Chapter II: Part 2

At the foot of the steep slope to which they clung spread a large plateau like a plain; and over this bare tableland, at the moment, the monster was prowling up and down like a polar bear, considering what he would destroy next. Every time he turned his head towards them, the crowds clambered a little higher up the hill; but they soon saw, to their astonishment, that Sir Laverok was not climbing up, but climbing down. He dropped from the last overhanging rock, and rushed out upon the plain against the monster; when he came within a short distance, the knight gave one wild leap and threw his spear like a thunderbolt.

What happened in the flash of that thunderbolt nobody in the crowd seemed to know. Those who knew them best were of opinion that they all shut their eyes tight, and most probably fell flat on their faces. Others say that the monster stamped his foot upon his enemy with so stunning a shock that a cloud of dust rolled up to the clouds of heaven, and for a moment hid the whole scene. Others, again, explained that the vast immeasurable bulk of the monster had come between them and the victim. Anyhow, it is certain that when that vast bulk turned once more and began swaying and lurching backwards and forwards on its lonely prowl, no sign of the victim could be seen. Probably he had been stamped to mire as everything else had been. But if it were conceivable that he had indeed escaped, as he had boasted, it was hard to say where; as there did not seem to be anywhere for him to escape to. And the authorities in the holes and caves could not but regret that they had not condemned him to be burned as a wizard instead of hanged as a rebel, whenever they should have put the final touch to the sentence by carrying it into effect. They comforted themselves in the cave by the reflection that at least no hasty capture or premature execution had yet put it out of their power to rectify the mistake; but for the moment it seemed clear that their chances either of hanging or burning the gentleman were further off than ever.

Just at that moment, however, there was a new interruption. It so happened that the king’s third daughter was standing in the crowd on the slope; for all the elder members of the royal family were enjoying a temporary and semi-official retirement from the cares of state at the bottom of a dry well on the other side of the mountain range. But she had been unable or unwilling to travel with the extreme rapidity which they had had the presence of mind to exhibit; for she was rather an absent-minded person, wholly without aptitude for practical politics. She was called the Princess Philomel, and was a dreamy sort of person, with long hair and blue eyes that were like the blue of distant horizons, and she was commonly very silent; but she had watched the adventure of the vanishing outlaw with more interest than she commonly showed in anything; and she startled everybody at this stage by breaking her silence and calling out in a clear voice:

“Yes; he has found his fairy castle where no dragon can come.”

The more dignified Councillors of State were just venturing to put their noses above ground in order to remonstrate respectfully against the breach of etiquette, when everybody’s attention was again distracted to the monster, who was behaving in an even more extraordinary way than usual. Instead of pacing backwards and forwards with a certain pomposity as he had done before, he was bounding to and fro, taking totally unnecessary leaps into the air and clawing in a most uncomfortable and inconsequent fashion.

“What is the matter with him now?” enquired the Master of the Buckhounds, who was something of a student of animal life, and would, under other circumstances, have been much interested in the phenomenon.

“The monster is angry,” replied the Princess Philomel in the same absolute if abstracted fashion. “He is angry because the knight has reached the magic chamber and cannot be found.”

If the monster was indeed exhibiting anger, it would seem that his anger had an element of self-reproach. For he was evidently clawing and scratching at himself rather in the manner of a dog hunting a flea, but much more savagely.

“Can he be killing himself?” asked the Lord Chancellor hopefully. “I am the keeper of the King’s conscience, and not, of course, the keeper of the dragon’s. But it seems possible that his conscience, if once aroused, would find in retrospect some legitimate ground for remorse.”

“Nonsense,” said the Chamberlain, “why should he kill himself?”

“If it comes to that,” answered the other, “why should he fight himself, as he seems to be doing?”

“Because,” answered the Princess, “Sir Laverok has at last reached the cavern where he is safe.”

But even as she spoke, a further and final change seemed to pass over the monster. For a moment it looked as if he had turned into two or three different monsters, for the different parts of him were behaving in different ways. One hind leg rested as calmly on the earth as the column of a temple, while the other was kicking wildly up behind and thrashing the air like the sail of a windmill. One eye was standing out of the head in hideous prominence, and rolling round and round like a catherine-wheel of fury, while the other was already closed with the placid expression of a cow who had gone to sleep. Then the next moment both eyes were closed, and both feet stationary, and the whole monster, with a deprecating expression, turned his back and began to retreat towards the plains at an amiable and ambling trot.

The Princess surprised them by walking inside.
]

Thus began the last phase of the celebrated Dragon of the Wilderness, which was more of a mystery than his wildest massacres and deeds of destruction. He interfered with nobody; he stood politely on one side for people to pass; he even succeeded, with some signs of reluctance, in becoming a vegetarian and subsisting entirely upon grass. But when the ultimate goal of his pilgrimage was discovered, the surprise was even more general. The wondering and still doubtful crowds that followed him across that country became gradually convinced of the incredible idea that he intended to go to church. Moreover, he approached the sacred edifice in a far more tactful and unobtrusive and respectful way than Sir Laverok had done in the old days, when he broke windows and tore up pavements in his indiscriminating excess of punctuality. Finally, the monster surprised them most of all by kneeling down and opening his mouth very wide with an ingratiating expression; and the Princess surprised them still more by walking inside.

Something in the way in which she did it revealed to the more thoughtful among them the fact that Sir Laverok had been inside the animal all the time. It is unnecessary to repeat here the explanations which gradually enlightened them about the inner truth of the story or the inner machinery of the dragon. This exact and scientific narrative is also addressed only to the thoughtful. And these will have no difficulty in guessing that a magnificent marriage ceremony took place in the interior of the dragon, which was treated as a temporary chapel while within the precincts of the consecrated building. They may even form some notion of what was meant when the Princess, who was given to oracular remarks, said, “The whole world will behave differently when heroes find their hiding-place in the world.” But it must be confessed that those learned men, the Chancellor and the Chamberlain, could make very little of it.

THE CRINOLINE _By B. K. PYKE_

Charlotte all in hoop and frill
Was blown away
On Strawberry Hill;

Searched in every town and vale
She was found
In a milking pail!

Charlotte all in hoop and frill
Was blown away....
]

RED PEPPER _By THOMAS QUAYLE_

It was the day before the Prince’s wedding. All was hurry and bustle in the kitchen. Suddenly the Cook exclaimed: “I have lost the pepper!” The King replied: “If that be so, then woe is me! For is it not written in the Great Book that my father brought from the Isles of the West, that all the bridal dishes must be sprinkled with red pepper? Otherwise sad troubles and misfortunes shall follow my son and his bride all the days of their life. Therefore, O Cook, I tell thee that the pepper-castor must be found, and if it be not found before the shadow of the Great Mosque falls athwart the orange-grove, thou shalt surely die the death.” And putting on his crown and his purple robes, he walked sadly away, followed in slow procession by his seven pages, his cup-bearer and his favourite minstrel.

At the words of the great King, the Cook wept sadly, and made much lamentation. And all the maids, too, lifted their voices and wept. The Chief Butler and his twenty-three assistants, likewise moaned and tore their hair, for you must know that red pepper was an exceedingly scarce commodity throughout that land, and full well feared they, that none could by any good hap be procured before the shadow of the Great Mosque fell athwart the orange-grove. And so, weeping altogether, they led the Cook gently to her marbled kitchen, with its great copper cauldrons, its gleaming ovens and fire-irons, its porcelain pie-dishes and pewter pots, over which she had reigned for long years, and there they left her for a while, that she might commune with herself, and make her peace with the gods.

* * * * *

So the Cook sat her down sadly in the big rocking-chair, the very chair in which her own mother had rocked and dangled her. She gazed at the little tender beams of sunlight as they flashed through the diamond-paned window. Outside the thrushes sang gaily in the lilac bushes, and from the far corners of the Palace Gardens, she could hear the soft twitterings of tomtits and robins. And as she saw and heard all these sights and sounds, just as if she had before her all the friends and companions of her girlhood days, she rocked herself to and fro, and keened bitterly, and in her grief spoke forty curses on the castor, and on the thieves who had purloined the precious treasure.

Now it happened that just in front of the half-opened and diamond-paned window, there was a golden cage in which fluttered a little cockatoo. The King’s mother, herself, had brought it from far-away lands as a present for the Cook, and it was indeed her greatest pet. Many a dainty did she keep for it, and many a lump of sugar, even in the days of dearth, when queues and coupons troubled the heart of the people. Red and purple was its plumage, with little tufts of faint sea-green. Keen and sparkling were its eyes, and often, when the golden sunbeams flooded the Cook’s kitchen, these eyes seemed to gaze out very fiercely, as if the many-coloured bird could see its far-away home, there across the wide, wide seas, the little palm-fringed isle with the surf dashing in glistening white up to its yellow sands, to fall back to the main-sea deep with soft, sad music.

* * * * *

And as the Cook made her moan the little cockatoo cocked its head on one side, as if listening eagerly. For you must know that the isle where the bird was born and bred was famed throughout the world for its rare, rich, red pepper. Kings and Queens eagerly sought for it, and merchants from Arabia, from Persia and from a far-away island called Britain, came often to barter for it. And as the Cook keened softly, and bewept the loss of the castor, you would have thought that the little cockatoo was going mad with excitement, for it fluttered wildly around its golden cage, and beat its wings against the bars, as if some wonderful scheme were whirling through its little brain.

And then, to the amazement of the Cook, the cockatoo put its pert head through the bars of the golden cage and spoke in this wise: “O Cook, be not afraid, for I tell thee that before the shadow of the Great Mosque falls athwart the orange-grove, there shall be brought to thee from my home far, far across the seas rich, rare, red pepper, such as Kings and Queens and great merchants delight in. Only open the door of my golden cage, and thou wilt be saved!”

Something spoke in the heart of the Cook, and told her that the bird could save her. So, opening the door of the golden cage, she let the cockatoo go free. For a moment it flew up and down the kitchen in the full beams of the morning sun, flashing and sparkling like a little bundle of diamonds and pearls, and amethysts and rubies. Then with a shrill cry it darted out of the window, and soon all that the Cook could see was a tiny speck mounting up the pathway of the sun.

Away flew the little bird, as if for its very life. Now it is skimming over the silvery surface of the sun-sprinkled sea, bright and glittering as a polished mirror. Now it is high up among the clouds, lost in fleecy folds of pearly white. On and on and on it flew, until at last it could glimpse the palm-fringed, surf-beaten shore where it had spent its youngest and happiest days.

* * * * *

Meantime the dread hour drew near, for the shadow of the Great Mosque was soon to fall athwart the orange-grove. The Ten Executioners, with their heavy swords were ready, and the priests sang a sad song as they moved slowly to the place of execution. All the household wept, but the Cook herself wept not. She sat in silence gazing steadily through the diamond-paned window up the golden pathway of the sun. And the people in pity said: “Her mind has given away! Alas! she is distracted!” Yet they crowded around her to say farewell, but she spake not a word, only gazed steadily at the fleecy clouds.

And now, indeed, but few moments were left before the shadow of the Great Mosque should fall athwart the orange-grove, and all things were ready, and lamentations arose on every side. But just as the Lord High Executioner moved to the Cook’s side to pinion her arms, and cover her eyes, she uttered a great cry, and pointed to a little speck up, far up, in the sky. It flashed like a dewdrop of the morn, and sparkled like jewels of great price, and ever it came nearer and nearer, until the astonished people saw that it was the little cockatoo, gleaming in the sunlit glory of its red and purple, and faint sea-green. Through the window it flew as if it had travelled down the pathway of the sun. Once, and once only, it flew around the marbled kitchen, and then, with a shrill cry, it alighted gently on the shoulder of the Cook. And all the women gave a great shout, for fastened to the back of the little bird was a packet of the rich, rare, red pepper beloved of Kings and Queens, and sought for by rich merchants. And seeing it, the people rejoiced exceedingly, even the King himself, and sang songs of joy, and raised their voices in exultation, but the little cockatoo, fluttering feebly, fell dead on the floor of the marbled kitchen.

Thus was the Cook saved, and joyous was the revelry at the marriage-feast, and cunningly were the bridal dishes sprinkled with rich, rare, red pepper. And the little cockatoo was buried with honour, in the centre of the Palace Gardens, near the orange-grove, just where the shadow of the Great Mosque falls athwart it. And if you do not believe this tale, ask the robin redbreast, or the thrush, for all the birds know it well.

MISHY THE SURF-BABY _By MABEL MARLOWE_

Mishy the surf-baby had twenty brothers and twenty sisters, and ever so many other relations. But the one he loved best was Benny-whisper, who was the youngest of all the surf-babies.

Benny-whisper was as tall as a banana, and so golden-yellow that when he lay on the sand he could scarcely be seen. But Mishy was as tall as a cucumber, and the face of him was always covered with smiles.

Now one morning Mishy awoke with a big noise in his ears. All the surf-babies were running to and fro, making such a commotion, and the Mother of all the surf-children was making more noise than anyone.

“Whatever is the matter?” said Mishy.

“Benny-whisper is lost! Oh, Mishy, Benny-whisper is lost!”

“Where is he lost?” said Mishy.

“If we knew that, he wouldn’t _be_ lost,” said the Mother of all the surf-babies. “Oh, Mishy, do help us to find him.”

Then Mishy jumped out of his bed and ran down to the edge of the water, where the waves were making rims of froth on the yellow sand. He stood with his toes in the ripples, and he called out, “Oh waves of the sea, Benny-whisper is lost. Have you got him?”

But the waves of the sea splashed up and down in the sunlight, and they answered, “No. We haven’t got him.”

Then Mishy the surf-baby ran and stood upon a high rock, where the wind went whistling through his hair. He spread his arms out and called, “Oh wind, Benny-whisper is lost. Have you got him?”

But the wind puffed with his breath and answered, “No. I haven’t got him.”

Then Mishy the surf-baby dashed into the surf, and splashed his way through the shallow water until he reached the path of the sunbeams. He raised his wet arms above the waves and he called out, “Oh, beautiful sun, Benny-whisper is lost. Pray help me to find him, for I love him so.”

So the golden sun opened his big eye very wide and sent his beams searching all through the daylight. But there was no sign of Benny-whisper.

Mishy the surf-baby went slowly home. All the twinkles were gone out of his eyes, and the smile on his face was a sad little smile. He sat down in the doorway, nursing his knees, and all his brothers and sisters came and sat beside him. Not a word did they say. But they all rocked to and fro, looking very sad.

At last Mishy jumped to his feet, and he said, “Benny-whisper must be somewhere. He is in a place where the sea does not reach. He is in a place where the wind does not blow, and where the beams of the sun cannot shine. He is in a corner somewhere. But I will find him. I will find him if I have to search until bedtime.”

So he went down among the rocks, where the little crabs were scuttling in the wet sand. He turned each rock over, and hunted in the dark shadows beneath it. But Benny-whisper was not there.

Then Mishy went among the seaweed, and lifted each heavy strand that trailed about the cliffs, and peeped into each little crevice and corner. But Benny-whisper was not there.

Then Mishy said to himself, “I will climb the face of the cliff. Perhaps Benny-whisper is high up on a ledge, and cannot get down.”

So he clambered up the face of the cliff, holding on by the sea-lavender bushes that grew there, and calling out, “Benny-whisper! Benny-whisper, where are you? Mishy wants you! Mishy is looking for you! Oh, Benny-whisper, call out to me, and tell me where you are!”

But there was no answer.

Then Mishy climbed higher and higher. His little arms began to ache. His little toes began to throb. He reached a ledge at last, overhung by the top of the cliff and half hidden with samphire.

“I must rest here for a little,” said Mishy with a yawn. So he curled himself up in a corner and closed his tired eyes.

In ten minutes he was asleep.

* * * * *

Mishy the surf-baby awoke with a queer, warm, cosy kind of feeling that he had never known before. Something airy and soft and warm was spread above him. It was very dark, and the only sound to be heard was a throb, throb, throb.

She looked at Mishy.
]

Mishy wriggled. Mishy kicked with his feet and pushed with his hands and parted the softness that was covering him, so that the daylight shone into his eyes. Then he saw, to his amazement, that a seagull was sitting upon him—sitting so softly that she felt like warm snow, and the beat of her heart throbbed like the tick of a velvet clock.

Mishy wriggled again. Mishy made a little squeaking noise with his throat.

“The egg is hatching,” said the gull.

“Get off it, and let me see,” said another gull (it was the father one). Then the gull made a cooing kind of noise, and stood up on her feet.

She looked at Mishy, and she said not a word.

_He_ looked at Mishy, and _he_ said not a word.

They looked again. They shut their eyes, and opened them and looked again. They turned round three times, and looked at Mishy again.

Mishy began to laugh. He sat up, nursing his knees. His hair was all rumply, and his little cheeks were all rosy and warm. “This is a grand adventure,” he said to himself, and he combed his hair back from his face with his fingers and laughed, showing glistening white teeth.

“That’s an odd kind of gull,” said the mother gull.

“A very odd kind of gull,” said the father gull.

“It has no wings.”

“It has no beak.”

“It has no tail.”

“It has toes on its feet.”

“I don’t know if I like it,” said the mother gull.

“I don’t know if _I_ like it,” said the father gull.

The gull swooped down.
]

Then Mishy laughed aloud, and he stood up on his toes, and flung his arms wide. “I am a gull’s baby,” he cried. “Hurrah, I am a gull’s baby. I can’t think how it happened, but it’s true.” He danced about on the ledge like a sunshine-sprite, and he dimpled his lips and whistled like a canary.

“I believe I rather like him,” said the father gull.

“So do I,” said the mother gull. “Anyway, he is a most uncommon baby for a gull to have. No other gull has a baby like him. I think I am rather proud about it.”

“So am I,” said the father gull. “It is a pity he has no wings, but perhaps they will grow.”

“I can ride on your back,” said Mishy, and he ran and jumped upon the back of the father gull. “See, I am so light that you scarcely feel me,” he said.

“You will fall off when I begin to fly.”

“Try me,” said Mishy.

Then the great bird laughed, and spread his beautiful white wings, and leaped from the ledge with a cry. The wind whistled past Mishy’s ears as the gull swooped down towards the water. His brown hair blew back from his laughing face. He flung out his arms. He stood a-tiptoe with his little pink feet. Never before had he enjoyed such a wonderful ride.

But all of a sudden he remembered Benny-whisper.

“Oh, take me to the breakers,” cried Mishy. So the gull swooped along the edge of the ripples, where the surf-babies were washing in the foam.

“Is Benny-whisper found?” shouted Mishy, and all the surf-babies answered, “No!”

Then Mishy cried out to the gull, and he said, “Oh, father gull, take me for a ride across the ocean.” So the beautiful bird beat at the air with his wings, and rose, and sped right away across the blue water, where the tips of the waves were crested with white.

So the gull flew back with two surf-babies.
]

But Mishy was not smiling now. He was looking around him with anxious eyes, and all the while he was calling out, “Benny-whisper, where are you?”

“Mishy! Mishy! MISHY!” came a little voice.

Mishy looked down. There, far below him on the billows, was a green rock, all glistening in the sunlight—and standing on the edge of it was Benny-whisper.

“Oh, take me to that rock,” cried Mishy. So the gull swerved and sailed down to the rock, and Mishy jumped off and caught Benny-whisper in his arms.

“However did you get here?” he said, between kisses.

“The tide brought me. I was sailing in my little cockle boat.”

“The waves of the sea did not tell me.”

“The sea did not know. I kept in the bottom of the boat and went to sleep.”

“The wind did not tell me.”

“I pulled some seaweed over me before I went to sleep.”

“The sun did not tell me.”

“I kept in the shade.”

Then Mishy the surf-baby laughed more gaily than he had ever laughed before. He picked Benny-whisper into his arms, and leaped upon the back of the gull, and cried out, “Oh, dear father gull, fly back as quickly as you can. Fly back to the breakers, where the ripples of the sea are making froth on the golden sand.”

So the gull flew back, with two surf-babies nestling among his feathers.

* * * * *

“What have you done with that strange baby?” said the mother gull.

“I left him with the surf-babies.”

“That is very lucky,” said the mother gull. “When you were gone I found my egg, still in the nest, not hatched at all.”

“Then he was not a gull’s baby, after all.”

“No. But I rather liked him.”

“So did I.”

* * * * *

Mishy the surf-baby often climbs the face of the cliff to the ledge behind the samphire bush. He climbs up, but he doesn’t climb down again. He comes down on the back of his friend the gull, in the loveliest, swiftest joy-ride that there could ever be.

THE PRINCESS OF KENSINGTON _By MADELEINE NIGHTINGALE_

When, very long ago, Oberon held his court in Kensington Gardens, the King of this Island had a son named Albion. Now, as everyone knows, fairies have a dreadful habit of stealing mortal babies and leaving small elfin changelings in their stead. This is just what happened to Albion, and he was brought up in Fairyland. When he was nineteen years old (according to human countings) he fell in love with Oberon’s daughter; but since no fairy may marry a mortal, Oberon was very angry and banished the young man from his fairy empire. So dearly, however, did Albion love the Princess that, rather than give her up, he sought the help of Neptune, and was slain by the elves in the great battle that followed. In revenge, Neptune destroyed Oberon’s kingdom, driving out the elves so that they live now only in the hills and the dales and the sea-caves and the rivers and the woods. The Princess remained and sought to bring her lover back to life by means of a magic herb. It is said that no sooner did the juice of it touch Albion’s body than it changed into a snowdrop. But we are afraid that, in her love and sorrow, the poor little Princess has forgotten.

The Princess of Kensington
Goes down the cobbled street;
Listen to the patter
Of her small brocaded feet.
Her peacock, her page-boy,
And maids-of-honour two,
From dawn to dusk they follow her
London through.

The fairies of Kensington
Are driven out and gone.
From Hyde Park to Holland Park
There’s left but only one;
And she—she’s lost her lover
And searches up and down
The highways and byways
Of London town.

The night-watch of Kensington
A-calling on his round,
“Two o’ the clock and starlight!”
—It _is_ a pleasant sound.
But, ah, the little Princess,
How softly whispers she,
“Albion! Albion!
Where can—where can he be?”

The children of Kensington
Lazily they lie,
Fast and warm within their beds,
And hear her passing by.
But not a child will draw his blind
And shout, “Oh, _don’t_ you know?
He’s hiding in the Green Park
Where the snowdrops grow.”

THOMAS THE RHYMER
_By MADELEINE NIGHTINGALE_ THE CHOOSING

As I was fishing by Huntlie Bank
True Thomas he passed by.
“Thomas the Rhymer!” I called his name;
He turned and he looked and back he came.
“And how may I serve you, my pretty child,
Sitting so meek and sitting so mild,
A-fishing the pool where the sedge is rank
Round and about of Huntlie Bank?”
And, oh, but the strangest face had he,
His coat was as green as the greenest sea,
And it seemed, as he stood and stared at me,
There was magic in his eye.
He held me an apple in his right hand
—The half of a fairy-man was he—
But up I got me and curtsied low,
Staid as a duchess and twice as slow;
And all my petticoats flounced as neat
As a daisy’s petals about my feet.
“Nay, prithee,” said I, “good sir, if you
Be going to Elfland, why, take me too.”
He clippered a clap of his velvet shoon
And a little white road fell out of the moon.
Quoth he, “If we’re starting we’d best start soon
Or we’ll never be home for tea.”

THE PIRATE SHIP _By MARIAN ALLEN_

I wish I was the Pirate King
Who sailed the seas in days of old;
I’d drink my wine and loudly sing,
And capture great ships packed with gold
And fling my captives in the hold
And sail away across the night
Beyond the moon so round and white.

The ships who sail the ocean now
Just wireless all they want to say,
Like “How d’you do,” before they bow
And pass politely on their way;
All sorts of rules they must obey.
I think, when all is said and done,
The Pirate King had much more fun.

A STRANGER _By HUGH WALPOLE_

A STORY TOLD BY
“UNCLE” EDWARD TO CHARLES AND ROSALIND

You asked me yesterday afternoon, when we were out for a walk, to tell you what was the most exciting thing that ever happened to me. People are excited in such different ways, you know, and it’s quite possible that this won’t seem exciting to you at all, but you asked me, and I’ll do my best to tell you. I am now ever so old, as I heard Rosalind saying to Miss Banbury when she was trying to teach you French verbs the other morning, and when you are as old as I am, you’ll find that the things that you remember best are the things that happened years and years ago. For instance, I remember nothing about last Christmas, except that we had a tree, and that Charlie was sick on Boxing Day, but if you ask me to tell you every little thing that happened to me before I was fourteen, I fancy that I can; mind you, I say fancy, as it is possible that I am making the whole thing up, but what’s the real difference between making things up and remembering things that once happened to you, it will need a cleverer man than your uncle to tell you.

Now I come to the point. This adventure began with reading a book in a farmhouse. I know that both of you would rather go to Shawmill Farm than anywhere else in the world. You are always telling me so, and that month in the summer doesn’t seem nearly to content you, and apparently you expect me to take you off there any time at a moment’s notice on a kind of magic carpet like the one I told you about the other day. Well, my farm was every bit as good as yours; in fact, if you don’t mind my saying so it was, I think, a little bit better, but everybody has their favourite farm and the longer it is since you’ve been there the more favourite it is. I loved mine so much partly because I think, it was my first one, and I have never had all the good times that both of you are so accustomed to that you don’t know they are good times at all. For one thing, I had no brothers or sisters, and for another thing, my mother died when I was so small that I can scarcely remember her. Then my father wasn’t like your father; the only things he cared for were books, and those are very good things to care about, but if you care for them too much, you forget about people, and think that books are more important than people, which they are not, and never can be, and don’t you forget it.

Mind you, my father was very kind to me when he remembered me, but he had to leave me a great deal in the hands of other people. We lived in London in a very large house, so large that when you were in the top part of it it was like being in another house altogether. I had lots of room to move about in, plenty of toys, and anything I wanted so long as the grown-ups thought it was good for me, but what I wanted most was other children to play with, and that I never had. One day I was ill. I had one of those terrible headaches that you get, Charlie, sometimes from eating too much, but that I got, I think, from being by myself and thinking too much. I don’t mean that you haven’t got to do your work properly; it is a silly thing to be lazy, so that when you grow up everyone thinks how stupid you are, and wonders why you never learnt anything. But my thinking was done all by myself, and I formed a very bad habit of talking to myself, and I think it was because I talked so much to myself that I got the headache of which I was telling you. Well, I was put to bed, and the doctor came to see me, and poked me in the chest, and put a thermometer in my mouth, and looked at my tongue, and went away and didn’t say a word, and they kept me in bed so long that I got very tired of it and wondered if they were ever going to let me get up again. Then at last a wonderful day arrived when I put on my clothes again, and although my legs were very shaky and I was as weak as a kitten I was so proud at being out of bed that I could have danced all round the schoolroom. Then I was told that Father wanted to see me, so I went all the way down to the library, and there he was, as he always was, sitting at a large table covered with books, and looking at me when I came in with a puzzled expression that people have when they have been reading a great deal. Although he was so kind to me I was a little afraid of my father; although he wanted to, I don’t think he knew how to make children easy and comfortable. I went and stood beside him, and he put his arm around me and asked me whether I was feeling quite well now, and I said yes, which wasn’t quite true I’m afraid, and then he said how would I like to go into the country? I hadn’t very much idea what the country really was. I had been once to the seaside but I hadn’t enjoyed it because I was never allowed to go about by myself, and I was rather afraid of the country to tell you the truth, but I wasn’t going to show anybody that I was afraid, and I said that I would like to go. Then he gave a great sigh and I always remember that sigh because it was the first time that I realised that he had troubles just as I had them. I’d like to have asked him what his troubles were but I hadn’t the courage. Then he kissed me and told me to go upstairs again and upstairs I went. I was excited all day at this thought of the country, but I didn’t like to ask anybody any questions because I might be thought foolish and I tell you both here and now always ask questions if you want to ask them; never mind how foolish people will think you; that’s the only way to learn anything.

I was put to bed.
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You know what it is like waking up on the first morning at your farm.
]

Next morning I was wrapped up so warmly that I looked like a little polar bear. I came downstairs again; my father was in the hall and kissed me; then I was put into a carriage with my governess who was called Miss Somerset, whom, between you and me and the bedpost, I didn’t like at all. She was always telling me not to do things, but never suggesting things that I might do or, at any rate, never suggesting interesting things. However, I was so terribly excited that I didn’t mind about Miss Somerset or anyone else. We came to the station and got into the train, and I am afraid I can’t remember anything about the journey. I think I must have slept most of the time because I seem to remember that when the train started it was in the morning, and the sun was shining, and a minute later it was quite dark outside the windows and there was a light in the carriage. Directly after that, Miss Somerset said, “Here we are,” and that she had a terrible headache. I remember about her headache, because I asked her whether it was the same as mine, and she told me not to ask silly questions, but I didn’t care what she said because now we were out on the platform and the wind was blowing so strongly that it nearly took me off my feet. There had been a wind at the sea but this was different; there was something exciting about it. I remember last year when we were on the hill above the farm, Rosalind saying what an exciting wind it was. This was just the same sort of wind, friendly, as though it had come to the station to meet you and wanted to carry you off with it to some fine place that it knew of. All Miss Somerset said was, “Bother the wind.” She hurried me into a cab that was waiting outside the station. We drove for a long time in the dark, and although I couldn’t see anything I had a feeling that it was different from any other place that I had ever been to. There was a kind of smell about it that was quite new to me, and it was all so quiet after London that I felt as though it were waiting to get me away from Miss Somerset, and then tell me something very important. We got out of the cab at last, and then I was so sleepy that I fell right into somebody’s arms and was taken up to bed without noticing anything at all.

You know what it is like waking up on the first morning at your farm, how first you smell the difference of the house, the scent of the bacon that you’re going to eat in half-an-hour’s time is coming up the wrong staircase; through the window which if you’re wise, you’ve had open all night, there are all sorts of new smells; the air smells differently and it’s as though you’d had your bed planted in the very middle of a field all night, so close do you seem to the scent of the soil, and then, almost at once, smells are connected with noises. The first thing you were conscious of waking in London was the toot of a cab or the rattle of a tram, and now it’s a dog and a horse, and above all, a cock strutting about conceitedly on the top of a wall just under your window. Then, although you’ve scarcely raised your head from the pillow, the sounds and the smells together carry your imagination—the most useful part of you by a long run—across the fields, out of the gate up the hill behind the farm to the Downs, and your feet are already dancing on that turf that is so alive that you can almost feel it moving under you.

That’s what happens on your farm, how much more was it the case on mine? Remember, I had never been away from a town before, and when I rather timidly looked out of my window and saw first a yard with chickens and a large black dog, a pond blue in the morning sun at the end of it and ducks paddling there, and then beyond it fields greener than I had believed it possible for grass to be, and beyond them a mysterious dark wood that seemed to be begging me to step into it, you can imagine whether I was excited or not. But I tell you the honest truth, I don’t, on looking back, think that this was ideally the place for a boy’s first farm; only you see, I couldn’t criticise it, because I had never been to another one. Now, you would, both of you, be very severe critics of farms, because you happen to have for yours one of the brightest and most beautiful that ever was made, and yet I said just now that my farm was better than yours, and I said that because you are both a little spoilt about things. When I was small children didn’t have any of the fun and excitement that you both have every minute of the day. People weren’t always thinking about the best way to amuse children, how to keep them happy and give them fun, and so, when any fun did come our way, it meant a terrible lot to us, but I can see now on looking back that this was an odd farm to send a small boy all by himself to. There was, of course, Miss Somerset, but I hardly count her, because she was unwell, all the month we were there, sitting up in her room most of the time with that terrible headache of hers. I believe that really she had determined to hate the country before ever she got to it, being one of those people who get more happiness out of being miserable than out of being happy, and the result of this was that I was left a great deal to myself.

You know how you all love the Tuttles at your farm, and I tell you in confidence that I think that they are very nearly the nicest family in England. The man who ran my farm was called Mr. Andrew. He was a big, black, silent man. I daresay that he meant to be friendly, but I don’t think that he had much more idea about the way in which little boys are made comfortable than my father had, and then I discovered afterwards that his wife had died some five years before I arrived, and that made him melancholy. His sister, Miss Andrew, looked after the domestic part of the farm, and was as silent as her brother, so you can fancy that I hadn’t very much company, but I didn’t mind. I was thoroughly used to being by myself, and what I liked to do was to imagine myself somebody else and run it on for weeks and weeks, with fresh adventures every day. Rosalind told me the other day that she would like to write stories when she grew up just like me, but I was writing stories in my head almost from the moment I was born, I think. Perhaps Rosalind is doing the same, but if she is, she keeps it very dark. I hadn’t been about the place for more than a day or two before I had decided that I was a prince in disguise, and owned all the country around me.

This country was called Cumberland, and the great feature about Cumberland is that it is made up for the most part of mountains and lakes. Now, you’ll find that the very clever people who have travelled all over the world will tell you that the Cumberland mountains are nothing at all, that they are so small compared with other mountains, that they are only little hills, and that once you’ve been to Switzerland you’ll never look at the English mountains again. Don’t you believe them. I am very delighted for everybody to have their own opinion, but I also have travelled all over the world, and I tell you that there is something about the Cumberland Hills that no other hills have got, and that they always look a great deal bigger than they are. I think that’s because they are all in such beautiful proportion, and seem just as big as the Swiss mountains when you are in the middle of them. However that may be when you’re grown up, they of course seem gigantic to a boy who has never seen any others. As a matter of fact, from my farm you could only see one mountain and that was a long way off, but that was quite enough for me; I filled it at once with every kind of treasure because I was prince of the whole country and could do as I liked with it, and at once put a secret door at the bottom of it, just where there was a little wood that looked from my window like a tooth-brush, and from this door there was a passage that led all the way through the mountain and had on every side of it large rooms filled with every kind of treasure, heaps and heaps of rubies, and piles of diamonds, and ropes and ropes of pearls. There was, of course, an enemy prince in the neighbouring country who wanted to take this mountain, and he would send spies and try to discover the way through the door, and one day even went there himself, but my right-hand man, Black Jack, was waiting for him and in spite of all his troubles succeeded in imprisoning him in a cave all by himself on the side of the mountain. That was a very great day for me when I heard that he had been captured.

She said in Farmer Somebody’s barn.
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I was allowed to go a great deal about by myself, very much more I fancy than my father would have approved had he known it but Miss Somerset, because of her headaches and because the weather was never what she thought it ought to be, and because there was so much mud about that she was afraid of getting her feet wet, kept more and more in her room, and deputed her job of looking after me to the maid-of-all-work in the house, who was a girl from the village near by, and was called Nellie. Nellie was a good girl, and a kindly, but she had so much work to do, poor thing, that she couldn’t do more than give me a look every once and again, to see that I was all right. I was very quiet and never gave anyone any trouble, and seemed to amuse myself very easily. Very soon they all ceased to bother about me. So the days went by, and very wonderful days they were to me. Then came the adventure of which I am going to tell you.

It was, of course, summer time when all this happened, and there came a day called midsummer’s eve. That is the day when, as soon as the sun sets, all the fairies are supposed to come out and dance in rings on the grass, and run up and down the house, and play jokes on everybody and have a wonderful time. I knew about the fairies, because Nellie had told me, and I waited with great excitement determined that, however sleepy I might be, I would keep awake and watch all the fun. I wasn’t frightened in the least, because I had known all about the fairies ever since I could remember, and many of them were my very good friends. I was tremendously pleased that at last I should have a chance of meeting some of them. That was a very beautiful day, and when the evening came everything was bathed in golden light, and the colours of the fields, and the wood, and the distant mountain were as clear as though they had been painted on glass. Mr. Andrew and his sister went out early in the evening to somebody’s house and I was left alone with Miss Somerset and Nellie. There was a midsummer night’s dance in the village which Nellie, poor dear, was very anxious to go to, and she confided to me that it was a great shame that everybody else should have such great fun and that she shouldn’t be able to share in it.

I was very sorry for Nellie; she had been so kind to me that I was very anxious to help her. I asked her how far away it was that they were dancing, she said in Farmer Somebody’s barn at the bottom of the hill, and then I suggested that she should go down for an hour, that I would be quite all right. To tell the truth, I was in the very middle of a story called “Redgauntlet” that was written by one of the greatest men who ever lived. The same man wrote “Ivanhoe,” that you told me was very long, Charlie, the other day when I wanted to read it to you. I don’t want to shove books down your throats, but if you try to read “Redgauntlet,” and find that too long for you, I am in despair of both of you. Well, in any case I was in the very middle of this book and Nellie, who was not herself fond of reading—indeed, I doubt whether she could read at all—had never learnt the great gift of “letting reading dogs lie.” She would interrupt me every second, with an exclamation, or a wonder, or a surprise, so I was rather glad to get rid of her, and saw myself having a whole glorious hour perched on a very high chair by the window, and although I was reading so intensely that I never would lift my eyes from the page, at the same time I would be conscious of the light gradually fading from the sky, and green fields turning to silk, and of the birds slowly wheeling home. I loved all these things because, you see, I had always lived in streets. I think that it was really during that month that I grew to love space so deeply; I liked to be able to look on and on and on, and to feel that I had only to order my snow-white charger to be brought to the door, and so go flying off through the dusk to my mountain fastnesses. Then the kitchen behind me was very wonderful, so large, that at this hour before the light had faded, before the candles were lit you could not see into its farthest corners, and all the plates in rows on the old dresser were like friendly faces smiling. It must have been nearly nine o’clock by now, and I was supposed to go to bed at nine, so that Nellie’s obvious suggestion was, that I should go to bed, and then she should creep off for a little time. Mr. Andrew and his sister would not return till after ten, and Miss Somerset was fast asleep with her headache tucked quietly under her arm. But I begged Nellie to let me stay for a little while; I promised most faithfully to go up to bed exactly when the kitchen clock struck half-past nine. She had by that time so complete a faith in my keeping my word, and was so sure that I could come to no harm, that after one longing look through the open window at the lovely summer evening (we could hear very faintly coming up the hill strains of the rustic band) she nodded her head and said she would go. She slipped on her coat and hat, gave me a kiss and was off.