You must see for yourselves
that it will be difficult to
follow our adventures unless
you are familiar with the Kensington
Gardens, as they now became known
to David. They are in London,
where the King lives, and you
go to them every day unless you
are looking decidedly flushed,
but no one has ever been in the
whole of the Gardens, because
it is so soon time to turn back.
The reason it is soon time to
turn back is that you sleep from
twelve to one. If your mother
was not so sure that you sleep
from twelve to one, you could
most likely see the whole of
them.
The Gardens are bounded on
one side by a never-ending line
of omnibuses, over which Irene
has such authority that if she
holds up her finger to any one
of them it stops immediately.
She then crosses with you in
safety to the other side. There
are more gates to the Gardens
than one gate, but that is the
one you go in at, and before
you go in you speak to the lady
with the balloons, who sits just
outside. This is as near to being
inside as she may venture, because,
if she were to let go her hold
of the railings for one moment,
the balloons would lift her up,
and she would be flown away.
She sits very squat, for the
balloons are always tugging at
her, and the strain has given
her quite a red face. Once she
was a new one, because the old
one had let go, and David was
very sorry for the old one, but
as she did let go, he wished
he had been there to see.
The Gardens are a tremendous
big place, with millions and
hundreds of trees, and first
you come to the Figs, but you
scorn to loiter there, for the
Figs is the resort of superior
little persons, who are forbidden
to mix with the commonalty, and
is so named, according to legend,
because they dress in full fig.
These dainty ones are themselves
contemptuously called Figs by
David and other heroes, and you
have a key to the manners and
customs of this dandiacal section
of the Gardens when I tell you
that cricket is called crickets
here. Occasionally a rebel Fig
climbs over the fence into the
world, and such a one was Miss
Mabel Grey, of whom I shall tell
you when we come to Miss Mabel
Grey's gate. She was the only
really celebrated Fig.
We are now in the Broad Walk,
and it is as much bigger than
the other walks as your father
is bigger than you. David wondered
if it began little, and grew
and grew, till it was quite grown
up, and whether the other walks
are its babies, and he drew a
picture, which diverted him very
much, of the Broad Walk giving
a tiny walk an airing in a perambulator.
In the Broad Walk you meet all
the people who are worth knowing,
and there is usually a grown-up
with them to prevent their going
on the damp grass, and to make
them stand disgraced at the corner
of a seat if they have been mad-dog
or Mary-Annish. To be Mary-Annish
is to behave like a girl, whimpering
because nurse won't carry you,
or simpering with your thumb
in your mouth, and it is a hateful
quality, but to be mad- dog is
to kick out at everything, and
there is some satisfaction in
that.
If I were to point out all
the notable places as we pass
up the Broad Walk, it would be
time to turn back before we reach
them, and I simply wave my stick
at Cecco's Tree, that memorable
spot where a boy called Cecco
lost his penny, and, looking
for it, found twopence. There
has been a good deal of excavation
going on there ever since. Farther
up the walk is the little wooden
house in which Marmaduke Perry
hid. There is no more awful story
of the Gardens by day than this
of Marmaduke Perry, who had been
Mary- Annish three days in succession,
and was sentenced to appear in
the Broad Walk dressed in his
sister's clothes. He hid in the
little wooden house, and refused
to emerge until they brought
him knickerbockers with pockets.
You now try
to go to the Round Pond, but
nurses hate it, because
they are not really manly, and
they make you look the other
way, at the Big Penny and the
Baby's Palace. She was the most
celebrated baby of the Gardens,
and lived in the palace all alone,
with ever so many dolls, so people
rang the bell, and up she got
out of her bed, though it was
past six o'clock, and she lighted
a candle and opened the door
in her nighty, and then they
all cried with great rejoicings, "Hail,
Queen of England!" What puzzled
David most was how she knew where
the matches were kept. The Big
Penny is a statue about her.
Next we come to the Hump, which
is the part of the Broad Walk
where all the big races are run,
and even though you had no intention
of running you do run when you
come to the Hump, it is such
a fascinating, slide-down kind
of place. Often you stop when
you have run about half-way down
it, and then you are lost, but
there is another little wooden
house near here, called the Lost
House, and so you tell the man
that you are lost and then he
finds you. It is glorious fun
racing down the Hump, but you
can't do it on windy days because
then you are not there, but the
fallen leaves do it instead of
you. There is almost nothing
that has such a keen sense of
fun as a fallen leaf.
From the Hump
we can see the gate that is
called after Miss
Mabel Grey, the Fig I promised
to tell you about. There were
always two nurses with her, or
else one mother and one nurse,
and for a long time she was a
pattern-child who always coughed
off the table and said, "How
do you do?" to the other Figs,
and the only game she played
at was flinging a ball gracefully
and letting the nurse bring it
back to her. Then one day she
tired of it all and went mad-dog,
and, first, to show that she
as really was mad-dog, she unloosened
both her boot-laces and put out
her tongue east, west, north,
and south. She then flung her
sash into a puddle and danced
on it till dirty water was squirted
over her frock, after which she
climbed the fence and had a series
of incredible adventures, one
of the least of which was that
she kicked off both her boots.
At last she came to the gate
that is now called after her,
out of which she ran into streets
David and I have never been in
though we have heard them roaring,
and still she ran on and would
never again have been heard of
had not her mother jumped into
a bus and thus overtaken her.
It all happened, I should say,
long ago, and this is not the
Mabel Grey whom David knows.
Returning up the Broad Walk
we have on our right the Baby
Walk, which is so full of perambulators
that you could cross from side
to side stepping on babies, but
the nurses won't let you do it.
From this walk a passage called
Bunting's Thumb, because it is
that length, leads into Picnic
Street, where there are real
kettles, and chestnut-blossom
falls into your mug as you are
drinking. Quite common children
picnic here also, and the blossom
falls into their mugs just the
same.
Next comes St. Govor's Well,
which was full of water when
Malcolm the Bold fell into it.
He was his mother's favourite,
and he let her put her arm round
his neck in public because she
was a widow, but he was also
partial to adventures and liked
to play with a chimney-sweep
who had killed a good many bears.
The sweep's name was Sooty, and
one day when they were playing
near the well, Malcolm fell in
and would have been drowned had
not Sooty dived in and rescued
him, and the water had washed
Sooty clean and he now stood
revealed as Malcolm's long-lost
father. So Malcolm would not
let his mother put her arm round
his neck any more.
Between the well and the Round
Pond are the cricket-pitches,
and frequently the choosing of
sides exhausts so much time that
there is scarcely any cricket.
Everybody wants to bat first,
and as soon as he is out he bowls
unless you are the better wrestler,
and while you are wrestling with
him the fielders have scattered
to play at something else. The
Gardens are noted for two kinds
of cricket: boy cricket, which
is real cricket with a bat, and
girl cricket, which is with a
racquet and the governess. Girls
can't really play cricket, and
when you are watching their futile
efforts you make funny sounds
at them. Nevertheless, there
was a very disagreeable incident
one day when some forward girls
challenged David's team, and
a disturbing creature called
Angela Clare sent down so many
yorkers that--However, instead
of telling you the result of
that regrettable match I shall
pass on hurriedly to the Round
Pond, which is the wheel that
keeps all the Gardens going.
It is round because it is in
the very middle of the Gardens,
and when you are come to it you
never want to go any farther.
You can't be good all the time
at the Round Pond, however much
you try. You can be good in the
Broad Walk all the time, but
not at the Round Pond, and the
reason is that you forget, and,
when you remember, you are so
wet that you may as well be wetter.
There are men who sail boats
on the Round Pond, such big boats
that they bring them in barrows
and sometimes in perambulators,
and then the baby has to walk.
The bow-legged children in the
Gardens are these who had to
walk too soon because their father
needed the perambulator.
You always want to have a yacht
to sail on the Round Pond, and
in the end your uncle gives you
one; and to carry it to the Pond
the first day is splendid, also
to talk about it to boys who
have no uncle is splendid, but
soon you like to leave it at
home. For the sweetest craft
that slips her moorings in the
Round Pond is what is called
a stick-boat, because she is
rather like a stick until she
is in the water and you are holding
the string. Then as you walk
round, pulling her, you see little
men running about her deck, and
sails rise magically and catch
the breeze, and you put in on
dirty nights at snug harbours
which are unknown to the lordly
yachts. Night passes in a twink,
and again your rakish craft noses
for the wind, whales spout, you
glide over buried cities, and
have brushes with pirates and
cast anchor on coral isles. You
are a solitary boy while all
this is taking place, for two
boys together cannot adventure
far upon the Round Pond, and
though you may talk to yourself
throughout the voyage, giving
orders and executing them with
dispatch, you know not, when
it is time to go home, where
you have been or what swelled
your sails; your treasure-trove
is all locked away in your hold,
so to speak, which will be opened,
perhaps, by another little boy
many years afterward.
But those yachts have nothing
in their hold. Does anyone return
to this haunt of his youth because
of the yachts that used to sail
it? Oh, no. It is the stick-boat
that is freighted with memories.
The yachts are toys, their owner
a fresh-water mariner, they can
cross and recross a pond only
while the stick- boat goes to
sea. You yachtsmen with your
wands, who think we are all there
to gaze on you, your ships are
only accidents of this place,
and were they all to be boarded
and sunk by the ducks the real
business of the Round Pond would
be carried on as usual.
Paths from everywhere crowd
like children to the pond. Some
of them are ordinary paths, which
have a rail on each side, and
are made by men with their coats
off, but others are vagrants,
wide at one spot and at another
so narrow that you can stand
astride them. They are called
Paths that have Made Themselves,
and David did wish he could see
them doing it. But, like all
the most wonderful things that
happen in the Gardens, it is
done, we concluded, at night
after the gates are closed. We
have also decided that the paths
make themselves because it is
their only chance of getting
to the Round Pond.
One of these
gypsy paths comes from the
place where the sheep
get their hair cut. When David
shed his curls at the hair-dresser's,
I am told, he said good-bye to
them without a tremor, though
Mary has never been quite the
same bright creature since, so
he despises the sheep as they
run from their shearer and calls
out tauntingly, "Cowardy, cowardy
custard!" But when the man grips
them between his legs David shakes
a fist at him for using such
big scissors. Another startling
moment is when the man turns
back the grimy wool from the
sheeps' shoulders and they look
suddenly like ladies in the stalls
of a theatre. The sheep are so
frightened by the shearing that
it makes them quite white and
thin, and as soon as they are
set free they begin to nibble
the grass at once, quite anxiously,
as if they feared that they would
never be worth eating. David
wonders whether they know each
other, now that they are so different,
and if it makes them fight with
the wrong ones. They are great
fighters, and thus so unlike
country sheep that every year
they give Porthos a shock. He
can make a field of country sheep
fly by merely announcing his
approach, but these town sheep
come toward him with no promise
of gentle entertainment, and
then a light from last year breaks
upon Porthos. He cannot with
dignity retreat, but he stops
and looks about him as if lost
in admiration of the scenery,
and presently he strolls away
with a fine indifference and
a glint at me from the corner
of his eye.
The Serpentine begins near
here. It is a lovely lake, and
there is a drowned forest at
the bottom of it. If you peer
over the edge you can see the
trees all growing upside down,
and they say that at night there
are also drowned stars in it.
If so, Peter Pan sees them when
he is sailing across the lake
in the Thrush's Nest. A small
part only of the Serpentine is
in the Gardens, for soon it passes
beneath a bridge to far away
where the island is on which
all the birds are born that become
baby boys and girls. No one who
is human, except Peter Pan (and
he is only half human), can land
on the island, but you may write
what you want (boy or girl, dark
or fair) on a piece of paper,
and then twist it into the shape
of a boat and slip it into the
water, and it reaches Peter Pan's
island after dark.
We are on the way home now,
though, of course, it is all
pretence that we can go to so
many of the places in one day.
I should have had to be carrying
David long ago and resting on
every seat like old Mr. Salford.
That was what we called him,
because he always talked to us
of a lovely place called Salford
where he had been born. He was
a crab-apple of an old gentleman
who wandered all day in the Gardens
from seat to seat trying to fall
in with somebody who was acquainted
with the town of Salford, and
when we had known him for a year
or more we actually did meet
another aged solitary who had
once spent Saturday to Monday
in Salford. He was meek and timid
and carried his address inside
his hat, and whatever part of
London he was in search of he
always went to the General Post-office
first as a starting-point. Him
we carried in triumph to our
other friend, with the story
of that Saturday to Monday, and
never shall I forget the gloating
joy with which Mr. Salford leapt
at him. They have been cronies
ever since, and I notice that
Mr. Salford, who naturally does
most of the talking, keeps tight
grip of the other old man's coat.
The two last places before
you come to our gate are the
Dog's Cemetery and the chaffinch's
nest, but we pretend not to know
what the Dog's Cemetery is, as
Porthos is always with us. The
nest is very sad. It is quite
white, and the way we found it
was wonderful. We were having
another look among the bushes
for David's lost worsted ball,
and instead of the ball we found
a lovely nest made of the worsted,
and containing four eggs, with
scratches on them very like David's
handwriting, so we think they
must have been the mother's love-letters
to the little ones inside. Every
day we were in the Gardens we
paid a call at the nest, taking
care that no cruel boy should
see us, and we dropped crumbs,
and soon the bird knew us as
friends, and sat in the nest
looking at us kindly with her
shoulders hunched up. But one
day when we went, there were
only two eggs in the nest, and
the next time there were none.
The saddest part of it was that
the poor little chaffinch fluttered
about the bushes, looking so
reproachfully at us that we knew
she thought we had done it, and
though David tried to explain
to her, it was so long since
he had spoken the bird language
that I fear she did not understand.
He and I left the Gardens that
day with our knuckles in our
eyes.
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