Shelley was a young gentleman
and as grown-up as he need ever
expect to be. He was a poet;
and they are never exactly grown-up.
They are people who despise money
except what you need for to-day,
and he had all that and five
pounds over. So, when he was
walking in the Kensington Gardens,
he made a paper boat of his bank-note,
and sent it sailing on the Serpentine.
It reached the island at night:
and the look-out brought it to
Solomon Caw, who thought at first
that it was the usual thing,
a message from a lady, saying
she would be obliged if he could
let her have a good one. They
always ask for the best one he
has, and if he likes the letter
he sends one from Class A; but
if it ruffles him he sends very
funny ones indeed. Sometimes
he sends none at all, and at
another time he sends a nestful;
it all depends on the mood you
catch him in. He likes you to
leave it all to him, and if you
mention particularly that you
hope he will see his way to making
it a boy this time, he is almost
sure to send another girl. And
whether you are a lady or only
a little boy who wants a baby-sister,
always take pains to write your
address clearly. You can't think
what a lot of babies Solomon
has sent to the wrong house.
Shelley's boat,
when opened, completely puzzled
Solomon, and
he took counsel of his assistants,
who having walked over it twice,
first with their toes pointed
out, and then with their toes
pointed in, decided that it came
from some greedy person who wanted
five. They thought this because
there was a large five printed
on it. "Preposterous!" cried
Solomon in a rage, and he presented
it to Peter; anything useless
which drifted upon the island
was usually given to Peter as
a play-thing.
But he did not play with his
precious bank-note, for he knew
what it was at once, having been
very observant during the week
when he was an ordinary boy.
With so much money, he reflected,
he could surely at last contrive
to reach the Gardens, and he
considered all the possible ways,
and decided (wisely, I think)
to choose the best way. But,
first, he had to tell the birds
of the value of Shelley's boat;
and though they were too honest
to demand it back, he saw that
they were galled, and they cast
such black looks at Solomon,
who was rather vain of his cleverness,
that he flew away to the end
of the island, and sat there
very depressed with his head
buried in his wings. Now Peter
knew that unless Solomon was
on your side, you never got anything
done for you in the island, so
he followed him and tried to
hearten him.
Nor was this all that Peter
did to gain the powerful old
fellow's good will. You must
know that Solomon had no intention
of remaining in office all his
life. He looked forward to retiring
by-and-by, and devoting his green
old age to a life of pleasure
on a certain yew-stump in the
Figs which had taken his fancy,
and for years he had been quietly
filling his stocking. It was
a stocking belonging to some
bathing person which had been
cast upon the island, and at
the time I speak of it contained
a hundred and eighty crumbs,
thirty-four nuts, sixteen crusts,
a pen-wiper and a boot-lace.
When his stocking was full, Solomon
calculated that he would be able
to retire on a competency. Peter
now gave him a pound. He cut
it off his bank-note with a sharp
stick.
This made Solomon his friend
for ever, and after the two had
consulted together they called
a meeting of the thrushes. You
will see presently why thrushes
only were invited.
The scheme
to be put before them was really
Peter's, but
Solomon did most of the talking,
because he soon became irritable
if other people talked. He began
by saying that he had been much
impressed by the superior ingenuity
shown by the thrushes in nest-building,
and this put them into good-humour
at once, as it was meant to do;
for all the quarrels between
birds are about the best way
of building nests. Other birds,
said Solomon, omitted to line
their nests with mud, and as
a result they did not hold water.
Here he cocked his head as if
he had used an unanswerable argument;
but, unfortunately, a Mrs. Finch
had come to the meeting uninvited,
and she squeaked out, "We don't
build nests to hold water, but
to hold eggs," and then the thrushes
stopped cheering, and Solomon
was so perplexed that he took
several sips of water.
"Consider," he said at last, "how
warm the mud makes the nest."
"Consider," cried Mrs. Finch, "that
when water gets into the nest
it remains there and your little
ones are drowned."
The thrushes begged Solomon
with a look to say something
crushing in reply to this, but
again he was perplexed.
"Try another drink," suggested
Mrs. Finch pertly. Kate was her
name, and all Kates are saucy.
Solomon did
try another drink, and it inspired
him. "If," said
he, "a finch's nest is placed
on the Serpentine it fills and
breaks to pieces, but a thrush's
nest is still as dry as the cup
of a swan's back."
How the thrushes
applauded! Now they knew why
they lined
their nests with mud, and when
Mrs. Finch called out, "We don't
place our nests on the Serpentine," they
did what they should have done
at first: chased her from the
meeting. After this it was most
orderly. What they had been brought
together to hear, said Solomon,
was this: their young friend,
Peter Pan, as they well knew,
wanted very much to be able to
cross to the Gardens, and he
now proposed, with their help,
to build a boat.
At this the thrushes began
to fidget, which made Peter tremble
for his scheme.
Solomon explained hastily that
what he meant was not one of
the cumbrous boats that humans
use; the proposed boat was to
be simply a thrush's nest large
enough to hold Peter.
But still,
to Peter's agony, the thrushes
were sulky. "We
are very busy people," they grumbled, "and
this would be a big job."
"Quite so," said Solomon, "and,
of course, Peter would not allow
you to work for nothing. You
must remember that he is now
in comfortable circumstances,
and he will pay you such wages
as you have never been paid before.
Peter Pan authorises me to say
that you shall all be paid sixpence
a day."
Then all the thrushes hopped
for joy, and that very day was
begun the celebrated Building
of the Boat. All their ordinary
business fell into arrears. It
was the time of year when they
should have been pairing, but
not a thrush's nest was built
except this big one, and so Solomon
soon ran short of thrushes with
which to supply the demand from
the mainland. The stout, rather
greedy children, who look so
well in perambulators but get
puffed easily when they walk,
were all young thrushes once,
and ladies often ask specially
for them. What do you think Solomon
did? He sent over to the house-tops
for a lot of sparrows and ordered
them to lay their eggs in old
thrushes' nests and sent their
young to the ladies and swore
they were all thrushes! It was
known afterward on the island
as the Sparrows' Year, and so,
when you meet, as you doubtless
sometimes do, grown-up people
who puff and blow as if they
thought themselves bigger than
they are, very likely they belong
to that year. You ask them.
Peter was a just master, and
paid his workpeople every evening.
They stood in rows on the branches,
waiting politely while he cut
the paper sixpences out of his
bank-note, and presently he called
the roll, and then each bird,
as the names were mentioned,
flew down and got sixpence. It
must have been a fine sight.
And at last, after months of
labor, the boat was finished.
Oh, the deportment of Peter as
he saw it growing more and more
like a great thrush's nest! From
the very beginning of the building
of it he slept by its side, and
often woke up to say sweet things
to it, and after it was lined
with mud and the mud had dried
he always slept in it. He sleeps
in his nest still, and has a
fascinating way of curling round
in it, for it is just large enough
to hold him comfortably when
he curls round like a kitten.
It is brown inside, of course,
but outside it is mostly green,
being woven of grass and twigs,
and when these wither or snap
the walls are thatched afresh.
There are also a few feathers
here and there, which came off
the thrushes while they were
building.
The other birds were extremely
jealous and said that the boat
would not balance on the water,
but it lay most beautifully steady;
they said the water would come
into it, but no water came into
it. Next they said that Peter
had no oars, and this caused
the thrushes to look at each
other in dismay, but Peter replied
that he had no need of oars,
for he had a sail, and with such
a proud, happy face he produced
a sail which he had fashioned
out of his night-gown, and though
it was still rather like a night-gown
it made a lovely sail. And that
night, the moon being full, and
all the birds asleep, he did
enter his coracle (as Master
Francis Pretty would have said)
and depart out of the island.
And first, he knew not why, he
looked upward, with his hands
clasped, and from that moment
his eyes were pinned to the west.
He had promised the thrushes
to begin by making short voyages,
with them to his guides, but
far away he saw the Kensington
Gardens beckoning to him beneath
the bridge, and he could not
wait. His face was flushed, but
he never looked back; there was
an exultation in his little breast
that drove out fear. Was Peter
the least gallant of the English
mariners who have sailed westward
to meet the Unknown?
At first, his boat turned round
and round, and he was driven
back to the place of his starting,
whereupon he shortened sail,
by removing one of the sleeves,
and was forthwith carried backward
by a contrary breeze, to his
no small peril. He now let go
the sail, with the result that
he was drifted toward the far
shore, where are black shadows
he knew not the dangers of, but
suspected them, and so once more
hoisted his night-gown and went
roomer of the shadows until he
caught a favouring wind, which
bore him westward, but at so
great a speed that he was like
to be broke against the bridge.
Which, having avoided, he passed
under the bridge and came, to
his great rejoicing, within full
sight of the delectable Gardens.
But having tried to cast anchor,
which was a stone at the end
of a piece of the kite-string,
he found no bottom, and was fain
to hold off, seeking for moorage,
and, feeling his way, he buffeted
against a sunken reef that cast
him overboard by the greatness
of the shock, and he was near
to being drowned, but clambered
back into the vessel. There now
arose a mighty storm, accompanied
by roaring of waters, such as
he had never heard the like,
and he was tossed this way and
that, and his hands so numbed
with the cold that he could not
close them. Having escaped the
danger of which, he was mercifully
carried into a small bay, where
his boat rode at peace.
Nevertheless, he was not yet
in safety; for, on pretending
to disembark, he found a multitude
of small people drawn up on the
shore to contest his landing,
and shouting shrilly to him to
be off, for it was long past
Lock-out Time. This, with much
brandishing of their holly-leaves,
and also a company of them carried
an arrow which some boy had left
in the Gardens, and this they
were prepared to use as a battering-ram.
Then Peter, who knew them for
the fairies, called out that
he was not an ordinary human
and had no desire to do them
displeasure, but to be their
friend; nevertheless, having
found a jolly harbour, he was
in no temper to draw off therefrom,
and he warned them if they sought
to mischief him to stand to their
harms.
So saying, he boldly leapt
ashore, and they gathered around
him with intent to slay him,
but there then arose a great
cry among the women, and it was
because they had now observed
that his sail was a baby's night-gown.
Whereupon, they straightway loved
him, and grieved that their laps
were too small, the which I cannot
explain, except by saying that
such is the way of women. The
men- fairies now sheathed their
weapons on observing the behaviour
of their women, on whose intelligence
they set great store, and they
led him civilly to their queen,
who conferred upon him the courtesy
of the Gardens after Lock-out
Time, and henceforth Peter could
go whither he chose, and the
fairies had orders to put him
in comfort.
Such was his first voyage to
the Gardens, and you may gather
from the antiquity of the language
that it took place a long time
ago. But Peter never grows any
older, and if we could be watching
for him under the bridge to-night
(but, of course, we can't), I
daresay we should see him hoisting
his night-gown and sailing or
paddling toward us in the Thrush's
Nest. When he sails, he sits
down, but he stands up to paddle.
I shall tell you presently how
he got his paddle.
Long before the time for the
opening of the gates comes he
steals back to the island, for
people must not see him (he is
not so human as all that), but
this gives him hours for play,
and he plays exactly as real
children play. At least he thinks
so, and it is one of the pathetic
things about him that he often
plays quite wrongly.
You see, he had no one to tell
him how children really play,
for the fairies were all more
or less in hiding until dusk,
and so know nothing, and though
the birds pretended that they
could tell him a great deal,
when the time for telling came,
it was wonderful how little they
really knew. They told him the
truth about hide- and-seek, and
he often plays it by himself,
but even the ducks on the Round
Pond could not explain to him
what it is that makes the pond
so fascinating to boys. Every
night the ducks have forgotten
all the events of the day, except
the number of pieces of cake
thrown to them. They are gloomy
creatures, and say that cake
is not what it was in their young
days.
So Peter had to find out many
things for himself. He often
played ships at the Round Pond,
but his ship was only a hoop
which he had found on the grass.
Of course, he had never seen
a hoop, and he wondered what
you play at with them, and decided
that you play at pretending they
are boats. This hoop always sank
at once, but he waded in for
it, and sometimes he dragged
it gleefully round the rim of
the pond, and he was quite proud
to think that he had discovered
what boys do with hoops.
Another time, when he found
a child's pail, he thought it
was for sitting in, and he sat
so hard in it that he could scarcely
get out of it. Also he found
a balloon. It was bobbing about
on the Hump, quite as if it was
having a game by itself, and
he caught it after an exciting
chase. But he thought it was
a ball, and Jenny Wren had told
him that boys kick balls, so
he kicked it; and after that
he could not find it anywhere.
Perhaps the most surprising
thing he found was a perambulator.
It was under a lime-tree, near
the entrance to the Fairy Queen's
Winter Palace (which is within
the circle of the seven Spanish
chestnuts), and Peter approached
it warily, for the birds had
never mentioned such things to
him. Lest it was alive, he addressed
it politely, and then, as it
gave no answer, he went nearer
and felt it cautiously. He gave
it a little push, and it ran
from him, which made him think
it must be alive after all; but,
as it had run from him, he was
not afraid. So he stretched out
his hand to pull it to him, but
this time it ran at him, and
he was so alarmed that he leapt
the railing and scudded away
to his boat. You must not think,
however, that he was a coward,
for he came back next night with
a crust in one hand and a stick
in the other, but the perambulator
had gone, and he never saw another
one. I have promised to tell
you also about his paddle. It
was a child's spade which he
had found near St. Govor's Well,
and he thought it was a paddle.
Do you pity Peter Pan for making
these mistakes? If so, I think
it rather silly of you. What
I mean is that, of course, one
must pity him now and then, but
to pity him all the time would
be impertinence. He thought he
had the most splendid time in
the Gardens, and to think you
have it is almost quite as good
as really to have it. He played
without ceasing, while you often
waste time by being mad-dog or
Mary-Annish. He could be neither
of these things, for he had never
heard of them, but do you think
he is to be pitied for that?
Oh, he was merry. He was as
much merrier than you, for instance,
as you are merrier than your
father. Sometimes he fell, like
a spinning-top, from sheer merriment.
Have you seen a greyhound leaping
the fences of the Gardens? That
is how Peter leaps them.
And think of the music of his
pipe. Gentlemen who walk home
at night write to the papers
to say they heard a nightingale
in the Gardens, but it is really
Peter's pipe they hear. Of course,
he had no mother--at least, what
use was she to him? You can be
sorry for him for that, but don't
be too sorry, for the next thing
I mean to tell you is how he
revisited her. It was the fairies
who gave him the chance
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