And now the time has come to say good-bye; and good-byes are always so
sad that it is much better when we do not know that we have got to say
them. It is so long since Beauty and the Beast and Cinderella and Little
Red Riding Hood came out to greet you in the 'Blue Fairy Book,' that
some of you who wore pigtails or sailor suits in those days have little
boys and girls of your own to read the stories to now, and a few may
even have little baby grandchildren. Since the first giants and
enchanted princes and ill-treated step-daughters made friends with you,
a whole new world of wheels and wings and sharp-voiced bells has been
thrown open, and children have toy motors and aeroplanes which take up
all their thoughts and time. You may see them in the street bending over
pictures of the last machine which has won a prize of a thousand pounds,
and picturing to themselves the day when _they_ shall invent something
finer still, that will fly higher and sail faster than any of those
which have gone before it.
Now as this is the very last book of all this series that began in the
long long ago, perhaps you may like to hear something of the man who
thought over every one of the twenty-five, for fear lest a story should
creep in which he did not wish his little boys and girls to read. He was
born when nobody thought of travelling in anything but a train--a very
slow one--or a steamer. It took a great deal of persuasion to induce him
later to get into a motor and he had not the slightest desire to go up
in an aeroplane--or to possess a telephone. Somebody once told him of a
little boy who, after giving a thrilling account at luncheon of how
Randolph had taken Edinburgh Castle, had expressed a desire to go out
and see the Museum; 'I like old things better than new,' said the child!
'I wish I knew that little boy,' observed the man. 'He would just suit
me.' And that was true, for he too loved great deeds of battle and
adventure as well as the curious carved and painted fragments guarded in
museums which show that the lives described by Homer and the other old
poets were not tales made up by them to amuse tired crowds gathered
round a hall fire, but were real--real as our lives now, and much more
beautiful and splendid. Very proud he was one day when he bought, in a
little shop on the way to Kensington Gardens, a small object about an
inch high which to his mind exactly answered to the description of the
lion-gate of Mycenae, only that _now_ the lions have lost their heads,
whereas in the plaster copy from the shop they still had eyes to look at
you and mouths to eat you. His friends were all sent for to give their
opinion on this wonderful discovery, but no two thought alike about it.
One declared it dated from the time of Solomon or of Homer himself, and
of course it would have been delightful to believe that! but then
somebody else was quite certain it was no more than ten years old, while
the rest made different guesses. To this day the question is undecided,
and very likely always will be.
All beasts were his friends, just because they _were_ beasts, unless
they had been very badly brought up. He never could resist a cat, and
cats, like beggars, tell each other these things and profit by them. A
cat knew quite well that it had only to go on sitting for a few days
outside the window where the man was writing, and that if it began to
snow or even to rain, the window would be pushed up and the cat would
spend the rest of its days stretched in front of the fire, with a saucer
of milk beside it, and fish for every meal.
But life with cats was not all peace, and once a terrible thing happened
when Dickon-draw-the-blade was the Puss in Possession. His master was
passing through London on the way to take a journey to some beautiful
old walled towns in the south of France where the English fought in the
Hundred Years War, and he meant to spend a few weeks in the country
along the Loire which is bound up with the memory of Joan of Arc.
Unluckily, the night after he arrived from Scotland Dickon went out for
a walk on the high trellis behind the house, and once there did not know
how to get down again. Of course it was quite easy, and there were ropes
of Virginia creeper to help, but Dickon lost his presence of mind, and
instead of doing anything sensible only stood and shrieked, while his
master got ladders and steps and clambered about in the dark and in the
cold, till he put Dickon on the ground again. Then Dickon's master went
to bed, but woke up so ill that he was obliged to do without the old
towns, and go when he was better to a horrid place called Cannes, all
dust and tea-parties.
Well, besides being fond of beasts, he loved cricket, and he never could
be in a house with a garden for half an hour without trying to make up a
cricket team out of the people who were sitting about declaring it was
too hot to do anything at all; yet somehow or other, in ten minutes they
were running and shouting with the rest. He would even turn a morning
call to account in this way. Many years ago, a young lady who wished to
introduce a new kind of dancing and thought he might be of use to her,
begged a friend to invite them to meet. They did meet, but before a
dozen words had been exchanged one was on the lawn and the other in the
drawing-room, and there they remained to the end of the visit.
Do you love ghosts? So did he, and often and often he wanted to write
you a book of the deadliest, creepiest ghost-stories he could find or
invent, but he was afraid: afraid not of the children of course, but of
their mothers, who were quite certain that if such a volume were known
only to be in print, all kinds of dreadful things would happen to their
sons and daughters. Perhaps they might have; nobody can prove that they
wouldn't. At any rate, it was best to be on the safe side, so the book
was never written.
The books that told of wonderful deeds enthralled him too, and these he
read over and over again. He could have stood a close examination of
Napoleon's battles and generals, and would have told you the ground
occupied by every regiment when the first shot was fired at Waterloo. As
for travelling, he longed to see the places where great events had
happened, but travelling tired him, and after all, when it came to the
point, what was there in the world better than Scotland? As long as he
could lie by a burn with a book in his pocket, watching the fish dancing
in and out, he did not care so very much even about catching them. And
he lay so still that two or three times a little bird came and perched
on his rod--once it was a blue and green kingfisher--and he went home
brimming with pride at the compliment the bird had paid him. Wherever he
stayed, children were his friends, and he would tell them stories and
write them plays and go on expeditions with them to ghost-haunted caves
or historic castles. He would adapt himself to them and be perfectly
satisfied with their company, and there is certainly one story of his
own which owes its ending to a little girl, though in the Preface he was
careful to speak of her as 'The Lady.'
Everything to do with the ideas and customs of savages interested him,
and perhaps if some of you go away by and bye to wild parts of the
world, you will make friends with the people whose stories you may have
read in some of the Christmas books. But remember that savages and seers
of fairyland are just like yourselves, and they will never tell their
secrets to anyone who they feel will laugh at them. This man who loved
fairies was paying a visit in Ireland several years ago and the girls in
the house informed him that an old peasant in the hills was learned in
all the wisdom and spells of the little folk. He perhaps might be
persuaded to tell them a little, he did sometimes, but never if his own
family were about--'they only mocked at him,' he said. It was a chance
not to be missed; arrangements were made to send his daughters out of
the way, and the peasant's fairy-tales were so entertaining that it was
hours before the party came back.
* * * * *
Well, there does not seem much more to add except to place at the end of
these pages a poem which should have gone into the very first Fairy
Book, but by some accident was left out. It is only those who know how
to shake off the fetters of the outside world, and to sever themselves
from its noise and scramble, that can catch the sound of a fairy horn or
the rush of fairy feet. The little girl in the poem had many friends in
fairyland as well as pets among the wood folk, and she has grown up
among the books year by year, sometimes writing stories herself of the
birds and beasts she has tamed, and being throughout her life the
dearest friend of the man who planned the Christmas books twenty-five
years ago.