Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  “And masts of ships and wrecked Spanish treasure. I wish we could find a gold doubloon, or something,” Cyril said.

  “How did the sea get carried away?” Robert asked.

  “Not in a pail, silly,” said his brother.

  “Father says the earth got too hot underneath, as you do in bed sometimes, so it just hunched up its shoulders, and the sea had to slip off, like the blankets do us, and the shoulder was left sticking out, and turned into dry land. Let’s go and look for shells; I think that little cave looks likely, and I see something sticking out there like a bit of wrecked ship’s anchor, and it’s beastly hot in the Australian hole.”

  The others agreed, but Anthea went on digging. She always liked to finish a thing when she had once begun it. She felt it would be a disgrace to leave that hole without getting through to Australia.

  The cave was disappointing, because there were no shells, and the wrecked ship’s anchor turned out to be only the broken end of a pick-axe handle, and the cave party were just making up their minds that sand makes you thirstier when it is not by the seaside, and someone had suggested that they all go home for lemonade, when Anthea suddenly screamed —

  “Cyril! Come here! Oh, come quick — It’s alive! It’ll get away! Quick!”

  They all hurried back.

  “It’s a rat, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Robert. “Father says they infest old places — and this must be pretty old if the sea was here thousands of years ago” —

  “Perhaps it is a snake,” said Jane, shuddering.

  “Let’s look,” said Cyril, jumping into the hole. “I’m not afraid of snakes. I like them. If it is a snake I’ll tame it, and it will follow me everywhere, and I’ll let it sleep round my neck at night.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Robert firmly. He shared Cyril’s bedroom. “But you may if it’s a rat.”

  Anthea suddenly screamed, “It’s alive!” “Oh, don’t be silly!” said Anthea; “it’s not a rat, it’s much bigger. And it’s not a snake. It’s got feet; I saw them; and fur! No — not the spade. You’ll hurt it! Dig with your hands.”

  “And let it hurt me instead! That’s so likely, isn’t it?” said Cyril, seizing a spade.

  “Oh, don’t!” said Anthea. “Squirrel, don’t. I — it sounds silly, but it said something. It really and truly did” —

  “What?”

  “It said, ‘You let me alone.’”

  But Cyril merely observed that his sister must have gone off her head, and he and Robert dug with spades while Anthea sat on the edge of the hole, jumping up and down with hotness and anxiety. They dug carefully, and presently everyone could see that there really was something moving in the bottom of the Australian hole.

  Then Anthea cried out, “I’m not afraid. Let me dig,” and fell on her knees and began to scratch like a dog does when he has suddenly remembered where it was that he buried his bone.

  “Oh, I felt fur,” she cried, half laughing and half crying. “I did indeed! I did!” when suddenly a dry husky voice in the sand made them all jump back, and their hearts jumped nearly as fast as they did.

  “Let me alone,” it said. And now everyone heard the voice and looked at the others to see if they had heard it too.

  “But we want to see you,” said Robert bravely.

  “I wish you’d come out,” said Anthea, also taking courage.

  “Oh, well — if that’s your wish,” the voice said, and the sand stirred and spun and scattered, and something brown and furry and fat came rolling out into the hole, and the sand fell off it, and it sat there yawning and rubbing the ends of its eyes with its hands.

  “I believe I must have dropped asleep,” it said, stretching itself.

  The children stood round the hole in a ring, looking at the creature they had found. It was worth looking at. Its eyes were on long horns like a snail’s eyes, and it could move them in and out like telescopes; it had ears like a bat’s ears, and its tubby body was shaped like a spider’s and covered with thick soft fur; its legs and arms were furry too, and it had hands and feet like a monkey’s.

  “What on earth is it?” Jane said. “Shall we take it home?”

  The thing turned its long eyes to look at her, and said —

  “Does she always talk nonsense, or is it only the rubbish on her head that makes her silly?”

  It looked scornfully at Jane’s hat as it spoke.

  “She doesn’t mean to be silly,” Anthea said gently; “we none of us do, whatever you may think! Don’t be frightened; we don’t want to hurt you, you know.”

  “Hurt me!” it said. “Me frightened? Upon my word! Why, you talk as if I were nobody in particular.” All its fur stood out like a cat’s when it is going to fight.

  “Well,” said Anthea, still kindly, “perhaps if we knew who you are in particular we could think of something to say that wouldn’t make you angry. Everything we’ve said so far seems to have done so. Who are you? And don’t get angry! Because really we don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” it said. “Well, I knew the world had changed — but — well, really — Do you mean to tell me seriously you don’t know a Psammead when you see one?”

  “A Sammyadd? That’s Greek to me.”

  “So it is to everyone,” said the creature sharply. “Well, in plain English, then, a Sand-fairy. Don’t you know a Sand-fairy when you see one?”

  It looked so grieved and hurt that Jane hastened to say, “Of course I see you are, now. It’s quite plain now one comes to look at you.”

  “You came to look at me, several sentences ago,” it said crossly, beginning to curl up again in the sand.

  “Oh — don’t go away again! Do talk some more,” Robert cried. “I didn’t know you were a Sand-fairy, but I knew directly I saw you that you were much the wonderfullest thing I’d ever seen.”

  The Sand-fairy seemed a shade less disagreeable after this.

  “It isn’t talking I mind,” it said, “as long as you’re reasonably civil. But I’m not going to make polite conversation for you. If you talk nicely to me, perhaps I’ll answer you, and perhaps I won’t. Now say something.”

  Of course no one could think of anything to say, but at last Robert thought of “How long have you lived here?” and he said it at once.

  “Oh, ages — several thousand years,” replied the Psammead.

  “Tell us about it. Do.”

  “It’s all in books.”

  “You aren’t!” Jane said. “Oh, tell us everything you can about yourself! We don’t know anything about you, and you are so nice.”

  The Sand-fairy smoothed his long rat-like whiskers and smiled between them.

  “Do please tell!” said the children all together.

  It is wonderful how quickly you get used to things, even the most astonishing. Five minutes before, the children had had no more idea than you had that there was such a thing as a Sand-fairy in the world, and now they were talking to it as though they had known it all their lives.

  It drew its eyes in and said —

  “How very sunny it is — quite like old times! Where do you get your Megatheriums from now?”

  “What?” said the children all at once. It is very difficult always to remember that “what” is not polite, especially in moments of surprise or agitation.

  “Are Pterodactyls plentiful now?” the Sand-fairy went on.

  The children were unable to reply.

  “What do you have for breakfast?” the Fairy said impatiently, “and who gives it to you?”

  “Eggs and bacon, and bread and milk, and porridge and things. Mother gives it to us. What are Mega-what’s-its-names and Ptero-what-do-you-call-thems? And does anyone have them for breakfast?”

  “Why, almost everyone had Pterodactyl for breakfast in my time! Pterodactyls were something like crocodiles and something like birds — I believe they were very good grilled. You see, it was like this: of course there were heaps of Sand-fairies then, and in the morning early you went out a
nd hunted for them, and when you’d found one it gave you your wish. People used to send their little boys down to the seashore in the morning before breakfast to get the day’s wishes, and very often the eldest boy in the family would be told to wish for a Megatherium, ready jointed for cooking. It was as big as an elephant, you see, so there was a good deal of meat on it. And if they wanted fish, the Ichthyosaurus was asked for, — he was twenty to forty feet long, so there was plenty of him. And for poultry there was the Plesiosaurus; there were nice pickings on that too. Then the other children could wish for other things. But when people had dinner-parties it was nearly always Megatheriums; and Ichthyosaurus, because his fins were a great delicacy and his tail made soup.”

  “There must have been heaps and heaps of cold meat left over,” said Anthea, who meant to be a good housekeeper some day.

  “Oh no,” said the Psammead, “that would never have done. Why, of course at sunset what was left over turned into stone. You find the stone bones of the Megatherium and things all over the place even now, they tell me.”

  “Who tell you?” asked Cyril; but the Sand-fairy frowned and began to dig very fast with its furry hands.

  “Oh, don’t go!” they all cried; “tell us more about when it was Megatheriums for breakfast! Was the world like this then?”

  It stopped digging.

  “Not a bit,” it said; “it was nearly all sand where I lived, and coal grew on trees, and the periwinkles were as big as tea-trays — you find them now; they’re turned into stone. We Sand-fairies used to live on the seashore, and the children used to come with their little flint-spades and flint-pails and make castles for us to live in. That’s thousands of years ago, but I hear that children still build castles on the sand. It’s difficult to break yourself of a habit.”

  “But why did you stop living in the castles?” asked Robert.

  “It’s a sad story,” said the Psammead gloomily. “It was because they would build moats to the castles, and the nasty wet bubbling sea used to come in, and of course as soon as a Sand-fairy got wet it caught cold, and generally died. And so there got to be fewer and fewer, and, whenever you found a fairy and had a wish, you used to wish for a Megatherium, and eat twice as much as you wanted, because it might be weeks before you got another wish.”

  “And did you get wet?” Robert inquired.

  The Sand-fairy shuddered. “Only once,” it said; “the end of the twelfth hair of my top left whisker — I feel the place still in damp weather. It was only once, but it was quite enough for me. I went away as soon as the sun had dried my poor dear whisker. I scurried away to the back of the beach, and dug myself a house deep in warm dry sand, and there I’ve been ever since. And the sea changed its lodgings afterwards. And now I’m not going to tell you another thing.”

  “Just one more, please,” said the children. “Can you give wishes now?”

  “Of course,” said it; “didn’t I give you yours a few minutes ago? You said, ‘I wish you’d come out,’ and I did.”

  “Oh, please, mayn’t we have another?”

  “Yes, but be quick about it. I’m tired of you.”

  I daresay you have often thought what you would do if you had three wishes given you, and have despised the old man and his wife in the black-pudding story, and felt certain that if you had the chance you could think of three really useful wishes without a moment’s hesitation. These children had often talked this matter over, but, now the chance had suddenly come to them, they could not make up their minds.

  “Quick,” said the Sand-fairy crossly. No one could think of anything, only Anthea did manage to remember a private wish of her own and Jane’s which they had never told the boys. She knew the boys would not care about it — but still it was better than nothing.

  “I wish we were all as beautiful as the day,” she said in a great hurry.

  The children looked at each other, but each could see that the others were not any better-looking than usual. The Psammead pushed out his long eyes, and seemed to be holding its breath and swelling itself out till it was twice as fat and furry as before. Suddenly it let its breath go in a long sigh.

  “I’m really afraid I can’t manage it,” it said apologetically; “I must be out of practice.”

  The children were horribly disappointed.

  “Oh, do try again!” they said.

  “Well,” said the Sand-fairy, “the fact is, I was keeping back a little strength to give the rest of you your wishes with. If you’ll be contented with one wish a day among the lot of you I daresay I can screw myself up to it. Do you agree to that?”

  “Yes, oh yes!” said Jane and Anthea. The boys nodded. They did not believe the Sand-fairy could do it. You can always make girls believe things much easier than you can boys.

  It stretched out its eyes farther than ever, and swelled and swelled and swelled.

  “I do hope it won’t hurt itself,” said Anthea.

  “Or crack its skin,” Robert said anxiously.

  Everyone was very much relieved when the Sand-fairy, after getting so big that it almost filled up the hole in the sand, suddenly let out its breath and went back to its proper size.

  “That’s all right,” it said, panting heavily. “It’ll come easier to-morrow.”

  “Did it hurt much?” said Anthea.

  “Only my poor whisker, thank you,” said he, “but you’re a kind and thoughtful child. Good day.”

  It scratched suddenly and fiercely with its hands and feet, and disappeared in the sand.

  Then the children looked at each other, and each child suddenly found itself alone with three perfect strangers, all radiantly beautiful.

  They stood for some moments in silence. Each thought that its brothers and sisters had wandered off, and that these strange children had stolen up unnoticed while it was watching the swelling form of the Sand-fairy. Anthea spoke first —

  “Excuse me,” she said very politely to Jane, who now had enormous blue eyes and a cloud of russet hair, “but have you seen two little boys and a little girl anywhere about?”

  “I was just going to ask you that,” said Jane. And then Cyril cried —

  “Why, it’s you! I know the hole in your pinafore! You are Jane, aren’t you? And you’re the Panther; I can see your dirty handkerchief that you forgot to change after you’d cut your thumb! The wish has come off, after all. I say, am I as handsome as you are?”

  “If you’re Cyril, I liked you much better as you were before,” said Anthea decidedly. “You look like the picture of the young chorister, with your golden hair; you’ll die young, I shouldn’t wonder. And if that’s Robert, he’s like an Italian organ-grinder. His hair’s all black.”

  “You two girls are like Christmas cards, then — that’s all — silly Christmas cards,” said Robert angrily. “And Jane’s hair is simply carrots.”

  It was indeed of that Venetian tint so much admired by artists.

  “Well, it’s no use finding fault with each other,” said Anthea; “let’s get the Lamb and lug it home to dinner. The servants will admire us most awfully, you’ll see.”

  Baby was just waking up when they got to him, and not one of the children but was relieved to find that he at least was not as beautiful as the day, but just the same as usual.

  “I suppose he’s too young to have wishes naturally,” said Jane. “We shall have to mention him specially next time.”

  Anthea ran forward and held out her arms.

  “Come, then,” she said.

  The Baby looked at her disapprovingly, and put a sandy pink thumb in his mouth. Anthea was his favourite sister.

  “Come, then,” she said.

  “G’way ‘long!” said the Baby.

  “Come to own Pussy,” said Jane.

  “Wants my Panty,” said the Lamb dismally, and his lip trembled.

  “Here, come on, Veteran,” said Robert, “come and have a yidey on Yobby’s back.”

  “Yah, narky narky boy,” howled the Baby, giving way altog
ether. Then the children knew the worst. The Baby did not know them!

  The baby did not know them! They looked at each other in despair, and it was terrible to each, in this dire emergency, to meet only the beautiful eyes of perfect strangers, instead of the merry, friendly, commonplace, twinkling, jolly little eyes of its own brothers and sisters.

  “This is most truly awful,” said Cyril when he had tried to lift up the Lamb, and the Lamb had scratched like a cat and bellowed like a bull! “We’ve got to make friends with him! I can’t carry him home screaming like that. Fancy having to make friends with our own baby! — it’s too silly.”

  That, however, was exactly what they had to do. It took over an hour, and the task was not rendered any easier by the fact that the Lamb was by this time as hungry as a lion and as thirsty as a desert.

  At last he consented to allow these strangers to carry him home by turns, but as he refused to hold on to such new acquaintances he was a dead weight, and most exhausting.

  “Thank goodness, we’re home!” said Jane, staggering through the iron gate to where Martha, the nursemaid, stood at the front door shading her eyes with her hand and looking out anxiously. “Here! Do take Baby!”

  Martha snatched the Baby from her arms.

  “Thanks be, he’s safe back,” she said. “Where are the others, and whoever to goodness gracious are all of you?”

  “We’re us, of course,” said Robert.

  “And who’s Us, when you’re at home?” asked Martha scornfully.

  “I tell you it’s us, only we’re beautiful as the day,” said Cyril. “I’m Cyril, and these are the others, and we’re jolly hungry. Let us in, and don’t be a silly idiot.”

  Martha merely dratted Cyril’s impudence and tried to shut the door in his face.

  “I know we look different, but I’m Anthea, and we’re so tired, and it’s long past dinner-time.”

  “Then go home to your dinners, whoever you are; and if our children put you up to this play-acting you can tell them from me they’ll catch it, so they know what to expect!” With that she did bang the door. Cyril rang the bell violently. No answer. Presently cook put her head out of a bedroom window and said —