The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  A few minutes afterwards the other boys saw Hook in the water striking wildly for the ship; no elation on his pestilent face now, only white fear, for the crocodile was in dogged pursuit of him. On ordinary occasions the boys would have swum alongside cheering; but now they were uneasy, for they had lost both Peter and Wendy, and were scouring the lagoon for them, calling them by name. They found the dinghy and went home in it, shouting “Peter, Wendy” as they went, but no answer came save mocking laughter from the mermaids. “They must be swimming back or flying,” the boys concluded. They were not very anxious, they had such faith in Peter. They chuckled, boylike, because they would be late for bed; and it was all mother Wendy’s fault!

  When their voices died away there came cold silence over the lagoon, and then a feeble cry.

  “Help, help!”

  Two small figures were beating against the rock; the girl had fainted and lay on the boy’s arm. With a last effort Peter pulled her up the rock and then lay down beside her. Even as he also fainted he saw that the water was rising. He knew that they would soon be drowned, but he could do no more.

  As they lay side by side a mermaid caught Wendy by the feet, and began pulling her softly into the water. Peter, feeling her slip from him, woke with a start, and was just in time to draw her back. But he had to tell her the truth.

  “We are on the rock, Wendy,” he said, “but it is growing smaller. Soon the water will be over it.”

  She did not understand even now.

  “We must go,” she said, almost brightly.

  “Yes,” he answered faintly.

  “Shall we swim or fly, Peter?”

  He had to tell her.

  “Do you think you could swim or fly as far as the island, Wendy, without my help?”

  She had to admit that she was too tired.

  He moaned.

  “What is it?” she asked, anxious about him at once.

  “I can’t help you, Wendy. Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor swim.”

  “Do you mean we shall both be drowned?”

  “Look how the water is rising.”

  They put their hands over their eyes to shut out the sight. They thought they would soon be no more. As they sat thus something brushed against Peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if saying timidly, “Can I be of any use?”

  It was the tail of a kite, which Michael had made some days before. It had torn itself out of his hand and floated away.

  “Michael’s kite,” Peter said without interest, but next moment he had seized the tail, and was pulling the kite toward him.

  Illustration Credits 8.2

  “It lifted Michael off the ground,” he cried; “why should it not carry you?”

  “Both of us!”

  “It can’t lift two; Michael and Curly tried.”

  “Let us draw lots,” Wendy said bravely.

  “And you a lady; never.” Already he had tied the tail round her. She clung to him; she refused to go without him; but with a “Good-bye, Wendy,” he pushed her from the rock; and in a few minutes she was borne out of his sight. Peter was alone on the lagoon.

  The rock was very small now; soon it would be submerged. Pale rays of light tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be heard a sound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in the world: the mermaids calling to the moon.

  Peter was not quite like other boys; but he was afraid at last. A tremor ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them, and Peter felt just the one. Next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him. It was saying, “To die will be an awfully big adventure.”

  CHAPTER IX

  THE NEVER BIRD

  The last sounds Peter heard before he was quite alone were the mermaids retiring one by one to their bedchambers under the sea. He was too far away to hear their doors shut; but every door in the coral caves where they live rings a tiny bell when it opens or closes (as in all the nicest houses on the mainland), and he heard the bells.

  Steadily the waters rose till they were nibbling at his feet; and to pass the time until they made their final gulp, he watched the only thing moving on the lagoon. He thought it was a piece of floating paper, perhaps part of the kite, and wondered idly how long it would take to drift ashore.

  Presently he noticed as an odd thing that it was undoubtedly out upon the lagoon with some definite purpose, for it was fighting the tide, and sometimes winning; and when it won, Peter, always sympathetic to the weaker side, could not help clapping; it was such a gallant piece of paper.

  It was not really a piece of paper; it was the Never bird, making desperate efforts to reach Peter on her nest. By working her wings, in a way she had learned since the nest fell into the water, she was able to some extent to guide her strange craft, but by the time Peter recognised her she was very exhausted. She had come to save him, to give him her nest, though there were eggs in it. I rather wonder at the bird, for though he had been nice to her, he had also sometimes tormented her. I can suppose only that, like Mrs. Darling and the rest of them, she was melted because he had all his first teeth.

  She called out to him what she had come for, and he called out to her what was she doing there; but of course neither of them understood the other’s language. In fanciful stories people can talk to the birds freely, and I wish for the moment I could pretend that this was such a story, and say that Peter replied intelligently to the Never bird; but truth is best, and I want to tell only what really happened. Well, not only could they not understand each other, but they forgot their manners.

  “I—want—you—to—get—into—the—nest,” the bird called, speaking as slowly and distinctly as possible, “and—then—you—can—drift—ashore, but—I—am—too—tired—to—bring—it—any—nearer—so—you—must—try—to—swim—to—it.”

  “What are you quacking about?” Peter answered. “Why don’t you let the nest drift as usual?”

  “I—want—you—” the bird said, and repeated it all over.

  Then Peter tried slow and distinct.

  “What—are—you—quacking—about?” and so on.

  The Never bird became irritated; they have very short tempers.

  “You dunderheaded little jay,” she screamed, “why don’t you do as I tell you?”

  Peter felt that she was calling him names, and at a venture he retorted hotly:

  “So are you!”

  Then rather curiously they both snapped out the same remark.

  “Shut up!”

  “Shut up!”

  Nevertheless the bird was determined to save him if she could, and by one last mighty effort she propelled the nest against the rock. Then up she flew; deserting her eggs, so as to make her meaning clear.

  Then at last he understood, and clutched the nest and waved his thanks to the bird as she fluttered overhead. It was not to receive his thanks, however, that she hung there in the sky; it was not even to watch him get into the nest; it was to see what he did with her eggs.

  There were two large white eggs, and Peter lifted them up and reflected. The bird covered her face with her wings, so as not to see the last of them; but she could not help peeping between the feathers.

  I forget whether I have told you that there was a stave on the rock, driven into it by some buccaneers of long ago to mark the site of buried treasure. The children had discovered the glittering hoard, and when in mischievous mood used to fling showers of moidores, diamonds, pearls and pieces of eight to the gulls, who pounced upon them for food, and then flew away, raging at the scurvy trick that had been played upon them. The stave was still there, and on it Starkey had hung his hat, a deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad brim. Peter put the eggs into this hat and set it on the lagoon. It floated beautifully.

  The Never bird saw at once what he was up to, and screamed her admiration of him; and, alas, Peter crowed his agreement
with her. Then he got into the nest, reared the stave in it as a mast, and hung up his shirt for a sail. At the same moment the bird fluttered down upon the hat and once more sat snugly on her eggs. She drifted in one direction, and he was borne off in another, both cheering.

  Of course when Peter landed he beached his barque in a place where the bird would easily find it; but the hat was such a great success that she abandoned the nest. It drifted about till it went to pieces, and often Starkey came to the shore of the lagoon, and with many bitter feelings watched the bird sitting on his hat. As we shall not see her again, it may be worth mentioning here that all Never birds now build in that shape of nest, with a broad brim on which the youngsters take an airing.

  Great were the rejoicings when Peter reached the home under the ground almost as soon as Wendy, who had been carried hither and thither by the kite. Every boy had adventures to tell; but perhaps the biggest adventure of all was that they were several hours late for bed. This so inflated them that they did various dodgy things to get staying up still longer, such as demanding bandages; but Wendy, though glorying in having them all home again safe and sound, was scandalised by the lateness of the hour, and cried, “To bed, to bed,” in a voice that had to be obeyed. Next day, however, she was awfully tender, and gave out bandages to every one, and they played till bed-time at limping about and carrying their arms in slings.

  CHAPTER X

  THE HAPPY HOME

  One important result of the brush on the lagoon was that it made the redskins their friends. Peter had saved Tiger Lily from a dreadful fate, and now there was nothing she and her braves would not do for him. All night they sat above, keeping watch over the home under the ground and awaiting the big attack by the pirates which obviously could not be much longer delayed. Even by day they hung about, smoking the pipe of peace, and looking almost as if they wanted tit-bits to eat.

  They called Peter the Great White Father, prostrating themselves before him; and he liked this tremendously, so that it was not really good for him.

  “The great white father,” he would say to them in a very lordly manner, as they grovelled at his feet, “is glad to see the Piccaninny warriors protecting his wigwam from the pirates.”

  “Me Tiger Lily,” that lovely creature would reply, “Peter Pan save me, me his velly nice friend. Me no let pirates hurt him.”

  She was far too pretty to cringe in this way, but Peter thought it his due, and he would answer condescendingly, “It is good. Peter Pan has spoken.”

  Always when he said, “Peter Pan has spoken,” it meant that they must now shut up, and they accepted it humbly in that spirit; but they were by no means so respectful to the other boys, whom they looked upon as just ordinary braves. They said “How-do?” to them, and things like that; and what annoyed the boys was that Peter seemed to think this all right.

  Secretly Wendy sympathised with them a little, but she was far too loyal a housewife to listen to any complaints against father. “Father knows best,” she always said, whatever her private opinion must be. Her private opinion was that the redskins should not call her a squaw.

  We have now reached the evening that was to be known among them as the Night of Nights, because of its adventures and their upshot. The day, as if quietly gathering its forces, had been almost uneventful, and now the redskins in their blankets were at their posts above, while, below, the children were having their evening meal; all except Peter, who had gone out to get the time. The way you got the time on the island was to find the crocodile, and then stay near him till the clock struck.

  This meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat round the board, guzzling in their greed; and really, what with their chatter and recriminations, the noise, as Wendy said, was positively deafening. To be sure, she did not mind noise, but she simply would not have them grabbing things, and then excusing themselves by saying that Tootles had pushed their elbow. There was a fixed rule that they must never hit back at meals, but should refer the matter of dispute to Wendy by raising the right arm politely and saying, “I complain of so-and-so”; but what usually happened was that they forgot to do this or did it too much.

  “Silence,” cried Wendy when for the twentieth time she had told them that they were not all to speak at once. “Is your mug empty, Slightly darling?”

  “Not quite empty, mummy,” Slightly said, after looking into an imaginary mug.

  “He hasn’t even begun to drink his milk,” Nibs interposed.

  This was telling, and Slightly seized his chance.

  “I complain of Nibs,” he cried promptly.

  John, however, had held up his hand first.

  “Well, John?”

  “May I sit in Peter’s chair, as he is not here?”

  “Sit in father’s chair, John!” Wendy was scandalised. “Certainly not.”

  “He is not really our father,” John answered. “He didn’t even know how a father does till I showed him.”

  This was grumbling. “We complain of John,” cried the twins.

  Tootles held up his hand. He was so much the humblest of them, indeed he was the only humble one, that Wendy was specially gentle with him.

  “I don’t suppose,” Tootles said diffidently, “that I could be father.”

  “No, Tootles.”

  Once Tootles began, which was not very often, he had a silly way of going on.

  “As I can’t be father,” he said heavily, “I don’t suppose, Michael, you would let me be baby?”

  “No, I won’t,” Michael rapped out. He was already in his basket.

  “As I can’t be baby,” Tootles said, getting heavier and heavier, “do you think I could be a twin?”

  “No, indeed,” replied the twins; “it’s awfully difficult to be a twin.”

  “As I can’t be anything important,” said Tootles, “would any of you like to see me do a trick?”

  “No,” they all replied.

  Then at last he stopped. “I hadn’t really any hope,” he said.

  The hateful telling broke out again.

  “Slightly is coughing on the table.”

  “The twins began with cheese-cakes.”

  “Curly is taking both butter and honey.”

  “Nibs is speaking with his mouth full.”

  “I complain of the twins.”

  “I complain of Curly.”

  “I complain of Nibs.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” cried Wendy, “I’m sure I sometimes think that spinsters are to be envied.”

  She told them to clear away, and sat down to her work-basket, a heavy load of stockings and every knee with a hole in it as usual.

  “Wendy,” remonstrated Michael, “I’m too big for a cradle.”

  “I must have somebody in a cradle,” she said almost tartly, “and you are the littlest. A cradle is such a nice homely thing to have about a house.”

  While she sewed they played around her; such a group of happy faces and dancing limbs lit up by that romantic fire. It had become a very familiar scene this in the home under the ground, but we are looking on it for the last time.

  There was a step above, and Wendy, you may be sure, was the first to recognise it.

  “Children, I hear your father’s step. He likes you to meet him at the door.”

  Above, the redskins crouched before Peter.

  “Watch well, braves. I have spoken.”

  And then, as so often before, the gay children dragged him from his tree. As so often before, but never again.

  He had brought nuts for the boys as well as the correct time for Wendy.

  “Peter, you just spoil them, you know,” Wendy simpered.

  “Ah, old lady,” said Peter, hanging up his gun.

  “It was me told him mothers are called old lady,” Michael whispered to Curly.

  “I complain of Michael,” said Curly instantly.

  The first twin came to Peter. “Father, we want to dance.”

  “Dance away, my little man,” said Peter, who wa
s in high good humour.

  “But we want you to dance.”

  Peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be scandalised.

  “Me! My old bones would rattle!”

  “And mummy too.”

  “What!” cried Wendy, “the mother of such an armful, dance!”

  “But on a Saturday night,” Slightly insinuated.

  It was not really Saturday night, at least it may have been, for they had long lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to do anything special they said this was Saturday night, and then they did it.

  “Of course it is Saturday night, Peter,” Wendy said, relenting.

  “People of our figure, Wendy!”

  “But it is only among our own progeny.”

  “True, true.”

  So they were told they could dance, but they must put on their nighties first.

  “Ah, old lady,” Peter said aside to Wendy, warming himself by the fire and looking down at her as she sat turning a heel, “there is nothing more pleasant of an evening for you and me when the day’s toil is over than to rest by the fire with the little ones near by.”

  “It is sweet, Peter, isn’t it?” Wendy said, frightfully gratified. “Peter, I think Curly has your nose.”

  “Michael takes after you.”

  She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Dear Peter,” she said, “with such a large family, of course, I have now passed my best, but you don’t want to change me, do you?”

  “No, Wendy.”

  Certainly he did not want a change, but he looked at her uncomfortably, blinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.

  “Peter, what is it?”

  “I was just thinking,” he said, a little scared. “It is only make-believe, isn’t it, that I am their father?”

  “Oh yes,” Wendy said primly.

  “You see,” he continued apologetically, “it would make me seem so old to be their real father.”

  “But they are ours, Peter, yours and mine.”

  “But not really, Wendy?” he asked anxiously.