Five Children and It

by E. Nesbit

  CHAPTER III

  BEING WANTED

  The morning after the children had been the possessors of boundlesswealth, and had been unable to buy anything really useful or enjoyablewith it, except two pairs of cotton gloves, twelve penny buns, animitation crocodile-skin purse, and a ride in a pony-cart, they awokewithout any of the enthusiastic happiness which they had felt on theprevious day when they remembered how they had had the luck to find aPsammead, or Sand-fairy, and to receive its promise to grant them a newwish every day. For now they had had two wishes, Beauty and Wealth, andneither had exactly made them happy. But the happening of strangethings, even if they are not completely pleasant things, is more amusingthan those times when nothing happens but meals, and they are not alwayscompletely pleasant, especially on the days when it is cold mutton orhash.

  There was no chance of talking things over before breakfast, becauseeveryone overslept itself, as it happened, and it needed a vigorous anddetermined struggle to get dressed so as to be only ten minutes late forbreakfast. During this meal some efforts were made to deal with thequestion of the Psammead in an impartial spirit, but it is verydifficult to discuss anything thoroughly and at the same time to attendfaithfully to your baby brother's breakfast needs. The Baby wasparticularly lively that morning. He not only wriggled his body throughthe bar of his high chair, and hung by his head, choking and purple, buthe seized a tablespoon with desperate suddenness, hit Cyril heavily onthe head with it, and then cried because it was taken away from him. Heput his fat fist in his bread-and-milk, and demanded "nam," which wasonly allowed for tea. He sang, he put his feet on the table--heclamoured to "go walky." The conversation was something like this--

  "Look here--about that Sand-fairy---- Look out!--he'll have the milkover."

  Milk removed to a safe distance.

  "Yes--about that Fairy---- No, Lamb dear, give Panther the narky poon."

  Then Cyril tried. "Nothing we've had yet has turned out---- He nearlyhad the mustard that time!"

  "I wonder whether we'd better wish---- Hullo!--you've done it now, myboy!" And in a flash of glass and pink baby-paws, the bowl of goldencarp in the middle of the table rolled on its side and poured a flood ofmixed water and gold-fish into the Baby's lap and into the laps of theothers.

  Everyone was almost as much upset as the gold-fish; the Lamb onlyremaining calm. When the pool on the floor had been mopped up, and theleaping, gasping gold-fish had been collected and put back in the water,the Baby was taken away to be entirely re-dressed by Martha, and most ofthe others had to change completely. The pinafores and jackets that hadbeen bathed in gold-fish-and-water were hung out to dry, and then itturned out that Jane must either mend the dress she had torn the daybefore or appear all day in her best petticoat. It was white and softand frilly, and trimmed with lace, and very, very pretty, quite aspretty as a frock, if not more so. Only it was _not_ a frock, andMartha's word was law. She wouldn't let Jane wear her best frock, andshe refused to listen for a moment to Robert's suggestion that Janeshould wear her best petticoat and call it a dress.

  "It's not respectable," she said. And when people say that, it's no useanyone's saying anything. You'll find this out for yourselves some day.

  So there was nothing for it but for Jane to mend her frock. The hole hadbeen torn the day before when she happened to tumble down in the HighStreet of Rochester, just where a water-cart had passed on its silveryway. She had grazed her knee, and her stocking was much more thangrazed, and her dress was cut by the same stone which had attended tothe knee and the stocking. Of course the others were not such sneaks asto abandon a comrade in misfortune, so they all sat on the grass-plotround the sun-dial, and Jane darned away for dear life. The Lamb wasstill in the hands of Martha having its clothes changed, so conversationwas possible.

  Anthea and Robert timidly tried to conceal their inmost thought, whichwas that the Psammead was not to be trusted; but Cyril said--

  "Speak out--say what you've got to say--I hate hinting, and 'don'tknow,' and sneakish ways like that."

  So then Robert said, as in honour bound, "Sneak yourself--Anthea and meweren't so gold-fishy as you two were, so we got changed quicker, andwe've had time to think it over, and if you ask me"--

  "I didn't ask you," said Jane, biting off a needleful of thread as shehad always been strictly forbidden to do. (Perhaps you don't know thatif you bite off ends of cotton and swallow them they wind tight roundyour heart and kill you? My nurse told me this, and she told me alsoabout the earth going round the sun. Now what is one to believe--whatwith nurses and science?)

  "I don't care who asks or who doesn't," said Robert, "but Anthea and Ithink the Sammyadd is a spiteful brute. If it can give us our wishes Isuppose it can give itself its own, and I feel almost sure it wishesevery time that our wishes shan't do us any good. Let's let the tiresomebeast alone, and just go and have a jolly good game of forts, on ourown, in the chalk-pit."

  (You will remember that the happily-situated house where these childrenwere spending their holidays lay between a chalk-quarry and agravel-pit.)

  Cyril and Jane were more hopeful--they generally were.

  "I don't think the Sammyadd does it on purpose," Cyril said; "and, afterall, it _was_ silly to wish for boundless wealth. Fifty pounds intwo-shilling pieces would have been much more sensible. And wishing tobe beautiful as the day was simply donkeyish. I don't want to bedisagreeable, but it _was_. We must try to find a really useful wish,and wish it."

  Jane dropped her work and said--

  "I think so too, it's too silly to have a chance like this and not useit. I never heard of anyone else outside a book who had such a chance;there must be simply heaps of things we could wish for that wouldn'tturn out Dead Sea fish, like these two things have. Do let's think hardand wish something nice, so that we can have a real jolly day--whatthere is left of it."

  Jane darned away again like mad, for time was indeed getting on, andeveryone began to talk at once. If you had been there you could notpossibly have made head or tail of the talk, but these children wereused to talking "by fours," as soldiers march, and each of them couldsay what it had to say quite comfortably, and listen to the agreeablesound of its own voice, and at the same time have three-quarters of twosharp ears to spare for listening to what the others said. That is aneasy example in multiplication of vulgar fractions, but, as I daresayyou can't do even that, I won't ask you to tell me whether 3/4 x 2 =1-1/2, but I will ask you to believe me that this was the amount of eareach child was able to lend to the others. Lending ears was common inRoman times, as we learn from Shakespeare; but I fear I am getting tooinstructive.

  When the frock was darned, the start for the gravel-pit was delayed byMartha's insisting on everybody's washing its hands--which was nonsense,because nobody had been doing anything at all, except Jane, and how canyou get dirty doing nothing? That is a difficult question, and I cannotanswer it on paper. In real life I could very soon show you--or you me,which is much more likely.

  During the conversation in which the six ears were lent (there were fourchildren, so _that_ sum comes right), it had been decided that fiftypounds in two-shilling pieces was the right wish to have. And the luckychildren, who could have anything in the wide world by just wishing forit, hurriedly started for the gravel-pit to express their wishes to thePsammead. Martha caught them at the gate, and insisted on their takingthe Baby with them.

  The lucky children ... hurriedly started for the gravelpit]

  "Not want him indeed! Why, everybody 'ud want him, a duck! with alltheir hearts they would; and you know you promised your ma to take himout every blessed day," said Martha.

  "I know we did," said Robert in gloom, "but I wish the Lamb wasn't quiteso young and small. It would be much better fun taking him out."

  "He'll mend of his youngness with time," said Martha; "and as forsmallness, I don't think you'd fancy carrying of him any more, howeverbig he was. Besides he can walk a bit, bless his precious fat legs, aducky! He feels the benefit of the new-l
aid air, so he does, a pet!"

  With this and a kiss, she plumped the Lamb into Anthea's arms, and wentback to make new pinafores on the sewing-machine. She was a rapidperformer on this instrument.

  The Lamb laughed with pleasure, and said, "Walky wif Panty," and rode onRobert's back with yells of joy, and tried to feed Jane with stones,and altogether made himself so agreeable that nobody could long be sorrythat he was of the party.

  The enthusiastic Jane even suggested that they should devote a week'swishes to assuring the Baby's future, by asking such gifts for him asthe good fairies give to Infant Princes in proper fairy-tales, butAnthea soberly reminded her that as the Sand-fairy's wishes only lastedtill sunset they could not ensure any benefit to the Baby's later years;and Jane owned that it would be better to wish for fifty pounds intwo-shilling pieces, and buy the Lamb a three-pound fifteenrocking-horse, like those in the big stores, with a part of the money.

  It was settled that, as soon as they had wished for the money and gotit, they would get Mr. Crispin to drive them into Rochester again,taking Martha with them if they could not get out of taking her. Andthey would make a list of things they really wanted before they started.Full of high hopes and excellent resolutions, they went round the safeslow cart-road to the gravel-pits, and as they went in between themounds of gravel a sudden thought came to them, and would have turnedtheir ruddy cheeks pale if they had been children in a book. Being reallive children, it only made them stop and look at each other with ratherblank and silly expressions. For now they remembered that yesterday,when they had asked the Psammead for boundless wealth, and it wasgetting ready to fill the quarry with the minted gold of brightguineas--millions of them--it had told the children to run along outsidethe quarry for fear they should be buried alive in the heavy splendidtreasure. And they had run. And so it happened that they had not hadtime to mark the spot where the Psammead was, with a ring of stones, asbefore. And it was this thought that put such silly expressions on theirfaces.

  "Never mind," said the hopeful Jane, "we'll soon find him."

  But this, though easily said, was hard in the doing. They looked andthey looked, and, though they found their seaside spades, nowhere couldthey find the Sand-fairy.

  At last they had to sit down and rest--not at all because they wereweary or disheartened, of course, but because the Lamb insisted on beingput down, and you cannot look very carefully after anything you may havehappened to lose in the sand if you have an active baby to look after atthe same time. Get someone to drop your best knife in the sand next timeyou go to the seashore and then take your baby brother with you when yougo to look for it, and you will see that I am right.

  The Lamb, as Martha had said, was feeling the benefit of the countryair, and he was as frisky as a sandhopper. The elder ones longed to goon talking about the new wishes they would have when (or if) they foundthe Psammead again. But the Lamb wished to enjoy himself.

  He watched his opportunity and threw a handful of sand into Anthea'sface, and then suddenly burrowed his own head in the sand and waved hisfat legs in the air. Then of course the sand got into his eyes, as ithad into Anthea's, and he howled.

  The thoughtful Robert had brought one solid brown bottle of ginger-beerwith him, relying on a thirst that had never yet failed him. This had tobe uncorked hurriedly--it was the only wet thing within reach, and itwas necessary to wash the sand out of the Lamb's eyes somehow. Of coursethe ginger hurt horribly, and he howled more than ever. And, amid hisanguish of kicking, the bottle was upset and the beautiful ginger-beerfrothed out into the sand and was lost for ever.

  It was then that Robert, usually a very patient brother, so far forgothimself as to say--

  "Anybody would want him, indeed! Only they don't; Martha doesn't, notreally, or she'd jolly well keep him with her. He's a little nuisance,that's what he is. It's too bad. I only wish everybody _did_ want himwith all their hearts; we might get some peace in our lives."

  The Lamb stopped howling now, because Jane had suddenly remembered thatthere is only one safe way of taking things out of little children'seyes, and that is with your own soft wet tongue. It is quite easy if youlove the Baby as much as you ought to do.

  Then there was a little silence. Robert was not proud of himself forhaving been so cross, and the others were not proud of him either. Youoften notice that sort of silence when someone has said something itought not to--and everyone else holds its tongue and waits for the onewho oughtn't to have said it is sorry.

  The silence was broken by a sigh--a breath suddenly let out. Thechildren's heads turned as if there had been a string tied to each nose,and somebody had pulled all the strings at once.

  And everyone saw the Sand-fairy sitting quite close to them, with theexpression which it used as a smile on its hairy face.

  "Good-morning," it said; "I did that quite easily! Everyone wants himnow."

  "It doesn't matter," said Robert sulkily, because he knew he had beenbehaving rather like a pig. "No matter who wants him--there's no onehere to--anyhow."

  "Ingratitude," said the Psammead, "is a dreadful vice."

  "We're not ungrateful," Jane made haste to say, "but we didn't _really_want that wish. Robert only just said it. Can't you take it back andgive us a new one?"

  "No--I can't," the Sand-fairy said shortly; "chopping and changing--it'snot business. You ought to be careful what you _do_ wish. There was alittle boy once, he'd wished for a Plesiosaurus instead of anIchthyosaurus, because he was too lazy to remember the easy names ofeveryday things, and his father had been very vexed with him, and hadmade him go to bed before tea-time, and wouldn't let him go out in thenice flint boat along with the other children,--it was the annualschool-treat next day,--and he came and flung himself down near me onthe morning of the treat, and he kicked his little prehistoric legsabout and said he wished he was dead. And of course then he was."

  "How awful! said the children all together.

  "Only till sunset, of course," the Psammead said; "still it was quiteenough for his father and mother. And he caught it when he woke up--Itell you. He didn't turn to stone--I forget why--but there must havebeen some reason. They didn't know being dead is only being asleep, andyou're bound to wake up somewhere or other, either where you go to sleepor in some better place. You may be sure he caught it, giving them sucha turn. Why, he wasn't allowed to taste Megatherium for a month afterthat. Nothing but oysters and periwinkles, and common things like that."

  All the children were quite crushed by this terrible tale. They lookedat the Psammead in horror. Suddenly the Lamb perceived that somethingbrown and furry was near him.

  "Poof, poof, poofy," he said, and made a grab.

  "Poof, poof, poofy," he said, and made a grab]

  "It's not a pussy," Anthea was beginning, when the Sand-fairy leapedback.

  "Oh, my left whisker!" it said; "don't let him touch me. He's wet."

  Its fur stood on end with horror--and indeed a good deal of theginger-beer had been spilt on the blue smock of the Lamb.

  The Psammead dug with its hands and feet, and vanished in an instant anda whirl of sand.

  The children marked the spot with a ring of stones.

  "We may as well get along home," said Robert. "I'll say I'm sorry; butanyway if it's no good it's no harm, and we know where the sandy thingis for to-morrow."

  The others were noble. No one reproached Robert at all. Cyril picked upthe Lamb, who was now quite himself again, and off they went by the safecart-road.

  The cart-road from the gravel-pits joins the road almost directly.

  At the gate into the road the party stopped to shift the Lamb fromCyril's back to Robert's. And as they paused a very smart open carriagecame in sight, with a coachman and a groom on the box, and inside thecarriage a lady--very grand indeed, with a dress all white lace andred ribbons and a parasol all red and white--and a white fluffy dog onher lap with a red ribbon round its neck. She looked at the children,and particularly at the Baby, and she smiled at him. The children wereu
sed to this, for the Lamb was, as all the servants said, a "very takingchild." So they waved their hands politely to the lady and expected herto drive on. But she did not. Instead she made the coachman stop. Andshe beckoned to Cyril, and when he went up to the carriage she said--

  "What a dear darling duck of a baby! Oh, I _should_ so like to adopt it!Do you think its mother would mind?"

  "She'd mind very much indeed," said Anthea shortly.

  "Oh, but I should bring it up in luxury, you know. I am Lady Chittenden.You must have seen my photograph in the illustrated papers. They call mea Beauty, you know, but of course that's all nonsense. Anyway"--

  She opened the carriage door and jumped out. She had the wonderfullestred high-heeled shoes with silver buckles. "Let me hold him a minute,"she said. And she took the Lamb and held him very awkwardly, as if shewas not used to babies.

  Then suddenly she jumped into the carriage with the Lamb in her arms andslammed the door, and said, "Drive on!"

  The Lamb roared, the little white dog barked, and the coachmanhesitated.

  "Drive on, I tell you!" cried the lady; and the coachman did, for, as hesaid afterwards, it was as much as his place was worth not to.

  The four children looked at each other, and then with one accord theyrushed after the carriage and held on behind. Down the dusty road wentthe smart carriage, and after it, at double-quick time, ran thetwinkling legs of the Lamb's brothers and sisters.

  At double-quick time, ran the twinkling legs of theLamb's brothers and sisters]

  The Lamb howled louder and louder, but presently his howls changed byslow degrees to hiccupy gurgles, and then all was still, and they knewhe had gone to sleep.

  The carriage went on, and the eight feet that twinkled through thedust were growing quite stiff and tired before the carriage stopped atthe lodge of a grand park. The children crouched down behind thecarriage, and the lady got out. She looked at the Baby as it lay on thecarriage seat, and hesitated.

  "The darling--I won't disturb it," she said, and went into the lodge totalk to the woman there about a setting of eggs that had not turned outwell.

  The coachman and footman sprang from the box and bent over the sleepingLamb.

  "Fine boy--wish he was mine," said the coachman.

  "He wouldn't favour _you_ much," said the groom sourly; "too 'andsome."

  The coachman pretended not to hear. He said--

  "Wonder at her now--I do really! Hates kids. Got none of her own, andcan't abide other folkses'."

  The children, crouched in the white dust under the carriage, exchangeduncomfortable glances.

  "Tell you what," the coachman went on firmly, "blowed if I don't hidethe little nipper in the hedge and tell her his brothers took 'im! ThenI'll come back for him afterwards."

  "No, you don't," said the footman. "I've took to that kid so as neverwas. If anyone's to have him, it's me--so there!"

  "Stop your talk!" the coachman rejoined. "You don't want no kids, and,if you did, one kid's the same as another to you. But I'm a married manand a judge of breed. I knows a firstrate yearling when I sees him. I'ma-goin' to 'ave him, an' least said soonest mended."

  "I should 'a' thought," said the footman sneeringly, "you'd a'mostenough. What with Alfred, an' Albert, an' Louise, an' Victor Stanley,and Helena Beatrice, and another"--

  The coachman hit the footman in the chin--the footman hit the coachmanin the waist-coat--the next minute the two were fighting here and there,in and out, up and down, and all over everywhere, and the little dogjumped on the box of the carriage and began barking like mad.

  The next minute the two were fighting]

  Cyril, still crouching in the dust, waddled on bent legs to the side ofthe carriage farthest from the battlefield. He unfastened the door ofthe carriage--the two men were far too much occupied with their quarrelto notice anything--took the Lamb in his arms, and, still stooping,carried the sleeping baby a dozen yards along the road to where a stileled into a wood. The others followed, and there among the hazels andyoung oaks and sweet chestnuts, covered by high strong-scentedbrake-fern, they all lay hidden till the angry voices of the men werehushed at the angry voice of the red-and-white lady, and, after a longand anxious search, the carriage at last drove away.

  "My only hat!" said Cyril, drawing a deep breath as the sound of wheelsat last died away. "Everyone _does_ want him now--and no mistake! ThatSammyadd has done us again! Tricky brute! For any sake, let's get thekid safe home."

  So they peeped out, and finding on the right hand only lonely whiteroad, and nothing but lonely white road on the left, they took courage,and the road, Anthea carrying the sleeping Lamb.

  Adventures dogged their footsteps. A boy with a bundle of faggots on hisback dropped his bundle by the roadside and asked to look at the Baby,and then offered to carry him; but Anthea was not to be caught that waytwice. They all walked on, but the boy followed, and Cyril and Robertcouldn't make him go away till they had more than once invited him tosmell their fists. Afterwards a little girl in a blue-and-white checkedpinafore actually followed them for a quarter of a mile crying for "theprecious Baby," and then she was only got rid of by threats of tying herto a tree in the wood with all their pocket handkerchiefs. "So thatbears can come and eat you as soon as it gets dark," said Cyrilseverely. Then she went off crying. It presently seemed wise, to thebrothers and sisters of the Baby who was wanted by everyone, to hide inthe hedge whenever they saw anyone coming, and thus they managed toprevent the Lamb from arousing the inconvenient affection of a milkman,a stone-breaker, and a man who drove a cart with a paraffin barrel atthe back of it. They were nearly home when the worst thing of allhappened. Turning a corner suddenly they came upon two vans, a tent, anda company of gipsies encamped by the side of the road. The vans werehung all round with wicker chairs and cradles, and flower-stands andfeather brushes. A lot of ragged children were industriously makingdust-pies in the road, two men lay on the grass smoking, and three womenwere doing the family washing in an old red watering-can with the topbroken off.

  In a moment every gipsy, men, women, and children, surrounded Anthea andthe Baby.

  "Let me hold him, little lady," said one of the gipsy women, who had amahogany-coloured face and dust-coloured hair; "I won't hurt a hair ofhis head, the little picture!"

  "I'd rather not," said Anthea.

  "Let _me_ have him," said the other woman, whose face was also of thehue of mahogany, and her hair jet-black, in greasy curls. "I've nineteenof my own, so I have"--

  "No," said Anthea bravely, but her heart beat so that it nearly chokedher.

  Then one of the men pushed forward.

  "Swelp me if it ain't!" he cried, "my own long-lost cheild! Have he astrawberry mark on his left ear? No? Then he's my own babby, stolen fromme in hinnocent hinfancy. 'And 'im over--and we'll not 'ave the law onyer this time."

  He snatched the Baby from Anthea, who turned scarlet and burst intotears of pure rage.

  He snatched the baby from Anthea]

  The others were standing quite still; this was much the most terriblething that had ever happened to them. Even being taken up by the policein Rochester was nothing to this. Cyril was quite white, and his handstrembled a little, but he made a sign to the others to shut up. He wassilent a minute, thinking hard. Then he said--

  "We don't want to keep him if he's yours. But you see he's used to us.You shall have him if you want him"--

  "No, no!" cried Anthea,--and Cyril glared at her.

  "Of course we want him," said the women, trying to get the Baby out ofthe man's arms. The Lamb howled loudly.

  "Oh, he's hurt!" shrieked Anthea; and Cyril, in a savage undertone, badeher "stop it!"

  "You trust to me," he whispered. "Look here," he went on, "he's awfullytiresome with people he doesn't know very well. Suppose we stay here abit till he gets used to you, and then when it's bedtime I give you myword of honour we'll go away and let you keep him if you want to. Andthen when we're gone you can decide which of you is to have him, as
youall want him so much."

  "That's fair enough," said the man who was holding the Baby, trying toloosen the red neckerchief which the Lamb had caught hold of and drawnround his mahogany throat so tight that he could hardly breathe. Thegipsies whispered together, and Cyril took the chance to whisper too. Hesaid, "Sunset! we'll get away then."

  And then his brothers and sisters were filled with wonder and admirationat his having been so clever as to remember this.

  "Oh, do let him come to us!" said Jane. "See, we'll sit down here andtake care of him for you till he gets used to you."

  "What about dinner?" said Robert suddenly. The others looked at him withscorn. "Fancy bothering about your beastly dinner when your br--I meanwhen the Baby"--Jane whispered hotly. Robert carefully winked at her andwent on--

  "You won't mind my just running home to get our dinner?" he said to thegipsy; "I can bring it out here in a basket."

  His brothers and sisters felt themselves very noble and despised him.They did not know his thoughtful secret intention. But the gipsies didin a minute.

  "Oh yes!" they said; "and then fetch the police with a pack of liesabout it being your baby instead of ours! D'jever catch a weaselasleep?" they asked.

  "If you're hungry you can pick a bit along of us," said the light-hairedgipsy-woman, not unkindly. "Here Levi, that blessed kid'll howl all hisbuttons off. Give him to the little lady, and let's see if they can'tget him used to us a bit."

  So the Lamb was handed back; but the gipsies crowded so closely that hecould not possibly stop howling. Then the man with the red handkerchiefsaid--

  "Here, Pharaoh, make up the fire; and you girls see to the pot. Give thekid a chanst." So the gipsies, very much against their will, went off totheir work, and the children and the Lamb were left sitting on thegrass.

  "He'll be all right at sunset," Jane whispered. "But, oh, it is awful!Suppose they are frightfully angry when they come to their senses! Theymight beat us, or leave us tied to trees, or something."

  "No, they won't," Anthea said ("Oh, my Lamb, don't cry any more, it'sall right, Panty's got oo, duckie"); "they aren't unkind people, or theywouldn't be going to give us any dinner."

  "Dinner?" said Robert; "I won't touch their nasty dinner. It would chokeme!"

  The others thought so too then. But when the dinner was ready--it turnedout to be supper, and happened between four and five--they were all gladenough to take what they could get. It was boiled rabbit, with onions,and some bird rather like a chicken, but stringier about its legs andwith a stronger taste. The Lamb had bread soaked in hot water and brownsugar sprinkled on the top. He liked this very much, and consented tolet the two gipsy women feed him with it, as he sat on Anthea's lap. Allthat long hot afternoon Robert and Cyril and Anthea and Jane had to keepthe Lamb amused and happy, while the gipsies looked eagerly on. By thetime the shadows grew long and black across the meadows he had really"taken to" the woman with the light hair, and even consented to kisshis hand to the children, and to stand up and bow, with his hand on hischest--"like a gentleman"--to the two men. The whole gipsy camp was inraptures with him, and his brothers and sisters could not help takingsome pleasure in showing off his accomplishments to an audience sointerested and enthusiastic. But they longed for sunset.

  He consented to let the two gypsy women feed him]

  "We're getting into the habit of longing for sunset," Cyril whispered."How I do wish we could wish something really sensible, that would be ofsome use, so that we should be quite sorry when sunset came."

  The shadows got longer and longer, and at last there were no separateshadows any more, but one soft glowing shadow over everything; for thesun was out of sight--behind the hill--but he had not really set yet.The people who make the laws about lighting bicycle lamps are the peoplewho decide when the sun sets; she has to do it too, to the minute, orthey would know the reason why!

  But the gipsies were getting impatient.

  "Now, young uns," the red-handkerchief man said, "it's time you werelaying of your heads on your pillowses--so it is! The kid's all rightand friendly with us now--so you just hand him over and get home likeyou said."

  The women and children came crowding round the Lamb, arms were held out,fingers snapped invitingly, friendly faces beaming with admiring smiles;but all failed to tempt the loyal Lamb. He clung with arms and legs toJane, who happened to be holding him, and uttered the gloomiest roar ofthe whole day.

  "It's no good," the woman said, "hand the little poppet over, miss.We'll soon quiet him."

  And still the sun would not set.

  "Tell her about how to put him to bed," whispered Cyril; "anything togain time--and be ready to bolt when the sun really does make up itssilly old mind to set."

  "Yes, I'll hand him over in just one minute," Anthea began, talking veryfast,--"but do let me just tell you he has a warm bath every night andcold in the morning, and he has a crockery rabbit to go into the warmbath with him, and little Samuel saying his prayers in white china on ared cushion for the cold bath; and he hates you to wash his ears, butyou must; and if you let the soap get into his eyes, the Lamb"--

  "Lamb kyes," said he--he had stopped roaring to listen.

  The woman laughed. "As if I hadn't never bath'd a babby!" she said."Come--give us a hold of him. Come to 'Melia, my precious"--

  "G'way, ugsie!" replied the Lamb at once.

  "Yes, but," Anthea went on, "about his meals; you really _must_ let metell you he has an apple or banana every morning, and bread and milk forbreakfast, and an egg for his tea sometimes, and"--

  "I've brought up ten," said the black ringleted woman, "besides theothers. Come, miss, 'and 'im over--I can't bear it no longer. I justmust give him a hug."

  "We ain't settled yet whose he's to be, Esther," said one of the men.

  "It won't be you, Esther, with seven of 'em at your tail a'ready."

  "I ain't so sure of that," said Esther's husband.

  "And ain't I nobody, to have a say neither?" said the husband of 'Melia.

  Zillah, the girl, said, "An' me? I'm a single girl--and no one but 'imto look after--I ought to have him."

  "Hold your tongue!"

  "Shut your mouth!"

  "Don't you show me no more of your imperence!"

  Everyone was getting very angry. The dark gipsy faces were frowning andanxious-looking. Suddenly a change swept over them, as if some invisiblesponge had wiped away these cross and anxious expressions, and left onlya blank.

  The children saw that the sun really _had_ set. But they were afraid tomove. And the gipsies were feeling so muddled because of the invisiblesponge that had washed all the feelings of the last few hours out oftheir hearts, that they could not say a word.

  The children hardly dared to breathe. Suppose the gipsies, when theyrecovered speech, should be furious to think how silly they had been allday?

  It was an awkward moment. Suddenly Anthea, greatly daring, held out theLamb to the red-handkerchief man.

  "Here he is!" she said.

  The man drew back. "I shouldn't like to deprive you, miss," he saidhoarsely.

  "Anyone who likes can have my share of him," said the other man.

  "After all, I've got enough of my own," said Esther.

  "He's a nice little chap, though," said Amelia. She was the only one whonow looked affectionately at the whimpering Lamb.

  Zillah said, "If I don't think I must have had a touch of the sun. _I_don't want him."

  "Then shall we take him away?" said Anthea.

  "Well--suppose you do," said Pharaoh heartily, "and we'll say no moreabout it!"

  And with great haste all the gipsies began to be busy about their tentsfor the night. All but Amelia. She went with the children as far as thebend in the road--and there she said--

  "Let me give him a kiss, miss,--I don't know what made us go for tobehave so silly. Us gipsies don't steal babies, whatever they may tellyou when you're naughty. We've enough of our own, mostly. But I've lostall mine."

  She le
aned towards the Lamb; and he, looking in her eyes, unexpectedlyput up a grubby soft paw and stroked her face.

  "Poor, poor!" said the Lamb. And he let the gipsy woman kiss him, and,what is more, he kissed her brown cheek in return--a very nice kiss, asall his kisses are, and not a wet one like some babies give. The gipsywoman moved her finger about on his forehead as if she had been writingsomething there, and the same with his chest and his hands and hisfeet; then she said--

  "May he be brave, and have the strong head to think with, and the strongheart to love with, and the strong arms to work with, and the strongfeet to travel with, and always come safe home to his own." Then shesaid something in a strange language no one could understand, andsuddenly added--

  "Well, I must be saying 'so long'--and glad to have made youracquaintance." And she turned and went back to her home--the tent by thegrassy roadside.

  The children looked after her till she was out of sight. Then Robertsaid, "How silly of her! Even sunset didn't put _her_ right. What rotshe talked!"

  "Well," said Cyril, "if you ask me, I think it was rather decent ofher"--

  "Decent?" said Anthea; "it was very nice indeed of her. I think she's adear"--

  "She's just too frightfully nice for anything," said Jane.

  And they went home--very late for tea and unspeakably late for dinner.Martha scolded, of course. But the Lamb was safe.

  "I say--it turned out we wanted the Lamb as much as anyone," saidRobert, later.

  "Of course."

  "But do you feel different about it now the sun's set?"

  "_No_," said all the others together.

  "Then it's lasted over sunset with us."

  "No, it hasn't," Cyril explained. "The wish didn't do anything to _us_.We always wanted him with all our hearts when we were our proper selves,only we were all pigs this morning; especially you, Robert." Robert borethis much with a strange calm.

  "I certainly _thought_ I didn't want him this morning," said he."Perhaps I _was_ a pig. But everything looked so different when wethought we were going to lose him."

  And that, my dear children, is the moral of this chapter. I did not meanit to have a moral, but morals are nasty forward beings, and will keepputting in their oars where they are not wanted. And since the moral hascrept in, quite against my wishes, you might as well think of it nexttime you feel piggy yourself and want to get rid of any of your brothersand sisters. I hope this doesn't often happen, but I daresay it hashappened sometimes, even to you!