the little white bird-第18节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！





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　thatHowever；　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　tha