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Ch. 2: The Thrush's Nest


Shelley was a young gentleman and as grown-up as he need ever expect
to be. He was a poet; and they are never exactly grown-up. They are
people who despise money except what you need for to-day, and he had
all that and five pounds over. So, when he was walking in the
Kensington Gardens, he made a paper boat of his bank-note, and sent it
sailing on the Serpentine.

It reached the island at night: and the look-out brought it to
Solomon Caw, who thought at first that it was the usual thing, a
message from a lady, saying she would be obliged if he could let her
have a good one. They always ask for the best one he has, and if he
likes the letter he sends one from Class A, but if it ruffles him he
sends very funny ones indeed. Sometimes he sends none at all, and at
another time he sends a nestful; it all depends on the mood you catch
him in. He likes you to leave it all to him, and if you mention
particularly that you hope he will see his way to making it a boy this
time, he is almost sure to send another girl. And whether you are a
lady or only a little boy who wants a baby-sister, always take pains
to write your address clearly. You can't think what a lot of babies
Solomon has sent to the wrong house.

Shelley's boat, when opened, completely puzzled Solomon, and he took
counsel of his assistants, who having walked over it twice, first with
their toes pointed out, and then with their toes pointed in, decided
that it came from some greedy person who wanted five. They thought
this because there was a large five printed on it. "Preposterous!"
cried Solomon in a rage, and he presented it to Peter; anything
useless which drifted upon the island was usually given to Peter as a
play-thing.

But he did not play with his precious bank-note, for he knew what it
was at once, having been very observant during the week when he was an
ordinary boy. With so much money, he reflected, he could surely at
last contrive to reach the Gardens, and he considered all the possible
ways, and decided (wisely, I think) to choose the best way. But,
first, he had to tell the birds of the value of Shelley's boat; and
though they were too honest to demand it back, he saw that they were
galled, and they cast such black looks at Solomon, who was rather vain
of his cleverness, that he flew away to the end of the island, and sat
there very depressed with his head buried in his wings. Now Peter
knew that unless Solomon was on your side, you never got anything done
for you in the island, so he followed him and tried to hearten him.

Nor was this all that Peter did to pin the powerful old fellow's good
will. You must know that Solomon had no intention of remaining in
office all his life. He looked forward to retiring by-and-by, and
devoting his green old age to a life of pleasure on a certain
yew-stump in the Figs which had taken his fancy, and for years he had
been quietly filling his stocking. It was a stocking belonging to
some bathing person which had been cast upon the island, and at the
time I speak of it contained a hundred and eighty crumbs, thirty-four
nuts, sixteen crusts, a pen-wiper and a bootlace. When his stocking
was full, Solomon calculated that he would be able to retire on a
competency. Peter now gave him a pound. He cut it off his bank-note
with a sharp stick.

This made Solomon his friend for ever, and after the two had consulted
together they called a meeting of the thrushes. You will see
presently why thrushes only were invited.

The scheme to be put before them was really Peter's, but Solomon did
most of the talking, because he soon became irritable if other people
talked. He began by saying that he had been much impressed by the
superior ingenuity shown by the thrushes in nest-building, and this
put them into good-humour at once, as it was meant to do; for all the
quarrels between birds are about the best way of building nests.
Other birds, said Solomon, omitted to line their nests with mud, and
as a result they did not hold water. Here he cocked his head as if he
had used an unanswerable argument; but, unfortunately, a Mrs. Finch
had come to the meeting uninvited, and she squeaked out, "We don't
build nests to hold water, but to hold eggs," and then the thrushes
stopped cheering, and Solomon was so perplexed that he took several
sips of water.

"Consider," he said at last, "how warm the mud makes the nest."

"Consider," cried Mrs. Finch, "that when water gets into the nest it
remains there and your little ones are drowned."

The thrushes begged Solomon with a look to say something crushing in
reply to this, but again he was perplexed.

"Try another drink," suggested Mrs. Finch pertly. Kate was her name,
and all Kates are saucy.

Solomon did try another drink, and it inspired him. "If," said he, "a
finch's nest is placed on the Serpentine it fills and breaks to
pieces, but a thrush's nest is still as dry as the cup of a swan's
back."

How the thrushes applauded! Now they knew why they lined their nests
with mud, and when Mrs. Finch called out, "We don't place our nests on
the Serpentine," they did what they should have done at first: chased
her from the meeting. After this it was most orderly. What they had
been brought together to hear, said Solomon, was this: their young
friend, Peter Pan, as they well knew, wanted very much to be able to
cross to the Gardens, and he now proposed, with their help, to build a
boat.

At this the thrushes began to fidget, which made Peter tremble for his
scheme.

Solomon explained hastily that what he meant was not one of the
cumbrous boats that humans use; the proposed boat was to be simply a
thrush's nest large enough to hold Peter.

But still, to Peter's agony, the thrushes were sulky. "We are very
busy people," they grumbled, "and this would be a big job."

"Quite so," said Solomon, "and, of course, Peter would not allow you
to work for nothing. You must remember that he is now in comfortable
circumstances, and he will pay you such wages as you have never been
paid before. Peter Pan authorises me to say that you shall all be
paid sixpence a day."

Then all the thrushes hopped for joy, and that very day was begun the
celebrated Building of the Boat. All their ordinary business fell
into arrears. It was the time of year when they should have been
pairing, but not a thrush's nest was built except this big one, and so
Solomon soon ran short of thrushes with which to supply the demand
from the mainland. The stout, rather greedy children, who look so
well in perambulators but get puffed easily when they walk, were all
young thrushes once, and ladies often ask specially for them. What do
you think Solomon did? He sent over to the housetops for a lot of
sparrows and ordered them to lay their eggs in old thrushes' nests and
sent their young to the ladies and swore they were all thrushes! It
was known afterward on the island as the Sparrows' Year, and so, when
you meet, as you doubtless sometimes do, grown-up people who puff and
blow as if they thought themselves bigger than they are, very likely
they belong to that year. You ask them.

Peter was a just master, and paid his work-people every evening. They
stood in rows on the branches, waiting politely while he cut the paper
sixpences out of his bank-note, and presently he called the roll, and
then each bird, as the names were mentioned, flew down and got
sixpence. It must have been a fine sight.

And at last, after months of labor, the boat was finished. Oh, the
deportment of Peter as he saw it growing more and more like a great
thrush's nest! From the very beginning of the building of it he slept
by its side, and often woke up to say sweet things to it, and after it
was lined with mud and the mud had dried he always slept in it. He
sleeps in his nest still, and has a fascinating way of curling round
in it, for it is just large enough to hold him comfortably when he
curls round like a kitten. It is brown inside, of course, but outside
it is mostly green, being woven of grass and twigs, and when these
wither or snap the walls are thatched afresh. There are also a few
feathers here and there, which came off the thrushes while they were
building.

The other birds were extremely jealous and said that the boat would
not balance on the water, but it lay most beautifully steady; they
said the water would come into it, but no water came into it. Next
they said that Peter had no oars, and this caused the thrushes to look
at each other in dismay, but Peter replied that he had no need of
oars, for he had a sail, and with such a proud, happy face he produced
a sail which he had fashioned out of this night-gown, and though it
was still rather like a night-gown it made a lovely sail. And that
night, the moon being full, and all the birds asleep, he did enter his
coracle (as Master Francis Pretty would have said) and depart out of
the island. And first, he knew not why, he looked upward, with his
hands clasped, and from that moment his eyes were pinned to the west.

He had promised the thrushes to begin by making short voyages, with
them to his guides, but far away he saw the Kensington Gardens
beckoning to him beneath the bridge, and he could not wait. His face
was flushed, but he never looked back; there was an exultation in his
little breast that drove out fear. Was Peter the least gallant of the
English mariners who have sailed westward to meet the Unknown?

At first, his boat turned round and round, and he was driven back to
the place of his starting, whereupon he shortened sail, by removing
one of the sleeves, and was forthwith carried backward by a contrary
breeze, to his no small peril. He now let go the sail, with the
result that he was drifted toward the far shore, where are black
shadows he knew not the dangers of, but suspected them, and so once
more hoisted his night-gown and went roomer of the shadows until he
caught a favouring wind, which bore him westward, but at so great a
speed that he was like to be broke against the bridge. Which, having
avoided, he passed under the bridge and came, to his great rejoicing,
within full sight of the delectable Gardens. But having tried to cast
anchor, which was a stone at the end of a piece of the kite-string, he
found no bottom, and was fain to hold off, seeking for moorage, and,
feeling his way, he buffeted against a sunken reef that cast him
overboard by the greatness of the shock, and he was near to being
drowned, but clambered back into the vessel. There now arose a mighty
storm, accompanied by roaring of waters, such as he had never heard
the like, and he was tossed this way and that, and his hands so numbed
with the cold that he could not close them. Having escaped the danger
of which, he was mercifully carried into a small bay, where his boat
rode at peace.

Nevertheless, he was not yet in safety; for, on pretending to
disembark, he found a multitude of small people drawn up on the shore
to contest his landing; and shouting shrilly to him to be off, for it
was long past Lock-out Time. This, with much brandishing of their
holly-leaves, and also a company of them carried an arrow which some
boy had left in the Gardens, and this they were prepared to use as a
battering-ram.

Then Peter, who knew them for the fairies, called out that he was not
an ordinary human and had no desire to do them displeasure, but to be
their friend, nevertheless, having found a jolly harbour, he was in no
temper to draw off there-from, and he warned them if they sought to
mischief him to stand to their harms.

So saying; he boldly leapt ashore, and they gathered around him with
intent to slay him, but there then arose a great cry among the women,
and it was because they had now observed that his sail was a baby's
night-gown. Whereupon, they straightway loved him, and grieved that
their laps were too small, the which I cannot explain, except by
saying that such is the way of women. The men-fairies now sheathed
their weapons on observing the behaviour of their women, on whose
intelligence they set great store, and they led him civilly to their
queen, who conferred upon him the courtesy of the Gardens after
Lock-out Time, and henceforth Peter could go whither he chose, and the
fairies had orders to put him in comfort.

Such was his first voyage to the Gardens, and you may gather from the
antiquity of the language that it took place a long time ago. But
Peter never grows any older, and if we could be watching for him under
the bridge to-night (but, of course, we can't), I daresay we should
see him hoisting his night-gown and sailing or paddling toward us in
the Thrush's Nest. When he sails, he sits down, but he stands up to
paddle. I shall tell you presently how he got his paddle.

Long before the time for the opening of the gates comes he steals back
to the island, for people must not see him (he is not so human as all
that), but this gives him hours for play, and he plays exactly as real
children play. At least he thinks so, and it is one of the pathetic
things about him that he often plays quite wrongly.

You see, he had no one to tell him how children really play, for the
fairies were all more or less in hiding until dusk, and so know
nothing, and though the buds pretended that they could tell him a
great deal, when the time for telling came, it was wonderful how
little they really knew. They told him the truth about hide-and-seek,
and he often plays it by himself, but even the ducks on the Round Pond
could not explain to him what it is that makes the pond so fascinating
to boys. Every night the ducks have forgotten all the events of the
day, except the number of pieces of cake thrown to them. They are
gloomy creatures, and say that cake is not what it was in their young
days.

So Peter had to find out many things for himself. He often played
ships at the Round Pond, but his ship was only a hoop which he had
found on the grass. Of course, he had never seen a hoop, and he
wondered what you play at with them, and decided that you play at
pretending they are boats. This hoop always sank at once, but he
waded in for it, and sometimes he dragged it gleefully round the rim
of the pond, and he was quite proud to think that he had discovered
what boys do with hoops.

Another time, when he found a child's pail, he thought it was for
sitting in, and he sat so hard in it that he could scarcely get out of
it. Also he found a balloon. It was bobbing about on the Hump, quite
as if it was having a game by itself, and he caught it after an
exciting chase. But he thought it was a ball, and Jenny Wren had told
him that boys kick balls, so he kicked it; and after that he could not
find it anywhere.

Perhaps the most surprising thing he found was a perambulator. It was
under a lime-tree, near the entrance to the Fairy Queen's Winter
Palace (which is within the circle of the seven Spanish chestnuts),
and Peter approached it warily, for the birds had never mentioned such
things to him. Lest it was alive, he addressed it politely, and then,
as it gave no answer, he went nearer and felt it cautiously. He gave
it a little push, and it ran from him, which made him think it must be
alive after all; but, as it had run from him, he was not afraid. So
he stretched out his hand to pull it to him, but this time it ran at
him, and he was so alarmed that he leapt the railing and scudded away
to his boat. You must not think, however, that he was a coward, for
he came back next night with a crust in one hand and a stick in the
other, but the perambulator had gone, and he never saw another one. I
have promised to tell you also about his paddle. It was a child's
spade which he had found near St. Govor's Well, and he thought it was
a paddle.

Do you pity Peter Pan for making these mistakes? If so, I think it
rather silly of you. What I mean is that, of course, one must pity
him now and then, but to pity him all the time would be impertinence.
He thought he had the most splendid time in the Gardens, and to think
you have it is almost quite as good as really to have it. He played
without ceasing, while you often waste time by being mad-dog or
Mary-Annish. He could be neither of these things, for he had never
heard of them, but do you think he is to be pitied for that?

Oh, he was merry. He was as much merrier than you, for instance, as
you are merrier than your father. Sometimes he fell, like a
spinning-top, from sheer merriment. Have you seen a greyhound leaping
the fences of the Gardens? That is how Peter leaps them.

And think of the music of his pipe. Gentlemen who walk home at night
write to the papers to say they heard a nightingale in the Gardens,
but it is really Peter's pipe they hear. Of course, he had no
mother--at least, what use was she to him? You can be sorry for him
for that, but don't be too sorry, for the next thing I mean to tell
you is how he revisited her. It was the fairies who gave him the
chance.

 

James M. Barrie

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