PETER AND WENDY 
 MARGARET OGILVY 
 
PETER FLEW IN 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 BY 
 J. M. BARRIE 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BT 
 
 F. D. BEDFORD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1912 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PETER AND WENDY: 
 
 CHAPTER l-v ;:: 
 
 I PETER BREAKS THROUGH 1 
 
 II THE SHADOW 14 
 
 III COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 28 
 
 IV THE FLIGHT 48 
 
 V THE ISLAND COME TRUE 62 
 
 VI THE LITTLE HOUSE 78 
 
 VII THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND .... 91 
 
 VIII THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 101 
 
 IX THE NEVER BIRD 119 
 
 X THE HAPPY HOME 124 
 
 XI WENDY'S STORY 134 
 
 XII THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF . . . 146 
 
 XIII Do You BELIEVE IN FAIRIES? .... 153 
 
 XIV THE PIRATE SHIP 166 
 
 XV " HOOK OR ME THIS TIME" 177 
 
 XVI THE RETURN HOME 192 
 
 XVII WHEN WENDY GREW UP . 205 
 
 MARGARET OGILVY . .221 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FROM DRAWINGS BY F. D. BEDFORD 
 
 PETER AND WENDY 
 Peter flew in Frontispiece 
 
 PACING 
 PAGE 
 
 The birds were flown 46 
 
 The Never Never Land 54 
 
 Peter on guard ,. .... 88 
 
 Wendy's story 134 
 
 "This man is mine" 188 
 
 Peter and Jane 216 
 
 MARGARET OGILVY 225 
 
 Vll 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PETER BREAKS THROUGH 
 
 A LL children, except one, grow up. They soon 
 JT\. know that they will grow up, and the way 
 Wendy knew was this. One day when she was 
 two years old she was playing in a garden, and 
 she plucked another flower and ran with it to her 
 mother. I suppose she must have looked rather 
 delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her 
 heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like 
 this for ever !" This was all that passed between 
 them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew 
 that she must grow up. You always know after 
 you are two. Two is the beginning of the end. 
 
 Of course they lived at 14, and until Wendy 
 came her mother was the chief one. She was a 
 lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a 
 sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was 
 
 1 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that 
 come from the puzzling East, however many you 
 discover there is always one more; and her sweet 
 mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy 
 could never get, though there it was, perfectly 
 conspicuous in the right-hand corner. 
 
 The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the 
 many gentlemen who had been boys when she was 
 a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved 
 her, and they all ran to her house to propose to 
 her except Mr. Darling, who took a cab and 
 nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of 
 her, except the innermost box and the kiss. He 
 never knew about the box, and in time he gave up 
 trying for the kiss. Wendy thought Napoleon 
 could have got it, but I can picture him trying, and 
 then going off in a passion, slamming the door. 
 
 Mr. Darling used to boast to Wendy that her 
 mother not only loved him but respected him. He 
 was one of those deep ones who know about stocks 
 and shares. Of course no one really knows, but 
 he quite seemed to know, and he often said stocks 
 were up and shares were down in a way that would 
 have made any woman respect him. 
 
 Mrs. Darling was married in white, and at first 
 she kept the books perfectly, almost gleefully, as 
 if it were a game, not so much as a Brussels sprout 
 was missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers 
 dropped out, and instead of them there were pic- 
 
 2 
 
PETER BREAKS THROUGH 
 
 tures of babies without faces. She drew them 
 when she should have been totting up. They 
 were Mrs. Darling's guesses. 
 
 Wendy came first, then John, then Michael. 
 
 For a week or two after Wendy came it was 
 doubtful whether they would be able to keep her, 
 as she was another mouth to feed. Mr. Darling 
 was frightfully proud of her, but he was very 
 honourable, and he sat on the edge of Mrs. Dar- 
 ling's bed, holding her hand and calculating ex- 
 penses, while she looked at him imploringly. She 
 wanted to risk it, come what might, but that was 
 not his way; his way was with a pencil and a 
 piece of paper, and if she confused him with sug- 
 gestions he had to begin at the beginning again. 
 
 "Now don't interrupt," he would beg of her. 
 
 "I have one pound seventeen here, and two and 
 six at the office ; I can cut off my coffee at the of- 
 fice, say ten shillings, making two nine and six, 
 with your eighteen and three makes three nine seven, 
 with five naught naught in my cheque-book makes 
 eight nine seven, who is that moving*? eight 
 nine seven, dot and carry seven don't speak, my 
 own and the pound you lent to that man who 
 came to the door quiet, child dot and carry 
 child there, you 've done it ! did I say nine nine 
 seven"? yes, I said nine nine seven; the question is, 
 can we try it for a year on nine nine seven*?" 
 
 "Of course we can, George," she cried. But she 
 
 3 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 was prejudiced in Wendy's favour, and he was 
 really the grander character of the two. 
 
 "Remember mumps," he warned her almost 
 threateningly, and off he went again. "Mumps 
 one pound, that is what I have put down, but I 
 daresay it will be more like thirty shillings don't 
 speak measles one five, German measles half a 
 guinea, makes two fifteen six don't waggle your 
 finger whooping-cough, say fifteen shillings" - 
 and so on it went, and it added up differently each 
 time, but at last Wendy just got through, with 
 mumps reduced to twelve six, and the two kinds 
 of measles treated as one. 
 
 There was the same excitement over John, and 
 Michael had even a narrower squeak; but both 
 were kept, and soon, you might have seen the 
 three of them going in a row to Miss Fulsom's 
 Kindergarten school, accompanied by their nurse. 
 
 Mrs. Darling loved to have everything just so, 
 and Mr. Darling had a passion for being exactly 
 like his neighbours ; so, of course, they had a nurse. 
 As they were poor, owing to the amount of milk 
 the children drank, this nurse was a prim New- 
 foundland dog, called Nana, who had belonged to 
 no one in particular until the Darlings engaged her. 
 She had always thought children important, how- 
 ever, and the Darlings had become acquainted 
 with her in Kensington Gardens, where she spent 
 most of her spare time peeping into perambulators, 
 
 4 
 
PETER BREAKS THROUGH 
 
 and was much hated by careless nursemaids, whom 
 she followed to their homes and complained of 
 to their mistresses. She proved to be quite a 
 treasure of a nurse. How thorough she was at 
 bath-time, and up at any moment of the night if 
 one of her charges made the slightest cry. Of 
 course her kennel was in the nursery. She had a 
 genius for knowing when a cough is a thing to 
 have no patience with and when it needs stocking 
 round your throat. She believed to her last day in 
 old-fashioned remedies like rhubarb leaf, and 
 made sounds of contempt over all this new-fan- 
 gled talk about germs, and so on. It was a lesson 
 in propriety to see her escorting the children to 
 school, walking sedately by their side when they 
 were well behaved, and butting them back into 
 line if they strayed. On John's footer days she 
 never once forgot his sweater, and she usually car- 
 ried an umbrella in her mouth in case of rain. 
 There is a room in the basement of Miss Fulsom's 
 school where the nurses wait. They sat on forms, 
 while Nana lay on the floor, but that was the only 
 difference. They affected to ignore her as of an 
 inferior social status to themselves, and she de- 
 spised their light talk. She resented visits to the 
 nursery from Mrs. Darling's friends, but if they did 
 come she first whipped off Michael's pinafore and 
 puthim into theone with blue braiding,and smoothed 
 out Wendy and made a dash at John's hair. 
 
 5 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 No nursery could possibly have been con- 
 ducted more correctly, and Mr. Darling knew it, 
 yet he sometimes wondered uneasily whether the 
 neighbours talked. 
 
 He had his position in the city to consider. 
 
 Nana also troubled him in another way. He 
 had sometimes a feeling that she did not admire 
 him. "I know she admires you tremendously, 
 George," Mrs. Darling would assure him, and 
 then she would sign to the children to be specially 
 nice to father. Lovely dances followed, in which 
 the only other servant, Liza, was sometimes al- 
 lowed to join. Such a midget she looked in her 
 long skirt and maid's cap, though she had sworn, 
 when engaged, that she would never see ten again. 
 The gaiety of those rornps ! And gayest of all was 
 Mrs. Darling, who would pirouette so wildly that 
 all you could see of her was the kiss, and then if 
 you had dashed at her you might have got it. 
 There never was a simpler happier family until 
 the coming of Peter Pan. 
 
 Mrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was 
 tidying up her children's minds. It is the nightly 
 custom of every good mother after her children 
 are asleep to rummage in their minds and put 
 things straight for next morning, repacking into 
 their proper places the many articles that have 
 wandered during the day. If you could keep 
 awake (but of course you can't) you would see 
 
 6 
 
PETER BREAKS THROUGH 
 
 your own mother doing this, and you would find 
 it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like 
 tidying up drawers. You would see her on her 
 knees, I expect, lingering humorously over some 
 of your contents, wondering where on earth you 
 had picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet 
 and not so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as if it 
 were as nice as a kitten, and hurriedly stowing 
 that out of sight. When you wake in the morn- 
 ing, the naughtinesses and evil passions with which 
 you went to bed have been folded up small and 
 placed at the bottom of your mind, and on the 
 top, beautifully aired, are spread out your pret- 
 tier thoughts, ready for you to put on. 
 
 I don't know whether you have ever seen a map 
 of a person's mind. Doctors sometimes draw maps 
 of other parts of you, and your own map can be- 
 come intensely interesting, but catch them trying 
 to draw a map of a child's mind, which is not only 
 confused, but keeps going round all the time. 
 There are zigzag lines on it, just like your tem- 
 perature on a card, and these are probably roads 
 in the island, for the Neverland is always more 
 or less an island, with astonishing splashes of 
 colour here and there, and coral reefs and rakish- 
 looking craft in the offing, and savages and lonely 
 lairs, and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and 
 caves through which a river runs, and princes with 
 six elder brothers, and a hut fast going to decay, 
 
 7 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 and one very small old lady with a hooked nose. 
 It would be an easy map if that were all, but there 
 is also first day at school, religion, fathers, the 
 round pond, needle-work, murders, hangings, 
 verbs that take the dative, chocolate pudding day, 
 getting into braces, say ninety-nine, threepence for 
 pulling out your tooth yourself, and so on, and 
 either these are part of the island or they are an- 
 other map showing through, and it is all rather 
 confusing, especially as nothing will stand still. 
 
 Of course the Neverlands vary a good deal. 
 John's, for instance, had a lagoon with flamingoes 
 flying over it at which John was shooting, while 
 Michael, who was very small, had a flamingo with 
 lagoons flying over it. John lived in a boat turned 
 upside down on the sands, Michael in a wigwam, 
 Wendy in a house of leaves deftly sewn together. 
 John had no friends, Michael had friends at night, 
 Wendy had a pet wolf forsaken by its parents. 
 But on the whole the Neverlands have a family 
 resemblance, and if they stood still in a row you 
 could say of them that they have each other's nose, 
 and so forth. On these magic shores children at 
 play are for ever beaching their coracles. We too 
 have been there ; we can still hear the sound of the 
 surf, though we shall land no more. 
 
 Of all delectable islands the Neverland is the 
 snuggest and most compact, not large and sprawly, 
 you know, with tedious distances between one ad- 
 
 8 
 
PETER BREAKS THROUGH 
 
 venture and another, but nicely crammed. When 
 you play at it by day with the chairs and table- 
 cloth, it is not in the least alarming, but in the two 
 minutes before you go to sleep it becomes very 
 nearly real. That is why there are night-lights. 
 
 Occasionally in her travels through her chil- 
 dren's minds Mrs. Darling found things she could 
 not understand, and of these quite the most per- 
 plexing was the word Peter. She knew of no 
 Peter, and yet he was here and there in John and 
 Michael's minds, while Wendy's began to be 
 scrawled all over with him. The name stood out 
 in bolder letters than any of the other words, and 
 as Mrs. Darling gazed she felt that it had an oddly 
 cocky appearance. 
 
 "Yes, he is rather cocky," Wendy admitted 
 with regret. Her mother had been questioning 
 her. 
 
 "But who is he, my pet*?" 
 
 "He is Peter Pan, you know, mother." 
 
 At first Mrs. Darling did not know, but after 
 thinking back into her childhood she just remem- 
 bered a Peter Pan who was said to live with the 
 fairies. There were odd stories about him, as that 
 when children died he went part of the way with 
 them, so that they should not be frightened. She 
 had believed in him at the time, but now that she 
 was married and full of sense she quite doubted 
 whether there was any such person. 
 
 9 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Besides," she said to Wendy, "he would be 
 grown up by this time." 
 
 "Oh no, he is n't grown up," Wendy assured 
 her confidently, "and he is just my size." She 
 meant that he was her size in both mind and body ; 
 she did n't know how she knew it, she just knew it. 
 
 Mrs. Darling consulted Mr. Darling, but he 
 smiled pooh-pooh. "Mark my words," he said, 
 "it is some nonsense Nana has been putting into 
 their heads; just the sort of idea a dog would 
 have. Leave it alone, and it will blow over." 
 
 But it would not blow over, and soon the trou- 
 blesome boy gave Mrs. Darling quite a shock. 
 
 Children have the strangest adventures with- 
 out being troubled by them. For instance, they 
 may remember to mention, a week after the event 
 happened, that when they were in the wood they 
 met their dead father and had a game with him. 
 It was in this casual way that Wendy one morn- 
 ing made a disquieting revelation. Some leaves 
 of a tree had been found on the nursery floor, 
 which certainly were not there when the children 
 went to bed, and Mrs. Darling was puzzling over 
 them when Wendy said with a tolerant smile : 
 
 "I do believe it is that Peter again!" 
 
 "Whatever do you mean, Wendy?" 
 
 "It is so naughty of him not to wipe," Wendy 
 said, sighing. She was a tidy child. 
 
 She explained in quite a matter-of-fact way that 
 
 10 
 
PETER BREAKS THROUGH 
 
 she thought Peter sometimes came to the nursery 
 in the night and sat on the foot of her bed and 
 played on his pipes to her. Unfortunately she 
 never woke, so she did n't know how she knew, 
 she just knew. 
 
 "What nonsense you talk, precious! No one 
 can get into the house without knocking." 
 
 "I think he comes in by the window," she said. 
 
 "My love, it is three floors up." 
 
 "Were n't the leaves at the foot of the window, 
 mother?" 
 
 It was quite true; the leaves had been found 
 very near the window. 
 
 Mrs. Darling did not know what to think, for 
 it all seemed so natural to Wendy that you could 
 not dismiss it by saying she had been dreaming. 
 
 "My child," the mother cried, "why did you 
 not tell me of this before?" 
 
 "I forgot," said Wendy lightly. She was in 
 a hurry to get her breakfast. 
 
 Oh, surely she must have been dreaming. 
 
 But, on the other hand, there were the leaves. 
 Mrs. Darling examined them carefully ; they were 
 skeleton leaves, but she was sure they did not 
 come from any tree that grew in England. She 
 crawled about the floor, peering at it with a candle 
 for marks of a strange foot. She rattled the poker 
 up the chimney and tapped the walls. She let 
 down a tape from the window to the pavement, 
 
 11 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 and it was a sheer drop of thirty feet, without so 
 much as a spout to climb up by. 
 
 Certainly Wendy had been dreaming. 
 
 But Wendy had not been dreaming, as the very 
 next night showed, the night on which the ex- 
 traordinary adventures of these children may be 
 said to have begun. 
 
 On the night we speak of all the children were 
 once more in bed. It happened to be Nana's even- 
 ing off, and Mrs. Darling had bathed them and 
 sung to them till one by one they had let go her 
 hand and slid away into the land of sleep. 
 
 All were looking so safe and cosy that she smiled 
 at her fears now and sat down tranquilly by the 
 fire to sew. 
 
 It was something for Michael, who on his birth- 
 day was getting into shirts. The fire was warm, 
 however, and the nursery dimly lit by three night- 
 lights, and presently the sewing lay on Mrs. 
 Darling's lap. Then her head nodded, oh, so 
 gracefully. She was asleep. Look at the four of 
 them, Wendy and Michael over there, John here, 
 and Mrs. Darling by the fire. There should have 
 been a fourth night-light. 
 
 While she slept she had a dream. She dreamt 
 that the Neverland had come too near and that a 
 strange boy had broken through from it. He did 
 not alarm her, for she thought she had seen him 
 before in the faces of many women who have no 
 
 12 
 
PETER BREAKS THROUGH 
 
 children. Perhaps he is to be found in the faces 
 of some mothers also. But in her dream he had 
 rent the film that obscures the Neverland, and she 
 saw Wendy and John and Michael peeping 
 through the gap. 
 
 The dream by itself would have been a trifle, 
 but while she was dreaming the window of the 
 nursery blew open, and a boy did drop on the 
 floor. He was accompanied by a strange light, no 
 bigger than your fist, which darted about the room 
 like a living thing, and I think it must have been 
 this light that wakened Mrs. Darling. 
 
 She started up with a cry, and saw the boy, and 
 somehow she knew at once that he was Peter Pan. 
 If you or I or Wendy had been there we should 
 have seen that he was very like Mrs. Darling's 
 kiss. He was a lovely boy, clad in skeleton leaves 
 and the juices that ooze out of trees, but the most 
 entrancing thing about him was that he had all his 
 first teeth. When he saw she was a grown-up, he 
 gnashed the little pearls at her. 
 
 1,3 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 MRS. DARLING screamed, and, as if in answer to a 
 bell, the door opened, and Nana entered, returned 
 from her evening out. She growled and sprang at 
 the boy, who leapt lightly through the window. 
 Again Mrs. Darling screamed, this time in distress 
 for him, for she thought he was killed, and she ran 
 down into the street to look for his little body, but 
 it was not there; and she looked up, and in the 
 black night she could see nothing but what she 
 thought was a shooting star. 
 
 She returned to the nursery, and found Nana 
 with something in her mouth, which proved to be 
 the boy's shadow. As he leapt at the window 
 Nana had closed it quickly, too late to catch him, 
 but his shadow had not had time to get out ; slam 
 went the window and snapped it off. 
 
 You may be sure Mrs. Darling examined the 
 shadow carefully, but it was quite the ordinary 
 kind. 
 
 Nana had no doubt of what was the best thing 
 
THE SHADOW 
 
 to do with this shadow. She hung it out at the 
 window, meaning "He is sure to come back for it; 
 let us put it where he can get it easily without dis- 
 turbing the children." 
 
 But unfortunately Mrs. Darling could not leave 
 it hanging out at the window, it looked so like the 
 washing and lowered the whole tone of the house. 
 She thought of showing it to Mr. Darling, but he 
 was totting up winter great-coats for John and 
 Michael, with a wet towel round his head to keep 
 his brain clear, and it seemed a shame to trouble 
 him; besides, she knew exactly what he would say : 
 "It all comes of having a dog for a nurse." 
 
 She decided to roll the shadow up and put it 
 away carefully in a drawer, until a fitting oppor- 
 tunity came for telling her husband. Ah me ! 
 
 The opportunity came a week later, on that 
 never-to-be-forgotten Friday. Of course it was 
 a Friday. 
 
 "I ought to have been specially careful on a 
 Friday," she used to say afterwards to her hus- 
 band, while perhaps Nana was on the other side 
 of her, holding her hand. 
 
 "No, no," Mr. Darling always said, "I am re- 
 sponsible for it all. I, George Darling, did it. 
 Mea culpa, mea culpa" He had had a classical 
 education. 
 
 They sat thus night after night recalling that 
 fatal Friday, till every detail of it was stamped on 
 
 15 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 their brains and came through on the other side 
 like the faces on a bad coinage. 
 
 "If only I had not accepted that invitation to 
 dine at 27," Mrs. Darling said. 
 
 "If only I had not poured my medicine into 
 Nana's bowl," said Mr. Darling. 
 
 "If only I had pretended to like the medicine," 
 was what Nana's wet eyes said. 
 
 "My liking for parties, George." 
 
 "My fatal gift of humour, dearest." 
 
 "My touchiness about trifles, dear master and 
 mistress." 
 
 Then one or more of them would break down 
 altogether; Nana at the thought, "It 's true, it 's 
 true, they ought not to have had a dog for a 
 nurse." Many a time it was Mr. Darling who put 
 the handkerchief to Nana's eyes. 
 
 "That fiend!" Mr. Darling would cry, and 
 Nana's bark was the echo of it, but Mrs. Darling 
 never upbraided Peter ; there was something in the 
 right-hand corner of her mouth that wanted her 
 not to call Peter names. 
 
 They would sit there in the empty nursery, re- 
 calling fondly every smallest detail of that dread- 
 ful evening. It had begun so uneventfully, so 
 precisely like a hundred other evenings, with Nana 
 putting on the water for Michael's bath and carry- 
 ing him to it on her back. 
 
 "I won't go to bed," he had shouted, like one 
 16 
 
THE SHADOW 
 
 who still believed that he had the last word on 
 the subject, "I won't, I won't. Nana, it is n't six 
 o'clock yet. Oh dear, oh dear, I sha'n't love you 
 any more, Nana. I tell you I won't be bathed, I 
 won't, I won't !" 
 
 Then Mrs. Darling had come in, wearing her 
 white evening-gown. She had dressed early be- 
 cause Wendy so loved to see her in her evening- 
 gown, with the necklace George had given her. 
 She was wearing Wendy's bracelet on her arm; 
 she had asked for the loan of it. Wendy so loved 
 to lend her bracelet to her mother. 
 
 She had found her two older children playing 
 at being herself and father on the occasion of 
 Wendy's birth, and John was saying: 
 
 "I am happy to inform you, Mrs. Darling, that 
 you are now a mother," in just such a tone as Mr. 
 Darling himself may have used on the real occa- 
 sion. 
 
 Wendy had danced with joy, just as the real 
 Mrs. Darling must have done. 
 
 Then John was born, with the extra pomp that 
 he conceived due to the birth of a male, and 
 Michael came from his bath to ask to be born also, 
 but John said brutally that they did not want any 
 more. 
 
 Michael had nearly cried. "Nobody wants 
 me,'' he said, and of course the lady in evening- 
 dress could not stand that. 
 
 17 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "I do," she said, "I so want a third child." 
 
 "Boy or girl 1 ?" asked Michael, not too hope- 
 fully. 
 
 "Boy." 
 
 Then he had leapt into her arms. Such a little 
 thing for Mr. and Mrs. Darling and Nana to re- 
 call now, but not so little if that was to be Mi- 
 chael's last night in the nursery. 
 
 They go on with their recollections. 
 
 "It was then that I rushed in like a tornado, 
 wasn't it*?" Mr. Darling would say, scorning him- 
 self; and indeed he had been like a tornado. 
 
 Perhaps there was some excuse for him. He, 
 too, had been dressing for the party, and all had 
 gone well with him until he came to his tie. It is 
 an astounding thing to have to tell, but this man, 
 though he knew about stocks and shares, had no 
 real mastery of his tie. Sometimes the thing 
 yielded to him without a contest, but there were 
 occasions when it would have been better for the 
 house if he had swallowed his pride and used a 
 made-up tie. 
 
 This was such an occasion. He came rushing 
 into the nursery with the crumpled little brute of 
 a tie in his hand. 
 
 "Why, what is the matter, father dear?" 
 
 "Matter!" he yelled; he really yelled. "This 
 tie, it will not tie." He became dangerously sar- 
 
 18 
 
THE SHADOW 
 
 castic, "Not round my neck! Round the bed- 
 post! Oh yes, twenty times have I made it up 
 round the bed-post, but round my neck, no! Oh 
 dear no ! begs to be excused !" 
 
 He thought Mrs. Darling was not sufficiently 
 impressed, and he went on sternly, "I warn you 
 of this, mother, that unless this tie is round my 
 neck we don't go out to dinner to-night, and if I 
 don't go out to dinner to-night, I never go to the 
 office again, and if I don't go to the office again, 
 you and I starve, and our children will be flung 
 into the streets." 
 
 Even then Mrs. Darling was placid. "Let me 
 try, dear," she said, and indeed that was what he 
 had come to ask her to do, and with her nice cool 
 hands she tied his tie for him, while the children 
 stood around to see their fate decided. Some men 
 would have resented her being able to do it so 
 easily, but Mr. Darling was far too fine a nature 
 for that ; he thanked her carelessly, at once forgot 
 his rage, and in another moment was dancing 
 round the room with Michael on his back. 
 
 "How wildly we romped!" says Mrs. Darling 
 now, recalling it. 
 
 "Our last romp !" Mr. Darling groaned. 
 
 "O George, do you remember Michael sud- 
 denly said to me, 'How did you get to know me, 
 mother? " 
 
 19 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "I remember!" 
 
 "They were rather sweet, don't you think, 
 George?" 
 
 "And they were ours, ours! and now they are 
 gone." 
 
 The romp had ended with the appearance of 
 Nana, and most unluckily Mr. Darling collided 
 against her, covering his trousers with hairs. They 
 were not only new trousers, but they were the first 
 he had ever had with braid on them, and he had 
 to bite his lip to prevent the tears coming. Of 
 course Mrs. Darling brushed him, but he began to 
 talk again about its being a mistake to have a dog 
 for a nurse. 
 
 "George, Nana is a treasure." 
 
 "No doubt, but I have an uneasy feeling at 
 times that she looks upon the children as puppies." 
 
 "Oh no, dear one, I feel sure she knows they 
 have souls." 
 
 "I wonder," Mr. Darling said thoughtfully, "I 
 wonder." It was an opportunity, his wife felt, for 
 telling him about the boy. At first he pooh-poohed 
 the story, but he became thoughtful when she 
 showed him the shadow. 
 
 "It is nobody I know," he said, examining it 
 carefully, "but he does look a scoundrel." 
 
 "We were still discussing it, you remember," 
 says Mr. Darling, "when Nana came in with 
 Michael's medicine. You will never carry the 
 
 20 
 
THE SHADOW 
 
 bottle in your mouth again, Nana, and it is all my 
 fault." 
 
 Strong man though he was, there is no doubt that 
 he had behaved rather foolishly over the medicine. 
 If he had a weakness, it was for thinking that all 
 his life he had taken medicine boldly, and so now, 
 when Michael dodged the spoon in Nana's mouth, 
 he had said reprovingly, "Be a man, Michael." 
 
 "Won't; won't!" Michael cried naughtily. 
 Mrs. Darling left the room to get a chocolate for 
 him, and Mr. Darling thought this showed want 
 of firmness. 
 
 "Mother, don't pamper him," he called after 
 her. "Michael, when I was your age I took medi- 
 cine without a murmur. I said 'Thank you, kind 
 parents, for giving me bottles to make me well.' ' 
 
 He really thought this was true, and Wendy, 
 who was now in her night-gown, believed it also, 
 and she said, to encourage Michael, "That medi- 
 cine you sometimes take, father, is much nastier, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "Ever so much nastier," Mr. Darling said 
 bravely, "and I would take it now as an example 
 to you, Michael, if I hadn't lost the bottle." 
 
 He had not exactly lost it; he had climbed in 
 the dead of night to the top of the wardrobe and 
 hidden it there. What he did not know was that 
 the faithful Liza had found it, and put it back on 
 his wash-stand. 
 
 21 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "I know where it is, father," Wendy cried, al- 
 ways glad to be of service. "I'll bring it," and 
 she was off before he could stop her. Immediately 
 his spirits sank in the strangest way. 
 
 "John," he said, shuddering, "it's most beastly 
 stuff. It's that nasty, sticky, sweet kind." 
 
 "It will soon be over, father," John said cheer- 
 ily, and then in rushed Wendy with the medicine 
 in a glass. 
 
 "I have been as quick as I could," she panted. 
 
 "You have been wonderfully quick," her father 
 retorted, with a vindictive politeness that was 
 quite thrown away upon her. "Michael first," he 
 said doggedly. 
 
 "Father first," said Michael, who was of a sus- 
 picious nature. 
 
 "I shall be sick, you know," Mr. Darling said 
 threateningly. 
 
 "Come on, father," said John. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, John," his father rapped 
 out. 
 
 Wendy was quite puzzled. "I thought you 
 took it quite easily, father." 
 
 "That is not the point," he retorted. "The 
 point is, that there is more in my glass than in 
 Michael's spoon." His proud heart was nearly 
 bursting. "And it isn't fair; I would say it though 
 it were with my last breath; it isn't fair." 
 
 "Father, I am waiting," said Michael coldly. 
 
 22 
 
THE SHADOW 
 
 "It's all very well to say you are waiting; so am 
 I waiting." 
 
 "Father's a cowardy custard." 
 
 "So are you a cowardy custard." 
 
 "I'm not frightened." 
 
 "Neither am I frightened." 
 
 "Well, then, take it." 
 
 "Well, then, you take it." 
 
 Wendy had a splendid idea. "Why not both 
 take it at the same time?" 
 
 "Certainly," said Mr. Darling. "Are you 
 ready, Michael*?" 
 
 Wendy gave the words, one, two, three, and 
 Michael took his medicine, but Mr. Darling 
 slipped his behind his back. 
 
 There was a yell of rage from Michael, and 
 "O father!" Wendy exclaimed. 
 
 "What do you mean by 'O father'?" Mr. 
 Darling demanded. "Stop that row, Michael. I 
 meant to take mine, but I I missed it." 
 
 It was dreadful the way all the three were look- 
 ing at him, just as if they did not admire him. 
 "Look here, all of you," he said entreatingly, as 
 soon as Nana had gone into the bathroom, "I have 
 just thought of a splendid joke. I shall pour my 
 medicine into Nana's bowl, and she will drink it, 
 thinking it is milk !" 
 
 It was the colour of milk; but the children did 
 not have their father's sense of humour, and they 
 
 23 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 looked at him reproachfully as he poured the medi- 
 cine into Nana's bowl. "What fun!" he said 
 doubtfully, and they did not dare expose him when 
 Mrs. Darling and Nana returned. 
 
 "Nana, good dog," he said, patting her, "I have 
 put a little milk into your bowl, Nana." 
 
 Nana wagged her tail, ran to the medicine, and 
 began lapping it. Then she gave Mr. Darling 
 such a look, not an angry look: she showed him 
 the great red tear that makes us so sorry for noble 
 dogs, and crept into her kennel. 
 
 Mr. Darling was frightfully ashamed of him- 
 self, but he would not give in. In a horrid silence 
 Mrs. Darling smelt the bowl. "O George," she 
 said, "it's your medicine !" 
 
 "It was only a joke," he roared, while she com- 
 forted her boys, and Wendy hugged Nana. 
 "Much good," he said bitterly, "my wearing my- 
 self to the bone trying to be funny in this house." 
 
 And still Wendy hugged Nana. "That's right," 
 he shouted. "Coddle her! Nobody coddles me. 
 Oh dear no! I am only the breadwinner, why 
 should I be coddled why, why, why!" 
 
 "George," Mrs. Darling entreated him, "not so 
 loud; the servants will hear you." Somehow they 
 had got into the way of calling Liza the servants. 
 
 "Let them!" he answered recklessly. "Bring 
 in the whole world. But I refuse to allow that 
 dog to lord it in my nursery for an hour longer." 
 
 24 
 
THE SHADOW 
 
 The children wept, and Nana ran to him be- 
 seechingly, but he waved her back. He felt he 
 was a strong man again. "In vain, in vain," he 
 cried; "the proper place for you is the yard, and 
 there you go to be tied up this instant." 
 
 "George, George," Mrs. Darling whispered, 
 "remember what I told you about that boy." 
 
 Alas, he would not listen. He was determined 
 to show who was master in that house, and when 
 commands would not draw Nana from the kennel, 
 he lured her out of it with honeyed words, and 
 seizing her roughly, dragged her from the nursery. 
 He was ashamed of himself, and yet he did it. It 
 was all owing to his too affectionate nature, which 
 craved for admiration. When he had tied her up 
 in the back-yard, the wretched father went and sat 
 in the passage, with his knuckles to his eyes. 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Darling had put the chil- 
 dren to bed in unwonted silence and lit their night- 
 lights. They could hear Nana barking, and John 
 whimpered, "It is because he is chaining her up in 
 the yard,-" but Wendy was wiser. 
 
 "That is not Nana's unhappy bark," she said, 
 little guessing what was about to happen ; "that is 
 her bark when she smells danger." 
 
 Danger ! 
 
 "Are you sure, Wendy*?" 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 Mrs. Darling quivered and went to the win- 
 
 25 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 dow. It was securely fastened. She looked out, 
 and the night was peppered with stars. They 
 were crowding round the house, as if curious to 
 see what was to take place there, but she did not 
 notice this, nor that one or two of the smaller ones 
 winked at her. Yet a nameless fear clutched at 
 her heart and made her cry, "Oh, how I wish that 
 I wasn't going to a party to-night !" 
 
 Even Michael, already half asleep, knew that 
 she was perturbed, and he asked, "Can anything 
 harm us, mother, after the night-lights are lit?" 
 
 "Nothing, precious," she said; "they are the 
 eyes a mother leaves behind her to guard her chil- 
 dren." 
 
 She went from bed to bed singing enchantments 
 over them, and little Michael flung his arms 
 round her. "Mother," he cried, "I'm glad of 
 you." They were the last words she was to hear 
 from him for a long time. 
 
 No. 27 was only a few yards distant, but there 
 had been a slight fall of snow, and Father and 
 Mother Darling picked their way over it deftly 
 not to soil their shoes. They were already the 
 only persons in the street, and all the stars were 
 watching them. Stars are beautiful, but they may 
 not take an active part in anything, they must just 
 look on for ever. It is a punishment put on them 
 for something they did so long ago that no star 
 now knows what it was. So the older ones have 
 
 26 
 
THE SHADOW 
 
 become glassy-eyed and seldom speak (winking 
 is the star language), but the little ones still won- 
 der. They are not really friendly to Peter, who 
 has a mischievous way of stealing up behind them 
 and trying to blow them out ; but they are so fond 
 of fun that they were on his side to-night, and 
 anxious to get the grown-ups out of the way. So 
 as soon as the door of 27 closed on Mr. and Mrs. 
 Darling there was a commotion in the firmament, 
 and the smallest of all the stars in the Milky Way 
 screamed out : 
 "Now, Peter!" 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 COME AWAY, COME A WAY ! 
 
 FOR a moment after Mr. and Mrs. Darling left 
 the house the night-lights by the beds of the three 
 children continued to burn clearly. They were 
 awfully nice little night-lights, and one cannot 
 help wishing that they could have kept awake to 
 see Peter; but Wendy's light blinked and gave 
 such a yawn that the other two yawned also, and 
 before they could close their mouths all the three 
 went out. 
 
 There was another light in the room now, a 
 thousand times brighter than the night-lights, and 
 in the time we have taken to say this, it has been 
 in all the drawers in the nursery, looking for 
 Peter's shadow, rummaged the wardrobe and 
 turned every pocket inside out. It was not really 
 a light; it made this light by flashing about so 
 quickly, but when it came to rest for a second you 
 saw it was a fairy, no longer than your hand, but 
 still growing. It was a girl called Tinker Bell 
 exquisitely gowned in a skeleton leaf, cut low and 
 
 28 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 square, through which her figure could be seen to 
 the best advantage. She was slightly inclined to 
 
 v- 
 
 embonpoint. 
 
 A moment after the fairy's entrance the window 
 was blown open by the breathing of the little 
 stars, and Peter dropped in. He had carried 
 Tinker Bell part of the way, and his hand was 
 still messy with the fairy dust. 
 
 "Tinker Bell," he called softly, after making 
 sure that the children were asleep. "Tink, where 
 are you*?" She was in a jug for the moment, and 
 liking it extremely; she had never been in a jug 
 before. 
 
 "Oh, do come out of that jug, and tell me, do 
 you know where they put my shadow *?" 
 
 The loveliest tinkle as of golden bells answered 
 him. It is the fairy language. You ordinary chil- 
 dren can never hear it, but if you were to hear it 
 you would know that you had heard it once before. 
 
 Tink said that the shadow was in the big box. 
 She meant the chest of drawers, and Peter jumped 
 at the drawers, scattering their contents to the 
 floor with both hands, as kings toss ha'pence to 
 the crowd. In a moment he had recovered his 
 shadow, and in his delight he forgot that he had 
 shut Tinker Bell up in the drawer. 
 
 If he thought at all, but I don't believe he ever 
 thought, it was that he and his shadow, when 
 brought near each other, would join like drops of 
 
 29 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 water, and when they did not he was appalled. 
 He tried to stick it on with soap from the bath- 
 room, but that also failed. A shudder passed 
 through Peter, and he sat on the floor and cried. 
 
 His sobs woke Wendy, and she sat up in bed. 
 She was not alarmed to see a stranger crying on 
 the nursery floor; she was only pleasantly inter- 
 ested. 
 
 "Boy," she said courteously, "why are you 
 crying*?" 
 
 Peter could be exceedingly polite also, having 
 learned the grand manner at fairy ceremonies, and 
 he rose and bowed to her beautifully. She was 
 much pleased, and bowed beautifully to him from 
 the bed. 
 
 "What's your name*?" he asked. 
 
 "Wendy Moira Angela Darling," she replied 
 with some satisfaction. "What is your name*?" 
 
 "Peter Pan." 
 
 She was already sure that he must be Peter, but 
 it did seem a comparatively short name. 
 
 "Is that all?' 
 
 "Yes," he said rather sharply. He felt for the 
 first time that it was a shortish name. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," said Wendy Moira Angela. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," Peter gulped. 
 
 She asked where he lived. 
 
 "Second to the right," said Peter, "and then 
 straight on till morning." 
 
 30 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 "What a funny address !" 
 
 Peter had a sinking. For the first time he felt 
 that perhaps it was a funny address. 
 
 "No, it isn't," he said. 
 
 "I mean," Wendy said nicely, remembering that 
 she was hostess, "is that what they put on the let- 
 ters'?" 
 
 He wished she had not mentioned letters. 
 
 "Don't get any letters," he said contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 "But your mother gets letters'?" 
 
 "Don't have a mother," he said. Not only had 
 he no mother, but he had not the slightest desire to 
 have one. He thought them very over-rated per- 
 sons. Wendy, however, felt at once that she was 
 in the presence of a tragedy. 
 
 "O Peter, no wonder you were crying," she said, 
 and got out of bed and ran to him. 
 
 "I wasn't crying about mothers," he said rather 
 indignantly. "I was crying because I can't get my 
 shadow to stick on. Besides, I wasn't crying/' 
 
 "It has come off?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, look- 
 ing so draggled, and she was frightfully sorry for 
 Peter. "How awful !" she said, but she could not 
 help smiling when she saw that he had been trying 
 to stick it on with soap. How exactly like a boy ! 
 
 Fortunately she knew at once what to do. "It 
 
 31 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 must be sewn on," she said, just a little patron- 
 isingly. 
 
 "What's sewn?" he asked. 
 
 "You're dreadfully ignorant." 
 
 "No, I'm not." 
 
 But she was exulting in his ignorance. "I shall 
 sew it on for you, my little man," she said, though 
 he was as tall as herself, and she got out her house- 
 wife, and sewed the shadow on to Peter's foot. 
 
 "I daresay it will hurt a little," she warned 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, I sha'n't cry," said Peter, who was already 
 of opinion that he had never cried in his life. 
 And he clenched his teeth and did not cry, and 
 soon his shadow was behaving properly, though 
 still a little creased. 
 
 "Perhaps I should have ironed it," Wendy said 
 thoughtfully, but Peter, boylike, was indifferent 
 to appearances, and he was now jumping about in 
 the wildest glee. Alas, he had already forgotten 
 that he owed his bliss to Wendy. He thought he 
 had attached the shadow himself. "How clever I 
 am!" he crowed rapturously, "oh, the cleverness 
 of me!" 
 
 It is humiliating to have to confess that this 
 conceit of Peter was one of his most fascinating 
 qualities. To put it with brutal frankness, there 
 never was a cockier boy. 
 
 But for the moment Wendy was shocked. 
 
 32 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 "You conceit," she exclaimed, with frightful sar- 
 casm; "of course I did nothing!" 
 
 "You did a little," Peter said carelessly, and 
 continued to dance. 
 
 "A little !" she replied with hauteur. "If I am 
 no use I can at least withdraw," and she sprang in 
 the most dignified way into bed and covered her 
 face with the blankets. 
 
 To induce her to look up he pretended to be 
 going away, and when this failed he sat on the end 
 of the bed and tapped her gently with his foot. 
 "Wendy," he said, "don't withdraw. I can't help 
 crowing, Wendy, when I'm pleased with myself." 
 Still she would not look up, though she was listen- 
 ing eagerly. "Wendy," he continued, in a voice 
 that no woman has ever yet been able to resist, 
 "Wendy, one girl is more use than twenty 
 boys." 
 
 Now Wendy was every inch a woman, though 
 there were not very many inches, and she peeped 
 out of the bed-clothes. 
 
 "Do you really think so, Peter?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 "I think it's perfectly sweet of you," she de- 
 clared, "and I'll get up again," and she sat with 
 him on the side of the bed. She also said she 
 would give him a kiss if he liked, but Peter did 
 not know what she meant, and he held out his 
 hand expectantly. 
 
 33 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Surely you know what a kiss is?" she asked, 
 aghast. 
 
 "I shall know when you give it to me," he re- 
 plied stiffly, and not to hurt his feelings she gave 
 him a thimble. 
 
 "Now," said he, "shall I give you a kiss?" and 
 she replied with a slight primness, "If you please." 
 She made herself rather cheap by inclining her 
 face toward him, but he merely dropped an acorn 
 button into her hand, so she slowly returned her 
 face to where it had been before, and said nicely 
 that she would wear his kiss on the chain round 
 her neck. It was lucky that she did put it on that 
 chain, for it was afterwards to save her life. 
 
 When people in our set are introduced, it is cus- 
 tomary for them to ask each other's age, and so 
 Wendy, who always liked to do the correct thing, 
 asked Peter how old he was. It was not really 
 a happy question to ask him ; it was like an exami- 
 nation paper that asks grammar, when what you 
 want to be asked is Kings of England. 
 
 "I don't know," he replied uneasily, "but I am 
 quite young." He really knew nothing about it, 
 he had merely suspicions, but he said at a venture, 
 "Wendy, I ran away the day I was born." 
 
 Wendy was quite surprised, but interested; and 
 she indicated in the charming drawing-room man- 
 ner, by a touch on her night-gown, that he could 
 sit nearer her. 
 
 34 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 "It was because I heard father and mother," he 
 explained in a low voice, "talking about what I 
 was to be when I became a man." He was ex- 
 traordinarily agitated now. "I don't want ever to 
 be a man," he said with passion. "I want always 
 to be a little boy and to have fun. So I ran away 
 to Kensington Gardens and lived a long long time 
 among the fairies." 
 
 She gave him a look of the most intense admira- 
 tion, and he thought it was because he had run 
 away, but it was really because he knew fairies. 
 Wendy had lived such a home life that to know 
 fairies struck her as quite delightful. She poured 
 out questions about them, to his surprise, for they 
 were rather a nuisance to him, getting in his way 
 and so on, and indeed he sometimes had to give 
 them a hiding. Still, he liked them on the whole, 
 and he told her about the beginning of fairies. 
 
 "You see, Wendy, when the first baby laughed 
 for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand 
 pieces, and they all went skipping about, and that 
 was the beginning of fairies." 
 
 Tedious talk this, but being a stay-at-home she 
 liked it. 
 
 "And so," he went on good-naturedly, "there 
 ought to be one fairy for every boy and girl." 
 
 "Ought to be ? Isn't there T 
 
 "No. You see children know such a lot now, 
 they soon don't believe in fairies, and every time 
 
 35 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 a child says, 'I don't believe in fairies,' there is a 
 fairy somewhere that falls down dead." 
 
 Really, he thought they had now talked enough 
 about fairies, and it struck him that Tinker Bell 
 was keeping very quiet. "I can't think where she 
 has gone to," he said, rising, and he called Tink by 
 name. Wendy's heart went flutter with a sudden 
 thrill. 
 
 "Peter," she cried, clutching him, "you don't 
 mean to tell me that there is a fairy in this room !" 
 
 "She was here just now," he said a little im- 
 patiently. "You don't hear her, do you*?" and 
 they both listened. 
 
 "The only sound I hear," said Wendy, "is like a 
 tinkle of bells." 
 
 "Well, that's Tink, that's the fairy language. 
 I think I hear her too." 
 
 The sound came from the chest of drawers, and 
 Peter made a merry face. No one could ever look 
 quite so merry as Peter, and the loveliest of gur- 
 gles was his laugh. He had his first laugh still. 
 
 "Wendy," he whispered gleefully, "I do believe 
 I shut her up in the drawer!" 
 
 He let poor Tink out of the drawer, and she 
 flew about the nursery screaming with fury. "You 
 shouldn't say such things," Peter retorted. "Of 
 course I'm very sorry, but how could I know you 
 were in the drawer*?" 
 
 Wendy was not listening to him. "O Peter," 
 
 36 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 she cried, "if she would only stand still and let me 
 see her!" 
 
 "They hardly ever stand still," he said, but for 
 one moment Wendy saw the romantic figure come 
 to rest on the cuckoo clock. "O the lovely!" she 
 cried, though Tink's face was still distorted with 
 passion. 
 
 "Tink," said Peter amiably, "this lady says she 
 wishes you were her fairy." 
 
 Tinker Bell answered insolently. 
 
 "What does she say, Peter?" 
 
 He had to translate. "She is not very polite. 
 She says you are a great ugly girl, and that she is 
 my fairy." 
 
 He tried to argue with Tink. "You know you 
 can't be my fairy, Tink, because I am a gentleman 
 and you are a lady." 
 
 To this Tink replied in these words, "You silly 
 ass," and disappeared into the bathroom. "She is 
 quite a common fairy," Peter explained apolo- 
 getically, "she is called Tinker Bell because she 
 mends the pots and kettles." 
 
 They were together in the armchair by this time, 
 and Wendy plied him with more questions. 
 
 "If you don't live in Kensington Gardens 
 now " 
 
 "Sometimes I do still." 
 
 "But where do you live mostly now?" 
 
 "With the lost boys." 
 
 37 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Who are they?" 
 
 "They are the children who fall out of their 
 perambulators when the nurse is looking the other 
 way. If they are not claimed in seven days they 
 are sent far away to the Neverland to defray ex- 
 penses. I'm captain." 
 
 "What fun it must be!" 
 
 "Yes," said cunning Peter, "but we are rather 
 lonely. You see we have no female companion- 
 ship." 
 
 "Are none of the others girls'?" 
 
 "Oh no; girls, you know, are much too clever to 
 fall out of their prams." 
 
 This flattered Wendy immensely. "I think,'* 
 she said, "it is perfectly lovely the way you talk 
 about girls; John there just despises us." 
 
 For reply Peter rose and kicked John out of 
 bed, blankets and all; one kick. This seemed to 
 Wendy rather forward for a first meeting, and she 
 told him with spirit that he was not captain in her 
 house. However, John continued to sleep so 
 placidly on the floor that she allowed him to re- 
 main there. "And I know you meant to be 
 kind," she said, relenting, "so you may give me a 
 kiss." 
 
 For the moment she had forgotten his igno- 
 rance about kisses. "I thought you would want it 
 back," he said a little bitterly, and offered to re- 
 turn her the thimble. 
 
 38 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 "Oh dear," said the nice Wendy, "I don't mean 
 a kiss, I mean a thimble." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 "It's like this." She kissed him. 
 
 "Funny!" said Peter gravely. "Now shall I 
 give you a thimble 1 ?" 
 
 "If you wish to," said Wendy, keeping her head 
 erect this time. 
 
 Peter thimbled her, and almost immediately she 
 screeched. "What is it, Wendy*?" 
 
 "It was exactly as if some one were pulling my 
 hair." 
 
 "That must have been Tink. I never knew her 
 so naughty before." 
 
 And indeed Tink was darting about again, using 
 offensive language. 
 
 "She says she will do that to you, Wendy, every 
 time I give you a thimble." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Why, Tink?" 
 
 Again Tink replied, "You silly ass." Peter 
 could not understand why, but Wendy under- 
 stood, and she was just slightly disappointed when 
 he admitted that he came to the nursery window 
 not to see her but to listen to stories. 
 
 "You see I don't know any stories. None of 
 the lost boys know any stories." 
 
 "How perfectly awful," Wendy said. 
 
 "Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows 
 
 39 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 build in the eaves of houses'? It is to listen to the 
 stories. O Wendy, your mother was telling you 
 such a lovely story." 
 
 "Which story was it?" 
 
 "About the prince who couldn't find the lady 
 who wore the glass slipper." 
 
 "Peter," said Wendy excitedly, "that was 
 Cinderella, and he found her, and they lived 
 happy ever after." 
 
 Peter was so glad that he rose from the floor, 
 where they had been sitting, and hurried to the 
 window. "Where are you going?" she cried with 
 misgiving. 
 
 "To tell the other boys." 
 
 "Don't go, Peter," she entreated, "I know such 
 lots of stories." 
 
 Those were her precise words, so there can be 
 no denying that it was she who first tempted 
 him. 
 
 He came back, and there was a greedy look in 
 his eyes now which ought to have alarmed her, 
 but did not. 
 
 "Oh, the stories I could tell to the boys!" she 
 cried, and then Peter gripped her and began to 
 draw her toward the window. 
 
 "Let me go!" she ordered him. 
 
 "Wendy, do come with me and tell the other 
 boys." 
 
 Of course she was very pleased to be asked, but 
 40 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 she said, "Oh dear, I can't. Think of mummy! 
 Besides, I can't fly." 
 
 "I'll teach you." 
 
 "Oh, how lovely to fly." 
 
 "I'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, 
 and then away we go." 
 
 "Oo !" she exclaimed rapturously. 
 
 "Wendy, Wendy, when you are sleeping in 
 your silly bed you might be flying about with me 
 saying funny things to the stars." 
 
 "Oo !" 
 
 "And, Wendy, there are mermaids." 
 
 "Mermaids! With tails?" 
 
 "Such long tails." 
 
 "Oh," cried Wendy, "to see a mermaid!" 
 
 He had become frightfully cunning. "Wendy," 
 he said, "how we should all respect you." 
 
 She was wriggling her body in distress. It was 
 quite as if she were trying to remain on the nurs- 
 ery floor. 
 
 But he had no pity for her. 
 
 "Wendy," he said, the sly one, "you could tuck 
 us in at night." 
 
 "Oo !" 
 
 "None of us has ever been tucked in at night." 
 
 "Oo," and her arms went out to him. 
 
 "And you could darn our clothes, and make 
 pockets for us. None of us has any pockets." 
 
 How could she resist. "Of course it's awfully 
 
 41 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 fascinating!" she cried. "Peter, would you teach 
 John and Michael to fly too*?" 
 
 "If you like," he said indifferently, and she ran 
 to John and Michael and shook them. "Wake 
 up," she cried, "Peter Pan has come and he is to 
 teach us to fly." 
 
 John rubbed his eyes. "Then I shall get up," 
 he said. Of course he was on the floor already. 
 "Hallo," he said, "I am up!" 
 
 Michael was up by this time also, looking as 
 sharp as a knife with six blades and a saw, but 
 Peter suddenly signed silence. Their faces as- 
 sumed the awful craftiness of children listening 
 for sounds from the grown-up world. All was as 
 still as salt. Then everything was right. No, 
 stop! Everything was wrong. Nana, who had 
 been barking distressfully all the evening, was 
 quiet now. It was her silence they had heard ! 
 
 "Out with the light! Hide! Quick!" cried 
 John, taking command for the only time through- 
 out the whole adventure. And thus when Liza 
 entered, holding Nana, the nursery seemed quite 
 its old self, very dark, and you could have sworn 
 you heard its three wicked inmates breathing an- 
 gelically as they slept. They were really doing it 
 artfully from behind the window curtains. 
 
 Liza was in a bad temper, for she was mixing 
 the Christmas puddings in the kitchen, and had 
 been drawn away from them, with a raisin still on 
 
 42 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 her cheek, by Nana's absurd suspicions. She 
 thought the best way of getting a little quiet was 
 to take Nana to the nursery for a moment, but in 
 custody of course. 
 
 "There, you suspicious brute," she said, not 
 sorry that Nana was in disgrace. "They are per- 
 fectly safe, aren't they*? Every one of the little 
 angels sound asleep in bed. Listen to their gentle 
 breathing." 
 
 Here Michael, encouraged by his success, 
 breathed so loudly that they were nearly detected. 
 Nana knew that kind of breathing, and she tried 
 to drag herself out of Liza's clutches. 
 
 But Liza was dense. "No more of it, Nana," 
 she said sternly, pulling her out of the room. "I 
 warn you if you bark again I shall go straight for 
 master and missus and bring them home from the 
 party, and then, oh, won't master whip you, just." 
 
 She tied the unhappy dog up again, but do you 
 think Nana ceased to bark? Bring master and 
 missus home from the party 1 ? Why, that was just 
 what she wanted. Do you think she cared whether 
 she was whipped so long as her charges were safe? 
 Unfortunately Liza returned to her puddings, and 
 Nana, seeing that no help would come from her, 
 strained and strained at the chain until at last she 
 broke it. In another moment she had burst into 
 the dining-room of 27 and flung up her paws to 
 heaven, her most expressive way of making a com- 
 
 43 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 munication. Mr. and Mrs. Darling knew at once 
 that something terrible was happening in their 
 nursery, and without a good-bye to their hostess 
 they rushed into the street. 
 
 But it was now ten minutes since three scoun- 
 drels had been breathing behind the curtains, and 
 Peter Pan can do a great deal in ten minutes. 
 
 We now return to the nursery. 
 
 "It's all right," John announced, emerging 
 from his hiding-place. "I say, Peter, can you 
 really fly?" 
 
 Instead of troubling to answer him Peter flew 
 round the room, taking the mantelpiece on the 
 way. 
 
 "How topping!" said John and Michael. 
 
 "How sweet!" cried Wendy. 
 
 "Yes, I'm sweet, oh, I am sweet!" said Peter, 
 forgetting his manners again. 
 
 It looked delightfully easy, and they tried it 
 first from the floor and then from the beds, but 
 they always went down instead of up. 
 
 "I say, how do you do it?" asked John, rubbing 
 his knee. He was quite a practical boy. 
 
 "You just think lovely wonderful thoughts," 
 Peter explained, "and they lift you up in the air." 
 
 He showed them again. 
 
 "You're so nippy at it," John said, "couldn't 
 you do it very slowly once?" 
 
 Peter did it both slowly and quickly. "I've got 
 
 44 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 it now, Wendy!" cried John, but soon he found 
 he had not Not one of them could fly an inch, 
 though even Michael was in words of two syl- 
 lables, and Peter did not know A from Z. 
 
 Of course Peter had been trifling with them, for 
 no one can fly unless the fairy dust has been blown 
 on him. Fortunately, as we have mentioned, one 
 of his hands was messy with it, and he blew some 
 on each of them, with the most superb results. 
 
 "Now just wriggle your shoulders this way," 
 he said, "and let go." 
 
 They were all on their beds, and gallant Mi- 
 chael let go first. He did not quite mean to let go, 
 but he did it, and immediately he was borne 
 across the room. 
 
 "I flewed!" he screamed while still in mid-air. 
 John let go and met Wendy near the bath- 
 room. 
 
 "Oh, lovely!" 
 
 "Oh, ripping!" 
 
 "Look at me!" 
 
 "Look at me!" 
 
 "Look at me!" 
 
 They were not nearly so elegant as Peter, they 
 could not help kicking a little, but their heads 
 were bobbing against the ceiling, and there is al- 
 most nothing so delicious as that. Peter gave 
 Wendy a hand at first, but had to desist, Tink was 
 so indignant. 
 
 45 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 Up and down they went, and round and round. 
 Heavenly was Wendy's word. 
 
 "I say," cried John, "why shouldn't we all go 
 out!" 
 
 Of course it was to this that Peter had been 
 luring them. 
 
 Michael was ready: he wanted to see how long 
 it took him to do a billion miles. But Wendy 
 hesitated. 
 
 "Mermaids !" said Peter again. 
 
 "Oo!" 
 
 "And there are pirates." 
 
 "Pirates," cried John, seizing his Sunday hat, 
 "let us go at once !" 
 
 It was just at this moment that Mr. and Mrs. 
 Darling hurried with Nana out of 27. They ran 
 into the middle of the street to look up at the 
 nursery window ; and, yes, it was still shut, but the 
 room was ablaze with light, and most heart-grip- 
 ping sight of all, they could see in shadow on the 
 curtain three little figures in night attire circling 
 round and round, not on the floor but in the air. 
 
 Not three figures, four ! 
 
 In a tremble they opened the street door. Mr. 
 Darling would have rushed upstairs, but Mrs. 
 Darling signed to him to go softly. She even tried 
 to make her heart go softly. 
 
 Will they reach the nursery in time? If so, how 
 delightful for them, and we shall all breathe a 
 
COME AWAY, COME AWAY! 
 
 sigh of relief, but there will be no story. On the 
 other hand, if they are not in time, I solemnly 
 promise that it will all come right in the end. 
 
 They would have reached the nursery in time 
 had it not been that the little stars were watch- 
 ing them. Once again the stars blew the window 
 open, and that smallest star of all called out : 
 
 "Cave, Peter!" 
 
 Peter knew that there was not a moment to 
 lose. "Come," he cried imperiously, and soared 
 out at once into the night, followed by John and 
 Michael and Wendy. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Darling and Nana rushed into 
 the nursery too late. The birds were flown. 
 
 47 
 
"SECOND to the right, and straight on till morn- 
 ing." 
 
 That, Peter had told Wendy, was the way to 
 the Neverland; but even birds, carrying maps and 
 consulting them at windy corners, could not have 
 sighted it with these instructions. Peter, you see, 
 just said anything that came into his head. 
 
 At first his companions trusted him implicitly, 
 and so great were the delights of flying that they 
 wasted time circling round church spires or any 
 other tall objects on the way that took their fancy. 
 
 John and Michael raced, Michael getting a 
 start. 
 
 They recalled with contempt that not so long 
 ago they had thought themselves fine fellows for 
 being able to fly round a room. 
 
 Not so long ago. But how long ago 1 ? They 
 were flying over the sea before this thought began 
 to disturb Wendy seriously. John thought it was 
 their second sea and their third night. 
 
THE FLIGHT 
 
 Sometimes it was dark and sometimes light, 
 and now they were very cold and again too warm. 
 Did they really feel hungry at times, or were they 
 merely pretending, because Peter had such a jolly 
 new way of feeding them 1 ? His way was to pur- 
 sue birds who had food in their mouths suitable 
 for humans and snatch it from them; then the 
 birds would follow and snatch it back; and they 
 would all go chasing each other gaily for miles, 
 parting at last with mutual expressions of good- 
 will. But Wendy noticed with gentle concern 
 that Peter did not seem to know that this was 
 rather an odd way of getting your bread and but- 
 ter, nor even that there are other ways. 
 
 Certainly they did not pretend to be sleepy, 
 they were sleepy; and that was a danger, for the 
 moment they popped off, down they fell. The 
 awful thing was that Peter thought this funny. 
 
 "There he goes again!" he would cry gleefully, 
 as Michael suddenly dropped like a stone. 
 
 "Save him, save him!" cried Wendy, looking 
 with horror at the cruel sea far below. Eventually 
 Peter would dive through the air, and catch Mi- 
 chael just before he could strike the sea, and it 
 was lovely the way he did it ; but he always waited 
 till the last moment, and you felt it was his clev- 
 erness that interested him and not the saving of 
 human life. Also he was fond of variety, and the 
 sport that engrossed him one moment would sud- 
 
 49 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 denly cease to engage him, so there was always the 
 possibility that the next time you fell he would let 
 you go. 
 
 He could sleep in the air without falling, by 
 merely lying on his back and floating, but this 
 was, partly at least, because he was so light that if 
 you got behind him and blew he went faster. 
 
 "Do be more polite to him," Wendy whispered 
 to John, when they were playing "Follow my 
 Leader." 
 
 "Then tell him to stop showing off," said John. 
 
 When playing Follow my Leader, Peter would 
 fly close to the water and touch each shark's tail in 
 passing, just as in the street you may run your 
 finger along an iron railing. They could not fol- 
 low him in this with much success, so perhaps it 
 was rather like showing off, especially as he kept 
 looking behind to see how many tails they missed. 
 
 "You must be nice to him," Wendy impressed 
 on her brothers. "What could we do if he were 
 to leave us!" 
 
 "We could go back," Michael said. 
 
 "How could we ever find our way back without 
 him?' 
 
 "Well, then, we could go on," said John. 
 
 "That is the awful thing, John. We should 
 have to go on, for we don't know how to stop." 
 
 This was true, Peter had forgotten to show them 
 how to stop. 
 
 50 
 
THE FLIGHT 
 
 John said that if the worst came to the worst, 
 all they had to do was to go straight on, for the 
 world was round, and so in time they must come 
 back to their own window. 
 
 "And who is to get food for us, John 1 ?" 
 
 "I nipped a bit out of that eagle's mouth pretty 
 neatly, Wendy." 
 
 "After the twentieth try," Wendy reminded 
 him. "And even though we became good at pick- 
 ing up food, see how we bump against clouds and 
 things if he is not near to give us a hand." 
 
 Indeed they were constantly bumping. They 
 could now fly strongly, though they still kicked 
 far too much; but if they saw a cloud in 
 front of them, the more they tried to avoid 
 it, the more certainly did they bump into it. 
 If Nana had been with them, she would have had 
 a bandage round Michael's forehead by this 
 time. 
 
 Peter was not with them for the moment, and 
 they felt rather lonely up there by themselves. He 
 could go so much faster than they that he would 
 suddenly shoot out of sight, to have some adven- 
 ture in which they had no share. He would come 
 down laughing over something fearfully funny 
 he had been saying to a star, but he had already 
 forgotten what it was, or he would come up with 
 mermaid scales still sticking to him, and yet not 
 be able to say for certain what had been happen- 
 
 51 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 ing. It was really rather irritating to children 
 who had never seen a mermaid. 
 
 "And if he forgets them so quickly," Wendy 
 argued, "how can we expect that he will go on 
 remembering us*?" 
 
 Indeed, sometimes when he returned he did not 
 remember them, at least not well. Wendy was 
 sure of it. She saw recognition come into his eyes 
 as he was about to pass them the time of day and 
 go on; once even she had to call him by name. 
 
 "I'm Wendy," she said agitatedly. 
 
 He was very sorry. "I say, Wendy," he whis- 
 pered to her, "always if you see me forgetting you, 
 just keep on saying Tm Wendy/ and then I'll re- 
 member." 
 
 Of course this was rather unsatisfactory. How- 
 ever, to make amends he showed them how to lie 
 out flat on a strong wind that was going their way, 
 and this was such a pleasant change that they tried 
 it several times and found they could sleep thus 
 with security. Indeed they would have slept 
 longer, but Peter tired quickly of sleeping, and 
 soon he would cry in his captain voice, "We get 
 off here." So with occasional tiffs, but on the 
 whole rollicking, they drew near the Neverland; 
 for after many moons they did reach it, and, what 
 is more, they had been going pretty straight all the 
 time, not perhaps so much owing to the guidance 
 of Peter or Tink as because the island was out 
 
 52 
 
THE FLIGHT 
 
 looking for them. It is only thus that any one 
 
 may sight those magic shores. 
 "There it is," said Peter calmly. 
 "Where, where?" 
 
 "Where all the arrows are pointing." 
 Indeed a million golden arrows were pointing 
 
 it out to the children, all directed by their friend 
 
 the sun, who wanted them to be sure of their way 
 
 before leaving them for the night. 
 
 Wendy and John and Michael stood on tip-toe 
 
 in the air to get their first sight of the island. 
 
 Strange to say, they all recognised it at once, and 
 
 until fear fell upon them they hailed it, not as 
 
 something long dreamt of and seen at last, but as 
 
 a familiar friend to whom they were returning 
 
 home for the holidays. 
 
 "John, there's the lagoon!" 
 
 "Wendy, look at the turtles burying their eggs 
 
 in the sand." 
 
 "I say, John, I see your flamingo with the 
 
 broken leg!" 
 
 "Look, Michael, there's your cave!" 
 
 "John, what's that in the brushwood?" 
 
 "It's a wolf with her whelps. Wendy, I do 
 
 believe that's your little whelp !" 
 
 "There's my boat, John, with her sides stove in !" 
 "No, it isn't ! Why, we burned your boat." 
 "That's her, at any rate. I say, John, I see the 
 
 smoke of the redskin camp !" 
 
 53 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Where 4 ? Show me, and I'll tell you by the 
 way the smoke curls whether they are on the war- 
 path." 
 
 "There, just across the Mysterious River." 
 
 "I see now. Yes, they are on the war-path 
 right enough." 
 
 Peter was a little annoyed with them for know- 
 ing so much, but if he wanted to lord it over them 
 his triumph was at hand, for have I not told you 
 that anon fear fell upon them*? 
 
 It came as the arrows went, leaving the island 
 in gloom. 
 
 In the old days at home the Neverland had 
 always begun to look a little dark and threatening 
 by bedtime. Then unexplored patches arose in it 
 and spread, black shadows moved about in them, 
 the roar of the beasts of prey was quite different 
 now, and above all, you lost the certainty that you 
 would win. You were quite glad that the night- 
 lights were in. You even liked Nana to say that 
 this was just the mantelpiece over here, and that 
 the Neverland was all make-believe. 
 
 Of course the Neverland had been make-believe 
 in those days, but it was real now, and there were 
 no night-lights, and it was getting darker every 
 moment, and where was Nana"? 
 
 They had been flying apart, but they huddled 
 close to Peter now. His careless manner had gone 
 at last, his eyes were sparkling, and a tingle went 
 
 54 
 
THE FLIGHT 
 
 through them every time they touched his body. 
 They were now over the fearsome island, flying 
 so low that sometimes a tree grazed their feet. 
 Nothing horrid was visible in the air, yet their 
 progress had become slow and laboured, exactly as 
 if they were pushing their way through hostile 
 forces. Sometimes they hung in the air until 
 Peter had beaten on it with his fists. 
 
 "They don't want us to land," he explained. 
 
 ' 'Who are they ?" Wendy whispered, shuddering. 
 
 But he could not or would not say. Tinker 
 Bell had been asleep on his shoulder, but now he 
 wakened her and sent her on in front. 
 
 Sometimes he poised himself in the air, listen- 
 ing intently, with his hand to his ear, and again 
 he would stare down with eyes so bright that they 
 seemed to bore two holes to earth. Having done 
 these things, he went on again. 
 
 His courage was almost appalling. "Would 
 you like an adventure now," he said casually to 
 John, "or would you like to have your tea first?" 
 
 Wendy said "tea first" quickly, and Michael 
 pressed her hand in gratitude, but the braver John 
 hesitated. 
 
 "What kind of adventure?" he asked cau- 
 tiously. 
 
 "There's a pirate asleep in the pampas just be- 
 neath us," Peter told him. "If you like, we'll go 
 down and kill him." 
 
 55 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "I don't see him," John said after a long pause, 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Suppose," John said, a little huskily, "he were 
 to wake up." 
 
 Peter spoke indignantly. "You don't think I 
 would kill him while he was sleeping! I would 
 wake him first, and then kill him. That's the way 
 I always do." 
 
 "I say ! Do you kill many?" 
 
 "Tons." 
 
 John said "how ripping," but decided to have 
 tea first. He asked if there were many pirates on 
 the island just now, and Peter said he had never 
 known so many. 
 
 "Who is captain now*?" 
 
 "Hook," answered Peter, and his face became 
 very stern as he said that hated word. 
 
 "Jas. Hook?" 
 
 "Ay." 
 
 Then indeed Michael began to cry, and even 
 John could speak in gulps only, for they knew 
 Hook's reputation. 
 
 "He was Blackbeard's bo'sun," John whispered 
 huskily. "He is the worst of them all. He is the 
 only man of whom Barbecue was afraid." 
 
 "That's him," said Peter. 
 
 "What is he like ? Is he big?" 
 
 "He is not so big as he was." 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 56 
 
THE FLIGHT 
 
 "I cut off a bit of him." 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "Yes, me," said Peter sharply. 
 
 "I wasn't meaning to be disrespectful." 
 
 "Oh, all right." 
 
 "But, I say, what bit?" 
 
 "His right hand." 
 
 "Then he can't fight now?" 
 
 "Oh, can't he just!" 
 
 "Left-hander?" 
 
 "He has an iron hook instead of a right hand, 
 and he claws with it." 
 
 "Claws!" 
 
 "I say, John," said Peter. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Say, 'Ay, ay, sir.' " 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir." 
 
 "There is one thing," Peter continued, "that 
 every boy who serves under me has to promise, 
 and so must you." 
 
 John paled. 
 
 "It is this, if we meet Hook in open fight, you 
 must leave him to me." 
 
 "I promise," John said loyally. 
 
 For the moment they were feeling less eerie, be- 
 cause Tink was flying with them, and in her light 
 they could distinguish each other. Unfortunately 
 she could not fly so slowly as they, and so she had 
 to go round and round them in a circle in which 
 
 57 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 they moved as in a halo. Wendy quite liked it, 
 until Peter pointed out the drawback. 
 
 "She tells me," he said, "that the pirates sighted 
 us before the darkness came, and got Long Tom 
 out." 
 
 "The big gun?" 
 
 "Yes. And of course they must see her light, 
 and if they guess we are near it they are sure to 
 let fly." 
 
 "Wendy!" 
 
 "John!" 
 
 "Michael !" 
 
 "Tell her to go away at once, Peter," the three 
 cried simultaneously, but he refused. 
 
 "She thinks we have lost the way," he replied 
 stiffly, "and she is rather frightened. You don't 
 think I would send her away all by herself when 
 she is frightened !" 
 
 For a moment the circle of light was broken, 
 and something gave Peter a loving little pinch. 
 
 "Then tell her," Wendy begged, "to put out her 
 light." 
 
 "She can't put it out. That is about the only 
 thing fairies can't do. It just goes out of itself 
 when she falls asleep, same as the stars." 
 
 "Then tell her to sleep at once," John almost 
 ordered. 
 
 "She can't sleep except when she's sleepy. It's 
 the only other thing fairies can't do." 
 
 58 
 
THE FLIGHT 
 
 "Seems to me," growled John, "these are the 
 only two things worth doing." 
 
 Here he got a pinch, but not a loving one. 
 
 "If only one of us had a pocket," Peter said, 
 "we could carry her in it." However, they had 
 set off in such a hurry that there was not a pocket 
 between the four of them. 
 
 He had a happy idea. John's hat ! 
 
 Tink agreed to travel by hat if it was carried in 
 the hand. John carried it, though she had hoped 
 to be carried by Peter. Presently Wendy took the 
 hat, because John said it struck against his knee as 
 he flew; and this, as we shall see, led to mischief, 
 for Tinker Bell hated to be under an obligation to 
 Wendy. 
 
 In the black topper the light was completely 
 hidden, and they flew on in silence. It was the 
 stillest silence they had ever known, broken once 
 by a distant lapping, which Peter explained was 
 the wild beasts drinking at the ford, and again by 
 a rasping sound that might have been the branches 
 of trees rubbing together, but he said it was the 
 redskins sharpening their knives. 
 
 Even these noises ceased. To Michael the lone- 
 liness was dreadful. "If only something would 
 make a sound !" he cried. 
 
 As if in answer to his request, the air was rent 
 by the most tremendous crash he had ever heard. 
 The pirates had fired Long Ton^at them. 
 
 ~ 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 The roar of it echoed through the mountains, 
 and the echoes seemed to cry savagely, "Where 
 are they, where are they, where are they*?" 
 
 Thus sharply did the terrified three learn the 
 difference between an island of make-believe and 
 the same island come true. 
 
 When at last the heavens were steady again, 
 John and Michael found themselves alone in the 
 darkness. John was treading the air mechanically, 
 and Michael without knowing how to float was 
 floating. 
 
 "Are you shot*?" John whispered tremulously. 
 
 "I haven't tried yet," Michael whispered back. 
 
 We know now that no one had been hit. Peter, 
 however, had been carried by the wind of the shot 
 far out to sea, while Wendy was blown upwards 
 with no companion but Tinker Bell. 
 
 It would have been well for Wendy if at that 
 moment she had dropped the hat. 
 
 I don't know whether the idea came suddenly to 
 Tink, or whether she had planned it on the way, 
 but she at once popped out of the hat and began to 
 lure Wendy to her destruction. 
 
 Tink was not all bad: or, rather, she was all 
 bad just now, but, on the other hand, some- 
 times she was all good. Fairies have to be one 
 thing or the other, because being so small they un- 
 fortunately have room for one feeling only at a 
 time. They are, however, allowed to change, only 
 
 60 
 
THE FLIGHT 
 
 it must be a complete change. At present she was 
 full of jealousy of Wendy. What she said in her 
 lovely tinkle Wendy could not of course under- 
 stand, and I believe some of it was bad words, but 
 it sounded kind, and she flew back and forward, 
 plainly meaning "Follow me, and all will be 
 well." 
 
 What else could poor Wendy do 1 ? She called 
 to Peter and John and Michael, and got only 
 mocking echoes in reply. She did not yet know 
 that Tink hated her with the fierce hatred of a 
 very woman. And so, bewildered, and now stag- 
 gering in her flight, she followed Tink to her 
 doom. 
 
 6r 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE ISLAND COME TRUE 
 
 FEELING that Peter was on his way back, the 
 Neverland had again woke into life. We ought 
 to use the pluperfect and say wakened, but woke 
 is better and was always used by Peter. 
 
 In his absence things are usually quiet on the 
 island. The fairies take an hour longer in the 
 morning, the beasts attend to their young, the red- 
 skins feed heavily for six days and nights, 
 and when pirates and lost boys meet they merely 
 bite their thumbs at each other. But with the 
 coming of Peter, who hates lethargy, they are all 
 under way again: if you put your ear to the 
 ground now, you would hear the whole island 
 seething with life. 
 
 On this evening the chief forces of the island 
 were disposed as follows. The lost boys were out 
 looking for Peter, the pirates were out looking for 
 the lost boys, the redskins were out looking for the 
 pirates, and the beasts were out looking for the 
 redskins. They were going round and round the 
 
 62 
 
THE ISLAND COME TRUE 
 
 island, but they did not meet because all were 
 going at the same rate. 
 
 All wanted blood except the boys, who liked it 
 as a rule, but to-night were out to greet their cap- 
 tain. The boys on the island vary, of course, in 
 numbers, according as they get killed and so on; 
 and when they seem to be growing up, which is 
 against the rules, Peter thins them out ; but at this 
 time there were six of them, counting the twins as 
 two. Let us pretend to lie here among the sugar- 
 cane and watch them as they steal by in single 
 file, each with his hand on his dagger. 
 
 They are forbidden by Peter to look in the least 
 like him, and they wear the skins of bears slain by 
 themselves, in which they are so round and furry 
 that when they fall they roll. They have there- 
 fore become very sure-footed. 
 
 The first to pass is Tootles, not the least brave 
 but the most unfortunate of all that gallant band. 
 He had been in fewer adventures than any of 
 them, because the big things constantly happened 
 just when he had stepped round the corner; all 
 would be quiet, he would take the opportunity of 
 going off to gather a few sticks for firewood, and 
 then when he returned the others would be sweep- 
 ing up the blood. This ill-luck had given a gentle 
 melancholy to his countenance, but instead of 
 souring his nature had sweetened it, so that he was 
 quite the humblest of the boys. Poor kind 
 
 63 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 Tootles, there is danger in the air for you to-night. 
 Take care lest an adventure is now offered you, 
 which, if accepted, will plunge you in deepest woe. 
 'Tootles, the fairy Tink who is bent on mischief 
 .this night is looking for a tool, and she thinks you 
 the most easily tricked of the boys. 'Ware Tinker 
 Bell. 
 
 Would that he could hear us, but we are not 
 really on the island, and he passes by, biting his 
 ;knuckles. 
 
 Next comes Nibs, the gay and debonair, fol- 
 lowed by Slightly, who cuts whistles out of the 
 trees and dances ecstatically to his own tunes. 
 .Slightly is the most conceited of the boys. He 
 thinks he remembers the days before he was lost, 
 with their manners and customs, and this has given 
 his nose an offensive tilt. Curly is fourth ; he is a 
 pickle, and so often has he had to deliver up his 
 person when Peter said sternly, "Stand forth the 
 iOne who did this thing," that now at the command 
 he stands forth automatically whether he has done 
 it or no. Last come the Twins, who cannot be 
 , described because we should be sure to be describ- 
 ing the wrong one.. Peter never quite knew what 
 twins were, and ,his band were not allowed to 
 know anything he did not know, so these two were 
 always vague about themselves, and did their best 
 to give satisfaction by keeping close together in an 
 Apologetic sort, of way. 
 
THE ISLAND COME TRUE 
 
 The boys vanish in the gloom, and after a pause, 
 but not a long pause, for things go briskly on the 
 island, come the pirates on their track. We hear 
 them before they are seen, and it is always the 
 same dreadful song: 
 
 "Avast belay, yo ho, heave to, 
 
 A-pirating we go, 
 And if we 're parted by a shot 
 We 're sure to meet below!" 
 
 A more villainous-looking lot never hung in a 
 row on Execution dock. Here, a little in advance, 
 ever and again with his head to the ground listen- 
 ing, his great arms bare, pieces of eight in his ears 
 as ornaments, is the handsome Italian Cecco, who 
 cut his name in letters of blood on the back of the 
 governor of the prison at Gao. That gigantic 
 black behind him has had many names since he 
 dropped the one with which dusky mothers still 
 terrify their children on the banks of the Guadjo- 
 mo. Here is Bill Jukes, every inch of him tat- 
 tooed, the same Bill Jukes who got six dozen on 
 the Walrus from Flint before he would drop the 
 bag of moidores; and Cookson, said to be Black 
 Murphy's brother (but this was never proved), 
 and Gentleman Starkey, once an usher in a public 
 school and still dainty in his ways of killing; and 
 Skylights (Morgan's Skylights) ; and the Irish 
 bo' sun Smee, an oddly genial man who stabbed, so 
 
 65 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 to speak, without offence, and was the only Non- 
 conformist in Hook's crew; and Noodler, whose 
 hands were fixed on backwards; and Robt. Mullins 
 and Alf Mason and many another ruffian long 
 known and feared on the Spanish Main. 
 
 In the midst of them, the blackest and largest 
 jewel in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, 
 or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is 
 said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. 
 He lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and 
 propelled by his men, and instead of a right hand 
 he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he 
 encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs 
 this terrible man treated and addressed them, and 
 as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was 
 cadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was 
 dressed in long curls, which at a little distance 
 looked like black candles, and gave a singularly 
 threatening expression to his handsome coun- 
 tenance. His eyes were of the blue of the forget- 
 me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when 
 he was plunging his hook into you, at which time 
 two red spots appeared in them and lit them up 
 horribly. In manner, something of the grand 
 seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped 
 you up with an air, and I have been told that he 
 was a raconteur of repute. He was never more 
 sinister than when he was most polite, which is 
 probably the truest test of breeding; and the ele- 
 
 66 
 
THE ISLAND COME TRUE 
 
 gance of his diction, even when he was swearing, 
 no less than the distinction of his demeanour, 
 showed him one of a different caste from his crew. 
 A man of indomitable courage, it was said of him 
 that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his 
 own blood, which was thick and of an unusual 
 colour. In dress he somewhat aped the attire as- 
 sociated with the name of Charles II., having 
 heard it said in some earlier period of his career 
 that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated 
 Stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his 
 own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two 
 cigars at once. But undoubtedly the grimmest 
 part of him was his iron claw.^ 
 
 Let us now kill a pirate, to show Hook's 
 method. Skylights will do. As they pass, Sky- 
 lights lurches clumsily against him, ruffling his 
 lace collar; the hook shoots forth, there is a tear- 
 ing sound and one screech, then the body is kicked 
 aside, and the pirates pass on. He has not even 
 taken the cigars from his mouth. 
 
 Such is the terrible man against whom Peter 
 Pan is pitted. Which will win"? 
 
 On the trail of the pirates, stealing noiselessly 
 down the war-path, which is not visible to inex- 
 perienced eyes, come the redskins, every one of 
 them with his eyes peeled. They carry tomahawks 
 and knives, and their naked bodies gleam with 
 paint and oil. Strung around them are scalps, of 
 
 6 7 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 boys as well as of pirates, for these are the Pic- 
 caninny tribe, and not to be confused with the 
 softer-hearted Delawares or the Hurons. In the 
 van, on all fours, is Great Big Little Panther, a 
 brave of so many scalps that in his present position 
 they somewhat impede his progress. Bringing up 
 the rear, the place of greatest danger, comes Tiger 
 Lily, proudly erect, a princess in her own right. 
 She is the most beautiful of dusky Dianas and the 
 belle of the Piccaninnies, coquettish, cold and 
 amorous by turns ; there is not a brave who would 
 not have the wayward thing to wife, but she 
 staves off the altar with a hatchet. Observe how 
 they pass over fallen twigs without making the 
 slightest noise. The only sound to be heard is 
 their somewhat heavy breathing. The fact is that 
 they are all a little fat just now after the heavy 
 gorging, but in time they will work this off. For 
 the moment, however, it constitutes their chief 
 danger. 
 
 The redskins disappear as they have come like 
 shadows, and soon their place is taken by the 
 beasts, a great and motley procession : lions, tigers, 
 bears, and the innumerable smaller savage things 
 that flee from them, for every kind of beast, and, 
 more particularly, all the man-eaters, live cheek 
 by jowl on the favoured island. Their tongues are 
 hanging out, they are hungry to-night. 
 
 When they have passed, comes the last figure of 
 68 
 
THE ISLAND COME TRUE 
 
 all, a gigantic crocodile. We shall see for whom 
 she is looking presently. 
 
 The crocodile passes, but soon the boys appear 
 again, for the procession must continue indefi- 
 nitely until one of the parties stops or changes its 
 pace. Then quickly they will be on top of each 
 other. 
 
 All are keeping a sharp look-out in front, but 
 none suspects that the danger may be creeping up 1 
 from behind. This shows how real the island 
 was. 
 
 The first to fall out of the moving circle was the 1 
 boys. They flung themselves down on the sward,, 
 close to their underground home. 
 
 "I do wish Peter would come back," every one 
 of them said nervously, though in height and still 
 more in breadth they were all larger than their 
 captain. 
 
 "I am the only one who is not afraid of the 
 pirates," Slightly said, in the tone that prevented 
 his being a general favourite, but perhaps some 
 distant sound disturbed him, for he added hastily, 
 "but I wish he would come back, and tell us 
 whether he has heard anything more about Cin- 
 derella." 
 
 They talked of Cinderella, and Tootles was con- 
 fident that his mother must have been very like 
 her. 
 
 It was only in Peter's absence that they could 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 speak of mothers, the subject being forbidden by 
 him as silly. 
 
 "All I remember about my mother," Nibs told 
 them, "is that she often said to father, 'Oh, how I 
 wish I had a cheque-book of my own!' I don't 
 know what a cheque-book is, but I should just love 
 to give my mother one." 
 
 While they talked they heard a distant sound. 
 You or I, not being wild things of the woods, 
 would have heard nothing, but they heard it, and 
 it was the grim song: 
 
 "Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life, 
 
 The flag o' skull and bones, 
 A merry hour, a hempen rope, 
 And hey for Davy Jones." 
 
 At once the lost boys but where are they? 
 They are no longer there. Rabbits could not have 
 disappeared more quickly. 
 
 I will tell you where they are. With the ex- 
 ception of Nibs, who has darted away to recon- 
 noitre, they are already in their home under the 
 ground, a very delightful residence of which we 
 shall see a good deal presently. But how have 
 they reached it"? for there is no entrance to be seen, 
 not so much as a large stone, which if rolled away 
 would disclose the mouth of a cave. Look closely, 
 however, and you may note that there are here 
 seven large trees, each with a hole in its hollow 
 
 70 
 
THE ISLAND COME TRUE 
 
 trunk as large as a boy. These are the seven en- 
 trances to the home under the ground, for which 
 Hook has been searching in vain these many 
 moons. Will he find it to-night? 
 
 As the pirates advanced, the quick eye of 
 Starkey sighted Nibs disappearing through the 
 wood, and at once his pistol flashed out. But an 
 iron claw gripped his shoulder. 
 
 "Captain, let go !" he cried, writhing. 
 
 Now for the first time we hear the voice of 
 Hook. It was a black voice. "Put back that pis- 
 tol first," it said threateningly. 
 
 "It was one of those boys you hate. I could 
 have shot him dead." 
 
 "Ay, and the sound would have brought Tiger 
 Lily's redskins upon us. Do you want to lose 
 your scalp*?" 
 
 "Shall I after him, captain," asked pathetic 
 Smee, "and tickle- him with Johnny Corkscrew?" 
 Smee had pleasant names for everything, and his 
 cutlass was Johnny Corkscrew, because he wrig- 
 gled it in the wound. One could mention many 
 lovable traits in Smee. For instance, after killing, 
 it was his spectacles he wiped instead of his 
 weapon. 
 
 "Johnny's a silent fellow," he reminded Hook. 
 
 "Not now, Smee," Hook said darkly. "He is 
 only one, and I want to mischief all the seven. 
 Scatter and look for them." 
 
 71 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 The pirates disappeared among the trees, and 
 in a moment their captain and Smee were alone. 
 Hook heaved a heavy sigh, and I know not why it 
 was, perhaps it was because of the soft beauty of 
 the evening, but there came over him a desire to 
 confide to his faithful bo'sun the story of his life. 
 He spoke long and earnestly, but what it was all 
 about Smee, who was rather stupid, did not know 
 in the least. 
 
 Anon he caught the word Peter. 
 
 "Most of all," Hook was saying passionately, 
 "I want their captain, Peter Pan. 'Twas he cut 
 off my arm." He brandished the hook threaten- 
 ingly. "I've waited long to shake his hand with 
 this. Oh, I'll tear him!" 
 
 "And yet," said Smee, "I have often heard you 
 say that hook was worth a score of hands, for 
 combing the hair and other homely uses." 
 
 "Ay," the captain answered, "if I was a mother 
 I would pray to have my children born with this 
 instead of that," and he cast a look of pride upon 
 his iron hand and one of scorn upon the other. 
 Then again he frowned. 
 
 "Peter flung my arm," he said, wincing, "to a 
 crocodile that happened to be passing by." 
 
 "I have often," said Smee, "noticed your 
 strange dread of crocodiles." 
 
 "Not of crocodiles," Hook corrected him, "but 
 of that one crocodile." He lowered his voice. "It 
 
 72 
 
THE ISLAND COME TRUE 
 
 liked my arm so much, Smee, that it has followed 
 me ever since, from sea to sea and from land to 
 land, licking its lips for the rest of me." 
 
 "In a way," said Smee, "it's a sort of compli- 
 ment." 
 
 "I want no such compliments," Hook barked 
 petulantly. "I want Peter Pan, who first gave the 
 brute its taste for me." 
 
 He sat down on a large mushroom, and now 
 there was a quiver in his voice. "Smee," he said 
 huskily, "that crocodile would have had me before 
 this, but by a lucky chance it swallowed a clock 
 which goes tick tick inside it, and so before it can 
 reach me I hear the tick and bolt." He laughed, 
 but in a hollow way. 
 
 "Some day," said Smee, "the clock will run 
 down, and then he'll get you." 
 
 Hook wetted his dry lips. "Ay," he said, 
 "that's the fear that haunts me." 
 
 Since sitting down he had felt curiously warm. 
 "Smee," he said, "this seat is hot." He jumped 
 up. "Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, I'm burning." 
 
 They examined the mushroom, which was of a 
 size and solidity unknown on the mainland; they 
 tried to pull it up, and it came away at once in 
 their hands, for it had no root. Stranger still, 
 smoke began at once to ascend. The pirates 
 looked at each other. "A chimney!" they both 
 exclaimed. 
 
 73 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 They had indeed discovered the chimney of the 
 home under the ground. It was the custom of the 
 boys to stop it with a mushroom when enemies 
 were in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Not only smoke came out of it. There came 
 also children's voices, for so safe did the boys feel 
 in their hiding-place that they were gaily chatter- 
 ing. The pirates listened grimly, and then re- 
 placed the mushroom. They looked around them 
 and noted the holes in the seven trees. 
 
 "Did you hear them say Peter Pan's from 
 home 1 ?" Smee whispered, fidgeting with Johnny 
 Corkscrew. 
 
 Hook nodded. He stood for a long time lost 
 in thought, and at last a curdling smile lit up his 
 swarthy face. Smee had been waiting for it. 
 "Unrip your plan, captain," he cried eagerly. 
 
 "To return to the ship," Hook replied slowly 
 through his teeth, "and cook a large rich cake of 
 a jolly thickness with green sugar on it. There 
 can be but one room below, for there is but one 
 chimney. The silly moles had not the sense to see 
 that they did not need a door apiece. That shows 
 they have no mother. We will leave the cake on the 
 shore of the Mermaids' Lagoon. These boys are 
 always swimming about there, playing with the 
 mermaids. They will find the cake and they will 
 gobble it up, because, having no mother, they don't 
 know how dangerous 'tis to eat rich damp cake." 
 
 74 
 
THE ISLAND COME TRUE 
 
 He burst into laughter, not hollow laughter now, 
 but honest laughter. "Aha, they will die !" 
 
 Smee had listened with growing admiration. 
 
 "It's the wickedest, prettiest policy ever I heard 
 of!" he cried, and in their exultation they danced 
 and sang : 
 
 "Avast, belay, when I appear, 
 
 By fear they're overtook, 
 Nought's left upon your bones when you 
 Have shaken claws with Cook." 
 
 They began the verse, but they never finished 
 it, for another sound broke in and stilled them. It 
 was at first such a tiny sound that a leaf might 
 have fallen on it and smothered it, but as it came 
 nearer it was more distinct. 
 
 Tick tick tick tick ! 
 
 Hook stood shuddering, one foot in the air. 
 
 "The crocodile !" he gasped, and bounded away, 
 followed by his bo' sun. 
 
 It was indeed the crocodile. It had passed the 
 redskins, who were now on the trail of the other 
 pirates. It oozed on after Hook. 
 
 Once more the boys emerged into the open ; but 
 the dangers of the night were not yet over, for 
 presently Nibs rushed breathless into their midst, 
 pursued by a pack of wolves. The tongues of the 
 pursuers were hanging out; the baying of them 
 was horrible. 
 
 75 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Save me, save me !" cried Nibs, falling on the 
 ground. 
 
 "But what can we do, what can we do?" 
 
 It was a high compliment to Peter that at that 
 dire moment their thoughts turned to him. 
 
 "What would Peter do 1 ?" they cried simul- 
 taneously. 
 
 Almost in the same breath they cried, "Peter 
 would look at them through his legs." 
 
 And then, "Let us do what Peter would do." 
 
 It is quite the most successful way of defying 
 wolves, and as one boy they bent and looked 
 through their legs. The next moment is the long 
 one, but victory came quickly, for as the boys ad- 
 vanced upon them in this terrible attitude, the 
 wolves dropped their tails and fled. 
 
 Now Nibs rose from the ground, and the others 
 thought that his staring eyes still saw the wolves. 
 But it was not wolves he saw. 
 
 "I have seen a wonderfuller thing," he cried, as 
 they gathered round him eagerly. "A great white 
 bird. It is flying this way." 
 
 "What kind of a bird, do you think?' 
 
 "I don't know," Nibs said, awestruck, "but it 
 looks so weary, and as it flies it moans, 'Poor 
 Wendy.' " 
 
 "Poor Wendy?" 
 
 "I remember," said Slightly instantly, "there 
 are birds called Wendies." 
 
THE ISLAND COME TRUE 
 
 "See, it comes!" cried Curly, pointing to 
 Wendy in the heavens. 
 
 Wendy was now almost overhead, and they 
 could hear her plaintive cry. But more distinct 
 came the shrill voice of Tinker Bell. The jealous 
 fairy had now cast off all disguise of friendship, 
 and was darting at her victim from every direc- 
 tion, pinching savagely each time she touched. 
 
 "Hullo, Tink," cried the wondering boys. 
 
 Tink's reply rang out: "Peter wants you to 
 shoot the Wendy." 
 
 It was not in their nature to question when 
 Peter ordered. "Let us do what Peter wishes," 
 cried the simple boys. "Quick, bows and arrows !" 
 
 All but Tootles popped down their trees. He 
 had a bow and arrow with him, and Tink noted it, 
 and rubbed her little hands. 
 
 "Quick, Tootles, quick," she screamed. "Peter 
 will be so pleased." 
 
 Tootles excitedly fitted the arrow to his bow. 
 "Out of the way, Tink," he shouted, and then he 
 fired, and Wendy fluttered to the ground with an 
 arrow in her breast. 
 
 77 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 FOOLISH Tootles was standing like a conqueror 
 over Wendy's body when the other boys sprang, 
 armed, from their trees. 
 
 "You are too late," he cried proudly, "I have 
 shot the Wendy. Peter will be so pleased with 
 me." 
 
 Overhead Tinker Bell shouted "Silly ass!" and 
 darted into hiding. The others did not hear her. 
 
 They had crowded round Wendy, and as they 
 looked a terrible silence fell upon the wood. If 
 Wendy's heart had been beating they would all 
 have heard it. 
 
 Slightly was the first to speak. "This is no 
 bird," he said in a scared voice. "I think it must 
 be a lady." 
 
 "A lady*?" said Tootles, and fell a-trembling. 
 
 "And we have killed her," Nibs said hoarsely. 
 
 They all whipped off their caps. 
 
 "Now I see," Curly said; "Peter was bringing 
 her to us." He threw himself sorrowfully on the 
 ground. 
 
 78 
 
THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 "A lady to take care of us at last," said one of 
 the twins, "and you have killed her !" 
 
 They were sorry for him, but sorrier for them- 
 selves, and when he took a step nearer them they 
 turned from him. 
 
 Tootles' face was very white, but there was a dig- 
 nity about him now that had never been there before. 
 
 "I did it," he said, reflecting. "When ladies 
 used to come to me in dreams, I said, 'Pretty 
 mother, pretty mother.' But when at last she 
 really came, I shot her." 
 
 He moved slowly away. 
 
 "Don't go," they called in pity. 
 
 "I must," he answered, shaking; "I am so afraid 
 of Peter." 
 
 It was at this tragic moment that they heard a 
 sound which made the heart of every one of them 
 rise to his mouth. They heard Peter crow. 
 
 "Peter !" they cried, for it was always thus that 
 he signalled his return. 
 
 "Hide her," they whispered, and gathered 
 hastily around Wendy. But Tootles stood aloof. 
 
 Again came that ringing crow, and Peter 
 dropped in front of them. "Greeting, boys," he 
 cried, and mechanically they saluted, and then 
 again was silence. 
 
 He frowned. 
 
 "I am back," he said hotly, "why do you not 
 cheer?" 
 
 79 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 They opened their mouths, but the cheers would 
 not come. He overlooked it in his haste to tell the 
 glorious tidings. 
 
 "Great news, boys," he cried, "I have brought 
 at last a mother for you all." 
 
 Still no sound, except a little thud from 
 Tootles as he dropped on his knees. 
 
 "Have you not seen her*?" asked Peter, becom- 
 ing troubled. "She flew this way." 
 
 "Ah me!" one voice said, and another said, 
 "Oh, mournful day." 
 
 Tootles rose. "Peter," he said quietly, "I will 
 show her to you," and when the others would still 
 have hidden her he said, "Back, twins, let Peter see." 
 
 So they all stood back, and let him see, and after 
 he had looked for a little time he did not know 
 what to do next. 
 
 "She is dead," he said uncomfortably. "Per- 
 haps she is frightened at being dead." 
 
 He thought of hopping off in a comic sort of 
 way till he was out of sight of her, and then never 
 going near the spot any more. They would all 
 have been glad to follow if he had done this. 
 
 But there was the arrow. He took it from her 
 heart and faced his band. 
 
 "Whose arrow?" he demanded sternly. 
 
 "Mine, Peter," said Tootles on his knees. 
 
 "Oh, dastard hand," Peter said, and he raised 
 the arrow to use it as a dagger. 
 80 
 
THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 Tootles did not flinch. He bared his breast. 
 "Strike, Peter," he said firmly, "strike true." 
 
 Twice did Peter raise the arrow, and twice did 
 his hand fall. "I cannot strike," he said with 
 awe, "there is something stays my hand." 
 
 All looked at him in wonder, save Nibs, who 
 fortunately looked at Wendy. 
 
 "It is she," he cried, "the Wendy lady, see, her 
 arm!" 
 
 Wonderful to relate, Wendy had raised her 
 arm. Nibs bent over her and listened reverently. 
 "I think she said Toor Tootles,' " he whispered. 
 
 "She lives," Peter said briefly. 
 
 Slightly cried instantly, "The Wendy lady 
 lives." 
 
 Then Peter knelt beside her and found his but- 
 ton. You remember she had put it on a chain that 
 she wore round her neck. 
 
 "See," he said, "the arrow struck against this. 
 It is the kiss I gave her. It has saved her life." 
 
 "I remember kisses," Slightly interposed 
 quickly, "let me see it. Ay, that's a kiss." 
 
 Peter did not hear him. He was begging 
 Wendy to get better quickly, so that he could 
 show her the mermaids. Of course she could not 
 answer yet, being still in a frightful faint; but 
 from overhead came a wailing note. 
 
 "Listen to Tink," said Curly, "she is crying be- 
 cause the Wendy lives." 
 
 81 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 Then they had to tell Peter of Tink's crime, and 
 almost never had they seen him look so stern. 
 
 "Listen, Tinker Bell," he cried, "I am your 
 friend no more. Begone from me for ever." 
 
 She flew on to his shoulder and pleaded, but he 
 brushed her off. Not until Wendy again raised 
 her arm did he relent sufficiently to say, "Well, 
 not for ever, but for a whole week." 
 
 Do you think Tinker Bell was grateful to 
 Wendy for raising her arm? Oh dear no, never 
 wanted to pinch her so much. Fairies indeed are 
 strange, and Peter, who understood them best, 
 often cuffed them. 
 
 But what to do with Wendy in her present 
 delicate state of health? 
 
 "Let us carry her down into the house," Curly 
 suggested. 
 
 "Ay," said Slightly, "that is what one does with 
 ladies." 
 
 "No, no," Peter said, "you must not touch her. 
 It would not be sufficiently respectful." 
 
 "That," said Slightly, "is what I was thinking." 
 
 "But if she lies there," Tootles said, "she will 
 die." 
 
 "Ay, she will die," Slightly admitted, "but 
 there is no way out." 
 
 "Yes, there is," cried Peter. "Let us build a 
 little house round her." 
 
 They were all delighted. "Quick," he ordered 
 
 82 
 
THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 them, "bring me each of you the best of what we 
 have. Gut our house. Be sharp." 
 
 In a moment they were as busy as tailors the 
 night before a wedding. They skurried this way 
 and that, down for bedding, up for firewood, and 
 while they were at it, who should appear but John 
 and Michael. As they dragged along the ground 
 they fell asleep standing, stopped, woke up, 
 moved another step and slept again. 
 
 "John, John," Michael would cry, "wake up! 
 Where is Nana, John, and mother?" 
 
 And then John would rub his eyes and mutter, 
 "It is true, we did fly." 
 
 You may be sure they were very relieved to find 
 Peter. 
 
 "Hullo, Peter," they said. 
 
 "Hullo," replied Peter amicably, though he had 
 quite forgotten them. He was very busy at the 
 moment measuring Wendy with his feet to see how 
 large a house she would need. Of course he meant 
 to leave room for chairs and a table. John and 
 Michael watched him. 
 
 "Is Wendy asleep?" they asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "John," Michael proposed, "let us wake her 
 and get her to make supper for us," and as he said 
 it some of the other boys rushed on carrying 
 branches for the building of the house. "Look at 
 them!" he cried. 
 
 83 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Curly," said Peter in his most captainy voice, 
 "see that these boys help in the building of the 
 house." 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir." 
 
 "Build a house*?" exclaimed John. 
 
 "For the Wendy," said Curly. 
 
 "For Wendy?" John said, aghast. "Why, she 
 is only a girl !" 
 
 "That," explained Curly, "is why we are her 
 servants." 
 
 "You? Wendy's servants !" 
 
 "Yes," said Peter, "and you also. Away with 
 them." 
 
 The astounded brothers were dragged away to 
 hack and hew and carry. "Chairs and a fender 
 first," Peter ordered. "Then we shall build the 
 house round them." 
 
 "Ay," said Slightly, "that is how a house is 
 built; it all comes back to me." 
 
 Peter thought of everything. "Slightly," he 
 cried, "fetch a doctor." 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Slightly at once, and disap- 
 peared, scratching his head. But he knew Peter 
 must be obeyed, and he returned in a moment, 
 wearing John's hat and looking solemn. 
 
 "Please, sir," said Peter, going to him, "are you 
 a doctor?" 
 
 The difference between him and the other boys 
 at such a time was that they knew it was make- 
 
 8 4 
 
THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 believe, while to him make-believe and true were 
 exactly the same thing. This sometimes troubled 
 them, as when they had to make-believe that they 
 had had their dinners. 
 
 If they broke down in their make-believe he 
 rapped them on the knuckles. 
 
 "Yes, my little man," anxiously replied 
 Slightly, who had chapped knuckles. 
 
 "Please, sir," Peter explained, "a lady lies very 
 ill." 
 
 She was lying at their feet, but Slightly had the 
 sense not to see her. 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut," he said, "where does she lie?" 
 
 "In yonder glade." 
 
 "I will put a glass thing in her mouth," said 
 Slightly, and he made-believe to do it, while Peter 
 waited. It was an anxious moment when the glass 
 thing was withdrawn. 
 
 "How is she*?" inquired Peter. 
 
 "Tut, tut, tut," said Slightly, this has cured her." 
 
 "I am glad!" Peter cried. 
 
 "I will call again in the evening," Slightly said; 
 "give her beef tea out of a cup with a spout to it" ; 
 but after he had returned the hat to John he blew 
 big breaths, which was his habit on escaping from 
 a difficulty. 
 
 In the meantime the wood had been alive with 
 the sound of axes ; almost everything needed for a 
 cosy dwelling already lay at Wendy's feet. 
 
 85 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "If only we knew," said one, "the kind of 
 house she likes best." 
 
 "Peter," shouted another, "she is moving in her 
 sleep." 
 
 "Her mouth opens," cried a third, looking re- 
 spectfully into it. "Oh, lovely!" 
 
 "Perhaps she is going to sing in her sleep," said 
 Peter. "Wendy, sing the kind of house you 
 would like to have." 
 
 Immediately, without opening her eyes, Wendy 
 began to sing : 
 
 " I wish I had a pretty house, 
 
 The littlest ever seen, 
 With funny little red walls 
 And roof of mossy green." 
 
 They gurgled with joy at this, for by the great- 
 est good luck the branches they had brought were 
 sticky with red sap, and all the ground was car- 
 peted with moss. As they rattled up the little 
 house they broke into song themselves : 
 
 "We've built the 'little walls and roof 
 
 And made a lovely door, 
 So tell us, mother Wendy, 
 
 Wliat are you wanting more ?" 
 
 To this she answered rather greedily : 
 
 "Oh, really next I think I'll have 
 
 Gay windows all about, 
 With roses peeping in, you know, 
 And babies peeping out." 
 
 86 
 
THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 With a blow of their fists they made windows, 
 and large yellow leaves were the blinds. But 
 roses ? 
 
 "Roses !" cried Peter sternly. 
 
 Quickly they made-believe to grow the loveliest 
 roses up the walls. 
 
 Babies'? 
 
 To prevent Peter ordering babies they hurried 
 into song again : 
 
 "We've made the roses peeping out, 
 
 The babes are at the door, 
 We cannot make oufselves, you know, 
 'Cos we've been made before." 
 
 Peter, seeing this to be a good idea, at once pre- 
 tended that it was his own. The house was quite 
 beautiful, and no doubt Wendy was very cosy 
 within, though, of course, they could no longer see 
 her. Peter strode up and down, ordering finishing 
 touches. Nothing escaped his eagle eye. Just 
 when it seemed absolutely finished, 
 
 "There's no knocker on the door," he said. 
 
 They were very ashamed, but Tootles gave the 
 sole of his shoe, and it made an excellent knocker. 
 
 Absolutely finished now, they thought. 
 
 Not a bit of it. "There's no chimney," Peter 
 said; "we must have a chimney." 
 
 "It certainly does need a chimney," said John 
 importantly. This gave Peter an idea. He 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 snatched the hat off John's head, knocked out the 
 bottom, and put the hat on the roof. The little 
 house was so pleased to have such a capital chim- 
 ney that, as if to say thank you, smoke imme- 
 diately began to come out of the hat. 
 
 Now really and truly it was finished. Nothing 
 remained to do but to knock. 
 
 "All look your best," Peter warned them; "first 
 impressions are awfully important." 
 
 He was glad no one asked him what first im- 
 pressions are; they were all too busy looking their 
 best. 
 
 He knocked politely, and now the wood was as 
 still as the children, not a sound to be heard except 
 from Tinker Bell, who was watching from a 
 branch and openly sneering. 
 
 What the boys were wondering was, would any 
 one answer the knock *? If a lady, what would she 
 be like? 
 
 The door opened and a lady came out. It was 
 Wendy. They all whipped off their hats. 
 
 She looked properly surprised, and this was just 
 how they had hoped she would look. 
 
 "Where am IT she said. 
 
 Of course Slightly was the first to get his word 
 in. "Wendy lady," he said rapidly, "for you we 
 built this house." 
 
 "Oh, say you're pleased," cried Nibs. 
 
 "Lovely, darling house," Wendy said, and they 
 
PETER ON GUARD 
 
THE LITTLE HOUSE 
 
 were the very words they had hoped she would 
 say. 
 
 "And we are your children," cried the twins. 
 
 Then all went on their knees, and holding out 
 their arms cried, "O Wendy lady, be our mother." 
 
 "Ought IT Wendy said, all shining. "Of 
 course it's frightfully fascinating, but you see I 
 am only a little girl. I have no real experience." 
 
 "That doesn't matter," said Peter, as if he were 
 the only person present who knew all about it, 
 though he was really the one who knew least. 
 "What we need is just a nice motherly person." 
 
 "Oh dear!" Wendy said, "you see I feel that is 
 exactly what I am." 
 
 "It is, it is," they all cried; "we saw it at once." 
 
 "Very well," she said, "I will do my best. Come 
 inside at once, you naughty children; I am sure 
 your feet are damp. And before I put you to bed 
 I have just time to finish the story of Cinderella." 
 
 In they went; I don't know how there was room 
 for them, but you can squeeze very tight in the 
 Neverland. And that was the first of the many 
 joyous evenings they had with Wendy. By and 
 by she tucked them up in the great bed in the 
 home under the trees, but she herself slept that 
 night in the little house, and Peter kept watch out- 
 side with drawn sword, for the pirates could be 
 heard carousing far away and the wolves were on 
 the prowl. The little house looked so cosy and 
 
 89 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 safe in the darkness, with a bright light showing 
 through its blinds, and the chimney smoking 
 beautifully, and Peter standing on guard. After 
 a time he fell asleep, and some unsteady fairies 
 had to climb over him on their way home from an 
 orgy. Any of the other boys obstructing the fairy 
 path at night they would have mischiefed, but 
 they just tweaked Peter's nose and passed on. 
 
 90 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND 
 
 ONE of the first things Peter did next day was to 
 measure Wendy and John and Michael for hollow 
 trees. Hook, you remember, had sneered at the 
 boys for thinking they needed a tree apiece, but 
 this was ignorance, for unless your tree fitted you 
 it was difficult to go up and down, and no two of 
 the boys were quite the same size. Once you 
 fitted, you drew in your breath at the top, and 
 down you went at exactly the right speed, while 
 to ascend you drew in and let out alternately, and 
 so wriggled up. Of course, when you have mas- 
 tered the action you are able to do these things 
 without thinking of them, and then nothing can 
 be more graceful. 
 
 But you simply must fit, and Peter measures 
 you for your tree as carefully as for a suit of 
 clothes: the only difference being that the clothes 
 are made to fit you, while you have to be made to 
 fit the tree. Usually it is done quite easily, as by 
 your wearing too many garments or too few, but if 
 
 91 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 you are bumpy in awkward places or the only 
 available tree is an odd shape, Peter does some 
 things to you, and after that you fit. Once you 
 fit, great care must be taken to go on fitting, and 
 this, as Wendy was to discover to her delight, 
 keeps a whole family in perfect condition. 
 
 Wendy and Michael fitted their trees at the 
 first try, but John had to be altered a little. 
 
 After a few days' practice they could go up and 
 down as gaily as buckets in a well. And how ar- 
 dently they grew to love their home under the 
 ground; especially Wendy! It consisted of one 
 large room, as all houses should do, with a floor in 
 which you could dig if you wanted to go fishing, 
 and in this floor grew stout mushrooms of a charm- 
 ing colour, which were used as stools. A Never 
 tree tried hard to grow in the centre of the room, 
 but every morning they sawed the trunk through, 
 level with the floor. By tea-time it was always 
 about two feet high, and then they put a door on 
 top of it, the whole thus becoming a table ; as soon 
 as they cleared away, they sawed off the trunk 
 again, and thus there was more room to play. 
 There was an enormous fireplace which was in al- 
 most any part of the room where you cared to 
 light it, and across this Wendy stretched strings, 
 made of fibre, from which she suspended her wash- 
 ing. The bed was tilted against the wall by day, 
 and let down at 6.30, when it filled nearly half the 
 
 92 
 
THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND 
 
 room; and all the boys slept in it, except Michael, 
 lying like sardines in a tin. There was a strict rule 
 against turning round until one gave the signal, 
 when all turned at once. Michael should have 
 used it also, but Wendy would have a baby, and 
 he was the littlest, and you know what women 
 are, and the short and the long of it is that he was 
 hung up in a basket. 
 
 It was rough and simple, and not unlike what 
 baby bears would have made of an underground 
 house in the same circumstances. But there was 
 one recess in the wall, no larger than a bird-cage, 
 which was the private apartment of Tinker Bell. 
 It could be shut off from the rest of the home by a 
 tiny curtain, which Tink, who was most fastidious, 
 always kept drawn when dressing or undressing. 
 No woman, however large, could have had a more 
 exquisite boudoir and bed-chamber combined. The 
 couch, as she always called it, was a genuine 
 Queen Mab, with club legs; and she varied the 
 bedspreads according to what fruit-blossom was 
 in season. Her mirror was a Puss-in-boots, of 
 which there are now only three, unchipped, known 
 to the fairy dealers; the wash-stand was Pie-crust 
 and reversible, the chest of drawers an authentic 
 Charming the Sixth, and the carpet and rugs of the 
 best (the early) period of Margery and Robin. 
 There was a chandelier from Tiddlywinks for the 
 look of the thing, but of course she lit the residence 
 
 93 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 herself. Tink was very contemptuous of the rest 
 of the house, as indeed was perhaps inevitable, and 
 her chamber, though beautiful, looked rather con- 
 ceited, having the appearance of a nose perma- 
 nently turned up. 
 
 I suppose it was all especially entrancing to 
 Wendy, because those rampagious boys of hers 
 gave her so much to do. Really there were whole 
 weeks when, except perhaps with a stocking in the 
 evening, she was never above ground. The cook- 
 ing, I can tell you, kept her nose to the pot, and 
 even if there was nothing in it, even though there 
 was no pot, she had to keep watching that it came 
 aboil just the same. You never exactly knew 
 whether there would be a real meal or just a make- 
 believe, it all depended upon Peter's whim: he 
 could eat, really eat, if it was part of a game, but 
 he could not stodge just to feel stodgy, which is 
 what most children like better than anything else ; 
 the next best thing being to talk about it. Make- 
 believe was so real to him that during a meal of it 
 you could see him getting rounder. Of course it 
 was trying, but you simply had to follow his lead, 
 and if you could prove to him that you were get- 
 ting loose for your tree he let you stodge. 
 
 Wendy's favourite time for sewing and darning 
 was after they had all gone to bed. Then, as she 
 expressed it, she had a breathing time for herself; 
 and she occupied it in making new things for 
 
 94 
 
THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND 
 
 them, and putting double pieces on the knees, for 
 they were all most frightfully hard on their knees. 
 
 When she sat down to a basketful of their stock- 
 ings, every heel with a hole in it, she would fling 
 up her arms and exclaim, "Oh dear, I am sure I 
 sometimes think spinsters are to be envied!" 
 
 Her face beamed when she exclaimed this. 
 
 You remember about her pet wolf. Well, it 
 very soon discovered that she had come to the 
 island and found her out, and they just ran into 
 each other's arms. After that it followed her 
 about everywhere. 
 
 As time wore on did she think much about the 
 beloved parents she had left behind her? This is 
 a difficult question, because it is quite impossible 
 to say how time does wear on in the Neverland, 
 where it is calculated by moons and suns, and 
 there are ever so many more of them than on the 
 mainland. But I am afraid that Wendy did not 
 really worry about her father and mother; she was 
 absolutely confident that they would always keep 
 the window open for her to fly back by, and this 
 gave her complete ease of mind. What did disturb 
 her at times was that John remembered his parents 
 vaguely only, as people he had once known, while 
 Michael was quite willing to believe that she was 
 really his mother. These things scared her a little, 
 and nobly anxious to do her duty, she tried to fix 
 the old life in their minds by setting them exami- 
 
 95 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 nation papers on it, as like as possible to the ones 
 she used to do at school. The other boys thought 
 this awfully interesting, and insisted on joining, 
 and they made slates for themselves, and sat round 
 the table, writing and thinking hard about the 
 questions she had written on another slate and 
 passed round. They were the most ordinary ques- 
 tions "What was the colour of Mother's eyes'? 
 Which was taller, Father or Mother? Was 
 Mother blonde or brunette*? Answer all three 
 questions if possible." "(A) Write an essay of 
 not less than 40 words on How I spent my last 
 Holidays, or The Carakters of Father and Mother 
 compared. Only one of these to be attempted." 
 Or "(i) Describe Mother's laugh; (2) Describe 
 Father's laugh; (3) Describe Mother's Party 
 Dress; (4) Describe the Kennel and its Inmate." 
 
 They were just everyday questions like these, 
 and when you could not answer them you were 
 told to make a cross; and it was really dreadful 
 what a number of crosses even John made. Of 
 course the only boy who replied to every question 
 was Slightly, and no one could have been more 
 hopeful of coming out first, but his answers were 
 perfectly ridiculous, and he really came out last: 
 a melancholy thing. 
 
 Peter did not compete. For one thing he de- 
 spised all mothers except Wendy, and for another 
 he was the only boy on the island who could 
 
THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND 
 
 neither write nor spell ; not the smallest word. He 
 was above all that sort of thing. 
 
 By the way, the questions were all written in 
 the past tense. What was the colour of Mother's 
 eyes, and so on. Wendy, you see, had been for- 
 getting too. 
 
 Adventures, of course, as we shall see, were of 
 daily occurrence; but about this time Peter in- 
 vented, with Wendy's help, a new game that fas- 
 cinated him enormously, until he suddenly had no 
 more interest in it, which, as you have been told, 
 was what always happened with his games. It 
 consisted in pretending not to have adventures, in 
 doing the sort of thing John and Michael had been 
 doing all their lives, sitting on stools flinging balls 
 in the air, pushing each other, going out for walks 
 and coming back without having killed so much as 
 a grizzly. To see Peter doing nothing on a stool 
 was a great sight ; he could not help looking solemn 
 at such times, to sit still seemed to him such a 
 comic thing to do. He boasted that he had gone a 
 walk for the good of his health. For several suns 
 these were the most novel of all adventures to 
 him; and John and Michael had to pretend to be 
 delighted also; otherwise he would have treated 
 them severely. 
 
 He often went out alone, and when he came 
 back you were never absolutely certain whether he 
 had had an adventure or not. He might have for- 
 
 97 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 gotten it so completely that he said nothing about 
 it; and then when you went out you found the 
 body ; and, on the other hand, he might say a great 
 deal about it, and yet you could not find the body. 
 Sometimes he came home with his head bandaged, 
 and then Wendy cooed over him and bathed it in 
 Lukewarm water, while he told a dazzling tale. 
 But she was never quite sure, you know. There 
 were, however, many adventures which she knew 
 to be true because she was in them herself, and 
 there were still more that were at least partly true, 
 for the other boys were in them and said they were 
 wholly true. To describe them all would require 
 a book as large as an English-Latin, Latin-English 
 Dictionary, and the most we can do is to give one 
 as a specimen of an average hour on the island. 
 The difficulty is which one to choose. Should we 
 take the brush with the redskins at Slightly Gulch? 
 It was a sanguinary affair, and especially interest- 
 ing as showing one of Peter's peculiarities, which 
 was that in the middle of a fight he would sud- 
 denly change sides. At the Gulch, when victory 
 was still in the balance, sometimes leaning this 
 way and sometimes that, he called out, "I'm red- 
 skin to-day; what are you, Tootles'?" And 
 Tootles answered, "Redskin; what are you, 
 Nibs'?" and Nibs said, "Redskin; what are you, 
 Twin?" and so on; and they were all redskin; and 
 of course this would have ended the fight had not 
 
 9 8 
 
THE HOME UNDER THE GROUND 
 
 the real redskins, fascinated by Peter's methods, 
 agreed to be lost boys for that once, and so at it 
 they all went again, more fiercely than ever. 
 
 The extraordinary upshot of this adventure was 
 but we have not decided yet that this is the ad- 
 venture we are to narrate. Perhaps a better one 
 would be the night attack by the redskins on the 
 house under the ground, when several of them 
 stuck in the hollow trees and had to be pulled out 
 like corks. Or we might tell how Peter saved 
 Tiger Lily's life in the Mermaids' Lagoon, and so 
 made her his ally. 
 
 Or we could tell of that cake the pirates cooked 
 so that the boys might eat it and perish ; and how 
 they placed it in one cunning spot after another; 
 but always Wendy snatched it from the hands of 
 her children, so that in time it lost its succulence, 
 and became as hard as a stone, and was used as a 
 missile, and Hook fell over it in the dark. 
 
 Or suppose we tell of the birds that were Peter's 
 friends, particularly of the Never bird that built 
 in a tree overhanging the lagoon, and how the nest 
 fell into the water, and still the bird sat on her 
 eggs, and Peter gave orders that she was not to be 
 disturbed. That is a pretty story, and the end 
 shows how grateful a bird can be ; but if we tell it 
 we must also tell the whole adventure of the la- 
 goon, which would of course be telling two adven- 
 tures rather than just one. A shorter adventure, 
 
 99 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 and quite as exciting, was Tinker Bell's attempt, 
 with the help of some street fairies, to have the 
 sleeping Wendy conveyed on a great floating leaf 
 to the mainland. Fortunately the leaf gave way 
 and Wendy woke, thinking it was bath-time, and 
 swam back. Or again, we might choose Peter's 
 defiance of the lions, when he drew a circle round 
 him on the ground with an arrow and dared them 
 to cross it; and though he waited for hours, with 
 the other boys and Wendy looking on breathlessly 
 from trees, not one of them would accept his 
 challenge. 
 
 Which of these adventures shall we choose"? 
 The best way will be to toss for it. 
 
 I have tossed, and the lagoon has won. This 
 almost makes one wish that the gulch or the cake 
 or Tink's leaf had won. Of course I could do it 
 again, and make it best out of three ; however, per- 
 haps fairest to stick to the lagoon. 
 
 100 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 
 
 IF you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you 
 may see at times a shapeless pool of lovely pale 
 colours suspended in the darkness; then if you 
 squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take 
 shape, and the colours become so vivid that with 
 another squeeze they must go on fire. But just 
 before they go on fire you see the lagoon. This is 
 the nearest you ever get to it on the mainland, just 
 one heavenly moment; if there could be two mo- 
 ments you might see the surf and hear the mer- 
 maids singing. 
 
 The children often spent long summer days on 
 this lagoon, swimming or floating most of the 
 time, playing the mermaid games in the water, 
 and so forth. You must not think from this that 
 the mermaids were on friendly terms with them: 
 on the contrary, it was among Wendy's lasting 
 regrets that all the time she was on the island she 
 never had a civil word from one of them. When 
 she stole softly to the edge of the lagoon she might 
 
 101 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 see them by the score, especially on Marooners' 
 Rock, where they loved to bask, combing out their 
 hair in a lazy way that quite irritated her; or she 
 might even swim, on tiptoe as it were, to within a 
 yard of them, but then they saw her and dived, 
 probably splashing her with their tails, not by ac- 
 cident, but intentionally. 
 
 They treated all the boys in the same way, ex- 
 cept of course Peter, who chatted with them on 
 Marooners' Rock by the hour and sat on their tails 
 when they got cheeky. He gave Wendy one of 
 their combs. 
 
 The most haunting time at which to see them is 
 at the turn of the moon, when they utter strange 
 wailing cries ; but the lagoon is dangerous for mor- 
 tals then, and until the evening of which we have 
 now to tell, Wendy had never seen the lagoon by 
 moonlight, less from fear, for of course Peter 
 would have accompanied her, than because she had 
 strict rules about every one being in bed by seven. 
 She was often at the lagoon, however, on sunny 
 days after rain, when the mermaids come up in 
 extraordinary numbers to play with their bubbles. 
 The bubbles of many colours made in rainbow 
 water they treat as balls, hitting them gaily from 
 one to another with their tails, and trying to keep 
 them in the rainbow till they burst. The goals are 
 at each end of the rainbow, and the keepers only 
 are allowed to use their hands. Sometimes a dozen 
 
 102 
 
THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 
 
 of these games will be going on in the lagoon at a 
 time, and it is quite a pretty sight. 
 
 But the moment the children tried to join in 
 they had to play by themselves, for the mermaids 
 immediately disappeared. Nevertheless we have 
 proof that they secretly watched the interlopers, 
 and were not above taking an idea from them ; for 
 John introduced a new way of hitting the bubble, 
 with the head instead of the hand, and the mer- 
 maids adopted it. This is the one mark that John 
 has left on the Neverland. 
 
 It must also have been rather pretty to see the 
 children resting on a rock for half an hour after 
 their mid-day meal. Wendy insisted on their 
 doing this, and it had to be a real rest even though 
 the meal was make-believe. So they lay there in 
 the sun, and their bodies glistened in it, while she 
 sat beside them and looked important. 
 
 It was one such day, and they were all on 
 Marooners' Rock. The rock was not much larger 
 than their great bed, but of course they all knew 
 how not to take up much room, and they were 
 dozing or at least lying with their eyes shut, and 
 pinching occasionally when they thought Wendy 
 was not looking. She was very busy stitching. 
 
 While she stitched a change came to the lagoon. 
 Little shivers ran over it, and the sun went away 
 and shadows stole across the water, turning it cold. 
 Wendy could no longer see to thread her needle, 
 
 103 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 and when she looked up, the lagoon that had al- 
 ways hitherto been such a laughing place seemed 
 formidable and unfriendly. 
 
 It was not, she knew, that night had come, but 
 something as dark as night had come. No, worse 
 than that. It had not come, but it had sent that 
 shiver through the sea to say that it was coming. 
 What was it? 
 
 There crowded upon her all the stories she had 
 been told of Marooners' Rock, so called because 
 evil captains put sailors on it and leave them there 
 to drown. They drown when the tide rises, for 
 then it is submerged. 
 
 Of cc arse she should have roused the children at 
 once; r.ot merely because of the unknown that was 
 stalking toward them, but because it was no longer 
 good for them to sleep on a rock grown chilly. But 
 she was a young mother and she did not know this; 
 she thought you simply must stick to your rule 
 about half an hour after the mid-day meal. So, 
 though fear was upon her, and she longed to hear 
 male voices, she would not waken them. Even 
 when she heard the sound of muffled oars, though 
 her heart was in her mouth, she did not waken 
 them. She stood over them to let them have their 
 sleep out. Was it not brave of Wendy 1 ? 
 
 It was well for those boys then that there was 
 one among them who could sniff danger even in his 
 sleep. Peter sprang erect, as wide awake at once 
 
 104 
 
THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 
 
 as a dog, and with one warning cry he roused the 
 others. 
 
 He stood motionless, one hand to his ear. 
 
 "Pirates !" he cried. The others came closer to 
 him. A strange smile was playing about his face, 
 and Wendy saw it and shuddered. While that 
 smile was on his face no one dared address him; 
 all they could do was to stand ready to obey. The 
 order came sharp and incisive. 
 
 "Dive!" 
 
 There was a gleam of legs, and instantly the 
 lagoon seemed deserted. Marooners' Rock stood 
 alone in the forbidding waters, as if it were itself 
 marooned. 
 
 The boat drew nearer. It was the pirate dinghy, 
 with three figures in her, Smee and Starkey, and 
 the third a captive, no other than Tiger Lily. Her 
 hands and ankles were tied, and she knew what 
 was to be her fate. She was to be left on the rock 
 to perish, an end to one of her race more terrible 
 than death by fire or torture, for is it not written 
 in the book of the tribe that there is no path 
 through water to the happy hunting-ground ? Yet 
 her face was impassive; she was the daughter of a 
 chief, she must die as a chief's daughter, it is 
 enough. 
 
 They had caught her boarding the pirate ship 
 with a knife in her mouth. No watch was kept on 
 the ship, it being Hook's boast that the wind of his 
 
 105 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 name guarded the ship for a mile around. Now 
 her fate would help to guard it also. One more 
 wail would go the round in that wind by night. 
 
 In the gloom that they brought with them the two 
 pirates did not see the rock till they crashed into it. 
 
 "Luff, you lubber," cried an Irish voice that was 
 Smee's; "here's the rock. Now, then, what we 
 have to do is to hoist the redskin on to it and leave 
 her there to drown." 
 
 It was the work of one brutal moment to land 
 the beautiful girl on the rock; she was too proud to 
 offer a vain resistance. 
 
 Quite near the rock, but out of sight, two heads 
 were bobbing up and down, Peter's and Wendy's. 
 Wendy was crying, for it was the first tragedy she 
 had seen. Peter had seen many tragedies, but he 
 had forgotten them all. He was less sorry than 
 Wendy for Tiger Lily : it was two against one that 
 angered him, and he meant to save her. An easy 
 way would have been to wait until the pirates had 
 gone, but he was never one to choose the easy way. 
 
 There was almost nothing he could not do, and 
 he now imitated the voice of Hook. 
 
 "Ahoy there, you lubbers!" he called. It was 
 a marvellous imitation. 
 
 "The captain !" said the pirates, staring at each 
 other in surprise. 
 
 "He must be swimming out to us," Starkey said, 
 when they had looked for him in vain. 
 
 106 
 
THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 
 
 "We are putting the redskin on the rock," Smee 
 called out. 
 
 "Set her free," came the astonishing answer. 
 
 "Free!" 
 
 "Yes, cut her bonds and let her go." 
 
 "But, captain " 
 
 "At once, d'ye hear," cried Peter, "or I'll plunge 
 my hook in you." 
 
 "This is queer!" Smee gasped. 
 
 "Better do what the captain orders," said 
 Starkey nervously. 
 
 "Ay, ay," Smee said, and he cut Tiger Lily's 
 cords. At once like an eel she slid between 
 Starkey' s legs into the water. 
 
 Of course Wendy was very elated over Peter's 
 cleverness; but she knew that he would be elated 
 also and very likely crow and thus betray himself, 
 so at once her hand went out to cover his mouth. 
 But it was stayed even in the act, for "Boat 
 ahoy !" rang over the lagoon in Hook's voice, but 
 this time it was not Peter who had spoken. 
 
 Peter may have been about to crow, but his face 
 puckered in a whistle of surprise instead. 
 
 "Boat ahoy !" again came the voice. 
 
 Now Wendy understood. The real Hook was 
 also in the water. 
 
 He was swimming to the boat, and as his men 
 showed a light to guide him he had soon reached 
 them. In the light of the lantern Wendy saw his 
 
 107 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 hook grip the boat's side ; she saw his evil swarthy 
 face as he rose dripping from the water, and, 
 quaking, she would have liked to swim away, but 
 Peter would not budge. He was tingling with 
 life and also top-heavy with conceit. "Am I not 
 a wonder, oh, I am a wonder!" he whispered to 
 her, and though she thought so also, she was really 
 glad for the sake of his reputation that no one 
 heard him except herself. 
 
 He signed to her to listen. 
 
 The two pirates were very curious to know what 
 had brought their captain to them, but he sat with 
 his head on his hook in a position of profound 
 melancholy. 
 
 "Captain, is all well*?" they asked timidly, but 
 he answered with a hollow moan. 
 
 "He sighs," said Smee. 
 
 "He sighs again," said Starkey. 
 
 "And yet a third time he sighs," said Smee. 
 
 "What's up, captain?" 
 
 Then at last he spoke passionately. 
 
 "The game's up," he cried, "those boys have 
 found a mother." 
 
 Affrighted though she was, Wendy swelled with 
 pride. 
 
 "O evil day!" cried Starkey. 
 
 "What's a mother*?" asked the ignorant Smee. 
 
 Wendy was so shocked that she exclaimed, "He 
 doesn't know !" and always after this she felt that 
 
 108 
 
THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 
 
 if you could have a pet pirate Smee would be her 
 one. 
 
 Peter pulled her beneath the water, for Hook 
 had started up, crying, "What was that 1 ?" 
 
 "I heard nothing," said Starkey, raising the lan- 
 tern over the waters, and as the pirates looked they 
 saw a strange sight. It was the nest I have told 
 you of, floating on the lagoon, and the Never bird 
 was sitting on it. 
 
 "See," said Hook in answer to Smee's question, 
 "that is a mother. What a lesson ! The nest must 
 have fallen into the water, but would the mother 
 desert her eggs? No." 
 
 There was a break in his voice, as if for a mo- 
 ment he recalled innocent days when but he 
 brushed away this weakness with his hook. 
 
 Smee, much impressed, gazed at the bird as the 
 nest was borne past, but the more suspicious 
 Starkey said, "If she is a mother, perhaps she is 
 hanging about here to help Peter." 
 
 Hook winced. "Ay," he said, "that is the fear 
 that haunts me." 
 
 He was roused from this dejection by Smee's 
 eager voice. 
 
 "Captain," said Smee, "could we not kidnap 
 these boys' mother and make her our mother'?" 
 
 "It is a princely scheme," cried Hook, and at 
 once it took practical shape in his great brain. 
 "We will seize the children and carry them to the 
 
 109 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 boat: the boys we will make walk the plank, and 
 Wendy shall be our mother." 
 
 Again Wendy forgot herself. 
 
 "Never!" she cried, and bobbed. 
 
 "What was that?" 
 
 But they could see nothing. They thought it 
 must have been but a leaf in the wind. "Do you 
 agree, my bullies'?" asked Hook. 
 
 "There is my hand on it," they both said. 
 
 "And there is my hook. Swear." 
 
 They all swore. By this time they were on the 
 rock, and suddenly Hook remembered Tiger Lily. 
 
 "Where is the redskin?" he demanded abruptly. 
 
 He had a playful humour at moments, and they 
 thought this was one of the moments. 
 
 "That is all right, captain," Smee answered 
 complacently; "we let her go." 
 
 "Let her go !" cried Hook. 
 
 " 'Twas your own orders," the bo'sun faltered. 
 
 "You called over the water to us to let her go," 
 said Starkey. 
 
 "Brimstone and gall," thundered Hook, "what 
 cozening is here !" His face had gone black with 
 rage, but he saw that they believed their words, 
 and he was startled. "Lads," he said, shaking a 
 little, "I gave no such order." 
 
 "It is passing queer," Smee said, and they all 
 fidgeted uncomfortably. Hook raised his voice, 
 but there was a quiver in it. 
 
 no 
 
THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 
 
 "Spirit that haunts this dark lagoon to-night," 
 he cried, "dost hear me*?" 
 
 Of course Peter should have kept quiet, but of 
 course he did not. He immediately answered in 
 Hook's voice : 
 
 "Odds, bobs, hammer and tongs, I hear you." 
 
 In that supreme moment Hook did not blanch, 
 even at the gills, but Smee and Starkey clung to 
 each other in terror. 
 
 "Who are you, stranger, speak ?" Hook de- 
 manded. 
 
 "I am James Hook," replied the voice, "captain 
 of the Jolly Roger" 
 
 "You are not; you are not," Hook cried 
 hoarsely. 
 
 "Brimstone and gall," the voice retorted, "say 
 that again, and I'll cast anchor in you." 
 
 Hook tried a more ingratiating manner. "If 
 you are Hook," he said almost humbly, "come tell 
 me, who am I*?" 
 
 "A codfish," replied the voice, "only a codfish." 
 
 "A codfish !" Hook echoed blankly, and it was 
 then, but not till then, that his proud spirit broke. 
 He saw his men draw back from him. 
 
 "Have we been captained all this time by a cod- 
 fish!" they muttered. "It is lowering to our 
 pride." 
 
 They were his dogs snapping at him, but, tragic 
 figure though he had become, he scarcely heeded 
 
 in 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 them. Against such fearful evidence it was not 
 their belief in him that he needed, it was his own. 
 He felt his ego slipping from him. "Don't desert 
 me, bully," he whispered hoarsely to it. 
 
 In his dark nature there was a touch of the 
 feminine, as in all the greatest pirates, and it some- 
 times gave him intuitions. Suddenly he tried the 
 guessing game. 
 
 "Hook," he called, "have you another voice*?" 
 
 Now Peter could never resist a game, and he 
 answered blithely in his own voice, "I have." 
 
 "And another name?" 
 
 "Ay, ay." 
 
 "Vegetable?" asked Hook. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Mineral?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Animal?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Man?" 
 
 "No !" This answer rang out scornfully. 
 
 "Boy?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ordinary boy?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Wonderful boy?" 
 
 To Wendy's pain the answer that rang out this 
 time was "Yes." 
 
 "Are you in England?" 
 
 112 
 
THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Are you here*?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Hook was completely puzzled. "You ask him 
 some questions," he said to the others, wiping his 
 damp brow. 
 
 Smee reflected. "I can't think of a thing," he 
 said regretfully. 
 
 "Can't guess, can't guess !" crowed Peter. "Do 
 you give it up?" 
 
 Of course in his pride he was carrying the game 
 too far, and the miscreants saw their chance. 
 
 "Yes, yes," they answered eagerly. 
 
 "Well, then," he cried, "I am Peter Pan!'-' 
 
 Pan! 
 
 In a moment Hook was himself again, and Smee 
 and Starkey were his faithful henchmen. 
 
 "Now we have him," Hook shouted. "Into the 
 water, Smee. Starkey, mind the boat. Take him 
 dead or alive !" 
 
 He leaped as he spoke, and simultaneously came 
 the gay voice of Peter. 
 
 "Are you ready, boys'?" 
 
 "Ay, ay," from various parts of the lagoon. 
 
 "Then lam into the pirates." 
 
 The fight was short and sharp. First to draw 
 blood was John, who gallantly climbed into the 
 boat and held Starkey. There was a fierce strug- 
 gle, in which the cutlass was torn from the pirate's 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 grasp. He wriggled overboard and John leapt 
 after him. The dinghy drifted away. 
 
 Here and there a head bobbed up in the water, 
 and there was a flash of steel followed by a cry or 
 a whoop. In the confusion some struck at their 
 own side. The corkscrew of Smee got Tootles in 
 the fourth rib, but he was himself pinked in turn 
 by Curly. Farther from the rock Starkey was 
 pressing Slightly and the twins hard. 
 
 Where all this time was Peter 1 ? He was seeking 
 bigger game. 
 
 The others were all brave boys, and they must 
 not be blamed for backing from the pirate captain. 
 His iron claw made a circle of dead water round 
 him, from which they fled like affrighted fishes. 
 
 But there was one who did not fear him: there 
 was one prepared to enter that circle. 
 
 Strangely, it was not in the water that they met. 
 Hook rose to the rock to breathe, and at the same 
 moment Peter scaled it on the opposite side. The 
 rock was slippery as a ball, and they had to crawl 
 rather than climb. Neither knew that the other 
 was coming. Each feeling for a grip met the 
 other's arm: in surprise they raised their heads; 
 their faces were almost touching; so they met. 
 
 Some of the greatest heroes have confessed that 
 just before they fell to they had a sinking. Had 
 it been so with Peter at that moment I would ad- 
 mit it. After all, this was the only man that the 
 
 114 
 
THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 
 
 Sea-Cook had feared. But Peter had no sinking, 
 he had one feeling only, gladness ; and he gnashed 
 his pretty teeth with joy. Quick as thought he 
 snatched a knife from Hook's belt and was about 
 to drive it home, when he saw that he was higher 
 up the rock than his foe. It would not have been 
 fighting fair. He gave the pirate a hand to help 
 him up. 
 
 It was then that Hook bit him. 
 
 Not the pain of this but its unfairness was what 
 dazed Peter. It made him quite helpless. He 
 could only stare, horrified. Every child is affected 
 thus the first time he is treated unfairly. All he 
 thinks he has a right to when he comes to you to 
 be yours is fairness. After you have been unfair 
 to him he will love you again, but he will never 
 afterwards be quite the same boy. No one ever 
 gets over the first unfairness ; no one except Peter. 
 He often met it, but he always forgot it. I sup- 
 pose that was the real difference between him and 
 all the rest. 
 
 So when he met it now it was like the first time ; 
 and he could just stare, helpless. Twice the iron 
 hand clawed him. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards the other boys saw 
 Hook in the water striking wildly for the ship ; no 
 elation on his pestilent face now, only white fear, 
 for the crocodile was in dogged pursuit of him. On 
 ordinary occasions the boys would have swum 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 alongside cheering; but now they were uneasy, for 
 they had lost both Peter and Wendy, and were 
 scouring the lagoon for them, calling them by 
 name. They found the dinghy and went home in 
 it, shouting "Peter, Wendy" as they went, but no 
 answer came save mocking laughter from the mer- 
 maids. "They must be swimming back or flying," 
 the boys concluded. They were not very anxious, 
 they had such faith in Peter. They chuckled, boy- 
 like, because they would be late for bed; and it 
 was all mother Wendy's fault ! 
 
 When their voices died away there came cold 
 silence over the lagoon, and then a feeble cry. 
 
 "Help, help!" 
 
 Two small figures were beating against the rock ; 
 the girl had fainted and lay on the boy's arm. 
 With a last effort Peter pulled her up the rock and 
 then lay down beside her. Even as he also fainted 
 he saw that the water was rising. He knew that 
 they would soon be drowned, but he could do no 
 more. 
 
 As they lay side by side a mermaid caught 
 Wendy by the feet, and began pulling her softly 
 into the water. Peter, feeling her slip from him, 
 woke with a start, and was just in time to draw 
 her back. But he had to tell her the truth. 
 
 "We are on the rock, Wendy," he said, "but it 
 is growing smaller. Soon the water will be over 
 it." 
 
 116 
 
THE MERMAIDS' LAGOON 
 
 She did not understand even now. 
 
 "We must go," she said, almost brightly. 
 
 "Yes," he answered faintly. 
 
 "Shall we swim or fly, Peter?' 
 
 He had to tell her. 
 
 "Do you think you could swim or fly as far as 
 the island, Wendy, without my help*?" 
 
 She had to admit that she was too tired. 
 
 He moaned. 
 
 "What is it*?" she asked, anxious about him at 
 once. 
 
 "I can't help you, Wendy. Hook wounded me. 
 I can neither fly nor swim." 
 
 "Do you mean we shall both be drowned?" 
 
 "Look how the water is rising." 
 
 They put their hands over their eyes to shut out 
 the sight. They thought they would soon be no 
 more. As they sat thus something brushed against 
 Peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if say- 
 ing timidly, "Can I be of any use?" 
 
 It was the tail of a kite, which Michael had 
 made some days before. It had torn itself out of 
 his hand and floated away. 
 
 "Michael's kite," Peter said without interest, 
 but next moment he had seized the tail, and was 
 pulling the kite toward him. 
 
 "It lifted Michael oil the ground," he cried; 
 "why should it not carry you?" 
 
 "Both of us!" 
 
 117 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "It can't lift two; Michael and Curly tried." 
 
 "Let us draw lots," Wendy said bravely. 
 
 "And you a lady ; never." Already he had tied 
 the tail round her. She clung to him ; she refused 
 to go without him; but with a "Good-bye, 
 Wendy," he pushed her from the rock; and in a 
 few minutes she was borne out of his sight. Peter 
 was alone on the lagoon. 
 
 The rock was very small now ; soon it would be 
 submerged. Pale rays of light tiptoed across the 
 waters; and by and by there was to be heard a 
 sound at once the most musical and the most 
 melancholy in the world: the mermaids calling to 
 the moon. 
 
 Peter was not quite like other boys; but he was 
 afraid at last. A tremor ran through him, like a 
 shudder passing over the sea; but on the sea one 
 shudder follows another till there are hundreds of 
 them, and Peter felt just the one. Next moment 
 he was standing erect on the rock again, with that 
 smile on his face and a drum beating within him. 
 It was saying, "To die will be an awfully big ad- 
 venture." 
 
 118 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE NEVER BIRD 
 
 THE last sounds Peter heard before he was quite 
 alone were the mermaids retiring one by one to 
 their bedchambers under the sea. He was too far 
 away to hear their doors shut; but every door in 
 the coral caves where they live rings a tiny bell 
 when it opens or closes (as in all the nicest houses 
 on the mainland), and he heard the bells. 
 
 Steadily the waters rose till they were nibbling 
 at his feet; and to pass the time until they made 
 their final gulp, he watched the only thing moving 
 on the lagoon. He thought it was a piece of float- 
 ing paper, perhaps part of the kite, and wondered 
 idly how long it would take to drift ashore. 
 
 Presently he noticed as an odd thing that it was 
 undoubtedly out upon the lagoon with some defi- 
 nite purpose, for it was fighting the tide, and 
 sometimes winning; and when it won, Peter, al- 
 ways sympathetic to the weaker side, could not 
 help clapping; it was such a gallant piece of paper. 
 
 It was not really a piece of paper; it was the 
 Never bird, making desperate efforts to reach 
 
 119 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 Peter on her nest. By working her wings, in a 
 way she had learned since the nest fell into the 
 water, she was able to some extent to guide her 
 strange craft, but by the time Peter recognised her 
 she was very exhausted. She had come to save 
 him, to give him her nest, though there were eggs 
 in it. I rather wonder at the bird, for though he 
 had been nice to her, he had also sometimes tor- 
 mented her. I can suppose only that, like Mrs. 
 Darling and the rest of them, she was melted be- 
 cause he had all his first teeth. 
 
 She called out to him what she had come for, 
 and he called out to her what was she doing there ; 
 but of course neither of them understood the 
 other's language. In fanciful stories people can 
 talk to the birds freely, and I wish for the moment 
 I could pretend that this was such a story, and say 
 that Peter replied intelligently to the Never bird; 
 but truth is best, and I want to tell only what 
 really happened. Well, not only could they not 
 understand each other, but they forgot their man- 
 ners. 
 
 "I want you to get into the nest," 
 the bird called, speaking as slowly and distinctly 
 as possible, ' 'and then you can drift 
 ashore, but I am too tired to bring it 
 any nearer so you must try to swim 
 to it." 
 
 "What are you quacking about*?" Peter an- 
 120 
 
swered. "Why don't you let the nest drift as 
 usual?" 
 
 "I want you " the bird said, and repeated 
 it all over. 
 
 Then Peter tried slow and distinct. 
 ' 'What are you quacking about ?" and 
 so on. 
 
 The Never bird became irritated; they have 
 very short tempers. 
 
 "You dunderheaded little jay," she screamed, 
 "why don't you do as I tell you 1 ?" 
 
 Peter felt that she was calling him names, and 
 at a venture he retorted hotly : 
 
 "So are you !" 
 
 Then rather curiously they both snapped out 
 the same remark. 
 
 "Shut up!" 
 
 "Shut up!" 
 
 Nevertheless the bird was determined to save 
 him if she could, and by one last mighty effort she 
 propelled the nest against the rock. Then up she 
 flew ; deserting her eggs, so as to make her meaning 
 clear. 
 
 Then at last he understood, and clutched the 
 nest and waved his thanks to the bird as she flut- 
 tered overhead. It was not to receive his thanks, 
 however, that she hung there in the sky ; it was not 
 even to watch him get into the nest; it was to see 
 what he did with her eggs. 
 
 121 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 There were two large white eggs, and Peter 
 lifted them up and reflected. The bird covered 
 her face with her wings, so as not to see the last of 
 them ; but she could not help peeping between the 
 feathers. 
 
 I forget whether I have told you that there was 
 a stave on the rock, driven into it by some buc- 
 caneers of long ago to mark the site of buried 
 treasure. The children had discovered the glitter- 
 ing hoard, and when in mischievous mood used to 
 fling showers of moidores, diamonds, pearls and 
 pieces of eight to the gulls, who pounced upon 
 them for food, and then flew away, raging at the 
 scurvy trick that had been played upon them. The 
 stave was still there, and on it Starkey had hung 
 his hat, a deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad 
 brim. Peter put the eggs into this hat and set it 
 on the lagoon. It floated beautifully. 
 
 The Never bird saw at once what he was up to, 
 and screamed her admiration of him; and, alas, 
 Peter crowed his agreement with her. Then he 
 got into the nest, reared the stave in it as a mast, 
 and hung up his shirt for a sail. At the same mo- 
 ment the bird fluttered down upon the hat and 
 once more sat snugly on her eggs. She drifted in 
 one direction, and he was borne off in another, both 
 cheering. 
 
 Of course when Peter landed he beached his 
 barque in a place where the bird would easily find 
 
 122 
 
THE NEVER BIRD 
 
 it; but the hat was such a great success that she 
 abandoned the nest. It drifted about till it went 
 to pieces, and often Starkey came to the shore of 
 the lagoon, and with many bitter feelings watched 
 the bird sitting on his hat. As we shall not see her 
 again, it may be worth mentioning here that all 
 Never birds now build in that shape of nest, with 
 a broad brim on which the youngsters take an 
 airing. 
 
 Great were the rejoicings when Peter reached 
 the home under the ground almost as soon as 
 Wendy, who had been carried hither and thither 
 by the kite. Every boy had adventures to tell ; but 
 perhaps the biggest adventure of all was that they 
 were several hours late for bed. This so inflated 
 them that they did various dodgy things to get 
 staying up still longer, such as demanding ban- 
 dages; but Wendy, though glorying in having 
 them all home again safe and sound, was scandal- 
 ised by the lateness of the hour, and cried, "To 
 bed, to bed," in a voice that had to be obeyed. 
 Next day, however, she was awfully tender, and 
 gave out bandages to every one, and they played 
 till bed-time at limping about and carrying their 
 arms in slings. 
 
 123 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE HAPPY HOME 
 
 ONE important result of the brush on the lagoon 
 was that it made the redskins their friends. Peter 
 had saved Tiger Lily from a dreadful fate, and 
 now there was nothing she and her braves would 
 not do for him. All night they sat above, keeping 
 watch over the home under the ground and await- 
 ing the big attack by the pirates which obviously 
 could not be much longer delayed. Even by day 
 they hung about, smoking the pipe of peace, and 
 looking almost as if they wanted tit-bits to eat. 
 
 They called Peter the Great White Father, 
 prostrating themselves before him; and he liked 
 this tremendously, so that it was not really good 
 for him. 
 
 "The great white father," he would say to them 
 in a very lordly manner, as they grovelled at his 
 feet, "is glad to see the Piccaninny warriors pro- 
 tecting his wigwam from the pirates." 
 
 "Me Tiger Lily," that lovely creature would 
 reply, "Peter Pan save me, me his velly nice 
 friend. Me no let pirates hurt him." 
 
 124 
 
THE HAPPY HOME 
 
 She was far too pretty to cringe in this way, but 
 Peter thought it his due, and he would answer con- 
 descendingly, "It is good. Peter Pan has spoken." 
 
 Always when he said, "Peter Pan has spoken," 
 it meant that they must now shut up, and they 
 accepted it humbly in that spirit ; but they were by 
 no means so respectful to the other boys, whom 
 they looked upon as just ordinary braves. They 
 said "How-do?" to them, and things like that; 
 and what annoyed the boys was that Peter seemed 
 to think this all right. 
 
 Secretly Wendy sympathised with them a little, 
 but she was far too loyal a housewife to listen to 
 any complaints against father. "Father knows 
 best," she always said, whatever her private opin- 
 ion must be. Her private opinion was that the 
 redskins should not call her a squaw. 
 
 We have now reached the evening that was to be 
 known among them as the Night of Nights, be- 
 cause of its adventures and their upshot. The 
 day, as if quietly gathering its forces, had been 
 almost uneventful, and now the redskins in their 
 blankets were at their posts above, while, below, 
 the children were having their evening meal; all 
 except Peter, who had gone out to get the time. 
 The way you got the time on the island was to find 
 the crocodile, and then stay near him till the clock 
 struck. 
 
 This meal happened to be a make-believe tea, 
 125 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 and they sat round the board, guzzling in their 
 greed; and really, what with their chatter and 
 recriminations, the noise, as Wendy said, was posi- 
 tively deafening. To be sure, she did not mind 
 noise, but she simply would not have them grab- 
 bing things, and then excusing themselves by say- 
 ing that Tootles had pushed their elbow. There 
 was a fixed rule that they must never hit back at 
 meals, but should refer the matter of dispute to 
 Wendy by raising the right arm politely and say- 
 ing, "I complain of so-and-so"; but what usually 
 happened was that they forgot to do this or did it 
 too much. 
 
 "Silence," cried Wendy when for the twentieth 
 time she had told them that they were not all to 
 speak at once. "Is your mug empty, Slightly 
 darling?" 
 
 "Not quite empty, mummy," Slightly said, after 
 looking into an imaginary mug. 
 
 "He hasn't even begun to drink his milk," Nibs 
 interposed. 
 
 This was telling, and Slightly seized his chance. 
 
 "I complain of Nibs," he cried promptly. 
 
 John, however, had held up his hand first. 
 
 "Well, John?" 
 
 "May I sit in Peter's chair, as he is not here?" 
 
 "Sit in father's chair, John!" Wendy was 
 scandalised. "Certainly not." 
 
 "He is not really our father," John answered. 
 126 
 
THE HAPPY HOME 
 
 "He didn't even know how a father does till I 
 showed him." 
 
 This was grumbling. "We complain of John," 
 cried the twins. 
 
 Tootles held up his hand. He was so much the 
 humblest of them, indeed he was the only humble 
 one, that Wendy was specially gentle with him. 
 
 "I don't suppose," Tootles said diffidently, 
 "that I could be father." 
 
 "No, Tootles." 
 
 Once Tootles began, which was not very often, 
 he had a silly way of going on. 
 
 "As I can't be father," he said heavily, "I don't 
 suppose, Michael, you would let me be baby*?" 
 
 "No, I won't," Michael rapped out. He was 
 already in his basket. 
 
 "As I can't be baby," Tootles said, getting 
 heavier and heavier, "do you think I could be a 
 twin?" 
 
 "No, indeed," replied the twins; "it's awfully 
 difficult to be a twin." 
 
 "As I can't be anything important," said 
 Tootles, "would any of you like to see me do a 
 trick?" 
 
 "No," they all replied. 
 
 Then at last he stopped. "I hadn't really any 
 hope," he said. 
 
 The hateful telling broke out again. 
 
 "Slightly is coughing on the table." 
 127 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "The twins began with cheese-cakes." 
 
 "Curly is taking both butter and honey.'* 
 
 "Nibs is speaking with his mouth full." 
 
 "I complain of the twins." 
 
 "I complain of Curly." 
 
 "I complain of Nibs." 
 
 "Oh dear, oh dear," cried Wendy, "I'm sure I 
 sometimes think that spinsters are to be envied." 
 
 She told them to clear away, and sat down to 
 her work-basket, a heavy load of stockings and 
 every knee with a hole in it as usual. 
 
 "Wendy," remonstrated Michael, "I'm too big 
 for a cradle." 
 
 "I must have somebody in a cradle," she said 
 almost tartly, "and you are the littlest. A cradle 
 is such a nice homely thing to have about a 
 house." 
 
 While she sewed they played around her; such 
 a group of happy faces and dancing limbs lit up 
 by that romantic fire. It had become a very fa- 
 miliar scene this in the home under the ground, 
 but we are looking on it for the last time. 
 
 There was a step above, and Wendy, you may 
 be sure, was the first to recognise it. 
 
 "Children, I hear your father's step. He likes 
 you to meet him at the door." 
 
 Above, the redskins crouched before Peter. 
 
 "Watch well, braves. I have spoken." 
 
 And then, as so often before, the gay children 
 
THE HAPPY HOME 
 
 dragged him from his tree. As so often before, 
 but never again. 
 
 He had brought nuts for the boys as well as the 
 correct time for Wendy. 
 
 "Peter, you just spoil them, you know," Wendy 
 simpered. 
 
 "Ah, old lady," said Peter, hanging up his gun. 
 
 "It was me told him mothers are called old 
 lady," Michael whispered to Curly. 
 
 "I complain of Michael," said Curly instantly. 
 
 The first twin came to Peter. "Father, we want 
 to dance." 
 
 "Dance away, my little man," said Peter, who 
 was in high good humour. 
 
 "But we want you to dance." 
 
 Peter was really the best dancer among them, 
 but he pretended to be scandalised. 
 
 "Me ! My old bones would rattle !" 
 
 "And mummy too." 
 
 "What !" cried Wendy, "the mother of such an 
 armful, dance !" 
 
 "But on a Saturday night," Slightly insinuated. 
 
 It was not really Saturday night, at least it may 
 have been, for they had long lost count of the 
 days; but always if they wanted to do anything 
 special they said this was Saturday night, and then 
 they did it. 
 
 "Of course it is Saturday night, Peter," Wendy 
 said, relenting. 
 
 129 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "People of our figure, Wendy !" 
 
 "But it is only among our own progeny." 
 
 "True, true." 
 
 So they were told they could dance, but they 
 must put on their nighties first. 
 
 "Ah, old lady," Peter said aside to Wendy, 
 warming himself by the fire and looking down at 
 her as she sat turning a heel, "there is nothing 
 more pleasant of an evening for you and me when 
 the day's toil is over than to rest by the fire with 
 the little ones near by." 
 
 "It is sweet, Peter, isn't it?" Wendy said, 
 frightfully gratified. "Peter, I think Curly has 
 your nose." 
 
 "Michael takes after you." 
 
 She went to him and put her hand on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "Dear Peter," she said, "with such a large fam- 
 ily, of course, I have now passed my best, but you 
 don't want to change me, do you*?" 
 
 "No, Wendy." 
 
 Certainly he did not want a change, but he 
 looked at her uncomfortably, blinking, you know, 
 like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep. 
 
 "Peter, what is it?" 
 
 "I was just thinking," he said, a little scared. 
 "It is only make-believe, isn't it, that I am their 
 father?" 
 
 "Oh yes," Wendy said primly. 
 130 
 
THE HAPPY HOME 
 
 "You see," he continued apologetically, "itwould 
 make me seem so old to be their real father." 
 
 "But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine." 
 
 "But not really, Wendy?" he asked anxiously. 
 
 "Not if you don't wish it," she replied; and she 
 distinctly heard his sigh of relief. "Peter," she 
 asked, trying to speak firmly, "what are your exact 
 feelings to me*?" 
 
 "Those of a devoted son, Wendy." 
 
 "I thought so," she said, and went and sat by 
 herself at the extreme end of the room. 
 
 "You are so queer," he said, frankly puzzled, 
 "and Tiger Lily is just the same. There is some- 
 thing she wants to be to me, but she says it is not 
 my mother." 
 
 "No, indeed, it is not," Wendy replied with 
 frightful emphasis. Now we know why she was 
 prejudiced against the redskins. 
 
 'Then what is it?" 
 
 "It isn't for a lady to tell." 
 
 "Oh, very well," Peter said, a little nettled. 
 "Perhaps Tinker Bell will tell me." 
 
 "Oh yes, Tinker Bell will tell you," Wendy 
 retorted scornfully. "She is an abandoned little 
 creature." 
 
 Here Tink, who was in her bedroom, eaves- 
 dropping, squeaked out something impudent. 
 
 "She says she glories in being abandoned," 
 Peter interpreted. 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 He had a sudden idea. "Perhaps Tink wants 
 to be my mother 1 ?" 
 
 "You silly ass!" cried Tinker Bell in a pas- 
 sion. 
 
 She had said it so often that Wendy needed 
 no translation. 
 
 "I almost agree with her," Wendy snapped. 
 Fancy Wendy snapping ! But she had been much 
 tried, and she little knew what was to happen be- 
 fore the night was out. If she had known she 
 would not have snapped. 
 
 None of them knew. Perhaps it was best not 
 to know. Their ignorance gave them one more 
 glad hour; and as it was to be their last hour on 
 the island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad 
 minutes in it. They sang and danced in their 
 night-gowns. Such a deliciously creepy song it 
 was, in which they pretended to be frightened at 
 their own shadows, little witting that so soon 
 shadows would close in upon them, from whom 
 they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously 
 gay was the dance, and how they buffeted each 
 other on the bed and out of it ! It was a pillow 
 fight rather than a dance, and when it was fin- 
 ished, the pillows insisted on one bout more, like 
 partners who know that they may never meet 
 again. The stories they told, before it was time 
 for Wendy's good-night story! Even Slightly 
 tried to tell a story that night, and the beginning 
 
 132 
 
THE HAPPY HOME 
 
 was so fearfully dull that it appalled not only the 
 others but himself, and he said happily : 
 
 "Yes, it is a dull beginning. I say, let us pre- 
 tend that it is the end." 
 
 And then at last they all got into bed for 
 Wendy's story, the story they loved best, the story 
 Peter hated. Usually when she began to tell this 
 story, he left the room or put his hands over his 
 ears; and possibly if he had done either of those 
 things this time they might all still be on the 
 island. But to-night he remained on his stool; 
 and we shall see what happened. 
 
 133 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 WENDY'S STORY 
 
 "LISTEN, then," said Wendy, settling down to her 
 story, with Michael at her feet and seven boys in 
 the bed. "There was once a gentleman 
 
 "I had rather he had been a lady," Curly said. 
 
 "I wish he had been a white rat," said Nibs. 
 
 "Quiet," their mother admonished them. 
 "There was a lady also, and " 
 
 "O mummy," cried the first twin, "you mean 
 that there is a lady also, don't you? She is not 
 dead, is she?" 
 
 "Oh no." 
 
 "I am awfully glad she isn't dead," said 
 Tootles. "Are you glad, John?" 
 
 "Of course I am." 
 
 "Are you glad, Nibs?" 
 
 "Rather." 
 
 "Are you glad, Twins?" 
 
 "We are just glad." 
 
 "Oh dear," sighed Wendy. 
 
 "Little less noise there," Peter called out, de- 
 termined that she should have fair play, however 
 beastly a story it might be in his opinion. 
 
 134 
 
WENDY'S STORY 
 
WENDY'S STORY 
 
 "The gentleman's name," Wendy continued, 
 "was Mr. Darling, and her name was Mrs. 
 Darling." 
 
 "I knew them," John said, to annoy the others. 
 
 "I think I knew them," said Michael rather 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "They were married, you know," explained 
 Wendy, "and what do you think they had?" 
 
 "White rats !" cried Nibs, inspired. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "It's awfully puzzling," said Tootles, who 
 knew the story by heart. 
 
 "Quiet, Tootles. They had three descendants." 
 
 "What is descendants'?" 
 
 "Well, you are one, Twin." 
 
 "Do you hear that, John"? I am a descen- 
 dant." 
 
 "Descendants are only children," said John. 
 
 "Oh dear, oh dear," sighed Wendy. "Now 
 these three children had a faithful nurse called 
 Nana; but Mr. Darling was angry with her and 
 chained her up in the yard, and so all the children 
 flew away." 
 
 "It's an awfully good story," said Nibs. 
 
 "They flew away," Wendy continued, "to the 
 Neverland, where the lost children are." 
 
 "I just thought they did," Curly broke in excit- 
 edly. "I don't know how it is, but I just thought 
 they did!" 
 
 135 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "O Wendy," cried Tootles, "was one of the lost 
 children called Tootles'?" 
 
 "Yes, he was." 
 
 "I am in a story. Hurrah, I am in a story, 
 Nibs." 
 
 "Hush. Now I want you to consider the feel- 
 ings of the unhappy parents with all their children 
 flown away." 
 
 "Oo!" they all moaned, though they were not 
 really considering the feelings of the unhappy par- 
 ents one jot. 
 
 "Think of the empty beds !" 
 
 "Oo!" 
 
 "It's awfully sad," the first twin said cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 "I don't see how it can have a happy ending," 
 said the second twin. "Do you, Nibs'?" 
 
 "I'm frightfully anxious." 
 
 "If you knew how great is a mother's love," 
 Wendy told them triumphantly, "you would have 
 no fear." She had now come to the part that 
 Peter hated. 
 
 "I do like a mother's love," said Tootles, hit- 
 ting Nibs with a pillow. "Do you like a mother's 
 love, Nibs'?" 
 
 "I do just," said Nibs, hitting back. 
 
 "You see," Wendy said complacently, "our 
 heroine knew that the mother would always leave 
 the window open for her children to fly back by; 
 
 136 
 
WENDY'S STORY 
 
 so they stayed away for years and had a lovely 
 time." 
 
 "Did they ever go back?' 
 
 "Let us now," said Wendy, bracing herself up 
 for her finest effort, "take a peep into the future" ; 
 and they all gave themselves the twist that makes 
 peeps into the future easier. "Years have rolled 
 by, and who is this elegant lady of uncertain age 
 alighting at London Station?" 
 
 "O Wendy, who is she 1 ?" cried Nibs, every bit 
 as excited as if he didn't know. 
 
 "Can it be yes no it is the fair Wendy!" 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "And who are the two noble portly figures ac- 
 companying her, now grown to man's estate*? Can 
 they be John and Michael? They are !" 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " 'See, dear brothers,' says Wendy, pointing 
 upwards, " 'there is the window still standing 
 open. Ah, now we are rewarded for our sublime 
 faith in a mother's love.' So up they flew to their 
 mummy and daddy, and pen cannot describe the 
 happy scene, over which we draw a veil." 
 
 That was the story, and they were as pleased 
 with it as the fair narrator herself. Everything 
 just as it should be, you see. Off we skip like the 
 most heartless things in the world, which is what 
 children are, but so attractive; and we have an 
 entirely selfish time, and then when we have need 
 
 137 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 of special attention we nobly return for it, confi- 
 dent that we shall be rewarded instead of smacked. 
 
 So great indeed was their faith in a mother's 
 love that they felt they could afford to be callous 
 for a bit longer. 
 
 But there was one there who knew better, and 
 when Wendy finished he uttered a hollow groan. 
 
 "What is it, Peter 1 ?" she cried, running to him, 
 thinking he was ill. She felt him solicitously, 
 lower down than his chest. "Where is it, Peter?" 
 
 "It isn't that kind of pain," Peter replied 
 darkly. 
 
 "Then what kind is it?" 
 
 "Wendy, you are wrong about mothers." 
 
 They all gathered round him in affright, so 
 alarming was his agitation; and with a fine can- 
 dour he told them what he had hitherto concealed. 
 
 "Long ago," he said, "I thought like you that 
 my mother would always keep the window open 
 for me, so I stayed away for moons and moons and 
 moons, and then flew back; but the window was 
 barred, for mother had forgotten all about me, and 
 there was another little boy sleeping in my bed." 
 
 I am not sure that this was true, but Peter 
 thought it was true ; and it scared them. 
 
 "Are you sure mothers are like that?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 So this was the truth about mothers. The toads ! 
 
 Still it is best to be careful; and no one knows 
 
 138 
 
WENDY'S STORY 
 
 so quickly as a child when he should give in. 
 "Wendy, let us go home," cried John and Michael 
 together. 
 
 "Yes," she said, clutching them. 
 
 "Not to-night 1 ?" asked the lost boys bewildered. 
 They knew in what they called their hearts that 
 one can get on quite well without a mother, and 
 that it is only the mothers who think you can't. 
 
 "At once," Wendy replied resolutely, for the 
 horrible thought had come to her: "Perhaps 
 mother is in half mourning by this time." 
 
 This dread made her forgetful of what must be 
 Peter's feelings, and she said to him rather sharply, 
 "Peter, will you make the necessary arrange- 
 ments'?" 
 
 "If you wish it," he replied, as coolly as if she 
 had asked him to pass the nuts. 
 
 Not so much as a sorry-to-lose-you between 
 them! If she did not mind the parting, he was 
 going to show her, was Peter, that neither did he. 
 
 But of course he cared very much; and he was 
 so full of wrath against grown-ups, who, as usual, 
 were spoiling everything, that as soon as he got 
 inside his tree he breathed intentionally quick 
 short breaths at the rate of about five to a second. 
 He did this because there is a saying in the Never- 
 land that, every time you breathe, a grown-up 
 dies; and Peter was killing them off vindictively 
 as fast as possible. 
 
 139 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 Then having given the necessary instructions to 
 the redskins he returned to the home, where an 
 unworthy scene had been enacted in his absence. 
 Panic-stricken at the thought of losing Wendy 
 the lost boys had advanced upon her threaten- 
 ingly. 
 
 "It will be worse than before she came," they 
 cried. 
 
 "We shan't let her go." 
 
 "Let's keep her prisoner." 
 
 "Ay, chain her up." 
 
 In her extremity an instinct told her to which of 
 them to turn. 
 
 "Tootles," she cried, "I appeal to you." 
 
 Was it not strange? she appealed to Tootles, 
 quite the silliest one. 
 
 Grandly, however, did Tootles respond. For 
 that one moment he dropped his silliness and 
 spoke with dignity. 
 
 "I am just Tootles," he said, "and nobody 
 minds me. But the first who does not behave to 
 Wendy like an English gentleman I will blood 
 him severely." 
 
 He drew his hanger; and for that instant his 
 sun was at noon. The others held back uneasily. 
 Then Peter returned, and they saw at once that 
 they would get no support from him. He would 
 keep no girl in the Neverland against her will. 
 
 "Wendy," he said, striding up and down, "I 
 140 
 
WENDY'S STORY 
 
 have asked the redskins to guide you through the 
 wood, as flying tires you so." 
 
 "Thank you, Peter." 
 
 "Then," he continued, in the short sharp voice 
 of one accustomed to be obeyed, "Tinker Bell 
 will take you across the sea. Wake her, Nibs." 
 
 Nibs had to knock twice before he got an an- 
 swer, though Tink had really been sitting up in 
 bed listening for some time. 
 
 "Who are you? How dare you? Go away," 
 she cried. 
 
 "You are to get up, Tink," Nibs called, "and 
 take Wendy on a journey." 
 
 Of course Tink had been delighted to hear that 
 Wendy was going; but she was jolly well deter- 
 mined not to be her courier, and she said so in still 
 more offensive language. Then she pretended to 
 be asleep again. 
 
 "She says she won't!" Nibs exclaimed, aghast 
 at such insubordination, whereupon Peter went 
 sternly toward the young lady's chamber. 
 
 "Tink," he rapped out, "if you don't get up 
 and dress at once I will open the curtains, and 
 then we shall all see you in your negligee" 
 
 This made her leap to the floor. "Who said I 
 wasn't getting up?" she cried. 
 
 In the meantime the boys were gazing very for- 
 lornly at Wendy, now equipped with John and 
 Michael for the journey. By this time they were 
 
 141 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 dejected, not merely because they were about to 
 lose her, but also because they felt that she was 
 going off to something nice to which they had not 
 been invited. Novelty was beckoning to them as 
 usual. 
 
 Crediting them with a nobler feeling, Wendy 
 melted. 
 
 "Dear ones," she said, "if you will all come 
 with me I feel almost sure I can get my father 
 and mother to adopt you." 
 
 ' The invitation was meant specially for Peter, 
 but each of the boys was thinking exclusively of 
 himself, and at once they jumped with joy. 
 
 "But won't they think us rather a handful*?" 
 Nibs asked in the middle of his jump. 
 
 "Oh no," said Wendy, rapidly thinking it out, 
 "it will only mean having a few beds in the draw- 
 ing-room; they can be hidden behind screens on 
 first Thursdays." 
 
 "Peter, can we go?" they all cried imploringly. 
 They took it for .granted that if they went he 
 would go also, but really they scarcely cared. 
 Thus children are ever ready, when novelty 
 knocks, to desert their dearest ones. 
 
 "All right," Peter replied with a bitter smile, 
 and immediately they rushed to get their things. 
 
 "And now, Peter," Wendy said, thinking she 
 had put everything right, "I am going to give you 
 your medicine before you go." She loved to give 
 
 142 
 
WENDY'S STORY 
 
 them medicine, and undoubtedly gave them too 
 much. Of course it was only water, but it was out 
 of a bottle, .and she always shook the bottle and 
 counted the drops, which gave it a certain medici- 
 nal quality. On this occasion, however, she did 
 not give Peter his draught, for just as she had 
 prepared it, she saw a look on his face that made 
 her heart sink. 
 
 "Get your things, Peter," she cried, shaking. 
 
 "No," he answered, pretending indifference, 
 "I am not going with you, Wendy." 
 
 "Yes, Peter." 
 
 "No." 
 
 To show that her departure would leave him 
 unmoved, he skipped up and down the room, 
 playing gaily on his heartless pipes. She had to 
 run about after him, though it was rather undig- 
 nified. 
 
 "To find your mother," she coaxed. 
 
 Now, if Peter had ever quite had a mother, he 
 no longer missed her. He could do very well 
 without one. He had thought them out, and re- 
 membered only their bad points. 
 
 "No, no," he told Wendy decisively; "perhaps 
 she would say I was old, and I just want always 
 to be a little boy and to have fun." 
 
 "But, Peter " 
 
 "No." 
 
 And so the others had to be told. 
 
 H3 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Peter isn't coming." 
 
 Peter not coming ! They gazed blankly at him, 
 their sticks over their backs, and on each stick a 
 bundle. Their first thought was that if Peter was 
 not going he had probably changed his mind about 
 letting them go. 
 
 But he was far too proud for that. "If you find 
 your mothers," he said darkly, "I hope you will 
 like them." 
 
 The awful cynicism of this made an uncom- 
 fortable impression, and most of them began to 
 look rather doubtful. After all, their faces said, 
 were they not noodles to want to go"? 
 
 "Now then," cried Peter, "no fuss, no blubber- 
 ing; good-bye, Wendy" ; and he held out his hand 
 cheerily, quite as if they must really go now, for 
 he had something important to do. 
 
 She had to take his hand, as there was no indica- 
 tion that he would prefer a thimble. 
 
 "You will remember about changing your flan- 
 nels, Peter?" she said, lingering over him. She 
 was always so particular about their flannels. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you will take your medicine?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 That seemed to be everything, and an awkward 
 pause followed. Peter, however, was not the kind 
 that breaks down before people. "Are you ready, 
 Tinker Bell?" he called out. 
 
 144 
 
WENDY'S STORY 
 
 "Ay lay!" 
 
 "Then lead the way." 
 
 Tink darted up the nearest tree; but no one 
 followed her, for it was at this moment that the 
 pirates made their dreadful attack upon the red- 
 skins. Above, where all had been so still, the air 
 was rent with shrieks and the clash of steel. Be- 
 low, there was dead silence. Mouths opened and 
 remained open. Wendy fell on her knees, but her 
 arms were extended toward Peter. All arms were 
 extended to him, as if suddenly blown in his direc- 
 tion; they were beseeching him mutely not to 
 desert them. As for Peter, he seized his sword, the 
 same he thought he had slain Barbecue with, and 
 the lust of battle was in his eye. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF 
 
 THE pirate attack had been a complete surprise: 
 a sure proof that the unscrupulous Hook had con- 
 ducted it improperly, for to surprise redskins 
 fairly is beyond the wit of the white man. 
 
 By all the unwritten laws of savage warfare it 
 is always the redskin who attacks, and with the 
 wiliness of his race he does it just before the dawn, 
 at which time he knows the courage of the whites 
 to be at its lowest ebb. The white men have in 
 the meantime made a rude stockade on the sum- 
 mit of yonder undulating ground, at the foot of 
 which a stream runs, for it is destruction to be too 
 far from water. There they await the onslaught, 
 the inexperienced ones clutching their revolvers 
 and treading on twigs, but the old hands sleeping 
 tranquilly until just before the dawn. Through 
 the long black night the savage scouts wriggle, 
 snake-like, among the grass without stirring a 
 blade. The brushwood closes behind them as 
 silently as sand into which a mole has dived. Not 
 
 146 
 
THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF 
 
 a sound is to be heard, save when they give vent 
 to a wonderful imitation of the lonely call of the 
 coyote. The cry is answered by other braves ; and 
 some of them do it even better than the coyotes, 
 who are not very good at it. So the chill hours 
 wear on, and the long suspense is horribly trying 
 to the paleface who has to live through it for the 
 first time; but to the trained hand those ghastly 
 calls and still ghastlier silences are but an intima- 
 tion of how the night is marching. 
 
 That this was the usual procedure was so well- 
 known to Hook that in disregarding it he cannot 
 be excused on the plea of ignorance. 
 
 The Piccaninnies, on their part, trusted implic- 
 itly to his honour, and their whole action of the 
 night stands out in marked contrast to his. They 
 left nothing undone that was consistent with the 
 reputation of their tribe. With that alertness of 
 the senses which is at once the marvel and despair 
 of civilised peoples, they knew that the pirates 
 were on the island from the moment one of them 
 trod on a dry stick; and in an incredibly short 
 space of time the coyote cries began. Every foot 
 of ground between the spot where Hook had 
 landed his forces and the home under the trees 
 was stealthily examined by braves wearing their 
 moccasins with the heels in front. They found 
 only one hillock with a stream at its base, so that 
 Hook had no choice; here he must establish him- 
 
 H7 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 self and wait for just before the dawn. Every- 
 thing being thus mapped out with almost diaboli- 
 cal cunning, the main body of the redskins folded 
 their blankets around them, and in the phlegmatic 
 manner that is to them the pearl of manhood 
 squatted above the children's home, awaiting the 
 cold moment when they should deal pale death. 
 
 Here dreaming, though wide-awake, of the ex- 
 quisite tortures to which they were to put him at 
 break of day, those confiding savages were found 
 by the treacherous Hook. From the accounts 
 afterwards supplied by such of the scouts as 
 escaped the carnage, he does not seem even to 
 have paused at the rising ground, though it is 
 certain that in the grey light he must have seen 
 it: no thought of waiting to be attacked appears 
 from first to last to have visited his subtle mind; 
 he would not even hold off till the night was 
 nearly spent; on he pounded with no policy but 
 to fall to. What could the bewildered scouts do, 
 masters as they were of every war-like artifice save 
 this one, but trot helplessly after him, exposing 
 themselves fatally to view, the while they gave 
 pathetic utterance to the coyote cry. 
 
 Around the brave Tiger Lily were a dozen of 
 her stoutest warriors, and they suddenly saw the 
 perfidious pirates bearing down upon them. Fell 
 from their eyes then the film through which they 
 had looked at victory. No more would they torture 
 
 148 
 
THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF 
 
 at the stake. For them the happy hunting-grounds 
 now. They knew it; but as their fathers' sons 
 they acquitted themselves. Even then they had 
 time to gather in a phalanx that would have been 
 hard to break had they risen quickly, but this they 
 were forbidden to do by the traditions of their 
 race. It is written that the noble savage must 
 never express surprise in the presence of the 
 white. Thus terrible as the sudden appearance of 
 the pirates must have been to them, they remained 
 stationary for a moment, not a muscle moving; as 
 if the foe had come by invitation. Then, indeed, 
 the tradition gallantly upheld, they seized their 
 weapons, and the air was torn with the war-cry; 
 but it was now too late. 
 
 It is no part of ours to describe what was a 
 massacre rather than a fight. Thus perished many 
 of the flower of the Piccaninny tribe. Not all 
 unavenged did they die, for with Lean Wolf fell 
 Alf Mason, to disturb the Spanish Main no more, 
 and among others who bit the dust were Geo. 
 Scourie, Chas. Turley, and the Alsatian Foggerty. 
 Turley fell to the tomahawk of the terrible Pan- 
 ther, who ultimately cut a way through the pirates 
 with Tiger Lily and a small remnant of the tribe. 
 
 To what extent Hook is to blame for his tactics 
 on this occasion is for the historian to decide. 
 Had he waited on the rising ground till the proper 
 hour he and his men would probably have been 
 
 149 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 butchered; and in judging him it is only fair to 
 take this into account. What he should perhaps 
 have done was to acquaint his opponents that he 
 proposed to follow a new method. On the other 
 hand, this, as destroying the element of surprise, 
 would have made his strategy of no avail, so that 
 the whole question is beset with difficulties. One 
 cannot at least withhold a reluctant admiration 
 for the wit that had conceived so bold a scheme, 
 and the fell genius with which it was carried out. 
 
 What were his own feelings about himself at 
 that triumphant moment*? Fain would his dogs 
 have known, as breathing heavily and wiping 
 their cutlasses, they gathered at a discreet distance 
 from his hook, and squinted through their ferret 
 eyes at this extraordinary man. Elation must 
 have been in his heart, but his face did not reflect 
 it : ever a dark and solitary enigma, he stood aloof 
 from his followers in spirit as in substance. 
 
 The night's work was not yet over, for it was 
 not the redskins he had come out to destroy ; they 
 were but the bees to be smoked, so that he should 
 get at the honey. It was Pan he wanted, Pan and 
 Wendy and their band, but chiefly Pan. 
 
 Peter was such a small boy that one tends to 
 wonder at the man's hatred of him. True he had 
 flung Hook's arm to the crocodile, but even this 
 and the increased insecurity of life to which it led, 
 owing to the crocodile's pertinacity, hardly ac- 
 
 150 
 
THE CHILDREN ARE CARRIED OFF 
 
 count for a vindictiveness so relentless and malig- 
 nant. The truth is that there was a something 
 about Peter which goaded the pirate captain to 
 frenzy. It was not his courage, it was not his 
 engaging appearance, it was not . There is no 
 beating about the bush, for we know quite well 
 what it was, and have got to tell. It was Peter's 
 cockiness. 
 
 This had got on Hook's nerves; it made his iron 
 claw twitch, and at night it disturbed him like an 
 insect. While Peter lived, the tortured man felt 
 that he was a lion in a cage into which a sparrow 
 had come. 
 
 The question now was how to get down the 
 trees, or how to get his dogs down 4 ? He ran his 
 greedy eyes over them, searching for the thinnest 
 ones. They wriggled uncomfortably, for they 
 knew he would not scruple to ram them down with 
 poles. 
 
 In the meantime, what of the boys? We have 
 seen them at the first clang of weapons, turned as 
 it were into stone figures, open-mouthed, all ap- 
 pealing with outstretched arms to Peter; and we 
 return to them as their mouths close, and their arms 
 fall to their sides. The pandemonium above has 
 ceased almost as suddenly as it arose, passed like a 
 fierce gust of wind; but they know that in the 
 passing it has determined their fate. 
 
 Which side had won*? 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 The pirates, listening avidly at the mouths of 
 the trees, heard the question put by every boy, and 
 alas, they also heard Peter's answer. 
 
 "If the redskins have won," he said, "they will 
 beat the tom-tom; it is always their sign of vic- 
 tory." 
 
 Now Smee had found the tom-tom, and was at 
 that moment sitting on it. "You will never hear 
 the tom-tom again," he muttered, but inaudibly of 
 course, for strict silence had been enjoined. To 
 his amazement Hook signed to him to beat the 
 tom-tom, and slowly there came to Smee an under- 
 standing of the dreadful wickedness of the order. 
 Never, probably, had this simple man admired 
 Hook so much. 
 
 Twice Smee beat upon the instrument, and then 
 stopped to listen gleefully. 
 
 "The tom-tom," the miscreants heard Peter cry; 
 "an Indian victory!" 
 
 The doomed children answered with a cheer that 
 was music to the black hearts above, and almost 
 immediately they repeated their good-byes to 
 Peter. This puzzled the pirates, but all their other 
 feelings were swallowed by a base delight that the 
 enemy were about to come up the trees. They 
 smirked at each other and rubbed their hands. Rap- 
 idly and silently Hook gave his orders : one man to 
 each tree, and the others to arrange themselves in 
 a line two yards apart. 
 
 152 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES? 
 
 THE more quickly this horror is disposed of the 
 better. The first to emerge from his tree was 
 Curly. He rose out of it into the arms of Cecco, 
 who flung him to Smee, who flung him to Starkey, 
 who flung him to Bill Jukes, who flung him to 
 Noodler, and so he was tossed from one to another 
 till he fell at the feet of the black pirate. All the 
 boys were plucked from their trees in this ruthless 
 manner; and several of them were in the air at a 
 time, like bales of goods flung from hand to hand. 
 
 A different treatment was accorded to Wendy 
 who came last. With ironical politeness Hook 
 raised his hat to her, and, offering her his arm, 
 escorted her to the spot where the others were being 
 gagged. He did it with such an air, he was so 
 frightfully distingue, that she was too fascinated 
 to cry out. She was only a little girl. 
 
 Perhaps it is tell-tale to divulge that for a 
 moment Hook entranced her, and we tell on her 
 only because her slip led to strange results. Had 
 
 153 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 she haughtily unhanded him (and we should have 
 loved to write it of her), she would have been 
 hurled through the air like the others, and then 
 Hook would probably not have been present at 
 the tying of the children; and had he not been 
 at the tying he would not have discovered 
 Slightly's secret, and without the secret he could 
 not presently have made his foul attempt on 
 Peter's life. 
 
 They were tied to prevent their flying away, 
 doubled up with their knees close to their ears; 
 and for this job the black pirate had cut a rope into 
 nine equal pieces. All went well with the trussing 
 until Slightly's turn came, when he was found to 
 be like those irritating parcels that use up all the 
 string in going round and leave no tags with which 
 to tie a knot. The pirates kicked him in their rage, 
 just as you kick the parcel (though in fairness you 
 should kick the string) ; and strange to say it was 
 Hook who told them to belay their violence. His 
 lip was curled with malicious triumph. While his 
 dogs were merely sweating because every time they 
 tried to pack the unhappy lad tight in one part he 
 bulged out in another, Hook's master mind had 
 gone far beneath Slightly's surface, probing not 
 for effects but for causes ; and his exultation showed 
 that he had found them. Slightly, white to the 
 gills, knew that Hook had surprised his secret, 
 which was this, that no boy so blown out could use 
 
 154 
 
DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES? 
 
 a tree wherein an average man need stick. Poor 
 Slightly, most wretched of all the children now, 
 for he was in a panic about Peter, bitterly re- 
 gretted what he had done. Madly addicted to the 
 drinking of water when he was hot, he had swelled 
 in consequence to his present girth, and instead of 
 reducing himself to fit his tree he had, unknown to 
 the others, whittled his tree to make it fit him. 
 
 Sufficient of this Hook guessed to persuade him 
 that Peter at last lay at his mercy, but no word of 
 the dark design that now formed in the subter- 
 ranean caverns of his mind crossed his lips; he 
 merely signed that the captives were to be con- 
 veyed to the ship, and that he would be alone. 
 
 How to convey them 4 ? Hunched up in their 
 ropes they might indeed be rolled down hill like 
 barrels, but most of the way lay through a morass. 
 Again Hook's genius surmounted difficulties. He 
 indicated that the little house must be used as a 
 conveyance. The children were flung into it, four 
 stout pirates raised it on their shoulders, the others 
 fell in behind, and singing the hateful pirate 
 chorus the strange procession set off through the 
 wood. I don't know whether any of the children 
 were crying ; if so, the singing drowned the sound ; 
 but as the little house disappeared in the forest, a 
 brave though tiny jet of smoke issued from its 
 chimney as if defying Hook. 
 
 Hook saw it, and it did Peter a bad service. It 
 
 155 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 dried up any trickle of pity for him that may have 
 remained in the pirate's infuriated breast. 
 
 The first thing he did on finding himself alone 
 in the fast falling night was to tiptoe to Slightly's 
 tree, and make sure that it provided him with a 
 passage. Then for long he remained brooding; 
 his hat of ill omen on the sward, so that a gentle 
 breeze which had arisen might play refreshingly 
 through his hair. Dark as were his thoughts his 
 blue eyes were as soft as the periwinkle. Intently 
 he listened for any sound from the nether world, 
 but all was as silent below as above; the house 
 under the ground seemed to be but one more empty 
 tenement in the void. Was that boy asleep, or did 
 he stand waiting at the foot of Slightly's tree, with 
 his dagger in his hand*? 
 
 There was no way of knowing, save by going 
 down. Hook let his cloak slip softly to the 
 ground, and then biting his lips till a lewd blood 
 stood on them, he stepped into the tree. He was 
 a brave man, but for a moment he had to stop 
 there and wipe his brow, which was dripping like 
 a candle. Then silently he let himself go into the 
 unknown. 
 
 He arrived unmolested at the foot of the shaft, 
 and stood still again, biting at his breath, which 
 had almost left him. As his eyes became accus- 
 tomed to the dim light various objects in the home 
 under the trees took shape; but the only one on 
 
 156 
 
DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES? 
 
 which his greedy gaze rested, long sought for and 
 found at last, was the great bed. On the bed lay 
 Peter fast asleep. 
 
 Unaware of the tragedy being enacted above, 
 Peter had continued, for a little time after the chil- 
 dren left, to play gaily on his pipes: no doubt 
 rather a forlorn attempt to prove to himself that 
 he did not care. Then he decided not to take his 
 medicine, so as to grieve Wendy. Then he lay 
 down on the bed outside the coverlet, to vex her 
 still more; for she had always tucked them inside 
 it, because you never know that you may not grow 
 chilly at the turn of the night. Then he nearly 
 cried; but it struck him how indignant she would 
 be if he laughed instead ; so he laughed a haughty 
 laugh and fell asleep in the middle of it. 
 
 Sometimes, though not often, he had dreams, 
 and they were more painful than the dreams of 
 other boys. For hours he could not be separated 
 from these dreams, though he wailed piteously in 
 them. They had to do, I think, with the riddle of 
 his existence. At such times it had been Wendy's 
 custom to take him out of bed and sit with him on 
 her lap, soothing him in dear ways of her own in- 
 vention, and when he grew calmer to put him back 
 to bed before he quite woke up, so that he should 
 not know of the indignity to which she had sub- 
 jected him. But on this occasion he had fallen at 
 once into a dreamless sleep. One arm dropped 
 
 157 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 over the edge of the bed, one leg was arched, and 
 the unfinished part of his laugh was stranded on 
 his mouth, which was open, showing the little 
 pearls. 
 
 Thus defenceless Hook found him. He stood 
 silent at the foot of the tree looking across the 
 chamber at his enemy. Did no feeling of compas- 
 sion stir his sombre breast? The man was not 
 wholly evil; he loved flowers (I have been told) 
 and sweet music (he was himself no mean per- 
 former on the harpsichord) ; and, let it be frankly 
 admitted, the idyllic nature of the scene shook him 
 profoundly. Mastered by his better self he would 
 have returned reluctantly up the tree, but for one 
 thing. 
 
 What stayed him was Peter's impertinent ap- 
 pearance as he slept. The open mouth, the droop- 
 ing arm, the arched knee: they were such a per- 
 sonification of cockiness as, taken together, will 
 never again one may hope be presented to eyes so 
 sensitive to their offensiveness. They steeled 
 Hook's heart. If his rage had broken him into a 
 hundred pieces every one of them would have dis- 
 regarded the incident, and leapt at the sleeper. 
 
 Though a light from the one lamp shone 
 dimly on the bed Hook stood in darkness himself, 
 and at the first stealthy step forward he discov- 
 ered an obstacle, the door of Slightly's tree. It 
 did not entirely fill the aperture, and he had been 
 
 158 
 
DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES? 
 
 looking over it. Feeling for the catch, he found 
 to his fury that it was low down, beyond his reach. 
 To his disordered brain it seemed then that the 
 irritating quality in Peter's face and figure visibly 
 increased, and he rattled the door and flung him- 
 self against it. Was his enemy to escape him 
 after all? 
 
 But what was that? The red in his eye had 
 caught sight of Peter's medicine standing on a 
 ledge within easy reach. He fathomed what it 
 was straightway, and immediately he knew that 
 the sleeper was in his power. 
 
 Lest he should be taken alive, Hook always car- 
 ried about his person a dreadful drug, blended by 
 himself of all the death-dealing rings that had 
 come into his possession. These he had boiled 
 down into a yellow liquid quite unknown to sci- 
 ence, which was probably the most virulent poison 
 in existence. 
 
 Five drops of this he now added to Peter's cup. 
 His hand shook, but it was in exultation rather 
 than in shame. As he did it he avoided glancing 
 at the sleeper, but not lest pity should unnerve 
 him; merely to avoid spilling. Then one long 
 gloating look he cast upon his victim, and turning, 
 wormed his way with difficulty up the tree. As he 
 emerged at the top he looked the very spirit of evil 
 breaking from its hole. Donning his hat at its 
 most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around him, 
 
 159 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 holding one end in front as if to conceal his person 
 from the night, of which it was the blackest part, 
 and muttering strangely to himself stole away 
 through the trees. 
 
 Peter slept on. The light guttered and went 
 out, leaving the tenement in darkness ; but still he 
 slept. It must have been not less than ten o'clock 
 by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in his 
 bed, wakened by he knew not what. It was a soft 
 cautious tapping on the door of his tree. 
 
 Soft and cautious, but in that stillness it was 
 sinister. Peter felt for his dagger till his hand 
 gripped it. Then he spoke. 
 
 "Who is that?" 
 
 For long there was no answer: then again the 
 knock. 
 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 He was thrilled, and he loved being thrilled. In 
 two strides he reached his door. Unlike Slightly's 
 door it filled the aperture, so that he could not see 
 beyond it, nor could the one knocking see him. 
 
 "I won't open unless you speak," Peter cried. 
 
 Then at last the visitor spoke, in a lovely bell- 
 like voice. 
 
 "Let me in, Peter." 
 
 It was Tink, and quickly he unbarred to her. 
 She flew in excitedly, her face flushed and her dress 
 stained with mud. 
 
 160 
 
DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES? 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Oh, you could never guess!" she cried, and 
 offered him three guesses. "Out with it!" he 
 shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence, as 
 long as the ribbons conjurers pull from their 
 mouths, she told of the capture of Wendy and the 
 boys. 
 
 Peter's heart bobbed up and down as he listened. 
 Wendy bound, and on the pirate ship; she who 
 loved everything to be just so! 
 
 "I'll rescue her!" he cried, leaping at his 
 weapons. As he leapt he thought of something he 
 could do to please her. He could take his medicine. 
 
 His hand closed on the fatal draught. 
 
 "No!" shrieked Tinker Bell, who had heard 
 Hook muttering about his deed as he sped through 
 the forest. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "It is poisoned." 
 
 "Poisoned! Who could have poisoned it?" 
 
 "Hook." 
 
 "Don't be silly. How could Hook have got 
 down here?" 
 
 Alas, Tinker Bell could not explain this, for 
 even she did not know the dark secret of Slightly's 
 tree. Nevertheless Hook's words had left no 
 room for doubt. The cup was poisoned. 
 
 "Besides," said Peter, quite believing himself, 
 "I never fell asleep." 
 
 161 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 He raised the cup. No time for words now; 
 time for deeds, and with one of her lightning 
 movements Tink got between his lips and the 
 draught, and drained it to the dregs. 
 
 "Why, Tink, how dare you drink my medicine *?" 
 
 But she did not answer. Already she was reel- 
 ing in the air. 
 
 "What is the matter with you*?" cried Peter, 
 suddenly afraid. 
 
 "It was poisoned, Peter," she told him softly; 
 "and now I am going to be dead." 
 
 "O Tink, did you drink it to save me*?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But why, Tink?" 
 
 Her wings would scarcely carry her now, but in 
 reply she alighted on his shoulder and gave his 
 nose a loving bite. She whispered in his ear "you 
 silly ass," and then, tottering to her chamber, lay 
 down on the bed. 
 
 His head almost filled the fourth wall of her 
 little room as he knelt near her in distress. Every 
 moment her light was growing fainter; and he 
 knew that if it went out she would be no more. 
 She liked his tears so much that she put out her 
 beautiful finger and let them run over it. 
 
 Her voice was so low that at first he could not 
 make out what she said. Then he made it out. 
 She was saying that she thought she could get well 
 again if children believed in fairies. 
 
 162 
 
DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES'? 
 
 Peter flung out his arms. There were no chil- 
 dren there, and it was night time; but he ad- 
 dressed all who might be dreaming of the Never- 
 land, and who were therefore nearer to him than 
 you think: boys and girls in their nighties, and 
 naked papooses in their baskets hung from trees. 
 
 "Do you believe*?" he cried. 
 
 Tink sat up in bed almost briskly to listen to 
 her fate. 
 
 She fancied she heard answers in the affirma- 
 tive, and then again she wasn't sure. 
 
 "What do you think ?" she asked Peter. 
 
 "If you believe," he shouted to them, "clap 
 your hands; don't let Tink die." 
 
 Many clapped. 
 
 Some didn't. 
 
 A few little beasts hissed. 
 
 The clapping stopped suddenly; as if countless 
 mothers had rushed to their nurseries to see what 
 on earth was happening; but already Tink was 
 saved. First her voice grew strong, then she 
 popped out of bed, then she was flashing through 
 the room more merry and impudent than ever. 
 She never thought of thanking those who believed, 
 but she would have liked to get at the ones who 
 had hissed. 
 
 "And now to rescue Wendy!" 
 
 The moon was riding in a cloudy heaven when 
 Peter rose from his tree, begirt with weapons and 
 
 163 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 wearing little else, to set out upon his perilous 
 quest. It was not such a night as he would have 
 chosen. He had hoped to fly, keeping not far from 
 the ground so that nothing unwonted should 
 escape his eyes; but in that fitful light to have 
 flown low would have meant trailing his shadow 
 through the trees, thus disturbing the birds and 
 acquainting a watchful foe that he was astir. 
 
 He regretted now that he had given the birds 
 of the island such strange names that they are very 
 wild and difficult of approach. 
 
 There was no other course but to press forward 
 in redskin fashion, at which happily he was an 
 adept. But in what direction, for he could not be 
 sure that the children had been taken to the ship*? 
 A slight fall of snow had obliterated all foot- 
 marks; and a deathly silence pervaded the island, 
 as if for a space Nature stood still in horror of the 
 recent carnage. He had taught the children some- 
 thing of the forest lore that he had himself learned 
 from Tiger Lily and Tinker Bell, and knew that 
 in their dire hour they were not likely to forget it. 
 Slightly, if he had an opportunity, would blaze 
 the trees, for instance, Curly would drop seeds, 
 and Wendy would leave her handkerchief at some 
 important place. But morning was needed to 
 search for such guidance, and he could not wait. 
 The upper world had called him, but would give 
 no help. 
 
 164 
 
DO YOU BELIEVE IN FAIRIES? 
 
 The crocodile passed him, but not another living 
 thing, not a sound, not a movement; and yet he 
 knew well that sudden death might be at the next 
 tree, or stalking him from behind. 
 
 He swore this terrible oath: "Hook or me this 
 time." 
 
 Now he crawled forward like a snake; and 
 again, erect, he darted across a space on which the 
 moonlight played, one finger on his lip and his 
 dagger at the ready. He was frightfully happy. 
 
 165 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE PIRATE SHIP 
 
 ONE green light squinting over Kidd's Creek, 
 which is near the mouth of the pirate river, marked 
 where the brig, the Jolly Roger, lay, low in the 
 water; a rakish-looking craft foul to the hull, 
 every beam in her detestable like ground strewn 
 with mangled feathers. She was the cannibal of 
 the seas, and scarce needed that watchful eye, for 
 she floated immune in the horror of her name. 
 
 She was wrapped in the blanket of night, 
 through which no sound from her could have 
 reached the shore. There was little sound, and 
 none agreeable save the whir of the ship's sewing 
 machine at which Smee sat, ever industrious and 
 obliging, the essence of the commonplace, pathetic 
 Smee. I know not why he was so infinitely pa- 
 thetic, unless it were because he was so pathetically 
 unaware of it; but even strong men had to turn 
 hastily from looking at him, and more than once 
 on summer evenings he had touched the fount of 
 Hook's tears and made it flow. Of this, as of al- 
 most everything else, Smee was quite unconscious. 
 
 166 
 
THE PIRATE SHIP 
 
 A few of the pirates leant over the bulwarks 
 drinking in the miasma of the night; others 
 sprawled by barrels over games of dice and cards ; 
 and the exhausted four who had carried the little 
 house lay prone on the deck, where even in their 
 sleep they rolled skilfully to this side or that out 
 of Hook's reach, lest he should claw them me- 
 chanically in passing. 
 
 Hook trod the deck in thought. O man un- 
 fathomable. It was his hour of triumph. Peter 
 had been removed for ever from his path, and all 
 the other boys were on the brig, about to walk the 
 plank. It was his grimmest deed since the days 
 when he had brought Barbecue to heel ; and know- 
 ing as we do how vain a tabernacle is man, could 
 we be surprised had he now paced the deck un- 
 steadily, bellied out by the winds of his success? 
 
 But there was no elation in his gait, which kept 
 pace with the action of his sombre mind. Hook 
 was profoundly dejected. 
 
 He was often thus when communing with him- 
 self on board ship in the quietude of the night. It 
 was because he was so terribly alone. This in- 
 scrutable man never felt more alone than when 
 surrounded by his dogs. They were socially so in- 
 ferior to him. 
 
 Hook was not his true name. To reveal who he 
 really was would even at this date set the country 
 in a blaze ; but as those who read between the lines 
 
 167 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 must already have guessed, he had been at a famous 
 public school; and its traditions still clung to him 
 like garments, with which indeed they are largely 
 concerned. Thus it was offensive to him even now 
 to board a ship in the same dress in which he 
 grappled her, and he still adhered in his walk to 
 the school's distinguished slouch. But above all 
 he retained the passion for good form. 
 
 Good form! However much he may have de- 
 generated, he still knew that this is all that really 
 matters. 
 
 From far within him he heard a creaking as of 
 rusty portals, and through them came a stern tap- 
 tap-tap, like hammering in the night when one 
 cannot sleep. "Have you been good form to- 
 day?" was their eternal question. 
 
 "Fame, fame, that glittering bauble, it is 
 mine !" he cried. 
 
 "Is it quite good form to be distinguished at 
 anything?" the tap- tap from his school replied. 
 
 "I am the only man whom Barbecue feared," 
 he urged, "and Flint himself feared Barbecue." 
 
 "Barbecue, Flint what house?" came the cut- 
 ting retort. 
 
 Most disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad 
 form to think about good form? 
 
 His vitals were tortured by this problem. It 
 was a claw within him sharper than the iron one ; 
 and as it tore him, the perspiration dripped down 
 
 168 
 
THE PIRATE SHIP 
 
 his tallow countenance and streaked his doublet. 
 Ofttimes he drew his sleeve across his face, but 
 there was no damming that trickle. 
 
 Ah, envy not Hook. 
 
 There came to him a presentiment of his early 
 dissolution. It was as if Peter's terrible oath had 
 boarded the ship. Hook felt a gloomy desire to 
 make his dying speech, lest presently there should 
 be no time for it. 
 
 "Better for Hook," he cried, "if he had had less 
 ambition!" It was in his darkest hours only that 
 he referred to himself in the third person. 
 
 "No little children love me !" 
 
 Strange that he should think of this, which had 
 never troubled him before; perhaps the sewing 
 machine brought it to his mind. For long he mut- 
 tered to himself, staring at Smee, who was hem- 
 ming placidly, under the conviction that all chil- 
 dren feared him. 
 
 Feared him! Feared Smee! There was not a 
 child on board the brig that night who did not al- 
 ready love him. He had said horrid things to 
 them and hit them with the palm of his hand, be- 
 cause he could not hit with his fist, but they had 
 only clung to him the more. Michael had tried on 
 his spectacles. 
 
 To tell poor Smee that they thought him lov- 
 able! Hook itched to do it, but it seemed too 
 brutal. Instead, he revolved this mystery in his 
 
 169 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 mind: why do they find Smee lovable? He pur- 
 sued the problem like the sleuth-hound that he 
 was. If Smee was lovable, what was it that made 
 him so*? A terrible answer suddenly presented it- 
 self "Good form?" 
 
 Had the bo' sun good form without knowing it, 
 which is the best form of all ? 
 
 He remembered that you have to prove you 
 don't know you have it before you are eligible for 
 Pop. 
 
 With a cry of rage he raised his iron hand over 
 Smee's head; but he did not tear. What arrested 
 him was this reflection : 
 
 "To claw a man because he is good form, what 
 would that be?" 
 
 "Bad form!" 
 
 The unhappy Hook was as impotent as he was 
 damp, and he fell forward like a cut flower. 
 
 His dogs thinking him out of the way for a 
 time, discipline instantly relaxed; and they broke 
 into a bacchanalian dance, which brought him 
 to his feet at once, all traces of human weakness 
 gone, as if a bucket of water had passed over 
 him. 
 
 "Quiet, you scugs," he cried, "or I'll cast an- 
 chor in you"; and at once the din was hushed. 
 "Are all the children chained, so that they cannot 
 fly away?" 
 
 "Ay, ay." 
 
 170 
 
THE PIRATE SHIP 
 
 "Then hoist them up." 
 
 The wretched prisoners were dragged from the 
 hold, all except Wendy, and ranged in line in 
 front of him. For a time he seemed unconscious 
 of their presence. He lolled at his ease, humming, 
 not unmelodiously, snatches of a rude song, and 
 fingering a pack of cards. Ever and anon the light 
 from his cigar gave a touch of colour to his face. 
 
 "Now then, bullies," he said briskly, "six of 
 you walk the plank to-night, but I have room for 
 two cabin boys. Which of you is it to be 1 ?" 
 
 "Don't irritate him unnecessarily," had been 
 Wendy's instructions in the hold; so Tootles 
 stepped forward politely. Tootles hated the idea 
 of signing under such a man, but an instinct told 
 him that it would be prudent to lay the respon- 
 sibility on an absent person; and though a some- 
 what silly boy, he knew that mothers alone are 
 always willing to be the buffer. All children know 
 this about mothers, and despise them for it, but 
 make constant use of it. 
 
 So Tootles explained prudently, "You see, sir, 
 I don't think my mother would like me to be a 
 pirate. Would your mother like you to be a pi- 
 rate, Slightly 1 ?" 
 
 He winked at Slightly, who said mournfully, 
 "I don't think so," as if he wished things had been 
 otherwise. "Would your mother like you to be a 
 pirate, Twin*?" 
 
 171 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "I don't think so," said the first twin, as clever 
 as the others. "Nibs, would " 
 
 "Stow this gab," roared Hook, and the spokes- 
 men were dragged back. "You, boy," he said, ad- 
 dressing John, "you look as if you had a little 
 pluck in you. Didst never want to be a pirate, 
 my hearty?" 
 
 Now John had sometimes experienced this 
 hankering at maths, prep.; and he was struck by 
 Hook's picking him out. 
 
 "I once thought of calling myself Red-handed 
 Jack," he said diffidently. 
 
 "And a good name too. We'll call you that 
 here, bully, if you join." 
 
 "What do you think, Michael?" asked John. 
 
 "What would you call me if I join?" Michael 
 demanded. 
 
 "Blackbeard Joe." 
 
 Michael was naturally impressed. "What do 
 you think, John?" He wanted John to decide, 
 and John wanted him to decide. 
 
 "Shall we still be respectful subjects of the 
 King?" John inquired. 
 
 Through Hook's teeth came the answer: "You 
 would have to swear, 'Down with the King.' ' 
 
 Perhaps John had not behaved very well so far, 
 but he shone out now. 
 
 "Then I refuse !" he cried, banging the barrel in 
 front of Hook. 
 
 172 
 
THE PIRATE SHIP 
 
 "And I refuse," cried Michael. 
 
 "Rule Britannia !" squeaked Curly. 
 
 The infuriated pirates buffeted them in the 
 mouth; and Hook roared out, "That seals your 
 doom. Bring up their mother. Get the plank 
 ready." 
 
 They were only boys, and they went white as 
 they saw Jukes and Cecco preparing the fatal 
 plank. But they tried to look brave when Wendy 
 was brought up. 
 
 No words of mine can tell you how Wendy de- 
 spised those pirates. To the boys there was at 
 least some glamour in the pirate calling; but all 
 that she saw was that the ship had not been tidied 
 for years. There was not a porthole on the grimy 
 glass of which you might not have written with 
 your finger "Dirty pig" ; and she had already writ- 
 ten it on several. But as the boys gathered round 
 her she had no thought, of course, save for them. 
 
 "So, my beauty," said Hook, as if he spoke in 
 syrup, "you are to see your children walk the 
 plank." ' 
 
 Fine gentleman though he was, the intensity of 
 his communings had soiled his ruff, and suddenly 
 he knew that she was gazing at it. With a hasty 
 gesture he tried to hide it, but he was too late. 
 
 "Are they to die?" asked Wendy, with a look 
 of such frightful contempt that he nearly fainted. 
 
 "They are," he snarled. "Silence all," he called 
 
 173 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 gloatingly, "for a mother's last words to her chil- 
 dren." 
 
 At this moment Wendy was grand. "These 
 are my last words, dear boys," she said firmly. "I 
 feel that I have a message to you from your real 
 mothers, and it is this : 'We hope our sons will die 
 like English gentlemen.' ' 
 
 Even the pirates were awed, and Tootles cried 
 out hysterically, "I am going to do what my 
 mother hopes. What are you to do, Nibs?" 
 
 "What my mother hopes. What are you to do, 
 Twin?" 
 
 "What my mother hopes. John, what are " 
 
 But Hook had found his voice again. 
 
 "Tie her up !" he shouted. 
 
 It was Smee who tied her to the mast. "See 
 here, honey," he whispered, "I'll save you if you 
 promise to be my mother." 
 
 But not even for Smee would she make such a 
 promise. "I would almost rather have no children 
 at all," she said disdainfully. 
 
 It is sad to know that not a boy was looking at 
 her as Smee tied her to the mast; the eyes of all 
 were on the plank: that last little walk they were 
 about to take. They were no longer able to hope 
 that they would walk it manfully, for the capacity 
 to think had gone from them ; they could stare and 
 shiver only. 
 
 Hook smiled on them with his teeth closed, and 
 
 174 
 
THE PIRATE SHIP 
 
 took a step toward Wendy. His intention was to 
 turn her face so that she should see the boys walk- 
 ing the plank one by one. But he never reached 
 her, he never heard the cry of anguish he hoped to 
 wring from her. He heard something else instead. 
 
 It was the terrible tick-tick of the crocodile. 
 
 They all heard it pirates, boys, Wendy and 
 immediately every head was blown in one direc- 
 tion ; not to the water whence the sound proceeded, 
 but toward Hook. All knew that what was about 
 to happen concerned him alone, and that from 
 being actors they were suddenly become spec- 
 tators. 
 
 Very frightful was it to see the change that 
 came over him. It was as if he had been clipped 
 at every joint. He fell in a little heap. 
 
 The sound came steadily nearer; and in advance 
 of it came this ghastly thought, "the crocodile is 
 about to board the ship" ! 
 
 Even the iron claw hung inactive; as if know- 
 ing that it was no intrinsic part of what the 
 attacking force wanted. Left so fearfully alone, 
 any other man would have lain with his eyes shut 
 where he fell : but the gigantic brain of Hook was 
 still working, and under its guidance he crawled 
 on his knees along the deck as far from the sound 
 as he could go. The pirates respectfully cleared 
 a passage for him, and it was only when he brought 
 up against the bulwarks that he spoke. 
 
 175 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Hide me !" he cried hoarsely. 
 
 They gathered round him, all eyes averted from 
 the thing that was coming aboard. They had no 
 thought of fighting it. It was Fate. 
 
 Only when Hook was hidden from them did 
 curiosity loosen the limbs of the boys so that they 
 could rush to the ship's side to see the crocodile 
 climbing it. Then they got the strangest surprise 
 of this Night of Nights; for it was no crocodile 
 that was coming to their aid. It was Peter. 
 
 He signed to them not to give vent to any cry 
 of admiration that might arouse suspicion. Then 
 he went on ticking. 
 
 176 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 "HOOK OR ME THIS TIME" 
 
 ODD things happen to all of us on our way through 
 life without our noticing for a time that they have 
 happened. Thus, to take an instance, we sud- 
 denly discover that we have been deaf in one ear 
 for we don't know how long, but, say, half an 
 hour. Now such an experience had come that 
 night to Peter. When last we saw him he was 
 stealing across the island with one finger to his 
 lips and his dagger at the ready. He had seen the 
 crocodile pass by without noticing anything pe- 
 culiar about it, but by and by he remembered that 
 it had not been ticking. At first he thought this 
 eerie, but soon he concluded rightly that the clock 
 had run down. 
 
 Without giving a thought to what might be the 
 feelings of a fellow-creature thus abruptly de- 
 prived of its closest companion, Peter began to 
 consider how he could turn the catastrophe to his 
 own use ; and he decided to tick, so that wild beasts 
 should believe he was the crocodile and let him 
 pass unmolested. He ticked superbly, but with 
 
 177 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 one unforeseen result. The crocodile was among 
 those who heard the sound, and it followed him, 
 though whether with the purpose of regaining 
 what it had lost, or merely as a friend under the 
 belief that it was again ticking itself, will never 
 be certainly known, for, like all slaves to a fixed 
 idea, it was a stupid beast. 
 
 Peter reached the shore without mishap, and 
 went straight on, his legs encountering the water 
 as if quite unaware that they had entered a new 
 element. Thus many animals pass from land to 
 water, but no other human, of whom I know. As 
 he swam he had but one thought: "Hook or me 
 this time." He had ticked so long that he now 
 went on ticking without knowing that he was 
 doing it. Had he known he would have stopped, 
 for to board the brig by the help of the tick, though 
 an ingenious idea, had not occurred to him. 
 
 On the contrary, he thought he had scaled her 
 side as noiseless as a mouse ; and he was amazed to 
 see the pirates cowering from him, with Hook in 
 their midst as abject as if he had heard the croco- 
 dile. 
 
 The crocodile ! No sooner did Peter remember 
 it than he heard the ticking. At first he thought 
 the sound did come from the crocodile, and he 
 looked behind him swiftly. Then he realized that 
 he was doing it himself, and in a flash he under- 
 stood the situation. "How clever of me!" he 
 
 178 
 
"HOOK OR ME THIS TIME" 
 
 thought at once, and signed to the boys not to 
 burst into applause. 
 
 It was at this moment that Ed Teynte the quar- 
 termaster emerged from the forecastle and came 
 along the deck. Now, reader, time what hap- 
 pened by your watch. Peter struck true and deep. 
 John clapped his hands on the ill-fated pirate's 
 mouth to stifle the dying groan. He fell forward. 
 Four boys caught him to prevent the thud. Peter 
 gave the signal, and the carrion was cast over- 
 board. There was a splash, and then silence. 
 How long has it taken? 
 
 "One !" (Slightly had begun to count.) 
 
 None too soon, Peter, every inch of him on tip- 
 toe, vanished into the cabin; for more than one 
 pirate was screwing up his courage to look round. 
 They could hear each other's distressed breathing 
 now, which showed them that the more terrible 
 sound had passed. 
 
 "It's gone, captain," Smee said, wiping his spec- 
 tacles. "All's still again." 
 
 Slowly Hook let his head emerge from his ruff, 
 and listened so intently that he could have caught 
 the echo of the tick. There was not a sound, and 
 he drew himself up firmly to his full height. 
 
 "Then here's to Johnny Plank!" he cried 
 brazenly, hating the boys more than ever because 
 they had seen him unbend. He broke into the 
 villainous ditty : 
 
 179 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Yo ho, yo ho, the frisky plank, 
 
 You walks along it so, 
 Till it goes down and you goes down 
 To Davy Jones below !" 
 
 To terrorise the prisoners the more, though with 
 a certain loss of dignity, he danced along an imag- 
 inary plank, grimacing at them as he sang; and 
 when he finished he cried, "Do you want a touch 
 of the cat before you walk the plank?" 
 
 At that they fell on their knees. "No, no!" 
 they cried so piteously that every pirate smiled. 
 
 "Fetch the cat, Jukes," said Hook, "it's in the 
 cabin." 
 
 The cabin ! Peter was in the cabin ! The chil- 
 dren gazed at each other. 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Jukes blithely, and he strode into 
 the cabin. They followed him with their eyes; 
 they scarce knew that Hook had resumed his song, 
 his dogs joining in with him: 
 
 " Yo ho, yo ho, the scratching cat, 
 
 Its tails are nine, you know, 
 And when they're writ upon your back " 
 
 What was the last line will never be known, for 
 of a sudden the song was stayed by a dreadful 
 screech from the cabin. It wailed through the 
 ship, and died away. Then was heard a crowing 
 sound which was well understood by the boys, but 
 
 180 
 
"HOOK OR ME THIS TIME" 
 
 to the pirates was almost more eerie than the 
 screech. 
 
 "What was that?" cried Hook. 
 
 "Two," said Slightly solemnly. 
 
 The Italian Cecco hesitated for a moment and 
 then swung into the cabin. He tottered out, hag- 
 gard. 
 
 "What's the matter with Bill Jukes, you dog?" 
 hissed Hook, towering over him. 
 
 "The matter wi' him is he's dead, stabbed," re- 
 plied Cecco in a hollow voice. 
 
 "Bill Jukes dead !" cried the startled pirates. 
 
 "The cabin's as black as a pit," Cecco said, al- 
 most gibbering, "but there is something terrible in 
 there : the thing you heard crowing." 
 
 The exultation of the boys, the lowering looks 
 of the pirates, both were seen by Hook. 
 
 "Cecco," he said in his most steely voice, "go 
 back and fetch me out that doodle-doo." 
 
 Cecco, bravest of the brave, cowered before his 
 captain, crying, "No, no" ; but Hook was purring 
 to his claw. 
 
 "Did you say you would go, Cecco?" he said 
 musingly. 
 
 Cecco went, first flinging up his arms despair- 
 ingly. There was no more singing, all listened 
 now; and again came a death-screech and again a 
 crow. 
 
 No one spoke except Slightly. "Three," he said. 
 181 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 Hook rallied his dogs with a gesture. "S'death 
 and odds fish," he thundered, "who is to bring me 
 that doodle-doo 1 ?" 
 
 "Wait till Cecco comes out," growled Starkey, 
 and the others took up the cry. 
 
 "I think I heard you volunteer, Starkey," said 
 Hook, purring again. 
 
 "No, by thunder!" Starkey cried. 
 
 "My hook thinks you did," said Hook, crossing 
 to him. "I wonder if it would not be advisable, 
 Starkey, to humour the hook*?" 
 
 "I'll swing before I go in there," replied 
 Starkey doggedly, and again he had the support of 
 the crew. 
 
 "Is it mutiny*?" asked Hook more pleasantly 
 than ever. "Starkey's ringleader !" 
 
 "Captain, mercy!" Starkey whimpered, all of a 
 tremble now. 
 
 "Shake hands, Starkey," said Hook, proffering 
 his claw. 
 
 Starkey looked round for help, but all deserted 
 him. As he backed Hook advanced, and now the 
 red spark was in his eye. With a despairing scream 
 the pirate leapt upon Long Tom and precipitated 
 himself into the sea. 
 
 "Four," said Slightly. 
 
 "And now," Hook asked courteously, "did any 
 other gentleman say mutiny*?" Seizing a lantern 
 and raising his claw with a menacing gesture, "I'll 
 182 
 
"HOOK OR ME THIS TIME" 
 
 bring out that doodle-doo myself," he said, and 
 sped into the cabin. 
 
 "Five." How Slightly longed to say it. He 
 wetted his lips to be ready, but Hook came stag- 
 gering out, without his lantern. 
 
 "Something blew out the light," he said a little 
 unsteadily. 
 
 "Something!" echoed Mullins. 
 
 "What of Cecco?" demanded Noodler. 
 
 "He's as dead as Jukes," said Hook shortly. 
 
 His reluctance to return to the cabin impressed 
 them all unfavourably, and the mutinous sounds 
 again broke forth. All pirates are superstitious, 
 and Cookson cried, "They do say the surest sign a 
 ship's accurst is when there's one on board more 
 than can be accounted for." 
 
 "I've heard," muttered Mullins, "he always 
 boards the pirate craft at last. Had he a tail, cap- 
 tain?" 
 
 "They say," said another, looking viciously at 
 Hook, "that when he comes it's in the likeness of 
 the wickedest man aboard." 
 
 "Had he a hook, captain*?" asked Cookson in- 
 solently; and one after another took up the cry, 
 "The ship's doomed!" At this the children could 
 not resist raising a cheer. Hook had well-nigh 
 forgotten his prisoners, but as he swung round on 
 them now his face lit up again. 
 
 "Lads," he cried to his crew, "here's a notion. 
 
 183 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 Open the cabin door and drive them in. Let them 
 fight the doodle-doo for their lives. If they kill 
 him, we're so much the better; if he kills them, 
 we're none the worse." 
 
 For the last time his dogs admired Hook, and 
 devotedly they did his bidding. The boys, pre- 
 tending to struggle, were pushed into the cabin and 
 the door was closed on them. 
 
 "Now, listen!" cried Hook, and all listened. 
 But not one dared to face the door. Yes, one, 
 Wendy, who all this time had been bound to the 
 mast. It was for neither a scream nor a crow that 
 she was watching, it was for the reappearance of 
 Peter. 
 
 She had not long to wait. In the cabin he had 
 found the thing for which he had gone in search : 
 the key that would free the children of their 
 manacles, and now they all stole forth, armed with 
 such weapons as they could find. First signing to 
 them to hide, Peter cut Wendy's bonds, and then 
 nothing could have been easier than for them all 
 to fly off together ; but one thing barred the way, 
 an oath, "Hook or me this time." So when he had 
 freed Wendy, he whispered to her to conceal her- 
 self with the others, and himself took her place by 
 the mast, her cloak around him so that he should 
 pass for her. Then he took a great breath and 
 crowed. 
 
 To the pirates it was a voice crying that all the 
 
 184 
 
"HOOK OR ME THIS TIME" 
 
 boys lay slain in the cabin; and they were panic- 
 stricken. Hook tried to hearten them, but like 
 the dogs he had made them they showed him their 
 fangs, and he knew that if he took his eyes off 
 them now they would leap at him. 
 
 "Lads," he said, ready to cajole or strike as 
 need be, but never quailing for an instant, "I've 
 thought it out. There's a Jonah aboard." 
 
 "Ay," they snarled, "a man wi' a hook." 
 
 "No, lads, no, it's the girl. Never was luck on 
 a pirate ship wi' a woman on board. We'll right 
 the ship when she's gone." 
 
 Some of them remembered that this had been a 
 saying of Flint's. "It's worth trying," they said 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "Fling the girl overboard," cried Hook; and 
 they made a rush at the figure in the cloak. 
 
 "There's none can save you now, missy," Mul- 
 lins hissed jeeringly. 
 
 "There's one," replied the figure. 
 
 "Who's that?" 
 
 "Peter Pan the avenger!" came the terrible 
 answer; and as he spoke Peter flung off his cloak. 
 Then they all knew who 'twas that had been un- 
 doing them in the cabin, and twice Hook essayed 
 to speak and twice he failed. In that frightful 
 moment I think his fierce heart broke. 
 
 At last he cried, "Cleave him to the brisket!" 
 but without conviction. 
 
 185 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Down, boys, and at them !" Peter's voice rang 
 out ; and in another moment the clash of arms was 
 resounding through the ship. Had the pirates 
 kept together it is certain that they would have 
 won; but the onset came when they were all un- 
 strung, and they ran hither and thither, striking 
 wildly, each thinking himself the last survivor of 
 the crew. Man to man they were the stronger; 
 but they fought on the defensive only, which 
 enabled the boys to hunt in pairs and choose their 
 quarry. Some of the miscreants leapt into the 
 sea, others hid in dark recesses, where they were 
 found by Slightly, who did not fight, but ran 
 about with a lantern which he flashed in their 
 faces, so that they were half blinded and fell an 
 easy prey to the reeking swords of the other boys. 
 There was little sound to be heard but the clang 
 of weapons, an occasional screech or splash, and 
 Slightly monotonously counting five six- 
 seven eight nine ten eleven. 
 
 I think all were gone when a group of savage 
 boys surrounded Hook, who seemed to have a 
 charmed life, as he kept them at bay in that circle 
 of fire. They had done for his dogs, but this man 
 alone seemed to be a match for them all. Again 
 and again they closed upon him, and again and 
 again he hewed a clear space. He had lifted 
 up one boy with his hook, and was using him 
 as a buckler, when another, who had just passed 
 
 186 
 
"HOOK OR ME THIS TIME" 
 
 his sword through Mullins, sprang into the 
 fray. 
 
 "Put up your swords, boys," cried the new- 
 comer, "this man is mine." 
 
 Thus suddenly Hook found himself face to face 
 with Peter. The others drew back and formed a 
 ring round them. 
 
 For long the two enemies looked at one another, 
 Hook shuddering slightly, and Peter with the 
 strange smile upon his face. 
 
 "So, Pan," said Hook at last, "this is all your 
 doing." 
 
 "Ay, James Hook," came the stern answer, "it 
 is all my doing." 
 
 "Proud and insolent youth," said Hook, "pre- 
 pare to meet thy doom." 
 
 "Dark and sinister man," Peter answered, "have 
 at thee." 
 
 Without more words they fell to, and for a 
 space there was no advantage to either blade. 
 Peter was a superb swordsman, and parried with 
 dazzling rapidity; ever and anon he followed up 
 a feint with a lunge that got past his foe's defence, 
 but his shorter reach stood him in ill stead, and he 
 could not drive the steel home. Hook, scarcely 
 his inferior in brilliancy, but not quite so nimble 
 in wrist play, forced him back by the weight of his 
 onset, hoping suddenly to end all with a favourite 
 thrust, taught him long ago by Barbecue at Rio; 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 but to his astonishment he found this thrust turned 
 aside again and again. Then he sought to close 
 and give the quietus with his iron hook, which all 
 this time had been pawing the air; but Peter dou- 
 bled under it and, lunging fiercely, pierced him in 
 the ribs. At sight of his own blood, whose pecu- 
 liar colour, you remember, was offensive to him, 
 the sword fell from Hook's hand, and he was at 
 Peter's mercy. 
 
 "Now!" cried all the boys, but with a mag- 
 nificent gesture Peter invited his opponent to pick 
 up his sword. Hook did so instantly, but with a 
 tragic feeling that Peter was showing good form. 
 
 Hitherto he had thought it was some fiend 
 fighting him, but darker suspicions assailed him 
 now. 
 
 "Pan, who and what art thou*?" he cried 
 huskily. 
 
 "I'm youth, I'm joy," Peter answered at a ven- 
 ture, "I'm a little bird that has broken out of the 
 
 *gg" 
 
 This, of course, was nonsense ; but it was proof 
 
 to the unhappy Hook that Peter did not know in 
 the least who or what he was, which is the very 
 pinnacle of good form. 
 
 "To't again," he cried despairingly. 
 
 He fought now like a human flail, and every 
 sweep of that terrible sword would have severed 
 in twain any man or boy who obstructed it; but 
 
 188 
 
' THIS MAN IS MINE 
 
"HOOK OR ME THIS TIME" 
 
 Peter fluttered round him as if the very wind it 
 made blew him out of the danger zone. And 
 again and again he darted in and pricked. 
 
 Hook was fighting now without hope. That 
 passionate breast no longer asked for life; but for 
 one boon it craved: to see Peter bad form before 
 it was cold for ever. 
 
 Abandoning the fight he rushed into the powder 
 magazine and fired it. 
 
 "In two minutes," he cried, "the ship will be 
 blown to pieces." 
 
 Now, now, he thought, true form will show. 
 
 But Peter issued from the powder magazine 
 with the shell in his hands, and calmly flung it 
 overboard. 
 
 What sort of form was Hook himself showing 4 ? 
 Misguided man though he was, we may be glad, 
 without sympathising with him, that in the end he 
 was true to the traditions of his race. The other 
 boys were flying around him now, flouting, scorn- 
 ful ; and as he staggered about the deck striking up 
 at them impotently, his mind was no longer with 
 them ; it was slouching in the playing fields of long 
 ago, or being sent up for good, or watching the 
 wall-game from a famous wall. And his shoes 
 were right, and his waistcoat was right, and his tie 
 was right, and his socks were right. 
 
 James Hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, 
 farewell. 
 
 189 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 For we have come to his last moment. 
 
 Seeing Peter slowly advancing upon him 
 through the air with dagger poised, he sprang 
 upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea. 
 He did not know that the crocodile was waiting 
 for him; for we purposely stopped the clock that 
 this knowledge might be spared him : a little mark 
 of respect from us at the end. 
 
 He had one last triumph, which I think we need 
 not grudge him. As he stood on the bulwark 
 looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding through 
 the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his 
 foot. It made Peter kick instead of stab. 
 
 At last Hook had got the boon for which he 
 craved. 
 
 "Bad form," he cried jeeringly, and went con- 
 tent to the crocodile. 
 
 Thus perished James Hook. 
 
 "Seventeen," Slightly sang out; but he was not 
 quite correct in his figures. Fifteen paid the pen- 
 alty for their crimes that night; but two reached 
 the shore: Starkey to be captured by the redskins, 
 who made him nurse for all their papooses, a mel- 
 ancholy come-down for a pirate; and Smee, who 
 henceforth wandered about the world in his spec- 
 tacles, making a precarious living by saying he was 
 the only man that Jas. Hook had feared. 
 
 Wendy, of course, had stood by taking no part 
 in the fight, though watching Peter with glistening 
 
 190 
 
"HOOK OR ME THIS TIME" 
 
 eyes; but now that all was over she became promi- 
 nent again. She praised them equally, and shud- 
 dered delightfully when Michael showed her the 
 place where he had killed one; and then she took 
 them into Hook's cabin and pointed to his watch 
 which was hanging on a nail. It said "half-past 
 one" ! 
 
 The lateness of the hour was almost the biggest 
 thing of all. She got them to bed in the pirates' 
 bunks pretty quickly, you may be sure; all but 
 Peter, who strutted up and down on deck, until at 
 last he fell asleep by the side of Long Tom. He 
 had one of his dreams that night, and cried in his 
 sleep for a long time, and Wendy held him tight. 
 
 191 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE RETURN HOME 
 
 BY three bells next morning they were all stirring 
 their stumps. For there was a big sea running, and 
 Tootles, the bo' sun, was among them, with a 
 rope's end in his hand and chewing tobacco. They 
 all donned pirate clothes cut off at the knee, 
 shaved smartly, and tumbled up, with the true 
 nautical roll and hitching their trousers. 
 
 It need not be said who was the captain. Nibs 
 and John were first and second mate. There was 
 a woman aboard. The rest were tars before the 
 mast, and lived in the fo'c'sle. Peter had already 
 lashed himself to the wheel ; but he piped all hands 
 and delivered a short address to them; said he 
 hoped they would do their duty like gallant 
 hearties, but that he knew they were the scum of 
 Rio and the Gold Coast, and if they snapped at 
 him he would tear them. His bluff strident words 
 struck the note sailors understand, and they 
 cheered him lustily. Then a few sharp orders 
 were given, and they turned the ship round, and 
 nosed her for the mainland. 
 
 192 
 
THE RETURN HOME 
 
 Captain Pan calculated, after consulting the 
 ship's chart, that if this weather lasted, they 
 should strike the Azores about the 2ist of June, 
 after which it would save time to fly. 
 
 Some of them wanted it to be an honest ship 
 and others were in favour of keeping it a pirate; 
 but the captain treated them as dogs, and they 
 dared not express their wishes to him even in a 
 round robin. Instant obedience was the only safe 
 thing. Slightly got a dozen for looking perplexed 
 when told to take soundings. The general feeling 
 was that Peter was honest just now to lull 
 Wendy's suspicions, but that there might be a 
 change when the new suit was ready, which, 
 against her will, she was making for him out of 
 some of Hook's wickedest garments. It was after- 
 wards whispered among them that on the first 
 night he wore this suit he sat long in the cabin 
 with Hook's cigar-holder in his mouth and one 
 hand clenched, all but the forefinger, which he 
 bent and held threateningly aloft like a hook. 
 
 Instead of watching the ship, however, we must 
 now return to that desolate home from which 
 three of our characters had taken heartless flight 
 so long ago. It seems a shame to have neglected 
 No. 14 all this time; and yet we may be sure that 
 Mrs. Darling does not blame us. If we had re- 
 turned sooner to look with sorrowful sympathy at 
 her, she would probably have cried, "Don't be 
 
 193 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 silly, what do I matter? Do go back and keep an 
 eye on the children." So long as mothers are like 
 this their children will take advantage of them; 
 and they may lay to that. 
 
 Even now we venture into that familiar nursery 
 only because its lawful occupants are on their way 
 home; we are merely hurrying on in advance of 
 them to see that their beds are properly aired and 
 that Mr. and Mrs. Darling do not go out for the 
 evening. We are no more than servants. Why 
 on earth should their beds be properly aired, see- 
 ing that they left them in such a thankless hurry? 
 Would it not serve them jolly well right if they 
 came back and found that their parents were 
 spending the week-end in the country? It would 
 be the moral lesson they have been in need of ever 
 since we met them; but if we contrived things in 
 this way Mrs. Darling would never forgive us. 
 
 One thing I should like to do immensely, and 
 that is to tell her, in the way authors have, that 
 the children are coming back, that indeed they will 
 be here on Thursday week. This would spoil so 
 completely the surprise to which Wendy and John 
 and Michael are looking forward. They have 
 been planning it out on the ship : mother's rapture, 
 father's shout of joy, Nana's leap through the air 
 to embrace them first, when what they ought to be 
 preparing for is a good hiding. How delicious to 
 spoil it all by breaking the news in advance; so 
 
 194 
 
THE RETURN HOME 
 
 that when they enter grandly Mrs. Darling may 
 not even offer Wendy her mouth, and Mr. Darling 
 may exclaim pettishly, "Dash it all, here are 
 those boys again." However, we should get no 
 thanks even for this. We are beginning to know 
 Mrs. Darling by this time, and may be sure that 
 she would upbraid us for depriving the children of 
 their little pleasure. 
 
 "But, my dear madam, it is ten days till Thurs- 
 day week; so that by telling you what's what, we 
 can save you ten days of unhappiness." 
 
 "Yes, but at what a cost! By depriving the 
 children of ten minutes of delight." 
 
 "Oh, if you look at it in that way!" 
 
 "What other way is there in which to look at 
 it?" 
 
 You see, the woman had no proper spirit. I 
 had meant to say extraordinarily nice things about 
 her; but I despise her, and not one of them will 
 I say now. She does not really need to be told to 
 have things ready, for they are ready. All the 
 beds are aired, and she never leaves the house, 
 and observe, the window is open. For all the use 
 we are to her, we might go back to the ship. How- 
 ever, as we are here we may as well stay and look 
 on. That is all we are,, lookers-on. Nobody really 
 wants us. So let us watch and say jaggy things, 
 in the hope that some of them will hurt. 
 
 The only change to be seen in the night-nursery 
 
 195 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 is that between nine and six the kennel is no 
 longer there. When the children flew away, Mr. 
 Darling felt in his bones that all the blame was his 
 for having chained Nana up, and that from first 
 to last she had been wiser than he. Of course, as 
 we have seen, he was quite a simple man; indeed 
 he might have passed for a boy again if he had 
 been able to take his baldness off; but he had also 
 a noble sense of justice and a lion courage to do 
 what seemed right to him; and having thought 
 the matter out with anxious care after the flight 
 of the children, he went down on all fours and 
 crawled into the kennel. To all Mrs. Darling's 
 dear invitations to him to come out he replied 
 sadly but firmly : 
 
 "No, my own one, this is the place for me." 
 
 In the bitterness of his remorse he swore that he 
 would never leave the kennel until his children 
 came back. Of course this was a pity; but what- 
 ever Mr. Darling did he had to do in excess, 
 otherwise he soon gave up doing it. And there 
 never was a more humble man than the once proud 
 George Darling, as he sat in the kennel of an 
 evening talking with his wife of their children 
 and all their pretty ways. 
 
 Very touching was his deference to Nana. He 
 would not let her come into the kennel, but on all 
 other matters he followed her wishes implicitly. 
 
 Every morning the kennel was carried with Mr. 
 196 
 
THE RETURN HOME 
 
 Darling in it to a cab, which conveyed him to his 
 office, and he returned home in the same way at 
 six. Something of the strength of character of 
 the man will be seen if we remember how sensitive 
 he was to the opinion of neighbours: this man 
 whose every movement now attracted surprised at- 
 tention. Inwardly he must have suffered torture ; 
 but he preserved a calm exterior even when the 
 young criticised his little home, and he always 
 lifted his hat courteously to any lady who looked 
 inside. 
 
 It may have been quixotic, but it was magnifi- 
 cent. Soon the inward meaning of it leaked out, 
 and the great heart of the public was touched. 
 Crowds followed the cab, cheering it lustily; 
 charming girls scaled it to get his autograph; in- 
 terviews appeared in the better class of papers, 
 and society invited him to dinner and added, "Do 
 come in the kennel." 
 
 On that eventful Thursday week Mrs. Darling 
 was in the night-nursery awaiting George's return 
 home : a very sad-eyed woman. Now that we look 
 at her closely and remember the gaiety of her in 
 the old days, all gone now just because she has lost 
 her babes, I find I won't be able to say nasty 
 things about her after all. If she was too fond 
 of her rubbishy children she couldn't help it. Look 
 at her in her chair, where she has fallen asleep. 
 The corner of her mouth, where one looks first, is 
 
 197 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 almost withered up. Her hand moves restlessly on 
 her breast as if she had a pain there. Some like 
 Peter best and some like Wendy best, but I like 
 her best. Suppose, to make her happy, we whis- 
 per to her in her sleep that the brats are coming 
 back. They are really within two miles of the 
 window now, and flying strong, but all we need 
 whisper is that they are on the way. Let's. 
 
 It is a pity we did it, for she has started up, 
 calling their names; and there is no one in the 
 room but Nana. 
 
 "O Nana, I dreamt my dear ones had come 
 back." 
 
 Nana had filmy eyes, but all she could do was 
 to put her paw gently on her mistress's lap, and 
 they were sitting together thus when the kennel 
 was brought back. As Mr. Darling puts his head 
 out at it to kiss his wife, we see that his face is 
 more worn than of yore, but has a softer expres- 
 sion. 
 
 He gave his hat to Liza, who took it scorn- 
 fully; for she had no imagination, and was quite 
 incapable of understanding the motives of such a 
 man. Outside, the crowd who had accompanied 
 the cab home were still cheering, and he was natu- 
 rally not unmoved. 
 
 "Listen to them," he said; "it is very gratify- 
 ing." 
 
 "Lot of little boys," sneered Liza. 
 198 
 
THE RETURN HOME 
 
 "There were several adults to-day," he assured 
 her with a faint flush; but when she tossed her 
 head he had not a word of reproof for her. Social 
 success had not spoilt him; it had made him 
 sweeter. For some time he sat with his head out 
 of the kennel, talking with Mrs. Darling of this 
 success, and pressing her hand reassuringly when 
 she said she hoped his head would not be turned 
 by it. 
 
 "But if I had been a weak man," he said. 
 "Good heavens, if I had been a weak man !" 
 
 "And, George," she said timidly, "you are as 
 full of remorse as ever, aren't you?" 
 
 "Full of remorse as ever, dearest ! See my pun- 
 ishment : living in a kennel." 
 
 "But it is punishment, isn't it, George 1 ? You 
 are sure you are not enjoying it?" 
 
 "My love!" 
 
 You may be sure she begged his pardon; and 
 then, feeling drowsy, he curled round in the 
 kennel. 
 
 "Won't you play me to sleep," he asked, "on 
 the nursery piano?" and as she was crossing to the 
 day-nursery he added thoughtlessly, "and shut 
 that window. I feel a draught." 
 
 "O George, never ask me to do that. The win- 
 dow must always be left open for them, always, 
 always." 
 
 Now it was his turn to beg her pardon ; and she 
 199 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 went into the day-nursery and played, and soon he 
 was asleep; and while he slept, Wendy and John 
 and Michael flew into the room. 
 
 Oh no. We have written it so, because that 
 was the charming arrangement planned by them 
 before we left the ship ; but something must have 
 happened since then, for it is not they who have 
 flown in, it is Peter and Tinker Bell. 
 
 Peter's first words tell all. 
 
 "Quick, Tink," he whispered, "close the win- 
 dow ; bar it ! That's right. Now you and I must 
 get away by the door; and when Wendy comes 
 she will think her mother has barred her out, and 
 she will have to go back with me." 
 
 Now I understand what had hitherto puzzled 
 me, why when Peter had exterminated the pirates 
 he did not return to the island and leave Tink to 
 escort the children to the mainland. This trick 
 had been in his head all the time. 
 
 Instead of feeling that he was behaving badly 
 he danced with glee ; then he peeped into the day- 
 nursery to see who was playing. He whispered to 
 Tink, "It's Wendy's mother ! She is a pretty lady, 
 but not so pretty as my mother. Her mouth is 
 full of thimbles, but not so full as my mother's 
 was." 
 
 Of course he knew nothing whatever about his 
 mother; but he sometimes bragged about her. 
 
 He did not know the tune, which was "Home, 
 200 
 
THE RETURN HOME 
 
 Sweet Home," but he knew it was saying, "Come 
 back, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy"; and he cried 
 exultantly, "You will never see Wendy again, 
 lady, for the window is barred !" 
 
 He peeped in again to see why the music had 
 stopped, and now he saw that Mrs. Darling had 
 laid her head on the box, and that two tears were 
 sitting on her eyes. 
 
 "She wants me to unbar the window," thought 
 Peter, "but I won't, not I !" 
 
 He peeped again, and the tears were still there, 
 or another two had taken their place. 
 
 "She's awfully fond of Wendy," he said to 
 himself. He was angry with her now for not 
 seeing why she could not have Wendy. 
 
 The reason was so simple: "I'm fond of her 
 too. We can't both have her, lady." 
 
 But the lady would not make the best of it, and 
 he was unhappy. He ceased to look at her, but 
 even then she would not let go of him. He 
 skipped about and made funny faces, but when 
 he stopped it was just as if she were inside him, 
 knocking. 
 
 "Oh, all right," he said at last, and gulped. 
 Then he unbarred the window. "Come on, Tink," 
 he cried, with a frightful sneer at the laws of na- 
 ture; "we don't want any silly mothers"; and he 
 flew away. 
 
 Thus Wendy and John and Michael found the 
 
 201 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 window open for them after all, which of course 
 was more than they deserved. They alighted 
 on the floor, quite unashamed of themselves, 
 and the youngest one had already forgotten his 
 home. 
 
 "John," he said, looking around him doubt- 
 fully, "I think I have been here before." 
 
 "Of course you have, you silly. There is your 
 old bed." 
 
 "So it is," Michael said, but not with much con- 
 viction. 
 
 "I say," cried John, "the kennel!" and he 
 dashed across to look into it. 
 
 "Perhaps Nana is inside it," Wendy said. 
 
 But John whistled. "Hullo," he said, "there's 
 a man inside it." 
 
 "It's father!" exclaimed Wendy. 
 
 "Let me see father," Michael begged eagerly, 
 and he took a good look. "He is not so big as 
 the pirate I killed," he said with such frank dis- 
 appointment that I am glad Mr. Darling was 
 asleep; it would have been sad if those had been 
 the first words he heard his little Michael say. 
 
 Wendy and John had been taken aback some- 
 what at finding their father in the kennel. 
 
 "Surely," said John, like one who had lost faith 
 in his memory, "he used not to sleep in the 
 kennel 1 ?" 
 
 "John," Wendy said falteringly, "perhaps we 
 
 202 
 
THE RETURN HOME 
 
 don't remember the old life as well as we thought 
 we did." 
 
 A chill fell upon them; and serve them right. 
 
 "It is very careless of mother," said that young 
 scoundrel John, "not to be here when we come 
 back." 
 
 It was then that Mrs. Darling began playing 
 again. 
 
 "It's mother!" cried Wendy, peeping. 
 
 "So it is!" said John. 
 
 "Then are you not really our mother, Wendy*?" 
 asked Michael, who was surely sleepy. 
 
 "Oh dear!" exclaimed Wendy, with her first 
 real twinge of remorse, "it was quite time we came 
 back." 
 
 "Let us creep in," John suggested, "and put our 
 hands over her eyes." 
 
 But Wendy, who saw that they must break the 
 joyous news more gently, had a better plan. 
 
 "Let us all slip into our beds, and be there when 
 she comes in, just as if we had never been away." 
 
 And so when Mrs. Darling went back to the 
 night-nursery to see if her husband was asleep, all 
 the beds were occupied. The children waited for 
 her cry of joy, but it did not come. She saw them, 
 but she did not believe they were there. You 
 see, she saw them in their beds so often in her 
 dreams that she thought this was just the dream 
 hanging around her still. 
 
 203 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 She sat down in the chair by the fire, where in 
 the old days she had nursed them. 
 
 They could not understand this, and a cold fear 
 fell upon all the three of them. 
 
 "Mother!" Wendy cried. 
 
 "That's Wendy," she said, but still she was 
 sure it was the dream. 
 
 "Mother!" 
 
 "That's John," she said. 
 
 "Mother!" cried Michael. He knew her now. 
 
 "That's Michael," she said, and she stretched 
 out her arms for the three little selfish children 
 they would never envelop again. Yes, they did, 
 they went round Wendy and John and Michael, 
 who had slipped out of bed and run to her. 
 
 "George, George!" she cried when she could 
 speak; and Mr. Darling woke to share her bliss, 
 and Nana came rushing in. There could not have 
 been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it 
 except a little boy who was staring in at the win- 
 dow. He had ecstasies innumerable that other 
 children can never know; but he was looking 
 through the window at the one joy from which 
 he must be for ever barred. 
 
 204 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WHEN WENDY GREW UP 
 
 I HOPE you want to know what became of the 
 other boys. They were waiting below to give 
 Wendy time to explain about them, and when 
 they had counted five hundred they went up. They 
 went up by the stair, because they thought this 
 would make a better impression. They stood in a 
 row in front of Mrs. Darling, with their hats off, 
 and wishing they were not wearing their pirate 
 clothes. They said nothing, but their eyes asked 
 her to have them. They ought to have looked at 
 Mr. Darling also, but they forgot about him. 
 
 Of course Mrs. Darling said at once that she 
 would have them; but Mr. Darling was curiously 
 depressed, and they saw that he considered six a 
 rather large number. 
 
 "I must say," he said to Wendy, "that you 
 don't do things by halves," a grudging remark 
 which the twins thought was pointed at them. 
 
 The first twin was the proud one, and he asked, 
 flushing, "Do you think we should be too much 
 of a handful, sir? Because if so we can go away." 
 
 205 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Father!" Wendy cried, shocked; but still the 
 cloud was on him. He knew he was behaving un- 
 worthily, but he could not help it. 
 
 "We could lie doubled up," said Nibs. 
 
 "I always cut their hair myself," said Wendy. 
 
 "George!" Mrs. Darling exclaimed, pained to 
 see her dear one showing himself in such an unfa- 
 vourable light. 
 
 Then he burst into tears, and the truth came 
 out. He was as glad to have them as she was, he 
 said, but he thought they should have asked his 
 consent as well as hers, instead of treating him as 
 a cypher in his own house. 
 
 "I don't think he is a cypher," Tootles cried 
 instantly. "Do you think he is a cypher, Curly*?" 
 
 "No I don't. Do you think he is a cypher, 
 Slightly?" 
 
 "Rather not. Twin, what do you think*?" 
 
 It turned out that not one of them thought him 
 a cypher; and he was absurdly gratified, and said 
 he would find space for them all in the drawing- 
 room if they fitted in. 
 
 "We'll fit in, sir," they assured him. 
 
 "Then follow the leader," he cried gaily. 
 "Mind you, I am not sure that we have a draw- 
 ing-room, but we pretend we have, and it's all the 
 same. Hoop la !" 
 
 He went off dancing through the house, and 
 they all cried "Hoop la!" and danced after him, 
 
 206 
 
WHEN WENDY GREW UP 
 
 searching for the drawing-room; and I forget 
 whether they found it, but at any rate they found 
 corners, and they all fitted in. 
 
 As for Peter, he saw Wendy once again before 
 he flew away. He did not exactly come to the 
 window, but he brushed against it in passing, so 
 that she could open it if she liked and call to him. 
 That was what she did. 
 
 "Hullo, Wendy, good-bye," he said. 
 
 "Oh dear, are you going away?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You don't feel, Peter," she said falteringly, 
 "that you would like to say anything to my par- 
 ents about a very sweet subject?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "About me, Peter?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Mrs. Darling came to the window, for at pres- 
 ent she was keeping a sharp eye on Wendy. She 
 told Peter that she had adopted all the other boys, 
 and would like to adopt him also. 
 
 "Would you send me to school?" he inquired 
 craftily. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And then to an office?" 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "Soon I should be a man?" 
 
 "Very soon." 
 
 "I don't want to go to school and learn solemn 
 207 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 things," he told her passionately. "I don't want 
 to be a man. O Wendy's mother, if I was to wake 
 up and feel there was a beard!" 
 
 "Peter," said Wendy the comforter, "I should 
 love you in a beard;" and Mrs. Darling stretched 
 out her arms to him, but he repulsed her. 
 
 "Keep back, lady, no one is going to catch me 
 and make me a man." 
 
 "But where are you going to live?" 
 
 "With Tink in the house we built for Wendy. 
 The fairies are to put it high up among the tree 
 tops where they sleep at nights." 
 
 "How lovely," cried Wendy so longingly that 
 Mrs. Darling tightened her grip. 
 
 "I thought all the fairies were dead," Mrs. 
 Darling said. 
 
 "There are always a lot of young ones," ex- 
 plained Wendy, who was now quite an authority, 
 "because you see when a new baby laughs for the 
 first time a new fairy is born, and as there are 
 always new babies there are always new fairies. 
 They live in nests on the tops .of trees ; and the 
 mauve ones are boys and the white ones are girls, 
 and the blue ones are just little sillies who are not 
 sure what they are." 
 
 "I shall have such fun," said Peter, with one 
 eye on Wendy. 
 
 "It will be rather lonely in the evening," she 
 said, "sitting by the fire." 
 
 208 
 
WHEN WENDY GREW UP 
 
 "I shall have Tink." 
 
 "Tink can't go a twentieth part of the way 
 round," she reminded him a little tartly. 
 
 "Sneaky tell-tale!" Tink called out from some- 
 where round the corner. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," Peter said. 
 
 "O Peter, you know it matters." 
 
 "Well, then, come with me to the little house." 
 
 "May I, mummy ?" 
 
 "Certainly not. I have got you home again, 
 and I mean to keep you." 
 
 "But he does so need a mother." 
 
 "So do you, my love." 
 
 "Oh, all right," Peter said, as if he had asked 
 her from politeness merely ; but Mrs. Darling saw 
 his mouth twitch, and she made this handsome 
 offer: to let Wendy go to him for a week every 
 year and do his spring cleaning. Wendy would 
 have preferred a more permanent arrangement, 
 and it seemed to her that spring would be long in 
 coming, but this promise sent Peter away quite 
 gay again. He had no .sense of time, and was so 
 full of adventures that all I have told you about 
 him is only a halfpenny worth of them. I sup- 
 pose it was because Wendy knew this that her last 
 words to him were these rather plaintive ones : 
 
 "You won't forget me, Peter, will you, before 
 spring-cleaning time comes *?" 
 
 Of course Peter promised, and then he flew 
 209 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 away. He took Mrs. Darling's kiss with him. 
 The kiss that had been for no one else Peter took 
 quite easily. Funny. But she seemed satisfied. 
 
 Of course all the boys went to school ; and most 
 of them got into Class in., but Slightly was put 
 first into Class iv. and then into Class v. Class i. 
 is the top class. Before they had attended school 
 a week they saw what goats they had been not 
 to remain on the island; but it was too late now, 
 and soon they settled down to being as ordinary 
 as you or me or Jenkins minor. It is sad to have 
 to say that the power to fly gradually left them. 
 At first Nana tied their feet to the bed-posts so 
 that they should not fly away in the night; and 
 one of their diversions by day was to pretend to 
 fall off buses; but by and by they ceased to tug 
 at their bonds in bed, and found that they hurt 
 themselves when they let go of the bus. In time 
 they could not even fly after their hats. Want of 
 practice, they called it; but what it really meant 
 was that they no longer believed. 
 
 Michael believed longer than the other boys, 
 though they jeered at him; so he was with Wendy 
 when Peter came for her at the end of the first 
 year. She flew away with Peter in the frock she 
 had woven from leaves and berries in the Never- 
 land, and her one fear was that he might notice 
 how short it had become, but he never noticed, 
 he had so much to say about himself. 
 
 210 
 
WHEN WENDY GREW UP 
 
 She had looked forward to thrilling talks with 
 him about old times, but new adventures had 
 crowded the old ones from his mind. 
 
 "Who is Captain Hook?" he asked with inter- 
 est when she spoke of the arch enemy. 
 
 "Don't you remember," she asked, amazed, 
 "how you killed him and saved all our lives'?" 
 
 "I forget them after I kill them," he replied 
 carelessly. 
 
 When she expressed a doubtful hope that 
 Tinker Bell would be glad to see her he said, 
 "Who is Tinker Bell?' 
 
 "O Peter!" she said, shocked; but even when 
 she explained he could not remember. 
 
 "There are such a lot of them," he said. "I 
 expect she is no more." 
 
 I expect he was right, for fairies don't live long, 
 but they are so little that a short time seems a 
 good while to them. 
 
 Wendy was pained too to find that the past 
 year was but as yesterday to Peter; it had seemed 
 such a long year of waiting to her. But he was 
 exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a 
 lovely spring cleaning in the little house on the 
 tree tops. 
 
 Next year he did not come for her. She waited 
 in a new frock because the old one simply would 
 not meet, but he never came. 
 
 "Perhaps he is ill," Michael said. 
 
 211 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "You know he is never ill." 
 
 Michael came close to her and whispered, with 
 a shiver, "Perhaps there is no such person, 
 Wendy!" and then Wendy would have cried if 
 Michael had not been crying. 
 
 Peter came next spring cleaning; and the 
 strange thing was that he never knew he had 
 missed a year. 
 
 That was the last time the girl Wendy ever 
 saw him. For a little longer she tried for his sake 
 not to have growing pains; and she felt she was 
 untrue to him when she got a prize for general 
 knowledge. But the years came and went without 
 bringing the careless boy; and when they met 
 again Wendy was a married woman, and Peter 
 was no more to her than a little dust in the box 
 in which she had kept her toys. Wendy was 
 grown up. You need not be sorry for her. She 
 was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the 
 end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker 
 than other girls. 
 
 All the boys were grown up and done for by 
 this time ; so it is scarcely worth while saying any- 
 thing more about them. You may see the twins 
 and Nibs and Curly any day going to an office, 
 each carrying a little bag and an umbrella. 
 Michael is an engine-driver. Slightly married a 
 lady of title, and so he became a lord. You see 
 that judge in a wig coming out at the iron door 9 
 
 212 
 
WHEN WENDY GREW UP 
 
 That used to be Tootles. The bearded man who 
 doesn't know any story to tell his children was 
 once John. 
 
 Wendy was married in white with a pink sash. 
 It is strange to think that Peter did not alight in 
 the church and forbid the banns. 
 
 Years rolled on again, and Wendy had a 
 daughter. This ought not to be written in ink but 
 in a golden splash. 
 
 She was called Jane, and always had an odd 
 inquiring look, as if from the moment she arrived 
 on the mainland she wanted to ask questions. 
 When she was old enough to ask them they were 
 mostly about Peter Pan. She loved to hear of 
 Peter, and Wendy told her all she could remember 
 in the very nursery from which the famous flight 
 had taken place. It was Jane's nursery now, for 
 her father had bought it at the three per cents, 
 from Wendy's father, who was no longer fond 
 of stairs. Mrs. Darling was now dead and for- 
 gotten. 
 
 There were only two beds in the nursery now, 
 Jane's and her nurse's; and there was no kennel, 
 for Nana also had passed away. She died of old 
 age, and at the end she had been rather difficult 
 to get on with, being very firmly convinced that 
 no one knew how to look after children except 
 herself. 
 
 Once a week Jane's nurse had her evening off, 
 213 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 and then it was Wendy's part to put Jane to bed. 
 That was the time for stories. It was Jane's in- 
 vention to raise the sheet over her mother's head 
 and her own, thus making a tent, and in the awful 
 darkness to whisper: 
 
 "What do we see now?" 
 
 "I don't think I see anything to-night," says 
 Wendy, with a feeling that if Nana were here 
 she would object to further conversation. 
 
 "Yes, you do," says Jane, "you see when you 
 were a little girl." 
 
 "That is a long time ago, sweetheart," says 
 Wendy. "Ah me, how time flies !" 
 
 "Does it fly," asks the artful child, "the way 
 you flew when you were a little girl 1 ?" 
 
 "The way I flew ! Do you know, Jane, I some- 
 times wonder whether I ever did really fly." 
 
 "Yes, you did." 
 
 "The dear old days when I could fly !" 
 
 "Why can't you fly now, mother?" 
 
 "Because I am grown up, dearest. When peo- 
 ple grow up they forget the way." 
 
 "Why do they forget the way?" 
 
 "Because they are no longer gay and innocent 
 and heartless. It is only the gay and innocent and 
 heartless who can fly." 
 
 "What is gay and innocent and heartless? I 
 do wish I was gay and innocent and heartless." 
 
 Or perhaps Wendy admits she does see some- 
 214 
 
WHEN WENDY GREW UP 
 
 thing. "I do believe," she says, "that it is this 
 nursery!" 
 
 "I do believe it is!" says Jane. "Go on." 
 
 They are now embarked on the great adventure 
 of the night when Peter flew in looking for his 
 shadow. 
 
 "The foolish fellow," says Wendy, "tried to 
 stick it on with soap, and when he could not he 
 cried, and that woke me, and I sewed it on for 
 him." 
 
 "You have missed a bit," interrupts Jane, who 
 now knows the story better than her mother. 
 "When you saw him sitting on the floor crying 
 what did you say*?" 
 
 "I sat up in bed and I said, 'Boy, why are you 
 crying?' " 
 
 "Yes, that was it," says Jane, with a big breath. 
 
 "And then he flew us all away to the Never- 
 land and the fairies and the pirates and the red- 
 skins and the mermaids' lagoon, and the home 
 under the ground, and the little house." 
 
 "Yes! which did you like best of all?" 
 
 "I think I liked the home under the ground 
 best of all." 
 
 "Yes, so do I. What was the last thing Peter 
 ever said to you*?" 
 
 "The last thing he ever said to me was, 'Just 
 always be waiting for me, and then some night 
 you will hear me crowing.' ' 
 
 215 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "But, alas, he forgot all about me." Wendy 
 &aid it with a smile. She was as grown up as that. 
 
 "What did his crow sound like?" Jane asked 
 one evening. 
 
 "It was like this," Wendy said, trying to imi- 
 tate Peter's crow. 
 
 "No, it wasn't," Jane said gravely, "it was like 
 this" ; and she did it ever so much better than her 
 mother. 
 
 Wendy was a little startled. "My darling, 
 how can you know 1 ?" 
 
 "I often hear it when I am sleeping," Jane said. 
 
 "Ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleep- 
 ing, but I was the only one who heard it awake." 
 
 "Lucky you !" said Jane. 
 
 And then one night came the tragedy. It was 
 the spring of the year, and the story had been told 
 for the night, and Jane was now asleep in her bed. 
 Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the 
 fire so as to see to darn, for there was no other light 
 in the nursery; and while she sat darning she 
 heard a crow. Then the window blew open as of 
 old, and Peter dropped on the floor. 
 
 He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy 
 saw at once that he still had all his first teeth. 
 
 He was a little boy, and she was grown up. 
 She huddled by the fire not daring to move, help- 
 less and guilty, a big woman. 
 
 216 
 
PETER AND JANE 
 
WHEN WENDY GREW UP 
 
 "Hullo, Wendy," he said, not noticing any dif- 
 ference, for he was thinking chiefly of himself; 
 and in the dim light her white dress might have 
 been the nightgown in which he had seen her first. 
 
 "Hullo, Peter," she replied faintly, squeezing 
 herself as small as possible. Something inside her 
 was crying "Woman, woman, let go of me." 
 
 "Hullo, where is John*?" he asked, suddenly 
 missing the third bed. 
 
 "John is not here now," she gasped. 
 
 "Is Michael asleep*?" he asked, with a careless 
 glance at Jane. 
 
 "Yes," she answered; and now she felt that 
 she was untrue to Jane as well as to Peter. 
 
 "That is not Michael," she said quickly, lest a 
 judgment should fall on her. 
 
 Peter looked. "Hullo, is it a new one?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Boy or girl?" 
 
 "Girl." 
 
 Now surely he would understand; but not a 
 bit of it. 
 
 "Peter," she said, faltering, "are you expecting 
 me to fly away with you?" 
 
 "Of course; that is why I have come." He 
 added a little sternly, "Have you forgotten that 
 this is spring-cleaning time?" 
 
 She knew it was useless to say that he had let 
 many spring-cleaning times pass. 
 
 217 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "I can't come," she said apologetically, "I have 
 forgotten how to fly." 
 
 "I'll soon teach you again." 
 
 "O, Peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me." 
 
 She had risen, and now at last a fear assailed 
 him. "What is it?" he cried, shrinking. 
 
 "I will turn up the light," she said, "and then 
 you can see for yourself." 
 
 For almost the only time in his life that I know 
 of, Peter was afraid. "Don't turn up the light," 
 he cried. 
 
 She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic 
 boy. She was not a little girl heart-broken about 
 him ; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but 
 they were wet smiles. 
 
 Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. 
 He gave a cry of pain; and when the tall beautiful 
 creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew 
 back sharply. 
 
 "What is it 1 ?" he cried again. 
 
 She had to tell him. 
 
 "I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than 
 twenty. I grew up long ago." 
 
 "You promised not to!" 
 
 "I couldn't help it. I am a married woman, 
 Peter." 
 
 "No, you're not." 
 
 "Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby." 
 
 "No, she's not." 
 
 218 
 
WHEN WENDY GREW UP 
 
 But he supposed she was; and he took a step 
 towards the sleeping child with his fist upraised. 
 Of course he did not strike her. He sat down on 
 the floor and sobbed, and Wendy did not know 
 how to comfort him, though she could have done 
 it so easily once. She was only a woman now, 
 and she ran out of the room to try to think. 
 
 Peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke 
 Jane. She sat up in bed, and was interested at 
 once. 
 
 "Boy," she said, "why are you crying?" 
 
 Peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to 
 him from the bed. 
 
 "Hullo," he said. 
 
 "Hullo," said Jane. 
 
 "My name is Peter Pan," he told her. 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "I came back for my mother," he explained, 
 "to take her to the Neverland." 
 
 "Yes, I know," Jane said, "I been waiting for 
 you." 
 
 When Wendy returned diffidently she found 
 Peter sitting on the bed-post crowing gloriously, 
 while Jane in her nighty was flying round the 
 room in solemn ecstasy. 
 
 "She is my mother," Peter explained; and Jane 
 descended and stood by his side, with the look on 
 her face that he liked to see on ladies when they 
 gazed at him. 
 
 219 
 
PETER AND WENDY 
 
 "He does so need a mother," Jane said. 
 
 "Yes, I know," Wendy admitted, rather for- 
 lornly; "no one knows it so well as I." 
 
 "Good-bye," said Peter to Wendy; and he rose 
 in the air, and the shameless Jane rose with him; 
 it was already her easiest way of moving about. 
 
 Wendy rushed to the window. 
 
 "No, no !" she cried. 
 
 "It is just for spring-cleaning time," Jane said; 
 "he wants me always to do his spring cleaning." 
 
 "If only I could go with you !" Wendy sighed. 
 
 "You see you can't fly," said Jane. 
 
 Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away 
 together. Our last glimpse of her shows her at 
 the window, watching them receding into the sky 
 until they were as small as stars. 
 
 As you look at Wendy you may see her hair be- 
 coming white, and her figure little again, for all 
 this happened long ago. Jane is now a common 
 grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret; and 
 every spring-cleaning time, except when he for- 
 gets, Peter comes for Margaret and takes her to 
 the Neverland, where she tells him stories about 
 himself, to which he listens eagerly. When Mar- 
 garet grows up she will have a daughter, who is to 
 be Peter's mother in turn; and so it will go on, so 
 long as children are gay and innocent and heartless. 
 
 THE END 
 220 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 BY HER SON, J. M. BARRIE 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 MY SISTER JANE ANN 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 HOW MY MOTHER GOT HER SOFT FACE 
 
 ON the day I was born we bought six hair- 
 bottomed chairs, and in our little house it 
 was an event, the first great victory in a woman's 
 long campaign ; how they had been laboured for, 
 the pound-note and the thirty threepenny bits they 
 cost, what anxiety there was about the purchase, 
 the show they made in possession of the west 
 room, my father's unnatural coolness when he 
 brought them in (but his face was white) I so 
 often heard the tale afterwards, and shared as boy 
 and man in so many similar triumphs, that the 
 coming of the chairs seems to be something I re- 
 member, as if I had jumped out of bed on that 
 first day, and run ben to see how they looked. I 
 am sure my mother's feet were ettling to be ben 
 long before they could be trusted, and that the 
 moment after she was left alone with me she was 
 discovered barefooted in the west room, doctoring 
 a scar (which she had been the first to detect) on 
 one of the chairs, or sitting on them regally or 
 withdrawing and re-opening the door suddenly to 
 take the six by surprise. And then, I think, a 
 
 225 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 shawl was flung over her (it is strange to me to 
 think it was not I who ran after her with the 
 shawl), and she was escorted sternly back to bed 
 and reminded that she had promised not to budge, 
 to which her reply was probably that she had been 
 gone but an instant, and the implication that there- 
 fore she had not been gone at all. Thus was one 
 little bit of her revealed to me at once : I wonder 
 if I took note of it. Neighbours came in to see 
 the boy and the chairs. I wonder if she deceived 
 me when she affected to think that there were 
 others like us, or whether I saw through her from 
 the first, she was so easily seen through. When 
 she seemed to agree with them that it would be 
 impossible to give me a college education, was I 
 so easily taken in, or did I know already what am- 
 bitions burned behind that dear face ? when they 
 spoke of the chairs as the goal quickly reached, 
 was I such a newcomer that her timid lips must 
 say " They are but a beginning " before I heard 
 the words *? And when we were left together, did 
 I laugh at the great things that were in her mind, 
 or had she to whisper them to me first, and then 
 did I put my arm round her and tell her that I 
 would help ? Thus it was for such a long time : 
 it is strange to me to feel that it was not so from 
 the beginning. 
 
 It is all guess-work for six years, and she whom 
 I see in them is the woman who came suddenly 
 
 226 
 
HER SOFT FACE 
 
 into view when they were at an end. Her timid 
 lips I have said, but they were not timid then, and 
 when I knew her the timid lips had come. The 
 soft face they say the face was not so soft then. 
 The shawl that was flung over her we had not 
 begun to hunt her with a shawl, nor to make our 
 bodies a screen between her and the draughts, nor 
 to creep into her room a score of times in the 
 night to stand looking at her as she slept. We 
 did not see her becoming little then, nor sharply 
 turn our heads when she said wonderingly how 
 small her arms had grown. In her happiest mo- 
 ments and never was a happier woman her 
 mouth did not of a sudden begin to twitch, and 
 tears to lie on the mute blue eyes in which I have 
 read all I know and would ever care to write. 
 For when you looked into my mother's eyes you 
 knew, as if He had told you, why God sent her 
 into the world it was to open the minds of all 
 who looked to beautiful thoughts. And that is 
 the beginning and end of literature. Those eyes 
 that I cannot see until I was six years old have 
 guided me through life, and I pray God they may 
 remain my only earthly judge to the last. They 
 were never more my guide than when I helped to 
 put her to earth, not whimpering because my 
 mother had been taken away after seventy-six 
 glorious years of life, but exulting in her even 
 at the grave. 
 
 227 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 She had a son who was far away at school. I 
 remember very little about him, only that he was 
 a merry-faced boy who ran like a squirrel up a 
 tree and shook the cherries into my lap. When 
 he was thirteen and I was half his age the terrible 
 news came, and I have been told the face of my 
 mother was awful in its calmness as she set off to 
 get between Death and her boy. We trooped 
 with her down the brae to the wooden station, and 
 I think I was envying her the journey in the mys- 
 terious waggons; I know we played around her, 
 proud of our right to be there, but I do not recall 
 it, I only speak from hearsay. Her ticket was 
 taken, she had bidden us good-bye with that fight- 
 ing face which I cannot see, and then my father 
 came out of the telegraph-office and said huskily 
 " He's gone ! " Then we turned very quietly and 
 went home again up the little brae. But I speak 
 from hearsay no longer; I knew my mother for 
 ever now. 
 
 That is how she got her soft face and her pa- 
 thetic ways and her large charity, and why other 
 mothers ran to her when they had lost a child. 
 " Dinna greet, poor Janet," she would say to them, 
 and they would answer, " Ah, Margaret, but you're 
 greeting yourseP." Margaret Ogilvy had been her 
 maiden name, and after the Scotch custom she was 
 still Margaret Ogilvy to her old friends. Margaret 
 Ogilvy I loved to name her. Often when I was a 
 
 228 
 
HER SOFT FACE 
 
 boy, " Margaret Ogilvy, are you there ? " I would 
 call up the stair. 
 
 She was always delicate from that hour, and for 
 many months she was very ill. I have heard that 
 the first thing she expressed a wish to see was the 
 christening robe, and she looked long at it and 
 then turned her face to the wall. That was what 
 made me as a boy think of it always as the robe in 
 which he was christened, but I knew later that we 
 had all been christened in it, from the oldest of 
 the family to the youngest, between whom stood 
 twenty years. Hundreds of other children were 
 christened in it also, such robes being then a rare 
 possession, and the lending of ours among my 
 mother's glories. It was carried carefully from 
 house to house, as if it were itself a child; my 
 mother made much of it, smoothed it out, petted 
 it, smiled to it before putting it into the arms of 
 those to whom it was being lent ; she was in our 
 pew to see it borne magnificently (something in- 
 side it now) down the aisle to the pulpit side, 
 when a stir of expectancy went through the church 
 and we kicked each other's feet beneath the book- 
 board but were reverent in the face ; and however 
 the child might behave, laughing brazenly or skirl- 
 ing to its mother's shame, and whatever the father 
 as he held it up might do, look doited probably 
 and bow at the wrong time, the christening robe 
 of long experience helped them through. And 
 
 229 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 when it was brought back to her she took it in her 
 arms as softly as if it might be asleep, and uncon- 
 sciously pressed it to her breast : there was never 
 anything in the house that spoke to her quite so 
 eloquently as that little white robe ; it was the one 
 of her children that always remained a baby. And 
 she had not made it herself, which was the most 
 wonderful thing about it to me, for she seemed to 
 have made all other things. All the clothes in the 
 house were of her making, and you don't know 
 her in the least if you think they were out of the 
 fashion; she turned them and made them new 
 again, she beat them and made them new again, 
 and then she coaxed them into being new again 
 just for the last time, she let them out and took 
 them in and put on new braid, and added a piece 
 up the back, and thus they passed from one mem- 
 ber of the family to another until they reached the 
 youngest, and even when we were done with them 
 they reappeared as something else. In the fashion ! 
 I must come back to this. Never was a woman 
 with such an eye for it. She had no fashion-plates ; 
 she did not need them. The minister's wife (a 
 cloak), the banker's daughters (the new sleeve) 
 they had but to pass our window once, and the 
 scalp, so to speak, was in my mother's hands. Ob- 
 serve her rushing, scissors in hand, thread in mouth, 
 to the drawers where her daughters' Sabbath clothes 
 were kept. Or go to church next Sunday, and 
 
 230 
 
HER SOFT FACE 
 
 watch a certain family filing in, the boy lifting his 
 legs high to show off his new boots, but all the 
 others demure, especially the timid, unobservant 
 looking little woman in the rear of them. If you 
 were the minister's wife that day or the banker's 
 daughters you would have got a shock. But she 
 bought the christening robe, and when I used to 
 ask why, she would beam and look conscious, and 
 say she wanted to be extravagant once. And she 
 told me, still smiling, that the more a woman was 
 given to stitching and making things for herself, 
 the greater was her passionate desire now and 
 again to rush to the shops and " be foolish." The 
 christening robe with its pathetic frills is over half 
 a century old now, and has begun to droop a little, 
 like a daisy whose time is past, but it is as fondly 
 kept together as ever : I saw it in use again only 
 the other day. 
 
 My mother lay in bed with the christening robe 
 beside her, and I peeped in many times at the 
 door and then went to the stair and sat on it and 
 sobbed. I know not if it was that first day, or 
 many days afterwards, that there came to me my 
 sister, the daughter my mother loved the best, yes, 
 more I am sure even than she loved me, whose 
 great glory she has been since I was six years old. 
 This sister, who was then passing out of her teens, 
 came to me with a very anxious face and wring- 
 ing her hands, and she told me to go ben to my 
 
 231 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 mother and say to her that she still had another 
 boy. I went ben excitedly, but the room was 
 dark, and when I heard the door shut and no 
 sound come from the bed I was afraid, and I stood 
 still. I suppose I was breathing hard, or perhaps 
 I was crying, for after a time I heard a listless 
 voice that had never been listless before say, " Is 
 that you ? " I think the tone hurt me, for I made 
 no answer, and then the voice said more anxiously, 
 " Is that you *? " again. I thought it was the dead 
 boy she was speaking to, and I said in a little 
 lonely voice, " No, it's no him, it's just me." Then 
 I heard a cry, and my mother turned in bed, and 
 though it was dark I knew that she was holding 
 out her arms. 
 
 After that I sat a great deal in her bed trying to 
 make her forget him, which was my crafty way 
 of playing physician, and if I saw any one out of 
 doors do something that made the others laugh I 
 immediately hastened to that dark room and did 
 it before her. I suppose I was an odd little figure; 
 I have been told that my anxiety to brighten her 
 gave my face a strained look and put a tremor 
 into the joke (I would stand on my head in the 
 bed, my feet against the wall, and then cry ex- 
 citedly, "Are you laughing, mother 1 ? ") and per- 
 haps what made her laugh was something I was 
 unconscious of, but she did laugh suddenly now 
 and then, whereupon I screamed exultantly to 
 
 232 
 
HER SOFT FACE 
 
 that dear sister, who was ever in waiting, to come 
 and see the sight, but by the time she came the 
 soft face was wet again. Thus I was deprived 
 of some of my glory, and I remember once only 
 making her laugh before witnesses. I kept a rec> 
 ord of her laughs on a piece of paper, a stroke for 
 each, and it was my custom to show this proudly 
 to the doctor every morning. There were five 
 strokes the first time I slipped it into his hand, 
 and when their meaning was explained to htm, he 
 laughed so boisterously that I cried, " I wish that 
 was one of hers ! " Then he was sympathetic, and 
 asked me if my mother had seen the paper yet, 
 and when I shook my head he said that if I showed 
 it to her now and told her that these were her five 
 laughs he thought I might win another. I had 
 less confidence, but he was the mysterious man 
 whom you ran for in the dead of night (you flung 
 sand at his window to waken him, and if it was 
 only toothache he extracted the tooth through the 
 open window, but when it was something sterner 
 he was with you in the dark square at once, like 
 a man who slept in his topcoat), so I did as he 
 bade me, and not only did she laugh then but 
 again when I put the laugh down, so that though 
 it was really one laugh with a tear in the middle 
 I counted it as two. 
 
 It was doubtless that same sister who told me 
 not to sulk when my mother lay thinking of him, 
 
 2 33 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 but to try instead to get her to talk about him. I 
 did not see how this could make her the merry 
 mother she used to be, but I was told that if I 
 could not do it nobody could, and this made me 
 eager to begin. At first, they say, I was often 
 jealous, stopping her fond memories with the cry, 
 " Do you mind nothing about me ? " but that did 
 not last ; its place was taken by an intense desire 
 (again, I think, my sister must have breathed it 
 into life) to become so like him that even my 
 mother should not see the difference, and many 
 and artful were the questions I put to that end. 
 Then I practised in secret, but after a whole week 
 had passed I was still rather like myself. He had 
 such a cheery way of whistling, she had told me, 
 it had always brightened her at her work to hear 
 him whistling, and when he whistled he stood 
 with his legs apart, and his hands in the pockets 
 of his knickerbockers. I decided to trust to this, 
 so one day after I had learned his whistle (every 
 boy of enterprise invents a whistle of his own) 
 from boys who had been his comrades, I secretly 
 put on a suit of his clothes, dark grey they were, 
 with little spots, and they fitted me many years 
 afterwards, and thus disguised I slipped, unknown 
 to the others, into my mother's room. Quaking, 
 I doubt not, yet so pleased, I stood still until she 
 saw me, and then how it must have hurt her! 
 " Listen ! " I cried in a glow of triumph, and I 
 
 2 34 
 
HER SOFT FACE 
 
 stretched my legs wide apart and plunged my 
 hands into the pockets of my knickerbockers, 
 and began to whistle. 
 
 She lived twenty-nine years after his death - 
 such active years, until toward the end, that you 
 never knew where she was unless you took hold of 
 her and though she was frail henceforth and ever 
 growing frailer, her housekeeping again became 
 famous, so that brides called as a matter of course 
 to watch her ca'ming and sanding and stitching : 
 there are old people still, one or two, to tell with 
 wonder in their eyes how she could bake twenty- 
 four bannocks in the hour, and not a chip in one 
 of them. And how many she gave away, how 
 much she gave away of all she had, and what 
 pretty ways she had of giving it ! Her face beamed 
 and rippled with mirth as before, and her laugh, 
 that I had tried so hard to force, came running 
 home again. I have heard no such laugh as hers 
 save from merry children; the laughter of most 
 of us ages, and wears out with the body, but hers 
 remained gleeful to the last, as if it were born 
 afresh every morning. There was always some- 
 thing of the child in her, and her laugh was its 
 voice, as eloquent of the past to me as was the 
 christening robe to her. But I had not made her 
 forget the bit of her that was dead ; in those nine 
 and twenty years he was not removed one day 
 farther from her. Many a time she fell asleep 
 
 235 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 speaking to him, and even while she slept her lips 
 moved and she smiled as if he had come back to 
 her, and when she woke he might vanish so sud- 
 denly that she started up bewildered and looked 
 about her, and then said slowly, "My David's 
 dead ! " or perhaps he remained long enough 
 to whisper why he must leave her now, and 
 then she lay silent with filmy eyes. When I 
 became a man and he was still a boy of thirteen, 
 I wrote a little paper called " Dead this Twenty 
 Years," which was about a similar tragedy in an- 
 other woman's life, and it is the only thing I have 
 written that she never spoke about, not even to 
 that daughter she loved the best. No one ever 
 spoke of it to her, or asked her if she had read it : 
 one does not ask a mother if she knows that there 
 is a little coffin in the house. She read many 
 times the book in which it is printed, but when 
 she came to that chapter she would put her hands 
 to her heart or even over her ears. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 WHAT SHE HAD BEEN 
 
 WHAT she had been, what I should be, these were 
 the two great subjects between us in my boyhood, 
 and while we discussed the one we were deciding 
 the other, though neither of us knew it. 
 
 Before I reached my tenth year a giant entered 
 my native place in the night, and we woke to 
 find him in possession. He transformed it into a 
 new town at a rate with which we boys only could 
 keep up, for as fast as he built dams we made 
 rafts to sail in them; he knocked down houses, 
 and there we were crying, " Pilly ! " among the 
 ruins ; he dug trenches, and we jumped them ; we 
 had to be dragged by the legs from beneath his 
 engines; he sunk wells, and in we went. But 
 though there were never circumstances to which 
 boys could not adapt themselves in half an hour, 
 older folk are slower in the uptake, and I am sure 
 they stood and gaped at the changes so suddenly 
 being worked in our midst, and scarce knew their 
 way home now in the dark. Where had been 
 formerly but the click of the shuttle was soon the 
 
 2 37 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 roar of " power," hand-looms were pushed into a 
 corner as a room is cleared for a dance, every 
 morning at half-past five the town was awakened 
 with a yell, and from a chimney-stalk that rose 
 high into our caller air the conqueror waved for 
 evermore his flag of smoke. Another era had 
 dawned, new customs, new fashions sprang into 
 life, all as lusty as if they had been born at twenty- 
 one; as quickly as two people may exchange 
 seats, the daughter, till now but a knitter of stock- 
 ings, became the breadwinner, he who had been 
 the breadwinner sat down to the knitting of stock- 
 ings ; what had been yesterday a nest of weavers 
 was to-day a town of girls. 
 
 I am not of those who would fling stones at 
 the change; it is something, surely, that backs 
 are no longer prematurely bent; you may no 
 more look through dim panes of glass at the aged 
 poor weaving tremulously for their little bit of 
 ground in the cemetery. Rather are their work- 
 ing years too few now, not because they will it so, 
 but because it is with youth that the power-looms 
 must be fed. Well, this teaches them to make 
 provision, and they have the means as they never 
 had before. Not in batches are boys now sent to 
 college, the half-dozen a year have dwindled to 
 one, doubtless because in these days they can 
 begin to draw wages as they step out of their four- 
 teenth year. Here assuredly there is loss, but all 
 
 238 
 
WHAT SHE HAD BEEN 
 
 the losses would be but a pebble in a sea of gain 
 were it not for this, that with so many of the 
 family, young mothers among them, working in 
 the factories, home life is not so beautiful as it 
 was. So much of what is great in Scotland has 
 sprung from the closeness of the family ties; it is 
 there I sometimes fear that my country is being 
 struck. That we are all being reduced to one 
 dead level, that " character " abounds no more and 
 life itself is less interesting, such things I have 
 read, but I do not believe them. I have even 
 seen them given as my reason for writing of a past 
 time, and in that at least there is no truth. In our 
 little town, which is a sample of many, life is as 
 interesting, as pathetic, as joyous as ever it was; 
 no group of weavers was better to look at or think 
 about than the rivulet of winsome girls that over- 
 runs our streets every time the sluice is raised, the 
 comedy of summer evenings and winter firesides 
 is played with the old zest, and every window- 
 blind is the curtain of a romance. Once the lights 
 of a little town are lit, who could ever hope to tell 
 all its story, or the story of a single wynd in it *? 
 And who looking at lighted windows needs to 
 turn to books ? The reason my books deal with 
 the past instead of with the life I myself have 
 known is simply this, that I soon grow tired of 
 writing tales unless I can see a little girl, of whom 
 my mother has told me, wandering confidently 
 
 239 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 through the pages. Such a grip has her memory 
 of her girlhood had upon me since I was a boy 
 of six. 
 
 Those innumerable talks with her made her 
 youth as vivid to me as my own, and so much 
 more quaint, for, to a child, the oddest of things, 
 and the most richly coloured picture-book, is that 
 his mother was once a child also, and the contrast 
 between what she is and what she was is perhaps 
 the source of all humour. My mother's father, 
 the one hero of her life, died nine years before I 
 was born, and I remember this with bewilderment, 
 so familiarly does the weather-beaten mason's fig- 
 ure rise before me from the old chair on which I 
 was nursed and now write my books. On the 
 surface he is as hard as the stone on which he 
 chiselled, and his face is dyed red by its dust, he 
 is rounded in the shoulders and a " hoast " hunts 
 him ever; sooner or later that cough must carry 
 him off, but until then it shall not keep him from 
 the quarry, nor shall his chapped hands, as long as 
 they can grasp the mell. It is a night of rain or 
 snow, and my mother, the little girl in a pinafore 
 who is already his housekeeper, has been many 
 times to the door to look for him. At last he 
 draws nigh, hoasting. Or I see him setting off to 
 church, for he was a great " stoop " of the Auld 
 Licht kirk, and his mouth is very firm now as if 
 there were a case of discipline to face, but on his 
 
 240 
 
WHAT SHE HAD BEEN 
 
 way home he is bowed with pity. Perhaps his 
 little daughter who saw him so stern an hour ago 
 does not understand why he wrestles so long in 
 prayer to-night, or why when he rises from his 
 knees he presses her to him with unwonted ten- 
 derness. Or he is in this chair repeating to her 
 his favourite poem, " The Cameronian's Dream," 
 and at the first lines so solemnly uttered, 
 
 In a dream of the night I was wafted away, 
 
 she screams with excitement, just as I screamed 
 long afterwards when she repeated them in his 
 voice to me. Or I watch, as from a window, 
 while she sets off through the long parks to the 
 distant place where he is at work, in her hand a 
 flaggon which contains his dinner. She is singing 
 to herself and gleefully swinging the flaggon, she 
 jumps the burn and proudly measures the jump 
 with her eye, but she never dallies unless she 
 meets a baby, for she was so fond of babies that 
 she must hug each one she met, but while she 
 hugged them she also noted how their robes were 
 cut, and afterwards made paper patterns, which 
 she concealed jealously, and in the fullness of time 
 her first robe for her eldest born was fashioned 
 from one of these patterns, made when she was in 
 her twelfth year. 
 
 She was eight when her mother's death made 
 her mistress of the house and mother to her little 
 
 241 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 brother, and from that time she scrubbed and 
 mended and baked and sewed, and argued with 
 the flesher about the quarter-pound of beef and 
 penny bone which provided dinner for two days 
 (but if you think that this was poverty you don't 
 know the meaning of the word), and she carried 
 the water from the pump, and had her washing 
 days and her ironings and a stocking always on 
 the wire for odd moments, and gossiped like a 
 matron with the other women, and humoured the 
 men with a tolerant smile all these things she 
 did as a matter of course, leaping joyful from bed 
 in the morning because there was so much to do, 
 doing it as thoroughly and sedately as if the brides 
 were already due for a lesson, and then rushing 
 out in a fit of childishness to play dumps or pa- 
 laulays with others of her age. I see her frocks 
 lengthening, though they were never very short, 
 and the games given reluctantly up. The horror 
 of my boyhood was that I knew a time would 
 come when I also must give up the games, and 
 how it was to be done I saw not (this agony still 
 returns to me in dreams, when I catch myself 
 playing marbles, and look on with cold dis- 
 pleasure) ; I felt that I must continue playing in 
 secret, and I took this shadow to her, when she 
 told me her own experience, which convinced us 
 both that we were very like each other inside. 
 She had discovered that work is the best fun after 
 
 242 
 
WHAT SHE HAD BEEN 
 
 all, and I learned it in time, but have my lapses, 
 and so had she. 
 
 I know what was her favourite costume when 
 she was at the age that they make heroines of: it 
 was a pale blue with a pale blue bonnet, the white 
 ribbons of which tied aggravatingly beneath the 
 chin, and when questioned about this garb she 
 never admitted that she looked pretty in it, but she 
 did say, with blushes too, that blue was her colour, 
 and then she might smile, as at some memory, 
 and begin to tell us about a man who but it 
 ended there with another smile which was longer 
 in departing. She never said, indeed she denied 
 strenuously, that she had led the men a dance, 
 but again the smile returned, and came between 
 us and full belief. Yes, she had her little vanities; 
 when she got the Mizpah ring she did carry that 
 finger in such a way that the most reluctant must 
 see. She was very particular about her gloves, 
 and hid her boots so that no other should put 
 them on, and then she forgot their hiding-place, 
 and had suspicions of the one who found them. 
 A good way of enraging her was to say that her 
 last year's bonnet would do for this year without 
 alteration, or that it would defy the face of clay to 
 count the number of her shawls. In one of my 
 books there is a mother who is setting off with her 
 son for the town to which he had been called as 
 minister, and she pauses on the threshold to ask 
 
 243 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 him anxiously if he thinks her bonnet " sets " her. 
 A reviewer said she acted thus, not because she 
 cared how she looked, but for the sake of her son. 
 This, I remember, amused my mother very much. 
 I have seen many weary on-dings of snow, but 
 the one I seem to recollect best occurred nearly 
 twenty years before I was born. It was at the 
 time of my mother's marriage to one who proved 
 a most loving as he was always a well-loved hus- 
 band, a man I am very proud to be able to call 
 my father. I know not for how many days the 
 snow had been falling, but a day came when the 
 people lost heart and would make no more gullies 
 through it, and by next morning to do so was 
 impossible, they could not fling the snow high 
 enough. Its back was against every door when 
 Sunday came, and none ventured out save a val- 
 iant few, who buffeted their way into my mother's 
 home to discuss her predicament, for unless she 
 was "cried" in the church that day she might 
 not be married for another week, and how could 
 she be cried with the minister a field away and 
 the church buried to the waist"? For hours 
 they talked, and at last some men started for the 
 church, which was several hundred yards distant. 
 Three of them found a window, and forcing a 
 passage through it, cried the pair, and that is how 
 it came about that my father and mother were 
 married on the first of March. 
 
 244 
 
WHAT SHE HAD BEEN 
 
 That would be the end, I suppose, if it were a 
 story, but to my mother it was only another be- 
 ginning, and not the last. I see her bending over 
 the cradle of her first-born, college for him already 
 in her eye (and my father not less ambitious), and 
 anon it is a girl who is in the cradle, and then an- 
 other girl already a tragic figure to those who 
 know the end. I wonder if any instinct told my 
 mother that the great day of her life was when she 
 bore this child ; what I am sure of is that from the 
 first the child followed her with the most wistful 
 eyes and saw how she needed help and longed to 
 rise and give it. For of physical strength my 
 mother had never very much; it was her spirit 
 that got through the work, and in those days she 
 was often so ill that the sand rained on the doctor's 
 window, and men ran to and fro with leeches, and 
 " she is in life, we can say no more " was the in- 
 formation for those who came knocking at the 
 door. " I am sorrow to say," her father writes in 
 an old letter now before me, " that Margaret is in 
 a state that she was never so bad before in this 
 world. Till Wednesday night she was in as poor 
 a condition as you could think of to be alive. 
 However, after bleeding, leeching, etc., the Dr. 
 says this morning that he is better hoped now, but 
 at present we can say no more but only she is 
 alive and in the hands of Him in whose hands all 
 our lives are. I can give you no adequate view 
 
 2 45 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 of what my feelings are, indeed they are a burden 
 too heavy for me and I cannot describe them. I 
 look on my right and left hand and find no com- 
 fort, and if it were not for the rock that is higher 
 than I my spirit would utterly fail, but blessed be 
 His name who can comfort those that are cast 
 down. O for more faith in His supporting grace 
 in this hour of trial." 
 
 Then she is " on the mend," she may " thole 
 thro'" if they take great care of her, "which we 
 will be forward to do." The fourth child dies 
 when but a few weeks old, and the next at two 
 years. She was her grandfather's companion, and 
 thus he wrote of her death, this stern, self-educated 
 Auld Licht with the chapped hands : 
 
 " I hope you received my last in which I spoke 
 of Dear little Lydia being unwell. Now with 
 deep sorrow I must tell you that yesterday I as- 
 sisted in laying her dear remains in the lonely 
 grave. She died at 7 o'clock on Wednesday even- 
 ing, I suppose by the time you had got the letter. 
 The Dr. did not think it was croup till late on 
 Tuesday night, and all that Medical aid could 
 prescribe was done, but the Dr. had no hope after 
 he saw that the croup was confirmed, and hard in- 
 deed would the heart have been that would not 
 have melted at seeing what the dear little creature 
 suffered all Wednesday until the feeble frame was 
 quite worn out. She was quite sensible till within 
 
 246 
 
WHAT SHE HAD BEEN 
 
 2 hours of her death, and then she sunk quite low 
 till the vital spark fled, and all medicine that she 
 got she took with the greatest readiness, as if ap- 
 prehensive they would make her well. I cannot 
 well describe my feelings on the occasion. I 
 thought that the fountain head of my tears had 
 now been dried up, but I have been mistaken, for 
 I must confess that the briny rivulets descended 
 fast on my furrowed cheeks, she was such a win- 
 ning Child, and had such a regard for me and al- 
 ways came and told me all her little things, and as 
 she was now speaking, some of her little prattle 
 was very taking, and the lively images of these 
 things intrude themselves more into my mind than 
 they should do, but there is allowance for moder- 
 ate grief on such occasions. But when I am tell- 
 ing you of my own grief and sorrow, I know not 
 what to say of the bereaved Mother, she hath not 
 met with anything in this world before that hath 
 gone so near the quick with her. She had no 
 handling of the last one as she was not able at the 
 time, for she only had her once in her arms, and 
 her affections had not time to be so fairly entwined 
 around her. 1 am much afraid that she will not 
 soon if ever get over this trial. Although she was 
 weakly before, yet she was pretty well recovered, 
 but this hath not only affected her mind but her 
 body is so much affected that she is not well able 
 to sit so long as her bed is making and hath 
 
 2 47 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 scarcely tasted meat [i. e. food] since Monday 
 night, and till some time is elapsed we cannot say 
 how she may be. There is none that is not a pa- 
 rent themselves that can fully sympathise with one 
 in such a state. David is much affected also, but 
 it is not so well known on him, and the younger 
 branches of the family are affected but it will be 
 only momentary. But alas in all this vast ado, 
 there is only the sorrow of the world which work- 
 eth death, O how gladdening would it be if we 
 were in as great bitterness for sin as for the loss of 
 a first-born. O how unfitted persons or families is 
 for trials who knows not the divine art of casting 
 all their cares upon the Lord, and what multitudes 
 are there that when earthly comforts is taken away, 
 may well say what have I more? all their delight 
 is placed in some one thing or another in the world, 
 and who can blame them for unwillingly parting 
 with what they esteem their chief good. O that 
 we were wise to lay up treasure for the time of 
 need, for it is truly a solemn affair to enter the lists 
 with the king of terrors. It is strange that the 
 living lay the things so little to heart until they 
 have to engage in that war where there is no dis- 
 charge. O that my head were waters and mine 
 eyes a fountain of tears that I might weep day and 
 night for my own and others' stupidity in this great 
 matter. O for grace to do every day work in its 
 proper time and to live above the tempting cheat- 
 
 248 
 
WHAT SHE HAD BEEN 
 
 ing train of earthly things. The rest of the fam- 
 ily are moderately well. I have been for some 
 days worse than I have been for 8 months past, 
 but I may soon get better, I am in the same way 
 I have often been in before, but there is no secur- 
 ity for it always being so, for I know that it can- 
 not be far from the time when I will be one of 
 those that once were. I have no other news to 
 send you, and as little heart for them. I hope you 
 will take the earliest opportunity of writing that 
 you can, and be particular as regards Margaret, 
 for she requires consolation." 
 
 He died exactly a week after writing this letter, 
 but my mother was to live for another forty-four 
 years. And joys of a kind never shared in by 
 him were to come to her so abundantly, so long 
 drawn out, that, strange as it would have seemed 
 to him to know it, her fuller life had scarce yet 
 begun. And with the joys were to come their 
 sweet, frightened comrades, pain and grief, again 
 she was to be touched to the quick, again and 
 again to be so ill that " she is in life, we can say 
 no more," but still she had attendants very "for- 
 ward" to help her, some of them unborn in her 
 father's time. 
 
 She told me everything, and so my memories 
 of our little red town are coloured by her memo- 
 ries. I knew it as it had been for generations, and 
 suddenly I saw it change, and the transformation 
 
 249 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 could not fail to strike a boy, for these first years 
 are the most impressionable (nothing that happens 
 after we are twelve matters very much); they are 
 also the most vivid years when we look back, and 
 more vivid the farther we have to look, until, at 
 the end, what lies between bends like a hoop, and 
 the extremes meet. But though the new town is 
 to me a glass through which I look at the old, the 
 people I see passing up and down these wynds, 
 sitting, night-capped, on their barrow-shafts, hob- 
 bling in their blacks to church on Sunday, are less 
 those I saw in my childhood than their fathers and 
 mothers who did these things in the same way 
 when my mother was young. I cannot picture 
 the place without seeing her, as a little girl, come 
 to the door of a certain house and beat her bass 
 against the gav'le-end, or there is a wedding to- 
 night, and the carriage with the white-eared horse 
 is sent for a maiden in pale blue, whose bonnet- 
 strings tie beneath the chin. 
 
 250 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 WHAT I SHOULD BE 
 
 MY mother was a great reader, and with ten min- 
 utes to spare before the starch was ready would 
 begin the " Decline and Fall " and finish it, too, 
 that winter. Foreign words in the text annoyed 
 her and made her bemoan her want of a classical 
 education she had only attended a Dame's school 
 during some easy months but she never passed 
 the foreign words by until their meaning was ex- 
 plained to her, and when next she and they met it 
 was as acquaintances, which I think was clever of 
 her. One of her delights was to learn from me 
 scraps of Horace, and then bring them into her 
 conversation with " colleged men." I have come 
 upon her in lonely places, such as the stair-head or 
 the east room, muttering these quotations aloud to 
 herself, and I well remember how she would say 
 to the visitors, " Ay, ay, it's very true, Doctor, but 
 as you know, 'Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume, 
 labuntur anni,' " or " Sal, Mr. so and so, my lassie 
 is thriving well, but would it no be more to the 
 point to say ' O mater, pulchra filia pulchrior ' ? " 
 
 251 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 which astounded them very much if she managed 
 to reach the end without being flung, but usually 
 she had a fit of laughing in the middle, and so 
 they found her out. 
 
 Biography and exploration were her favourite 
 reading, for choice the biography of men who had 
 been good to their mothers, and she liked the ex- 
 plorers to be alive so that she could shudder at the 
 thought of their venturing forth again, but though 
 she expressed a hope that they would have the 
 sense to stay at home henceforth, she gleamed with 
 admiration when they disappointed her. In later 
 days I had a friend who was an African explorer, 
 and she was in two minds about him ; he was one 
 of the most engrossing of mortals to her, she ad- 
 mired him prodigiously, pictured him at the head 
 of his caravan, now attacked by savages, now by 
 wild beasts, and adored him for the uneasy hours 
 he gave her, but she was also afraid that he 
 wanted to take me with him, and then she thought 
 he should be put down by law. Explorers' mo- 
 thers also interested her very much; the books 
 might tell her nothing about them, but she could 
 create them for herself and wring her hands in 
 sympathy with them when they had got no news 
 of him for six months. Yet there were times when 
 she grudged him to them as the day when he 
 returned victorious. Then what was before hei 
 eyes was not the son coming marching home 
 
 252 
 
WHAT I SHOULD BE 
 
 again, but an old woman peering for him round 
 the window curtain and trying not to look up- 
 lifted. The newspaper reports would be about 
 the son, but my mother's comment was " She 's a 
 proud woman this night." 
 
 We read many books together when I was a 
 boy, " Robinson Crusoe " being the first (and the 
 second), and the "Arabian Nights" should have 
 been the next, for we got it out of the library (a 
 penny for three days), but on discovering that 
 they were nights when we had paid for knights 
 we sent that volume packing, and I have curled 
 my lips at it ever since. " The Pilgrim's Pro- 
 gress " we had in the house (it was as common a 
 possession as a dresser-head), and so enamoured 
 of it was I that I turned our garden into sloughs 
 of Despond, with pea-sticks to represent Christian 
 on his travels and a buffet-stool for his burden, but 
 when I dragged my mother out to see my handi- 
 work she was scared, and I felt for days, with a 
 certain elation, that I had been a dark character. 
 Besides reading every book we could hire or bor- 
 row I also bought one now and again, and while 
 buying (it was the occupation of weeks) I read, 
 standing at the counter, most of the other books 
 in the shop, which is perhaps the most exquisite 
 way of reading. And I took in a magazine called 
 '* Sunshine," the most delicious periodical, I am 
 sure, of any day. It cost a halfpenny or a penny 
 
 253 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 a month, and always, as I fondly remember, had a 
 continued tale about the dearest girl, who sold 
 water-cress, which is a dainty not grown and I 
 suppose never seen in my native town. This ro- 
 mantic little creature took such hold of my im- 
 agination that I cannot eat water-cress even now 
 without emotion. I lay in bed wondering what 
 she would be up to in the next number; I have 
 lost trout because when they nibbled my mind 
 was wandering with her; my early life was em- 
 bittered by her not arriving regularly on the 
 first of the month. I know not whether it was 
 owing to her loitering on the way one month to 
 an extent flesh and blood could not bear, or be- 
 cause we had exhausted the penny library, but on 
 a day I conceived a glorious idea, or it was put 
 into my head by my mother, then desirous of 
 making progress with her new clouty hearth-rug. 
 The notion was nothing short of this, why should 
 I not write the tales myself? I did write them 
 in the garret but they by no means helped her 
 to get on with her work, for when I finished a 
 chapter I bounded downstairs to read it to her, and 
 so short were the chapters, so ready was the pen, 
 that I was back with new manuscript before an- 
 other clout had been added to the rug. Author- 
 ship seemed, like her bannock-baking, to consist 
 of running between two points. They were all 
 tales of adventure (happiest is he who writes of 
 
 254 
 
WHAT I SHOULD BE 
 
 adventure), no characters were allowed within if 
 I knew their like in the flesh, the scene lay in 
 unknown parts, desert islands, enchanted gardens^ 
 with knights (none of your nights) on black 
 chargers, and round the first corner a lady sell- 
 ing water-cress. 
 
 At twelve or thereabout I put the literary call- 
 ing to bed for a time, having gone to a school 
 where cricket and football were more esteemed, 
 but during the year before I went to the univer- 
 sity, it woke up and I wrote great part of a three- 
 volume novel. The publisher replied that the 
 sum for which he would print it was a hundred 
 and however, that was not the important point 
 (I had sixpence) : where he stabbed us both was 
 in writing that he considered me a " clever lady." 
 I replied stiffly that I was a gentleman, and since 
 then I have kept that manuscript concealed. I 
 looked through it lately, and, oh, but it is dull. 
 I defy any one to read it. 
 
 The malignancy of publishers, however, could 
 not turn me back. From the day on which I first 
 tasted blood in the garret my mind was made up ; 
 there could be no hum-dreadful-drum profession 
 for me; literature was my game. It was not 
 highly thought of by those who wished me well. 
 I remember being asked by two maiden ladies, 
 about the time I left the university, what I was to 
 be, and when I replied brazenly, " An author," 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 they flung up their hands, and one exclaimed re- 
 proachfully, "And you an M. A.!" My mother's 
 views at first were not dissimilar; for long she 
 took mine jestingly as something I would grow 
 out of, and afterwards they hurt her so that I tried 
 to give them up. To be a minister that she 
 thought was among the fairest prospects, but she 
 was a very ambitious woman, and sometimes she 
 would add, half scared at her appetite, that there 
 were ministers who had become professors, "but 
 it was not canny to think of such things." 
 
 I had one person only on my side, an old tailor, 
 one of the fullest men I have known, and quite 
 the best talker. He was a bachelor (he told me 
 all that is to be known about woman), a lean man, 
 pallid of face, his legs drawn up when he walked, 
 as if he was ever carrying something in his lap ; 
 his walks were of the shortest, from the tea-pot on 
 the hob to the board on which he stitched, from 
 the board to the hob, and so to bed. He might 
 have gone out had the idea struck him, but in the 
 years I knew him, the last of his brave life, I think 
 he was only in the open twice, when he " flitted " 
 changed his room for another hard by. I did 
 not see him make these journeys, but I seem to 
 see him now, and he is somewhat dizzy in the odd 
 atmosphere ; in one hand he carries a box-iron, he 
 raises the other, wondering what this is on his 
 head it is a hat; a faint smell of singed cloth goes 
 
 256 
 
WHAT I SHOULD BE 
 
 by with him. This man had heard of my set of 
 photographs of the poets and asked for a sight of 
 them, which led to our first meeting. I remember 
 how he spread them out on his board, and after 
 looking long at them, turned his gaze on me and 
 said solemnly, 
 
 What can I do to be for ever known, 
 And make the age to come my own ? 
 
 These lines of Cowley were new to me, but the 
 sentiment was not new, and I marvelled how the 
 old tailor could see through me so well. So it 
 was strange to me to discover presently that he 
 had not been thinking of me at all, but of his own 
 young days, when that couplet sang in his head, 
 and he, too, had thirsted to set off for Grub Street, 
 but was afraid, and while he hesitated old age 
 came, and then Death, and found him grasping a 
 kox-iron. 
 
 I hurried home with the mouthful, but neigh- 
 bours had dropped in, and this was for her ears 
 only, so I drew her to the stair, and said imperi- 
 ously, 
 
 What can I do to be for ever known, 
 And make the age to come my own? 
 
 It was an odd request for which to draw her from 
 a tea-table, and she must have been surprised, but 
 I think she did not laugh, and in after years she 
 
 2 57 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 would repeat the lines fondly, with a flush on her 
 soft face. " That is the kind you would like to 
 be yourself! " we would say in jest to her, and she 
 would reply almost passionately, " No, but I would 
 be windy of being his mother." It is possible that 
 she could have been his mother had that other son 
 lived, he might have managed it from sheer love 
 of her, but for my part I can smile at one of those 
 two figures on the stair now, having long given up 
 the dream of being for ever known, and seeing 
 myself more akin to my friend, the tailor ; for as 
 he was found at the end on his board, so I hope 
 shall I be found at my hand-loom, doing honestly 
 the work that suits me best. Who shall know so 
 well as I that it is but a hand-loom compared to 
 the great guns that reverberate through the age to 
 come*? But she who stood with me on the stair 
 that day was a very simple woman, accustomed all 
 her life to making the most of small things, and I 
 weaved sufficiently well to please her, which has 
 been my only steadfast ambition since I was a little 
 boy. 
 
 Not less than mine became her desire that I 
 should have my way but, ah, the iron seats in 
 that Park of horrible repute, and that bare room 
 at the top of many flights of stairs ! While I was 
 away at college she drained all available libraries 
 for books about those who go to London to live 
 by the pen, and they all told the same shuddering 
 
 258 
 
WHAT I SHOULD BE 
 
 tale. London, which she never saw, was to her a 
 monster that licked up country youths as they 
 stepped from the train ; there were the garrets in 
 which they sat abject, and the park seats where 
 they passed the night. Those park seats were the 
 monster's glaring eyes to her, and as I go by them 
 now she is nearer to me than when I am in any 
 other part of London. I daresay that when night 
 comes, this Hyde Park which is so gay by day is 
 haunted by the ghosts of many mothers, who run, 
 wild-eyed, from seat to seat, looking for their sons. 
 But if we could dodge those dreary seats she 
 longed to see me try my luck, and I sought to ex- 
 clude them from the picture by drawing maps of 
 London with Hyde Park left out. London was 
 as strange to me as to her, but long before I was 
 shot upon it I knew it by maps, and drew them 
 more accurately than I could draw them now. 
 Many a time she and I took our jaunt together 
 through the map, and were most gleeful, popping 
 into telegraph offices to wire my father and sister 
 that we should not be home till late, winking to 
 my books in lordly shop-windows, lunching at 
 restaurants (and remembering not to call it dinner), 
 saying, "How do? " to Mr. Alfred Tennyson when 
 we passed him in Regent Street, calling at pub- 
 lishers' offices for a cheque, when " Will you take 
 care of it, or shall I ? " I asked gaily, and she 
 would be certain to reply, " I'm thinking we'd bet- 
 
 259 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 ter take it to the bank and get the money," for she 
 always felt surer of money than of cheques, so to 
 the bank we went (" Two tens, and the rest in 
 gold"), and thence straightway (by cab) to the 
 place where you buy sealskin coats for middling 
 old ladies. But ere the laugh was done the park 
 would come through the map like a blot. 
 
 " If you could only be sure of as much as would 
 keep body and soul together," my mother would 
 say with a sigh. 
 
 " With something over, mother, to send to 
 you." 
 
 " You couldna expect that at the start." 
 
 The wench I should have been courting now 
 was journalism, that grisette of literature who has 
 a smile and a hand for all beginners, welcoming 
 them at the threshold, teaching them so much 
 that is worth knowing, introducing them to the 
 other lady whom they have worshipped from afar, 
 showing them even how to woo her, and then 
 bidding them a bright God-speed he were an 
 ingrate who, having had her joyous companion- 
 ship, no longer flings her a kiss as they pass. But 
 though she bears no ill-will when she is jilted, you 
 must serve faithfully while you are hers, and you 
 must seek her out and make much of her, and, 
 until you can rely on her good-nature (note this), 
 not a word about the other lady. When at last 
 she took me in I grew so fond of her that I called 
 
 260 
 
WHAT I SHOULD BE 
 
 her by the other's name, and even now I think at 
 times that there was more fun in the little sister, 
 but I began by wooing her with contributions 
 that were all misfits. In an old book I find col- 
 umns of notes about works projected at this time, 
 nearly all to consist of essays on deeply uninter- 
 esting subjects; the lightest was to be a volume 
 on the older satirists, beginning with Skelton and 
 Tom Nash the half of that manuscript still lies 
 in a dusty chest the only story was about Mary 
 Queen of Scots, who was also the subject of many 
 unwritten papers. Queen Mary seems to have 
 been luring me to my undoing ever since I saw 
 Holyrood, and I have a horrid fear that I may 
 write that novel yet. That anything could be 
 written about my native place never struck me. 
 We had read somewhere that a novelist is better 
 equipped than most of his trade if he knows him- 
 self and one woman, and my mother said, " You 
 know yourself, for everybody must know himself" 
 (there never was a woman who knew less about 
 herself than she), and she would add dolefully, 
 " But I doubt I'm the only woman you know 
 well." 
 
 " Then I must make you my heroine," I said 
 lightly. 
 
 " A gey auld-farrant-like heroine ! " she said, and 
 we both laughed at the notion so little did we 
 read the future. 
 
 261 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 Thus it is obvious what were my qualifications 
 when I was rashly engaged as a leader-writer (it 
 was my sister who saw the advertisement) on an 
 English provincial paper. At the moment I was 
 as uplifted as the others, for the chance had come 
 at last, with what we all regarded as a prodigious 
 salary, but I was wanted in the beginning of the 
 week, and it suddenly struck me that the leaders 
 were the one thing I had always skipped. Lead- 
 ers! How were they written? what were they 
 about*? My mother was already sitting trium- 
 phant among my socks, and I durst not let her see 
 me quaking. I retired to ponder, and presently 
 she came to me with the daily paper. Which 
 were the leaders? she wanted to know, so evi- 
 dently I could get no help from her. Had she 
 any more newspapers'? I asked, and after rum- 
 maging she produced a few with which her boxes 
 had been lined. Others, very dusty, came from 
 beneath carpets, and lastly a sooty bundle was 
 dragged down the chimney. Surrounded by these, 
 I sat down and studied how to become a journalist. 
 
 262 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 AN EDITOR 
 
 A DEVOUT lady, to whom some friend had presented 
 one of my books, used to say when asked how she 
 was getting on with it, " Sal, it's dreary, weary, uphill 
 work, but I've wrastled through with tougher jobs 
 in my time, and, please God, I'll wrastle through 
 with this one." It was in this spirit, I fear, though 
 she never told me so, that my mother wrestled for 
 the next year or more with my leaders, and indeed 
 I was always genuinely sorry for the people I saw 
 reading them. In my spare hours I was trying 
 journalism of another kind and sending it to Lon- 
 don, but nearly eighteen months elapsed before 
 there came to me, as unlocked for as a telegram, 
 the thought that there was something quaint about 
 my native place. A boy who found that a knife 
 had been put into his pocket in the night could 
 not have been more surprised. A few days after- 
 wards I sent my mother a London evening paper 
 with an article entitled " An Auld Licht Commu- 
 nity," and they told me that when she saw the 
 heading she laughed, because there was something 
 droll to her in the sight of the words Auld Licht 
 
 263 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 in print. For her, as for me, that newspaper was 
 soon to have the face of a friend. To this day I 
 never pass its placards in the street without shak- 
 ing it by the hand, and she used to sew its pages 
 together as lovingly as though they were a child's 
 frock ; but let the truth be told, when she read that 
 first article she became alarmed, and fearing the 
 talk of the town, hid the paper from all eyes. For 
 some time afterwards, while I proudly pictured 
 her showing this and similar articles to all who 
 felt an interest in me, she was really concealing 
 them fearfully in a bandbox on the garret stair. 
 And she wanted to know by return of post whether 
 I was paid for these articles just as I was paid for 
 real articles ; when she heard that I was paid bet- 
 ter, she laughed again and had them out of the 
 bandbox for re-reading, and it cannot be denied 
 that she thought the London editor a fine fellow 
 but slightly soft. 
 
 When I sent off that first sketch I thought I 
 had exhausted the subject, but our editor wrote 
 that he would like something more of the same, 
 so I sent him a marriage, and he took it, and then 
 I tried him with a funeral, and he took it, and 
 really it began to look as if we had him. Now 
 my mother might have been discovered, in answer 
 to certain excited letters, flinging the bundle of 
 undarned socks from her lap, and " going in for 
 literature;" she was racking her brains, by request, 
 
 264 
 
AN EDITOR 
 
 for memories I might convert into articles, and 
 they came to me in letters which she dictated to 
 my sisters. How well I could hear her saying 
 between . the lines : " But the editor-man will 
 
 never stand that, it's perfect blethers " " By 
 
 this post it must go, I tell you ; we must take the 
 editor when he's hungry we canna be blamed 
 for it, can we *? he prints them of his free will, so 
 
 the wite is his" "But I'm near terrified. If 
 
 London folk reads them we're done for." And I 
 was sounded as to the advisability of sending him 
 a present of a lippie of short-bread, which was to 
 be her crafty way of getting round him. By this 
 time, though my mother and I were hundreds of 
 miles apart, you may picture us waving our hands 
 to each other across country, and shouting " Hur- 
 rah ! " You may also picture the editor in his 
 office thinking he was behaving like a shrewd 
 man of business, and unconscious that up in the 
 north there was an elderly lady chuckling so much 
 at him that she could scarcely scrape the potatoes. 
 
 I was now able to see my mother again, and 
 the park seats no longer loomed so prominent in 
 our map of London. Still, there they were, and 
 it was with an effort that she summoned up cou- 
 rage to let me go. She feared changes, and who 
 ccmld tell that the editor would continue to be 
 kind *? Perhaps when he saw me 
 
 She seemed to be very much afraid of his seeing 
 265 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 me, and this, I would point out, was a reflection 
 en my appearance or my manner. 
 
 No, what she meant was that I looked so young, 
 and and that would take him aback, for had I 
 not written as an aged man ? 
 
 " But he knows my age, mother." 
 
 " I'm glad of that, but maybe he wouldna like 
 you when he saw you." 
 
 " Oh, it is my manner, then ! " 
 
 "I dinna say that, but " 
 
 Here my sister would break in : " The short 
 and the long of it is just this, she thinks nobody 
 has such manners as herself. Can you deny it, 
 you vain woman?" 
 
 My mother would deny it vigorously. 
 
 " You stand there," my sister would say with af- 
 fected scorn, "and tell me you don't think you could 
 get the better of that man quicker than any of us*?" 
 
 " Sal, I'm thinking I could manage him," says 
 my mother, with a chuckle. 
 
 "How would you set about it?" 
 
 Then my mother would begin to laugh. " I 
 would find out first if he had a family, and then I 
 would say they were the finest family in London." 
 
 "Yes, that is just what you would do, you cun- 
 ning woman ! But if he has no family ? " 
 
 " I would say what great men editors are ! " 
 
 " He would see through you." 
 
 "Not he!" 
 
 266 
 
AN EDITOR 
 
 "You don't understand that what imposes on 
 common folk would never hoodwink an editor." 
 
 " That's where you are wrong. Gentle or sim- 
 ple, stupid or clever, the men are all alike in the 
 hands of a woman that flatters them." 
 
 " Ah, I'm sure there are better ways of getting 
 round an editor than that." 
 
 " I daresay there are," my mother would say 
 with conviction, "but if you try that plan you 
 will never need to try another." 
 
 " How artful you are, mother you with your 
 soft face ! Do you not think shame *? " 
 
 " Pooh ! " says my mother brazenly. 
 
 ** I can see the reason why you are so popular 
 with men." 
 
 " Ay, you can see it, but they never will." 
 
 " Well, how would you dress yourself if you 
 were going to that editor's office *? " 
 
 " Of course I would wear my silk and my Sab- 
 bath bonnet." 
 
 " It is you who are shortsighted now, mother. 
 I tell you, you would manage him better if you 
 just put on your old grey shawl and one of your 
 bonny white mutches, and went in half smiling 
 and half timid and said, ' I am the mother of him 
 that writes about the Auld Lichts, and I want you 
 to promise that he will never have to sleep in the 
 open air.' " 
 
 But my mother would shake her head at this, 
 
 267 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 and reply almost hotly, " I tell you if I ever go 
 into that man's office, I go in silk." 
 
 I wrote and asked the editor if I should come 
 to London, and he said No, so I went, laden with 
 charges from my mother to walk in the middle of 
 the street (they jump out on you as you are turn- 
 ing a corner), never to venture forth after sunset, 
 and always to lock up everything (I who could 
 never lock up anything, except my heart in com- 
 pany). Thanks to this editor, for the others would 
 have nothing to say to me though I battered on 
 all their doors, she was soon able to sleep at nights 
 without the dread that I should be waking pres- 
 ently with the iron-work of certain seats figured 
 on my person, and what relieved her very much 
 was that I had begun to write as if Auld Lichts 
 were not the only people I knew of. So long as 
 I confined myself to them she had a haunting fear 
 that, even though the editor remained blind to his 
 best interests, something would one day go crack 
 within me (as the mainspring of a watch breaks) 
 and my pen refuse to write for evermore. "Ay, 
 I like the article brawly," she would say timidly, 
 "but I'm doubting it's the last I always have 
 a sort of terror the new one may be the last," and 
 if many days elapsed before the arrival of another 
 article her face would say mournfully, " The blow 
 has fallen he can think of nothing more to write 
 about." If I ever shared her fears I never told her 
 
 268 
 
AN EDITOR 
 
 so, and the articles that were not Scotch grew in 
 number until there were hundreds of them, all 
 carefully preserved by her: they were the only 
 thing in the house that, having served one pur- 
 pose, she did not convert into something else, yet 
 they could give her uneasy moments. This was 
 because I nearly always assumed a character when 
 I wrote ; I must be a country squire, or an under- 
 graduate, or a butler, or a member of the House 
 of Lords, or a dowager, or a lady called Sweet 
 Seventeen, or an engineer in India, else was my 
 pen clogged; and though this gave my mother 
 certain fearful joys, causing her to laugh unex- 
 pectedly (so far as my articles were concerned she 
 nearly always laughed in the wrong place), it also 
 scared her. Much to her amusement, the editor 
 continued to prefer the Auld Licht papers, how- 
 ever, as was proved (to those who knew him) by 
 his way of thinking that the others would pass as 
 they were, while he sent these back and asked me 
 to make them better. Here again she came to 
 my aid. I had said that the row of stockings were 
 hung on a string by the fire, which was a recollec- 
 tion of my own, but she could tell me whether 
 they were hung upside down. She became quite 
 skilful at sending or giving me (for now I could 
 be with her half the year) the right details, but 
 still she smiled at the editor, and in her gay moods 
 she would say, " I was fifteen when I got my first 
 
 269 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 pair of elastic-sided boots. Tell him my charge 
 for this important news is two pounds ten." 
 
 " Ay, but though we're doing well, it's no the 
 same as if they were a book with your name on 
 it." So the ambitious woman would say with a 
 sigh, and I did my best to turn the Auld Licht 
 sketches into a book with my name on it. Then 
 perhaps we understood most fully how good a 
 friend our editor had been, for just as I had been 
 able to find no well-known magazine and I 
 think I tried all which would print any article 
 or story about the poor of my native land, so now 
 the publishers, Scotch and English, refused to ac- 
 cept the book as a gift. I was willing to present 
 it to them, but they would have it in no guise ; 
 there seemed to be a blight on everything that 
 was Scotch. I daresay we sighed, but never were 
 collaborators more prepared for rejection, and 
 though my mother might look wistfully at the 
 scorned manuscript at times and murmur, " You 
 poor cold little crittur shut away in a drawer, are 
 you dead or just sleeping *? " she had still her 
 editor to say grace over. And at last publishers, 
 sufficiently daring and far more than sufficiently 
 generous, were found for us by a dear friend, who 
 made one woman very " uplifted." He also was 
 an editor, and had as large a part in making me a 
 writer of books as the other in determining what 
 the books should be about. 
 
 270 
 
AN EDITOR 
 
 Now that I was an author, I must get into a 
 club. But you should have heard my mother on 
 clubs ! She knew of none save those to which 
 you subscribe a pittance weekly in anticipation of 
 rainy days, and the London clubs were her scorn. 
 Often I heard her on them she raised her voice 
 to make me hear, whichever room I might be in, 
 and it was when she was sarcastic that I skulked 
 the most : " Thirty pounds is what he will have to 
 pay the first year, and ten pounds a year after that. 
 You think it's a lot o' siller? Oh, no, you're 
 mista'en it's nothing ava. For the third part of 
 thirty pounds you could rent a four-roomed house, 
 but what is a four-roomed house, what is thirty 
 pounds, compared to the glory of being a member 
 of a club ! Where does the glory come in ? Sal, 
 you needna ask me, I'm just a doited auld stock 
 that never set foot in a club, so it's little I ken 
 about glory. But I may tell you if you bide in 
 London and canna become member of a club, 
 the best you can do is to tie a rope round your 
 neck and slip out of the world. What use are 
 they 1 ? Oh, they're terrible useful. You see, it 
 doesna do for a man in London to eat his dinner 
 in his lodgings. Other men shake their heads at 
 him. He maun away to his club if he is to be 
 respected. Does he get good dinners at the club ? 
 Oh, they cow ! You get no common beef at 
 clubs; there is a manzy of different things all 
 
 271 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 sauced up to be unlike themsels. Even the pota- 
 toes daurna look like potatoes. If the food in a 
 club looks like what it is, the members run about, 
 flinging up their hands and crying, ' Woe is me!' 
 Then this is another thing, you get your letters 
 sent to the club instead of to your lodgings. You 
 see, you would get them sooner at your lodgings, 
 and you may have to trudge weary miles to the 
 club for them ; but that's a great advantage, and 
 cheap at thirty pounds, is it no *? I wonder they 
 can do it at the price." 
 
 My wisest policy was to remain downstairs 
 when these withering blasts were blowing, but 
 probably I went up in self-defence. 
 
 " I never saw you so pugnacious before, mother." 
 
 " Oh," she would reply promptly, " you canna 
 expect me to be sharp in the uptake when I am 
 no a member of a club." 
 
 "But the difficulty is in becoming a member. 
 They are very particular about whom they elect, 
 and I daresay I shall not get in." 
 
 " Well, I'm but a poor crittur (not being mem- 
 ber of a club), but I think I can tell you to make 
 your mind easy on that head. You'll get in, I'se 
 uphaud and your thirty pounds will get in, too." 
 
 " If I get in, it will be because the editor is sup- 
 porting me." 
 
 " It's the first ill thing I ever heard of him." 
 272 
 
AN EDITOR 
 
 " You don't think he is to get any of the thirty 
 pounds, do you ? " 
 
 " 'Deed if I did I should be better pleased, for 
 he has been a good friend to us ; but what mad- 
 dens me is that every penny of it should go to 
 those bare-faced scoundrels." 
 
 " What bare-faced scoundrels ? " 
 
 " Them that have the club." 
 
 " But all the members have the club between 
 them." 
 
 " Havers ! I'm no to be catched with chaff." 
 
 " But don't you believe me ? " 
 
 " I believe they've filled your head with their 
 stories till you swallow whatever they tell you. 
 If the place belongs to the members, why do they 
 have to pay thirty pounds ? " 
 
 " To keep it going." 
 
 " They dinna have to pay for their dinners, 
 then?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, they have to pay extra for dinner." 
 
 " And a gey black price, I'm thinking." 
 
 " Well, five or six shillings." 
 
 " Is that all ? Losh, it's nothing. I wonder 
 they dinna raise the price." 
 
 Nevertheless my mother was of a sex that 
 scorned prejudice, and, dropping sarcasm, she 
 would at times cross-examine me as if her mind 
 was not yet made up. " Tell me this, if you were 
 
 2 73 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 to fall ill, would you be paid a weekly allowance 
 out of the club ? " 
 
 No, it was not that kind of club. 
 
 " I see. Well, I am just trying to find out 
 what kind of club it is. Do you get anything out 
 of it for accidents'?" 
 
 Not a penny. 
 
 " Anything at New Year's time ? " 
 
 Not so much as a goose. 
 
 " Is there any one mortal thing you get free 
 out of that club ? " 
 
 There was not one mortal thing. 
 
 "And thirty pounds is what you pay for this 1 ?" 
 
 If the committee elected me. 
 
 " How many are in the committee ? " 
 
 About a dozen, I thought. 
 
 " A dozen ! Ay, ay, that makes two pound ten 
 apiece." 
 
 When I was elected I thought it wisdom to 
 send my sister upstairs with the news. My mother 
 was ironing, and made no comment, unless with 
 the iron, which I could hear rattling more vio- 
 lently in its box. Presently I heard her laughing 
 at me undoubtedly, but she had recovered con- 
 trol over her face before she came downstairs to 
 congratulate me sarcastically. This was grand 
 news, she said without a twinkle, and I must write 
 and thank the committee, the noble critturs. I 
 saw behind her mask, and maintained a dignified 
 
 274 
 
AN EDITOR 
 
 silence, but she would have another shot at me. 
 "And tell them," she said from the door, "you 
 were doubtful of being elected, but your auld 
 mother had aye a mighty confidence they would 
 snick you in." I heard her laughing softly as she 
 went up the stair, but though I had provided her 
 with a joke I knew she was burning to tell the 
 committee what she thought of them. 
 
 Money, you see, meant so much to her, though 
 even at her poorest she was the most cheerful 
 giver. In the old days, when the article arrived, 
 she did not read it at once, she first counted the 
 lines to discover what we should get for it she 
 and the daughter who was so dear to her had cal- 
 culated the payment per line, and I remember 
 once overhearing a discussion between them about 
 whether that sub-title meant another sixpence. 
 Yes, she knew the value of money; she had al- 
 ways in the end got the things she wanted, but 
 now she could get them more easily, and it turned 
 her simple life into a fairy tale. So often in those 
 days she went down suddenly upon her knees; 
 we would come upon her thus, and go away noise- 
 lessly. After her death I found that she had pre- 
 served in a little box, with a photograph of me as 
 a child, the envelopes which had contained my 
 first cheques. There was a little ribbon round 
 them. 
 
 275 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 A DAY OF HER LIFE 
 
 I SHOULD like to call back a day of her life as it 
 was at this time, when her spirit was as bright as 
 ever and her hand as eager, but she was no longer 
 able to do much work. It should not be difficult, 
 for she repeated herself from day to day, and yet 
 did it with a quaint unreasonableness that was 
 ever yielding fresh delight. Our love for her was 
 such that we could easily tell what she would do 
 in given circumstances, but she had always a new 
 way of doing it 
 
 Well, with break of day she wakes and sits up 
 in bed and is standing in the middle of the room. 
 So nimble was she in the mornings (one of our 
 troubles with her) that these three actions must be 
 considered as one ; she is on the floor before you 
 have time to count them. She has strict orders 
 not to rise until her fire is lit, and having broken 
 them there is a demure elation on her face. The 
 question is what to do before she is caught and 
 hurried to bed again. Her fingers are tingling to 
 prepare the breakfast; she would dearly love to 
 
 276 
 
A DAY OF HER LIFE 
 
 black-lead the grate, but that might rouse her 
 daughter from whose side she has slipped so cun- 
 ningly. She catches sight of the screen at the foot 
 of the bed, and immediately her soft face becomes 
 very determined. To guard her from draughts 
 the screen had been brought here from the lordly 
 east room, where it was of no use whatever. But 
 in her opinion it was too beautiful for use ; it be- 
 longed to the east room, where she could take 
 pleasant peeps at it; she had objected to its re- 
 moval, even become low-spirited. Now is her 
 opportunity. The screen is an unwieldy thing, 
 but still as a mouse she carries it, and they are 
 well under way when it strikes against the gas- 
 bracket in the passage. Next moment a reproach- 
 ful hand arrests her. She is challenged with being 
 out of bed, she denies it standing in the pas- 
 sage. Meekly or stubbornly she returns to bed, 
 and it is no satisfaction to you that you can say, 
 " Well, well, of all the women ! " and so on, or 
 " Surely you knew that the screen was brought 
 here to protect you," for she will reply scornfully, 
 " Who was touching the screen *? " 
 
 By this time I have awakened (I am through 
 the wall) and join them anxiously : so often has 
 my mother been taken ill in the night that the 
 slightest sound from her room rouses the house. 
 She is in bed again, looking as if she had never 
 been out of it, but I know her and listen sternly 
 
 277 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 to the tale of her misdoings. She is not contrite. 
 Yes, maybe she did promise not to venture forth 
 on the cold floors of daybreak, but she had risen 
 for a moment only, and we just t'neaded her with 
 our talk about draughts there were no such 
 things as draughts in her young days and it is 
 more than she can do (here she again attempts to 
 rise, but we hold her down) to lie there and watch 
 that beautiful screen being spoilt. I reply that 
 the beauty of the screen has ever been its miser- 
 able defect : ho, there ! for a knife with which to 
 spoil its beauty and make the bedroom its fitting 
 home. As there is no knife handy, my foot will 
 do ; I raise my foot, and then she sees that it is 
 bare, she cries to me excitedly to go back to bed 
 lest I catch cold. For though, ever careless of 
 herself, she will wander the house unshod, and tell 
 us not to talk havers when we chide her, the sight 
 of one of us similarly negligent rouses her anxiety 
 at once. She is willing now to sign any vow if 
 only I will take my bare feet back to bed, but 
 probably she is soon after me in hers to make sure 
 that I am nicely covered up. 
 
 It is scarcely six o'clock, and we have all prom- 
 ised to sleep for another hour, but in ten minutes 
 she is sure that eight has struck (house disgraced), 
 or that if it has not, something is wrong with the 
 clock. Next moment she is captured on her way 
 downstairs to wind up the clock. So evidently 
 
 278 
 
A DAY OF HER LIFE 
 
 we must be up and doing, and as we have no ser- 
 vant, my sister disappears into the kitchen, having 
 first asked me to see that "that woman" lies still, and 
 " that woman " calls out that she always does lie 
 still, so what are we blethering about ? 
 
 She is up now, and dressed in her thick maroon 
 wrapper; over her shoulders (lest she should stray 
 despite our watchfulness) is a shawl, not placed 
 there by her own hands, and on her head a deli- 
 cious mutch. O, that I could sing the paean of 
 the white mutch (and the dirge of the elaborate 
 black cap) from the day when she called witch- 
 craft to her aid and made it out of snow-flakes, and 
 the dear worn hands that washed it tenderly in a 
 basin, and the starching of it, and the finger-iron 
 for its exquisite frills that looked like curls of 
 sugar, and the sweet bands with which it tied be- 
 neath the chin ! The honoured snowy mutch, 
 how I love to see it smiling to me from the doors 
 and windows of the poor; it is always smiling 
 sometimes maybe a wavering, wistful smile, as if 
 a tear-drop lay hidden among the frills. A hun- 
 dred times I have taken the characterless cap from 
 my mother's head and put the mutch in its place 
 and tied the bands beneath her chin, while she 
 protested but was well pleased. For in her heart 
 she knew what suited her best, and would admit it, 
 beaming, when I put a mirror into her hands and 
 told her to look ; but nevertheless the cap cost no 
 
 279 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 less than so and so, whereas Was that a 
 
 knock at the door? She is gone, to put on her 
 cap! 
 
 She begins the day by the fireside with the New 
 Testament in her hands, an old volume with its 
 loose pages beautifully refixed, and its covers sewn 
 and resewn by her, so that you would say it can 
 never fall to pieces. It is mine now, and to me 
 the black threads with which she stitched it are as 
 part of the contents. Other books she read in the 
 ordinary manner, but this one differently, her lips 
 moving with each word as if she were reading 
 aloud, and her face very solemn. The Testament 
 lies open on her lap long after she has ceased to 
 read, and the expression of her face has not changed. 
 
 I have seen her reading other books early in the 
 day, but never without a guilty look on her face, 
 for she thought reading was scarce respectable 
 until night had come. She spends the forenoon 
 in what she calls doing nothing, which may con- 
 sist in stitching so hard that you would swear she 
 was an over-worked seamstress at it for her life, or 
 you will find her on a table with nails in her mouth, 
 and anon she has to be chased from the garret (she 
 has suddenly decided to change her curtains), or 
 she is under the bed searching for bandboxes and 
 asking sternly where we have put that bonnet. 
 On the whole, she is behaving in a most exemplary 
 way to-day (not once have we caught her trying 
 
 280 
 
A DAY OF HER LIFE 
 
 to go out into the washing-house), and we compli- 
 ment her at dinner-time, partly because she de- 
 serves it, and partly to make her think herself so 
 good that she will eat something, just to maintain 
 her new character. I question whether one hour 
 of all her life was given to thoughts of food; in 
 her great days to eat seemed to her to be waste of 
 time, and afterwards she only ate to boast of it, as 
 something she had done to please us. She seldom 
 remembered whether she had dined, but always 
 presumed she had, and while she was telling me 
 in all good faith what the meal consisted of, it 
 might be brought in. When in London I had to 
 hear daily what she was eating, and perhaps she 
 had refused all dishes until they produced the pen 
 and ink. These were flourished before her, and 
 then she would say with a sigh, "Tell him I am to 
 eat an egg." But they were not so easily deceived ; 
 they waited, pen in hand, until the egg was eaten. 
 She never " went for a walk " in her life. Many 
 long trudges she had as a girl when she carried 
 her father's dinner in a flaggon to the country 
 place where he was at work, but to walk with no 
 end save the good of your health seemed a very 
 droll proceeding to her. In her young days, she 
 was positive, no one had ever gone for a walk, 
 and she never lost the belief that it was an ab- 
 surdity introduced by a new generation with too 
 much time on their hands. That they enjoyed it 
 
 281 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 she could not believe ; it was merely a form of 
 showing off, and as they passed her window she 
 would remark to herself with blasting satire, "Ay, 
 Jeames, are you off for your walk ? " and add 
 fervently, " Rather you than me ! " I was one of 
 those who walked, and though she smiled, and 
 might drop a sarcastic word when she saw me put- 
 ting on my boots, it was she who had heated them 
 in preparation for my going. The arrangement 
 between us was that she should lie down until my 
 return, and to ensure its being carried out I saw 
 her in bed before I started ; but with the bang of 
 the door she would be at the window to watch 
 me go: there is one spot on the road where a 
 thousand times I have turned to wave my stick to 
 her, while she nodded and smiled and kissed her 
 hand to me. That kissing of the hand was the 
 one English custom she had learned. 
 
 In an hour or so I return, and perhaps find her 
 in bed, according to promise, but still I am suspi- 
 cious. The way to her detection is circuitous. 
 
 " I'll need to be rising now," she says, with a 
 yawn that may be genuine. 
 
 " How long have you been in bed ? " 
 
 " You saw me go." 
 
 " And then I saw you at the window. Did you 
 go straight back to bed ? " 
 
 " Surely I had that much sense." 
 
 " The truth ! " 
 
 282 
 
A DAY OF HER LIFE 
 
 " I might have taken a look at the clock first." 
 
 " It is a terrible thing to have a mother who 
 prevaricates. Have you been lying down ever 
 since I left?" 
 
 " Thereabout." 
 
 " What does that mean exactly ? " 
 
 "Off and on." 
 
 " Have you been to the garret *? " 
 
 " What should I do in the garret ? " 
 
 " But have you *? " 
 
 " I might just have looked up the garret stair." 
 
 " You have been redding up the garret again ! " 
 
 " Not what you could call a redd up." 
 
 " O, woman, woman, I believe you have not 
 been in bed at all ! " 
 
 " You see me in it." 
 
 " My opinion is that you jumped into bed when 
 you heard me open the door." 
 
 " Havers." 
 
 " Did you ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, then, when you heard me at the gate ? " 
 
 " It might have been when I heard you at the 
 gate." 
 
 As daylight goes she follows it with her sewing 
 to the window, and gets another needleful out of 
 it, as one may run after a departed visitor for a last 
 word ; but now the gas is lit, and no longer is it 
 shameful to sit down to literature. If the book be 
 
 283 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 a story by George Eliot or Mrs. Oliphant, her 
 favourite (and mine) among women novelists, or 
 if it be a Carlyle, and we move softly, she will 
 read, entranced, for hours. Her delight in Car- 
 lyle was so well known that various good people 
 would send her books that contained a page about 
 him ; she could place her finger on any passage 
 wanted in the biography as promptly as though 
 she were looking for some article in her own 
 drawer, and given a date she was often able to tell 
 you what they were doing in Cheyne Row that day. 
 Carlyle, she decided, was not so much an ill man 
 to live with as one who needed a deal of manag- 
 ing; but when I asked if she thought she could 
 have managed him she only replied with a modest 
 smile that meant " Oh, no ! " but had the face of 
 " Sal, I would have liked to try." 
 
 One lady lent her some scores of Carlyle letters 
 that have never been published, and crabbed was 
 the writing; but though my mother liked to have 
 our letters read aloud to her, she read every one 
 of these herself, and would quote from them in 
 her talk. Side by side with the Carlyle letters, 
 which show him in his most gracious light, were 
 many from his wife to a friend, and in one of 
 these a romantic adventure is described I quote 
 from memory, and it is a poor memory compared 
 to my mother's, which registered everything by a 
 method of her own : " What might be the age of 
 
 284 
 
A DAY OF HER LIFE 
 
 Bell Tibbits? Well, she was born the week I 
 bought the boiler, so she'll be one-and-fifty (no 
 less !) come Martinmas." Mrs. Carlyle had got 
 into the train at a London station and was feeling 
 very lonely, for the journey to Scotland lay before 
 her and no one had come to see her off. Then, 
 just as the train was starting, a man jumped into 
 the carriage : to her regret until she saw his face, 
 when, behold, they were old friends, and the last 
 time they met (I forget how many years before) 
 he had asked her to be his wife. He was very 
 nice, and, if I remember aright, saw her to her 
 journey's end, though he had intended to alight 
 at some half-way place. I call this an adventure, 
 and I am sure it seemed to my mother to be the 
 most touching and memorable adventure that can 
 come into a woman's life. " You see he hadna 
 forgot," she would say proudly, as if this was a 
 compliment in which all her sex could share, and 
 on her old tender face shone some of the elation 
 with which Mrs. Carlyle wrote that letter. 
 
 But there were times, she held, when Carlyle 
 must have made his wife a glorious woman. "As 
 when?" I might inquire. 
 
 " When she keeked in at his study door and 
 said to herself, ' The whole world is ringing with 
 his fame, and he is my man ! ' ''' 
 
 "And then," I might point out, "he would roar 
 to her to shut the door." 
 
 285 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 " Pooh," said my mother, " a man's roar is 
 neither here nor there." But her verdict as a 
 whole was, " I would rather have been his mother 
 than his wife." 
 
 So we have got her into her chair with the Car- 
 lyles, and all is well. Furthermore, " to mak sic- 
 car," my father has taken the opposite side of the 
 fireplace and is deep in the latest five columns of 
 Gladstone, who is his Carlyle. He is to see that 
 she does not slip away fired by a conviction, which 
 suddenly over-rides her pages, that the kitchen is 
 going to rack and ruin for want of her, and she is 
 to recall him to himself should he put his foot in 
 the fire and keep it there, forgetful of all save his 
 hero's eloquence. (We were a family who needed 
 a deal of watching.) She is not interested in what 
 Mr. Gladstone has to say; indeed she could never 
 be brought to look upon politics as of serious con- 
 cern for grown folk (a class in which she scarcely 
 included man), and she gratefully gave up reading 
 " leaders " the day I ceased to write them. But 
 like want of reasonableness, a love for having the 
 last word, want of humour and the like, politics 
 were in her opinion a mannish attribute to be tol- 
 erated, and Gladstone was the name of the some- 
 thing which makes all our sex such queer char- 
 acters. She had a profound faith in him as an 
 aid to conversation, and if there were silent men 
 in the company would give him to them to talk 
 
 286 
 
A DAY OF HER LIFE 
 
 about, precisely as she divided a cake among chil- 
 dren. And then, with a motherly smile, she would 
 leave them to gorge on him. But in the idolising 
 of Gladstone she recognised, nevertheless, a cer- 
 tain inevitability, and would no more have tried 
 to contend with it than to sweep a shadow off the 
 floor. Gladstone was, and there was an end of it 
 in her practical philosophy. Nor did she accept 
 him coldly; like a true woman she sympathised 
 with those who suffered severely, and they knew 
 it and took counsel of her in the hour of need. I 
 remember one ardent Gladstonian who, as a gen- 
 eral election drew near, was in sore straits indeed, 
 for he disbelieved in Home Rule, and yet how 
 could he vote against "Gladstone's man"? His 
 distress was so real that it gave him a hang-dog 
 appearance. He put his case gloomily before her, 
 and until the day of the election she riddled him 
 with sarcasm ; I think he only went to her because 
 he found a mournful enjoyment in seeing a false 
 Gladstonian tortured. 
 
 It was all such plain sailing for him, she pointed 
 out; he did not like this Home Rule, and there- 
 fore he must vote against it. 
 
 She put it pitiful clear, he replied with a groan. 
 
 But she was like another woman to him when 
 he appeared before her on his way to the polling- 
 booth. 
 
 " This is a watery Sabbath to you, I'm think- 
 287 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 ing," she said sympathetically, but without drop- 
 ping her wires for, Home Rule or no Home 
 Rule, that stocking-foot must be turned before 
 twelve o'clock. 
 
 A watery Sabbath means a doleful day, and 
 "A watery Sabbath it is," he replied with feeling. 
 A silence followed, broken only by the click of 
 the wires. Now and again he would mutter, 
 "Ay, well, I'll be going to vote little did I 
 think the day would come," and so on ; but if he 
 rose it was only to sit down again, and at last she 
 crossed over to him and said softly (no sarcasm 
 in her voice now), "Away with you, and vote for 
 Gladstone's man!" He jumped up and made off" 
 without a word, but from the east window we 
 watched him strutting down the brae. I laughed, 
 but she said, "I'm no sure that it's a laughing 
 matter," and afterwards, " I would have liked fine 
 to be that Gladstone's mother." 
 
 It is nine o'clock now, a quarter past nine, half- 
 past nine all the same moment to me, for I am 
 at a sentence that will not write. I know, though 
 I can't hear, what my sister has gone upstairs to 
 say to my mother : 
 
 " I was in at him at nine, and he said, ' In five 
 minutes,' so I put the steak on the brander, but 
 I've been in thrice since then, and every time he 
 says, ' In five minutes,' and when I try to take 
 the table-cover off, he presses his elbows hard on 
 
 288 
 
A DAY OF HER LIFE 
 
 it, and growls. His supper will be completely 
 spoilt." 
 
 " Oh, that weary writing ! " 
 
 " I can do no more, mother, so you must come 
 down and stop him." 
 
 " I have no power over him," my mother says, 
 but she rises smiling, and presently she is opening 
 my door. 
 
 "In five minutes!" I cry, but when I see that 
 it is she I rise and put my arm round her. " What 
 a full basket ! " she says, looking at the waste- 
 paper basket which contains most of my work of 
 the night, and with a dear gesture she lifts up a 
 torn page and kisses it. " Poor thing," she says 
 to it, " and you would have liked so fine to be 
 printed ! " and she puts her hand over my desk to 
 prevent my writing more. 
 
 " In the last five minutes," I begin, " one can 
 often do more than in the first hour." 
 
 " Many a time I've said it in my young days," 
 she says slowly. 
 
 " And proved it, too ! " cries a voice from the 
 door, the voice of one who was prouder of her 
 even than I ; it is true, and yet almost unbeliev- 
 able, that any one could have been prouder of her 
 than I. 
 
 " But those days are gone," my mother says 
 solemnly, "gone to come back no more. You'll 
 put by your work now, man, and have your sup- 
 
 289 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 per, and then you'll come up and sit beside your 
 mother for a whiley, for soon you'll be putting 
 her away in the kirk-yard." 
 
 I hear such a little cry from near the door. 
 
 So my mother and I go up the stair together. 
 "We have changed places," she says; "that was 
 just how I used to help you up, but I'm the bairn 
 now." 
 
 She brings out the Testament again ; it was al- 
 ways lying within reach ; it is the lock of hair she 
 left me when she died. And when she has read 
 for a long time she " gives me a look," as we say 
 in the north, and I go out, to leave her alone with 
 God. She had been but a child when her mother 
 died, and so she fell early into the way of saying 
 her prayers with no earthly listener. Often and 
 often I have found her on her knees, but I always 
 went softly away, closing the door. I never heard 
 her pray, but I know very well how she prayed, 
 and that, when that door was shut, there was not 
 a day in God's sight between the worn woman and 
 the little child. 
 
 290 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 HER MAID OF ALL WORK 
 
 AND sometimes I was her maid of all work. 
 
 It is early morn, and my mother has come noise- 
 lessly into my room. I know it is she, though 
 my eyes are shut, and I am only half awake. Per- 
 haps I was dreaming of her, for I accept her pres- 
 ence without surprise, as if in the awakening I had 
 but seen her go out at one door to come in at an- 
 other. But she is speaking to herself. 
 
 " I'm sweer to waken him I doubt he was 
 working late oh, that weary writing no, I 
 maunna waken him." 
 
 I start up. She is wringing her hands. " What 
 is wrong ? " I cry, but I know before she answers. 
 My sister is down with one of the headaches against 
 which even she cannot fight, and my mother, who 
 bears physical pain as if it were a comrade, is most 
 woe-begone when her daughter is the sufferer. 
 " And she winna let me go down the stair to make 
 a cup of tea for her," she groans. 
 
 * I will soon make the tea, mother." 
 
 " Will you *? " she says eagerly. It is what she 
 291 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 has come to me for, but " It is a pity to rouse you," 
 she says. 
 
 "And I will take charge of the house to-day, 
 and light the fires and wash the dishes - 
 
 " Na, oh, no ; no, I couldna ask that of you, and 
 you an author." 
 
 " It won't be the first time, mother, since I was 
 an author." 
 
 " More like the fiftieth ! " she says almost glee- 
 fully, so I have begun well, for to keep up her 
 spirits is the great thing to-day. 
 
 Knock at the door. It is the baker. I take in 
 the bread, looking so sternly at him that he dare 
 not smile. 
 
 Knock at the door. It is the postman. (I hope 
 he did not see that I had the lid of the kettle in 
 my other hand.) 
 
 Furious knocking in a remote part. This means 
 that the author is in the coal-cellar. 
 
 Anon I carry two breakfasts upstairs in triumph. 
 I enter the bedroom like no mere humdrum son, 
 but after the manner of the Glasgow waiter. I 
 must say more about him. He had been my 
 mother's one waiter, the only man-servant she ever 
 came in contact with, and they had met in a Glas- 
 gow hotel which she was eager to see, having 
 heard of the monstrous things, and conceived them 
 to resemble country inns with another twelve bed- 
 rooms. I remember how she beamed yet tried 
 
 2Q2 
 
HER MAID OF ALL WORK 
 
 to look as if it was quite an ordinary experience 
 when we alighted at the hotel door, but though she 
 said nothing I soon read disappointment in her face. 
 She knew how I was exulting in having her there, 
 so would not say a word to damp me, but I craft- 
 ily drew it out of her. No, she was very com- 
 fortable, and the house was grand beyond speech, 
 but but where was he *? he had not been very 
 hearty. " He " was the landlord ; she had ex- 
 pected him to receive us at the door and ask if 
 we were in good health and how we had left the 
 others, and then she would have asked him if his 
 wife was well and how many children they had, 
 after which we should have all sat down together 
 to dinner. Two chambermaids came into her 
 room and prepared it without a single word to 
 her about her journey or on any other subject, and 
 when they had gone, " They are two haughty 
 misses," said my mother with spirit. But what 
 she most resented was the waiter with his swagger 
 black suit and short quick steps and the " towel '' 
 over his arm. Without so much as a " Welcome 
 to Glasgow ! " he showed us to our seats, not the 
 smallest acknowledgment of our kindness in giv- 
 ing such munificent orders did we draw from him, 
 he hovered around the table as if It would be un- 
 safe to leave us with his knives and forks (he 
 should have seen her knives and forks), when we 
 spoke to each other he affected not to hear, we 
 
 2 93 
 
.MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 might laugh, but this uppish fellow would not 
 join in, we retired, crushed, and he had the final 
 impudence to open the door for us. But though 
 this hurt my mother at the time, the humour of 
 our experiences filled her on reflection, and in her 
 own house she would describe them with unction, 
 sometimes to those who had been in many hotels, 
 often to others who had been in none, and who- 
 ever were her listeners she made them laugh, though 
 not always at the same thing. 
 
 So now when I enter the bedroom with the tray, 
 on my arm is that badge of pride, the towel; and 
 I approach with prim steps to inform Madam that 
 breakfast is ready, and she puts on the society 
 manner and addresses me as " Sir," and asks with 
 cruel sarcasm for what purpose (except to boast) I 
 carry the towel, and I say, " Is there anything more 
 I can do for Madam *? " and Madam replies that 
 there is one more thing I can do, and that is, eat 
 her breakfast for her. But of this I take no notice, 
 for my object is to fire her with the spirit of the 
 game, so that she eats unwittingly. 
 
 Now that I have washed up the breakfast things 
 I should be at my writing, and I am anxious to be 
 at it, as I have an idea in my head, which, if it is 
 of any value, has almost certainly been put there 
 by her. But dare I venture? I know that the 
 house has not been properly set going yet, there are 
 beds to make, the exterior of the teapot is fair, but 
 
 294 
 
HER MAID OF ALL WORK 
 
 suppose some one were to look inside *? What a 
 pity I knocked over the flour-barrel ! Can I hope 
 that for once my mother will forget to inquire into 
 these matters ? Is my sister willing to let disor- 
 der reign until to-morrow ? I determine to risk it. 
 Perhaps I have been at work for half-an-hour 
 when I hear movements overhead. One or other 
 of them is wondering why the house is so quiet. 
 I rattle the tongs, but even this does not satisfy 
 them, so back into the desk go my papers, and 
 now what you hear is not the scrape of a pen, but 
 the rinsing of pots and pans, or I am making beds, 
 and making them thoroughly, because after I am 
 gone my mother will come (I know her) and look 
 suspiciously beneath the coverlet. 
 
 The kitchen is now speckless, not an unwashed 
 platter in sight, unless you look beneath the table. 
 I feel that I have earned time for an hour's writing 
 at last, and at it I go with vigour. One page, two 
 pages, really I am making progress, when was 
 that a door opening? But I have my mother's 
 light step on the brain, so I " yoke " again, and 
 next moment she is beside me. She has not ex- 
 actly left her room, she gives me to understand; 
 but suddenly a conviction had come to her that I 
 was writing without a warm mat at my feet. She 
 carries one in her hands. Now that she is here, she 
 remains for a time, and though she is in the arm- 
 chair by the fire, where she sits bolt upright (she 
 
 295 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 loved to have cushions on the unused chairs, but 
 detested putting her back against them), and I am 
 bent low over my desk, I know that contentment 
 and pity are struggling for possession of her face : 
 contentment wins when she surveys her room, pity 
 when she looks at me. Every article of furniture, 
 from the chairs that came into the world with me 
 and have worn so much better, though I was new 
 and they were second-hand, to the mantel-border 
 of fashionable design which she sewed in her 
 seventieth year, having picked up the stitch in half 
 a lesson, has its story of fight and attainment for 
 her, hence her satisfaction ; but she sighs at sight 
 of her son, dipping and tearing, and chewing the 
 loathly pen. 
 
 " Oh, that weary writing ! " 
 
 In vain do I tell her that writing is as pleasant 
 to me as ever was the prospect of a tremendous 
 day's ironing to her ; that (to some, though not to 
 me) new chapters are as easy to turn out as new 
 bannocks. No, she maintains, for one bannock 
 is the marrows of another, while chapters and 
 then, perhaps, her eyes twinkle, and says she 
 saucily, " But, sal, you may be right, for some- 
 times your bannocks are as alike as mine ! " 
 
 Or I may be roused from my writing by her 
 cry that I am making strange faces again. It is 
 my contemptible weakness that if I say a char- 
 acter smiled vacuously, I must smile vacuously; 
 
 296 
 
HER MAID OF ALL WORK 
 
 if he frowns or leers, I frown or leer ; if he is a 
 coward or given to contortions, I cringe, or twist 
 my legs until I have to stop writing to undo the 
 knot. I bow with him, eat with him, and gnaw 
 my moustache with him. If the character be a 
 lady with an exquisite laugh, I suddenly terrify 
 you by laughing exquisitely. One reads of the 
 astounding versatility of an actor who is stout and 
 lean on the same evening, but what is he to the 
 novelist who is a dozen persons within the hour? 
 Morally, I fear, we must deteriorate but this is 
 a subject I may wisely edge away from. 
 
 We always spoke to each other in broad Scotch 
 (I think in it still), but now and again she would 
 use a word that was new to me, or I might hear 
 one of her contemporaries use it. Now is my op- 
 portunity to angle for its meaning. If I ask, 
 boldly, what was that word she used just now, 
 something like "bilbie" or "silvendy'"? she 
 blushes, and says she never said anything so com- 
 mon, or hoots, it is some auld-farrant word about 
 which she can tell me nothing. But if in the 
 course of conversation I remark casually, " Did 
 he find bilbie "? " or " Was that quite silvendy ? " 
 (though the sense of the question is vague to me) 
 she falls into the trap, and the words explain 
 themselves in her replies. Or maybe to-day she 
 sees whither I am leading her, and such is her sen- 
 sitiveness that she is quite hurt. The humour 
 
 297 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 goes out of her face (to find bilbie in some more 
 silvendy spot), and her reproachful eyes but 
 now I am on the arm of her chair, and we have 
 made it up. Nevertheless, I shall get no more 
 old-world Scotch out of her this forenoon, she 
 weeds her talk determinedly, and it is as great a 
 falling away as when the mutch gives place to 
 the cap. 
 
 I am off for my afternoon walk, and she has 
 promised to bar the door behind me and open it 
 to none. When I return, well, the door is still 
 barred, but she is looking both furtive and elated. 
 I should say that she is burning to tell me some- 
 thing, but cannot tell it without exposing herself. 
 Has she opened the door, and if so, why ? I don't 
 ask, but I watch. It is she who is sly now : 
 
 " Have you been in the east room since you 
 came in '? " she asks with apparent indifference. 
 
 ** No ; why do you ask ? " 
 
 " Oh, I just thought you might have looked in." 
 
 " Is there anything new there ? " 
 
 " I dinna say there is, but but just go and see." 
 
 " There can't be anything new if you kept the 
 door barred," I say cleverly. 
 
 This crushes her for a moment ; but her eager- 
 ness that I should see is greater than her fear. I 
 set off for the east room, and she follows, affecting 
 humility, but with triumph in her eye. How of- 
 ten those little scenes took place ! I was never 
 
 208 
 
HER MAID OF ALL WORK 
 
 told of the new purchase, I was lured into its 
 presence, and then she waited timidly for my start 
 of surprise. 
 
 " Do you see it ? " she says anxiously, and I see 
 it, and hear it, for this time it is a bran-new wicker 
 chair, of the kind that whisper to themselves for 
 the first six months. 
 
 " A going-about body was selling them in a 
 cart," my mother begins, and what followed pre- 
 sents itself to my eyes before she can utter another 
 word. Ten minutes at the least did she stand at 
 the door argybargying with that man. But it 
 would be cruelty to scold a woman so uplifted. 
 
 " Fifteen shillings he wanted," she cries, " but 
 what do you think I beat him down to?" 
 
 " Seven and sixpence ? " 
 
 She clasps her hands with delight. " Four shil- 
 lings, as I 'm a living woman ! " she crows : never 
 was a woman fonder of a bargain. 
 
 I gaze at the purchase with the amazement ex- 
 pected of me, and the chair itself crinkles and 
 shudders to hear what it went for (or is it merely 
 chuckling at her?). "And the man said it cost 
 himself five shillings," my mother continues ex- 
 ultantly. You would have thought her the hard- 
 est person had not a knock on the wall summoned 
 us about this time to my sister's side. Though in 
 bed, she has been listening, and this is what she 
 has to say, in a voice that makes my mother very 
 
 299 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 indignant, " You drive a bargain ! I 'm thinking 
 ten shillings was nearer what you paid." 
 
 " Four shillings to a penny ! " says my mother. 
 
 "I daresay," says my sister; "but after you 
 paid him the money I heard you in the little bed- 
 room press. What were you doing there *? " 
 
 My mother winces. " I may have given him 
 a present of an old top-coat," she falters. " He 
 looked ill-happit. But that was after I made the 
 bargain." 
 
 " Were there bairns in the cart *? " 
 
 "There might have been a bit lassie in the 
 cart." 
 
 " I thought as much. What did you give her *? 
 I heard you in the pantry." 
 
 " Four shillings was what I got that chair for," 
 replies my mother firmly. If I don't interfere 
 there will be a coldness between them for at least 
 a minute. " There is blood on your finger," I 
 say to my mother. 
 
 "So there is," she says, concealing her hand. 
 
 " Blood ! " exclaims my sister anxiously, and 
 then with a cry of triumph, " I warrant it's jelly. 
 You gave that lassie one of the jelly-cans ! " 
 
 The Glasgow waiter brings up tea, and presently 
 my sister is able to rise, and after a sharp fight 
 I am expelled from the kitchen. The last thing I 
 do as maid of all work is to lug upstairs the clothes- 
 basket which has just arrived with the mangling. 
 
 300 
 
HER MAID OF ALL WORK 
 
 Nowthere is delicious linen for my mother to finger; 
 there was always rapture on her face when the 
 clothes-basket came in; it never failed to make her 
 once more the active genius of the house. I may 
 leave her now with her sheets and collars and nap- 
 kins and fronts. Indeed, she probably orders me 
 to go. A son is all very well, but suppose he were 
 to tread on that counterpane ! 
 
 My sister is but and I am ben I mean she is 
 in the east end and I am in the west tuts, tuts, 
 let us get at the English of this by striving: she is 
 in the kitchen and I am at my desk in the parlour. 
 I hope I may not be disturbed, for to-night I must 
 make my hero say " Darling," and it needs both 
 privacy and concentration. In a word, let me ad- 
 mit (though I should like to beat about the bush) 
 that I have sat down to a love-chapter. Too long 
 has it been avoided, Albert has called Marion 
 " dear " only as yet (between you and me, these 
 are not their real names), but though the public 
 will probably read the word without blinking, it 
 went off in my hands with a bang. They tell me 
 the Sassenach tell me that in time I shall be 
 able without a blush to make Albert say " darling," 
 and even gather her up in his arms, but I begin to 
 doubt it ; the moment sees me as shy as ever ; I 
 still find it advisable to lock the door, and then 
 no witness save the dog I "do " it dourly with my 
 teeth clenched, while the dog retreats into the far 
 
 301 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 corner and moans. The bolder Englishman (I 
 am told) will write a love-chapter and then go out, 
 quite coolly, to dinner, but such goings on are 
 contrary to the Scotch nature; even the great 
 novelists dared not. Conceive Mr. Stevenson left 
 alone with a hero, a heroine, and a proposal im- 
 pending (he does not know where to look). Sir 
 Walter in the same circumstances gets out of the 
 room by making his love-scenes take place between 
 the end of one chapter and the beginning of the 
 next, but he could afford to do anything, and the 
 small fry must e'en to their task, moan the dog as 
 he may. So I have yoked to mine when, enter my 
 mother, looking wistful. 
 
 " I suppose you are terrible thrang," she says. 
 
 " Weil, I am rather busy, but what is it you 
 want me to do *? " 
 
 " It would be a shame to ask you." 
 
 *' Still, ask me." 
 
 " I am so terrified they may be filed." 
 
 " You want me to " 
 
 ' If you would just come up, and help me to 
 fold the sheets ! " 
 
 The sheets are folded and I return to Albert. 
 I lock the door and at last I am bringing my hero 
 forward nicely (my knee in the small of his back), 
 when this startling question is shot by my sister 
 through the keyhole : 
 
 '* Where did you put the carrot-grater ? " 
 302 
 
HER MAID OF ALL WORK 
 
 It will all have to be done over again if I let 
 Albert go for a moment, so, gripping him hard, I 
 shout indignantly that I have not seen the carrot- 
 grater. 
 
 "Then what did you grate the carrots on?" 
 asks the voice, and the door-handle is shaken just 
 as I shake Albert 
 
 "On a broken cup," I reply with surprising 
 readiness, and I get to work again, but am less en- 
 grossed, for a conviction grows on me that I put the 
 carrot-grater in the drawer of the sewing-machine. 
 
 I am wondering whether I should confess or 
 brazen it out, when I hear my sister going hur- 
 riedly upstairs. I have a presentiment that she 
 has gone to talk about me, and I basely open my 
 door and listen. 
 
 " Just look at that, mother ! " 
 
 " Is it a dish-cloth ? " 
 
 " That's what it is now." 
 
 " Losh behears ! it's one of the new table-nap- 
 kins." 
 
 " That's what it was. He has been polishing 
 the kitchen grate with it ! " 
 
 (I remember!) 
 
 " Woe's me ! That is what comes of his not let- 
 ting me budge from this room. O, it is a watery 
 Sabbath when men take to doing women's work ! " 
 
 " It defies the face of clay, mother, to fathom 
 what makes him so senseless." 
 
 33 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 " Oh, it's that weary writing." 
 
 *' And the worst of it is, he will talk to-morrow 
 as if he had done wonders." 
 
 " That's the way with the whole clanjamfray of 
 them." 
 
 "Yes, but as usual you will humour him, 
 mother." 
 
 "Oh, well, it pleases him, you see," says my 
 mother, "and we can have our laugh when his 
 door's shut." 
 
 " He is most terribly handless." 
 
 *' He is all that, but, poor soul, he does his best." 
 
 304 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 R. L. S. 
 
 THESE familiar initials are, I suppose, the best be- 
 loved in recent literature, certainly they are the 
 sweetest to me, but there was a time when my 
 mother could not abide them. She said "That 
 Stevenson man" with a sneer, and it was never 
 easy to her to sneer. At thought of him her face 
 would become almost hard, which seems incred- 
 ible, and she would knit her lips and fold her 
 arms, and reply with a stiff " oh " if you mentioned 
 his aggravating name. In the novels we have a 
 way of writing of our heroine, " she drew herself 
 up haughtily," and when mine draw themselves 
 up haughtily I see my mother thinking of Robert 
 Louis Stevenson. He knew her opinion of him, 
 and would write, "My ears tingled yesterday; I 
 sair doubt she has been miscalling me again." 
 But the more she miscalled him the more he de- 
 lighted in her, and she was informed of this, and 
 at once said " The scoundrel ! " If you would 
 know what was his unpardonable crime, it was 
 this, he wrote better books than mine. 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 I remember the day she found it out, which was 
 not, however, the day she admitted it. That day, 
 when I should have been at my work, she came 
 upon me in the kitchen, "The Master ofBallan- 
 trae " beside me, but I was not reading : my head 
 lay heavy on the table and to her anxious eyes, I 
 doubt not, I was the picture of woe. " Not writ- 
 ing!" I echoed, no, I was not writing, I saw no 
 use in ever trying to write again. And down, I 
 suppose, went my head once more. She misun- 
 derstood, and thought the blow had fallen ; I had 
 awakened to the discovery, always dreaded by 
 her, that I had written myself dry ; I was no bet- 
 ter than an empty ink-bottle. She wrung her 
 hands, but indignation came to her with my ex- 
 planation, which was that while R. L. S. was at it 
 we others were only 'prentices cutting our fingers 
 on his tools. " I could never thole his books," 
 said my mother immediately, and indeed vin- 
 dictively. 
 
 " You have not read any of them," I reminded 
 her. 
 
 " And never will," said she with spirit. 
 
 And I have no doubt that she called him a 
 dark character that very day. For weeks too, if 
 not for months, she adhered to her determination 
 not to read him, though I, having come to my 
 senses and seen that there is a place for the 'pren- 
 tice, was taking a pleasure, almost malicious, in 
 
 306 
 
R. L. S. 
 
 putting " The Master of Ballantrae " in her way. 
 I would place it on her table so that it said good- 
 morning to her when she rose. She would frown, 
 and, carrying it downstairs, as if she had it in 
 the tongs, replace it on its book-shelf. I would 
 wrap it up in the cover she had made for the latest 
 Carlyle : she would skin it contemptuously and 
 again bring it down. I would hide her spectacles 
 in it, and lay it on top of the clothes-basket and 
 prop it up invitingly open against her tea-pot. 
 And at last I got her, though I forget by which 
 of many contrivances. What I recall vividly is a 
 key-hole view, to which another member of the 
 family invited me. Then I saw my mother 
 wrapped up in " The Master of Ballantrae " and 
 muttering the music to herself, nodding her head 
 in approval, and taking a stealthy glance at the 
 foot of each page before she began at the top. 
 Nevertheless she had an ear for the door, for when 
 I bounced in she had been too clever for me ; 
 there was no book to be seen, only an apron on 
 her lap and she was gazing out at the window. 
 Some such conversation as this followed : 
 
 " You have been sitting very quietly, mother." 
 " I always sit quietly, I never do anything, I'm 
 just a finished stocking." 
 
 " Have you been reading ? " 
 
 " Do I ever read at this time of day ? " 
 
 " What is that in your lap ? " 
 
 37 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 "Just my apron." 
 
 *' Is that a book beneath the apron ? " 
 
 " It might be a book." 
 
 " Let me see." 
 
 " Go away with you to your work." 
 
 But I lifted the apron. "Why, it's 'The 
 Master of Ballantrae ! ' " I exclaimed, shocked. 
 
 " So it is ! " said my mother, equally surprised. 
 But I looked sternly at her, and perhaps she 
 blushed. 
 
 " Well, what do you think : not nearly equal to 
 mine ? " said I with humour. 
 
 "Nothing like them," she said determinedly. 
 
 "Not a bit," said I, though whether with a 
 smile or a groan is immaterial; they would have 
 meant the same thing. Should I put the book 
 back on its shelf? I asked, and she replied that I 
 could put it wherever I liked, for all she cared, so 
 long as I took it out of her sight (the implication 
 was that it had stolen on to her lap while she was 
 looking out at the window). My behaviour may 
 seem small, but I gave her a last chance, for I said 
 that some people found it a book there was no 
 putting down until they reached the last page. 
 
 " I'm no that kind," replied my mother. 
 
 Nevertheless our old game with the haver of a 
 thing, as she called it, was continued, with this 
 difference, that it was now she who carried the 
 book covertly upstairs, and I who replaced it on 
 
 308 
 
R. L. S. 
 
 the shelf, and several times we caught each other 
 in the act, but not a word said either of us ; we 
 were grown self-conscious. Much of the play 
 no doubt I forget, but one incident I remember 
 clearly. She had come down to sit beside me 
 while I wrote, and sometimes, when I looked up, 
 her eye was not on me, but on the shelf where 
 " The Master of Ballantrae " stood inviting her. 
 Mr. Stevenson's books are not for the shelf, they 
 are for the hand ; even when you lay them down, 
 let it be on the table for the next comer. Being 
 the most sociable that man has penned in our 
 time, they feel very lonely up there in a stately 
 row. I think their eye is on you the moment 
 you enter the room, and so you are drawn to look 
 at them, and you take a volume down with the 
 impulse that induces one to unchain the dog. 
 And the result is not dissimilar, for in another 
 moment you two are at play. Is there any other 
 modern writer who gets round you in this way? 
 Well, he had given my mother the look which 
 in the ball-room means, "Ask me for this waltz," 
 and she ettled to do it, but felt that her more duti- 
 ful course was to sit out the dance with this other 
 less entertaining partner. I wrote on doggedly, 
 but could hear the whispering. 
 
 " Am I to be a wall-flower ? " asked James 
 Durie reproachfully. (It must have been leap- 
 year.) 
 
 39 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 " Speak lower," replied my mother, with an un- 
 easy look at me. 
 
 " Pooh ! " said James contemptuously, " that 
 kail-runtle ! " 
 
 " I winna have him miscalled," said my mother, 
 frowning. 
 
 " I am done with him," said James (wiping his 
 cane with his cambric handkerchief), and his 
 sword clattered deliciously (I cannot think this 
 was accidental), which made my mother sigh. 
 Like the man he was, he followed up his ad- 
 vantage with a comparison that made me dip 
 viciously. 
 
 "A prettier sound that," said he, clanking his 
 sword again, " than the clack-clack of your young 
 friend's shuttle." 
 
 " Whist! " cried my mother, who had seen me dip. 
 
 " Then give me your arm," said James, lowering 
 his voice. 
 
 " I dare not," answered my mother. " He 's so 
 touchy about you." 
 
 "Come, come," he pressed her, "you are cer- 
 tain to do it sooner or later, so why not now *? " 
 
 " Wait till he has gone for his walk," said my 
 mother ; " and, forby that, I'm ower old to dance 
 with you." 
 
 " How old are you *? " he inquired. 
 
 " You're gey an' pert ! " cried my mother. 
 
 " Are you seventy *? " 
 
 310 
 
R. L. S. 
 
 " Off and on," she admitted. 
 
 " Pooh," he said, " a mere girl ! " 
 
 She replied instantly, " I 'm no to be catched 
 with chaff; " but she smiled and rose, as if he 
 had stretched out his hand and got her by the 
 finger-tip. 
 
 After that they whispered so low (which they 
 could do as they were now much nearer each 
 other) that I could catch only one remark. It 
 came from James, and seems to show the tenor 
 of their whisperings, for his words were, " Easily 
 enough, if you slip me beneath your shawl." 
 
 That is what she did, and furthermore she left 
 the room guiltily, muttering something about red- 
 ding up the drawers. I suppose I smiled wanly 
 to myself, or conscience must have been nibbling 
 at my mother, for in less than five minutes she was 
 back, carrying her accomplice openly, and she 
 thrust him with positive viciousness into the place 
 where my Stevenson had lost a tooth (as the writer 
 whom he most resembled would have said). And 
 then like a good mother she took up one of her 
 son's books and read it most determinedly. It 
 had become a touching incident to me, and I re- 
 member how we there and then agreed upon a 
 compromise : she was to read the enticing thing 
 just to convince herself of its inferiority. 
 
 " The Master of Ballantrae " is not the best. 
 Conceive the glory, which was my mother's, of 
 
 3 11 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 knowing from a trustworthy source that there are 
 at least three better awaiting you on the same shelf. 
 She did not know Alan Breck yet, and he was as 
 anxious to step down as Mr. Bally himself. John 
 Silver was there, getting into his leg, so that she 
 should not have to wait a moment, and roaring, 
 " I'll lay to that ! " when she told me consolingly 
 that she could not thole pirate stories. Not to 
 know these gentlemen, what is it like ? It is like 
 never having been in love. But they are in the 
 house ! That is like knowing that you will fall in 
 love to-morrow morning. With one word, by 
 drawing one mournful face, I could have got my 
 mother to abjure the jam-shelf nay, I might have 
 managed it by merely saying that she had enjoyed 
 " The Master of Ballantrae." For you must re- 
 member that she only read it to persuade herself 
 (and me) of its unworthiness, and that the reason 
 she wanted to read the others was to get further 
 proof. All this she made plain to me, eyeing me 
 a little anxiously the while, and of course I accepted 
 the explanation. Alan is the biggest child of them 
 all, and I doubt not that she thought so, but 
 curiously enough her views of him are among the 
 things I have forgotten. But how enamoured she 
 was of " Treasure Island," and how faithful she 
 tried to be to me all the time she was reading it ! 
 I had to put my hands over her eyes to let her 
 know that I had entered the room, and even then 
 
 312 
 
R. L. S. 
 
 she might try to read between my fingers, coming 
 to herself presently, however, to say " It's a haver 
 of a book." 
 
 "Those pirate stories are so uninteresting," I 
 would reply without fear, for she was too engrossed 
 to see through me. " Do you think you will 
 finish this one ? " 
 
 " I may as well go on with it since I have be- 
 gun it," my mother says, so slily that my sister and 
 I shake our heads at each other to imply, " Was 
 there ever such a woman ! " 
 
 " There are none of those one-legged scoundrels 
 in my books," I say. 
 
 " Better without them," she replies promptly. 
 
 " I wonder, mother, what it is about the man 
 that so infatuates the public ? " 
 
 " He takes no hold of me," she insists. " I 
 would a hantle rather read your books." 
 
 I offer obligingly to bring one of them to her, 
 and now she looks at me suspiciously. "You 
 surely believe I like yours best," she says with in- 
 stant anxiety, and I soothe her by assurances, and 
 retire advising her to read on, just to see if she can 
 find out how he misleads the public. " Oh, I may 
 take a look at it again by and by," she says indif- 
 ferently, but nevertheless the probability is that as 
 the door shuts the book opens, as if by some me- 
 chanical contrivance. I remember how she read 
 " Treasure Island," holding it close to the ribs of 
 
 3*3 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 the fire (because she could not spare a moment to 
 rise and light the gas), and how, when bed-time 
 came, and we coaxed, remonstrated, scolded, she 
 said quite fiercely, clinging to the book, " I dinnu. 
 lay my head on a pillow this night till I see how 
 that laddie got out of the barrel." 
 
 After this, I think, he was as bewitching as the 
 laddie in the barrel to her Was he not always a 
 laddie in the barrel himself, climbing in for apples 
 while we all stood around, like gamins, waiting 
 for a bite *? He was the spirit of boyhood tugging 
 at the skirts of this old world of ours and com- 
 pelling it to come back and play. And I suppose 
 my mother felt this, as so many have felt it : like 
 others, she was a little scared at first to find herself 
 skipping again, with this masterful child at the 
 rope, but soon she gave him her hand and set off 
 with him for the meadow, not an apology between 
 the two of them for the author left behind. But 
 never to the end did she admit (in words) that he 
 had a way with him which was beyond her son. 
 "Silk and sacking, that is what we are," she was 
 informed, to which she would reply obstinately, 
 " Well, then, I prefer sacking." 
 
 " But if he had been your son ? " 
 
 " But he is not." 
 
 " You wish he were *? " 
 
 " I dinna deny but what I could have found 
 room for him." 
 
 3H 
 
R. L. S. 
 
 And still at times she would smear him with 
 the name of black (to his delight when he learned 
 the reason). That was when some podgy red- 
 sealed blue-crossed letter arrived from Vailima, 
 inviting me to journey thither. (His directions 
 were, " You take the boat at San Francisco, and 
 then my place is the second to the left.") Even 
 London seemed to her to carry me so far away 
 that I often took a week to the journey (the first 
 six days in getting her used to the idea), and these 
 letters terrified her. It was not the finger of Jim 
 Hawkins she now saw beckoning me across the 
 seas, it was John Silver, waving a crutch. Seldom, 
 I believe, did I read straight through one of these 
 Vailima letters; when in the middle I suddenly 
 remembered who was upstairs and what she was 
 probably doing, and I ran to her, three steps at a 
 jump, to find her, lips pursed, hands folded, a pic- 
 ture of gloom. 
 
 " I have a letter from " 
 
 " So I have heard." 
 
 " Would you like to hear it?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Can you not abide him 1 ?" 
 
 " I canna thole him." 
 
 "Is he a black?" 
 
 " He is all that." 
 
 Well, Vailima was the one spot on earth I had 
 any great craving to visit, but I think she always 
 
 3*5 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 knew I would never leave her. Sometime, she 
 said, she should like me to go, but not until she 
 was laid away. "And how small I have grown 
 this last winter. Look at my wrists. It canna be 
 long now." No, I never thought of going, was 
 never absent for a day from her without reluc- 
 tance, and never walked so quickly as when I was 
 going back. In the meantime that happened 
 which put an end for ever to my scheme of travel. 
 I shall never go up the Road of Loving Hearts 
 now, on "a wonderful clear night of stars," to 
 meet the man coming toward me on a horse. It 
 is still a wonderful clear night of stars, but the 
 road is empty. So I never saw the dear king of 
 us all. But before he had written books he was 
 in my part of the country with a fishing wand in 
 his hand, and I like to think that I was the boy 
 who met him that day by Queen Margaret's burn, 
 where the rowans are, and busked a fly for him, 
 and stood watching, while his lithe figure rose and 
 fell as he cast and hinted back from the crystal 
 waters of Noran-side. 
 
 316 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A PANIC IN THE HOUSE 
 
 I WAS sitting at my desk in London when a tele- 
 gram came announcing that my mother was again 
 dangerously ill, and I seized my hat and hur- 
 ried to the station. It is not a memory of one 
 night only. A score of times, I am sure, I was 
 called north thus suddenly, and reached our little 
 town trembling, head out at railway-carriage win- 
 dow for a glance at a known face which would 
 answer the question on mine. These illnesses 
 came as regularly as the back-end of the year, but 
 were less regular in going, and through them all, 
 by night and by day, I see my sister moving so 
 unwearyingly, so lovingly, though with failing 
 strength, that I bow my head in reverence for her. 
 She was wearing herself done. The doctor ad- 
 vised us to engage a nurse, but the mere word 
 frightened my mother, and we got between her 
 and the door, as if the woman was already on the 
 stair. To have a strange woman in my mother's 
 room you who are used to them cannot con- 
 ceive what it meant to us. 
 
 317 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 Then we must have a servant. This seemed 
 only less horrible. My father turned up his sleeves 
 and clutched the besom. I tossed aside my pa- 
 pers, and was ready to run the errands. He 
 answered the door, I kept the fires going, he gave 
 me a lesson in cooking, I showed him how to 
 make beds, one of us wore an apron. It was not 
 for long. I was led to my desk, the newspaper 
 was put into my father's hand. " But a servant ! " 
 we cried, and would have fallen to again. " No 
 servant comes into this house," said my sister 
 quite fiercely, and, oh, but my mother was relieved 
 to hear her. There were many such scenes, a 
 year of them, I daresay, before we yielded. 
 
 I cannot say which of us felt it most. In Lon- 
 don I was used to servants, and in moments of ir- 
 ritation would ring for them furiously, though 
 doubtless my manner changed as they opened the 
 door. I have even held my own with gentlemen 
 in plush, giving one my hat, another my stick, 
 and a third my coat, and all done with little more 
 trouble than I should have expended in putting 
 the three articles on the chair myself But this 
 bold deed, and other big things of the kind, I did 
 that I might tell my mother of them afterwards, 
 while I sat on the end of her bed, and her face 
 beamed with astonishment and mirth. 
 
 From my earliest days I had seen servants. 
 The manse had a servant, the bank had another; 
 
A PANIC IN THE HOUSE 
 
 one of their uses was to pounce upon, and carry 
 away in stately manner, certain naughty boys who 
 played with me. The banker did not seem really 
 great to me, but his servant oh, yes. Her boots 
 cheeped all the way down the church aisle; it was 
 common report that she had flesh every day for 
 her dinner; instead of meeting her lover at the 
 pump, she walked him into the country, and he 
 returned with wild roses in his buttonhole, his 
 hand up to hide them, and on his face the troubled 
 look of those who know that if they take this lady 
 they must give up drinking from the saucer for 
 evermore. For the lovers were really common 
 men until she gave them that glance over the 
 shoulder which, I have noticed, is the fatal gift 
 of servants. 
 
 According to legend we once had a servant 
 in my childhood I could show the mark of it on 
 my forehead, and even point her out to other 
 boys, though she was now merely a wife with a 
 house of her own. But even while I boasted I 
 doubted. Reduced to life-size she may have been 
 but a woman who came in to help. I shall say 
 no more about her lest some one comes forward 
 to prove that she went home at night. 
 
 Never shall I forget my first servant. I was 
 eight or nine, in velveteen, diamond socks ("Cross 
 your legs when they look at you," my mother had 
 said, "and put your thumb in your pocket and 
 
 3'9 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 leave the top of your handkerchief showing"), 
 and I had travelled by rail to visit a relative. He 
 had a servant, and as I was to be his guest she 
 must be my servant also for the time being you 
 may be sure I had got my mother to put this 
 plainly before me ere I set off. My relative met 
 me at the station, but I wasted no time in hoping 
 I found him well. I did not even cross my legs 
 for him, so eager was I to hear whether she was 
 still there. A sister greeted me at the door, but I 
 chafed at having to be kissed ; at once I made for 
 the kitchen, where, I knew 5 they reside, and there 
 she was, and I crossed my legs and put one thumb 
 in my pocket, and the handkerchief was showing. 
 Afterwards I stopped strangers on the highway 
 with an offer to show her to them through the 
 kitchen window, and I doubt not the first letter I 
 ever wrote told my mother what they are like 
 when they are so near that you can put your 
 fingers into them. 
 
 But now when we could have servants for our- 
 selves I shrank from the thought. It would not 
 be the same house; we should have to dissem- 
 ble ; I saw myself speaking English the long day 
 through. You only know the shell of a Scot un- 
 til you have entered his home circle ; in his office, 
 in clubs, at social gatherings where you and he 
 seem to be getting on so well he is really a house 
 with all the shutters closed and the door locked. 
 
A PANIC IN THE HOUSE 
 
 He is not opaque of set purpose, often it is 
 against his will it is certainly against mine, I 
 try to keep my shutters open and my foot in the 
 door, but they will bang to. In many ways my 
 mother was as reticent as myself, though her man- 
 ners were as gracious as mine were rough (in vain, 
 alas, all the honest oiling of them), and my sister 
 was the most reserved of us all; you might at times 
 see a light through one of my chinks : she was 
 double-shuttered. Now, it seems to be a law of 
 nature that we must show our true selves at some 
 time, and as the Scot must do it at home, and 
 squeeze a day into an hour, what follows is that 
 there he is self-revealing in the superlative degree, 
 the feelings so long dammed up overflow, and thus 
 a Scotch family are probably better acquainted 
 with each other, and more ignorant of the life 
 outside their circle, than any other family in the 
 world. And as knowledge is sympathy, the affec- 
 tion existing between them is almost painful in its 
 intensity; they have not more to give than their 
 neighbours, but it is bestowed upon a few instead 
 of being distributed among many; they are re- 
 puted niggardly, but for family affection at least 
 they pay in gold. In this, I believe, we shall find 
 the true explanation why Scotch literature, since 
 long before the days of Burns, has been so often 
 inspired by the domestic hearth and has treated 
 it with a passionate understanding. 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 Must a woman come into our house and dis- 
 cover that I was not such a dreary dog as I had 
 the reputation of being? Was I to be seen at 
 last with the veil of dourness lifted ? My com- 
 pany voice is so low and unimpressive that my 
 first remark is merely an intimation that I am 
 about to speak (like the whirr of the clock before 
 it strikes) : must it be revealed that I had another 
 voice, that there was one door I never opened 
 without leaving my reserve on the mat? Ah, 
 that room, must its secrets be disclosed? So 
 joyous they were when my mother was well, no 
 wonder we were merry. Again and again she had 
 been given back to us ; it was for the glorious to- 
 day we thanked God ; in our hearts we knew and 
 in our prayers confessed that the fill of delight had 
 been given us, whatever might befall. We had 
 not to wait till all was over to know its value ; 
 my mother used to say, " We never understand 
 how little we need in this world until we know the 
 loss of it," and there can be few truer sayings, but 
 during her last years we exulted daily in the pos- 
 session of her as much as we can exult in her 
 memory. No wonder, I say, that we were merry 
 but we liked to show it to God alone, and to Him 
 only our agony during those many night-alarms, 
 when lights flickered in the house and white faces 
 were round my mother's bedside. Not for other 
 eyes those long vigils when, night about, we sat 
 
 322 
 
A PANIC IN THE HOUSE 
 
 watching, nor the awful nights when we stood 
 together, teeth clenched waiting it must be 
 now. And it was not then; her hand became 
 cooler, her breathing more easy ; she smiled to us. 
 Once more I could work by snatches, and was 
 glad, but what was the result to me compared to 
 the joy of hearing that voice from the other room ? 
 There lay all the work I was ever proud of, the 
 rest is but honest craftsmanship done to give her 
 coal and food and softer pillows. My thousand 
 letters that she so carefully preserved, always sleep- 
 ing with the last beneath the sheet, where one was 
 found when she died they are the only writing 
 of mine of which I shall ever boast. I would not 
 there had been one less though I could have writ- 
 ten an immortal book for it. 
 
 How my sister toiled to prevent a stranger's 
 getting any footing in the house ! And how, with 
 the same object, my mother strove to " do for her- 
 self" once more. She pretended that she was 
 always well now, and concealed her ailments so 
 craftily that we had to probe for them : 
 
 "I think you are not feeling well to-day?" 
 
 " I am perfectly well." 
 
 " Where is the pain ? " 
 
 " I have no pain to speak of." 
 
 " Is it at your heart ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Is your breathing hurting you ? " 
 
 323 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 " Not it." 
 
 " Do you feel those stounds in your head again ?" 
 
 " No, no, I tell you there is nothing the matter 
 with me." 
 
 " Have you a pain in your side *? " 
 
 ** Really, it's most provoking I canna put my 
 hand to my side without your thinking I have a 
 pain there." 
 
 " You have a pain in your side ! " 
 
 " I might have a pain in my side." 
 
 "And you are trying to hide it! Is it very 
 painful <? " 
 
 " It's it's no so bad but what I can bear it." 
 
 Which of these two gave in first I cannot tell, 
 though to me fell the duty of persuading them, 
 for whichever she was she rebelled as soon as the 
 other showed signs of yielding, so that sometimes 
 I had two converts in the week, but never both on 
 the same day. I would take them separately, and 
 press the one to yield for the sake of the other, 
 but they saw so easily through my artifice. My 
 mother might go bravely to my sister and say, 
 "I have been thinking it over, and I believe I 
 would like a servant fine once we got used to 
 her." 
 
 "Did he tell you to say that?" asks my sister 
 sharply. 
 
 " I say it of my own free will." 
 
 " He put you up to it, I am sure, and he told 
 
 3 2 4 
 
A PANIC IN THE HOUSE 
 
 you not to let on that you did it to lighten my 
 work." 
 
 ** Maybe he did, but I think we should get one." 
 " Not for my sake," says my sister obstinately, 
 and then my mother comes ben to me to say de- 
 lightedly, " She winna listen to reason ! " 
 
 But at last a servant was engaged ; we might be 
 said to be at the window, gloomily waiting for her 
 now, and it was with such words as these that we 
 sought to comfort each other and ourselves : 
 " She will go early to her bed." 
 " She needna often be seen upstairs." 
 '* We'll set her to the walking every day." 
 " There will be a many errands for her to run. 
 We'll tell her to take her time over them." 
 
 ** Three times she shall go to the kirk every 
 Sabbath, and we'll egg her on to attending the lec- 
 tures in the hall." 
 
 " She is sure to have friends in the town. We'll 
 let her visit them often." 
 
 " If she dares to come into your room, mother ! " 
 " Mind this, every one of you, servant or no 
 servant, I fold all the linen mysel." 
 
 " She shall not get cleaning out the east room." 
 " Nor putting my chest of drawers in order." 
 " Nor tidying up my manuscripts." 
 " I hope she's a reader, though. You could set 
 her down with a book, and then close the door 
 canny on her." 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 And so on. Was ever servant awaited so ap- 
 prehensively? And then she came, at an anxious 
 time, too, when her worth could be put to the 
 proof at once, and from first to last she was a 
 treasure. I know not what we should have done 
 without her. 
 
 326 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 MY HEROINE 
 
 WHEN it was known that I had begun another 
 story my mother might ask what it was to be 
 about this time. 
 
 " Fine we can guess who it is about," my sister 
 would say pointedly. 
 
 " Maybe you can guess, but it is beyond me," 
 says my mother, with the meekness of one who 
 knows that she is a dull person. ; 
 
 My sister scorned her at such times. "What 
 woman is in all his books *? " she would demand. 
 
 " I'm sure I canna say," replies my mother de- 1 
 terminedly. " I thought the women were different 
 every time." 
 
 " Mother, I wonder you can be so audacious ! 
 Fine you know what woman I mean." 
 
 "How can I know*? What woman is it? You 
 should bear in mind that I hinna your cleverness " 
 (they were constantly giving each other little 
 knocks). 
 
 " I won't give you the satisfaction of saying her 
 name. But this I will say, it is high time he was 
 keeping her out of his books." 
 
 3 2 7 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 And then as usual my mother would give her- 
 self away unconsciously. "That is what I tell 
 him," she says, chuckling, " and he tries to keep 
 me out, but he canna; it's more than he can do! " 
 
 On an evening after my mother had gone to 
 bed, the first chapter would be brought upstairs, 
 and I read, sitting at the foot of the bed, while 
 my sister watched to make my mother behave 
 herself, and my father cried H'sh! when there 
 were interruptions. All would go well at the 
 start, the reflections were accepted with a little 
 nod of the head, the descriptions of scenery as ruts 
 on the road that must be got over at a walking 
 pace (my mother did not care for scenery, and 
 that is why there is so little of it in my books). 
 But now I am reading too quickly, a little appre- 
 hensively, because I know that the next paragraph 
 begins with let us say with, " Along this path 
 came a woman " : I had intended to rush on here 
 in a loud bullying voice, but "Along this path 
 came a woman " I read, and stop. Did I hear a 
 faint sound from the other end of the bed *? Per- 
 haps I did not ; I may only have been listening 
 for it, but I falter and look up. My sister and I 
 look sternly at my mother. She bites her under- 
 lip and clutches the bed with both hands, really 
 she is doing her best for me, but first comes a 
 smothered gurgling sound, then her hold on her- 
 self relaxes and she shakes with mirth. 
 
 3*8 
 
MY HEROINE 
 
 ** That's a way to behave ! " cries my sister. 
 
 " I cannot help it," my mother gasps. 
 
 " And there's nothing to laugh at." 
 
 " It's that woman/' my mother explains unne- 
 cessarily. 
 
 " Maybe she's not the woman you think her," 
 I say, crushed. 
 
 "Maybe not," says my mother doubtfully. 
 " What was her name ? " 
 
 " Her name," I answer with triumph, " was not 
 Margaret ; " but this makes her ripple again. " I 
 have so many names nowadays," she mutters. 
 
 " H'sh ! " says my father, and the reading is 
 resumed. 
 
 Perhaps the woman who came along the path 
 was of tall and majestic figure, which should have 
 shown my mother that I had contrived to start my 
 train without her this time. But it did not. 
 
 " What are you laughing at now ? " says my 
 sister severely. " Do you not hear that she was a 
 tall, majestic woman ? " 
 
 " It's the first time I ever heard it said of her," 
 replies my mother. 
 
 " But she is." 
 
 " Ke fy, havers ! " 
 
 " The book says it." 
 
 " There will be a many queer things in the 
 book. What was she wearing ? " 
 
 I have not described her clothes. " That's a 
 
 3 2 9 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 mistake," says my mother. " When I come up- 
 on a woman in a book, the first thing I want to 
 know about her is whether she was good-looking, 
 and the second, how she was put on." 
 
 The woman on the path was eighteen years of 
 age, and of remarkable beauty. 
 
 " That settles you," says my sister. 
 
 " I was no beauty at eighteen," my mother ad- 
 mits, but here my father interferes unexpectedly. 
 " There wasna your like in this countryside at 
 eighteen," says he stoutly. 
 
 " Pooh ! " says she, well pleased. 
 
 " Were you plain, then *? " we ask. 
 
 " Sal," she replies briskly, " I was far from plain." 
 
 "H'sh!" 
 
 Perhaps in the next chapter this lady (or another) 
 appears in a carriage. 
 
 " I assure you we're mounting in the world," I 
 hear my mother murmur, but I hurry on without 
 looking up. The lady lives in a house where 
 there are footmen but the footmen have come 
 on the scene too hurriedly. "This is more than 
 I can stand," gasps my mother, and just as she is 
 getting the better of a fit of laughter, " Footman, 
 give me a drink of water," she cries, and this sets 
 her off again. Often the readings had to end ab- 
 ruptly because her mirth brought on violent fits 
 of coughing. 
 
 Sometimes I read to my sister alone, and she 
 
 330 
 
MY HEROINE 
 
 assured me that she could not see my mother 
 among the women this time. This she said to 
 humour me. Presently she would slip upstairs to 
 announce triumphantly, " You are in again ! " 
 
 Or in the small hours I might make a confidant 
 of my father, and when I had finished reading he 
 would say thoughtfully, " That lassie is very 
 natural. Some of the ways you say she had 
 your mother had them just the same. Did you 
 ever notice what an extraordinary woman your 
 mother is ? " 
 
 Then would I seek my mother for comfort. 
 She was the more ready to give it because of her 
 profound conviction that if I was found out 
 that is, if readers discovered how frequently and in 
 how many guises she appeared in my books - 
 the affair would become a public scandal. 
 
 " You see Jess is not really you," I begin in- 
 quiringly. 
 
 " Oh, no, she is another kind of woman alto- 
 gether," my mother says, and then spoils the com- 
 pliment by adding naively, "She had but two 
 rooms and I have six." 
 
 I sigh. " Without counting the pantry, and 
 it's a great big pantry," she mutters. 
 
 This was not the sort of difference I could 
 greatly plume myself upon, and honesty would 
 force me to say, " As far as that goes, there was a 
 time when you had but two rooms yourself " 
 
 33 1 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 44 That's long since," she breaks in. " I began 
 with an up-the-stair, but I always had it in my 
 mind I never mentioned it, but there it was 
 to have the down-the-stair as well. Ay, and I've 
 had it this many a year." 
 
 44 Still, there is no denying that Jess had the 
 same ambition." 
 
 44 She had, but to her two-roomed house she had 
 to stick all her born days. Was that like me ? " 
 
 44 No, but she wanted " 
 
 44 She wanted, and I wanted, but I got and she 
 didna. That's the difference betwixt her and me." 
 
 44 If that is all the difference, it is little credit I 
 can claim for having created her." 
 
 My mother sees that I need soothing. 44 That 
 is far from being all the difference," she would say 
 eagerly. 44 There's my silk, for instance. Though 
 I say it mysel, there's not a better silk in the valley 
 of Strathmore. Had Jess a silk of any kind - 
 not to speak of a silk like that ? " 
 
 44 Well, she had no silk, but you remember how 
 she got that cloak with beads." 
 
 44 An eleven and a bit! Hoots, what was that 
 to boast of! I tell you, every single yard of my 
 silk cost " 
 
 44 Mother, that is the very way Jess spoke about 
 her cloak ! " 
 
 She lets this pass, perhaps without hearing it, 
 for solicitude about her silk has hurried her to the 
 wardrobe where it hangs. 
 
 33 2 
 
MY HEROINE 
 
 "Ah, mother, I am afraid that was very like 
 Jess ! " 
 
 " How could it be like her when she didna even 
 have a wardrobe ? I tell you what, if there had 
 been a real Jess and she had boasted to me about 
 her cloak with beads, I would have said to her in 
 a careless sort of voice, * Step across with me, 
 Jess, and I'll let you see something that is hang- 
 ing in my wardrobe.' That would have lowered 
 her pride ! " 
 
 "I don't believe that is what you would have 
 done, mother." 
 
 Then a sweeter expression would come into her 
 face. " No," she would say reflectively, " it's not." 
 
 44 What would you have done *? I think I 
 know." 
 
 " You canna know. But I'm thinking I would 
 have called to mind that she was a poor woman, 
 and ailing, and terrible windy about her cloak, 
 and I would just have said it was a beauty and 
 that I wished I had one like it." 
 
 " Yes, I am certain that is what you would have 
 done. But oh, mother, that is just how Jess would 
 have acted if some poorer woman than she had 
 shown her a new shawl." 
 
 " Maybe, but though I hadna boasted about my 
 silk I would have wanted to do it" 
 
 " Just as Jess would have been fidgeting to show 
 off her eleven and a bit ! " 
 
 It seems advisable to jump to another book; 
 
 333 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 not to my first, because well, as it was my first, 
 there would naturally be something of my mother 
 in it, and not to the second, as it was my first 
 novel and not much esteemed even in our family. 
 (But the little touches of my mother in it are not 
 so bad.) Let us try the story about the minister. 
 
 My mother's first remark is decidedly damp- 
 ing. " Many a time in my young days," she says, 
 ** I played about the Auld Licht manse, but I lit- 
 tle thought I should live to be the mistress of it ! " 
 
 " But Margaret is not you." 
 
 " N no, oh no. She had a very different life 
 from mine. I never let on to a soul that she 
 is me ! " 
 
 " She was not meant to be you when I began. 
 Mother, what a way you have of coming creep- 
 ing in!" 
 
 "You should keep better watch on yourself." 
 
 " Perhaps if I had called Margaret by some 
 other name " 
 
 " I should have seen through her just the same. 
 As soon as I heard she was the mother I began to 
 laugh. In some ways, though, she's no so very 
 like me. She was long in finding out about Bab- 
 bie. I'se uphaud I should have been quicker." 
 
 "Babbie, you see, kept close to the garden wall." 
 
 " It's not the wall up at the manse that would 
 have hidden her from me." 
 
 " She came out in the dark." 
 
 334 
 
" I'm thinking she would have found me look- 
 ing for her with a candle." 
 
 "And Gavin was secretive." 
 
 "That would have put me on my mettle." 
 
 " She never suspected anything." 
 
 " I wonder at her." 
 
 But my new heroine is to be a child. What 
 has madam to say to that *? 
 
 A child ! Yes, she has something to say even 
 to that. " This beats all ! " are the words. 
 
 "Come, come, mother, I see what you are 
 thinking, but I assure you that this time " 
 
 " Of course not," she said soothingly, " oh, no, 
 she canna be me ; " but anon her real thoughts are 
 revealed by the artless remark, " I doubt, though, 
 this is a tough job you have on hand it is so 
 long since I was a bairn." 
 
 We came very close to each other in those 
 talks. " It is a queer thing," she would say softly, 
 "that near everything you write is about this bit 
 place. You little expected that when you began. 
 I mind well the time when it never entered your 
 head, any more than mine, that you could write a 
 page about our squares and wynds. I wonder 
 how it has come about ? " 
 
 There was a time when I could not have an- 
 swered that question, but that time had long 
 passed. " I suppose, mother, it was because you 
 were most at home in your own town, and there 
 
 335 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 was never much pleasure to me in writing of peo- 
 ple who could not have known you, nor of squares 
 and wynds you never passed through, nor of a 
 countryside where you never carried your father's 
 dinner in a flaggon. There is scarce a house in 
 all my books where I have not seemed to see you 
 a thousand times, bending over the fireplace or 
 winding up the clock." 
 
 44 And yet you used to be in such a quandary 
 because you knew nobody you could make your 
 women-folk out of! Do you mind that, and how 
 we both laughed at the notion of your having to 
 make them out of me ? " 
 
 44 1 remember." 
 
 44 And now you've gone back to my father's 
 time. It's more than sixty years since I carried 
 his dinner in a flaggon through the long parks of 
 Kinnordy." 
 
 44 1 often go into the long parks, mother, and sit 
 on the stile at the edge of the wood till I fancy I 
 see a little girl coming toward me with a flaggon 
 in her hand." 
 
 44 Jumping the burn (I was once so proud of 
 my jumps !) and swinging the flaggon round so 
 quick that what was inside hadna time to fall out 
 I used to wear a magenta frock and a white pina- 
 fore. Did I ever tell you that *? " 
 
 44 Mother, the little girl in my story wears a 
 magenta frock and a white pinafore." 
 
 33 6 
 
MY HEROINE 
 
 44 You minded that ! But I'm thinking it wasna 
 a lassie in a pinafore you saw in the long parks of 
 Kinnordy, it was just a gey done auld woman." 
 
 " It was a lassie in a pinafore, mother, when she 
 was far away, but when she came near it was a 
 gey done auld woman." 
 
 " And a fell ugly one ! " 
 
 " The most beautiful one I shall ever see." 
 
 "I wonder to hear you say it. Look at my 
 -wrinkled auld face." 
 
 " It is the sweetest face in all the world." 
 
 " See how the rings drop off my poor wasted 
 finger." 
 
 44 There will always be some one nigh, mother, 
 to put them on again." 
 
 " Ay, will there ! Well I know it. Do you 
 mind how when you were but a bairn you used 
 to say, 4 Wait till I'm a man, and you'll never 
 have a reason for greeting again *? ' " 
 
 I remembered. 
 
 44 You used to come running into the house to 
 say, 4 There's a proud dame going down the Mary- 
 wellbrae in a cloak that is black on one side and 
 white on the other ; wait till I'm a man, and you'll 
 have one the very same.' And when I lay on 
 gey hard beds you said, 4 When I'm a man you'll 
 lie on feathers.' You saw nothing bonny, you 
 never heard of my setting my heart on anything, 
 but what you flung up your head and cried, 
 
 337 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 'Wait till I'm a man.' You fair shamed me 
 before the neighbours, and yet I was windy, too. 
 And now it has all come true like a dream. I can 
 call to mind not one little thing I ettled for in my 
 lusty days that hasna been put into my hands in 
 my auld age; I sit here useless, surrounded by 
 the gratification of all my wishes and all my am- 
 bitions, and at times I'm near terrified, for it's as 
 if God had mista'en me for some other woman.'' 
 
 " Your hopes and ambitions were so simple," I 
 would say, but she did not like that. " They 
 werena that simple," she would answer, flushing. 
 
 I am reluctant to leave those happy days, but 
 the end must be faced, and as I write I seem to 
 see my mother growing smaller and her face more 
 wistful; and still she lingers with us, as if God had 
 said, " Child of mine, your time has come, be not 
 afraid," and she was not afraid, but still she lin- 
 gered, and He waited, smiling. I never read any 
 of that last book to her; when it was finished she 
 was too heavy with years to follow a story. To 
 me this was as if my book must go out cold into 
 the world (like all that may come after it from 
 me), and my sister, who took more thought for 
 others and less for herself than any other human 
 being I have known, saw this, and by some means 
 unfathomable to a man coaxed my mother into 
 being once again the woman she had been. On 
 a day but three weeks before she died my father 
 
 338 
 
MY HEROINE 
 
 and I were called softly upstairs. My mother was 
 sitting bolt upright, as she loved to sit, in her old 
 chair by the window, with a manuscript in her 
 hands. But she was looking about her without 
 much understanding. "Just to please him," my 
 sister whispered, and then in a low, trembling 
 voice my mother began to read. I looked at my 
 sister. Tears of woe were stealing down her face. 
 Soon the reading became very slow and stopped. 
 After a pause, " There was something you were 
 to say to him," my sister reminded her. "Luck," 
 muttered a voice as from the dead, " luck." And 
 then the old smile came running to her face like 
 a lamp-lighter, and she said to me, " I am ower 
 far gone to read, but I'm thinking I am in it 
 again!" My father put her Testament in her 
 hands, and it fell open as it always does at 
 the Fourteenth of John. She made an effort to 
 read, but could not. Suddenly she stooped and 
 kissed the broad page. " Will that do instead ? " 
 she asked. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 ART THOU AFRAID HIS POWER SHALL FAIL? 
 
 FOR years I had been trying to prepare myself 
 for my mother's death, trying to foresee how she 
 would die, seeing myself when she was dead. 
 Even then I knew it was a vain thing I did, but I 
 am sure there was no morbidness in it. I hoped 
 I should be with her at the end, not as the one she 
 looked at last, but as him from whom she would 
 turn only to look upon her best-beloved, not my 
 arm but my sister's should be round her when she 
 died, not my hand but my sister's should close her 
 eyes. I knew that I might reach her too late ; I 
 saw myself open a door where there was none to 
 greet me, and go up the old stair into the old 
 room. But what I did not foresee was that which 
 happened. I little thought it could come about 
 that I should climb the old stair, and pass the 
 door beyond which my mother lay dead, and enter 
 another room first, and go on my knees there. 
 
 My mother's favourite paraphrase is one known 
 in our house as David's because it was the last he 
 
 340 
 
ART THOU AFRAID? 
 
 learned to repeat. It was also the last thing she 
 
 read 
 
 Art thou afraid his power shall fail 
 
 When comes thy evil day? 
 And can an all-creating arm 
 
 Grow weary or decay? 
 
 I heard her voice gain strength as she read it, 
 I saw her timid face take courage, but when came 
 my evil day, then at the dawning, alas for me, I 
 was afraid. 
 
 In those last weeks, though we did not know it, 
 my sister was dying on her feet. For many years 
 she had been giving her life, a little bit at a time, 
 for another year, another month, latterly for another 
 day, of her mother, and now she was worn out. 
 "I'll never leave you, mother." "Fine I know 
 you'll never leave me." I thought that cry so pa- 
 thetic at the time, but I was not to know its full 
 significance until it was only the echo of a cry. 
 Looking at these two, then, it was to me as if my 
 mother had set out for the new country, and my 
 sister held her back. But I see with a clearer 
 vision now. It is no longer the mother but the 
 daughter who is in front, and she cries, " Mother, 
 you are lingering so long at the end, I have ill 
 waiting for you." 
 
 But she knew no more than we how it was to 
 be ; if she seemed weary when we met her on the 
 stair, she was still the brightest, the most active 
 
 341 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 figure in my mother's room ; she never com- 
 plained, save when she had to depart on that walk 
 which separated them for half an hour. How re- 
 luctantly she put on her bonnet, how we had to 
 press her to it, and how often, having gone as far 
 as the door, she came back to stand by my mother's 
 side. Sometimes, as we watched from the window, 
 I could not but laugh, and yet with a pain at my 
 heart, to see her hasting doggedly onward, not an 
 eye for right or left, nothing in her head but the 
 return. There was always my father in the house, 
 than whom never was a more devoted husband, 
 and often there were others, one daughter in par- 
 ticular, but they scarce dared tend my mother 
 this one snatched the cup jealously from their 
 hands. My mother liked it best from her. We 
 all knew this. " I like them fine, but I canna do 
 without you." My sister, so unselfish in all other 
 things, had an unwearying passion for parading it 
 before us. It was the rich reward of her life. 
 
 The others spoke among themselves of what 
 must come soon, and they had tears to help them, 
 but this daughter would not speak of it, and her 
 tears were ever slow to come. I knew that night 
 and day she was trying to get ready for a world 
 without her mother in it, but she must remain 
 dumb, none of us was so Scotch as she, she must 
 bear her agony alone a tragic, solitary Scotch- 
 woman. Even my mother, who spoke so calmly to 
 
 342 
 
ART THOU AFRAID? 
 
 us of the coming time, could not mention it to her. 
 These two, the one in bed, and the other bending 
 over her, could only look long at each other, un- 
 til slowly the tears came to my sister's eyes, and 
 then my mother would turn away her wet face. And 
 still neither said a word, each knew so well what 
 was in the other's thoughts, so eloquently they 
 spoke in silence, " Mother, I am loath to let you 
 go, and " Oh, my daughter, now that my time is 
 near, I wish you werena quite so fond of me." 
 But when the daughter had slipped away my mother 
 would grip my hand and cry, " I leave her to you; 
 you see how she has sown, it will depend on you 
 how she is to reap." And I made promises, but 
 I suppose neither of us saw that she had already 
 reaped. 
 
 In the night my mother might waken and sit 
 up in bed, confused by what she saw. While she 
 slept, six decades or more had rolled back and she 
 was again in her girlhood; suddenly recalled from it 
 she was dizzy, as with the rush of the years. How 
 had she come into this room ? When she went to 
 bed last night, after preparing her father's supper, 
 there had been a dresser at the window: what had 
 become of the salt-bucket, the meal-tub, the hams 
 that should be hanging from the rafters ? There 
 were no rafters; it was a papered ceiling. She 
 had often heard of open beds, but how came she 
 to be lying in one *? To fathom these things she 
 
 343 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 would try to spring out of bed, and be startled to 
 find it a labour, as if she had been taken ill in the 
 night. Hearing her move I might knock on the 
 wall that separated us, this being a sign, prearranged 
 between us, that I was near by, and so all was well, 
 but sometimes the knocking seemed to belong to 
 the past, and she would cry, " That is my father 
 chapping at the door, I maun rise and let him in." 
 She seemed to see him and it was one much 
 younger than herself that she saw covered with 
 snow, kicking clods of it from his boots, his hands 
 swollen and chapped with sand and wet. Then I 
 would hear it was a common experience of the 
 night my sister soothing her lovingly, and turn- 
 ing up the light to show her where she was, help- 
 ing her to the window to let her see that it was no 
 night of snow, even humouring her by going 
 downstairs, and opening the outer door, and call- 
 ing into the darkness, " Is anybody there *? " and 
 if that was not sufficient, she would swaddle my 
 mother in wraps and take her through the rooms 
 of the house, lighting them one by one, pointing 
 out familiar objects, and so guiding her slowly 
 through the sixty odd years she had jumped too 
 quickly. And perhaps the end of it was that my 
 mother came to my bedside and said wistfully, 
 " Am I an auld woman ? " 
 
 But with daylight, even during the last week in 
 which I saw her, she would be up and doing, for 
 
 344 
 
ART THOU AFRAID? 
 
 though pitifully frail she no longer suffered from 
 any ailment. She seemed so well comparatively 
 that I, having still the remnants of an illness to 
 shake off, was to take a holiday in Switzerland, 
 and then return for her, when we were all to go to 
 the much-loved manse of her much-loved brother 
 in the west country. So she had many prepara- 
 tions on her mind, and the morning was the time 
 when she had any strength to carry them out. To 
 leave her house had always been a month's work 
 for her, it must be left in such perfect order, every 
 corner visited and cleaned out, every chest probed 
 to the bottom, the linen lifted out, examined and 
 put back lovingly as if to make it lie more easily 
 in her absence, shelves had to be repapered, a 
 strenuous week devoted to the garret. Less ex- 
 haustively, but with much of the old exultation in 
 her house, this was done for the last time, and then 
 there was the bringing out of her own clothes, 
 and the spreading of them upon the bed and the 
 pleased fingering of them, and the consultations 
 about which should be left behind. Ah, beautiful 
 dream! I clung to it every morning; I would not 
 look when my sister shook her head at it, but long 
 before each day was done, I too knew that it could 
 never be. It had come true many times, but never 
 again. We two knew it, but when my mother, 
 who must always be prepared so long beforehand, 
 called for her trunk and band-boxes we brought 
 
 34* 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 them to her, and we stood silent, watching, while 
 she packed. 
 
 The morning came when I was to go away. It 
 had come a hundred times, when I was a boy, 
 when I was an undergraduate, when I was a man, 
 when she had seemed big and strong to me, when 
 she was grown so little and it was I who put my 
 arms round her. But always it was the same 
 scene. I am not to write about it, of the parting 
 and the turning back on the stair, and two people 
 trying to smile, and the setting off again, and the 
 cry that brought me back. Nor shall I say more 
 of the silent figure in the background, always in 
 the background, always near my mother. The 
 last I saw of these two was from the gate. They 
 were at the window which never passes from my 
 eyes. I could not see my dear sister's face, for 
 she was bending over my mother, pointing me 
 out to her, and telling her to wave her hand and 
 smile, because I liked it so. That action was an 
 epitome of my sister's life. 
 
 I had been gone a fortnight when the telegram 
 was put into my hands. I had got a letter from 
 my sister, a few hours before, saying that all was 
 well at home. The telegram said in five words 
 that she had died suddenly the previous night. 
 There was no mention of my mother, and I was 
 three days' journey from home. 
 
 The news I got on reaching London was this : 
 
 346 
 
ART THOU AFRAID? 
 
 my mother did not understand that her daughtei 
 was dead, and they were waiting for me to tell 
 her. 
 
 I need not have been such a coward. This is 
 how these two died for, after all, I was too late 
 by twelve hours to see my mother alive. 
 
 Their last night was almost gleeful. In the old 
 days that hour before my mother's gas was lowered 
 had so often been the happiest that my pen steals 
 back to it again and again as I write : it was the 
 time when my mother lay smiling in bed and we 
 were gathered round her like children at play, our 
 reticence scattered on the floor or tossed in sport 
 from hand to hand, the author become so boister- 
 ous that in the pauses they were holding him in 
 check by force. Rather woful had been some 
 attempts latterly to renew those evenings, when 
 my mother might be brought to the verge of them, 
 as if some familiar echo called her, but where she 
 was she did not clearly know, because the past 
 was roaring in her ears like a great sea. But this 
 night was the last gift to my sister. The joyous- 
 ness of their voices drew the others in the house 
 upstairs, where for more than an hour my mother 
 was the center of a merry party and so clear of 
 mental eye that they, who were at first cautious, 
 abandoned themselves to the sport, and whatever 
 they said, by way of humourous rally, she instantly 
 
 347 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 capped as of old, turning their darts against them- 
 selves until in self-defence they were three to one, 
 and the three hard pressed. How my sister must 
 have been rejoicing ! Once again she could cry, 
 " Was there ever such a woman ! " They tell me 
 that such a happiness was on the daughter's face 
 that my mother commented on it, that having 
 risen to go they sat down again, fascinated by the 
 radiance of these two. And when eventually they 
 went, the last words they heard were, " They are 
 gone, you see, mother, but I am here, I will never 
 leave you," and " Na, you winna leave me ; fine I 
 know that." For some time afterwards their voices 
 could be heard from downstairs, but what they 
 talked of is not known. And then came silence. 
 Had I been at home I should have been in the 
 room again several times, turning the handle of the 
 door softly, releasing it so that it did not creak, and 
 standing looking at them. It had been so a thou- 
 sand times. But that night, would I have slipped 
 out again, mind at rest, or should I have seen the 
 change coming while they slept *? 
 
 Let it be told in the fewest words. My sister 
 awoke next morning with a headache. She had 
 always been a martyr to headaches, but this one, 
 like many another, seemed to be unusually severe. 
 Nevertheless she rose and lit my mother's fire and 
 brought up her breakfast, and then had to return 
 to bed. She was not able to write her daily letter 
 
 348 
 
ART THOU AFRAID? 
 
 to me, saying how my mother was, and almost the 
 last thing she did was to ask my father to write it, 
 and not to let on that she was ill, as it would dis- 
 tress me. The doctor was called, but she rapidly 
 became unconscious. In this state she was re- 
 moved from my mother's bed to another. It was 
 discovered that she was suffering from an internal 
 disease. No one had guessed it. She herself 
 never knew. Nothing could be done. In this 
 unconsciousness she passed away, without know- 
 ing that she was leaving her mother. Had I 
 known, when I heard of her death, that she had 
 been saved that pain, surely I could have gone 
 home more bravely with the words, 
 
 Art thou afraid his power shall fail 
 When comes thy evil day ? 
 
 Ah, you would think so, I should have thought 
 so, but I know myself now. When I reached 
 London I did hear how my sister died, but still I 
 was afraid. I saw myself in my mother's room 
 telling her why the door of the next room was 
 locked, and I was afraid. God had done so much, 
 and yet I could not look confidently to Him for 
 the little that was left to do. " O ye of little faith ! " 
 These are the words I seem to hear my mother 
 saying to me now, and she looks at me so sor- 
 rowfully. 
 
 He did it very easily, and it has ceased to seem 
 
 349 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 marvellous to me because i.t was so plainly His 
 doing. My timid mother saw the one who was 
 never to leave her carried unconscious from the 
 room, and she did not break down. She who used 
 to wring her hands if her daughter was gone for 
 a moment never asked for her again, they were 
 afraid to mention her name ; an awe fell upon 
 them. But I am sure they need not have been so 
 anxious. There are mysteries in life and death, 
 Hut this was not one of them. A child can under- 
 stand what happened. God said that my sister 
 must come first, but He put His hand on my 
 mother's eyes at that moment and she was altered. 
 
 They told her that I was on my way home, and 
 she said with a confident smile, " He will come as 
 quick as trains can bring him." That is my re- 
 ward, that is what I have got for my books. Every- 
 thing I could do for her in this life I have done 
 since I was a boy ; I look back through the years 
 and I cannot see the smallest thing left undone. 
 
 They were buried together on my mother's 
 seventy-sixth birthday, though there had been 
 three days between their deaths. On the last day, 
 my mother insisted on rising from bed and going 
 through the house. The arms that had so often 
 helped her on that journey were now cold in death, 
 but there were others only less loving, and she 
 went slowly from room to room like one bidding 
 good-bye, and in mine she said, " The beautiful 
 
 350 
 
ART THOU AFRAID? 
 
 rows upon rows of books, and he said every one 
 of them was mine, all mine ! " and in the east 
 room, which was her greatest triumph, she said 
 caressingly, " My nain bonny room ! " All this 
 time there seemed to be something that she wanted, 
 but the one was dead who always knew what she 
 wanted, and they produced many things at which 
 she shook her head. They did not know then 
 that she was dying, but they followed her through 
 the house in some apprehension, and after she re- 
 turned to bed they saw that she was becoming 
 very weak. Once she said eagerly, " Is that you, 
 David ? " and again she thought she heard her 
 father knocking the snow off his boots. Her de- 
 sire for that which she could not name came back 
 to her, and at last they saw that what she wanted 
 was the old christening robe. It was brought to her, 
 and she unfolded it with trembling, exultant hands, 
 and when she had made sure that it was still of 
 virgin fairness her old arms went round it ador- 
 ingly, and upon her face there was the ineffable 
 mysterious glow of motherhood. Suddenly she 
 said, " Wha's bairn's dead ? is a bairn of mine 
 dead ? " but those watching dared not speak, and 
 then slowly as if with an effort of memory she re- 
 peated our names aloud in the order in which we 
 were born. Only one, who should have come 
 third among the ten, did she omit, the one in the 
 next room, but at the end, after a pause, she said 
 
 351 
 
MARGARET OGILVY 
 
 her name and repeated it again and again and 
 again, lingering over it as if it were the most 
 exquisite music and this her dying song. And 
 yet it was a very commonplace name. 
 
 They knew now that she was dying. She told 
 them to fold up the christening robe and almost 
 sharply she watched them put it away, and then for 
 some time she talked of the long lovely life that 
 had been hers, and of Him to whom she owed it. 
 She said good-bye to them all, and at last turned 
 her face to the side where her best-beloved had lain, 
 and for over an hour she prayed. They only 
 caught the words now and again, and the last they 
 heard were " God " and " love." I think God was 
 smiling when He took her to Him, as He had so 
 often smiled at her during those seventy-six years. 
 
 I saw her lying dead, and her face was beautiful 
 and serene. But it was the other room I entered 
 first, and it was by my sister's side that I fell upon 
 my knees. The rounded completeness of a woman's 
 life that was my mother's had not been for her. 
 She would not have it at the price. " I'll never 
 leave you, mother." " Fine I know you'll never 
 leave me." The fierce joy of loving too much, it 
 is a terrible thing. My sister's mouth was firmly 
 closed, as if she had got her way. 
 
 And now I am left without them, but I trust 
 my memory will ever go back to those happy days, 
 not to rush through them, but dallying here and 
 
 3P 
 
ART THOU AFRAID? 
 
 there, even as my mother wanders through my 
 books. And if I also live to a time when age must 
 dim my mind and the past comes sweeping back 
 like the shades of night over the bare road of the 
 present, it will not, I believe, be my youth I shall 
 see but hers, not a boy clinging to his mother's 
 skirt and crying, " Wait till I'm a man, and you'll 
 lie on feathers," but a little girl in a magenta frock 
 and a white pinafore, who comes toward me 
 through the long parks, singing to herself, and 
 carrying her father's dinner in a flaggon. 
 
 353 
 
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