A Gallery of Children

RAINING, still raining! Oh dear, oh dear! But what, you say to yourself, is a little rain? Jane Ann must be patient. She must stay at home and play with her delightful toys this afternoon, and then perhaps to-morrow morning the sun will come out, and she will be able to run about in the fields again. After all, it isn’t every little girl who has a rabbit, and a horse and cart, and an india-rubber ball to play with. Come, come, Jane Ann!

How little you understand!

To-day was the day. To-morrow will be too late. Perhaps even now if it cleared up—but each time that she has said this, down has come another cloud. She tried shutting her eyes; she did try that. She tried shutting her eyes and saying, “One, two, three, four—I’ll count twenty and then I’ll open them, and please, will you let the rain stop by then, please, because it’s too terribly important, you know why.” Yes, she counted twenty; quickly up to twelve, and then more slowly to fifteen, and then sixteen ... seventeen ... eighteen ... nineteen ... and then, so slowly that it wasn’t really fair, but she wanted to make it easier for God, twe ... twe ... twe ... TWENTY! But it went on raining. She tried holding her breath; she said that if she held her breath a very long time, longer than anyone in the whole world had ever held it before, then when she stopped holding it, it would stop raining. Wouldn’t it? But it didn’t. So she stood at the window and watched the raindrops sliding down the pane; and she said—and she knew this would do it—that if this raindrop got to the bottom of the pane before the other, then it would stop raining, but that if the other one did, then it wouldn’t stop ... and when they were half-way down, she said, No, it was the other way about, and if this one got there last, then.... But still it went on raining.

You see, it was the day she was going to India. Her Father and Mother lived in India, and she remembered them quite well. At first she remembered they were black, because all Indians were black, and then when Aunt Mary told her they were white, she remembered how white they were. She was to live with Aunt Mary until they came home, which was next year, and sometimes she got tired of waiting.

“Couldn’t they come to-morrow?” she asked.

“Not to-morrow,” said Aunt Mary, “because they are very busy, but it won’t be long now.”

Then Jane Ann had her lovely idea. If they were too busy to come to her, she would go to them.

She counted up all her money, and thought it would be just enough, if she walked all the way. And every day that week, when she went out with her Nurse, she bought something nourishing, like buns or chocolates, and put them in her special box. And every evening she looked inside the box, and then shut her eyes and thought very hard of her Father and Mother, and didn’t eat any of it. And when the box was full, it was Friday night, and to-morrow was the day.

She said good-bye to Rabbit that night. They all wanted to come, but Rabbit most. Rabbit had a special pink ribbon round his neck to come by, and he had never been to India before, so he was terribly excited. But Jane Ann said, No, he couldn’t, because India was full of fierce tigers, and tigers ate rabbits. Rabbit saw that it wouldn’t do to be eaten by a tiger, but he thought he could dodge them. He was very disappointed when Jane Ann told him that even dodgy rabbits got eaten by tigers in India. “Even very dodgy rabbits?” he asked wistfully. “Yes,” said Jane Ann, “even very dodgy rabbits.” But she felt so sorry for him when she said this that she took off his pink ribbon and hid it away in a drawer, in case she felt she couldn’t leave him behind in the morning.

They were all to see her off. She arranged them in the window—Horse and Cart, Horse, Ball and Rabbit—so that she would be able to wave to them for quite a long way. Of course, after you had gone a long way you had to turn to the right, and then you wouldn’t see them any more. That was when she would first open her box, because she would be feeling so lonely. It was wonderful how unlonely chocolate made you.

Looking out of the window next morning, Rabbit saw that it was raining.

“Perhaps she won’t go now,” he said, and he was very excited.

After breakfast Jane Ann looked out of the window, too.

“It will stop soon,” she said cheerfully.

And she stood there waiting for it to stop....

BARBARA’S BIRTHDAY

THEY are being photographed. Names, reading from left to right:

Susan, Henry Dog, Barbara, Mrs. Perkins, Helen.

Of course, they are not really being photographed, but Helen said, “Let’s pretend that we are, and that it’s going to be in the papers to-morrow.” So she put one hand on Mrs. Perkins, to show how fond she was of the cat, and took the other one off the table, to show how well-brought-up she was, and said “Go!”

Well, you see what happened. Susan and Barbara weren’t ready for it. They were both eating, and both had their elbows on the table. It would be a terrible thing if the photograph came out in the paper like that. Couldn’t the man take another one?

Helen said, No, it was the last one he had. He had been taking photographs all the day of “Scenes in the Village on the Occasion of Miss Barbara’s Sixth Birthday” and he only had two left when he came to the house. One was “A Corner of the Stables Taken from the North Side of the Lake,” and the other was “Miss Barbara Entertains a Few Friends to Tea, reading from left to right.”

Barbara said, “Oh!”

Susan said, “Well, I don’t mind, because it’s not my birthday.”

Helen said, “It was the man’s fault for taking all those ones in the village.”

Susan said, “My birthday’s on April the Fifteenth and I’m five and Henry’s three and his birthday’s the same day as mine, isn’t that funny?”

And Barbara said, “Well, I know I’m six.”

Then they all began to eat again.

But if Barbara was six, where was the big birthday-cake with six candles on it? Ah!

You see, Barbara lived in a big town, and the Doctor looked at her one day and said “H’m!” Then he asked her to put out her tongue, and when he saw it, he said, “Tut-tut-tut!” Then he put his fingers on her wrist and looked at his watch, and the watch was even worse than the tongue, for he said, “Come, come, this won’t do.” And just when Barbara was going to say, “Would you like to try my watch?” the Doctor turned to Barbara’s Father and Mother and said, “She wants a change.” So it was decided that on Monday Barbara should take her Nurse into the country for a Change.

“But what about my birthday?” said Barbara. “Will I be at home for my birthday?”

Barbara’s Father brought out his Pocket Diary, and it was found that she couldn’t get home again until two days after her birthday.

“Never mind,” said her Mother; “you can have your birthday three days later this year.”

“And a very extra special one to make up,” said her Father.

So that was that, and Barbara didn’t really mind a bit, because she loved being in the country, and she had her birthday to look forward to when she got home again.

Now there was a family living in the village called—I forget the name, and the family was Mr. and Mrs. Somebody, Helen Somebody, Susan Somebody, Henry Dog and Mrs. Perkins. Barbara got very friendly with them, and one day Helen and Susan were coming to tea with her, because it was her last day but one.

“I wish you could stay to April the Fifteenth,” said Susan, “because it’s my birthday and I’m five, and Henry’s three, isn’t it funny?”

“I’m six as soon as I get back,” said Barbara. “I would have been six to-day, if I had been well.”

“Do you mean it’s your birthday?” said Helen excitedly.

Barbara explained how, because of having a Change, she wasn’t being six till three days later this year.

“But you are six, you are six,” said Helen, jumping up and down. “Isn’t she, Susan?”

Susan said: “I’m five on April the—”

“Of course you’re six, so we must make it a birthday party. And please will you invite Mr. Henry Dog and Mrs. Perkins as well as us, so as to make it a big party?”

Barbara promised; and when her guests arrived, Helen had brought some flowers to make the party look more exciting. She had also made up a rhyme to say; at least, she and her Father had made it up between them, and Helen said it.

Then they all had tea.

And Helen and Susan and Henry Dog and Mrs. Perkins thought it was a lovely tea. But all the time Barbara was saying to herself, “Only three more days, and then I shall have my real birthday.”

THE BABY SHOW

MR. THEOPHILUS BANKS was a very important man. His friends called him Theo. I forget what he did exactly, but it was very important, and if he didn’t do it, then where should we all be? I don’t know. Everything depended on Mr. Banks.

He had three children. The first was a girl, and she was called Jessica Banks after her Mother. The next was a boy, and he was called Theophilus Banks, after his Father, Theophilus Banks. Some people thought it would be rather confusing having two Theophiluses Bankses in the family, but Mr. Banks thought not. He said that for many years the child would be Master Banks, and if they liked they could call him Phil for short; and that by the time he was old enough to be Mr. Banks, his Father would be Judge Banks or Professor Banks, or Colonel Banks or President Banks—he hadn’t quite decided yet. So the baby was called Phil for short. And then, later on, there was a third child, and as Mr. Banks couldn’t very well call him Theophilus, too, he decided to keep as much of the name in the family as was possible. So the Baby was called Theodore, or Toddy for short.

Mr. Banks played golf. He was a very active man, and he played more golf in an afternoon than anybody else at his club. Sometimes the friends he was playing with would stop for tea after hitting the ball only seventy-five times, but Mr. Banks would never stop until he had hit it a hundred and twenty times. He was that sort of man. You would have thought that they would have given him a prize for being so active, but they didn’t. They always gave it to the others. Almost everybody in the club was given a little silver cup except Mr. Banks. He used to feel very unhappy about it. Whenever he and Mrs. Banks went out to dinner with their friends, they would always see a silver cup on the table, and Mr. Binks (if that was the name of the friend) would explain to Mr. Banks how he had won the cup last Saturday, and Mrs. Binks would explain to Mrs. Banks how her husband had won it. And Mr. and Mrs. Banks would go home feeling very disheartened about it.

One day Mrs. Banks read in the paper that there was going to be a Baby Show in the town. She told Jessica, and Jessica said at once, “Oh, let’s put Toddy in! What fun!”

“Put Toddy in, put Toddy in,” cried Phil, thinking it was some sort of pond, and how funny Toddy would look in it.

“Oh, do let’s,” said Jessica, “and then if he won, Father would have a silver cup like the others.”

Mrs. Banks suddenly remembered that it was Father’s birthday next week. He had everything he wanted except a silver cup. How happy he would be if he could win one just in time for his birthday!

So Master Theodore Banks was entered for the Baby Show. Of course it was to be a secret from Mr. Banks, so every day when he was at the office where everything depended on him, the others used to get together and wonder how they could improve Toddy, so as to make sure that he would win the prize.

Mrs. Banks thought that he was perfect as he was.

Jessica thought that he would have been perfect if his hair had been a little more curly.

Phil thought that if he was put in a pond and made to swim, he would be much stronger. And perfecter.

So Jessica brushed and brushed and brushed his hair every day; and every day Phil tried to get hold of him so as to strengthen him. But Mrs. Banks kept him on the chest of drawers, so that Jessica could brush his hair and Phil couldn’t quite reach him, and she thought to herself, “I believe he will win the prize after all.” And every day when Mr. Banks came home from golf, she looked at him to see if he had won a silver cup; but he hadn’t.

Mr. Banks hadn’t been thinking much about his birthday. He knew he was 35 or 107 or something, and he knew it was this week, but nobody was more surprised than he when he came down to breakfast on Thursday, and found a beautiful parcel on his plate. You can guess how excited he was.

“Well, well, well, what can this be?” he said, and Phil nudged Jessica, and Jessica smiled at her Mother, and Phil jumped about and said, “Open it! Open it!” So Mr. Banks opened it.

“Well, well, well!” he said.

It was a silver cup.

“But what—?” he said.

Then he turned it round, and on the other side he saw:

FIRST PRIZE
(Division I)
WON BY
THEO BANKS

“But who—?” he said.

Then they explained how Theodore had won the prize, and how there hadn’t been room to get all his name in, so they had had to put Theo.

“Well, well, well,” said Mr. Theo. Banks again.

So, from that day, whenever Mr. and Mrs. Binks came to dinner, there was the silver cup on the table!

“Now we shall all live happy ever after, shan’t we?” said Jessica to her Mother.

And they did.

THE MAGIC HILL

ONCE upon a time there was a King who had seven children. The first three were boys, and he was glad about this because a King likes to have three sons; but when the next three were sons also, he was not so glad, and he wished that one of them had been a daughter. So the Queen said, “The next shall be a daughter.” And it was, and they decided to call her Daffodil.

When the Princess Daffodil was a month old, the King and Queen gave a great party in the Palace for the christening, and the Fairy Mumruffin was invited to be Godmother to the little Princess.

“She is a good fairy,” said the King to the Queen, “and I hope she will give Daffodil something that will be useful to her. Beauty or Wisdom or Riches or—”

“Or Goodness,” said the Queen.

“Or Goodness, as I was about to remark,” said the King.

So you will understand how anxious they were when Fairy Mumruffin looked down at the sleeping Princess in her cradle and waved her wand.

“They have called you Daffodil,” she said, and then she waved her wand again:

There was a moment’s silence while the King tried to think this out.

“What was that?” he whispered to the Queen. “I didn’t quite get that.”

“Wherever she walks flowers are going to grow,” said the Queen. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Oh,” said the King. “Was that all? She didn’t say anything about—”

“No.”

“Oh, well.”

He turned to thank the Fairy Mumruffin, but she had already flown away.

It was nearly a year later that the Princess first began to walk, and by this time everybody had forgotten about the Fairy’s promise. So the King was rather surprised, when he came back from hunting one day, to find that his favourite courtyard, where he used to walk when he was thinking, was covered with flowers.

“What does this mean?” he said sternly to the chief gardener.

“I don’t know, your Majesty,” said the gardener, scratching his head. “It isn’t my doing.”

“Then who has done it? Who has been here to-day?”

“Nobody, your Majesty, except her Royal Highness, Princess Daffodil, as I’ve been told, though how she found her way there, such a baby and all, bless her sweet little—”

“That will do,” said the King. “You may go.”

For now he remembered. This was what the Fairy Mumruffin had promised.

That evening the King and the Queen talked the matter over very seriously before they went to bed.

“It is quite clear,” said the King, “that we cannot let Daffodil run about everywhere. That would never do. She must take her walks on the beds. She must be carried across all the paths. It will be annoying in a way, but in a way it will be useful. We shall be able to do without most of the gardeners.”

“Yes, dear,” said the Queen.

So Daffodil as she grew up was only allowed to walk on the beds, and the other children were very jealous of her because they were only allowed to walk on the paths; and they thought what fun it would be if only they were allowed to run about on the beds just once. But Daffodil thought what fun it would be if she could run about the paths like other boys and girls.

One day, when she was about five years old, a Court Doctor came to see her. And when he had looked at her tongue, he said to the Queen:

“Her Royal Highness needs more exercise. She must run about more. She must climb hills and roll down them. She must hop and skip and jump. In short, your Majesty, although she is a Princess she must do what other little girls do.”

“Unfortunately,” said the Queen, “she is not like other little girls.” And she sighed and looked out of the window. And out of the window, at the far end of the garden, she saw a little green hill where no flowers grew. So she turned back to the Court Doctor and said, “You are right; she must be as other little girls.”

So she went to the King, and the King gave the Princess Daffodil the little green hill for her very own. And every day the Princess Daffodil played there, and flowers grew; and every evening the girls and boys of the countryside came and picked the flowers.

So they called it the Magic Hill. And from that day onward flowers have always grown on the Magic Hill, and boys and girls have laughed and played and picked them.

THE THREE DAUGHTERS OF M. DUPONT

WHEN Monsieur Dupont was a Frenchman, he had three daughters, and their names were Anne-Marie, Therèse and la p’tite Georgette. But when he became an American for a change, he called himself Mr. Dewpond, and his daughters were called Anne Mary, Terry and George.

Mrs. Dewpond (who still called herself Madame Dupont when nobody was looking) had a linen-cupboard of which she was very proud, and it was her one delight to keep it always full of the most beautiful linen. Linen fascinated her, just as kittens fascinate other people, and money fascinates my Uncle James. She was never tired of buying it, and running her fingers over it, and holding it against her cheek, and then tucking it lovingly away in her cupboard; and whenever she had a birthday, her three daughters would put all their savings together and buy her a table-cloth or a pair of dusters, so that Mrs. Dewpond should say, “My darlings, but how they are ravishing!” They loved to hear her say this.

One day Mrs. Dewpond was not very well; and then there were more days when she was no better; and first a doctor came, and then a nurse came, and then she and the nurse went away into the country together to see if that would do her any good. And all the time Mr. Dewpond went about the house saying “T’chk, t’chk, t’chk” to himself, and looking very miserable; and Anne Mary wrote to her Mother every day to say that they were all getting on all right and did want her back so badly; and Terry ended up her prayers every night with, “And may she suddenly come back to-morrow morning about half past seven, so that I can wake up and there she is”; and George kissed the door of her Mother’s empty bedroom every time she passed it, as a sort of friendly habit; and all the house called to her to come back to it.

And at last there came a day when Mr. Dewpond had a letter saying that Mrs. Dewpond was very nearly well again, and would be home again on Saturday afternoon. This was on the Monday, so they had less than a week to wait, and they were all just as happy as they could be, thinking of it.

“We must celebrate it,” said Terry solemnly.

George didn’t know what “celebrate” meant, so Anne Mary explained it to her until she did know, and then they all wondered how they should do it.

“I know,” said Terry suddenly. “Let’s send all the linen to the wash, and then it will be lovely and clean and smelling lavendery when she comes back to it.”

Anne Mary was not sure if this was a good thing to do. There was such a lot of it, and it would look so funny on the bill if they suddenly had a hundred and twelve table-cloths, and only one white shirt, and—

“Well, anyhow, George thinks it’s a lovely idea,” said Terry carelessly, “and you know what fun it will be putting it all back again.”

The thought of putting it all back again was too much for Anne Mary.

“Very well, darlings,” she said, “we’ll do it. Come along.”

So they counted it out. There were 112 table-cloths, 42 bath-towels, 73 small towels, 26 pairs of sheets, 229 pillow-cases, and more dusters than I can possibly put down here. And they all went to the laundry together. On the Saturday morning they all came back (except one duster) and Anne Mary, Terry and George put them in the cupboard as neat as neat, George being particularly helpful. And then they waited for their Mother.

She came at last. Anne Mary said that she was prettier than ever, and Mr. Dewpond said she had never looked so well, and Terry and George thought that she was even nicer to kiss than she had ever been before. For some time they all talked together about everything, and you could see that Mrs. Dewpond couldn’t help thinking of her linen-cupboard now and then, but she didn’t say anything; and Terry and George kept whispering to each other, “Won’t she be surprised when she sees?”—and sometimes George said to Anne Mary, “How surprised do you think she’ll be?” At last she got up, saying, “Well, I think I’ll just—” and they knew where she was going, and they all went with her. She threw open the chest, and of course she knew at once what had happened. She just clasped her hands and cried, “My darlings, but how they are ravishing!” And then they all four hugged each other.

Later on, when he saw the bill, Mr. Dewpond clasped his hands and cried, too.

CASTLES BY THE SEA

THIS is a story about Belinda, and, as it is the last, I think I shall tell it you in poetry. Belinda is the one in mauve, and I could have written much better poetry if she had been in brown or blue, but Mothers never think of things like this when they dress their children. However, she has a little red on her cap, which may be useful. We shall see.

First Verse

That’s the first verse; and now, if anybody asks you what her name was, you can answer at once “Belinda, because it says so in one of the lines.”

Second Verse

Now you can tell everybody Belinda’s age. Six. With a good poem like this one doesn’t want to be in a hurry.

Third Verse

I think I shall go straight on to the next verse without saying anything about that one.

Fourth Verse
(This is going to be a good one)

I like that verse. Besides being good poetry, it explains everything. You see, Belinda’s Aunt Rotunda had given her the beautiful cap, and when Belinda went to dig castles in the sand, she decided to wear the cap to keep the sun off her head, but to wear the bathing-dress, too, so as not to mind if she got wet, which was her own idea and none of the other children had thought of it. So her Mother said, “Then we’d better dye the dress mauve,” to which her Father replied, “Wouldn’t it be easier to dye the cap brown?” And Belinda’s Mother said, “I think, dear, it might hurt Aunt Rotunda’s feelings.” So—

I think it looks nicer spread out like that. I will tell you a secret now. When people pay you to write poetry for them (as they often do), they pay you so much for every line you write, so sometimes you feel that a verse looks nice spread out, and sometimes the man who is paying you feels that it doesn’t. It’s just a matter of taste.

Fifth Verse
(I’m not counting the last one, because it’s a different shape from the others)

And now we are coming to the sad part of the story. There was Belinda, as you see her in the picture, not a bit afraid, and suddenly—

Seventh Verse

But where was Belinda? That was what all the other children said. And when Mr. and Mrs. Brown came down to the beach they began saying it, too: “Where is Belinda?” Nobody knew. However, it was all right.

Eighth Verse

You can imagine how excited they all were. All but Belinda. They came rushing up to her, saying, “Oh, Belinda, are you hurt?” and, “Are you sure you’re all right, Belinda darling?” and some of the more polite ones, who had never seen her before, said, “I trust that you have not injured yourself in any way, Miss Brown?” And what did Belinda say?

Last Verse