Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  “How could I consult you?” said Dora; “you were all playing Cat and Mouse, and he wanted to get home. I only wish you’d heard what he told me — that’s all — about his mother being ill, and nobody letting her do any work because of where his father is, and his baby brother ill, poor little darling, and not enough to eat, and everything as awful as you can possibly think. I’ll save up and pay it all back out of my own money. Only do forgive me, all of you, and say you don’t despise me for a forger and embezzlementer. I couldn’t help it.”

  “I’m glad you couldn’t,” said the sudden voice of H.O., who had sneaked up on his young stomach unobserved by the council. “You shall have all my money too, Dora, and here’s the bulls-eye halfpenny to begin with.” He crammed it into her hand. “Listen? I should jolly well think I did listen,” H.O. went on. “I’ve just as much right as anybody else to be in at a council, and I think Dora was quite right, and the rest of you are beasts not to say so, too, when you see how she’s blubbing. Suppose it had been your darling baby-brother ill, and nobody hadn’t given you nothing when they’d got pounds and pounds in their silly pockets?”

  He now hugged Dora, who responded.

  “It wasn’t her own money,” said Dicky.

  “If you think you’re our darling baby-brother — —” said Oswald.

  But Alice and Noël began hugging Dora and H.O., and Dicky and I felt it was no go. Girls have no right and honourable feelings about business, and little boys are the same.

  “All right,” said Oswald rather bitterly, “if a majority of the council backs Dora up, we’ll give in. But we must all save up and repay the money, that’s all. We shall all be beastly short for ages.”

  “Oh,” said Dora, and now her sobs were beginning to turn into sniffs, “you don’t know how I felt! And I’ve felt most awful ever since, but those poor, poor people — —”

  At this moment Mrs. Bax came down on to the beach by the wooden steps that lead from the sea-wall where the grass grows between the stones.

  “Hullo!” she said, “hurt yourself, my Dora-dove?”

  Dora was rather a favourite of hers.

  “It’s all right now,” said Dora.

  “That’s all right,” said Mrs. Bax, who has learnt in anti-what’s-its-name climes the great art of not asking too many questions. “Mrs. Red House has come to lunch. She went this morning to see that boy’s mother — you know, the boy the others wouldn’t play with?”

  We said “Yes.”

  “Well, Mrs. Red House has arranged to get the woman some work — like the dear she is — the woman told her that the little lady — and that’s you, Dora — had given the little boy one pound thirteen and sevenpence.”

  Mrs. Bax looked straight out to sea through her gold-rimmed spectacles, and went on —

  “That must have been about all you had among the lot of you. I don’t want to jaw, but I think you’re a set of little bricks, and I must say so or expire on the sandy spot.”

  There was a painful silence.

  H.O. looked, “There, what did I tell you?” at the rest of us.

  Then Alice said, “We others had nothing to do with it. It was Dora’s doing.” I suppose she said this because we did not mean to tell Mrs. Bax anything about it, and if there was any brickiness in the act we wished Dora to have the consolement of getting the credit of it.

  But of course Dora couldn’t stand that. She said —

  “Oh, Mrs. Bax, it was very wrong of me. It wasn’t my own money, and I’d no business to, but I was so sorry for the little boy and his mother and his darling baby-brother. The money belonged to some one else.”

  “Who?” Mrs. Bax asked ere she had time to remember the excellent Australian rule about not asking questions.

  And H.O. blurted out, “It was Miss Sandal’s money — every penny,” before we could stop him.

  Once again in our career concealment was at an end. The rule about questions was again unregarded, and the whole thing came out.

  It was a long story, and Mrs. Red House came out in the middle, but nobody could mind her hearing things.

  When she knew all, from the plain living to the pedlar who hadn’t a license, Mrs. Bax spoke up like a man, and said several kind things that I won’t write down.

  She then went on to say that her sister was not poor and needy at all, but that she lived plain and thought high just because she liked it!

  We were very disappointed as soon as we had got over our hardly believing any one could — like it, I mean — and then Mrs. Red House said —

  “Sir James gave me five pounds for the poor woman, and she sent back thirty of your shillings. She had spent three and sevenpence, and they had a lovely supper of boiled pork and greens last night. So now you’ve only got that to make up, and you can buy a most splendid present for Miss Sandal.”

  It is difficult to choose presents for people who live plain and think high because they like it. But at last we decided to get books. They were written by a person called Emerson, and of a dull character, but the backs were very beautiful, and Miss Sandal was most awfully pleased with them when she came down to her cottage with her partially repaired brother, who had fallen off the scaffold when treating a bricklayer to tracts.

  This is the end of the things we did when we were at Lymchurch in Miss Sandal’s house.

  It is the last story that the present author means ever to be the author of. So goodbye, if you have got as far as this.

  Your affectionate author,

  Oswald Bastable.

  The Psammead Series

  28 Elswick Road in Lewisham, South-East London — Nesbit’s home in her late teenage years

  The plaque commemorating the author’s residence in Elswick Road

  FIVE CHILDREN AND IT

  T. Fisher Unwin published Five Children and It in London in 1902 and Dodd, Mead and Company followed suit in the United States, three years later, illustrated by H.R. Millar. The novel and its two sequels proved to be among E. Nesbit’s most popular and enduring works of fantasy for children. In the narrative, five children move from London to Kent. One day, while playing and digging in a gravel pit, they discover the Psammead, a sand fairy. The ancient, ill-tempered Psammead, who would rather go back to sleep, is able to allow the children one wish per day, although that wish will turn to stone at day’s end. In typical Nesbit fashion, their wishes go awry, often in hilarious ways. From a wealth of gold coins no longer in circulation, to a baby brother grown up to be a self-satisfied young adult cad, each wish backfires. Eventually, the children must choose between magic and doing the right thing. Another beloved children’s author, Edward Eager, used the premise of Five Children and It for his 1954 novel, Half Magic. Other authors, including Helen Cresswell (The Return of the Psammead) and Jacqueline Wilson (Four Children and It), have written modern sequels.

  A first edition copy of ‘Five Children and It’

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I. BEAUTIFUL AS THE DAY

  CHAPTER II. GOLDEN GUINEAS

  CHAPTER III. BEING WANTED

  CHAPTER IV. WINGS

  CHAPTER V. NO WINGS

  CHAPTER VI. A CASTLE AND NO DINNER

  CHAPTER VII. A SIEGE AND BED

  CHAPTER VIII. BIGGER THAN THE BAKER’S BOY

  CHAPTER IX. GROWN UP

  CHAPTER X. SCALPS

  CHAPTER XI (AND LAST). THE LAST WISH

  The BBC produced a six-part serial in 1991

  From the 1991 BBC adaptation

  From the 2004 film version

  From the 2004 film version

  From the 2004 film version

  The Psammead

  TO JOHN BLAND

  My Lamb, you are so very small,

  You have not learned to read at all;

  Yet never a printed book withstands

  The urgence of your dimpled hands.

  So, though this book is for yourself,

  Let mother keep it on the shelf

  Till you can read. O days that p
ass,

  That day will come too soon, alas!

  CHAPTER I. BEAUTIFUL AS THE DAY

  The house was three miles from the station, but, before the dusty hired hack had rattled along for five minutes, the children began to put their heads out of the carriage window and say, “Aren’t we nearly there?” And every time they passed a house, which was not very often, they all said, “Oh, is this it?” But it never was, till they reached the very top of the hill, just past the chalk-quarry and before you come to the gravel-pit. And then there was a white house with a green garden and an orchard beyond, and mother said, “Here we are!”

  “How white the house is,” said Robert.

  “And look at the roses,” said Anthea.

  “And the plums,” said Jane.

  “It is rather decent,” Cyril admitted.

  The Baby said, “Wanty go walky;” and the hack stopped with a last rattle and jolt.

  Everyone got its legs kicked or its feet trodden on in the scramble to get out of the carriage that very minute, but no one seemed to mind. Mother, curiously enough, was in no hurry to get out; and even when she had come down slowly and by the step, and with no jump at all, she seemed to wish to see the boxes carried in, and even to pay the driver, instead of joining in that first glorious rush round the garden and orchard and the thorny, thistly, briery, brambly wilderness beyond the broken gate and the dry fountain at the side of the house. But the children were wiser, for once. It was not really a pretty house at all; it was quite ordinary, and mother thought it was rather inconvenient, and was quite annoyed at there being no shelves, to speak of, and hardly a cupboard in the place. Father used to say that the iron-work on the roof and coping was like an architect’s nightmare. But the house was deep in the country, with no other house in sight, and the children had been in London for two years, without so much as once going to the seaside even for a day by an excursion train, and so the White House seemed to them a sort of Fairy Palace set down in an Earthly Paradise. For London is like prison for children, especially if their relations are not rich.

  That first glorious rush round the garden Of course there are the shops and theatres, and entertainments and things, but if your people are rather poor you don’t get taken to the theatres, and you can’t buy things out of the shops; and London has none of those nice things that children may play with without hurting the things or themselves — such as trees and sand and woods and waters. And nearly everything in London is the wrong sort of shape — all straight lines and flat streets, instead of being all sorts of odd shapes, like things are in the country. Trees are all different, as you know, and I am sure some tiresome person must have told you that there are no two blades of grass exactly alike. But in streets, where the blades of grass don’t grow, everything is like everything else. This is why many children who live in the towns are so extremely naughty. They do not know what is the matter with them, and no more do their fathers and mothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, tutors, governesses, and nurses; but I know. And so do you, now. Children in the country are naughty sometimes, too, but that is for quite different reasons.

  The children had explored the gardens and the outhouses thoroughly before they were caught and cleaned for tea, and they saw quite well that they were certain to be happy at the White House. They thought so from the first moment, but when they found the back of the house covered with jasmine, all in white flower, and smelling like a bottle of the most expensive perfume that is ever given for a birthday present; and when they had seen the lawn, all green and smooth, and quite different from the brown grass in the gardens at Camden Town; and when they found the stable with a loft over it and some old hay still left, they were almost certain; and when Robert had found the broken swing and tumbled out of it and got a bump on his head the size of an egg, and Cyril had nipped his finger in the door of a hutch that seemed made to keep rabbits in, if you ever had any, they had no longer any doubts whatever.

  Cyril had nipped his finger in the door of a hutch The best part of it all was that there were no rules about not going to places and not doing things. In London almost everything is labelled “You mustn’t touch,” and though the label is invisible it’s just as bad, because you know it’s there, or if you don’t you very soon get told.

  The White House was on the edge of a hill, with a wood behind it — and the chalk-quarry on one side and the gravel-pit on the other. Down at the bottom of the hill was a level plain, with queer-shaped white buildings where people burnt lime, and a big red brewery and other houses; and when the big chimneys were smoking and the sun was setting, the valley looked as if it was filled with golden mist, and the limekilns and hop-drying houses glimmered and glittered till they were like an enchanted city out of the Arabian Nights.

  Now that I have begun to tell you about the place, I feel that I could go on and make this into a most interesting story about all the ordinary things that the children did, — just the kind of things you do yourself, you know, and you would believe every word of it; and when I told about the children’s being tiresome, as you are sometimes, your aunts would perhaps write in the margin of the story with a pencil, “How true!” or “How like life!” and you would see it and would very likely be annoyed. So I will only tell you the really astonishing things that happened, and you may leave the book about quite safely, for no aunts and uncles either are likely to write “How true!” on the edge of the story. Grown-up people find it very difficult to believe really wonderful things, unless they have what they call proof. But children will believe almost anything, and grown-ups know this. That is why they tell you that the earth is round like an orange, when you can see perfectly well that it is flat and lumpy; and why they say that the earth goes round the sun, when you can see for yourself any day that the sun gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night like a good sun as it is, and the earth knows its place, and lies as still as a mouse. Yet I daresay you believe all that about the earth and the sun, and if so you will find it quite easy to believe that before Anthea and Cyril and the others had been a week in the country they had found a fairy. At least they called it that, because that was what it called itself; and of course it knew best, but it was not at all like any fairy you ever saw or heard of or read about.

  It was at the gravel-pits. Father had to go away suddenly on business, and mother had gone away to stay with Granny, who was not very well. They both went in a great hurry, and when they were gone the house seemed dreadfully quiet and empty, and the children wandered from one room to another and looked at the bits of paper and string on the floors left over from the packing, and not yet cleared up, and wished they had something to do. It was Cyril who said —

  “I say, let’s take our spades and dig in the gravel-pits. We can pretend it’s seaside.”

  “Father says it was once,” Anthea said; “he says there are shells there thousands of years old.”

  So they went. Of course they had been to the edge of the gravel-pit and looked over, but they had not gone down into it for fear father should say they mustn’t play there, and it was the same with the chalk-quarry. The gravel-pit is not really dangerous if you don’t try to climb down the edges, but go the slow safe way round by the road, as if you were a cart.

  Each of the children carried its own spade, and took it in turns to carry the Lamb. He was the baby, and they called him that because “Baa” was the first thing he ever said. They called Anthea “Panther,” which seems silly when you read it, but when you say it it sounds a little like her name.

  The gravel-pit is very large and wide, with grass growing round the edges at the top, and dry stringy wildflowers, purple and yellow. It is like a giant’s washbowl. And there are mounds of gravel, and holes in the sides of the bowl where gravel has been taken out, and high up in the steep sides there are the little holes that are the little front doors of the little bank-martins’ little houses.

  The children built a castle, of course, but castle-building is rather poor fun when you have no hope of the swish
ing tide ever coming in to fill up the moat and wash away the drawbridge, and, at the happy last, to wet everybody up to the waist at least.

  Cyril wanted to dig out a cave to play smugglers in, but the others thought it might bury them alive, so it ended in all spades going to work to dig a hole through the castle to Australia. These children, you see, believed that the world was round, and that on the other side the little Australian boys and girls were really walking wrong way up, like flies on the ceiling, with their heads hanging down into the air.

  The children dug and they dug and they dug, and their hands got sandy and hot and red, and their faces got damp and shiny. The Lamb had tried to eat the sand, and had cried so hard when he found that it was not, as he had supposed, brown sugar, that he was now tired out, and was lying asleep in a warm fat bunch in the middle of the half-finished castle. This left his brothers and sisters free to work really hard, and the hole that was to come out in Australia soon grew so deep that Jane, who was called Pussy for short, begged the others to stop.

  “Suppose the bottom of the hole gave way suddenly,” said she, “and you tumbled out among the little Australians, all the sand would get in their eyes.”

  “Yes,” said Robert; “and they would hate us, and throw stones at us, and not let us see the kangaroos, or opossums, or bluegums, or Emu Brand birds, or anything.”

  Cyril and Anthea knew that Australia was not quite so near as all that, but they agreed to stop using the spades and to go on with their hands. This was quite easy, because the sand at the bottom of the hole was very soft and fine and dry, like sea-sand. And there were little shells in it.

  “Fancy it having been wet sea here once, all sloppy and shiny,” said Jane, “with fishes and conger-eels and coral and mermaids.”