If you ask your
mother whether she knew about
Peter Pan when
she was a little girl she will
say, "Why, of course, I did,
child," and if you ask her whether
he rode on a goat in those days
she
will say, "What a foolish question to ask; certainly he did." Then if you ask
your grandmother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a girl, she also
says, "Why, of course, I did,
child," but if you ask her whether he rode on a goat in those days, she says
she never heard of his having a goat. Perhaps she has forgotten, just as she
sometimes forgets your name and calls you Mildred, which is your mother's name.
Still, she could hardly forget such an important thing as the goat. Therefore
there was no goat when your grandmother was a little girl. This shows that, in
telling the story of Peter Pan, to begin with the goat (as most people do) is
as silly as to put on your jacket
before your vest.
Of course, it also shows that
Peter is ever so old, but he
is really always the same age,
so that does not matter in the
least. His age is one week, and
though he was born so long ago
he has never had a birthday,
nor is there the slightest chance
of his ever having one. The reason
is that he escaped from being
a human when he was seven days'
old; he escaped by the window
and flew back to the Kensington
Gardens.
If you think he was the only
baby who ever wanted to escape,
it shows how completely you have
forgotten your own young days.
When David heard this story first
he was quite certain that he
had never tried to escape, but
I told him to think back hard,
pressing his hands to his temples,
and when he had done this hard,
and even harder, he distinctly
remembered a youthful desire
to return to the tree-tops, and
with that memory came others,
as that he had lain in bed planning
to escape as soon as his mother
was asleep, and how she had once
caught him half-way up the chimney.
All children could have such
recollections if they would press
their hands hard to their temples,
for, having been birds before
they were human, they are naturally
a little wild during the first
few weeks, and very itchy at
the shoulders, where their wings
used to be. So David tells me.
I ought to mention here that
the following is our way with
a story: First, I tell it to
him, and then he tells it to
me, the understanding being that
it is quite a different story;
and then I retell it with his
additions, and so we go on until
no one could say whether it is
more his story or mine. In this
story of Peter Pan, for instance,
the bald narrative and most of
the moral reflections are mine,
though not all, for this boy
can be a stern moralist, but
the interesting bits about the
ways and customs of babies in
the bird-stage are mostly reminiscences
of David's, recalled by pressing
his hands to his temples and
thinking hard.
Well, Peter Pan got out by
the window, which had no bars.
Standing on the ledge he could
see trees far away, which were
doubtless the Kensington Gardens,
and the moment he saw them he
entirely forgot that he was now
a little boy in a nightgown,
and away he flew, right over
the houses to the Gardens. It
is wonderful that he could fly
without wings, but the place
itched tremendously, and, perhaps
we could all fly if we were as
dead- confident-sure of our capacity
to do it as was bold Peter Pan
that evening.
He alighted gaily on the open
sward, between the Baby's Palace
and the Serpentine, and the first
thing he did was to lie on his
back and kick. He was quite unaware
already that he had ever been
human, and thought he was a bird,
even in appearance, just the
same as in his early days, and
when he tried to catch a fly
he did not understand that the
reason he missed it was because
he had attempted to seize it
with his hand, which, of course,
a bird never does. He saw, however,
that it must be past Lock-out
Time, for there were a good many
fairies about, all too busy to
notice him; they were getting
breakfast ready, milking their
cows, drawing water, and so on,
and the sight of the water-pails
made him thirsty, so he flew
over to the Round Pond to have
a drink. He stooped, and dipped
his beak in the pond; he thought
it was his beak, but, of course,
it was only his nose, and, therefore,
very little water came up, and
that not so refreshing as usual,
so next he tried a puddle, and
he fell flop into it. When a
real bird falls in flop, he spreads
out his feathers and pecks them
dry, but Peter could not remember
what was the thing to do, and
he decided, rather sulkily, to
go to sleep on the weeping beech
in the Baby Walk.
At first he
found some difficulty in balancing
himself on a branch,
but presently he remembered the
way, and fell asleep. He awoke
long before morning, shivering,
and saying to himself, "I never
was out in such a cold night;" he
had really been out in colder
nights when he was a bird, but,
of course, as everybody knows,
what seems a warm night to a
bird is a cold night to a boy
in a nightgown. Peter also felt
strangely uncomfortable, as if
his head was stuffy, he heard
loud noises that made him look
round sharply, though they were
really himself sneezing. There
was something he wanted very
much, but, though he knew he
wanted it, he could not think
what it was. What he wanted so
much was his mother to blow his
nose, but that never struck him,
so he decided to appeal to the
fairies for enlightenment. They
are reputed to know a good deal.
There were two of them strolling
along the Baby Walk, with their
arms round each other's waists,
and he hopped down to address
them. The fairies have their
tiffs with the birds, but they
usually give a civil answer to
a civil question, and he was
quite angry when these two ran
away the moment they saw him.
Another was lolling on a garden-chair,
reading a postage-stamp which
some human had let fall, and
when he heard Peter's voice he
popped in alarm behind a tulip.
To Peter's bewilderment he
discovered that every fairy he
met fled from him. A band of
workmen, who were sawing down
a toadstool, rushed away, leaving
their tools behind them. A milkmaid
turned her pail upside down and
hid in it. Soon the Gardens were
in an uproar. Crowds of fairies
were running this away and that,
asking each other stoutly, who
was afraid, lights were extinguished,
doors barricaded, and from the
grounds of Queen Mab's palace
came the rubadub of drums, showing
that the royal guard had been
called out. A regiment of Lancers
came charging down the Broad
Walk, armed with holly-leaves,
with which they jog the enemy
horribly in passing. Peter heard
the little people crying everywhere
that there was a human in the
Gardens after Lock-out Time,
but he never thought for a moment
that he was the human. He was
feeling stuffier and stuffier,
and more and more wistful to
learn what he wanted done to
his nose, but he pursued them
with the vital question in vain;
the timid creatures ran from
him, and even the Lancers, when
he approached them up the Hump,
turned swiftly into a side-walk,
on the pretence that they saw
him there.
Despairing of the fairies,
he resolved to consult the birds,
but now he remembered, as an
odd thing, that all the birds
on the weeping beech had flown
away when he alighted on it,
and though that had not troubled
him at the time, he saw its meaning
now. Every living thing was shunning
him. Poor little Peter Pan, he
sat down and cried, and even
then he did not know that, for
a bird, he was sitting on his
wrong part. It is a blessing
that he did not know, for otherwise
he would have lost faith in his
power to fly, and the moment
you doubt whether you can fly,
you cease forever to be able
to do it. The reason birds can
fly and we can't is simply that
they have perfect faith, for
to have faith is to have wings.
Now, except by flying, no one
can reach the island in the Serpentine,
for the boats of humans are forbidden
to land there, and there are
stakes round it, standing up
in the water, on each of which
a bird-sentinel sits by day and
night. It was to the island that
Peter now flew to put his strange
case before old Solomon Caw,
and he alighted on it with relief,
much heartened to find himself
at last at home, as the birds
call the island. All of them
were asleep, including the sentinels,
except Solomon, who was wide
awake on one side, and he listened
quietly to Peter's adventures,
and then told him their true
meaning.
"Look at your night-gown, if
you don't believe me," Solomon
said, and with staring eyes Peter
looked at his night-gown, and
then at the sleeping birds. Not
one of them wore anything.
"How many of your toes are
thumbs?" said Solomon a little
cruelly, and Peter saw to his
consternation, that all his toes
were fingers. The shock was so
great that it drove away his
cold.
"Ruffle your feathers," said
that grim old Solomon, and Peter
tried most desperately hard to
ruffle his feathers, but he had
none. Then he rose up, quaking,
and for the first time since
he stood on the window-ledge,
he remembered a lady who had
been very fond of him.
"I think I shall go back to
mother," he said timidly.
"Good-bye," replied
Solomon Caw with a queer look.
But Peter hesitated. "Why don't
you go?" the old one asked politely.
"I suppose," said Peter huskily, "I
suppose I can still fly?"
You see, he had lost faith.
"Poor little half-and-half," said
Solomon, who was not really hard-hearted, "you
will never be able to fly again,
not even on windy days. You must
live here on the island always."
"And never even go to the Kensington
Gardens?" Peter asked tragically.
"How could you get across?" said
Solomon. He promised very kindly,
however, to teach Peter as many
of the bird ways as could be
learned by one of such an awkward
shape.
"Then I sha'n't be exactly
a human?" Peter asked.
"No."
"Nor exactly
a bird?"
"No."
"What shall
I be?"
"You will be a Betwixt-and-Between," Solomon
said, and certainly he was a
wise old fellow, for that is
exactly how it turned out.
The birds on
the island never got used to
him. His oddities
tickled them every day, as if
they were quite new, though it
was really the birds that were
new. They came out of the eggs
daily, and laughed at him at
once, then off they soon flew
to be humans, and other birds
came out of other eggs, and so
it went on forever. The crafty
mother-birds, when they tired
of sitting on their eggs, used
to get the young one to break
their shells a day before the
right time by whispering to them
that now was their chance to
see Peter washing or drinking
or eating. Thousands gathered
round him daily to watch him
do these things, just as you
watch the peacocks, and they
screamed with delight when he
lifted the crusts they flung
him with his hands instead of
in the usual way with the mouth.
All his food was brought to him
from the Gardens at Solomon's
orders by the birds. He would
not eat worms or insects (which
they thought very silly of him),
so they brought him bread in
their beaks. Thus, when you cry
out, "Greedy! Greedy!" to the
bird that flies away with the
big crust, you know now that
you ought not to do this, for
he is very likely taking it to
Peter Pan.
Peter wore no night-gown now.
You see, the birds were always
begging him for bits of it to
line their nests with, and, being
very good-natured, he could not
refuse, so by Solomon's advice
he had hidden what was left of
it. But, though he was now quite
naked, you must not think that
he was cold or unhappy. He was
usually very happy and gay, and
the reason was that Solomon had
kept his promise and taught him
many of the bird ways. To be
easily pleased, for instance,
and always to be really doing
something, and to think that
whatever he was doing was a thing
of vast importance. Peter became
very clever at helping the birds
to build their nests; soon he
could build better than a wood-pigeon,
and nearly as well as a blackbird,
though never did he satisfy the
finches, and he made nice little
water-troughs near the nests
and dug up worms for the young
ones with his fingers. He also
became very learned in bird-lore,
and knew an east-wind from a
west-wind by its smell, and he
could see the grass growing and
hear the insects walking about
inside the tree-trunks. But the
best thing Solomon had done was
to teach him to have a glad heart.
All birds have glad hearts unless
you rob their nests, and so as
they were the only kind of heart
Solomon knew about, it was easy
to him to teach Peter how to
have one.
Peter's heart
was so glad that he felt he
must sing all day
long, just as the birds sing
for joy, but, being partly human,
he needed an instrument, so he
made a pipe of reeds, and he
used to sit by the shore of the
island of an evening, practising
the sough of the wind and the
ripple of the water, and catching
handfuls of the shine of the
moon, and he put them all in
his pipe and played them so beautifully
that even the birds were deceived,
and they would say to each other, "Was
that a fish leaping in the water
or was it Peter playing leaping
fish on his pipe?" and sometimes
he played the birth of birds,
and then the mothers would turn
round in their nests to see whether
they had laid an egg. If you
are a child of the Gardens you
must know the chestnut-tree near
the bridge, which comes out in
flower first of all the chestnuts,
but perhaps you have not heard
why this tree leads the way.
It is because Peter wearies for
summer and plays that it has
come, and the chestnut being
so near, hears him and is cheated.
But as Peter sat by the shore
tootling divinely on his pipe
he sometimes fell into sad thoughts
and then the music became sad
also, and the reason of all this
sadness was that he could not
reach the Gardens, though he
could see them through the arch
of the bridge. He knew he could
never be a real human again,
and scarcely wanted to be one,
but oh, how he longed to play
as other children play, and of
course there is no such lovely
place to play in as the Gardens.
The birds brought him news of
how boys and girls play, and
wistful tears started in Peter's
eyes.
Perhaps you
wonder why he did not swim
across. The reason was
that he could not swim. He wanted
to know how to swim, but no one
on the island knew the way except
the ducks, and they are so stupid.
They were quite willing to teach
him, but all they could say about
it was, "You sit down on the
top of the water in this way,
and then you kick out like that." Peter
tried it often, but always before
he could kick out he sank. What
he really needed to know was
how you sit on the water without
sinking, and they said it was
quite impossible to explain such
an easy thing as that. Occasionally
swans touched on the island,
and he would give them all his
day's food and then ask them
how they sat on the water, but
as soon as he had no more to
give them the hateful things
hissed at him and sailed away.
Once he really thought he had
discovered a way of reaching
the Gardens. A wonderful white
thing, like a runaway newspaper,
floated high over the island
and then tumbled, rolling over
and over after the manner of
a bird that has broken its wing.
Peter was so frightened that
he hid, but the birds told him
it was only a kite, and what
a kite is, and that it must have
tugged its string out of a boy's
hand, and soared away. After
that they laughed at Peter for
being so fond of the kite, he
loved it so much that he even
slept with one hand on it, and
I think this was pathetic and
pretty, for the reason he loved
it was because it had belonged
to a real boy.
To the birds this was a very
poor reason, but the older ones
felt grateful to him at this
time because he had nursed a
number of fledglings through
the German measles, and they
offered to show him how birds
fly a kite. So six of them took
the end of the string in their
beaks and flew away with it;
and to his amazement it flew
after them and went even higher
than they.
Peter screamed
out, "Do it
again!" and with great good-nature
they did it several times, and
always instead of thanking them
he cried, "Do it again!" which
shows that even now he had not
quite forgotten what it was to
be a boy.
At last, with a grand design
burning within his brave heart,
he begged them to do it once
more with him clinging to the
tail, and now a hundred flew
off with the string, and Peter
clung to the tail, meaning to
drop off when he was over the
Gardens. But the kite broke to
pieces in the air, and he would
have drowned in the Serpentine
had he not caught hold of two
indignant swans and made them
carry him to the island. After
this the birds said that they
would help him no more in his
mad enterprise.
Nevertheless, Peter did reach
the Gardens at last by the help
of Shelley's boat, as I am now
to tell you.
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