JUSTNOWLAND

'Auntie! No, no, no! I will be good. Oh, I will!' The little weak voice

came from the other side of the locked attic door.

'You should have thought of that before,' said the strong, sharp voice

outside.

'I didn't mean to be naughty. I didn't, truly.'

'It's not what you mean, miss, it's what you do. I'll teach you not to

mean, my lady.'

The bitter irony of the last words dried the child's tears. 'Very well,

then,' she screamed, 'I won't be good; I won't try to be good. I thought

you'd like your nasty old garden weeded. I only did it to please you.

How was I to know it was turnips? It looked just like weeds.' Then came

a pause, then another shriek. 'Oh, Auntie, don't! Oh, let me out--let me

out!'

'I'll not let you out till I've broken your spirit, my girl; you may

rely on that.'

The sharp voice stopped abruptly on a high note; determined feet in

strong boots sounded on the stairs--fainter, fainter; a door slammed

below with a dreadful definiteness, and Elsie was left alone, to wonder

how soon her spirit would break--for at no less a price, it appeared,

could freedom be bought.

The outlook seemed hopeless. The martyrs and heroines, with whom Elsie

usually identified herself, _their_ spirit had never been broken; not

chains nor the rack nor the fiery stake itself had even weakened them.

Imprisonment in an attic would to them have been luxury compared with

the boiling oil and the smoking faggots and all the intimate cruelties

of mysterious instruments of steel and leather, in cold dungeons, lit

only by the dull flare of torches and the bright, watchful eyes of

inquisitors.

A month in the house of 'Auntie' self-styled, and really only an

unrelated Mrs. Staines, paid to take care of the child, had held but one

interest--Foxe's Book of Martyrs. It was a horrible book--the thick

oleographs, their guarding sheets of tissue paper sticking to the prints

like bandages to a wound.... Elsie knew all about wounds: she had had

one herself. Only a scalded hand, it is true, but a wound is a wound,

all the world over. It was a book that made you afraid to go to bed; but

it was a book you could not help reading. And now it seemed as though it

might at last help, and not merely sicken and terrify. But the help was

frail, and broke almost instantly on the thought--'_They_ were brave

because they were good: how can I be brave when there's nothing to be

brave about except me not knowing the difference between turnips and

weeds?'

She sank down, a huddled black bunch on the bare attic floor, and called

wildly to some one who could not answer her. Her frock was black because

the one who always used to answer could not answer any more. And her

father was in India, where you cannot answer, or even hear, your little

girl, however much she cries in England.

'I won't cry,' said Elsie, sobbing as violently as ever. 'I can be

brave, even if I'm not a saint but only a turnip-mistaker. I'll be a

Bastille prisoner, and tame a mouse!' She dried her eyes, though the

bosom of the black frock still heaved like the sea after a storm, and

looked about for a mouse to tame. One could not begin too soon. But

unfortunately there seemed to be no mouse at liberty just then. There

were mouse-holes right enough, all round the wainscot, and in the broad,

time-worn boards of the old floor. But never a mouse.

'Mouse, mouse!' Elsie called softly. 'Mousie, mousie, come and be

tamed!'

Not a mouse replied.

The attic was perfectly empty and dreadfully clean. The other attic,

Elsie knew, had lots of interesting things in it--old furniture and

saddles, and sacks of seed potatoes,--but in this attic nothing. Not so

much as a bit of string on the floor that one could make knots in, or

twist round one's finger till it made the red ridges that are so

interesting to look at afterwards; not even a piece of paper in the

draughty, cold fireplace that one could make paper boats of, or prick

letters in with a pin or the tag of one's shoe-laces.

As she stooped to see whether under the grate some old match-box or bit

of twig might have escaped the broom, she saw suddenly what she had

wanted most--a mouse. It was lying on its side. She put out her hand

very slowly and gently, and whispered in her softest tones, 'Wake up,

Mousie, wake up, and come and be tamed.' But the mouse never moved. And

when she took it in her hand it was cold.

'Oh,' she moaned, 'you're dead, and now I can never tame you'; and she

sat on the cold hearth and cried again, with the dead mouse in her lap.

'Don't cry,' said somebody. 'I'll find you something to tame--if you

really want it.'

Elsie started and saw the head of a black bird peering at her through

the square opening that leads to the chimney. The edges of him looked

ragged and rainbow-coloured, but that was because she saw him through

tears. To a tearless eye he was black and very smooth and sleek.

'Oh!' she said, and nothing more.

'Quite so,' said the bird politely. 'You are surprised to hear me speak,

but your surprise will be, of course, much less when I tell you that I

am really a Prime Minister condemned by an Enchanter to wear the form of

a crow till ... till I can get rid of it.'

'Oh!' said Elsie.

'Yes, indeed,' said the Crow, and suddenly grew smaller till he could

come comfortably through the square opening. He did this, perched on the

top bar, and hopped to the floor. And there he got bigger and bigger,

and bigger and bigger and bigger. Elsie had scrambled to her feet, and

then a black little girl of eight and of the usual size stood face to

face with a crow as big as a man, and no doubt as old. She found words

then.

'Oh, don't!' she cried. 'Don't get any bigger. I can't bear it.'

'_I_ can't _do_ it,' said the Crow kindly, 'so that's all right. I

thought you'd better get used to seeing rather large crows before I take

you to Crownowland. We are all life-size there.'

'But a crow's life-size isn't a man's life-size,' Elsie managed to say.

'Oh yes, it is--when it's an enchanted Crow,' the bird replied. 'That

makes all the difference. Now you were saying you wanted to tame

something. If you'll come with me to Crownowland I'll show you something

worth taming.'

'Is Crow-what's-its-name a nice place?' Elsie asked cautiously. She was,

somehow, not so very frightened now.

'Very,' said the Crow.

'Then perhaps I shall like it so much I sha'n't want to be taming

things.'

'Oh yes, you will, when you know how much depends on it.'

'But I shouldn't like,' said Elsie, 'to go up the chimney. This isn't my

best frock, of course, but still....'

'Quite so,' said the Crow. 'I only came that way for fun, and because I

can fly. You shall go in by the chief gate of the kingdom, like a lady.

Do come.'

But Elsie still hesitated. 'What sort of thing is it you want me to

tame?' she said doubtfully.

The enormous crow hesitated. 'A--a sort of lizard,' it said at last.

'And if you can only tame it so that it will do what you tell it to,

you'll save the whole kingdom, and we'll put up a statue to you; but not

in the People's Park, unless they wish it,' the bird added mysteriously.

'I should like to save a kingdom,' said Elsie, 'and I like lizards. I've

seen lots of them in India.'

'Then you'll come?' said the Crow.

'Yes. But how do we go?'

'There are only two doors out of this world into another,' said the

Crow. 'I'll take you through the nearest. Allow me!' It put its wing

round her so that her face nestled against the black softness of the

under-wing feathers. It was warm and dark and sleepy there, and very

comfortable. For a moment she seemed to swim easily in a soft sea of

dreams. Then, with a little shock, she found herself standing on a

marble terrace, looking out over a city far more beautiful and

wonderful than she had ever seen or imagined. The great man-sized Crow

was by her side.

'Now,' it said, pointing with the longest of its long black

wing-feathers, 'you see this beautiful city?'

'Yes,' said Elsie, 'of course I do.'

'Well ... I hardly like to tell you the story,' said the Crow, 'but it's

a long time ago, and I hope you won't think the worse of us--because

we're really very sorry.'

'If you're really sorry,' said Elsie primly, 'of course it's all right.'

'Unfortunately it isn't,' said the Crow. 'You see the great square down

there?'

Elsie looked down on a square of green trees, broken a little towards

the middle.

'Well, that's where the ... where _it_ is--what you've got to tame, you

know.'

'But what did you do that was wrong?'

'We were unkind,' said the Crow slowly, 'and unjust, and ungenerous. We

had servants and workpeople doing everything for us; we had nothing to

do _but_ be kind. And we weren't.'

'Dear me,' said Elsie feebly.

'We had several warnings,' said the Crow. 'There was an old parchment,

and it said just how you ought to behave and all that. But we didn't

care what it said. I was Court Magician as well as Prime Minister, and I

ought to have known better, but I didn't. We all wore frock-coats and

high hats then,' he added sadly.

'Go on,' said Elsie, her eyes wandering from one beautiful building to

another of the many that nestled among the trees of the city.

'And the old parchment said that if we didn't behave well our bodies

would grow like our souls. But we didn't think so. And then all in a

minute they _did_--and we were crows, and our bodies were as black as

our souls. Our souls are quite white now,' it added reassuringly.

'But what was _the_ dreadful thing you'd done?'

'We'd been unkind to the people who worked for us--not given them enough

food or clothes or fire, and at last we took away even their play. There

was a big park that the people played in, and we built a wall round it

and took it for ourselves, and the King was going to set a statue of

himself up in the middle. And then before we could begin to enjoy it we

were turned into big black crows; and the working people into big white

pigeons--and _they_ can go where they like, but we have to stay here

till we've tamed the.... We never can go into the park, until we've

settled the thing that guards it. And that thing's a big big lizard--in

fact ... it's a _dragon_!'

'_Oh!_' cried Elsie; but she was not as frightened as the Crow seemed to

expect. Because every now and then she had felt sure that she was really

safe in her own bed, and that this was a dream. It was not a dream, but

the belief that it was made her very brave, and she felt quite sure that

she could settle a dragon, if necessary--a dream dragon, that is. And

the rest of the time she thought about Foxe's Book of Martyrs and what a

heroine she now had the chance to be.

'You want me to kill it?' she asked.

'Oh no! To tame it,' said the Crow.

'We've tried all sorts of means--long whips, like people tame horses

with, and red-hot bars, such as lion-tamers use--and it's all been

perfectly useless; and there the dragon lives, and will live till some

one can tame him and get him to follow them like a tame fawn, and eat

out of their hand.'

'What does the dragon _like_ to eat?' Elsie asked.

'_Crows_,' replied the other in an uncomfortable whisper. 'At least

_I've_ never known it eat anything else!'

'Am I to try to tame it _now_?' Elsie asked.

'Oh dear no,' said the Crow. 'We'll have a banquet in your honour, and

you shall have tea with the Princess.'

'How do you know who is a princess and who's not, if you're all crows?'

Elsie cried.

'How do you know one human being from another?' the Crow replied.

'Besides ... Come on to the Palace.'

It led her along the terrace, and down some marble steps to a small

arched door. 'The tradesmen's entrance,' it explained. 'Excuse it--the

courtiers are crowding in by the front door.' Then through long

corridors and passages they went, and at last into the throne-room. Many

crows stood about in respectful attitudes. On the golden throne, leaning

a gloomy head upon the first joint of his right wing, the Sovereign of

Crownowland was musing dejectedly. A little girl of about Elsie's age

sat on the steps of the throne nursing a handsome doll.

'Who is the little girl?' Elsie asked.

'_Curtsey!_ That's the Princess,' the Prime Minister Crow whispered; and

Elsie made the best curtsey she could think of in such a hurry. 'She

wasn't wicked enough to be turned into a crow, or poor enough to be

turned into a pigeon, so she remains a dear little girl, just as she

always was.'

The Princess dropped her doll and ran down the steps of the throne to

meet Elsie.

'You dear!' she said. 'You've come to play with me, haven't you? All

the little girls I used to play with have turned into crows, and their

beaks are _so_ awkward at doll's tea-parties, and wings are no good to

nurse dollies with. Let's have a doll's tea-party _now_, shall we?'

'May we?' Elsie looked at the Crow King, who nodded his head hopelessly.

So, hand in hand, they went.

I wonder whether you have ever had the run of a perfectly beautiful

palace and a nursery absolutely crammed with all the toys you ever had

or wanted to have: dolls' houses, dolls' china tea-sets, rocking-horses,

bricks, nine-pins, paint-boxes, conjuring tricks, pewter

dinner-services, and any number of dolls--all most agreeable and

distinguished. If you have, you may perhaps be able faintly to imagine

Elsie's happiness. And better than all the toys was the Princess

Perdona--so gentle and kind and jolly, full of ideas for games, and

surrounded by the means for playing them. Think of it, after that bare

attic, with not even a bit of string to play with, and no company but

the poor little dead mouse!

There is no room in this story to tell you of all the games they had. I

can only say that the time went by so quickly that they never noticed it

going, and were amazed when the Crown nursemaid brought in the royal

tea-tray. Tea was a beautiful meal--with pink iced cake in it.

Now, all the time that these glorious games had been going on, and this

magnificent tea, the wisest crows of Crownowland had been holding a

council. They had decided that there was no time like the present, and

that Elsie had better try to tame the dragon soon as late. 'But,' the

King said, 'she mustn't run any risks. A guard of fifty stalwart crows

must go with her, and if the dragon shows the least temper, fifty crows

must throw themselves between her and danger, even if it cost fifty-one

crow-lives. For I myself will lead that band. Who will volunteer?'

Volunteers, to the number of some thousands, instantly stepped forward,

and the Field Marshal selected fifty of the strongest crows.

And then, in the pleasant pinkness of the sunset, Elsie was led out on

to the palace steps, where the King made a speech and said what a

heroine she was, and how like Joan of Arc. And the crows who had

gathered from all parts of the town cheered madly. Did you ever hear

crows cheering? It is a wonderful sound.

Then Elsie got into a magnificent gilt coach, drawn by eight white

horses, with a crow at the head of each horse. The Princess sat with her

on the blue velvet cushions and held her hand.

'I _know_ you'll do it,' said she; 'you're so brave and clever, Elsie!'

And Elsie felt braver than before, although now it did not seem so like

a dream. But she thought of the martyrs, and held Perdona's hand very

tight.

At the gates of the green park the Princess kissed and hugged her new

friend--her state crown, which she had put on in honour of the occasion,

got pushed quite on one side in the warmth of her embrace--and Elsie

stepped out of the carriage. There was a great crowd of crows round the

park gates, and every one cheered and shouted 'Speech, speech!'

Elsie got as far as 'Ladies and gentlemen--Crows, I mean,' and then she

could not think of anything more, so she simply added, 'Please, I'm

ready.'