Produced by K Hindall <kkh2@cornell.edu> from a PDF at
archive.org
<http://www.archive.org/details/onceontime00miln> and
edited by Padraig O hIceadha.
Transcriber's Note:
This text was typed for Project Gutenberg by K Hindall
<kkh2_AT_cornell.edu> from a PDF at archive.org
<http://www.archive.org/details/onceontime00miln> and edited by
Padraig O hIceadha.
ONCE ON A TIME
_By_
A.A. Milne
DECORATED
BY CHARLES
ROBINSON
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers New York
By Arrangement with G. P. Putnam's Sons
Copyright, 1922
by
A. A. Milne
PREFACE
This book was written in 1915, for the amusement of my wife and myself
at a time when life was not very amusing; it was published at the end
of 1917; was reviewed, if at all, as one of a parcel, by some brisk
uncle from the Tiny Tots Department; and died quietly, without
seriously detracting from the interest which was being taken in the
World War, then in progress.
It may be that the circumstances in which the book was written have
made me unduly fond of it. When, as sometimes happens, I am
introduced to a stranger who starts the conversation on the right
lines by praising, however insincerely, my books, I always say, "But
you have not read the best one." Nine times out of ten it is so. The
tenth takes a place in the family calendar; St. Michael or St. Agatha,
as the case may be, a red-letter or black-letter saint, according to
whether the book was bought or borrowed. But there are few such
saints, and both my publisher and I have the feeling (so common to
publishers and authors) that there ought to be more. So here comes
the book again, in a new dress, with new decorations, yet much, as far
as I am concerned, the same book, making the same appeal to me; but,
let us hope, a new appeal, this time, to others.
For whom, then, is the book intended? That is the trouble. Unless I
can say, "For those, young or old, who like the things which I like,"
I find it difficult to answer. Is it a children's book? Well, what
do we mean by that? Is _The Wind in the Willows_ a children's book?
Is _Alice in Wonderland?_ Is _Treasure Island?_ These are
masterpieces which we read with pleasure as children, but with how
much more pleasure when we are grown-up. In any case what do we mean
by "children"? A boy of three, a girl of six, a boy of ten, a girl of
fourteen--are they all to like the same thing? And is a book
"suitable for a boy of twelve" any more likely to please a boy of
twelve than a modern novel is likely to please a man of thirty-seven;
even if the novel be described truly as "suitable for a man of
thirty-seven"? I confess that I cannot grapple with these difficult
problems.
But I am very sure of this: that no one can write a book which
children will like, unless he write it for himself first. That being
so, I shall say boldly that this is a story for grown-ups. How
grown-up I did not realise until I received a letter from an unknown
reader a few weeks after its first publication; a letter which said
that he was delighted with my clever satires of the Kaiser, Mr. Lloyd
George and Mr. Asquith, but he could not be sure which of the
characters were meant to be Mr. Winston Churchill and Mr. Bonar Law.
Would I tell him on the enclosed postcard? I replied that they were
thinly disguised on the title-page as Messrs. Hodder & Stoughton. In
fact, it is not that sort of book.
But, as you see, I am still finding it difficult to explain just what
sort of book it is. Perhaps no explanation is necessary. Read in it
what you like; read it to whomever you like; be of what age you like;
it can only fall into one of two classes. Either you will enjoy it,
or you won't.
It is that sort of book.
A. A. Milne.
CONTENTS
I.--The King of Euralia has a Visitor to Breakfast
II.--The Chancellor of Barodia has a Long Walk Home
III.--The King of Euralia Draws his Sword
IV.--The Princess Hyacinth Leaves it to the Countess
V.--Belvane Indulges her Hobby
VI.--There are no Wizards in Barodia
VII.--The Princess Receives a Letter and Writes One
VIII.--Prince Udo Sleeps Badly
IX.--They are Afraid of Udo
X.--Charlotte Patacake Astonishes the Critics
XI.--Watercress Seems to go with the Ears
XII.--We Decide to Write to Udo's Father
XIII.--"Pink" Rhymes with "Think"
XIV.--"Why Can't you be like Wiggs?"
XV.--There is a Lover Waiting for Hyacinth
XVI.--Belvane Enjoys Herself
XVII.--The King of Barodia Drops the Whisker Habit
XVIII.--The Veteran of the Forest Entertains Two Very Young People
XIX.--Udo Behaves Like a Gentleman
XX.--Coronel Knows a Good Story when he Hears it
XXI.--A Serpent Coming after Udo
XXII.--The Seventeen Volumes go back Again
ILLUSTRATIONS
A Map of Euralia showing the Adjacent Country of Barodia and the
far-distant Araby
He was a Man of Simple Tastes
"Most extraordinary," said the King
He found the King nursing a Bent Whisker and in the very Vilest of
Tempers
"Try it on me," cried the Countess
Five Times he had come back to give her his Last Instructions
Armed to the Teeth, Amazon after Amazon marched by
When the Respective Armies returned to Camp they found Their Majesties
asleep
The Rabbit was gone, and there was a Fairy in front of her
As Evening fell they came to a Woodman's Cottage at the Foot of a High
Hill
"Coronel, here I am," said Udo pathetically, and he stepped out
Twenty-one Minutes later Henrietta Crossbuns was acknowledging a Bag
of Gold
Princess Hyacinth gave a Shriek and faltered slowly backwards
"Now we can talk," said Hyacinth
He forgot his Manners, and made a Jump towards her
She glided gracefully behind the Sundial in a Pretty Affectation of
Alarm
When anybody of Superior Station or Age came into the Room she rose
and curtsied
And then she danced
"Good Morning," said Belvane
The Tent seemed to swim before his Eyes, and he knew no more
She turned round and went off daintily down the Hill
Let me present to you my friend the Duke Coronel
As the Towers of the Castle came in sight, Merriwig drew a Deep Breath
of Happiness
Belvane leading the Way with her Finger to her Lips
Merriwig following with an Exaggerated Caution
He was a Pleasant-looking Person, with a Round Clean-shaven Face
Roger Scurvilegs
[Frontispiece: A Map of Euralia showing the Adjacent Country of
Barodia and the far-distant Araby]
CHAPTER I
THE KING OF EURALIA HAS A VISITOR TO BREAKFAST
[Illustration: _He was a Man of Simple Tastes_]
King Merriwig of Euralia sat at breakfast on his castle walls. He
lifted the gold cover from the gold dish in front of him, selected a
trout and conveyed it carefully to his gold plate. He was a man of
simple tastes, but when you have an aunt with the newly acquired gift
of turning anything she touches to gold, you must let her practise
sometimes. In another age it might have been fretwork.
"Ah," said the King, "here you are, my dear." He searched for his
napkin, but the Princess had already kissed him lightly on the top of
the head, and was sitting in her place opposite to him.
"Good morning, Father," she said; "I'm a little late, aren't I? I've
been riding in the forest."
"Any adventures?" asked the King casually.
"Nothing, except it's a beautiful morning."
"Ah, well, perhaps the country isn't what it was. Now when I was a
young man, you simply couldn't go into the forest without an adventure
of some sort. The extraordinary things one encountered! Witches,
giants, dwarfs----. It was there that I first met your mother," he
added thoughtfully.
"I wish I remembered my mother," said Hyacinth.
The King coughed and looked at her a little nervously.
"Seventeen years ago she died, Hyacinth, when you were only six months
old. I have been wondering lately whether I haven't been a little
remiss in leaving you motherless so long."
The Princess looked puzzled. "But it wasn't your fault, dear, that
mother died."
"Oh, no, no, I'm not saying that. As you know, a dragon carried her
off and--well, there it was. But supposing"--he looked at her
shyly--"I had married again."
The Princess was startled.
"Who?" she asked.
The King peered into his flagon. "Well," he said, "there _are_
people."
"If it had been somebody _very_ nice," said the Princess wistfully,
"it might have been rather lovely."
The King gazed earnestly at the outside of his flagon.
"Why 'might have been?'" he said.
The Princess was still puzzled. "But I'm grown up," she said; "I
don't want a mother so much now."
The King turned his flagon round and studied the other side of it.
"A mother's--er--tender hand," he said, "is--er--never----" and then
the outrageous thing happened.
It was all because of a birthday present to the King of Barodia, and
the present was nothing less than a pair of seven-league boots. The
King being a busy man, it was a week or more before he had an
opportunity of trying those boots. Meanwhile he used to talk about
them at meals, and he would polish them up every night before he went
to bed. When the great day came for the first trial of them to be
made, he took a patronising farewell of his wife and family, ignored
the many eager noses pressed against the upper windows of the Palace,
and sailed off. The motion, as perhaps you know, is a little
disquieting at first, but one soon gets used to it. After that it is
fascinating. He had gone some two thousand miles before he realised
that there might be a difficulty about finding his way back. The
difficulty proved at least as great as he had anticipated. For the
rest of that day he toured backwards and forwards across the country;
and it was by the merest accident that a very angry King shot in
through an open pantry window in the early hours of the morning. He
removed his boots and went softly to bed. . . .
It was, of course, a lesson to him. He decided that in the future he
must proceed by a recognised route, sailing lightly from landmark to
landmark. Such a route his Geographers prepared for him--an early
morning constitutional, of three hundred miles or so, to be taken ten
times before breakfast. He gave himself a week in which to recover
his nerve and then started out on the first of them.
[Illustration: _"Most extraordinary," said the King_]
Now the Kingdom of Euralia adjoined that of Barodia, but whereas
Barodia was a flat country, Euralia was a land of hills. It was
natural then that the Court Geographers, in search of landmarks,
should have looked towards Euralia; and over Euralia accordingly,
about the time when cottage and castle alike were breakfasting, the
King of Barodia soared and dipped and soared and dipped again.
* * * * *
"A mother's tender hand," said the King of Euralia,
"is--er--never--good gracious! What's that?"
There was a sudden rush of air; something came for a moment between
his Majesty and the sun; and then all was quiet again.
"What was it?" asked Hyacinth, slightly alarmed.
"Most extraordinary," said the King. "It left in my mind an
impression of ginger whiskers and large boots. Do we know anybody
like that?"
"The King of Barodia," said Hyacinth, "has red whiskers, but I don't
know about his boots."
"But what could he have been doing up there? Unless----"
There was another rush of wind in the opposite direction; once more
the sun was obscured, and this time, plain for a moment for all to
see, appeared the rapidly dwindling back view of the King of Barodia
on his way home to breakfast.
Merriwig rose with dignity.
"You're quite right, Hyacinth," he said sternly; "it _was_ the King of
Barodia."
Hyacinth looked troubled.
"He oughtn't to come over anybody's breakfast table quite so quickly
as that. Ought he, Father?"
"A lamentable display of manners, my dear. I shall withdraw now and
compose a stiff note to him. The amenities must be observed."
Looking as severe as a naturally jovial face would permit him, and
wondering a little if he had pronounced "amenities" right, he strode
to the library.
The library was his Majesty's favourite apartment. Here in the
mornings he would discuss affairs of state with his Chancellor, or
receive any distinguished visitors who were to come to his kingdom in
search of adventure. Here in the afternoon, with a copy of _What to
say to a Wizard_ or some such book taken at random from the shelves,
he would give himself up to meditation.
And it was the distinguished visitors of the morning who gave him most
to think about in the afternoon. There were at this moment no fewer
than seven different Princes engaged upon seven different enterprises,
to whom, in the event of a successful conclusion, he had promised the
hand of Hyacinth and half his kingdom. No wonder he felt that she
needed the guiding hand of a mother.
The stiff note to Barodia was not destined to be written. He was
still hesitating between two different kinds of nib, when the door was
flung open and the fateful name of the Countess Belvane was announced.
The Countess Belvane! What can I say which will bring home to you
that wonderful, terrible, fascinating woman? Mastered as she was by
overweening ambition, utterly unscrupulous in her methods of achieving
her purpose, none the less her adorable humanity betrayed itself in a
passion for diary-keeping and a devotion to the simpler forms of
lyrical verse. That she is the villain of the piece I know well; in
his _Euralia Past and Present_ the eminent historian, Roger
Scurvilegs, does not spare her; but that she had her great qualities I
should be the last to deny.
She had been writing poetry that morning, and she wore green. She
always wore green when the Muse was upon her: a pleasing habit which,
whether as a warning or an inspiration, modern poets might do well to
imitate. She carried an enormous diary under her arm; and in her mind
several alternative ways of putting down her reflections on her way to
the Palace.
"Good morning, dear Countess," said the King, rising only too gladly
from his nibs; "an early visit."
"You don't mind, your Majesty?" said the Countess anxiously. "There
was a point in our conversation yesterday about which I was not quite
certain----"
"What _were_ we talking about yesterday?"
"Oh, your Majesty," said the Countess, "affairs of state," and she
gave him that wicked, innocent, impudent, and entirely scandalous look
which he never could resist, and you couldn't either for that matter.
"Affairs of state, of course," smiled the King.
"Why, I made a special note of it in my diary."
She laid down the enormous volume and turned lightly over the pages.
"Here we are! '_Thursday._ His Majesty did me the honour to consult
me about the future of his daughter, the Princess Hyacinth. Remained
to tea and was very----' I can't quite make this word out."
"Let _me_ look," said the King, his rubicund face becoming yet more
rubicund. "It looks like 'charming,'" he said casually.
"Fancy!" said Belvane. "Fancy my writing that! I put down just what
comes into my head at the time, you know." She made a gesture with
her hand indicative of some one who puts down just what comes into her
head at the time, and returned to her diary. "'Remained to tea, and
was very charming. Mused afterwards on the mutability of life!'" She
looked up at him with wide-open eyes. "I often muse when I'm alone,"
she said.
The King still hovered over the diary.
"Have you any more entries like--like that last one? May I look?"
"Oh, your Majesty! I'm afraid it's _quite_ private." She closed the
book quickly.
"I just thought I saw some poetry," said the King.
"Just a little ode to a favourite linnet. It wouldn't interest your
Majesty."
"I adore poetry," said the King, who had himself written a rhymed
couplet which could be said either forwards or backwards, and in the
latter position was useful for removing enchantments. According to
the eminent historian, Roger Scurvilegs, it had some vogue in Euralia
and went like this:
"_Bo, boll, bill, bole._
_Wo, woll, will, wole._"
A pleasing idea, temperately expressed.
The Countess, of course, was only pretending. Really she was longing
to read it. "It's quite a little thing," she said.
"_Hail to thee, blithe linnet,_
_Bird thou clearly art,_
_That from bush or in it_
_Pourest thy full heart!_
_And leads the feathered choir in song_
_Taking the treble part._"
"Beautiful," said the King, and one must agree with him. Many years
after, another poet called Shelley plagiarised the idea, but handled
it in a more artificial, and, to my way of thinking, decidedly
inferior manner.
"Was it a real bird?" said the King.
"An old favourite."
"Was it pleased about it?"
"Alas, your Majesty, it died without hearing it."
"Poor bird!" said his Majesty; "I think it would have liked it."
Meanwhile Hyacinth, innocent of the nearness of a mother, remained on
the castle walls and tried to get on with her breakfast. But she made
little progress with it. After all, it _is_ annoying continually to
look up from your bacon, or whatever it is, and see a foreign monarch
passing overhead. Eighteen more times the King of Barodia took
Hyacinth in his stride. At the end of the performance, feeling rather
giddy, she went down to her father.
She found him alone in the library, a foolish smile upon his face, but
no sign of a letter to Barodia in front of him.
"Have you sent the Note yet?" she asked.
"Note? Note?" he said, bewildered, "what--oh, you mean the Stiff Note
to the King of Barodia? I'm just planning it, my love. The exact
shade of stiffness, combined with courtesy, is a little difficult to
hit."
"I shouldn't be too courteous," said Hyacinth; "he came over eighteen
more times after you'd gone."
"Eighteen, eighteen, eight--my dear, it's outrageous."
"I've never had such a crowded breakfast before."
"It's positively insulting, Hyacinth. This is no occasion for Notes.
We will talk to him in a language that he will understand."
And he went out to speak to the Captain of his Archers.