Peter Pan
“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 a 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.
The meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat around 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 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
recognize 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 was 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.
“Not if you don’t wish it,” she replied; and she distinctly heard his
sigh of relief. “Peter,” she asked, trying to speak firmly, “what are
your exact feelings to me?”