 Story eight of The Magic World, this Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. The Magic World by E. Nesbitt. Eight, just now, land. "'Auntie!' the little weak voice came from the other side of the locked attic door. "'You should have thought of that before,' said the strong, sharp voice outside. "'I didn't mean to be naughty. I didn't, truly.' "'It's not what you mean, miss. It's what you do. I'll teach you not to mean, my lady.' The bitter irony of the last words dried the child's tears. She screamed, "'I won't be good. I won't try to be good. I thought you'd like your nasty old garden weeded. "'I only did it to please you. How was I to know it was turnips? It looked just like weeds.' Then came a pause, then another shriek. "'I'll not let you out till I've broken your spirit, my girl. You may rely on that.' The sharp voice stopped abruptly on a high note, determined feet in strong boots sounded on the stairs, fainter, fainter. A door slammed below with a dreadful definiteness, and Elsie was left alone to wonder how soon her spirit would break. For at no lesser price it appeared could freedom be bought. The outlook seemed hopeless. The martyrs and heroines with whom Elsie usually identified herself, their spirit had never been broken, not chains nor the rack, nor the fiery stake itself had even weakened them. Imprisonment in an attic would to them have been luxury, compared with the boiling oil and the smoking faggots, and all the intimate cruelties of mysterious instruments of steel and leather, in cold dungeons, lit only by the dull flare of torches, and the bright watchful eyes of inquisitors. A month in the house of auntie self-styled, and really only an unrelated Mrs. Staines, paid to take care of the child, had held but one interest, Fox's Book of Martyrs. It was a horrible book. The thick oleographs, their guarding sheets of tissue paper sticking to the prints, like bandages to a wound. Elsie knew all about wounds, she had had one herself. Only a scalded hand it is true, but a wound is a wound all the world over. It was a book that made you afraid to go to bed. But it was a book you could not help reading. And now it seemed as though it might at last help, and not merely sicken and terrify. But the help was frail and broke almost instantly on the thought. They were brave because they were good. How can I be brave, when there's nothing to be brave about, except me not knowing the difference between turnips and weeds? She sank down, a huddled black bunch on the bear attic floor, and called wildly to someone who could not answer her. Her frock was black, because the one who always used to answer could not answer any more. And her father was in India, where you cannot answer or even hear your little girl, however much she cries in England. I would cry, said Elsie, sobbing as violently as ever. I can be brave, even if I'm not a saint, but only a turnip mistake. I'll be a Bastille prisoner and tame a mouse. She dried her eyes, though the bosom of the black frock still heaved like the sea after a storm, and looked about for a mouse to tame. One could not begin too soon. But unfortunately there seemed to be no mouse at liberty just then. There were mouse-holes right enough, all round the wane-scot, and in the broad, time-worn boards of the old floor, but never a mouse. Mouse! Mouse! Elsie called softly. Mousey! Mousey! Come and be tamed! Not a mouse, replied. The attic was perfectly empty and dreadfully clean. The other attic, Elsie knew, had lots of interesting things in it, old furniture and saddles and sacks of seed potatoes, but in this attic nothing. Not so much as a bit of string on the floor that one could make knots in or twist round one's finger till it made the red ridges that are so interesting to look at afterwards. Not even a piece of paper in the draughty cold fireplace that one could make paper boats of, or prick letters in with a pin or the tag of one's shoelaces. As she stooped to see whether under the great sum old matchbox or bit of twig might have escaped the broom, she saw suddenly what she had wanted most. A mouse. It was lying on its side. She put out her hand very slowly and gently, and whispered in her softest tones, Wake up, Mousey! Wake up and come and be tamed! But the mouse never moved, and when she took it in her hand it was cold. Oh! she moaned, You're dead, and now I can never tame you! And she sat on the cold hearth and cried again with the dead mouse in her lap. Don't cry, said somebody. I'll find you something to tame, if you really want it. Elsie started, and saw the head of a black bird, peering at her through the square opening that leads to the chimney. The edges of him looked ragged and rainbow coloured, but that was because she saw him through tears. To a tearless eye he was black and very smooth and sleek. Oh! she said, and nothing more. Quite so, said the bird politely. You are surprised to hear me speak, but your surprise will be, of course, much less, when I tell you that I am really a prime minister, condemned by an enchanter to wear the form of a crow till I can get rid of it. Oh! said Elsie. Yes, indeed! said the crow, and suddenly grew smaller till he could come comfortably through the square opening. He did this, perched on the top bar and hopped to the floor, and there he got bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger. Elsie had scrambled to her feet, and then a black little girl of eight, and of the usual size, stood face to face with a crow as big as a man, and no doubt as old. She found words then. Oh! don't! she cried. Don't get any bigger. I can't bear it. I can't do it, said the crow kindly. So that's all right. I thought you'd better get used to seeing rather large crows before I take you to Crow Nowland. We're all life-sized there. But a crow's life-size isn't a man's life-size, Elsie managed to say. Oh! yes it is. When it's an enchanted crow, the bird replied, that makes all the difference. Now, you were saying you wanted to tame something. If you'll come with me to Crow Nowland, I'll show you something worth taming. Is Crow what's its name a nice place? Elsie asked cautiously. She was somehow not so very frightened now. Very, said the crow. Then perhaps I shall like it so much, I shan't want to be taming things. Oh! yes you will, when you know how much depends on it. But I shouldn't like, said Elsie, to go up the chimney. This isn't my best frock, of course, but still quite so, said the crow. I only came that way for fun, and because I can fly. You shall go in by the chief gate of the kingdom, like a lady. Do come. But Elsie still hesitated. What sort of thing is it you want me to tame? she said doubtfully. The enormous crow hesitated. Ah, a sort of lizard, it said at last. And if you can only tame it, so that it will do what you tell it to, you'll save the whole kingdom, and will put up a statue to you. But not in the people's park unless they wish it. The bird added mysteriously. I should like to save a kingdom, said Elsie, and I like lizards. I've seen lots of them in India. Then you'll come, said the crow. Yes, but how do we go? There are only two doors out of this world into another, said the crow. I'll take you through the nearest. Allow me. It put its wing round her so that her face nestled against the black softness of the underwing feathers. It was warm and dark and sleepy there, and very comfortable. For a moment she seemed to swim easily in a soft sea of dreams. Then, with a little shock, she found herself standing on a marble terrace, looking out over a city far more beautiful and wonderful than she had ever seen or imagined. The great man-sized crow was by her side. Now, it said, pointing with the longest of its long black wing feathers. You see this beautiful city? Yes, said Elsie. Of course I do. Well, I hardly like to tell you the story, said the crow. But it's a long time ago, and I hope you won't think the worse of us, because we're really very sorry. If you're really sorry, said Elsie primly, of course it's all right. Unfortunately it isn't, said the crow. You see the great square down there? Elsie looked down on a square of green trees, broken a little towards the middle. Well, that's where the... Where it is, what you've got to tame, you know. But what did you do that was wrong? We were unkind, said the crow slowly, and unjust and ungenerous. We had servants and work-people doing everything for us. We had nothing to do but be kind, and we weren't. Dear me, said Elsie feebly. We had several warnings, said the crow. There was an old parchment, and it said just how you ought to behave and all that. But we didn't care what it said. I was court magician as well as prime minister, and I ought to have known better, but I didn't. We all wore frock coats and high hats then, he added sadly. Go on, said Elsie, her eyes wandering from one beautiful building to another of the many that nestled among the trees of the city. And the old parchment said that if we didn't behave well, our bodies would grow like our souls. But we didn't think so, and then all in a minute they did. And we were crows, and our bodies were as black as our souls. Our souls are quite white now, it added reassuringly. But what was the dreadful thing you'd done? We'd been unkind to the people who worked for us, not given them enough food or clothes or fire, and at last we took away even their play. There was a big park that the people played in, and we built a wall round it and took it for our souls. And the king was going to set a statue of himself up in the middle. And then before we could begin to enjoy it, we were turned into big black crows, and the working people into big white pigeons, and they can go where they like. But we have to stay here till we've tamed that we can never go into the park until we've settled the thing that guards it. And that thing's a big, big lizard. In fact, it's a dragon. Oh! cried Elsie. But she was not as frightened as the crow seemed to expect. Because every now and then she had felt sure that she was really safe in her own bed, and that this was a dream. It was not a dream, but the belief that it was made her very brave, and she felt quite sure that she could settle a dragon if necessary. A dream dragon, that is. And the rest of the time she thought about Foxy's book of martyrs, and what a heroine she now had the chance to be. You want me to kill it? she asked. Oh no, to tame it, said the crow. We've tried all sorts of means, long whips like people tame horses with, and red-hot bars such as lion tamers use, and it's all been perfectly useless, and there the dragon lives and will live till someone can tame him. And get him to follow them like a tame thorn and eat out of their hand. What does the dragon like to eat? Elsie asked. Crows replied the other in an uncomfortable whisper. At least I've never known it eat anything else. Am I to try to tame it now? Elsie asked. Oh dear no, said the crow. We'll have a banquet in your honour, and you shall have tea with the princess. How do you know who is a princess and who's not, if you're all crows? Elsie cried. How do you know one human being from another? the crow replied. Besides, come on to the palace. It led her along the terrace and down some marble steps to a small arched door. The tradesman's entrance, it explained. Excuse it, the courtiers are crowding in by the front door. Then through long corridors and passages they went, and at last into the throne room. Many crows stood about in respectful attitudes. On the golden throne, leaning a gloomy head upon the first joint of his right wing, the sovereign of Crow now land was musing dejectedly. A little girl of about Elsie's age sat on the steps of the throne, nursing a handsome doll. Who is the little girl? Elsie asked. Curtsy! That's the princess! the prime minister Crow whispered, and Elsie made the best curtsy she could think of in such a hurry. She wasn't wicked enough to be turned into a crow, or poor enough to be turned into a pigeon, so she remains a dear little girl, just as she always was. The princess dropped her doll and ran down the steps of the throne to meet Elsie. You dear! she said, you've come to play with me, haven't you? All the little girls I used to play with have turned into crows, and their beaks are so awkward at doll's tea parties, and wings are no good to nurse dollies with. Let's have a doll's tea party now, shall we? May we? Elsie looked at the crow king, who nodded his head hopelessly. So hand in hand they went. I wonder whether you have ever had the run of a perfectly beautiful palace, and a nursery absolutely crammed with all the toys you ever had or wanted to have. Doll's houses, doll's china tea sets, rocking horses, bricks, nine pins, paint boxes, cundering tricks, pewter dinner services, and any number of dolls, almost agreeable and distinguished. If you have, you may perhaps be able faintly to imagine Elsie's happiness. And better than all the toys was the princess Perdona, so gentle and kind and jolly, full of ideas for games, and surrounded by the means for playing them. Think of it, after that bare attic, with not even a bit of string to play with, and no company but the poor little dead mouse. There is no room in this story to tell you of all the games they had. I can only say that the time went by so quickly that they never noticed it going, and were amazed when the crown nursemaid brought in the royal tea tray. Tea was our beautiful meal, with pink iced cake in it. Now all the time that these glorious games had been going on, and this magnificent tea, the wisest crows of Crow Narland had been holding a council. They had decided that there was no time like the present, and that Elsie had better try to tame the dragon soon as late. But, the king said, she mustn't run any risks. A guard of fifty stalwart crows must go with her, and if the dragon shows the least temper, fifty crows must throw themselves between her and danger, even if it costs fifty-one Crow lives. For I myself will lead that band, who will volunteer? Volunteers to the number of some thousands instantly stepped forward, and the field marshals selected fifty of the strongest crows. And then, in the pleasant pinkness of the sunset, Elsie was led out onto the palace steps, where the king made a speech and said what a heroine she was, and how like Joan of Arc. And the crows, who had gathered from all parts of the town, cheered madly. Did you ever hear crows cheering? It is a wonderful sound. Then Elsie got into a magnificent guilt-coach drawn by eight white horses, with a crow at the head of each horse. The princess sat with her on the blue velvet cushions and held her hand. I know you'll do it, said she. You're so brave and clever, Elsie. And Elsie felt braver than before, although now it did not seem so. Not seem so like a dream. But she thought of the martyrs and held her donor's hand very tight. At the gates of the Green Park the princess kissed and hugged her new friend. Her state crown, which she had put on in honour of the occasion, got pushed quite on one side in the warmth of her embrace, and Elsie stepped out of the carriage. There was a great crowd of crows round the park gates, and everyone cheered and shouted, Speech! Speech! Elsie got as far as, Ladies and gentlemen! Crows, I mean! And then she could not think of anything more, so she simply added, Please, I'm ready! I wish you could have heard those crows cheer. But Elsie wouldn't have the escort. It's very kind, she said, but the dragon only eats crows, and I'm not a crow, thank goodness. I mean, I'm not a crow. And if I've got to be brave, I'd like to be brave, and none of you to get eaten. If only someone will come with me to show me the way, and then run back as hard as he can when we get near the dragon. Please! If only one goes, I shall be the one, said the king. And he and Elsie went through the great gate side by side. She held the end of his wing, which was the nearest they could get to hand in hand. The crowd outside waited in breathless silence. Elsie and the king went on through the winding paths of the people's park. And by the winding paths they came at last to the dragon. He lay very peacefully on a great stone slab, his enormous back-like wings spread out on the grass, and his goldy green scales glittering in the pretty pink sunset light. Go back, said Elsie. No, said the king. If you don't, said Elsie, I won't go on. Seeing a crow might rouse him to fury, or give him an appetite or something. Do, do, go. So he went, but not far. He hid behind a tree, and from its shelter he watched. Elsie drew a long breath, her heart was thumping under the black frock. Suppose, she thought, he takes me for a crow. But she thought how yellow her hair was, and decided that the dragon would be certain to notice that. Quick march, she said to herself, remember Joan of Arc, and walked right up to the dragon. It never moved, but watched her suspiciously out of its bright green eyes. Dragon, dear, she said in her clear little voice. Elsie, said the dragon, in tones of extreme astonishment. Dragon, dear, she repeated, do you like sugar? Yes. Yes, said the dragon. Well, I've brought you some. You won't hurt me if I bring it to you? The dragon violently shook its vast head. It's not much, said Elsie, but I saved it at tea time, four lumps, two for each of my mugs of milk. She laid the sugar on the stone slab by the dragon's paw. It turned its head towards the sugar. The pinky sunset light fell on its face, and Elsie saw that it was weeping. Great fat tears as big as prized pairs were coursing down its wrinkled cheeks. Oh, don't, said Elsie, don't cry. Poor dragon, what's the matter? Oh, sobbed the dragon. I'm only so glad you've come. I've been so lonely. No one to love me. You do love me, don't you? I'm sure I shall, when I know you better, said Elsie kindly. Give me a kiss, dear, said the dragon, sniffing. It is no joke to kiss a dragon, but Elsie did it, somewhere on the hard green wrinkles of its forehead. Oh, thank you, said the dragon, brushing away its tears with the tip of its tail. That breaks the charm. I can move now, and I've got back all my lost wisdom. Come along, I do want my tea. So to the waiting crowd at the gate came Elsie and the dragon side by side. And at the sight of the dragon tamed a great shout went up from the crowd. And at that shout each one in the crowd turned quickly to the next one, for it was the shout of men and not of crows. Because at the first sight of the dragon tamed they had left off being crows for ever and ever, and once again were men. The king came running through the gates, his royal robes held high, so that he shouldn't trip over them. And he too was no longer a crow but a man. And what did Elsie feel after being so brave? Well, she felt that she would like to cry and also to laugh, and she felt that she loved not only the dragon, but every man, woman and child in the whole world, even Mrs. Staines. She rode back to the palace on the dragon's back. And as they went the crowd of citizens who had been crows met the crowd of citizens who had been pigeons, and these were poor men in poor clothes. It would have done you good to see how the ones who had been rich and crows ran to meet the ones who had been pigeons and poor. Come and stay at my house, brother, they cried to those who had no homes. Brother, I have many coats. Come and choose some, they cried to the ragged. Come and feast with me, they cried to all. And the rich and the poor went off, arm in arm, to feast and be glad that night, and the next day to work side by side. Four, said the king, speaking with his hand on the neck of the tamed dragon. Our land has been called Crow now land, but we are no longer crows, we are men, and we will be just men. And our country shall be called Just now land for ever and ever. And for the future we shall not be rich and poor but fellow workers, and each will do his best for his brothers and his own city, and your king shall be your servant. I don't know how they managed this, but no one seemed to think that there would be any difficulty about it when the king mentioned it. And when people really make up their minds to do anything, difficulties do most oddly disappear. Wonderful rejoicings there were. The city was hung with flags and lamps, bands played, the performers a little out of practice, because, of course, crows can't play the flute or the violin or the trombone, but the effect was very gay indeed. Then came the time, it was quite dark, when the king rose up on his throne and spoke, and Elsie, among all her new friends, listened with them to his words. Our deliverer Elsie, he said, was brought hither by the good magic of our chief mage and prime minister. She has removed the enchantment that held us, and the dragon, now that he has had his tea and recovered from the shock of being kindly treated, turns out to be the second strongest magician in the world, and he will help us and advise us, so long as we remember that we are all brothers and fellow workers. And now comes the time when our Elsie must return to her own place, or another go in her stead. But we cannot send back our heroine, our deliverer. Long, loud cheering. So one shall take her place, my daughter. The end of the sentence was lost in shouts of admiration, but Elsie stood up, small and white in her black frock, and said, No, thank you. Perdona would simply hate it, and she doesn't know my daddy. He'll fetch me away from Mrs. Dane some day. The thought of her daddy far away in India, of the loneliness of Willow Farm, where now it would be night in that horrible bear attic, where the poor, dead, untameable little mouse was, nearly choked Elsie. It was so bright and light and good and kind here, and India was so far away. Her voice stayed a moment on a broken note. I, I. Then she spoke firmly. Thank you all so much, she said. So very much. I do love you all. And it's lovely here, but please I'd like to go home now. The Prime Minister, in a silence full of love and understanding, folded his dark cloak round her. It was dark in the attic. Elsie, crouching alone in the blackness by the fireplace where the dead mouse had been, put out her hand to touch its cold fur. There were wheels on the gravel outside. The knocker swung strongly and rattacked. A pause, voices, hasty feet in strong boots, sounded on the stairs. The key turned in the lock. The door opened a dazzling crack, then fully to the glare of a lamp carried by Mrs. Staines. Come down at once, I'm sure you're good now, she said, in a great hurry, and in a new, honeyed voice. But there were other feet on the stairs, a step that Elsie knew. Where's my girl? The voice she knew cried cheerfully. But under the cheerfulness, Elsie heard something other and dearer. Where's my girl? After all, it takes less than a month to come from India, to the house in England where one's heart is. Out of the bare attic and the darkness, Elsie leapt into light, into arms she knew. Oh, my daddy, my daddy! She cried. How glad I am! I came back. End of Story 8. Recording by Ruth Golding. Story 9 of The Magic World. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding. The Magic World by E. Nesbitt. 9. The Related Muff. We had never seen our cousin Sydney till that Christmas Eve, and we didn't want to see him then, and we didn't like him when we did see him. He was just dumped down into the middle of us by mother, at a time when it would have been unkind to her to say how little we wanted him. We knew already that there wasn't to be any proper Christmas for us, because Aunt Ellie, the one who always used to send the necklaces and carved things from India, and remembered everybody's birthday, had come home ill. Very ill she was, at a hotel in London, and mother had to go to her, and of course father was away with his ship. And then, after we had said goodbye to mother and told her how sorry we were, we were left to ourselves, and told each other what a shame it was, and no presents or anything. And then mother came suddenly back in a cab, and we all shouted, Hooray! when we saw the cab stop and her get out of it. And then we saw she was getting something out of the cab, and our hearts leapt up like the man's in the piece of school poetry when he beheld a rainbow in the sky, because we thought she had remembered about the presents, and the thing she was getting out of the cab was them. Of course it was not, it was Sydney, very thin and yellow, and looking as sullen as a pig. We opened the front door, mother didn't even come in. She just said, Here's your cousin Sydney, be nice to him, and give him a good time, there's darlings, and don't forget he's your visitor, so be very extra nice to him. I have sometimes thought it was the fault of what mother said about the visitor that made what did happen happen. But I'm almost sure really that it was the fault of us, though I did not see it at the time, and even now I'm sure we didn't mean to be unkind, quite the opposite. But the events of life are very confusing, especially when you try to think what made you do them, and whether you really meant to be naughty or not. Quite often it is not, but it turns out just the same. When the cab had carried mother away, Hilda said it was like a dragon carrying away a queen. We said, How do you do to our cousin Sydney? Who replied, Quite well, thank you. And then, curiously enough, no one could think of anything more to say. Then Rupert, which is me, remembered that about being a visitor, and he said, Won't you come into the drawing room? He did, when he had taken off his gloves and overcoat. There was a fire in the drawing room, because we had been going to have games there with mother. Only the telegram came about Aunt Ellie. So we all sat on chairs in the drawing room and thought of nothing to say harder than ever. Hilda did say, How old are you? But of course we knew the answer to that. It was ten. And Hugh said, Do you like England or India best? And our cousin replied, India ever so much, thank you. I never felt such a duffer. It was awful. With all the millions of interesting things that there are to say at other times, and I couldn't think of one. At last I said, Do you like games? And our cousin replied, Some games I do. In a tone that made me sure that the games he liked wouldn't be our kind, but some wild Indians sort that we didn't know. I could see that the others were feeling just like me. And I knew we could not go on like this till tea time. And yet I didn't see any other way to go on in. It was Hilda who cut the gorgeous knot at last. She said, Hugh, let you and I go and make a lovely surprise for Rupert and Sydney. And before I could think of any way of stopping them without being downright rude to our new cousin, they had fled the scene, just like any old conspirators. Rupert, me I mean, was left alone with the stranger. I said, Is there anything you'd like to do? And he said, No, thank you. Then neither of us said anything for a bit, and I could hear the others shrieking with laughter in the hall. I said, I wonder what the surprise will be like. He said, Yes, I wonder. But I could tell from his tone that he didn't wonder a bit. The others were yelling with laughter. Have you ever noticed how very amused people always are when you're not there? If you're in bed, ill or in disgrace or anything, it always sounds like far finer jokes than ever occur when you're not out of things. Do you like reading? said I, who am Rupert, in the tones of despair. Yes, said the cousin. Then take a book, I said hastily, for I really could not stand it another second. And you just read till the surprise is ready. I think I ought to go and help the others. I'm the eldest, you know. I did not wait. I suppose if you're ten you can choose a book for yourself, and I went. Hilda's idea was just Indians, but I thought a wigwam would be nice, so we made one with the hall table and the fur rugs off the floor. If everything had been different and Aunt Ellie hadn't been ill, we were to have had turkey for dinner. The turkey's feathers were splendid for Indians, and the striped blankets off Hughes and my beds and all mother's beads. The hall is big like a room, and there was a fire. The afternoon passed like a beautiful dream. When Rupert had done his own feathering and blanketing, as well as brown paper moccasins, he helped the others. The T-bell rang before we were quite dressed. We got Louisa to go up and tell our cousin that the surprise was ready and we all got inside the wigwam. It was a very tight fit with the feathers and the blankets. He came down the stairs, very slowly reading all the time, and when he got to the mat at the bottom of the stairs, we burst forth in all our war paint from the wigwam. It upset because Hugh and Hilda stuck between the table's legs and it fell on the stone floor with quite a loud noise. The wild Indians picked themselves up out of the ruins and did the finest war-dance I've ever seen in front of my cousin Sidney. He gave one little scream, and then sat down suddenly on the bottom steps. He leaned his head against the banisters and we thought he was admiring the war-dance till Eliza, who had been laughing and making as much noise as any one, suddenly went up to him and shook him. Stop that noise, she said to us. He's gone off into a dead faint. He had. Of course we were very sorry and all that, but we never thought he'd be such a moth as to be frightened of three red Indians and a wigwam that happened to upset. He was put to bed and we had our teas. I wish we hadn't, Hilda said. So do I, said Hugh. But Rupert said, no one could have expected a cousin of ours to be a kicking-hearted duffer. He's a moth. It's bad enough to have a moth in the house at all and at Christmas time too, but a related moth. Still, the affair had cast a gloom and we were glad when it was bedtime. Next day was Christmas day and no presents and nobody but the servants to wish a merry Christmas to. Our cousin Sydney came down to breakfast and as it was Christmas day Rupert bent his proud spirit to own he was sorry about the Indians. Sydney said, it doesn't matter, I'm sorry too, only I didn't expect it. We suggested two or three games, such as Parler Cricket, National Gallery and Grab, but Sydney said he would rather read. So we said would he mind if we played out the Indian game which we dropped out of politeness when he fainted? He said, I don't mind at all, now I know what it is you're up to. No, thank you, I'd rather read, he added, in reply to Rupert's unselfish offer to dress him for the part of sitting bull. So he read Treasure Island and we fought on the stairs with no casualties except the gas globes and then we scouted all the dolls, putting on paper scouts first because Hilda wished it, and we scouted Eliza as she passed through the hall. Hers was a white scalp with lacy stuff on it and long streamers. And when it was beginning to get dark we thought of flying machines. Of course, Sydney wouldn't play at that either and Hilda and Hugh were contented with paper wings. There were some rolls of rather decent yellow and pink crinkled paper that mother had bought to make lampshades of. They made wings of this and then they played at fairies up and down the stairs while Sydney sat at the bottom of the stairs and went on reading Treasure Island. But Rupert was determined to have a flying machine with real flipper flappy wings like at Hendon. So he got two brass fire-guards out of the spare room and mother's bedroom and covered them with newspapers fastened on with string. Then he got a tea tray and fastened it on to himself with rug straps and then he slipped his arms in between the string and the fire-guards and went to the top of the stairs and shouting, Look out below there! Beware flying machines! He sat down suddenly on the tray and tobogganed gloriously down the stairs, flapping his fire-guard wings. It was a great success and felt more like flying than anything he ever played at. But Hilda had not had time to look out thoroughly because he did not wait any time between his warning and his dissent. So that she was still fluttering in the character of Queen of the Butterfly Fairies about halfway down the stairs when the flying machine composed of the two guards, the tea tray and Rupert, started from the top of them and she could only get out of the way by standing back close against the wall. Unluckily the place where she was was also the place where the gas was burning in a little recess. You remember we had broken the globe when we were playing Indians. Now, of course, you know what happened, because you have read Harriet and the Matches and all the rest of the stories that have been written to persuade children not to play with fire. No one was playing with fire that day, it is true, or doing anything really naughty at all. But however naughty we had been, the thing that happened couldn't have been much worse. For the flying machine, as it came rushing round the curve of the staircase, banged against the legs of Hilda. She screamed and stumbled back. Her pink paper wings went into the gas that hadn't a globe. They flamed up, her hair frizzled and her lace collar caught fire. Rupert could not do anything because he was held fast in his flying machine. And he and it were rolling painfully on the mat at the bottom of the stairs. Hilda screamed. I have since heard that a great yellow light fell on the pages of Treasure Island. Next moment Treasure Island went spinning across the room. Sydney caught up the fur rug that was part of the wigwam. And as Hilda, screaming horribly and with wings not of paper but of flames, rushed down the staircase and stumbled over the flying machine, Sydney threw the rug over her and rolled her over and over on the floor. Lie down, he cried. Lie down, it's the only way. But somehow people never will lie down when their clothes are on fire any more than they will lie still in the water if they think they are drowning and someone is trying to save them. It came to something very like a fight. Hilda fought and struggled. Rupert got out of his fire-guards and added himself and his tea-tray to the scrimmage. Hugh slid down to the knob of the banisters and sat there yelling. The servants came rushing in, but by that time the fire was out and Sydney gasped out, It's all right, you aren't burned, Hilda, are you? Hilda was much too frightened to know whether she was burnt or not, but Eliza looked her over and it turned out that only her neck was a little scorched, and a good deal of her hair frizzled off short. Everyone stood rather breathless and pale, and everyone's face was much dirtier than customary, except Hughes, which he had as usual dirty thoroughly quite early in the afternoon. Rupert felt perfectly awful, ashamed and proud and rather sick. You're a regular hero, Sydney, he said, and it was not easy to say. And yesterday I said you were a related muff, and I'm jolly sorry I did. Shake hands, won't you? Sydney hesitated. Too proud! Rupert's feelings were hurt, and I should not wonder if he spoke rather fiercely. It's—it's a little burnt, I think, said Sydney. Don't be angry, and he held out the left hand. Rupert grasped it. I do beg your pardon, he said. You are a hero. Sydney's hand was bad for ever so long, but we were tremendous chums after that. It was when they'd done the hand up with scraped potato and salad oil—a great big fat wet plaster of it—that I said to him, I don't care if you don't like games, let's be pals. And he said, I do like games, but I couldn't care about anything with mother so ill. I know you'll think I'm a muff, but I'm not really, only I do love her so. And with that he began to cry, and I thumped him on the back and told him exactly what a beast I knew I was to comfort him. When Aunt Ellie was well again, we kept Christmas on the 6th of January, which used to be Christmas Day in middle-aged times. Father came home before New Year, and he had a silver medal made, with a flame on one side, and on the other, Sydney's name, and for bravery. If I had not been tied up in fire guards and tea trays, perhaps I should have thought of the rug and got the medal. But I do not grudge it to Sydney. He deserved it. And he is not a muff. I see now that a person might very well be frightened at finding Indians in the hall of a strange house, especially if the person had just come from the kind of India where the Indians are quite a different sort, and much milder, with no feathers and wigwams and war-dances, but only dusky features and university degrees. End of Story 9. Recording by Ruth Golding Story 10 of The Magic World This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding The Magic World by E. Nesbitt 10. The Aunt and Amobel It is not pleasant to be a fish out of water. To be a cat in water is not what anyone would desire. To be in a temper is uncomfortable, and no one can fully taste the joys of life if he is in a little Lord Fauntleroy suit. But by far the most uncomfortable thing to be in is disgrace, sometimes amusingly called coventry by the people who are not in it. We have all been there. It is a place where the heart sinks and aches, where familiar faces are clouded and changed, where any remark that one may tremblingly make is received with stony silence, or with the assurance that nobody wants to talk to such a naughty child. If you are only in disgrace and not in solitary confinement, you will creep about a house that is like the one you have had such jolly times in, and yet as unlike it as a bad dream is to a dune morning. You will long to speak to people, and be afraid to speak. You will wonder whether there is anything you can do that will change things at all. You have said you are sorry, and that has changed nothing. You will wonder whether you are to stay forever in this desolate place, outside all hope and love and fun and happiness. And though it has happened before, and has always in the end come to an end, you can never be quite sure that this time it is not going to last forever. It is going to last forever, said Amabel, who was eight. What shall I do? Oh, whatever shall I do? What she had done ought to have formed the subject of her meditations. And she had done what had seemed to her all the time, and in fact still seemed a self-sacrificing and noble act. She was staying with an aunt, measles, or a new baby, or the painters in the house, I forget which, the cause of her banishment. And the aunt, who was really a great aunt, and quite old enough to know better, had been grumbling about her head gardener, to a lady who called in blue spectacles and a beady bonnet with violet flowers in it. He hardly lets me have a plant for the table, said the aunt, and that border in front of the breakfast room window, it's just bare earth, and I expressly ordered chrysanthemums to be planted there. He thinks of nothing but his greenhouse. The beady violet blue-glassed lady snorted, and said she didn't know what we were coming to, and she would have just half a cup, please, with not quite so much milk. Thank you very much. Now, what would you have done? Minded your own business, most likely, and not got into trouble at all. Not so, Amabel. Enthusiastically anxious to do something which should make the great aunt see what a thoughtful, unselfish little girl she really was—the aunt's opinion of her being at present quite otherwise—she got up very early in the morning, and took the cutting-out scissors from the workroom table-draw, and stole, like an errand of mercy, she told herself, to the greenhouse, where she busily snipped off every single flower she could find. Macfarlane was at his breakfast. Then, with the points of the cutting-out scissors, she made nice, deep little holes in the flower bed where the chrysanthemums ought to have been, and struck the flowers in—chrysanthemums, geraniums, primulas, orchids, and carnations—it would be a lovely surprise for auntie. Then the aunt came down to breakfast, and saw the lovely surprise. Amabel's world turned upside down and inside out, suddenly and surprisingly, and there she was, in coventry, and not even the housemaid would speak to her. Her great-uncle, whom she passed in the hall on her way to her own room, did indeed, as he smoothed his hat, murmur, "'Sent to coventry, eh? Never mind. It'll soon be over.'" and went off to the city, banging the front door behind him. He meant well, but he did not understand. Amabel understood, or she thought she did, and knew in her miserable heart that she was sent to coventry for the last time, and that this time she would stay there. "'I don't care,' she said, quite untruely. "'I'll never try to be kind to any one again.'" And that wasn't true, either. She was to spend the whole day alone in the best bedroom, the one with the four-post bed and the red curtains, and the large wardrobe with a looking-glass in it, that you could see yourself in to the very ends of your strax shoes. The first thing Amabel did was to look at herself in the glass. She was still sniffing and sobbing, and her eyes were swimming in tears. Another one rolled down her nose as she looked. That was very interesting. Another rolled down, and that was the last, because as soon as you get interested in watching your tears, they stop. Next she looked out of the window, and saw the decorated flower bed, just as she had left it, very bright and beautiful. "'Well, it does look nice,' she said. "'I don't care what they say.'" Then she looked round the room for something to read. There was nothing. The old-fashioned best bedrooms never did have anything. Only on the large dressing-table, on the left-hand side of the oval swing-glass, was one book covered in red velvet. And on it, very twistily embroidered in yellow silk. And mixed up with misleading leaves and squiggles were the letters A, B, C. "'Perhaps it's a picture alphabet,' said Amabel, and was quite pleased, though, of course, she was much too old to care for alphabets. Only when one is very unhappy and very dull anything is better than nothing.' She opened the book. "'Why, it's only a timetable,' she said. "'I suppose it's for people when they want to go away, and auntie puts it here in case they suddenly make up their minds to go, and feel that they can't wait another minute. I feel like that, only it's no good, and I expect other people do too.'" She had learned how to use the dictionary, and this seemed to go the same way. She looked up the names of all the places she knew. Brighton, where she had once spent a month. Rugby, where her brother was at school. And Home, which was Amberley. And she saw the times when the trains left for these places, and wished she could go by those trains. And once more she looked round the best bedroom which was her prison, and thought of the Bastille, and wished she had a toad to tame like the poor Viscount, or a flower to watch growing like Picciola. And she was very sorry for herself, and very angry with her aunt. And very grieved at the conduct of her parents, she had expected better things from them. And now they had left her in this dreadful place where no one loved her, and no one understood her. There seemed to be no place for toads or flowers in the best room. It was carpeted all over, even in its least noticeable corners. It had everything a best room ought to have, and everything was of dark shining mahogany. The toilet table had a set of red and gold glass things, a tray, candlesticks, a ring stand, many little pots with lids, and two bottles with stoppers. When the stoppers were taken out, they smelled very strange, something like very old scent, and something like cold cream, also very old, and something like going to the dentists. I do not know whether the scent of those bottles had anything to do with what happened. It certainly was a very extraordinary scent, quite different from any perfume that I smell nowadays, but I remember that when I was a little girl I smelled it quite often. But then there are no best rooms now such as there used to be. The best rooms now are gay with chints and mirrors, and there are always flowers and books and little tables to put your teacup on, and sofas and armchairs, and they smell of varnish and new furniture. When Amabel had sniffed at both bottles and looked in all the pots, which were quite clean and empty except for a pearl button and two pins in one of them, she took up the ABC again to look for Whitby where her godmother lived, and it was then that she saw the extraordinary name where you want to go to. This was odd, but the name of the station from which it started was still more extraordinary, for it was not Euston or Cannon Street or Marilybone. The name of the station was Big Wardrobe in Spare Room, and below this name, really quite unusual for a station, Amabel read in small letters, single fares strictly forbidden, return tickets, no class nuppants, trains leave Big Wardrobe in Spare Room all the time, and under that instill smaller letters, you had better go now. What would you have done? Rubbed your eyes and thought you were dreaming? Well, if you had, nothing more would have happened. Nothing ever does when you behave like that. Amabel was wiser. She went straight to the Big Wardrobe and turned its glass handle. I expect it's only shelves and people's best hats, she said. But she only said it. People often say what they don't mean, so that if things turn out as they don't expect, they can say, I told you so. But this is most dishonest to one's self, and being dishonest to one's self is almost worse than being dishonest to other people. Amabel would never have done it if she had been herself, but she was out of herself with anger and unhappiness. Of course it wasn't hats. It was, most amazingly, a crystal cave, very oddly shaped like a railway station. It seemed to be lighted by stars, which is, of course, unusual in a booking office, and over the station clock was a full moon. The clock had no figures, only now in shining letters all round it twelve times. And the nows touched, so the clock was bound to be always right. How different from the clock you go to school by. A porter in white satin hurried forward to take Amabel's luggage. Her luggage was the ABC, which she still held in her hand. Lots of time, miss, he said, grinning in a most friendly way. I am glad you're going. You will enjoy yourself. What a nice little girl you are. This was cheering. Amabel smiled. At the pigeon-hole that tickets come out of, another person, also in white satin, was ready with a mother-of-pearl ticket, round like a card counter. There you are, miss. He said with the kindest smile, price nothing, and refreshments free all the way. It's a pleasure, he added, to issue a ticket to a nice little lady like you. The train was entirely of crystal, too, and the cushions were of white satin. There were little buttons, such as you have for electric bells, and on them what you want to eat, what you want to drink, what you want to read, in silver letters. Amabel pressed all the buttons at once, and instantly felt obliged to blink. The blink over, she saw on the cushion by her side a silver tray with vanilla ice, boiled chicken and white sauce, almonds, blanched, peppermint creams, and mashed potatoes, and a long glass of lemonade. Beside the tray was a book. It was Mrs Ewing's bad tempered family, and it was bound in white vellum. There is nothing more luxurious than eating while you read, unless it be reading while you eat. Amabel did both. They are not the same thing, as you will see if you think the matter over. And just as the last thrill of the last spoonful of ice died away, and the last full stop of the bad tempered family met Amabel's eye, the train stopped, and hundreds of railway officials in white velvets shouted, Where you want to go to? Get out! A velvety porter, who was somehow like a silkworm, as well as like a wedding handkerchief's sachet, opened the door. Now, he said, Come on out, Miss Amabel, unless you want to go to where you don't want to go to. She hurried out onto an ivory platform. Not on the ivory, if you please, said the porter. The white axe minced a carpet, it laid down expressly for you. Amabel walked along it, and saw ahead of her a crowd all in white. What's all that? she asked the friendly porter. It's the mare, dear Miss Amabel, he said, with your address. My address is the old cottage Amberley, she said, at least it used to be, and found herself face to face with the mare. He was very like Uncle George, but he bowed low to her, which was not Uncle George's habit, and said, Welcome, dear little Amabel, please accept this admiring address from the mare and burgesses and apprentices, and all the rest of it, of where you want to go to. The address was in silver letters on white silk, and it said, Welcome, dear Amabel, we know you meant to please your aunt. It was very clever of you to think of putting the greenhouse flowers in the bear flower bed. You couldn't be expected to know that you ought to ask leave before you touch other people's things. Oh! but, said Amabel, quite confused. I did! But the band struck up and drowned her words. The instruments of the band were all of silver, and the band'smen's clothes of white leather. The tune they played was cheer-o. Then Amabel found that she was taking part in a procession, hand in hand with the mare, and the band playing like mad all the time. The mare was dressed entirely in cloth of silver, and as they went along, he kept saying, close to her ear, You have our sympathy, you have our sympathy, till she felt quite giddy. There was a flower show, all the flowers were white. There was a concert, all the tunes were old ones. There was a play called Put Yourself in Her Place, and there was a banquet with Amabel in the Place of Honour. They drank her health in white wine way, and then through the crystal hall of a thousand gleaming pillars, where thousands of guests, all in white, were met to do honour to Amabel. The shout went up, speech, speech! I cannot explain to you what had been going on in Amabel's mind. Perhaps you know. Whatever it was, it began like a very tiny butterfly in a box, that could not keep quiet, but fluttered and fluttered and fluttered. And when the mare rose and said, Dear Amabel, you whom we all love and understand, Dear Amabel, you who were so unjustly punished for trying to give pleasure to an unresponsive aunt. Poor, ill-used, ill-treated, innocent Amabel, blameless, suffering Amabel, we await your words. That fluttering, tiresome butterfly thing inside her seemed suddenly to swell to the size and strength of a fluttering albatross. And Amabel got up from her seat of honour on the throne of ivory and silver and pearl, and said, choking a little and extremely red about the ears, Ladies and gentlemen, I don't want to make a speech. I just want to say thank you, and to say, to say, to say. She stopped, and all the white crowd cheered. To say, she went on as the cheers died down, that I wasn't blameless and innocent and all those nice things. I ought to have thought, and they were auntie's flowers, but I did want to please her. It's also mixed. Oh, I wish auntie was here. And instantly auntie was there, very tall and quite nice looking, in a white velvet dress and an ermined cloak. Speech! cried the crowd, speech from auntie. Auntie stood on the step of the throne beside Amabel and said, I think perhaps I was hasty, and I think Amabel meant to please me. But all the flowers that were meant for the winter, well, I was annoyed. I'm sorry. Oh, auntie, so am I, so am I! cried Amabel, and the two began to hug each other on the ivory step, while the crowd cheered like mad, and the band struck up that well-known air, if you only understood. Oh, auntie! said Amabel among hugs. This is such a lovely place. Come and see everything. We may, may entwee. She asked the mayor. The place is yours, he said, and now you can see many things that you couldn't see before. We are the people who understand, and now you are one of us, and your aunt is another. I must not tell you all that they saw, because these things are secrets only known to the people who understand. And perhaps you do not yet belong to that happy nation, and if you do, you will know without my telling you. And when it grew late and the stars were drawn down somehow to hang among the trees, Amabel fell asleep in her aunt's arms beside a white foaming fountain on a marble terrace, where white peacocks came to drink. She awoke on the big bed in the spare room, but her aunt's arms were still round her. Amabel, she was saying, Amabel. Oh, auntie! said Amabel sleepily. I am so sorry. It was stupid of me, and I did mean to please you. It was stupid of you, said the aunt, but I am sure you meant to please me. Come down to suffer. And Amabel has a confused recollection of her aunt saying that she was sorry, adding, poor little Amabel. If the aunt really did say it, it was fine of her, and Amabel is quite sure that she did say it. Amabel and her great-aunt are now the best of friends. But neither of them has ever spoken to the other of the beautiful city called where you want to go to. Amabel is too shy to be the first to mention it, and no doubt the aunt has her own reasons for not broaching the subject. But, of course, they both know that they have been there together. And it is easy to get on with people when you and they alike belong to the people who understand. If you look in the ABC that your people have, you will not find where you want to go to. It is only in the red velvet-bound copy that Amabel found in her aunt's best bedroom. End of Story 10 Recording by Ruth Golden Story 11 of The Magic World This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golden. The Magic World by E. Nesbitt 11. Kenneth and the Carp Kenneth's cousins had often stayed with him, but he had never till now stayed with them. And you know how different everything is when you are in your own house. You are certain exactly what games the grown-ups dislike and what games they will not notice, also what sort of mischief is looked over and what sort is not. And being accustomed to your own sort of grown-ups, you can always be pretty sure when you are likely to catch it. Whereas strange houses are, in this matter of catching it, full of the most unpleasing surprises. You know all this, but Kenneth did not. And still less did he know what were the sort of things which in his cousin's house led to disapproval, punishment, scoldings, in short, to catching it. So that that business of cousin Ethel's dual case, which is where this story ought to begin, was really not Kenneth's fault at all, though for a time, but I am getting on too fast. Kenneth's cousins were four, Conrad, Allison, George and Ethel. The three first were natural sort of cousins somewhere near his own age, but Ethel was hardly like a cousin at all, more like an aunt, because she was grown up. She wore long dresses and all her hair on the top of her head, a mass of combs and hairpins. In fact, she had just had her twenty-first birthday with iced cakes and a party, and lots of presents, most of them jewellery. And that brings me again to that affair of the dual case, or would bring me, if I were not determined to tell things in their proper order, which is the first duty of a storyteller. Kenneth's home was in Kent, a wooden house among Cherry Orchards, and the nearest river five miles away. That was why he looked forward in such a very extra and excited way to his visit to his cousins. Their house was very old, red brick with ivy all over it. It had a secret staircase. Only the secret was not kept any longer, and the housemaids carried pails and brooms up and down the staircase. And the house was surrounded by a real deep moat, with clear water in it, and long weeds and water lilies and fish, the gold and the silver and the everyday kinds. The first evening of Kenneth's visit passed uneventfully. His bedroom window looked over the moat, and early next morning he tried to catch fish with several pieces of string knotted together, and a hairpin kindly lent to him by the parlour-maid. He did not catch any fish, partly because he baited the hairpin with brown winter soap, and it washed off. Besides, fish hate soap, Conrad told him, and that hook of yours would do for a whale, perhaps. Only we don't stock our moat with whales. But I'll ask Father to lend you his rod. It's a spiffing one, much jollier than ours. And I won't tell the kids, because they'd never let it down on you, fishing with a hairpin. Thank you very much, said Kenneth, feeling that his cousin was a man and a brother. The kids were only two or three years younger than he was, but that is a great deal when you were the elder, and besides, one of the kids was a girl. Alison's a bit of a sneak, Conrad used to say, when anger overcame politeness and brotherly feeling. Afterwards, when the anger was gone and the other things left, he would say, you see, she went to a beastly school for a bit at Brighton for her health, and Father says they must have bullied her. All girls are not like it, I believe. But her sneakish qualities, if they really existed, were generally hidden, and she was very clever at thinking of new games, and very kind if you got into a row over anything. George was eight and stout. He was not a sneak, but concealment was foreign to his nature, so he never could keep a secret, unless he forgot it, which fortunately happened quite often. The uncle very amiably lent Kenneth his fishing rod, and provided real bait in the most thoughtful and generous manner, and the four children fished all the morning and all the afternoon. Conrad caught two roach and an eel. George caught nothing, and nothing was what the other two caught, but it was glorious sport, and the next day there was to be a picnic. Life to Kenneth seemed full of new and delicious excitement. In the evening the aunt and the uncle went out to dinner, and Ethel, in her grown-up way, went with them, very grand in a blue silk dress and turquoise's, so the children were left to themselves. You know the empty hush which settles down on the house when the grown-ups have gone out to dinner, and you have the whole evening to do what you like in. The children stood in the hall a moment after the carriage wheels had died away, with the scrunching swish that the carriage wheels always made as they turned the corner by the lodge, where the gravel was extra thick and soft owing to the droppings from the trees. From the kitchen came the voices of the servants, laughing and talking. It's two hours at least to bedtime, said Allison. What shall we do? Allison always began by saying what shall we do, and always ended by deciding what should be done. You all say what you think, she went on, and then we'll vote about it. You first, Ken, because you're the visitor. Fishing, said Kenneth, because it was the only thing he could think of. Make toffee, said Conrad. Build a great big house with all the bricks, said George. We can't make toffee, Allison explained gently but firmly, because you know what the pan was like last time, and Cook said, never again, not much. And it's no good building houses, Georgey, when you could be out of doors. And fishing simply rotten when we've been at it all day. I've thought of something. So, of course, all the others said, what? We'll have a pageant, a river pageant, on the moat. We'll all dress up and hang Chinese lanterns in the trees. I'll be the sunflower, lady, that the Troubadour came all across the sea because he loved herself for. And one of you can be the Troubadour, and the others can be sailors, or anything you like. I shall be the Troubadour, said Conrad, with decision. I think you ought to let Kenneth, because he's the visitor, said George, who would have liked to be it immensely himself, or anyhow did not see why Conrad should be a Troubadour, if he couldn't. Conrad said what manners required, which was, oh, all right, I don't care about being the beastly Troubadour. You might be the princess's brother, Allison suggested. Not me, said Conrad scornfully. I'll be the captain of the ship. In a turban the brother would be, with the Benares cloak and the Persian dagger out of the cabinet in the drawing-room. Allison went on, unmoved. I'll be that, said George. No you won't, I shall, so there, said Conrad, you can be the captain of the ship. But in the end, both boys were captains, because that meant being on the boat, whereas being the princess's brother, however, turbaned, only meant standing on the bank. And there's no rule to prevent captains wearing turbans and Persian daggers, except in the navy, where of course it is not done. So then they all tore up to the attic where the dressing-up trunk was, and pulled out all the dressing-up things onto the floor. And all the time they were dressing, Allison was telling the others what they were to say and do. The princess wore a white satin skirt and a red flannel blouse, and a veil formed of several motor scarves of various colours. Also a wreath of pink roses off one of Ethel's old hats, and a pair of pink satin slippers with sparkly buckles. Kenneth wore a blue silk dressing-jacket and yellow sash, a lace collar, and a towel turban. And the others divided between them an eastern dressing gown—once the property of their grandfather—a black, spangled scarf, very holy, a pair of red and white football stockings, a Chinese coat, and two old muslin curtains, which rolled up, made turbans of enormous size and fierceness. On the landing outside cousin Ethel's open door, Allison paused and said, I say! Oh, come on! said Conrad. We haven't fixed the Chinese lanterns yet, and it's getting dark. You go on, said Allison. I've just thought of something. The children were allowed to play in the boat, so long as they didn't lose it from its moorings. The painter was extremely long, and quite the effect of coming home from a long voyage was produced when the three boys pushed the boat out as far as it would go, among the boughs of the beach-tree which overhung the water, and then reappeared in the circle of red and yellow light thrown by the Chinese lanterns. What ho! A shore there! shouted the captain. What ho! said a voice from the shore which Allison explained was disguised. We be three poor mariners, said Conrad, by a happy effort of memory. Just newly come to shore. We seek news of the Princess of Tripoli. She's in her palace, said the disguised voice. Wait a minute, and I'll tell her you're here. But what do you want her for? A poor minstrel of France! Go on, Con! A poor minstrel of France! said Conrad. All right, I remember. Who has heard of the Princess's beauty has come to lay... to lay... His heart! said Allison. All right, I know. His heart at her something or other feet. Pretty feet! said Allison. I go to tell the Princess. Next moment from the shadows on the bank a radiant vision stepped into the circle of light, crying, Oh, Rudal, is it indeed thou? Thou art calm at last. Oh, welcome to the arms of the Princess. What do I do now? whispered Rudal, who was Kenneth in the boat. And at the same moment Conrad and George said, as with one voice, My hat! Allison, won't you catch it? For at the end of the Princess's speech she had thrown back her veils and revealed a blaze of splendour. She wore several necklaces, one of seed pearls, one of topazes, and one of Australian shells, besides a string of amber and one of coral. And the front of the red flannel blouse was studded with brooches, in one at least of which diamonds gleamed. Each arm had one or two bracelets, and on her clenched hands glittered as many rings as any Princess could wish to wear. So her brothers had some excuse for saying, You'll catch it! Now I shan't, it's my look out anyhow. Do shut up! said the Princess, stamping her foot. Now then, Ken, go ahead. Ken, you say, Oh, lady, I faint with rapture. I faint with rapture, said Kenneth stolidly. Now I land, don't I? He landed and stared at the jewelled hand the Princess held out. At last, at last, she said. But you ought to say that, Ken. I say I think I'd better be an eloping Princess, and then I can come in the boat. Roodle dies, really, but that's so dull. Lead me to your ship, O noble stranger, for you have won the Princess, and with you I will live and die. Give me your hand, can't you, silly, and do mind my train. So Kenneth led her to the boat, and with some difficulty, for the satin train got between her feet, she managed to flounder into the punt. Now you stand and bow, she said. Fair Roodle, with this ring, I thee wed! She pressed a large, amethyst ring into his hand. Remember that the Princess of Tripoli is yours forever. Now let's sing into Javite, because it's Latin. So they sat in the boat, and sang, and presently the servants came out to listen and admire, and at the sound of the servants' approach the Princess veiled her shining splendour. It's prettier than what the Coventry pageant was, so it is, said the cook, but it's long past your bedtimes, so come on out of that there dangerous boat, there's dears. So then the children went to bed, and when the house was quiet again, Alison slipped down and put back Ethel's jewellery, fitting the things into their cases and boxes as correctly as she could. Ethel won't notice, she thought, but of course Ethel did. So that next day each child was asked separately by Ethel's mother, who had been playing with Ethel's jewellery, and Conrad and George said that they would rather not say. This was a form they always used in that family, when that sort of question was asked, and it meant, it wasn't me, and I don't want to sneak. And when it came to Alison's turn, she found to her surprise and horror, that instead of saying, I played with them, she had said, I would rather not say. Of course the mother thought that it was Kenneth who had had the jewels to play with. So when it came to his turn, he was not asked the same question as the others, but his aunt said, Kenneth, you are a very naughty little boy to take your cousin Ethel's jewellery to play with. I didn't, said Kenneth. Hush, hush! said the aunt, do not make your fault worse by untruthfulness, and what have you done with the amethyst ring? Kenneth was just going to say that he had given it back to Alison, when he saw that this would be sneakish. So he said, getting hot to the ears, you don't suppose I've stolen your beastly ring, do you, auntie? Don't you dare to speak to me like that, the aunt very naturally replied. No, Kenneth, I do not think you would steal, but the ring is missing, and it must be found. Kenneth was furious and frightened. He stood looking down and kicking the leg of the chair. You had better look for it. You will have plenty of time, because I shall not allow you to go to the picnic with the others. The mere taking of the jewellery was wrong, but if you had owned your fault, and asked Ethel's pardon, I should have overlooked it. But you have told me an untruth, and you have lost the ring. You are a very wicked child, and it will make your dear mother very unhappy when she hears of it. That her boy should be a liar. It is worse than being a thief. At this Kenneth's fortitude gave way, and he lost his head. Oh, don't! he said. I didn't! I didn't! I didn't! Oh, don't tell mother I'm a thief and a liar. Oh, Aunt Effie, please, please, don't! And with that he began to cry. Any doubts Aunt Effie might have had were settled by this outbreak. It was now quite plain to her that Kenneth had really intended to keep the ring. You will remain in your room till the picnic party has started, the aunt went on, and then you must find the ring. Remember I expect it to be found when I return, and I hope you will be in a better frame of mind, and really sorry for having been so wicked. Man, I see Alison was all he found to say. And the answer was certainly not. I cannot allow you to associate with your cousins. You are not fit to be with honest, truthful children. So they all went to the picnic, and Kenneth was left alone. When they had gone he crept down and wandered furtively through the empty rooms, ashamed to face the servants, and feeling almost as wicked as though he had really done something wrong. He thought about it all over and over again, and the more he thought the more certain he was that he had handed back the ring to Alison last night when the voices of the servants were first heard from the dark lawn. But what was the use of saying so? No one would believe him, and it would be sneaking anyhow. Besides, perhaps he hadn't handed it back to her, or rather, perhaps he had handed it, and she hadn't taken it. Perhaps it had slipped into the boat. He would go and see. But he did not find it in the boat, though he turned up the carpet and even took up the boards to look. And then an extremely miserable little boy began to search for an amethyst ring in all sorts of impossible places, indoors and out. You know the hopeless way in which you look for things that you know perfectly well you will never find. The borrowed penknife that you dropped in the woods, for instance, or the week's pocket money which slipped through that hole in your pocket as you went to the village to spend it. The servants gave him his meals and told him to cheer up. But cheering up and Kenneth were, for the time, strangers. People in books never can eat when they are in trouble, but I have noticed myself that if the trouble has gone on for some hours, eating is really rather a comfort. You don't enjoy eating so much as usual, perhaps, but at any rate it is something to do, and takes the edge off your sorrow for a short time. And Cook was sorry for Kenneth, and sent him up a very nice dinner and a very nice tea. Roast chicken and gooseberry pie the dinner was, and for tea there was cake with almond icing on it. The sun was very low when he went back wearily to have one more look in the boat for that detestable amethyst ring. Of course it was not there, and the picnic party would be home soon, and he really did not know what his aunt would do to him. Shut me up in a dark cupboard, perhaps, he thought gloomily, or put me to bed all day to-morrow, or give me lines to write out thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of them. The boat set in motion by his stepping into it swung out to the full length of its rope. The sun was shining almost level across the water. It was a very still evening, and the reflections of the trees and of the house were as distinct as the house and the trees themselves, and the water was unusually clear. He could see the fish swimming about, and the sand and pebbles at the bottom of the moat. How clear and quiet it looked down there, and what fun the fishes seemed to be having. I wish I was a fish, said Kenneth. Nobody punishes them for taking rings they didn't take. And then suddenly he saw the ring itself, lying calm and quiet and round and shining on the smooth sand at the bottom of the moat. He reached for the boat hook and leaned over the edge of the boat, trying to get up the ring on the boat hook's point. Then there was a splash. Good gracious, I wonder what that is, said Cook in the kitchen, and dropped the saucepan with the Welsh rabbit in it, which he had just made for kitchen supper. Kenneth had leaned out too far over the edge of the boat. The boat had suddenly decided to go the other way, and Kenneth had fallen into the water. The first thing he felt was delicious coolness, the second that his clothes had gone, and the next thing he noticed was that he was swimming quite easily and comfortably under water, and that he had no trouble with his breathing, such as people who tell you not to fall into water seem to expect you to have. Also he could see quite well, which he had never been able to do under water before. I can't think, he said to himself, why people make so much fuss about your falling into the water. I shan't be in a hurry to get out. I'll swim right round the moat while I'm about it. It was a very much longer swim than he expected, and as he swam he noticed one or two things that struck him as rather odd. One was that he couldn't see his hands, and another was that he couldn't feel his feet, and he met some enormous fishes like great cod or halibut they seemed. He had had no idea that there were freshwater fish of that size. They towered above him more like men a war than fish, and he was rather glad to get past them. There were numbers of smaller fishes, some about his own size, he thought. They seemed to be enjoying themselves extremely, and he admired the clever quickness with which they darted out of the way of the great hulking fish. And then suddenly he ran into something hard and very solid, and the voice above him said crossly. Now, then, who are you shoving of? Can't you keep your eyes open and keep your nose out of gentlemen's shirt-fronts? I beg your pardon, said Kenneth, trying to rub his nose and not being able to. I didn't know people could talk underwater. He added, very much astonished, to find that talking underwater was as easy to him as swimming there. Fish couldn't talk underwater, of course, said the voice. If they didn't, they'd never talk at all. They certainly can't talk out of it. But I'm not a fish, said Kenneth, and felt himself grin at the absurd idea. Yes you are, said the voice. Of course you're a fish. And Kenneth, with a shiver of certainty, felt that the voice spoke the truth. He was a fish. He must have become a fish at the very moment when he fell into the water. That accounted for his not being able to see his hands or feel his feet. Because, of course, his hands were fins, and his feet were a tail. Who are you? he asked the voice, and his own voice trembled. I'm the Dwyan cock, said the voice. You must be a very new fish indeed, or you'd know that. Come up and let's have a look at you. Kenneth came up, and found himself face to face with an enormous fish, who had round, staring eyes, and a mouth that opened and shut continually. It opened square like a kit-bag, and it shut with an extremely sour and severe expression, like that of an offended rhinoceros. Yes, said the carp. You are a new fish. Who put you in? I fell in, said Kenneth, out of the boat, but I'm not a fish at all, really I'm not. I'm a boy, but I don't suppose you'll believe me. Why shouldn't I believe you? asked the carp, wagging a slow fin. Nobody tells untruths underwater. And if you come to think of it, no one ever does. Tell me your true story, said the carp very lazily, and Kenneth told it. Ah, these humans, said the carp when he had done. Always in such a hurry to think the worst of everybody. He opened his mouth squarely and shut it contemptuously. You are jolly lucky you are. Not one boy in a million turns into a fish, let me tell you. Do you mean that I've got to go on being a fish? Kenneth asked. Of course you'll go on being a fish, as long as you stop in the water. You couldn't live here, you know, if you weren't. I might if I was an eel, said Kenneth, and thought himself very clever. Well, be an eel then, said the carp, and swam away sneering and stately. Kenneth had to swim his hardest to catch up. Then if I get out of the water, shall I be a boy again? He asked panting. Of course, silly, said the carp. Only you can't get out. Oh, can't I? said Kenneth the fish, whisked his tail and swam off. He went straight back to the amethyst ring, picked it up in his mouth, and swam into the shallows at the edge of the moat. Then he tried to climb up the slanting mud and onto the grassy bank, but the grass hurt his thins horribly, and when he put his nose out of the water, the air stifled him, and he was glad to slip back again. Then he tried to jump out of the water, but he could only jump straight up into the air, so, of course, he fell straight down again into the water. He began to be afraid, and the thought that perhaps he was doomed to remain forever a fish was indeed a terrible one. He wanted to cry, but the tears would not come out of his eyes. Perhaps there was no room for any more water in the moat. The smaller fishes called to him in a friendly jolly way to come and play with them. They were having a quite exciting game of follow my leader among some enormous water lily stalks that looked like trunks of great trees. But Kenneth had no heart for games just then. He swam miserably round the moat looking for the old carp, his only acquaintance in this strange wet world, and at last, pushing through a thick tangle of water-weeds, he found the great fish. Now, then, said the carp, testily, haven't you any better manners than to come tearing a gentleman's bed-curtains like that? I beg your pardon, said Kenneth Fish, but I know how clever you are. Do please help me. What do you want now? said the carp, and spoke a little less crossly. I want to get out. I want to go and be a boy again. But you must have said you wanted to be a fish. I didn't mean it, if I did. You shouldn't say what you don't mean. I'll try not to again, said Kenneth humbly. But how can I get out? There's only one way, said the carp. Rolling his vast body over in his watery bed. And a jolly unpleasant way it is. Far better stay here and be a good little fish. On the honour of a gentleman, that's the best thing you can do. I want to get out, said Kenneth again. Well, then, the only way is. You know we always teach the young fish to look out for hooks, so that they may avoid them. You must look out for a hook and take it. Let them catch you on a hook. The carp shuddered and went on solemnly. Have you strength? Have you patience? Have you high courage and determination? You will want them all, have you all these? I don't know what I've got, said poor Kenneth. Except that I've got a tail and fins, and I don't know a hook when I see it. Won't you come with me? Oh dear, Mr. Dwyan carp, do come and show me a hook. It will hurt you, said the carp. Very much indeed. You take a gentleman's word for it. I know, said Kenneth. You needn't rub it in. The carp rolled heavily out of his bed. Come on, then, he said. I don't admire your taste, but if you want a hook, well, the gardener's boy is fishing in the cool of the evening. Come on. He led the way with a steady, stately movement. I want to take the ring with me, said Kenneth, but I can't get hold of it. Do you think you could put it on my fin with your snout? My what? shouted the old carp indignantly, and stopped dead. Your nose, I meant, said Kenneth. Oh, please, don't be angry. It would be so kind of you, if you would, shove the ring on, I mean. That will hurt, too, said the carp. And Kenneth thought he seemed not altogether sorry that it should. It did hurt very much indeed. The ring was hard and heavy, and somehow Kenneth's fin would not fold up small enough for the ring to slip over it. And the carp's big mouth was rather clumsy at the work, but at last it was done, and then they set out, in search of a hook, for Kenneth to be caught with. I wish we could find one. I wish we could, Kenneth Fish kept saying. You're just looking for trouble, said the carp. Well, here you are. Above them, in the clear water, hung a delicious-looking worm. Kenneth Boy did not like worms any better than you do, but to Kenneth Fish that worm looked most tempting and delightful. Just wait a sec, he said, till I get that worm. You little silly, said the carp. That's the hook. Take it. Wait a sec, said Kenneth again. His courage was beginning to ooze out of his thin tips, and a shiver ran down him from gills to tail. If you once begin to think about a hook, you never take it, said the carp. Never, said Kenneth, then oh, goodbye! He cried desperately and snapped at the worm. A sharp pain ran through his head, and he felt himself drawn up into the air, that stifling, choking, husky, thick stuff in which Fish cannot breathe. And as he swung in the air, the dreadful thought came to him, Suppose I don't turn into a boy again. Suppose I keep being a fish. And then he wished he hadn't, but it was too late to wish that. Everything grew quite dark. Only inside his head there seemed to be a light. There was a wild, rushing, buzzing noise, then something in his head seemed to break, and he knew no more. When presently he knew things again, he was lying on something hard. Was he Kenneth Fish, lying on a stone at the bottom of the moat, or Kenneth Boy, lying somewhere out of the water? His breathing was all right, so he wasn't a fish out of water, or a boy under it. He's coming too, said a voice. The carps, he thought it was, but next moment he knew it to be the voice of his aunt, and he moved his hand and felt grass in it. He opened his eyes and saw above him the soft gray of the evening sky with a star or two. Here's the ring, aunt, he said. The cook had heard a splash, and had run out just as the picnic party arrived at the front door. They had all rushed to the moat, and the uncle had pulled Kenneth out with the boat hook. He had not been in the water more than three minutes, they said, but Kenneth knew better. They carried him in, very wet, he was, and laid him on the breakfast-room sofa, where the aunt with hurried thoughtfulness had spread out the uncle's mackintosh. Get some rough towels, Jane, said the aunt, make haste, do. I got the ring, said Kenneth. Never mind about the ring, dear, said the aunt, taking his boots off. But you said I was a thief and a liar, Kenneth said feebly, and it was in the moat all the time. Mother! it was Alison who shrieked. You didn't say that to him. Of course I didn't, said the aunt impatiently. She thought she hadn't, but then Kenneth thought she had. It was me who took the ring, said Alison, and I dropped it. I didn't say I hadn't. I only said I'd rather not say. Oh, mother! poor Kenneth! The aunt, without a word, carried Kenneth up to the bathroom and turned on the hot water tap. The uncle and Ethel followed. Why didn't you own up, you sneak? Why didn't you own up, you snake? said Conrad to his sister with withering scorn. Snake echoed the stout George. I meant to. I was only getting steam up, sobbed Alison. I didn't know. Mother only told us she wasn't pleased with Ken, and so he wasn't to go to the picnic. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Snake, said her brothers in chorus, and left her to her tears of shame and remorse. It was Kenneth who next day begged everyone to forgive and forget, and as it was his day, rather like a birthday, you know, when no one could refuse him anything, all agreed that the whole affair should be buried in oblivion. Everyone was tremendously kind, the aunt more so than anyone, but Alison's eyes were still red when in the afternoon they all went fishing once more. And before Kenneth's hook had been two minutes in the water, there was a bite, a very big fish. The uncle had to be called from his study to land it. Here's a magnificent fellow, said the uncle, not an ounce less than two pounds, Ken. I'll have it stuffed for you. And he held out the fish, and Kenneth found himself face to face with the Dwyan carp. There was no mistaking that mouth that opened like a kit bag and shut in a sneer like a rhinoceroses. Its eye was most reproachful. Oh, no! cried Kenneth. You help me back and I'll help you back. And he caught the carp from the hands of the uncle and flung it out in the moat. Your head's not quite right yet, my boy, said the uncle kindly. Haven't you better go in and lie down a bit? But Alison understood, for he had told her the whole story. He had told her that morning before breakfast, while she was still in deep disgrace. To cheer her up, he said. And most disappointingly it made her cry more than ever. You're poor little fins, she had said, and having your feet tied up in your tail, and it was all my fault. I liked it, Kenneth had said with earnest politeness. It was a most awful lark. And he quite meant what he said. End of Story 11, Recording by Ruth Golding