Chapter I: Part 1

NUMBER THREE JOY STREET

DEDICATION

TO
ALL FREQUENTERS OF JOY STREET
IN THE HOPE THAT THEY MAY FIND
NUMBER THREE
A JOY FOR EVER

THE ARISTOCRATS

Two friends have I, so grand, so gay,
A finer pair you never knew,
A prouder pair you never saw;
And one of them is Lord Macaw
And one is Lady Cockatoo.

And she is dressed in white and gold
And he is dressed in gold and blue,
Yet will they deign to shake a claw—
The great and stately Lord Macaw,
The handsome Lady Cockatoo.
ROSE FYLEMAN.

_Number Three Joy Street_
_A Medley of Prose & Verse for Boys and Girls_

_By_
WALTER DE LA MARE
G. K. CHESTERTON
A. A. MILNE
LAURENCE HOUSMAN
COMPTON MACKENZIE
HILAIRE BELLOC
HUGH CHESTERMAN
KATHARINE TYNAN
MAXWELL ARMFIELD
ELEANOR FARJEON
MABEL MARLOWE
VALERY CARRICK
MADELEINE NIGHTINGALE
ROY MELDRUM
ROSE FYLEMAN

_BASIL BLACKWELL
Broad Street, Oxford_

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

CONTENTS

PAGE
THE WONDERFUL KNIGHT _By ELEANOR FARJEON_ 1
_Pictures by DORIS PAILTHORPE._
THE SPOTTED DOG _By ROSE FYLEMAN_ 30
_Picture by M. E. BENNETT._
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
THE FIVE KNIGHTS _By HUGH CHESTERMAN_
_Pictures by THE AUTHOR._
SIR TUSH: THE INDISCREET KNIGHT 31
SIR BRUIN BYPH: THE FOOLISH KNIGHT 32
SIR BEVILLE BLEYDE: THE AUDACIOUS
KNIGHT 34
SIR TIVOLI TRAIL: THE INDOLENT KNIGHT 36
SIR MUNGO MYNGS: THE TIMID KNIGHT 38
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
THE SILVER SHIP _By ROY MELDRUM_ 40
_Pictures by THE AUTHOR._
THE ORDER OF THE BATH _By MABEL MARLOWE_ 66
_Pictures by HARRY ROUNTREE._
THE SHIP-BOY'S SONG _By DOROTHY M. STUART_ 74
_Pictures by HUGH CHESTERMAN._
OLD JOE _By WALTER DE LA MARE_ 79
_Pictures by C. T. NIGHTINGALE._
THE DRAGONS _By MAXWELL ARMFIELD_ 106
_Pictures by THE AUTHOR._
MABEL IN QUEER STREET _By COMPTON MACKENZIE_ 111
_Pictures by A. H. WATSON._
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
KING OF THE CASTLE _By MADELEINE NIGHTINGALE_ 141
THE BIRD-BATH _Pictures by C. T. NIGHTINGALE._ 144
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
CARAWAY CAKE _By MABEL MARLOWE_ 146
_Pictures by HARRY ROUNTREE._
THE WITCH _By ROSE FYLEMAN_ 152
_Picture by M. BANTOCK._
THE PRINCESS WHO COULD NOT _By A. A. MILNE_
LAUGH 154
_Pictures by A. H. WATSON._
“WISH TO GOODNESS!” _By LAURENCE HOUSMAN_ 170
_Pictures by W. G. RAFFE._
WILLIAM SHAND _By HILAIRE BELLOC_ 187
_Pictures by G. PIPPET._
THE CROCODILE _By ADRIAN MOTT_ 198
_Picture by HUGH CHESTERMAN._
THE HARE AND THE LIONS _By VALERY CARRICK_ 199
_Pictures by THE AUTHOR._
THE COLOURED LANDS _By G. K. CHESTERTON_ 205
_Pictures by J. R. MONSELL._
EVENSONG _By KATHARINE TYNAN_ 218

LIST OF COLOURED PLATES

THE ARISTOCRATS _By Vera Hibbert_ _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE SYLVIE _By Doris Pailthorpe_ 20 SIR TUSH _By Hugh Chesterman_ 31 THE SHIP-BOY _By Hugh Chesterman_ 74 MABEL IN QUEER STREET _By A. H. Watson_ 126 CARAWAY CAKE _By Harry Rountree_ 148 THE PRINCESS WHO COULD NOT LAUGH _By A. H. Watson_ 154 “WISH TO GOODNESS!” _By W. G. Raffé_ 172

❦

_The pattern on the Cover and End-papers of this book is based on a
design from a picture by Orcagna (No. 569) in the National Gallery. It
is taken from a plate in “Fifteenth-Century Italian Ornament,” by
Sydney Vacher, and is reproduced by kind permission of Messrs. Bernard
Quaritch._

_The coloured wrapper is designed by Alec Buckels._

NUMBER THREE JOY STREET

THE WONDERFUL KNIGHT _By ELEANOR FARJEON_

There was once the most wonderful Knight in Sussex, which is as much as to say in the world. He came of a race of knights, as a man might come of a race of farmers, or of fools. And as of such a one you would say, “He is a born farmer” or “He is a born fool,” so of my hero you would say, “He is a born knight.”

His name was Sir John-o'-Dreams, and he was such a great knight that he spent his life in dreaming of the greatest adventure in the world, an adventure which should be the very top of all that is meant by knighthood. Several times a day he polished his shield for the adventure to come; for he would never, he said, undertake it until his shield was bright enough. He knew that this adventure, when it came, would claim not only the strength of his arm and the swiftness of his eye: it would be a call upon his life, which was the lamp of honour, and on his spirit, which was the light in the lamp.

One morning in May Sir John walked forth to see the world, and to see it the better he walked on the top of a wall. As he walked he looked up at the sun till the air was bedazzled. Through the dazzle he presently heard the flutiest whistle that ever came from a blackbird in Spring. Suddenly the whistle stopped, and a voice said, “Take care, sir, you'll fall.” Even as it was said, Sir John stumbled, and kicked over a bucket of mortar that was on the top of the wall; and if his ankle had not been gripped at the same moment he would have fallen after it. But by a great effort he righted himself, and then he saw that his foot was held by a boy who was straddling the wall.

The fall of the bucket had caused some commotion on the ground, where a little black pig with a belly like a ball and a tail like a corkscrew, and a handsome young pullet of the Light Sussex breed, had been wallowing and picking in the earth at great peace. The boy himself had carroty hair and blue eyes.

Sir John recovered his balance, and said kindly, “I've disturbed you.”

“That's all right, sir,” said the boy, “I can get on with my job when you're by.”

“What are you doing?” asked Sir John.

“Holding your foot, begging your pardon, sir.”

“What _were_ you doing?” asked Sir John.

“Mending the wall, sir, and shall be again.”

“What is your name?” asked Sir John.

“Dick Dowett,” said the boy.

“And what is your business?”

“I clean out the pigs and the chickens.”

“It is good work,” said Sir John.

“Well, it's got to be done,” said Dick. And he began once more to out-whistle the blackbirds.

“You're happy,” said the Knight.

“As the day is long, sir,” said the boy.

“You sleep at night?”

“Like a top.”

“And dream?”

“Never a wink.”

“I wonder,” said Sir John musingly, “whether I would change my state for yours?”

“Mine, sir!” said Dick. “What for?”

“I don't know,” said the Knight. And he walked on.

He soon reached the end of the wall, and while he was considering whether to stay up or to jump down, he heard the ringing of a bell in the countryside. At the sound of it, the folk came running with all their might from every quarter, and by the time a great crowd had gathered the Town-Crier had come up. With his right hand he swung his big bell to and fro, with his left he led by the wrist a girl in tears. She was a splendid lass in a blue cotton frock, sixteen years old, but tall for her age. She had a thick plait of brown hair, and the eyes which she constantly wiped with her apron were browner still.

The Town-Crier stood the girl in full view of the crowd, rang his bell three times, and cried:

“Oyez! oyez! oyez! This is Audrey of Picketty, who has lost her ball. To him who will recover it, she offers all she has.”

“And what is that?” cried the crowd in one breath.

“Herself in the gown she stands up in,” said the Town-Crier.

Then the women in the crowd tossed their heads, and said with one accord, “We must get back to our duties!” And they turned on their heels and went to where they had come from.

But the men stayed where they were, and looked at Audrey of Picketty in her faded blue gown, and thought she was no bad reward for a ball. So they asked:

“What is her ball like?”

The Town-Crier rang his bell again, and said to Audrey:

“What is your ball like?”

Audrey wiped her eyes once more with her apron, and said: “My ball is a blue-and-green ball with pictures on it—stars and flowers, and cherubs, and children, as pretty as life. It was given me in my cradle by my godmother; I grew up playing with it, and it is the only toy I ever had.”

Then the men asked:

“Where did she lose her ball?”

And the Town-Crier rang his bell, and said to Audrey:

“Where did you lose your ball?”

And Audrey said: “I was playing with it in Picketty, and I tossed it higher and higher, till the wind took it, and I couldn't see where it fell. It may have blown a hundred miles, and rolled another hundred.”

Then the men asked:

“When did she lose her ball?”

The Town-Crier rang his bell, and said:

“When did you lose your ball?”

And Audrey said, “Ten years ago, when I was six years old.”

“Bless me!” cried Sir John, from the top of the wall, “and have you been weeping for it ever since?”

“Oh no, sir,” said Audrey, curtseying. “I forgot all about it till a week ago, and then for seven nights running I dreamed that it had fallen in the Murray River.”

“What river is that?” asked Sir John.

“I do not know, sir. But I dreamed it was the biggest river in Sussex, and full of dangers from beginning to end, and haunted by a sprite.”

Sir John looked down from left to right on the crowd in the meadows, but no man said a word. Then Sir John cried so clearly that every man could hear him: “I undertake this adventure. Go home, good folk.”

When the meadow was empty, Audrey of Picketty looked lovingly at Sir John, and said, “Sir, if you will let me, I will follow you to the Murray River, and through all the dangers too.”

She spoke with such sweetness and courage that Sir John reached down his hand to her, saying, “Come, you brave child.” With one nimble leap she stood beside him on the wall. Then Sir John flung up his head, like a spirited horse, and strode back along the middle of the wall, looking neither to the right nor the left, but only at the bright blue sky.

Suddenly he felt his shoulders seized by two soft hands, and his ankle gripped by one strong one, and looking first behind him and then before him he saw both Audrey and Dick holding him fast, and regarding him with affection and anxiety. The mortar-bucket was on the ground again.

“What's the matter with you, children?” said the Knight.

“What's the matter with _you_, sir?” said Dick; for Sir John's cheeks were wet with tears. “Are you hurt or in trouble?”

“I am well and in joy, Dick,” said the Knight, “for I am about to follow my heart through a wonderful adventure.”

“Then why do you weep, sir?”

“With looking on the sun,” said the Knight.

“What did you see, sir?”

“I saw danger, and myself going to meet it.”

“Danger, Sir John?”

“Yes, Dick.”

Dick looked bothered, whistled a note or two, and then said, “If you please, sir, might I go too?”

The Knight's eye kindled, and he laid his hand on the boy's head. “Do you also hanker for danger?” he asked.

“Not a bit, sir,” said Dick.

“Then why do you wish to come?”

Dick got rather red, cleared his throat once or twice, and said, “To catch hold of your foot, sir.”

“Yes?” said Sir John inquiringly.

“Yes, if you please, sir. I've finished my job, and I expect we'll be home in time to feed the pigs and coop up the hens.”

“I do not know when we shall be home,” said Sir John. “Perhaps never.”

“Just as you please, sir,” said Dick. “Mind where you step.”

“Yes,” said Audrey from the rear, “do be careful, dear Knight.”

“Come, children,” said Sir John.

And he stepped over the boy and passed along the wall, leaving Dick and Audrey face to face. And Dick, who had not been aware of her until he heard her clear voice and almost immediately after beheld her rosy face, scratched his head and said, “Oh dear me!” But Audrey looked after her Knight with something of the happy care which a young mother feels for her baby the first time it toddles, and said:

“Will he fall?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Dick.

“Thank you, you good boy,” said she.

Then Dick picked up his bucket and went after Sir John, and Audrey went after Dick; and the round black pig, whose name was Paul, and the Light Sussex pullet, whose name was Emily, ran below them beside the wall until they reached the end of it and had to jump off.

Now here follows the tale of their adventures, hour by hour.

TWELVE O'CLOCK

The sun was lazing in a blue-and-white sky bathed in his own gold steam; but the men and the girl stepped briskly, and as for the pig and the hen, they gambolled on the road. It happened, however, that Sir John's eagerness carried him a few steps in advance of his companions, who thus had all the talk to themselves. Presently, they came to Chiltington, the prettiest village in England, as, in fact, every second village in the West of Sussex is. But for all its prettiness it was like a fiddle without its strings, for not a living soul was to be seen there, indoors or out.

“A strange place,” said Sir John, pausing. “Time, children, is like a lamplighter who comes at night to kindle his lamps, and comes by day to put them out again. Once this dumb blind village was full of life.”

“And not long since, sir,” said Dick, “for there's a spud and a rake in that garden, and a packet of dwarf beans spilled where somebody has dropped 'em to be off in a hurry.”

“A hundred years ago, perhaps,” said Sir John dreamily, “and his hurry is ended.”

“The earth's fresh turned, sir,” said Dick. As he spoke the silence was broken by a small weeping and whimpering at the back of the cottage.

“Someone is unhappy,” said Audrey.

“I'll just go and see,” said Dick.

So, followed by the others, he went round to the back, and found a very Old Man chopping down a bed of mustard-and-cress with an axe. The mustard-and-cress was planted in the name of

BARBIE

and as he chopped the Old Man whimpered and wept.

“Do you want that cut down, gaffer?” asked Dick.

“Yes, boy.”

“All of it, gaffer?”

“Yes, boy.”

“There's more than you'll need to your salad,” said Dick, taking out his penknife.

“I do like mustard-and-cress,” said Audrey.

“You're welcome to it all, pretty. No more salads for me.”

“Thank you, gaffer,” said Dick. “We'll take a bunch, then, for it goes down nicely for supper.” And he put a handful into his bucket.

Audrey said, “What are you crying for?” and wiped the Old Man's eyes with her pocket-handkerchief.

“Her,” said the Old Man, and pointed to the name. “Let cress go, since she be gone.”

“I'm so sorry,” said Audrey, and wiped her own eyes with her pocket-handkerchief.

“Heaven's a good place they say,” said Dick, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Ay, if 'twere heaven,” sobbed the Old Man, “instead of betwixt and between.”

“Where's that?” said Dick.

“Top of windmill sail,” said the Old Man, “and never a stir in the air. All the folk is gone to blow her down, but I misdoubt me they'll do it.”

“We've come in the nick of time,” said Sir John. “Dick, here's work to be done!” And he sat down on a chopping block and began to polish his shield with great energy.

“We'll just go along, sir,” said Dick; but the Knight was already lost in the adventure to come, and did not hear him.

So Dick and Audrey went through the village and came to the windmill, where the villagers were assembled, hissing and blowing with all their might. Their chests panted and their cheeks puffed as though they would burst. But they could not budge the sails, to the topmost of which clung a little girl, whose silky hair flew out all round her head like bubbles of sunlight. With one arm she squeezed to her breast an orange cat with golden eyes.

“Oh Dick!” said Audrey, and clasped her hands.

“You stay here,” said Dick, and ran into the mill; but she followed at his heels. They mounted the stairs, and when they were come to the top Audrey caught his sleeve, and said again, “Oh Dick!”

“Well, it's got to be done,” said Dick. “There's no call to be frightened, lass.” For her cheeks had turned as white as linen laid to bleach on the grass in the sun.

Dick clambered out to the sails, and all the people below began to cheer, and Audrey watched him with her heart in her mouth. When he brought them in, the child was frowning and the cat mewing. But Audrey held out her arms and took them both to her, and then the child began to smile and the cat to purr.

“Oh, Barbie!” said Audrey, “what _did_ you get up there for?”

“I wanted to see,” said the child.

“Did you see?” said Dick.

“Yes,” said Barbie, “I saw the Murray River.”

“That's where we're going,” said Audrey, with joy in her face.

“Then I will come too,” said Barbie, “and so will Rufus.”

They went down the stairs, and as they came out of the mill the people cheered more than ever, and a woman ran to meet them.

“Mother,” said Barbie, “I'm going to the Murray River with the big boy and girl.”

“Very well, pet,” said the woman, “but be back by bedtime.”

“She shall be, ma'am,” said Audrey.

Sir John, who at this moment arrived, stepped forward with his bright shield, looked earnestly at the child, and said, “Do you then know the way to the Murray River?”

“Yes, I do,” said Barbie, “as far as the Round-House; and then it was tea-time. But I'm going all the way to-day, if it's tea-time or not.”

“Dick,” said the Knight, his eyes shining, “heaven has sent us an angel. Come, children.”

The child kissed her mother farewell, and away strode Sir John, and Dick, and Audrey after him, with Barbie skipping between them; and Paul the pig, and Emily the hen, and Rufus the cat brought up the rear.

“What a bright shield he's got,” said Barbie.

“Yes,” said Dick, “it's as bright as a new shilling. There's no man in Sussex with a shield so bright, is there?” He looked at Audrey, and she looked tenderly after her Knight, and said, “No man.”

ONE O'CLOCK

The child pointed the way over a hot, open common, where the sun had already, as it seemed, begun to drop a shower of golden sparks among the gorse.

Then under her guidance they crossed a warren and a highroad, and suddenly entered a cool wood, where sparkles of sunlight could only be seen here and there when the leaves shook, and the trees stood in a shimmer of green dreams. And their steps grew slower and their voices lower, as it must always be in woods. At the end of it they entered a sunlit lane with another wood beyond. The unexpected light made their sight dance, so that at first they could not see properly, but they could hear, at a little distance, the sound of young owls hooting, “Tu-wick! tu-wick!” and their mother answering, “Tu-whoo-whoo-oo!” And then they saw that the hooting came from a small circular building on the edge of the forest. The building was of stone, and had one door in its wall, and a very small, barred window above it. Here Barbie stopped.

“I don't know which way now,” said she. “This is the Round-House, and I didn't get farther than that.”

“Perhaps the owls know,” said Audrey, “for they're wiser than most. Owlets!” cried she, “tell us which way to the Murray River.”

“Tu-wick! tu-wick! tu-wick!” answered the owlets, like a merry taunt.

“Let's go in and see the little owls,” said Barbie.

Dick tried the door. “It's locked,” said he, “and too thick to break down. We must look for help to others than owlets.”

So they went a little way up the road, and soon stumbled on Sir John, who had gone ahead as usual, and was standing motionless with one hand upheld as though bidding them to listen. And what they now heard was husky calls of “Heave-O! heave!” uttered every half-minute; but the calls were broken by great gulpings and chokings. The sounds came from behind a little farm which stood half in the lane, half in the wood; its doorways were open back and front, and a tunnel of air and light ran through the farmhouse. You could look straight through from the sunny lane on this side to the greenwood trees on that.

“See, children,” said Sir John, “how brief is the passage through the house of life; from the light of our coming to the twilight of our going it is but a dozen steps, no more. And the end is lovelier than the beginning. Shall we pass through?”

“I think we'd better, sir,” said Dick; “there seems to be some bother out there, doesn't there?”

For by this time the choking and gulping had got the upper hand of the calling, and the “Heave-Os!” were almost drowned in sobs.

“Oh hurry!” said Audrey.

They hurried; and in a strip of kitchen-garden that lay between the farmyard and the trees they found a middle-aged Farmer and his men hauling on a lettuce with a rope. The Farmer stood gripping at the nearest lettuce, and his three men stood behind him. When he cried “Heave!” they set their jaws and hove, and the lettuce came up and they fell down. Then they picked themselves up and dusted their breeches and noosed another lettuce and hung on to the rope, awaiting the Farmer's signal. But as often as not they had to guess at it, because of the choke in his throat.

When the men saw the little procession troop through the doorway they paused in their labour, wiping the sweat from their brows with red-and-white handkerchiefs.

“Can I help you pull your lettuces, Farmer?” said Dick.

“You can, young man,” groaned the Farmer.

“Every man Jack of them?”

“Every man Jack of them.”

“You'll have a rare feed,” said Dick, beginning to pull up the lettuces, of which there were quite eighty, with his two hands.

“Lettuces are delicious,” remarked Audrey.

“Take what you please, young lass. They'd but stick in my throat.”

“We're much obliged to you, Farmer,” said Dick, “for a lettuce suits well with a salad of cress.” And he popped three fat-hearted lettuces into his bucket, while the Farmer gulped and choked.

“What makes you so unhappy?” asked Audrey.

“Because I shall see my little daughter Christie no more in this life. And now the sight of these lettuces, which she planted, is more than I can bear.”

“Alas!” said Audrey, and turned her head away.

Dick stood first on one foot and then on the other to show his sympathy, and asked, “When did it happen, Farmer?”

“An hour ago,” said he, “and the fault was mine. For nothing would content her but she must be away to the Murray River, where time and again I've told her she'd catch her death of cold. But it's as though that water were fire to the blood of all young things, and when they will go they will go. So at last I locked her up in the Round-House in the wood, and for safety I tied the key to the handle of the well-bucket; but when next I went to draw water I forgot it was there, and, as luck would have it, the bucket slipped from its buckle, and is now swimming underground, as you can see for yourself.” And he kicked the cover from the well, and there, on the dark water, swam the tilted bucket, forty feet down.

Sir John had listened attentively to the Farmer's tale, and now his eyes kindled with their fine fire. “Dick,” said he, “here's an adventure ready to my hand.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dick, “The key must be got, for the door can't be broken; I've tried it already.”

But Sir John did not heed him, for he was already polishing his shield with might and main.

Then Dick took the well-rope in his hand and tested it carefully, and found it sound; and next he fastened the swivel of the buckle to his leather belt.

“Oh Dick!” exclaimed Audrey, and clutched his shoulders with all the strength of her two hands.

“It's got to be done,” said he. “There's no call to be frightened, Audrey.” For her face was as blanched as skim milk when it foams one way from the separator, while the yellow cream slides another.

He signed to the men, and they came forward and slowly lowered him into the well, while he gripped the rope above his head; and Audrey shut her eyes and counted a hundred-and-fifty. Then she opened them and leaned over the well, and hers were the first hands to help him as he came to the top, key, bucket, and all; though when he saw her stooping above him he cried, “Go back, silly!” for fear she should fall. However, in another moment he stood beside her in the yard; but her knees shook so that she went down on them under pretence of unfastening the buckle from his belt.

“Now we'll let out the little girl,” said Dick; and they hastened to the Round-House where the young owls were “Tu-wicking!” louder than ever.

“Owlet!” cried Audrey again, “we're come to let you fly, if only you will tell us the way to the Murray River!”

At that a lovely little fair face, full of dreamy mischief, with soft, short hair falling loose about its ears, peeped through the bars.

“Tu-wick!” said she. “I won't come out, and I won't tell, unless you let me and Mike come too.”

“I'll answer for that,” said Dick, and he turned the key in the lock; and the child came running out with a wiry Irish terrier at her heels; a lean, excitable dog with loving eyes.

Her father caught her to his heart and kissed her repeatedly, and she returned his kisses, saying, “Good-bye, father, because I'm going now. I'm going to the Murray River with these people and animals.”

“Ay, so you shall, you shall!” said the Farmer; “but do not be home after dark.”

“I'll see to it, sir,” said Audrey.

By this time Sir John had joined them with his gleaming shield, and, looking gravely at Christie, he said, “It is you, dear child, that can lead us to the Murray River?”

“Oh yes,” said Christie, looking as gravely at him; “as far as the garden in the wood. But I've never been right down the river yet.”

“Dick,” said the Knight, “the fairies are guiding us. Come, children.”

And he strode the way Christie pointed her finger, and she and Barbie ran after him, and Dick and Audrey kept close behind them; and Paul the pig, and Emily the hen, and Rufus the cat, and Mike the dog brought up the rear.

“How well you do owls,” said Barbie to Christie.

“Yes,” said Christie; “and what a beautiful shield your father's got.”

She looked from Barbie to Audrey as she spoke, but Dick said: “He isn't their father, but his shield is as bright as the full moon. There's not a man in all England with such a beautiful shield, is there?” And he turned to Audrey, who looked wistfully after her Knight, and then on the ground, and said, “Not in all England.”

TWO O'CLOCK

The sun was beginning to get tangled in a smear of cloud as they turned out of the white lane into a green one. At the end of it was an old gate, opening into a garden in the middle of the wood, as pretty as the Garden of Eden. But this Eden also had its sorrows, for from somewhere inside it a sturdy hullabalooing greeted their ears, interrupted with the sound of small explosions.

“See, children,” said Sir John, “how deceptive is even the earthly paradise in its promise of eternal joy. For of what more blessed and lovely surroundings than these could any man dream? Yet he who dwells here is the prey of grief. Let us look into this man's trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dick, as a louder explosion than usual rent the air, “for I doubt he's up to some mischief.”

So they went round a hedge of flowers, and found the miserable Adam of this Eden seated in the middle of a small square of earth filled with one of everything that could be thought of in a little space by a little mind: such as one sweet pea and one spring onion, one lupin, one potato, one broad bean, one double daisy, and one of whatever else you fancy. But its four sides were framed in radishes, red and white, which an extremely small boy, with the darkest brown eyes that ever smudged a dark brown face with tears, was endeavouring to blow up with paper caps full of gunpowder.

“Do you want those radishes up, sonny?” said Dick.

“'Ss!” hissed the little boy through his tears.

“What, all the lot?”

“'Ss!”

“You'll have a pain,” said Dick, beginning to pull up the radishes.

“Sha'n't eat 'em!” said the little boy.

“Don't you like radishes?” said Audrey. “_I_ do.”

“Then you eat 'em!” said the little boy.

“Thank you, sonny,” said Dick, “so we will; for radishes look pretty in a red-and-white ring round a lettuce on a garland of cress.”

Saying which, he dropped a couple of handfuls in his bucket.

“Why were you blowing the radishes up?” asked Audrey tenderly, taking the baby on her knee and drying his dirty face.

“'Cause they're _Hers_!” shouted the little boy, pointing suddenly at the plank at the foot of the garden. “And she won't let me paddle without grown-ups.”

And then he stuck his finger in his mouth, and stared from Dick to Audrey, and abruptly rolled out of her lap and tumbled down the garden, crying, “Sylvia! _they've come!_ so may I paddle _now_?”

Down the garden the company trooped after him; and standing on the plank that lay over the brook, they saw the loveliest little creature in all the kingdoms of the young; though whether she was sprung from the kingdom of angels, of fairies, or of children none of them knew. For her eyes were as merry as fairies and as sweet as angels, and the odd little smiles that sat on her cheeks and in the corners of her mouth were both tricksy and tender; and she had a lovely little body, clad in a single blue-green garment that left her slender brown limbs bare to shoulder and knee. She was standing with her feet close together and her head bent, and her elbows lay straight by her sides, but her hands were outstretched, palm uppermost, clasping the two ends of a hazel-fork, which she held over the brook.

“Wilf! Wilf!” said she. “How do I know if you can paddle till I know if there's water here?”

And she fixed her eyes on the prong of the hazel-fork, and it began to turn downwards, until at last it pointed directly at the brook flowing under the plank. Then this child, for a child she was as well as a sprite, glanced swiftly from the dark baby tugging her garment to the people standing on the bank, and said, very seriously, but as though her little mouth were pinching back some secret laughter, “Yes, there is water here, and you may paddle if they will too.”

“Of course we will!” said Audrey, clapping her hands.

“Hurrah!” said Dick, swinging his bucket.

“Oh!” said Christie and

“Oh!” said Barbie, jumping for joy.

“It's very, very dangerous,” said Sylvia. “There are rapids and rocks, and jungles that grow from bank to bank where you must crawl in the water; and there are wrecks and whales and alligators and sea-serpents and sirens and midges. You'll get bitten and drowned and dashed to pieces and eaten up and put under a spell for ever and ever unless——”

“Unless what?” cried everybody.

“Unless I like,” said Sylvia, with her funny little smile.

By this time they were all barefoot, with their stockings and shoes slung round their necks.

“Who's afraid?” cried Dick.

“Not me!” cried Audrey, Barbie, Christie and Wilf.

And Paul said “Umph!” and Emily “Cluck!” and Rufus “Miaow!” and Mike “Wough! wough!”

“Follow me then!” cried the elfin Sylvia with a shrill sweet laugh; and she dropped from the plank into the stony channel of the brook that was sunk so deep between its banks of hazel and alder, with all their tangle of undergrowth between, that it could scarcely be seen from the garden. And after her splashed Wilf, and after him Barbie clutching Rufus, and then Christie dragging Mike, followed by Audrey carrying Emily, with Dick last of all and Paul tucked under his arm. They were all shouting with glee.

THREE O'CLOCK

The sun was like a golden boat afloat upon a blue sky speckled with white waves when they came out at the source, scratched and tattered and soaked to the waist. They were still shouting with glee.

Christie had lost her ribbon, and Barbie had a cut on her ankle, and Wilf had bumped his head, and Audrey's plait was all astray, and a fragment of bramble, caught in the web of her hair, still hung at her neck; and Dick's shirt was torn at the shoulder. But Sylvia came out as whole as she went in.

The first thing they saw when they scrambled up the bank was Sir John, sitting under an oak-tree rubbing his shield. He had walked along the bank by the meadow and wood through which the brook ran, and here he awaited their coming.

“Well, children,” said he, with his gentle smile, “has none of you perished?”

“Neither man, woman, nor child, sir,” said Dick.

“It was because of Dick,” said Sylvia. “He's the cunningest mariner I ever knew. He overcame all the dangers and protected the others.”

“It was because of Sylvia,” said Dick. “She's the kindliest water-sprite that ever guarded poor mortals in peril. She wouldn't let harm touch us. Though, to be sure, Mother'll have to put a patch on my shirt, all along of the sharks.”

“And the sirens stole my ribbon!” said Christie eagerly.

“And the dragons bit my foot!” said Barbie proudly.

“And the giants bumped my head!” muttered Wilf darkly.

“And the witches caught me by the hair!” said Audrey excitedly.

“And Emily laid an egg,” said Sylvia. “And Dick saved them all, and the egg too.”

“Hard-boiled egg looks nice on a salad,” said Dick, “cut into quarters like white-and-gold canoes a-sail on a green lettuce sea, did we but know where to boil it.”

“The Hermit of Hardham will boil it,” said Sylvia, “for he lives on eggs and onions.”

“Where does the Hermit dwell?” asked Sir John.

“In a curl of the river,” said Sylvia.

“Then his way lies our way,” said the Knight. “Come, children.”

And he went ahead where Sylvia pointed; and she, turning him with a touch now to the left, now to the right, tripped at his heels, and Wilf toddled at hers, with Christie and Barbie in line like follow-my-leader, Dick and Audrey coming abreast; and Rufus, wet and dejected, and Mike, wet and in ecstasy, and Paul, wet and phlegmatic, and Emily, wet and in a perfect panic of triumph, brought up the rear.

“Hasn't your grandfather got a grand shield?” said Sylvia over her shoulder.

The children laughed, and Dick answered: “He has neither child nor grandchild, but his shield is as bright as his own dreams. Why, there isn't a man in the world with so splendid a shield, is there?” And he smiled at Audrey, but she looked sorrowfully after her Knight, and then she looked at Dick, and shook her head.

FOUR O'CLOCK

Led by Sylvia, the little company came out upon the road, which, after all their little forest ways and lanes and by-paths seemed like the very highroad of the world; and soon after they reached a great bridge with a broad river flowing under it. Sir John's face lit up as though it had been a cloud through which the sun had passed, and he cried “Ha!” and stood stock still in the middle of the bridge.

“Is this the river, child, at last?” he said to Sylvia.

“Yes,” said she, “and the Hermit is over there behind the old canal bed.”

“There let him bide,” said Sir John, “for now my heart dances in the very shadow of its adventure.” And taking Audrey's hand, he added, “For your sake, dear child, to whom I am pledged, I will follow this water till I find the ball!”

She looked at him steadily, and said in her clear voice: “And I too have given you my word. So marry me when you will.”

“I will marry you,” said Sir John, “as soon as we can find one to wed us.”

“The Hermit of Hardham will do that,” said Sylvia, “for he sits all the year round hoping for a wedding, and he has never wed anyone yet.”

“It is a pity to disappoint him,” said Sir John; “yet I will not lose my river for a thousand hermits.”

“You won't lose it,” said Sylvia, “if you go by Hardham you'll find it again at Pulborough Bridge as the crow flies.”

“So be it,” said the Knight. “Come, children.”

They went forward swiftly through the high, narrow path by the sunken bed of the old canal, and at the other end climbed up the grassy hillocks where the hermit of Hardham sat hoping for a wedding in a little chapel of stone archways, with neither roof nor doors nor windows, but with the bright air of heaven to serve him as all three. Within the chapel was an altar decked with flowers, and flowers hung in garlands and posies about the old stone-work, so that the chapel blossomed like a bride's bower. And the Hermit sat on a boulder in the evening sunlight, clad in a white robe, with a golden ring on either hand, and a bowlful of crumbs on his left, and a dish of cabbage leaves on his right, and a saucer of sugar and water at his sandalled feet. And all about him were small rabbits at play, whom he fed with green leaves from his right, and amongst them hopped a multitude of birds picking up the crumbs he scattered with his left, some of the birds sitting on his wrist and his knee to pick the crumbs from his hand and robe. And a chaffinch was even clinging to the long, white beard on his breast where a few crumbs had fallen, and before she flew off she pulled out three hairs for her nest, and he suffered her, looking after her with his gentle eyes. And a host of tiny insects hummed and hovered and sipped at the saucer of sweet water. And a very small calf had got into the chapel and had knocked down the Hermit's pitcher of supper milk, and was licking it up. And this too he suffered with a loving look from his blue eyes. And the tender sunshine bathed him from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot.

But when he saw the company mounting the slope he said, “Friends, here come brothers and sisters.” And he rose up so softly in his place that not a bird or beast or insect was fluttered, and he stepped forward with his old hands outstretched, and took Audrey's in his right, saying, “Welcome, sweet bride.” Then he turned to Dick, and taking him by the left hand said, “And you, young groom, welcome! to the loveliest adventure in life.”

Audrey hung down her head, while Dick threw up his, and looked to Sir John to speak. But at the word adventure Sir John had sat down and begun to polish his shield.

There was a very long pause, in which nothing happened, and nobody except Sir John knew what to do.

And then Audrey, in great confusion, whispered, “Oh Dick!”

Dick scratched his head, looked once more at Sir John, and said, “Well, it's got to be done. There's no call to be frightened, dear.” For her cheeks had turned as pale as wild roses before they are about to fall.

So Dick and Audrey went into the chapel with the Hermit of Hardham, and the children and the animals went too. There the Hermit took from his own hands the two gold rings, and wedded Dick and Audrey.

FIVE O'CLOCK

When Dick and Audrey were wedded, they came out of the chapel amid the singing of birds and the humming of insects, and the cheeping and laughing of animals and children, who played together in the grass.

And Sir John looked up from his shield, which shone less brightly than their eyes, and said, “How happy you look!” So they explained why. And he looked thoughtfully at Audrey, and said, “Who then will find you your ball?” And she said she didn't mind about it any more. “Yet,” said Sir John, “I must seek it still, for to find that ball of stars and flowers at the end of the Murray River is still my dream, dear child, if it is no longer yours.”

He rose to go, but Dick said wouldn't he stay to the wedding-party first? And they made a green bowl of lettuce-leaves, and lined it with a nest of cress, and set the radishes in a circle of scarlet and snow upon the nest, and hard-boiled Emily's egg, and laid it in gold and silver boats upon the lettuce-leaves. And the Hermit of Hardham fetched a butterfly-net, and with it caught the globe of a great Spanish onion that was dangling among many others from a cornice of the chapel, and with a knife he divided it star-wise into eight points of the compass, and he opened back the points till the onion lay unfolded like a water-lily, and he set it in the centre of the salad within the crown of radishes. As he did it he wept, for neither joy nor sorrow.

This beautiful salad was the wedding-party, and they all had some.

_Six O'Clock_

The sun was almost asleep and the moon very nearly awake when the feast was ended, and Dick and Audrey said it was time to take the children home. But Sir John said he must go his own way by himself. He kissed the children and Audrey farewell, and, taking Dick's hand, said, “Do your best to look after her without me.”

“I'll try, sir,” said Dick Dowett.

“I would stay and help you,” said Sir John-o'-Dreams, “but my shield is bright enough at last, and I must find and follow the Murray River.”

He strode away in the evening light up the road to Pulborough where a river runs under a bridge. And as they watched his glittering shield out of sight, Christie murmured to Barbie, “But we found and followed the Murray River.” And Barbie whispered, “Yes, that's the Arun over there. He's going the wrong way.” And Sylvia smiled her little screwed-up smile, and Wilf was fast asleep, and nobody else heard.

SEVEN O'CLOCK

When the children were all safe in their homes, and Dick and Audrey were walking back to theirs, he took something from his pocket and put it in her hand.

“What's this?” said Audrey.

“It's a wedding-present,” said Dick. “I found it in the brook when we were paddling.”

And Audrey laughed for joy and said: “Why, it's my ball! Look! there are the flowers and children on the green side, and the stars and cherubs on the blue side, as fresh as when my godmother gave it me. Who would have thought it would keep so fresh and beautiful?”

She tossed it in the air, caught it, kissed it on the green side and the blue side, and put it in her pocket.

THE SPOTTED DOG _By ROSE FYLEMAN_

He sits upon the chimney-shelf,
His nose is in the air,
And people look at him and smile;
He seems so haughty all the while,
I hope he doesn't care.

He wears a little chain of gold.
The other day I found
There isn't any chain at all
Where he is turned towards the wall;
It doesn't go all round.

His spots are big and shining black,
His eyes are black as well;
I often think that he may mind
The way his chain leaves off behind,
But I shall never tell.

THE FIVE KNIGHTS _By HUGH CHESTERMAN_

SIR TUSH: THE INDISCREET KNIGHT

Three gay Crusaders rode to war,
Sir Twist and stout Sir Tarrymore.
Of better men you've never heard.
(Sir Tush of Tooting made the third.)

They sallied forth in brave array—
O passing fierce and fleet were they!
“Our duty's plain,” they said, “we've got
To show the Saracen What's What.”

And when they'd gone, fair ladies sighed
For news of them at every tide,
And naught their tears could stay or stem,
For never more came news of them.

Alack! the first upon my list
To fall in fight was great Sir Twist,
And stout Sir Tarrymore was vexed
(And rightly) when his turn came next.

Sir Tush lived on, till once at Sceeva
He called a Turk an unbeliever.
The Paynim, with a whispered “Hush!”
Decapitated rash Sir Tush.

SIR BRUIN BYPH: THE FOOLISH KNIGHT

Sir Bruin Byph, a witless peer,
To Palestine went riding,
A foolish knight—you see him here
His mettled steed bestriding.

His squire was a personage
Of very few pretensions;
A pensive, inoffensive page,
A youth of no dimensions.

And when Sir Bruin smiled and smirked
The page would raise no laughter;
And if Sir Bruin quipped and quirked
The page came silent after:

And silent kept till fond Sir Byph
Was slaughtered by a Paynim,
O then he laughed, _and_ laughed, as if
No power could restrain him!

SIR BEVILLE BLEYDE: THE AUDACIOUS KNIGHT

Of all the knights of Southern France
Who measured sword or broke a lance
In tilt or tourney,
Count Beville Bleyde would bow to none:
No matter how—he always won.
And he would journey,
On bellicose adventure bent,
To places on the Continent.
He knew the Lowlands, Russia, Spain,
Made war in Flanders, and had slain
A hundred knights of Acquitaine—
_And_ single-handed.
And once he kept, at Tinchebrai,
A Norman regiment at bay:
You could not count his blows, they say,
So fast they landed.
O he was brave; but rumour hints
(And as he has been dead long since
I may be candid)
That there was one whose temper made
The bold Sir Beville sore afraid—
It was his Countess, Madam Bleyde.

SIR TIVOLI TRAIL: THE INDOLENT KNIGHT

Slack is the snail and most sluggish the sloth;
As a slow-motion picture the tortoise beats both;
But worse than the tortoise, the sloth, or the snail
Was that indolent warrior, Tivoli Trail.
Late for his breakfast, his tea, and his dinner,
At hustling or bustling—well, any beginner
Would put to the blush this unpunctual sinner.
His sundial was broken, his watch wouldn't go,
The clocks in his castle were half an hour slow:
In battle his slackness in no way diminished;
By the time he arrived the whole business was finished.
And damsels in danger of dragons, who privily
Hoped to be rescued and then treated civilly,
Could _never_ rely on this torpid Sir Tivoli.

SIR MUNGO MYNGS: THE TIMID KNIGHT

This is the rhyme of Mungo Myngs,
Lean of limb and lily-livered:
Shook and shivered,
Did Mungo Myngs,
At lots and lots and lots of things.
Powder and shot
He minded not,
(At least not much);
But I'll tell you what
He _couldn't_ abide—
The slightest touch
Of sword or lance;
And if perchance
A battle was fought on the Myngs estate
He wouldn't come out and risk his skin,
But, sheltered behind his castle gate,
He'd fire at the foe with a culverin.

THE SILVER SHIP _By ROY MELDRUM_

On a September day—many hundred years ago—a boy, named Robin, was playing alone in the great forest of Stoke and Sayes. He was perched on a long branch of an oak tree, and balanced on his hands and knees so still that not a leaf trembled. He looked like a large green squirrel which had lost its tail; and, like a squirrel, he was listening, as if his life depended on it, for every sound he could hear in the still depths of the forest. Close above his head he heard the sound of a jay's wing, as she wandered from one tree to another; and below, the rustle of deer as they cropped the grass in a sunny glade near by. From far away, echoing under the leaves, he heard the faint murmur of bird and beast, broken now and again by the quick tap of a woodpecker on some distant hollow trunk, and beyond all these sounds he seemed to hear for a moment one unlike all the rest—one which puzzled and troubled him. The next moment it had gone. But he still crouched, waiting to hear it again.

Meanwhile, the deer were coming slowly into sight, one after another, step by step, eating their way nearer to his tree; and sometimes one, sometimes another would throw up its head, listening like Robin for the same strange sound. But after a while they seemed to think no more of it, and then, when they were all grazing peacefully, and the nearest was some fifty yards away, he played his first trick on them. He lowered himself slowly from the branch, until he hung at arm's length, and then just as slowly raised himself again, and then inch by inch crawled along the branch, until he was hidden from the deer by the trunk. There he lowered himself again, and this time dropped to the ground, and peering round the trunk, saw that not one of the deer had raised its head, and he smiled with sudden pleasure. He smiled, because he was sure that, if the deer could not see or hear him, no man, not even the cleverest, could track him down or find out the secret that was hidden in that oak tree.

To him it was a most important secret. For though he was still a boy, scarce fourteen years old, and as light of heart as he was light of foot, already in his life he had seen strong castles set on fire, and soldiers without pity rob peaceful towns, and drive men, women, and children out to die in winter snows. And so, though he was the son of an Earl and page to the rich Baron of Sayes, he did not trust himself to them; and he took great care that nobody at all knew where he went as often as he slipped through the shadows of the forest; and on these journeys sometimes he would carry with him a coil of rope, sometimes a saw, sometimes a sheepskin, or a crock, or a knife, and many other things besides; and he took them all to that great oak tree against which he was now leaning; for above in the broad fork of its branches he had made himself a hiding-place where he could sleep and, if need be, store his food and live in perilous seasons. That was his forest secret.

The deer came still closer, and again he played a trick on them. This time he laughed like a yaffle, and this time one or two heads rose in quick suspicion, and he knew that his laugh was not as much like a bird's as it should be, and he frowned, and for a long time he stood leaning by the tree, thinking over the mistake he had made; and all the while the deer were glancing round them anxiously. Then of a sudden in the dark stillness beyond the sunny glade a twig snapped with a sharp echo, and before the echo had gone, the deer one and all bounded past him in full flight, and he crouched against the roots of the tree, to watch.

The next minute a man came out from the shadows beyond the glade, and after looking carefully round about him, began to run towards the tree.