It is frightfully difficult
to know much about the fairies,
and almost the only thing known
for certain is that there are
fairies wherever there are children.
Long ago children were forbidden
the Gardens, and at that time
there was not a fairy in the
place; then the children were
admitted, and the fairies came
trooping in that very evening.
They can't resist following the
children, but you seldom see
them, partly because they live
in the daytime behind the railings,
where you are not allowed to
go, and also partly because they
are so cunning. They are not
a bit cunning after Lock-out,
but until Lock-out, my word!
When you were a bird you knew
the fairies pretty well, and
you remember a good deal about
them in your babyhood, which
it is a great pity you can't
write down, for gradually you
forget, and I have heard of children
who declared that they had never
once seen a fairy. Very likely
if they said this in the Kensington
Gardens, they were standing looking
at a fairy all the time. The
reason they were cheated was
that she pretended to be something
else. This is one of their best
tricks. They usually pretend
to be flowers, because the court
sits in the Fairies' Basin, and
there are so many flowers there,
and all along the Baby Walk,
that a flower is the thing least
likely to attract attention.
They dress exactly like flowers,
and change with the seasons,
putting on white when lilies
are in and blue for blue-bells,
and so on. They like crocus and
hyacinth time best of all, as
they are partial to a bit of
colour, but tulips (except white
ones, which are the fairy-cradles)
they consider garish, and they
sometimes put off dressing like
tulips for days, so that the
beginning of the tulip weeks
is almost the best time to catch
them.
When they think you are not
looking they skip along pretty
lively, but if you look and they
fear there is no time to hide,
they stand quite still, pretending
to be flowers. Then, after you
have passed without knowing that
they were fairies, they rush
home and tell their mothers they
have had such an adventure. The
Fairy Basin, you remember, is
all covered with ground-ivy (from
which they make their castor-oil),
with flowers growing in it here
and there. Most of them really
are flowers, but some of them
are fairies. You never can be
sure of them, but a good plan
is to walk by looking the other
way, and then turn round sharply.
Another good plan, which David
and I sometimes follow, is to
stare them down. After a long
time they can't help winking,
and then you know for certain
that they are fairies.
There are also
numbers of them along the Baby
Walk, which is
a famous gentle place, as spots
frequented by fairies are called.
Once twenty-four of them had
an extraordinary adventure. They
were a girls' school out for
a walk with the governess, and
all wearing hyacinth gowns, when
she suddenly put her finger to
her mouth, and then they all
stood still on an empty bed and
pretended to be hyacinths. Unfortunately,
what the governess had heard
was two gardeners coming to plant
new flowers in that very bed.
They were wheeling a handcart
with the flowers in it, and were
quite surprised to find the bed
occupied. "Pity to lift them
hyacinths," said the one man. "Duke's
orders," replied the other, and,
having emptied the cart, they
dug up the boarding- school and
put the poor, terrified things
in it in five rows. Of course,
neither the governess nor the
girls dare let on that they were
fairies, so they were carted
far away to a potting-shed, out
of which they escaped in the
night without their shoes, but
there was a great row about it
among the parents, and the school
was ruined.
As for their houses, it is
no use looking for them, because
they are the exact opposite of
our houses. You can see our houses
by day but you can't see them
by dark. Well, you can see their
houses by dark, but you can't
see them by day, for they are
the colour of night, and I never
heard of anyone yet who could
see night in the daytime. This
does not mean that they are black,
for night has its colours just
as day has, but ever so much
brighter. Their blues and reds
and greens are like ours with
a light behind them. The palace
is entirely built of many-coloured
glasses, and is quite the loveliest
of all royal residences, but
the queen sometimes complains
because the common people will
peep in to see what she is doing.
They are very inquisitive folk,
and press quite hard against
the glass, and that is why their
noses are mostly snubby. The
streets are miles long and very
twisty, and have paths on each
side made of bright worsted.
The birds used to steal the worsted
for their nests, but a policeman
has been appointed to hold on
at the other end.
One of the great differences
between the fairies and us is
that they never do anything useful.
When the first baby laughed for
the first time, his laugh broke
into a million pieces, and they
all went skipping about. That
was the beginning of fairies.
They look tremendously busy,
you know, as if they had not
a moment to spare, but if you
were to ask them what they are
doing, they could not tell you
in the least. They are frightfully
ignorant, and everything they
do is make-believe. They have
a postman, but he never calls
except at Christmas with his
little box, and though they have
beautiful schools, nothing is
taught in them; the youngest
child being chief person is always
elected mistress, and when she
has called the roll, they all
go out for a walk and never come
back. It is a very noticeable
thing that, in fairy families,
the youngest is always chief
person, and usually becomes a
prince or princess; and children
remember this, and think it must
be so among humans also, and
that is why they are often made
uneasy when they come upon their
mother furtively putting new
frills on the basinette.
You have probably
observed that your baby-sister
wants to
do all sorts of things that your
mother and her nurse want her
not to do: to stand up at sitting-down
time, and to sit down at standing-up
time, for instance, or to wake
up when she should fall asleep,
or to crawl on the floor when
she is wearing her best frock,
and so on, and perhaps you put
this down to naughtiness. But
it is not; it simply means that
she is doing as she has seen
the fairies do; she begins by
following their ways, and it
takes about two years to get
her into the human ways. Her
fits of passion, which are awful
to behold, and are usually called
teething, are no such thing;
they are her natural exasperation,
because we don't understand her,
though she is talking an intelligible
language. She is talking fairy.
The reason mothers and nurses
know what her remarks mean, before
other people know, as that "Guch" means "Give
it to me at once," while "Wa" is "Why
do you wear such a funny hat?" is
because, mixing so much with
babies, they have picked up a
little of the fairy language.
Of late David
has been thinking back hard
about the fairy tongue,
with his hands clutching his
temples, and he has remembered
a number of their phrases which
I shall tell you some day if
I don't forget. He had heard
them in the days when he was
a thrush, and though I suggested
to him that perhaps it is really
bird language he is remembering,
he says not, for these phrases
are about fun and adventures,
and the birds talked of nothing
but nest- building. He distinctly
remembers that the birds used
to go from spot to spot like
ladies at shop-windows, looking
at the different nests and saying, "Not
my colour, my dear," and "How
would that do with a soft lining?" and "But
will it wear?" and "What hideous
trimming!" and so on.
The fairies are exquisite dancers,
and that is why one of the first
things the baby does is to sign
to you to dance to him and then
to cry when you do it. They hold
their great balls in the open
air, in what is called a fairy-ring.
For weeks afterward you can see
the ring on the grass. It is
not there when they begin, but
they make it by waltzing round
and round. Sometimes you will
find mushrooms inside the ring,
and these are fairy chairs that
the servants have forgotten to
clear away. The chairs and the
rings are the only tell-tale
marks these little people leave
behind them, and they would remove
even these were they not so fond
of dancing that they toe it till
the very moment of the opening
of the gates. David and I once
found a fairy-ring quite warm.
But there is also a way of
finding out about the ball before
it takes place. You know the
boards which tell at what time
the Gardens are to close to-day.
Well, these tricky fairies sometimes
slyly change the board on a ball
night, so that it says the Gardens
are to close at six-thirty for
instance, instead of at seven.
This enables them to get begun
half an hour earlier.
If on such a night we could
remain behind in the Gardens,
as the famous Maimie Mannering
did, we might see delicious sights,
hundreds of lovely fairies hastening
to the ball, the married ones
wearing their wedding-rings round
their waists, the gentlemen,
all in uniform, holding up the
ladies' trains, and linkmen running
in front carrying winter cherries,
which are the fairy-lanterns,
the cloakroom where they put
on their silver slippers and
get a ticket for their wraps,
the flowers streaming up from
the Baby Walk to look on, and
always welcome because they can
lend a pin, the suppertable,
with Queen Mab at the head of
it, and behind her chair the
Lord Chamberlain, who carries
a dandelion on which he blows
when Her Majesty wants to know
the time.
The table-cloth varies according
to the seasons, and in May it
is made of chestnut-blossom.
The ways the fairy-servants do
is this: The men, scores of them,
climb up the trees and shake
the branches, and the blossom
falls like snow. Then the lady
servants sweep it together by
whisking their skirts until it
is exactly like a table-cloth,
and that is how they get their
table-cloth.
They have real
glasses and real wine of three
kinds, namely,
blackthorn wine, berberris wine,
and cowslip wine, and the Queen
pours out, but the bottles are
so heavy that she just pretends
to pour out. There is bread and
butter to begin with, of the
size of a threepenny bit; and
cakes to end with, and they are
so small that they have no crumbs.
The fairies sit round on mushrooms,
and at first they are very well-behaved
and always cough off the table,
and so on, but after a bit they
are not so well-behaved and stick
their fingers into the butter,
which is got from the roots of
old trees, and the really horrid
ones crawl over the table- cloth
chasing sugar or other delicacies
with their tongues. When the
Queen sees them doing this she
signs to the servants to wash
up and put away, and then everybody
adjourns to the dance, the Queen
walking in front while the Lord
Chamberlain walks behind her,
carrying two little pots, one
of which contains the juice of
wall-flower and the other the
juice of Solomon's Seals. Wall-
flower juice is good for reviving
dancers who fall to the ground
in a fit, and Solomon's Seals
juice is for bruises. They bruise
very easily and when Peter plays
faster and faster they foot it
till they fall down in fits.
For, as you know without my telling
you, Peter Pan is the fairies'
orchestra. He sits in the middle
of the ring, and they would never
dream of having a smart dance
nowadays without him. "P. P." is
written on the corner of the
invitation-cards sent out by
all really good families. They
are grateful little people, too,
and at the princess's coming-of-age
ball (they come of age on their
second birthday and have a birthday
every month) they gave him the
wish of his heart.
The way it was done was this.
The Queen ordered him to kneel,
and then said that for playing
so beautifully she would give
him the wish of his heart. Then
they all gathered round Peter
to hear what was the wish of
his heart, but for a long time
he hesitated, not being certain
what it was himself.
"If I chose to go back to mother," he
asked at last, "could you give
me that wish?"
Now this question
vexed them, for were he to
return to his
mother they should lose his music,
so the Queen tilted her nose
contemptuously and said, "Pooh,
ask for a much bigger wish than
that."
"Is that quite a little wish?" he
inquired.
"As little as this," the
Queen answered, putting her
hands near
each other.
"What size is a big wish?" he
asked.
She measured it off on her
skirt and it was a very handsome
length.
Then Peter
reflected and said, "Well,
then, I think I shall have two
little wishes instead of one
big one."
Of course, the fairies had
to agree, though his cleverness
rather shocked them, and he said
that his first wish was to go
to his mother, but with the right
to return to the Gardens if he
found her disappointing. His
second wish he would hold in
reserve.
They tried to dissuade him,
and even put obstacles in the
way.
"I can give you the power to
fly to her house," the Queen
said, "but I can't open the door
for you.
"The window I flew out at will
be open," Peter said confidently. "Mother
always keeps it open in the hope
that I may fly back."
"How do you know?" they
asked, quite surprised, and,
really,
Peter could not explain how he
knew.
"I just do know," he
said.
So as he persisted in his wish,
they had to grant it. The way
they gave him power to fly was
this: They all tickled him on
the shoulder, and soon he felt
a funny itching in that part
and then up he rose higher and
higher and flew away out of the
Gardens and over the house-tops.
It was so delicious that instead
of flying straight to his old
home he skimmed away over St.
Paul's to the Crystal Palace
and back by the river and Regent's
Park, and by the time he reached
his mother's window he had quite
made up his mind that his second
wish should be to become a bird.
The window was wide open, just
as he knew it would be, and in
he fluttered, and there was his
mother lying asleep. Peter alighted
softly on the wooden rail at
the foot of the bed and had a
good look at her. She lay with
her head on her hand, and the
hollow in the pillow was like
a nest lined with her brown wavy
hair. He remembered, though he
had long forgotten it, that she
always gave her hair a holiday
at night. How sweet the frills
of her night- gown were. He was
very glad she was such a pretty
mother.
But she looked sad, and he
knew why she looked sad. One
of her arms moved as if it wanted
to go round something, and he
knew what it wanted to go round.
"Oh, mother," said Peter to
himself, "if you just knew who
is sitting on the rail at the
foot of the bed."
Very gently
he patted the little mound
that her feet made, and
he could see by her face that
she liked it. He knew he had
but to say "Mother" ever so softly,
and she would wake up. They always
wake up at once if it is you
that says their name. Then she
would give such a joyous cry
and squeeze him tight. How nice
that would be to him, but oh,
how exquisitely delicious it
would be to her. That I am afraid
is how Peter regarded it. In
returning to his mother he never
doubted that he was giving her
the greatest treat a woman can
have. Nothing can be more splendid,
he thought, than to have a little
boy of your own. How proud of
him they are; and very right
and proper, too.
But why does Peter sit so long
on the rail, why does he not
tell his mother that he has come
back?
I quite shrink
from the truth, which is that
he sat there in
two minds. Sometimes he looked
longingly at his mother, and
sometimes he looked longingly
at the window. Certainly it would
be pleasant to be her boy again,
but, on the other hand, what
times those had been in the Gardens!
Was he so sure that he would
enjoy wearing clothes again?
He popped off the bed and opened
some drawers to have a look at
his old garments. They were still
there, but he could not remember
how you put them on. The socks,
for instance, were they worn
on the hands or on the feet?
He was about to try one of them
on his hand, when he had a great
adventure. Perhaps the drawer
had creaked; at any rate, his
mother woke up, for he heard
her say "Peter," as if it was
the most lovely word in the language.
He remained sitting on the floor
and held his breath, wondering
how she knew that he had come
back. If she said "Peter" again,
he meant to cry "Mother" and
run to her. But she spoke no
more, she made little moans only,
and when next he peeped at her
she was once more asleep, with
tears on her face.
It made Peter
very miserable, and what do
you think was the
first thing he did? Sitting on
the rail at the foot of the bed,
he played a beautiful lullaby
to his mother on his pipe. He
had made it up himself out of
the way she said "Peter," and
he never stopped playing until
she looked happy.
He thought
this so clever of him that
he could scarcely resist
wakening her to hear her say, "Oh,
Peter, how exquisitely you play." However,
as she now seemed comfortable,
he again cast looks at the window.
You must not think that he meditated
flying away and never coming
back. He had quite decided to
be his mother's boy, but hesitated
about beginning to-night. It
was the second wish which troubled
him. He no longer meant to make
it a wish to be a bird, but not
to ask for a second wish seemed
wasteful, and, of course, he
could not ask for it without
returning to the fairies. Also,
if he put off asking for his
wish too long it might go bad.
He asked himself if he had not
been hardhearted to fly away
without saying good-bye to Solomon. "I
should like awfully to sail in
my boat just once more," he said
wistfully to his sleeping mother.
He quite argued with her as if
she could hear him. "It would
be so splendid to tell the birds
of this adventure," he said coaxingly. "I
promise to come back," he said
solemnly and meant it, too.
And in the end, you know, he
flew away. Twice he came back
from the window, wanting to kiss
his mother, but he feared the
delight of it might waken her,
so at last he played her a lovely
kiss on his pipe, and then he
flew back to the Gardens.
Many nights
and even months passed before
he asked the fairies
for his second wish; and I am
not sure that I quite know why
he delayed so long. One reason
was that he had so many good-byes
to say, not only to his particular
friends, but to a hundred favourite
spots. Then he had his last sail,
and his very last sail, and his
last sail of all, and so on.
Again, a number of farewell feasts
were given in his honour; and
another comfortable reason was
that, after all, there was no
hurry, for his mother would never
weary of waiting for him. This
last reason displeased old Solomon,
for it was an encouragement to
the birds to procrastinate. Solomon
had several excellent mottoes
for keeping them at their work,
such as "Never put off laying
to-day, because you can lay to-morrow," and "In
this world there are no second
chances," and yet here was Peter
gaily putting off and none the
worse for it. The birds pointed
this out to each other, and fell
into lazy habits.
But, mind you,
though Peter was so slow in
going back to
his mother, he was quite decided
to go back. The best proof of
this was his caution with the
fairies. They were most anxious
that he should remain in the
Gardens to play to them, and
to bring this to pass they tried
to trick him into making such
a remark as "I wish the grass
was not so wet," and some of
them danced out of time in the
hope that he might cry, "I do
wish you would keep time!" Then
they would have said that this
was his second wish. But he smoked
their design, and though on occasions
he began, "I wish--" he always
stopped in time. So when at last
he said to them bravely, "I wish
now to go back to mother for
ever and always," they had to
tickle his shoulders and let
him go.
He went in a hurry in the end
because he had dreamt that his
mother was crying, and he knew
what was the great thing she
cried for, and that a hug from
her splendid Peter would quickly
make her to smile. Oh, he felt
sure of it, and so eager was
he to be nestling in her arms
that this time he flew straight
to the window, which was always
to be open for him.
But the window was closed,
and there were iron bars on it,
and peering inside he saw his
mother sleeping peacefully with
her arm round another little
boy.
Peter called, "Mother! mother!" but
she heard him not; in vain he
beat his little limbs against
the iron bars. He had to fly
back, sobbing, to the Gardens,
and he never saw his dear again.
What a glorious boy he had meant
to be to her. Ah, Peter, we who
have made the great mistake,
how differently we should all
act at the second chance. But
Solomon was right; there is no
second chance, not for most of
us. When we reach the window
it is Lock-out Time. The iron
bars are up for life.
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