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Printed by BALLANTYNE, Hanson & Co.
At the Ballantyne Press
The Meeting

The Magic Painter

The Lady and the Treasure.
Green Grapes

The Doll’s Funeral

When Doris was a Mermaid
Dreams about a Star.

A March of Heroes

A London Picnic

A Long Journey

 

107

121

137
159
 

The Meeting

WHE Visitor was one of the
fortunate people who find
a potent spur to industry
in their own natural indo-
lence. Had he attempted
to apply himself he would have achieved no
more than others. But he loved his lei-
sure; he had need to earn his bread; and
he had even something of a conscience.
The three tendencies co-operated to give
him the name of one who worked indus-
triously, for he was habitually lazy until
conscience or depleted pockets drove him
to his desk. There he applied himself most

 
Io Make-Believe

vigorously, until he had done more than
was required of him, and his conscience,
relenting, told him he might idle again.

A happy indisposition—the spring-time
usually found him in need of a holiday—
had taken him to a little western village,
and for days he had idled delightfully.
Then, one morning, he visited a studio
where a man was working, and, remem-
bering after a time how he himself hated
interruptions when he was at his desk, he
apologised for the intrusion and descended
into the garden.

Doris was picking the last of the daffo-
dils, and regarded him gravely as he
approached and introduced himself.

‘“‘T know you very well, it seems to me,”
said the Visitor. “Ive seen you so often
in pictures that eo

‘“O!” she answered ; “I’m sitting again
this year, worse luck! Horrid!”

“ But surely ” began the Visitor.

“It’s only sixpence an hour,” she con-
tinued.

 

 
The Meeting II

‘And that is not enough?” he asked.
It occurred to him that sixpences must go
far in a region so remote from shops.

‘Sixpence a half-hour would do,’
Doris ; “sixpence an hour is not enough.”

After this the conversation drifted to
general subjects.

Doris wanted to know if her new ac-
quaintance could turn cartwheels, A
certain ‘‘ Frank” had learned the art from
his grandmother’s page-boy, when on a
visit to London in June. The child had
not been able to acquire it yet. ‘And
then there’s spelling,” she said.

‘Beastly nuisance, isn’t it?” responded
he.

. This timely interjection put the twain
into complete accord with each other.
“Would you like to see my garden and
my bower, my treasure cave, my white
rats, and my rooms?” said the lady of the
garden.

‘“T would, indeed,” was the reply, and it
gave pleasure.

2

said
i Make-Beleve
“That's right. I like people who like

to see things!” So the two started ona
tour of the garden.

The child’s garden showed no particular
signs of her possession of it, beyond the
fact of being cleared of the docks that
flourish rankly under the elders of the
hedge. But the bower was delightful.
You got to the top of the broad earthen
hedge, and then, if you squeezed yourself
through the elder branches, you might at
last find a place to stand upright in. The
best bower was the child’s; but the visitor
flattered himself he had done the right
thing when he managed to get into that
which belonged to Frank.

“Will he mind?” he asked.

“QO,” said the child, “it is mine really.
I only lend it to him. You can have it for
to-day, if you like.”

“There’s a way down to the studios, if
you would care to see them,” she con-
PiU secs, oa Gare “Well, perhaps there isn’t
much time. But I wish you could come.
The Meeting 13

You see, these
painters never
properly empty
their paint-tubes.
You can't, if you
don’t slit them
down the side and
squeeze them.
They don’t think
of that ; and if you
go to the dustheap
you can find as
many as you like.
I've got lots of
paint that I found
in that way.”
She evidently
was right [RRS 7 Me Vn
in supposing her i NST

ont
t

=

oe LAST ore

whole stock was  |DRSHRE” yp DAT ODS

: Ny yes rE >
displayed upon |BAp Seer
her face and her LAER CAN Pood NN
PE TMs NAN |

 

pinafore. He had
14 Make-Believe

interrupted her that morning in the midst
of her first painting.

As for the treasure cave, it was a hole
into which you might plunge your arm up
to the elbow, excavated at the bottom of a
heap of garden rubbish that in the course
of many years had decayed to earth. It
was empty ; but the mouth was none the
less religiously hidden from view by a mass
of withered grass.

“It's a grand treasure cave!” said the
Visitor.

“Then you'd like to see the treasure ?”
said Doris.

“Have you a real treasure ?” asked the
Visitor. ‘J used to hunt for one when I
lived down in these parts; but I never
found it, and in the end I grew tired and
went to London. I should like awfully to
see yours.” » .

They climbed the steep garden path,
stopping to glance in at the glass studio,
just then empty, and at the three white
rats—who were unwell, and refused to
The Meeting cs

show more than the extreme tips of
their tails. At last they reached a little
wooden building, which was the child’s
sanctum.

‘‘Come in,” she said, and for a while ex-
plained the decorations of the walls, and
displayed her small belongings. She pro-
duced some of the paint-tubes she had
found upon the dustheap among the
studios, and, slitting them down one side,
proceeded to demonstrate the wastefulness
of the artists who had thrown them away,
incidentally adding to the display of paint
upon her face and pinafore.

Then, ‘“ 7zs is the treasure!” she said,
displaying it suddenly.

Somehow or other, certainly not by the
most diligent searching of the dustheap,
she had secured a great store of gold paint.
Then she had taken stones, and a small
metal needle-case, a little key, and a few
odd scraps of iron. Copiously gilded, the
stones were now huge nuggets of solid
gold, the key looked as though it might
16 Make-Believe

have been made
to open Pandora’s
box, and the other
trifles lay about
them with a de-
lightful appearance
of simple precious-
ness.

“Where did you
find them?” asked
the Visitor, envi-
ously.

“J didn’t find
them. JI—but I will tell you my secret.”

“You can trust me so early?” asked
the Visitor.

She looked at him. “I can always tell
at once,” she said, proudly. ‘ Well, you
remember the picture you saw in the
Academy last year with all the gold in it?
There was a lot of it left over, and when
father had finished the picture he was so
tired that he said he never wanted to paint
again, and that I might take the rest of the

 
The Meeting  t7

gold paint and even his favourite brushes.
Afterwards he said he thought he had
better ‘keep the brushes, because he might
have to work again some day, but I took
the paint.

“Now, at first I did not know what to
do with it: you can’t paint pictures all in
gold. And then Frank and the others
came one afternoon, and we played in the
garden. ‘Let us hunt for treasure,’ said
Frank.

“<«T should like that,’ I said, but the
others wanted to play a real game, for
they knew the treasure would have to be
make-believe. They generally do what
Frank and I want them to do, but that day
they would not. So at last, not thinking
much, but only trying to persuade them, I
said, ‘You say there is no treasure. You
don’t know all that I know about the
garden.’

“Then they all asked me what I knew
about the garden, and they were quite
certain that there was a treasure I could

B
18 Make- Believe

show them. I didn’t know what to do, so
I pretended to be angry.

“*No,’ I said; ‘we'll just play hide-and-
seek as you wanted to. Frank and I will
look for the treasure to-morrow, perhaps.’
They begged me to tell them all about the
treasure, but I refused; and when they
went home, I asked Frank to come alone
the next day. He waited for a minute
after they had gone, for he was as puzzled
as they were about the secret. ‘I say: is
there anything really ?’ he asked. But I
would not tell him.”

The Visitor interrupted. ‘ Was there
anything ?” he asked.

‘“‘T expect there is,” said Doris, ‘but I
did not know of a real treasure. I could
not think what to do, for I did not want to
disappoint Frank. So at last I thought of
a plan. Do you see this treasure? This
is a key, and that is my needle-case: this
used to be for hanging hats and coats on,
and that is part of a lock. I gilded them
all, and when I had done that I took them
The Meeting . 19

out into the garden and buried them. It -
was just down there where that tall yellow
flower is growing. It is an evening prim-
rose, and the flowers die when the sun
looks on them.

“ Now the next day I went and saw the
Gardener, who always does what I ask.
‘Lor’, Miss,’ he said, ‘Pll do anything you
mind to, but you won't find no treasure
here. Why, there isn’t a square foot of
ground | haven’t turned over every season
for twenty year past. But if you're goin’
to hunt for treasure, I'll dig for ’ee.’

“So I went out and found all the others.
‘You can come and watch me hunt for
that treasure, if you like,’ I said, and they
all came. It was funny, but Frank was
the only one who did not believe in the
treasure. ‘1 say, Doris,’ he said, ‘come
over here ;’ and when IJ had stepped aside
he asked me if I did really know where
one was. I told him I did, and still he
was not quite sure.

“¢Ffonour bright ?’ he said.
20 M ake- Believe

“*Honour bright!’ I answered; and
then he pretended to the others that he
had not doubted at all from the beginning.

“Well, of course I did not find the
treasure at once. I made the Gardener
hunt in about twenty places, and once he
nearly refused because he had to dig up a
cabbage. Then the children began to
get tired and grumbled a little. I did not
notice that, but Gardener began to think
he had dug pits enough: ‘I believe you'll
do better to go and play one of your
games,’ he said. ‘It don’t look as if there
was any treasure here.’

“T would not give up, but they grew -
tired. ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘we'll just try
once more, and then if we don’t find any-
thing, I will hunt by myself after you are
gone.’

“So I led them to the place where |
had hidden the treasure.

“ «Dig there, please,’ I said to Gardener;
and he dug, and the treasures were turned
up one after the other, like potatoes.”
The Meeting 21

“Js that the end?” asked the Visitor,
as the child paused.

“Of course not,” said Doris. ‘“ They
are always asking me about the treasure,
and wanting to know how I knew it was
there. Once or twice Frank has almost
quarrelled with me, because he thought I
ought to tell him. But, of course, I
couldn't. You will keep my secret ?”

“ Indeed, I will,” said the Visitor; ‘as
many as you like to tell me.”

 
 

The Magic Painter

HIS is one of the secrets
= 7 | Doris confided to the Visi-
tor during the time of his

  

sojourning down there. It
need not have been a
secret at all, but for the foolish incredulity
of Martha, who laughed at the story when
it first was told her, and was manifestly
insincere when, afterwards, she professed
to be convinced of its truth. Doris did
not really care, knowing that the evidence
she possessed made her position unassail-
able. But she is unaccustomed to ridi-
cule, and so a beautiful story became a
secret,
The Magic Painter 23

You must know, to begin with, that
Doris’s father is a painter, and that he
delights above all things in making por-
traits of his daughter. Moreover, as is
only natural, these pictures, giving him
such great pleasure in the painting, are
no whit less to the taste of those for
whom he works. So Doris can hardly
remember the time when she was not ~
accustomed to sit for him.

“What a jolly dog yours is, Doris,” said
the Visitor one morning in the garden.
‘What do you call him ?”

“T call him Christmas,” said Doris.

“Did you get him given to you at
Christmas ?”

“Yes. At least
looked at her companion rather critically.
“Would you like to hear another of my
secrets ?”

“Of course I should,” said the Visitor,
and the story followed without further
delay.

One Christmas Eve, Doris was sent to

 

” Doris paused and
24. Make-Believe

bed at an unreasonably early hour. Asa
matter of fact, she always is; but, knowing
her parents have the best intentions in the
world, she usually goes quietly, after
having made a merely formal protest. She
did so on the occasion in question, but,
having got into bed, found it more than
usually difficult to get to sleep, since she
was greatly troubled with many grave
cares. Of course, you do, generally
speaking, get pretty well what you want
(if you have duly announced your wants)
at Christmas-time. But it is not always
so, and the things that Doris desired
were so beautiful, and she desired them so
much, that she was more than a little
afraid she would never get them. Some,
at least, she thought, would surely be
missing: and her need of each was so
great that she felt certain the absence of
a single one would be a disappointment
making imperfect her pleasure in the rest.

There had been carol-singing in the
village ever since the dark evenings began,
The Magic Painter 25

and Doris had learned many of the
Christmas songs most loved among the
people. Being a-bed, she saw that to sleep
would be the best way of passing the long
hours that must elapse before the morn-
ing. And so, to quell distracting thoughts,
she sang these carols softly to herself.
Her cares still troubled her, however, and
at last she bowed to the inevitable, ceased
her singing and let herself think of them.
Curiously enough, it was then she fell
asleep. On that point she and Martha
are agreed: she certainly fell asleep.

But in the middle of the night she must
have arisen and wandered a long way, for
when she became conscious of what was
going on around her she was in a place she
never had visited before. Another child
might have been frightened, but the place
in which she found herself was a studio,
and in front of her was an artist engaged
upon a half-finished portrait of herself. It
was all so natural that she was hardly
surprised, and before she had time to
26 Make-Believe

, wonder how she had managed to forget
the way in which she got there the artist
turned on her the pleasantest face that she
had ever seen.

“Getting tired?” he asked. ‘I sha'n't
keep you more than another ten minutes.”

“Tm not at all tired,’ said Doris. ‘“I
don’t seem to have been here more than a
minute.”

The artist laughed softly, and Doris
liked him better than ever. “Yes,” he
said, “I do paint quickly, don’t 1? But
then you are a capital sitter. Had much
practice?”

“Lots!” said Doris, emphatically. el
am always sitting. |

“You don’t like sitting ?”

“Ves,” she answered, but in a voice that
told him that her answer would have been
“No,” but for her desire to spare the
feelings of a comparative stranger. ‘“ But
I don’t think sixpence an hour is enough.”

‘Perhaps it isn’t very much,” said the
painter, ‘and you such an excellent sitter.”

 
The Magic Painter a7

He began to work again, and once more
the child was amazed at his rapidity.
“Fond of singing?” he asked, pleasantly,
without glancing in her direction.

“Tm going to have a really good
soprano one of these days,” said Doris.
“At present I can’t sing very loudly, but
that’s rather lucky, for I sing to myself a
good deal when they make me go to bed.
I was singing to-night. . . .” She paused,
for the daylight was streaming in through
the skylight, and she was not very certain
about the time. ‘‘I was singing last time
I went to bed,” she continued, ‘‘to keep
myself from thinking.”

“Ah,” cried the painter, ‘you've found
it a good thing for that, have you? I
find there’s no plan like it. Now, if you
would sing me one of your carols I should
paint the quicker, and you would forget
that you were sitting.” Doris began to
sing at once. A thing which puzzles her
to this day is that the song she sang was
not one of the carols that were being sung
28 Make-Beleve

in the village. The words and the music
both seemed quite new to her, although
she knew them perfectly, and to this day
she cannot remember where and how she
learned them :

Lady Mary, in your bower
Why weep ye sadly ?
Tall and white your lies flower,
All birds sing gladly.
Mary, Lady Mary,
What sorrow bear ye ?

Tis the child that shall be born
(Foolish thou, who questioneth ),

Tis the crown of cruel thorn,
And the sure appointed death.

Mary, Mother, left alone,
Why go ye gladly ? .
Wherefore make ye not your moan,
Weeping most sadly ?
Mary, Mother Mary,
What comfort bear ye?

The painter worked while she was sing-
ing and the child marvelled at the swift-
ness with which the picture progressed,
The Magic Painter 29

When she found that she did not remem-
ber any more of that strange new song she
broke into speech. “It is almost like
stepping in front of a looking-glass,” she
said.

‘What is?” asked the painter.

“Being painted by you,” said Doris,
and the painter laughed again very plea-
santly.

“T do work rather quickly, don’t I?
You see, I have such a lot to get through.”

‘Do you paint many pictures?” asked
Doris.

“Whole galleries full,” said the stranger,
who by this time had become her friend.
“T am at it all the time, and I paint all
kinds of pictures: this sort of thing, and
landscapes and castles—lovely, strong
castles that never fall into ruins and never
get deserted, and all sorts of things. ... .
I say, I wish you'd sing me another song.”

Doris sang again, and still the artist
painted. Presently he had finished. He
looked almost idly at his picture while
30 Make-Believe

 

Doris went through the last verse of her
song. When it was ended he spoke:
“Vou see, I’ve finished.”
Doris darted across the room and stood
looking at the picture, almost as if she had
really been looking into a mirror. She was
The Magic Painter 31

 

accustomed to be painted skilfully, but the
celerity of this stranger left her absolutely
amazed,

“You might almost be a photographer !””
she said.

“Well,” said the artist, with a little air
32 Make-Beleve

of embarrassment, ‘‘] suppose I am almost
as quick. . ... By-the-bye, Doris, is there
anything you want very badly?”

“ Presents?” asked Doris.

“Ves,” said the artist.

“T can’t tell you how many things I
want, and I want them all badly. It’s
like a box of building bricks: if one
were away the others would be of little
good.”

“Do you expect to get them?” asked
the stranger.

“Well,” said Doris, confidentially, “1
don't know. I generally get what I want
when Christmas comes if I have told them,
and of course I have done that. But, then,
I have never wanted such nice things
before, or so many.”

The painter began to fumble among his
brushes.

“For example,” he said, “what do you
want most of all?”

Doris meditated.

“There's a red leather music-case,” she
The Magic Painter 33

said. ‘I should like to carry it when I go
to my music lessons.”

“Ah,” said the painter, “we will see
what we can do. I don’t think the picture
is quite finished, after all. Suppose you sit
for a few minutes longer? Do you mind?”

He found his favourite brush and began
to paint into the picture such a music-case
as Doris had described. She watched it
growing on the canvas, and as it grew
more and more like the object of her desire
she began to envy her pictured self. Pre-
sently the artist finished and had turned to
speak.

“Ts that the sort of thing you

But he had no time to complete the sen-
tence. Doris uttered a little cry of joyful
surprise.

“Look!” she cried.

By some strange piece of magic she
was holding the red morocco case the
artist had imaged in his picture of her. It
was the very thing she had been wishing
for.

>?”

 
34 Make-Believe

“Did you put it
into my hand?”
she asked. ‘You
must be a_ better
conjurer than the
one we saw last
Christmas.”

The artist laugh-
ed his pleasant
laugh.

“But I thought
that one of the
things you wanted
would be of no use unless you had all the
others as well?”

Doris remembered. What he had said
was true, but she had been so delighted
with the music-case for a moment that it
was a grief to be reminded of the fact.

“Yes,” she said, “it is true. There was
a top I saw: a top that went on spinning
for ever so long, and made the loveliest
sort of music all the time.”

“ This kind of thing?” asked the painter,

 
The Magic Painter a5

going back to his canvas. Ina very few
moments she began to see that he under-
stood what she meant, for the top he
painted into the picture was the exact like-
ness of the one she wanted.

“Ves,” she cried, ‘‘that is what I] mean.”
Then, while he added the finishing touches
to the painting, she grew silent and
listened. It seemed to her that she
could hear, now that his painting of the
humming-top was almost complete, the
sound of its wonderful music. Of course
she understood now that this man was a
magic painter—probably a fairy, though he
might have been an angel—but still the
music puzzled her. And so she uttered a
cry of something that was almost fright
when a very beautiful top, which for some
few minutes past had been spinning music-
ally on the floor beside her; ran down, and
rolled under her chair noisily.

“It's you again!” she said. ‘I wish
you would come to my party.”

“O,” answered the painter. ‘I think
3.6 Make-Believe

its both of us together. But you may
as well tell me the other things, mayn’t
your”

“Tf you don’t mind,” said Doris, and she
told him one after another what were the
presents she had been desiring. One by
one he added them to the portrait he had
painted of her, and each, as its likeness
was completed, appeared miraculously in
her hand, or on her chair, or even on the
floor at her side. There was quite a pile
of beautiful things at last. Doris had
begun to be very much delighted, and he
did not need, having finished one addition
to the picture, to ask her what he should
paint next. She told him. But at last
she had nothing to say, although it was
easy to see that there was something lack-
ing.

“Ts that all, then?” asked the painter,
turning with brush in hand. ‘It doesn’t
seem many.”

“No,” said Doris, “there is another.

But e

 
The Magic Painter 37

“But what?” demanded the painter,
when she paused again.

“Tt’s a dog, I want,” she said. “I’m
sure you can’t do that.”

“You see,” said the painter, and in a
few moments the loveliest long-haired
Skye-terrier in the world began to appear
on the canvas.

Doris was delighted. “ How did you
know that the dog was to be one of that
kind?”

“Was it?” said the painter. ‘I sup-
pose I must have guessed. You know,
[Pm rather good at guessing. It isn’t a
bad dog, is it?”

Doris did not answer. The picture of
the dog was almost finished, and she was
wondering how the real animal would
make its appearance. The stranger painted
on, making it lovelier and lovelier every
moment; and suddenly there was a dog
on Doris’s lap, jumping up to lick her face
and barking as a dog only can bark when
it has found its dear mistress at last after
38 Make-Believe

being lost a long while. And as Doris
tried to quiet it, so that she might thank
the painter, she suddenly opened her eyes
and found herself in bed.

How she got there she could never tell,
for she had brought all her presents with
her, and the dog was on her bed, barking
and kissing her face as it had been doing
when the painter and his studio disappeared.
In a moment Doris was out of bed, and
going, the dog at her side, to her father’s
and mother's room. Curiously enough,
her father was not asleep, although the
morning was full early. On the contrary he
was standing half-dressed at the bedside.
He turned as Doris entered. ‘Hullo,
Doris!” he said: “Are you awake so early?”
Then the dog dashed forward as if to make
his acquaintance. ‘Why, you’ve got a.
dog!” he said. ‘Where have you gone
wandering in the night?”

Doris did not know, and although her
father described to her the personal appear-
The Magic Painter 39

ance of every artist he knew of dwelling
within a radius of twenty miles, he still hit
on no one who bore the least resemblance
to the man to whom she had been sitting.
“Perhaps he’s a new man,” he said. “If
so he’s pretty sure to call round one of these
days. By-the-way, did you remember to
thank him?”

‘Of course I did,” said Doris ; ‘but the
dog was jumping up and licking my face,
and before I could quiet him I found my-
self in my bed. But all the things he
painted in the picture were there upon my
bed, and the dog was still barking and
licking my face. So it can’t have been a
dream.” :

“Of course not,” said her father. Then
his voice and his face changed together.
“Why, it is Christmas Day!” he said to
Doris's mother. ‘‘ Where are our presents
for Doris?”

The mother had been very quiet while
Doris was telling her story. Even now
40 Make-Believe

she did not speak at once. Then, “We
must get her something nice when Christ-
mas is over and the shops are open again,”
she said, not attempting to explain how it
was she had forgotten the day of which.
she had been talking but a few minutes
before Doris went to bed.

Doris was almost grieved. ‘To think
you should forget! Still, it came all right,
for the painter gave me everything I
wanted. I don’t believe there'll be any-
thing left for you to give me but choco-
lates.” Then she went back to her room,
and in a few minutes was telling the story
to Martha, who came to dress her. Martha,
as you are aware, behaved unworthily, but
it really didn’t matter. Her foolish incre-
dulity only made Doris fonder of the gifts
of the Magic Painter, and every one who
has since been trusted with the secret of
how they came to Doris has agreed that to
say she dreamed the whole story would be
to talk absurdly.
The Magic Painter Al

“You can’t dream things and find them
on your bed when you wake,” said Doris
to the Visitor.

“T’m afraid not, Doris,” said the Visitor.
“ And yet one goes on dreaming.”

 
 

geeiea]| HIE Visitor, being for the time
; an idle man, had taken to
dropping in quite often of a
morning at Doris’s garden.
Sometimes she laid on him
the task of beguiling the hours before lunch
with stories ; sometimes, more greatly con-
descending, she would tell him her own
pretty secrets, while he lounged at ease and
lazily looked down upon the harbour and
the quiet bay that lies beyond it.
On this particular morning Doris had
demanded a tale, and he had promised obe-
dience. But he did not desire to attempt

 
 
The Lady and the Treasure 43

a story, having no imagination at all, and
memory only for certain private sorrows
of his own. His opening was therefore
an unworthy subterfuge. ‘‘Once upon a
time... . Say, Doris, wouldn’t you like
to come out with me on a real hunt for
buried treasure?

“Ts there any?” asked Doris, doubtfully.

“Well, if it comes to that—’ he began.
“But I should think we stand a very
good chance. Don’t you know that the
Spaniards landed here long ago and burnt
the place? You may depend the village
folk hid their treasure when they fled;
and three of them were killed. It is quite
likely that to this day their plate and
money lie hidden somewhere close at
hand.”

“But it would be no good finding it,”
said Doris. ‘“ We should have to give it
up to Goverment. Gardener told me.
What is Gover’ment ?”

“Government?” said the Visitor. “It’s
you, and me, and—well, everybody else.”
44. ' Make-Believe

“Then we should get some of the
treasure ?”

It was the Visitor’s turn to be doubtful.
“Some of it, I suppose,” he answered.
“At.any rate, we should have the fun of
finding it.” .

Doris hesitated, deliberating. ‘“ That
would be nice,” she admitted. ‘Should we
get so much as a pound?”

“ At least that,” said the Visitor.

“Then I think Ill come. Ellen’s
mother is very poor, and she wants
to buy a mangle. But she’s a pound
short in her money, and in these hard
times you can’t get trust—not like you
used to when Ellen’s mother was young.
There’s so many rogues about that
even honest folk must pay cash. “Ellen’s
mother told me. I could give her the
pound.”

The Visitor groaned within himself,
foreseeing that he would be altogether out
of favour if the expedition ended fruitlessly.
Yet there was nothing for it but to go
The Lady and the Treasure 45

 

ahead. ‘Are you ready to start at once?”
he asked.
“Quite ready,” said Doris. ‘ Now,
46 Make-Believe
don’t forget your pipe! Where are we
going ?”

That was more than the Visitor knew.

“We'll just look about until we find a
likely place,” he said, holding the gate-
open. “Or would you rather go into town
and get some chocolates ? ”

“Chocolates!” exclaimed Doris, scorn-
fully. Then, returning to the subject
which was of importance, ‘ Did you ever
go on a treasure-hunt, really ?”

“Not exactly,’ answered her slave.
“That is: I once knew a man who did.”

“You're not going to keep your promise
and tell me a story?”

“Tt’s not much of a story,” he answered.
“A man I know got hold somehow of a
map of an island lying thousands and
thousands of miles away—out there where
the sun sets—with a mark on it showing
where a pirate had hidden boxes and boxes
of gold, silver and jewels long ago. So he
got a boat and sailed away to that island—
he and two or three friends. You would
The Lady and the Treasure 47

have seen him pass if you had been watch-
ing in your garden. Perhaps you did;
but, of course, you wouldn’t know.”

‘I remember a boat,” said Doris. ‘It
went right out towards the sunset. It was
along time ago: before you came. Per-
haps that was his boat,”

‘‘ Perhaps!” answered the Visitor. ‘“ At
any rate, they sailed away into the West,
thousands and thousands of miles. Storms
came, and their boat (which was quite a
small one) was often on the verge of being
wrecked. But at last they came to the
island, and found a quiet harbour. There
was not a living soul on the island: only
goats and sea-gulls.”

“T love sea-gulls!” cried Doris. ‘I should
like to be a treasure-hunter all the time.”

“T don’t know about that,” said her
companion. “I don’t know. that it is quite
the best thing fora man. It is wiser just
to be content. Mere bread - and - butter
would not be interesting all the time; but
one grows used to things, and one wouldn't
48 Make-Believe

miss it much, I suppose, if some day it
were lacking. Whereas, after a week of
birthday-cake.. . . . But I was forgetting
my friend’s story. For a whole week after
reaching the island they hunted for the
place that was marked with a cross on the
map. Then they found it.”

‘And did they get the treasure?”

“Just three golden coins and a few small
silver ones! Some one else had heard of
the cave and got a boat and come and
plundered it. These few coins had dropped
out of the great boxes they carried down
to their boat. My friend was very much
disappointed.”

“Well,” said Doris, emphatically, “1
should think he was. I hope that won't
happen to us. Have you seen a likely
place yet?”

The Visitor perceived that all the tem-
porising in the world would be of no avail.
Above the road they had been following
the land rises very steeply, and in one
place the hillside has been quarried. No
The Lady and the Treasure 49

one works there now, nor has done for
many along year. Bramble and bracken,
willow-herb and yellow rag-wort fill the
place, and in autumn it echoes from dawn
to dusk with the voices of the children
who come in companies to gather black-
berries. There are also butterflies, birds,
and other things, about which a man may
converse, if it be necessary to talk; and
in fluent conversation lay the Visitor's one
hope of salvation.

“T think we might have a look at the
quarry,” he said. ‘It’s just the sort. of
place that I should choose if I had treasure
to hide.”

So they walked on rapidly. Doris was
so set on the quest that she did not want
to talk. Her companion had his own
troubles to consider and was glad of the
respite. They reached the quarry and
stood at the roadside looking into it curi-
ously. It was a new place altogether to
Doris, now she had realised that it might

possibly be the hold of hidden treasure.
D
50 Make-Believe

She did not for a moment observe sche
sudden change which had come over her
companion. But presently she was aware
of the silence which had fallen upon him
and turned to look.

A beautiful lady was coming along the
road, with the sunlight in her hair, and
in her hands a great bunch of daisies
dancing and swaying upon long stems.
The Visitor was watching her. When
she had drawn quite near he raised his hat
and murmured some few words of saluta-
tion, but in such‘a manner that Doris had
to suppose (though very much against her
will) that the beautiful ee was not so nice
as she appeared.

But the lady did not pass on. On the
contrary, she came closer and spoke, her
face all rosy. “Isn't the morning lovely?
And won't you introduce me?”

The man paused for a moment, and —
Doris saw that he was a little embar-
rassed. Then, ‘ Doris,” he said, “this is
Elsie. I should like you two to be friends,”
The Lady and the Treasure 1

The lady stooped and kissed the child.
“Ts it a bargain, Doris?”

Then, before Doris had had time to say
how glad she would be to have it so, the
Visitor spoke again. ‘The fact is,” he
said, “Doris and I had not much to do
this morning, and so we thought we would
come out ona treasure-hunt. The villagers,
you know, must have hidden their valuables
when they fled before the Spaniards all
those years ago. We thought the quarry
was a likely spot. What a you think?
Shall we find the treasure ?”

The lady hesitated. ‘At any rate, it’s
worth your while to try,” she said, at last. “It
is always well to try if you want a thing.”

“And you will help?” said the man,
eagerly.

“Tf Doris doesn’t mind,” said the lady.

So they all went into the quarry and
sought vigorously for the treasure. It was
rather a big quarry, and much overgrown :
once or twice Doris lost them for a while,
but they were always close together, and
52 Make-Beleve

answered when she called. After a long
time, during which no trace of what they
sought had been discovered, Doris sug-
gested an adjournment. “It’s a big quarry,”
she said, “and we can’t go all over it one
day. And I’m sure it must be lunch-time.”

The Visitor looked at his watch. ‘It
is—nearly,” he answered. “But I think
we'd better search a little longer. It would
be a great pity if we fared like my friend,
and other people came before us and got
the treasure.”

“We'll hunt for five minutes longer,”
said Doris. “I am hungry, and they never
wait for me at lunch-time.”

So the three plunged once more into the
innermost recesses of the quarry, seeking
with renewed vigour. Doris found nothing,
but presently, when the Visitor was a few
yards distant from her, he uttered a sharp
cry, and she came eagerly towards him
through the tall bracken. “Have you
found it?” she cried.

He turned upon her with a serious face.
The Lady and the Treasure 5

  

“Doris,” he said, ““we should have been
content with bread-and-butter. They've
been before us. Look!”

- The child came through the fern to his
side. At his feet a golden sovereign lay
on the ground.

“Why, it’s like your friend’s story,” she
cried.

“So it is,” said the Visitor. ‘‘ Well, it’s
no use searching any longer... .. I say:
we won’t say anything about this to Gover-
ment. I think it will be all right if Ellen’s
mother gets her mangle. You take the
money.”

“May 1?” she cried; and then she
54 Make-Believe

danced gaily along the sunny road, the
Visitor on one side and the lady on the
other. They would not come in to see the
joy that this poor remnant of a treasure was
to bring to Ellen, and when they started
down the hill together Doris watched
them for a while from the gate of her
garden. Something about them seemed to
show that they were quite absurdly happy.

“They look,” said Doris, as she entered
the garden, ‘they look as if they had really
found the treasure.”

 
 

fayA|RE you two going out to
make a call?” said Doris
to her parents one day.
“T am glad. There are
no end of things I have
forgotten to ask the Visitor this time.”
The season was mid-autumn, and though
the sky was of the bluest, save for a few

 
56 Make-Believe

big argosies of cloud, the blithe North-
Wester that made the sea so splendid set
difficulties in the way of those who desired
to be idle out of doors. “I think you
might play for me,” said Doris when her
parents had gone, “I will dance.”

‘What shall I play ?” asked the Visitor,
conscious of a repertoire whose limits were
narrow. ;

“Why anything you like,” said Doris,
simply, ‘‘I can dance to any music.”

“Lucky child! I believe you can.” He
walked across to the piano and presently
began to play a waltz. The child danced
around the room, serenely unconscious,
and the man watched her over his
shoulder, chancing on a wrong note at
intervals in consequence. When this had
happened Doris would glance at him
laughingly, but dancing still; and some-
times she called her commands, “A little
faster, please!” or, “Can you play a little
slower ?”

A polka followed the waltz and then a
Green Grapes 57

schottische. Later the child went seriously
through the steps of the pas de quatre, and
there was a second waltz. Finally the
Visitor had reached the end of his stock of
remembered music. He paused:

“Go on, please!” said Doris. ‘You
won't think that dancing tires me.”

“ The truth is, Doris... .”

“Can you play the tarantella? Here is
the music.”

She produced the music, and the Visitor
studied it very carefully. He played a
few tentative bars on the piano.

“T think I might manage this,” he said.
“Give me five minutes and we will see
what I can do.”

“OQ! you can do it all right. Be quick,
please... .. Are you ready ?”

The Visitor began to play, and found
the music easier than he had expected,
though it held his eyes and compelled him
to abstain from watching the child. The
rustle of her frock of soft Indian silk was
all he heard whenever the tambourine was
58 Make-Beheve

silent, for her feet fell very lightly. He
went through all the movements. Then,
‘Faster, faster, faster, please!” cried Doris,
and in a moment he turned to see her
standing, flushed and triumphant, in the
prettiest pose imaginable.

“You did it very well,” she said. “It.
is easy to dance your music.”

“Yours,” he corrected. ‘ You chose the
measures. Now, if it had been my
music... .”

‘What is that ?” asked Doris.

“OQ,” said the Visitor, darkly. “It is a
little tune that I cannot play. But I don’t
fancy even you could dance to it.”

“T should like to try some day,” said
Doris. ‘And that reminds me, can you
kick the tambourine ?”

“How do you mean?” asked the
Visitor. /

“Tt is another thing that Frank learned
from the page-boy in London. You hold
the tambourine above your head, so—-
Frank used a straw-hat—and then you try
Green Grapes 59

to kick it... .. Ah! it is no use my
trying.” The last words came most sadly,
for she had essayed the feat and failed
egregiously, being of those who cannot
with ease be ungraceful.

“T don't think I will try,” said the
Visitor, reluctantly. ‘You see I have
reached the uninteresting stage, and it is
not well to try new things then.”

‘But indeed you have not!” Doris pro-
tested. ‘You don’t even take pickles at
lunch. I watched: and that is the sign.

Do you know, I am very much
troubled about the tambourine. I cannot
do it, and I want to, ever so badly. I
always do want to do things I cannot
doi:

“But you ought to think yourself very
lucky,” said the Visitor. ‘‘ The best things
in the world are those we cannot do,
and keep on desiring to do, those that we
always want and can never get.”

Doris was quite impolitely amazed and
incredulous. ‘“ Well!” she said.
60 Make-Beheve

“It is the fact, I assure you,” said the
Visitor. ‘“ There was a manonce.....

“QO, if it is a story, . .” cried Doris.

“Yes, there is a story, but I don’t think
I will tell you about that man. He would
not interest you. He always took pickles.
But did you ever hear of the fox that loved
the grapes because they were green?”

‘They were ripe and black,” said Doris,
“but he called them green when he found
they were not for him.”

“That is.one story,” said the Visitor,
“but in mine the fox loved the grapes
because they were green. He, too, could
not get them.”

“Tt is a new story, then,” said Doris.
“Will you tell me?”

“Once upon a time there was a land
where all the fields were vineyards. The
people did nothing but grow grapes, and
make them into wine, and others came
from over sea, bringing corn and spices
and clothing and jewels, to exchange for
the wines made in that country.
Green Grapes 61

‘Now the grapes flourished on the
sunny sides of the valleys, and on the other
sides (where the sun shone only when he
was high in the sky, and the hoarfrost did
not melt until afternoon in the winter days)
there liveda great number of foxes. They
loved the grapes exceedingly, and at night,
when the moon shone on the empty vine-
yards, they had the rarest times and did
much damage there. Nobody minded much,
however, for the land was very fertile, and
grapes so abundant that there were plenty
to spare, since even the foxes must live
somehow.

“Among the others there were many
little foxes... .”

‘I - know,” interjected Doris. ‘ They
preach sermons to children about them.”

“ Precisely,” said the Visitor. ‘“ Well,
the fox about which I want to tell you was
one of the little ones. It happened on a
day in spring that he was wandering alone
on the hillside, when he came suddenly
upon a very old fox, who was evidently
62 Make-Behleve

half, but not all, a stranger to the valley-
He saw that the old fox was not quite sure
of his way, and, having a great respect and
pity for the old, who cannot enjoy them-
selves, he spoke to him civilly, and asked
if he could be of service.

“ «J thank you kindly,’ said the oldster.
Tis pleasant here in the sun, and if you
will let me talk for a while I shall be pro-
perly grateful. For you must know that I
am a native of this hillside, come back to
spend my declining days in the land where
I was young. I was looking about for
the old hole: it was under a great rock, by
the side of which an oak-sapling grew. It
should be somewhere hereabouts.’

““Ttis close at hand,’ said the young
fox, ‘and empty. But the sapling is no
sapling nowadays.’

““« Indeed,’ said the oldster. ‘Well, I
will go back to it. Strange that I should
have to ask the way to the old home. Yet
I must ask the favour of your guidance.’

“The young fox trotted off with his
Green Grapes 63

brush bravely flying in the air, and the
oldster followed slowly. ‘Ah,’ he said,
presently. ‘’Tis the very place. 1 feel
young again at the sight.’ Then he tried
to frolic as his companion was wont to do, .
and groaned at the effect of the exertion
on his aged bones.

“* Ah, he said, ‘I have said good-bye
to youth. But sit you down here in the
sun, and I will talk to you as my father
talked with me in the old days. It were a
pity that the wisdom of the old should be
wasted because there were no young to
hear their talk and make it action.’ ”

Here Doris interrupted, ‘‘ Say it again,”
she said. ‘I did not understand.”

“The old fox meant, I suppose, that the
lot of man and beast is not to know how
to do things until the power to do them is
gone. They have been so long in making
and collecting beautiful tools that they
haven't the strength to use them when
they begin to try. And there are few of
them that can be handed on to the young.
64. Make-Believe

.... But I am forgetting that old fox.
He sat in the sun and talked, and the
young one listened on and off.

“When he was still very young the
_oldster had grown tired of the valley in
which he had been born. For a little while
he was merely discontented: he hardly
knew why. Then there came a beautiful
spring day (‘A day like this,’ he said to
his companion, looking down the slope to
where a small stream ran in the bed of the
valley among the silver birches) and he
knew what was wrong. He tried himself
with a long run upon the hillside, and knew
that he was strong and swift. Then he
turned away from the old valley, and
travelled for many days towards the un-
known lands beyond.

“*There was one thing that greatly
pleased me in the new land to which I
came,’ he said. ‘There were many vine-
yards there also, but the grapes were all
white. I was tired of the black grapes of
this valley, and the white were strangely
Green Grapes 65

pleasant. Yet we are always desiring a
change. Perhaps it was as much _ the
thought of the black grapes I had eaten in
early days as of the comfort of this old
hole in which I was born, that led me in
the end to leave the country. I had lost
my mate, and the children she had borne
me had gone away from their home—per-
haps you are the son of my son’s son—and
so I came back.’

“Thus the old fox talked to the young,
‘telling him many strange things that hap-
pened commonly in the far land from which
he had returned. But the younger one,
when at last the sun sank and he went
about his own business, remembered chiefly
the tale of those grapes which were ripe
when: they were green, and of their wonder-
ful sweetness. There were reasons why he
could not leave the valley, and, to tell the
truth, he was a little bit of a coward and
lacked the courage to do as the old
fox had done and go away to find the
sweet green grapes for himself. But he

E
66 Make-Behleve

began to grow discontented from that very
hour.

“Of course he grew hungry very soon,
and as the moon was shining and the air
soft and warm, he went with the others
over to the vineyards. The grapes were
particularly delicious that year, and all the
others were remarking on the fact. But
the fox who had heard tell of the far
country found them as tasteless as dry
bread, and only ate because his hunger
would be appeased. ‘If only they were
green,’ he kept saying to himself.

“He had to go on living in the valley,
but from that time forward he was never
quite happy. The thought of the green
grapes that were ripe was to him as the
tambourine is to you: only, he had not
even got the tambourine. Of course there
were green grapes in the early year, but
they were sour, and he knew it. He was
as unhappy as a fox could be.” .

Doris had been listening very intently.
“ But you said,” she cried, “that it is good
Green Grapes

 
68 Make-Behleve

to want things and be unable to get
them.”

“Wait a moment,” rejoined the Visitor.
‘You have your tambourine. In the course
of time the fox found his. There was a
certain vineyard with a high wall around
it, upon whose outer side the sun shone
but little. The fox (who was grown up by
this time), had become rather solitary in
his habits: a man does when he is con-
stantly thinking of something that is not of
any interest to other people. He used to
go alone to get his food, and one quiet
afternoon he happened to pass by the wall
of the vineyard.

“Suddenly his heart almost stood still.
It was at a season when unripe grapes
were rarer than diamonds in that country.
But one of the vines that grew inside
had sent a shoot up to climb over the top
of the wall and hang above the road. The
grapes it bore were green.

“From that time forth the lonely fox
was happier than he had thought it possible
Green Grapes 69

to be. The wall was a high one, and
he could not get at the beautiful green
grapes. He could not even find a way
into the vineyard and eat the other fruit
of the same vine. But he did not mind
eating the black ones now, for when he
had taken food enough he would come
along the quiet road and look at the things
he had desired so long and found at last.
‘They are green!’ he would whisper to
himself. ‘Beautiful green grapes, how
sweet you will be when I have thought
of a plan by which to get you.’

“If the grapes had known why he came
and looked at them, and how much he
thought of them, I verily believe they
would have fallen of their own. accord.
But their ignorance did not matter. The
fox desired them so much, he could not
doubt that they would some day be his.
In the meantime he found it good to desire
them.

“The good was of many kinds. The
other foxes seemed to think that the only
70 Make-Beheve

thing worth living for was food, and they
were always in the unwalled vineyards,
where they did much damage. It happened
that the owners began to be more careful
just about this time, and so a good many
foxes got killed by dogs or in traps. I
have heard say that some of them were
even shot. Well... .. They do strange
things in foreign countries. But the fox
who loved the green grapes thought that
eating was the least important thing in life,
and so he was hardly ever in the vineyards,
and escaped being killed. There were
other things: I daresay you will know
when you are older, how much he escaped
because of those green grapes that hung
over the wall of the vineyard. This was
the happiest time in his life.

“The summer passed away, and the
black grapes were almost all gone. His
were still green, and he still visited them,
and tried to think of a plan for getting
them. Now, it was late in the year, and
the vineyard-owners were pruning their
Green Grapes 71

vines. One day the green grapes fell as
he was watching them: the people inside
the wall had lopped off the branch which
climbed. So the fox sprang forward and
stood over them, thinking they must
have fallen because he desired them, or
that the gods to whom foxes pray had
sent them to him, knowing what was in
his heart. Yet, from what he said you
might have fancied that he had always
been certain he would some day find his
hopes fulfilled.

“«Dear green grapes!’ he said, ‘I knew
you would be mine. I have tried to win
you in a hundred ways; every day I have
thought of you a thousand times, and it
was so before I found you. Ah! but you
will be sweet |’

“Then he drew nearer still and took one
of the green grapes in his mouth. The
skin had hardly broken before he knew
that he had been fooled by his hope: the
grapes had kept their greenness all the
summer only because they had been born
aT? Make-Believe

where the sun did not shine. They would
have been common black grapes otherwise.
His heart was simply broken, and all his
happiness gone. He dashed down the
road, leaving the green grapes there to be
trodden underfoot, and to this day no one
knows what became of him..... Ah,
Doris, we ought to pray when we hope for
a thing very much that it will never be
granted us.”

The Visitor paused, feeling that his story
had ended very lamely, and in a moment
Doris was upon him. There were tears
in her eyes, and he felt himself a criminal.

“It is a hateful story,” she said. “Why
did you tell it me? The things we want
are good, and they are better when we
have them. Iam sure it isnottrue. The
fox would have gone into foreign countries
if he wanted the. white grapes so badly,
though I do not believe the sweet black
grapes would have tired him. You do not
think the story is true?”

The Visitor paused, uncertain for a
Green Grapes | 73

moment. ‘Of course not, Doris,” he said.
‘Tt is just a silly tale some man made up,
and I told it because one grows tired of
true tales sometimes. As to the tambour-
ine, it only wants a little practice. You
hold it so, and then you balance yourself
upon one foot. Then... .”

He kicked the thing above his head and
handed it to the child. ‘You'll learn in
no time,” he said.

 
 

NCE again, on some excuse
or other, the Visitor was
idling in the West, and,
according to ancient habit,
was much in the company
of Doris. But for her, indeed, he must,
so long as daylight lasted, have gone with-
out companionship altogether, for the new
year had begun, and men who had been
idle through the autumn and the early
winter were now working with desperate
industry, lest the spring shows should be
thrown open to the public lacking pictures
from their easels.

On a certain morning when the Visitor
went over to see Doris, these others had

  
The Dolls Funeral TS

awakened in their beds with something of
the emotions that are his who oversleeps
himself on a day when he has an appoint-
ment to keep, and knows at last, by the
sun that shines in at his window, or—if he
dwell in London—by the volume of the
sound of traffic in the street below, that
he has missed the opportunity. For a
moment, at the time of their awaking, it
appeared to them that they must somehow
have lain asleep for a month or two, and
that the spring, for which they had
hoped to be prepared, was already upon
them.

There had been weeks and weeks of frost
hard enough to make all ancient natives
of these temperate seaside regions search
their memories through to find recollec-
tions of a season equally rigorous, and so
keep the young from undue forwardness.
The green of sprouting bulbs had lacked
the power to pierce the hard crust of the
-purplish-brown earth, and not a flower was
to be found in field or garden.
76 Make-Beheve

During the night just overpast the wind
had gone into the West, and the wonder-
working breath of the great sea had
loosened the earth and set drops of
jewelled water instead of hoarfrost on
the bare branches of trees and_ shrubs.
The blue sky overhead was dappled with
light clouds, and underfoot the roads were
wet and shining. The sea was purple in
the distance, tinted like chrysoprase along
the shores; and, because of the wind that
broke the waters, the bay looked big and
splendid. You might have fancied the
warm wind had brought a million. little
birds from over the sea: so many were the
singers in a world which had been dumb
while the frost lay on it.

Now, the Visitor could not but feel in
some degree the magic of the morning.
He, too, awoke in his bed and wondered,
like the others, what was the delightful
arrangement for whose fulfilment he must
be up and abroad immediately. For a little
time the wonder lasted, and with it the
The Doll’s Funeral 7

natural unalloyed delight in being alive on
such a day.

Then he remembered divers matters
that concerned himself alone, and some-
thing of the beauty of the world was gone
for him. He dressed and breakfasted, and
found himself whistling at intervals the.
tune of a sad little song whose words go
thus :—

Lf green be for Jealousy,
Green’s the robe for me:
Lf envy go in for yellow,
Yellow let it be.

For the ved robe of love

With my state doth not agree;
And, if L should go in nakedness,
Shameful it would be.

He was whistling the same heart-broken
little air as he walked along the road above
the sea, but gradually the things that lay
around him took hold upon his attention,
and when his goal had come in sight, he
had forgotten everything except that when
73 Make-Beleve

Spring comes—though it be but for a flying,
mischievous invasion of Winter’s kingdom
—a man must needs be glad. Doris was
not at the gateway, though she had often
condescended to’ await him there on morn-
ings far less delightful. He had a long
search before he found her in the glass
studio, among the last fading relics of the
year’s chrysanthemums. Something in
her attitude, and perhaps in her environ-
ment, spoke eloquently.

“Why, Doris,” he said, “I believe you
are almost sad.”

The child turned and faced him, and he
knew at once that his guess was not inac-
curate. ‘‘ Why?” she asked, plaintively.

“T can’t tell you,” he said. ‘“ Perhaps
it is all these dead chrysanthemums.
There is not one but is withered: Per-
haps I only fancied it.”

Doris paused. “ You will keep a secret,
if I tell you?” she said at last.

‘What is one among——” began the
Visitor. Then he could not help remem-
The Doll’s Funeral 7G

bering his sensations when, as a child, he
had whistled in church, instead of singing,
during a hymn, for his sensations at the
moment were identical with them. “I
think you can trust me,” he concluded,
gravely.

“You remember the picture of the
funeral?” asked Doris ; and her companion
recalled the fact that he had lately invaded
with her a studio where some one was
painting a picture that showed the funeral
of a child, the small white coffin borne
through the narrow streets of the village
by pretty children dressed in white.

‘“‘T remember the picture,” he said.

“Well, then,” said Doris, “there's going
to bea funeral. It is all arranged. They
told me this morning. I am going away
to school.”

The secret now revealed to Doris had
weighed upon her friend for many days,
since he chanced to be in the confidence
of her parents in this matter. He had
found it impossible to think of her as
80 Make-Beleve

dwelling anywhere but in that garden
looking on the sea; and so the knowledge
of the thing ordained for her had weighed
upon him as a guilty secret. But he had
lived in the world, and so to be forewarned
was to be forearmed. He had prepared
himself, for the child’s own sake, to greet
her with congratulations whenever she
should come to him for comfort. “Whya
funeral?” he asked. ‘Of course it is
hard to go away. But one’s home is al-
ways down here in the West, and one can
come back. And it is great fun being at
school—after the first few days.”

He knew now that Doris was almost
broken-hearted, and all pretence of cheer-
fulness became impossible immediately.
“What is the trouble, Doris?” he asked,
and at once all difficulties were over.

“T don’t want.to go,” she said. “ They
say that I shall like it, but I don’t want to
like it. Why can’t I stop here?”

‘‘One can never stop in pleasant places,”
said the Visitor. ‘But you need not
The Doll’s Funeral Sr

trouble, Doris: on my honour you will
enjoy it after the first, and you will come
back to the garden very soon.”

“But it will all be different,” she pro-
tested. “Tt will not be my garden. And
then——”

She ceased again, and it was plain that
she had not spoken of the situation’s most
tragic possibility. ‘And then?” echoed
the Visitor.

“Sometimes you laugh at me,” said
Doris, “but I never mind it... . I cannot
take my doll to school.”

The Visitor had sympathy enough to
understand. “ That’s the worst of growing
older,” he said. “One has to give up
things. But you will always find some-
thing new to care for—and to give up at
last. What do you mean by the funeral ?”

“You remember Christmas?” said
Doris.

She had named a dog whose history
was a little out of the ordinary. The
Visitor remembered at once the story to

r
32 Make-Beleve

which she referred. For while the dog
was still but young he had contracted a |
most grievous sickness. For the sake of
his mistress the little creature had received
more attention than many a dying child is
blessed with in that village of hard-living
fisher-folk. But all the care bestowed
upon him had been useless, and so at last
the Vet had come while Doris lay asleep
and taken Chrestmas away to cure him of
all pain. The child had said but little
when the news was broken to her in the
morning, but before the hour of Junch a
new grave had appeared in the little
cemetery under the elder-topped hedge
(where one canary and a pair of white rats
lay already), and from that day it had
never lacked flowers when flowers were
obtainable. The Visitor understood.
“Yes,” he said, “I shall never forget
Christmas. And the doll?”

Doris showed him a limp, white bundle
lying at her feet. ‘I spoke to the
Gardener,” she said, ‘““and he has made a
The Dolls Funeral 83

grave next to Christmas. For the doll is
dead. I told her what they had said to me
and her heart is quite broken. Look!” .

If Doris had been less like the child she
was she would long since have ceased to
lavish her affection on the battered thing
of which she spoke. It lay supine, with
eyes closed, and a dear, dead child could
hardly have seemed more wonderful than
did the doll to the Visitor.

“You are going to bury her?” he
asked.

“T must,” said Doris, plaintively. ‘ Will
you come and walk with me?”

Somehow or other the Visitor failed to
be completely sympathetic.

For the red robe of love
With my state doth not agree;
And if....

He began to whistle the tune which had
haunted him all the day, and then, remem-
bering the situation, ceased disconcertedly.
“Do you think I should be in the right
84 Make-Beleve

place? I thought that only children
might come in the procession ?”

‘They are all children in the picture,”
said Doris, doubtfully.

“JT thought so,” answered her friend.

“Do you think I might be the crowd at
the grave? I would like to come in some-
where.” ,
Doris almost forgot her sorrow in her
“joy at this solution of the difficulty. “That
will be just right,” she said. ‘Will you
go down and wait ?”

She turned away and looked down upon
the doll. The Visitor paused at the door
of the studio, and saw her lift the veil
which covered the thing’s face, and look
down tenderly. Then she took it in her
arms and held it to her breast, lifting
it very gently, lest the eyes, which were
now decorously. closed, should open and
remind her of yesterday, when the grief of
to-day was unforeseen. He noted also a
box of yellowish cardboard that lay on
the floor hard by, and then disdaining to
The Dolls Funeral 85

 
86 Make-Beleve

spy upon her sorrow, he went away to
that part of the garden in which he knew
the cemetery lay.

The garden was utterly void of flowers,
and as yet no token of life had appeared
above the earth. He descended the steep,
grey-gravelled path, and stood beside the
little pit in the wet earth. Again the little
song came to him, and he whistled idly as
he waited for Doris.

The gardener was working in an obscure
corner. He stuck his spade into the earth
and came across to the grave which he had
dug at the child’s request. “Have ’ee
heered tell of the funeral?” he asked, in
the most subdued of voices.

“T am here to help,” said the Visitor.
‘“ Do you know that she is going?”

“Know it?” cried the old man. “I've
known it for days, and felt worse than I can
‘ee all the time, for she would come down
as usual, and she was all the time talking
about what she would do in the spring,
when the daffodils was here again, and
The Dolls Funeral 87

primroses thinkin’ to bloom in the hedge.
I’m glad that she do know, but I can’t
fancy the garden with her gone out of it.
What is more, I haven’ got the heart to
watch her funeral. Ill be gone out of
sight at once, I believe.”

He turned away, and the Visitor was
left solitary beside the little grave.

The child came at last. She was bare-
headed, and the grief in her face—though
it could last but an hour or two—was not
less real from the fact that she wore the
pretty frock and the big useful pinafore of
every-day life. She held the yellow card-
board box tightly to her breast, and the
Visitor, understanding that the ceremony
was very real to her, removed his hat and
waited.

‘Shall I be sexton too?” he said, pre-
sently ; and when she did not answer he
took the box from her arms. It seemed to
him that she would fain have resisted, but
she yielded in the end. He knelt and was
about to place the box in the hole which
88 Make-Believe

had been prepared
for it. But Doris
forgot her attitude
of. mute compliance
with the harsh de-
crees of fate.

“Tet me look at her once more,” she
cried, entreatingly.

‘What is the use?” asked her com-
panion ; but none the less he knelt beside
the little pit and lifted the lid of the box.
The waxen creature’s eyes were still closed,
and he knelt regarding it until he heard a
sob from Doris. Then he let the cover fall
very gently and rose to his feet. ‘“ What
comes next?” he asked, touching the child’s
hair lightly, and watching her sad face
closely.

“T must say good-bye,” said Doris. ‘“‘Good-
bye! Good-bye!”

“ And now,” he said, “shall J throw in
the earth?”

“You must,” said Doris ; and the Visitor
took a spade from the hedge-side.

 
The Doll’s Funeral 89

But as he did so it was evident that some
new thought had struck him. He hesitated.
“You have forgotten one thing,” he said.

“What is it?” asked Doris.

‘There are always flowers,” he said.

‘ But the winter has been so cold,” she
said; “there are no flowers in all the
garden, and all the chrysanthemums are-
dead.”

“There ought to be flowers,” said the man.

“They are all dead,” said Doris.

“Ah, well,” said the Visitor, ‘that is
the way of flowers. But I think I can
make it all right.”

He plunged his hand into his breast
pocket, and produced a pocket-book, which
he opened carefully. There was a moment’s
pause. Then he drew from the book a
brown pressed flower, that might once
have been a rose. He held it reverently
between his fingers, hesitated, and then
dropped it into the little pit.

“There,” he said, ‘that is what was
wanted.”
go Make-Believe

“Thank you,” said Doris, as he began
to throw back the moist earth into the
pit and cover up the flower and the box.

‘“ By-the-bye,” he exclaimed a moment
later, as they mounted the steep, grey-
gravelled path, leaving a heap of brown
earth behind them; ‘what did you call
her, Doris?”

— “T used to called her Hope,” answered
the child.

 
 

 

 

   

 

   

HEY were leaning over the
side of an old green-painted
boat, just off a rocky island
that lies not more than
half a mile away from the

land. It was late afternoon, and even the

waves seemed to be sleepy. The water
was very clear, and they could see the
shifting of the brown weeds that covered
the rocks at the bottom. Doris, on her
part, declared that she had caught glimpses
of more than one fish down there, and the

Visitor was envying her good fortune and

leaning over the side in the hope that he

might presently come to share it.

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92 Make-Believe

“T like you, do you know?” said Doris.
by-and-by.

“Do you, indeed ?” asked her companion
in tones of absolute surprise, as he sat up
in the boat. ‘“ Whatever for?”

‘You believe so many things,” answered
the child. Then, noting, perhaps, that he
was still a little puzzled: “I’m sure that
you would never say there are no such
things as fairies.”

“T should think not,” said the Visitor,
much relieved.. ‘That is the sort of thing
you are simply bound to believe if you
want to go on living.”

‘‘But have you ever seen any?” asked
Doris, forgetting all about the world
beneath the waters, and facing him
eagerly.

“Jam not quite sure, Doris,” he said.
“T fancy I used to see them pretty often
once upon a time. But, anyway, I don’t
count for anything. You may be certain
plenty of other people have seen them.
Have you forgotten the tale of a man who
When Doris was a Mermaid 93

broke a fairy’s leg with a stone? Itisina
book.”

“You never told me,” said Doris, re-
proachfully. |

“Oh, it is not very much to tell. There
was once a farmer who had long wanted to
catch a fairy and make it tame. He thought
it would be a very nice pet, and lucky to
have about the house. Now, one night he
was coming home in the moonlight through
a very lonely lane, and he heard little voices
singing this song as they danced among
the daisies just inside the gate of one of his
own fields :

Join your hands till a ring ye make,
(Dance, O dance in the moonlight!)

Dawn will come if the ring ye break,
While ye dance in the moonlight.

Men will wake if the ring ye break,
(Fairies, dance in the moonlight! )

Haste ye, then, and your pleasure take,
Dancing here in the moonlight.

“He crept on quietly, and looked over the
94 Make-Beleve

Kye Z

 

hedge. There were full a hundred fairies,
none of them bigger than the daisies, and
all most beautifully dressed. They were
dancing gaily. Now, the farmer wanted
a fairy, and he was not a kind man, so
he picked up a stone and flung it at the
dancers. Ina moment they had all gone,
except one poor little chap who lay on the
grass in a dead faint. The farmer had
broken his leg with the stone.

“Tt was late, and the farmer had to
be up early the next morning. He knew
that no one was likely to be passing in the
meantime, so he just went home to bed,
and almost before daylight he went down
to fetch the fairy.”

“Did he find it?” asked Doris. ‘And
When Doris was a Mermaid 95

did the dawn come when he broke the
fairies’ ring?”

“T forget what the book said as to the
dawn. As to the fairy, it is supposed his
brothers rescued him,” replied the Visitor.
“At any rate, he was gone. But the stone
that the farmer had flung at him was still
there. So you see, it is clear that fairies
do exist —or did when that book was
written.”

‘‘T suppose it is,” said Doris, accepting
the logic of her friend, after a moment's
reflection. ‘“ At any rate, I believe it, and
so do you.”

“Quite right,” answered her friend.
“And it need not. concern us what other
people say.”

Doris pondered. ‘And what about
' mermaids?” she asked, presently.

“How do you mean?” replied the
Visitor.

“Well, did you ever feel quite certain
that once upon a time — hundreds and
hundreds of years ago, perhaps — you
96 Make-Believe

were something different from the thing
you are now?”

“That's rather puzzling, Doris,” was the
reply. ‘“ Yes, I have been something very
different from the thing Iam now. Why,
not so long ago... . But tell me what
you mean.”

Doris leaned over the side of the boat,

and looked down once again into the clear
water. ‘Look down,” she said, and when
her comrade had obeyed, she was silent for
a space, and seemed to watch the shifting
of the brown weed as if it would remind
her of something she had almost forgotten.
The Visitor was quietly watching her, and
presently he spoke:

“What were you: going to tell me,
Doris ?” 3

Doris still gazed into the water with a
very grave face. ‘Once upon a time,”
she said—‘‘a long time ago, I think—I
was a mermaid.”

“Yes?” said the Visitor, without sur-
prise. ‘‘How is it that you manage to
When Doris was a Mermaia 97

remember? Most of us forget things of
that kind.”

‘“‘] don’t seem to remember,” explained
the child. ‘But I know everything that
mermaids and mermen do, just as well as I
know the ways of men and women and
children. And I could not know if T had
not been one of them, could I?”

“T should say it was quite impossible,”
replied her companion, with a seriousness
at least equal to her own. ‘“ But won't
you tell me all these things that you-know?
I shall understand them better while I look
down into this clear water and watch the
brown weed.”

“That is like my hair used to be,”
said Doris. “It was very long then, and
it floated about my head, moving just as
restlessly as the weed does, because it is
never so still that there are not little
movements under the water. It never
troubled me, though, as it does nowadays,
when the wind blows hard, for it just

floated and floated like a living thing, and
G
98 Mahke-Believe

never came before my eyes except when I
was playing with the others. Then we
would chase one another under the water,
and turn quickly, or suddenly dive deeper,
and of course it would blind us for a
moment. You got caught, sometimes,
before you had begun to see again, but
mostly it just floated round you and was
not in the way at all. It was like the
weeds down there.”

She was still gazing into the clear water,
and now she grew silent, forgetful of her
story.

‘Ts there no more to tell?” asked the
Visitor.

“©, there is no end to tell. Some-
times when I am sleeping I seem to go
back to it all again in my dreams, and so I|
shall never forget.”

“You may be sure of that,” muttered
the Visitor a shade bitterly. Then speak-
ing to the child, “Go on with the story,
won't you?”

“Let me see,” said Doris, “where shall
When Doris was a Mermaid 99

I begin? O, there was the dancing. I
suppose you would not think that you
could dance down under the water? Of
course we did not go right to the bottom :
it was in the green water with the light.
coming from above, and the pale sand just
showing underneath. No one could ever
get tired with dancing, for the water let
ae move through it as a gull moves in

: you just floated and floated as I told
you my hair did. But I had almost for-
gotten to tell you about the gulls.”

“What of them?” asked the Visitor.
“T suppose they would be good friends of
yours?”

“Not at all,” came the answer, promptly.
“They hated us. Sometimes, when the
surface of the water was like a ceiling of
bright glass because of the moonlight, they
would fall asleep on the little waves, and if
we rose suddenly to find how the wind was
blowing, and whether the sea would be
stormy presently, we should wake and
frighten them. And there were other
100 Make-Beleve

 
 
       

  

  
 
 

   

ee FS

a SS are

things we did. I don’t think they were
very kind,” she added, reflectively, ‘“ but
they were not meant to be unkind. We did
not understand them. Still, the seagulls
hated us.

“T used to like the clean, sandy places
best of all: it was so beautiful to see the
mackerel go by between you and the light
as you lay there resting. The black rocks
were terrible sometimes; great crabs, and
lobsters, and cray fish waited in hidden -
holes, and some of them could kill a mer-
maid easily. There was a big, dark cave,
too, that none of us dared to go near. We
wanted to find out what was inside, and
scores of big terrible arms were always
beckoning us from the opening. But once
upon a time—ages and ages before—a

 

 

  
When Doris was a Mermaid 101

merman had gone to find out what was in
the cave, because a mermaid had told him
he would not dare, and he had never come
back. So we never went near: the cave,
though we all wanted to know what was in
it, and the big terrible arms were always
beckoning us to come. Of course I know
well enough now what must have been in
the cave: it was a big octopus. I should
think the cave must be over yonder, under-
neath St. Michael’s Mount.”

She paused, and looked across to the
Mount, dreamily. “But what did you do
for flowers, Doris?” asked the Visitor,
knowing well that even in dreams the child
could not imagine a happy world that was
not full of flowers.

“Flowers?” she cried. “ Did you
think there were no flowers down there?”
Why the weed grows in forests, waving
constantly, but never sighing as the trees
do, because it is the moving water, and not
the wind, that sets them swaying. And
there were-all sorts of flowers of all the
102° Make- Believe

colours you can
fancy. I never used
to pick them ; they
all seemed living
creatures, just as
much as the ane-
mones.”

“ And the storms
and wrecks ?” sug-
gested the Visitor.

“T don’t think [
remember much of
the wrecks,” said
Doris. “There
were terrible storms
sometimes, andthen
it grew very noisy
after the quiet we
usually had, and so
we used to go. out
into the deep water
and find a sandy
beach. There we
could forget all

 
When Doris was a Mermaid 103

about the storm
that had frightened
us, though it was
dark in the deep
water. But there
must have been
wrecks, for we had
golden cups to
drink from and
rings upon our
fingers, and we used
to play with gold
and silver coins.
And once a storm
passed over and we
found a little baby
floating in a sort of
box on the waves.
We wanted to keep
it, but it would have
died if we had
taken it down to
our own place, and
so we swam to the

 
104 Make-Beleve

shore, dragging the box with us, and there
we left it high up on the sands, giving the
baby a pretty coral to play with. I wonder
how we guessed that babies liked to play
with corals? We watched, and presently
a woman came down and walked along the
tide-mark searching for something. When
she found the baby she took it in her arms
and was glad, so that we knew she was its
mother. But presently she looked out to
sea and cried, and then we knew that the
baby’s father was the captain of a ship
which had gone down in the storm. So
we went back to our own place, for we felt
ashamed.”

“And how did you stop being a mer-
maid ?” asked the Visitor.

“I don’t quite remember,” Doris con-
fessed. ‘Sometimes I seem to recollect
that I went to sleep and got caught in the
nets of the fishermen, and that they took
me away and made mea prisoner. There
was a picture of it in London. But I am
not quite sure. I only know that some-
When Doris was a Mermaid 10 5

thing happened and then it was all ended.
I was not a mermaid any more, and |
longed and longed to go back. So, I
suppose, my heart broke at last, and I
died. But sometimes—even now—when |
wake from dreaming I still long to go back
again.”

‘Do you?” said the Visitor, softly.

‘IT go to my window and look out, and
the sea is shining in the moonlight. Once
I thought I heard the mermen and the
mermaids singing, and always I know they
are lying out there in the quiet water and
looking up at the stars, with the starlight
round them on the waves. And a bed is
uncomfortable when you remember that.”

She paused, and looked wistfully out
across the waters, dotted so far as the
horizon line with the brown sails of the
fishing-boats which had gone creeping out
while she told her tale. ‘One of these
days,” said she, softly, “I shall have
learned to swim well, and I shall be
stronger than | am now; then I will come
106 Make-Belteve

down to the beach one warm night in the
summer, and swim out and try to find
them ; I think they would be glad to see
me again.” .

“Doris,” said the Visitor, ‘I should
very much like to come with you if you'll
have my company. But I, too, must learn
to swim better, for we may have a long
way to go.”

 
 

 

Dreams about a Star

JHE sun had fallen behind
the hills, and in the east, far
away across the quietness
of the sea, a big planet had
come into. see They
had ‘explored the rocky island thoroughly,
and, as time advanced, the Visitor gradu-
ally guided his companion back to the
place where they had left the boat.

“ But we won't go yet,” protested Doris.
“There will be small rosy clouds to look
at for a long time yet, and they have only
just lighted the harbour light. Let us
stop here and talk for a little while.”

“We are evicting the cormorants,” said

 
108 Make-Beleve

the Visitor. ‘They sit here every even-
ing, and they will be terribly disturbed in
their minds. We had better go.”

~“ Do you see that star out there?” said
Doris, changing the subject suddenly. “I
thought of a story about it the other day.”

As the child had shrewdly calculated,
her companion immediately arose out of
the stooping posture in which he had been
bending over the boat’s painter. ‘‘ One of
your own?” he asked.

‘A sort of thought that came to me!”
she answered. “I will tell it you if you
don’t mind vexing the cormorants.”

“Well, then, the cormorants must put
up with a little vexation for once,” said the
Visitor. ‘Put on this big coat of mine,
and I will sit and listen.”

He stepped into the boat and fetched an
overcoat in which Doris obediently wrapped
herself. With her permission he filled a
pipe and the two sat down together, just a
yard or two above the gentle rise and fall
q

of the water, ?

4
Dreams about a Star 109

d

“ All the stars are other worlds,” said
the child at last. ‘But that one is the
most wonderful of them all. Shall I tell
you about it ?”

“JT thought you-had promised,” said the
Visitor, gravely. .

“Well, of course you know that all the
worlds were not made at the same time.
God sat in His own place, and looked
down upon the earth, watching it. Some-
times, when He had been thinking a long
while, the people walking down here on
the dark nights, when the moon was not
up, would see a star appear in the sky quite
suddenly, and then they knew He had
made another world. Perhaps there are
still new stars that come, but the sky is
very full, and so I have never seen a new
star come, though I have often watched.
~ You only see when judgment day comes
for one of the worlds up there, and a star
falls like a wax match that you throw
away.”

‘“By-the-bye, Doris,” said the Visitor,
110 Make-Believe

“there’s a little song that goes more or
less after that fashion. It goes... . But
I will tell you about it some other time.”

Asa matter of fact, he did not give it
her until the morning, but you may as well
receive it now:

God made this world, and long tt stood,
Lone betwixt moon and sun:

Never might His first children watch
The stars come one by one.

For the great Maker sat enthroned
Above this mortal strife,

And daily pondered on the world
That He had called to life.

And so His later children saw—
Wandering on moonless nighis—
The vault of Heaven grew wonderful,

With legions of clear lights :

Till now the sky is filled with stars,
The children of His thought:

The happy creatures of the Art,
Our human woes have taught.

“Now, the world that you see out there
Dreams about a Star III

across the sea,” continued Doris, “is not
an old one. It is one of the last that God
made, and He had been thinking and
thinking about making worlds for more
years than there are sands on the shores
of all the seas.”

“T want to know about this, Doris,”
interrupted the Visitor. ‘‘ Have you been
reading, or is this just a story?”

“QO,” said Doris, airily, ‘I suppose it
is ‘meddling with creation,’ as Father calls
it. But it sounds true. I thought of it
one day when I was sitting for the last
picture?”

“Did you?” said the Visitor. “I knew
as soon as J] saw it that you must
have been thinking while it was being
painted.”

For a moment there was silence, and
the child’s face took again something of
the look it bears in Zhe Traveller, a pic-
ture you will surely remember to have
seen. It shows a young child innocently
setting forth, alone and unprotected, upon
112 Make-Beheve

a journey towards the distant horizon of a
great lonely tract of country. You might
fear for her, because of the unknown
dangers of the journey, were it not for the
courage in the serene grey eyes. With
the same eyes Doris looked out towards
the star as she renewed her tale.

“Every one is altogether happy up
there: even the older people have plenty
of pleasant things to do. You See, there
must be people to do things for the
children, and the old ones know _ that.
They are all very nice, and the children
simply go and ask them whatever they
want to know; and they grow wiser and
wiser by slow degrees, until, when it is
their turn to be old, they can tell the same
things to other children. So there is no
need of schools.”

“Do you know, Doris,” said the Visitor,
“there’s another song, which is wonder-
fully like what you have been saying. We
ought to be going back very soon, but it is _
not a very long song:
Dreams about a Star 113

ZL love my mother more than words
Can tell, also my father ;

L love my uncle, and his friends,
But still I wonder rather

Why God compels us to be old
Before we're tived of playing :

To sit in chairs, and talk, and still
Say nothing worth the saying.

But I suppose He made the world,
And put young children in it,

To pick His flowers, climb trees, and play;
And then He saw, next minute,

There must be people tales to tell
Lo children, and to feed them, —
To build them houses, and to find
Warm clothes, if they should need then.

So, children, come and play with me:
You soon will be grown older ;
And every day is as a night
That hourly groweth colder.

And you, who once were children too,
Be careful what youre saying,
Lest ever you should chance to speak
A word to stop our playing.”
eel
114 Make-Beleve

 

Doris looked at him suspiciously. “Where
do all your songs come from?” she de-
manded. ‘You must have read a lot of
books, and you would be very useful in my
star, for the children are always singing,
and you could teach them new songs when
they are tired of the old.

“For the only lessons they learn are
pleasant ones. They learn to sing and to
Dreams about a Star 125

 

dance, and some of them learn to read, so
that they may know what is in the story-
books. But many of them do not trouble.
You see, those who have learned to read
are always glad to please the others,
and. proud of what they have learned.
Out in the gardens—all the roads run

 

through gardens in that star—you will
see them sitting in little groups under ©
116 Make-Beleve

shady trees, one reading while the others
listen.

“ Besides, the old. people have not for-
gotten what it was like to be a child, and
so they are just children grown bigger and
_ wiser. They come out into the gardens
constantly, and offer to tell tales, and they
all believe in fairies. Indeed, they cannot
help it, for the fairies have not had to go
away from that world, and you see the
mermaids when you are down by the
sea.” ,

“Tt must be a lovely world to live in,”
said the Visitor. “ But what happens when
the children are not good? For I suppose
they sometimes do wrong?”

“J don’t know about that,” said Doris,
after a moment’s reflection. ‘‘ You see,
they are never told not to do the things
that all children want to do, and you can-
not do wrong when there is nothing you
are told not todo..... There are some
things, of course, that must be punished.
But I am always sorriest when I am not
Dreams about a Star 117

punished, and I expect it is that way with
them.”

The twilight was deepening, and the
last traces of the rosy sunset had vanished
from beyond the pines at the summit of |
the western land. The Visitor began to
grow restless.

“Do you know,” he said, “I wish we
could buy this island.”

‘What would you do with it?” asked
Doris.

“You should be Queen of the island,
and I would be at the head of your ser-
vants, and then we would see if we could
not start a new world that should be just
like that star of yours. We would ask all
the people we like, and a lot of brave
men and women we have heard of but
never seen; and, of course, any children
who were unhappy would come to us. We
would live here all the rest of our days,
and grow flowers, and just be happy.
Can’t you imagine how we should sit here
in the evenings (there would bea beautiful,
118 Make-Beleve

Ee
SN es

TNS ERA GF re
Fai EAD De
r KI

ae aye A SES
eS a

 

rosy, beacon light shining after dark, and
steps cut in the rock), to watch for the
children who would come down to the
shore and take boats across? I think your
gardener should have charge of the ferry.
He would like that kind of work.”

“T believe you will have to be the ferry-
man,” said Doris. ‘‘ You see, the gardener
will be busy all the time with his flowers.”

“Ah, well!” was the reply, “I shall be
glad of the post if you think I could fill
it properly. I shall know all your rules, at
any.rate, and be able to tell them to the
newcomers as I take them over. But now
Dreams about a Star 119

I must be your. ferryman in quite another
way ; for we really must go back.”

Doris looked across at the mainland,
seeking for a light high up on the hillside.
‘I suppose we must,” she said, wistfully.
“And perhaps I shall be grown old before
we can buy this island and begin to try
your plan. But—there’s a harbour over
there, and steps leading up from the water.
Shall we try to think that you are the
ferryman you will some day be, and that
this is the first day we have owned the
island and we both are going over?”

She rose, and her companion held her
hand as she descended the rock and
stepped into the boat. He began to row
very quietly, the sounds of life about the
harbour growing every moment clearer
and nearer. At last they had reached the
steps that lead up to the quay.

“ After all,” he said, “this is an island,
too, and if only the people knew there
would be no need for us to buy one, they
would set to work and make a whole world
120 Make-Be lieve

like your star. It wouldn’t be so very
difficult.”

“T wonder if we could explain it all to
them,” said Doris, as she dropped the
rudder lines and made ready to step out of
the boat. .

 
 

 

A March of Heroes

MORIS was blind. The folk
| who loved her knew that the
grey eyes would some day
see as well as ever they had
done. But, for the present,
she must live in darkness, and, since learned
surgeons mostly dwell in London, she was
an exile from her garden by the sea, and
waited in a strange house in London until
her sight should be given back to her.
She and the Visitor had changed places,
for it was now his part to play the
guide, and this he did as one having a
task set him whose performance is a
joy.

The child had, fortunately, a passion for

 
122 Make- Believe

music. The Visitor did not appear (as
Doris remarked to him one afternoon) to
have much work upon his hands. He
was for ever coming to see her, and the
tales he told were past numbering. “I
believe,” said Doris, on the occasion men-
tioned, “I believe you do nothing but
walk about thinking and thinking what
story you can tell me next, and that when
you have found one you come straight
away to tell it.” As a matter of fact, she
was not far from the truth. But still the
flow of stories was not altogether unfailing,
and there were times when the Visitor had
none to tell. It was on such occasions that
he remembered her fondness for music, and
was grateful for its existence, After all,
her affliction was but for a moment, and,
in any case, it was no particular affair of
his. But he had brought away with him
from that holiday in the West so vivid a
memory of the child among her flowers
that he could not now get away from the
thought of her sitting in darkness, lonely.
A March of Heroes 123

He had therefore a great desire to tide her
over this period of evil fortune.

‘I’m going to take you to a concert,”
he said, one evening. ‘ Are you ready?”

Doris sprang to her feet as she might
have done in the old days. Then she
remembered and stood waiting until her
mother came and guided her from the
room. But when she returned, ready for
the expedition, her cheeks were flushed
and her voice full of excitement and delight.
A cab came and they drove towards the
concert hall.

“I wish you could see things, Doris,”
said the Visitor, clumsily. “We'll have
good times together when you are well
again.”

“Yes,” said Doris, wistfully, “I should
like to see the houses, and the people, and
the streets. But they’re not all golden,
are they? I used to think they were, once
upon a time, when I was small.”

“Not golden exactly,” said the Visitor ;
“but they are very lovely. The horses
124 Make-Believe

are so strong, and tall, and swift that you'd
think you must be under their feet every
moment. There’s a soldier going by on
the pavement in a blaze of light; you
should just see how he strides along,
stamping his feet so that his bright spurs
may jingle. And do you hear that music ?
Little children are dancing there by the
.side of the street, and the people who go
by are giving them pennies. The man
who plays the organ has a very bronzed
face and white teeth, and he laughs when
the people give their pennies, and turns
the handle faster. And there are ladies
going by in lovely frocks. O, it is a
brave sight altogether!”

Doris sighed. ‘Go on,” she said,
“you, more than any one else, make me
wish I could see; but I love you to talk,
because sometimes, when you are telling
me things, I almost do see. It is like
dreaming.”

They had reached the hall, and the
Visitor helped her out of the cab and led
A March of Heroes v5

her by many winding passages to the seats
he had engaged. In one of these passages
a young man stepped in her way clumsily,
and then started back and apologised very
abjectly. He had seen her face, and
understood why the Visitor was leading
her by the hand. His voice was so full
of regret that Doris (who thought her
friend was never angry with any one) won-
dered more than a little to hear the tones
in which he put aside the stranger’s
apologies. But within a very few moments
they had taken their seats, and there was
no time to ask for explanations, for her
friend was telling her all about the great
hall and the people in it : the lovely dresses
_of the ladies, the misty fountain in the
centre of the floor, round which people
gathered, and the huge stage, all decked
with flowers and palms. He had not
nearly exhausted the subject when the
people began to applaud, and the music,
which had ceased for a moment as they
entered, began again.
126 Make-Beleve

It was a beautiful song, if rather sad, and
the voice of the singer was clearer and
sweeter than anything Doris had ever
heard. She waited silently until the end
was reached, and then, before the applause
had died away, she turned to her friend.
“Tell me about it,” she said.

“T told you about the flowers and the
palms,” he said. ‘Well, you look away
over them and there’s an old garden, with
a young moon shining beyond a dark
hedge, and a few stars out. There's a
lonely tower in the garden, and at the
topmost window a beautiful lady.”

‘‘T know her,” whispered Doris.

_ “The lady is looking down into the
garden and she would like to go down, but
I don’t think the people in the tower will
ever let her. There’s a man in the garden
looking up at her window, and he knows
that she will never come down, nor he get
up to her, and yet he cannot help hoping.
I think the hardest part of it for him is
that he is not at all certain that she would
A March of Heroes 127

come down if she
could: whether
there is really any-
thing could keep
her in the tower
if she wished to
come down to the
garden. So he
stands down there
and sings to her,
and the lady
listens.”

“Always?”
asked Doris.

“Ves,” said the
Visitor, “1 sup-
pose it will be for
always.”

Then the singer
came back and be-
gan another song.

“Tell me about
it,’ said Doris,
softly.

 
128 Make-Beleve

“They seem to be all sad songs to-
night,” he answered. “The garden is
gone and it is a great lonely place where
very few people ever come. A little girl,
who has never in her life had a friend, or
heard a voice speak kindly, is wandering
there alone. She is tired and hungry
and very much afraid, and if it were not
that she feared the wild beasts which live
in the desert she would lie down on the
hard ground and go to sleep. And now
the man is singing to her, and she is
afraid.”

“What man?” said Doris.

“A tall man with a pale face that is
almost terrible, until you look closer and
see how kind the eyes are. He is telling
her not to be afraid of him.”

‘And the little tired girl?” asked Doris.

“She is still afraid of him: he is so tall,
and his cloak is black, and his face seems
hard and stern because she cannot see his
kind eyes for the darkness. But he goes
on singing and I think she is beginning to
A March of Heroes 129

know he is her friend. Yes, she has run
towards him now, and he has taken her in
his arms. He is still singing, but much
more softly. Listen.” .

“She is falling asleep,” said Doris.

“What is there more?”
A stir began among the orchestra and
the audience applauded once more. ‘‘ That
is the end. I can see nothing now but a
concert platform, with many lights and
flowers and big palms. But here’s the
music again. We must listen.”

The programme called it a Cavalry
March and added a wealth of miscellaneous
‘information for the benefit of those who
cared to read. Many young men were
reading it to the ladies who sat with them.
But the Visitor simply waited until the
music had lasted for a few moments and
then bent down and talked to Doris.

“Can't you tell what it is?” he asked.

“Tell me,” she said, and he began his
tale.

“The Queen is there in a gold crown
I
ie . Make-Believe

and a dress all diamonds and rubies, sitting
on a throne that blazes with gold and
jewels like the sea at sunset. And all the
men who ever have fought for her go by
on horseback. Can’t you hear the fall of
the hoofs, and the clash of swords and
harness? .... These are the young men
who go by first. They have fought and
won the victory and they are proud of it.
Some of them have wounds, perhaps, but
they quite forget them, and their sweet-
hearts stand looking on, and wave their
hands as they march on and on. And the
Queen sits and watches them go by, and is
proud, because they are all her soldiers

. But listen! Can’t you hear the
cheering a long way off? The sweet-
hearts and the mothers of the soldiers are
not looking at the men who march by.
There is some one coming who is a very
great man, indeed, and they are all waiting
till he comes. The music gets louder and
louder: how those trumpets ring out!
A March of Heroes 131

The people are cheering and waving their
hands. Ah! there he is at last. Isn’t the
music splendid ? ”

The music had suddenly grown louder ;
the instruments of brass crashed inso-
lently.

“Who is he?” asked Doris, breath-
lessly.

“ He’s an old, old man in a curious hat
with feathers in it. His head is bent
forward a little and his lips are tightly
closed. He has grey hair and his nose is
rather big.”

“Tt’s the Duke of Wellington!” cried
Doris.

“Of course! I knew Id seen his pic-
ture somewhere. He looks very stern and
like a real captain, because men go out to
die quite gladly if he tells them to do so.
But now he looks up at the Queen and he
takes off his hat. His head is bent lower
than ever, and you can see that he would
do more for her than all these men would
122 Make-Believe
do for him. The Queen is proud be-

cause he is her servant, and so he marches
on.

“Do you notice that the music is
changed? The mothers and sweethearts
have gone, but the Queen still watches.
These are all old men. The first one
looks as though he would have hardly
strength enough to walk if you took him
off the horse, and the man beside him has
lost an arm, and the empty sleeve is pinned
across his chest. But when they come to
where the Queen sits watching, they do
not feel old any longer, and they are just
as proud as the young men were just
now.”

The music changed.

“The Queen is proud of these men, too,
but they go by without looking up at her,
and I fancy they think she is ashamed of
them. Their swords are broken and some
have lost their helmets. Some are wound-
ed and have bandages round their heads,
A March of Heroes 133

and they all look tired and broken-hearted.
You see, they went out to fight the Queen’s
enemies and they were beaten—there were
not many of them, and they had to march
through a country where they had little
food and where they fell sick of the fever.
So the Queen’s enemies triumphed and
these men were beaten. A lot of other
men—some of those who passed by just
now—went out and fought with better luck,
and the Queen’s enemies were driven into
the desert and never troubled her again.
These men have gone sadly with bent
heads ever since, because they let them-
selves be beaten; but if only they would
look up they'd see that the Queen is as
proud of them as of the others, because
they did their best ; and that she loves them
a little better because it was their luck to
be beaten.”

“Why don’t they look up?” asked
Doris. “But the music is changing.
Who is coming now ?”
E34: Make-Believe

“There’s such a crowd that I can hardly
tell you. The streets are full; at every
window there are people waving handker-
chiefs, and even the housetops are crowded.
The soldiers go by more quickly, and,
though the crowd hides a good deal, I can
see their plumes and feathers, and I know
that they are closer packed. And that—
T don’t think I need to tell you, for you
can hear the fife and drum. But a regi-
ment of boys is going by, quite lost in the
crowd. Yet the Queen can see them, and
they, too, make her proud. They’ve gone
by now, and the plumes and feathers pass
as they did before. They hurry past, for
they all want to get a look at the Queen,
and now Why, they’ve all gone by,
and there’s only a concert platform, decor-
ated with flowers and green palms.”

The music ceased, and presently this
march of heroes was followed by other
music. Doris listened for a while, but it
was plain she was no longer interested.

 
A March of Heroes re

Presently the Visitor suggested that they
had better be going, and she was mani-
festly well pleased. He had never known
her to be impatient of her blindness until
to-night, but it was easy to see, as he led
her through the crowded corridors, that it
irked her greatly now. She was eager to
get to the cab, and having reached it, she
leaned back in her corner with a little sigh
of contentment. The man, conscious of
an evening successfully filled, followed her
example and lit a cigarette.

In the gentlest way imaginable Doris
expostulated. “Don’t, please!” she said.
“You'll make me cough, and I do so want
to think about your soldiers.”

The man apologised and flung his
cigarette away. Presently, when they
stood upon the doorstep, Doris. repeated
something she had often said before:
‘“ There’s no one makes me long to see as
you do. And yet -

“Don’t you trouble, Doris,” said the

 
136 Make-Believe

Visitor. ‘“ You'll see clearly enough one of
these days.”

And Doris wondered, for it seemed to
her he spoke almost sadly of the granting
of the gift for which she was praying day
and night.

 
 

geea (IIE RE had been talk of a

(| journey up the river to cele-
brate the return of Doris
to the sunlight she loved so

— well. But when the day of
- delivery arrived the Visitor was wakened
early by the noise of rain against his win-
dow, and a glance at the low grey sky told
him the expedition must inevitably be post-
poned. For the child’s sake, to whom
sunlight and shadow had been the same
for many long days, he was exceeding
disappointed, and vainly racked his brain
for subtle consolations.

But Doris was well content. ‘“ Even
common things, like the rain, and the grey

 
138 Make- Believe

houses, and the people who go by, are
pleasant to see again,” she said, as she sat
at the window looking out into the desolate
London street. “And the flowers you
brought are wonderful. When I’ve grown
tired of the common things, it will be fine
again and we can go upon the river. Then
I shall have enjoyed both.”

So the two sat together and looked at
the rain, talking of many things. The
afternoon passed pleasantly enough, but
the Visitor, vaguely conscious that he ought
to find some substitute for the expedition
which had been postponed, was not alto-
‘gether happy. Suddenly he had an idea.

“You've never seen my rooms, have
you?” he said.

‘No,” said Doris. ‘You promised to
ask me to tea.”

“ Come this afternoon,” said the Visitor.
“Run along and get permission and then
put on your cloak and hat. Be quick:
we'll have to go marketing first.”

In five minutes they were in a cab once
A London Picnic 139

more, and another five brought them to
the most wonderful shop in London, its
window lovelier with many-coloured sweets
than any garden with flowers in the spring.
The cabman waited in the rain while they
entered. ‘You must do the ordering,”
said the Visitor. ‘‘ My part is to pay.”

Doris brought sugared violets and rose-
leaves, and beautiful biscuits and cakes.
“T think that is enough,” she said presently,
and they drove to a place where straw-
berries were to be had. At last they
reached the lofty building that was the
Visitor’s abode, and mounted to the fifth
floor chambers whose windows looked
upon a desolate world of cloud and windy
chimneys. The Visitor sought his house-
keeper. When he returned Doris pointed
to the pictures that were so numerous as
almost to conceal his wall-paper.

‘What are these ?” she asked.

“They are pictures of Japan,” he an-
swered, speaking with a shade of reserve
in his voice, for his Japanese colour-prints
140 Make- Believe

kept him chronically upon the verge of
bankruptcy, and excited the derision of
many excellent persons among his friends.

“ Tell me about them,” said the lady.
_ “There isn’t much to tell,” replied the
Visitor. ‘They are just pictures of Japan.
That man with the sword, who stands
- among the sedges, is an actor; that pink
one is just some girls going out for a holi-
day and taking turns to ride on a black
horse. Here is a lady, caught in the snow,
and this one has been out in the rain and
got wet: see, she is wringing the water out
of her dress.”

“ And this one?” asked Doris. |

She pointed to a lovely triptych whose
acquirement had been a piece of extrava-
gance only justified by the improvement
that was effected when it replaced a Tot-
tenham-Court-Road overmantel which had
been in the chambers when the Visitor first
entered into possession.

“Oh,” he said, “that is a picnic in the
springtime. All those girls have gone into
A London Picnic I41

the country for a time, and they are sitting
under the cherry blossom. See, one of
them is so happy that she has written a
little song about the Spring, and hung the
paper on the branches so that the birds
may learn it. They have pretty names
in Japan; this one may be Miss Blossom,
and that Miss Butterfly : they will all have
names like the names of fairies.” He
paused, seeing the child’s face.

“What a pity that we also could not
have a picnic!”

“Yes!” said Doris.

“T wish... .” began the Visitor. “Do
you know, the Artist has a place just over
the way. You'll like him. We will go
and have a picnic over there. It will be
quite Japanese, for he never has any room
left on his table and spreads his cloth on
the floor.”

Doris did not answer. The Visitor spoke
a word with his housekeeper. They passed
down a long passage, and then the Visitor
knocked at a door and opened it. ‘“ This,”
142 Make-Believe

he said, addressing a young man who came
forward, “is Doris.”

“Tm delighted to see her,” said the
Artist.

He took some books, drawings, pipes,
and things from an old high-backed chair,
beautifully carved. “Will you take this
chair?”

Doris moved across to the chair, and for
a space surveyed the great untidy room in
silence. There were a few paintings,
mostly unfinished, but the majority of the
pictures on the walls were drawings in
black and white. She did not attempt to
investigate them closely, but even so she
perceived they had stories attaching to
them, and that these stories must needs be
fairy-tales.

“Where ts the table-cloth?” asked the
Visitor. “ All the other things are coming :
rose-leaves and sugared violets, straw-
berries and very thin bread-and-butter—all
the necessities of life. The fact is, Doris
and I were to have picnicked up the river
A London Picnic 143

to-day, and as the rain prevented that, we
came here, and invite you to join us.”

The cloth was laid. The tea came, and
Doris was waited on with care.

“| see,” said the Visitor, presently, “that
you are looking at the Artist’s pictures.
Now, the Artist has more secrets than any
man you ever heard of. His experiences
would make a whole bookshelf full of
fairy-tales, if only he would tell them. But
_he never will. Ask him about the City

Beautiful and the Wonderful Bird. He
won't tell you.”

“Please do!” pleaded the child, regard-
ing her new acquaintance.

“T’d be very pleased,” said the Artist,
looking most unhappy, “ but e

“Vou see, I was right,” interrupted the
Visitor. Then, turning to the Artist, “At
least you'll show her the pictures.”

The Artist produced some drawings, and
Doris looked at them with grave, interested
face. Most of them showed a city such as
you may see sometimes when the sun sets

 
14.4 Make-Believe

 

 

 

 
A London Picnic 14.5

in a sky full of broken cloud. But it was
evidently a real city, and you could tell the
Artist must have known it well who could
draw it in so many aspects and yet compel
you to recognise that it was always the
same city he was depicting. As to the
bird, it was a monstrous creature, terrifying
of aspect, albeit the pictures showed it for
ever engaged in the performance of some
useful task, whose object was usually the
pleasing of the children of the City Beauti-
ful.

‘“Do you know the story?” said Doris,
appealing to the Visitor as the last drawing
was inspected.

“T suppose I could tell it,” was the
answer. “The Artist won't.”

“T should be most happy
Artist.

‘“‘T shall have to tell you myself,” said
the Visitor, and as he settled to his task,
the Artist and the child were equally intent
upon the narrative, as if it were new to

both.

 

” began. the

K
14.6 ; Make-Beleve

“Down in the worst part of London,
where no flowers could live, even if the
people knew there were such things and
cared to plant them, there lived a man
called Jim Smith. He was wicked, dirty,
and stupid, and I don’t remember anything
about him that is good. But he was the
owner of the bird.

‘“ The fact is, he hated honest work, and
used to get his living by all sorts of irregu-
lar methods. In the spring he sold water-
cresses, and of course he had to go into
the country to get them. Early one morn-
ing he was coming back to the railway
station with a full basket on his back.
There were birds singing and flowers
everywhere—you remember how beautiful
it was last spring—but he did not notice
any of these things. He merely wanted
to get back to London and sell his cresses,
and spend the money wickedly and
stupidly.

“But presently something caught his
eye. It was a big cobweb, and there were
A London Picnic 147

great shining drops of dew on it. The
man saw that it was beautiful, and beauti-
ful things always vexed him. He raised
his stick and did away with the cobweb.
Then he went on his way feeling a little
happier. He caught his train to London,
sold his cresses, spent the money in drink,
and found himself at the police-station at
night. The next morning the magistrate or-

dered him to be kept there for seven days.” |

Doris interrupted. ‘‘ But where are the
Bird and the City?” she asked.

“T was wondering myself,” said the
Artist, handing her the rose-leaves. ‘‘ And
it’s my own bird, too.”

“We shall come to that in time,” said
the Visitor. “In fact, we have come to
itnow. Doris knows well enough that we do
not see the fairies nowadays because they
have grown smaller and smaller ever since
Christ came. Well, a very tiny fairy indeed, ~
and a prince in his own country, had
been caught in the spider's web that Jim
Smith destroyed because it was beautiful ;
148 Make-Believe

and he would have been eaten by the
spider if the stick had not fallen at that
very moment. He was extremely grate-
ful, and filled with a desire to do something
for his benefactor. Not having a plan
ready, he followed Jim into London, saw
that he lived in a very terrible region, and,
late in the day, beheld him carried into a
place whither he strongly objected to be
taken, and lodged in a cell that had not
even a proper share of daylight. He went
back to the fairies and called a council, for
he was résolved to liberate the man to
whom he owed not only liberty, but life
itself. Curiously enough, the place in which
the man lived seemed to him not more
wretched than the prison cell. He was not
accustomed to London. |

“ Now, the wonderful bird was the ser-
vant of the fairies. You have seen the
pictures, and, but for them, I would not
attempt to describe him. But he was”—
turning to the Artist—‘ how high ?”

“About twenty feet with neck coiled, I
A London Picnic 149

think,” said the bird’s master. “I have
never measured him with neck erect: I
couldn’t get up.”

Once more the Visitor turned to Doris,
He began a sentence and then paused.
“You'll have to get through these sweets,”
he said, passing them. ‘Well, the bird is
marvellously big and strong, but doves are
not more gentle. It flies almost as
swiftly as the daylight, and if ever you
should see it overhead you would take it
for a sparrow, it always keeps so high
- above the earth. The fairies met and de-
cided to send the bird to fetch away to the
City Beautiful the man who had helped
their prince. The city is not theirs exactly
—grown men and women, and any number
of human children live there—but every
one who reaches it does so because ooo
have helped him thither.

“Tt is a very beautiful city, and nothing
that is bad can find a place in it. No rain
falls, no hail, and no snow, but a gentle
dew comes in the night, and the season is
150 Make-Beheve

always spring, because the things that fade
(if there be any) are hidden from sight by
new flowers opening, and new leaves that
unfold themselves. It was to this place
that Jim Smith was to be taken on the
back of the great bird. It was given a
message to him, for the fairies could not
think that the man who had so helped
their prince would be unable to understand
the bird’s talk. To children it seems like
their own language, and most of the people
one likes find it easy enough if ever they
have the luck to get the bird sent to them.
It is perfectly plain to the Artist here, and
you would understand it better than you
understand me.”

Doris had heard too many fairy tales to
take a new one very seriously. But she
was careful not to emphasise the fact that
she knew this was no plain chronicle that
she was hearing. If only her eyes had not
sparkled you might have fancied she took
the whole for Gospel: “Go on,” she said
politely.
A London Pienic 151

“Well, the man was released from
prison at the end of seven days, and on the
next morning went into the country to
gather cresses. I need not tell you that,
inasmuch as all his stock-in-trade had to be
stolen, he had gone into a very lonely
region. He was picking hurriedly when
suddenly he began to hear a very curious
noise. It grew louder and louder, and
presently something came between him
and the sun. The noise was the whistling
of gigantic wings, and as the man looked
up, he saw the wonderful bird alighting on
the ground hard by. It had come to take
him away to the City Beautiful where
great honour would be done him. ' But the
man did not understand. On the contrary,
as the bird began to move towards him he
retreated into the hed of cresses until the
water was right above his knees.”

He turned to the Artist: “I believe the
bird is rather terrible to look at for the.
first time ?”

Doris had listened with an occasional
152 Make-Beleve

“Yes?” for interjection. She also turned
now to the Artist, and awaited his reply.

“Oh, if you go by appearances alone,
the bird may frighten you a bit. But
his manners are magnificent, and his
voice os

“Yes, his voice!” interrupted the
Visitor. ‘His voice is charming, and if
you can understand his message it is ex-
ceedingly pleasant to hear, for he has many
tales to tell of the city out of which he
comes. But, unfortunately, Jim Smith
could not understand. However, he could
not stop in the water all day—for the
owner of the cresses might come, and he
would be no more merciful than the bird
was likely to be—so he sought dry land,
keeping his eyes upon the bird.

“This is what the bird said: Why did
you stop in the water ? The fairtes, grate-
ful for the delivery of therr brother from
- death and shame, have sent me to convey you
to the City Beautiful, where a palace ws
made ready.”

 
AA London Picnic 153

“And the man said: Seems as tf’e was
trying to talk. ’E’s balmy on the crumpet,
Selp me Bob.” es

‘What is that ?” interrupted the child.

“Oh, he meant that the bird had not all
his senses : and was balmy on the crumpet.”

“ Ah!” said Doris, ‘I shall remember.”

“TY wouldn’t if I were you,” said the
_ Visitor. “However, the bird went on
trying to explain itself. Once he stooped
and showed the man the comfortable place
on his shoulders where passengers were
made at home on their way to the city.
And the final result was that Jim Smith
saw the bird was very fond of him, and
believed it was a sort of harmless idiot.
He tried running into the next field. The

bird followed him. “If I could get him
to London,” he said, ‘‘there’d be a penny
show as ’ud draw all Walworth.” He

trudged on, and the bird still followed,
though it explained now and again (if only
Jim could have understood) that time was
getting on, and delay dangerous.
154 Make-Believe

“To make a long story short, they
reached the southern outskirts of London
late in the afternoon. The man tethered
the magic bird to a big pine-tree in a wood,
and lay down to sleep. After dark he
woke and led the bird into the City. The
bird began not to like the look of things,
but he had been sent to get Jim Smith,
and a sense of duty made him follow the |
cress-seller until he found himself locked |
up in a small and dirty stable somewhere
near the Walworth Road, which is the
part of London where Jim Smith lived.
He was left there in solitude all the night,
and suffered much discomfort from the
narrowness of his quarters. |

“He was glad when Jim came in the
morning, supposing that the business which
had prevented his taking advantage of the
fairies’ invitation was now done. But Jim
merely pitched some Indian corn—which
was not the bird’s natural food—into the
manger, and waited. The bird was
hungry and tried to eat the corn. While
A London Picnic 1§5

his. back was turned, Jim produced a big
pair of scissors and clipped his wing. ‘’E’s
safe now,’ he said. ‘An income for life!’

“You can imagine how heartbroken the
bird was, now that he could not possibly
expect to fulfil the duty laid upon him.
He only blamed himself, who had failed
to make the mortal understand his mes-
sage, but his spirit seemed broken, and
when the people paid their pennies and
came to see him, they were amazed at the
gentleness of a creature so terror-striking
in aspect. This went on for a week, and
Jim Smith grew prosperous, while the bird
became thinner and more miserable every
day on his diet of Indian corn. Then at
last But this is not my part of the tale.
You must ask the Artist for the rest.”

The Artist began promptly.

“T was wandering in the Walworth
Road,” he said, “when my attention was
attracted by a crowd that was leaving a
stable. A man in a red jersey was show-
ing the people out and asking questions.

 
156 Make-Beleve

‘Some great, strong, bare-headed girls
came first,.to each of whom he put the
question, ‘ Satisfied, my dear?’’

“«VYuss!? said they. |

“Small boys were all ‘Tommy’ to him,
and were questioned.

“Then a stout woman in a big white
apron and faded bonnet struggled up the
stairs, and drew in a great breath of the
air, laden with the odour of fried fish and
boiling oil from a shop next door. ‘ Satis-
fied, mother?’ said the showman. ‘ Yuss,
my dear, and more than satisfied.’

“ «Thank you, mother.’

“T paid my penny and entered, and
somehow the bird (which was very dejected
at first) perceived that I could understand
his language, and told me what the Visitor
has told you. Now I had lately sold a
drawing to a publisher and I was rich. |
bought the bird and took it home, waiting
until night had come and the streets were
empty. I keep it in the garden there, and
it has told me many things at different
A London Picnic 7
times. All those drawings, for instance,
are done from his descriptions of the
city.”

“ And his wings?” asked Doris.

“The new feathers are coming at last,
but the bird is almost afraid to go back,
having been so long away. However, he
wants me to get to the city, and so he will
probably be braver when the time comes
to start. Would you care to come with us
—with me and the Visitor? There’s room
for us all on the bird’s back, for I shall
have no luggage beyond a sketch-book and
some pencils.”

Doris hesitated. ‘I should like to see
the city,” she said, at last. ‘“ But I don’t
think I can come. There’s my garden down
by the sea, and all the things in it that
belong to me: for a long time—since my
eyes were bad—I have not seen them. And
there’s the quarry where the blackberries
grow, and the little island in the water. No,
I don’t think I can come with you.”

The Artist looked disappointed, but the
158 Make-Believe

Visitor appeared to think that she had
decided rightly.

“You see,” he explained to the Artist,
“Doris has a rather wonderful garden
down in the West, and a little island where
the mermaids sing in the moonlight, anda
quarry where there is a great treasure
hidden somewhere, so that, one way and,
another, she is as happy down there as if
she had got to the city. And she is ac-
customed to the garden: which is always a
great thing.”

Still,” said Doris, consolingly. “I’m
sorry I can’t come with you.”

 
 

A Long Journey

JHE Visitor was going a long
journey into foreign parts,
and there was only one
thing certain : that for seve-
ral years, at least, he must
remain in exile. He had fortunately a
brief holiday allowed him, and went into
the West country as soon as he was able,
taking up his abode in the old white-walled
cottage above the village by the sea. It
was close upon Easter-time and the spring
was at its height. The country quiet was
dearer than it ever had been, for the joy of
being back was deepened by the know-
ledge that very soon this privilege of return

  
160 Make-Belteve

would be denied him. He gave himself up
to enjoyment of the present, bidding those
hold their peace who knew of his imminent
departure.

Doris had returned to the house in the
garden after her first experience of school,
and he was rejoiced to find her altogether
unchanged. There were things she knew, —
which had not yet been revealed to her
at the time when they two buried Hope
together. But the knowledge had not
changed her: she was still Doris. The
Visitor had feared that he might find her
vastly aged and altered, but her twelfth
birthday came while he was still in the vil-
lage, and the little gift he had found for her
occasioned such a demonstration of delight
as proved her still the child he had known,
and inspired a vague hope that Doris might
be the creature so often dreamed of—the
child who never grows older.

Perhaps it was this foolish hope that led
him to take a little of the beauty from a day
which had opened perfectly for her. At
A Long ‘fourney 161

any rate, it was on her birthday he chose
to tell her.

They were in the garden again, and
Doris had been showing him her daffodils,
which had opened under the shadow of
the hedge, long after their brothers in the
sunlight had bloomed and withered.

“Do you know, Doris, I am going away
soon?” said the Visitor.

“QO,” said Doris, “I was wondering
when you would tell me that.”

“But

“You always do go away soon. But,
then, you always come back.”

“Yes,” said the Visitor, ‘I suppose I
shall come back. But I am going a long
way, across the sea there, to a country so
far off, that if you were here of a morning
in your garden and wanted me, and if you
called me and I could hear, it would be
deep night by the time your voice reached
me. ; am going to the other side of the
world.’

Doris did not answer for a moment
L

 
162 Make-Belheve

Then she spoke very softly, not looking in
his direction :

“For a long time?”

“Tm afraid so?” he answered, gravely.

“You won't come back to work when
the summer is over, as the others do?”
asked Doris, thinking of the artists, her
friends.

‘Tm afraid not,” he said. “I shall have
to stop out there and work. More than
one summer will go by before I see you
again: I shall be quite an old man. But
I must send you a gold nugget one of
these days, and some precious stones for
rings and brooches, if I can find them, for
I want you to remember me.”

“J shall remember,” said Doris, re-
solutely. ‘But you must not stay too
long, or you will be changed. I shall want
to know you at once, even though all the
others think you are a stranger, and your
own dog barks at you when you get to
your home. Come back before you are

old.”
A Long Fourney 163

“T will come back as soon as I am able,”
answered the Visitor. ‘And you will re-
member me, all right. There are so many
things that only we two know: I will shout
out some secret word at once, and you will

know it is I. But .... Do you think
you will be here then? ... . We all have
such long journeys to go, and journeys tell
on people.”

“JT don’t understand,” said Doris, re-
proachfully.

“Tf only I had time,” said the Visitor,
“T could tell you all sorts of stories. It is
curious that I sometimes had none to tell.
.... You will promise to be here when
I come back ?”

‘Of course,” said Doris.

“Then I will tell you a little story:
Once upon a time there was a man who
wanted to be a king., He was only a
gardener really, and on Saturdays he used
to cut his biggest cabbages and his finest
flowers (except a few, that were so beauti-
ful he could not let any one else have them)
164 Make-Believe

and take them to market. So he madea
little money.

‘“He loved to Re a gardener but for
some strange reason he wanted to be a
king, too, aad he was always trying to find
a kingdom. I think he would have done
rather well, even if they had put him on
the throne of England, for he seems to
have thought that a proper king is really a
sort of servant to his subjects. And he
was not particular either: he would have
been quite contented if he could have
found a kingdom with only one person—
and himself—in it. He only wanted to be
a king,

‘Of course he went on searching vainly.
Sometimes he thought he had found his
kingdom, but he never did. He was just
a gardener really, and the people laughed
when they heard of what he desired. ‘If
it comes to that,’ said the blacksmith one
day, ‘why should not every one be a
king, and make a kingdom for himself in
his own back yard ?’”
A Long “fourney 165

“Tt is like my treasure!” exclaimed
Doris, as she listened.

“Tsn’t it?” said the Visitor. “ Well,
the blacksmith gave the gardener an idea,
‘I will make myself a kingdom,’ he said to
himself, ‘I will be a king of flowers and
plants !?”

“So he just stopped his search and
went away to his garden. Now that he had
disappeared the people wondered what had
become of him, for he kept within the walls
of the garden (which were very high) and
set about the making of his kingdom.
But first of all he had a new lock put on
the big green gate, so that no one should
enter.

‘After this he never troubled about
wandering outside the garden. The people
missed him a little, for he had gone about
doing many kind things, just to show them
what a fine king he would make. I fancy
he might have found a kingdom out there
now, if he had still cared to try. But he
had given up hoping, and the blacksmith’s
\

166 Make-Believe

speech seemed to him the only wise thing
he had ever heard. So the people never
caught a sight of him, and when they
passed by the locked gate they did not
guess that he was within.

“Tf you had lived in Fairyland, or come
on the piskies’ gardens that grow on the
cliffs, but may only be seen at night, you
would be able to guess something of what
that garden was like when the man had
‘been working fora year or two. I don’t
-know how it was, but somehow there was
always sunlight there (or so it seemed),
‘even when the world outside was cold, and
wet, and miserable, and had not a flower
in it. And, in the hot summer months,
when the fields were parched, and the way-
side blooms all slack and wilted, there were
dews in the morning and dews at night, so
that the flowers over which the gardener
was king never felt weary of the sunshine,
but were always fresh as the others only
are at dawn.

“They were the loveliest flowers that
A Long “fourney 167

grew on earth. You see, the gardener
gave his whole life to them, and thought
of nothing else. Early in the morning he
was among them, and when it was dark he
sat at the door, smelling their sweetness,
and thinking of what he should do for
them in the morning. I think I have
guessed one secret of why his garden was
so wonderful. He never gathered the
blooms. The buds came, and swelled, and
opened, and when their time was come
they dropped and mingled with the earth.
And so, in the course of time, there was
not an ounce of earth in all the garden
which had not once been lovely blossom.
“You can fancy that the seeds planted
in such a soil brought forth flowers the
likes of which were never seen before.
The primrose was still a primrose—or it
would have been spoiled—but it had some-
thing of all the beautiful dead blooms out
of which it was made. And there were.
scentless things —asters, hollyhocks, and
things like that—which seemed to have
168 Make-Believe

the loveliest fragrance, because they had
grown where roses had fallen and died.

“The gardener never picked a flower,
but, of course, he would have no weeds in
his garden. The walls had been made
’ specially high to keep the flying seeds from
entering. Only, I must tell you, he had
very curious ideas, this gardener. Some
things that most people called weeds he
loved and cultivated because they were
beautiful; and, never having been cared
for until now, the flowers that were called
weeds grew lovelier every day. Also,
there were some things the world calls
flowers and cultivates with care, that he
' thought weeds because they were ugly.”

Doris interrupted, “‘ Did he grow dande-
lions?” she asked. ‘ Gardener calls them
weeds, but I love them.”

“T’m sure he must have grown dande-
lions, Doris,” said the Visitor. ‘I should
think you and he would have felt almost
the same about most things. It is a pity
that you never met him.”
 

A Long “fourney 169

   

LS.

WSS Zp
Cam
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“Ts he dead?” asked Doris.

“Tt is just a story,” answered the Visitor.

“And not a true one? I was hoping
you would take me to see the garden and
the man that was king in it.”

‘“O, it is true enough,” said the Visitor.
“ But all the true stories happened a long,
long time ago; and you will hear about
the garden.”

He paused for a moment ; then, ‘“ After
a time the gardener had to go abroad.”

“Ah!” sighed Doris, heavily.

“Tt was a great trouble to him at first,”
170 Make-Beleve

continued the Visitor. ‘‘ He did not want
to leave the garden at all, for he had made
it just what he wished it to be, and he was
afraid that it would change. Things do
change, you know, by merely growing,
and he was more and more unwilling to go
as he looked on his wonderful flowers that
grew on either side of the grey gravelled
paths. By-the-bye, I should have told
you that his garden looked on the sea, just
as this one does, and so to live in it was
like watching the road by which he was
presently to go away.

“He did not want to go, but there was
no choice left him. So he looked at the
high walls he had built, and at the gate
which had so strong a lock. ‘After all,’
he said, ‘the walls are high, and the gate
is strong. Nothing much can happen to
my garden, and if there are changes I will
soon make everything as it is now when I
escape from abroad.’

“So one night he packed up his bag
and slung it over his shoulders. Then he
A Long “fourney 171

shut the windows of his house and locked
the door, and went and stood at the top of
the slope, looking down on his flowers that
were sleeping in the moonlight. Then he
moved away to the gate and opened it.
‘Goodbye!’ he said, ‘Goodbye! I will ~
come back !’”

“And he did come back ?”” asked Doris
softly.

‘Not for a long time,” answered the
Visitor. ‘All sorts of things happen to
people who go abroad. Once a hungry
lion jumped upon him out of the forest,
and he would have died, had it not been
for a trusty friend who was hard by with a
rifle. As it was, he lay ill a long time, and
when he grew better his face was terribly
scarred, and he walked lame. More than
once he had fever, for the air was not like
the air of his garden, and then it used to
seem to him at moments that if only he
could sleep soundly he would never want
to go back. All sorts of things happen to
people who go abroad. Once he went
172 Make-Beleve

walking in a beautiful green meadow, such
as he had seen at home in the old days,
and there he trod on a snake that bit
him. He did not die, but for a long time
afterwards he had something wrong with
him and did not know weeds from flowers.
~ And then there was his work: he had to |
do it, but often he felt he would never get
to the end of it. Indeed, there was only
one thing that kept hope alive in him: he ©
had the key of the ao which he always
carried.

“At last he came to the end of his
labours, and went down to the coast and
took a ship for England. He reached
London. and took the train from Padding-
ton (did I tell you his garden was down
this way ?), and when he had come to the
end of his journeyings, he passed through
the villages and towns to his garden.

“Tt was very early in the morning, and
he sang for joy as he thought of his king-
dom of flowers and how lovely it would be
looking :
A Long ‘fourney aah

““O, have you seen my garden in the West,
And have you seen my roses red and white:
The garden I have made, therein to rest,
The roses blowing all for my delight ?

“O, come you to my garden, come away,
And gather all my roses, an you will.
Leave but the buds to flower another day,
And, O, my heartsease, prithee do not hill.

“Now, while he was still singing, he
came to a high wall, with a great green
gate in it. His voice failed him, and he
fumbled in his pocket for the key. Perhaps
the joy of being back again had made his
hand unsteady. At any rate, he could not
get the key into the lock. He tried a long
time, and he looked at the lock; it was all
choked with dust and rustiness, and he
saw that he could not expect to open it.
~ “So he went to the other side of the
road, and looked at the wall, to see if he
could climb it. Alas! he had built it so tall
and strong that now it was to keep him
out.
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“THe began to be
afraid. He flung
the key away and. -
then rushed at the
gate, butting it
with his shoulder.
The lock had been
very strong, but it
was now old and
rusty, and at last
it broke. The
gate opened, and
the man stepped
inside. He just
gave one look, and
then, forgetting to
close the gate
which had always
been kept locked,
he sat down ona
great block of
white spar, and
wept.”

“Why?” asked
A Long Fourney 175

Doris. ‘“‘Had some one got into his
garden while he was away?”

‘The wall and the gate had kept every
one out,” said the Visitor. ‘‘He wept
because the garden had changed so utterly,
simply by growing. He knew well enough
that he himself had been altered a little by
the events of his long journey. But his
flowers had just gone on growing, and the
garden was more changed than he A
beautiful rose-tree was grown into a great
tangle of thorny branches, and.the roses
were all draggled with hanging to the
earth. A shrub that once had been very
lovely had grown bigger and bigger until
it had overgrown and killed all the flowers
where there had been a wonderful bed of
heartsease in the days that he remembered.
The daffodils that used to grow all along
the front of the house were stifled under
the creeper, which had become so heavy
that it could no longer cling to the wall. It
was all very pretty, in its way, but his
garden was gone, and he had not the heart
176 Make-Believe

to change it back to its old beauty by dint
of long labour. All the time that he had
been in foreign parts, you see, he had been
thinking of the garden that he left. Time
had utterly changed it, and he could not
care for it any longer.

“So at last, when the morning was still
young, he shouldered his knapsack once
more and went away from the garden
leaving the gate still open. I am told
that after he had gone the villagers came
and entered the garden. They trimmed
and pruned the shrubs, and in the end it
became a very nice garden. But it was
never what it had been in his time.”

Doris had long had a dim suspicion of
allegory, to which she gave characteris-

tically naive expression: “Is there a
moral?”

“JT don’t think so, Doris, said the Visi-
tor, “ only ... I am going away in a
day or two.”

“T suppose you must,” answered the

child, sadly. ‘Well, if you think this
A Long ‘fourney 177

garden will be changed you are quite
wrong. But you must. be careful to come
back just when my daffodils are flowering,
and then you will find me here.”

“Ah!” said the Visitor, ‘then it is not
so bad to go upon that journey.”

 
 
 
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