Chapter III: Part 3

“You must remember, too,” went on Mr. Bolsover, “all this was in Old Joe's better days. He was young then. He has been peacocked up in many a new suit of old clothes since then, and more hats than I could count on my fingers. But then he was in his heyday—in the very bloom of his youth, the glass of fashion and the Knave of Trumps! But still, even as he stands now under his old willow there, I wouldn't part with him not for a bulging fat bag of guineas. Not for twenty bags. Chiefly for his own sake; but in part, my dear Letitia—in part because one doesn't too often actually see fairies in this world.”

Letitia burst out laughing. “Fairies, Uncle Tim!” she cried, dragging in her amusement her skirts tight over her knees. “Why, you don't mean to say, you poor thing, that Old Joe's a fairy?”

“No, I don't mean to say quite that,” said Mr. Bolsover. “Then, as now, Old Joe was the scaringest of scaring scarecrows I have ever set eyes on. But like the primrose in the poem he was nothing more. No, indeed, it wasn't Old Joe was the fairy. But he was all but next best, for he _was_ one of her rendez-vouses, as the old word goes. That morning he was wearing immense loose great trousers and a greenish-black coat very wide on the shoulders. Apart from the stick for his arms, another had been pushed up one of his coat-sleeves for a cudgel. Another with a lump at the top made his head, and on that was a high, hard, battered, square hat like the hats old-fashioned farmers and churchwardens used to wear. He was stooping forward, cudgel in hand. And the eyes from under the penthouse brim of the shadowy battered hat seemed to be fixedly staring straight towards the corner by the gate and at me.

“I hugged the wire snare closer and stared back. And whether it was due to the hot air coming up from the flinty soil, or some cheating effect of the light on the white field, I can't say, Letitia. But even while I watched him, his head seemed to be ever so gently turning on his shoulders, as if for all the world he were furtively endeavouring to get a better view of me without my noticing it.

“I was still pretty well startled, I can tell you, my dear. For in those days young trespassers on seedling fields might find themselves in for a smart walloping, if not for something worse. The amusing thing is that this Old Joe was alarming me a great deal more than he was alarming the birds. They seemed to be perfectly used to him. A couple of tits were positively playing hide-and-seek, with him for goal. And there were rooks in their black coats pacing up and down and preening themselves in the sunshine not more than a few paces away from where he stood.

“Well, at last, after confronting him like this for a minute or two together—at last I became sure he was not an angry farmer, but merely Old Joe. Yet, something in the look of him was different from any other scarecrow I had seen up to that moment. Even from where I stood I could spy a few wild flowers already blooming at his feet, and I felt, too, that even if there were no real eyes in his head, somebody or something _was_ actually looking at me from under that hat or from out of his sleeve—from somewhere.

“Already the birds were becoming accustomed to me being there, simply because I stood so still. I squatted on my haunches and began to set the trap, but the whole time I was thinking of that queer old creature half-way up the field, and knew I was being watched. And whenever I stooped, I took a little secret look at him either over my shoulder or between my legs. And then I sat down on the grass of the bank under the hedge and steadily fixed my eyes on him for I should think a full half-hour.

“Nothing happened, however. The sun climbed a little higher into the sky; the shadows cast by the trees shifted a little on the wide-stretching field, and at last I turned back home again. At the corner under an old thorn-tree I stooped down for yet another moment and had yet another look. And at that very instant I was perfectly sure I had caught a glimpse of something moving there. It was as if a face had peered out and had as swiftly been withdrawn again into hiding.

“All the rest of that day I could think of nothing else but Old Joe, assuring myself that my eyes had deceived me, or that perhaps a bird had fluttered down, or that a little breeze had moved his sleeve—something of that kind. And yet I knew inside me that this wasn't true.”

“It might,” said Letitia—“it might, you know, of course, have been not a bird but a little animal you saw, mightn't it, Uncle Tim? I once saw a hare skipping about in the middle of a field. Or mightn't a bird have been building its nest in him? Robins, you know, will build their nests even in an old boot. And look! There's a bird actually sitting on Old Joe's shoulder now.”

“Well, you shall hear,” said Uncle Tim. “I am sure, my dear, if you had seen Old Joe that morning you would have agreed that there was something different about him from what he looks like now. I can't quite explain, except that it was the difference between an empty house and one with people living in it. The difference between a pond with fish in it and one with none. The difference between you yourself when you are really asleep and when you are only foxing and pretending to be. And sure enough, I was right.

“I had my bedtime at Mrs. Lumb's, and always an apple and a glass of milk. But she was not one of those Uncle Tims who want everything done exactly at the right moment. She didn't wait till the clock struck eight and them come peeping in to see if one was safe in bed.”

“Why, you know very well,” said Letitia, “you don't do that yourself.”

“Ha, ha! Never mind,” said Mr. Bolsover. “That evening, about seven o'clock, I made my way down to the field again, just creeping from bush to bush, tree to tree as cautiously as I could—so cautiously that I actually nearly trod on a bunny's tail that happened to be enjoying a dandelion on the other side of a bramble. And when I reached my hawthorn, I sat down by its root very low to the ground, having made up my mind I would watch until it really began to grow dark. It was towards the end of April, you will remember, so the evenings were a good deal shorter and duskier than they are now. And as it began to be twilight, it seemed almost that Old Joe was steadily moving nearer. And then at the very instant when I noticed the first star in the sky, I saw—well, what do you think I saw?”

“Why, the fairy, of course,” said Letitia, and sighed.

“Full marks, my dear,” cried Mr. Bolsover. “The fairy. The odd thing is that I can't really describe her. Maybe the light was not very good; maybe my young eyes were strained with watching. But it was not only that. For I seemed to be looking at her partly as if I was imagining her, though I knew she was really there. She was leaning a little forward, and reached, I should say, about up to what you might call Old Joe's waist. Her face was rather long and narrow, and there was fair hair hanging down from side to side, something between gold and grey, rather like the colour you see on a phosphorescent fish in the dark, only more golden. She stood unearthly still, looking out towards my thorn. And the very sight of her filled me with a sensation I simply cannot describe.

“It was as if I was in the middle of a dream in another world, and cold prickles went down my back just as if unawares I had heard the sound of enchanted music. There was not a breath stirring, everything about me seemed suddenly to grow sharp and clear, even though the light was dim. The flowers were different; the trees; the birds. Like that old story of the Cap of Invisibility, it was as if I knew deep down what the flowers were feeling, what it was like to be a tendril of ivy creeping up a tree-stem, or to have feathers all over me, and to be looking with a bright small eye at my own bird-world. I can't explain it, my dear, but I am sure you will understand.”

Letitia gave two solemn nods. “_I think_ so, Uncle Tim—a little.”

“Now I believe,” Uncle Tim went on, “that the fairy knew I was there, but that she could not delay what she wanted to do any longer. For presently—after a minute or two—she drew back and began to hasten away over the field towards the utmost corner furthest away from me, keeping all the time so that Old Joe stood in between us and prevented me from seeing her clearly, however much I dodged my head from side to side. Now that, you will agree, was a difficult thing to do, and I don't know how she did it. Only a fairy could—without once looking back.”

“And what was she like from behind?” said Letitia.

“She was like wood-smoke going up from a bonfire; she was like a puff of wind over snow; or a silver cloud in the sky. She moved, I mean, my dear, as if she were hovering on her way, and yet she never left the ground. Far, far lighter than a gazelle, and so lovely to watch it fairly took my breath away. And me only a clodhopping boy of ten.”

Mr. Bolsover took a large coloured silk handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “I ought to say, at once,” he continued, pushing the handkerchief back into his pocket, “that this is not really a story at all.”

“Well, _I_ think, Uncle Tim, it's a lovely story,” said Letitia. “Please go on.”

“Well, you see, Letitia, a story ought to be like a piece of embroidery: it ought to have a beginning and a middle and an end. It ought to be like a whiting with its tail in its mouth. But this one just goes off into nothing.”

“I think I understand,” said Letitia once more. “But please go on with the fairy, Uncle Tim.”

“Well,” continued Uncle Tim, “as soon as the fairy was out of sight my one desire was to steal into the field and take a look at Old Joe at close quarters. And yet I hadn't the courage. He was _her_ dwelling; her hiding-place; her habitation—that was certain. Now that she was absent, had hied away, the very look of him had changed. He was empty, vacant, a husk.

“I fear, Letitia, you must be thinking I was a remarkably stupid boy. Indeed I was. And, anyhow, I must confess that I simply could not make up my mind to go any nearer. Old Joe was quite empty now, but after what I had seen I felt a dreadful strangeness all about me. I felt I had been a spy, and that every living thing around me knew it, and hated my company. I didn't even go to my trap—and when I went again it had disappeared.

“I talked about fairies next morning to my old friend Mrs. Lumb at breakfast, just to see if she knew anything about them. She believed in them right enough, but she had never seen one. I asked her what she thought a fairy would be like if she ever did see one, and I can see her now as she sat there in her chair, looking out of the window munching her toast. 'Well, between you and me, my dear Tim,' she said—_crunch, crunch_—'I never have cared much about those little flibbety-gibbety creatures that are supposed to find a water-lily as big as we human beings find a four-post bed. And I don't believe myself that they'd pay much attention to _me_. I expect'—_crunch, crunch_—'there are not very many of them left now—not in these parts. Mr. Lumb, as you know was an entomologist. He'd have been able to tell you more about it. And he—had once seen a ghost.'”

“A ghost, Uncle Tim?”

“That's what Mrs. Lumb said, my dear. And I asked her what _that_ was like. 'Well, it was like,' she said (and I can remember her very words), 'it was like'—_crunch, crunch_—'seeing something with your eyes shut. It made him feel very cold; the room grew darker, but he was not frightened.'”

Letitia sidled yet a little closer to her uncle. “Between you and me, Uncle Tim,” she said, “I think that ghost would have given _me_ the shudders. But please let's go back to the fairy. Did you tell Mrs. Lumb about that?”

“I never breathed so much as a syllable; though, if you were to ask me why, I couldn't say. It's just like small boys, I suppose, and small girls too, eh?”

“I think I'd have told _you_, Uncle Tim,” said Letitia. “And what happened then?”

“Two whole days went by before I went near the field again, though I doubt if an hour went by without my thinking about it. I forgot about my bird-traps and everything else, and just loafed about wondering if perhaps all that I had seen had not been a dream or a trick of fancy. And then on the third afternoon, I was so ashamed of myself that I determined to go down to the field and keep watch again.

“This time I made my way to its upper corner by the plantation where I had seen the fairy disappear. I crept down under some bushes, and had taken with me a little pocket telescope that my father had given me. Through this I could see everything that happened near Old Joe as clearly as if I was at the bottom of the field. It was later in the evening than before, and already the sun had set. But my legs and arms were cramped and my left eye tired out with being kept shut long before anything unusual occurred.

“And then suddenly I knew not only that the fairy was preparing to take her walks abroad, but that she knew also I was there. She had stolen out of her hiding-place, though I had seen no actual movement, and was openly and steadily gazing across the faint green of the sprouting wheat of the field in my direction. After a while she advanced a few paces towards the corner of the field in which I was lying hid.

“Then in a breath she hesitated; turned and sped away, just as she had done on that first evening, towards the very thorn-tree from which I had first spied out on her. And somehow the conviction that she was doing this in order to avoid coming near me awakened my curiosity more than ever, and gave me courage. She was setting her wits against mine, and I determined to try and meet her face to face. Even then, I confess, the thought of what I should do if we did so meet was not very pleasant. I lay there till it was almost dark, in the hope of seeing her come back, and then made my way to the house and crept in at a side door a good two hours after my bedtime.

“It was a warm still evening for the time of year, and while I was undressing a full-moon began to rise. I could see it shining through my bedroom blind, for I had not lit my candle. I drew up the blind and looked out of the window, and the whole world looked as if it was enchanted. There was not a sound in the air, and though here I was in Mrs. Lumb's house, it seemed as if no human being had ever been there before. And, what is more, Letitia, the same queer feeling came over me as when I first caught sight of Old Joe, and I knew in my very bones, as they say, that the fairy was concealing herself somewhere not very far from the house, and was watching my window.”

“Oh, Uncle Tim,” said Letitia, “and did you go out?”

“No, my dear, I didn't dare. But not from fear. No; I stood steadily watching until presently a bird began to sing, a bird which I can't think was a nightingale. It was not too early in the year for nightingales, mind you; and there was a hurst or thicket near the house to which they always resorted. The song was as sweet and sorrowful, too, as theirs; but it was more shrill, more human, than a nightingale's, and there seemed to be more tune in it—more melody, you know. And a curious sadness came over me at the sound of it, and even when I got to bed it was hours before the echo of it had died away in my mind and I was able to fall asleep.

“It was just my stupidity, perhaps, to persist in persecuting the fairy. But then I had become used to persecuting birds, and perhaps I didn't quite realize that my company in her field was as disquieting as hers would be to us if she came to afternoon tea.”

“Oh, Uncle Tim, if only she would!”

“Well, Letitia,” said her uncle, “it's no good denying it: they don't. We ourselves may pine for them; but not they, alas, for us. She didn't want me there. Old Joe was company enough. And her own world's solitude. But I met her face to face, none the less. It was the day before I had to go home again, and two or three visits to the field had been quite in vain. I could tell by now almost at first glance at Old Joe whether she was there or not. Just as you could tell at one glance at me if _I_ was here or not. Not just my body and bones, I mean, eyes and nose and mouth and so on, but the spirit of me which is really and truly, I hope, your Uncle Tim.”

“Yes,” said Letitia.

“This particular evening I was in just as morose and sulky a temper as a small boy can be. My legs were aching because, I suppose, the ground was damp on which I had been lying, and night after night had been so crowded with dreams that I had had little real sleep. It seemed that the fairy had deserted the field. It seemed that all my hope and longing and watching had been in vain. I scowled at Old Joe as if _he_ were to blame. Just vanity and fretfulness. Besides, Mrs. Lumb had found out that I was creeping into the house while she was at dinner. And though she never scolded me, she had a tart tongue, and could smile at you with her handsome face and be uncommonly sarcastic at the same time.”

“There's a mistress at school, Miss Jennings, just like that,” cried Letitia. “And then ... you saw her?”

“Yes, I saw her, face to face. I was on my way back through the copse at the upper corner where two hedges met at the end of a little lane. And as I came stumping along, I suddenly went cold all over, and I really believe my cap got pushed up a little on top of my head, for certainly my hair seemed to stand up beneath it. And yet I was not really frightened. Startled, but not frightened. It was the loveliness of that face. I can't even tell you, Letitia, what clothes she was wearing, but, as I recall her, it was as if she were surrounded with a haze like that of wood-smoke. She was the colour of a drift of bluebells in the distance. That may or may not be, but I did see her face, for I was staring steadily into her eyes. They were blue, like the blue of flames in a wood-fire, and they were gazing at me out of a face all pale and wan, the hair on either side hanging in one long strand down to the narrow sloping shoulder.

“All else then in the world was completely forgotten. Just me, a small, uncouth human animal, looking as if into another world into those set unearthly eyes. There was no movement between us; not the least stir of recognition or reproach or apprehension on her face. But as I looked—how can I describe it, my dear?—there came a faint far-away change in her eyes. It was as if, while you were looking out to sea some summer's evening, a flight of distant sea-birds appeared in the blue and vanished. We poor mortals can smile with our eyes alone, but not like that. That was _her_ way of smiling at me. It told me in my heart of hearts that she was not unfriendly to me, and yet that she was entreating me to trespass no more near her lair. There was what she must do in the world to consider, she was assuring me, though I hadn't then, nor have now, the least notion of what it was. And those eyes were telling me also as best she could—for she had no language she could share with my dull wits—that though she wished me no harm, all she asked me was not to keep a watch upon her, not to spy, not to intrude. And then she was gone.

“It was easy to take hiding in the evening dusk of the woods, and the copse and the hedges grew dense just there. She was gone, my dear, and I have never seen her since—nor her like.... But you can't call _that_ a story,” added Uncle Tim, vigorously polishing his spectacles with his silk handkerchief and blinking at his small niece rather like an owl in the morning sun.

Letitia remained silent. “I _do_ call it a story, Uncle Tim,” she said at last. “And oh, how I wish.... But then what about Old Joe?”

“Ah, Old Joe, the rascal! Look at him there. You see, my dear, I never forgot that evening. Years and years afterwards—I suppose I must have been then in my early twenties—I stayed a night or two with my old friend Mrs. Lumb again. She was very much older then, alas—and the first walk I took was to my field.

“Would you believe it? There was Old Joe in his customary place, though the barley-crop he was guarding that particular summer was now well above his knees. And whether I myself was changed or had gone a little blind in some respects; or whether, as I think, the fairy had long since given up her hiding-place; or whether perhaps this had always been merely her way of getting into and out of our world, I don't know. Old Joe in any case looked, well, just as he looks now, absolutely empty—forsaken, abandoned. He had brand-new old clothes on, of course, and a rare old wide-brimmed hat, green as a robin's back. And what do you think I did?”

“You didn't steal him, Uncle Tim?” whispered Letitia.

“No, Letitia; I purchased him; I bought him,” said Uncle Tim. “But 'ssh! I went to the old farmer—old Farmer Jones—and asked him how many guineas he'd take for his hodmadod as a curiosity. Just told him I knew Old Joe when I was a boy, and had a sentimental affection for him.

“Farmer Jones was as fat as a porpoise, with a large mulberry red face and eyes like bits of agate. He laughed at me. And what do you think he charged?”

Letitia pondered rapidly, blinking her eyes. “I _suppose_ £5 would be a good deal, wouldn't it, Uncle Tim? Even for Old Joe. Though, of course,” she added in a slightly louder voice, in case the old creature should hear, “it would be 'strordinarily cheap, too.”

“Guess again, my dear! Nothing like £5—nothing like even tuppence. 'Give me a pipe of that plug tobacco of yours,' said the farmer, 'and he's yours for ever.'

“So mine he was; and I am glad it wasn't money.”

“And so am I,” said Letitia. “A pipe of tobacco was much better than money. It doesn't hurt your feelings, Uncle Tim. And you never saw the fairy again?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Uncle Tim in a rather solemn voice, “I don't think, Letitia, I have ever really seen anything else. Nothing—even in the dreams that flock into my old head nowadays—nothing ever resembles in loveliness that face, those deep-dark, unsmiling eyes. _I set her on my pacing steed, and nothing else saw all day long...._ You know how it goes, my child; but I dare say in _your_ dreams....”

Letitia shook her head violently. “Oh no! Oh, how I wish,” she cried; then fell silent. “You know, I _believe_, Uncle Tim,” she went on in a low ruminative voice—“_I_ believe it was almost as if you must have fallen in love with that fairy. Was it that, Uncle Tim?”

“Ah, my dear!” replied old Mr. Bolsover. “But if you don't think the long grass under the willows over there is still too wet with the night's dew, we might venture across and ask Old Joe.”

THE DRAGONS _By MAXWELL ARMFIELD_

Within my black and scarlet hall
Four golden dragons live.
Their names are Richard, Timothy,
Mirandola and Paul
(These I myself did give).

Their real names no one ever says,
They are so very grand.
Their real names if you would pronounce
You must fast forty days,
With your mouth full of sand;

Then, with the names all written out,
Climb to the topmost hills,
Where you unwind from rock to rock,
With a triumphant shout,
Their strange disyllables.

RICHARD

Richard will meet you when you come;
He is the dearest thing.
At first you might think that he was dumb,
But if you stroke his golden tail
From left to right with your finger-nail,
Richard will silently sing.
He sings of the moon and shooting stars,
And “how I wonder what you ares,”
And all that kind of thing.

TIMOTHY

Timothy guards the electric light,
Criss-crossed like a Harlequin;
They say he is only a dragon at night,
And by day a Pandolin;
But he always looks the same to me,
At breakfast, luncheon, dinner or tea,
So I guess he’s a dragon all right.

MIRANDOLA

Mirandola, Mirandolore,
She comes from where you’ve been before:
She comes from Caithness to the Nore,
Mirandola, Mirandolore.

Slowly, slowly, and very pale
(I think her cousin was a snail),
She lives beside the bathroom door.
She bathes in summer, in winter more:
She LOVES the cold tiles on the floor,
Mirandola, Mirandolore.

PAUL

When mostly all are gone to bed,
And YOU sit up talking-and-talking instead,
And you’re both of you one large vacant YAWL,
From the crown of your head to your feet on the floor—
If you want to pass the kitchen door,
Then FIRST you must pass the place of Paul.
There he circles round and round,
Chasing a tail that is never found,
Guarding the kitchen without a sound.
And if you want to make friends with Paul
You had better start in right now, with ALL
The gumption you can commandeer....
For the ways of Paul are decidedly queer!

MABEL IN QUEER STREET _By COMPTON MACKENZIE_

“Will you walk on the pavement like a little lady, Miss Mabel, and not keep on bobbing up and down in and out of the gutter as if I hadn’t have told you thirteen times to the dozen every day of your life how to walk properly.”

Nurse was feeling very cross this morning, because the strings of her bonnet would keep blowing about, and Baby would keep throwing his rattle out of the perambulator, and Robert would keep shuffling his feet, and she had had an argument with Cook about the way Cook had burnt a milk-pudding; and her sister had written to say that she could not come to see her, after all, this week, but she hoped she’d be able to come next week, but she wasn’t sure, and she couldn’t come the week after, what’s more, because the family was going down into the country.

Mabel made matters worse by being argumentative:

“Well, a dozen is the same as twelve, Nannie,” she pointed out, “so I don’t think you could have told me thirteen times to twelve.”

“Will you not be so argumentative, Miss Mabel! I’m sure, ever since you won that blessed prize for writing a letter to that blessed paper there’s been no doing anything with you, such a dictatorial, domineering, proctorising little girl as it’s made you.”

But Mabel liked to be called all these long words. It made her feel years older and yards taller to be so many long words that she didn’t know how to spell, and was pretty sure Nannie didn’t know how to spell either; because she had asked her once how to spell “dictatorial” and Nannie had said, “Hush, what’s that?” which was what she always said when she didn’t want to answer an uncomfortable question.

“Well, you couldn’t,” Mabel obstinately repeated.

“Now, that’s quite enough, Miss! One more word from you and straight up to bed you go the very moment we get home.”

Mabel was bursting to say that she couldn’t go straight up to bed, because she had to turn round and walk along two landings before she could reach her bedroom. However, Nannie was in such an unpleasant humour that she held her tongue. To tell the truth, before coming out this afternoon, Mabel had caught a glimpse in the pantry of a particularly pleasant-looking pink cake, which was likely to appear at tea, but most unlikely to appear in her bedroom.

“What’s the harm in hopping up and down from the gutter?” she asked.

“Why, before you know where you are, you’ll be getting your foot stuck in a drain, and there you’ll be till doomsday, and that’ll be a nice state of affairs.”

As a matter of fact, it _would_ be rather nice, Mabel thought; and she walked along, imagining what a big crowd would collect to watch a little girl with her foot stuck in a drain till doomsday, and making up in her head all sorts of remarks that the people would be saying about her when they saw her plight. By this time they had reached the place where they always crossed the road to go into Kensington Gardens. Robert was picked up and plumped down into the perambulator opposite Baby; and when Nurse had looked first to the right and then to the left, and then behind her, and then in front of her, she called out in a voice trembling with excitement, “Come along now and mind how you step or we shall all be run over.” Mabel was always thrilled by this crossing. It made her think of the “Charge of the Light Brigade” which the Vicar had read aloud last Christmas at the children’s party in the Parish Hall, and which she had read lots of times since to herself.

“Half-a-league! Half-a-league! Half-a-league onward,” Mabel murmured as they swept on toward the greenness and the safety of the Gardens.

“Don’t chatter,” Nurse snapped, panting on across the wide road while a most enormous policeman held up the traffic for them.

“Suppose he fell right down dead at this moment?” Mabel asked herself. “Then all the buses would come charging on, and there’d be nothing left of the pram, or of Baby, or of Nannie, or of Robert, or of me.”

“Will you not dawdle, you bad girl!” Nurse was gasping irritably. And just then with a bump the perambulator landed safely on the opposite pavement.

“Charge for the guns, Nolan said,” Mabel dreamily murmured.

“What _are_ you muttering to yourself now?” Nurse asked.

“Poetry,” Mabel replied loftily. Then she returned to the subject of the gutter. “But suppose I didn’t hop up and down, Nannie?” she asked. “Suppose I just walked all the time in the gutter and didn’t ever walk on the pavement at all? What would happen then?”

“What would happen then? Why, you’d precious soon find yourself in Queer Street,” Nurse told her. But before Mabel had time to ask any more questions about Queer Street Nannie’s attention was occupied by Robert, who had put in his mouth a broken piece of shell that he had picked up from the path.

“You dare do such a thing ever again, you naughty boy,” she exclaimed, “and in the pram you’ll stay for the rest of the afternoon.”

Robert scowled; but he spat out the piece of shell, and he did nothing more that was naughty until he began to stroke the tyres of the perambulator-wheels.

Mabel gazed longingly at some little ragged children who were climbing up the railings beside the path and jumping off them, and balancing themselves on the top of them, and rolling over and over in the grass on the other side.

“Do those children live in Queer Street?” she asked.

“They live anywhere,” said Nurse. “And if I’ve told you once, Miss Mabel, not to turn round and stare after common children I’ve told you twenty times.”

Mabel yawned.

“Well, will you tell me a story, Nannie?”

“I’ll tell you a story about good Queen Victoria when she was a little girl and lived in Kensington Palace.”

Mabel yawned again.

“If you’ve told me that story once, you’ve told me twenty times,” she ventured to say.

Mabel had an idea that she was being rather rude in thus mimicking Nannie’s way of talking; but she was really astonished to find quite how angry it did make her. Nannie’s face turned such a bright purple that Mabel backed away from her in alarm, because she thought that she was going to be picked up as Robert was picked up and plumped down in the perambulator opposite Baby. And that would have been a most terrible disgrace. Luckily at that moment two large dogs began to fight close by. Nurse who was always afraid of dogs picked up Robert instead and, turning the perambulator quickly round, hurried away from the noise and confusion.

Mabel never knew just how it happened, but all of a sudden she was lost.

The last thing she remembered was hurrying after Nannie away from the confusion and crashing into a lot of other people that were running towards it. And then, when all was quiet again she found herself standing in the middle of the Broad Walk completely alone. Her heart began to beat very fast, and an uneasy lump came into her throat and she found that she was making a strange little noise that wasn’t exactly crying, but was rather like it. She twirled round and round in despair; but Nurse and Robert and Baby and the perambulator had utterly vanished. Crowds of most enormous trees stared down at her until she felt smaller and smaller and more and more frightened. Crowds of strange nurses and crowds of strange children went walking past. And then she saw coming towards her a KEEPER.

“A keeper,” she whispered in horror. Oh, where could Nurse have gone? A KEEPER!

She turned and fled.

Now, of course, if Mabel had been a sensible little girl, she would have waited for the keeper and told him that she was lost. Unfortunately she had often been so naughty during walks in Kensington Gardens that Nannie had threatened her more than once that, if she could not behave herself better, the keeper would come and lock her up in his little green house. She had no reason to believe that the keeper was not a savage and brutal man, because several times she had heard him shout in a very loud and angry voice at boys who were misbehaving themselves. She had seen him shake his stick, and once she had actually dared to peep into his little green house and had seen inside it a live baby. Ugh!

My goodness, how fast Mabel did run, and when she stopped running she was more lost than ever. At least, that was the way she felt she ought to feel, though as a matter of fact, after she had got over her first fright she found that she had reached one of the gates of the Gardens and began to say to herself that if the worst did come to the worst she could find her way home alone.

“My name is Mabel Evangeline Marjorie Deane, and I live at Forty-three Cherrington Gardens, and my father is Doctor Deane, and I’m seven and a half years old.”

It sounded extremely grand when she repeated all that quickly over to herself.

“And it wasn’t my fault,” she went on, “it was Nannie who ran away from the dogs. It wasn’t me who ran away from Nannie.”

While she was trying to make up her mind to take the plunge out of the quiet green Gardens and set out home along the noisy street, a ragged boy came by, playing a tune on a penny whistle. Naturally, Mabel took advantage of being lost to stare at him as hard as she could. The ragged boy did not appear to pay much attention to her; but when he had passed her he turned right round and came marching by again, still playing his jolly tune. This time he did look at her and deliberately winked one of his blue eyes. Mabel turned rather pink and felt inclined to rush off. She had never in all her life been able to stare long enough at a ragged boy to be winked at, and really she did not quite know what she ought to do. Perhaps if she had been able to wink well she might have winked back; but Uncle Tom had laughed at her so much the last time she had tried to wink for his benefit that Mabel had decided to be content with being able to make a noise like a cork by putting her forefinger in her cheek and letting it go with a pop. Uncle Tom had told her that she did this splendidly. So, while the ragged boy walked up and down before her, whistling and winking, Mabel could only stand still and look pink and uncomfortable.

“What’s the matter, kid?” said the ragged boy at last. “Lost your mammy?”

“No, she’s at home; but I’ve lost my nurse.”

The ragged boy went off into another tune that made his listener want to go dancing along beside him anywhere he chose to play her on.

“What are you going to do about it, kid?”

“Well, I’m going to walk home by myself,” Mabel announced.

The ragged boy piped a long trill on his whistle that seemed to say better than any words could have done how very much astonished he was to hear this.

“Ain’t you afraid the copper’ll nab you?” he asked.

Mabel, who had never before heard a policeman called a copper and had not the least idea what “nab” meant, but had no intention of admitting to a ragged boy that she could be frightened of anything, shook her head.

“Coo! You’re a plucky kid. I’ll walk along with you a bit of the way if you like. My name’s Bill Hawkins. Only mostly they calls me Piping Billie.”

Mabel hesitated a moment before she accepted this offer. She was really most anxious to enjoy the ragged boy’s company, but she felt rather afraid of meeting any of her little girl friends in case they should fancy that he was a relation of hers. It would be terrible if it went round the dolls’ tea-parties of Kensington that Mabel Evangeline Marjorie Deane had such a very ragged relation. Still, there was that crossing to be managed, and she did not feel quite so much as if she was riding at the head of the Light Brigade, now that she might have to cross the road all by herself.

“You can come with me to the pavement over there, if you like,” she told him.

The ragged boy struck up the jolliest tune that she had ever heard and led the way. Mabel wondered if the policeman who was holding back the great grumbling buses and the irritable taxis supposed that she was a princess. It was a pity that Bill Hawkins was not wearing a red coat and a cocked hat and white gaiters. She wished that next Christmas she could have enough money in her money-box to buy him such a dress. If she could, she would ask if she might not keep him always to march before her and play these jolly tunes. Where would he sleep, though? There were only two spare-rooms, and they were nearly always full of uncles and aunts. To be sure, as he was dressed at present, he might easily sleep in the coal-cellar; but if he ever had that lovely uniform he could hardly sleep there. The larder was too small, and besides he might get smeared with bacon fat. The pantry would do, if Mary didn’t mind. But Mary was a bit fussy about her china, as she called it. Why shouldn’t he sleep outside her own little room? No need then to be afraid of fire, or of witches, or of burglars, or of cats, or even of murderers.

Mabel walked on toward Cherrington Gardens, dreaming away to the tunes that Bill Hawkins was piping on his whistle. Once she nearly grazed her forehead on an old gentleman’s watch-chain, and once she had to take a step to the right and then a step to the left and then another to the right and then another to the left, while a lady in a great hurry coming from the other direction did just the opposite until at last she and Mabel discovered that if both of them stepped to the right at the same time they could pass each other quite easily. Apart from these two small accidents Mabel threaded her way along the busy pavements as easily as if there was nobody in all the world except herself and the ragged boy. She did not want to talk to him. Just to walk along behind his playing was as good as the most interesting talk that was ever known. Once he stopped for a moment and asked Mabel where she lived, and when she told him he nodded his head and started to play Cherry Ripe.

The pavements were not so crowded now that they had passed the big shops, and presently they turned off the main road into an old-fashioned square. Mabel found that she was once more beginning to hop up and down from the gutter as she walked along. And then she began to take two steps in the gutter for one she took on the pavement. And then she began to take only one step on the pavement for half-a-dozen in the gutter. And then Bill Hawkins began to play a jollier tune than any he had yet played so far. And then Mabel forgot to step back on the pavement at all, but went walking along all the time in the gutter. And then the most extraordinary thing happened, because she suddenly heard a tremendous argument going on, and when she looked up to see who it was she saw that all the railings of the square were quarrelling with each other.

“I don’t care,” one rusty old railing was saying to another very smart railing who had just been painted a rich peacock blue, “beauty’s only paint deep, and if you rail at me I’ll rail at you.”

“Old iron! Old iron!” retorted the painted railing. “Don’t you speak in that ironical tone of voice to me.”

Mabel didn’t at all like the voices of these quarrelsome railings, which grated on her ears horribly.

“Don’t you stare at me, little girl,” one of them creaked.

“Pooh!” said Mabel. “You want a good oiling, you disagreeable, rusty old thing.”

At this the railings turned palings, and Mabel wondered if railings objected to being given oil as much as she objected to being given castor-oil when she would go on being naughty. But she had no time to go into this question, because she suddenly realized that she was once more quite alone. She began to wish that she had not spoken so rudely to the railings, and she crossed the road to the side of the Square where the houses lived. But now another extraordinary thing happened. When she tried to step up on the opposite pavement her foot at once came back into the gutter. She tried jumping on it with both feet, but the pavement might have been made of indiarubber the way she bounded off again back into the gutter.

“Oh, well,” said Mabel aloud, trying to appear calm. “I may as well be phisolophical.”

This was what her mother said when Mary came in to tell her that the cat had broken one of the best glasses. Mabel had practised the word in bed, but this was the first time she had ventured to say it right out in broad daylight.

“If I can’t walk on the pavement, I’ll just have to walk in the gutter,” she went on.

And then she gave her shoulders a most tremendous shrug. After all, there was something to be said for being lost. At any rate, you could shrug your shoulders without being lectured for doing so.

Mabel walked on in the direction of Cherrington Gardens, hoping every moment to hear the sound of Billie Hawkins’ piping. In spite of her philosophical shrugs she was beginning to feel just a little bit uneasy. Somehow or other the square did not look the same as usual, and when she saw one of the front-doors suddenly leave its hinges and come walking down the little front garden, its letter-box stretched in a wide grin, and wave its handle at her, she started to run. But the faster she ran, the faster the door bolted after her, and if Mabel had not found a funny little passage too narrow for the door to follow her it would soon have caught her.

“SLAM!” the door ejaculated angrily, when it perceived that Mabel had escaped.

Mabel, however, did not stop to listen to its exclamations of baffled rage, but hurried along the narrow passage until she came out in a street that she had never seen before in all her walks, and looking up to find out what its name was, she saw a huge pointed finger write QUEER STREET on a signpost.

And it certainly was.

All the houses were a different colour and they had the most extraordinary shapes; but Mabel could not see anybody about who might tell her how to reach Cherrington Gardens and when she got to the other end of Queer Street she found that there was no way out and that a bright red house as round and nearly as tall as a lighthouse took up all the space. Mabel did not feel at all inclined to venture back by the small passage down which she had run to escape from the door. However, when she found that she could not get out of Queer Street at the far end she went back cautiously to see if she could somehow muster up enough courage to discover if the door was still hanging about. But things were getting queerer every minute. The passage was gone now. There was nothing but an immense blank wall on which was written in gigantic letters: NO ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON OMNIBUSINESSES.

Mabel really was frightened now. There was nobody to be seen at any of the windows of these strange-coloured houses, and she simply did not know what to do next. It had sounded rather exciting when Nannie had told her that she would one day find herself in Queer Street. Now that she really was in Queer Street it was horrid. At last she collected enough courage to make up her mind to ring the bell of one of the houses and, if anybody answered it, to ask the way out of Queer Street. She finally decided to try the tall red house, which at first she had thought was rather like a lighthouse, but which now that she examined it more closely was apparently an enormous pillar-box. The door was painted white and covered with sums. There was only one window that she could see; and that was very high up and shaped like the hole up to which she used often to be lifted to post the letters when she was quite a little girl. Mabel could not find any sign of a bell or a knocker, but after she had walked round the red house several times she found a white plate on which was printed LICK AND STAMP.

“Yes, but what am I to lick?” Mabel asked herself.

“The licker’s broken,” came a gruff voice from what seemed miles above, where she was standing. Mabel stepped back to look up and see who it was speaking; but she had only just time to catch sight of a head disappearing inside as the flap of the window shut with a clang.

“Bother!” Mabel exclaimed.

She wasn’t allowed to say “bother” at home, but being in Queer Street she did not care how much she let herself go. No sooner had she stepped back to the door than the gruff voice was heard again from above.

“As the licker’s broken, half a stamp will bring an answer.”

“But I haven’t got a stamp,” Mabel shouted.

“You’ve got feet, haven’t you?” the gruff voice called down.

Once more Mabel stepped back to try to catch sight of the owner; but once more the flap of the window dropped with a clang.

“You’ve got feet, haven’t you,” the gruff voice repeated when Mabel was once more outside the door.

“Yes, I’ve got feet.”

“Then you’ve got a stamp. And if you’ve got a stamp you’ve got half a stamp.”

“Do you mean I ought to stamp with one foot?” Mabel shouted.

“Certainly not. That’s a whole stamp. Of course, if you like to waste shoe-leather you can use a whole stamp, but you won’t get the answer any quicker if you do. You may just as well stamp with the sole only. Don’t bother about putting on your gum-boots.”

Mabel was anxious to get an answer as soon as possible, so she stamped as hard as she could. Whereupon the door flew back and she saw standing in the entrance behind a cage, a lump of wood dressed in dark blue and wearing a cap peaked in front and behind.

“Yes, good-morning. I’m the Postman. What can I do for you?”

“I want to find the way home to Cherrington Gardens, please,” said Mabel very politely.

“You’ll have to address yourself first,” the Postman snapped.

“But how can I address myself?”

“You can dress yourself, can’t you?”

“Well, nearly everything,” said Mabel. “Only, my nurse helps me with my frock.”

“You can undress yourself, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mabel eagerly. “At least I can if Nurse undoes the buttons at the back and if there aren’t any knots.”

She rather wished that she had kept off the subject of knots, because the Postman’s face was full of them. However, he did not seem to mind the allusion.

“Then you ought to be able to address yourself,” he told her severely. “Addressing is twice as easy as dressing or undressing. Can you undress an envelope?”

“No, I don’t think I could.”

“Can you dress an envelope?”

“No, I’m sure I couldn’t.”

“You can address one, can’t you?”

“Yes, if the lines are ruled,” Mabel said.

“There you are,” the Postman cried triumphantly. “So the sooner you set about addressing yourself the sooner you’ll get home. In fact, if you can address yourself in another minute, you’ll get home by the first delivery to-morrow morning.”

“But where shall I be all night?” Mabel gasped.

“You’ll be addressed and put to bed.”

“Yes, but where?” Mabel persisted.

“In my pillow-box.”

“But I thought it was a pillar-box.”

“It’s a pillar-box by day, stupid, but by night it’s a pillow-box, of course. Why, I knew that long before I was your age. I knew that when I was quite a twig. There’s only one thing you want to look out for. Sleep well up in the corner of the pillow-box, otherwise you’ll be getting woken up all the time by parcels coming back late and tumbling down on top of you.”