so good a stork as Uncle Charley's. And where's the stem of the
pine? It looks as if the stork were on the ground and on the top of
the pine tree, too, and there's no nest. And there's no sun. And, oh!
Mary, what do you think is written under it? '_Crane and
Water-reeds_.' Well, I do call that a sell!"
Christopher's disappointment was quite as bad. Mother gave him a book
with very nice pictures, particularly of beasts. The chief reason she
got it for him was that there was such a very good picture of a toad,
and Chris is so fond of toads. For months he made friends with one in
the garden. It used to crawl away from him, and he used to creep after
it, talking to it, and then it used to half begin to crawl up the
garden wall, and stand so, on its hind legs, and let Chris rub its
wrinkled back. The toad in the picture was exactly like Christopher's
toad, and he ran about the house with the book in his arms begging us
to read him the story about Dear Toady.
We were all busy but Arthur, and he said, "I want to go on with my
water-wheel." But Mother said, "Don't be selfish, Arthur." And he
said, "I forgot. All right, Chris; bring me the book." So they went
and sat in the conservatory, not to disturb anyone. But very soon they
came back, Chris crying, and saying, "It couldn't be the right one,
Arthur;" and Arthur frowning, and saying, "It _is_ the right story;
but it's _stuff_. I'll tell you what that book's good for, Chris. To
paint the pictures. And you've got a new paint-box." So Mother said,
"What's the matter?" And Arthur said, "Chris thinks I haven't read him
the right story to his Toad Picture. But I have, and what do you think
it's about? It's about the silliest little girl you can imagine--a
regular mawk of a girl--_and a frog_. Not a toad, but a F. R. O. G.
frog! A regular hop, skip, jumping frog!"
Arthur hopped round the room, but Chris cried bitterly. So Arthur ran
up to him, and kissed him, and said, "Don't cry, old chap. I'll tell
you what I'll do. You get Mary to cut out a lot of the leaves of your
book that have no pictures, and that will make it like a real
scrap-book; and then I'll give you a lot of my scraps and pictures to
paste over what's left of the stories, and you'll have such a
painting-book as you never had in all your life before."
So we did. And Arthur was very good, for he gave Chris pictures that I
know he prized, because Chris liked them. But the very first picture
he gave him was the "Crane and Water-reeds."
I thought it so good of Arthur to be so nice with Chris that I wished
I could have helped him over his water-wheel. He had put Japan out of
his head since the disappointment, and spent all his play-time in
making mills and machinery. He did grind some corn into flour once,
but it was not at all white. He said that was because the bran was
left in. But it was not only bran in Arthur's flour. There was a good
deal of sand too, from his millstones being made of sandstone, which
he thought would not matter. But it grinds off.
Down in the valley, below Mary's Meadow, runs the Ladybrook, which
turns the old water-wheel of Mary's Mill. It is a very picturesque old
mill, and Mother has made beautiful sketches of it. She caught the
last cold she got before going abroad with sketching it--the day we
had a most delightful picnic there, and went about in the punt. And
from that afternoon Arthur made up his mind that his next mill should
be a water mill.
The reason I am no good at helping Arthur about his mills is that I am
stupid about machinery; and I was so vexed not to help him, that when
I saw a book in the library which I thought would do so, I did not
stop to take it out, for it was in four very large volumes, but ran
off at once to tell Arthur.
He said, "What is the matter, Mary?"
I said, "Oh, Arthur! I've found a book that will tell you all about
mills; and it is the nicest smelling book in the Library."
"The nicest _smelling_? What's that got to do with mills?"
"Nothing, of course. But it's bound in russia, and I am so fond of the
smell of russia. But that's nothing. It's a Miller's Dictionary, and
it is in four huge volumes, 'with plates.' I should think you could
look out all about every kind of mill there ever was a miller to."
"If the plates give sections and diagrams"--Arthur began, but I did
not hear the rest, for he started off for the library at once, and I
ran after him.
But when we got Miller's Dictionary on the floor, how he did tease me!
For there was nothing about mills or millers in it. It was a
Gardener's and Botanist's Dictionary, by Philip Miller; and the plates
were plates of flowers, very truly drawn, like the pine tree in Uncle
Charley's Jap. picture. There were some sections too, but they were
sections of greenhouses, not of any kinds of mills or machinery.
The odd thing was that it turned out a kind of help to Arthur after
all. For we got so much interested in it that it roused us up about
our gardens. We are all very fond of flowers, I most of all. And at
last Arthur said he thought that miniature mills were really rather
humbugging things, and it would be much easier and more useful to
build a cold frame to keep choice auriculas and _half-hardies_ in.
When we took up our gardens so hotly, Harry and Adela took up theirs,
and we did a great deal, for the weather was fine.
We were surprised to find that the Old Squire's Scotch Gardener knew
Miller's Gardener's Dictionary quite well. He said, "It's a gran'
wurrk!" (Arthur can say it just like him.)
One day he wished he could see it, and smell the russia binding; he
said he liked to feel a nice smell. Father was away, and we were by
ourselves, so we invited him into the library. Saxon wanted to come in
too, but the gardener was very cross with him, and sent him out; and
he sat on the mat outside and dribbled with longing to get in, and
thudded his stiff tail whenever he saw anyone through the doorway.
The Scotch Gardener enjoyed himself very much, and he explained a lot
of things to Arthur, and helped us to put away the Dictionary when we
had done with it.
When he took up his hat to go, he gave one long look all round the
library. Then he turned to Arthur (and Saxon took advantage of this to
wag his way in and join the party), and said, "It's a rare privilege,
the free entry of a book chamber like this. I'm hoping, young
gentleman, that you're not insensible of it?"
Then he caught sight of Saxon, and beat him out of the room with his
hat.
But he came back himself to say, that it might just happen that he
would be glad now and again to hear what was said about this or that
plant (of which he would write down the botanical name) in these
noble volumes.
So we told him that if he would bring Saxon to see us pretty often, we
would look out anything he wanted to know about in Miller's Gardener's
Dictionary.