II
PETER PAN
If you ask your mother whether she knew about Peter Pan when
she was a little girl, she will say, 'Why, of course I did,
child'; and if you ask her whether he rode on a goat in those
days, she will say, 'What a foolish question to ask; certainly
he did.' Then if you ask your grandmother whether she knew about
Peter Pan when she was a girl, she also says, 'Why, of course I
did, child,' but if you ask her whether he rode on a goat in
those days, she says she never heard of his having a goat.
Perhaps she has forgotten, just as she sometimes forgets your
name and calls you Mildred, which is your mother's name. Still,
she could hardly forget such an important thing as the goat.
Therefore there was no goat when your grandmother was a little
girl. This shows that, in telling the story of Peter Pan, to
begin with the goat (as most people do) is as silly as to put on
your jacket before your vest.
Of course, it also shows that Peter is ever so old, but he is
really always the same age, so that does not matter in the
least. His age is one week, and though he was born so long ago
he has never had a birthday, nor is there the slightest chance
of his ever having one. The reason is that he escaped from being
a human when he was seven days old; he escaped by the window and
flew back to the Kensington Gardens.
If you think he was the only baby who ever wanted to escape,
it shows how completely you have forgotten your own young days.
When David heard this story first he was quite certain that he
had never tried to escape, but I told him to think back hard,
pressing his hands to his temples, and when he had done this
hard, and even harder, he distinctly remembered a youthful
desire to return to the tree-tops, and with that memory came
others, as that he had lain in bed planning to escape as soon as
his mother was asleep, and how she had once caught him half-way
up the chimney. All children could have such recollections if
they would press their hands hard to their temples, for, having
been birds before they were human, they are naturally a little
wild during the first few weeks, and very itchy at the
shoulders, where their wings used to be. So David tells me.
The fairies have their
tiffs with the birds
I ought to mention here that the following is our way with a
story: First I tell it to him, and then he tells it to me, the
understanding being that it is quite a different story; and then
I retell it with his additions, and so we go on until no one
could say whether it is more his story or mine. In this story of
Peter Pan, for instance, the bald narrative and most of the
moral reflections are mine, though not all, for this boy can be
a stern moralist; but the interesting bits about the ways and
customs of babies in the bird-stage are mostly reminiscences of
David's, recalled by pressing his hands to his temples and
thinking hard.
Well, Peter Pan got out by the window, which had no bars.
Standing on the ledge he could see trees far away, which were
doubtless the Kensington Gardens, and the moment he saw them he
entirely forgot that he was now a little boy in a nightgown, and
away he flew, right over the houses to the Gardens. It is
wonderful that he could fly without wings, but the place itched
tremendously, and—and—perhaps we could all fly if we were as
dead-confident-sure of our capacity to do it as was bold Peter
Pan that evening.
He alighted gaily on the open sward, between the Baby's
Palace and the Serpentine, and the first thing he did was to lie
on his back and kick. He was quite unaware already that he had
ever been human, and thought he was a bird, even in appearance,
just the same as in his early days, and when he tried to catch a
fly he did not understand that the reason he missed it was
because he had attempted to seize it with his hand, which, of
course, a bird never does. He saw, however, that it must be past
Lock-out Time, for there were a good many fairies about, all too
busy to notice him; they were getting breakfast ready, milking
their cows, drawing water, and so on, and the sight of the
water-pails made him thirsty, so he flew over to the Round Pond
to have a drink. He stooped and dipped his beak in the pond; he
thought it was his beak, but, of course, it was only his nose,
and therefore, very little water came up, and that not so
refreshing as usual, so next he tried a puddle and he fell flop
into it. When a real bird falls in flop, he spreads out his
feathers and pecks them dry, but Peter could not remember what
was the thing to do, and he decided rather sulkily to go to
sleep on the weeping-beech in the Baby Walk.
At first he found some difficulty in balancing himself on a
branch, but presently he remembered the way, and fell asleep. He
awoke long before morning, shivering, and saying to himself, 'I
never was out on such a cold night'; he had really been out on
colder nights when he was a bird, but, of course, as everybody
knows, what seems a warm night to a bird is a cold night to a
boy in a nightgown. Peter also felt strangely uncomfortable, as
if his head was stuffy; he heard loud noises that made him look
round sharply, though they were really himself sneezing. There
was something he wanted very much, but, though he knew he wanted
it, he could not think what it was. What he wanted so much was
his mother to blow his nose, but that never struck him, so he
decided to appeal to the fairies for enlightenment. They are
reputed to know a good deal.
When he heard Peter's
voice he popped in alarm behind a tulip
There were two of them strolling along the Baby Walk, with
their arms round each other's waists, and he hopped down to
address them. The fairies have their tiffs with the birds, but
they usually give a civil answer to a civil question, and he was
quite angry when these two ran away the moment they saw him.
Another was lolling on a garden chair, reading a postage-stamp
which some human had let fall, and when he heard Peter's voice
he popped in alarm behind a tulip.
To Peter's bewilderment he discovered that every fairy he met
fled from him. A band of workmen, who were sawing down a
toadstool, rushed away, leaving their tools behind them. A
milkmaid turned her pail upside down and hid in it. Soon the
Gardens were in an uproar. Crowds of fairies were running this
way and that, asking each other stoutly who was afraid; lights
were extinguished, doors barricaded, and from the grounds of
Queen Mab's palace came the rub-a-dub of drums, showing that the
royal guard had been called out. A regiment of Lancers came
charging down the Broad Walk, armed with holly-leaves, with
which they jag the enemy horribly in passing. Peter heard the
little people crying everywhere that there was a human in the
Gardens after Lock-out Time, but he never thought for a moment
that he was the human. He was feeling stuffier and stuffier, and
more and more wistful to learn what he wanted done to his nose,
but he pursued them with the vital question in vain; the timid
creatures ran from him, and even the Lancers, when he approached
them up the Hump, turned swiftly into a side-walk, on the
pretence that they saw him there.
A band of workmen, who
were sawing down a toadstool, rushed away, leaving their tools
behind them
Despairing of the fairies, he resolved to consult the birds,
but now he remembered, as an odd thing, that all the birds on
the weeping-beech had flown away when he alighted on it, and
though this had not troubled him at the time, he saw its meaning
now. Every living thing was shunning him. Poor little Peter Pan!
he sat down and cried, and even then he did not know that, for a
bird, he was sitting on his wrong part. It is a blessing that he
did not know, for otherwise he would have lost faith in his
power to fly, and the moment you doubt whether you can fly, you
cease for ever to be able to do it. The reason birds can fly and
we can't is simply that they have perfect faith, for to have
faith is to have wings.
Now, except by flying, no one can reach the island in the
Serpentine, for the boats of humans are forbidden to land there,
and there are stakes round it, standing up in the water, on each
of which a bird-sentinel sits by day and night. It was to the
island that Peter now flew to put his strange case before old
Solomon Caw, and he alighted on it with relief, much heartened
to find himself at last at home, as the birds call the island.
All of them were asleep, including the sentinels, except
Solomon, who was wide awake on one side, and he listened quietly
to Peter's adventures, and then told him their true meaning.
'Look at your nightgown, if you don't believe me,' Solomon
said; and with staring eyes Peter looked at his nightgown, and
then at the sleeping birds. Not one of them wore anything.
'How many of your toes are thumbs?' said Solomon a little
cruelly, and Peter saw, to his consternation, that all his toes
were fingers. The shock was so great that it drove away his
cold.
'Ruffle your feathers,' said that grim old Solomon, and Peter
tried most desperately hard to ruffle his feathers, but he had
none. Then he rose up, quaking, and for the first time since he
stood on the window ledge, he remembered a lady who had been
very fond of him.
Put his strange
case before old Solomon Caw
'I think I shall go back to mother,' he said, timidly.
'Good-bye,' replied Solomon Caw with a queer look.
But Peter hesitated. 'Why don't you go?' the old one asked
politely.
'I suppose,' said Peter huskily, 'I suppose I can still fly?'
You see he had lost faith.
'Poor little half-and-half!' said Solomon, who was not really
hard-hearted, 'you will never be able to fly again, not even on
windy days. You must live here on the island always.'
'And never even go to the Kensington Gardens?' Peter asked
tragically.
'How could you get across?' said Solomon. He promised very
kindly, however, to teach Peter as many of the bird ways as
could be learned by one of such an awkward shape.
'Then I shan't be exactly a human?' Peter asked.
'No.'
'Nor exactly a bird?'
'No.'
'What shall I be?'
'You will be a Betwixt-and-Between,' Solomon said, and
certainly he was a wise old fellow, for that is exactly how it
turned out.
The birds on the island never got used to him. His oddities
tickled them every day, as if they were quite new, though it was
really the birds that were new. They came out of the eggs daily,
and laughed at him at once; then off they soon flew to be
humans, and other birds came out of other eggs; and so it went
on for ever. The crafty mother-birds, when they tired of sitting
on their eggs, used to get the young ones to break their shells
a day before the right time by whispering to them that now was
their chance to see Peter washing or drinking or eating.
Thousands gathered round him daily to watch him do these things,
just as you watch the peacocks, and they screamed with delight
when he lifted the crusts they flung him with his hands instead
of in the usual way with the mouth. All his food was brought to
him from the Gardens at Solomon's orders by the birds. He would
not eat worms or insects (which they thought very silly of him),
so they brought him bread in their beaks. Thus, when you cry
out, 'Greedy! Greedy!' to the bird that flies away with the big
crust, you know now that you ought not to do this, for he is
very likely taking it to Peter Pan.
The birds on the
island never got used to him. His oddities tickled them every
day
Peter wore no nightgown now. You see, the birds were always
begging him for bits of it to line their nests with, and, being
very good-natured, he could not refuse, so by Solomon's advice
he had hidden what was left of it. But, though he was now quite
naked, you must not think that he was cold or unhappy. He was
usually very happy and gay, and the reason was that Solomon had
kept his promise and taught him many of the bird ways. To be
easily pleased, for instance, and always to be really doing
something, and to think that whatever he was doing was a thing
of vast importance. Peter became very clever at helping the
birds to build their nests; soon he could build better than a
wood-pigeon, and nearly as well as a blackbird, though never did
he satisfy the finches, and he made nice little water-troughs
near the nests and dug up worms for the young ones with his
fingers. He also became very learned in bird-lore, and knew an
east wind from a west wind by its smell, and he could see the
grass growing and hear the insects walking about inside the
tree-trunks. But the best thing Solomon had done was to teach
him to have a glad heart. All birds have glad hearts unless you
rob their nests, and so, as they were the only kind of heart
Solomon knew about, it was easy to him to teach Peter how to
have one.
Peter screamed out,
'Do it again!' and with great good-nature they did it several
times
Peter's heart was so glad that he felt he must sing all day
long, just as the birds sing for joy, but, being partly human,
he needed an instrument, so he made a pipe of reeds, and he used
to sit by the shore of the island of an evening, practising the
sough of the wind and the ripple of the water, and catching
handfuls of the shine of the moon, and he put them all in his
pipe and played them so beautifully that even the birds were
deceived, and they would say to each other, 'Was that a fish
leaping in the water or was it Peter playing leaping fish on his
pipe?' And sometimes he played the birth of birds, and then the
mothers would turn round in their nests to see whether they had
laid an egg. If you are a child of the Gardens you must know the
chestnut-tree near the bridge, which comes out in flower first
of all the chestnuts, but perhaps you have not heard why this
tree leads the way. It is because Peter wearies for summer and
plays that it has come, and the chestnut being so near, hears
him and is cheated.
A hundred flew off
with the string, and Peter clung to the tail
But as Peter sat by the shore tootling divinely on his pipe
he sometimes fell into sad thoughts, and then the music became
sad also, and the reason of all this sadness was that he could
not reach the Gardens, though he could see them through the arch
of the bridge. He knew he could never be a real human again, and
scarcely wanted to be one, but oh! how he longed to play as
other children play, and of course there is no such lovely place
to play in as the Gardens. The birds brought him news of how
boys and girls play, and wistful tears started in Peter's eyes.
Perhaps you wonder why he did not swim across. The reason was
that he could not swim. He wanted to know how to swim, but no
one on the island knew the way except the ducks, and they are so
stupid. They were quite willing to teach him, but all they could
say about it was, 'You sit down on the top of the water in this
way, and then you kick out like that.' Peter tried it often, but
always before he could kick out he sank. What he really needed
to know was how you sit on the water without sinking, and they
said it was quite impossible to explain such an easy thing as
that. Occasionally swans touched on the island, and he would
give them all his day's food and then ask them how they sat on
the water, but as soon as he had no more to give them the
hateful things hissed at him and sailed away.
Once he really thought he had discovered a way of reaching
the Gardens. A wonderful white thing, like a runaway newspaper,
floated high over the island and then tumbled, rolling over and
over after the manner of a bird that has broken its wing. Peter
was so frightened that he hid, but the birds told him it was
only a kite, and what a kite is, and that it must have tugged
its string out of a boy's hand, and soared away. After that they
laughed at Peter for being so fond of the kite; he loved it so
much that he even slept with one hand on it, and I think this
was pathetic and pretty, for the reason he loved it was because
it had belonged to a real boy.
After this the birds
said that they would help him no more in his mad enterprise
To the birds this was a very poor reason, but the older ones
felt grateful to him at this time because he had nursed a number
of fledglings through the German measles, and they offered to
show him how birds fly a kite. So six of them took the end of
the string in their beaks and flew away with it; and to his
amazement it flew after them and went even higher than they.
Peter screamed out, 'Do it again!' and with great good-nature
they did it several times, and always instead of thanking them
he cried, 'Do it again!' which shows that even now he had not
quite forgotten what it was to be a boy.
At last, with a grand design burning within his brave heart,
he begged them to do it once more with him clinging to the tail,
and now a hundred flew off with the string, and Peter clung to
the tail, meaning to drop off when he was over the Gardens. But
the kite broke to pieces in the air, and he would have been
drowned in the Serpentine had he not caught hold of two
indignant swans and made them carry him to the island. After
this the birds said that they would help him no more in his mad
enterprise.
Nevertheless, Peter did reach the Gardens at last by the help
of Shelley's boat, as I am now to tell you.
* * *
III
THE THRUSH'S NEST
Shelley was a young gentleman and as grown-up as he need ever
expect to be. He was a poet; and they are never exactly
grown-up. They are people who despise money except what you need
for to-day, and he had all that and five pounds over. So, when
he was walking in the Kensington Gardens, he made a paper boat
of his bank-note, and sent it sailing on the Serpentine.
It reached the island at night; and the look-out brought it
to Solomon Caw, who thought at first that it was the usual
thing, a message from a lady, saying she would be obliged if he
could let her have a good one. They always ask for the best one
he has, and if he likes the letter he sends one from Class A,
but if it ruffles him he sends very funny ones indeed. Sometimes
he sends none at all, and at another time he sends a nestful; it
all depends on the mood you catch him in. He likes you to leave
it all to him, and if you mention particularly that you hope he
will see his way to making it a boy this time, he is
almost sure to send another girl. And whether you are a lady or
only a little boy who wants a baby-sister, always take pains to
write your address clearly. You can't think what a lot of babies
Solomon has sent to the wrong house.
Shelley's boat, when opened, completely puzzled Solomon, and
he took counsel of his assistants, who having walked over it
twice, first with their toes pointed out, and then with their
toes pointed in, decided that it came from some greedy person
who wanted five. They thought this because there was a large
five printed on it. 'Preposterous!' cried Solomon in a rage, and
he presented it to Peter; anything useless which drifted upon
the island was usually given to Peter as a plaything.
But he did not play with his precious bank-note, for he knew
what it was at once, having been very observant during the week
when he was an ordinary boy. With so much money, he reflected,
he could surely at last contrive to reach the Gardens, and he
considered all the possible ways, and decided (wisely, I think)
to choose the best way. But, first, he had to tell the birds of
the value of Shelley's boat; and though they were too honest to
demand it back, he saw that they were galled, and they cast such
black looks at Solomon, who was rather vain of his cleverness,
that he flew away to the end of the island, and sat there very
depressed with his head buried in his wings. Now Peter knew that
unless Solomon was on your side, you never got anything done for
you in the island, so he followed him and tried to hearten him.
'Preposterous!' cried
Solomon in a rage
Nor was this all that Peter did to gain the powerful old
fellow's good-will. You must know that Solomon had no intention
of remaining in office all his life. He looked forward to
retiring by and by, and devoting his green old age to a life of
pleasure on a certain yew-stump in the Figs which had taken his
fancy, and for years he had been quietly filling his stocking.
It was a stocking belonging to some bathing person which had
been cast upon the island, and at the time I speak of it
contained a hundred and eighty crumbs, thirty-four nuts, sixteen
crusts, a pen-wiper, and a boot-lace. When his stocking was
full, Solomon calculated that he would be able to retire on a
competency. Peter now gave him a pound. He cut it off his
bank-note with a sharp stick.
This made Solomon his friend for ever, and after the two had
consulted together they called a meeting of the thrushes. You
will see presently why thrushes only were invited.
The scheme to be put before them was really Peter's, but
Solomon did most of the talking, because he soon became
irritable if other people talked. He began by saying that he had
been much impressed by the superior ingenuity shown by the
thrushes in nest-building, and this put them into good-humour at
once, as it was meant to do; for all the quarrels between birds
are about the best way of building nests. Other birds, said
Solomon, omitted to line their nests with mud, and as a result
they did not hold water. Here he cocked his head as if he had
used an unanswerable argument; but, unfortunately, a Mrs. Finch
had come to the meeting uninvited, and she squeaked out, 'We
don't build nests to hold water, but to hold eggs,' and then the
thrushes stopped cheering, and Solomon was so perplexed that he
took several sips of water.
'Consider,' he said at last, 'how warm the mud makes the
nest.'
'Consider,' cried Mrs. Finch, 'that when water gets into the
nest it remains there and your little ones are drowned.'
The thrushes begged Solomon with a look to say something
crushing in reply to this, but again he was perplexed.
'Try another drink,' suggested Mrs. Finch pertly. Kate was
her name, and all Kates are saucy.
For years he had been
quietly filling his stocking
Solomon did try another drink, and it inspired him. 'If,'
said he, 'a finch's nest is placed on the Serpentine it fills
and breaks to pieces, but a thrush's nest is still as dry as the
cup of a swan's back.'
How the thrushes applauded! Now they knew why they lined
their nests with mud, and when Mrs. Finch called out, 'We don't
place our nests on the Serpentine,' they did what they should
have done at first—chased her from the meeting. After this it
was most orderly. What they had been brought together to hear,
said Solomon, was this: their young friend, Peter Pan, as they
well knew, wanted very much to be able to cross to the Gardens,
and he now proposed, with their help, to build a boat.
At this the thrushes began to fidget, which made Peter
tremble for his scheme.
Solomon explained hastily that what he meant was not one of
the cumbrous boats that humans use; the proposed boat was to be
simply a thrush's nest large enough to hold Peter.
But still, to Peter's agony, the thrushes were sulky. 'We are
very busy people,' they grumbled, 'and this would be a big job.'
'Quite so,' said Solomon, 'and, of course, Peter would not
allow you to work for nothing. You must remember that he is now
in comfortable circumstances, and he will pay you such wages as
you have never been paid before. Peter Pan authorises me to say
that you shall all be paid sixpence a day.'
Then all the thrushes hopped for joy, and that very day was
begun the celebrated Building of the Boat. All their ordinary
business fell into arrears. It was the time of the year when
they should have been pairing, but not a thrush's nest was built
except this big one, and so Solomon soon ran short of thrushes
with which to supply the demand from the mainland. The stout,
rather greedy children, who look so well in perambulators but
get puffed easily when they walk, were all young thrushes once,
and ladies often ask specially for them. What do you think
Solomon did? He sent over to the house-tops for a lot of
sparrows and ordered them to lay their eggs in old thrushes'
nests, and sent their young to the ladies and swore they were
all thrushes! It was known afterwards on the island as the
Sparrows' Year; and so, when you meet grown-up people in the
Gardens who puff and blow as if they thought themselves bigger
than they are, very likely they belong to that year. You ask
them.
When you meet grown-up
people in the Gardens who puff and blow as if they thought
themselves bigger than they are
Peter was a just master, and paid his work-people every
evening. They stood in rows on the branches, waiting politely
while he cut the paper sixpences out of his bank-note, and
presently he called the roll, and then each bird, as the names
were mentioned, flew down and got sixpence. It must have been a
fine sight.
And at last, after months of labour, the boat was finished. O
the glory of Peter as he saw it growing more and more like a
great thrush's nest! From the very beginning of the building of
it he slept by its side, and often woke up to say sweet things
to it, and after it was lined with mud and the mud had dried he
always slept in it. He sleeps in his nest still, and has a
fascinating way of curling round in it, for it is just large
enough to hold him comfortably when he curls round like a
kitten. It is brown inside, of course, but outside it is mostly
green, being woven of grass and twigs, and when these wither or
snap the walls are thatched afresh. There are also a few
feathers here and there, which came off the thrushes while they
were building.
The other birds were extremely jealous, and said that the
boat would not balance on the water, but it lay most beautifully
steady; they said the water would come into it, but no water
came into it. Next they said that Peter had no oars, and this
caused the thrushes to look at each other in dismay; but Peter
replied that he had no need of oars, for he had a sail, and with
such a proud, happy face he produced a sail which he had
fashioned out of his nightgown, and though it was still rather
like a nightgown it made a lovely sail. And that night, the moon
being full, and all the birds asleep, he did enter his coracle
(as Master Francis Pretty would have said) and depart out of the
island. And first, he knew not why, he looked upward, with his
hands clasped, and from that moment his eyes were pinned to the
west.
He had promised the thrushes to begin by making short
voyages, with them as his guides, but far away he saw the
Kensington Gardens beckoning to him beneath the bridge, and he
could not wait. His face was flushed, but he never looked back;
there was an exultation in his little breast that drove out
fear. Was Peter the least gallant of the English mariners who
have sailed westward to meet the Unknown?
At first, his boat turned round and round, and he was driven
back to the place of his starting, whereupon he shortened sail,
by removing one of the sleeves, and was forthwith carried
backwards by a contrary breeze, to his no small peril. He now
let go the sail, with the result that he was drifted towards the
far shore, where are black shadows he knew not the dangers of,
but suspected them, and so once more hoisted his nightgown and
went roomer of the shadows until he caught a favouring wind,
which bore him westward, but at so great a speed that he was
like to be broke against the bridge. Which, having avoided, he
passed under the bridge and came, to his great rejoicing, within
full sight of the delectable Gardens. But having tried to cast
anchor, which was a stone at the end of a piece of the
kite-string, he found no bottom, and was fain to hold off,
seeking for moorage; and, feeling his way, he buffeted against a
sunken reef that cast him overboard by the greatness of the
shock, and he was near to being drowned, but clambered back into
the vessel. There now arose a mighty storm, accompanied by
roaring of waters, such as he had never heard the like, and he
was tossed this way and that, and his hands so numbed with the
cold that he could not close them. Having escaped the danger of
which, he was mercifully carried into a small bay, where his
boat rode at peace.
Nevertheless, he was not yet in safety; for, on pretending to
disembark, he found a multitude of small people drawn up on the
shore to contest his landing, and shouting shrilly to him to be
off, for it was long past Lock-out Time. This, with much
brandishing of their holly-leaves; and also a company of them
carried an arrow which some boy had left in the Gardens, and
this they were prepared to use as a battering-ram.
Then Peter, who knew them for the fairies, called out that he
was not an ordinary human and had no desire to do them
displeasure, but to be their friend; nevertheless, having found
a jolly harbour, he was in no temper to draw off therefrom, and
he warned them if they sought to mischief him to stand to their
harms.
So saying, he boldly leapt ashore, and they gathered around
him with intent to slay him, but there then arose a great cry
among the women, and it was because they had now observed that
his sail was a baby's nightgown. Whereupon, they straightway
loved him, and grieved that their laps were too small, the which
I cannot explain, except by saying that such is the way of
women. The men-fairies now sheathed their weapons on observing
the behaviour of their women, on whose intelligence they set
great store, and they led him civilly to their queen, who
conferred upon him the courtesy of the Gardens after Lock-out
Time, and henceforth Peter could go whither he chose, and the
fairies had orders to put him in comfort.
He passed under the
bridge and came within full sight of the delectable Gardens
Such was his first voyage to the Gardens, and you may gather
from the antiquity of the language that it took place a long
time ago. But Peter never grows any older, and if we could be
watching for him under the bridge to-night (but, of course, we
can't), I dare say we should see him hoisting his nightgown and
sailing or paddling towards us in the Thrush's Nest. When he
sails, he sits down, but he stands up to paddle. I shall tell
you presently how he got his paddle.
Long before the time for the opening of the gates comes he
steals back to the island, for people must not see him (he is
not so human as all that), but this gives him hours for play,
and he plays exactly as real children play. At least he thinks
so, and it is one of the pathetic things about him that he often
plays quite wrongly.
You see, he had no one to tell him how children really play,
for the fairies are all more or less in hiding until dusk, and
so know nothing, and though the birds pretended that they could
tell him a great deal, when the time for telling came, it was
wonderful how little they really knew. They told him the truth
about hide-and-seek, and he often plays it by himself, but even
the ducks on the Round Pond could not explain to him what it is
that makes the pond so fascinating to boys. Every night the
ducks have forgotten all the events of the day, except the
number of pieces of cake thrown to them. They are gloomy
creatures, and say that cake is not what it was in their young
days.
So Peter had to find out many things for himself. He often
played ships at the Round Pond, but his ship was only a hoop
which he had found on the grass. Of course, he had never seen a
hoop, and he wondered what you play at with them, and decided
that you play at pretending they are boats. This hoop always
sank at once, but he waded in for it, and sometimes he dragged
it gleefully round the rim of the pond, and he was quite proud
to think that he had discovered what boys do with hoops.
Another time, when he found a child's pail, he thought it was
for sitting in, and he sat so hard in it that he could scarcely
get out of it. Also he found a balloon. It was bobbing about on
the Hump, quite as if it was having a game by itself, and he
caught it after an exciting chase. But he thought it was a ball,
and Jenny Wren had told him that boys kick balls, so he kicked
it; and after that he could not find it anywhere.
Perhaps the most surprising thing he found was a
perambulator. It was under a lime-tree, near the entrance to the
Fairy Queen's Winter Palace (which is within the circle of the
seven Spanish chestnuts), and Peter approached it warily, for
the birds had never mentioned such things to him. Lest it was
alive, he addressed it politely; and then, as it gave no answer,
he went nearer and felt it cautiously. He gave it a little push,
and it ran from him, which made him think it must be alive after
all; but, as it had run from him, he was not afraid. So he
stretched out his hand to pull it to him, but this time it ran
at him, and he was so alarmed that he leapt the railing and
scudded away to his boat. You must not think, however, that he
was a coward, for he came back next night with a crust in one
hand and a stick in the other, but the perambulator had gone,
and he never saw any other one. I have promised to tell you also
about his paddle. It was a child's spade which he had found near
St. Govor's Well, and he thought it was a paddle.
Do you pity Peter Pan for making these mistakes? If so, I
think it rather silly of you. What I mean is that, of course,
one must pity him now and then, but to pity him all the time
would be impertinence. He thought he had the most splendid time
in the Gardens, and to think you have it is almost quite as good
as really to have it. He played without ceasing, while you often
waste time by being mad-dog or Mary-Annish. He could be neither
of these things, for he had never heard of them, but do you
think he is to be pitied for that?
Oh, he was merry! He was as much merrier than you, for
instance, as you are merrier than your father. Sometimes he
fell, like a spinning-top, from sheer merriment. Have you seen a
greyhound leaping the fences of the Gardens? That is how Peter
leaps them.
Fairies are all more
or less in hiding until dusk
And think of the music of his pipe. Gentlemen who walk home
at night write to the papers to say they heard a nightingale in
the Gardens, but it is really Peter's pipe they hear. Of course,
he had no mother—at least, what use was she to him? You can be
sorry for him for that, but don't be too sorry, for the next
thing I mean to tell you is how he revisited her. It was the
fairies who gave him the chance.
* * *
IV
LOCK-OUT TIME
It is frightfully difficult to know much about the fairies,
and almost the only thing known for certain is that there are
fairies wherever there are children. Long ago children were
forbidden the Gardens, and at that time there was not a fairy in
the place; then the children were admitted, and the fairies came
trooping in that very evening. They can't resist following the
children, but you seldom see them, partly because they live in
the daytime behind the railings, where you are not allowed to
go, and also partly because they are so cunning. They are not a
bit cunning after Lock-out, but until Lock-out, my word!
They are so cunning
When you were a bird you knew the fairies pretty well, and
you remember a good deal about them in your babyhood, which it
is a great pity you can't write down, for gradually you forget,
and I have heard of children who declared that they had never
once seen a fairy. Very likely if they said this in the
Kensington Gardens, they were standing looking at a fairy all
the time. The reason they were cheated was that she pretended to
be something else. This is one of their best tricks. They
usually pretend to be flowers, because the court sits in the
Fairies' Basin, and there are so many flowers there, and all
along the Baby Walk, that a flower is the thing least likely to
attract attention. They dress exactly like flowers, and change
with the seasons, putting on white when lilies are in and blue
for bluebells, and so on. They like crocus and hyacinth time
best of all, as they are partial to a bit of colour, but tulips
(except white ones, which are the fairy cradles) they consider
garish, and they sometimes put off dressing like tulips for
days, so that the beginning of the tulip weeks is almost the
best time to catch them.
When they think you are not looking they skip along pretty
lively, but if you look, and they fear there is no time to hide,
they stand quite still pretending to be flowers. Then, after you
have passed without knowing that they were fairies, they rush
home and tell their mothers they have had such an adventure. The
Fairy Basin, you remember, is all covered with ground-ivy (from
which they make their castor-oil), with flowers growing in it
here and there. Most of them really are flowers, but some of
them are fairies. You never can be sure of them, but a good plan
is to walk by looking the other way, and then turn round
sharply. Another good plan, which David and I sometimes follow,
is to stare them down. After a long time they can't help
winking, and then you know for certain that they are fairies.
There are also numbers of them along the Baby Walk, which is
a famous gentle place, as spots frequented by fairies are
called. Once twenty-four of them had an extraordinary adventure.
They were a girls' school out for a walk with the governess, and
all wearing hyacinth gowns, when she suddenly put her finger to
her mouth, and then they all stood still on an empty bed and
pretended to be hyacinths. Unfortunately what the governess had
heard was two gardeners coming to plant new flowers in that very
bed. They were wheeling a hand-cart with the flowers in it, and
were quite surprised to find the bed occupied. 'Pity to lift
them hyacinths,' said the one man. 'Duke's orders,' replied the
other, and, having emptied the cart, they dug up the
boarding-school and put the poor, terrified things in it in five
rows. Of course, neither the governess nor the girls dare let on
that they were fairies, so they were carted far away to a
potting-shed, out of which they escaped in the night without
their shoes, but there was a great row about it among the
parents, and the school was ruined.
As for their houses, it is no use looking for them, because
they are the exact opposite of our houses. You can see our
houses by day but you can't see them by dark. Well, you can see
their houses by dark, but you can't see them by day, for they
are the colour of night, and I never heard of any one yet who
could see night in the daytime. This does not mean that they are
black, for night has its colours just as day has, but ever so
much brighter. Their blues and reds and greens are like ours
with a light behind them. The palace is entirely built of
many-coloured glasses, and it is quite the loveliest of all
royal residences, but the queen sometimes complains because the
common people will peep in to see what she is doing. They are
very inquisitive folk, and press quite hard against the glass,
and that is why their noses are mostly snubby. The streets are
miles long and very twisty, and have paths on each side made of
bright worsted. The birds used to steal the worsted for their
nests, but a policeman has been appointed to hold on at the
other end.
The fairies are
exquisite dancers
One of the great differences between the fairies and us is
that they never do anything useful. When the first baby laughed
for the first time, his laugh broke into a million pieces, and
they all went skipping about. That was the beginning of fairies.
They look tremendously busy, you know, as if they had not a
moment to spare, but if you were to ask them what they are
doing, they could not tell you in the least. They are
frightfully ignorant, and everything they do is make-believe.
They have a postman, but he never calls except at Christmas with
his little box, and though they have beautiful schools, nothing
is taught in them; the youngest child being chief person is
always elected mistress, and when she has called the roll, they
all go out for a walk and never come back. It is a very
noticeable thing that, in fairy families, the youngest is always
chief person, and usually becomes a prince or princess; and
children remember this, and think it must be so among humans
also, and that is why they are often made uneasy when they come
upon their mother furtively putting new frills on the basinette.
You have probably observed that your baby-sister wants to do
all sorts of things that your mother and her nurse want her not
to do—to stand up at sitting-down time, and to sit down at
stand-up time, for instance, or to wake up when she should fall
asleep, or to crawl on the floor when she is wearing her best
frock, and so on, and perhaps you put this down to naughtiness.
But it is not; it simply means that she is doing as she has seen
the fairies do; she begins by following their ways, and it takes
about two years to get her into the human ways. Her fits of
passion, which are awful to behold, and are usually called
teething, are no such thing; they are her natural exasperation,
because we don't understand her, though she is talking an
intelligible language. She is talking fairy. The reason mothers
and nurses know what her remarks mean, before other people know,
as that 'Guch' means 'Give it to me at once,' while 'Wa' is 'Why
do you wear such a funny hat?' is because, mixing so much with
babies, they have picked up a little of the fairy language.
A fairy ring
Of late David has been thinking back hard about the fairy
tongue, with his hands clutching his temples, and he has
remembered a number of their phrases which I shall tell you some
day if I don't forget. He had heard them in the days when he was
a thrush, and though I suggested to him that perhaps it is
really bird language he is remembering, he says not, for these
phrases are about fun and adventures, and the birds talked of
nothing but nest-building. He distinctly remembers that the
birds used to go from spot to spot like ladies at shop windows,
looking at the different nests and saying, 'Not my colour, my
dear,' and 'How would that do with a soft lining?' and 'But will
it wear?' and 'What hideous trimming!' and so on.
These tricky fairies
sometimes slyly change the board on a ball night
The fairies are exquisite dancers, and that is why one of the
first things the baby does is to sign to you to dance to him and
then to cry when you do it. They hold their great balls in the
open air, in what is called a fairy ring. For weeks afterwards
you can see the ring on the grass. It is not there when they
begin, but they make it by waltzing round and round. Sometimes
you will find mushrooms inside the ring, and these are fairy
chairs that the servants have forgotten to clear away. The
chairs and the rings are the only tell-tale marks these little
people leave behind them, and they would remove even these were
they not so fond of dancing that they toe it till the very
moment of the opening of the gates. David and I once found a
fairy ring quite warm.
But there is also a way of finding out about the ball before
it takes place. You know the boards which tell at what time the
Gardens are to close to-day. Well, these tricky fairies
sometimes slyly change the board on a ball night, so that it
says the Gardens are to close at six-thirty, for instance,
instead of at seven. This enables them to get begun half an hour
earlier.
If on such a night we could remain behind in the Gardens, as
the famous Maimie Mannering did, we might see delicious sights;
hundreds of lovely fairies hastening to the ball, the married
ones wearing their wedding rings round their waists; the
gentlemen, all in uniform, holding up the ladies' trains, and
linkmen running in front carrying winter cherries, which are the
fairy-lanterns; the cloakroom where they put on their silver
slippers and get a ticket for their wraps; the flowers streaming
up from the Baby Walk to look on, and always welcome because
they can lend a pin; the supper-table, with Queen Mab at the
head of it, and behind her chair the Lord Chamberlain, who
carries a dandelion on which he blows when her Majesty wants to
know the time.
Linkmen running in
front carrying winter cherries
The table-cloth varies according to the seasons, and in May
it is made of chestnut blossom. The way the fairy servants do is
this: The men, scores of them, climb up the trees and shake the
branches, and the blossom falls like snow. Then the lady
servants sweep it together by whisking their skirts until it is
exactly like a tablecloth, and that is how they get their
tablecloth.
They have real glasses and real wine of three kinds, namely,
blackthorn wine, berberris wine, and cowslip wine, and the Queen
pours out, but the bottles are so heavy that she just pretends
to pour out. There is bread-and-butter to begin with, of the
size of a threepenny bit; and cakes to end with, and they are so
small that they have no crumbs. The fairies sit round on
mushrooms, and at first they are well-behaved and always cough
off the table, and so on, but after a bit they are not so
well-behaved and stick their fingers into the butter, which is
got from the roots of old trees, and the really horrid ones
crawl over the tablecloth chasing sugar or other delicacies with
their tongues. When the Queen sees them doing this she signs to
the servants to wash up and put away, and then everybody
adjourns to the dance, the Queen walking in front while the Lord
Chamberlain walks behind her, carrying two little pots, one of
which contains the juice of wallflower and the other the juice
of Solomon's Seal. Wallflower juice is good for reviving dancers
who fall to the ground in a fit, and Solomon's Seal juice is for
bruises. They bruise very easily, and when Peter plays faster
and faster they foot it till they fall down in fits. For, as you
know without my telling you, Peter Pan is the fairies'
orchestra. He sits in the middle of the ring, and they would
never dream of having a smart dance nowadays without him. 'P.
P.' is written on the corner of the invitation-cards sent out by
all really good families. They are grateful little people, too,
and at the princess's coming-of-age ball (they come of age on
their second birthday and have a birthday every month) they gave
him the wish of his heart.
When her Majesty wants
to know the time
The way it was done was this. The Queen ordered him to kneel,
and then said that for playing so beautifully she would give him
the wish of his heart. Then they all gathered round Peter to
hear what was the wish of his heart, but for a long time he
hesitated, not being certain what it was himself.
'If I chose to go back to mother,' he asked at last, 'could
you give me that wish?'
Now this question vexed them, for were he to return to his
mother they should lose his music, so the Queen tilted her nose
contemptuously and said, 'Pooh! ask for a much bigger wish than
that.'
'Is that quite a little wish?' he inquired.
'As little as this,' the Queen answered, putting her hands
near each other.
'What size is a big wish?' he asked.
She measured it off on her skirt and it was a very handsome
length.
Then Peter reflected and said, 'Well, then, I think I shall
have two little wishes instead of one big one.'
Of course, the fairies had to agree, though his cleverness
rather shocked them, and he said that his first wish was to go
to his mother, but with the right to return to the Gardens if he
found her disappointing. His second wish he would hold in
reserve.
They tried to dissuade him, and even put obstacles in the
way.
'I can give you the power to fly to her house,' the Queen
said, 'but I can't open the door for you.'
'The window I flew out at will be open,' Peter said
confidently. 'Mother always keeps it open in the hope that I may
fly back.'
'How do you know?' they asked, quite surprised, and, really,
Peter could not explain how he knew.
'I just do know,' he said.
So as he persisted in his wish, they had to grant it. The way
they gave him power to fly was this: They all tickled him on the
shoulder, and soon he felt a funny itching in that part, and
then up he rose higher and higher, and flew away out of the
Gardens and over the housetops.
It was so delicious that instead of flying straight to his
own home he skimmed away over St. Paul's to the Crystal Palace
and back by the river and Regent's Park, and by the time he
reached his mother's window he had quite made up his mind that
his second wish should be to become a bird.
The window was wide open, just as he knew it would be, and in
he fluttered, and there was his mother lying asleep. Peter
alighted softly on the wooden rail at the foot of the bed and
had a good look at her. She lay with her head on her hand, and
the hollow in the pillow was like a nest lined with her brown
wavy hair. He remembered, though he had long forgotten it, that
she always gave her hair a holiday at night. How sweet the
frills of her nightgown were! He was very glad she was such a
pretty mother.
But she looked sad, and he knew why she looked sad. One of
her arms moved as if it wanted to go round something, and he
knew what it wanted to go round.
'O mother!' said Peter to himself, 'if you just knew who is
sitting on the rail at the foot of the bed.'
Very gently he patted the little mound that her feet made,
and he could see by her face that she liked it. He knew he had
but to say 'Mother' ever so softly, and she would wake up. They
always wake up at once if it is you that says their name. Then
she would give such a joyous cry and squeeze him tight. How nice
that would be to him, but oh! how exquisitely delicious it would
be to her. That, I am afraid, is how Peter regarded it. In
returning to his mother he never doubted that he was giving her
the greatest treat a woman can have. Nothing can be more
splendid, he thought, than to have a little boy of your own. How
proud of him they are! and very right and proper, too.
The fairies sit round
on mushrooms, and at first they are well behaved
But why does Peter sit so long on the rail; why does he not
tell his mother that he has come back?
I quite shrink from the truth, which is that he sat there in
two minds. Sometimes he looked longingly at his mother, and
sometimes he looked longingly at the window. Certainly it would
be pleasant to be her boy again, but on the other hand, what
times those had been in the Gardens! Was he so sure that he
should enjoy wearing clothes again? He popped off the bed and
opened some drawers to have a look at his old garments. They
were still there, but he could not remember how you put them on.
The socks, for instance, were they worn on the hands or on the
feet? He was about to try one of them on his hand, when he had a
great adventure. Perhaps the drawer had creaked; at any rate,
his mother woke up, for he heard her say 'Peter,' as if it was
the most lovely word in the language. He remained sitting on the
floor and held his breath, wondering how she knew that he had
come back. If she said 'Peter' again, he meant to cry 'Mother'
and run to her. But she spoke no more, she made little moans
only, and when he next peeped at her she was once more asleep,
with tears on her face.
It made Peter very miserable, and what do you think was the
first thing he did? Sitting on the rail at the foot of the bed,
he played a beautiful lullaby to his mother on his pipe. He had
made it up himself out of the way she said 'Peter,' and he never
stopped playing until she looked happy.
He thought this so clever of him that he could scarcely
resist wakening her to hear her say, 'O Peter, how exquisitely
you play!' However, as she now seemed comfortable, he again cast
looks at the window. You must not think that he meditated flying
away and never coming back. He had quite decided to be his
mother's boy, but hesitated about beginning to-night. It was the
second wish which troubled him. He no longer meant to make it a
wish to be a bird, but not to ask for a second wish seemed
wasteful, and, of course, he could not ask for it without
returning to the fairies. Also, if he put off asking for his
wish too long it might go bad. He asked himself if he had not
been hard-hearted to fly away without saying good-bye to
Solomon. 'I should like awfully to sail in my boat just once
more,' he said wistfully to his sleeping mother. He quite argued
with her as if she could hear him. 'It would be so splendid to
tell the birds of this adventure,' he said coaxingly. 'I promise
to come back,' he said solemnly, and meant it, too.
And in the end, you know, he flew away. Twice he came back
from the window, wanting to kiss his mother, but he feared the
delight of it might waken her, so at last he played her a lovely
kiss on his pipe, and then he flew back to the Gardens.
Many nights, and even months, passed before he asked the
fairies for his second wish; and I am not sure that I quite know
why he delayed so long. One reason was that he had so many
good-byes to say, not only to his particular friends, but to a
hundred favourite spots. Then he had his last sail, and his very
last sail, and his last sail of all, and so on. Again, a number
of farewell feasts were given in his honour; and another
comfortable reason was that, after all, there was no hurry, for
his mother would never weary of waiting for him. This last
reason displeased old Solomon, for it was an encouragement to
the birds to procrastinate. Solomon had several excellent
mottoes for keeping them at their work, such as 'Never put off
laying to-day because you can lay to-morrow,' and 'In this world
there are no second chances,' and yet here was Peter gaily
putting off and none the worse for it. The birds pointed this
out to each other, and fell into lazy habits.
But, mind you, though Peter was so slow in going back to his
mother, he was quite decided to go back. The best proof of this
was his caution with the fairies. They were most anxious that he
should remain in the Gardens to play to them, and to bring this
to pass they tried to trick him into making such a remark as 'I
wish the grass was not so wet,' and some of them danced out of
time in the hope that he might cry, 'I do wish you would keep
time!' Then they would have said that this was his second wish.
But he smoked their design, and though on occasions he began, 'I
wish——' he always stopped in time. So when at last he said to
them bravely, 'I wish now to go back to mother for ever and
always,' they had to tickle his shoulders and let him go.
He went in a hurry in the end, because he had dreamt that his
mother was crying, and he knew what was the great thing she
cried for, and that a hug from her splendid Peter would quickly
make her to smile. Oh! he felt sure of it, and so eager was he
to be nestling in her arms that this time he flew straight to
the window, which was always to be open for him.
Wallflower juice is
good for reviving dancers who fall to the ground in a fit
But the window was closed, and there were iron bars on it,
and peering inside he saw his mother sleeping peacefully with
her arm round another little boy.
Peter called, 'Mother! mother!' but she heard him not; in
vain he beat his little limbs against the iron bars. He had to
fly back, sobbing, to the Gardens, and he never saw his dear
again. What a glorious boy he had meant to be to her! Ah, Peter!
we who have made the great mistake, how differently we should
all act at the second chance. But Solomon was right—there is no
second chance, not for most of us. When we reach the window it
is Lock-out Time. The iron bars are up for life.
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