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+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75229 ***
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: THE FLYING CARPET]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                  THE
+                             FLYING CARPET
+
+
+                   Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York
+
+
+
+
+                          COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY
+                        CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
+
+                Printed in the United States of America
+
+[Illustration: [Colophon]]
+
+
+
+
+                   LIST OF THOSE WHO HAVE WOVEN THIS
+                             FLYING CARPET
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+                                                                    PAGE
+ _THOMAS HARDY_
+     _A POPULAR PERSONAGE AT HOME_                                     9
+
+ _ADELAIDE PHILLPOTTS_
+     _THOMAS HENRY TITT_                                              11
+     _THEOPHANIA_                                                    160
+
+ _JOHN LEA_
+     _THE TWO SAILORS_                                               108
+     _THE SIMPLE WAY_                                                198
+
+ _ALFRED NOYES_
+     _INVITATION TO THE VOYAGE_                                       16
+
+                           _DESMOND MACCARTHY_
+     _I WISH I WERE A DOG_                                            18
+
+ _A. A. MILNE_
+     _WHEN WE WERE VERY, VERY YOUNG_                                  32
+
+ _DAVID CECIL_
+     _THE SHADOW LAND_                                                35
+
+ _CYNTHIA ASQUITH_
+     _THE BARGAIN SHOP_                                               38
+     _OLAF THE FAIR AND OLAF THE DARK_                               184
+
+ _HENRY NEWBOLT_
+     _THE JOYOUS BALLAD OF THE PARSON AND THE BADGER_                 54
+     _VICE-VERSA: ANY FATHER TO ANY DAUGHTER_                        118
+     _SERMON TIME_                                                   183
+     _FINIS_                                                         200
+
+ _A. PEMBURY_
+     _THE SPARK_                                                     158
+     _THE RHYME OF CAPTAIN GALE_                                     182
+
+ _G. K. CHESTERTON_
+     _TO ENID_                                                        57
+
+ _CHARLES WHIBLEY_
+     _SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A PRINCESS_                               60
+
+ _J. M. BARRIE_
+     _NEIL AND TINTINNABULUM_                                         65
+
+ _HERBERT ASQUITH_
+     _STORIES_                                                        15
+     _THE DREAM_                                                      96
+     _EGGS_                                                          107
+
+ _ELIZABETH LOWNDES_
+     _MR. SNOOGLES_                                                   99
+
+ _HUGH LOFTING_
+     _DR. DOLITTLE MEETS A LONDONER IN PARIS_                        110
+
+ _MARGARET KENNEDY_
+     _KITTEEN_                                                       120
+
+ _CLEMENCE DANE_
+     _GILBERT_                                                       122
+
+ _HILAIRE BELLOC_
+     _JACK AND HIS PONY, TOM_                                        129
+     _TOM AND HIS PONY, JACK_                                        131
+
+ _WALTER DE LA MARE_
+     _PIGTAILS, LTD._                                                133
+
+ _SIR WALTER RALEIGH_
+     _THE PERFECT HOST_                                              157
+
+ _EDWARD MARSH_
+     _THE WEASEL IN THE STOREROOM_                                   167
+
+ _W. H. DAVIES_
+     _LOVE THE JEALOUS_                                              168
+
+ _DENIS MACKAIL_
+     _THE MAGIC MEDICINE_                                            170
+
+
+
+
+               List of those who have helped to adorn the
+                             Flying Carpet
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+                         _MABEL LUCIE ATTWELL_
+                         _J. R. C. BODLEY_
+                         _L. R. BRIGHTWELL_
+                         _H. M. BROCK_
+                         _HAROLD EARNSHAW_
+                         _DAPHNE JERROLD_
+                         _E. BARNARD LINTOTT_
+                         _HUGH LOFTING_
+                         _GEORGE MORROW_
+                         _SUSAN PEARSE_
+                         _T. HEATH ROBINSON_
+                         _ERNEST H. SHEPARD_
+                         _DUDLEY TENNANT_
+                         _A. H. WATSON_
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                      A POPULAR PERSONAGE AT HOME
+
+                            BY THOMAS HARDY
+
+
+             “I live here: ‘Wessex’ is my name,
+                 I am a dog known rather well:
+             I guard the house; but how that came
+                 To be my lot I cannot tell.
+
+             “With a leap and a heart elate I go,
+                 At the end of an hour’s expectancy,
+             To take a walk of a mile or so,
+                 With the folk who share the house with me.
+
+             “Along the path amid the grass
+                 I sniff, and find out rarest smells
+             For rolling over as I pass
+                 The open fields towards the dells.
+
+             “No doubt I shall always cross this sill,
+                 And turn the corner, and stand steady,
+             Gazing back for my mistress till
+                 She reaches where I have run already.
+
+             “And that this meadow with its brook,
+                 And bulrush, just as it appears
+             As I plunge past with hasty look,
+                 Will stay the same a thousand years.”
+
+             Thus “Wessex.” Yet a dubious ray
+                 At times informs his steadfast eye,
+             Just for a trice, as though to say:
+                 “Will these things, after all, go by?”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                           Thomas Henry Titt
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                                     ADELAIDE PHILLPOTTS
+
+
+In the South West of London stands a cathedral, which, from outside,
+looks like a child’s castle of bricks. But when you go inside you see
+nothing at first but a large emptiness—a ceiling somewhere up in the
+clouds supported by huge marble columns. There is always a smell of
+incense in the air, and there is a little painted figure before which,
+night and day, burn three rows of candles. Sometimes, on Saints’ Days,
+other rows of candles are lighted before other painted figures—St.
+Andrew, St. Patrick, St. George—making centres of bright light in the
+dimness of the great interior.
+
+Near this cathedral are blocks of tenement buildings where families
+dwell, one on top of the other, like books in a bookcase. These
+buildings are full of children: boys and girls and babies.
+
+On the top floor of one of these blocks lived Thomas Henry Titt, aged
+twelve. Thomas Henry’s father kept a shop round the corner where you saw
+sausages and onions frying in the window. His mother was dead. He had an
+elder sister who mended his clothes and helped their father in the shop.
+Thomas was known as Tom-Tit; and he looked rather like a bird, for he
+had thin arms and legs, sharp little eyes, a crest of bright hair, and a
+pointed nose.
+
+Like every imaginative child, Tom-Tit had a secret: a passion for the
+sea, which he had never seen. His ocean was in his mind’s eye, and he
+hoped as no one ever hoped before that one day he might behold the
+reality of his dream. In the darkness of night Tom-Tit, alone in his
+attic, lying awake on his mattress, gazed out upon a heaving
+cornflower-blue coloured ocean—as blue as the flowers which the woman
+sold at the end of his street. And this ocean was full of shining
+fishes. There was no land in sight—ever.
+
+Thomas Henry Titt loved the candles that burned before the painted
+figure in the cathedral. In the winter, when he was small, he had often
+held his little frozen hands to the warmth of them, when nobody was
+looking. But as he grew older the candles began to have for him a deeper
+significance. During evening service he would creep into a corner by one
+of the pillars, listening to the organ and watching the kneeling people
+in the distance near the shining altar. Then, when the music stopped and
+the people were gone, he would steal out and patter along to the rows of
+candles. There his heart would light up, even as they, and he would
+thrill with a strange, unaccountable happiness.
+
+Gradually Tom-Tit began to connect these candles with his desire for the
+sea. The two facts became one in his mind. It was as if, by the light of
+the former, he could see the blue waves of the other.
+
+Underneath the rows of burning candles was a rack full of new ones. Tom
+often saw people drop a coin into a box, take one, fix it upon a spike
+among the rest, and light it. And a longing overcame him to possess for
+his own one of these new candles. Perhaps, at the bottom of his mind,
+was the idea that if he took it home and lighted it, it would bring him
+nearer to his ultimate ambition—to see the sea. He determined to realise
+his desire.
+
+Then came a winter day when Tom-Tit’s head ached, shivers ran up and
+down his spine, and he felt very ill. Therefore his sister bade him stay
+in bed, and he did so until she had left the house with her father. But
+then, despite his fever, the craving to possess that candle overcame
+obedience. So, gripping a penny, he rose, staggered downstairs, and out
+into the road. The cold air cooled his body and numbed his pains. He
+slipped unnoticed into the cathedral and leaned for a moment against the
+wall, for his head was swimming and he could not see. Then he recovered,
+and his eyes sparkled as he beheld the candles flickering like golden
+flowers before the wooden figure at the end of the aisle. The
+surrounding air was a golden haze. The smell of incense was sweet.
+
+He tottered to the box of new candles, dropped in his penny, and took
+one. Then he dragged himself home, feeling worse and worse at every
+step, but gloriously glad within, because of the candle in his pocket.
+
+All day he lay on his bed, too ill to sit up, nursing his treasure. “I
+shall be well to-night,” he thought, “and when it’s dark I’ll light it.”
+
+In the evening his father and sister returned, found him in a state of
+high fever, and sent for the doctor. He, when he saw Tom-Tit, said that
+he would come back in the morning and remove him to the hospital if he
+were not better.
+
+He gave Tom a sleeping draught before he left.
+
+When his father and sister had gone to bed, Thomas Henry, feeling drowsy
+and less hurt with pain, pulled out his candle half melted already by
+the heat of his hands, lit it, and set it on a chair by his side. Then
+he lay gazing at it, until the whole world was but a golden flame with a
+blue root.
+
+Then a wonderful thing happened. He did not see the candle any more. His
+first idea was that the wind must have blown it out, for a great wind
+was blowing. Where could he be? He opened his eyes, which must have been
+closed, and lo! he was in a little wooden boat on a cornflower-blue sea!
+The boat was rocking from side to side like the baby’s cradle on the
+floor below—a mechanical rock, rock, rock, rock, from side to side. He
+scooped up a handful of the sea, and, just as he had expected, it was
+bright blue. He could see blue shining fishes swimming round the boat,
+so he caught them in his fingers where they wriggled about and made blue
+reflections until he threw them back again into the blue water.
+
+And all the time, though he could not see it, the candle was burning at
+his side—burning lower, and lower, and lower.
+
+From horizon to horizon the cobalt ocean stretched around him—not a
+speck of land anywhere. He was perfectly happy there staring down
+through the blue fathoms and feeling the wind blow. He had never been so
+happy in his life before.
+
+Then the candle went out.
+
+In the morning they found a little pool of grease on the chair—and
+Tom-Tit was dead.
+
+But this is not really a sad story, because Thomas Henry did what many
+thousands of people never do, even though they live to be a hundred and
+three—he realised his ambition. He saw the sea. And he was not
+disillusioned; for the sea that he saw was just as beautiful as the sea
+which he imagined: the reality matched the dream.
+
+
+
+
+                                Stories
+
+                                                         HERBERT ASQUITH
+
+
+                When lights are out and Pat’s in bed,
+                He tells a story from his head
+                Of men who fight by sea and land
+                With cutlasses in either hand.
+                Who make their mouths into a sheath
+                And sharpen dirks upon their teeth;
+                And schooners heeling to the breeze
+                That blows across the coral seas,
+                With kegs of rum and bars of gold
+                And corpses rolling in the hold.
+                Then far below the dining-room
+                Pours out its voices: through the gloom
+                Borne on tobacco-laden air
+                The roar of talk comes up the stair,
+                But where are now the coral seas
+                And where is Pat? Lost on the breeze
+                With streaming flag the schooner fades
+                And takes her captain to the shades.
+
+
+
+
+                        Invitation to the Voyage
+
+                           (_A New Version_)
+
+                                                            ALFRED NOYES
+
+
+              A rambling cherry-petalled stream;
+                A bridge of pale bamboo;
+              A path that seemed a twisted dream
+                Where everything came true;
+              A crimson-lanterned garden-house
+              With jutting eaves below the boughs;
+                The slant-eyed elves in blue
+              With soft slip-slapping heels and toes
+              Dancing before the Daimyōs:
+
+              “_And is it Old Japan_,” you cry
+                “That half-remembered place”—
+              I see beneath an English sky
+                A child with brooding face.
+              The curious realm he chose to build
+              And paint with any hues he willed
+                Is all I strive to trace,
+              Where odds and ends of memory smile
+              Like bits of heaven, through clouds awhile.
+
+              And some for charts and maps would call,
+                But here, beside the fire,
+              The kakemono on the wall
+                Is all that we require.
+              A chanty piped by bosun Lear
+              May float around us while we steer
+                Our hearts to their desire—
+              The Nonsense Land beyond the sun
+              Where West and East, at last, are one.
+
+              Then let the rigging hum the tales
+                That Tusitala[1] told
+              When first we spread our purple sails
+                In quest of pirate gold;
+              For, though he waved us all good-bye
+              Beneath the deep Samoan sky,
+                His heart was blithe and bold,
+              And hailed across a darker main
+              The shadowy hills of home again.
+
+              So we, who now adventure far
+                Beyond the singing foam,
+              May see, in every dipping star,
+                The harbour lights of home;
+              And, finding still, as all have found,
+              That every ship is homeward bound,
+                (For none could ever roam
+              A sea too wide for heaven to span)
+              Sail on—sail on—to Old Japan.
+
+Footnote 1:
+
+  Robert Louis Stevenson.
+
+
+
+
+                          I Wish I Were a Dog
+
+                                                       DESMOND MACCARTHY
+
+
+There were five in the family and Dicky, nearly nine, was the youngest
+but one. Dicky’s father was a country doctor, and, like many country
+doctors, he led rather a hard life. The sick people he visited lived
+miles apart, and many were too poor to pay him properly.
+
+Dr. Brook was a tall, pale man with grizzled hair turning to grey. He
+was clever, and he had a quick, short way of talking. He seemed to make
+up his mind about everything in a moment, and if you asked him a
+question, he answered as though it ought not to have been necessary to
+explain.
+
+Dicky would have been surprised to hear that his father was a kind man,
+but kind he was. He hated attending upon well-to-do people who had
+nothing much the matter with them, though he knew he must visit them to
+make enough money to bring up his own children properly.
+
+He would remember this while he was driving miles out of his way to see
+some poor cottager, and so, when he arrived at the cottage, he was
+usually in a bad temper. On the other hand, when he was calling on old
+Mrs. Varden at The Grange, who was sound as a bell and would probably
+live to be ninety, he was always thinking of those who really wanted
+looking after. Then, instead of smiling sympathetically, while she told
+him how queer she had felt in the middle of the night three weeks ago,
+or how well her nephews were doing, he would stand in front of the fire
+in her cosy sitting-room, look up at the ceiling with a stern
+expression, and rattle the keys in his pocket in a manner which said
+plainly, “How much longer shall I have to listen to this stuff?” So,
+although everybody thought Dr. Brook “a very clever doctor,” few people
+were fond of him.
+
+All day he went bumping and rushing along the country lanes and roads in
+his shabby, muddy car, which he never had time to clean properly; and
+when he got home his day’s work was not over. In the evening he turned
+schoolmaster and taught his children.
+
+Dicky’s mother had died when his brother Peregrin was born. Ella, the
+eldest of the children, a grown-up girl, kept house and taught Dicky and
+Peregrin in the morning. She was very like her father in many ways, only
+her cleverness had turned to music. She played the violin beautifully,
+and she was dying to get away from home and become a famous musician.
+Dr. Brook knew this and was very sorry for her; but he could not let her
+go till Dicky and Peregrin went to school. She had to be a governess
+till then. The other two boys had done very well. They had both got
+scholarships, and little Peregrin was as sharp as a needle.
+
+Altogether the doctor had to admit he was very blessed in his children.
+But there was Dicky! Dicky was a dunce, there was no doubt about it—at
+least, so Ella reported. And when Dicky showed his smudgy exercise-books
+to his father in the evenings, his father thought it only too true.
+
+Dicky dreaded the evening every day. He did not much mind his sister
+Ella’s crossness. He was used to it. But there was something awful about
+the weary quiet way his father used to ask, “Do you understand _now_?”
+Dicky had then to say “Yes,” and presently his father would find out he
+hadn’t understood at all. There would be a still longer pause, and at
+last his father would sigh, “Unhappy boy, what will become of you!”
+
+This was far worse than being slapped by Ella, though her ring sometimes
+really did hurt. His father would then repeat what he had said before,
+twice, very slowly, as though he were dropping the words drop by drop
+into a medicine glass, looking at Dicky all the time, till Dicky’s lips
+began to quiver and his eyes to fill, when his father would say hastily,
+pulling out his watch, “There, there. It’s time for bed. Run along. Kiss
+me.” Then Dicky’s one desire was to get out of the room before bursting
+into tears. He did not mind if it happened outside the door or upstairs.
+Indeed, it was rather a comfort to cry, especially if he could only get
+hold of Jasper, the black spaniel, to hug and talk to while he was
+crying. But he was terrified at breaking down before his father. He
+somehow felt if he did, he might never stop sobbing, or that something
+else dreadful would happen. One evening it did happen.
+
+The day had been altogether a bad day. Dicky had got up that morning
+feeling as if his head was rather smaller and lighter than usual. It
+felt about the size of an apple. Ella had had a fat letter that morning
+from her bosom friend, at the Royal College of Music in London. Lessons
+were always worse on the days she heard from her, and that morning it
+was true also, for once in a way, that Dicky had really _not_ been
+“trying.” He had begun by making thirty-four mistakes in his French
+dictation—and he was rather glad. During arithmetic he had amused
+himself by imagining that the numbers had different characters, and that
+some of them were very pleased to find themselves side by side in the
+sums. The result was that all his sums were wrong, and he had
+exasperated Ella by telling her that it was the fault of number 8, who
+was a quarrelsome widow and wore spectacles.
+
+When left alone to do his Latin Prose, while Ella went to her bedroom to
+practise furiously on the fiddle, he had spent the time in teasing a
+beetle by hemming it in between canals of ink on the schoolroom table.
+He liked the beetle, but he enjoyed imagining its disgust and
+perplexity, and he enjoyed feeling that he could, but wouldn’t, drown
+it. When Ella came back and found that he had only written one Latin
+word, “Jam” (already), on the paper, she tore the exercise book from him
+and said that he could do what he liked: she would tell his father and
+never teach him again—never, never, never.
+
+[Illustration: “SHE WOULD NEVER TEACH HIM AGAIN—NEVER, NEVER”]
+
+But the evening was a long way off, and Dicky walked into the garden, in
+a gloomy sort of way rather proud of himself. He found, however, he
+could not amuse himself, so he devoted himself to amusing Jasper,
+chasing him in circles about the lawn and throwing sticks for him to
+fetch. When the dog had had enough, and lay down on the grass with his
+paws out in front of him like a lion, Dicky did not know what to do
+next. He went down himself on all fours and kissed Jasper, who
+responded, between quick pants, with a hasty slobber of his pink
+quivering tongue, as though he were snapping at a fly. Ah, if only he
+were as happy as Jasper! Dicky suddenly remembered that an old gentleman
+had once given him a sort of blessing, saying, “May you be as happy as a
+good dog.” What an easy time Jasper had! Of course he got into trouble
+if he rolled in things, but if Dicky were in his shoes—or perhaps he
+ought to say on his paws—_he_ wouldn’t want to. (Jasper certainly had a
+very odd taste in scent.) Examinations, scholarships—those awful things
+meant nothing to him. Dicky thought he could have easily managed to be a
+good dog. And since he wanted to stop thinking about himself, he began
+to play a favourite game of imagining what Jasper said to other dogs
+about his home and the family. How he would boast to them of the
+excellent rabbit-hunting in the copse near by, of the good bones he had
+and the warm fires; and how he would tell them about jumping on Dick’s
+bed in the morning and how perfectly Dick and he understood each other.
+But the worst of it was that unless one were tired and a little sleepy,
+one could not go on with that game very long. It soon began to seem
+silly. It was not a good morning game.
+
+Ella was very grim at lunch and only spoke to Peregrin. After luncheon
+Dicky felt very inclined to work—anything to stop thinking. He said
+something about learning grammar, but Ella took all the books away and
+locked them up. She said he could do _whatever he liked_. This had never
+happened before and it frightened him.
+
+He went for a walk by himself. The sky was grey and the hedges were
+dripping and his feet felt heavy. He actually tried to remember what
+cases the different prepositions governed in Latin, as he walked along,
+in the hope of surprising his father in the evening; but the fear that
+he might be repeating them to himself all wrong made him hopeless. It
+was never safe to learn without the book. Only once, when a red stoat
+ambled with arched back across the lane, did he forget himself. A stoat,
+too, must have a jolly life, he thought, even if it ended by being
+nailed up on a door by a keeper. He stayed out till it was dark and past
+tea time.
+
+His father’s hat and coat were not in the hall when he returned, so
+Dicky knew he had not yet come back. Upstairs he could hear the wailing
+of Ella’s violin. He went up and knocked at her door. She did not say
+“Come in,” or stop bowing away or frowning at the music on the stand in
+front of her. “If you’re hungry get milk in the kitchen,” she said, her
+chin still on the fiddle, “and—shut the door.”
+
+Dicky did so, and stood for a minute outside it. Then he went slowly to
+the schoolroom and sat down at the table. Peregrin was already in bed,
+and there was nothing to do but to wait.
+
+Time passed very slowly, and if Dicky had not known that he was dreading
+something, he would have thought he must be ill. He did, indeed, feel
+very queer. At last he heard the front door slam and the tramp of his
+father’s stride in the hall. The same instant the sound of the violin
+stopped and Ella walked rapidly along the passage; and before Dicky knew
+what he was doing he had started to run after her. At the head of the
+stairs he stopped himself, and peeping over the bannisters he saw that
+his father had hesitated in the middle of pulling off his coat, and was
+staring at Ella, who was talking vehemently in front of him. Dicky heard
+her raised voice saying, “It is hopeless. Father, I won’t; I really
+can’t. He....” His father finished getting out of his coat without a
+word; then they both went into the study. The door closed behind them,
+and Dicky crept back to the schoolroom.
+
+Presently, he heard Ella calling him to come down. A few minutes before,
+his legs had carried him to the top of the stairs without his wanting
+it, now they refused to move. “Father wants you in the study at once,”
+she shouted, and she continued to call, “Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick.” There
+was a long pause and Ella herself stood in the doorway.
+
+“Father is coming to whip you,” she said, and walked off to her room.
+
+But he did not come. Dicky waited with beating heart, but he did not
+come. He waited till he almost forgot he was waiting, and yet his father
+did not come. And when at last he heard soft shuffling steps coming
+along the passage, his heart almost stopped. To his astonishment he saw
+in the darkness beyond the door two small round orange lamps shining
+about a foot from the ground. It was only Jasper, who padded quietly
+into the room and lay down on the hearthrug with a quiet sigh of
+satisfaction. Having settled himself in the shape of a large foot-stool,
+Jasper did not lift his nose again, but he turned up his eyes at
+Dicky—they were brown eyes now, exquisitely humble and kind—and wagged
+his stumpy tail. Dicky had flung himself on the floor beside the dog and
+embraced him. Were these the terrible sobs which would never leave off?
+No, presently they did stop; and gradually Dicky even forgot that he was
+waiting for something awful. The occasional dab of the dog’s cold nose
+on his hot cheeks was comforting, and so it was to curl all round him.
+Dicky felt almost as though he were a dog himself when he was curled up
+like that.
+
+“Do you know, Jasper, if I were a dog, I should be a very clever dog?
+Much, much cleverer than you,” he whispered with his face buried in the
+black fur. His head felt swollen and confused. “A re-markable dog,” he
+repeated, “I should be a very re-markable dog.”
+
+Downstairs Dr. Brook was sitting close up to the fire and staring
+gloomily into it. He had forgotten that he held a short switch in his
+hand, and that it still hung down between his knees. He was thinking in
+pictures and the pictures were not of Dicky. He had forgotten Dicky; he
+had even forgotten himself. They say the whole of life passes before a
+drowning man’s eyes. The doctor ever since he sat down had felt like a
+man drowning in a sea of troubles. If not the whole of his own life,
+still, much of it, had passed before his eyes. Only when at last he was
+eating his cold solitary dinner in the dining-room, did he remember
+again that Dicky had been naughty that morning, and that Dicky was
+probably incurably stupid. But even if he were it did not seem now to
+matter much, or to matter in a different way. Ella, too, he thought,
+must go to her College of Music; things could somehow be managed. The
+doctor sat a very long time over his dinner.
+
+But upstairs still stranger things were happening to Dick. First he felt
+hot and large, then cold and small. He kept on shivering. Was this silky
+hair his own or Jasper’s? And where was he? He was apparently in a wet,
+grey place. What he touched with his hands and feet felt rough and
+gritty. Suddenly he saw a brown stoat with an arched back ambling
+rapidly in front of him—it was as big as a fox. Yes, he was on a
+road—the very road he had walked along that very afternoon, only now the
+wet hedges were ever so much higher. And before Dicky knew what he was
+doing he was dashing after the stoat, right into the quickset hedge
+after it. What was he doing? He smelt a queer strong smell which excited
+him; and he pushed and struggled through the roots and thorns, following
+the smell. He seemed, too, to be wearing a very odd cap with long flaps,
+which kept catching in the brambles and dragging him back. This did not
+hurt, but it was a nuisance, and he had constantly to shake his head. He
+traced the smell of stoat to a rabbit hole and thrust his head down it.
+Hullo! Dicky had no idea rabbits smelt so deliciously, as nice as
+pineapples or peaches! Dicky had wanted to kill the stoat, but he would
+have liked to eat the rabbit. He tried to make the hole larger, by
+tearing away the earth with his hands, but, although he got on much
+faster than he expected, he soon saw that was no use; and dragging
+himself violently backwards out of the hedge, he found himself in the
+road again with nothing to do.
+
+Yes, there was nothing, absolutely nothing to do. The sensation was a
+strange one, for he couldn’t even think of anything. He just stood there
+snuffing the wet wind. Then suddenly he found himself trotting towards
+home. He had not gone very far when he was aware of another smell which
+he somehow recognised instantly as “The Sacred Smell.” He knew what it
+was, though he had never smelt it properly before. It reminded him of a
+feeling he had sometimes had in church—how long ago that seemed!—and
+partly of a feeling he had had when once an old general in scarlet and
+covered with medals had patted him on the head. Only this time The
+Sacred Smell was mixed with other smells; with smells of horse, leather,
+onions and smoke. This, Dicky knew, was not as it should be, and he was
+distinctly alarmed. However, he thought he had better stand still. It
+was always better, something whispered to him, not to run away from The
+Sacred Smell—unless the danger was terrific.
+
+Of course, having smelt The Sacred Smell, he was not at all surprised to
+see next a huge pair of muddy boots coming towards him, and a pair of
+huge knees in dirty trousers moving up and down. When they were a short
+distance off, they stopped; and Dicky, looking up, saw what he had
+expected; an unshaven, dark-skinned Man in a cap, with a spotted
+handkerchief knotted round his neck. The Man made a squeaking noise with
+his pursed-up lips, such as rats make, and slapped his thigh once or
+twice. Dicky knew what this meant, but even when the Man called in a
+croaking voice, “E-e-e-’ere good boy,” Dicky still thought it was best
+not to move. He stood and turned his face instead to the hedge, looking,
+no doubt, as absent-minded and miserable as he felt. (It was odd, but
+_now_ when Dicky felt wretched and miserable that feeling was strongest,
+not just under the middle of his ribs, but at the end of his spine where
+his legs began; there now was the seat of anguish.) The Man took a step
+or two nearer, then another step. Still Dicky did not stir. Suddenly the
+Man dashed forward and made a grab at him. Dicky ducked, started aside
+and bumped right into the road-bank. He saw the Man’s hand outstretched
+above him, and he knew there was now only one thing to do: to roll right
+over on to his back, in order to show he wouldn’t resist and hoped for
+mercy. The Man stroked Dicky’s head and made soothing noises; and then,
+suddenly, put an arm under him, lifting him up and holding him tight to
+his side.
+
+[Illustration: “THE MAN DASHED FORWARD AND MADE A GRAB AT HIM”]
+
+Dicky felt perfectly miserable, but what could he do? He knew it would
+be folly to try to escape, and that it would be wiser to wait for an
+opportunity. The Man tucked him with a jerk still more firmly under his
+arm, and started to walk slowly on. He walked on for more than an hour,
+till they came to a gorse common, where a caravan was standing with
+empty shafts and a pair of steps behind. Gripping Dicky tighter than
+ever the Man gave a whistle, and a Woman came out of the caravan.
+
+“Where did you find him, Joe?” said the Woman, looking at Dicky.
+
+“’Long road,” said the Man, jerking his head backwards.
+
+“You ain’t been and thrown away his collar, ’ave you, Joe?”
+
+“’Adn’t any,” said the Man. Dicky was very dazed, but he did think they
+were talking about him in an odd way.
+
+“Better take ’im where he belongs,” said the Woman. “The cops won’t
+believe as such as ’e is ours. He looks well cared for. Might get five
+bob.”
+
+Dicky did not try to tell them where he lived; he felt somehow it would
+be no use to try.
+
+Instead of answering the Man just threw him into the caravan and shut
+the door. Although it was nearly dark, Dicky found he could see
+surprisingly well. Presently a tin bowl full of scraps of meat and bones
+was thrust in. Dicky would have been revolted by such a mess a short
+time ago, but now, though he was too scared to feel hungry, he could not
+resist putting his face close to it and giving a sniff. It really smelt
+uncommonly good. He put out the tip of his tongue and touched a
+brown-looking, ragged bit of gristle. Yes, it was good. Then all of a
+sudden he understood what must have happened. He had changed into a dog!
+Into a black spaniel!
+
+He dashed at the door, shouting at the top of his voice, “Let me out!
+Let me out!” Alas, the only word which sounded at all like what he
+wanted to say was, “Out.” “Out, out, out, out,” he kept barking, hoping
+that the Man and Woman would understand. They took no notice; but he
+could not stop. “Out, out, out,” he barked. He shook the door by jumping
+at it; he tore at the wood with his nails. There was a latch just within
+his reach when he sprang up, but his paws—yes, it was only too true, his
+hands were round, black and feathery—could not lift it. “Out, out, out.”
+No answer. At last he gave it up, and lay down on the floor, feeling
+very tired. It occurred to him presently that he might think better
+while gnawing a bone. So he went to the bowl and pulled out the largest.
+It was a slight comfort to him. With his head on one side and his teeth
+sliding along the bone, he found he could think a little more calmly.
+How was he to let them know that he was not a real dog, but a boy called
+Dicky Brook? He tried again to talk. After a lot of practice he
+succeeded in making a sound rather like “Brrr-ook,” but it was also too
+sadly like the noise Jasper made when he was too lazy to bark or had
+been told to stop barking. Dicky was afraid they would never understand.
+But surely a very clever dog could make people understand somehow?
+
+At last the door opened and the Man appeared, black against the starry
+sky. He stumbled over Dicky, swore and lit a stinking lamp-flame the
+size of the blade of a pocket knife. He was followed by the Woman.
+Outside Dicky could see the red glow of the fire which had cooked their
+dinner. Now was his chance. What should he do to astonish them? That was
+the first thing to do, to astonish them till they began to understand.
+But all Dicky could think of was a doggy thing after all: he sat up and
+begged. The Woman grinned at him, but the Man, who was pulling off his
+great boots, flung one at him, which Dicky dodged. He at once sat up on
+his hind-legs again, this time joining his paws and holding them up high
+in front of him.
+
+“Bli’my Joe, look at the dawg!” exclaimed the Woman. “It’s saying its
+prayers!”
+
+The Man, too, stared in astonishment.
+
+“I don’t like it,” said the Woman.
+
+Dicky felt greatly encouraged. At home he was fond of turning
+somersaults. Now, down went his head and over went his hind-legs. It was
+not a good somersault (he was too short in the legs for somersaults now)
+but it was one. The Man gave a shout of laughter, and his face lit up
+with joy and cunning.
+
+“S’truth, it’s a performing dawg! I ain’t taking ’im back, no fear.
+He’ll make our fortunes.”
+
+At these words Dicky saw he had made a terrible mistake. If he was a
+dog, he had better not be a re-markable dog.
+
+[Illustration: “HE COULD NOT FALL ANY FURTHER”]
+
+The door was still open, and through it he dashed, taking the steps at a
+leap. Now he was falling, falling, falling. What a height! Oh, would he
+never reach the bottom? Stars were flying above him like bees. The awful
+thing was that he was beginning to fall slowly, while a huge arm with a
+hand at the end of it was stretching out, longer and longer, after him.
+He was not even falling slowly now; he was floating. He tried to force
+himself down through the air, but though there was nothing to keep him
+up he could not fall any further. Suddenly the arm gripped him. In an
+agony of terror he yelled: “I’m not a dog.” He heard his own voice, and,
+to his amazement, he saw his father’s face close to his; it was his
+father’s arm lifting him from the hearthrug. He felt a hand cool on his
+forehead. “Dick, you’re feverish. My little Dick.” His father’s voice
+had never sounded like that before, and he felt himself being
+carried—deliciously safe—to bed.
+
+“After all,” he said to himself, as he snuggled down, “I’m glad I’m not
+a dog.”
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                     When We Were Very, Very Young
+
+                                                             A. A. MILNE
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+      I think I am a Muffin Man. I haven’t got a bell,
+      I haven’t got the muffin things that muffin-people sell.
+      Perhaps I am a Postman. No, I think I am a Tram.
+      I’m feeling rather funny and I don’t know _what_ I am—
+
+                      BUT
+
+          _Round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+          And _round_ about I go—
+          All round the table,
+          The table in the nursery—
+          _Round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+          And _round_ about I go:
+
+          I think I am a Traveller Escaping from a Bear;
+          I think I am an Elephant
+          Behind another Elephant
+          Behind _another_ Elephant who isn’t really there....
+
+                                        SO
+
+          _Round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+          And _round_ about and _round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+                              I go.
+
+      I think I am a Ticket Man, who’s selling tickets-please,
+      I think I am a Doctor who is visiting a Sneeze;
+      Perhaps I’m just a Nanny who is walking with a pram.
+      I’m feeling rather funny and I don’t know _what_ I am—
+
+                                    BUT
+
+          _Round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+          And _round_ about I go—
+          All round the table
+          The table in the nursery—
+
+          _Round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+          And _round_ about I go:
+          I think I am a Puppy, so I’m hanging out my tongue:
+          I think I am a Camel Who
+          Is looking for a Camel Who
+          Is looking for a Camel who is Looking for its Young....
+
+                                  SO
+
+          _Round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+          And _round_ about and _round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+          And _round_ about
+                        I go.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                            THE SHADOW LAND
+
+                                                             DAVID CECIL
+
+
+             Night falls upon a day of storm,
+                 Of mist and gust and rain,
+             And still wind howls along the sands,
+             And sleet with myriad tiny hands,
+                 Slaps at the window pane.
+
+             Awake in bed lay Jack and Jane,
+                 They watched the shadows play;
+             Their eyes roved round from wall to floor
+             And then they stopped and roved no more.
+             A lady standing by the door
+                 Looked at them as they lay.
+
+             Her skin was smooth as ivory,
+                 Her hair was like pale silk
+             All spells and secrets seemed to lie
+             Beneath each slanting emerald eye,
+                 And eyelid white as milk.
+
+             Her stiff skirts gleamed in the firelight
+                 And the ceaseless hurrying shadows.
+             Her voice was high and far away
+             Like distant voice at close of day,
+                 Calling across the meadows.
+
+             “Come!” she said, “Come!”; the children came,
+                 They had nor voice nor will.
+             Round her the hurrying shadows skim,
+             She struck one with her knuckles slim,
+                 It fluttered and stood still.
+
+[Illustration: WILDER YET THE SHADOWS WHIRL]
+
+
+              Wilder yet the shadows whirl.
+                  As nailed to wall and floor,
+              Stood firm this one; she whispered “Follow.”
+              Then swiftly swooping like a swallow,
+                  Slipt through as through a door.
+
+              And she led them to far shadowland,
+                  Where the shadows stand upright;
+              And walk and talk, while on the ground,
+              The live men trail without a sound,
+                  Solid and pink and white.
+
+              Where the echo is heard before the song,
+                  And in the pools you see
+              Reflected houses steady stand,
+              While real ones built upon the land
+                  Tremble continually.
+
+              All night long stayed Jack and Jane,
+                  But when the dawn grew red,
+              They crept back through the shadow door,
+              Across the firelight-chequered floor,
+                And scrambled back to bed.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                            THE BARGAIN SHOP
+
+                                                     BY CYNTHIA ASQUITH.
+
+
+                                   I
+
+Once upon a time there lived a man called Anselm, who used several times
+an hour to stamp his foot and cry out: “I _must_ be rich! I _must_ be
+rich!” He was married to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and,
+since he had enough to eat and a weatherproof house, and had neither
+aches nor pains, he should have been happy for 365 days in each year.
+But his unceasing longing for great wealth spoilt everything, and even
+on fine days he went about looking as discontented as though he were
+hungry.
+
+As for his wife, Jasmine, she had long red-gold hair and great green
+eyes set wide apart in her flower-like face, and she possessed a mirror
+in which she could see her shimmering loveliness. So she ought to have
+been very happy and very grateful. She was so beautiful that when she
+walked abroad, men would lean far out of their windows to watch her pass
+and then wonder why their own wives and daughters should look so much
+like suet puddings.
+
+But, though you will scarcely believe it, Jasmine was quite as
+discontented as her husband, and pouted and sighed through the days.
+
+For she, too, was consumed by this perpetual craving for riches. Whether
+she had caught this uncomfortable sort of illness from her husband, or
+whether she had given it to him, I do not know, but there they were both
+wasting their youth, their beauty, and their love for one another, in
+foolish, petulant longing.
+
+Whenever Jasmine saw other women clad in rich raiment and adorned with
+jewels, envy would blight her loveliness as frost blights a flower.
+
+“Of what use is my beauty if I cannot adorn it?” she cried. “I _must_
+have pearls—ropes of pearls, crowns of glittering diamonds, emeralds,
+rubies, and sapphires!”
+
+“Yes,” said Anselm, “and I must have a hundred horses, a thousand
+slaves, and fountains that spout forth wines!”
+
+One day, as Jasmine walked sadly through a deep, dark forest she
+suddenly saw a very strange looking house moving slowly towards her. The
+roof of the house was most beautifully thatched with brightly-coloured
+feathers, and across its face in rainbow letters ran the queer
+inscription:
+
+                           THE BARGAIN HOUSE
+
+                  MONEY FOR SALE.      ENQUIRE WITHIN.
+
+“Money for sale?” read the wondering Jasmine. “What can this mean? Some
+foolish jest, no doubt.”
+
+Three times the house sped round her; then it quivered and stood still.
+She stared at the glass door that held a myriad reflections of herself.
+As though her gaze had power to push, it slowly opened. She now saw into
+a vast hall, and heard a gentle but compelling voice say: “Come in.”
+Trembling, Jasmine walked through the door. The light was dim and
+flickering as though from a fire, but no fireplace could be seen. Across
+the whole length of the hall ran a counter, such as you see in large
+shops, and behind this counter there rose up a wall made of rows of
+boxes piled high the one upon the other, and on these boxes were rainbow
+letters and figures. Between the boxes and the counter there stood a
+tall, sweetly-smiling woman, whose face, though unrecognisable, seemed
+somehow familiar to Jasmine.
+
+“I was expecting you, beautiful Jasmine,” spoke the stranger in a voice
+that was soft but decided, like the fall of snow. “You would buy money,
+would you not?”
+
+“Can one buy money?” faltered Jasmine. “Save _with_ money, and, alas! I
+have none.”
+
+“Though you were penniless, yet from me you could purchase boundless
+wealth,” replied the stranger. “Behold, a purse,” she continued, holding
+up a red-tasselled bag, “which, spend as you may, will always contain
+one thousand golden guineas. This purse is yours if in exchange you will
+give me one part of yourself.”
+
+“A part of myself?” gasped the astonished Jasmine. “What would you have?
+My hair?”
+
+“No,” smiled the woman. “Lovely as are your tresses, in time they would
+grow again, and no one may own unlimited wealth and pay no price
+therefor. Your beauty shall remain untouched. It is your Sense of Humour
+that I require.”
+
+“My Sense of Humour?” laughed Jasmine. “Is that all? Just that part of
+me which makes me laugh? Humour? What was it my mother used to call
+Humour? I remember—she said it was Man’s consolation sent to him by God
+in sign of peace. God’s rainbow in our minds. But with boundless wealth
+what need of consolation shall I have? Besides, I have often been told I
+had but little Sense of Humour. The more gladly will I give it to you.
+The purse, I pray,” and Jasmine held out both her trembling hands.
+
+“Stay a while,” said the solemn, smiling woman. “I must warn you of two
+conditions. First, I would have you know, the money this purse yields
+can be spent only upon yourself. Would you still have it?”
+
+“Yes! Yes! Yes!” clamoured Jasmine.
+
+“I must also tell you that should you ever repent of your bargain and
+wish to buy back the precious sense you sell, it will, alas, not be in
+my power to help you. I can never buy back from the person to whom I
+have sold. The only chance of recovering your Sense of Humour is, that
+another customer, unasked by you, should buy it back with a similar
+purse, and I warn you that it may be hard to find anyone willing to give
+up boundless wealth for the sake of your laughter.”
+
+“What matter?” exclaimed Jasmine. “Never, never shall I wish to return
+my purse.”
+
+“You are determined?” asked the strange saleswoman.
+
+“Yes, yes, yes!”
+
+“Hold out your arms, then.”
+
+Eagerly Jasmine stretched out her arms.
+
+The smiling woman touched her on both her funny-bones, drew forth her
+Sense of Humour, laid it away in a box, on which she wrote Jasmine’s
+name, and the date, and then placed it on a shelf between two other
+boxes.
+
+“Now it is mine, until redeemed by the return of a purse, fellow to this
+that I give thee,” said the woman, handing the tasselled red bag to
+Jasmine. “And while it is in my careful keeping, this despised sense of
+yours will grow and grow. Farewell, Jasmine. Leave me now and go forth
+into a bleak world.”
+
+Clasping the marvellous purse to her heart, Jasmine fled from the house
+and hastened through the deep, dark forest till she reached the city. At
+once she went to the great jewel-merchants, against whose windows she
+had often pressed her face in wistful longing.
+
+“I want the biggest pearl necklace you have got,” she cried,
+breathlessly bursting into the gorgeous showroom.
+
+“I’m afraid goods of such value can only be supplied in exchange for
+ready money,” said the merchant with an uncivil smile.
+
+“How much?” asked Jasmine.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+“Seven thousand guineas.”
+
+Jasmine opened the purse and holding it upside down, shook it.
+Glittering guineas poured out in a golden stream, but the purse remained
+just as full as before.
+
+As the clinking coins bounded and rolled the merchant’s eyes grew
+rounder and rounder, and he had to shout for six small black slaves to
+come to help him to count the money, now lying scattered all over his
+shop. With the lowest bow he had ever bowed he handed the long rope of
+glistening pearls to Jasmine. Feverishly she clasped them round her
+throat, where they scarcely showed against the whiteness of her skin.
+They reached down to her knees.
+
+“Now some emerald ear-rings, a crown of diamonds, ten ruby bracelets for
+each arm, and all the opals you possess!” ordered Jasmine, scattering
+guineas as she spoke, and putting on all the jewels as fast as they were
+produced.
+
+At last she went away, hung with jewels as a Christmas tree is hung with
+ornaments. Proud as a peacock she strutted through the streets, and
+everyone laughed at the absurd sight of so many gaudy ornaments crowded
+on to one ordinary-sized woman. She heard titters and wondered what
+might be the cause of the laughter.
+
+She now went to the grandest Fashion House in the city, ordered one
+thousand costly garments, and came out wearing the richest raiment she
+had found in stock. Next she bought a most magnificent coach, made of
+mother o’ pearl, and sixteen piebald horses to draw it; and then she
+engaged an enormous coachman with a face gilt to match his golden
+livery.
+
+On her way home she stopped at seven merchants to buy all manner of rare
+and costly foods, and before long the great coach was crammed with
+dainties. In it were piled every fruit and vegetable that happened to be
+then out of season, bottles of wonderful wine, jars of caviare, pots of
+roseleaf jam, tiny birds in aspic, and sugar plums of every colour. Last
+of all—because it looked so grand and expensive—she bought an immense
+wedding-cake, sixteen stories high. The confectioners laughed. They
+seemed to think it funny that she should buy the wedding-cake. She
+wondered why they were amused.
+
+When Anselm saw his wife stagger into the room, swaying beneath the
+weight of so many gaudy jewels, thinking them to be all sham and worn in
+jest, he burst into a great roar of laughter.
+
+Annoyed at his merriment, Jasmine told him breathlessly of the
+marvellous purse. Her husband laughed and laughed, partly at her story,
+partly at her absurd appearance. He laughed until he got hiccoughs.
+
+“Oh, how funny! How funny! What has come over you?” he cried, rolling on
+the floor.
+
+“This is no jest, Anselm, I swear; it is the solemn truth. Just look
+inside and you will see all the golden coins.”
+
+Incredulously Anselm peered into the bulging purse. He rubbed his eyes.
+Slowly his unbelief gave way to amazed joy.
+
+“Praise be to God!” he cried at last. “We’re rich, rich, rich beyond the
+dreams of man. Give it to me that I may go and buy gorgeous apparel,
+fine horses, and rarest wines.” Feverishly he snatched the purse from
+his wife’s hand.
+
+“What’s this?” he cried. “I knew it was some trickery. Your precious
+purse is as empty as an egg that has been eaten.” And in truth, the
+tasselled bag now dangled from his hand flat and light as a leaf.
+
+“Oh!” screamed Jasmine, in dismay, “give it back to me!” No sooner had
+she touched the purse than once more it became rounded and heavy with
+the weight of a thousand guineas.
+
+“Praise be to God!” she sighed. “I remember now. The woman from whom I
+bought it warned me that the guineas were only for my own use.”
+
+“Tut, tut, that’s very troublesome,” said Anselm ruefully. “But what
+matter? You will be able to buy gifts for me. It will come to the same
+thing. But, wife, what mean you when you say you _bought_ the purse?
+With what can one buy money?”
+
+Jasmine told him of the weird house, the mysterious saleswoman and the
+strange bargain she had driven.
+
+“Your Sense of Humour?” cried Anselm. “_Your_ Sense of Humour! Well, she
+didn’t get much for her money, did she? Ha! ha! ha!”
+
+With grave eyes Jasmine stared at her husband, offended at his display
+of merriment.
+
+Then she said: “You little guess what a banquet I have prepared for you.
+Come now and I will show you how I have ransacked the city for its
+choicest dainties. Let us now feast.” Together they entered the
+dining-hall and at sight of the gorgeous banquet spread before them
+Anselm smacked his lips and promised himself great delight.
+
+But bitter disappointment awaited him. For, no sooner did he touch the
+iced grape-fruit with which he intended to begin his feast, than,
+behold, it shrivelled in his hand, and became an empty rind. With an
+oath he stretched out his hand to grasp a goblet of purple wine. It
+broke in his hand, and of the rich vintage nothing remained but a stain
+on the damask tablecloth.
+
+“Alas!” cried Jasmine. “It seems that with the magic gold I may buy
+nothing for your use!”
+
+In truth, everything that poor Anselm touched, before it reached his
+eager lips, disappeared like a bubble that has burst. In nothing that
+had been purchased with the magic gold could he share. For him, all the
+rich viands were spread in vain, and finally, he was obliged to fall
+back on their accustomed fare of bread and cheese and last Friday’s
+mutton.
+
+“’Tis funny to watch one’s wife quaffing the wines one dreams of and to
+be on prison-fare oneself,” laughed Anselm, trying to make the best of
+things.
+
+“Funny?” asked his wife. “Why is it funny? I think it is very sad. These
+humming birds and this sparkling juice of the grape are most delicious.”
+
+To keep up his spirits Anselm, who was famed for his wit, cracked many
+jokes, but no smile ever lifted the corners of Jasmine’s perfect mouth;
+no twinkle appeared in the depth of her great green eyes. Discouraged at
+last, Anselm fell into silent sulks, whilst his wife continued to eat
+and drink, until a stitch came in both her sides.
+
+Days passed. Every evening, Jasmine, clad in new raiment and gorgeous
+jewels, regaled herself with rich dainties.
+
+“Alas, husband!” she cried one night, “I have no pleasure in feasting
+that you cannot share.”
+
+“In truth, this is no life!” angrily exclaimed Anselm. “To sit at a
+banquet one may not taste with a wife who cannot see one’s jokes. I can
+bear it no longer. Why should not I seek this strange woman and make the
+same bargain? If husband and wife may not share their jokes, they must
+at least share their dinner. Tell me quickly where I may find this
+‘Bargain House.’”
+
+Jasmine told her husband the way through the deep, dark forest, and
+early the next morning he set forth in search of the mysterious
+building. An hour’s walking brought him within sight of just such a
+house as his wife had described. It moved nearer, sped three times
+around him and then stood still. As he stared at it, the door slowly
+opened, the gentle, commanding voice bade him enter, and there stood the
+tall, smiling woman of his wife’s description.
+
+“Good morning, Anselm,” she said, in the voice that was soft like the
+fall of snow. “Would you have a purse that shall always bear a thousand
+guineas?”
+
+“Indeed I would!” cried Anselm. “Have you one for me?”
+
+“Yes, if you consent to my terms.”
+
+“What is it that you want? My Sense of Humour? Of what use is it to me
+now? I will gladly part with it.”
+
+“No,” said the woman. “’Tis not your Sense of Humour I require of you,
+it is your Sense of Beauty.”
+
+“Take what you will from me,” cried Anselm. “I care not so I have one of
+those wondrous purses.”
+
+“Listen first, Anselm,” said the woman, and solemnly, as she had warned
+Jasmine, so she warned him that the magic money could be spent on none
+save himself, and that the sense he sold could be bought back only by
+the owner of such another purse.
+
+“Remember, you can never reclaim it yourself,” she repeated.
+
+“I care not! I care not!” exclaimed Anselm. “Quick, the purse!”
+
+“Come hither,” said the woman, “and close your eyes.” Gently she touched
+him on both eyelids, and drew forth his Sense of Beauty. Then she handed
+him a red-tasselled bag exactly the same as Jasmine’s and as heavy with
+golden guineas.
+
+“Now farewell, Anselm. Go forth into a bleak world.”
+
+Wild with joy and excitement, Anselm dashed from the Bargain House and
+hastened through the deep, dark forest to that part of the city where
+dwelt the grandest merchants. Here he bought gorgeous apparel, costly
+wines, and magnificent horses. Astride the finest of the horses, a
+gleaming chestnut, said to be the swiftest steed alive, he then rode
+home through the forest. As he went, he met an old man clad in wretched
+rags, who looked very hungry and tired. Feeling pleased with life Anselm
+plunged his hand into the magic purse, and, drawing forth a golden
+guinea, flung it at the poor man, who joyfully stooped to pick it up.
+But no sooner had his hand touched the coin than it vanished. Anselm
+remembered the woman’s warning.
+
+[Illustration: “ANSELM DREW FORTH A GOLDEN GUINEA”]
+
+“Sorry, my good fellow,” he said, shamefacedly handing the beggar two
+coppers—all that he could find in his old purse.
+
+“Thanks, noble master. Now I can buy bread for my supper. I never
+thought to eat to-night.”
+
+“For one who sups on dry bread you look strangely cheerful,” said
+Anselm. “At what can you rejoice?”
+
+“’Tis the beauty of the sunset, master. It seems to warm my heart. Never
+have I seen one like to it in glory. Who could look and not be
+comforted?”
+
+And, in truth, a radiant smile lit up the old man’s suffering face as he
+gazed on the flaming splendours of the western sky. Anselm turned and
+looked where the beggar pointed, but he could see nothing that seemed
+worth the turning of the head, and with a shrug of the shoulders he rode
+home.
+
+Now Jasmine, rejoicing that Anselm would share her feasting, arrayed
+herself that she might look her fairest for their banquet. She brushed
+her red-gold hair until it shone, and gazed at herself in the mirror
+until her beauty glowed. Then she attired herself in a dress of
+dragon-flies’ wings, covered all over with hearts made of tiny little
+diamonds like dewdrops.
+
+“Never, never have I looked so fair. When Anselm sees me he will love me
+more than ever. How joyfully we shall feast together, and how glad am I
+that he will no longer want me to laugh at the things he says! I shall
+love him far more without his Sense of Humour.”
+
+Her heart beat as she heard footsteps hastening up the stairs. Radiant
+with excitement in burst Anselm. “I’m rich!” he cried. “Rich! rich!
+Rejoice with me, Jasmine.”
+
+Grey disappointment crushed into Jasmine’s heart, for not one word did
+her husband say of her especial beauty or her wonderful dress.
+
+“There’s nothing like wealth!” he cried. “How did we ever endure our
+poverty? And fancy, I met a beggar-man, who said he was cheerful because
+he looked at the sunset! Ha! ha! ha!”
+
+“Why do you laugh, Anselm? Have you then not sold your Sense of Humour?
+How came you then by that purse?”
+
+“No. I may still laugh. I have but parted with my Sense of Beauty.”
+
+“Your Sense of Beauty?” echoed Jasmine, icy fear entering her heart. “Is
+that why your eyes no longer seek my face?”
+
+“Why ever do you look so doleful?” laughed Anselm. “Let us hasten down
+and feast. My lips thirst for the wines I have bought.”
+
+Trembling, Jasmine pleaded: “Look on my face, husband, the face you have
+so often called your glory. What think you of my face to-night?”
+
+“Your face? Let me look. It seems all right: two eyes, one nose, one
+mouth. Yes, it seems just as other faces are.”
+
+It was with a sad heart poor Jasmine sat at the feast that night. Loving
+her husband, she rejoiced to see him revel, but that he should no longer
+gaze at her with the admiration which had been her delight was pain past
+bearing. Anselm enjoyed his feasting, but the wine made jokes rise in
+his mind, to flutter from his lips, and it vexed him that no smile ever
+widened his wife’s mouth, set for ever in still solemnity.
+
+Days, weeks, months passed. Anselm and Jasmine now lived in a gorgeous
+palace. They were clad in the finest raiment and they feasted like
+emperors, but in their hearts all was becoming as dust and ashes.
+
+“Ah me!” sighed Jasmine. “I know now why it was that I longed for
+wealth. It was that I might add to my beauty and see even more
+admiration in my beloved’s eyes. Of what use to me are my gorgeous
+gowns, my jewels, my flower-like face, since Anselm no longer delights
+to see me.”
+
+And for Anselm the pleasures of feasting and luxurious living soon
+palled. His wife could not laugh at his jokes, and in the wide world
+there was nothing for him to admire. Neither sunsets, nor courage, nor
+self-sacrifice. He could see no beauty in any face, thought or action.
+Lost to him were the delights of Poetry and all the loveliness of
+Nature.
+
+“What is there in life,” he cried, “but feasting and laughter? If only
+Jasmine could join with me in mocking at the absurdities of Man!”
+
+Desperately he strove to restore laughter to his mirthless wife. He
+engaged a thousand jesters and promised a fortune to him who should make
+her laugh. Everything human beings consider funny was shown to her.
+Orange peel was plentifully scattered outside the palace windows, and
+aged men encouraged to walk past, that they might step on the orange
+peel and fall. Then, by means of huge bellows purposely placed, their
+hats were blown from off their heads, in the hope that Jasmine would
+smile to see the poor old fellows vainly chasing their own headgear. But
+all in vain. Nothing amused Jasmine, neither physical misfortune nor the
+finest wit. Her mouth remained set. Daily Anselm laughed louder and
+longer, but into his laughter an ugly bitterness had come. It was now
+the laughter of mockery, no longer softened by admiration.
+
+During that summer a child was born to Jasmine. For years she had longed
+for a baby, but now that the funny little creature squirmed in her arms,
+yawning, and making faces, she thought it merely ugly and turned from it
+in disgust.
+
+A few months later the coachman’s wife gave birth to a baby, and Jasmine
+went to visit her. She found her by the fire, nursing a red, hairless,
+wrinkled daughter that seemed to Jasmine the ugliest morsel in all the
+world. In speechless horror she stared at it. Opening wide its shapeless
+mouth, the baby stretched its tiny arms and gave a great yawn. With a
+joyful laugh, the mother clutched it to her heart. “Oh, you darling,
+darling!” she cried. “Could anyone not love anything so _funny_?”
+
+“Is Love then born of Laughter?” cried poor Jasmine, and, full of bitter
+envy, she rushed from the room.
+
+That same year a terrible war was waged and thousands of soldiers went
+forth to die. One day, Jasmine gazed out of the window. Brave music was
+playing, and with colours flying, a gallant host of youths marched past,
+their weeping mothers and sweethearts waving farewell.
+
+“A disgusting sight, is it not?” said Anselm. “All these boys striding
+off to be killed simply because their foolish kings have quarrelled!”
+
+“Yes,” replied Jasmine, her eyes full of tears. “But beautiful, too.”
+
+“Beautiful?” jeered her husband with a harsh, discordant laugh. “You
+fool! What beauty can there be in senseless sacrifice?” And, as now
+often happened, these two fell into loud and bitter wrangling.
+
+Thus daily life became more and more unbearable to Anselm and Jasmine.
+In spite of all their wealth, boredom pressed heavily upon them. Since
+she could not laugh, and he could not admire, to both the world seemed
+full of senseless suffering.
+
+“I can no longer bear this life,” said Jasmine, one day. “Of what use is
+the beauty to which Anselm is blind? I will seek the Bargain House and
+buy back the Sense he sold. He will still have his purse with which to
+buy the luxuries he loves.” And forth she went into the deep, dark
+forest.
+
+An hour later, Anselm exclaimed:
+
+“I can no longer bear this life. I will buy back Jasmine’s humour that
+at least we may together mock at this senseless life. She will still
+have her purse to buy the fineries she loves.” And forth he went into
+the deep, dark forest.
+
+That evening Jasmine returned without her magic purse, rejoicing that
+her husband would once more delight in her beauty. She went to say good
+night to her little son, who lay in his cot, struggling to draw his tiny
+toes up into his mouth. The window was open. Suddenly he stretched forth
+his arms towards the shining moon. It looked so good to suck; he longed
+to grasp it. He struggled and bubbled and clutched, his crinkled face
+growing crimson with effort. How funny he looked! Suddenly, Jasmine
+found herself laughing—laughing—laughing until her whole body shook, and
+happy peals broke through her astonished lips. “Oh, you darling, darling
+little joke,” she cried, joyfully kissing her child.
+
+At that moment in rushed Anselm, and stood transfixed at the dazzling
+beauty of his wife.
+
+“Jasmine, Jasmine,” he cried, “what has happened. Why are you so
+dazzlingly beautiful?”
+
+“Because I have no longer a magic purse. I have bought you back your
+Sense, husband.”
+
+“You too?” cried Anselm; “and I have bought back your laughter.”
+
+“Then we are both poor! Oh, how funny!” cried Jasmine, her laughter
+growing louder and louder as they fell into one another’s arms.
+
+Thus Anselm and Jasmine parted with their magic purses, and had to work
+for their daily bread, but they lived happily ever afterwards in a world
+that was blessedly beautiful and blessedly funny.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+             The Joyous Ballad of the Parson and the Badger
+
+                                                           HENRY NEWBOLT
+
+
+      Not far from Guildford town there lies
+          A house called Orange Grove,
+      And there his trade a Parson plies,
+          Whom all good people love.
+
+            Sing up, sing down, for Guildford town,
+                And sing for the Parson too!
+            I’ll wager a penny you’ll never find any
+                That’s more of a sportsman true.
+
+      A neighbour came in haste one day
+          With a piteous tale to tell,
+      But “A badger, a badger,” was all he could say,
+          When they answered the front door bell.
+
+            Sing in, sing out, there’s a badger about,
+                Send word to the County Police.
+            He’s playing the dickens with all the spring chickens,
+                And gobbling up the geese.
+
+      Forth to the fray the Parson goes
+          Beneath the midnight sky,
+      He threads the wood on the tip of his toes
+          And he climbs a fir-tree high.
+
+            Sing never a word, it’s quite absurd
+                To expect a badger to come
+            And sit to be shot like a bottle or pot
+                To the sound of an idiot’s hum!
+
+      The clock has struck both twelve and one,
+          His eyes are heavy as lead,
+      He heartily wishes the deed were done
+          And himself at home in bed.
+
+            Sing ho! Sing hey! the badger’s away,
+                The Parson’s up the tree:
+            It’s horribly damp and he’s got the cramp
+                And there’s nothing at all to see.
+
+      The clock struck two, and then half-past,
+          The day began to break;
+      The badger came back to his earth at last
+          And found our friend awake.
+
+            Sing boom and bang! the welkin rang,
+                The Parson, “Hurrah!” he cried:
+            The badger lay there with his legs in the air
+                And an ounce of shot inside.
+
+      Happy at heart, though in pitiful plight,
+          The victor crawled away;
+      He slept the sleep of the just all night
+          And half of the following day.
+
+            Sing loud and strong, sing all day long,
+                Sing Yoicks! and Hullabaloo!
+            But I’ve had enough of this doggerel stuff
+                And so, I should think, have you!
+
+[Illustration: “HE CLIMBED A FIR-TREE HIGH”]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                To Enid
+                             who acted the
+                                  Cat
+                          in private Pantomime
+
+                                                        G. K. CHESTERTON
+
+
+              Though cats and birds be hardly friends,
+                  We doubt the Maeterlinckian word
+              That must dishonour the White Cat,
+                  Even to honour the Blue Bird.
+
+              And if once more in later days
+                  His baseless charge the Belgian brings,
+              Great ghosts shall rise to vindicate
+                  The right of cats to look at kings.
+
+              The Lord of Carabas shall come
+                  In gold and ermine, silk and furs,
+              To tell of that immortal cat
+                  That wore its boots and won its spurs.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                THE LORD OF CARABAS SHALL COME
+                  IN GOLD AND ERMINE, SILK AND FURS,
+                TO TELL OF THAT IMMORTAL CAT
+                  THAT WORE ITS BOOTS AND WON ITS SPURS
+
+               Great Whittington shall show again
+                   The state that London lends her Lord,
+               Where the great golden griffins bear
+                   The blazon of the Cross and Sword.
+
+               And hear the ancient bells anew,
+                   And talk and not ignobly brag
+               What glorious fortunes followed when
+                   He let the cat out of the bag.
+
+               And Gray shall leave the graves of Stoke
+                   To weep over a gold-fish bowl—
+               Cowper, who, beaming at his cat,
+                   Forgot the shadow on his soul.
+
+               Then shall I rise and name aloud
+                   The nicest cat I ever knew,
+               And make the fairy fancies pale
+                   With half a hundred tales of you:
+
+               Till Pasht upon his granite throne
+                   Glare with green eyes to hear the news
+               Jealous; and even Puss in Boots
+                   Will wish that he were in your shoes.
+
+               When I shall pledge in saucers full
+                   Of milk, on which the kitten thrives,
+               Feline felicities to you
+                   And nine extremely prosperous lives.
+
+
+
+
+                    Scenes in the Life of a Princess
+
+                                                         CHARLES WHIBLEY
+
+
+                               _Ashridge_
+
+When Queen Mary was persuaded, falsely, that her throne could be made
+safe only by the death of her sister, then but eighteen years old, the
+Princess Elizabeth lay sick at Ashridge. One spring morning, as she
+tossed abed, ’twixt sleeping and waking, in the weariness of fever, she
+heard in the courtyard beneath her window the tramp of men, the clatter
+of horses’ hoofs. Her affrighted servants brought her word that a guard
+of two hundred and fifty horsemen attended the Lords, who came with
+messages from the Queen, a guard larger than enough to keep watch over
+so frail a Princess. The house being thus begirt, Lord Thame and his
+companions, thrust their way into the presence of the Princess. To her
+demand that if not for courtesy, yet for modesty’s sake, they should put
+off the delivery of their message till the morrow, they answered that
+their commission was to bring her to London, alive or dead.
+
+“A sore commission,” said the Princess, but a commission not to be
+gainsaid. And the Queen’s doctors showed her little pity. She might be
+removed, said they, not without danger, yet without death.
+
+So on the morrow, the sad cavalcade set forth. The Princess, that she
+might be the more darkly shielded from the public gaze, was borne in the
+Queen’s own litter, which she presently bade to be opened, and thus she
+made her progress to Whitehall in the full view of the people. It was a
+tedious and a painful journey. From Ashridge, by St. Alban’s, she came
+to South Mymms, where again she rested her weary body, and not until
+four suns had set did she reach the inhospitable Court of Mary, her
+Queen and her sister.
+
+
+                              _Whitehall_
+
+When she came to Whitehall, she was still a prisoner. It was as though
+she carried her dungeon with her. Whitehall was less kind even than the
+white high road, where at least she had found solace in the pity of the
+humble folk, who wept as she passed, and offered prayers for her safety.
+Fourteen days she spent in unfriended seclusion, with “no comfort but
+her innocence, no companion but her book.” Not for her the freedom of
+the open air, the chatter of tongues, the laughter of friends. Her
+oft-repeated request to see her sister fell upon the deaf ears of her
+jailers. A princess of less courage would have quailed before the
+ill-omened silence which enwrapped her. And how could she hope to regain
+the Queen’s affection, so long as the cunning servants of the Emperor
+and the King of France, Renard and Noailles, were there to distil the
+poison of hate and dread in Queen Mary’s ear?
+
+Knowing well that her foes were the Queen’s friends, her friends the
+Queen’s foes, she was still of a stout heart. When Gardiner, the Bishop
+of Winchester, resolute to entrap her, urged her to confess and to
+submit herself to the Queen’s Majesty, “submission,” said she proudly,
+“confessed a crime, and pardon belonged to a delinquent.” For her part
+she had no crime to confess, and she asked no pardon. So for her
+temerity she was told that two hundred Northern Whitecoats should guard
+her lodging that night, and that in the morn she should be secretly
+conveyed to the Tower, without her household, there to be kept a close
+prisoner.
+
+
+                              _The Tower_
+
+It was a Palm Sunday when she set forth, under a guard, to that place of
+ill-omen, the Tower of London. Hers was no triumphal progress; neither
+palm nor willow was carried in her honour. And well might she dread the
+journey, which she was forced to make. Within the dark walls of the
+Tower her mother had laid her fair head down upon the block; and what
+cause had she to hope for a happier destiny? As she left Whitehall, to
+her a place of durance, she looked up to the window of the Queen’s
+bedchamber, hoping there to see some mark of favour, some signal of
+affection. The hope was vain, and in cold despair she came to the
+Stairs, where the barges awaited her. When she reached the Tower, she
+was bidden to enter at the Traitor’s Gate, which at first she refused,
+and then stepping short so that her foot fell into the water, she spake
+these words to her obdurate jailer:
+
+“Here landeth as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed at these
+stairs, since Julius Cæsar laid the first foundations of the Tower.”
+
+The Constable, a wry-faced ruffian, lurched forth savagely to receive
+her, and in a harsh voice told her that he would show her her lodging.
+Then she, being faint, “sat down,” we are told, “upon a fair stone, at
+which time there fell a great shower of rain: the heavens themselves did
+seem to weep at such inhuman usage.”
+
+[Illustration:
+
+  SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A PRINCESS
+
+  “They answered that their commission was to bring her to London, alive
+    or dead.”
+]
+
+  _Drawn for “The Flying Carpet”
+          by H. M. Brock_
+
+Presently she was locked and bolted in the Tower; her own servants were
+taken from her; to open her casement, that she might enjoy the fresh air
+of heaven, to walk in the garden—these were pleasures denied her. One
+sole thing was constantly demanded of her, that she should confess
+herself a rebel and submit herself to the Queen. Nobly did she refuse,
+and was left to silence and her own proud thoughts.
+
+
+                            _Hampton Court_
+
+She changed her prison, and kept unchanged her high courage. From the
+Tower she was carried to Woodstock. But what mattered it where the
+dungeon lay? The locks and bolts were no more easily burst asunder at
+Woodstock than at the Tower. And then of a sudden her keeper was bidden
+to bring her to Hampton Court, not as a free Princess, but as a guarded
+malefactor. At Colnbrook, where on the way she sojourned at the sign of
+the George, certain gentlemen, devoted to her service, came to do her
+homage. Instantly, at the Queen’s command, they were sent about their
+business, and the Princess was bidden to enter Hampton Court, without an
+escort, and by the back gate, like the humblest menial. Again for many
+days she was left solitary and in silence, when she was summoned one
+night into the presence of the Queen, her sister, whose heavy hand she
+had felt unceasingly, whose face she had not seen for two long years.
+The Queen, sitting on her chair of State, took up her promise of loyalty
+sharply and shortly.
+
+“Then you will not confess yourself,” said she, “to be a delinquent, I
+see, but stand peremptorily upon your truth and innocence; I pray God
+they may so fall out.”
+
+To which the Princess replied: “If not, I neither require favour nor
+pardon at your Majesty’s hands.”
+
+“Well,” said the Queen, “then you stand so stiffly upon your faith and
+loyalty, that you suppose yourself to have been wrongfully punished and
+imprisoned.”
+
+“I cannot,” replied the Princess, “nor must not say so to you.”
+
+“Why then belike,” retorted the Queen, “you will report it to others.”
+
+“Not so,” said the Princess. “I have borne and must bear the burden
+myself.”
+
+The two sisters never met again, but the Princess’s courage in facing
+her fate was not in vain. Thenceforth she was eased of her imprisonment,
+and went to Ashridge in free custody, where she remained at her
+pleasure, until Queen Mary’s death.
+
+
+                      _A Progress through London_
+
+In 1558 the Queen died, and the Princess Elizabeth, justified of her
+patience and her courage, was proclaimed Queen of England. In the loyal
+enthusiasm of her subjects, who had long since acclaimed her in their
+hearts, the years of solitude and imprisonment were forgotten. To the
+Tower, which she had left a captive, she returned a monarch, and passed
+in triumph through her City of London to Westminster. Everywhere she was
+welcomed by pageants and loyal discourse, until she came to the famous
+Abbey where she was crowned, to the contentment of her loyal lieges and
+to the honour and glory of her realm.
+
+
+
+
+                         Neil and Tintinnabulum
+
+                        AN INTERLUDE FOR PARENTS
+
+                                                         BY J. M. BARRIE
+
+
+                            1. _Early Days_
+
+In writing a story a safe plan must be to imitate your favourite author.
+Until he was nine, when he abandoned the calling, Neil was my favourite
+author, and I therefore decide to follow his method of dividing the
+story into short chapters so as to make it look longer.
+
+When he was nine I took him to his preparatory, he prancing in the
+glories of the unknown until the hour came for me to go, “the hour
+between the dog and the wolf,” and then he was afraid. I said that in
+the holidays all would be just as it had been before, but the newly-wise
+one shook his head; and on my return home, when I wandered out unmanned
+to look at his tool-shed, I found these smashing words in his writing
+pinned to the door:
+
+             THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS NOW PERMANENTLY CLOSED.
+
+I went white as I saw that Neil already understood life better than I
+did.
+
+Soon again he was on the wing. Here is interesting autobiographical
+matter I culled years later from the fly-leaf of his _Cæsar_: “Aetat 12,
+height 4 ft. 11, biceps 8¼, kicks the beam at 6-2.”
+
+The reference is to a great occasion when Neil stripped at his
+preparatory (clandestinely) for a Belt with the word “Bruiser” on it. I
+am reluctant to boast about him (this is untrue), yet must mention that
+he won the belt, with which (such are the ups and downs of life) he was
+that same evening gently belted by his preceptor.
+
+It is but fair to Neil to add that he cut a glittering figure in those
+circles: captain of the footer, and twenty-six against Juddy’s.
+
+“And even then,” his telegram to me said, “I was only bowled off my
+pads.”
+
+A rural cricket match in buttercup time with boys at play, seen and
+heard through the trees; it is surely the loveliest scene in England and
+the most disarming sound. From the ranks of the unseen dead, for ever
+passing along our country lanes on their eternal journey, the Englishman
+falls out for a moment to look over the gate of the cricket field and
+smile. Let Neil’s 26 against Juddy’s, the first and perhaps the only
+time he is to meet the stars on equal terms, be our last sight of him as
+a child. He is walking back bat in hand to the pavilion, an old railway
+carriage. An unearthly glory has swept over the cricket ground. He tries
+to look unaware of it; you know the expression and the bursting heart.
+Our smiling Englishman who cannot open the gate waits to make sure that
+this boy raises his cap in the one right way (without quite touching it,
+you remember), and then rejoins his comrades. Neil gathers up the glory
+and tacks it over his bed. “The End,” as he used to say in his letters.
+
+I never know him quite so well again. He seems henceforth to be running
+to me on a road that is moving still more rapidly in the opposite
+direction.
+
+
+                          2. _The First Half_
+
+The scene has changed. Stilled is the crow of Neil, for he is now but
+one of the lowliest at a great public school, where he reverberates but
+little. The scug Neil fearfully running errands for his fag-master is
+another melancholy reminder of the brevity of human greatness.
+
+Lately a Colossus he was now infinitely less than nothing. What shook
+him was not the bump as he fell, but the general indifference to his
+having fallen. He lay there like a bird in the grass winded by a
+blunt-headed arrow, and was cold to his own touch. The Bruiser Belt and
+his score against Juddy’s had accompanied him to school on their own
+legs, one might say, so confident were they of a welcome from his
+mantelshelf, but after an hour he hid them beneath the carpet. Hidden by
+him all over that once alluring room, as in disgrace, were many other
+sweet trifles that went to the making of the flame that had been Neil;
+his laugh was secreted, say in the drawer of his desk; his pranks were
+stuffed into his hat-box, his fell ambitions were folded away between
+two pairs of trousers, and now and then a tear would mix with the soapy
+water as he washed his cheerless face.
+
+In that dreadful month or more I am dug up by his needs and come again
+into prominence, gloating because he calls for me, sometimes unable to
+do more than stand afar off on the playing field, so that he may at
+least see me nigh though we cannot touch. The thrill of being the one
+needed, which I had never thought to know again. I have leant over a
+bridge, and enviously watching the gaiety of two attractive boys, now
+broken to the ways of school, have wished he was one of them, till I
+heard their language and wondered whether this was part of the necessary
+cost.
+
+Leaden-footed Neil in the groves that were to become so joyous to him.
+He had to refashion himself on a harsher model, and he set his teeth and
+won, blaming me a little for not having broken to him the ugly world we
+can make it. One by one his hidden parts peeped out from their holes and
+ran to him, once more to make his wings; stronger wings than of yore,
+though some drops of dew had to be shaken off.
+
+By that time my visits were being suffered rather than acclaimed. It was
+done with an exquisite politeness certainly, but before I was out of
+sight he had dived into some hilarious rumpus. Gladly for his sake I
+knew my place.
+
+His first distinct success was as a gargler.
+
+[Illustration: “WE GENERALLY GARGLE A SONG”]
+
+“You remember how I used to hate gargling at home,” says an early
+letter, “and you forced me to do it. Jolly good thing you did force me.”
+His first “jolly” at that school. At once I began to count them.
+
+“Everyone has to gargle just now,” he continues, “and we all do it at
+the same time, and it must sound awfully rum to people passing along the
+street. We generally gargle a song, and there was a competition in
+‘Home, sweet Home’ among the scugs at m’ tutor’s, and the judge said I
+gargled it longest.”
+
+Soon afterwards he had the exultation of being recognised as an entity
+by one of the masters.
+
+“I was walking with Dolman mi.,” his letter says, “and we met a new beak
+called Tiverley and he pretended to fence with me and said ‘Whose
+incomparable little noodle are you?’” This, apparently, was all that
+happened, but Neil adds with obvious elation, “It was awfully decent of
+him.” (Hail to thee, Tiverley, may “a house” anon be thy portion for
+heartening a new boy in the dwindling belief that he exists.)
+
+Dolman mi. evidently had no run on this occasion, but he is older and
+more famous than Neil (which makes the thing the more flattering). It is
+a school whither many royal scions are sent, and when camera men go down
+to photograph the new one, Dolman mi. usually takes his place. He has
+already been presented to newspaper readers as the heir to three
+thrones. Of course it is the older boys who select, scrape and colour
+him (if necessary) for this purpose, but they must see something in him
+that the smaller boys don’t see.
+
+Neil’s next step was almost a bound forward; he got a tanning from the
+head of the house. This also he took in the proper spirit, boasting
+indeed of the vigour with which Beverley had laid on. (Thee, also,
+Beverley, I salute, as the Immensity who raised Neil from the ranks of
+the lowly, the untanned.)
+
+Quite the amiable, sensible little schoolboy, readers may be saying, but
+that Neil was amiable or sensible I indignantly deny. He was merely
+waiting; that shapely but enquiring nose of his was only considering how
+best to strike once more for leadership. So when the time came he was
+ready; and he has been striking ever since, indeed, there is nothing
+that I think he so much resembles as a clock that has got out of hand.
+
+All the other small boys in his house had the same opportunity, but they
+missed it. It was provided by some learned man (name already tossed to
+oblivion) who delivered unto them a lecture entitled _Help One Another_.
+The others behaved in the usual way, cheered the lecturer heartily when
+he took a drink of water, said “Silly old owl!” as they went out and at
+once forgot his Message. Not so Neil. With the clearness of vision that
+always comes to him when anything to his own advantage is toward, he saw
+that the time and the place and the loved one (himself) had arrived
+together. Portents in the sky revealed to him that his _métier_ at
+school was to Help Others. There would be something sublime about it had
+he not also seen with the same vividness that he must make a pecuniary
+charge of threepence. He decided astutely to begin with W. W. Daly.
+
+As we write these words an extraordinary change comes over our
+narrative. In the dead silence that follows this announcement to our
+readers you may hear, if you listen intently, a scurrying of feet, which
+is nothing less than Neil being chased out of the story. The situation
+is one probably unparalleled in fiction.
+
+
+                           3. _Tintinnabulum_
+
+Elated by your curiosity we now leave Neil for a moment (say, searching
+with his foot for a clean shirt among a pile of clothing on the floor),
+mount to the next landing and enter the second room on the left, the
+tenant of which immediately dives beneath his table under the impression
+that we are a fag-master shouting “Boy.” We drag him out and present him
+to you as W. W. Daly. He is five feet one, biceps 7¾, and would probably
+kick the beam at about 6½ stone. He is not yet celebrated for anything
+except for being able to stick pins into his arm up to the head;
+otherwise a creature of small account who, but for Neil’s patronage,
+would never have risen to the distinction of being written about, except
+perhaps by his mother.
+
+W. W.’s first contact with school was made dark by a strange infirmity,
+an incapacity to remember the Latin equivalent for the word “bell.” Many
+Latin words were as familiar to him as his socks (perhaps even more so,
+for he often wears the socks of others), and those words he would give
+you on demand with the brightness of a boy eager to oblige; but daily
+did his tutor insist (like one who will have nothing for breakfast but
+eggs and bacon) on having “bell” alone. Daily was W. W. floored.
+
+It is now that Neil appears with his sunny offer of Help. He took up the
+case so warmly that he entirely neglected his own studies, which is one
+of his failings. True he charged threepence (which we shall henceforth
+write as 3_d._, as it is so sure to come often into these chronicles),
+but this detracts little from his grandeur, for the mere apparatus
+required cost him what he calls a bob.
+
+His first procedure was to affix to the bell-pull a card bearing in bold
+letters the device “Tintinnabulum.” This seems simple but was
+complicated by there being no bell in W. W.’s room. Neil bought a bell
+(W. W. being “stony”), and round the walls he constructed a gigantic
+contrivance of wire and empty ginger-beer bottles, culminating at one
+end in the bell and at the other end in W. W.’s foot as he lay abed. The
+calculation, a well-founded one, was that if the sleeper tossed
+restlessly the bell would ring and he would awake. He was then, as
+instructed by Neil, first, to lie still but as alert as if visited by a
+ghost, and to think hard for the word. If, however, it still eluded him
+he was to turn upon it the electric torch, kept beneath his pillow for
+this purpose and borrowed at 1_d._ per week from Dolman mi., spot the
+tricky “Tintinnabulum” in its lair and say the word over to himself a
+number of times before returning to his slumbers, something attempted,
+something done to earn a night’s repose.
+
+All this did W. W. conscientiously do, and if there was delay in
+bringing Tintinnabulum to heel the fault was not that of Neil, but
+of inferior youths who used to substitute cards inscribed
+“Honorificabilitudinitatibus,” “Porringer,” “Xylobalsamum,”
+“Beelzebobulus,” and other likely words.
+
+Eventually he achieved; a hard-won ribbon for his benefactor whom we are
+about to call Neil for the last time.
+
+There was a feeling among those who had betted on the result that it
+should be celebrated in no uncertain manner, and a dinner with speeches
+not being feasible (though undoubtedly he would have liked it), he was
+re-christened Tintinnabulum, and the name stuck.
+
+So Tintinnabulum let it be henceforth in these wandering pages. Neil the
+disinherited may be pictured pattering back to me on his naked soles and
+knocking me up in the night.
+
+“Neil,” I cry (in dressing gown and a candle), “what has happened? Have
+you run away from school?”
+
+“Rather not,” says the plaintive ghost, shivering closer to the fire, “I
+was kicked out.”
+
+“By your tutor?” I ask blanching.
+
+“No, by Tintinnabulum. He is becoming such a swell among the juniors
+that he despises me and the old times. And now he has kicked me out.”
+
+“Drink this hot milk, Neil, and tell me more. What are those articles
+you are hugging beneath your pyjamas?”
+
+“They are the Bruiser Belt and the score against Juddy’s. He threw them
+out after me.”
+
+“Don’t take it so much to heart, Neil. I’ll find an honoured place for
+them here, and you and I will have many a cosy talk by the fire about
+Tintinnabulum.”
+
+“I don’t want to talk about him,” he says, his hands so cold that he
+spills the milk, “I would rather talk about the days before there was
+him.”
+
+Well, perhaps that was what I meant.
+
+Cruel Tintinnabulum.
+
+
+                       4. _The Best Parlour Game_
+
+Soon after the events described in our last chapter I knew from
+Tintinnabulum’s letters that he was again Helping. They were
+nevertheless communications so guarded as to be wrapped in mystery.
+
+His letters from school tend at all times to be more full of instruction
+for my guidance than of information about where he stands in his form. I
+notice that he worries less than did an older generation about how I am
+to dress when I visit him, but he is as pressing as ever that the postal
+order should be despatched at once, and firmly refuses to write at all
+unless I enclose stamped envelopes. On important occasions he even
+writes my letters for me, requesting me to copy them carefully and not
+to put in any words of my own, as when for some reason they have to be
+shown to his tutor. He then writes, “Begin ‘Dear T.’ (not ‘Dearest T.’),
+and end ‘Yours affec.’ (not ‘Yours affectionately’).”
+
+The mysterious letters that preceded the holidays were concerned with W.
+W. Daly, whom I was bidden (almost ordered) to invite to our home for
+that lengthy period, “as his mother is to be away at that time on
+frightfully important business in which I have a hand.”
+
+I was instructed to write “Dear Mrs. Daly (not “dearest”), I understand
+that you are to be away on important business during the holidays, and
+so I have the pleasure to ask you to allow your son to spend the
+holidays with me and my boy who is a general favourite and very
+diligent. Come, come, I will take no refusal, and I am, Yours affec.”
+
+I did as I was told, but as I now heard of the lady for the first time I
+thought it wisest not to sign my letter to her “Yours affec.” Thus did I
+fall a victim to Tintinnabulum’s wiles.
+
+What could this frightfully important business of Mrs. Daly’s be in
+which he “had a hand”?
+
+[Illustration: “ON IMPORTANT OCCASIONS HE EVEN WRITES MY LETTERS FOR
+ME.”]
+
+You may say (when you hear of his dark design) that I should at once
+have insisted on an explanation, but explanations are barred in the
+sport that he and I play, which is the greatest of all parlour games,
+the Game of Trying to Know Each Other without asking questions. It is
+strictly a game for two, who, I suppose, should in perfect conditions be
+husband and wife; it is played silently and it never lasts less than a
+life-time. In panegyrics on love (a word never mentioned between us two
+players), the game is usually held to have ended in a draw when they
+understand each other so well that before the one speaks or acts the
+other knows what he or she is going to say or do. This, however, is a
+position never truly reached in the game, and if it were reached, such a
+state of coma for the players could only be relieved by a cane in the
+hand of the stronger, or by the other bolting, to show him that there
+was one thing about her which he had still to learn.
+
+No, no, these doited lovers when they think the haven is in sight have
+set sail only. Tintinnabulum and I have made a hundred moves, but we are
+well aware that we don’t know each other yet; at least, I don’t know
+Tintinnabulum, I won’t swear that he does not think that he at last
+knows me. So when he brought W. W. home with him for the holidays it was
+for me to find out without inquiry how he had been helping Mrs. Daly
+(and for what sum). He knew that I was cogitating, I could see his
+impertinent face regarding me demurely, as if we were at a chess board
+and his last move had puzzled me, which indeed was the situation.
+
+All I knew of her was that she had lately remarried and that W. W. had
+been invited to spend his holidays with us while she was away on her
+honeymoon.
+
+Good heavens, could Tintinnabulum have had some Helping part in the
+lady’s marriage? This boy is beginning to scare me.
+
+I studied him and W. W. at their meals and stole upon them at their
+play. There could not have been more cherubic faces.
+
+But then I remembered the two cherubic faces I had watched from a
+bridge.
+
+
+                    5. _Tintinnabulum Eats an Apple_
+
+I went to Tintinnabulum’s bedchamber and told him I could not rest until
+I knew what he had been doing to that lady. In the days of Neil it had
+been a room of glamour, especially the bed therein, where were performed
+nightly between 6.15 and 6.30 precisely, the brighter plays of
+Shakespeare, two actors, but not a sign of them anywhere unless you
+became suspicious of the hump in the coverlet. Never have the plays gone
+with greater merriment since Mr. Shakespeare made up “A Midsummer
+Night’s Dream” in his Judith’s hump.
+
+No glamour of course in the room of a public schoolboy, unless it was
+provided by his discarded raiment, which lay like islands on the floor.
+However, I found Tintinnabulum in affable humour, sitting tailor-like in
+bed, dressed in half of his pyjamas, reading a book and eating an apple.
+He had doubtless found the apple or the book just as he was about to
+enter the other half of his night attire.
+
+“What could I have been doing to her?” he asked invitingly. (He likes to
+be hunted.)
+
+The robing of him having been completed, I said with humorous intent,
+“You may have been luring her into matrimony against her better
+judgment.”
+
+“She is nuts on him,” Tintinnabulum said, taking my remark seriously.
+
+“But you can’t have had anything to do with it?”
+
+He nodded, with his teeth in the apple.
+
+“Of course this is nonsense,” I said, though with a sinking, “you don’t
+know her.”
+
+“I didn’t need to know her for a thing like that.”
+
+I tried sarcasm. “I should have thought it was essential.” He shook his
+head.
+
+“I heard W. W. say to-day,” I continued in the same vein, “that she is
+spending the honeymoon on the Riviera; you are not implying, are you,
+that it was you who sent her there?”
+
+“At any rate, if it hadn’t been for me,” he replied, taking a good bite,
+“she wouldn’t be on the Riviera and there wouldn’t be a honeymoon.”
+
+I became alarmed. “Take that apple out of your mouth and tell me what
+you mean.”
+
+The mysterious boy of the so open countenance, as he told me the queer
+tale in bed that night, was superbly unaware of its queerness, and was
+more interested in standing on his head to see how far his feet would
+reach up the wall. He far exceeded the record that had been left by
+Neil.
+
+“I wasn’t the one who made her fond of the chappie,” he said by way of
+beginning. “She did that bit herself.”
+
+“Very generous of you to give her that amount of choice,” I conceded.
+
+“But she stuck there,” said he. “It was W. W. who told me how she had
+stuck. W. W. has a sister called Patricia. Their mother’s name is
+Mildred. That is all I know about her,” he added with great lightness of
+touch, “except that I worked the marriage.”
+
+This was the first time I had heard of W. W.’s having a sister.
+
+“He doesn’t speak about her much,” Tintinnabulum explained, “because
+they are twins. I say, don’t let on to him that I told you he was a
+twin.”
+
+So far as I can gather, W. W. keeps the existence of his girl twin dark
+from boys in general in case it should make them think less of him.
+
+“He didn’t ask me to help him out till things were in an awful mess at
+home, and then he showed me some of Patricia’s letters.”
+
+“If I were cross-examining you,” I pointed out, “I should say that your
+statement is not quite clear. Tell the Jury what you mean, and don’t
+blow the apple pits at the portrait of your uncle the bishop.”
+
+“I bet you I get him in the calves twice in three shots,” he said.
+
+“An ignoble ambition,” I told him; “answer my question.”
+
+“Well, you see, Patricia had found out all about her mother’s being fond
+of the man. His name begins with K, but I forget the rest of it.”
+
+I ventured to say that the least he could do for a man whose life he had
+so strangely altered was to remember his name.
+
+“W. W. will know it,” he said with the carelessness of genius.
+
+“Even now,” I pressed him, “I don’t see where you come in. Did Patricia
+object to Mr. K.?”
+
+“Oh, no, she thinks no end of him. So does W. W.” He added handsomely,
+“I wouldn’t have let her get married if they had shied at it.”
+
+“In that case——”
+
+“It wasn’t Patricia that was the bother,” he explained, running the
+apple up and down his arm like a mouse, “it was Mrs. Daly. You know how
+funny ladies are about some things.”
+
+“I do not,” I said severely.
+
+“Well, it was about marrying a second time. Mrs. Daly couldn’t make up
+her mind whether it would be fair to W. W. and Patricia. She knew they
+liked him all right, but not whether they liked him as much as that.”
+
+“Tell me how Patricia found all this out, and don’t bump about so much.”
+
+“She was watching,” he replied airily. “She is that kind. I daresay the
+thing wasn’t difficult to find out if all the stuff she said in her
+letters to W. W. was true. They were awful letters, saying her mother
+was in anguishes about what was the best thing to do for her progeny.
+One letter would say, ‘Mr. K. made a lovely impression on mother to-day
+and I don’t think she can resist much longer.’ Then the next would say,
+‘I fear all is up, for they have been crying together in the
+drawing-room, and when he left he banged the door.’”
+
+“Their mother hadn’t a notion,” Tintinnabulum assured me, making an
+eye-glass of the apple, “that they knew there was anything in the wind.”
+
+“Nor would they have had any such notion,” I rapped out, “if they had
+been children of an earlier date.”
+
+“I suppose we are cleverer now,” he admitted. He became introspective.
+“I expect the war did it. It’s rummy what a difference the war has made.
+Before the war no one could hold two eggs in his mouth and hop across a
+pole. Now everyone can do it.”
+
+I requested him to stick to the point.
+
+“Why didn’t Patricia the emancipated go to her mother and inform her
+that all was well?”
+
+“That is the very thing W. W. and she bickered about in their letters.
+He was always writing to her to do that, but she said it would be
+unladylike.”
+
+“Very un-shingled of her to trouble about that,” I got in. “But had she
+any proposal to make to W. W.?”
+
+“Rather. She was always badgering W. W. to write to their mother saying
+they knew all and wanted her to go at it blind. She thought it would
+come better from him, being male. That was what made him come to me in
+the end. He told me all about it and asked me if I could help.”
+
+“And what was your reply?” I asked with some interest. “Don’t tell me,”
+I added hurriedly (we were back at the game, you see), “I want to guess.
+You said immediately, ‘All right’?”
+
+He approved.
+
+“Did it ever strike you,” I enquired curiously, “that you might not be
+able to help?”
+
+“I can’t remember,” the unfathomable one answered. “I say, would you
+like to see me do a dive over your head?”
+
+Offer declined.
+
+“You see,” he continued, “W. W. is rather—rather——”
+
+“Rather a retiring boy when there is trouble ahead,” I suggested. “Well,
+what did you devise?”
+
+“I said I couldn’t do anything until I knew the colour of Patricia’s
+hair and eyes.”
+
+This took me aback, though it is quite in Tintinnabulum’s manner.
+
+“How could that help?” I had to enquire instead of risking a move.
+
+“I couldn’t get a beginning,” he insisted doggedly, “till I found out
+that.” (To this day I don’t know what he meant.)
+
+“No difficulty in finding out from W. W.,” I said.
+
+Here I was wrong. W. W. had no idea of the colour of his dear little
+sister’s eyes but presumed that, as he and she were twins, their eyes
+must be of the same hue. There followed a scene, undoubtedly worthy of
+some supreme artist, in which, by the light of a match, Tintinnabulum
+endeavoured to discover colour of W. W.’s eyes, W. W. being again unable
+to supply desired information. The match always going out just as
+Tintinnabulum was on the eve of discovery, it was decided by him that W.
+W. should write to his twin for particulars (letter dictated by
+Tintinnabulum). Patricia’s reply was, “Who is it that wants to know?
+Eyes too expressive to be blue, too lovely to be grey,” and it irritated
+the two seekers after truth.
+
+“We didn’t ask her what colour they were not,” Tintinnabulum said to me
+witheringly, “but what colour they were.”
+
+In the end, rather than bother any more with her, they risked putting
+her eyes down as browny black. This determined, Tintinnabulum apprized
+his client that Patricia was to write the letter that would make their
+mother happy. This nearly led to a rupture.
+
+_W. W._ (_sitting_, as they say in the plays, though he might as well be
+standing): She can’t write a letter to mother when they are living in
+the same house.
+
+_Tintinnabulum_ (_rising_, because W. W. sat): It would be a letter to
+you.
+
+_W. W._ (_contemptibly_): That brings me into the thing again.
+
+_Tintinnabulum_: Shut up and listen. The letter isn’t to be posted. Your
+mother will find it lying open on Patricia’s desk and read it on the
+sly.
+
+_W. W._ (_nobly_): My mother never does things on the sly.
+
+_Tintinnabulum_ (_comprehensively_): Oh.
+
+_W. W._ (_hedging_): What would the letter say?
+
+_Tintinnabulum_: It would show her that you and Patricia knew what she
+was after and both wanted her to marry the chappie, and then she could
+put it back where she found it and never let on that she had seen it and
+make all her arrangements with a happy heart.
+
+_W. W._: That is what we want, but mother wouldn’t read a letter on the
+sly.
+
+_Tintinnabulum_ (_after thinking it out when he should have been doing
+his prep._): Look here, if she is so fussy we can tell Patricia to leave
+the letter open on the floor as if it had blown there, and then when
+your mother picks it up to put it back on the desk she can’t help taking
+a look at it.
+
+_W. W._: Would that not be reading it on the sly?
+
+_Tintinnabulum_ (_with cheerful cynicism_): Not for a woman.
+
+_W. W._ (_depressed_): It will be an awfully difficult letter to write.
+
+_Tintinnabulum_ (_exultant_): Fearfully.
+
+_W. W._: I don’t think Patricia could do it.
+
+_Tintinnabulum_: Not she. I’ll do it. Then you copy my letter and she
+copies yours.
+
+_W. W._: 3_d._?
+
+_Tintinnabulum_: Tons more than that.
+
+This scheme was carried out, Tintinnabulum, after a thoughtful study of
+Patricia’s epistolary style, producing something in this manner, no
+doubt with the holy look on his face that is always there when he knows
+he is concocting a masterpiece. (I regret that he has forgotten what he
+said in the introductory passage, which dealt in an artful feminine
+manner with her garments and was probably a beauty.)
+
+
+“Darling Doubly Doubly,
+
+... oh dear, I am so unhappy because I fear the match between darlingest
+mummy and Mr. K. is not to be hit off. Oh dear, she blows hot and cold
+and it makes me bleed to see the poor man’s anguishes, and you and me
+wanting it so much. If only I could think of a lady-like way to tell
+mummy that we know she wants it and that we want her to go ahead, but I
+cannot, and it would need a wonder of a man to do it. Oh dear, how
+lovely it would be, oh dear, how I wish I knew some frightfully clever
+person, oh dear——”
+
+
+“I stopped there,” Tintinnabulum told me. “I meant to put in a lot more
+before I finished, but I wouldn’t let myself go on.”
+
+“Why?” I asked eagerly, aware that he had reached a great moment in his
+life.
+
+“Because,” he said heavily, “I saw all at once that I had come to the
+end.” (We are so undemonstrative that I did not embrace him).
+
+The letter was left as arranged, on Mrs. Daly’s floor, and I may say at
+once that everything went as planned by the Master. Can we not see
+Mildred (all authors have a right to call their heroine by her Christian
+name), opening the door of that room? Her beautiful face is down-cast,
+all the luckier for Tintinnabulum and Co., for she at once sees the
+life-giving sheet. She picks it up, meaning to replace it on the desk
+whence it has so obviously fluttered, when a word catches her eye, and
+not intending to read she reads. An exquisite flush tints her face as
+she recognises Patricia’s inimitable style. The happy woman is now best
+left to herself (Come away, Tintinnabulum, you imp).
+
+Dear (not dearest) heroine, you little know who is responsible for your
+raptures, the indifferent lad now trying to twist one leg round his neck
+as he finishes his apple. Grudge us not the few minutes in which for
+literary purposes we have snatched you from the shores of the blue
+Mediterranean. Thither we now return you to cloudless days and to your
+K., roses in your cheeks (Tintinnabulum’s roses). And you, O lucky K.,
+when you encounter boys of thirteen, might do worse than have a
+mysterious prompting to give them a franc or so. I wish you both very
+happy, and I am, yours affec.
+
+“Shall I send them your love?” I almost hear myself saying to
+Tintinnabulum.
+
+“If you like,” he replies, preoccupied with what is left of an apple
+when the apple itself has gone. For it must be admitted of him that he
+has not boasted of his achievement. His only comment was modesty itself,
+“Two bob,” he said.
+
+It is almost appalling to reflect that no woman who knows Tintinnabulum
+(and has two bob) need remain single. And what character apples have,
+even when being consumed; if I had given him an orange or a pear this
+chapter would be quite different. With such deep thoughts I put out his
+light, and took away the other apple which he had hidden beneath his
+pillow.
+
+
+                              6. _Nemesis_
+
+As the holidays waned (and after W. W. was safely stowed away in bed)
+Tintinnabulum gratified me by being willing to talk about Neil. If you
+had heard us at it you would have sworn that those two had no very close
+connection, that Neil was merely some interesting whipper-snapper who
+had played about the house until the manlier Tintinnabulum arrived. He
+was always spoken of between us as Neil, which obviously suited
+Tintinnabulum’s dignity, but I wonder how I took to it so naturally
+myself. I hope I am not a queer one.
+
+By that arrangement Tintinnabulum can make artful enquiries, not
+unwistful, into his own past, and I can seem (thus goes the game) not to
+know that he is doing so. He can even commend Neil.
+
+“Pretty decent of him,” he says, discussing the Bruiser Belt and the
+score against Juddy’s.
+
+“I didn’t think he had it in him,” is even stronger about the sea-trout
+Neil had landed and been so proud of that he would not lie prone till it
+was put in a basin by his bedside. He had then slept with one arm over
+the basin.
+
+Strongest of all is to say that Neil was mad, at present a term not only
+of approval but even of endearment at the only school that counts
+(Tintinnabulum speaking). Sometimes we talk of the dark period when
+Neil, weeping over his first Latin grammar, used to put a merry tune on
+the gramophone to accompany his woe. He continued to weep as he studied,
+but always rose at the right time to change the tune. This is a
+heart-breaker of a memory to me, and Tintinnabulum knows it and puts his
+hand deliciously on my shoulder (that kindest gesture of man to man).
+
+“The gander must have been mad, quite mad,” he says hurriedly.
+
+How Neil would like to hear Tintinnabulum saying these nice things about
+him.
+
+Perhaps we all have a Neil. Have you ever wakened suddenly in the night,
+certain that you heard a bell ring as it once rang or a knocking on your
+door as only one could knock or a voice of long ago, quite close?
+Sometimes you rise and wander the house; more often, after waiting alert
+for a repetition of the sound, you decide that you have been dreaming or
+that it was the creaking of a window or a board. But I daresay it was
+none of these things. I daresay it was your Neil.
+
+Perhaps you have become something quite different from what he meant to
+be. Perhaps he wants to get into the house, not to gaze proudly at you
+but to strike you.
+
+Some drop their Neil deliberately and can recall clearly the day of the
+great decision, but most are unaware that he has gone. For instance, it
+may have been Neil who married the lady and you who gradually took his
+place, so like him in appearance that she is as deceived as you. Or it
+may be that she has found you out and knows who it is that is knocking
+on the door trying to get back to her. You might be scared if you knew
+that though she is at this moment attending to your wants with a smile
+for you on her face, her passionate wish is to be done with you. On the
+other hand, you may be the better fellow of the two. Let us decide that
+this is how it is.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+The last week of the holidays was darkened for Tintinnabulum and W. W.
+by the shadow of a letter demanded of them by their tutor. It had to be
+on one of three subjects:
+
+                    (_a_) Your Favourite Walk.
+                    (_b_) Your Favourite Game.
+                    (_c_) What shall I do next Half?
+
+A nasty tag attached to m’ tutor’s order said “the letter must be of
+great length.” Little had they troubled about it till the end loomed,
+but then they rumbled wrathfully; well was it for their tutor he heard
+not what they said of him.
+
+Tintinnabulum of course was merely lazy, or on principle resented
+writing anything for less than 3_d._ Grievous, however, was the burden
+on W. W., whose gifts lie not in a literary direction. He is always
+undone by his clear-headed way of putting everything he knows on any
+subject into the first sentence. He had a shot at (_a_), (_b_) and
+(_c_).
+
+_Attempt on (a)._ “My favourite walk is when I do not have far to go to
+it.” (Here he stuck.)
+
+_Attempt on (b)._ “The game of cricket is my favourite game, and it
+consists of six stumps, two bats and a ball.” After wandering round the
+table many times he added, “Nor must we forget the bails.” (Stuck
+again.)
+
+_Attempt on (c)._ “Next half is summer half, so early school will be
+half an hour earlier.” (Final stick.)
+
+He then abandoned hope and would, I suppose, have had to run away to sea
+(if boys still do that) had not Help been nigh.
+
+For a consideration (and you can now guess exactly how much it was)
+Tintinnabulum offered to write W. W.’s letter for him. I did not see it
+till later (as you shall learn), indeed the episode was purposely kept
+dark from me. The subject chosen was “My Favourite Walk,” because
+Tintinnabulum had a book entitled Walks and Talks with the Little Ones,
+which never before had he thought might come in handy. Of course such a
+performer by no means confined himself to purloining from this work,
+though he did have something to say about how W. W. wandered along his
+walk carrying a little book into which he put “interesting plants.”
+Anything less like W. W. thus engaged I cannot conceive, unless it be
+Tintinnabulum himself.
+
+The miscreant also carefully misspelt several words, as being natural to
+W. W. Unfortunately (his fatal weakness) he could not keep his own name
+out of the letter, and he made W. W. say that the favourite walk was
+“near the house of my kind friend Tintinnabulum, and you know him, sir,
+for he is in your house, and I mess with him, which is very lucky for
+me, all the scugs wanting to mess with him and nobody wanting me.”
+
+Could brainy critics, peeled for the pounce, read that human document
+they would doubtless pause to enquire into its hidden meaning. On the
+surface it was written (_a_) to get 3_d._ out of W. W., (_b_) to give
+relief to Tintinnabulum’s ego. To the ordinary reader (with whom to-day
+we have no concern) this might suffice, but the digger would ask, what
+is the philosophy of life advanced by the author, is the whole thing an
+allegory and if so, what is Tintinnabulum’s Message; in short, is he,
+like the commoner writers, merely saying what he says, or, like the big
+chaps, something quite different?
+
+Had his tutor considered the letter thus, we might have had a most
+interesting analysis of it (and no one would have been more interested
+than Tintinnabulum). But though a favourite of mine (and also of
+Tintinnabulum) his tutor is just slightly Victorian, and he went for the
+letter like one of the illiterate.
+
+It was not seen by me until the two hopefuls returned to school, when I
+received it from their tutor with another one which is uncommonly like
+it. Investigation has elicited the following data, for which kindly
+allow me to use (_a_), (_b_) and (_c_) again, as I have taken a fancy to
+them.
+
+(_a_) Letter is read and approved by W. W.
+
+(_b_) W. W. on reflection objects to passage about the honour of messing
+with Tintinnabulum.
+
+(_c_) Ultimatum issued by Tintinnabulum that the passage must be
+retained.
+
+(_d_) MS. haughtily returned to the author.
+
+(_e_) The author alters a few words and sends in letter as his own.
+
+(_f_) W. W. has made a secret copy of the letter and sends it in as his,
+with the objectionable passage deleted.
+
+(_g_) Their tutor smells a rat.
+
+(_h_) He takes me into his confidence.
+
+(_i_) Days pass but I remain inactive.
+
+(_j_) He puts the affair into the hands of Beverley, the head of the
+house.
+
+(_k_) Triumph of Miss Rachel.
+
+Miss Rachel who is an old friend of ours is slight and frail, say 5 ft.
+3, her biceps cannot be formidable and I question whether she could kick
+the beam however favourably it was placed for her. She is such an
+admirer of Tintinnabulum that he occasionally writhes, in his fuller
+knowledge of the subject.
+
+Having led a quiet and uneventful life (so far as I know), Miss Rachel
+suddenly shoots into the light through her acquaintance with the
+Beverleys of Winch Park, which is, as it were, nothing; but the great
+Beverley, Beverley the thunderous, who is head of m’ tutor’s house, is a
+scion of that family; and now you see what a swell Miss Rachel has
+become. When Neil (as he then was) was entered for that great school she
+wrote to Beverley—fancy knowing someone who can write to
+Beverley—telling him (to Neil’s indignation) what a darling her young
+friend was and hoping Beverley would look after him and make him his
+dear little fag. Months elapsed before a reply came, but when it did
+come it really referred to Tintinnabulum and contained these pregnant
+words: “As to the person in whom you are interested, I look after him a
+good deal, and the more I see of him the more I lick him.”
+
+Miss Rachel showed me the letter with exultation. So kind of him, she
+said, though she was a little distressed that a strapping fellow like
+Beverley should spell so badly.
+
+More recently I had a letter from Tintinnabulum, which I showed to her
+as probably denoting the final transaction in the affair of the letter.
+
+“W. W. and I,” it announced very cheerily, “saw Beverley yesterday in
+his room and he gave each of us six of the best.”
+
+“How charming of Beverley!” Miss Rachel said.
+
+“The best what?” she enquired, but I cannot have heard her, for I made
+no answer.
+
+I learn that sometimes she thinks it was probably cakes and at other
+times fives balls, which she knows to be in great demand at that school.
+I shall not be surprised if Miss Rachel sends a dozen of the best to
+Beverley.
+
+
+                      7. _How to Write a Collins_
+
+I note that the dozen of the best shared by these two odd creatures
+seems to have made them pals again. The proof is that though they began
+the new half by messing with other youths they are now once more messing
+together.
+
+“That priceless young cub, W. W.,” occurs in one letter of
+Tintinnabulum’s.
+
+“W. W. is the lad for me,” he says in the next.
+
+Again, I have a note of thanks for hospitality from W. W. in which he
+remarks, “Tintinnabulum is as ripping as ever.” This, however, is to be
+discounted, as, though the letter is signed W. W. Daly, I recognise in
+it another hand, I recognise this other hand so clearly that I can add a
+comment in brackets (3_d._).
+
+Yes, I can do so (because of a game I have long been playing), but any
+other person would be deceived, just as m’ tutor was at first deceived
+by the epistles on the favourite walk. He told me that these were so
+fragrant of W. W. that he had thought Tintinnabulum must be the
+copy-cat. Indeed, thus it was held until W. W. nobly made confession.
+
+What I must face is this, that Tintinnabulum, being (alas) an artist,
+has been inside W. W. Not only so, he has since his return to school
+been inside at least half a dozen other boys, searching for Collinses
+for them.
+
+A Collins, as no one, perhaps except Miss Austen, needs to be told, is
+the fashionable name for a letter of thanks for hospitality to a host or
+hostess. Thus W. W.’s letter to me was a Collins. Somehow its fame has
+spread through his house, and now Tintinnabulum is as one possessed,
+writing threepenny Collinses for the deficient. They are small boys as
+yet, but as the quality of his Help is trumpeted to other houses I
+conceive Fields, Blues and Choices knocking at his door and begging for
+a Collins. It will be a great day for Tintinnabulum when Beverley
+applies.
+
+The Collins letter is a fine art in which those who try the hardest
+often fall most heavily, and perhaps even m’ tutor or the Provost
+Himself, at his wit’s end how to put it neatly this time, will yet crave
+a 3_d._ worth. It may even be that readers grown grey in the country’s
+service, who quake at thought of the looming Collins, would like to have
+Tintinnabulum’s address. It is refused; but I mention, to fret them,
+that his every Collins is guaranteed different from all his other
+Collinses, and to be so like the purchaser that it is a photograph.
+
+If you were his client you could accept Saturday to Monday invitations
+with a light heart. But don’t, when he is at your Collins, go near him
+and the babe lest he clutch it to his breast and growl. He has the great
+gift of growling, which will yet make him popular with another sex.
+
+His concentration on the insides of others is of course very disturbing
+to me, but I should feel still more alarmed if I heard that he had
+abandoned the monetary charge and, for sheer love of the thing, was
+turning out Collinses gratis.
+
+To-day there comes a ray of hope from a harassed tutor, who writes that
+Tintinnabulum has deserted the Collins for googly bowling, the secrets
+of which he is pursuing with the same terrific intensity. I can picture
+him getting inside the ball.
+
+
+                       8. _He and I and Another_
+
+You readers may smile when I tell you why I have indited these memories
+and fancies. It was not done for you but for me, being a foolish attempt
+to determine, by writing the things down (playing over by myself some of
+the past moves in the game), whether Tintinnabulum really does like me
+still. That he should do so is very important to me as he recedes
+farther from my ken down that road which hurries him from me. I cannot,
+however, after all, give myself a very definite answer. He no longer
+needs me of course, as Neil did, and he will go on needing me less. When
+I think of Neil I know that those were the last days in which I was
+alive.
+
+Tintinnabulum’s opinion of himself, except when he is splashing, is
+lowlier than was Neil’s; some times in dark moods it is lowlier than
+makes for happiness. He has hardened a little since he was Neil,
+coarsened but strengthened. I comfort myself with the curious reflection
+that the best men I have known have had a touch of coarseness in them.
+
+Perhaps I have made too much of the occasional yieldings of this boy
+whom I now know so superficially. The new life is building seven walls
+around him. Are such of his moves in the game as I can follow merely an
+expert’s kindness to an indifferent player?
+
+On the other hand, I learn from a friendly source that he has spoken of
+me with approval, once at least, as “mad, quite mad,” and I know that my
+battered countenance, about which I am very “touchy” excites his pity as
+well as his private mirth. On the last night of the holidays he was
+specially gruff, but he slipped beneath my door a paper containing the
+words “I hereby solemnly promise never to give you cause for moral
+anxiety,” and signed his name across a postage stamp to give the
+document a special significance. Nevertheless, W. W. and he certainly do
+at times exchange disturbing glances of which I am the object, and
+these, I notice, occur when I think I am talking well. Again, if I set
+off to tell a humorous story in company nothing can exceed the agony on
+Tintinnabulum’s face. Yet I am uncertain that this is not a compliment,
+for if he felt indifferently toward me why should he worry about my
+fate?
+
+During those holidays a master at his old preparatory sent me a letter
+he had received from Tintinnabulum (whom he called Neil), saying that as
+it was about me he considered I ought to read it. But I had not the
+courage to do so. Quite likely it was favourable, but suppose it hadn’t
+been. Besides, it was not meant for me to see, and I cling to his
+dew-drop about my being mad. On the whole, I think he is still partial
+to me. Corroboration, I consider, was provided at our parting, when he
+so skilfully turned what began as a tear into a wink and gazed at me
+from the disappearing train with what I swear was a loving scowl.
+
+What will become of Tintinnabulum? There was a horror looking for him in
+his childhood. Waking dreams we called them, and they lured Neil out of
+bed in the night. It was always the same nameless enemy he was seeking,
+and he stole about in various parts of the house in search of it,
+probing fiercely for it in cupboards, or standing at the top of the
+stairs pouring out invective and shouting challenges to it to come up. I
+have known the small white figure defend the stair-head thus for an
+hour, blazing rather than afraid, concentrated on some dreadful matter
+in which, tragically, none could aid him. I stood or sat by him, like a
+man in an adjoining world, waiting till he returned to me, for I had
+been advised, warned, that I must not wake him abruptly. Gradually I
+soothed him back to bed, and though my presence there in the morning
+told him, in the light language we then adopted, that he had been “at it
+again” he could remember nothing of who the enemy was. It had something
+to do with the number 7; that was all we ever knew. Once I slipped from
+the room, thinking it best that he should wake to normal surroundings,
+but that was a mistake. He was violently agitated by my absence. In some
+vague way he seemed on the stairs to have known that I was with him and
+to have got comfort from it; he said he had gone back to bed only
+because he knew I should be there when he woke up. I found that he
+liked, “after he had been an ass,” to wake up seeing me “sitting there
+doing something frightfully ordinary, like reading the newspaper,” and
+you may be sure that thereafter that was what I was doing.
+
+After he had been a year or two at his preparatory, Neil did a nice
+thing for me; one of a thousand. I had shaken my head over his standing
+so low in Maths, though he was already a promising classic, and had said
+that it was “great fun to be good at what one was bad at.” A term or two
+later when he came home he thrust the Maths prize into my hand. “But it
+wasn’t fun,” he growled. (It was Neil’s growl before it was
+Tintinnabulum’s.) He came back to blurt out, “I did it because in those
+bad times you were always sitting there with the newspaper when I woke.”
+
+By becoming Tintinnabulum he is not done with his unknown foe, though I
+think they have met but once. On this occasion his dame had remained
+with him all night, as he had been slightly unwell, and she was amused,
+but nothing more, to see him, without observing her, rise and search the
+room in a fury of words for something that was not there. The only word
+she caught was “seven.” He asked them not to tell me of this incident,
+as he knew it would trouble me. I was told, and, indeed, almost expected
+the news, for I had sprung out of bed that night thinking I heard Neil
+once again defending the stair. By the time I reached Tintinnabulum it
+had ceased to worry him. “But when I woke I missed the newspaper,” he
+said with his adorable smile, and again putting his hand on my shoulder.
+How I wished “the newspaper” could have been there. There are times when
+a boy can be as lonely as God.
+
+[Illustration: “I DID IT BECAUSE YOU WERE ALWAYS SITTING THERE WITH THE
+NEWSPAPER WHEN I WOKE”]
+
+What is the danger? What is it that he knows in the times during which
+he is shut away and that he cannot remember to tell to himself or to me
+when he wakes? I am often disturbed when thinking of him (which is the
+real business of my life), regretting that, in spite of advice and
+warnings, I did not long ago risk waking him abruptly, when, before it
+could hide, he might have clapped seeing eyes upon it, and thus been
+able to warn me. Then, knowing the danger, I would for ever after be on
+the watch myself, so that when the moment came, I could envelop him as
+with wings. These are, of course, only foolish fears of the dark, and
+with morning they all fly away. Tintinnabulum makes very merry over
+them. I have a new thought that, when he is inside me, he may leave them
+there deliberately to play upon my weakness for him and so increase his
+sock allowance. Is the baffling creature capable of this enormity? With
+bowed head I must admit he is. I make a note, to be more severe with him
+this half.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                               The Dream
+
+                                                         HERBERT ASQUITH
+
+
+              My dream? Can I remember my dream?
+                  I was floating down the nursery stair,
+              And my little terrier ran in front
+                  With his feet treading on the air;
+              And when we came to the dining-room,
+                  The King and the Queen were there:
+              And father and mother, two and two;
+              And a baby elephant from the Zoo,
+                  Each on a golden chair;
+              And three soldiers, and Mary Rose
+              Riding an ostrich that pecked her toes,
+                  And Uncle Jim
+                  Looking very trim,
+              Eating a kipper.
+                  And, when they had sung to the King,
+                  They all sat down in a ring,
+              And played at hunt the slipper.
+
+              Then I saw a curling stream
+                  And yellow flow’rs in a meadow,
+              And six little green frogs
+                  Dancing a jig in the shadow:
+              And the tune came from a bough,
+                  “Tweet, tweet, quiver,”
+              Sung by a little brown bird
+                  That swayed above the river.
+
+              Then we all started to dance,
+                  And Aunt Rebecca too;
+              Uncle Jim began to prance,
+                  And the baby elephant blew
+              A curl of smoke from his cigar,
+                  As he sat and watched the evening star.
+              And the little brown bird sang on,
+                  Swaying above the river:
+              But a wind came whispering down,
+                  And the leaves began to shiver.
+
+              Then with a crackly sound
+                  Uncle Jim went flat:
+                  He turned into a cricket-bat;
+              But Aunt Rebecca grew very round
+                  And floated up like a black balloon,
+                  Higher and higher, into the Moon.
+              The stars fell out of the sky;
+                  The baby elephant whined:
+              “Time to get up” said nurse:
+                  And “Flap” went the blind.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                              Mr. Snoogles
+
+                                                    By Elizabeth Lowndes
+
+
+Veronica lay very still in bed, then she stretched out as far as she
+could. Her feet travelled down to that cold region near where the sheets
+and blankets disappear under the mattress. She was certainly still
+awake, for one doesn’t stretch in dreams, and if one did one would
+certainly wake up.
+
+Then she cautiously raised herself upon one elbow and looked round,
+slowly, at the fire. Ever since Teddy had said that Mr. Snoogles lived
+up the chimney she had regarded the fire with much greater interest, not
+to say dread. Not that Mr. Snoogles was real. He was just fun. And yet,
+though Veronica knew he was only fun, she often wondered how he managed
+to fit in the inside of the chimney—if, that is, he was at all like
+father, or even Dr. Blackie (who wasn’t at all big for a man). But then
+Teddy was the only person who claimed to have ever seen this person who
+had taken refuge in their chimneys, and he couldn’t be made to describe
+him.
+
+In the morning and in the afternoon Mr. Snoogles was much more amusing
+than any shop-bought game. Veronica would laugh over him, and invent
+long conversations in which he said such silly things! But when the
+evening crept on, and the fire crackled in the grate, and flickered on
+the walls, it made it all so different. Why do things which aren’t true
+make you think they are true, at night?
+
+Veronica remembered uneasily a curious dream. She was no longer a big
+girl with short hair and long thin legs; she was a green velvet
+pin-cushion, and pins of various sizes and colours were just about to be
+stuck into her before she was sent off to a village bazaar. Though that
+was only a dream, for a long time she never saw a pin-cushion without
+thinking of herself as one....
+
+And now, to-night, she at last lay back in bed out of sight of the fire,
+and tried to plan adventures for the next day. Why did real adventures
+always pass her by?
+
+Suddenly she heard a curious low rumbling sound. For a moment she hoped
+and yet dreaded that it came from the direction of the chimney, but when
+the sound got louder, as it did very soon, she burst out laughing, for
+it was only Teddy snoring. The door between their rooms was open, so no
+wonder she heard him. How funny, and how disappointing!
+
+In time Veronica’s eyes closed without her noticing it, and lying there,
+so comfortable and so warm in bed, just on that borderland of the
+ordinary world of lessons and rice pudding (when one expected something
+else with jam on it) and that other delicious world of dreams and vague
+sensations.
+
+But all at once Veronica heard a great clatter. She sat up in bed and
+opened her eyes wide to see in the firelight a most curious little
+person. He had leapt out of the chimney and dropped all the fire-irons
+in a heap at his feet. She could see them lying there on the white
+woolly mat, all at sixes and sevens.
+
+He was very small, about as high as the poker. He had large round eyes,
+nearly as round as two pennies. And on his head, perched on the very
+top, was the lid of the nursery kettle! It was a copper kettle, and was
+always kept very bright.
+
+The stranger was dressed in black and his clothes fitted him quite
+tight, like a well-drawn-up stocking or a glove.
+
+Veronica gazed at him, her eyes growing almost as round as his own.
+
+Then he stamped his foot, and raising his arms over his head, he made a
+low bow.
+
+“Madam, your wish to see me, though it is only prompted by idle
+curiosity, has brought me down from my kingdom among the chimney pots. I
+have a request to make to you. Will you take my place for a few hours? I
+am called away on urgent private affairs, but I cannot leave my work up
+there unless you will give me your help.”
+
+His voice was high and sharp. It was rather like listening to a sparrow.
+
+[Illustration: “HE MADE A LOW BOW”]
+
+He went straight on, without waiting for an answer. “It is a mistake to
+suppose that I live in the chimney. It would be most disagreeable to do
+so, as I should have thought you, who have imagination, would realize.
+But I am talking too much. I wait respectfully, Madam, for your answer.
+Will you help me?”
+
+Veronica wriggled uncomfortably under the warm bedclothes.
+
+“I will help you if I can.” She was a cautious, as well as a truthful,
+child, so she added hastily, “I don’t want to say I will, if I can’t.
+And are you—_are_ you Mr. Snoogles?”
+
+The strange little man standing on the mat threw back his head so
+suddenly that the lid of the kettle fell off and bounced away behind the
+coal scuttle.
+
+“Oh, how funny!” he laughed. “I shall add that to my collection. No, I’m
+_not_ Mr. Snoogles; but I am the person whom your brother calls Mr.
+Snoogles.”
+
+“So Teddy _has_ seen you after all. Sometimes I thought Mr. Snoogles was
+only a game.”
+
+“Indeed, I’m not a game. What a horrid thing to be! Imagine being a
+football?”
+
+“Or a pin-cushion,” said Veronica hastily. “I know because I believed I
+was one once, but only for a short time,” she added, because she was
+truthful, but also in case Mr. Snoogles found a stray pin on the floor
+and, remembering what she had said, might stick it into her. He looked
+such a tidy man.
+
+“I can assure you, Madam, that I will not request you to do anything at
+all difficult. I shall only require your services for a short period—say
+about ten years.”
+
+“_Ten years?_ But in ten years I shall be quite old—that is, quite grown
+up. I shall be twenty-one.”
+
+“Well, what of that? My work is much more amusing than what you do all
+day—lessons, walks, quarrels.”
+
+Veronica felt a little taken aback.
+
+“But I don’t quarrel—that is to say, not much, not nearly as much as do
+our cousins in the country or as the long-haired family we see in the
+park. Would you like to hear my names? I am not madam yet. You see, I am
+not married. And won’t you sit down?”
+
+“No, I never sit down. It’s lazy. Proceed with your names. Though I know
+what I call you to myself.”
+
+“I was christened Elizabeth Veronica Sybella—now, what do _you_ call
+me?”
+
+“Never mind. Don’t ask questions. It’s bad manners.”
+
+Veronica felt annoyed, but she put her pride in her pocket and asked:
+“If I do what you want me to do—will you tell me then?”
+
+“I shall if you deserve it.”
+
+What a horrid thing to say! How like a holiday governess!—the sort that
+Veronica and her brother had had last summer.
+
+“We must be gone. You have been wasting _our_ time. Not that time is
+money to me.”
+
+“Isn’t it? It is to father, though how he makes it into money I don’t
+know. I have so much time I could make such a lot of money if only I
+knew how to do it.”
+
+“Money is silly stuff. Look how easily it burns. Only yesterday I saw
+the kitchenmaid at No. 5 throw a five-pound note on to the fire. She
+didn’t know what it was, poor silly girl, though she is very clever at
+washing cups and saucers. Come on now!”
+
+Veronica jumped out of bed, and ran over to the fireplace.
+
+“Do we go up there?” she said, looking at the chimney and then at the
+dying fire. “Won’t it burn?”
+
+“Not when you are with me. Fire is my servant. I am fire’s lord and
+master. But if you feel at all nervous I will command it to die.”
+
+With these dramatic words Mr. Snoogles clapped his hands together and
+cried out: “Servant, hide thyself! Let thy light burn dim while we pass
+over you.”
+
+Instantly the coals grew grey and dusty.
+
+Mr. Snoogles put out his hand, and taking Veronica’s fingers firmly in
+his, he pulled her up, and soon she found herself being drawn up higher
+and higher.
+
+“When we get to the top I will explain what you have to do.”
+
+Veronica said nothing. Adventure had come at last—the real thing, better
+than any story-book she had ever read, because it was happening to
+her—actually to her.
+
+They suddenly came out into the night air. To the right, to the left, in
+fact, wherever she looked, were chimney pots. Some had strange things on
+them like hats.
+
+Then it was that Veronica noticed she had become about the same size as
+Mr. Snoogles. She did not feel cold, either, which was stranger still.
+But she sat down as she had been told, and gazed about her. High above,
+the stars were twinkling and the young moon was shining.
+
+Mr. Snoogles coughed.
+
+“Have you finished thinking your thoughts, and will you now think of
+mine?” he said crossly.
+
+“I am so sorry. Please tell me yours.”
+
+“My business—and soon it will be _your_ business, don’t forget—is to be
+the Watchman of Fire and Smoke. Smoke is used for punishment because it
+is unpleasant. But Fire brings warmth and happiness. You will have power
+over them both, but you must keep Fire in his proper place. When you see
+things not going well in a house then send down Smoke. If they bear it
+well, and cease to think of themselves, call it back and ask Fire to
+burn brightly to warm them, and to make them feel happy and cheerful. If
+a live coal flies out on the mat, you must be there to make it go out. A
+house on fire is a terrible thing, and means you have not been doing
+your work properly.” He waited a moment, then exclaimed: “I must be
+going soon, so do your best!”
+
+[Illustration: “HAVE YOU FINISHED THINKING YOUR THOUGHTS”]
+
+“But how shall I——?” Veronica looked round, but Mr. Snoogles had
+vanished, and she found herself alone on the roof.
+
+“I can’t do it, it’s too difficult,” she said to herself, “much more
+difficult than learning a long speech out of Shakespeare. One can always
+do that if one really tries, but this——?”
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+“Veronica, Veronica, I have been screaming at you for ages. There is a
+big fire outside! That empty house is burning down, I can see it from my
+window——”
+
+Teddy was jumping about in his pyjamas. “Come along! Hurry up!” he
+shouted.
+
+Veronica got out of bed as if she was dreaming. Then she cried in great
+distress, “It’s my fault—that fire. Mr. Snoogles said I must not allow
+it to happen.”
+
+“Don’t be so silly. Mr. Snoogles isn’t real. Come along!”
+
+The two children ran to the window, and in the excitement of watching
+the fire engines arrive, and the water pouring out of the great hose
+pipes Veronica forgot her part in this tragedy.
+
+Later in the morning, as they were coming in from a walk, Veronica said,
+“Teddy, what was Mr. Snoogles really like when you saw him? Do tell me
+and I will tell you a great secret.”
+
+“Mr. Snoogles? I will show him to you.”
+
+Teddy took off his coat and hat, and running halfway up the stairs, he
+threw his coat round a pillar which marked the half landing. Then he put
+his cap on the round knot at the top.
+
+“Veronica! Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Snoogles!”
+
+“Teddy! D’you mean you never saw him really? I have.”
+
+“Of course I didn’t. And you haven’t either!”
+
+Veronica said nothing to that. She knew better.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                  Eggs
+
+                                                         HERBERT ASQUITH
+
+
+                 Bob has blown a hundred eggs,
+                     Blue and olive, white and grey;
+                 Warbler, nightingale, and thrush,
+                   Bob has blown their songs away!
+
+                 Low in spotless wool they rest,
+                     Purest blue and clouded white,
+                 Streaked with cinnamon and red,
+                     Flecked with purples of the night;
+
+                 Mute and gleaming, row on row,
+                     Lie the tombstones of the spring!
+                 What a chorus would there be
+                     If those eggs began to sing!
+
+
+
+
+                            The Two Sailors
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                                                JOHN LEA
+
+
+                             _This was one_
+
+           There once was a sailor who never could bear
+           To rub any oil on the top of his hair,
+           And no one who loved him at sea or at home
+           Would offer the use of a brush and a comb.
+           He said (and what reason for doubting the tale?)
+           The very best brush is the breath of a gale,
+           While as to the comb—seek a better, in vain,
+           Than jolly good torrents of tropical rain.
+           So all round the world (and no cruise did he miss)
+           That singular sailor looked something like _this_.
+
+
+                        _This was the other one_
+
+[Illustration]
+
+         There once was a sailor who lavished with care
+         Whole buckets of oil on the top of his hair,
+         And no one who loved him omitted to speak
+         In rapture of tresses so splendidly sleek.
+         He said (and who questions what mariners say?)
+         He brushed them and combed them each hour of the day.
+         For, up on the mast in the wildest of seas,
+         He never neglected such duties as these.
+         And so, as no chance he would lazily miss,
+         That singular sailor looked something like _this_.
+
+
+
+
+               Doctor Dolittle meets a Londoner in Paris
+
+                                                            HUGH LOFTING
+
+
+One day John Dolittle was walking alone in the Tuileries Gardens. He had
+been asked to come to France by some French naturalists who wished to
+consult him on certain new features to be added to the zoo in the Jardin
+des Plantes. The Doctor knew Paris well and loved it. To his way of
+thinking it was the perfect city—or would be, if it were not so
+difficult to get a bath there.
+
+It had been raining all day, but now the sun was shining, and the
+gardens, fresh and wet, looked very beautiful. As the Doctor passed one
+of the many shrubberies he came upon a sparrow wallowing in a puddle in
+the middle of the gravel path.
+
+“Why, I declare!” he muttered to himself, hurrying forward. “It’s
+Cheapside!”
+
+The small bird, evidently quite accustomed to human traffic, was far too
+busy with his bathing to notice anyone’s approach.
+
+“How do you do, Cheapside?” said the Doctor in sparrow language. “Who on
+earth would ever have thought of finding you here?”
+
+The sparrow stopped his fluttering and wallowing and looked up through
+the water that ran down in big drops off his tousled head-feathers.
+
+“Jiminy Crickets!” he exclaimed. “It’s the Doc himself!”
+
+[Illustration: “‘HOW DO YOU DO, CHEAPSIDE?’ SAID THE DOCTOR IN SPARROW
+LANGUAGE”]
+
+“How do you come to be in Paris?” asked John Dolittle.
+
+“Oh, it’s all Becky’s doing,” grumbled Cheapside, hopping out of the
+puddle and fluttering his wings to dry them. “I’m satisfied to stay in
+London, goodness knows. But every Spring it’s the same way: ‘Let’s take
+a hop over to the Continong,’ says she. ‘The horse-chestnuts will just
+be budding.’ ‘We got horse-chestnut trees in Regent’s Park,’ I says to
+’er. ‘Ah,’ says she, ‘but not like the ones in the Twiddle-didee
+Gardens. Oh, I love Paris in the Spring,’ she says.... It’s always the
+same way: every year she drags me over ’ere. Sentiment, I reckon it is.
+You see, Doc, me and Becky met one another first ’ere—right ’ere in the
+Twiddle-didee Gardens. I recognised ’er as a London Sparrow—you can tell
+’em the world over—and we got talkin’. You know the way those things
+’appen. She wanted to build our first nest up there in the Lufer Palace.
+But I says, ‘No,’ hemphatic. ‘Let’s go back to St. Paul’s,’ I says. ‘I
+know a place in St. Edmund’s left ear what ’as all the stonework in
+Paris beat ’ollow as a nestin’ place. Besides,’ I says, ‘we don’t want
+our children growing up talkin’ no foreign language! We’re Londoners,’ I
+says: ‘let’s go back to London.’”
+
+“Yes,” said the Doctor. “Even I guessed you were a London sparrow,
+before I recognised you, because——”
+
+“Because I was washin’,” Cheapside finished. “That’s true: these ’ere
+foreign birds don’t run to water much.”
+
+“That’s a fine puddle you have there,” said the Doctor. “I’ve half a
+mind to ask you to lend it to me. You know, I’ve been trying to get a
+bath myself ever since I’ve been in Paris—without success so far. After
+all, even a puddle is better than nothing. When I asked them at the
+_pension_ where I’m staying could I have a bath, they seemed to think I
+was asking for the moon.”
+
+“Oh, I can tell you where you can get a bath, Doctor, a good one,” said
+the sparrow. “Just the other side of that shrubbery over there there’s
+an elegant marble pond, with a fountain and statues in the middle. You
+can hang your bath-towel on the statue and use the fountain for a
+shampoo. Just helegant!—But of course you’d have to do it after dark.
+Anybody washin’ in Paris is liable to get arrested—not because you ’ad
+no clothes on, mind you. Oh no, the French is very sensible about that.
+Look at all these statues: they don’t wear no clothes—and in summertime
+it’s much cooler for ’em. But washin’? That’s another matter. Over ’ere
+they’re very suspicious of anybody washin’. Just the same you could
+manage a tub in the marble pond late at night, easy—because there’s
+hardly anybody in the gardens then.”
+
+“My gracious! I’ve a good mind to try it, Cheapside,” said the Doctor.
+“I haven’t had a bath in over a week.”
+
+“Well,” said the Cockney sparrow, “you meet me here at midnight and me
+and Becky will guide you to the pond and keep a look-out while you get a
+wash.”
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+There was a half moon that night. And when, a few minutes before twelve
+o’clock, John Dolittle came into the Tuileries Gardens with a bath-towel
+over his arm, the first person he saw was a French policeman. Not
+wishing to be taken for a suspicious character, he thrust the bath-towel
+beneath his coat and hurried past the shrubbery as though bent on
+important business.
+
+But he had not gone very far before he was overtaken by Cheapside and
+his wife, Becky.
+
+“Don’t get worried, Doc, don’t get worried,” said the sparrow. “That
+bobby only goes by about once every ’alf-hour. ’E won’t be back for a
+while. Come over ’ere and we’ll show you your dressing-room.”
+
+John Dolittle was thereupon conducted to a snug retreat in the heart of
+a big shrubbery.
+
+“Nobody can see you ’ere,” said Cheapside. “And as soon as you’re ready
+all you’ve got to do is to ’op round that privet-’edge, sprint across
+the little lawn and there’s your bath waitin’ for you. Me and Becky will
+keep a look-out. And if any danger comes along we’ll whistle.”
+
+Five minutes later the famous naturalist was wallowing luxuriously in
+the marble pond. The night was softly brilliant with moonlight, and the
+statues in the centre of the pool stood out palely against the dark mass
+of the trees behind.
+
+John Dolittle had paused a moment with a cake of soap uplifted in his
+hand, utterly enchanted by the beauty of the scene, when he heard
+Cheapside hoarsely whispering to him from a branch overhead.
+
+“Look out! Hide quick! Someone coming!”
+
+Now the Doctor had left his bath-towel on the base of the statue. At
+Cheapside’s warning he splashed wildly out to get it before attempting a
+retreat to the shrubbery. Breathless, he finally reached the fountain.
+But just as he was about to grasp the towel Becky called from the other
+side of the pond:
+
+“Cheapside! There is another party coming in at the other gate! The
+Doctor can never make it in time.”
+
+John Dolittle, waist-deep in the water at the foot of the statue, looked
+about him in despair.
+
+“Gracious! What shall I do then?” he cried drawing the bath-towel over
+his shoulders.
+
+“You’ll have to be a statue,” hissed Cheapside the quick thinker. “Hop
+up on to the pedestal. They’ll never know the difference in this light.
+When they go by you can come down. Hurry! They’re quite close. I can see
+their heads over the top of the hedge.”
+
+Swiftly winding his bath-towel about him, John Dolittle sprang up on to
+the pedestal and crouched in a statuesque pose. The marble group was of
+Neptune the sea-god and several attendant figures. John Dolittle, M.D.,
+became one of the attendant figures. His hand raised to shade his eyes
+from an imaginary sun, he gazed seaward with a stony stare.
+
+“Fine!” whispered Cheapside, flying on to the base of the statue. “No
+one could tell you from the real thing. Just keep still and you’ll be
+all right. They won’t stay, I don’t expect. Here they come. Don’t get
+nervous, now. Bless me, I believe they’re English too!—Tourists. Well,
+did you ever?”
+
+A man and a woman, strolling through the gardens by one of the many
+crossing paths, had now paused at the edge of the pond and, to John
+Dolittle’s horror, were gazing up at the statue in the centre of it.
+They were both elderly; they both carried umbrellas; and they both wore
+spectacles.
+
+“I’ll bet they’re short-sighted, Doc,” whispered Cheapside comfortingly.
+“Don’t worry.”
+
+“Dear me, Sarah,” sighed the man. “What a beautiful night! The moon and
+the trees and the fountain. And such an imposing statue!—The sea-god
+Neptune with his mermaids and mermen.”
+
+“Lancelot,” said the woman shortly, “let us hurry home. You’ll get your
+bronchitis worse in this damp air. I don’t like the statue at all. I
+never saw such fat creatures. Just look at that one on the corner
+there—the one with his hand up scanning the horizon. Why, he’s stouter
+than the butcher at home!”
+
+“Humph!” muttered Cheapside beneath his breath. “It don’t seem to me as
+though _you_ ’ave any figure to write ’ome about, Mrs. Scarecrow.”
+
+At this moment a large flying beetle landed on the Doctor’s neck and
+nearly spoiled everything.
+
+“Good gracious, Sarah!” cried the man. “I thought I saw one of the
+figures move, the fat one.”
+
+The tourist adjusted his spectacles and, coming a little closer to the
+edge of the pond, stared very hard. But Cheapside, to add a touch of
+convincing realism, flew up on to the merman’s shoulder, kicked the
+beetle into the pond with a secret flick of his foot and burst into a
+flood of carefree song.
+
+“No, Sarah,” said the man. “I was mistaken. See, there is a bird sitting
+on his shoulder. How romantic! Must be a nightingale.”
+
+“_Will_ you come home, Lancelot?” snapped the woman. “You won’t feel so
+romantic when your cough comes back. It must be after midnight.”
+
+“But you know, Sarah,” said the man, as he was almost forcibly dragged
+away, “_I_ don’t think he’s too fat. They had to be stout, those marine
+people: they floated better that way. Dear me, Paris is a beautiful
+city!”
+
+As the footsteps died away down the moonlit path, John Dolittle sighed a
+great sigh of relief and came to life.
+
+“Cheapside,” said he, stretching his stiff arms, “you could never guess
+who those people were. My sister Sarah and her husband, the Reverend
+Lancelot Dingle. It’s funny, Cheapside, but whenever I am in an awkward
+or ridiculous situation Sarah seems bound to turn up. Of course she and
+her husband would just _have_ to come touring Paris at the exact hour
+when I was taking a bath in the Tuileries Gardens. Ah well, thank
+goodness the pond kept them off from getting any closer to me!”
+
+“Well, listen, Doc,” said the London sparrow: “I think you had better be
+gettin’ along yourself now. It’s about time for that bobby to be coming
+round again.”
+
+“Yes, you’re right,” said the Doctor. And he slid back into the water,
+waded to the edge and stepped out on to dry ground.
+
+But John Dolittle’s troubles were not over yet. While he was still no
+more than half way to his “dressing-room” there came another warning
+shout from Cheapside:
+
+“Look out!—Here he comes!”
+
+This time flight seemed the only course. The policeman had seen the
+culprit disappear into the shrubbery. Breaking into a run, he gave
+chase.
+
+“Don’t stop, Doc!” cried Cheapside. “Grab your clothes and get out the
+other side—Becky! Hey, Becky! Keep that policeman busy a minute.”
+
+The Doctor did as he was told. Seizing his clothes in a pile as he
+rushed through the shrubbery, he came out at the other end like an
+express train emerging from a tunnel. Here Cheapside met him and led him
+across a lawn to another group of bushes. Behind this he hurriedly got
+into his clothes. Meanwhile Becky kept the policeman busy by furiously
+pecking him in the neck and making it necessary for him to stop and beat
+her off.
+
+However, she could not of course keep this up for long. And if John
+Dolittle had not been an exceptionally quick dresser he could never have
+got away. In one minute and a quarter, collar and tie in one hand, soap
+and towel in the other, he left his second dressing-room on the run and
+sped for the gate and home.
+
+The loyal Cheapside was still with him; but the sparrow was now so
+convulsed with laughter that he could scarcely keep up, even flying.
+
+“I don’t see what you find so funny about it,” panted the Doctor
+peevishly as he slowed down at the gate and began putting on his collar.
+“I had a very narrow escape from getting arrested.”
+
+“Yes, and you’d have gone to jail, too,” gasped Cheapside. “It’s no
+light offence, washing in this country. But that wasn’t what I was
+laughing at.”
+
+“Well, what was it, then?” asked the Doctor, feeling for a stud in his
+pocket.
+
+“The Reverend Dingle took me for a nightingale!” tittered the Cockney
+sparrow. “I must go back and tell Becky that. So long, Doc! You’ll be
+all right now. That bobby’s lost you altogether.... After all, you got
+your bath. See you in Puddleby next month.”
+
+
+
+
+                               Vice-versa
+                       ANY FATHER TO ANY DAUGHTER
+
+                                                           HENRY NEWBOLT
+
+
+                 If buttercups were white and pink,
+                     And roses green and blue,
+                 Then you instead of me could think,
+                     And I instead of you.
+
+                 Then I could daily give your doll
+                     Her early evening tub,
+                 While you in easy-chairs could loll
+                     At some or other Club.
+
+                 Then I could spell p-i-g pidge,
+                     And learn to sew like Nurse;
+                 While you could take a hand at bridge,
+                     And murmur “Zooks!” or worse.
+
+                 Oh, it would be as fresh a sight
+                     As ever yet was seen,
+                 If buttercups were pink and white
+                     And roses blue and green.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                KITTEEN
+
+                                   BY
+
+                            MARGARET KENNEDY
+
+
+              I sat beside the ingle-nook,
+                  The fire was glowing;
+              The pot was bubbling on the hook,
+                  The wind was blowing.
+              In the shadows of the room
+                  Ghosts were hiding;
+              From the furthest, deepest gloom
+                  They came gliding.
+              At the back of me I knew
+                  Crowds were creeping.
+              Through the house the storm-wind blew,
+                  Flames went leaping,
+              Awful shadows on the wall
+                  Set me screaming.
+              Close at hand came Someone’s call:
+                  “Sure she’s dreaming!
+                  What have you seen?
+                      Kitteen!
+              Tell us, what have you seen?”
+
+              In the brown bog by the lake
+                  There are stacks of drying peat;
+              When by chance that way I take,
+                  Past I run with flying feet;
+              For once when, wandering carelessly,
+                  I came into that lonely place,
+              I watched a peat stack close to me
+                  And saw it had a wrinkled face!
+              All old women sitting round,
+                  Each one in a long brown cloak;
+              They gazed and gazed upon the ground
+                  With eyes like stones, and never spoke.
+              Then I turned my back and fled
+                  Up our hill, with stumbling feet;
+              In a doorway Someone said:
+                  “She’s as white as any sheet!
+                  What did you see?
+                    Kitteen machree!
+              Tell us, what did you see?”
+
+
+
+
+                                Gilbert
+
+                                                           CLEMENCE DANE
+
+
+I am the aunt of Annabel. Annabel is coming next Friday to the birthday
+party she ought to have had a month ago; but she had measles instead. I
+am anxious for Annabel to enjoy herself. Whom shall I ask to meet her?
+
+Annabel is five—a gracious-mannered five, with a smooth bobbed head of
+red hair, eyes like lilacs, and a generously curved mouth. She is a
+darling. She is also a devil. She never allows me or anyone else a quiet
+moment with her mother when she is in the room: indeed, she owns her
+parents and regards all visitors as her perquisites. She owns also, and
+can use with disastrous effect on my borders, a scooter and a tricycle.
+She can adjust the wireless set and listen in at her pleasure to
+Bournemouth, Cardiff or London. She swears at the dog in broad Devon,
+and has her ideas about her frocks. But she cannot read or tie her own
+shoes or tell the time.
+
+Annabel is coming to tea on Friday. How am I to keep her amused? Shall I
+invite Philip Collins, that hard-working child, proprietor of
+stickle-backs, my particular friend? Will there be anything left of
+Philip if I do—or of Annabel? Philip is seven. With only a year or so
+between them they ought to get on. And yet, how did I feel towards seven
+when I was five? Across the white magic-lantern circle of my memory a
+shadow flits, a leggy, olive-green shadow, with fur at its neck and
+wrists, and I recognise Gilbert, and pause.
+
+Annabel is so much more sophisticated and so much more of a baby than we
+were ever allowed to be, that the Gilbert adventure could hardly happen
+to her. She would say she didn’t like him and be done with it. And
+yet—suppose she didn’t! Suppose she suffered him in silence like her
+aunt before her! I do want Annabel to enjoy herself.
+
+[Illustration: “SHE OWNS ALSO, AND CAN USE WITH DISASTROUS EFFECT ON MY
+BORDERS, A SCOOTER AND A TRICYCLE.”]
+
+You must not think that there was any harm in Gilbert. He was, I see
+now, a nice, polite little boy. My Aunt Angela said so. He was as nice a
+boy, I daresay, as Philip, who is—perhaps—to make Annabel’s acquaintance
+next Friday. But he was long and, as it was a fancy-dress ball, his
+mother had dressed him in greenery-yallery tights, and a doublet with
+moleskin at the neck and wrists. Now, when you are no older than Annabel
+and own a live mole which you keep in the ring-dove’s cage, you do not
+feel friendly to people who wear moleskin. (No, I don’t know what
+happened to the ring-dove, though I remember that she lived for some
+time in the kitchen in a straw-coloured wicker-work cage, and was
+incessantly laying eggs that wouldn’t hatch and croo-rooing over them in
+a lamentable voice which made the nursery feel that the whole bitter
+business was the nursery’s fault.)
+
+It is not too much to say that from the moment I set eyes upon Gilbert I
+felt for him that unreasoning sick dislike of which only a child is
+capable, and which it never attempts to explain. I never said a word to
+my Aunt Angela about Gilbert, though I noted him with a prophetic
+shudder as I followed her across the shining, slippery floor. Indeed,
+nobody could help noticing Gilbert. It was not only that he was so much
+longer than anybody else, so prominent among the Joan of Arcs and
+Pierrots and Geishas, but that he was such a pervasive dancer: he seemed
+to be behaving beautifully with everybody at once. There was a horrible
+fascination in his smiling efficiency: he wasn’t shy like everyone else:
+he didn’t mind what he did: and he did it well. He was a handsome boy
+too, for my Aunt Angela said so. Indeed, I can best fix him for you by
+recalling the fact that when I saw Lewis Waller come upon the stage as
+Robin Hood I instantly, and for the first time in fifteen years,
+remembered Gilbert.
+
+Before I could pull on my white silk mittens, my aunt (I knew she would)
+had caught Gilbert and introduced him to me, and he wrote his name on my
+programme and his own, and his moleskin wrist—his mole must have been an
+older and oilier mole than mine—rubbed against my bare hand. In the
+frantic subsequent attempts to scrub off the feel, I spilled water down
+my new frock, my fancy-dress of yellow satin petals over a green satin
+skirt, with three green satin leaves dangling from the neck; for I, in
+that hour, was a primrose.
+
+But washing my hands and drying my frock only took up a dance and a
+half: Gilbert and his Berlin Polka were still to be faced.
+
+I had an idea. I would anticipate Gilbert: I would have a partner of my
+own. I marked one down, a rosy, bewildered little girl in sparkles: a
+Snow-white—a Fairy queen—what did I care? I gave her her orders; for she
+was only four. She was to look out for me when number seven began. She
+was to refuse to dance with anyone else. She was dancing the Berlin
+polka with me—did she understand?—with me: and if a green boy with
+moleskin on his wrists asked her where I was, well—there I wasn’t! Did
+she quite understand?
+
+I was still passionately explaining the situation when the music of
+number six struck up, and her partner, a Father Christmas smaller than
+herself, jogged her away. I can still see so clearly the bunchy little
+figure—we were not so particular about the cut of our clothes as is
+Annabel’s generation—and the alarmed dark eyes and hot cheeks as she
+looked back at me over her winged shoulder. As for me, I had to put in
+the perilous time somehow. I hid.
+
+I found a beautiful place to hide in, a room with cane chairs and palms,
+and one or two screened recesses with two chairs and a table in each. I
+sat me down in the only empty recess and listened to the music, and
+wondered whether Gilbert had begun to look for me yet. Soon a young lady
+with bare shoulders and a young gentleman with an eye-glass arrived,
+looked in, departed, and shortly returned again. It was quite evident
+that they wanted my refuge. I wasn’t going to let them have it. I was
+terrified of them both, but I was still more terrified of Gilbert.
+
+Said the young gentleman:
+
+“What are you doing here?” and he called me “little girl!”
+
+Said I, firmly, but I was on the edge of tears:
+
+“I am waiting for my partner,” and felt that I lied, for I was not
+exactly waiting for Gilbert.
+
+[Illustration: “HE STARED AT ME REPROACHFULLY”]
+
+“Oh, indeed!” said the young gentleman, and stared again, and whispered
+to the young lady with the white shoulders, and the young lady whispered
+back. You cannot think how miserable I felt. They went away at last; but
+they, and my lie—a lie was a lie in those days—had ruined my haven. I
+slipped out as the music stopped, and instantly the young gentleman and
+the young lady got up from two chairs under a palm and sat down behind
+my screen, while—oh horror!—Gilbert’s green and questing length crossed
+and re-crossed the lighted swirling space on the other side of the
+draped doorway. I knew—who better?—whom he sought. I backed into the
+dark corner formed by the wall and the other side of the screen, too
+much occupied with Gilbert’s next move to attend to the murmurs on the
+other side of it. But the sitters-out were sensitive; or I, effacing
+myself as much as possible, must have pushed against the screen. Slowly,
+over the top, rose the head of the young gentleman. He stared down at me
+reproachfully and I, in a paralysis of embarrassment, stared up at him.
+You cannot think how tall the screen seemed, and how terrible the face
+of the young gentleman to the eyes of five. Nothing was said. How long
+he was prepared to stare at me I do not know, for his eye-glass was more
+than I could bear: at that moment even Gilbert was easier to face. I
+sidled back into the ballroom, worming my way as self-effacingly as
+possible in and out between mothers and empty chairs, till a familiar
+glitter caught my eye. It was my partner, my illegal partner, so soft,
+so rosy, so cosy, so blessedly harmless, so very much smaller than I.
+She was not pleased to see me (I realise now that I must have been as
+awful to her as Gilbert to me) but what did that matter? I grasped her
+hurriedly by a hand and a wing:
+
+“One, two, three,” I prompted: and we put our feet into the second
+position. But fate was looking after the little girl in sparkles, not
+after me.
+
+“My dance, I think.” Gilbert, cool, easy, adequate, even remembered to
+bow. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” he said and he put out
+mole-skinny hands.
+
+“I’m dancing with _her_,” I muttered. It was my last throw. But at that
+a new voice interposed:
+
+“Oh, Mary, you mustn’t take the little girl away from her partner!” And
+the fairy queen, inexpressible relief in her eyes, pulled her hand out
+of mine and retired upon her mother.
+
+I danced with Gilbert.
+
+The last straw was hearing my Aunt Angela telling my mother, in the cab
+coming home, that it was pretty to see how the child had enjoyed
+herself.
+
+Now I wonder how Annabel would have dealt with Gilbert? Her childhood is
+not my childhood. I read _Pickwick_ at five, while Annabel is satisfied
+with _Teddy Tail_: that fancy-dress ball was my first party, while
+Annabel goes to dances twice a week. Annabel’s emotions could never have
+been in the least like mine. And yet, five years old in the
+eighteen-nineties is nearer five years old in the nineteen-twenties than
+five years old will ever be to a contemporary aunt. If I ask my nice
+Philip Collins to tea—such a handsome boy!—such good manners!—how am I
+to be certain that I am not inflicting a Gilbert upon Annabel? On the
+other hand, Annabel might have liked Gilbert. He was a popular person
+that evening: and Annabel has never kept moles.
+
+Annabel does not think me young. She asked me yesterday if I had ever
+spoken to Queen Elizabeth; but she likes to hear what I did in that
+Palæolithic age when I was little. I will tell her about Gilbert when I
+tuck her up to-night, and see what she says.
+
+
+
+
+                         Jack and His Pony, Tom
+
+                                                               H. BELLOC
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+              Jack had a little pony, Tom.
+              He frequently would take it from
+              The stable where it used to stand
+              And give it sugar with his hand.
+              He also gave it oats and hay
+              And carrots twenty times a day
+              And grass in basketfuls and greens
+              And swedes and mangels: also beans;
+              And patent foods from various sources
+              And bread—which isn’t good for horses—
+              And chocolate and apple-rings,
+              And lots and lots of other things
+              The most of which do not agree
+              With Polo Ponies such as he,
+              And all in such a quantity
+              As ruined his digestion wholly
+              And turned him from a Pono Poly
+              —I mean a Polo Pony—into
+              A case that clearly must be seen to,
+              Because he swelled and swelled and swelled.
+              Which, when the kindly boy beheld,
+              He gave it medicine by the pail
+              In malted milk, and nutmeg ale,
+              And yet it only swelled the more
+              Until its stomach touched the floor;
+              And then it heaved and groaned as well
+              And staggered, till at last it fell
+              And found it could not rise again.
+              Jack wept and prayed—but all in vain.
+              The pony died, and, as it died,
+              Kicked him severely in the side.
+
+
+                                 MORAL
+
+                     Kindness to animals should be
+                     Attuned to their brutality.
+
+
+
+
+                         Tom and His Pony, Jack
+
+                                                               H. BELLOC
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+               Tom had a little pony, Jack:
+               He vaulted lightly on its back
+               And galloped off for miles and miles,
+               A-leaping hedges, gates and stiles,
+               And shouting “Yoicks!” and “Tally-Ho!”
+               And “Heads I win!” and “Tails below!”
+               And many another sporting phrase.
+               He rode like this for several days,
+               Until the pony, feeling tired,
+               Collapsed, looked heavenward and expired.
+               His father made a fearful row.
+               He said, “By Gum! You’ve done it now!
+               Here lies, a Carcase on the ground,
+               No less than five and twenty pound!
+               Indeed, the value of the beast
+               Would probably have much increased.
+               His teeth were false; and all were told
+               That he was only four years old.
+               Oh! Curse it all! I tell you plain
+               I’ll never let you ride again.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+                                 MORAL
+
+                 His father died when he was twenty,
+                 And left three horses—which is plenty.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                               “Pigtails
+                                 Ltd.”
+
+                                                       WALTER DE LA MARE
+
+
+How such an odd and curious notion had ever come into Miss Rawlings’s
+mind, not even Miss Rawlings herself could have said. When had it come?
+She could not answer even that question either. It had simply stolen in
+little by little like a beam of sunshine into a large room.
+
+Not of course into an empty room, for Miss Rawlings had many things to
+think about. She was by far the most important person in the Parish, and
+everyone—from Archdeacon Tomlington and his two curates, Mr. Moffat and
+Mr. Timbs, down to little old Mrs. Ort the hump-backed charwoman who
+lived in the top attic of a cottage down by Clopbourne—or, as they
+called it, Clobburne—Bridge, everyone knew how _practical_ she was.
+
+But once that sunny beam had begun to steal into Miss Rawlings’s mind
+and into her life, it had lightened up with its precious gold everything
+that was there. It was nevertheless a fantastic notion, simply because
+it could not possibly be true. How could Miss Rawlings ever have lost a
+little girl if there had never been any little girl to lose? Yet that
+exactly was Miss Rawlings’s idea. It had flitted into her imagination
+like a nimble, bright-feathered bird. And once it was really there, she
+never hesitated to talk about it; not at all.
+
+“My little girl, you know,” she would say with a little emphatic nod and
+a pleasant smile on her broad face. Or rather, “My little gal”—for she
+always pronounced the word as if it rhymed with Sal—the short for Sarah.
+This, too, was an odd thing; for Miss Rawlings had been brought up by
+her parents with the very best education, and seldom mispronounced even
+such words as Chloe or Psyche or epitome or misled. And so far as I
+know—which is not very far—and apart from shall and pal and Hal, there
+is not a single word of one syllable in our enormous English language
+that is pronounced like Sal; for Pall Mall, of course, is pronounced
+Pell Mell. Still, Miss Rawlings did talk about her little girl, and she
+called her, her little gal.
+
+It never occurred to anybody in the Parish—not even to Mr. Timbs—to
+compare the Little Gal to a gay little bird or to a beam of sunshine.
+Mrs. Tomlington said indeed that it was merely a bee in Miss Rawlings’s
+bonnet. But whether or not, partly because she delighted in bright
+colours, and partly because, in fashion or out, she had entirely her own
+taste in dress, there could not be a larger or brighter or flowerier
+bonnet for any bee to be _in_. Apart from puce silk and maroon velvet
+and heliotrope feathers and ribbons and pom-poms and suchlike, Miss
+Rawlings’s bonnets invariably consisted of handsome spreading
+flowers—blue-red roses, purple pansies, mauve cineraria—a complete
+little garden for any bee’s amusement. And this bee sang rather than
+buzzed in it the whole day long.
+
+You might almost say it had made a new woman of her. Miss Rawlings had
+always been active and positive and good-humoured and kind. But now her
+spirits were so much more animated. She went bobbing and floating
+through the Parish like a balloon. Her _interest_ in everything seemed
+to have first been multiplied by nine, and then by nine again. And
+eighty-one times anything is a pretty large quantity. Beggars, gipsies,
+hawkers, crossing-sweepers, blind men positively smacked their lips when
+they saw Miss Rawlings come sailing down the street. Her heart was like
+the Atlantic, and they like row-boats on the deep—especially the blind
+men. As for her donations to the Parochial Funds, they were first
+doubled, then trebled, then quadrupled.
+
+There was, first, for example, the Fund for giving all the little
+parish girls and boys not only a bun and an orange and a tree at
+Christmas and a picnic with Veal and Ham Pie and Ice Pudding in
+June, but a Jack-in-the-Green on May-day and a huge Guy on
+November the 5th, with Squibs and Roman Candles and Chinese
+Crackers and so on. There was not only the Fund for the Delight of
+Infants of Every Conceivable Description; there was also the
+Wooden-Legged Orphans’ Fund. There was the Home for Manx and Tabby
+Cats; and the Garden by the River with the willows for Widowed
+Gentlewomen. There was the Threepenny-Bit-with-a-Hole-in-It
+Society; and the Organ Grinders’ Sick Monkey and Blanket Fund, and
+there was the oak-beamed Supper Room in “The Three Wild Geese” for
+the use of Ancient Mariners—haggis and toad-in-the-hole, and plum
+duff and jam roley-poley. And there were many others. If Miss
+Rawlings had been born in another parish, it would have been a sad
+thing indeed for the cats and widows and orphans and organ monkeys
+in her own.
+
+With such a power and quantity of money, of course, writing cheques was
+very much like just writing in birthday-books. Still you can give too
+much to any Fund; though very few people make the attempt. But Miss
+Rawlings was a practical woman. Besides, Miss Rawlings knew perfectly
+well that charity must at any rate _begin_ at home, so all this time she
+was keeping what the Ancient Mariners at the “Three Wild Geese” called a
+“weather eye” wide open for her lost Little Gal. But how, it may be
+asked, could she keep any kind of an eye open for a lost Little Gal,
+when she didn’t know what the lost Little Gal was like? And the answer
+to that is that Miss Rawlings knew perfectly well.
+
+She may not have known where the absurd notion came from, or when, or
+why; but she knew that. She knew what the Little Gal looked like as well
+as a mother thrush knows what an egg looks like; or Sir Christopher Wren
+knew what a cathedral looks like. But as with the Thrush and Sir
+Christopher, a good many little things had happened to Miss Rawlings
+first. And this quite apart from the old wooden doll she used to lug
+about when she was seven, called Quatta.
+
+One morning, for example, Miss Rawlings had been out in her carriage and
+was thinking of nothing in particular, just daydreaming, when not very
+far from the little stone bridge at Clobburne she happened to glance up
+at a window in the upper parts of a small old house. And at that window
+there seemed to show a face with dark bright eyes watching her. Just a
+glimpse. I say _seemed_, for when in the carriage Miss Rawlings rapidly
+twisted her head to get a better view, she discovered either that there
+had been nobody there at all, or that the somebody had swiftly drawn
+back, or that the bright dark eyes were just too close-together flaws in
+the diamond-shaped bits of glass. In the last case what Miss Rawlings
+had seen was mainly “out of her mind.” But if so, it went back again and
+stayed there. It was excessively odd, indeed, how clear a remembrance
+that glimpse left behind it.
+
+Then again, Miss Rawlings, like her great-aunt Felicia, had always
+enjoyed a weakness for taking naps in the train, the flowers and plumes
+and bows in her bonnet nodding the while above her head. The sound of
+the wheels on the iron lines was like a lullaby; the fields trailing
+softly away beyond the window drowsed her eyes. Whether asleep or not,
+she would generally close her eyes and at least appear to be napping.
+And not once, or twice, but three separate times, owing to a screech of
+the whistle or a jolt of the train, she had suddenly opened them again
+to find herself staring out (rather like a large animal in a field) at a
+little girl sitting on the opposite seat, who, in turn, had already
+fixed _her_ eyes on Miss Rawlings’s countenance. In every case there had
+been a look of intense, patient interest on the little girl’s face.
+
+Perhaps Miss Rawlings’s was a countenance that all little girls are apt
+to look at with extreme interest—especially when the owner of it is
+asleep in the train. It was a broad countenance with a small but
+powerful nose with a round tip. There was a good deal of fresh colour in
+the flat cheeks beneath the treacle-coloured eyes; and the hair stood
+out like a wig beneath the huge bonnet. Miss Rawlings, too, had a habit
+of folding her kid-gloved hands upon her lap as if she was an image.
+None the less, you could hardly call it only “a coincidence” that these
+little girls were so much alike, and so much like the face at the
+window. And so very much like the real lost Little Gal that had always,
+it seemed, been at the back of Miss Rawlings’s mind.
+
+Not that there had ever been any kind of a ghost in Miss Rawlings’s
+family. Her family was far too practical for that; and her mansion was
+most richly furnished. All I mean is that each one of these little girls
+happened to have a rather narrow face, a brown pigtail, rather small
+dark brown bright eyes and narrow hands, and except for the one at the
+window, they wore round beaver hats and buttoned coats. No; there was no
+ghost _there_. What Miss Rawlings was after was an absolutely real
+Little Gal. And her name was Barbara Allan.
+
+This sounds utterly absurd. But so it had come about. For a long
+time—having talked about her Little Gal again and again to the
+Archdeacon and Mrs. Tomlington and Mr. Moffat and other ladies and
+gentlemen in the Parish, Miss Rawlings had had no name at all for her
+small friend. But one still summer evening, there being a faint red in
+the sky, while she was wandering gently about her immense drawing-room,
+she had happened to open a book lying on an “occasional” table. It was a
+book of poetry—crimson and gilt-edged, with a brass clasp—and on the
+very page under her nose she had read this line:
+
+                   “Fell in love with Barbara Allan.”
+
+The words ran through her mind like wildfire. Barbara Allan—it was _the_
+name! Or how very like it! An echo? Certainly some words and names _are_
+echoes of one another—sisters or brothers once removed, so to speak.
+Tomlington and Pocklingham, for example; or quince and shrimp; or
+angelica and cyclamen. All I mean is that the very instant Miss Rawlings
+saw that printed “Barbara Allan,” it ran through her heart like an old
+tune in a nursery. It _was_ her Little Gal, or ever so near it—as near,
+that is, as any name can be to a thing, viz., crocus, or comfit, or
+shuttlecock, or mistletoe, or pantry.
+
+Now, if Miss Rawlings had been of royal blood and had lived in a
+fairy-tale; if, that is, she had been a Queen in Grimm—it would have
+been a quite ordinary thing that she should be seeking a little lost
+Princess, or badly in need of one. But except that her paternal
+grandfather was a Sir Samuel Rawlings, she was but very remotely
+connected with royalty. Still, if you think about it, seeing that once
+upon a time there were only marvellous Adam and beautiful Eve in the
+Garden, that is in the whole wide world, and seeing that all of Us as
+well as all of the earth’s Kings and Queens must have descended from
+them, _therefore_ all of Us must have descended from Kings and Queens.
+So too with Miss Rawlings. But—unlike Mrs. Tomlington—she had not come
+down by the grand staircase.
+
+Since then Miss Rawlings did not live in a fairy-tale nor in Grimm, but
+was a very real person in a very real Parish, her friends and
+acquaintances were all inclined in private to agree with Mrs. Tomlington
+that her Little Gal was nothing but a bee in her bonnet. And that the
+longer it stayed there the louder it buzzed. Indeed, Miss Rawlings
+almost began to think of nothing else. She became absent-minded, quite
+forgetting her soup and fish and chicken and French roll when she sat at
+dinner. She left on the gas. She signed cheques for the Funds without
+looking back at the counterfoils to see what she had last subscribed.
+She gave brand-new mantles and dolmens away to the Rummagers; ordered
+coals from her fishmonger’s; rode third class with a first class ticket;
+addressed a postcard to Mrs. Tomfoolington—almost every kind of
+absent-minded thing you can imagine.
+
+And now she was always searching: even in the house sometimes; even in
+the kitchen quarters. And her plump country maids would gladly help too.
+“No, m’m, she ain’t here.” “No, m’m, we ain’t a-seed her yet.” “Lor’,
+yes’m, the rooms be ready.”
+
+Whenever Miss Rawlings rose from her chair, she would at once peer
+sharply out of the window to see if any small creature were passing in
+the street beyond the drive. When she went a-walking, she was frequently
+all but run over by cabs and vans and phaetons and gigs, because she was
+looking the other way after a vanishing pigtail. Not a picture-shop, not
+a photographer’s could she pass without examining every single face
+exhibited in the window. And she never met a friend, or the friend of a
+friend, or conversed with a stranger without, sure enough, beginning to
+talk about Young Things. Puppies or kittens or lambs, perhaps, first,
+and then gradually on to little boys. And then, with a sudden whisk of
+her bonnet, to Little Girls.
+
+Long, long ago now she had learnt by heart the whole of “Barbara Allan”:
+
+             “... She had not gane a mile but twa,
+                      When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
+                  And every jow that the dead-bell gied,
+                      It cryed, _Woe to Barbara Allan!_
+
+                  ‘O mother, mother, make my bed!
+                      O make it saft and narrow!
+                  Since my love died for me to-day,
+                      I’ll die for him to-morrow.’”
+
+Oh dear, how sad it was; and you never knew! Could it be, could it be,
+she cried one day to herself, that the dead, lovely Barbara Allan of the
+poem had got by some means muddled up in Time, and was in actual fact
+_her_ Little Gal? Could it be that the maiden-name of the wife of Miss
+Allan’s father had been Rawlings?
+
+Miss Rawlings was far too sensible merely to wonder about things. She at
+once enquired of Mr. Moffat (who had been once engaged to her dearest
+friend, Miss Simon, now no more) whether he knew anything about Barbara
+Allan’s family. “The family, Felicia?” Mr. Moffat had replied, his
+bristling eyebrows high in his head. And when, after a visit to the
+British Museum, Mr. Moffat returned with only two or three pages of
+foolscap closely written over with full particulars of the ballad and
+with “biographical details” of Bishop Percy and of Allan Ramsay and of
+Oliver Goldsmith and of the gentleman who had found the oldest
+manuscript copy of it in Glamis Castle, or some such ancient edifice,
+and of how enchantingly Samuel Pepys’s friend, Mrs. Knipp, used to sing
+him the air—but nothing else: Miss Rawlings very reluctantly gave up all
+certainty of this. “It still might be my Little Gal’s family,” she said,
+“and on the other hand it might not.” And she continued to say over to
+herself with infinite sorrow in her deep rich voice, that tragic stanza:
+
+                She had not gane a mile but twa,
+                  When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
+                And every jow that the dead-bell gied,
+                  It cryed, _Woe to Barbara Allan!_
+
+And “Oh no! not Woe,” she would say in her heart.
+
+Soon after this, Miss Rawlings fell ill. A day or two before she took to
+her bed, she had been walking along Laburnum Avenue, and had happened to
+see the pupils of the Miss Miffinses’ Young Ladies’ Seminary taking the
+air. Now, the last two and smallest of these pupils—of the Crocodile, as
+rude little boys call it—were walking arm in arm with the nice English
+mistress, chattering away like birds in a bush. Both of them were rather
+narrow little creatures, both wore beaver hats beneath which dangled
+brown pigtails. It was yet one more astonishing moment, and Miss
+Rawlings had almost broken into a run—as much of a run, that is, as
+being of so stout and ample a presence she was capable of—in order to
+get a glimpse of their faces.
+
+But, alas! and alack! the wrought-iron gates of the school were just
+round the corner of Laburnum Avenue, and the whole Crocodile had
+completely disappeared into the great stone porch beyond by the time she
+had come in sight of the two Monkey-Puzzles on the lawn, and the brass
+curtain bands to the windows.
+
+Miss Rawlings stood and gazed at these—for the moment completely
+forgetting polite manners. The hurry and excitement had made her hot and
+breathless: and the wind was in the east. It dispirited her, and instead
+of ringing the bell and asking for the Miss Miffinses, she had returned
+home and had at once written an invitation to the whole school to come
+to tea the following Sunday afternoon. In a moment of absent-mindedness,
+however, she left the note on her little rose-wood secretaire beside the
+silver inkstand that had belonged to Sir Samuel. And two days
+afterwards—on the Friday, that is, the month being February—she had been
+seized with Bronchitis.
+
+It was a rather more severe attack than was usual for Miss Rawlings,
+even in foggy November, and it made Miss Rawlings’s family physician a
+little anxious. There was no immediate danger, he explained to Nurse
+Murphy; still care is care. And Miss Rawlings, being so rich and so
+important to the Parish, he at once decided to invite an eminent
+Consultant to visit his patient—a Sir James Jolliboy Geoghehan who lived
+in Harley Street and knew more about Bronchitis (Harley Street being
+also in a foggy parish) than any other medical man in Europe or in the
+United States of America (which are not usually foggy places).
+
+Fortunately, Sir James took quite as bright and sanguine a view of his
+patient as did Miss Rawlings’s family physician. There Miss Rawlings
+lay, propped up against her beautiful down pillows with the frills all
+round, and a fine large pale blue-ribboned bed cap stood up on her large
+head. She was breathing pretty fast, and her temperature, according to
+both the gentlemen’s thermometers, was 102.6.
+
+A large copper kettle was ejecting clouds of steam from the vast
+cheerful fire in the vast brass and steel grate, with the Cupids in the
+chimneypiece. There were medicine bottles on the little table and not
+only Nurse Murphy stood grave but brave on the other side of the bed,
+but, even still more Irish Nurse O’Brien also. Now, the more solemn
+_she_ looked the more her face appeared to be creased up in a gentle
+grin.
+
+Miss Rawlings panted as she looked at them all. Her eye was a little
+absent, but she too was smiling. For if there was one thing Miss
+Rawlings was certain to do, it was to be cheerful when most other people
+would be inclined to be depressed. As she knew she was ill she felt
+bound to be smiling. She even continued to smile when Sir James
+murmured, “_And_ the tongue?” And she assured Sir James that though it
+was exceedingly kind of him to call it wasn’t in the least necessary. “I
+frequently have bronchitis,” she explained, “but I never die.” Which
+sounded a little like “rambling.”
+
+When Sir James and the family physician had gone downstairs and were
+closeted together in the gilded Library, Sir James at once asked this
+question: “What, my dear sir, was our excellent patient remarking about
+a Miss Barbara Allan? Has she a relative of the name?”
+
+At this Miss Rawlings’s family physician looked a little confused. “No,
+no; oh dear no,” he exclaimed. “It’s merely a little fancy, a caprice.
+Miss Rawlings has a notion there is a little girl belonging to her
+somewhere—probably of that name, you know. Quite harmless. An
+aberration. In fact, I indulge it; I indulge it. Miss Rawlings is a most
+able, sagacious, energetic, philanthropic, practical, generous,
+and—and—humorous lady. The fancy, you see, has somehow attached itself
+to the _name_ Barbara Allan—a heroine, I believe, in one of Sir Walter
+Scott’s admirable fictions. Only that. Nothing more.”
+
+Sir James, a tall man, peered down at Miss Rawlings’s family physician
+over his gold pince-nez. “I once had a patient, my dear Dr. Sheppard,”
+he replied solemnly in a voice a good deal deeper but not so rich as
+Miss Rawlings’s, “who had the amiable notion that she was the Queen of
+Sheba and that I was King Solomon. A _most_ practical woman. She left me
+three hundred guineas in her will, for a mourning ring.” He thereupon
+explained (in words that his patient could not possibly have understood,
+but that Dr. Sheppard understood perfectly), that Miss Rawlings was in
+no immediate danger and that she was indeed quite a comfortable little
+distance from Death’s Door. Still, bronchitis _is_ bronchitis; so let
+the dear lady be humoured as much as possible. “Let her have the very
+best nurses, excellent creatures; and all the comforts.” He smiled as he
+said these words, as if Dr. Sheppard was a long-lost brother. And he
+entirely approved not only of the nice sago puddings, the grapes, the
+delicious beef-juice (with toast _or_ a rusk), the barley water and the
+physic, but of as many Barbara Allans as Miss Rawlings could possibly
+desire. And all that he said sounded so much like the chorus of “Yeo,
+ho, ho,” or “Away to Rio,” or “The Anchor’s Weighed,” that one almost
+expected Dr. Sheppard to join in.
+
+Both gentlemen then took their leave, and Dr. Sheppard having escorted
+Sir James to his brougham (for this was before the days of machine
+carriages), the two nurses retired from the window and Miss Rawlings
+sank into a profound nap.
+
+In a few days Miss Rawlings was much, much, much better. Her temperature
+was 97.4. Her breathing no more than twenty-four or five to the
+minute—at most. The flush had left her cheeks, and she had finished
+three whole bottles of medicine. She devoured a slice from the breast of
+a chicken and said she enjoyed her sago pudding. The nurses _were_
+pleased.
+
+Now, naturally, of course, Miss Rawlings’s illness increased her anxiety
+to find Barbara Allan as quickly as ever she could. After all, you see,
+we all of us have only a certain number of years to live, and a year
+lasts only twelve calendar months, and the shortest month is only
+twenty-eight days (excluding Leap Year). So if you want to do anything
+badly it is better to begin at once, and go straight on.
+
+The very first day she was out in Mr. Dubbins’s invalid chair she met
+her dear friend Mr. Moffat in Combermere Grove, and he stood conversing
+with her for a while under the boughs of almost as wide a spreading
+chestnut-tree as the village blacksmith’s in the poem. Mr. Moffat always
+looked as if he ought to have the comfort of a sleek, bushy beard. If he
+had, it is quite certain it would have wagged a good deal as he listened
+to Miss Rawlings. “What I am about to do, my dear Mr. Moffat, is
+advertise,” she cried, and in such a powerful voice that the lowest
+fronds of the leafing chestnut-tree over her head slightly trembled as
+they hung a little listlessly on their stalks in the spring sunshine.
+
+“Advertise, my dear Felicia?” cried Mr. Moffat. “And what for?”
+
+“Why, my dear old friend,” replied Miss Rawlings, “for Barbara Allan to
+be sure.”
+
+Mr. Moffat blinked very rapidly, and the invisible beard wagged more
+than ever. And he looked hard at Miss Rawlings’s immense bonnet as if he
+actually expected to see that busy bee; as if he even feared it might be
+a Queen Bee and would produce a complete hive.
+
+But after bidding him good-bye with yet another wag of the bonnet and a
+“Yes, thank you, Dubbins,” Miss Rawlings was as good as her word. She
+always was. Three days afterwards there appeared in the _Times_, and in
+the _Morning Post_, and in the _Daily Telegraph_, and five days later,
+in the _Spectator_, the following:
+
+    WANTED as soon as possible, by a lady who has lost her as long
+    as she can remember, a little girl of the name (probably) of
+    Barbara Allan, or of a name that _sounds_ like Barbara Allan.
+    The little girl is about ten years old. She has a rather
+    three-cornered shaped face, with narrow cheek-bones, and bright
+    brown eyes. She is slim, with long fingers, and wears a pigtail
+    and probably a round beaver hat. She shall have an _exceedingly_
+    happy home and Every Comfort, and her friends (or relatives)
+    will be amply rewarded for all the care and kindness they have
+    bestowed upon her, for the first nine years or more of her life.
+
+You should have seen Miss Rawlings reading that advertisement over and
+over. Her _Times_ that morning had a perfume as of the spices of
+Ambrosia. But even Miss Rawlings could not have hoped that her
+advertisement would be so rapidly and spontaneously and abundantly
+answered. The whole day of every day of the following week her beautiful
+wrought-iron gates were opening and shutting and admitting all kinds and
+sorts and shapes and sizes of little girls with brown eyes, long
+fingers, pigtails and beaver hats, _about_ ten years of age. And usually
+an Aunt or a Step-mother or the Matron of an Orphanage or a Female
+Friend accompanied each candidate.
+
+There were three genuine Barbara Allans. But one had reddish hair and
+freckles; the second, curly flaxen hair that refused to keep to the
+pigtail-ribbon into which it had been tied; and the third, though her
+hair was brown, had grey speckled eyes, and looked to be at least
+eleven. Apart from these three, there were numbers and numbers of little
+girls whose Christian name was Barbara, but whose surname was Allison or
+Angus or Anson or Mallings or Bulling or Dalling or Spalding or
+Bellingham or Allingham, and so on and so forth. Then there were
+Marjories and Marcias and Margarets, Norahs and Doras, and Rhodas and
+Marthas, all of the name of Allen, or Allan or Alleyne or Alyn, and so
+on. And there was one little saffron-haired creature who came with a
+very large Matron, and whose name was Dulcibella Dobbs.
+
+Miss Rawlings, with her broad bright face and bright little eyes, smiled
+at them all from her chair, questioned their Aunts and their
+Stepmothers, and their Female Friends, and coveted every single one of
+them, including Dulcibella Dobbs. But you _must_ draw the line
+somewhere, as Euclid said to his little Greek pupils when he sat by the
+sparkling waves of the Ægean Sea and drew triangles in the sand. And
+Miss Rawlings felt in her heart that it was kinder and wiser and more
+prudent and proper to keep strictly to those little girls with the
+three-cornered faces, high cheek-bones, “really” bright brown eyes and
+with truly appropriate pigtails. With these she fell in love again and
+again and again.
+
+There was no doubt in the world that she had an exceedingly motherly
+heart, but very few mothers could so nicely afford to _give it rein_.
+Indeed, Miss Rawlings would have drawn the line nowhere, I am afraid, if
+it had not been for the fact that she had only ten thousand pounds or so
+a year.
+
+There were tears in her eyes when she bade the others good-bye. And to
+everyone she gave not one bun, not one orange, but a _bag_ of oranges
+and a _bag_ of buns. And not merely a bag of ordinary denia oranges and
+ordinary currant buns, but a bag of Jaffas and a bag of Bath. And she
+thanked their Guardianesses for having come such a long way, and would
+they be offended if she paid the fare? Only one was offended, but then
+her fare had cost only 3_d._—2_d._ for herself, and 1_d._ (half price)
+for the little Peggoty Spalding she brought with her. And Miss Rawlings
+paid _her_ sixpence.
+
+She kept thirty little ten-year-olds altogether, and you never saw so
+many young fortunate smiling pigtailed creatures so much alike. And Miss
+Rawlings, having been so successful, withdrew her advertisements from
+the _Times_ and the _Morning Post_ and the _Daily Telegraph_ and the
+_Spectator_, and she bought a most beautiful Tudor house called Trafford
+House, with one or two wings to it that had been added in the days of
+Good Queen Anne, and William and Mary, which stood in entirely its own
+grounds not ten miles from the Parish boundary. The forest trees in its
+park were so fine—cedars, sweet chestnuts, and ash and beech and
+oak—that you could only get a glimpse of its chimneys from the entrance
+to the drive.
+
+Things _are_ often curious in this world, and coincidences are almost as
+common as centipedes. So Miss Rawlings was more happy than surprised
+when, on looking over this mansion, she counted (and to make sure
+counted again) exactly thirty little bedrooms, with some larger ones
+over for a matron, a nurse, some parlour-maids, some housemaids, some
+tweeny-maids and a boy to clean the button-boots and shoes. When her
+legal adviser explained to her that this establishment, what with the
+little chests-of-drawers, basins and ewers, brass candlesticks, oval
+looking-glasses, mahogany beds, three-legged stools, dimity curtains,
+woolly rugs, not to speak of chiffoniers, what-nots, hot-water bottles,
+soup ladles, and so on and so forth; not to mention a uniform with brass
+buttons for the man with whiskers at the park gate, would cost her at
+least six thousand a year, that bee in Miss Rawlings’s bonnet buzzed as
+if indeed it _was_ a whole hive gone a-swarming.
+
+“Well, now, my dear Mr. Wilkinson,” she said, “I made a little estimate
+myself, being a _business_ woman, and it came to £6,004 10_s._ 0_d._ How
+reasonable! I shall be over four pounds in pocket.”
+
+So, in a few weeks everything was ready; new paint, new gravel on the
+paths, geraniums in the flower-beds, quilts as neat as daisies on a lawn
+on the mahogany beds, and the thirty Barbara Allans sitting fifteen a
+side at the immensely long oak table (where once in Henry VIII’s time
+monks had eaten their fish on Fridays), the matron with the corkscrew
+curls at the top and the chief nurse in her starched cap at the bottom.
+And Miss Rawlings, seated in the South bow-window in an old oak chair
+with her ebony and ivory stick and her purple bonnet, smiling at her
+Barbara Allans as if she had mistaken Trafford House for the Garden of
+Eden.
+
+And I must say every single pigtail of the complete thirty bobbed as
+merrily as roses in June over that first Grand Tea—blackberry jelly,
+strawberry jam, home-made bread, plum cake, the best beef-dripping for
+those who had not a sweet or a milk tooth, Sally Lunns, heather honey,
+maids-of-honour, and an enormous confection of marchpane, with cupids
+and comfits and silver bells and thirty little candles standing up in
+the midst of the table like St. Paul’s Cathedral on the top of Ludgate
+Hill in the great city of London. It was a lucky thing for the Thirty’s
+insides that Grand Teas are not every-day teas.
+
+[Illustration: “THAT FIRST GRAND TEA”]
+
+And so, when all the thirty Pigtails had sung a Latin grace put out of
+English by Mr. Moffat and set to a tune composed by a beloved uncle of
+Miss Rawlings, who also was now no more, the Grand Tea came to an end.
+Whereupon the Thirty (looking themselves like yet another Crocodile with
+very fat joints) came and said good night to Miss Rawlings, though some
+of them could scarcely speak. And as Miss Rawlings knew that not _all_
+little girls like being kissed by comparative strangers, she just shook
+hands with each, and smiled at them as if her motherly heart would
+almost break. And Dr. Sheppard was Medical Adviser to the thirty little
+Pigtailers, and Mr. Moffat came every other Sunday to hear their
+catechisms.
+
+And this was the order of the day with the Pigtails in their home. At
+half-past seven in Summer, and at nine in Winter, the boy in buttons
+rang an immense bell, its clapper tied round with a swab of cotton-wool,
+to prevent it from clanging too sonorously. This great quiet bell was
+not only to waken from their last sweet dreams the slumbering Pigtails
+in their little beds, but to tell them they had yet another half-hour
+between the blankets before they had to get up. Then, hair-brushes,
+tooth-brushes, nailbrushes, as usual. Then, “When morning gilds the
+sky,” and breakfast in the wide white room with the primrose curtains
+looking out into the garden. And if any Pigtail happened to have been
+not quite so good as usual on the previous day, she was allowed—if she
+asked for it—to have a large plateful of porridge, with or without salt,
+for a punishment. No less than ninety-nine such platefuls were served
+out in the first year—the Pigtails were so high-spirited. Still, it can
+be imagined what a thirty-fold sigh of relief went up when breakfast on
+December 31st was over and there hadn’t been a hundredth.
+
+From nine _a.m._ to twelve _p.m._ the Pigtails were one and all
+exceedingly busy. Having made their beds they ran out into the garden
+and woods: some to bathe in the stream, some to listen to the birds,
+some to talk and some to sing; some to paint and some to play, and some
+to read and some to dance, and some just to sit; and some, high up in a
+beech-tree, to learn poems, to make up poems and even to read each
+other’s. It all depended on the weather. The sun shone, the rooks cawed,
+the green silken leaves whispered; and Miss Rawlings would stand looking
+up at them in their venturous perch as fondly as a cat at its kittens.
+There was not at last a flower or a tree or an insect or a star in those
+parts—or a bird or a little beast or a fish or a toadstool or a moss or
+a pebble that the little Pigtails did not know by heart. And the more
+they knew them the more closely they looked at them, and the more
+closely they looked at them the more they loved them and the more they
+knew them—round and round and round and round.
+
+[Illustration: “HIGH UP IN A BEECH-TREE TO LEARN POEMS”]
+
+From twelve to one there were “Lessons”; then dinner, and tongues like
+jackdaws raiding a pantry for silver spoons. In the afternoon those who
+went for a walk towards the stranger parts, went for a walk. Some stayed
+at home in a little parlour and sang in chorus together like a charm of
+wild birds. Some did their mending and darning, their hemming and
+feather-stitching, and some did sums. Some played on the fiddle, and
+some looked after their bullfinches and bunnies and bees and guinea-pigs
+and ducks. Then there were the hens and the doves and the calves and the
+pigs to feed, and the tiny motherless lambs, too (when lambs there were)
+with bottles of milk. And sometimes of an afternoon Miss Rawlings would
+come in and sit at a window just watching her Pigtails, or would read
+them a story. And Dr. Sheppard asseverated not once, but three times
+over, that if she went on bringing them sweetmeats and candies and
+lollipops and suckets to such an _extent_, not a single sound white
+ivory tooth of their nine hundred or so would be left in the Pigtails’
+heads. So Miss Rawlings kept to Sundays.
+
+At five was tea-time: jam on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays; jelly on
+Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays; and both on Sundays. From six to
+seven there were “Lessons,” and when the little Pigtails were really
+tired, which was always before nine, they just slipped off to bed. Some
+of them had munched their supper biscuits and were snug in bed indeed
+even before the rest had sung the evening hymn. And the evening hymn was
+always “Eternal Father”—for being all of them so extremely happy they
+could not but be “in peril on the deep.” For happiness in this world may
+fly away like birds in corn, or butterflies before rain. And on Sundays
+they sang “Lead, kindly light” too, because Miss Rawlings’s mother had
+once been blessed by the great and blessed Cardinal Newman. And one
+Pigtail played the accompaniment on her fiddle, and one on the
+sweet-tongued viola, and one on the harpsichord; for since Miss Rawlings
+had read “Barbara Allan” she had given up pianofortes. And then, sleepy
+and merry and chattering, they all trooped up to bed.
+
+So this was their Day. And all night, unseen, the stars shone in their
+splendour above the roof of Trafford House, or the white-faced moon
+looked down upon the sleeping garden and the doves and the pigs and the
+lambs and the flowers. And at times there was a wind in the sky among
+the clouds; and at times frost in the dark hours settled like meal
+wheresoever its cold brightness might find a lodging. And when the
+little Pigtails awoke, there would be marvellous cold fronds and
+flowerets on their windowpanes, and even sometimes a thin crankling slat
+of ice in their water-jugs. On which keen winter mornings you could hear
+their teeth chattering like monkeys cracking nuts. And so time went on.
+
+On the very next June 1, there was a prodigious Garden Party at
+Trafford House, with punts on the lake and refreshments and lemonade
+in a tent in the park, and all the Guardianesses and Aunts and
+Stepmothers and Matrons and Female Friends were invited to come and
+see Miss Rawlings’s little Pigtails. And some brought their sisters,
+and some their nieces and nephews. There were Merry-go-Rounds, Aunt
+Sallies, Frisk-and-Come-Easies, a Punch and Judy Show, a Fat Man, a
+Fortune-Teller, and three marvellous acrobats from Hong Kong. And
+there were quantities of things to eat and lots to see, and
+Kiss-in-the-Ring, and all broke up after fireworks and “God Save the
+Queen” at half-past nine.
+
+The house, as I keep on saying, was called Trafford House, but the
+_Home_ was called “The Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such
+like, with Brown Eyes, Narrow Cheekbones, Beaver Hats, and Pigtails,
+Ltd.” And it was “limited” because there could be only thirty of them,
+and time is not Eternity.
+
+And now there were only three things that prevented Miss Rawlings from
+being too intensely happy to go on being alive; and these three were as
+follows: (_a_) She wanted to live always at the House—but how could the
+Parish get on without her? (_b_) What was she going to do when the
+Pigtailers became 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, etc., and grown-up? And (_c_)
+How could she ever possibly part with any of them or get any more?
+
+For, you see, Miss Rawlings’s first-of-all Barbara Allan was aged 10,
+and had somehow managed to stay there. But because, I suppose, things
+often go right in this world when we are not particularly noticing them,
+and don’t know how, all these difficulties simply melted away at last
+like butter in the sun.
+
+In the first place, Miss Rawlings did at last (in 1888, to be exact, one
+year after Queen Victoria’s first Jubilee), did, I say, at last go to
+live at the Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such like with
+Brown Eyes, Beaver Hats, and Pigtails, Ltd. She was called The Matron’s
+Friend, so as not to undermine the discipline. When her Parish wanted
+her, which was pretty often, the Parish (thirty or forty strong) came to
+see her in her little parlour overlooking the pond with the punts and
+the water-lilies.
+
+Next, though how, who can say, the little Pigtails somehow did not grow
+up, even though they must have grown older. Something queer happened to
+their Time. It cannot have been what just the clocks said. If there
+wasn’t more of it, there was infinitely more _in_ it. It was like air
+and dew and sunbeams and the South Wind to them all. You simply could
+not tell what next. And, apart from all that wonderful learning, apart
+even from the jam and jelly and the Roast Beef of Old England, they went
+on being just the right height and the right heart for ten. Their brown
+eyes never lost their light and sparkle. No wrinkles ever came in their
+three-cornered faces with the high cheek-bones; and not a single grey or
+silver hair into their neat little pigtails that could at any rate be
+seen.
+
+Next, therefore, Miss Rawlings never had to part with any of them or to
+search or advertise for any more.
+
+Yet another peculiar thing was that Miss Rawlings grew more and more
+like a Pigtail herself. She grew younger. She laughed like a
+school-girl. Her face became a little narrower, even the cheek-bones
+seemed not to be so wide. As for her bonnets, as time “went on,” they
+grew up instead of broadwise. And when she sat in Church with the
+Thirty, in the third pew down from Mrs. Tomlington’s, you might almost
+have supposed she herself was a widish pigtail, just a little bit
+dressed up.
+
+It is true that in the very secretest corner of her heart of hearts she
+was still looking for the one and only absolute little Barbara Allan of
+her life-long day-dream; but that is how things go. And the thought of
+it brought only a scarcely perceptible grave glance of hope and enquiry
+into her round brown eyes. But underneath—oh dear me, yes—she was almost
+too happy and ordinary and good-natured and homely a Miss Rawlings to be
+telling this story about at all.
+
+We all die at last—just journey on—and so did Miss Rawlings. And so did
+the whole of the Thirty, and the matron, and the chief nurse, and Mr.
+Moffat, and Dr. Sheppard, and the Man with whiskers at the park gates,
+_and_ the Boy who cleaned the button-boots; parlour-maids, tweeny-maids,
+Mrs. Tomlington and all.
+
+And if you would like to see the Old House and the little graves, you
+take the first turning on the right as you leave the Parish Church on
+your left, and walk on until you come to a gate-post beyond the
+mile-stone. A path crossing the fields—sometimes of wheat, sometimes of
+turnips, sometimes of barley or oats or swedes—brings you to a farm in
+the hollow with a duck-pond, guinea-fowl roosting in the pines at
+evening, and a lovely old thatched barn where the fantailed doves croon
+in the sunshine. You then cross the yard and come to a lane beside a
+wood of thorn and hazel. This bears a little East, and presently after
+ascending the hill beyond the haystack you will see—if it is still
+there—The Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such like with Brown
+Eyes, Beaver Hats and Pigtails, Ltd.
+
+And not very far away is a little smooth-mown patch of turf with a
+beautiful thatched wall round it, which Mr. Moffat consecrated himself.
+And there, side by side, sleep the Little Thirty, with their pigtails
+beside their narrow bones. And there lie the tweeny-maids, the
+parlour-maids, the Man with whiskers at the park gate, and the Boy who
+cleaned the button-boots. And there Miss Rawlings, too. And when the
+last trump sounds, up they will get as happy as wood-larks, and as sweet
+and fresh as morning mushrooms. But if you want to hear any more about
+_that_, please turn to the Poems of Mr. William Blake.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                  THE
+                              PERFECT HOST
+
+                (_From Lady Trenchard’s Visitor’s Book_)
+
+                                                      SIR WALTER RALEIGH
+
+
+                What is it makes the Perfect Host?
+                Not wine and coffee, eggs and toast,
+                For these you can get just as well
+                In any dreary good hotel;
+                Not resolute attempts to please,
+                For money will procure you these.
+                The Perfect Host thinks vastly less
+                Of comfort than of happiness.
+                He’s happy; and the overflow
+                Belongs to those who come and go.
+                Within his house you’ll hear no quarrels
+                And very little talk of morals,
+                He does not lead a perfect life,
+                He sometimes has a perfect wife.
+                But this of all his points is best—
+                He does not want a perfect guest;
+                And even when you go too far
+                He’s friendly with you as you are.
+
+
+
+
+                               The Spark
+
+                                                              A. PEMBURY
+
+
+        The daylight was fading, and shadowy gloom
+        Was creeping and crawling all over the room,
+        When out of the fire, like a star in the dark,
+        There leapt to the fender a bright little spark.
+
+        “Ha, ha, little children!” it chuckled with glee,
+        “I’ve something to tell you, so listen to me!
+        This morning, Tom Dull, whom I never admire,
+        Was sitting in front of this very same fire;
+        And, as it burned dimly, was heard to remark:
+        ‘Oh, Mary! There’s nothing in here but a spark!’
+
+        “The spark was myself, and I thought, Well-a-day!
+        It’s hard to be judged in that impudent way.
+        But stuck to my labours, and shortly, you know,
+        Had warmed up the coals to a beautiful glow.
+
+        “I called from their slumbers, the fairies of flame,
+        And out on the carpet they merrily came,
+        And up all the curtains, a marvel to view,
+        They climbed as no others are able to do.
+
+        “They peeped in the corners where shadows lay hid,
+        And chuckled: ‘We’ve found you! Come out!’ and they did.
+        Thus, darting about in the liveliest play,
+        They caught all the shadows and drove them away.
+
+        “I’m certain they laughed, though you think it absurd;
+        For never a sound of that laughter was heard.
+        Yet where is the wonder, for who will dispute
+        That hearts often laugh when the lips are quite mute?
+
+        “That’s all. But in parting, oh, take it from me
+        That sparks of endeavour, though tiny to see,
+        May quickly grow stronger and end, as you guess,
+        In lighting the beautiful fire of success.
+        My task is accomplished. Good-bye!” said the spark—
+        And, giving one flash, he went out in the dark.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                               Theophania
+
+                                                     ADELAIDE PHILLPOTTS
+
+
+Peter-Wise was a clever young peasant who lived in a little village that
+looked like a dimple in the hillside. He owned fifty mooing cows, one
+hundred baaing sheep, forty grunting pigs, two hundred clacking
+fowls—and a bellowing bull. And he prophesied that in ten years’ time he
+would have doubled these numbers. But with all this wealth, Peter-Wise
+lacked the most important creature of all—a wife. Without a wife, what
+is the use of fifty cows, one hundred sheep, forty pigs, two hundred
+fowls—and a bull?
+
+Now Peter-Wise declared that he would not marry a maiden who was less
+than seventeen or more than twenty-two years old, and in the village
+there were only six girls between these ages who were not already
+betrothed or wed. Of these six, therefore—all of whom, being brought up
+on cream and honey and wheaten bread and saffron cake and wild
+strawberries, were bonny and plump and fair to see—Peter-Wise decided to
+choose the cleverest, who, nevertheless, must be just the least bit less
+clever than he was. So, to discover which was the cleverest, for, busy
+man that he was with his cows and his sheep and his pigs and his
+fowls—and his bull, he had not the time to woo each separately, he
+resolved to set them three tasks: one to try their fingers; one to try
+their brains; one to try their imaginations; and to marry her who
+succeeded best in the three.
+
+[Illustration: “I WILL MARRY WHICHEVER OF YOU CAN PERFORM THREE TASKS”]
+
+So Peter-Wise summoned Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy, and
+Theophania, called Tiffany for short—these were the names of the
+girls—and said to them:
+
+“Children, I will marry whichever of you can perform to the best
+advantage these three tasks: first, to darn a hole in the heel of a
+sock; secondly, to open, without touching the keyhole, the big barn door
+which is always locked; thirdly, to catch the moon and put it into a
+wash-tub.”
+
+Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy said:
+
+“Oh, the sock is easy enough, but the door and the moon——”
+
+Theophania, called Tiffany for short, said: “The door and the moon
+should be easy enough, but the sock——”
+
+The three trials were to take place in the morning, afternoon and
+evening respectively. So in the morning the six maidens assembled in
+Peter-Wise’s parlour—Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy in
+their best flowered-prints—Tiffany in a green smock; Tiffany had brown
+eyes, but the eyes of the others were five different shades of blue:
+speedwell, cornflower, lupin, forget-me-not, and chicory.
+
+Peter-Wise gave them each a sock, out of which he had cut the heel, and
+left them for an hour to darn the hole. When he came back the six socks
+were lying on the table in a heap, finished. He examined them carefully.
+Then he said:
+
+“Five of these socks are so perfectly darned that not one exceeds
+another in excellence. The sixth, however, is very badly done—a mere
+cobble. Come forward in turn, and let her who darned _this_ sock claim
+it.”
+
+Mary tripped forward, looked at the sock, turned up her nose a little
+and shook her pretty head. “Not mine,” said she. Then came Sally and
+Polly and Minnie and Lucy, also turning up their noses a little and
+shaking their pretty heads and saying: “Not mine,” “Not mine,” “Not
+mine,” “Not mine.” Lastly, with a twinkle in her eye, came Theophania,
+called Tiffany for short.
+
+“Mine,” she said. “I never, never shall be able to darn.”
+
+“The first task is over,” announced Peter-Wise. “This afternoon meet me
+outside the big barn door which is always locked, at three o’clock.”
+
+And away trotted Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy and
+Tiffany.
+
+At three o’clock they met outside the big barn door, wearing pink and
+yellow and blue and white and green sunbonnets, and fluttering together
+like butterflies, except Tiffany, who did not wear a bonnet at all, and
+she stood by herself, thinking.
+
+Peter-Wise said:
+
+“This door, as you know, is always kept locked. Here is the key. Now,
+let me see which of you can open it without touching the keyhole, for I
+assure you it can quite easily be done.”
+
+“How can we open a locked door without a key?” said Mary and Sally and
+Polly and Minnie and Lucy in dismay, and each thought—“It is useless
+trying the handle—besides, I should look so foolish, and the others
+would jeer.”
+
+But Tiffany—who always thought her own thoughts, not other
+people’s—thought something quite different.
+
+“We give it up,” sorrowfully said Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie
+and Lucy.
+
+“And you?” asked Peter-Wise of Tiffany.
+
+Tiffany thought: “Because the door has always been locked before, that
+doesn’t prove it is locked to-day. Anyhow, here goes!” And she marched
+up to the big barn door, turned the handle, and—opened it wide!
+
+“Oh!” cried Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy. “But it is
+always locked!”
+
+“It wasn’t to-day,” said Theophania, called Tiffany for short; and she
+could not help laughing, kindly, at the five expressions of surprise on
+the five fair faces.
+
+“The second task is over,” said Peter-Wise. “Now go and borrow your
+mothers’ wash-tubs, wait till the moon rises, catch it, and put it in
+the tub. Then come and fetch me.”
+
+“But,” said Tiffany, “there is only one moon.”
+
+“Exactly,” he replied, “therefore only one of you can succeed.”
+
+Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy whispered together.
+
+“He is making sport of us,” they agreed. “Not even Tiffany can catch the
+moon. We must give it up.” And each of them said in her heart: “After
+all, so-and-so would make a much better husband.”
+
+So they gave it up.
+
+[Illustration: “THERE, SURE ENOUGH, WAS THE ROUND, SILVER MOON”]
+
+But in the evening Tiffany came to Peter-Wise and said:
+
+“I have caught the moon and put it into mother’s wash-tub. Come and
+see.”
+
+“Caught the moon!” exclaimed Peter. “But there it is up in the sky!”
+
+“Not at all,” replied she. “That is not the moon.”
+
+The night was still and warm. Peter-Wise followed Tiffany to a
+water-meadow, in the middle of which was her mother’s wash-tub.
+
+“There!” she cried, pointing. “Go and see if the moon isn’t in that
+tub.”
+
+So he went up to it, looked over the edge, and there, sure enough, was
+the round, silver moon shining up at him.
+
+“Well, but there are not two moons,” he said, looking at the other moon
+in the sky.
+
+“How foolish you are!” said Tiffany. “That moon in the sky is just the
+reflection of the real moon in this tub.”
+
+Peter-Wise was determined to make sure, so he took a penny out of his
+pocket and dropped it into the tub. It fell through the moon with a
+splash.
+
+“Oh ho!” he exclaimed. “Whoever heard of a penny falling through the
+moon? This moon is made of water.”
+
+“Nobody ever tried to throw a penny through before,” said Tiffany.
+
+Then Peter-Wise kicked the tub, and the moon began to wobble. A piece of
+it splashed over the edge on to his boots.
+
+“Whoever heard of the moon being spilt?” he asked.
+
+“Nobody ever tried to spill it before,” said Tiffany.
+
+Peter-Wise stroked his chin.
+
+“I have it!” he cried, and grasping the tub, heaved it sideways and
+upset the mock moon on to the grass, where with little watery sighs it
+slowly disappeared.
+
+“So much for your moon,” said he. “And behold its reflection is still in
+the sky!” But Tiffany only laughed and laughed and laughed.
+
+“Yes,” said Peter to himself, “she is certainly the cleverest girl in
+the village, but just the least bit less clever than I am. I will marry
+her.” And aloud he said:
+
+“Theophania, you shall, in spite of the sock and the moon that was not a
+moon, be my wife.”
+
+“Peter-Wise,” she answered, “you shall not win me so easily. There is a
+task that _you_ shall perform for _me_ before I will marry you.”
+
+“Well, that is only fair after all,” said he, rather taken aback.
+
+“It is quite out of the question for me to marry you before I can darn a
+sock,” she continued, “but in six years I shall have perfected myself in
+that difficult art. Will you wait for me six years?”
+
+This she said to try his love.
+
+“I will wait,” said he, who really loved her, and knew something about
+women.
+
+Now, at the end of three months Peter-Wise was still waiting for
+Theophania, and she realised that he would keep his word for the rest of
+the six years. But meanwhile she had learnt to darn as beautifully as
+Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy, who by this time were
+betrothed respectively to John and James and William and Tom and Adam.
+So she came to him one day with an example of her darning, and said:
+
+“Peter, it has not taken me so long to learn to darn as I thought it
+would. How would it be if we were married _before_ the six years are
+up?”
+
+“We will get married whenever you please, dear heart,” he said, not
+surprised.
+
+“Well then,” she replied, “—to-morrow.”
+
+And they were married at eleven o’clock the next morning.
+
+
+
+
+                      The Weasel in the Storeroom
+
+                   (_La Fontaine, Fables, III._, 17)
+
+                                                            EDWARD MARSH
+
+
+      Into a storeroom once Miss Weasel came,
+      Through a small hole squeezing her lank lean frame:
+      From illness she had grown so slender.
+      Once in, she made complete surrender
+      To her capacious appetite,
+      Nibbling and guzzling day and night.
+      The life she led, Lord only knew,
+      Or the amount of bacon she got through—
+      Small wonder she grew chubby, plump, and sleek!
+      After this diet for a week,
+      She heard some noise which made her wish to egress.
+      Where was the hole? She scuttled to and fro.
+      Surely ’twas this one? No—then this? Still less.
+      “Well, bless my soul!” she said, “’twas here, I know,
+      I wriggled through, hardly a week ago.”
+      A rat perceived how she was troubled.
+      “Since you’ve been here,” said he, “your paunch has doubled.
+      Thin you came in, and thin you must go out.”
+
+      This has been said to others, I’ve no doubt;
+      But Reader, be it far from you or me
+      To press the delicate analogy.[2]
+
+Footnote 2:
+
+  The allusion is to the tribunal set up by Colbert to enquire into the
+  peculations of the Financiers.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                            Love the Jealous
+
+
+                                                            W. H. DAVIES
+
+              I praised the daisies on my lawn,
+              And then my lady mowed them down.
+                My garden stones, improved by moss,
+                She moved—and that was Beauty’s loss.
+              When I adored the sunlight, she
+              Kept a bright fire indoors for me.
+                  She saw I loved the birds, and that
+                  Made her one day bring home a cat.
+              She plucks my flowers to deck each room,
+              And make me follow where they bloom.
+                  Because my friends were kind and many,
+                  She said—“What need has Love of any?”
+              What is my gain, and what my loss?
+              Fire without sun, stones bare of moss,
+                  Daisies beheaded, one by one;
+                  The birds cat-hunted, friends all gone—
+              These are my losses: yet, I swear,
+              A love less jealous in its care
+                  Would not be worth the changing skin
+                  That she and I are living in.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                                  The
+                             Magic Medicine
+
+                            BY
+                              DENIS MACKAIL
+
+
+Once upon a time there was a very naughty little girl called Freda. She
+was what is known as an only child, and so you might have thought that
+her father and mother and her grandparents and her uncles and aunts and
+her nurse would have had all the more time for teaching her to be good.
+But though this was perfectly true, and they all worked very hard at
+saying “Don’t do that, Freda,” or “Put that down at once!” she continued
+to be extremely naughty.
+
+She never tried to be polite to anybody, she used to tear her clothes on
+purpose, she used to break her toys, and walk in puddles, and snatch
+things from other children, and say things that weren’t true, and eat
+gravel and blow bubbles in her milk. If there are any other naughty
+things that I have forgotten to mention, then she did them too. And when
+she was scolded, instead of saying she was sorry, she used to lie down
+on the ground and bellow at the top of her voice.
+
+For this reason the people who knew her best grew to be rather careful
+about scolding her—especially in the Park, where her behaviour had often
+attracted quite a crowd; but, of course, the only result of this was
+that she became far naughtier than ever.
+
+Is that perfectly clear? Well, now we come to the story.
+
+One afternoon she was taken to a children’s party, where there was not
+only a bran-pie but also a conjuror. Freda was fairly good while she was
+being dressed, and still fairly good while she was driving there in the
+taxi with her nurse, but as soon as she got to the party itself she just
+let herself go. She made a face at a little boy who was smaller than she
+was until he cried and had to be taken to sit upstairs. She snatched a
+balloon from another child and burst it, so that the child also cried
+and had to be taken to sit upstairs. And when the bran-pie came in, she
+felt about in it for nearly two minutes until she had found the largest
+parcel—which, of course, is cheating—and afterwards, because she didn’t
+like what was inside, she forced another little girl to change presents
+with her, and the other little girl cried and had to be taken to sit
+upstairs.
+
+And when the conjuror was in the middle of his most difficult trick and
+had just got to the part where he was going to cut open an orange and
+take out of it a watch which he had borrowed from the father of the
+little girl who was giving the party, I am sorry to say that Freda
+shouted out: “It isn’t the same orange!”
+
+This was exceedingly naughty of her, and distressed the conjuror more
+than I can say, as well as spoiling all the pleasure of the good
+children who thought it _was_ the same orange. And several of them were
+so much upset that they cried, and had to be taken to sit upstairs.
+
+Freda’s nurse had seen her doing all these naughty things, but she had
+said to herself: “It’s no use my saying anything to Miss Freda now,
+because if I do she will only lie down on the floor and bellow at the
+top of her voice. It will be better to speak to her about it when we get
+home.” So she contented herself by making a stern face when she thought
+that Freda and no one else could see her. Only, as a matter of fact, she
+did this just at the wrong moment and missed Freda altogether, and only
+succeeded in frightening a little boy in a kilt. And he cried, and had
+to be taken to sit upstairs.
+
+So Freda went on being naughtier and naughtier, and the room upstairs
+became fuller and fuller of other children, but the lady whose little
+girl was giving the party didn’t like to say anything because she
+thought, “Freda is an only child, and, anyhow, I needn’t ask her another
+time.” And Freda’s nurse didn’t like to say anything because (as I have
+already told you) she was afraid that Freda might disgrace her by lying
+down on the floor and bellowing at the top of her voice.
+
+Is that all perfectly clear? Well, now we get on to what happened next.
+
+All the children went into the dining-room, where there were so many
+buns and chocolates and crackers and pink cakes and sandwiches and other
+things of this nature that their eyes nearly popped out of their heads.
+And in the middle of the biggest table there was an enormous cake, and
+on the top of the enormous cake there was a rather smaller cake, and on
+the top of the rather smaller cake there was a golden star.
+
+And as soon as Freda saw this golden star, she pointed at it (which, of
+course, she shouldn’t have done) and said in a very loud, clear voice:
+“I WANT THAT STAR.”
+
+If only her nurse had heard these words, she would most certainly have
+said something which would have made Freda lie down on the floor and
+bellow at the top of her voice. For there is no need to explain how
+naughty it is to point at things in other people’s houses and say that
+you want them. No grown-up person would ever dream of doing a thing like
+that.
+
+But, as a matter of fact, the nurse had just met another nurse who was a
+great friend of hers, and although they had had a long talk in the Park
+only that very morning, they still found they had so much to tell each
+other that neither of them heard what Freda was saying.
+
+Is that all perfectly clear? Well, now Freda really _is_ going to be
+naughty.
+
+For I am grieved to say that, having pushed a number of other children
+out of the way (several of whom cried and had to be taken to sit
+upstairs) she went on pushing until she had got right up to the middle
+table. And then, when no one was looking, she stood up very quickly on a
+chair and snatched at the golden star.
+
+I really don’t know what, exactly, she meant to do with it, because she
+had no pocket in her party frock; and very likely if she had been left
+to herself she would have got tired of the golden star and dropped it
+under the table.
+
+But just at this moment a little boy in a white silk blouse looked up
+and saw what she had done.
+
+“Oh!” he said, in a very loud, clear voice. “Freda has taken the golden
+star.”
+
+And all the other children began to shout and tell each other that Freda
+had taken the golden star. And Freda’s nurse heard the noise, and came
+quickly to see what had happened.
+
+“What’s the matter, Miss Freda?” she said. “What did you do?”
+
+“Nothing,” said Freda.
+
+“She did,” said a little girl who had just lost all her front teeth.
+“She took the golden star off the top of the cake.”
+
+“Put it back at once,” said Freda’s nurse.
+
+“Shan’t!” said Freda.
+
+And then the nurse saw it in her hand and tried to take it from her. And
+Freda never stopped to think what the star might be made of, but put it
+very quickly into her mouth, and crunched it into three bits, and
+swallowed them all with one swallow.
+
+“I’ve swallowed it,” she said.
+
+Her nurse turned first pink, then white, and then green in the face.
+
+“Put it out at once,” she said.
+
+“I can’t,” said Freda. “It’s gone.”
+
+“Oh dear,” said the nurse. “Does anyone know what that star was made
+of?”
+
+But nobody knew what the star was made of. Even the mother of the little
+girl whose party it was didn’t know.
+
+“What did it taste like?” they asked Freda.
+
+But she had swallowed it so quickly that she didn’t know.
+
+“You’re a very naughty little girl,” said the nurse. And of course you
+can all guess what happened then. Freda got off her chair and lay down
+on the floor, and began to bellow at the top of her voice.
+
+But it was far too serious a case to be treated merely by sending her to
+sit upstairs. For all that anyone knew the star might have been made of
+the most deadly kind of poison. So Freda’s nurse ran off and found her
+shawl, and she picked her up off the floor (where she was still
+bellowing at the top of her voice) and wrapped the shawl round her and
+carried her away and put her into a taxi, and they drove back to Freda’s
+home, and she missed the dancing altogether—which served her perfectly
+right.
+
+And when they got home, the nurse went to the cupboard in the corner of
+the room and took out a very large bottle and a very small glass, and
+filled the very small glass from the very large bottle, and then she
+said to Freda:
+
+“Now you must drink this.”
+
+At these words Freda lay down on the floor and bellowed at the top of
+her voice.
+
+“If you don’t drink it,” said the nurse, “you will have a terrible
+pain.”
+
+“Whoo-hoo-hoo,” said Freda (for this was the way that she bellowed), and
+she crawled right under the table—in her best frock—and stayed there.
+
+“Now, Miss Freda,” said the nurse presently, when everything else had
+failed, “I shall put this glass on the table here, and I shall go
+upstairs and turn on your bath, and if you haven’t drunk it by the time
+I come back again, I shall be very angry indeed.”
+
+Then she left the room, and after a second Freda came out from under the
+table and picked up the glass and sloshed all the slimy stuff in it into
+the fireplace, and it spluttered and fizzed and disappeared from sight.
+
+And when she had done this, she was terribly frightened.
+
+She was so frightened that when the nurse came back and said, “Ah,
+that’s a good little girl. I see you’ve drunk it all up nicely,” she
+never said anything at all. She didn’t even bellow at the top of her
+voice.
+
+All the time she was having her bath she was trying to say what she had
+done, but she never could quite bring herself to do it. And after she
+was in bed she called out suddenly to her nurse, meaning to say what she
+had done with the slimy stuff in the little glass; but when the nurse
+came in, she just couldn’t get it out. She pretended that she had wanted
+a drink of water, and the nurse gave it her and went away again, and
+Freda was left alone—still feeling terribly frightened.
+
+“Supposing,” she thought, “that star really _was_ made of poison.
+Supposing that stuff I threw in the fire might have saved me. Oh dear,
+if the poison kills me now, it will be all my own fault.”
+
+It was a long time before she could go to sleep, and in the morning she
+hadn’t been awake for more than five minutes when it all came back to
+her. But she had left it so long now, that it was quite impossible to
+tell anyone.
+
+Is that all perfectly clear? Well, now I’ll tell you something that
+Freda doesn’t know to this day.
+
+The mother of the little girl who had given the party had been so
+anxious about Freda that the very first thing in the morning she had
+telephoned to the shop where the cake had come from, and had asked the
+lady there what the star was made of. And the lady had said: “Sugar.”
+And the mother of the little girl who had given the party had telephoned
+to Freda’s house and had asked to speak to Freda’s nurse and had told
+her that the star was made of sugar. And when Freda’s nurse heard this
+she was very much relieved, but at the same time she wasn’t going to
+tell Freda that she had made her drink that slimy stuff (as she thought)
+for nothing at all. “If I do that,” she said to herself, “I shall never
+get Miss Freda to drink any medicine again.”
+
+So she said nothing; and Freda—who of course hadn’t drunk even a drop of
+the slimy stuff—went about wondering when the poison was going to begin
+working, and whether it would hurt horribly when it did.
+
+She was so frightened now that if only she could have got at the large
+bottle, she would have drunk it all up without saying anything—and that
+really _would_ have made her ill. But she couldn’t get at the large
+bottle, because the cupboard was out of her reach.
+
+And so what do you think she did?
+
+She went to the china pig in which she kept all her money, and she shook
+it and rattled it and waved it and waggled it until at last a very
+bright sixpence (which her grandfather had once given her) rolled out on
+to the floor. And she picked up this sixpence, and waited carefully
+until her nurse went up to the bathroom to wash out the party frock
+which had got all dirty from being under the table last night, and then
+she ran downstairs very quickly and let herself out by the front door
+and ran off to the chemist’s shop, which was just round the corner.
+
+The chemist was a very old man with spectacles, and in the ordinary way
+Freda was rather frightened of him, but she was still more frightened of
+being poisoned, so she pushed open his door—which, always made a little
+bell ring—and went straight up to his counter and knocked on it with her
+sixpence.
+
+Presently the old chemist came out and looked at her through his
+spectacles.
+
+“And what can I do for you, miss?” he said.
+
+“I want to buy some medicine,” said Freda, “that would save someone from
+being poisoned by a golden star on the top of a cake at a party. And it
+mustn’t cost more than sixpence, because that’s all I’ve got.”
+
+“Dear, dear,” said the chemist. “And are you the little girl who ate the
+golden star?”
+
+Freda would have liked to say “No,” but she didn’t dare.
+
+“Yes,” she said, in a very small voice.
+
+“Dear, dear,” said the chemist again. “That wasn’t very good of you, was
+it?”
+
+“No,” said Freda, in a still smaller voice.
+
+“And when did you eat it?” asked the old chemist.
+
+“Yesterday,” said Freda.
+
+“And do you still feel quite well?” asked the old chemist.
+
+“Yes,” said Freda. “But I only pretended to drink the slimy stuff they
+gave me last night, and I’m afraid the poison may still be waiting
+inside me.”
+
+“It seems to me,” said the chemist, “that what you really need is some
+medicine to make you good. Eh?”
+
+He looked at her very hard through his spectacles as he said this, and
+Freda agreed at once.
+
+“Very well,” said the chemist. “You’ve come to me just in time. When I
+close this shop to-night I’m never coming back, and next week they’re
+going to start pulling it down. But I’ve got just one dose of medicine
+for naughty children left, and you shall have it now.”
+
+Then he took Freda round behind the counter, and she watched him while
+he poured a little from one bottle, and a few drops from another, and a
+teaspoonful from a third, and just a dash from a fourth. And he mixed
+them all together until the stuff fizzed and turned pink, and then he
+poured most of it away and gave the rest to Freda.
+
+“If you drink this,” he said, “it will make you good for twenty-four
+hours.”
+
+She drank it down, and it tasted delicious.
+
+“Thank you very much,” she said. “And here’s the sixpence.”
+
+“Thank _you_, miss,” said the old chemist. “And here’s your change.”
+
+And he gave Freda half-a-crown from his pocket, and she ran back home as
+fast as she could and found the front door still open. So she ran right
+up to the nursery, and she dropped the half-crown into the china pig,
+and just at that moment the nurse came down from the bathroom.
+
+“Why, Miss Freda,” she said; “how quiet you’ve been.”
+
+“I cannot see,” said Freda, “why any child should ever be anything but
+quiet. Can you, my dear nurse?”
+
+She was good now, you see, because the pink medicine was beginning to
+work. And this is the way that good children talk. But the nurse
+couldn’t make it out.
+
+“Well,” she said, with a laugh, “I’m sure it’s strange to hear you say
+that, Miss Freda.”
+
+“I fear,” said Freda, “that I have often been extremely thoughtless in
+the past, and that I have often allowed my temper to get the better of
+me, with the result that I have lain down on the floor and bellowed at
+the top of my voice. I can only express my regret that this should have
+been so, and my hope that you will overlook the trouble which I must
+have given you.”
+
+The nurse opened her mouth very wide and stared.
+
+“Good gracious, Miss Freda!” she said. “What _has_ come over you?”
+
+“Nothing, that I am aware of,” said Freda. “And now, if you will be good
+enough to dress me, I think it is time for us to go up to the Park.”
+
+The nurse was more puzzled than ever, for Freda used almost always to
+make a fuss about going out. But she was still more puzzled by the time
+they came in again. For Freda hadn’t walked in a single puddle, she had
+insisted on keeping her gloves on, she hadn’t run, she hadn’t shouted,
+and she had refused to play with her usual friends because she said
+their games were so noisy and rough.
+
+At lunch time she asked for a second helping of plain rice-pudding, and
+ate every scrap of it.
+
+“This can’t last,” said the nurse to herself. But it did. And after tea,
+when Freda went down to the drawing-room, she quite terrified her mother
+by asking to be taught a hymn—although her father had just offered to
+play at tigers with her.
+
+At half-past six she kissed her father and mother and went up to bed
+without being fetched. While she was having her bath, instead of
+splashing—and screaming when it was time to come out—she told her nurse
+how she had decided to give all her toys to the poor children who hadn’t
+got any. As soon as she was put to bed, she lay quietly down and went
+fast to sleep.
+
+The nurse and Freda’s mother had a long talk together that evening.
+
+“I don’t see how she can be ill, mum,” said the nurse, “because she’s
+eaten everything, and made no fuss about it at all. I just can’t make it
+out.”
+
+“I don’t like it,” said Freda’s mother. “There’s nothing we can do now,
+and she’s certainly sleeping very peacefully—though I’ve never seen that
+look on her face before. But if she’s no different in the morning, I
+shall send for the doctor.”
+
+In the morning Freda was just the same, and her mother sent for the
+doctor.
+
+“It is very kind of you, dear mother,” said Freda, when she was told,
+“but I am feeling perfectly well. Would it not be better if the doctor
+were to visit some of the poor children in the hospital?”
+
+And this alarmed Freda’s mother so much that she went quickly to the
+telephone, and asked Dr. Tomlinson to put off all his other patients and
+come at once. When he arrived, he found Freda sitting bolt upright in
+her little chair and reading a lesson-book.
+
+“Well, my little dear,” he said, “and how do you feel this morning?”
+
+“It is very good of you to ask,” said Freda. “I am happy to say that I
+am in the best of health. However, if you have a few minutes to spare,
+perhaps you would be kind enough to hold my book, and see whether I have
+yet learnt this beautiful poem about the poor little chimney-sweep.”
+
+The doctor did nothing of the sort.
+
+“I’m very glad you sent for me,” he told Freda’s mother, and he picked
+Freda up and felt her pulse and looked at her tongue and put his head
+first against her chest and then against her back.
+
+“Well,” he said at length; “this beats me. The child seems to be
+perfectly well, and yet....” And he scowled and puffed out his cheeks
+and walked up and down, while all the time Freda’s mother and the nurse
+waited in the utmost anxiety.
+
+And then all of a sudden the clock struck, and as it was twenty-four
+hours since Freda had swallowed the magic dose, the effect vanished in a
+single instant.
+
+The grown-up people who were watching her saw her jump out of the chair,
+and fling the lesson-book on the ground.
+
+“Now, now,” said Dr. Tomlinson, “oughtn’t you to be more careful with
+that pretty book?”
+
+Freda gave one look at him, and then she lay down on the floor and
+bellowed at the top of her voice.
+
+“Thank heaven!” said her mother.
+
+“Our dear little Miss Freda has come back to us,” said the nurse.
+
+“Hum-ha,” said Dr. Tomlinson. “Yes, I think we have cured her.”
+
+He had to say this, you see, because he was a doctor. But Freda’s mother
+was so glad that her little girl was herself once more, that she thanked
+him over and over again. And all the time Freda lay on the floor and
+bellowed at the top of her voice, and from that moment she was just as
+naughty as ever she had been before.
+
+I hope that’s all perfectly clear. Some people say that this story will
+encourage little girls to be naughty, by making them think that their
+parents and nurses prefer them like that. I should be very sorry if this
+were so, but of course it’s no use pretending that anything happened
+otherwise than I have said.
+
+Freda never had another dose of the magic medicine, because the old
+chemist never came back to his shop, and—as he had said—the next week
+the men came and began to pull it down. But of course she didn’t go on
+being naughty for ever, because after a bit she grew up, and now she
+actually has a little girl of her own. And if there’s one thing that’s
+absolutely certain, it is that all grown-up people are always good.
+
+
+
+
+                       The Rhyme of Captain Gale
+
+                                                              A. PEMBURY
+
+
+                Oh, Captain Gale who sails the sea,
+                When waves are high and winds are free,
+                Will kiss his hand, to make it plain
+                How much he scorns the hurricane;
+                A most imprudent thing to do
+                While sailing on the ocean blue.
+
+                He walks his deck, I’ve heard it said,
+                When wiser sailors lie in bed,
+                And far upon the lonely foam,
+                He takes his food as if at home
+                (Including plates of greasy stew);
+                A thing that I could never do.
+
+                His ship may toss, his ship may pitch,
+                He doesn’t mind a morsel which;
+                And never seems to care a bit
+                How deep the sea is under it—
+                Though this, to me, beyond a doubt,
+                Is something he should care about.
+                But sailors always were, to me,
+                A singular community.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                              Sermon Time
+
+                                                           HENRY NEWBOLT
+
+
+                  The roof is high above my head,
+                      With arches cool and white;
+                  The man is short, and hot, and red;
+                      It is a curious sight.
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+                    OLAF THE FAIR AND OLAF THE DARK
+
+                                                         CYNTHIA ASQUITH
+
+
+Once upon a time there lived two boys who were each called Olaf. One had
+golden curls clustered all over his head—curls so glittering that every
+woman’s hand must touch their brightness: and to look into his eyes was
+to see the gleam of blue sky through two rounded windows. In short, he
+was the most beautiful child that his mother had ever seen.
+
+The other Olaf was crowned with dark curls—blue-black as the plumage of
+a crow. And to look into his eyes was to see twin stars shine up through
+the brown depths of a mountain stream. In short, he was the most
+beautiful child that his mother had ever seen.
+
+Now, these two Olafs had both been born on exactly the same day, but
+Olaf the Fair was the son of a mighty King, and lived in a dreadfully
+big palace, and Olaf the Dark was the son of a poor shepherd, and lived
+in a dreadfully small cottage.
+
+When Olaf the Fair learned to walk, he staggered across a vast floor,
+and if he tumbled, it was only to sink into the soft depths of thick
+carpets. In his nursery there was nothing dangerous—not even the corners
+were allowed to be sharp—so he never knew the fun of watching bruises
+turn from plain brown to yellow and purple and green.
+
+But Olaf the Dark learned to walk in quite a different way; he staggered
+across an uneven floor of cold stone, in a small room, crowded with
+things from whose sharp corners Pain constantly darted out at him. The
+hard floor seemed to rise up and smite him, first in one place and then
+in another. His mother was always kissing these places to make them
+well. He liked these kisses and was proud of his scarred body,
+especially of the red knees across which his seven skins were never seen
+all at once. His knees generally looked as though raspberry jam had been
+spread over them.
+
+Just as you do, both Olafs hated to go to bed, but, just as you do, to
+bed they both had to go. Olaf the Fair plunged his bright head into a
+large pillow—so soft that it almost met across his nose, whilst the
+small pillow on which Olaf the Dark laid his dark head was so bumpy and
+so hard that in the morning his bruised ear would often ache, he knew
+not why.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Both boys loved to eat and drink. Olaf the Fair was fed on every sort of
+delicious food. You should have seen his nursery table piled high with
+glowing fruits, coloured cakes and trembling jellies. Chicken came every
+day, and there was always jam for tea. Olaf the Dark seldom swallowed
+anything more dainty than lumpy porridge, black bread and just a very
+little bacon. Yet he often knew a treat, that was far greater than any
+of the dainties in the palace, and this was the taste of his plain food
+when he was very hungry—so hungry that his empty place was just
+beginning to hurt.
+
+His father lay all crumpled up with rheumatism, so that, almost as soon
+as Olaf the Dark could walk, he had to shoulder the shepherd’s heavy
+staff, whistle to the sheep-dog, and stride forth to guard his father’s
+flocks.
+
+Watching the baaing sheep as they nibbled the short grass, their bells
+tinkling as they moved, the lonely little shepherd-boy shivered in the
+cold, wet winds of winter and gasped in the scorching heats of summer.
+He would have liked to stay at home, learning to read by the leaping
+fire whilst his mother stirred the porridge, but day after day, he had
+to put on his little sheepskin suit, and go out to be hurt by
+hailstones, terrified by thunder or soaked in the snow.
+
+The year Olaf the Fair was born his father died, so he became king, the
+smallest king that ever was seen. His crown was heavy and made his head
+ache. His sad, smiling mother said he must learn how to be a wise king.
+This meant doing hundreds and hundreds of lessons. Whilst ten tutors
+tried to stuff figures and facts into his head, he would stare out
+through the windows wistfully watching all the different sorts of
+weather. Oh, how he longed to be out in the hail, the thunder, or the
+snow!
+
+One day as Olaf the Dark sat by his sheep on the high hillside and
+played on his flute to keep himself company, a huge brown mastiff came
+into sight. Olaf’s faithful sheep-dog pricked his ears and low thunder
+rumbled in his shaggy throat. The fierce mastiff sped along the ground,
+and in the blinking of an eye the two dogs had flown at one another’s
+throats. Terrified, Olaf the Dark strove with his staff to beat them
+apart, but all in vain. Fortunately four horsemen, who were the little
+king’s escort, now galloped up and, leaping from their saddles,
+contrived to separate the foam-flecked, blood-spattered dogs.
+
+“Well for thee, lad, we were at hand,” said the tallest of the men.
+“’Twould have gone ill with thy mongrel had he harmed the king’s pet.”
+
+“It was your dog’s fault! He attacked mine!” indignantly answered Olaf
+the Dark.
+
+“Hush!” said the man roughly. “Here is the king. Bow down to him, you
+saucy lad!”
+
+For Olaf the Fair had just ridden up. The man held the reins of the
+snow-white palfrey and the little king dismounted to assure himself of
+his mastiff’s safety.
+
+Now, Olaf the Dark had never even seen a picture-book, and at the
+dazzling sight of Olaf the Fair he gasped in amazement. The little king
+was clad in velvet of shimmering blue, edged with shining silver and on
+his head was a crown of gold.
+
+He approached the shepherd-boy, and the two Olafs, who were of exactly
+the same size, stared long at one another.
+
+“I’m glad your dog is not harmed. How long have you had him?” said the
+king. “Wolf was only given to me yesterday.”
+
+“Sentry is my father’s,” answered the shepherd. “He had him before I was
+born.”
+
+“How old are you?” asked the king.
+
+“I was seven years yesterday,” answered the shepherd.
+
+“Were you? That’s funny!” exclaimed the king. “Why I had my seventh
+birthday yesterday, too. But, who is with you? Surely you aren’t allowed
+to stay out by yourself, are you?”
+
+“I _have_ to stay out,” replied the shepherd. “I should like to go
+home.”
+
+“You’d like to go home? Funny! Why, I’d give anything to be allowed to
+sit on that silvery frost! Have you been playing with those nice woolly
+sheep for long? What pretty bells they’ve got! And wherever did you get
+that splendid crook’d staff? I’d like to have one just like that,”
+chattered the little king.
+
+“Sire,” broke in the tall man with a low bow. “We must return home. His
+Excellency your Tutor-in-Chief said that only one hour could be spared
+from your Majesty’s studies to-day.”
+
+Olaf the Fair stamped his foot.
+
+“Oh, bother!” he cried. “I can’t bear to go in to yawny lessons! I want
+to stay out in the shininess. I say, Boy, when have you got to go home
+and do lessons?”
+
+“Don’t do any lessons,” grunted Olaf the Dark.
+
+“You don’t do any lessons?” exclaimed Olaf the Fair. “Oh, you _are_ a
+lucky one! How long will you stay out?”
+
+“Till it gets dark. The sheep must graze till then.”
+
+“Till it gets dark? Oo-oo-oo-ee! Lovely! I’ve never been out in the
+night. I would like to see how the stars get there. Have you ever seen
+one just pricking through the blackness? But, where’s your coat? ’Twill
+surely be cold before ’tis dark.”
+
+“Don’t have a coat.”
+
+“Don’t you wear anything but just that one dead sheep? It must be
+beautifully comfortable. My clothes are so hot and heavy,” said the
+king, tugging at his rich robes.
+
+“Sire?” pleaded the attendant.
+
+“All right, I’m coming,” said Olaf the Fair, and reluctantly mounting
+his palfrey, he turned its arched neck towards the distant palace.
+“Good-bye, Boy. Wish I could stay and play with you and your sheep.”
+
+Wistfully Olaf the Dark gazed after the gay figure of the king
+disappearing into the rising mists, and as he rode away, Olaf the Fair
+turned his head, weary with the weight of his crown, and stared long at
+the solitary figure of the sturdy little shepherd. Disconsolately, he
+listened to the tinkling bells till they died away in the distance.
+
+Deep in thought, his forgotten flute on the grass, the shepherd-boy sat
+on. Hours passed. The sun sank in flaming glories of orange and gold.
+Dusk thickened into darkness and heavy drops of rain fell coldly on his
+bare head. Still pondering, Olaf the Dark at last rose and wearily drove
+his drowsy sheep towards home.
+
+He sat down to his supper. Silently he spooned his burnt porridge and
+gnawed at his crust of black bread.
+
+“What’s come to thee, son?” asked his mother. “I miss the gabble of thy
+tongue.”
+
+“I’ve seen the king, mother,” said Olaf, and he told her the story of
+the dog fight.
+
+“Seen his small majesty, have you? To think of it! Born the very same
+day as you, he was. Be you two boys much of a size?”
+
+“Yes, he’s no taller nor I and I guess I’m the stronger. But oh, mother,
+the lovely horse he was riding, and the clothes he had on him, and the
+glittering crown on his head! ’Twas as though he had caught rays from
+the sun itself! Oh, mother, I’d like to be a king the same as him, and
+ride around in coloured clothes, nor need to mind no silly sheep.”
+
+“Is it wanting to be a king you are, Olaf?” laughed his mother. “Sure,
+there’s no contentment under the sun. But I’m thinking a good shepherd’s
+better nor a bad king, and they’re saying to be a good king’s no easy
+calling—subjects being more unaccountable troublesome than sheep
+themselves. Anyways, you two lads have the same God to serve, and sure
+you can serve Him from a cottage just as easy as from a palace. To be a
+good shepherd’s a proud thing, I’m thinking, and as for the rheumatics,
+they enters the joints be you high or be you low.”
+
+But Olaf the Dark was not to be consoled. For the first time he noticed
+the shabbiness of his sheepskin suit, and the smallness of the cottage.
+Discontentedly he looked around.
+
+“What would the king’s palace be like?” he asked.
+
+“Oh!” said his mother. “They do say it be all marble and gold with
+thousands of lights a-twinkling from the ceiling, and I’ve heard as the
+wee king sleeps in a bed that’s bigger nor this room and the roof of
+it’s of gold and there be curtains to it.”
+
+Olaf the Dark blinked.
+
+“Oo-oo-oo-ee!” he sighed, as though sucking the sweetest of sweets.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Now, that same evening, when bedtime came, Olaf the Fair pressed his
+face against the cold bars of the window and stared wistfully at the
+spangled blue-blackness outside. He thought with envy of the
+shepherd-boy out there all alone on the hidden hill. For the little king
+yearned to go out while darkness was spread over the earth. How
+mysterious the world looked! What, he wondered, happened to all the
+ordinary daylight things during the night? If he were outside would he
+be able to see his shadow and what would the flowers and the trees be
+doing?
+
+After he had climbed into his high, soft, golden bed, the queen came in
+to say good night.
+
+“Oh, mother!” he said, snuggling into her white arms, “I’ve done such a
+dreadful, dreadful lot of lessons to-day.”
+
+“Poor little Olaf,” said the Queen, kissing her son.
+
+“Oh, mother,” the little king continued, “I saw such a nice boy to-day
+out on the hill. And isn’t he lucky? He doesn’t do any lessons at all,
+and he’s allowed to stay out by himself with nothing but a lot of sheep.
+Mayn’t I have some nice woolly sheep to play with, mother?”
+
+“Sheep aren’t toys, Olaf. They’re duties, like lessons. The boy must
+have been a shepherd.”
+
+“Duties, are they, mother? Then I’d much rather do sheep than do
+lessons. But was he a real shepherd, that boy? Why, he’s only my age!
+Oh, mother, can’t I be a shepherd?”
+
+“You are a sort of shepherd, Olaf. But you’ve got human beings to look
+after instead of animals. I want you to be so good a king that I shall
+be proud that you were my baby. That’s why you have to work so hard.”
+
+“I do try, mother. But I wish I was a proper out-of-doors shepherd. And
+please, mother, must I always wear my crown? It is so heavy, and it
+bites my forehead.”
+
+“Yes, darling. I am afraid you must. Your crown is to remind you that
+you are a king and not your own master. Now go to sleep and dream that
+you are a shepherd and have to shiver out of doors in all the cold and
+wet. You’d soon be glad to wake up in your own bed.”
+
+But Olaf the Fair was not to be persuaded.
+
+“I’d love to be out in the rain!” he exclaimed. “I hate indoors, and I’d
+like to be dressed in a dead sheep.”
+
+Days, weeks, months passed away, and Olaf the Fair and Olaf the Dark
+still continued to think of one another. More and more did the little
+king weary of the long lessons which kept him indoors and of all the
+solemn attendants who surrounded him. More and more did he pine to be
+free and wander at will over the hillside. Above all he yearned to go
+out into the night and feel the darkness. When he looked up at the sad,
+solemn moon, he would thrill with a strange, unaccountable excitement.
+The moon! She flooded the earth with a queer, transforming light that
+drew him out of all sleepiness and made his soul shiver till his body
+became too excited to lie still. Passionately he envied the shepherd-boy
+out there in the darkness, playing his flute beneath the pine trees. One
+night the longing grew too strong, and, as he tossed on his golden bed,
+it flashed into his memory that the bars of the window in the great hall
+were wide enough apart to allow his body to squeeze through them. (This
+was long before even kings had glass in their windows.)
+
+He sat upright. The leaves of the trees just outside rustled
+mysteriously and tiny twigs tapped against the bars, beckoning him out
+of bed. Yes, his mind was made up. He was going to escape and run out
+into the strange silvery light that the moon was making. With hammering
+heart he slid from his high bed and tiptoed towards the door. There was
+a low growl, and the mastiff raised his huge head. Oh, heavens, if he
+were to bark, or follow, he would surely arouse the man who slept just
+outside across the door! But, fortunately, Olaf remembered the bone he
+was to give his dog next morning, and in a moment busy sounds of
+scrunching and gulping filled the room.
+
+One danger passed. But now Olaf must step across the body of the man
+who, with a dagger in his mouth, guarded his royal master’s door.
+Supposing the man were awake. Then the adventure would become impossible
+and Olaf would have to return to the dreariness of trying to go to
+sleep. Trembling, he turned the handle and pulled the door towards him.
+Regular breathing reassured him. The man was fast asleep. Softly as snow
+falls on snow, the boy stepped across the huge form and hastened on
+swift feet down the long, empty corridor. Shafts of moonlight gleamed
+through the round windows and shone on the armour stacked against the
+wall. How strange the palace seemed in this light!
+
+A little scared, Olaf slipped down the wide, shallow steps of the huge
+staircase. Now he was in the great hall. The night wind blew in and the
+tapestries trembled on the walls. Olaf shivered with something that was
+more than cold. High up in the sky a pale moon raced through white
+trailing clouds. She looked as if she were being pursued.
+
+[Illustration: “THE TWO BOYS STARED AT ONE ANOTHER”]
+
+“I must get out! I must get out!” said Olaf aloud. “I must get out and
+run after her.”
+
+He reached the window and seized the bars. Oh, heavens, what was this?
+Consternation crushed into his heart, for crisscross along the iron bars
+there now ran new horizontal ones. Alas! alas! he had adventured too
+late. Impossible now to squeeze through to liberty. His palace was a
+prison. In vain he tugged at the cruel bars. They could not even be
+shaken. He stamped his foot. Strong sobs shook his small body; tears
+scalded his eyes.
+
+But what was this he saw through the dancing blur of his tears? Exactly
+opposite, a face stared through at him! The moon had raced behind a
+cloud and her light was dim. Was he looking into a mirror instead of out
+of doors? No, this pale face was surrounded with dark hair, and now his
+fingers felt the touch of other warm fingers. Yes, other hands were
+clasping the forbidding bars, and sobs that were not his own fell on his
+ear. The moon again sailed forth into the open sky and clearly Olaf the
+Fair recognised the face of the shepherd-boy, the constant thought of
+whom had so much quickened his discontent. Yes, it was Olaf the Dark,
+who, shivering from the cold, stood outside and wistfully gazed at the
+warmth and wealth within.
+
+The one craning in, the other craning out, the two boys stared at one
+another.
+
+“Why are you crying, Boy?” asked Olaf the Fair.
+
+“Because I can’t get in,” sobbed the little shepherd. “Why are you
+crying?”
+
+“Because I can’t get out,” sobbed the little king.
+
+  “Do you want to get _in_?”  }
+                                   } shrilled two surprised voices.
+  “Do you want to get _out_?” }
+
+“Funny!” they both said, and their next sobs rode up on the top of two
+little laughs and their tears fell into the cracks made by their smiles.
+
+Yes, they both laughed and the laughter stretched their hearts, so that
+Understanding could enter in and open the door to Contentment. Some
+people can only laugh at jokes. If you can laugh at your life even while
+it makes you cry, you have learnt more than a thousand schoolroom
+lessons can teach you, and your face will be safe from ever growing ugly
+through sullenness.
+
+“Why ever do you want to get in here?” asked the king.
+
+“Because it looks so lovely—all gorgeous and glowing. I want to know
+what it feels like inside. I’m so cold—I’m quite blue and I mustn’t go
+home till morning breaks. I thought I’d squeeze through the bars and
+‘catch warm’ and then go back to my sheep. There they are. Do you hear
+their bells? But why ever do you want to get out?”
+
+“Because I hate the palace. Ugh! It’s a great big prison. Besides, I
+want to feel the moonlight, dance in it, alone and free, and I want to
+be cold. I’ve never been cold.”
+
+“Wish I were you!” said both boys at once, smiling as they sighed.
+
+“Where’s your lovely golden crown?” asked Olaf the Dark. “Don’t you
+always wear it?”
+
+“Oh, no. I don’t sleep in it. I hang it on its peg. I hate it!”
+
+“Oh, I did want to try it on.”
+
+“You wouldn’t like it. It makes my head ache. It’s so heavy. I’d much
+rather have a staff like that crooked one of yours.”
+
+“It’s awfully heavy,” sighed the shepherd.
+
+“Heavy?” exclaimed Olaf the Fair. “I don’t see how a heavy thing in your
+hand could matter. Push it through. I want to hold it.”
+
+“Fetch me your crown, then, and we’ll exchange.”
+
+Olaf the Fair knew that it was dangerous to return to his room to fetch
+the crown. Supposing the mastiff should bark and awaken the man. But he
+longed to handle the shepherd’s staff.
+
+“All right, I’ll fetch it,” he said and tiptoed up the stairs.
+Stealthily he stepped across the sleeping man, and the dog, recognising
+his master’s scent, made no sound. Olaf seized the crown and hastened
+back to the moon-flooded window.
+
+“Here it is,” he said, pushing the crown through the bars that were just
+wide enough to let it through. “Try it on, and give me your staff.”
+
+Exultantly, the shepherd placed the gleaming crown on his dark head
+while the king grabbed at the tall crook.
+
+“It isn’t a bit heavy! I can’t feel it!” they both exclaimed.
+
+Then for a few minutes they chattered, comparing one another’s days: the
+little king complaining of confinement and of being always in a crowd,
+the little shepherd complaining of having to stay out of doors and be
+all alone.
+
+“Mother says I am the servant of my subjects,” said the king. “And oh,
+I’ve got such an awful lot of them! I’d far rather be the master of
+sheep, as you are.”
+
+“I’m not their master,” replied the shepherd. “I’m no better than their
+slave. Father says so. Besides, they’re really yours. They’ve all got
+little crowns stamped on their backs.”
+
+“Have they? That’s funny! Why, my sceptre’s the shape of a shepherd’s
+crook.”
+
+As they talked, Olaf the Dark felt the crown beginning to eat into his
+forehead. Heavier and heavier it grew until his brows ached and his head
+drooped. Meanwhile, in Olaf the Fair’s hand the staff which had seemed
+so light grew heavier and heavier. Surely it must be made of lead, he
+thought, and at last with a sigh he changed it into his other arm. At
+the same moment, with a groan, the shepherd tore the crown from his
+head.
+
+“Phew! it _is_ a weight! How can you wear it all day?” he said, pushing
+it back through the bars.
+
+“Phew! it _is_ a weight,” said the king, poking the staff through the
+bars. “I can’t think how you can carry it all day.”
+
+“Funny,” they both said, and they laughed quite loud; the king, feeling
+proud of his head that could carry so heavy a weight, and the shepherd
+feeling proud of his right arm, grown strong from carrying so heavy a
+staff.
+
+“The dawn breaks,” he said. “I must return to my sheep.”
+
+“Come again,” cried the king. “Come again and talk to me.”
+
+So once in every year the little shepherd returned to the palace walls
+and through the bars the boys talked long and eagerly. The king always
+told the shepherd how stuffy it was within, and the shepherd always told
+the king how cold it was outside, and during the rest of the year,
+whenever the king’s discontentment grew, he remembered the weeping boy
+who had tried so hard to get _in_. And whenever the shepherd wearied of
+his lot, he remembered the boy who wept because he could not get _out_.
+
+The king knew that the shepherd never forgot the heaviness of a king’s
+crown, and the shepherd knew that the king never forgot the heaviness of
+a shepherd’s staff, and thus each was braced to bear his own burden; for
+it is a fact that our burdens are only unendurable when no one
+understands how heavy is their weight.
+
+These two boys grew into men. Sorrows they had—as all men have, yet to
+each was given much happiness, for the one was a good king and the other
+a good shepherd. Far and wide Olaf the Fair was famed as the “Shepherd
+of all his People,” and Olaf the Dark, who guarded the royal sheep, was
+called the “King of all Shepherds.”
+
+
+
+
+                             The Simple Way
+
+                                                                JOHN LEA
+
+
+               Said Mr. Wise: “I’m one of those
+               Who think a short and pleasant doze
+               Will aid in solving, yea or nay,
+               Such problems as perplex the day.”
+
+               So, sitting in a comfy chair,
+               He stretched his slippers, then and there,
+               Toward the fire that glowed and leapt,
+               And very soon he soundly slept.
+
+               He soundly slept, or so he thinks,
+               For little more than forty winks,
+               Then rose with more than common might
+               And went and set the world aright.
+
+               To each expectant boy he showed
+               The shortest and the straightest road
+               That leads to fortune and to fame
+               For those who like to play the game.
+
+               To all the girls he made it clear
+               How smiles and patience grace the year,
+               And how a placid mind will foil
+               The wear and tear of daily toil.
+
+               He settled in the smartest way
+               The hottest questions of the day,
+               And, by a magic mode of thought,
+               So deftly on opinion wrought,
+               That politicians failed to see
+               Why they should longer disagree,
+               And forthwith formed, by joint consent,
+               _One_ party in our parliament.
+
+               In short, his triumphs were so bright
+               While setting all the world aright,
+               That when he waked, ’twas sorrow deep
+               To find the labours of his sleep
+               Had failed the slightest mark to make
+               Upon the world he’d left awake.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+                                 Finis
+
+                                                           HENRY NEWBOLT
+
+
+                           Night is come,
+                               Owls are out;
+                           Beetles hum
+                               Round about.
+
+                           Children snore
+                               Safe in bed,
+                           Nothing more
+                               Need be said.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
+
+
+ Page           Changed from                      Changed to
+   16 A crimson-lanterned garden-hous  A crimson-lanterned garden-house
+
+ ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
+ ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75229 ***
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+<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75229 ***</div>
+
+<div class='tnotes covernote'>
+
+<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p>
+
+<p class='c000'>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_half_title.jpg' alt='THE FLYING CARPET' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='titlepage'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_title.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <h1 class='c001'><span class='sc'><span class='c002'>The</span><br> Flying Carpet</span></h1>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c003'>
+    <div>Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c004'>
+    <div><span class='small'><span class='sc'>Copyright, 1925, by</span></span></div>
+    <div><span class='small'>CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS</span></div>
+    <div class='c005'><span class='small'>Printed in the United States of America</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id002'>
+<img src='images/i_colophon.jpg' alt='[Colophon]' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'><span class='sc'><span class='c002'>List of those who have woven this</span><br> Flying Carpet</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_contents.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<table class='table0'>
+  <tr>
+    <th class='c007'></th>
+    <th class='c007'>&#160;</th>
+    <th class='c008'>PAGE</th>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>THOMAS HARDY</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>A POPULAR PERSONAGE AT HOME</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_9'>9</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>ADELAIDE PHILLPOTTS</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THOMAS HENRY TITT</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_11'>11</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THEOPHANIA</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_160'>160</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>JOHN LEA</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE TWO SAILORS</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_108'>108</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE SIMPLE WAY</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_198'>198</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>ALFRED NOYES</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>INVITATION TO THE VOYAGE</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_16'>16</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr><td class='c009' colspan='3'><em>DESMOND <span class='sc'>Mac</span>CARTHY</em></td></tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>I WISH I WERE A DOG</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_18'>18</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>A. A. MILNE</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>WHEN WE WERE VERY, VERY YOUNG</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_32'>32</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>DAVID CECIL</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE SHADOW LAND</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_35'>35</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>CYNTHIA ASQUITH</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE BARGAIN SHOP</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_38'>38</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>OLAF THE FAIR AND OLAF THE DARK</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_184'>184</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>HENRY NEWBOLT</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE JOYOUS BALLAD OF THE PARSON AND THE BADGER</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_54'>54</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>VICE-VERSA: ANY FATHER TO ANY DAUGHTER</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_118'>118</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>SERMON TIME</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_183'>183</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>FINIS</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_200'>200</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>A. PEMBURY</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE SPARK</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_158'>158</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE RHYME OF CAPTAIN GALE</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_182'>182</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>G. K. CHESTERTON</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>TO ENID</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_57'>57</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>CHARLES WHIBLEY</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A PRINCESS</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_60'>60</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>J. M. BARRIE</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>NEIL AND TINTINNABULUM</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_65'>65</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>HERBERT ASQUITH</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>STORIES</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_15'>15</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE DREAM</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_96'>96</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>EGGS</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_107'>107</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>ELIZABETH LOWNDES</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>MR. SNOOGLES</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_99'>99</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>HUGH LOFTING</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>DR. DOLITTLE MEETS A LONDONER IN PARIS</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_110'>110</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>MARGARET KENNEDY</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>KITTEEN</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_120'>120</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>CLEMENCE DANE</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>GILBERT</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_122'>122</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>HILAIRE BELLOC</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>JACK AND HIS PONY, TOM</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_129'>129</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>TOM AND HIS PONY, JACK</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_131'>131</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>WALTER DE LA MARE</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>PIGTAILS, LTD.</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_133'>133</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>SIR WALTER RALEIGH</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE PERFECT HOST</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_157'>157</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>EDWARD MARSH</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE WEASEL IN THE STOREROOM</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_167'>167</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>W. H. DAVIES</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>LOVE THE JEALOUS</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_168'>168</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007' colspan='2'><em>DENIS MACKAIL</em></td>
+    <td class='c008'>&#160;</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c007'>&#160;</td>
+    <td class='c007'><cite>THE MAGIC MEDICINE</cite></td>
+    <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_170'>170</a></td>
+  </tr>
+</table>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'><span class='c002'>List of those who have helped to adorn the</span><br> Flying Carpet</h2>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_contents_2.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><em>MABEL LUCIE ATTWELL</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>J. R. C. BODLEY</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>L. R. BRIGHTWELL</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>H. M. BROCK</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>HAROLD EARNSHAW</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>DAPHNE JERROLD</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>E. BARNARD LINTOTT</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>HUGH LOFTING</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>GEORGE MORROW</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>SUSAN PEARSE</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>T. HEATH ROBINSON</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>ERNEST H. SHEPARD</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>DUDLEY TENNANT</em></div>
+      <div class='line'><em>A. H. WATSON</em></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>
+<img src='images/i_009.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'><span class='sc'>A Popular Personage At Home</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c003'>
+    <div><span class='sc'>By Thomas Hardy</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“I live here: ‘Wessex’ is my name,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>I am a dog known rather well:</div>
+      <div class='line'>I guard the house; but how that came</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>To be my lot I cannot tell.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“With a leap and a heart elate I go,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>At the end of an hour’s expectancy,</div>
+      <div class='line'>To take a walk of a mile or so,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>With the folk who share the house with me.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Along the path amid the grass</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>I sniff, and find out rarest smells</div>
+      <div class='line'>For rolling over as I pass</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The open fields towards the dells.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“No doubt I shall always cross this sill,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And turn the corner, and stand steady,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Gazing back for my mistress till</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>She reaches where I have run already.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>“And that this meadow with its brook,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And bulrush, just as it appears</div>
+      <div class='line'>As I plunge past with hasty look,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Will stay the same a thousand years.”</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Thus “Wessex.” Yet a dubious ray</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>At times informs his steadfast eye,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Just for a trice, as though to say:</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>“Will these things, after all, go by?”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_010.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Thomas Henry Titt</h2>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_011.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Adelaide Phillpotts</span></div>
+
+<p class='c012'>In the South West of London stands a cathedral, which,
+from outside, looks like a child’s castle of bricks. But when you
+go inside you see nothing at first but a large emptiness—a ceiling
+somewhere up in the clouds supported by huge marble columns.
+There is always a smell of incense in the air, and there is a
+little painted figure before which, night and day, burn three
+rows of candles. Sometimes, on Saints’ Days, other rows of
+candles are lighted before other painted figures—St. Andrew,
+St. Patrick, St. George—making centres of bright light in the
+dimness of the great interior.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Near this cathedral are blocks of tenement buildings where
+families dwell, one on top of the other, like books in a bookcase.
+These buildings are full of children: boys and girls and babies.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>On the top floor of one of these blocks lived Thomas Henry
+Titt, aged twelve. Thomas Henry’s father kept a shop round the
+corner where you saw sausages and onions frying in the window.
+His mother was dead. He had an elder sister who mended his
+clothes and helped their father in the shop. Thomas was known
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>as Tom-Tit; and he looked rather like a bird, for he had thin
+arms and legs, sharp little eyes, a crest of bright hair, and a pointed
+nose.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Like every imaginative child, Tom-Tit had a secret: a passion
+for the sea, which he had never seen. His ocean was in his mind’s
+eye, and he hoped as no one ever hoped before that one day he
+might behold the reality of his dream. In the darkness of night
+Tom-Tit, alone in his attic, lying awake on his mattress, gazed
+out upon a heaving cornflower-blue coloured ocean—as blue as
+the flowers which the woman sold at the end of his street. And
+this ocean was full of shining fishes. There was no land in sight—ever.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Thomas Henry Titt loved the candles that burned before the
+painted figure in the cathedral. In the winter, when he was
+small, he had often held his little frozen hands to the warmth of
+them, when nobody was looking. But as he grew older the candles
+began to have for him a deeper significance. During evening
+service he would creep into a corner by one of the pillars, listening
+to the organ and watching the kneeling people in the distance
+near the shining altar. Then, when the music stopped and the
+people were gone, he would steal out and patter along to the rows
+of candles. There his heart would light up, even as they, and
+he would thrill with a strange, unaccountable happiness.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Gradually Tom-Tit began to connect these candles with his
+desire for the sea. The two facts became one in his mind. It
+was as if, by the light of the former, he could see the blue waves
+of the other.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Underneath the rows of burning candles was a rack full of
+new ones. Tom often saw people drop a coin into a box, take one,
+fix it upon a spike among the rest, and light it. And a longing
+overcame him to possess for his own one of these new candles.
+Perhaps, at the bottom of his mind, was the idea that if he took
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>it home and lighted it, it would bring him nearer to his ultimate
+ambition—to see the sea. He determined to realise his desire.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then came a winter day when Tom-Tit’s head ached,
+shivers ran up and down his spine, and he felt very ill. Therefore
+his sister bade him stay in bed, and he did so until she had
+left the house with her father. But then, despite his fever, the
+craving to possess that candle overcame obedience. So, gripping a
+penny, he rose, staggered downstairs, and out into the road. The
+cold air cooled his body and numbed his pains. He slipped
+unnoticed into the cathedral and leaned for a moment against
+the wall, for his head was swimming and he could not see. Then
+he recovered, and his eyes sparkled as he beheld the candles
+flickering like golden flowers before the wooden figure at the end
+of the aisle. The surrounding air was a golden haze. The smell
+of incense was sweet.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He tottered to the box of new candles, dropped in his penny,
+and took one. Then he dragged himself home, feeling worse and
+worse at every step, but gloriously glad within, because of the
+candle in his pocket.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All day he lay on his bed, too ill to sit up, nursing his treasure.
+“I shall be well to-night,” he thought, “and when it’s dark I’ll
+light it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In the evening his father and sister returned, found him in
+a state of high fever, and sent for the doctor. He, when he saw
+Tom-Tit, said that he would come back in the morning and
+remove him to the hospital if he were not better.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He gave Tom a sleeping draught before he left.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When his father and sister had gone to bed, Thomas Henry,
+feeling drowsy and less hurt with pain, pulled out his candle
+half melted already by the heat of his hands, lit it, and set it on
+a chair by his side. Then he lay gazing at it, until the whole
+world was but a golden flame with a blue root.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>Then a wonderful thing happened. He did not see the candle
+any more. His first idea was that the wind must have blown it
+out, for a great wind was blowing. Where could he be? He
+opened his eyes, which must have been closed, and lo! he was
+in a little wooden boat on a cornflower-blue sea! The boat was
+rocking from side to side like the baby’s cradle on the floor below—a
+mechanical rock, rock, rock, rock, from side to side. He
+scooped up a handful of the sea, and, just as he had expected, it
+was bright blue. He could see blue shining fishes swimming
+round the boat, so he caught them in his fingers where they
+wriggled about and made blue reflections until he threw them back
+again into the blue water.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And all the time, though he could not see it, the candle was
+burning at his side—burning lower, and lower, and lower.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>From horizon to horizon the cobalt ocean stretched around
+him—not a speck of land anywhere. He was perfectly happy there
+staring down through the blue fathoms and feeling the wind blow.
+He had never been so happy in his life before.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then the candle went out.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In the morning they found a little pool of grease on the chair—and
+Tom-Tit was dead.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But this is not really a sad story, because Thomas Henry did
+what many thousands of people never do, even though they live to
+be a hundred and three—he realised his ambition. He saw the
+sea. And he was not disillusioned; for the sea that he saw was
+just as beautiful as the sea which he imagined: the reality matched
+the dream.</p>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Stories</h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Herbert Asquith</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>When lights are out and Pat’s in bed,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He tells a story from his head</div>
+      <div class='line'>Of men who fight by sea and land</div>
+      <div class='line'>With cutlasses in either hand.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Who make their mouths into a sheath</div>
+      <div class='line'>And sharpen dirks upon their teeth;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And schooners heeling to the breeze</div>
+      <div class='line'>That blows across the coral seas,</div>
+      <div class='line'>With kegs of rum and bars of gold</div>
+      <div class='line'>And corpses rolling in the hold.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Then far below the dining-room</div>
+      <div class='line'>Pours out its voices: through the gloom</div>
+      <div class='line'>Borne on tobacco-laden air</div>
+      <div class='line'>The roar of talk comes up the stair,</div>
+      <div class='line'>But where are now the coral seas</div>
+      <div class='line'>And where is Pat? Lost on the breeze</div>
+      <div class='line'>With streaming flag the schooner fades</div>
+      <div class='line'>And takes her captain to the shades.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Invitation to the Voyage</h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c003'>
+    <div>(<em>A New Version</em>)</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Alfred Noyes</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>A rambling cherry-petalled stream;</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>A bridge of pale bamboo;</div>
+      <div class='line'>A path that seemed a twisted dream</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Where everything came true;</div>
+      <div class='line'>A crimson-lanterned <a id='t16'></a>garden-house</div>
+      <div class='line'>With jutting eaves below the boughs;</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>The slant-eyed elves in blue</div>
+      <div class='line'>With soft slip-slapping heels and toes</div>
+      <div class='line'>Dancing before the Daimyōs:</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“<em>And is it Old Japan</em>,” you cry</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>“That half-remembered place”—</div>
+      <div class='line'>I see beneath an English sky</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>A child with brooding face.</div>
+      <div class='line'>The curious realm he chose to build</div>
+      <div class='line'>And paint with any hues he willed</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Is all I strive to trace,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Where odds and ends of memory smile</div>
+      <div class='line'>Like bits of heaven, through clouds awhile.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>And some for charts and maps would call,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>But here, beside the fire,</div>
+      <div class='line'>The kakemono on the wall</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Is all that we require.</div>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>A chanty piped by bosun Lear</div>
+      <div class='line'>May float around us while we steer</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Our hearts to their desire—</div>
+      <div class='line'>The Nonsense Land beyond the sun</div>
+      <div class='line'>Where West and East, at last, are one.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Then let the rigging hum the tales</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>That Tusitala<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c014'><sup>[1]</sup></a> told</div>
+      <div class='line'>When first we spread our purple sails</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>In quest of pirate gold;</div>
+      <div class='line'>For, though he waved us all good-bye</div>
+      <div class='line'>Beneath the deep Samoan sky,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>His heart was blithe and bold,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And hailed across a darker main</div>
+      <div class='line'>The shadowy hills of home again.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>So we, who now adventure far</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Beyond the singing foam,</div>
+      <div class='line'>May see, in every dipping star,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>The harbour lights of home;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And, finding still, as all have found,</div>
+      <div class='line'>That every ship is homeward bound,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>(For none could ever roam</div>
+      <div class='line'>A sea too wide for heaven to span)</div>
+      <div class='line'>Sail on—sail on—to Old Japan.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. Robert Louis Stevenson.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>
+  <h2 class='c006'>I Wish I Were a Dog</h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Desmond MacCarthy</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>There were five in the family and Dicky, nearly nine, was the
+youngest but one. Dicky’s father was a country doctor, and, like
+many country doctors, he led rather a hard life. The sick people
+he visited lived miles apart, and many were too poor to pay him
+properly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Dr. Brook was a tall, pale man with grizzled hair turning
+to grey. He was clever, and he had a quick, short way of
+talking. He seemed to make up his mind about everything in a
+moment, and if you asked him a question, he answered as though
+it ought not to have been necessary to explain.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Dicky would have been surprised to hear that his father was a
+kind man, but kind he was. He hated attending upon well-to-do
+people who had nothing much the matter with them, though he
+knew he must visit them to make enough money to bring up his
+own children properly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He would remember this while he was driving miles out of
+his way to see some poor cottager, and so, when he arrived
+at the cottage, he was usually in a bad temper. On the other
+hand, when he was calling on old Mrs. Varden at The Grange,
+who was sound as a bell and would probably live to be ninety, he
+was always thinking of those who really wanted looking after.
+Then, instead of smiling sympathetically, while she told him how
+queer she had felt in the middle of the night three weeks ago, or
+how well her nephews were doing, he would stand in front of the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>fire in her cosy sitting-room, look up at the ceiling with a stern
+expression, and rattle the keys in his pocket in a manner which
+said plainly, “How much longer shall I have to listen to this stuff?”
+So, although everybody thought Dr. Brook “a very clever doctor,”
+few people were fond of him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All day he went bumping and rushing along the country lanes
+and roads in his shabby, muddy car, which he never had time to
+clean properly; and when he got home his day’s work was not
+over. In the evening he turned schoolmaster and taught his
+children.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Dicky’s mother had died when his brother Peregrin was born.
+Ella, the eldest of the children, a grown-up girl, kept house and
+taught Dicky and Peregrin in the morning. She was very like her
+father in many ways, only her cleverness had turned to music.
+She played the violin beautifully, and she was dying to get away
+from home and become a famous musician. Dr. Brook knew this
+and was very sorry for her; but he could not let her go till Dicky
+and Peregrin went to school. She had to be a governess till then.
+The other two boys had done very well. They had both got
+scholarships, and little Peregrin was as sharp as a needle.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Altogether the doctor had to admit he was very blessed in his
+children. But there was Dicky! Dicky was a dunce, there was
+no doubt about it—at least, so Ella reported. And when Dicky
+showed his smudgy exercise-books to his father in the evenings,
+his father thought it only too true.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Dicky dreaded the evening every day. He did not much
+mind his sister Ella’s crossness. He was used to it. But there
+was something awful about the weary quiet way his father used to
+ask, “Do you understand <em>now</em>?” Dicky had then to say “Yes,”
+and presently his father would find out he hadn’t understood at all.
+There would be a still longer pause, and at last his father would
+sigh, “Unhappy boy, what will become of you!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>This was far worse than being slapped by Ella, though her
+ring sometimes really did hurt. His father would then repeat what
+he had said before, twice, very slowly, as though he were dropping
+the words drop by drop into a medicine glass, looking at Dicky
+all the time, till Dicky’s lips began to quiver and his eyes to fill,
+when his father would say hastily, pulling out his watch, “There,
+there. It’s time for bed. Run along. Kiss me.” Then Dicky’s
+one desire was to get out of the room before bursting into tears. He
+did not mind if it happened outside the door or upstairs. Indeed,
+it was rather a comfort to cry, especially if he could only get hold of
+Jasper, the black spaniel, to hug and talk to while he was crying.
+But he was terrified at breaking down before his father. He somehow
+felt if he did, he might never stop sobbing, or that something
+else dreadful would happen. One evening it did happen.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The day had been altogether a bad day. Dicky had got up
+that morning feeling as if his head was rather smaller and lighter
+than usual. It felt about the size of an apple. Ella had had a
+fat letter that morning from her bosom friend, at the Royal College
+of Music in London. Lessons were always worse on the days
+she heard from her, and that morning it was true also, for once in
+a way, that Dicky had really <em>not</em> been “trying.” He had begun
+by making thirty-four mistakes in his French dictation—and he
+was rather glad. During arithmetic he had amused himself by
+imagining that the numbers had different characters, and that some
+of them were very pleased to find themselves side by side in the
+sums. The result was that all his sums were wrong, and he had
+exasperated Ella by telling her that it was the fault of number 8,
+who was a quarrelsome widow and wore spectacles.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When left alone to do his Latin Prose, while Ella went to her
+bedroom to practise furiously on the fiddle, he had spent the time
+in teasing a beetle by hemming it in between canals of ink on the
+schoolroom table. He liked the beetle, but he enjoyed imagining
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>its disgust and perplexity, and he enjoyed feeling that he could,
+but wouldn’t, drown it. When Ella came back and found that he
+had only written one Latin word, “Jam” (already), on the paper, she
+tore the exercise book from him and said that he could do what he
+liked: she would tell his father and never teach him again—never,
+never, never.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_021.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“SHE WOULD NEVER TEACH HIM AGAIN—NEVER, NEVER”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>But the evening was a long way off, and Dicky walked into
+the garden, in a gloomy sort of way rather proud of himself. He
+found, however, he could not amuse himself, so he devoted
+himself to amusing Jasper, chasing him in circles about the lawn
+and throwing sticks for him to fetch. When the dog had had
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>enough, and lay down on the grass with his paws out in front of
+him like a lion, Dicky did not know what to do next. He went
+down himself on all fours and kissed Jasper, who responded,
+between quick pants, with a hasty slobber of his pink quivering
+tongue, as though he were snapping at a fly. Ah, if only he were
+as happy as Jasper! Dicky suddenly remembered that an old
+gentleman had once given him a sort of blessing, saying, “May
+you be as happy as a good dog.” What an easy time Jasper had!
+Of course he got into trouble if he rolled in things, but if Dicky
+were in his shoes—or perhaps he ought to say on his paws—<em>he</em>
+wouldn’t want to. (Jasper certainly had a very odd taste in scent.)
+Examinations, scholarships—those awful things meant nothing to
+him. Dicky thought he could have easily managed to be a good
+dog. And since he wanted to stop thinking about himself, he began
+to play a favourite game of imagining what Jasper said to other
+dogs about his home and the family. How he would boast to them
+of the excellent rabbit-hunting in the copse near by, of the
+good bones he had and the warm fires; and how he would tell
+them about jumping on Dick’s bed in the morning and how perfectly
+Dick and he understood each other. But the worst of it
+was that unless one were tired and a little sleepy, one could not go
+on with that game very long. It soon began to seem silly. It
+was not a good morning game.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Ella was very grim at lunch and only spoke to Peregrin.
+After luncheon Dicky felt very inclined to work—anything to
+stop thinking. He said something about learning grammar, but
+Ella took all the books away and locked them up. She said he could
+do <em>whatever he liked</em>. This had never happened before and it
+frightened him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He went for a walk by himself. The sky was grey and the
+hedges were dripping and his feet felt heavy. He actually tried to
+remember what cases the different prepositions governed in Latin,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>as he walked along, in the hope of surprising his father in the evening;
+but the fear that he might be repeating them to himself all wrong
+made him hopeless. It was never safe to learn without the book.
+Only once, when a red stoat ambled with arched back across the
+lane, did he forget himself. A stoat, too, must have a jolly life, he
+thought, even if it ended by being nailed up on a door by a keeper.
+He stayed out till it was dark and past tea time.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>His father’s hat and coat were not in the hall when he returned,
+so Dicky knew he had not yet come back. Upstairs he could
+hear the wailing of Ella’s violin. He went up and knocked at her
+door. She did not say “Come in,” or stop bowing away or
+frowning at the music on the stand in front of her. “If you’re
+hungry get milk in the kitchen,” she said, her chin still on the
+fiddle, “and—shut the door.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Dicky did so, and stood for a minute outside it. Then he
+went slowly to the schoolroom and sat down at the table. Peregrin
+was already in bed, and there was nothing to do but to wait.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Time passed very slowly, and if Dicky had not known that he
+was dreading something, he would have thought he must be ill.
+He did, indeed, feel very queer. At last he heard the front door
+slam and the tramp of his father’s stride in the hall. The same
+instant the sound of the violin stopped and Ella walked rapidly
+along the passage; and before Dicky knew what he was doing he
+had started to run after her. At the head of the stairs he stopped
+himself, and peeping over the bannisters he saw that his father
+had hesitated in the middle of pulling off his coat, and was staring
+at Ella, who was talking vehemently in front of him. Dicky heard
+her raised voice saying, “It is hopeless. Father, I won’t; I
+really can’t. He....” His father finished getting out of his
+coat without a word; then they both went into the study.
+The door closed behind them, and Dicky crept back to the
+schoolroom.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>Presently, he heard Ella calling him to come down. A few
+minutes before, his legs had carried him to the top of the stairs
+without his wanting it, now they refused to move. “Father wants
+you in the study at once,” she shouted, and she continued to call,
+“Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick.” There was a long pause and Ella
+herself stood in the doorway.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Father is coming to whip you,” she said, and walked off to
+her room.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But he did not come. Dicky waited with beating heart, but
+he did not come. He waited till he almost forgot he was waiting,
+and yet his father did not come. And when at last he heard soft
+shuffling steps coming along the passage, his heart almost stopped.
+To his astonishment he saw in the darkness beyond the door two
+small round orange lamps shining about a foot from the ground.
+It was only Jasper, who padded quietly into the room and lay down
+on the hearthrug with a quiet sigh of satisfaction. Having settled
+himself in the shape of a large foot-stool, Jasper did not lift his nose
+again, but he turned up his eyes at Dicky—they were brown eyes
+now, exquisitely humble and kind—and wagged his stumpy tail.
+Dicky had flung himself on the floor beside the dog and embraced
+him. Were these the terrible sobs which would never leave off?
+No, presently they did stop; and gradually Dicky even forgot
+that he was waiting for something awful. The occasional dab
+of the dog’s cold nose on his hot cheeks was comforting, and so it
+was to curl all round him. Dicky felt almost as though he were a
+dog himself when he was curled up like that.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Do you know, Jasper, if I were a dog, I should be a very
+clever dog? Much, much cleverer than you,” he whispered with
+his face buried in the black fur. His head felt swollen and
+confused. “A re-markable dog,” he repeated, “I should be a
+very re-markable dog.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Downstairs Dr. Brook was sitting close up to the fire and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>staring gloomily into it. He had forgotten that he held a short
+switch in his hand, and that it still hung down between his knees.
+He was thinking in pictures and the pictures were not of Dicky. He
+had forgotten Dicky; he had even forgotten himself. They say the
+whole of life passes before a drowning man’s eyes. The doctor
+ever since he sat down had felt like a man drowning in a sea of
+troubles. If not the whole of his own life, still, much of it, had
+passed before his eyes. Only when at last he was eating his cold
+solitary dinner in the dining-room, did he remember again that
+Dicky had been naughty that morning, and that Dicky was probably
+incurably stupid. But even if he were it did not seem now to
+matter much, or to matter in a different way. Ella, too, he
+thought, must go to her College of Music; things could somehow
+be managed. The doctor sat a very long time over his dinner.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But upstairs still stranger things were happening to Dick.
+First he felt hot and large, then cold and small. He kept on
+shivering. Was this silky hair his own or Jasper’s? And where
+was he? He was apparently in a wet, grey place. What he
+touched with his hands and feet felt rough and gritty. Suddenly
+he saw a brown stoat with an arched back ambling rapidly in front
+of him—it was as big as a fox. Yes, he was on a road—the very
+road he had walked along that very afternoon, only now the wet
+hedges were ever so much higher. And before Dicky knew what
+he was doing he was dashing after the stoat, right into the quickset
+hedge after it. What was he doing? He smelt a queer strong
+smell which excited him; and he pushed and struggled through the
+roots and thorns, following the smell. He seemed, too, to be wearing
+a very odd cap with long flaps, which kept catching in the brambles
+and dragging him back. This did not hurt, but it was a nuisance,
+and he had constantly to shake his head. He traced the smell of
+stoat to a rabbit hole and thrust his head down it. Hullo! Dicky
+had no idea rabbits smelt so deliciously, as nice as pineapples
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>or peaches! Dicky had wanted to kill the stoat, but he
+would have liked to eat the rabbit. He tried to make the hole
+larger, by tearing away the earth with his hands, but, although
+he got on much faster than he expected, he soon saw that was no
+use; and dragging himself violently backwards out of the hedge,
+he found himself in the road again with nothing to do.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Yes, there was nothing, absolutely nothing to do. The sensation
+was a strange one, for he couldn’t even think of anything. He just
+stood there snuffing the wet wind. Then suddenly he found
+himself trotting towards home. He had not gone very far when
+he was aware of another smell which he somehow recognised
+instantly as “The Sacred Smell.” He knew what it was, though
+he had never smelt it properly before. It reminded him of a feeling
+he had sometimes had in church—how long ago that seemed!—and
+partly of a feeling he had had when once an old general in scarlet and
+covered with medals had patted him on the head. Only this time The
+Sacred Smell was mixed with other smells; with smells of horse,
+leather, onions and smoke. This, Dicky knew, was not as it should be,
+and he was distinctly alarmed. However, he thought he had better
+stand still. It was always better, something whispered to him,
+not to run away from The Sacred Smell—unless the danger was
+terrific.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Of course, having smelt The Sacred Smell, he was not
+at all surprised to see next a huge pair of muddy boots coming
+towards him, and a pair of huge knees in dirty trousers moving up
+and down. When they were a short distance off, they stopped;
+and Dicky, looking up, saw what he had expected; an unshaven,
+dark-skinned Man in a cap, with a spotted handkerchief knotted
+round his neck. The Man made a squeaking noise with his pursed-up
+lips, such as rats make, and slapped his thigh once or twice.
+Dicky knew what this meant, but even when the Man called in
+a croaking voice, “E-e-e-’ere good boy,” Dicky still thought it was
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>best not to move. He stood and turned his face instead to the hedge,
+looking, no doubt, as absent-minded and miserable as he felt. (It
+was odd, but <em>now</em> when Dicky felt wretched and miserable that
+feeling was strongest, not just under the middle of his ribs, but at the
+end of his spine where his legs began; there now was the seat of
+anguish.) The Man took a step or two nearer, then another step.
+Still Dicky did not stir. Suddenly the Man dashed forward and
+made a grab at him. Dicky ducked, started aside and bumped
+right into the road-bank. He saw the Man’s hand outstretched
+above him, and he knew there was now only one thing to do:
+to roll right over on to his back, in order to show he wouldn’t
+resist and hoped for mercy. The Man stroked Dicky’s head and
+made soothing noises; and then, suddenly, put an arm under
+him, lifting him up and holding him tight to his side.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_027.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“THE MAN DASHED FORWARD AND MADE A GRAB AT HIM”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>Dicky felt perfectly miserable, but what could he do? He
+knew it would be folly to try to escape, and that it would be wiser
+to wait for an opportunity. The Man tucked him with a jerk still
+more firmly under his arm, and started to walk slowly on. He walked
+on for more than an hour, till they came to a gorse common, where
+a caravan was standing with empty shafts and a pair of steps behind.
+Gripping Dicky tighter than ever the Man gave a whistle, and
+a Woman came out of the caravan.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Where did you find him, Joe?” said the Woman, looking
+at Dicky.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“’Long road,” said the Man, jerking his head backwards.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You ain’t been and thrown away his collar, ’ave you, Joe?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“’Adn’t any,” said the Man. Dicky was very dazed, but he
+did think they were talking about him in an odd way.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Better take ’im where he belongs,” said the Woman. “The
+cops won’t believe as such as ’e is ours. He looks well cared for.
+Might get five bob.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Dicky did not try to tell them where he lived; he felt somehow
+it would be no use to try.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Instead of answering the Man just threw him into the caravan
+and shut the door. Although it was nearly dark, Dicky found
+he could see surprisingly well. Presently a tin bowl full of scraps
+of meat and bones was thrust in. Dicky would have been revolted
+by such a mess a short time ago, but now, though he was too
+scared to feel hungry, he could not resist putting his face close
+to it and giving a sniff. It really smelt uncommonly good. He
+put out the tip of his tongue and touched a brown-looking, ragged
+bit of gristle. Yes, it was good. Then all of a sudden he understood
+what must have happened. He had changed into a dog!
+Into a black spaniel!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He dashed at the door, shouting at the top of his voice, “Let
+me out! Let me out!” Alas, the only word which sounded
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>at all like what he wanted to say was, “Out.” “Out, out, out,
+out,” he kept barking, hoping that the Man and Woman would
+understand. They took no notice; but he could not stop. “Out,
+out, out,” he barked. He shook the door by jumping at it; he
+tore at the wood with his nails. There was a latch just within
+his reach when he sprang up, but his paws—yes, it was only too
+true, his hands were round, black and feathery—could not lift it.
+“Out, out, out.” No answer. At last he gave it up, and lay
+down on the floor, feeling very tired. It occurred to him presently
+that he might think better while gnawing a bone. So he went to
+the bowl and pulled out the largest. It was a slight comfort to him.
+With his head on one side and his teeth sliding along the bone,
+he found he could think a little more calmly. How was he to let
+them know that he was not a real dog, but a boy called Dicky
+Brook? He tried again to talk. After a lot of practice he succeeded
+in making a sound rather like “Brrr-ook,” but it was also too
+sadly like the noise Jasper made when he was too lazy to bark
+or had been told to stop barking. Dicky was afraid they would
+never understand. But surely a very clever dog could make people
+understand somehow?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At last the door opened and the Man appeared, black against
+the starry sky. He stumbled over Dicky, swore and lit a stinking
+lamp-flame the size of the blade of a pocket knife. He was followed
+by the Woman. Outside Dicky could see the red glow of the fire
+which had cooked their dinner. Now was his chance. What
+should he do to astonish them? That was the first thing to do,
+to astonish them till they began to understand. But all Dicky
+could think of was a doggy thing after all: he sat up and begged.
+The Woman grinned at him, but the Man, who was pulling off
+his great boots, flung one at him, which Dicky dodged. He at
+once sat up on his hind-legs again, this time joining his paws and
+holding them up high in front of him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>“Bli’my Joe, look at the dawg!” exclaimed the Woman.
+“It’s saying its prayers!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The Man, too, stared in astonishment.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I don’t like it,” said the Woman.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Dicky felt greatly encouraged. At home he was fond of
+turning somersaults. Now, down went his head and over went
+his hind-legs. It was not a good somersault (he was too short in
+the legs for somersaults now) but it was one. The Man gave a
+shout of laughter, and his face lit up with joy and cunning.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“S’truth, it’s a performing dawg! I ain’t taking ’im back,
+no fear. He’ll make our fortunes.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At these words Dicky saw he had made a terrible mistake. If
+he was a dog, he had better not be a re-markable dog.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_030.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“HE COULD NOT FALL ANY FURTHER”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>The door was still open, and through it he dashed, taking the
+steps at a leap. Now he was falling, falling, falling. What a
+height! Oh, would he never reach the bottom? Stars were
+flying above him like bees. The awful thing was that he was
+beginning to fall slowly, while a huge arm with a hand at the
+end of it was stretching out, longer and longer, after him. He was
+not even falling slowly now; he was floating. He tried to force
+himself down through the air, but though there was nothing to
+keep him up he could not fall any further. Suddenly the arm
+gripped him. In an agony of terror he yelled: “I’m not a dog.”
+He heard his own voice, and, to his amazement, he saw his father’s
+face close to his; it was his father’s arm lifting him from the
+hearthrug. He felt a hand cool on his forehead. “Dick, you’re
+feverish. My little Dick.” His father’s voice had never sounded
+like that before, and he felt himself being carried—deliciously
+safe—to bed.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“After all,” he said to himself, as he snuggled down, “I’m
+glad I’m not a dog.”</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_032.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>When We Were Very, Very Young</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>A. A. Milne</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_033a.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id005'>
+<img src='images/i_033b.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>I think I am a Muffin Man. I haven’t got a bell,</div>
+      <div class='line'>I haven’t got the muffin things that muffin-people sell.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Perhaps I am a Postman. No, I think I am a Tram.</div>
+      <div class='line'>I’m feeling rather funny and I don’t know <em>what</em> I am—</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in16'>BUT</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in4'><em>Round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about I go—</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>All round the table,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The table in the nursery—</div>
+      <div class='line in4'><em>Round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about I go:</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>I think I am a Traveller Escaping from a Bear;</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>I think I am an Elephant</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Behind another Elephant</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Behind <em>another</em> Elephant who isn’t really there....</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in34'>SO</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in4'><em>Round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about and <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in24'>I go.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>I think I am a Ticket Man, who’s selling tickets-please,</div>
+      <div class='line'>I think I am a Doctor who is visiting a Sneeze;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Perhaps I’m just a Nanny who is walking with a pram.</div>
+      <div class='line'>I’m feeling rather funny and I don’t know <em>what</em> I am—</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in30'>BUT</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in4'><em>Round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about I go—</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>All round the table</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The table in the nursery—</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span><em>Round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about I go:</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>I think I am a Puppy, so I’m hanging out my tongue:</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>I think I am a Camel Who</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Is looking for a Camel Who</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Is looking for a Camel who is Looking for its Young....</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in28'>SO</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in4'><em>Round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about and <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And <em>round</em> about</div>
+      <div class='line in18'>I go.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_034.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_035.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Shadow Land</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>David Cecil</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Night falls upon a day of storm,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Of mist and gust and rain,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And still wind howls along the sands,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And sleet with myriad tiny hands,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Slaps at the window pane.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Awake in bed lay Jack and Jane,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>They watched the shadows play;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Their eyes roved round from wall to floor</div>
+      <div class='line'>And then they stopped and roved no more.</div>
+      <div class='line'>A lady standing by the door</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Looked at them as they lay.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>Her skin was smooth as ivory,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Her hair was like pale silk</div>
+      <div class='line'>All spells and secrets seemed to lie</div>
+      <div class='line'>Beneath each slanting emerald eye,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And eyelid white as milk.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Her stiff skirts gleamed in the firelight</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And the ceaseless hurrying shadows.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Her voice was high and far away</div>
+      <div class='line'>Like distant voice at close of day,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Calling across the meadows.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Come!” she said, “Come!”; the children came,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>They had nor voice nor will.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Round her the hurrying shadows skim,</div>
+      <div class='line'>She struck one with her knuckles slim,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>It fluttered and stood still.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_036.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>WILDER YET THE SHADOWS WHIRL</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>Wilder yet the shadows whirl.</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>As nailed to wall and floor,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Stood firm this one; she whispered “Follow.”</div>
+      <div class='line'>Then swiftly swooping like a swallow,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Slipt through as through a door.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>And she led them to far shadowland,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Where the shadows stand upright;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And walk and talk, while on the ground,</div>
+      <div class='line'>The live men trail without a sound,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Solid and pink and white.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Where the echo is heard before the song,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And in the pools you see</div>
+      <div class='line'>Reflected houses steady stand,</div>
+      <div class='line'>While real ones built upon the land</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Tremble continually.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>All night long stayed Jack and Jane,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>But when the dawn grew red,</div>
+      <div class='line'>They crept back through the shadow door,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Across the firelight-chequered floor,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>And scrambled back to bed.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_037.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_038.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'><span class='sc'>The Bargain Shop</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>By Cynthia Asquith.</span></div>
+
+<h3 class='c016'>I</h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>Once upon a time there lived a man
+called Anselm, who used several times an
+hour to stamp his foot and cry out: “I
+<em>must</em> be rich! I <em>must</em> be rich!” He was married to the most beautiful
+woman he had ever seen, and, since he had enough to eat and a
+weatherproof house, and had neither aches nor pains, he should
+have been happy for 365 days in each year. But his unceasing
+longing for great wealth spoilt everything, and even on fine days
+he went about looking as discontented as though he were hungry.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>As for his wife, Jasmine, she had long red-gold hair and
+great green eyes set wide apart in her flower-like face, and she
+possessed a mirror in which she could see her shimmering loveliness.
+So she ought to have been very happy and very grateful.
+She was so beautiful that when she walked abroad, men would lean
+far out of their windows to watch her pass and then wonder why
+their own wives and daughters should look so much like suet
+puddings.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But, though you will scarcely believe it, Jasmine was quite
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>as discontented as her husband, and pouted and sighed through
+the days.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For she, too, was consumed by this perpetual craving for
+riches. Whether she had caught this uncomfortable sort of
+illness from her husband, or whether she had given it to him,
+I do not know, but there they were both wasting their youth,
+their beauty, and their love for one another, in foolish, petulant
+longing.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Whenever Jasmine saw other women clad in rich raiment
+and adorned with jewels, envy would blight her loveliness as
+frost blights a flower.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Of what use is my beauty if I cannot adorn it?” she cried.
+“I <em>must</em> have pearls—ropes of pearls, crowns of glittering
+diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes,” said Anselm, “and I must have a hundred horses,
+a thousand slaves, and fountains that spout forth wines!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One day, as Jasmine walked sadly through a deep, dark forest
+she suddenly saw a very strange looking house moving slowly
+towards her. The roof of the house was most beautifully thatched
+with brightly-coloured feathers, and across its face in rainbow
+letters ran the queer inscription:</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div>THE BARGAIN HOUSE</div>
+    <div class='c005'><span class='sc'>Money For Sale.&#8196; &#8196; &#8196; Enquire Within.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Money for sale?” read the wondering Jasmine. “What
+can this mean? Some foolish jest, no doubt.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Three times the house sped round her; then it quivered and
+stood still. She stared at the glass door that held a myriad
+reflections of herself. As though her gaze had power to push,
+it slowly opened. She now saw into a vast hall, and heard
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>a gentle but compelling voice say: “Come in.” Trembling,
+Jasmine walked through the door. The light was dim and
+flickering as though from a fire, but no fireplace could be seen.
+Across the whole length of the hall ran a counter, such as you
+see in large shops, and behind this counter there rose up a wall
+made of rows of boxes piled high the one upon the other, and on
+these boxes were rainbow letters and figures. Between the boxes
+and the counter there stood a tall, sweetly-smiling woman, whose
+face, though unrecognisable, seemed somehow familiar to Jasmine.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I was expecting you, beautiful Jasmine,” spoke the stranger
+in a voice that was soft but decided, like the fall of snow. “You
+would buy money, would you not?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Can one buy money?” faltered Jasmine. “Save <em>with</em>
+money, and, alas! I have none.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Though you were penniless, yet from me you could purchase
+boundless wealth,” replied the stranger. “Behold, a purse,”
+she continued, holding up a red-tasselled bag, “which, spend
+as you may, will always contain one thousand golden guineas.
+This purse is yours if in exchange you will give me one part of
+yourself.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“A part of myself?” gasped the astonished Jasmine. “What
+would you have? My hair?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No,” smiled the woman. “Lovely as are your tresses,
+in time they would grow again, and no one may own unlimited
+wealth and pay no price therefor. Your beauty shall remain
+untouched. It is your Sense of Humour that I require.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“My Sense of Humour?” laughed Jasmine. “Is that all?
+Just that part of me which makes me laugh? Humour? What was
+it my mother used to call Humour? I remember—she said it
+was Man’s consolation sent to him by God in sign of peace.
+God’s rainbow in our minds. But with boundless wealth what
+need of consolation shall I have? Besides, I have often been told
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>I had but little Sense of Humour. The more gladly will I give
+it to you. The purse, I pray,” and Jasmine held out both her
+trembling hands.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Stay a while,” said the solemn, smiling woman. “I must
+warn you of two conditions. First, I would have you know, the
+money this purse yields can be spent only upon yourself. Would
+you still have it?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes! Yes! Yes!” clamoured Jasmine.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I must also tell you that should you ever repent of your
+bargain and wish to buy back the precious sense you sell, it will,
+alas, not be in my power to help you. I can never buy back from
+the person to whom I have sold. The only chance of recovering
+your Sense of Humour is, that another customer, unasked by you,
+should buy it back with a similar purse, and I warn you that it
+may be hard to find anyone willing to give up boundless wealth
+for the sake of your laughter.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What matter?” exclaimed Jasmine. “Never, never shall
+I wish to return my purse.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You are determined?” asked the strange saleswoman.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes, yes, yes!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hold out your arms, then.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Eagerly Jasmine stretched out her arms.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The smiling woman touched her on both her funny-bones, drew
+forth her Sense of Humour, laid it away in a box, on which
+she wrote Jasmine’s name, and the date, and then placed it on
+a shelf between two other boxes.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Now it is mine, until redeemed by the return of a purse,
+fellow to this that I give thee,” said the woman, handing
+the tasselled red bag to Jasmine. “And while it is in my
+careful keeping, this despised sense of yours will grow and grow.
+Farewell, Jasmine. Leave me now and go forth into a bleak
+world.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>Clasping the marvellous purse to her heart, Jasmine fled
+from the house and hastened through the deep, dark forest till she
+reached the city. At once she went to the great jewel-merchants,
+against whose windows she had often pressed her face in wistful
+longing.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I want the biggest pearl necklace you have got,” she cried,
+breathlessly bursting into the gorgeous showroom.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m afraid goods of such value can only be supplied in
+exchange for ready money,” said the merchant with an uncivil
+smile.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How much?” asked Jasmine.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_042.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>“Seven thousand guineas.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jasmine opened the purse and holding it upside down, shook
+it. Glittering guineas poured out in a golden stream, but the
+purse remained just as full as before.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>As the clinking coins bounded and rolled the merchant’s
+eyes grew rounder and rounder, and he had to shout for six
+small black slaves to come to help him to count the money, now
+lying scattered all over his shop. With the lowest bow he had
+ever bowed he handed the long rope of glistening pearls to
+Jasmine. Feverishly she clasped them round her throat, where
+they scarcely showed against the whiteness of her skin. They
+reached down to her knees.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Now some emerald ear-rings, a crown of diamonds, ten ruby
+bracelets for each arm, and all the opals you possess!” ordered
+Jasmine, scattering guineas as she spoke, and putting on all the
+jewels as fast as they were produced.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At last she went away, hung with jewels as a Christmas tree
+is hung with ornaments. Proud as a peacock she strutted through
+the streets, and everyone laughed at the absurd sight of so many
+gaudy ornaments crowded on to one ordinary-sized woman. She
+heard titters and wondered what might be the cause of the laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She now went to the grandest Fashion House in the city,
+ordered one thousand costly garments, and came out wearing
+the richest raiment she had found in stock. Next she bought
+a most magnificent coach, made of mother o’ pearl, and sixteen
+piebald horses to draw it; and then she engaged an enormous
+coachman with a face gilt to match his golden livery.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>On her way home she stopped at seven merchants to buy
+all manner of rare and costly foods, and before long the great
+coach was crammed with dainties. In it were piled every fruit
+and vegetable that happened to be then out of season, bottles of wonderful
+wine, jars of caviare, pots of roseleaf jam, tiny birds in aspic,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>and sugar plums of every colour. Last of all—because it looked
+so grand and expensive—she bought an immense wedding-cake,
+sixteen stories high. The confectioners laughed. They seemed
+to think it funny that she should buy the wedding-cake. She
+wondered why they were amused.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When Anselm saw his wife stagger into the room, swaying
+beneath the weight of so many gaudy jewels, thinking them to
+be all sham and worn in jest, he burst into a great roar of laughter.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Annoyed at his merriment, Jasmine told him breathlessly
+of the marvellous purse. Her husband laughed and laughed,
+partly at her story, partly at her absurd appearance. He laughed
+until he got hiccoughs.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, how funny! How funny! What has come over you?”
+he cried, rolling on the floor.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“This is no jest, Anselm, I swear; it is the solemn truth.
+Just look inside and you will see all the golden coins.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Incredulously Anselm peered into the bulging purse. He
+rubbed his eyes. Slowly his unbelief gave way to amazed joy.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Praise be to God!” he cried at last. “We’re rich, rich,
+rich beyond the dreams of man. Give it to me that I may go
+and buy gorgeous apparel, fine horses, and rarest wines.”
+Feverishly he snatched the purse from his wife’s hand.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What’s this?” he cried. “I knew it was some trickery.
+Your precious purse is as empty as an egg that has been eaten.”
+And in truth, the tasselled bag now dangled from his hand flat
+and light as a leaf.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh!” screamed Jasmine, in dismay, “give it back to me!”
+No sooner had she touched the purse than once more it became
+rounded and heavy with the weight of a thousand guineas.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Praise be to God!” she sighed. “I remember now.
+The woman from whom I bought it warned me that the guineas
+were only for my own use.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>“Tut, tut, that’s very troublesome,” said Anselm ruefully.
+“But what matter? You will be able to buy gifts for me. It will
+come to the same thing. But, wife, what mean you when you
+say you <em>bought</em> the purse? With what can one buy money?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jasmine told him of the weird house, the mysterious saleswoman
+and the strange bargain she had driven.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Your Sense of Humour?” cried Anselm. “<em>Your</em> Sense of
+Humour! Well, she didn’t get much for her money, did she?
+Ha! ha! ha!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>With grave eyes Jasmine stared at her husband, offended at
+his display of merriment.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then she said: “You little guess what a banquet I have
+prepared for you. Come now and I will show you how I have
+ransacked the city for its choicest dainties. Let us now feast.”
+Together they entered the dining-hall and at sight of the gorgeous
+banquet spread before them Anselm smacked his lips and promised
+himself great delight.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But bitter disappointment awaited him. For, no sooner did
+he touch the iced grape-fruit with which he intended to begin
+his feast, than, behold, it shrivelled in his hand, and became an
+empty rind. With an oath he stretched out his hand to grasp
+a goblet of purple wine. It broke in his hand, and of the rich
+vintage nothing remained but a stain on the damask tablecloth.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Alas!” cried Jasmine. “It seems that with the magic
+gold I may buy nothing for your use!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In truth, everything that poor Anselm touched, before it
+reached his eager lips, disappeared like a bubble that has burst.
+In nothing that had been purchased with the magic gold could he
+share. For him, all the rich viands were spread in vain, and
+finally, he was obliged to fall back on their accustomed fare of
+bread and cheese and last Friday’s mutton.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“’Tis funny to watch one’s wife quaffing the wines one
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>dreams of and to be on prison-fare oneself,” laughed Anselm,
+trying to make the best of things.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Funny?” asked his wife. “Why is it funny? I think it
+is very sad. These humming birds and this sparkling juice of the
+grape are most delicious.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>To keep up his spirits Anselm, who was famed for his wit,
+cracked many jokes, but no smile ever lifted the corners of
+Jasmine’s perfect mouth; no twinkle appeared in the depth of
+her great green eyes. Discouraged at last, Anselm fell into
+silent sulks, whilst his wife continued to eat and drink, until a
+stitch came in both her sides.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Days passed. Every evening, Jasmine, clad in new raiment
+and gorgeous jewels, regaled herself with rich dainties.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Alas, husband!” she cried one night, “I have no pleasure
+in feasting that you cannot share.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“In truth, this is no life!” angrily exclaimed Anselm. “To
+sit at a banquet one may not taste with a wife who cannot see
+one’s jokes. I can bear it no longer. Why should not I seek
+this strange woman and make the same bargain? If husband
+and wife may not share their jokes, they must at least share their
+dinner. Tell me quickly where I may find this ‘Bargain House.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Jasmine told her husband the way through the deep, dark
+forest, and early the next morning he set forth in search of the
+mysterious building. An hour’s walking brought him within sight
+of just such a house as his wife had described. It moved nearer,
+sped three times around him and then stood still. As he stared at
+it, the door slowly opened, the gentle, commanding voice bade him
+enter, and there stood the tall, smiling woman of his wife’s
+description.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Good morning, Anselm,” she said, in the voice that was soft
+like the fall of snow. “Would you have a purse that shall always
+bear a thousand guineas?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>“Indeed I would!” cried Anselm. “Have you one for
+me?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes, if you consent to my terms.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What is it that you want? My Sense of Humour? Of
+what use is it to me now? I will gladly part with it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No,” said the woman. “’Tis not your Sense of Humour
+I require of you, it is your Sense of Beauty.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Take what you will from me,” cried Anselm. “I care not
+so I have one of those wondrous purses.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Listen first, Anselm,” said the woman, and solemnly, as she
+had warned Jasmine, so she warned him that the magic money
+could be spent on none save himself, and that the sense he
+sold could be bought back only by the owner of such another
+purse.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Remember, you can never reclaim it yourself,” she repeated.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I care not! I care not!” exclaimed Anselm. “Quick,
+the purse!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Come hither,” said the woman, “and close your eyes.”
+Gently she touched him on both eyelids, and drew forth his Sense
+of Beauty. Then she handed him a red-tasselled bag exactly
+the same as Jasmine’s and as heavy with golden guineas.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Now farewell, Anselm. Go forth into a bleak world.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wild with joy and excitement, Anselm dashed from the
+Bargain House and hastened through the deep, dark forest to that
+part of the city where dwelt the grandest merchants. Here he
+bought gorgeous apparel, costly wines, and magnificent horses.
+Astride the finest of the horses, a gleaming chestnut, said to be
+the swiftest steed alive, he then rode home through the forest.
+As he went, he met an old man clad in wretched rags, who looked
+very hungry and tired. Feeling pleased with life Anselm plunged
+his hand into the magic purse, and, drawing forth a golden guinea,
+flung it at the poor man, who joyfully stooped to pick it up. But
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>no sooner had his hand touched the coin than it vanished. Anselm
+remembered the woman’s warning.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_048.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“ANSELM DREW FORTH A GOLDEN GUINEA”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sorry, my good fellow,” he
+said, shamefacedly handing the
+beggar two coppers—all that he
+could find in his old purse.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Thanks, noble master.
+Now I can buy bread for my
+supper. I never thought to eat
+to-night.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“For one who sups on dry
+bread you look strangely cheerful,”
+said Anselm. “At what
+can you rejoice?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“’Tis the beauty of the sunset,
+master. It seems to warm
+my heart. Never have I seen one
+like to it in glory. Who could
+look and not be comforted?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And, in truth, a radiant smile
+lit up the old man’s suffering
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>face as he gazed on the flaming splendours of the western sky.
+Anselm turned and looked where the beggar pointed, but he could
+see nothing that seemed worth the turning of the head, and with
+a shrug of the shoulders he rode home.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now Jasmine, rejoicing that Anselm would share her
+feasting, arrayed herself that she might look her fairest for their
+banquet. She brushed her red-gold hair until it shone, and
+gazed at herself in the mirror until her beauty glowed. Then
+she attired herself in a dress of dragon-flies’ wings, covered all
+over with hearts made of tiny little diamonds like dewdrops.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Never, never have I looked so fair. When Anselm sees
+me he will love me more than ever. How joyfully we shall feast
+together, and how glad am I that he will no longer want me to
+laugh at the things he says! I shall love him far more without
+his Sense of Humour.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Her heart beat as she heard footsteps hastening up the stairs.
+Radiant with excitement in burst Anselm. “I’m rich!” he cried.
+“Rich! rich! Rejoice with me, Jasmine.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Grey disappointment crushed into Jasmine’s heart, for not
+one word did her husband say of her especial beauty or her
+wonderful dress.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“There’s nothing like wealth!” he cried. “How did we ever
+endure our poverty? And fancy, I met a beggar-man, who said
+he was cheerful because he looked at the sunset! Ha! ha! ha!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why do you laugh, Anselm? Have you then not sold your
+Sense of Humour? How came you then by that purse?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No. I may still laugh. I have but parted with my Sense
+of Beauty.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Your Sense of Beauty?” echoed Jasmine, icy fear entering
+her heart. “Is that why your eyes no longer seek my face?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why ever do you look so doleful?” laughed Anselm. “Let us
+hasten down and feast. My lips thirst for the wines I have bought.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>Trembling, Jasmine pleaded: “Look on my face, husband,
+the face you have so often called your glory. What think you
+of my face to-night?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Your face? Let me look. It seems all right: two eyes,
+one nose, one mouth. Yes, it seems just as other faces are.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was with a sad heart poor Jasmine sat at the feast that
+night. Loving her husband, she rejoiced to see him revel, but
+that he should no longer gaze at her with the admiration which
+had been her delight was pain past bearing. Anselm enjoyed his
+feasting, but the wine made jokes rise in his mind, to flutter from
+his lips, and it vexed him that no smile ever widened his wife’s
+mouth, set for ever in still solemnity.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Days, weeks, months passed. Anselm and Jasmine now lived
+in a gorgeous palace. They were clad in the finest raiment and
+they feasted like emperors, but in their hearts all was becoming
+as dust and ashes.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Ah me!” sighed Jasmine. “I know now why it was that
+I longed for wealth. It was that I might add to my beauty and
+see even more admiration in my beloved’s eyes. Of what use to
+me are my gorgeous gowns, my jewels, my flower-like face, since
+Anselm no longer delights to see me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And for Anselm the pleasures of feasting and luxurious living
+soon palled. His wife could not laugh at his jokes, and in the
+wide world there was nothing for him to admire. Neither sunsets,
+nor courage, nor self-sacrifice. He could see no beauty in any
+face, thought or action. Lost to him were the delights of Poetry
+and all the loveliness of Nature.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What is there in life,” he cried, “but feasting and laughter?
+If only Jasmine could join with me in mocking at the absurdities
+of Man!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Desperately he strove to restore laughter to his mirthless
+wife. He engaged a thousand jesters and promised a fortune to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>him who should make her laugh. Everything human beings
+consider funny was shown to her. Orange peel was plentifully
+scattered outside the palace windows, and aged men encouraged to
+walk past, that they might step on the orange peel and fall. Then,
+by means of huge bellows purposely placed, their hats were blown
+from off their heads, in the hope that Jasmine would smile to see
+the poor old fellows vainly chasing their own headgear. But all
+in vain. Nothing amused Jasmine, neither physical misfortune
+nor the finest wit. Her mouth remained set. Daily Anselm
+laughed louder and longer, but into his laughter an ugly bitterness
+had come. It was now the laughter of mockery, no longer softened
+by admiration.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>During that summer a child was born to Jasmine. For years
+she had longed for a baby, but now that the funny little creature
+squirmed in her arms, yawning, and making faces, she thought
+it merely ugly and turned from it in disgust.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A few months later the coachman’s wife gave birth to a baby,
+and Jasmine went to visit her. She found her by the fire, nursing
+a red, hairless, wrinkled daughter that seemed to Jasmine the
+ugliest morsel in all the world. In speechless horror she stared
+at it. Opening wide its shapeless mouth, the baby stretched its
+tiny arms and gave a great yawn. With a joyful laugh, the mother
+clutched it to her heart. “Oh, you darling, darling!” she cried.
+“Could anyone not love anything so <em>funny</em>?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Is Love then born of Laughter?” cried poor Jasmine,
+and, full of bitter envy, she rushed from the room.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>That same year a terrible war was waged and thousands of
+soldiers went forth to die. One day, Jasmine gazed out of the
+window. Brave music was playing, and with colours flying, a
+gallant host of youths marched past, their weeping mothers and
+sweethearts waving farewell.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“A disgusting sight, is it not?” said Anselm. “All these
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>boys striding off to be killed simply because their foolish kings
+have quarrelled!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes,” replied Jasmine, her eyes full of tears. “But beautiful,
+too.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Beautiful?” jeered her husband with a harsh, discordant
+laugh. “You fool! What beauty can there be in senseless sacrifice?”
+And, as now often happened, these two fell into loud
+and bitter wrangling.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Thus daily life became more and more unbearable to Anselm
+and Jasmine. In spite of all their wealth, boredom pressed
+heavily upon them. Since she could not laugh, and he could not
+admire, to both the world seemed full of senseless suffering.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I can no longer bear this life,” said Jasmine, one day. “Of
+what use is the beauty to which Anselm is blind? I will seek
+the Bargain House and buy back the Sense he sold. He will still
+have his purse with which to buy the luxuries he loves.” And
+forth she went into the deep, dark forest.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>An hour later, Anselm exclaimed:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I can no longer bear this life. I will buy back Jasmine’s
+humour that at least we may together mock at this senseless life.
+She will still have her purse to buy the fineries she loves.” And
+forth he went into the deep, dark forest.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>That evening Jasmine returned without her magic purse,
+rejoicing that her husband would once more delight in her beauty.
+She went to say good night to her little son, who lay in his cot,
+struggling to draw his tiny toes up into his mouth. The window
+was open. Suddenly he stretched forth his arms towards the
+shining moon. It looked so good to suck; he longed to grasp it.
+He struggled and bubbled and clutched, his crinkled face growing
+crimson with effort. How funny he looked! Suddenly, Jasmine
+found herself laughing—laughing—laughing until her whole body
+shook, and happy peals broke through her astonished lips. “Oh,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>you darling, darling little joke,” she cried, joyfully kissing her
+child.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At that moment in rushed Anselm, and stood transfixed at
+the dazzling beauty of his wife.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Jasmine, Jasmine,” he cried, “what has happened. Why
+are you so dazzlingly beautiful?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Because I have no longer a magic purse. I have bought
+you back your Sense, husband.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You too?” cried Anselm; “and I have bought back your
+laughter.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then we are both poor! Oh, how funny!” cried Jasmine,
+her laughter growing louder and louder as they fell into one
+another’s arms.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Thus Anselm and Jasmine parted with their magic purses,
+and had to work for their daily bread, but they lived happily ever
+afterwards in a world that was blessedly beautiful and blessedly
+funny.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_054.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>The Joyous Ballad of the Parson and the Badger</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Henry Newbolt</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Not far from Guildford town there lies</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>A house called Orange Grove,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And there his trade a Parson plies,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Whom all good people love.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in6'>Sing up, sing down, for Guildford town,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>And sing for the Parson too!</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>I’ll wager a penny you’ll never find any</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>That’s more of a sportsman true.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>A neighbour came in haste one day</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>With a piteous tale to tell,</div>
+      <div class='line'>But “A badger, a badger,” was all he could say,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>When they answered the front door bell.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in6'>Sing in, sing out, there’s a badger about,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>Send word to the County Police.</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>He’s playing the dickens with all the spring chickens,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>And gobbling up the geese.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Forth to the fray the Parson goes</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Beneath the midnight sky,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He threads the wood on the tip of his toes</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And he climbs a fir-tree high.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in6'>Sing never a word, it’s quite absurd</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>To expect a badger to come</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>And sit to be shot like a bottle or pot</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>To the sound of an idiot’s hum!</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>The clock has struck both twelve and one,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>His eyes are heavy as lead,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He heartily wishes the deed were done</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And himself at home in bed.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in6'>Sing ho! Sing hey! the badger’s away,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>The Parson’s up the tree:</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>It’s horribly damp and he’s got the cramp</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>And there’s nothing at all to see.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>The clock struck two, and then half-past,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The day began to break;</div>
+      <div class='line'>The badger came back to his earth at last</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And found our friend awake.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in6'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>Sing boom and bang! the welkin rang,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>The Parson, “Hurrah!” he cried:</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>The badger lay there with his legs in the air</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>And an ounce of shot inside.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Happy at heart, though in pitiful plight,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The victor crawled away;</div>
+      <div class='line'>He slept the sleep of the just all night</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And half of the following day.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in6'>Sing loud and strong, sing all day long,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>Sing Yoicks! and Hullabaloo!</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>But I’ve had enough of this doggerel stuff</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>And so, I should think, have you!</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_056.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“HE CLIMBED A FIR-TREE HIGH”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_057.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>To Enid<br> <span class='c002'>who acted the</span><br> Cat<br> <span class='c002'>in private Pantomime</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>G. K. Chesterton</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Though cats and birds be hardly friends,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>We doubt the Maeterlinckian word</div>
+      <div class='line'>That must dishonour the White Cat,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Even to honour the Blue Bird.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>And if once more in later days</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>His baseless charge the Belgian brings,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Great ghosts shall rise to vindicate</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The right of cats to look at kings.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>The Lord of Carabas shall come</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>In gold and ermine, silk and furs,</div>
+      <div class='line'>To tell of that immortal cat</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>That wore its boots and won its spurs.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>
+<img src='images/i_058.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>THE LORD OF CARABAS SHALL COME</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>IN GOLD AND ERMINE, SILK AND FURS,</div>
+      <div class='line'>TO TELL OF THAT IMMORTAL CAT</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>THAT WORE ITS BOOTS AND WON ITS SPURS</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>Great Whittington shall show again</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The state that London lends her Lord,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Where the great golden griffins bear</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The blazon of the Cross and Sword.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>And hear the ancient bells anew,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And talk and not ignobly brag</div>
+      <div class='line'>What glorious fortunes followed when</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>He let the cat out of the bag.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>And Gray shall leave the graves of Stoke</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>To weep over a gold-fish bowl—</div>
+      <div class='line'>Cowper, who, beaming at his cat,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Forgot the shadow on his soul.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Then shall I rise and name aloud</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The nicest cat I ever knew,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And make the fairy fancies pale</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>With half a hundred tales of you:</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Till Pasht upon his granite throne</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Glare with green eyes to hear the news</div>
+      <div class='line'>Jealous; and even Puss in Boots</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Will wish that he were in your shoes.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>When I shall pledge in saucers full</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Of milk, on which the kitten thrives,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Feline felicities to you</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And nine extremely prosperous lives.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Scenes in the Life of a Princess</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Charles Whibley</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c016'><em>Ashridge</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>When Queen Mary was persuaded, falsely, that her throne
+could be made safe only by the death of her sister, then but eighteen
+years old, the Princess Elizabeth lay sick at Ashridge. One spring
+morning, as she tossed abed, ’twixt sleeping and waking, in the
+weariness of fever, she heard in the courtyard beneath her window
+the tramp of men, the clatter of horses’ hoofs. Her affrighted
+servants brought her word that a guard of two hundred and fifty
+horsemen attended the Lords, who came with messages from the
+Queen, a guard larger than enough to keep watch over so frail
+a Princess. The house being thus begirt, Lord Thame and his
+companions, thrust their way into the presence of the Princess.
+To her demand that if not for courtesy, yet for modesty’s sake,
+they should put off the delivery of their message till the morrow,
+they answered that their commission was to bring her to London,
+alive or dead.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“A sore commission,” said the Princess, but a commission
+not to be gainsaid. And the Queen’s doctors showed her little pity.
+She might be removed, said they, not without danger, yet without
+death.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>So on the morrow, the sad cavalcade set forth. The Princess,
+that she might be the more darkly shielded from the public gaze,
+was borne in the Queen’s own litter, which she presently bade to
+be opened, and thus she made her progress to Whitehall in the full
+view of the people. It was a tedious and a painful journey. From
+Ashridge, by St. Alban’s, she came to South Mymms, where again
+she rested her weary body, and not until four suns had set did she
+reach the inhospitable Court of Mary, her Queen and her sister.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'><em>Whitehall</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>When she came to Whitehall, she was still a prisoner. It
+was as though she carried her dungeon with her. Whitehall was
+less kind even than the white high road, where at least she had
+found solace in the pity of the humble folk, who wept as she passed,
+and offered prayers for her safety. Fourteen days she spent in
+unfriended seclusion, with “no comfort but her innocence, no
+companion but her book.” Not for her the freedom of the open
+air, the chatter of tongues, the laughter of friends. Her oft-repeated
+request to see her sister fell upon the deaf ears of her
+jailers. A princess of less courage would have quailed before the
+ill-omened silence which enwrapped her. And how could she
+hope to regain the Queen’s affection, so long as the cunning servants
+of the Emperor and the King of France, Renard and
+Noailles, were there to distil the poison of hate and dread in Queen
+Mary’s ear?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Knowing well that her foes were the Queen’s friends, her
+friends the Queen’s foes, she was still of a stout heart. When
+Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, resolute to entrap her, urged
+her to confess and to submit herself to the Queen’s Majesty, “submission,”
+said she proudly, “confessed a crime, and pardon
+belonged to a delinquent.” For her part she had no crime to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>confess, and she asked no pardon. So for her temerity she was
+told that two hundred Northern Whitecoats should guard her
+lodging that night, and that in the morn she should be secretly
+conveyed to the Tower, without her household, there to be kept
+a close prisoner.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'><em>The Tower</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>It was a Palm Sunday when she set forth, under a guard, to
+that place of ill-omen, the Tower of London. Hers was no
+triumphal progress; neither palm nor willow was carried in her
+honour. And well might she dread the journey, which she was
+forced to make. Within the dark walls of the Tower her mother
+had laid her fair head down upon the block; and what cause had she
+to hope for a happier destiny? As she left Whitehall, to her a place
+of durance, she looked up to the window of the Queen’s bedchamber,
+hoping there to see some mark of favour, some signal of affection.
+The hope was vain, and in cold despair she came to the Stairs,
+where the barges awaited her. When she reached the Tower,
+she was bidden to enter at the Traitor’s Gate, which at first she
+refused, and then stepping short so that her foot fell into the water,
+she spake these words to her obdurate jailer:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Here landeth as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever
+landed at these stairs, since Julius Cæsar laid the first foundations
+of the Tower.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The Constable, a wry-faced ruffian, lurched forth savagely to
+receive her, and in a harsh voice told her that he would show her
+her lodging. Then she, being faint, “sat down,” we are told, “upon
+a fair stone, at which time there fell a great shower of rain: the
+heavens themselves did seem to weep at such inhuman usage.”</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_062fp.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A PRINCESS<br>  <br>  “They answered that their commission was to bring her to London, alive or dead.”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='small'><em>Drawn for “The Flying Carpet”</em></span></div>
+      <div class='line in8'><span class='small'><em>by H. M. Brock</em></span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>Presently she was locked and bolted in the Tower; her own
+servants were taken from her; to open her casement, that she might
+enjoy the fresh air of heaven, to walk in the garden—these were
+pleasures denied her. One sole thing was constantly demanded
+of her, that she should confess herself a rebel and submit herself
+to the Queen. Nobly did she refuse, and was left to silence and
+her own proud thoughts.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'><em>Hampton Court</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>She changed her prison, and kept unchanged her high courage.
+From the Tower she was carried to Woodstock. But what
+mattered it where the dungeon lay? The locks and bolts were
+no more easily burst asunder at Woodstock than at the Tower.
+And then of a sudden her keeper was bidden to bring her to
+Hampton Court, not as a free Princess, but as a guarded malefactor.
+At Colnbrook, where on the way she sojourned at the
+sign of the George, certain gentlemen, devoted to her service,
+came to do her homage. Instantly, at the Queen’s command,
+they were sent about their business, and the Princess was bidden to
+enter Hampton Court, without an escort, and by the back gate,
+like the humblest menial. Again for many days she was left
+solitary and in silence, when she was summoned one night into
+the presence of the Queen, her sister, whose heavy hand she had
+felt unceasingly, whose face she had not seen for two long years.
+The Queen, sitting on her chair of State, took up her promise of
+loyalty sharply and shortly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Then you will not confess yourself,” said she, “to
+be a delinquent, I see, but stand peremptorily upon your truth and
+innocence; I pray God they may so fall out.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>To which the Princess replied: “If not, I neither require
+favour nor pardon at your Majesty’s hands.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well,” said the Queen, “then you stand so stiffly upon
+your faith and loyalty, that you suppose yourself to have been
+wrongfully punished and imprisoned.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>“I cannot,” replied the Princess, “nor must not say so to
+you.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why then belike,” retorted the Queen, “you will report
+it to others.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Not so,” said the Princess. “I have borne and must bear
+the burden myself.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The two sisters never met again, but the Princess’s courage
+in facing her fate was not in vain. Thenceforth she was
+eased of her imprisonment, and went to Ashridge in free custody,
+where she remained at her pleasure, until Queen Mary’s death.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'><em>A Progress through London</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>In 1558 the Queen died, and the Princess Elizabeth, justified
+of her patience and her courage, was proclaimed Queen of England.
+In the loyal enthusiasm of her subjects, who had long since
+acclaimed her in their hearts, the years of solitude and imprisonment
+were forgotten. To the Tower, which she had left a captive,
+she returned a monarch, and passed in triumph through her City
+of London to Westminster. Everywhere she was welcomed by
+pageants and loyal discourse, until she came to the famous Abbey
+where she was crowned, to the contentment of her loyal lieges and
+to the honour and glory of her realm.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Neil and Tintinnabulum</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c003'>
+    <div><span class='sc'>An Interlude for Parents</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>By J. M. Barrie</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c016'>1. <em>Early Days</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>In writing a story a safe plan must be to imitate your favourite
+author. Until he was nine, when he abandoned the calling,
+Neil was my favourite author, and I therefore decide to follow
+his method of dividing the story into short chapters so as to make
+it look longer.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When he was nine I took him to his preparatory, he prancing
+in the glories of the unknown until the hour came for me to go,
+“the hour between the dog and the wolf,” and then he was
+afraid. I said that in the holidays all would be just as it had been
+before, but the newly-wise one shook his head; and on my return
+home, when I wandered out unmanned to look at his tool-shed, I
+found these smashing words in his writing pinned to the door:</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+  <div class='nf-center'>
+    <div><span class='sc'>This Establishment is now Permanently Closed.</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>I went white as I saw that Neil already understood life better
+than I did.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Soon again he was on the wing. Here is interesting autobiographical
+matter I culled years later from the fly-leaf of his <em>Cæsar</em>:
+“Aetat 12, height 4 ft. 11, biceps 8¼, kicks the beam at 6-2.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The reference is to a great occasion when Neil stripped at
+his preparatory (clandestinely) for a Belt with the word “Bruiser”
+on it. I am reluctant to boast about him (this is untrue), yet
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>must mention that he won the belt, with which (such are the ups
+and downs of life) he was that same evening gently belted by his
+preceptor.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It is but fair to Neil to add that he cut a glittering figure in
+those circles: captain of the footer, and twenty-six against Juddy’s.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And even then,” his telegram to me said, “I was only
+bowled off my pads.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A rural cricket match in buttercup time with boys at play, seen
+and heard through the trees; it is surely the loveliest scene in
+England and the most disarming sound. From the ranks of the
+unseen dead, for ever passing along our country lanes on their
+eternal journey, the Englishman falls out for a moment to look over
+the gate of the cricket field and smile. Let Neil’s 26 against
+Juddy’s, the first and perhaps the only time he is to meet the stars
+on equal terms, be our last sight of him as a child. He is walking
+back bat in hand to the pavilion, an old railway carriage. An
+unearthly glory has swept over the cricket ground. He tries to
+look unaware of it; you know the expression and the bursting
+heart. Our smiling Englishman who cannot open the gate waits
+to make sure that this boy raises his cap in the one right way
+(without quite touching it, you remember), and then rejoins his
+comrades. Neil gathers up the glory and tacks it over his bed.
+“The End,” as he used to say in his letters.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I never know him quite so well again. He seems henceforth
+to be running to me on a road that is moving still more rapidly
+in the opposite direction.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'>2. <em>The First Half</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>The scene has changed. Stilled is the crow of Neil, for he
+is now but one of the lowliest at a great public school, where he
+reverberates but little. The scug Neil fearfully running errands
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>for his fag-master is another melancholy reminder of the brevity
+of human greatness.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Lately a Colossus he was now infinitely less than nothing.
+What shook him was not the bump as he fell, but the general
+indifference to his having fallen. He lay there like a bird in the
+grass winded by a blunt-headed arrow, and was cold to his own
+touch. The Bruiser Belt and his score against Juddy’s had accompanied
+him to school on their own legs, one might say, so
+confident were they of a welcome from his mantelshelf, but after
+an hour he hid them beneath the carpet. Hidden by him all
+over that once alluring room, as in disgrace, were many other
+sweet trifles that went to the making of the flame that had been
+Neil; his laugh was secreted, say in the drawer of his desk;
+his pranks were stuffed into his hat-box, his fell ambitions were
+folded away between two pairs of trousers, and now and then a tear
+would mix with the soapy water as he washed his cheerless face.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In that dreadful month or more I am dug up by his needs
+and come again into prominence, gloating because he calls for
+me, sometimes unable to do more than stand afar off on the playing
+field, so that he may at least see me nigh though we cannot touch.
+The thrill of being the one needed, which I had never thought to
+know again. I have leant over a bridge, and enviously watching
+the gaiety of two attractive boys, now broken to the ways of school,
+have wished he was one of them, till I heard their language and
+wondered whether this was part of the necessary cost.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Leaden-footed Neil in the groves that were to become so
+joyous to him. He had to refashion himself on a harsher model,
+and he set his teeth and won, blaming me a little for not having
+broken to him the ugly world we can make it. One by one his
+hidden parts peeped out from their holes and ran to him, once
+more to make his wings; stronger wings than of yore, though
+some drops of dew had to be shaken off.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>By that time my visits were being suffered rather than acclaimed.
+It was done with an exquisite politeness certainly, but before I
+was out of sight he had dived into some hilarious rumpus. Gladly
+for his sake I knew my place.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>His first distinct success was as a gargler.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_068.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“WE GENERALLY GARGLE A SONG”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You remember how I used to hate gargling at home,” says
+an early letter, “and you forced me to do it. Jolly good thing
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>you did force me.” His first “jolly” at that school. At once I
+began to count them.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Everyone has to gargle just now,” he continues, “and we
+all do it at the same time, and it must sound awfully rum to people
+passing along the street. We generally gargle a song, and there
+was a competition in ‘Home, sweet Home’ among the scugs at
+m’ tutor’s, and the judge said I gargled it longest.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Soon afterwards he had the exultation of being recognised as
+an entity by one of the masters.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I was walking with Dolman mi.,” his letter says, “and we
+met a new beak called Tiverley and he pretended to fence with me
+and said ‘Whose incomparable little noodle are you?’” This,
+apparently, was all that happened, but Neil adds with obvious
+elation, “It was awfully decent of him.” (Hail to thee, Tiverley,
+may “a house” anon be thy portion for heartening a new boy in
+the dwindling belief that he exists.)</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Dolman mi. evidently had no run on this occasion, but he is
+older and more famous than Neil (which makes the thing the more
+flattering). It is a school whither many royal scions are sent, and
+when camera men go down to photograph the new one, Dolman
+mi. usually takes his place. He has already been presented to
+newspaper readers as the heir to three thrones. Of course it is
+the older boys who select, scrape and colour him (if necessary) for
+this purpose, but they must see something in him that the smaller
+boys don’t see.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Neil’s next step was almost a bound forward; he got a
+tanning from the head of the house. This also he took in the
+proper spirit, boasting indeed of the vigour with which Beverley
+had laid on. (Thee, also, Beverley, I salute, as the Immensity
+who raised Neil from the ranks of the lowly, the untanned.)</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Quite the amiable, sensible little schoolboy, readers may be
+saying, but that Neil was amiable or sensible I indignantly deny.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>He was merely waiting; that shapely but enquiring nose of his
+was only considering how best to strike once more for leadership.
+So when the time came he was ready; and he has been striking
+ever since, indeed, there is nothing that I think he so much resembles
+as a clock that has got out of hand.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All the other small boys in his house had the same opportunity,
+but they missed it. It was provided by some learned man
+(name already tossed to oblivion) who delivered unto them a
+lecture entitled <em>Help One Another</em>. The others behaved in
+the usual way, cheered the lecturer heartily when he took a drink
+of water, said “Silly old owl!” as they went out and at once forgot
+his Message. Not so Neil. With the clearness of vision that
+always comes to him when anything to his own advantage is
+toward, he saw that the time and the place and the loved one
+(himself) had arrived together. Portents in the sky revealed to
+him that his <em>métier</em> at school was to Help Others. There would
+be something sublime about it had he not also seen with the same
+vividness that he must make a pecuniary charge of threepence.
+He decided astutely to begin with W. W. Daly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>As we write these words an extraordinary change comes over
+our narrative. In the dead silence that follows this announcement
+to our readers you may hear, if you listen intently, a scurrying of
+feet, which is nothing less than Neil being chased out of the story.
+The situation is one probably unparalleled in fiction.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'>3. <em>Tintinnabulum</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>Elated by your curiosity we now leave Neil for a moment
+(say, searching with his foot for a clean shirt among a pile of clothing
+on the floor), mount to the next landing and enter the second
+room on the left, the tenant of which immediately dives beneath
+his table under the impression that we are a fag-master shouting
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>“Boy.” We drag him out and present him to you as W. W. Daly.
+He is five feet one, biceps 7¾, and would probably kick the beam
+at about 6½ stone. He is not yet celebrated for anything except
+for being able to stick pins into his arm up to the head; otherwise
+a creature of small account who, but for Neil’s patronage, would
+never have risen to the distinction of being written about, except
+perhaps by his mother.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>W. W.’s first contact with school was made dark by a strange
+infirmity, an incapacity to remember the Latin equivalent for the
+word “bell.” Many Latin words were as familiar to him as his
+socks (perhaps even more so, for he often wears the socks of
+others), and those words he would give you on demand with the
+brightness of a boy eager to oblige; but daily did his tutor insist
+(like one who will have nothing for breakfast but eggs and bacon)
+on having “bell” alone. Daily was W. W. floored.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It is now that Neil appears with his sunny offer of Help. He
+took up the case so warmly that he entirely neglected his own
+studies, which is one of his failings. True he charged threepence
+(which we shall henceforth write as 3<em>d.</em>, as it is so sure to come
+often into these chronicles), but this detracts little from his grandeur,
+for the mere apparatus required cost him what he calls a bob.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>His first procedure was to affix to the bell-pull a card bearing
+in bold letters the device “Tintinnabulum.” This seems simple
+but was complicated by there being no bell in W. W.’s room.
+Neil bought a bell (W. W. being “stony”), and round the walls
+he constructed a gigantic contrivance of wire and empty ginger-beer
+bottles, culminating at one end in the bell and at the other
+end in W. W.’s foot as he lay abed. The calculation, a well-founded
+one, was that if the sleeper tossed restlessly the bell would
+ring and he would awake. He was then, as instructed by Neil,
+first, to lie still but as alert as if visited by a ghost, and to think
+hard for the word. If, however, it still eluded him he was to turn
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>upon it the electric torch, kept beneath his pillow for this purpose
+and borrowed at 1<em>d.</em> per week from Dolman mi., spot the tricky
+“Tintinnabulum” in its lair and say the word over to himself
+a number of times before returning to his slumbers, something
+attempted, something done to earn a night’s repose.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All this did W. W. conscientiously do, and if there was delay
+in bringing Tintinnabulum to heel the fault was not that of Neil,
+but of inferior youths who used to substitute cards inscribed
+“Honorificabilitudinitatibus,” “Porringer,” “Xylobalsamum,”
+“Beelzebobulus,” and other likely words.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Eventually he achieved; a hard-won ribbon for his benefactor
+whom we are about to call Neil for the last time.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>There was a feeling among those who had betted on the
+result that it should be celebrated in no uncertain manner, and a
+dinner with speeches not being feasible (though undoubtedly he
+would have liked it), he was re-christened Tintinnabulum, and the
+name stuck.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So Tintinnabulum let it be henceforth in these wandering
+pages. Neil the disinherited may be pictured pattering back to
+me on his naked soles and knocking me up in the night.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Neil,” I cry (in dressing gown and a candle), “what has
+happened? Have you run away from school?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Rather not,” says the plaintive ghost, shivering closer to
+the fire, “I was kicked out.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“By your tutor?” I ask blanching.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No, by Tintinnabulum. He is becoming such a swell
+among the juniors that he despises me and the old times. And
+now he has kicked me out.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Drink this hot milk, Neil, and tell me more. What are those
+articles you are hugging beneath your pyjamas?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“They are the Bruiser Belt and the score against Juddy’s.
+He threw them out after me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>“Don’t take it so much to heart, Neil. I’ll find an honoured
+place for them here, and you and I will have many a cosy talk by
+the fire about Tintinnabulum.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I don’t want to talk about him,” he says, his hands so cold
+that he spills the milk, “I would rather talk about the days
+before there was him.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Well, perhaps that was what I meant.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Cruel Tintinnabulum.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'>4. <em>The Best Parlour Game</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>Soon after the events described in our last chapter I knew
+from Tintinnabulum’s letters that he was again Helping. They
+were nevertheless communications so guarded as to be wrapped
+in mystery.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>His letters from school tend at all times to be more full of
+instruction for my guidance than of information about where he
+stands in his form. I notice that he worries less than did an older
+generation about how I am to dress when I visit him, but he is
+as pressing as ever that the postal order should be despatched at
+once, and firmly refuses to write at all unless I enclose stamped
+envelopes. On important occasions he even writes my letters
+for me, requesting me to copy them carefully and not to put in
+any words of my own, as when for some reason they have to be
+shown to his tutor. He then writes, “Begin ‘Dear T.’ (not
+‘Dearest T.’), and end ‘Yours affec.’ (not ‘Yours affectionately’).”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The mysterious letters that preceded the holidays were concerned
+with W. W. Daly, whom I was bidden (almost ordered)
+to invite to our home for that lengthy period, “as his mother is to
+be away at that time on frightfully important business in which
+I have a hand.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>I was instructed to write “Dear Mrs. Daly (not “dearest”),
+I understand that you are to be away on important business
+during the holidays, and so I have the pleasure to ask you to allow
+your son to spend the holidays with me and my boy who is a
+general favourite and very diligent. Come, come, I will take no
+refusal, and I am, Yours affec.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I did as I was told, but as I now heard of the lady for the
+first time I thought it wisest not to sign my letter to her “Yours
+affec.” Thus did I fall a victim to Tintinnabulum’s wiles.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>What could this frightfully important business of Mrs. Daly’s
+be in which he “had a hand”?</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_074.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“ON IMPORTANT OCCASIONS HE EVEN WRITES MY LETTERS FOR ME.”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>You may say (when you hear of his dark design) that I should
+at once have insisted on an explanation, but explanations are
+barred in the sport that he and I play, which is the greatest of all
+parlour games, the Game of Trying to Know Each Other without
+asking questions. It is strictly a game for two, who, I suppose,
+should in perfect conditions be husband and wife; it is played
+silently and it never lasts less than a life-time. In panegyrics on
+love (a word never mentioned between us two players), the game
+is usually held to have ended in a draw when they understand each
+other so well that before the one speaks or acts the other knows
+what he or she is going to say or do. This, however, is a position
+never truly reached in the game, and if it were reached, such a
+state of coma for the players could only be relieved by a cane in
+the hand of the stronger, or by the other bolting, to show him that
+there was one thing about her which he had still to learn.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>No, no, these doited lovers when they think the haven is in
+sight have set sail only. Tintinnabulum and I have made a
+hundred moves, but we are well aware that we don’t know each
+other yet; at least, I don’t know Tintinnabulum, I won’t swear
+that he does not think that he at last knows me. So when he
+brought W. W. home with him for the holidays it was for me
+to find out without inquiry how he had been helping Mrs. Daly
+(and for what sum). He knew that I was cogitating, I could see
+his impertinent face regarding me demurely, as if we were at a
+chess board and his last move had puzzled me, which indeed was
+the situation.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All I knew of her was that she had lately remarried and that
+W. W. had been invited to spend his holidays with us while she was
+away on her honeymoon.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Good heavens, could Tintinnabulum have had some Helping
+part in the lady’s marriage? This boy is beginning to scare me.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I studied him and W. W. at their meals and stole upon
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>them at their play. There could not have been more cherubic
+faces.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But then I remembered the two cherubic faces I had watched
+from a bridge.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'>5. <em>Tintinnabulum Eats an Apple</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>I went to Tintinnabulum’s bedchamber and told him I
+could not rest until I knew what he had been doing to that lady.
+In the days of Neil it had been a room of glamour, especially the
+bed therein, where were performed nightly between 6.15 and 6.30
+precisely, the brighter plays of Shakespeare, two actors, but not
+a sign of them anywhere unless you became suspicious of the
+hump in the coverlet. Never have the plays gone with greater
+merriment since Mr. Shakespeare made up “A Midsummer
+Night’s Dream” in his Judith’s hump.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>No glamour of course in the room of a public schoolboy,
+unless it was provided by his discarded raiment, which lay like
+islands on the floor. However, I found Tintinnabulum in affable
+humour, sitting tailor-like in bed, dressed in half of his pyjamas,
+reading a book and eating an apple. He had doubtless found
+the apple or the book just as he was about to enter the other half
+of his night attire.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What could I have been doing to her?” he asked invitingly.
+(He likes to be hunted.)</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The robing of him having been completed, I said with
+humorous intent, “You may have been luring her into matrimony
+against her better judgment.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“She is nuts on him,” Tintinnabulum said, taking my remark
+seriously.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But you can’t have had anything to do with it?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He nodded, with his teeth in the apple.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>“Of course this is nonsense,” I said, though with a sinking,
+“you don’t know her.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I didn’t need to know her for a thing like that.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I tried sarcasm. “I should have thought it was essential.”
+He shook his head.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I heard W. W. say to-day,” I continued in the same vein,
+“that she is spending the honeymoon on the Riviera; you are
+not implying, are you, that it was you who sent her there?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“At any rate, if it hadn’t been for me,” he replied, taking a
+good bite, “she wouldn’t be on the Riviera and there wouldn’t be
+a honeymoon.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I became alarmed. “Take that apple out of your mouth
+and tell me what you mean.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The mysterious boy of the so open countenance, as he told me
+the queer tale in bed that night, was superbly unaware of its queerness,
+and was more interested in standing on his head to see how
+far his feet would reach up the wall. He far exceeded the record
+that had been left by Neil.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I wasn’t the one who made her fond of the chappie,” he
+said by way of beginning. “She did that bit herself.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Very generous of you to give her that amount of choice,” I
+conceded.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But she stuck there,” said he. “It was W. W. who told
+me how she had stuck. W. W. has a sister called Patricia. Their
+mother’s name is Mildred. That is all I know about her,” he
+added with great lightness of touch, “except that I worked the
+marriage.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This was the first time I had heard of W. W.’s having a
+sister.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He doesn’t speak about her much,” Tintinnabulum explained,
+“because they are twins. I say, don’t let on to him that I told
+you he was a twin.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>So far as I can gather, W. W. keeps the existence of his girl
+twin dark from boys in general in case it should make them think
+less of him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“He didn’t ask me to help him out till things were in an
+awful mess at home, and then he showed me some of Patricia’s
+letters.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“If I were cross-examining you,” I pointed out, “I should
+say that your statement is not quite clear. Tell the Jury what
+you mean, and don’t blow the apple pits at the portrait of your
+uncle the bishop.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I bet you I get him in the calves twice in three shots,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“An ignoble ambition,” I told him; “answer my question.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well, you see, Patricia had found out all about her mother’s
+being fond of the man. His name begins with K, but I forget
+the rest of it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I ventured to say that the least he could do for a man whose
+life he had so strangely altered was to remember his name.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“W. W. will know it,” he said with the carelessness of genius.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Even now,” I pressed him, “I don’t see where you come in.
+Did Patricia object to Mr. K.?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, no, she thinks no end of him. So does W. W.” He
+added handsomely, “I wouldn’t have let her get married if they
+had shied at it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“In that case——”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It wasn’t Patricia that was the bother,” he explained, running
+the apple up and down his arm like a mouse, “it was Mrs. Daly.
+You know how funny ladies are about some things.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I do not,” I said severely.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well, it was about marrying a second time. Mrs. Daly
+couldn’t make up her mind whether it would be fair to W. W. and
+Patricia. She knew they liked him all right, but not whether they
+liked him as much as that.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>“Tell me how Patricia found all this out, and don’t bump
+about so much.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“She was watching,” he replied airily. “She is that kind.
+I daresay the thing wasn’t difficult to find out if all the stuff she
+said in her letters to W. W. was true. They were awful letters,
+saying her mother was in anguishes about what was the best thing
+to do for her progeny. One letter would say, ‘Mr. K. made a
+lovely impression on mother to-day and I don’t think she can
+resist much longer.’ Then the next would say, ‘I fear all is up,
+for they have been crying together in the drawing-room, and when
+he left he banged the door.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Their mother hadn’t a notion,” Tintinnabulum assured me,
+making an eye-glass of the apple, “that they knew there was anything
+in the wind.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nor would they have had any such notion,” I rapped out,
+“if they had been children of an earlier date.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I suppose we are cleverer now,” he admitted. He became
+introspective. “I expect the war did it. It’s rummy what a
+difference the war has made. Before the war no one could hold
+two eggs in his mouth and hop across a pole. Now everyone can
+do it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I requested him to stick to the point.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why didn’t Patricia the emancipated go to her mother and
+inform her that all was well?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That is the very thing W. W. and she bickered about in
+their letters. He was always writing to her to do that, but she
+said it would be unladylike.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Very un-shingled of her to trouble about that,” I got in.
+“But had she any proposal to make to W. W.?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Rather. She was always badgering W. W. to write to
+their mother saying they knew all and wanted her to go at it blind.
+She thought it would come better from him, being male. That
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>was what made him come to me in the end. He told me all about
+it and asked me if I could help.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And what was your reply?” I asked with some interest.
+“Don’t tell me,” I added hurriedly (we were back at the game,
+you see), “I want to guess. You said immediately, ‘All right’?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He approved.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Did it ever strike you,” I enquired curiously, “that you
+might not be able to help?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I can’t remember,” the unfathomable one answered. “I
+say, would you like to see me do a dive over your head?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Offer declined.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You see,” he continued, “W. W. is rather—rather——”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Rather a retiring boy when there is trouble ahead,” I
+suggested. “Well, what did you devise?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I said I couldn’t do anything until I knew the colour of
+Patricia’s hair and eyes.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This took me aback, though it is quite in Tintinnabulum’s
+manner.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How could that help?” I had to enquire instead of risking
+a move.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I couldn’t get a beginning,” he insisted doggedly, “till I
+found out that.” (To this day I don’t know what he meant.)</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No difficulty in finding out from W. W.,” I said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Here I was wrong. W. W. had no idea of the colour of his
+dear little sister’s eyes but presumed that, as he and she were twins,
+their eyes must be of the same hue. There followed a scene,
+undoubtedly worthy of some supreme artist, in which, by the light
+of a match, Tintinnabulum endeavoured to discover colour of
+W. W.’s eyes, W. W. being again unable to supply desired information.
+The match always going out just as Tintinnabulum was
+on the eve of discovery, it was decided by him that W. W. should
+write to his twin for particulars (letter dictated by Tintinnabulum).
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>Patricia’s reply was, “Who is it that wants to know? Eyes too
+expressive to be blue, too lovely to be grey,” and it irritated the
+two seekers after truth.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“We didn’t ask her what colour they were not,” Tintinnabulum
+said to me witheringly, “but what colour they were.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In the end, rather than bother any more with her, they risked
+putting her eyes down as browny black. This determined, Tintinnabulum
+apprized his client that Patricia was to write the letter that
+would make their mother happy. This nearly led to a rupture.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>W. W.</em> (<em>sitting</em>, as they say in the plays, though he might as
+well be standing): She can’t write a letter to mother when they
+are living in the same house.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Tintinnabulum</em> (<em>rising</em>, because W. W. sat): It would be a
+letter to you.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>W. W.</em> (<em>contemptibly</em>): That brings me into the thing again.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Tintinnabulum</em>: Shut up and listen. The letter isn’t to be
+posted. Your mother will find it lying open on Patricia’s desk
+and read it on the sly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>W. W.</em> (<em>nobly</em>): My mother never does things on the sly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Tintinnabulum</em> (<em>comprehensively</em>): Oh.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>W. W.</em> (<em>hedging</em>): What would the letter say?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Tintinnabulum</em>: It would show her that you and Patricia knew
+what she was after and both wanted her to marry the chappie, and
+then she could put it back where she found it and never let on that
+she had seen it and make all her arrangements with a happy heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>W. W.</em>: That is what we want, but mother wouldn’t read a
+letter on the sly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Tintinnabulum</em> (<em>after thinking it out when he should have been
+doing his prep.</em>): Look here, if she is so fussy we can tell Patricia
+to leave the letter open on the floor as if it had blown there, and
+then when your mother picks it up to put it back on the desk she
+can’t help taking a look at it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span><em>W. W.</em>: Would that not be reading it on the sly?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Tintinnabulum</em> (<em>with cheerful cynicism</em>): Not for a woman.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>W. W.</em> (<em>depressed</em>): It will be an awfully difficult letter to write.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Tintinnabulum</em> (<em>exultant</em>): Fearfully.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>W. W.</em>: I don’t think Patricia could do it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Tintinnabulum</em>: Not she. I’ll do it. Then you copy my
+letter and she copies yours.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>W. W.</em>: 3<em>d.</em>?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Tintinnabulum</em>: Tons more than that.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This scheme was carried out, Tintinnabulum, after a thoughtful
+study of Patricia’s epistolary style, producing something in this
+manner, no doubt with the holy look on his face that is always
+there when he knows he is concocting a masterpiece. (I regret
+that he has forgotten what he said in the introductory passage,
+which dealt in an artful feminine manner with her garments and
+was probably a beauty.)</p>
+
+<p class='c012'>“Darling Doubly Doubly,</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>... oh dear, I am so unhappy because I fear the match
+between darlingest mummy and Mr. K. is not to be hit off. Oh
+dear, she blows hot and cold and it makes me bleed to see the
+poor man’s anguishes, and you and me wanting it so much. If
+only I could think of a lady-like way to tell mummy that we know
+she wants it and that we want her to go ahead, but I cannot, and
+it would need a wonder of a man to do it. Oh dear, how
+lovely it would be, oh dear, how I wish I knew some frightfully
+clever person, oh dear——”</p>
+
+<p class='c012'>“I stopped there,” Tintinnabulum told me. “I meant to put
+in a lot more before I finished, but I wouldn’t let myself go on.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why?” I asked eagerly, aware that he had reached a great
+moment in his life.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>“Because,” he said heavily, “I saw all at once that I had
+come to the end.” (We are so undemonstrative that I did not
+embrace him).</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The letter was left as arranged, on Mrs. Daly’s floor, and I
+may say at once that everything went as planned by the Master.
+Can we not see Mildred (all authors have a right to call their heroine
+by her Christian name), opening the door of that room? Her
+beautiful face is down-cast, all the luckier for Tintinnabulum and
+Co., for she at once sees the life-giving sheet. She picks it up,
+meaning to replace it on the desk whence it has so obviously
+fluttered, when a word catches her eye, and not intending to read
+she reads. An exquisite flush tints her face as she recognises
+Patricia’s inimitable style. The happy woman is now best left
+to herself (Come away, Tintinnabulum, you imp).</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Dear (not dearest) heroine, you little know who is responsible
+for your raptures, the indifferent lad now trying to twist one leg
+round his neck as he finishes his apple. Grudge us not the few
+minutes in which for literary purposes we have snatched you from
+the shores of the blue Mediterranean. Thither we now return
+you to cloudless days and to your K., roses in your cheeks (Tintinnabulum’s
+roses). And you, O lucky K., when you encounter
+boys of thirteen, might do worse than have a mysterious prompting
+to give them a franc or so. I wish you both very happy, and I
+am, yours affec.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Shall I send them your love?” I almost hear myself saying
+to Tintinnabulum.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“If you like,” he replies, preoccupied with what is left of
+an apple when the apple itself has gone. For it must be admitted
+of him that he has not boasted of his achievement. His only
+comment was modesty itself, “Two bob,” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It is almost appalling to reflect that no woman who knows
+Tintinnabulum (and has two bob) need remain single. And
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>what character apples have, even when being consumed; if I
+had given him an orange or a pear this chapter would be quite
+different. With such deep thoughts I put out his light, and
+took away the other apple which he had hidden beneath his
+pillow.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'>6. <em>Nemesis</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>As the holidays waned (and after W. W. was safely stowed
+away in bed) Tintinnabulum gratified me by being willing to talk
+about Neil. If you had heard us at it you would have sworn that
+those two had no very close connection, that Neil was merely some
+interesting whipper-snapper who had played about the house
+until the manlier Tintinnabulum arrived. He was always spoken
+of between us as Neil, which obviously suited Tintinnabulum’s
+dignity, but I wonder how I took to it so naturally myself. I hope
+I am not a queer one.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>By that arrangement Tintinnabulum can make artful enquiries,
+not unwistful, into his own past, and I can seem (thus goes the
+game) not to know that he is doing so. He can even commend
+Neil.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Pretty decent of him,” he says, discussing the Bruiser Belt
+and the score against Juddy’s.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I didn’t think he had it in him,” is even stronger about the
+sea-trout Neil had landed and been so proud of that he would not
+lie prone till it was put in a basin by his bedside. He had then
+slept with one arm over the basin.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Strongest of all is to say that Neil was mad, at present a term
+not only of approval but even of endearment at the only school
+that counts (Tintinnabulum speaking). Sometimes we talk of the
+dark period when Neil, weeping over his first Latin grammar,
+used to put a merry tune on the gramophone to accompany his
+woe. He continued to weep as he studied, but always rose at the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>right time to change the tune. This is a heart-breaker of a memory
+to me, and Tintinnabulum knows it and puts his hand deliciously
+on my shoulder (that kindest gesture of man to man).</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The gander must have been mad, quite mad,” he says hurriedly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>How Neil would like to hear Tintinnabulum saying these
+nice things about him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Perhaps we all have a Neil. Have you ever wakened suddenly
+in the night, certain that you heard a bell ring as it once rang
+or a knocking on your door as only one could knock or a voice
+of long ago, quite close? Sometimes you rise and wander the
+house; more often, after waiting alert for a repetition of the
+sound, you decide that you have been dreaming or that it was
+the creaking of a window or a board. But I daresay it was none
+of these things. I daresay it was your Neil.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Perhaps you have become something quite different from what
+he meant to be. Perhaps he wants to get into the house, not to
+gaze proudly at you but to strike you.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Some drop their Neil deliberately and can recall clearly the
+day of the great decision, but most are unaware that he has gone.
+For instance, it may have been Neil who married the lady and you
+who gradually took his place, so like him in appearance that she
+is as deceived as you. Or it may be that she has found you out and
+knows who it is that is knocking on the door trying to get back to her.
+You might be scared if you knew that though she is at this moment
+attending to your wants with a smile for you on her face, her passionate
+wish is to be done with you. On the other hand, you may be the
+better fellow of the two. Let us decide that this is how it is.</p>
+
+<hr class='c019'>
+
+<p class='c013'>The last week of the holidays was darkened for Tintinnabulum
+and W. W. by the shadow of a letter demanded of them by their
+tutor. It had to be on one of three subjects:</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>(<em>a</em>) Your Favourite Walk.</div>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>(<em>b</em>) Your Favourite Game.</div>
+      <div class='line'>(<em>c</em>) What shall I do next Half?</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c020'>A nasty tag attached to m’ tutor’s order said “the letter must be
+of great length.” Little had they troubled about it till the end
+loomed, but then they rumbled wrathfully; well was it for their
+tutor he heard not what they said of him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Tintinnabulum of course was merely lazy, or on principle
+resented writing anything for less than 3<em>d.</em> Grievous, however,
+was the burden on W. W., whose gifts lie not in a literary direction.
+He is always undone by his clear-headed way of putting everything
+he knows on any subject into the first sentence. He had a
+shot at (<em>a</em>), (<em>b</em>) and (<em>c</em>).</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Attempt on (a).</em> “My favourite walk is when I do not have
+far to go to it.” (Here he stuck.)</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Attempt on (b).</em> “The game of cricket is my favourite game,
+and it consists of six stumps, two bats and a ball.” After wandering
+round the table many times he added, “Nor must we forget
+the bails.” (Stuck again.)</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><em>Attempt on (c).</em> “Next half is summer half, so early school
+will be half an hour earlier.” (Final stick.)</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He then abandoned hope and would, I suppose, have had to
+run away to sea (if boys still do that) had not Help been nigh.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For a consideration (and you can now guess exactly how much
+it was) Tintinnabulum offered to write W. W.’s letter for him.
+I did not see it till later (as you shall learn), indeed the episode
+was purposely kept dark from me. The subject chosen was “My
+Favourite Walk,” because Tintinnabulum had a book entitled
+Walks and Talks with the Little Ones, which never before had he
+thought might come in handy. Of course such a performer
+by no means confined himself to purloining from this work, though
+he did have something to say about how W. W. wandered along
+his walk carrying a little book into which he put “interesting
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>plants.” Anything less like W. W. thus engaged I cannot conceive,
+unless it be Tintinnabulum himself.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The miscreant also carefully misspelt several words, as
+being natural to W. W. Unfortunately (his fatal weakness)
+he could not keep his own name out of the letter, and he made
+W. W. say that the favourite walk was “near the house of my
+kind friend Tintinnabulum, and you know him, sir, for he is in
+your house, and I mess with him, which is very lucky for me,
+all the scugs wanting to mess with him and nobody wanting me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Could brainy critics, peeled for the pounce, read that human
+document they would doubtless pause to enquire into its hidden
+meaning. On the surface it was written (<em>a</em>) to get 3<em>d.</em> out
+of W. W., (<em>b</em>) to give relief to Tintinnabulum’s ego. To the
+ordinary reader (with whom to-day we have no concern) this
+might suffice, but the digger would ask, what is the philosophy
+of life advanced by the author, is the whole thing an allegory
+and if so, what is Tintinnabulum’s Message; in short, is he,
+like the commoner writers, merely saying what he says, or, like
+the big chaps, something quite different?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Had his tutor considered the letter thus, we might have had
+a most interesting analysis of it (and no one would have been more
+interested than Tintinnabulum). But though a favourite of mine
+(and also of Tintinnabulum) his tutor is just slightly Victorian,
+and he went for the letter like one of the illiterate.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was not seen by me until the two hopefuls returned to
+school, when I received it from their tutor with another one which
+is uncommonly like it. Investigation has elicited the following
+data, for which kindly allow me to use (<em>a</em>), (<em>b</em>) and (<em>c</em>) again, as
+I have taken a fancy to them.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>a</em>) Letter is read and approved by W. W.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>b</em>) W. W. on reflection objects to passage about the honour
+of messing with Tintinnabulum.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>(<em>c</em>) Ultimatum issued by Tintinnabulum that the passage
+must be retained.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>d</em>) MS. haughtily returned to the author.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>e</em>) The author alters a few words and sends in letter as his
+own.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>f</em>) W. W. has made a secret copy of the letter and sends it
+in as his, with the objectionable passage deleted.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>g</em>) Their tutor smells a rat.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>h</em>) He takes me into his confidence.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>i</em>) Days pass but I remain inactive.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>j</em>) He puts the affair into the hands of Beverley, the head of
+the house.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>(<em>k</em>) Triumph of Miss Rachel.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Miss Rachel who is an old friend of ours is slight and frail,
+say 5 ft. 3, her biceps cannot be formidable and I question whether
+she could kick the beam however favourably it was placed for her.
+She is such an admirer of Tintinnabulum that he occasionally
+writhes, in his fuller knowledge of the subject.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Having led a quiet and uneventful life (so far as I know),
+Miss Rachel suddenly shoots into the light through her acquaintance
+with the Beverleys of Winch Park, which is, as it were, nothing;
+but the great Beverley, Beverley the thunderous, who is head of
+m’ tutor’s house, is a scion of that family; and now you see what
+a swell Miss Rachel has become. When Neil (as he then was)
+was entered for that great school she wrote to Beverley—fancy
+knowing someone who can write to Beverley—telling him (to
+Neil’s indignation) what a darling her young friend was and hoping
+Beverley would look after him and make him his dear little fag.
+Months elapsed before a reply came, but when it did come it really
+referred to Tintinnabulum and contained these pregnant words:
+“As to the person in whom you are interested, I look after him a
+good deal, and the more I see of him the more I lick him.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>Miss Rachel showed me the letter with exultation. So kind
+of him, she said, though she was a little distressed that a strapping
+fellow like Beverley should spell so badly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>More recently I had a letter from Tintinnabulum, which I
+showed to her as probably denoting the final transaction in the
+affair of the letter.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“W. W. and I,” it announced very cheerily, “saw Beverley
+yesterday in his room and he gave each of us six of the best.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How charming of Beverley!” Miss Rachel said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The best what?” she enquired, but I cannot have heard
+her, for I made no answer.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I learn that sometimes she thinks it was probably cakes and
+at other times fives balls, which she knows to be in great demand
+at that school. I shall not be surprised if Miss Rachel sends a
+dozen of the best to Beverley.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'>7. <em>How to Write a Collins</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>I note that the dozen of the best shared by these two odd
+creatures seems to have made them pals again. The proof is that
+though they began the new half by messing with other youths
+they are now once more messing together.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That priceless young cub, W. W.,” occurs in one letter of
+Tintinnabulum’s.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“W. W. is the lad for me,” he says in the next.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Again, I have a note of thanks for hospitality from W. W. in
+which he remarks, “Tintinnabulum is as ripping as ever.” This,
+however, is to be discounted, as, though the letter is signed W. W.
+Daly, I recognise in it another hand, I recognise this other hand
+so clearly that I can add a comment in brackets (3<em>d.</em>).</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Yes, I can do so (because of a game I have long been playing),
+but any other person would be deceived, just as m’ tutor was at
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>first deceived by the epistles on the favourite walk. He told
+me that these were so fragrant of W. W. that he had thought Tintinnabulum
+must be the copy-cat. Indeed, thus it was held until
+W. W. nobly made confession.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>What I must face is this, that Tintinnabulum, being (alas) an
+artist, has been inside W. W. Not only so, he has since his return
+to school been inside at least half a dozen other boys, searching for
+Collinses for them.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A Collins, as no one, perhaps except Miss Austen, needs to
+be told, is the fashionable name for a letter of thanks for hospitality
+to a host or hostess. Thus W. W.’s letter to me was a Collins.
+Somehow its fame has spread through his house, and now
+Tintinnabulum is as one possessed, writing threepenny Collinses
+for the deficient. They are small boys as yet, but as the quality
+of his Help is trumpeted to other houses I conceive Fields,
+Blues and Choices knocking at his door and begging for a Collins.
+It will be a great day for Tintinnabulum when Beverley
+applies.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The Collins letter is a fine art in which those who try
+the hardest often fall most heavily, and perhaps even m’ tutor
+or the Provost Himself, at his wit’s  end how to put it neatly
+this time, will yet crave a 3<em>d.</em> worth. It may even be that readers
+grown grey in the country’s service, who quake at thought of the
+looming Collins, would like to have Tintinnabulum’s address.
+It is refused; but I mention, to fret them, that his every Collins
+is guaranteed different from all his other Collinses, and to be so
+like the purchaser that it is a photograph.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>If you were his client you could accept Saturday to Monday
+invitations with a light heart. But don’t, when he is at your
+Collins, go near him and the babe lest he clutch it to his breast and
+growl. He has the great gift of growling, which will yet make him
+popular with another sex.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>His concentration on the insides of others is of course very
+disturbing to me, but I should feel still more alarmed if I heard
+that he had abandoned the monetary charge and, for sheer love
+of the thing, was turning out Collinses gratis.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>To-day there comes a ray of hope from a harassed tutor, who
+writes that Tintinnabulum has deserted the Collins for googly
+bowling, the secrets of which he is pursuing with the same terrific
+intensity. I can picture him getting inside the ball.</p>
+
+<h3 class='c018'>8. <em>He and I and Another</em></h3>
+
+<p class='c017'>You readers may smile when I tell you why I have indited
+these memories and fancies. It was not done for you but for me,
+being a foolish attempt to determine, by writing the things down
+(playing over by myself some of the past moves in the game),
+whether Tintinnabulum really does like me still. That he should
+do so is very important to me as he recedes farther from my ken
+down that road which hurries him from me. I cannot, however, after
+all, give myself a very definite answer. He no longer needs me of
+course, as Neil did, and he will go on needing me less. When I think
+of Neil I know that those were the last days in which I was alive.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Tintinnabulum’s opinion of himself, except when he is splashing,
+is lowlier than was Neil’s; some times in dark moods
+it is lowlier than makes for happiness. He has hardened a little
+since he was Neil, coarsened but strengthened. I comfort myself
+with the curious reflection that the best men I have known have
+had a touch of coarseness in them.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Perhaps I have made too much of the occasional yieldings
+of this boy whom I now know so superficially. The new life is
+building seven walls around him. Are such of his moves in the
+game as I can follow merely an expert’s kindness to an indifferent
+player?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>On the other hand, I learn from a friendly source that he has
+spoken of me with approval, once at least, as “mad, quite mad,”
+and I know that my battered countenance, about which I am very
+“touchy” excites his pity as well as his private mirth. On the
+last night of the holidays he was specially gruff, but he slipped
+beneath my door a paper containing the words “I hereby solemnly
+promise never to give you cause for moral anxiety,” and signed
+his name across a postage stamp to give the document a special
+significance. Nevertheless, W. W. and he certainly do at times
+exchange disturbing glances of which I am the object, and these, I
+notice, occur when I think I am talking well. Again, if I set off
+to tell a humorous story in company nothing can exceed the
+agony on Tintinnabulum’s face. Yet I am uncertain that this is
+not a compliment, for if he felt indifferently toward me why
+should he worry about my fate?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>During those holidays a master at his old preparatory sent
+me a letter he had received from Tintinnabulum (whom he called
+Neil), saying that as it was about me he considered I ought to read
+it. But I had not the courage to do so. Quite likely it was
+favourable, but suppose it hadn’t been. Besides, it was not
+meant for me to see, and I cling to his dew-drop about my being
+mad. On the whole, I think he is still partial to me. Corroboration,
+I consider, was provided at our parting, when he so skilfully
+turned what began as a tear into a wink and gazed at me from
+the disappearing train with what I swear was a loving scowl.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>What will become of Tintinnabulum? There was a horror
+looking for him in his childhood. Waking dreams we called them,
+and they lured Neil out of bed in the night. It was always the
+same nameless enemy he was seeking, and he stole about in various
+parts of the house in search of it, probing fiercely for it in cupboards,
+or standing at the top of the stairs pouring out invective
+and shouting challenges to it to come up. I have known the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>small white figure defend the stair-head thus for an hour, blazing
+rather than afraid, concentrated on some dreadful matter in which,
+tragically, none could aid him. I stood or sat by him, like a man
+in an adjoining world, waiting till he returned to me, for I had been
+advised, warned, that I must not wake him abruptly. Gradually
+I soothed him back to bed, and though my presence there in the
+morning told him, in the light language we then adopted, that he
+had been “at it again” he could remember nothing of who the
+enemy was. It had something to do with the number 7; that
+was all we ever knew. Once I slipped from the room, thinking
+it best that he should wake to normal surroundings, but that was
+a mistake. He was violently agitated by my absence. In some
+vague way he seemed on the stairs to have known that I was with
+him and to have got comfort from it; he said he had gone back
+to bed only because he knew I should be there when he woke up.
+I found that he liked, “after he had been an ass,” to wake up seeing
+me “sitting there doing something frightfully ordinary, like
+reading the newspaper,” and you may be sure that thereafter that
+was what I was doing.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>After he had been a year or two at his preparatory, Neil
+did a nice thing for me; one of a thousand. I had shaken my
+head over his standing so low in Maths, though he was already
+a promising classic, and had said that it was “great fun to be good
+at what one was bad at.” A term or two later when he came home
+he thrust the Maths prize into my hand. “But it wasn’t fun,”
+he growled. (It was Neil’s growl before it was Tintinnabulum’s.)
+He came back to blurt out, “I did it because in those bad times
+you were always sitting there with the newspaper when I woke.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>By becoming Tintinnabulum he is not done with his unknown
+foe, though I think they have met but once. On this occasion
+his dame had remained with him all night, as he had been slightly
+unwell, and she was amused, but nothing more, to see him, without
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>observing her, rise and search the room in a fury of words for
+something that was not there. The only word she caught was
+“seven.” He asked them not to tell me of this incident, as he
+knew it would trouble me. I was told, and, indeed, almost
+expected the news, for I had sprung out of bed that night thinking
+I heard Neil once again defending the stair. By the time I reached
+Tintinnabulum it had ceased to worry him. “But when I woke
+I missed the newspaper,” he said with his adorable smile, and
+again putting his hand on my shoulder. How I wished “the
+newspaper” could have been there. There are times when a
+boy can be as lonely as God.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_094.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“I DID IT BECAUSE YOU WERE ALWAYS SITTING THERE WITH THE NEWSPAPER WHEN I WOKE”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>What is the danger? What is it that he knows in the times
+during which he is shut away and that he cannot remember to tell
+to himself or to me when he wakes? I am often disturbed when
+thinking of him (which is the real business of my life), regretting
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>that, in spite of advice and warnings, I did not long ago risk waking
+him abruptly, when, before it could hide, he might have clapped
+seeing eyes upon it, and thus been able to warn me. Then, knowing
+the danger, I would for ever after be on the watch myself, so that
+when the moment came, I could envelop him as with wings. These
+are, of course, only foolish fears of the dark, and with morning
+they all fly away. Tintinnabulum makes very merry over them.
+I have a new thought that, when he is inside me, he may leave them
+there deliberately to play upon my weakness for him and so increase
+his sock allowance. Is the baffling creature capable of this enormity?
+With bowed head I must admit he is. I make a note, to
+be more severe with him this half.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_096.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>The Dream</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Herbert Asquith</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>My dream? Can I remember my dream?</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>I was floating down the nursery stair,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And my little terrier ran in front</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>With his feet treading on the air;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And when we came to the dining-room,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The King and the Queen were there:</div>
+      <div class='line'>And father and mother, two and two;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And a baby elephant from the Zoo,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Each on a golden chair;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And three soldiers, and Mary Rose</div>
+      <div class='line'>Riding an ostrich that pecked her toes,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>And Uncle Jim</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Looking very trim,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Eating a kipper.</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And, when they had sung to the King,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>They all sat down in a ring,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And played at hunt the slipper.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Then I saw a curling stream</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And yellow flow’rs in a meadow,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And six little green frogs</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Dancing a jig in the shadow:</div>
+      <div class='line'>And the tune came from a bough,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>“Tweet, tweet, quiver,”</div>
+      <div class='line'>Sung by a little brown bird</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>That swayed above the river.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Then we all started to dance,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And Aunt Rebecca too;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Uncle Jim began to prance,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And the baby elephant blew</div>
+      <div class='line'>A curl of smoke from his cigar,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>As he sat and watched the evening star.</div>
+      <div class='line'>And the little brown bird sang on,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Swaying above the river:</div>
+      <div class='line'>But a wind came whispering down,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And the leaves began to shiver.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Then with a crackly sound</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Uncle Jim went flat:</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>He turned into a cricket-bat;</div>
+      <div class='line'>But Aunt Rebecca grew very round</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And floated up like a black balloon,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Higher and higher, into the Moon.</div>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>The stars fell out of the sky;</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The baby elephant whined:</div>
+      <div class='line'>“Time to get up” said nurse:</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And “Flap” went the blind.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_098.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_099.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Mr. Snoogles</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+<div class='c011'>By Elizabeth Lowndes</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>Veronica lay very still in bed,
+then she stretched out as far as she
+could. Her feet travelled down to that
+cold region near where the sheets and
+blankets disappear under the mattress.
+She was certainly still awake, for one
+doesn’t stretch in dreams, and if one
+did one would certainly wake up.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then she cautiously raised herself upon one elbow and looked
+round, slowly, at the fire. Ever since Teddy had said that Mr.
+Snoogles lived up the chimney she had regarded the fire with
+much greater interest, not to say dread. Not that Mr. Snoogles
+was real. He was just fun. And yet, though Veronica knew he
+was only fun, she often wondered how he managed to fit in the
+inside of the chimney—if, that is, he was at all like father, or
+even Dr. Blackie (who wasn’t at all big for a man). But then Teddy
+was the only person who claimed to have ever seen this person
+who had taken refuge in their chimneys, and he couldn’t be made
+to describe him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In the morning and in the afternoon Mr. Snoogles was much
+more amusing than any shop-bought game. Veronica would
+laugh over him, and invent long conversations in which he said
+such silly things! But when the evening crept on, and the fire
+crackled in the grate, and flickered on the walls, it made it all so
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>different. Why do things which aren’t true make you think they
+are true, at night?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Veronica remembered uneasily a curious dream. She was
+no longer a big girl with short hair and long thin legs; she was a
+green velvet pin-cushion, and pins of various sizes and colours
+were just about to be stuck into her before she was sent off to
+a village bazaar. Though that was only a dream, for a long
+time she never saw a pin-cushion without thinking of herself as
+one....</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And now, to-night, she at last lay back in bed out of sight of
+the fire, and tried to plan adventures for the next day. Why did
+real adventures always pass her by?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Suddenly she heard a curious low rumbling sound. For a
+moment she hoped and yet dreaded that it came from the direction
+of the chimney, but when the sound got louder, as it did very
+soon, she burst out laughing, for it was only Teddy snoring. The
+door between their rooms was open, so no wonder she heard him.
+How funny, and how disappointing!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In time Veronica’s eyes closed without her noticing it, and
+lying there, so comfortable and so warm in bed, just on that
+borderland of the ordinary world of lessons and rice pudding (when
+one expected something else with jam on it) and that other delicious
+world of dreams and vague sensations.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But all at once Veronica heard a great clatter. She sat up
+in bed and opened her eyes wide to see in the firelight a most
+curious little person. He had leapt out of the chimney and dropped
+all the fire-irons in a heap at his feet. She could see them lying
+there on the white woolly mat, all at sixes and sevens.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He was very small, about as high as the poker. He had large
+round eyes, nearly as round as two pennies. And on his head,
+perched on the very top, was the lid of the nursery kettle! It
+was a copper kettle, and was always kept very bright.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>The stranger was dressed in black and his clothes fitted him
+quite tight, like a well-drawn-up stocking or a glove.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Veronica gazed at him, her eyes growing almost as round as
+his own.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then he stamped his foot, and raising his arms over his head,
+he made a low bow.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Madam, your wish to see me, though it is only prompted
+by idle curiosity, has brought me down from my kingdom among
+the chimney pots. I have a request to make to you. Will you
+take my place for a few hours? I am called away on urgent
+private affairs, but I cannot leave my work up there unless you will
+give me your help.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>His voice was high
+and sharp. It was rather
+like listening to a sparrow.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_101.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“HE MADE A LOW BOW”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>He went straight on,
+without waiting for an
+answer. “It is a mistake
+to suppose that I live in
+the chimney. It
+would be most
+disagreeable to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>do so, as I should have thought you, who have imagination,
+would realize. But I am talking too much. I wait respectfully,
+Madam, for your answer. Will you help me?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Veronica wriggled uncomfortably under the warm bedclothes.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I will help you if I can.” She was a cautious, as well as
+a truthful, child, so she added hastily, “I don’t want to say I will,
+if I can’t. And are you—<em>are</em> you Mr. Snoogles?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The strange little man standing on the mat threw back his
+head so suddenly that the lid of the kettle fell off and bounced away
+behind the coal scuttle.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, how funny!” he laughed. “I shall add that to my
+collection. No, I’m <em>not</em> Mr. Snoogles; but I am the person whom
+your brother calls Mr. Snoogles.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“So Teddy <em>has</em> seen you after all. Sometimes I thought
+Mr. Snoogles was only a game.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Indeed, I’m not a game. What a horrid thing to be!
+Imagine being a football?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Or a pin-cushion,” said Veronica hastily. “I know because
+I believed I was one once, but only for a short time,” she added,
+because she was truthful, but also in case Mr. Snoogles found a
+stray pin on the floor and, remembering what she had said, might
+stick it into her. He looked such a tidy man.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I can assure you, Madam, that I will not request you to
+do anything at all difficult. I shall only require your services for
+a short period—say about ten years.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“<em>Ten years?</em> But in ten years I shall be quite old—that is,
+quite grown up. I shall be twenty-one.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well, what of that? My work is much more amusing than
+what you do all day—lessons, walks, quarrels.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Veronica felt a little taken aback.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But I don’t quarrel—that is to say, not much, not nearly as
+much as do our cousins in the country or as the long-haired family
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>we see in the park. Would you like to hear my names? I am not
+madam yet. You see, I am not married. And won’t you sit
+down?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No, I never sit down. It’s lazy. Proceed with your
+names. Though I know what I call you to myself.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I was christened Elizabeth Veronica Sybella—now, what do
+<em>you</em> call me?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Never mind. Don’t ask questions. It’s bad manners.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Veronica felt annoyed, but she put her pride in her pocket
+and asked: “If I do what you want me to do—will you tell me
+then?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I shall if you deserve it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>What a horrid thing to say! How like a holiday governess!—the
+sort that Veronica and her brother had had last summer.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“We must be gone. You have been wasting <em>our</em> time. Not
+that time is money to me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Isn’t it? It is to father, though how he makes it into money
+I don’t know. I have so much time I could make such a lot of
+money if only I knew how to do it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Money is silly stuff. Look how easily it burns. Only
+yesterday I saw the kitchenmaid at No. 5 throw a five-pound note
+on to the fire. She didn’t know what it was, poor silly girl, though
+she is very clever at washing cups and saucers. Come on now!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Veronica jumped out of bed, and ran over to the fireplace.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Do we go up there?” she said, looking at the chimney and
+then at the dying fire. “Won’t it burn?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Not when you are with me. Fire is my servant. I am fire’s
+lord and master. But if you feel at all nervous I will command it
+to die.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>With these dramatic words Mr. Snoogles clapped his hands
+together and cried out: “Servant, hide thyself! Let thy light
+burn dim while we pass over you.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>Instantly the coals grew grey and dusty.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mr. Snoogles put out his hand, and taking Veronica’s fingers
+firmly in his, he pulled her up, and soon she found herself being
+drawn up higher and higher.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“When we get to the top I will explain what you have to do.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Veronica said nothing. Adventure had come at last—the
+real thing, better than any story-book she had ever read, because
+it was happening to her—actually to her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>They suddenly came out into the night air. To the right,
+to the left, in fact, wherever she looked, were chimney pots. Some
+had strange things on them like hats.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then it was that Veronica noticed she had become about the
+same size as Mr. Snoogles. She did not feel cold, either, which
+was stranger still. But she sat down as she had been told, and
+gazed about her. High above, the stars were twinkling and the
+young moon was shining.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mr. Snoogles coughed.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Have you finished thinking your thoughts, and will you
+now think of mine?” he said crossly.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I am so sorry. Please tell me yours.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“My business—and soon it will be <em>your</em> business, don’t
+forget—is to be the Watchman of Fire and Smoke. Smoke is
+used for punishment because it is unpleasant. But Fire brings
+warmth and happiness. You will have power over them both,
+but you must keep Fire in his proper place. When you see things
+not going well in a house then send down Smoke. If they bear
+it well, and cease to think of themselves, call it back and ask Fire
+to burn brightly to warm them, and to make them feel happy
+and cheerful. If a live coal flies out on the mat, you must be there
+to make it go out. A house on fire is a terrible thing, and means
+you have not been doing your work properly.” He waited a
+moment, then exclaimed: “I must be going soon, so do your best!”</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>
+<img src='images/i_105.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“HAVE YOU FINISHED THINKING YOUR THOUGHTS”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>“But how shall I——?” Veronica looked round, but Mr.
+Snoogles had vanished, and she found herself alone on the roof.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I can’t do it, it’s too difficult,” she said to herself, “much
+more difficult than learning a long speech out of Shakespeare.
+One can always do that if one really tries, but this——?”</p>
+
+<hr class='c019'>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Veronica, Veronica, I have been screaming at you for ages.
+There is a big fire outside! That empty house is burning down,
+I can see it from my window——”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Teddy was jumping about in his pyjamas. “Come along!
+Hurry up!” he shouted.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Veronica got out of bed as if she was dreaming. Then she
+cried in great distress, “It’s my fault—that fire. Mr. Snoogles
+said I must not allow it to happen.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Don’t be so silly. Mr. Snoogles isn’t real. Come along!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The two children ran to the window, and in the excitement
+of watching the fire engines arrive, and the water pouring out of
+the great hose pipes Veronica forgot her part in this tragedy.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Later in the morning, as they were coming in from a walk,
+Veronica said, “Teddy, what was Mr. Snoogles really like when
+you saw him? Do tell me and I will tell you a great secret.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Mr. Snoogles? I will show him to you.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Teddy took off his coat and hat, and running halfway up the
+stairs, he threw his coat round a pillar which marked the half
+landing. Then he put his cap on the round knot at the top.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Veronica! Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Snoogles!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Teddy! D’you mean you never saw him really? I have.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Of course I didn’t. And you haven’t either!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Veronica said nothing to that. She knew better.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_107.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Eggs</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Herbert Asquith</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Bob has blown a hundred eggs,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Blue and olive, white and grey;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Warbler, nightingale, and thrush,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>Bob has blown their songs away!</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Low in spotless wool they rest,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Purest blue and clouded white,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Streaked with cinnamon and red,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Flecked with purples of the night;</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Mute and gleaming, row on row,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Lie the tombstones of the spring!</div>
+      <div class='line'>What a chorus would there be</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>If those eggs began to sing!</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>The Two Sailors</h2>
+</div>
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_108.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>John Lea</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c016'><em>This was one</em></h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>There once was a sailor who never could bear</div>
+      <div class='line'>To rub any oil on the top of his hair,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And no one who loved him at sea or at home</div>
+      <div class='line'>Would offer the use of a brush and a comb.</div>
+      <div class='line'>He said (and what reason for doubting the tale?)</div>
+      <div class='line'>The very best brush is the breath of a gale,</div>
+      <div class='line'>While as to the comb—seek a better, in vain,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Than jolly good torrents of tropical rain.</div>
+      <div class='line'>So all round the world (and no cruise did he miss)</div>
+      <div class='line'>That singular sailor looked something like <em>this</em>.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div>
+  <span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>
+  <h3 class='c018'><em>This was the other one</em></h3>
+</div>
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_109.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>There once was a sailor who lavished with care</div>
+      <div class='line'>Whole buckets of oil on the top of his hair,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And no one who loved him omitted to speak</div>
+      <div class='line'>In rapture of tresses so splendidly sleek.</div>
+      <div class='line'>He said (and who questions what mariners say?)</div>
+      <div class='line'>He brushed them and combed them each hour of the day.</div>
+      <div class='line'>For, up on the mast in the wildest of seas,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He never neglected such duties as these.</div>
+      <div class='line'>And so, as no chance he would lazily miss,</div>
+      <div class='line'>That singular sailor looked something like <em>this</em>.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Doctor Dolittle meets a Londoner in Paris</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Hugh Lofting</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>One day John Dolittle was walking alone in the Tuileries
+Gardens. He had been asked to come to France by some French
+naturalists who wished to consult him on certain new features to
+be added to the zoo in the Jardin des Plantes. The Doctor
+knew Paris well and loved it. To his way of thinking it was the
+perfect city—or would be, if it were not so difficult to get a bath
+there.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It had been raining all day, but now the sun was shining, and
+the gardens, fresh and wet, looked very beautiful. As the Doctor
+passed one of the many shrubberies he came upon a sparrow
+wallowing in a puddle in the middle of the gravel path.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why, I declare!” he muttered to himself, hurrying forward.
+“It’s Cheapside!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The small bird, evidently quite accustomed to human traffic,
+was far too busy with his bathing to notice anyone’s approach.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How do you do, Cheapside?” said the Doctor in sparrow
+language. “Who on earth would ever have thought of finding
+you here?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The sparrow stopped his fluttering and wallowing and looked
+up through the water that ran down in big drops off his tousled
+head-feathers.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Jiminy Crickets!” he exclaimed. “It’s the Doc himself!”</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>
+<img src='images/i_111.jpg' alt='‘HUGH' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“‘HOW DO YOU DO, CHEAPSIDE?’ SAID THE DOCTOR IN SPARROW LANGUAGE”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>“How do you come to be in Paris?” asked John Dolittle.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, it’s all Becky’s doing,” grumbled Cheapside, hopping
+out of the puddle and fluttering his wings to dry them. “I’m
+satisfied to stay in London, goodness knows. But every Spring
+it’s the same way: ‘Let’s take a hop over to the Continong,’ says
+she. ‘The horse-chestnuts will just be budding.’ ‘We got
+horse-chestnut trees in Regent’s Park,’ I says to ’er. ‘Ah,’ says
+she, ‘but not like the ones in the Twiddle-didee Gardens. Oh,
+I love Paris in the Spring,’ she says.... It’s always the same
+way: every year she drags me over ’ere. Sentiment, I reckon it
+is. You see, Doc, me and Becky met one another first ’ere—right
+’ere in the Twiddle-didee Gardens. I recognised ’er as a
+London Sparrow—you can tell ’em the world over—and we got
+talkin’. You know the way those things ’appen. She wanted to
+build our first nest up there in the Lufer Palace. But I says,
+‘No,’ hemphatic. ‘Let’s go back to St. Paul’s,’ I says. ‘I know
+a place in St. Edmund’s left ear what ’as all the stonework in Paris
+beat ’ollow as a nestin’ place. Besides,’ I says, ‘we don’t want
+our children growing up talkin’ no foreign language! We’re
+Londoners,’ I says: ‘let’s go back to London.’”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes,” said the Doctor. “Even I guessed you were a London
+sparrow, before I recognised you, because——”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Because I was washin’,” Cheapside finished. “That’s
+true: these ’ere foreign birds don’t run to water much.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“That’s a fine puddle you have there,” said the Doctor.
+“I’ve half a mind to ask you to lend it to me. You know, I’ve
+been trying to get a bath myself ever since I’ve been in Paris—without
+success so far. After all, even a puddle is better than
+nothing. When I asked them at the <em>pension</em> where I’m staying could
+I have a bath, they seemed to think I was asking for the moon.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, I can tell you where you can get a bath, Doctor, a good
+one,” said the sparrow. “Just the other side of that shrubbery
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>over there there’s an elegant marble pond, with a fountain and
+statues in the middle. You can hang your bath-towel on the
+statue and use the fountain for a shampoo. Just helegant!—But
+of course you’d have to do it after dark. Anybody washin’ in
+Paris is liable to get arrested—not because you ’ad no clothes on,
+mind you. Oh no, the French is very sensible about that. Look
+at all these statues: they don’t wear no clothes—and in summertime
+it’s much cooler for ’em. But washin’? That’s another
+matter. Over ’ere they’re very suspicious of anybody washin’.
+Just the same you could manage a tub in the marble pond late at
+night, easy—because there’s hardly anybody in the gardens then.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“My gracious! I’ve a good mind to try it, Cheapside,”
+said the Doctor. “I haven’t had a bath in over a week.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well,” said the Cockney sparrow, “you meet me here at
+midnight and me and Becky will guide you to the pond and keep a
+look-out while you get a wash.”</p>
+
+<hr class='c019'>
+
+<p class='c013'>There was a half moon that night. And when, a few minutes
+before twelve o’clock, John Dolittle came into the Tuileries
+Gardens with a bath-towel over his arm, the first person he saw
+was a French policeman. Not wishing to be taken for a suspicious
+character, he thrust the bath-towel beneath his coat and hurried
+past the shrubbery as though bent on important business.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But he had not gone very far before he was overtaken by
+Cheapside and his wife, Becky.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Don’t get worried, Doc, don’t get worried,” said the sparrow.
+“That bobby only goes by about once every ’alf-hour. ’E won’t
+be back for a while. Come over ’ere and we’ll show you your
+dressing-room.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>John Dolittle was thereupon conducted to a snug retreat in
+the heart of a big shrubbery.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>“Nobody can see you ’ere,” said Cheapside. “And as soon
+as you’re ready all you’ve got to do is to ’op round that privet-’edge,
+sprint across the little lawn and there’s your bath waitin’
+for you. Me and Becky will keep a look-out. And if any danger
+comes along we’ll whistle.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Five minutes later the famous naturalist was wallowing
+luxuriously in the marble pond. The night was softly brilliant
+with moonlight, and the statues in the centre of the pool stood out
+palely against the dark mass of the trees behind.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>John Dolittle had paused a moment with a cake of soap uplifted
+in his hand, utterly enchanted by the beauty of the scene, when he
+heard Cheapside hoarsely whispering to him from a branch overhead.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Look out! Hide quick! Someone coming!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now the Doctor had left his bath-towel on the base of the
+statue. At Cheapside’s warning he splashed wildly out to get it
+before attempting a retreat to the shrubbery. Breathless, he
+finally reached the fountain. But just as he was about to grasp
+the towel Becky called from the other side of the pond:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Cheapside! There is another party coming in at the other
+gate! The Doctor can never make it in time.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>John Dolittle, waist-deep in the water at the foot of the statue,
+looked about him in despair.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Gracious! What shall I do then?” he cried drawing the
+bath-towel over his shoulders.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You’ll have to be a statue,” hissed Cheapside the quick thinker.
+“Hop up on to the pedestal. They’ll never know the difference in
+this light. When they go by you can come down. Hurry! They’re
+quite close. I can see their heads over the top of the hedge.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Swiftly winding his bath-towel about him, John Dolittle
+sprang up on to the pedestal and crouched in a statuesque pose.
+The marble group was of Neptune the sea-god and several attendant
+figures. John Dolittle, M.D., became one of the attendant
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>figures. His hand raised to shade his eyes from an imaginary
+sun, he gazed seaward with a stony stare.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Fine!” whispered Cheapside, flying on to the base of the statue.
+“No one could tell you from the real thing. Just keep still
+and you’ll be all right. They won’t stay, I don’t expect. Here
+they come. Don’t get nervous, now. Bless me, I believe they’re
+English too!—Tourists. Well, did you ever?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A man and a woman, strolling through the gardens by one of
+the many crossing paths, had now paused at the edge of the pond
+and, to John Dolittle’s horror, were gazing up at the statue in the
+centre of it. They were both elderly; they both carried umbrellas;
+and they both wore spectacles.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’ll bet they’re short-sighted, Doc,” whispered Cheapside
+comfortingly. “Don’t worry.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Dear me, Sarah,” sighed the man. “What a beautiful night!
+The moon and the trees and the fountain. And such an imposing
+statue!—The sea-god Neptune with his mermaids and mermen.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Lancelot,” said the woman shortly, “let us hurry home.
+You’ll get your bronchitis worse in this damp air. I don’t like
+the statue at all. I never saw such fat creatures. Just look at
+that one on the corner there—the one with his hand up scanning
+the horizon. Why, he’s stouter than the butcher at home!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Humph!” muttered Cheapside beneath his breath. “It
+don’t seem to me as though <em>you</em> ’ave any figure to write ’ome
+about, Mrs. Scarecrow.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At this moment a large flying beetle landed on the Doctor’s
+neck and nearly spoiled everything.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Good gracious, Sarah!” cried the man. “I thought I
+saw one of the figures move, the fat one.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The tourist adjusted his spectacles and, coming a little closer
+to the edge of the pond, stared very hard. But Cheapside, to
+add a touch of convincing realism, flew up on to the merman’s
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>shoulder, kicked the beetle into the pond with a secret flick of his
+foot and burst into a flood of carefree song.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No, Sarah,” said the man. “I was mistaken. See, there
+is a bird sitting on his shoulder. How romantic! Must be a
+nightingale.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“<em>Will</em> you come home, Lancelot?” snapped the woman.
+“You won’t feel so romantic when your cough comes back. It
+must be after midnight.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But you know, Sarah,” said the man, as he was almost
+forcibly dragged away, “<em>I</em> don’t think he’s too fat. They had to
+be stout, those marine people: they floated better that way.
+Dear me, Paris is a beautiful city!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>As the footsteps died away down the moonlit path, John
+Dolittle sighed a great sigh of relief and came to life.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Cheapside,” said he, stretching his stiff arms, “you could
+never guess who those people were. My sister Sarah and her
+husband, the Reverend Lancelot Dingle. It’s funny, Cheapside,
+but whenever I am in an awkward or ridiculous situation Sarah
+seems bound to turn up. Of course she and her husband would
+just <em>have</em> to come touring Paris at the exact hour when I was taking
+a bath in the Tuileries Gardens. Ah well, thank goodness the
+pond kept them off from getting any closer to me!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well, listen, Doc,” said the London sparrow: “I think
+you had better be gettin’ along yourself now. It’s about time for
+that bobby to be coming round again.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes, you’re right,” said the Doctor. And he slid back
+into the water, waded to the edge and stepped out on to dry ground.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But John Dolittle’s troubles were not over yet. While he
+was still no more than half way to his “dressing-room” there
+came another warning shout from Cheapside:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Look out!—Here he comes!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This time flight seemed the only course. The policeman
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>had seen the culprit disappear into the shrubbery. Breaking into
+a run, he gave chase.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Don’t stop, Doc!” cried Cheapside. “Grab your clothes
+and get out the other side—Becky! Hey, Becky! Keep that
+policeman busy a minute.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The Doctor did as he was told. Seizing his clothes in a pile
+as he rushed through the shrubbery, he came out at the other
+end like an express train emerging from a tunnel. Here Cheapside
+met him and led him across a lawn to another group of bushes.
+Behind this he hurriedly got into his clothes. Meanwhile Becky
+kept the policeman busy by furiously pecking him in the neck
+and making it necessary for him to stop and beat her off.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>However, she could not of course keep this up for long. And
+if John Dolittle had not been an exceptionally quick dresser he
+could never have got away. In one minute and a quarter, collar
+and tie in one hand, soap and towel in the other, he left his second
+dressing-room on the run and sped for the gate and home.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The loyal Cheapside was still with him; but the sparrow was now
+so convulsed with laughter that he could scarcely keep up, even flying.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I don’t see what you find so funny about it,” panted the
+Doctor peevishly as he slowed down at the gate and began putting
+on his collar. “I had a very narrow escape from getting arrested.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes, and you’d have gone to jail, too,” gasped Cheapside.
+“It’s no light offence, washing in this country. But that wasn’t
+what I was laughing at.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well, what was it, then?” asked the Doctor, feeling for a
+stud in his pocket.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The Reverend Dingle took me for a nightingale!” tittered
+the Cockney sparrow. “I must go back and tell Becky that.
+So long, Doc! You’ll be all right now. That bobby’s lost you
+altogether.... After all, you got your bath. See you in
+Puddleby next month.”</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Vice-versa<br> <span class='c002'>ANY FATHER TO ANY DAUGHTER</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Henry Newbolt</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>If buttercups were white and pink,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And roses green and blue,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Then you instead of me could think,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And I instead of you.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Then I could daily give your doll</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Her early evening tub,</div>
+      <div class='line'>While you in easy-chairs could loll</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>At some or other Club.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Then I could spell p-i-g pidge,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And learn to sew like Nurse;</div>
+      <div class='line'>While you could take a hand at bridge,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And murmur “Zooks!” or worse.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Oh, it would be as fresh a sight</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>As ever yet was seen,</div>
+      <div class='line'>If buttercups were pink and white</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And roses blue and green.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>
+<img src='images/i_119.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_120.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'><span class='sc'>Kitteen</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c003'>
+    <div>BY</div>
+    <div class='c005'><span class='sc'>Margaret Kennedy</span></div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>I sat beside the ingle-nook,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The fire was glowing;</div>
+      <div class='line'>The pot was bubbling on the hook,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The wind was blowing.</div>
+      <div class='line'>In the shadows of the room</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Ghosts were hiding;</div>
+      <div class='line'>From the furthest, deepest gloom</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>They came gliding.</div>
+      <div class='line'>At the back of me I knew</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Crowds were creeping.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Through the house the storm-wind blew,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Flames went leaping,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Awful shadows on the wall</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Set me screaming.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Close at hand came Someone’s call:</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>“Sure she’s dreaming!</div>
+      <div class='line in4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>What have you seen?</div>
+      <div class='line in8'>Kitteen!</div>
+      <div class='line'>Tell us, what have you seen?”</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>In the brown bog by the lake</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>There are stacks of drying peat;</div>
+      <div class='line'>When by chance that way I take,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Past I run with flying feet;</div>
+      <div class='line'>For once when, wandering carelessly,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>I came into that lonely place,</div>
+      <div class='line'>I watched a peat stack close to me</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>And saw it had a wrinkled face!</div>
+      <div class='line'>All old women sitting round,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Each one in a long brown cloak;</div>
+      <div class='line'>They gazed and gazed upon the ground</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>With eyes like stones, and never spoke.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Then I turned my back and fled</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Up our hill, with stumbling feet;</div>
+      <div class='line'>In a doorway Someone said:</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>“She’s as white as any sheet!</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>What did you see?</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>Kitteen machree!</div>
+      <div class='line'>Tell us, what did you see?”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Gilbert</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Clemence Dane</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>I am the aunt of Annabel. Annabel is coming next Friday
+to the birthday party she ought to have had a month ago; but
+she had measles instead. I am anxious for Annabel to enjoy
+herself. Whom shall I ask to meet her?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Annabel is five—a gracious-mannered five, with a smooth
+bobbed head of red hair, eyes like lilacs, and a generously curved
+mouth. She is a darling. She is also a devil. She never
+allows me or anyone else a quiet moment with her mother when
+she is in the room: indeed, she owns her parents and regards
+all visitors as her perquisites. She owns also, and can use with
+disastrous effect on my borders, a scooter and a tricycle. She can
+adjust the wireless set and listen in at her pleasure to Bournemouth,
+Cardiff or London. She swears at the dog in broad
+Devon, and has her ideas about her frocks. But she cannot read
+or tie her own shoes or tell the time.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Annabel is coming to tea on Friday. How am I to keep her
+amused? Shall I invite Philip Collins, that hard-working child, proprietor
+of stickle-backs, my particular friend? Will there be
+anything left of Philip if I do—or of Annabel? Philip is seven.
+With only a year or so between them they ought to get on. And
+yet, how did I feel towards seven when I was five? Across the
+white magic-lantern circle of my memory a shadow flits, a leggy,
+olive-green shadow, with fur at its neck and wrists, and I recognise
+Gilbert, and pause.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>Annabel is so much more sophisticated and so much more of
+a baby than we were ever allowed to be, that the Gilbert adventure
+could hardly happen to her. She would say she didn’t like him
+and be done with it. And yet—suppose she didn’t! Suppose
+she suffered him in silence like her aunt before her! I do want
+Annabel to enjoy herself.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_123.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“SHE OWNS ALSO, AND CAN USE WITH DISASTROUS EFFECT ON MY BORDERS, A SCOOTER AND A TRICYCLE.”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>You must not think that there was any harm in Gilbert. He
+was, I see now, a nice, polite little boy. My Aunt Angela said
+so. He was as nice a boy, I daresay, as Philip, who is—perhaps—to
+make Annabel’s acquaintance next Friday. But he was long
+and, as it was a fancy-dress ball, his mother had dressed him in
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>greenery-yallery tights, and a doublet with moleskin at the neck
+and wrists. Now, when you are no older than Annabel and own
+a live mole which you keep in the ring-dove’s cage, you do not
+feel friendly to people who wear moleskin. (No, I don’t know
+what happened to the ring-dove, though I remember that she lived
+for some time in the kitchen in a straw-coloured wicker-work
+cage, and was incessantly laying eggs that wouldn’t hatch and
+croo-rooing over them in a lamentable voice which made the
+nursery feel that the whole bitter business was the nursery’s fault.)</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It is not too much to say that from the moment I set eyes
+upon Gilbert I felt for him that unreasoning sick dislike of which
+only a child is capable, and which it never attempts to explain.
+I never said a word to my Aunt Angela about Gilbert, though I
+noted him with a prophetic shudder as I followed her across the
+shining, slippery floor. Indeed, nobody could help noticing
+Gilbert. It was not only that he was so much longer than anybody
+else, so prominent among the Joan of Arcs and Pierrots and
+Geishas, but that he was such a pervasive dancer: he seemed to
+be behaving beautifully with everybody at once. There was a
+horrible fascination in his smiling efficiency: he wasn’t shy like
+everyone else: he didn’t mind what he did: and he did it well.
+He was a handsome boy too, for my Aunt Angela said so. Indeed,
+I can best fix him for you by recalling the fact that when I saw
+Lewis Waller come upon the stage as Robin Hood I instantly,
+and for the first time in fifteen years, remembered Gilbert.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Before I could pull on my white silk mittens, my aunt (I
+knew she would) had caught Gilbert and introduced him to me,
+and he wrote his name on my programme and his own, and his
+moleskin wrist—his mole must have been an older and oilier mole
+than mine—rubbed against my bare hand. In the frantic subsequent
+attempts to scrub off the feel, I spilled water down my new
+frock, my fancy-dress of yellow satin petals over a green satin
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>skirt, with three green satin leaves dangling from the neck; for
+I, in that hour, was a primrose.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But washing my hands and drying my frock only took up a
+dance and a half: Gilbert and his Berlin Polka were still to be faced.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I had an idea. I would anticipate Gilbert: I would have
+a partner of my own. I marked one down, a rosy, bewildered
+little girl in sparkles: a Snow-white—a Fairy queen—what did
+I care? I gave her her orders; for she was only four. She was
+to look out for me when number seven began. She was to refuse
+to dance with anyone else. She was dancing the Berlin polka
+with me—did she understand?—with me: and if a green boy
+with moleskin on his wrists asked her where I was, well—there
+I wasn’t! Did she quite understand?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I was still passionately explaining the situation when the
+music of number six struck up, and her partner, a Father Christmas
+smaller than herself, jogged her away. I can still see so clearly
+the bunchy little figure—we were not so particular about the cut
+of our clothes as is Annabel’s generation—and the alarmed dark eyes
+and hot cheeks as she looked back at me over her winged shoulder.
+As for me, I had to put in the perilous time somehow. I hid.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I found a beautiful place to hide in, a room with cane chairs
+and palms, and one or two screened recesses with two chairs and
+a table in each. I sat me down in the only empty recess and listened
+to the music, and wondered whether Gilbert had begun to look
+for me yet. Soon a young lady with bare shoulders and a young
+gentleman with an eye-glass arrived, looked in, departed, and
+shortly returned again. It was quite evident that they wanted
+my refuge. I wasn’t going to let them have it. I was terrified
+of them both, but I was still more terrified of Gilbert.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Said the young gentleman:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What are you doing here?” and he called me “little girl!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Said I, firmly, but I was on the edge of tears:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>“I am waiting for my partner,” and felt that I lied, for I was
+not exactly waiting for Gilbert.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_126.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“HE STARED AT ME REPROACHFULLY”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, indeed!” said the young gentleman, and stared again,
+and whispered to the young lady with the white shoulders, and the
+young lady whispered
+back. You cannot
+think how miserable
+I felt. They went
+away at last; but
+they, and my lie—a lie was a lie in those
+days—had ruined my haven.  I slipped out
+as the music stopped, and instantly the
+young gentleman and the young lady
+got up from two chairs under a palm
+and sat down behind my screen, while—oh horror!—Gilbert’s green
+and questing length crossed and re-crossed the lighted swirling space
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>on the other side of the draped doorway. I knew—who better?—whom
+he sought. I backed into the dark corner formed by the wall
+and the other side of the screen, too much occupied with Gilbert’s
+next move to attend to the murmurs on the other side of it. But
+the sitters-out were sensitive; or I, effacing myself as much as
+possible, must have pushed against the screen. Slowly, over the
+top, rose the head of the young gentleman. He stared down at
+me reproachfully and I, in a paralysis of embarrassment, stared
+up at him. You cannot think how tall the screen seemed, and
+how terrible the face of the young gentleman to the eyes of five.
+Nothing was said. How long he was prepared to stare at me I
+do not know, for his eye-glass was more than I could bear: at
+that moment even Gilbert was easier to face. I sidled back into
+the ballroom, worming my way as self-effacingly as possible in
+and out between mothers and empty chairs, till a familiar glitter
+caught my eye. It was my partner, my illegal partner, so soft,
+so rosy, so cosy, so blessedly harmless, so very much smaller than
+I. She was not pleased to see me (I realise now that I must have
+been as awful to her as Gilbert to me) but what did that matter?
+I grasped her hurriedly by a hand and a wing:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“One, two, three,” I prompted: and we put our feet into
+the second position. But fate was looking after the little girl in
+sparkles, not after me.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“My dance, I think.” Gilbert, cool, easy, adequate, even
+remembered to bow. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
+he said and he put out mole-skinny hands.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m dancing with <em>her</em>,” I muttered. It was my last throw.
+But at that a new voice interposed:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, Mary, you mustn’t take the little girl away from her
+partner!” And the fairy queen, inexpressible relief in her eyes,
+pulled her hand out of mine and retired upon her mother.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I danced with Gilbert.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>The last straw was hearing my Aunt Angela telling my mother,
+in the cab coming home, that it was pretty to see how the child
+had enjoyed herself.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now I wonder how Annabel would have dealt with Gilbert?
+Her childhood is not my childhood. I read <em>Pickwick</em> at five,
+while Annabel is satisfied with <em>Teddy Tail</em>: that fancy-dress ball
+was my first party, while Annabel goes to dances twice a week.
+Annabel’s emotions could never have been in the least like mine.
+And yet, five years old in the eighteen-nineties is nearer five years
+old in the nineteen-twenties than five years old will ever be to a
+contemporary aunt. If I ask my nice Philip Collins to tea—such
+a handsome boy!—such good manners!—how am I to be certain
+that I am not inflicting a Gilbert upon Annabel? On the other
+hand, Annabel might have liked Gilbert. He was a popular
+person that evening: and Annabel has never kept moles.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Annabel does not think me young. She asked me yesterday
+if I had ever spoken to Queen Elizabeth; but she likes to hear
+what I did in that Palæolithic age when I was little. I will tell
+her about Gilbert when I tuck her up to-night, and see what she
+says.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Jack and His Pony, Tom</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>H. Belloc</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_129.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_130.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Jack had a little pony, Tom.</div>
+      <div class='line'>He frequently would take it from</div>
+      <div class='line'>The stable where it used to stand</div>
+      <div class='line'>And give it sugar with his hand.</div>
+      <div class='line'>He also gave it oats and hay</div>
+      <div class='line'>And carrots twenty times a day</div>
+      <div class='line'>And grass in basketfuls and greens</div>
+      <div class='line'>And swedes and mangels: also beans;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And patent foods from various sources</div>
+      <div class='line'>And bread—which isn’t good for horses—</div>
+      <div class='line'>And chocolate and apple-rings,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And lots and lots of other things</div>
+      <div class='line'>The most of which do not agree</div>
+      <div class='line'>With Polo Ponies such as he,</div>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>And all in such a quantity</div>
+      <div class='line'>As ruined his digestion wholly</div>
+      <div class='line'>And turned him from a Pono Poly</div>
+      <div class='line'>—I mean a Polo Pony—into</div>
+      <div class='line'>A case that clearly must be seen to,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Because he swelled and swelled and swelled.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Which, when the kindly boy beheld,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He gave it medicine by the pail</div>
+      <div class='line'>In malted milk, and nutmeg ale,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And yet it only swelled the more</div>
+      <div class='line'>Until its stomach touched the floor;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And then it heaved and groaned as well</div>
+      <div class='line'>And staggered, till at last it fell</div>
+      <div class='line'>And found it could not rise again.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Jack wept and prayed—but all in vain.</div>
+      <div class='line'>The pony died, and, as it died,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Kicked him severely in the side.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c018'><span class='sc'>Moral</span></h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Kindness to animals should be</div>
+      <div class='line'>Attuned to their brutality.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Tom and His Pony, Jack</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>H. Belloc</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_131.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Tom had a little pony, Jack:</div>
+      <div class='line'>He vaulted lightly on its back</div>
+      <div class='line'>And galloped off for miles and miles,</div>
+      <div class='line'>A-leaping hedges, gates and stiles,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And shouting “Yoicks!” and “Tally-Ho!”</div>
+      <div class='line'>And “Heads I win!” and “Tails below!”</div>
+      <div class='line'>And many another sporting phrase.</div>
+      <div class='line'>He rode like this for several days,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Until the pony, feeling tired,</div>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>Collapsed, looked heavenward and expired.</div>
+      <div class='line'>His father made a fearful row.</div>
+      <div class='line'>He said, “By Gum! You’ve done it now!</div>
+      <div class='line'>Here lies, a Carcase on the ground,</div>
+      <div class='line'>No less than five and twenty pound!</div>
+      <div class='line'>Indeed, the value of the beast</div>
+      <div class='line'>Would probably have much increased.</div>
+      <div class='line'>His teeth were false; and all were told</div>
+      <div class='line'>That he was only four years old.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Oh! Curse it all! I tell you plain</div>
+      <div class='line'>I’ll never let you ride again.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_132.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<h3 class='c018'><span class='sc'>Moral</span></h3>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>His father died when he was twenty,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And left three horses—which is plenty.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_133.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>“Pigtails<br> <span class='c002'>Ltd.</span>”</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Walter de la Mare</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>How such an odd and curious notion had ever come into Miss
+Rawlings’s mind, not even Miss Rawlings herself could have said.
+When had it come? She could not answer even that question either.
+It had simply stolen in little by little like a beam of sunshine into
+a large room.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Not of course into an empty room, for Miss Rawlings had
+many things to think about. She was by far the most important
+person in the Parish, and everyone—from Archdeacon Tomlington
+and his two curates, Mr. Moffat and Mr. Timbs, down to little
+old Mrs. Ort the hump-backed charwoman who lived in the top
+attic of a cottage down by Clopbourne—or, as they called it,
+Clobburne—Bridge, everyone knew how <em>practical</em> she was.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But once that sunny beam had begun to steal into Miss
+Rawlings’s mind and into her life, it had lightened up with its
+precious gold everything that was there. It was nevertheless a
+fantastic notion, simply because it could not possibly be true.
+How could Miss Rawlings ever have lost a little girl if there had
+never been any little girl to lose? Yet that exactly was Miss
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>Rawlings’s idea. It had flitted into her imagination like a
+nimble, bright-feathered bird. And once it was really there, she
+never hesitated to talk about it; not at all.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“My little girl, you know,” she would say with a little emphatic
+nod and a pleasant smile on her broad face. Or rather, “My
+little gal”—for she always pronounced the word as if it rhymed
+with Sal—the short for Sarah. This, too, was an odd thing;
+for Miss Rawlings had been brought up by her parents with the
+very best education, and seldom mispronounced even such words
+as Chloe or Psyche or epitome or misled. And so far as I know—which
+is not very far—and apart from shall and pal and Hal,
+there is not a single word of one syllable in our enormous English
+language that is pronounced like Sal; for Pall Mall, of course, is
+pronounced Pell Mell. Still, Miss Rawlings did talk about her
+little girl, and she called her, her little gal.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It never occurred to anybody in the Parish—not even to
+Mr. Timbs—to compare the Little Gal to a gay little bird or to a
+beam of sunshine. Mrs. Tomlington said indeed that it was merely
+a bee in Miss Rawlings’s bonnet. But whether or not, partly
+because she delighted in bright colours, and partly because, in
+fashion or out, she had entirely her own taste in dress, there could
+not be a larger or brighter or flowerier bonnet for any bee to be <em>in</em>.
+Apart from puce silk and maroon velvet and heliotrope feathers
+and ribbons and pom-poms and suchlike, Miss Rawlings’s bonnets
+invariably consisted of handsome spreading flowers—blue-red roses,
+purple pansies, mauve cineraria—a complete little garden for any
+bee’s amusement. And this bee sang rather than buzzed in it
+the whole day long.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>You might almost say it had made a new woman of her. Miss
+Rawlings had always been active and positive and good-humoured
+and kind. But now her spirits were so much more animated.
+She went bobbing and floating through the Parish like a balloon.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>Her <em>interest</em> in everything seemed to have first been multiplied by
+nine, and then by nine again. And eighty-one times anything is
+a pretty large quantity. Beggars, gipsies, hawkers, crossing-sweepers,
+blind men positively smacked their lips when they saw
+Miss Rawlings come sailing down the street. Her heart was like
+the Atlantic, and they like row-boats on the deep—especially the
+blind men. As for her donations to the Parochial Funds, they were
+first doubled, then trebled, then quadrupled.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>There was, first, for example, the Fund for giving all the
+little parish girls and boys not only a bun and an orange and a
+tree at Christmas and a picnic with Veal and Ham Pie and Ice
+Pudding in June, but a Jack-in-the-Green on May-day and a huge
+Guy on November the 5th, with Squibs and Roman Candles and
+Chinese Crackers and so on. There was not only the Fund for
+the Delight of Infants of Every Conceivable Description; there
+was also the Wooden-Legged Orphans’ Fund. There was the
+Home for Manx and Tabby Cats; and the Garden by the River
+with the willows for Widowed Gentlewomen. There was the
+Threepenny-Bit-with-a-Hole-in-It Society; and the Organ
+Grinders’ Sick Monkey and Blanket Fund, and there was the
+oak-beamed Supper Room in “The Three Wild Geese” for the
+use of Ancient Mariners—haggis and toad-in-the-hole, and plum
+duff and jam roley-poley. And there were many others. If Miss
+Rawlings had been born in another parish, it would have been
+a sad thing indeed for the cats and widows and orphans and organ
+monkeys in her own.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>With such a power and quantity of money, of course, writing
+cheques was very much like just writing in birthday-books. Still
+you can give too much to any Fund; though very few people
+make the attempt. But Miss Rawlings was a practical woman.
+Besides, Miss Rawlings knew perfectly well that charity must at
+any rate <em>begin</em> at home, so all this time she was keeping what the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>Ancient Mariners at the “Three Wild Geese” called a “weather
+eye” wide open for her lost Little Gal. But how, it may be
+asked, could she keep any kind of an eye open for a lost Little Gal,
+when she didn’t know what the lost Little Gal was like? And
+the answer to that is that Miss Rawlings knew perfectly well.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She may not have known where the absurd notion came from,
+or when, or why; but she knew that. She knew what the Little
+Gal looked like as well as a mother thrush knows what an egg
+looks like; or Sir Christopher Wren knew what a cathedral looks
+like. But as with the Thrush and Sir Christopher, a good many
+little things had happened to Miss Rawlings first. And this quite
+apart from the old wooden doll she used to lug about when she
+was seven, called Quatta.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One morning, for example, Miss Rawlings had been out in
+her carriage and was thinking of nothing in particular, just daydreaming,
+when not very far from the little stone bridge at
+Clobburne she happened to glance up at a window in the upper
+parts of a small old house. And at that window there seemed to
+show a face with dark bright eyes watching her. Just a glimpse.
+I say <em>seemed</em>, for when in the carriage Miss Rawlings rapidly
+twisted her head to get a better view, she discovered either that
+there had been nobody there at all, or that the somebody had
+swiftly drawn back, or that the bright dark eyes were just too
+close-together flaws in the diamond-shaped bits of glass. In the
+last case what Miss Rawlings had seen was mainly “out of her
+mind.” But if so, it went back again and stayed there. It was
+excessively odd, indeed, how clear a remembrance that glimpse
+left behind it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then again, Miss Rawlings, like her great-aunt Felicia, had
+always enjoyed a weakness for taking naps in the train, the flowers
+and plumes and bows in her bonnet nodding the while above her
+head. The sound of the wheels on the iron lines was like a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>lullaby; the fields trailing softly away beyond the window drowsed
+her eyes. Whether asleep or not, she would generally close her
+eyes and at least appear to be napping. And not once, or twice,
+but three separate times, owing to a screech of the whistle or a jolt
+of the train, she had suddenly opened them again to find herself
+staring out (rather like a large animal in a field) at a little girl
+sitting on the opposite seat, who, in turn, had already fixed <em>her</em>
+eyes on Miss Rawlings’s countenance. In every case there had
+been a look of intense, patient interest on the little girl’s face.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Perhaps Miss Rawlings’s was a countenance that all little
+girls are apt to look at with extreme interest—especially when the
+owner of it is asleep in the train. It was a broad countenance
+with a small but powerful nose with a round tip. There was a
+good deal of fresh colour in the flat cheeks beneath the treacle-coloured
+eyes; and the hair stood out like a wig beneath the huge
+bonnet. Miss Rawlings, too, had a habit of folding her kid-gloved
+hands upon her lap as if she was an image. None the less, you
+could hardly call it only “a coincidence” that these little girls
+were so much alike, and so much like the face at the window.
+And so very much like the real lost Little Gal that had always, it
+seemed, been at the back of Miss Rawlings’s mind.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Not that there had ever been any kind of a ghost in Miss
+Rawlings’s family. Her family was far too practical for that; and her
+mansion was most richly furnished. All I mean is that each one
+of these little girls happened to have a rather narrow face, a brown
+pigtail, rather small dark brown bright eyes and narrow hands, and
+except for the one at the window, they wore round beaver hats
+and buttoned coats. No; there was no ghost <em>there</em>. What Miss
+Rawlings was after was an absolutely real Little Gal. And her
+name was Barbara Allan.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This sounds utterly absurd. But so it had come about. For
+a long time—having talked about her Little Gal again and again to
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>the Archdeacon and Mrs. Tomlington and Mr. Moffat and other
+ladies and gentlemen in the Parish, Miss Rawlings had had no
+name at all for her small friend. But one still summer evening,
+there being a faint red in the sky, while she was wandering gently
+about her immense drawing-room, she had happened to open a
+book lying on an “occasional” table. It was a book of poetry—crimson
+and gilt-edged, with a brass clasp—and on the very page
+under her nose she had read this line:</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Fell in love with Barbara Allan.”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c020'>The words ran through her mind like wildfire. Barbara Allan—it
+was <em>the</em> name! Or how very like it! An echo? Certainly some
+words and names <em>are</em> echoes of one another—sisters or brothers
+once removed, so to speak. Tomlington and Pocklingham, for
+example; or quince and shrimp; or angelica and cyclamen. All
+I mean is that the very instant Miss Rawlings saw that printed
+“Barbara Allan,” it ran through her heart like an old tune in a
+nursery. It <em>was</em> her Little Gal, or ever so near it—as near, that is,
+as any name can be to a thing, viz., crocus, or comfit, or shuttlecock,
+or mistletoe, or pantry.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now, if Miss Rawlings had been of royal blood and had
+lived in a fairy-tale; if, that is, she had been a Queen in Grimm—it
+would have been a quite ordinary thing that she should be
+seeking a little lost Princess, or badly in need of one. But except
+that her paternal grandfather was a Sir Samuel Rawlings, she was
+but very remotely connected with royalty. Still, if you think
+about it, seeing that once upon a time there were only marvellous
+Adam and beautiful Eve in the Garden, that is in the whole wide
+world, and seeing that all of Us as well as all of the earth’s Kings
+and Queens must have descended from them, <em>therefore</em> all of Us
+must have descended from Kings and Queens. So too with Miss
+Rawlings. But—unlike Mrs. Tomlington—she had not come
+down by the grand staircase.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>Since then Miss Rawlings did not live in a fairy-tale nor in
+Grimm, but was a very real person in a very real Parish, her friends
+and acquaintances were all inclined in private to agree with Mrs.
+Tomlington that her Little Gal was nothing but a bee in her
+bonnet. And that the longer it stayed there the louder it buzzed.
+Indeed, Miss Rawlings almost began to think of nothing else. She
+became absent-minded, quite forgetting her soup and fish and
+chicken and French roll when she sat at dinner. She left on the
+gas. She signed cheques for the Funds without looking back at
+the counterfoils to see what she had last subscribed. She gave
+brand-new mantles and dolmens away to the Rummagers; ordered
+coals from her fishmonger’s; rode third class with a first class
+ticket; addressed a postcard to Mrs. Tomfoolington—almost
+every kind of absent-minded thing you can imagine.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And now she was always searching: even in the house
+sometimes; even in the kitchen quarters. And her plump country
+maids would gladly help too. “No, m’m, she ain’t here.” “No,
+m’m, we ain’t a-seed her yet.” “Lor’, yes’m, the rooms be ready.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Whenever Miss Rawlings rose from her chair, she would at
+once peer sharply out of the window to see if any small creature
+were passing in the street beyond the drive. When she went
+a-walking, she was frequently all but run over by cabs and vans
+and phaetons and gigs, because she was looking the other way
+after a vanishing pigtail. Not a picture-shop, not a photographer’s
+could she pass without examining every single face
+exhibited in the window. And she never met a friend, or the friend
+of a friend, or conversed with a stranger without, sure enough,
+beginning to talk about Young Things. Puppies or kittens or
+lambs, perhaps, first, and then gradually on to little boys. And
+then, with a sudden whisk of her bonnet, to Little Girls.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Long, long ago now she had learnt by heart the whole of
+“Barbara Allan”:</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in1'><span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>“...&#160;She had not gane a mile but twa,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>When she heard the dead-bell ringing,</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>And every jow that the dead-bell gied,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>It cryed, <em>Woe to Barbara Allan!</em></div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line in6'>‘O mother, mother, make my bed!</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>O make it saft and narrow!</div>
+      <div class='line in6'>Since my love died for me to-day,</div>
+      <div class='line in10'>I’ll die for him to-morrow.’”</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c020'>Oh dear, how sad it was; and you never knew! Could it be,
+could it be, she cried one day to herself, that the dead, lovely
+Barbara Allan of the poem had got by some means muddled up
+in Time, and was in actual fact <em>her</em> Little Gal? Could it be that
+the maiden-name of the wife of Miss Allan’s father had been
+Rawlings?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Miss Rawlings was far too sensible merely to wonder about
+things. She at once enquired of Mr. Moffat (who had been once
+engaged to her dearest friend, Miss Simon, now no more) whether
+he knew anything about Barbara Allan’s family. “The family,
+Felicia?” Mr. Moffat had replied, his bristling eyebrows high
+in his head. And when, after a visit to the British Museum, Mr.
+Moffat returned with only two or three pages of foolscap closely
+written over with full particulars of the ballad and with “biographical
+details” of Bishop Percy and of Allan Ramsay and of
+Oliver Goldsmith and of the gentleman who had found the oldest
+manuscript copy of it in Glamis Castle, or some such ancient
+edifice, and of how enchantingly Samuel Pepys’s friend, Mrs.
+Knipp, used to sing him the air—but nothing else: Miss Rawlings
+very reluctantly gave up all certainty of this. “It still might be
+my Little Gal’s family,” she said, “and on the other hand it
+might not.” And she continued to say over to herself with infinite
+sorrow in her deep rich voice, that tragic stanza:</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>She had not gane a mile but twa,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>When she heard the dead-bell ringing,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And every jow that the dead-bell gied,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>It cryed, <em>Woe to Barbara Allan!</em></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c020'>And “Oh no! not Woe,” she would say in her heart.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Soon after this, Miss Rawlings fell ill. A day or two before
+she took to her bed, she had been walking along Laburnum
+Avenue, and had happened to see the pupils of the Miss Miffinses’
+Young Ladies’ Seminary taking the air. Now, the last two and
+smallest of these pupils—of the Crocodile, as rude little boys call
+it—were walking arm in arm with the nice English mistress,
+chattering away like birds in a bush. Both of them were rather
+narrow little creatures, both wore beaver hats beneath which
+dangled brown pigtails. It was yet one more astonishing moment,
+and Miss Rawlings had almost broken into a run—as much of a
+run, that is, as being of so stout and ample a presence she was
+capable of—in order to get a glimpse of their faces.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But, alas! and alack! the wrought-iron gates of the school
+were just round the corner of Laburnum Avenue, and the whole
+Crocodile had completely disappeared into the great stone porch
+beyond by the time she had come in sight of the two Monkey-Puzzles
+on the lawn, and the brass curtain bands to the windows.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Miss Rawlings stood and gazed at these—for the moment
+completely forgetting polite manners. The hurry and excitement
+had made her hot and breathless: and the wind was in the east.
+It dispirited her, and instead of ringing the bell and asking for the
+Miss Miffinses, she had returned home and had at once written
+an invitation to the whole school to come to tea the following
+Sunday afternoon. In a moment of absent-mindedness, however,
+she left the note on her little rose-wood secretaire beside the
+silver inkstand that had belonged to Sir Samuel. And two days
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>afterwards—on the Friday, that is, the month being February—she
+had been seized with Bronchitis.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was a rather more severe attack than was usual for Miss
+Rawlings, even in foggy November, and it made Miss Rawlings’s
+family physician a little anxious. There was no immediate danger,
+he explained to Nurse Murphy; still care is care. And Miss
+Rawlings, being so rich and so important to the Parish, he at once
+decided to invite an eminent Consultant to visit his patient—a
+Sir James Jolliboy Geoghehan who lived in Harley Street and
+knew more about Bronchitis (Harley Street being also in a foggy
+parish) than any other medical man in Europe or in the United
+States of America (which are not usually foggy places).</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Fortunately, Sir James took quite as bright and sanguine a
+view of his patient as did Miss Rawlings’s family physician. There
+Miss Rawlings lay, propped up against her beautiful down pillows
+with the frills all round, and a fine large pale blue-ribboned bed
+cap stood up on her large head. She was breathing pretty fast,
+and her temperature, according to both the gentlemen’s thermometers,
+was 102.6.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A large copper kettle was ejecting clouds of steam from the vast
+cheerful fire in the vast brass and steel grate, with the Cupids in
+the chimneypiece. There were medicine bottles on the little
+table and not only Nurse Murphy stood grave but brave on the
+other side of the bed, but, even still more Irish Nurse O’Brien
+also. Now, the more solemn <em>she</em> looked the more her face appeared
+to be creased up in a gentle grin.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Miss Rawlings panted as she looked at them all. Her eye
+was a little absent, but she too was smiling. For if there was one
+thing Miss Rawlings was certain to do, it was to be cheerful when
+most other people would be inclined to be depressed. As she
+knew she was ill she felt bound to be smiling. She even continued
+to smile when Sir James murmured, “<em>And</em> the tongue?” And
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>she assured Sir James that though it was exceedingly kind of him
+to call it wasn’t in the least necessary. “I frequently have
+bronchitis,” she explained, “but I never die.” Which sounded
+a little like “rambling.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When Sir James and the family physician had gone downstairs
+and were closeted together in the gilded Library, Sir James
+at once asked this question: “What, my dear sir, was our excellent
+patient remarking about a Miss Barbara Allan? Has she a
+relative of the name?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At this Miss Rawlings’s family physician looked a little
+confused. “No, no; oh dear no,” he exclaimed. “It’s merely
+a little fancy, a caprice. Miss Rawlings has a notion there is a
+little girl belonging to her somewhere—probably of that name,
+you know. Quite harmless. An aberration. In fact, I indulge
+it; I indulge it. Miss Rawlings is a most able, sagacious, energetic,
+philanthropic, practical, generous, and—and—humorous
+lady. The fancy, you see, has somehow attached itself to the
+<em>name</em> Barbara Allan—a heroine, I believe, in one of Sir Walter
+Scott’s admirable fictions. Only that. Nothing more.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Sir James, a tall man, peered down at Miss Rawlings’s family
+physician over his gold pince-nez. “I once had a patient, my
+dear Dr. Sheppard,” he replied solemnly in a voice a good deal
+deeper but not so rich as Miss Rawlings’s, “who had the amiable
+notion that she was the Queen of Sheba and that I was King
+Solomon. A <em>most</em> practical woman. She left me three hundred
+guineas in her will, for a mourning ring.” He thereupon explained
+(in words that his patient could not possibly have understood,
+but that Dr. Sheppard understood perfectly), that Miss Rawlings
+was in no immediate danger and that she was indeed quite a
+comfortable little distance from Death’s Door. Still, bronchitis
+<em>is</em> bronchitis; so let the dear lady be humoured as much as possible.
+“Let her have the very best nurses, excellent creatures; and all
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>the comforts.” He smiled as he said these words, as if Dr.
+Sheppard was a long-lost brother. And he entirely approved
+not only of the nice sago puddings, the grapes, the delicious
+beef-juice (with toast <em>or</em> a rusk), the barley water and the physic,
+but of as many Barbara Allans as Miss Rawlings could possibly
+desire. And all that he said sounded so much like the chorus of
+“Yeo, ho, ho,” or “Away to Rio,” or “The Anchor’s Weighed,”
+that one almost expected Dr. Sheppard to join in.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Both gentlemen then took their leave, and Dr. Sheppard
+having escorted Sir James to his brougham (for this was before the
+days of machine carriages), the two nurses retired from the window
+and Miss Rawlings sank into a profound nap.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In a few days Miss Rawlings was much, much, much better.
+Her temperature was 97.4. Her breathing no more than twenty-four
+or five to the minute—at most. The flush had left her cheeks,
+and she had finished three whole bottles of medicine. She
+devoured a slice from the breast of a chicken and said she
+enjoyed her sago pudding. The nurses <em>were</em> pleased.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now, naturally, of course, Miss Rawlings’s illness increased
+her anxiety to find Barbara Allan as quickly as ever she could.
+After all, you see, we all of us have only a certain number
+of years to live, and a year lasts only twelve calendar months, and
+the shortest month is only twenty-eight days (excluding Leap
+Year). So if you want to do anything badly it is better to begin
+at once, and go straight on.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The very first day she was out in Mr. Dubbins’s invalid chair
+she met her dear friend Mr. Moffat in Combermere Grove, and
+he stood conversing with her for a while under the boughs of
+almost as wide a spreading chestnut-tree as the village blacksmith’s
+in the poem. Mr. Moffat always looked as if he ought to have
+the comfort of a sleek, bushy beard. If he had, it is quite certain
+it would have wagged a good deal as he listened to Miss Rawlings.
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>“What I am about to do, my dear Mr. Moffat, is advertise,” she
+cried, and in such a powerful voice that the lowest fronds of the
+leafing chestnut-tree over her head slightly trembled as they hung
+a little listlessly on their stalks in the spring sunshine.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Advertise, my dear Felicia?” cried Mr. Moffat. “And
+what for?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why, my dear old friend,” replied Miss Rawlings, “for
+Barbara Allan to be sure.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mr. Moffat blinked very rapidly, and the invisible beard
+wagged more than ever. And he looked hard at Miss Rawlings’s
+immense bonnet as if he actually expected to see that busy bee;
+as if he even feared it might be a Queen Bee and would produce
+a complete hive.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But after bidding him good-bye with yet another wag of the
+bonnet and a “Yes, thank you, Dubbins,” Miss Rawlings was as
+good as her word. She always was. Three days afterwards
+there appeared in the <em>Times</em>, and in the <em>Morning Post</em>, and in
+the <em>Daily Telegraph</em>, and five days later, in the <em>Spectator</em>, the
+following:</p>
+
+<p class='c021'>WANTED as soon as possible, by a lady who has lost her
+as long as she can remember, a little girl of the name
+(probably) of Barbara Allan, or of a name that <em>sounds</em> like
+Barbara Allan. The little girl is about ten years old.
+She has a rather three-cornered shaped face, with narrow
+cheek-bones, and bright brown eyes. She is slim, with
+long fingers, and wears a pigtail and probably a round
+beaver hat. She shall have an <em>exceedingly</em> happy home and
+Every Comfort, and her friends (or relatives) will be
+amply rewarded for all the care and kindness they have
+bestowed upon her, for the first nine years or more of her
+life.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>You should have seen Miss Rawlings reading that advertisement
+over and over. Her <em>Times</em> that morning had a perfume
+as of the spices of Ambrosia. But even Miss Rawlings could not
+have hoped that her advertisement would be so rapidly and spontaneously
+and abundantly answered. The whole day of every
+day of the following week her beautiful wrought-iron gates were
+opening and shutting and admitting all kinds and sorts and shapes
+and sizes of little girls with brown eyes, long fingers, pigtails and
+beaver hats, <em>about</em> ten years of age. And usually an Aunt or a
+Step-mother or the Matron of an Orphanage or a Female Friend
+accompanied each candidate.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>There were three genuine Barbara Allans. But one had
+reddish hair and freckles; the second, curly flaxen hair that
+refused to keep to the pigtail-ribbon into which it had been tied;
+and the third, though her hair was brown, had grey speckled
+eyes, and looked to be at least eleven. Apart from these three,
+there were numbers and numbers of little girls whose Christian
+name was Barbara, but whose surname was Allison or Angus or
+Anson or Mallings or Bulling or Dalling or Spalding or Bellingham
+or Allingham, and so on and so forth. Then there were
+Marjories and Marcias and Margarets, Norahs and Doras, and
+Rhodas and Marthas, all of the name of Allen, or Allan or Alleyne
+or Alyn, and so on. And there was one little saffron-haired
+creature who came with a very large Matron, and whose name was
+Dulcibella Dobbs.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Miss Rawlings, with her broad bright face and bright little
+eyes, smiled at them all from her chair, questioned their Aunts
+and their Stepmothers, and their Female Friends, and coveted
+every single one of them, including Dulcibella Dobbs. But you
+<em>must</em> draw the line somewhere, as Euclid said to his little Greek
+pupils when he sat by the sparkling waves of the Ægean Sea and
+drew triangles in the sand. And Miss Rawlings felt in her heart
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>that it was kinder and wiser and more prudent and proper to
+keep strictly to those little girls with the three-cornered faces,
+high cheek-bones, “really” bright brown eyes and with truly
+appropriate pigtails. With these she fell in love again and again
+and again.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>There was no doubt in the world that she had an exceedingly
+motherly heart, but very few mothers could so nicely afford to
+<em>give it rein</em>. Indeed, Miss Rawlings would have drawn the line
+nowhere, I am afraid, if it had not been for the fact that she had
+only ten thousand pounds or so a year.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>There were tears in her eyes when she bade the others good-bye.
+And to everyone she gave not one bun, not one orange, but
+a <em>bag</em> of oranges and a <em>bag</em> of buns. And not merely a bag of
+ordinary denia oranges and ordinary currant buns, but a bag of
+Jaffas and a bag of Bath. And she thanked their Guardianesses
+for having come such a long way, and would they be offended if
+she paid the fare? Only one was offended, but then her fare had
+cost only 3<em>d.</em>—2<em>d.</em> for herself, and 1<em>d.</em> (half price) for the little
+Peggoty Spalding she brought with her. And Miss Rawlings
+paid <em>her</em> sixpence.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She kept thirty little ten-year-olds altogether, and you never
+saw so many young fortunate smiling pigtailed creatures so much
+alike. And Miss Rawlings, having been so successful, withdrew
+her advertisements from the <em>Times</em> and the <em>Morning Post</em> and the
+<em>Daily Telegraph</em> and the <em>Spectator</em>, and she bought a most beautiful
+Tudor house called Trafford House, with one or two wings to it
+that had been added in the days of Good Queen Anne, and William
+and Mary, which stood in entirely its own grounds not ten miles
+from the Parish boundary. The forest trees in its park were so
+fine—cedars, sweet chestnuts, and ash and beech and oak—that
+you could only get a glimpse of its chimneys from the entrance
+to the drive.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>Things <em>are</em> often curious in this world, and coincidences are
+almost as common as centipedes. So Miss Rawlings was more
+happy than surprised when, on looking over this mansion, she
+counted (and to make sure counted again) exactly thirty little
+bedrooms, with some larger ones over for a matron, a nurse, some
+parlour-maids, some housemaids, some tweeny-maids and a boy
+to clean the button-boots and shoes. When her legal adviser
+explained to her that this establishment, what with the little chests-of-drawers,
+basins and ewers, brass candlesticks, oval looking-glasses,
+mahogany beds, three-legged stools, dimity curtains, woolly
+rugs, not to speak of chiffoniers, what-nots, hot-water bottles,
+soup ladles, and so on and so forth; not to mention a uniform
+with brass buttons for the man with whiskers at the park gate,
+would cost her at least six thousand a year, that bee in Miss
+Rawlings’s bonnet buzzed as if indeed it <em>was</em> a whole hive gone
+a-swarming.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well, now, my dear Mr. Wilkinson,” she said, “I made a
+little estimate myself, being a <em>business</em> woman, and it came to
+£6,004 10<em>s.</em> 0<em>d.</em> How reasonable! I shall be over four
+pounds in pocket.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So, in a few weeks everything was ready; new paint, new
+gravel on the paths, geraniums in the flower-beds, quilts as neat
+as daisies on a lawn on the mahogany beds, and the thirty Barbara
+Allans sitting fifteen a side at the immensely long oak table (where
+once in Henry VIII’s time monks had eaten their fish on Fridays),
+the matron with the corkscrew curls at the top and the chief nurse
+in her starched cap at the bottom. And Miss Rawlings, seated in
+the South bow-window in an old oak chair with her ebony and
+ivory stick and her purple bonnet, smiling at her Barbara Allans
+as if she had mistaken Trafford House for the Garden of Eden.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And I must say every single pigtail of the complete thirty
+bobbed as merrily as roses in June over that first Grand Tea—blackberry
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>jelly, strawberry jam, home-made bread, plum cake,
+the best beef-dripping for those who had not a sweet or a milk
+tooth, Sally Lunns, heather honey, maids-of-honour, and an
+enormous confection of marchpane, with cupids and comfits and
+silver bells and thirty little candles standing up in the midst of the
+table like St. Paul’s Cathedral on the top of Ludgate Hill in the
+great city of London. It was a lucky thing for the Thirty’s insides
+that Grand Teas are not every-day teas.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_149.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“THAT FIRST GRAND TEA”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>And so, when all the thirty Pigtails had sung a Latin grace
+put out of English by Mr. Moffat and set to a tune composed by
+a beloved uncle of Miss Rawlings, who also was now no more,
+the Grand Tea came to an end. Whereupon the Thirty (looking
+themselves like yet another Crocodile with very fat joints) came
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>and said good night to Miss Rawlings, though some of them could
+scarcely speak. And as Miss Rawlings knew that not <em>all</em> little
+girls like being kissed by comparative strangers, she just shook
+hands with each, and smiled at them as if her motherly heart would
+almost break. And Dr. Sheppard was Medical Adviser to the
+thirty little Pigtailers, and Mr. Moffat came every other Sunday
+to hear their catechisms.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And this was the order of the day with the Pigtails in their
+home. At half-past seven in Summer, and at nine in Winter, the
+boy in buttons rang an immense bell, its clapper tied round with
+a swab of cotton-wool, to prevent it from clanging too sonorously.
+This great quiet bell was not only to waken from their last sweet
+dreams the slumbering Pigtails in their little beds, but to tell them
+they had yet another half-hour between the blankets before
+they had to get up. Then, hair-brushes, tooth-brushes, nailbrushes,
+as usual. Then, “When morning gilds the sky,” and
+breakfast in the wide white room with the primrose curtains
+looking out into the garden. And if any Pigtail happened to have
+been not quite so good as usual on the previous day, she was
+allowed—if she asked for it—to have a large plateful of porridge,
+with or without salt, for a punishment. No less than ninety-nine
+such platefuls were served out in the first year—the Pigtails were
+so high-spirited. Still, it can be imagined what a thirty-fold sigh
+of relief went up when breakfast on December 31st was over and
+there hadn’t been a hundredth.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>From nine <em>a.m.</em> to twelve <em>p.m.</em> the Pigtails were one and all
+exceedingly busy. Having made their beds they ran out into the
+garden and woods: some to bathe in the stream, some to listen
+to the birds, some to talk and some to sing; some to paint and
+some to play, and some to read and some to dance, and some just
+to sit; and some, high up in a beech-tree, to learn poems, to make
+up poems and even to read each other’s. It all depended on the
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>weather. The sun shone, the rooks cawed, the green silken leaves
+whispered; and Miss Rawlings would stand looking up at them
+in their venturous perch as fondly as a cat at its kittens. There was
+not at last a flower or a tree or an insect or a star in those parts—or
+a bird or a little beast or a fish or a toadstool or a moss or a
+pebble that the little Pigtails did not know by heart. And the more
+they knew them the more closely they looked at them, and the
+more closely they looked at them the more they loved them and
+the more they knew them—round and round and round and
+round.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_151.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“HIGH UP IN A BEECH-TREE TO LEARN POEMS”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>From twelve to one there were “Lessons”; then dinner,
+and tongues like jackdaws raiding a pantry for silver spoons. In
+the afternoon those who went for a walk towards the stranger
+parts, went for a walk. Some stayed at home in a little parlour
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>and sang in chorus together like a charm of wild birds. Some did
+their mending and darning, their hemming and feather-stitching,
+and some did sums. Some played on the fiddle, and some looked
+after their bullfinches and bunnies and bees and guinea-pigs and
+ducks. Then there were the hens and the doves and the calves
+and the pigs to feed, and the tiny motherless lambs, too (when
+lambs there were) with bottles of milk. And sometimes of an
+afternoon Miss Rawlings would come in and sit at a window just
+watching her Pigtails, or would read them a story. And Dr.
+Sheppard asseverated not once, but three times over, that if she
+went on bringing them sweetmeats and candies and lollipops and
+suckets to such an <em>extent</em>, not a single sound white ivory tooth of
+their nine hundred or so would be left in the Pigtails’ heads. So
+Miss Rawlings kept to Sundays.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At five was tea-time: jam on Mondays, Wednesdays and
+Fridays; jelly on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays; and both
+on Sundays. From six to seven there were “Lessons,” and when
+the little Pigtails were really tired, which was always before nine,
+they just slipped off to bed. Some of them had munched their
+supper biscuits and were snug in bed indeed even before the rest
+had sung the evening hymn. And the evening hymn was always
+“Eternal Father”—for being all of them so extremely happy
+they could not but be “in peril on the deep.” For happiness in
+this world may fly away like birds in corn, or butterflies before
+rain. And on Sundays they sang “Lead, kindly light” too,
+because Miss Rawlings’s mother had once been blessed by the
+great and blessed Cardinal Newman. And one Pigtail played
+the accompaniment on her fiddle, and one on the sweet-tongued
+viola, and one on the harpsichord; for since Miss Rawlings had
+read “Barbara Allan” she had given up pianofortes. And then,
+sleepy and merry and chattering, they all trooped up to bed.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So this was their Day. And all night, unseen, the stars shone
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>in their splendour above the roof of Trafford House, or the white-faced
+moon looked down upon the sleeping garden and the doves
+and the pigs and the lambs and the flowers. And at times there
+was a wind in the sky among the clouds; and at times frost
+in the dark hours settled like meal wheresoever its cold brightness
+might find a lodging. And when the little Pigtails awoke, there
+would be marvellous cold fronds and flowerets on their windowpanes,
+and even sometimes a thin crankling slat of ice in their
+water-jugs. On which keen winter mornings you could hear
+their teeth chattering like monkeys cracking nuts. And so time
+went on.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>On the very next June 1, there was a prodigious Garden Party
+at Trafford House, with punts on the lake and refreshments and
+lemonade in a tent in the park, and all the Guardianesses and
+Aunts and Stepmothers and Matrons and Female Friends were
+invited to come and see Miss Rawlings’s little Pigtails. And
+some brought their sisters, and some their nieces and nephews.
+There were Merry-go-Rounds, Aunt Sallies, Frisk-and-Come-Easies,
+a Punch and Judy Show, a Fat Man, a Fortune-Teller,
+and three marvellous acrobats from Hong Kong. And there were
+quantities of things to eat and lots to see, and Kiss-in-the-Ring,
+and all broke up after fireworks and “God Save the Queen” at
+half-past nine.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The house, as I keep on saying, was called Trafford House,
+but the <em>Home</em> was called “The Home of all the little Barbara
+Allans and such like, with Brown Eyes, Narrow Cheekbones,
+Beaver Hats, and Pigtails, Ltd.” And it was “limited” because
+there could be only thirty of them, and time is not Eternity.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And now there were only three things that prevented Miss
+Rawlings from being too intensely happy to go on being alive;
+and these three were as follows: (<em>a</em>) She wanted to live always
+at the House—but how could the Parish get on without her?
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>(<em>b</em>) What was she going to do when the Pigtailers became 12, 13,
+14, 15, 16, 17, etc., and grown-up? And (<em>c</em>) How could she ever
+possibly part with any of them or get any more?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For, you see, Miss Rawlings’s first-of-all Barbara Allan was
+aged 10, and had somehow managed to stay there. But because,
+I suppose, things often go right in this world when we are not
+particularly noticing them, and don’t know how, all these difficulties
+simply melted away at last like butter in the sun.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In the first place, Miss Rawlings did at last (in 1888, to be
+exact, one year after Queen Victoria’s first Jubilee), did, I say, at
+last go to live at the Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such
+like with Brown Eyes, Beaver Hats, and Pigtails, Ltd. She was
+called The Matron’s Friend, so as not to undermine the discipline.
+When her Parish wanted her, which was pretty often, the Parish
+(thirty or forty strong) came to see her in her little parlour overlooking
+the pond with the punts and the water-lilies.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Next, though how, who can say, the little Pigtails somehow
+did not grow up, even though they must have grown older. Something
+queer happened to their Time. It cannot have been what
+just the clocks said. If there wasn’t more of it, there was infinitely
+more <em>in</em> it. It was like air and dew and sunbeams and the South
+Wind to them all. You simply could not tell what next. And,
+apart from all that wonderful learning, apart even from the jam
+and jelly and the Roast Beef of Old England, they went on being
+just the right height and the right heart for ten. Their brown
+eyes never lost their light and sparkle. No wrinkles ever came
+in their three-cornered faces with the high cheek-bones; and not
+a single grey or silver hair into their neat little pigtails that could
+at any rate be seen.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Next, therefore, Miss Rawlings never had to part with any
+of them or to search or advertise for any more.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Yet another peculiar thing was that Miss Rawlings grew more
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>and more like a Pigtail herself. She grew younger. She laughed
+like a school-girl. Her face became a little narrower, even the
+cheek-bones seemed not to be so wide. As for her bonnets, as
+time “went on,” they grew up instead of broadwise. And when
+she sat in Church with the Thirty, in the third pew down from
+Mrs. Tomlington’s, you might almost have supposed she herself
+was a widish pigtail, just a little bit dressed up.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It is true that in the very secretest corner of her heart of
+hearts she was still looking for the one and only absolute little
+Barbara Allan of her life-long day-dream; but that is how things
+go. And the thought of it brought only a scarcely perceptible
+grave glance of hope and enquiry into her round brown eyes.
+But underneath—oh dear me, yes—she was almost too happy
+and ordinary and good-natured and homely a Miss Rawlings to
+be telling this story about at all.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>We all die at last—just journey on—and so did Miss Rawlings.
+And so did the whole of the Thirty, and the matron, and the
+chief nurse, and Mr. Moffat, and Dr. Sheppard, and the Man
+with whiskers at the park gates, <em>and</em> the Boy who cleaned the
+button-boots; parlour-maids, tweeny-maids, Mrs. Tomlington
+and all.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And if you would like to see the Old House and the little graves,
+you take the first turning on the right as you leave the Parish
+Church on your left, and walk on until you come to a gate-post
+beyond the mile-stone. A path crossing the fields—sometimes
+of wheat, sometimes of turnips, sometimes of barley or oats or
+swedes—brings you to a farm in the hollow with a duck-pond,
+guinea-fowl roosting in the pines at evening, and a lovely old
+thatched barn where the fantailed doves croon in the sunshine.
+You then cross the yard and come to a lane beside a wood of
+thorn and hazel. This bears a little East, and presently after
+ascending the hill beyond the haystack you will see—if it is still
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>there—The Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such like
+with Brown Eyes, Beaver Hats and Pigtails, Ltd.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And not very far away is a little smooth-mown patch of turf
+with a beautiful thatched wall round it, which Mr. Moffat consecrated
+himself. And there, side by side, sleep the Little Thirty,
+with their pigtails beside their narrow bones. And there lie the
+tweeny-maids, the parlour-maids, the Man with whiskers at the
+park gate, and the Boy who cleaned the button-boots. And
+there Miss Rawlings, too. And when the last trump sounds,
+up they will get as happy as wood-larks, and as sweet and fresh
+as morning mushrooms. But if you want to hear any more about
+<em>that</em>, please turn to the Poems of Mr. William Blake.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_157.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'><span class='c002'>THE</span><br> PERFECT HOST</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c003'>
+    <div>(<em>From Lady Trenchard’s Visitor’s Book</em>)</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='c022'><span class='sc'>Sir Walter Raleigh</span></div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>What is it makes the Perfect Host?</div>
+      <div class='line'>Not wine and coffee, eggs and toast,</div>
+      <div class='line'>For these you can get just as well</div>
+      <div class='line'>In any dreary good hotel;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Not resolute attempts to please,</div>
+      <div class='line'>For money will procure you these.</div>
+      <div class='line'>The Perfect Host thinks vastly less</div>
+      <div class='line'>Of comfort than of happiness.</div>
+      <div class='line'>He’s happy; and the overflow</div>
+      <div class='line'>Belongs to those who come and go.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Within his house you’ll hear no quarrels</div>
+      <div class='line'>And very little talk of morals,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He does not lead a perfect life,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He sometimes has a perfect wife.</div>
+      <div class='line'>But this of all his points is best—</div>
+      <div class='line'>He does not want a perfect guest;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And even when you go too far</div>
+      <div class='line'>He’s friendly with you as you are.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>The Spark</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>A. Pembury</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>The daylight was fading, and shadowy gloom</div>
+      <div class='line'>Was creeping and crawling all over the room,</div>
+      <div class='line'>When out of the fire, like a star in the dark,</div>
+      <div class='line'>There leapt to the fender a bright little spark.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Ha, ha, little children!” it chuckled with glee,</div>
+      <div class='line'>“I’ve something to tell you, so listen to me!</div>
+      <div class='line'>This morning, Tom Dull, whom I never admire,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Was sitting in front of this very same fire;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And, as it burned dimly, was heard to remark:</div>
+      <div class='line'>‘Oh, Mary! There’s nothing in here but a spark!’</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“The spark was myself, and I thought, Well-a-day!</div>
+      <div class='line'>It’s hard to be judged in that impudent way.</div>
+      <div class='line'>But stuck to my labours, and shortly, you know,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Had warmed up the coals to a beautiful glow.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“I called from their slumbers, the fairies of flame,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And out on the carpet they merrily came,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And up all the curtains, a marvel to view,</div>
+      <div class='line'>They climbed as no others are able to do.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“They peeped in the corners where shadows lay hid,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And chuckled: ‘We’ve found you! Come out!’ and they did.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Thus, darting about in the liveliest play,</div>
+      <div class='line'>They caught all the shadows and drove them away.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>“I’m certain they laughed, though you think it absurd;</div>
+      <div class='line'>For never a sound of that laughter was heard.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Yet where is the wonder, for who will dispute</div>
+      <div class='line'>That hearts often laugh when the lips are quite mute?</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“That’s all. But in parting, oh, take it from me</div>
+      <div class='line'>That sparks of endeavour, though tiny to see,</div>
+      <div class='line'>May quickly grow stronger and end, as you guess,</div>
+      <div class='line'>In lighting the beautiful fire of success.</div>
+      <div class='line'>My task is accomplished. Good-bye!” said the spark—</div>
+      <div class='line'>And, giving one flash, he went out in the dark.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_159.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Theophania</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Adelaide Phillpotts</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>Peter-Wise was a clever young peasant who lived in a little
+village that looked like a dimple in the hillside. He owned fifty
+mooing cows, one hundred baaing sheep, forty grunting pigs, two
+hundred clacking fowls—and a bellowing bull. And he prophesied
+that in ten years’ time he would have doubled these numbers.
+But with all this wealth, Peter-Wise lacked the most important
+creature of all—a wife. Without a wife, what is the use of fifty
+cows, one hundred sheep, forty pigs, two hundred fowls—and a
+bull?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now Peter-Wise declared that he would not marry a maiden
+who was less than seventeen or more than twenty-two years old,
+and in the village there were only six girls between these ages
+who were not already betrothed or wed. Of these six, therefore—all
+of whom, being brought up on cream and honey and wheaten
+bread and saffron cake and wild strawberries, were bonny and
+plump and fair to see—Peter-Wise decided to choose the cleverest,
+who, nevertheless, must be just the least bit less clever than he was.
+So, to discover which was the cleverest, for, busy man that he was
+with his cows and his sheep and his pigs and his fowls—and his bull,
+he had not the time to woo each separately, he resolved to set
+them three tasks: one to try their fingers; one to try their brains;
+one to try their imaginations; and to marry her who succeeded
+best in the three.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>
+<img src='images/i_161.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“I WILL MARRY WHICHEVER OF YOU CAN PERFORM THREE TASKS”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>So Peter-Wise summoned Mary and Sally and Polly and
+Minnie and Lucy, and Theophania, called Tiffany for short—these
+were the names of the girls—and said to them:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Children, I will marry whichever of you can perform to the
+best advantage these three tasks: first, to darn a hole in the heel
+of a sock; secondly, to open, without touching the keyhole, the
+big barn door which is always locked; thirdly, to catch the moon
+and put it into a wash-tub.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy said:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, the sock is easy enough, but the door and the
+moon——”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>Theophania, called Tiffany for short, said: “The door and
+the moon should be easy enough, but the sock——”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The three trials were to take place in the morning, afternoon
+and evening respectively. So in the morning the six maidens
+assembled in Peter-Wise’s parlour—Mary and Sally and Polly and
+Minnie and Lucy in their best flowered-prints—Tiffany in a
+green smock; Tiffany had brown eyes, but the eyes of the others
+were five different shades of blue: speedwell, cornflower, lupin,
+forget-me-not, and chicory.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Peter-Wise gave them each a sock, out of which he had cut
+the heel, and left them for an hour to darn the hole. When he
+came back the six socks were lying on the table in a heap, finished.
+He examined them carefully. Then he said:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Five of these socks are so perfectly darned that not one
+exceeds another in excellence. The sixth, however, is very badly
+done—a mere cobble. Come forward in turn, and let her who
+darned <em>this</em> sock claim it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary tripped forward, looked at the sock, turned up her nose
+a little and shook her pretty head. “Not mine,” said she. Then
+came Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy, also turning up their
+noses a little and shaking their pretty heads and saying: “Not
+mine,” “Not mine,” “Not mine,” “Not mine.” Lastly, with
+a twinkle in her eye, came Theophania, called Tiffany for short.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Mine,” she said. “I never, never shall be able to
+darn.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The first task is over,” announced Peter-Wise. “This
+afternoon meet me outside the big barn door which is always
+locked, at three o’clock.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And away trotted Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and
+Lucy and Tiffany.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At three o’clock they met outside the big barn door, wearing
+pink and yellow and blue and white and green sunbonnets, and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>fluttering together like butterflies, except Tiffany, who did not
+wear a bonnet at all, and she stood by herself, thinking.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Peter-Wise said:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“This door, as you know, is always kept locked. Here is
+the key. Now, let me see which of you can open it without
+touching the keyhole, for I assure you it can quite easily be
+done.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How can we open a locked door without a key?” said
+Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy in dismay, and
+each thought—“It is useless trying the handle—besides, I should
+look so foolish, and the others would jeer.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Tiffany—who always thought her own thoughts, not
+other people’s—thought something quite different.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“We give it up,” sorrowfully said Mary and Sally and Polly
+and Minnie and Lucy.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And you?” asked Peter-Wise of Tiffany.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Tiffany thought: “Because the door has always been locked
+before, that doesn’t prove it is locked to-day. Anyhow, here
+goes!” And she marched up to the big barn door, turned the
+handle, and—opened it wide!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh!” cried Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and
+Lucy. “But it is always locked!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It wasn’t to-day,” said Theophania, called Tiffany for
+short; and she could not help laughing, kindly, at the five expressions
+of surprise on the five fair faces.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The second task is over,” said Peter-Wise. “Now go and
+borrow your mothers’ wash-tubs, wait till the moon rises, catch
+it, and put it in the tub. Then come and fetch me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“But,” said Tiffany, “there is only one moon.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Exactly,” he replied, “therefore only one of you can succeed.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy whispered
+together.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>“He is making sport of us,” they agreed. “Not even
+Tiffany can catch the moon. We must give it up.” And each
+of them said in her heart: “After all, so-and-so would make a
+much better husband.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So they gave it up.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_164.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“THERE, SURE ENOUGH, WAS THE ROUND, SILVER MOON”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>But in the evening Tiffany came to Peter-Wise and said:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I have caught the moon and put it into mother’s wash-tub.
+Come and see.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Caught the moon!” exclaimed Peter. “But there it is
+up in the sky!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>“Not at all,” replied she. “That is not the moon.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The night was still and warm. Peter-Wise followed Tiffany to
+a water-meadow, in the middle of which was her mother’s wash-tub.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“There!” she cried, pointing. “Go and see if the moon
+isn’t in that tub.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So he went up to it, looked over the edge, and there, sure
+enough, was the round, silver moon shining up at him.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well, but there are not two moons,” he said, looking at the
+other moon in the sky.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How foolish you are!” said Tiffany. “That moon in the
+sky is just the reflection of the real moon in this tub.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Peter-Wise was determined to make sure, so he took a penny
+out of his pocket and dropped it into the tub. It fell through the
+moon with a splash.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh ho!” he exclaimed. “Whoever heard of a penny
+falling through the moon? This moon is made of water.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nobody ever tried to throw a penny through before,” said
+Tiffany.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then Peter-Wise kicked the tub, and the moon began to
+wobble. A piece of it splashed over the edge on to his boots.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Whoever heard of the moon being spilt?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nobody ever tried to spill it before,” said Tiffany.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Peter-Wise stroked his chin.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I have it!” he cried, and grasping the tub, heaved it sideways
+and upset the mock moon on to the grass, where with little
+watery sighs it slowly disappeared.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“So much for your moon,” said he. “And behold its
+reflection is still in the sky!” But Tiffany only laughed and
+laughed and laughed.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes,” said Peter to himself, “she is certainly the cleverest
+girl in the village, but just the least bit less clever than I am. I
+will marry her.” And aloud he said:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>“Theophania, you shall, in spite of the sock and the moon
+that was not a moon, be my wife.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Peter-Wise,” she answered, “you shall not win me so
+easily. There is a task that <em>you</em> shall perform for <em>me</em> before I will
+marry you.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well, that is only fair after all,” said he, rather taken aback.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It is quite out of the question for me to marry you before
+I can darn a sock,” she continued, “but in six years I shall have
+perfected myself in that difficult art. Will you wait for me six
+years?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This she said to try his love.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I will wait,” said he, who really loved her, and knew something
+about women.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now, at the end of three months Peter-Wise was still waiting
+for Theophania, and she realised that he would keep his word for
+the rest of the six years. But meanwhile she had learnt to darn
+as beautifully as Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy,
+who by this time were betrothed respectively to John and James
+and William and Tom and Adam. So she came to him one day
+with an example of her darning, and said:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Peter, it has not taken me so long to learn to darn as I
+thought it would. How would it be if we were married <em>before</em> the
+six years are up?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“We will get married whenever you please, dear heart,” he
+said, not surprised.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well then,” she replied, “—to-morrow.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And they were married at eleven o’clock the next morning.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>The Weasel in the Storeroom</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c003'>
+    <div>(<em>La Fontaine, Fables, III.</em>, 17)</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Edward Marsh</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Into a storeroom once Miss Weasel came,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Through a small hole squeezing her lank lean frame:</div>
+      <div class='line'>From illness she had grown so slender.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Once in, she made complete surrender</div>
+      <div class='line'>To her capacious appetite,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Nibbling and guzzling day and night.</div>
+      <div class='line'>The life she led, Lord only knew,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Or the amount of bacon she got through—</div>
+      <div class='line'>Small wonder she grew chubby, plump, and sleek!</div>
+      <div class='line'>After this diet for a week,</div>
+      <div class='line'>She heard some noise which made her wish to egress.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Where was the hole? She scuttled to and fro.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Surely ’twas this one? No—then this? Still less.</div>
+      <div class='line'>“Well, bless my soul!” she said, “’twas here, I know,</div>
+      <div class='line'>I wriggled through, hardly a week ago.”</div>
+      <div class='line'>A rat perceived how she was troubled.</div>
+      <div class='line'>“Since you’ve been here,” said he, “your paunch has doubled.</div>
+      <div class='line'>Thin you came in, and thin you must go out.”</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>This has been said to others, I’ve no doubt;</div>
+      <div class='line'>But Reader, be it far from you or me</div>
+      <div class='line'>To press the delicate analogy.<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c014'><sup>[2]</sup></a></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
+<p class='c013'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. The allusion is to the tribunal set up by Colbert to enquire
+into the peculations of the Financiers.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_168.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Love the Jealous</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>W. H. Davies</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c015'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>I praised the daisies on my lawn,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And then my lady mowed them down.</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>My garden stones, improved by moss,</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>She moved—and that was Beauty’s loss.</div>
+      <div class='line'>When I adored the sunlight, she</div>
+      <div class='line'>Kept a bright fire indoors for me.</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>She saw I loved the birds, and that</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Made her one day bring home a cat.</div>
+      <div class='line'>She plucks my flowers to deck each room,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And make me follow where they bloom.</div>
+      <div class='line in4'><span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>Because my friends were kind and many,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>She said—“What need has Love of any?”</div>
+      <div class='line'>What is my gain, and what my loss?</div>
+      <div class='line'>Fire without sun, stones bare of moss,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Daisies beheaded, one by one;</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>The birds cat-hunted, friends all gone—</div>
+      <div class='line'>These are my losses: yet, I swear,</div>
+      <div class='line'>A love less jealous in its care</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Would not be worth the changing skin</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>That she and I are living in.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_169.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_170.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'><span class='c002'>The</span><br> Magic Medicine</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+<div class='lg-container-b c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>BY</div>
+      <div class='line in2'>DENIS MACKAIL</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>Once upon a time there was a very naughty little girl called
+Freda. She was what is known as an only child, and so you might
+have thought that her father and mother and her grandparents
+and her uncles and aunts and her nurse would have had all the
+more time for teaching her to be good. But though this was
+perfectly true, and they all worked very hard at saying “Don’t
+do that, Freda,” or “Put that down at once!” she continued to
+be extremely naughty.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She never tried to be polite to anybody, she used to tear her
+clothes on purpose, she used to break her toys, and walk in puddles,
+and snatch things from other children, and say things that weren’t
+true, and eat gravel and blow bubbles in her milk. If there are
+any other naughty things that I have forgotten to mention, then
+she did them too. And when she was scolded, instead of saying
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>she was sorry, she used to lie down on the ground and bellow at
+the top of her voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For this reason the people who knew her best grew to be
+rather careful about scolding her—especially in the Park, where
+her behaviour had often attracted quite a crowd; but, of course,
+the only result of this was that she became far naughtier than
+ever.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Is that perfectly clear? Well, now we come to the story.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One afternoon she was taken to a children’s party, where
+there was not only a bran-pie but also a conjuror. Freda was
+fairly good while she was being dressed, and still fairly good while
+she was driving there in the taxi with her nurse, but as soon as
+she got to the party itself she just let herself go. She made a face
+at a little boy who was smaller than she was until he cried and had
+to be taken to sit upstairs. She snatched a balloon from another
+child and burst it, so that the child also cried and had to be taken
+to sit upstairs. And when the bran-pie came in, she felt about
+in it for nearly two minutes until she had found the largest parcel—which,
+of course, is cheating—and afterwards, because she
+didn’t like what was inside, she forced another little girl to change
+presents with her, and the other little girl cried and had to be
+taken to sit upstairs.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And when the conjuror was in the middle of his most difficult
+trick and had just got to the part where he was going to cut open
+an orange and take out of it a watch which he had borrowed from
+the father of the little girl who was giving the party, I am sorry to
+say that Freda shouted out: “It isn’t the same orange!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>This was exceedingly naughty of her, and distressed the
+conjuror more than I can say, as well as spoiling all the pleasure
+of the good children who thought it <em>was</em> the same orange. And
+several of them were so much upset that they cried, and had to be
+taken to sit upstairs.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>Freda’s nurse had seen her doing all these naughty things,
+but she had said to herself: “It’s no use my saying anything to
+Miss Freda now, because if I do she will only lie down on the floor
+and bellow at the top of her voice. It will be better to speak to
+her about it when we get home.” So she contented herself by
+making a stern face when she thought that Freda and no one else
+could see her. Only, as a matter of fact, she did this just at the
+wrong moment and missed Freda altogether, and only succeeded
+in frightening a little boy in a kilt. And he cried, and had to be
+taken to sit upstairs.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So Freda went on being naughtier and naughtier, and the
+room upstairs became fuller and fuller of other children, but the
+lady whose little girl was giving the party didn’t like to say anything
+because she thought, “Freda is an only child, and, anyhow,
+I needn’t ask her another time.” And Freda’s nurse didn’t like
+to say anything because (as I have already told you) she was
+afraid that Freda might disgrace her by lying down on the floor
+and bellowing at the top of her voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Is that all perfectly clear? Well, now we get on to what
+happened next.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All the children went into the dining-room, where there
+were so many buns and chocolates and crackers and pink cakes
+and sandwiches and other things of this nature that their eyes
+nearly popped out of their heads. And in the middle of the
+biggest table there was an enormous cake, and on the top of the
+enormous cake there was a rather smaller cake, and on the top
+of the rather smaller cake there was a golden star.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And as soon as Freda saw this golden star, she pointed at it
+(which, of course, she shouldn’t have done) and said in a very
+loud, clear voice: “I WANT THAT STAR.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>If only her nurse had heard these words, she would most
+certainly have said something which would have made Freda lie
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>down on the floor and bellow at the top of her voice. For there
+is no need to explain how naughty it is to point at things in
+other people’s houses and say that you want them. No grown-up
+person would ever dream of doing a thing like that.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But, as a matter of fact, the nurse had just met another nurse
+who was a great friend of hers, and although they had had a long
+talk in the Park only that very morning, they still found they had
+so much to tell each other that neither of them heard what Freda
+was saying.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Is that all perfectly clear? Well, now Freda really <em>is</em> going
+to be naughty.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For I am grieved to say that, having pushed a number of other
+children out of the way (several of whom cried and had to be taken
+to sit upstairs) she went on pushing until she had got right up to
+the middle table. And then, when no one was looking, she stood
+up very quickly on a chair and snatched at the golden star.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I really don’t know what, exactly, she meant to do with it,
+because she had no pocket in her party frock; and very likely
+if she had been left to herself she would have got tired of the
+golden star and dropped it under the table.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But just at this moment a little boy in a white silk blouse looked
+up and saw what she had done.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh!” he said, in a very loud, clear voice. “Freda has
+taken the golden star.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And all the other children began to shout and tell each other
+that Freda had taken the golden star. And Freda’s nurse heard
+the noise, and came quickly to see what had happened.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What’s the matter, Miss Freda?” she said. “What did
+you do?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nothing,” said Freda.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“She did,” said a little girl who had just lost all her front
+teeth. “She took the golden star off the top of the cake.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>“Put it back at once,” said Freda’s nurse.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Shan’t!” said Freda.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And then the nurse saw it in her hand and tried to take it
+from her. And Freda never stopped to think what the star might
+be made of, but put it very quickly into her mouth, and crunched
+it into three bits, and swallowed them all with one swallow.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’ve swallowed it,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Her nurse turned first pink, then white, and then green in
+the face.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Put it out at once,” she said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I can’t,” said Freda. “It’s gone.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh dear,” said the nurse. “Does anyone know what that
+star was made of?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But nobody knew what the star was made of. Even the
+mother of the little girl whose party it was didn’t know.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What did it taste like?” they asked Freda.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But she had swallowed it so quickly that she didn’t know.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You’re a very naughty little girl,” said the nurse. And of
+course you can all guess what happened then. Freda got off her
+chair and lay down on the floor, and began to bellow at the top of
+her voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But it was far too serious a case to be treated merely by
+sending her to sit upstairs. For all that anyone knew the star
+might have been made of the most deadly kind of poison. So
+Freda’s nurse ran off and found her shawl, and she picked her up
+off the floor (where she was still bellowing at the top of her voice)
+and wrapped the shawl round her and carried her away and put
+her into a taxi, and they drove back to Freda’s home, and she
+missed the dancing altogether—which served her perfectly
+right.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And when they got home, the nurse went to the cupboard
+in the corner of the room and took out a very large bottle and a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>very small glass, and filled the very small glass from the very large
+bottle, and then she said to Freda:</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Now you must drink this.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At these words Freda lay down on the floor and bellowed at
+the top of her voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“If you don’t drink it,” said the nurse, “you will have a
+terrible pain.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Whoo-hoo-hoo,” said Freda (for this was the way that she
+bellowed), and she crawled right under the table—in her best
+frock—and stayed there.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Now, Miss Freda,” said the nurse presently, when everything
+else had failed, “I shall put this glass on the table here, and
+I shall go upstairs and turn on your bath, and if you haven’t
+drunk it by the time I come back again, I shall be very angry
+indeed.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then she left the room, and after a second Freda came out
+from under the table and picked up the glass and sloshed all the
+slimy stuff in it into the fireplace, and it spluttered and fizzed and
+disappeared from sight.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And when she had done this, she was terribly frightened.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She was so frightened that when the nurse came back and
+said, “Ah, that’s a good little girl. I see you’ve drunk it all up
+nicely,” she never said anything at all. She didn’t even bellow
+at the top of her voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>All the time she was having her bath she was trying to say
+what she had done, but she never could quite bring herself to do
+it. And after she was in bed she called out suddenly to her nurse,
+meaning to say what she had done with the slimy stuff in the little
+glass; but when the nurse came in, she just couldn’t get it out.
+She pretended that she had wanted a drink of water, and the
+nurse gave it her and went away again, and Freda was left alone—still
+feeling terribly frightened.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>“Supposing,” she thought, “that star really <em>was</em> made of
+poison. Supposing that stuff I threw in the fire might have saved me.
+Oh dear, if the poison kills me now, it will be all my own fault.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>It was a long time before she could go to sleep, and in the
+morning she hadn’t been awake for more than five minutes when
+it all came back to her. But she had left it so long now, that it
+was quite impossible to tell anyone.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Is that all perfectly clear? Well, now I’ll tell you something
+that Freda doesn’t know to this day.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The mother of the little girl who had given the party had
+been so anxious about Freda that the very first thing in the morning
+she had telephoned to the shop where the cake had come from,
+and had asked the lady there what the star was made of. And
+the lady had said: “Sugar.” And the mother of the little girl
+who had given the party had telephoned to Freda’s house and had
+asked to speak to Freda’s nurse and had told her that the star was
+made of sugar. And when Freda’s nurse heard this she was
+very much relieved, but at the same time she wasn’t going to tell
+Freda that she had made her drink that slimy stuff (as she thought)
+for nothing at all. “If I do that,” she said to herself, “I shall
+never get Miss Freda to drink any medicine again.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So she said nothing; and Freda—who of course hadn’t
+drunk even a drop of the slimy stuff—went about wondering when
+the poison was going to begin working, and whether it would hurt
+horribly when it did.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She was so frightened now that if only she could have got
+at the large bottle, she would have drunk it all up without saying
+anything—and that really <em>would</em> have made her ill. But she couldn’t
+get at the large bottle, because the cupboard was out of her reach.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And so what do you think she did?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She went to the china pig in which she kept all her money,
+and she shook it and rattled it and waved it and waggled it until
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>at last a very bright sixpence (which her grandfather had once
+given her) rolled out on to the floor. And she picked up this
+sixpence, and waited carefully until her nurse went up to the
+bathroom to wash out the party frock which had got all dirty from
+being under the table last night, and then she ran downstairs very
+quickly and let herself out by the front door and ran off to the
+chemist’s shop, which was just round the corner.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The chemist was a very old man with spectacles, and in the
+ordinary way Freda was rather frightened of him, but she was
+still more frightened of being poisoned, so she pushed open his
+door—which, always made a little bell ring—and went straight
+up to his counter and knocked on it with her sixpence.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Presently the old chemist came out and looked at her through
+his spectacles.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And what can I do for you, miss?” he said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I want to buy some medicine,” said Freda, “that would
+save someone from being poisoned by a golden star on the top
+of a cake at a party. And it mustn’t cost more than sixpence,
+because that’s all I’ve got.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Dear, dear,” said the chemist. “And are you the little
+girl who ate the golden star?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Freda would have liked to say “No,” but she didn’t dare.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes,” she said, in a very small voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Dear, dear,” said the chemist again. “That wasn’t very
+good of you, was it?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“No,” said Freda, in a still smaller voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And when did you eat it?” asked the old chemist.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yesterday,” said Freda.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“And do you still feel quite well?” asked the old chemist.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes,” said Freda. “But I only pretended to drink the
+slimy stuff they gave me last night, and I’m afraid the poison may
+still be waiting inside me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>“It seems to me,” said the chemist, “that what you really
+need is some medicine to make you good. Eh?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He looked at her very hard through his spectacles as he said
+this, and Freda agreed at once.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Very well,” said the chemist. “You’ve come to me just
+in time. When I close this shop to-night I’m never coming back,
+and next week they’re going to start pulling it down. But I’ve
+got just one dose of medicine for naughty children left, and you
+shall have it now.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then he took Freda round behind the counter, and she
+watched him while he poured a little from one bottle, and a few
+drops from another, and a teaspoonful from a third, and just a dash
+from a fourth. And he mixed them all together until the stuff
+fizzed and turned pink, and then he poured most of it away and
+gave the rest to Freda.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“If you drink this,” he said, “it will make you good for
+twenty-four hours.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She drank it down, and it tasted delicious.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Thank you very much,” she said. “And here’s the sixpence.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Thank <em>you</em>, miss,” said the old chemist. “And here’s
+your change.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And he gave Freda half-a-crown from his pocket, and she ran
+back home as fast as she could and found the front door still open.
+So she ran right up to the nursery, and she dropped the half-crown
+into the china pig, and just at that moment the nurse came
+down from the bathroom.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why, Miss Freda,” she said; “how quiet you’ve been.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I cannot see,” said Freda, “why any child should ever be
+anything but quiet. Can you, my dear nurse?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>She was good now, you see, because the pink medicine was
+beginning to work. And this is the way that good children talk.
+But the nurse couldn’t make it out.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>“Well,” she said, with a laugh, “I’m sure it’s strange to
+hear you say that, Miss Freda.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I fear,” said Freda, “that I have often been extremely
+thoughtless in the past, and that I have often allowed my temper
+to get the better of me, with the result that I have lain down on
+the floor and bellowed at the top of my voice. I can only express
+my regret that this should have been so, and my hope that you
+will overlook the trouble which I must have given you.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The nurse opened her mouth very wide and stared.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Good gracious, Miss Freda!” she said. “What <em>has</em> come
+over you?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Nothing, that I am aware of,” said Freda. “And now,
+if you will be good enough to dress me, I think it is time for us to
+go up to the Park.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The nurse was more puzzled than ever, for Freda used almost
+always to make a fuss about going out. But she was still more
+puzzled by the time they came in again. For Freda hadn’t walked
+in a single puddle, she had insisted on keeping her gloves on, she
+hadn’t run, she hadn’t shouted, and she had refused to play with her
+usual friends because she said their games were so noisy and rough.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At lunch time she asked for a second helping of plain rice-pudding,
+and ate every scrap of it.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“This can’t last,” said the nurse to herself. But it did.
+And after tea, when Freda went down to the drawing-room, she
+quite terrified her mother by asking to be taught a hymn—although
+her father had just offered to play at tigers with her.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>At half-past six she kissed her father and mother and went
+up to bed without being fetched. While she was having her bath,
+instead of splashing—and screaming when it was time to come out—she
+told her nurse how she had decided to give all her toys to
+the poor children who hadn’t got any. As soon as she was put
+to bed, she lay quietly down and went fast to sleep.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>The nurse and Freda’s mother had a long talk together that
+evening.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I don’t see how she can be ill, mum,” said the nurse,
+“because she’s eaten everything, and made no fuss about it at all.
+I just can’t make it out.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I don’t like it,” said Freda’s mother. “There’s nothing
+we can do now, and she’s certainly sleeping very peacefully—though
+I’ve never seen that look on her face before. But if she’s
+no different in the morning, I shall send for the doctor.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>In the morning Freda was just the same, and her mother sent
+for the doctor.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It is very kind of you, dear mother,” said Freda, when she was
+told, “but I am feeling perfectly well. Would it not be better if the
+doctor were to visit some of the poor children in the hospital?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And this alarmed Freda’s mother so much that she went
+quickly to the telephone, and asked Dr. Tomlinson to put off all his
+other patients and come at once. When he arrived, he found Freda
+sitting bolt upright in her little chair and reading a lesson-book.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well, my little dear,” he said, “and how do you feel this
+morning?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It is very good of you to ask,” said Freda. “I am happy
+to say that I am in the best of health. However, if you have a
+few minutes to spare, perhaps you would be kind enough to hold
+my book, and see whether I have yet learnt this beautiful poem
+about the poor little chimney-sweep.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The doctor did nothing of the sort.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m very glad you sent for me,” he told Freda’s mother,
+and he picked Freda up and felt her pulse and looked at her
+tongue and put his head first against her chest and then against
+her back.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well,” he said at length; “this beats me. The child
+seems to be perfectly well, and yet....” And he scowled
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>and puffed out his cheeks and walked up and down, while all the
+time Freda’s mother and the nurse waited in the utmost anxiety.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>And then all of a sudden the clock struck, and as it was
+twenty-four hours since Freda had swallowed the magic dose, the
+effect vanished in a single instant.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The grown-up people who were watching her saw her jump
+out of the chair, and fling the lesson-book on the ground.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Now, now,” said Dr. Tomlinson, “oughtn’t you to be more
+careful with that pretty book?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Freda gave one look at him, and then she lay down on the
+floor and bellowed at the top of her voice.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Thank heaven!” said her mother.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Our dear little Miss Freda has come back to us,” said the nurse.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hum-ha,” said Dr. Tomlinson. “Yes, I think we have
+cured her.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He had to say this, you see, because he was a doctor. But
+Freda’s mother was so glad that her little girl was herself once
+more, that she thanked him over and over again. And all the time
+Freda lay on the floor and bellowed at the top of her voice, and from
+that moment she was just as naughty as ever she had been before.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>I hope that’s all perfectly clear. Some people say that this
+story will encourage little girls to be naughty, by making them
+think that their parents and nurses prefer them like that. I should
+be very sorry if this were so, but of course it’s no use pretending
+that anything happened otherwise than I have said.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Freda never had another dose of the magic medicine, because
+the old chemist never came back to his shop, and—as he had said—the
+next week the men came and began to pull it down. But of
+course she didn’t go on being naughty for ever, because after a
+bit she grew up, and now she actually has a little girl of her own.
+And if there’s one thing that’s absolutely certain, it is that all
+grown-up people are always good.</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>The Rhyme of Captain Gale</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>A. Pembury</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Oh, Captain Gale who sails the sea,</div>
+      <div class='line'>When waves are high and winds are free,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Will kiss his hand, to make it plain</div>
+      <div class='line'>How much he scorns the hurricane;</div>
+      <div class='line'>A most imprudent thing to do</div>
+      <div class='line'>While sailing on the ocean blue.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>He walks his deck, I’ve heard it said,</div>
+      <div class='line'>When wiser sailors lie in bed,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And far upon the lonely foam,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He takes his food as if at home</div>
+      <div class='line'>(Including plates of greasy stew);</div>
+      <div class='line'>A thing that I could never do.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>His ship may toss, his ship may pitch,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He doesn’t mind a morsel which;</div>
+      <div class='line'>And never seems to care a bit</div>
+      <div class='line'>How deep the sea is under it—</div>
+      <div class='line'>Though this, to me, beyond a doubt,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Is something he should care about.</div>
+      <div class='line'>But sailors always were, to me,</div>
+      <div class='line'>A singular community.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/i_183.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Sermon Time</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Henry Newbolt</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>The roof is high above my head,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>With arches cool and white;</div>
+      <div class='line'>The man is short, and hot, and red;</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>It is a curious sight.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_184.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'><span class='sc'>Olaf the Fair AND Olaf the Dark</span></h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='c011'><span class='sc'>Cynthia Asquith</span></div>
+
+<p class='c012'>Once upon a time there lived two boys who were each called
+Olaf. One had golden curls clustered all over his head—curls so
+glittering that every woman’s hand must touch their brightness:
+and to look into his eyes was to see the gleam of blue sky through
+two rounded windows. In short, he was the most beautiful child
+that his mother had ever seen.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The other Olaf was crowned with dark curls—blue-black as
+the plumage of a crow. And to look into his eyes was to see twin
+stars shine up through the brown depths of a mountain stream.
+In short, he was the most beautiful child that his mother had ever
+seen.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now, these two Olafs had both been born on exactly the same
+day, but Olaf the Fair was the son of a mighty King, and lived in
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>a dreadfully big palace, and Olaf the Dark was the son of a poor
+shepherd, and lived in a dreadfully small cottage.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>When Olaf the Fair learned to walk, he staggered across a
+vast floor, and if he tumbled, it was only to sink into the soft depths
+of thick carpets. In his nursery there was nothing dangerous—not
+even the corners were allowed to be sharp—so he never knew
+the fun of watching bruises turn from plain brown to yellow and
+purple and green.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Olaf the Dark learned to walk in quite a different way;
+he staggered across an uneven floor of cold stone, in a small
+room, crowded with things from whose sharp corners Pain constantly
+darted out at him. The hard floor seemed to rise up and
+smite him, first in one place and then in another. His mother
+was always kissing these places to make them well. He liked
+these kisses and was proud of his scarred body, especially of the
+red knees across which his seven skins were never seen all at
+once. His knees generally looked as though raspberry jam had
+been spread over them.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Just as you do, both Olafs hated to go to bed, but, just as
+you do, to bed they both had to go. Olaf the Fair plunged his
+bright head into a large pillow—so soft that it almost met across
+his nose, whilst the small pillow on which Olaf the Dark laid his
+dark head was so bumpy and so hard that in the morning his bruised
+ear would often ache, he knew not why.</p>
+
+<div  class='figright id006'>
+<img src='images/i_185.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>Both boys loved to eat and drink. Olaf the Fair was fed on
+every sort of delicious food. You should
+have seen his nursery table piled high
+with glowing fruits, coloured cakes and
+trembling jellies. Chicken came every
+day, and there was always jam for tea.
+Olaf the Dark seldom swallowed anything
+more dainty than lumpy porridge, black
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>bread and just a very little bacon. Yet he often knew a treat, that
+was far greater than any of the dainties in the palace, and this was
+the taste of his plain food when he was very hungry—so hungry
+that his empty place was just beginning to hurt.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>His father lay all crumpled up with rheumatism, so that,
+almost as soon as Olaf the Dark could walk, he had to shoulder
+the shepherd’s heavy staff, whistle to the sheep-dog, and stride
+forth to guard his father’s flocks.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Watching the baaing sheep as they nibbled the short grass,
+their bells tinkling as they moved, the lonely little shepherd-boy
+shivered in the cold, wet winds of winter and gasped in the scorching
+heats of summer. He would have liked to stay at home, learning
+to read by the leaping fire whilst his mother stirred the porridge,
+but day after day, he had to put on his little sheepskin suit, and
+go out to be hurt by hailstones, terrified by thunder or soaked in
+the snow.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The year Olaf the Fair was born his father died, so he became
+king, the smallest king that ever was seen. His crown was heavy
+and made his head ache. His sad, smiling mother said he must
+learn how to be a wise king. This meant doing hundreds and
+hundreds of lessons. Whilst ten tutors tried to stuff figures
+and facts into his head, he would stare out through the windows
+wistfully watching all the different sorts of weather. Oh, how he
+longed to be out in the hail, the thunder, or the snow!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One day as Olaf the Dark sat by his sheep on the high hillside
+and played on his flute to keep himself company, a huge brown
+mastiff came into sight. Olaf’s faithful sheep-dog pricked his
+ears and low thunder rumbled in his shaggy throat. The fierce
+mastiff sped along the ground, and in the blinking of an eye the
+two dogs had flown at one another’s throats. Terrified, Olaf the
+Dark strove with his staff to beat them apart, but all in vain.
+Fortunately four horsemen, who were the little king’s escort, now
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>galloped up and, leaping from their saddles, contrived to separate
+the foam-flecked, blood-spattered dogs.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Well for thee, lad, we were at hand,” said the tallest of the
+men. “’Twould have gone ill with thy mongrel had he harmed
+the king’s pet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It was your dog’s fault! He attacked mine!” indignantly
+answered Olaf the Dark.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Hush!” said the man roughly. “Here is the king. Bow
+down to him, you saucy lad!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>For Olaf the Fair had just ridden up. The man held the
+reins of the snow-white palfrey and the little king dismounted
+to assure himself of his mastiff’s safety.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now, Olaf the Dark had never even seen a picture-book, and
+at the dazzling sight of Olaf the Fair he gasped in amazement.
+The little king was clad in velvet of shimmering blue, edged with
+shining silver and on his head was a crown of gold.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He approached the shepherd-boy, and the two Olafs, who
+were of exactly the same size, stared long at one another.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m glad your dog is not harmed. How long have you
+had him?” said the king. “Wolf was only given to me yesterday.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sentry is my father’s,” answered the shepherd. “He had
+him before I was born.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“How old are you?” asked the king.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I was seven years yesterday,” answered the shepherd.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Were you? That’s funny!” exclaimed the king. “Why
+I had my seventh birthday yesterday, too. But, who is with you?
+Surely you aren’t allowed to stay out by yourself, are you?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I <em>have</em> to stay out,” replied the shepherd. “I should like
+to go home.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You’d like to go home? Funny! Why, I’d give anything
+to be allowed to sit on that silvery frost! Have you been playing
+with those nice woolly sheep for long? What pretty bells they’ve
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>got! And wherever did you get that splendid crook’d staff? I’d
+like to have one just like that,” chattered the little king.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sire,” broke in the tall man with a low bow. “We must
+return home. His Excellency your Tutor-in-Chief said that only
+one hour could be spared from your Majesty’s studies to-day.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Olaf the Fair stamped his foot.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, bother!” he cried. “I can’t bear to go in to yawny
+lessons! I want to stay out in the shininess. I say, Boy, when
+have you got to go home and do lessons?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Don’t do any lessons,” grunted Olaf the Dark.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You don’t do any lessons?” exclaimed Olaf the Fair. “Oh,
+you <em>are</em> a lucky one! How long will you stay out?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Till it gets dark. The sheep must graze till then.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Till it gets dark? Oo-oo-oo-ee! Lovely! I’ve never
+been out in the night. I would like to see how the stars get there.
+Have you ever seen one just pricking through the blackness?
+But, where’s your coat? ’Twill surely be cold before ’tis dark.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Don’t have a coat.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Don’t you wear anything but just that one dead sheep?
+It must be beautifully comfortable. My clothes are so hot and
+heavy,” said the king, tugging at his rich robes.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sire?” pleaded the attendant.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“All right, I’m coming,” said Olaf the Fair, and reluctantly
+mounting his palfrey, he turned its arched neck towards the distant
+palace. “Good-bye, Boy. Wish I could stay and play with you
+and your sheep.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Wistfully Olaf the Dark gazed after the gay figure of the king
+disappearing into the rising mists, and as he rode away, Olaf the
+Fair turned his head, weary with the weight of his crown, and
+stared long at the solitary figure of the sturdy little shepherd.
+Disconsolately, he listened to the tinkling bells till they died away
+in the distance.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>Deep in thought, his forgotten flute on the grass, the shepherd-boy
+sat on. Hours passed. The sun sank in flaming glories of
+orange and gold. Dusk thickened into darkness and heavy drops
+of rain fell coldly on his bare head. Still pondering, Olaf the Dark
+at last rose and wearily drove his drowsy sheep towards home.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He sat down to his supper. Silently he spooned his burnt
+porridge and gnawed at his crust of black bread.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“What’s come to thee, son?” asked his mother. “I miss the
+gabble of thy tongue.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’ve seen the king, mother,” said Olaf, and he told her the
+story of the dog fight.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Seen his small majesty, have you? To think of it! Born
+the very same day as you, he was. Be you two boys much of a
+size?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes, he’s no taller nor I and I guess I’m the stronger. But oh,
+mother, the lovely horse he was riding, and the clothes he had on
+him, and the glittering crown on his head! ’Twas as though he
+had caught rays from the sun itself! Oh, mother, I’d like to be a
+king the same as him, and ride around in coloured clothes, nor
+need to mind no silly sheep.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Is it wanting to be a king you are, Olaf?” laughed his
+mother. “Sure, there’s no contentment under the sun. But
+I’m thinking a good shepherd’s better nor a bad king, and they’re
+saying to be a good king’s no easy calling—subjects being more
+unaccountable troublesome than sheep themselves. Anyways, you
+two lads have the same God to serve, and sure you can serve Him
+from a cottage just as easy as from a palace. To be a good
+shepherd’s a proud thing, I’m thinking, and as for the rheumatics,
+they enters the joints be you high or be you low.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Olaf the Dark was not to be consoled. For the first
+time he noticed the shabbiness of his sheepskin suit, and the smallness
+of the cottage. Discontentedly he looked around.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>“What would the king’s palace be like?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh!” said his mother. “They do say it be all marble
+and gold with thousands of lights a-twinkling from the ceiling,
+and I’ve heard as the wee king sleeps in a bed that’s bigger nor
+this room and the roof of it’s of gold and there be curtains to it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Olaf the Dark blinked.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oo-oo-oo-ee!” he sighed, as though sucking the sweetest
+of sweets.</p>
+
+<hr class='c019'>
+
+<p class='c013'>Now, that same evening, when bedtime came, Olaf the Fair
+pressed his face against the cold bars of the window and stared
+wistfully at the spangled blue-blackness outside. He thought
+with envy of the shepherd-boy out there all alone on the hidden
+hill. For the little king yearned to go out while darkness was
+spread over the earth. How mysterious the world looked!
+What, he wondered, happened to all the ordinary daylight things
+during the night? If he were outside would he be able to see
+his shadow and what would the flowers and the trees be doing?</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>After he had climbed into his high, soft, golden bed, the queen
+came in to say good night.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, mother!” he said, snuggling into her white arms,
+“I’ve done such a dreadful, dreadful lot of lessons to-day.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Poor little Olaf,” said the Queen, kissing her son.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, mother,” the little king continued, “I saw such a
+nice boy to-day out on the hill. And isn’t he lucky? He doesn’t
+do any lessons at all, and he’s allowed to stay out by himself with
+nothing but a lot of sheep. Mayn’t I have some nice woolly
+sheep to play with, mother?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Sheep aren’t toys, Olaf. They’re duties, like lessons.
+The boy must have been a shepherd.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Duties, are they, mother? Then I’d much rather do
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>sheep than do lessons. But was he a real shepherd, that boy?
+Why, he’s only my age! Oh, mother, can’t I be a shepherd?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You are a sort of shepherd, Olaf. But you’ve got human
+beings to look after instead of animals. I want you to be so
+good a king that I shall be proud that you were my baby. That’s
+why you have to work so hard.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I do try, mother. But I wish I was a proper out-of-doors
+shepherd. And please, mother, must I always wear my crown?
+It is so heavy, and it bites my forehead.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Yes, darling. I am afraid you must. Your crown is to
+remind you that you are a king and not your own master. Now
+go to sleep and dream that you are a shepherd and have to
+shiver out of doors in all the cold and wet. You’d soon be glad
+to wake up in your own bed.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But Olaf the Fair was not to be persuaded.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’d love to be out in the rain!” he exclaimed. “I hate
+indoors, and I’d like to be dressed in a dead sheep.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Days, weeks, months passed away, and Olaf the Fair and
+Olaf the Dark still continued to think of one another. More
+and more did the little king weary of the long lessons which
+kept him indoors and of all the solemn attendants who surrounded
+him. More and more did he pine to be free and wander at will
+over the hillside. Above all he yearned to go out into the
+night and feel the darkness. When he looked up at the sad,
+solemn moon, he would thrill with a strange, unaccountable
+excitement. The moon! She flooded the earth with a queer,
+transforming light that drew him out of all sleepiness and
+made his soul shiver till his body became too excited to lie still.
+Passionately he envied the shepherd-boy out there in the darkness,
+playing his flute beneath the pine trees. One night the longing
+grew too strong, and, as he tossed on his golden bed, it flashed
+into his memory that the bars of the window in the great hall
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>were wide enough apart to allow his body to squeeze through
+them. (This was long before even kings had glass in their
+windows.)</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He sat upright. The leaves of the trees just outside rustled
+mysteriously and tiny twigs tapped against the bars, beckoning
+him out of bed. Yes, his mind was made up. He was going
+to escape and run out into the strange silvery light that the moon
+was making. With hammering heart he slid from his high bed
+and tiptoed towards the door. There was a low growl, and the
+mastiff raised his huge head. Oh, heavens, if he were to bark,
+or follow, he would surely arouse the man who slept just outside
+across the door! But, fortunately, Olaf remembered the bone
+he was to give his dog next morning, and in a moment busy sounds
+of scrunching and gulping filled the room.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>One danger passed. But now Olaf must step across the
+body of the man who, with a dagger in his mouth, guarded his
+royal master’s door. Supposing the man were awake. Then
+the adventure would become impossible and Olaf would have
+to return to the dreariness of trying to go to sleep. Trembling,
+he turned the handle and pulled the door towards him. Regular
+breathing reassured him. The man was fast asleep. Softly as
+snow falls on snow, the boy stepped across the huge form and
+hastened on swift feet down the long, empty corridor. Shafts
+of moonlight gleamed through the round windows and shone
+on the armour stacked against the wall. How strange the palace
+seemed in this light!</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>A little scared, Olaf slipped down the wide, shallow steps of
+the huge staircase. Now he was in the great hall. The night
+wind blew in and the tapestries trembled on the walls. Olaf
+shivered with something that was more than cold. High up in
+the sky a pale moon raced through white trailing clouds. She
+looked as if she were being pursued.</p>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id001'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>
+<img src='images/i_193.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+<div class='ic004'>
+<p>“THE TWO BOYS STARED AT ONE ANOTHER”</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>“I must get out! I must get out!” said Olaf aloud. “I
+must get out and run after her.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>He reached the window and seized the bars. Oh, heavens,
+what was this? Consternation crushed into his heart, for crisscross
+along the iron bars there now ran new horizontal ones. Alas!
+alas! he had adventured too late. Impossible now to squeeze
+through to liberty. His palace was a prison. In vain he tugged
+at the cruel bars. They could not even be shaken. He stamped
+his foot. Strong sobs shook his small body; tears scalded his eyes.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>But what was this he saw through the dancing blur of his
+tears? Exactly opposite, a face stared through at him! The
+moon had raced behind a cloud and her light was dim. Was he
+looking into a mirror instead of out of doors? No, this pale face
+was surrounded with dark hair, and now his fingers felt the touch
+of other warm fingers. Yes, other hands were clasping the
+forbidding bars, and sobs that were not his own fell on his ear.
+The moon again sailed forth into the open sky and clearly Olaf
+the Fair recognised the face of the shepherd-boy, the constant
+thought of whom had so much quickened his discontent. Yes,
+it was Olaf the Dark, who, shivering from the cold, stood outside
+and wistfully gazed at the warmth and wealth within.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The one craning in, the other craning out, the two boys
+stared at one another.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why are you crying, Boy?” asked Olaf the Fair.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Because I can’t get in,” sobbed the little shepherd. “Why
+are you crying?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Because I can’t get out,” sobbed the little king.</p>
+
+<div class='lg-container-l c023'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>“Do you want to get <em>in</em>?”  }</div>
+      <div class='line in33'>} shrilled two surprised voices.</div>
+      <div class='line'>“Do you want to get <em>out</em>?” }</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Funny!” they both said, and their next sobs rode up on
+the top of two little laughs and their tears fell into the cracks made
+by their smiles.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>Yes, they both laughed and the laughter stretched their
+hearts, so that Understanding could enter in and open the door
+to Contentment. Some people can only laugh at jokes. If you
+can laugh at your life even while it makes you cry, you have
+learnt more than a thousand schoolroom lessons can teach
+you, and your face will be safe from ever growing ugly through
+sullenness.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Why ever do you want to get in here?” asked the king.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Because it looks so lovely—all gorgeous and glowing. I
+want to know what it feels like inside. I’m so cold—I’m quite
+blue and I mustn’t go home till morning breaks. I thought I’d
+squeeze through the bars and ‘catch warm’ and then go back to
+my sheep. There they are. Do you hear their bells? But
+why ever do you want to get out?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Because I hate the palace. Ugh! It’s a great big prison.
+Besides, I want to feel the moonlight, dance in it, alone and free,
+and I want to be cold. I’ve never been cold.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Wish I were you!” said both boys at once, smiling as they
+sighed.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Where’s your lovely golden crown?” asked Olaf the Dark.
+“Don’t you always wear it?”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, no. I don’t sleep in it. I hang it on its peg. I hate
+it!”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Oh, I did want to try it on.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“You wouldn’t like it. It makes my head ache. It’s so
+heavy. I’d much rather have a staff like that crooked one of
+yours.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It’s awfully heavy,” sighed the shepherd.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Heavy?” exclaimed Olaf the Fair. “I don’t see how a
+heavy thing in your hand could matter. Push it through. I
+want to hold it.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Fetch me your crown, then, and we’ll exchange.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>Olaf the Fair knew that it was dangerous to return to his
+room to fetch the crown. Supposing the mastiff should bark and
+awaken the man. But he longed to handle the shepherd’s staff.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“All right, I’ll fetch it,” he said and tiptoed up the stairs.
+Stealthily he stepped across the sleeping man, and the dog,
+recognising his master’s scent, made no sound. Olaf seized the
+crown and hastened back to the moon-flooded window.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Here it is,” he said, pushing the crown through the bars
+that were just wide enough to let it through. “Try it on, and
+give me your staff.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Exultantly, the shepherd placed the gleaming crown on his
+dark head while the king grabbed at the tall crook.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“It isn’t a bit heavy! I can’t feel it!” they both exclaimed.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>Then for a few minutes they chattered, comparing one
+another’s days: the little king complaining of confinement and
+of being always in a crowd, the little shepherd complaining of
+having to stay out of doors and be all alone.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Mother says I am the servant of my subjects,” said the
+king. “And oh, I’ve got such an awful lot of them! I’d far
+rather be the master of sheep, as you are.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“I’m not their master,” replied the shepherd. “I’m no
+better than their slave. Father says so. Besides, they’re really
+yours. They’ve all got little crowns stamped on their backs.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Have they? That’s funny! Why, my sceptre’s the shape
+of a shepherd’s crook.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>As they talked, Olaf the Dark felt the crown beginning to
+eat into his forehead. Heavier and heavier it grew until his brows
+ached and his head drooped. Meanwhile, in Olaf the Fair’s
+hand the staff which had seemed so light grew heavier and
+heavier. Surely it must be made of lead, he thought, and at last
+with a sigh he changed it into his other arm. At the same moment,
+with a groan, the shepherd tore the crown from his head.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'><span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>“Phew! it <em>is</em> a weight! How can you wear it all day?” he
+said, pushing it back through the bars.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Phew! it <em>is</em> a weight,” said the king, poking the staff through
+the bars. “I can’t think how you can carry it all day.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Funny,” they both said, and they laughed quite loud;
+the king, feeling proud of his head that could carry so heavy a
+weight, and the shepherd feeling proud of his right arm, grown
+strong from carrying so heavy a staff.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“The dawn breaks,” he said. “I must return to my
+sheep.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>“Come again,” cried the king. “Come again and talk to
+me.”</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>So once in every year the little shepherd returned to the
+palace walls and through the bars the boys talked long and eagerly.
+The king always told the shepherd how stuffy it was within, and
+the shepherd always told the king how cold it was outside, and
+during the rest of the year, whenever the king’s discontentment
+grew, he remembered the weeping boy who had tried so hard to
+get <em>in</em>. And whenever the shepherd wearied of his lot, he remembered
+the boy who wept because he could not get <em>out</em>.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>The king knew that the shepherd never forgot the heaviness
+of a king’s crown, and the shepherd knew that the king never
+forgot the heaviness of a shepherd’s staff, and thus each was
+braced to bear his own burden; for it is a fact that our burdens are
+only unendurable when no one understands how heavy is their
+weight.</p>
+
+<p class='c013'>These two boys grew into men. Sorrows they had—as all
+men have, yet to each was given much happiness, for the one was
+a good king and the other a good shepherd. Far and wide Olaf
+the Fair was famed as the “Shepherd of all his People,” and Olaf
+the Dark, who guarded the royal sheep, was called the “King of
+all Shepherds.”</p>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>The Simple Way</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>John Lea</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Said Mr. Wise: “I’m one of those</div>
+      <div class='line'>Who think a short and pleasant doze</div>
+      <div class='line'>Will aid in solving, yea or nay,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Such problems as perplex the day.”</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>So, sitting in a comfy chair,</div>
+      <div class='line'>He stretched his slippers, then and there,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Toward the fire that glowed and leapt,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And very soon he soundly slept.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>He soundly slept, or so he thinks,</div>
+      <div class='line'>For little more than forty winks,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Then rose with more than common might</div>
+      <div class='line'>And went and set the world aright.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>To each expectant boy he showed</div>
+      <div class='line'>The shortest and the straightest road</div>
+      <div class='line'>That leads to fortune and to fame</div>
+      <div class='line'>For those who like to play the game.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>To all the girls he made it clear</div>
+      <div class='line'>How smiles and patience grace the year,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And how a placid mind will foil</div>
+      <div class='line'>The wear and tear of daily toil.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>He settled in the smartest way</div>
+      <div class='line'>The hottest questions of the day,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And, by a magic mode of thought,</div>
+      <div class='line'>So deftly on opinion wrought,</div>
+      <div class='line'>That politicians failed to see</div>
+      <div class='line'>Why they should longer disagree,</div>
+      <div class='line'>And forthwith formed, by joint consent,</div>
+      <div class='line'><em>One</em> party in our parliament.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>In short, his triumphs were so bright</div>
+      <div class='line'>While setting all the world aright,</div>
+      <div class='line'>That when he waked, ’twas sorrow deep</div>
+      <div class='line'>To find the labours of his sleep</div>
+      <div class='line'>Had failed the slightest mark to make</div>
+      <div class='line'>Upon the world he’d left awake.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_199.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span></div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+
+<div class='chapter'>
+  <h2 class='c006'>Finis</h2>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-r c003'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Henry Newbolt</span></div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c010'>
+  <div class='linegroup'>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Night is come,</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Owls are out;</div>
+      <div class='line'>Beetles hum</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Round about.</div>
+    </div>
+    <div class='group'>
+      <div class='line'>Children snore</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Safe in bed,</div>
+      <div class='line'>Nothing more</div>
+      <div class='line in4'>Need be said.</div>
+    </div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+<div  class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/i_200.jpg' alt='' class='ig001'>
+</div>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c005'>
+</div>
+<div class='tnotes x-ebookmaker'>
+
+<div class='chapter ph2'>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c004'>
+    <div>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</div>
+  </div>
+</div>
+
+</div>
+
+<table class='table0'>
+  <tr>
+    <th class='c024'>Page</th>
+    <th class='c024'>Changed from</th>
+    <th class='c025'>Changed to</th>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class='c026'><a href='#t16'>16</a></td>
+    <td class='c027'>A crimson-lanterned garden-hous</td>
+    <td class='c028'>A crimson-lanterned garden-house</td>
+  </tr>
+</table>
+
+  <ul  class='ul_1'>
+    <li>Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
+    </li>
+  </ul>
+
+</div>
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75229 ***</div>
+  </body>
+  <!-- created with ppgen.py 3.57e (with regex) on 2025-01-27 23:33:45 GMT -->
+</html>
+
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@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
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@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #75229 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75229)