Part 1

_A_ GALLERY _of_ CHILDREN

_By_ A. A. MILNE

_Illustrations by_ SAIDA (H. WILLEBEEK LE MAIR)

PHILADELPHIA DAVID MCKAY COMPANY WASHINGTON SQUARE

LIST OF COLORED ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING PAGE

The Princess and the Apple-Tree 10

Sparrow Tree Square 18

The Twins 26

Miss Waterlow in Bed 34

Sand Babies 42

Poor Anne 50

A Voyage to India 58

Barbara’s Birthday 66

The Baby Show 74

The Magic Hill 84

The Three Daughters of M. Dupont 92

Castles by the Sea 100

CONTENTS

PAGE

The Princess and the Apple-Tree 11

Sparrow Tree Square 19

The Twins 27

Miss Waterlow in Bed 35

Sand Babies 43

Poor Anne 51

A Voyage to India 59

Barbara’s Birthday 67

The Baby Show 75

The Magic Hill 85

The Three Daughters of M. Dupont 93

Castles by the Sea 101

THE PRINCESS AND THE APPLE-TREE

Once upon a time there was a beautiful Princess, who loved all lovely things, and most she loved the flowers and the blossoming trees in her father’s garden. Now there was a humble man called Silvio, whose business it was to tend the flowers and the trees in the King’s garden, and to him also they were a never-ending happiness, because of their beauty. So it was that their love for lovely things drew them together, and Silvio loved the Princess, and sometimes they walked hand-in-hand together.

But the King was angry, for it was in his mind that the Princess should marry a greater man than this; and he came upon Silvio in the garden, and commanded him to leave that country, and never to be found there again. And Silvio said, “How can I leave the garden which I love?” Whereupon the King laughed, and said, “Stay, then,” and touched him with the wand which he carried ... and in a moment there was no Silvio there, but only another apple-tree in the garden. For the King of that country was a great magician, and many were afraid of him.

The days went by, and still the Princess sought Silvio in the garden, but he did not come. So she went to her father, the King, and asked of him. And the King laughed, and said, “He was pruning an apple-tree. I did not like the way he pruned it. He will never come back.” Then the Princess said, “Which was the tree he was pruning?” And the King led her to the window, and showed her the tree. And the Princess was astonished, for she did not know that there had been an apple-tree there. And, when she was alone, she went to the apple-tree, saying, “It is the last thing which he touched;” so she touched it with her hand. And the apple-tree trembled gently, and the blossom fell upon her head. So it was on the next day, and the next....

And Summer came, but Silvio did not come, and Autumn came, and still she thought of Silvio. One day, while she was beneath the apple-tree, she cried out suddenly, “O Silvio, let me not forget you!”--and the tree shook, and an apple fell into her lap. The Princess took a little silver knife, and peeled the apple, so that the peel was unbroken, and she threw the peel over her shoulder, saying, “See whom I love!” And she looked behind her, and there was the letter “S” upon the ground. So it was upon the next day and the next. And upon the fourth day she took an apple from another tree, and the peel broke beneath her knife; and she picked a second apple, and the peel fell in this shape or that; whereupon she went quickly back to her own tree. And always an apple fell into her lap, and always it told her that it was Silvio whom she loved.

There came a day when there was only one apple upon the tree. Then was she afraid, for she said, “How shall I know whom I love when the tree is empty?” So she went near to it. Very close, then, she felt to Silvio, and he to her; and suddenly she stretched out her arms, and said, “Apple-tree, apple-tree, you have seen whom it is that I love. Send him back to me!” And she put her arms round the tree, and clung to it, crying, “Comfort me!” And it moved within her arms. Whereupon she was frightened, and drew her arms away, putting her hands before her eyes ... and when she opened her eyes, there was Silvio waiting for her, a golden apple in his hand. But there was no apple-tree.

Then Silvio said to the Princess, “Whom is it that you love?” And she said, “Silvio.” So they kissed each other. And the King, seeing them from his window, said, “Let him marry her, for he is a greater man than I.” So they were married, and lived happily ever afterwards, walking in the garden together, hand-in-hand.

* * * * *

This is the story which the eldest Vanderdecken girl read aloud underneath the Umbrella Tree. And they said, “Now read us another.” But Diana, who had never had a story read to her before, said, “I’m glad they were together again.”

SPARROW TREE SQUARE

We will take the lady in green first. Her name is Diana Fitzpatrick Mauleverer James. She is the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpatrick Mauleverer James, who live at Number 27. Mrs. F. M. James wanted a boy, so that he could support them in their old age; but Mr. F. M. James said loftily: “No F. M. James, my dear, was ever any good at supporting. Where the F. M. Jameses shine is at being supported. Let it be a girl, and let her marry some very rich man when she grows up. It shall be _his_ proud privilege to tend the last of the F. M. James’s in their middle-age.” So it was a girl.

Mrs. F. M. James was very fond of Diana, but she was fond of Mr. F. M. James, too, and a time came when she found that she couldn’t look after both of them; for it would happen sometimes that, when Diana wanted to play trains, Mr. F. M. James didn’t, or that when Mr. F. M. James did, then Diana had thought of some other game. So one day she said:

“I think, dear, we had better get Diana a nurse, and then I can devote myself entirely to you.”

“Certainly, my love, you should devote yourself entirely to me,” said Mr. F. M. James, “but I cannot allow a common nurse to look after Diana Fitzpatrick Mauleverer. The F. M. James’s have their pride.”

“Then who is to look after her?” asked Diana’s Mother.

“She must look after herself.”

So from that day Diana looked after herself. She woke herself in the morning, dressed herself, took herself out for a walk, told herself to get-on-with-her-dinner-there-was-a-darling, sang herself to sleep in the afternoon, gave herself tea, brushed her hair and took herself downstairs to her Father and Mother, took herself back again if they were out, gave herself a bath, read to herself while she had her supper, and at the end of the day said good-night to herself and left herself in bed. When she was there, she made up little rhymes for herself, before going to sleep. One of them went like this:

Diana Fitzpatrick Mauleverer James Was lucky to have the most beautiful names. How awful for Fathers and Mothers to call Their children Jemima!--or nothing at all! But _hers_ were much wiser and kinder and cleverer, They called her Diana Fitzpatrick Mauleverer James.

I am telling you all this because I want you to understand how proud she felt on that first morning when she took herself to Sparrow Tree Square to feed the birds. There were other children there, but they had nurses with them. Sometimes the children ran away and pretended they didn’t belong to the nurses and sometimes the nurses lagged behind and pretended they didn’t belong to the children, but Diana Fitzpatrick Mauleverer James knew! She was the only entirely-all-by-herself person there. And she had given herself a bag full of bread-crusts to feed the sparrows with, and she had let herself wear the green coat with fur trimmings, and she was utterly and entirely happy. She nodded to William and Wilhelmina Good, who were walking up and down in a very correct way, William in green, too, and Wilhelmina, who had been growing rather quickly lately, in blue. She laughed like anything at a little boy who was trying to count the sparrows, and kept making it thirty instead of thirty-one, because one of them hid between his legs. How angry he was because he couldn’t make it thirty-one! Silly little boy! She bowed politely to the Vanderdecken girls--over-dressed as usual--and agreed with them that it was a fine morning. They were feeding the sparrows, too, but they just had little bits of bread which their nurses gave them out of their pockets. Not like Diana, who had her crusts in a real grown-up bag!

Now then!

The sparrows flew round Diana Fitzpatrick Mauleverer James, and sat waiting for her.

“All right, darlings,” she said as she opened her bag.

Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!

She had forgotten to put the bread-crusts in!

THE TWINS

They are twins, and their names are William and Wilhelmina Good. When Mr. Good was told about them, he lit a cigar, and said, “I shall call the boy William--after myself;” and then he thought for a long time, and said, “And I shall call the girl Wilhelmina--after her brother.” He threw his cigar away, and went and told Mrs. Good, who had wanted to call them John and Jane. Mrs. Good said, “Very well, dear, but I don’t like the name of William, and I shall call my dear little boy Billy for short.” And Mr. Good said, “Certainly, my love, but if it comes to that, I don’t much care about the name of Wilhelmina, not for shouting up the stairs with, so my dear little girl had better be called Billy, too.” Mrs. Good said, “Very well, dear, but won’t it be rather confusing?” And Mr. Good said, “No, dear, not to people of any intelligence;” and he took out his watch at the end of its chain, and swung it round and round and round, and looked at it, and said, “My watch is a fortnight fast,” and put it back in his pocket, and returned to his library.

The twins grew up, and they were so like each other that nobody knew which was which. Of course they ought to have had their names on their vests--_William Good_, _Wilhelmina Good_--but Nurse made a mistake about this. She bought the tape and marking ink, and she wrote the names, and she stitched them on; and, when all the vests were marked, she showed them proudly to Mrs. Good. And then it was discovered that by an accident she had marked them all “_Billy Good_.” When Mr. Good was told about this, he lit a cigar, and said, “Have people no intelligence at all? Next year, when they have grown out of these vests, I will mark the new ones myself.” So next year he marked them all, in very neat printing, _W. Good_.

Luckily by this time Wilhelmina’s hair had begun to curl. Every night Nurse spent ten minutes with a wet comb, combing it round her finger. William’s hair curled naturally, too, but not so naturally as this, and in a little while you could tell at once which was Wilhelmina and which wasn’t. If you will look at the picture, you will see how right I am about this. Mr. Good always says that he and I are the only people of any _real_ intelligence left in the world ... and that I am not what I was. However, I do my best; and I know I am right about this. The one with the curly hair is Wilhelmina.

One night when they were fast-asleep-like-good-children, Wilhelmina said:

“I’m very clever, I can hear in the dark I’m so clever.”

“I’m as clever as anything,” said William. “I’m too clever.”

“I can hear snails breathing,” said Wilhelmina.

“I can hear snails not breathing,” said William.

Wilhelmina thought again.

“I can hear somebody out of the window calling Billy,” she said.

“I told him to do it,” said William.

“I’m going to see what he wants,” said Wilhelmina....

“Yes, I am,” said Wilhelmina....

“Shall I?” said Wilhelmina....

“I think he meant _you_,” said Wilhelmina.

“He meant you,” said William. “He says it in a different sort of voice when he means me.”

“You’re afraid to go,” said Wilhelmina.

“I’m not afraid, but he gets very angry when the wrong person goes.”

“He has a long red cap with a tassel on it,” said Wilhelmina.

“He has a long beard and green stockings,” said William.

“I’m going to see him,” said Wilhelmina firmly.

“So am I going to see him.”

“I’ll go if you’ll go.”

“I’ll go if you’ll go.”

“Let’s both go.”

“Yes, let’s both go.”

Very unwillingly they got out of bed, and stood, hand in hand, on the nursery floor.

“I can’t hear him now,” said Wilhelmina hopefully.

“Nor can I can’t hear him,” said William at once.

“Yes, I can,” said Wilhelmina unexpectedly, “because I’m so clever I hear so well.”

“So can I,” said William quickly.

They moved a little closer to the window.

“Does he get _very_ angry if it’s the wrong person?” asked Wilhelmina.

“He doesn’t know, because his face is turned the wrong way round, so he’s never quite sure.”

“I knew his face was the wrong way round,” said Wilhelmina hurriedly, “but I thought perhaps he had an Ooglie man with him to tell him.”

William wondered anxiously what an Ooglie man was. So did Wilhelmina.

“No,” said William. “He hasn’t. Not this one.”

“I’m not afraid,” said both together. Tremblingly they pushed open the window, and leant out....

MISS WATERLOW IN BED

This is Miss Waterlow in bed.

Mrs. Waterlow is kissing her good-night, and saying:

“God bless you and keep you, my darling darlingest, my sweetheart, my little baby one.”

Miss Waterlow gives a little far-away smile. She is thinking:

“I know a funny thing to think when I’m alone.”

Mrs. Waterlow is looking at her as if she could never stop looking, and saying:

“Thank you, and thank you, God, for giving me my darling darlingest. You do understand, don’t you, that it doesn’t matter what happens to _me_, but oh! don’t let anything terrible happen to _her_!”

Miss Waterlow is thinking:

“I shall pretend I’m big as the moon, and nobody can catch me I’m so big. Isn’t that funny?”

“Good-night, beloved. Sleep well, my darling darlingest.”

Miss Waterlow is remembering something ... something very beautiful ... but it all happened so long ago that she has forgotten the beginning of it before she remembers the end.

“Oh, my lovely, when you look like that you make me want to cry. What are you thinking of, darlingest?”

Miss Waterlow won’t tell.

Yet perhaps for a moment Mrs. Waterlow has been there, too.

“God bless you, my lovely,” she says, and puts out the light.

Miss Waterlow is alone.

* * * * *

Miss Waterlow at this time was one. It is a tremendous age to be, and often she would lie on her back and laugh to think of all the babies who were None. When she was six months old, Mr. Waterlow, who was a poet, wrote some verses about her and he slipped them proudly into Mrs. Waterlow’s hand one evening. Owing to a misunderstanding, they were used to wedge the nursery window, which rattled at night; and though they wedged very delightfully for some time, Mr. Waterlow couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. Mrs. Waterlow was, of course, as sorry as she could be when she understood what had happened, but it was then too late. As Mr. Waterlow said: Once you have bent a piece of poetry, it is never quite the same again. Fortunately for all of us, two lines at the end, torn off so as to make the wedge the right thickness, have survived. They go like this:

“She never walks, and she never speaks-- And we’ve had her for _weeks_ and _weeks_ and _weeks_!”

Now the truth was that Miss Waterlow could speak if she wanted to, but she had decided to wait until she was quarter-past-one. The reason was that she had such lovely things to remember, _if only she could remember them_. You can’t talk _and_ think. For a year and a quarter she would just lie on her back and remember ... and then when she had it all quite clear in her mind, she would tell them all about it. But nobody can speak without practice. So every night, as soon as she was alone, she practised.

She practised now.

“Teddy!” she called.

Down on the floor, at the foot of her bed, Teddy-bear, whose head was nodding on his chest, woke up with a start.

“What is it?” he grumbled.

“Are you asleep, Teddy?”

“I are and I aren’t,” said Teddy.

“I forght I were, and I weren’t,” said Miss Waterlow.

“Well, well, what is it?”

“What’s a word for a lovely--a lovely--_you_ know what I mean--and all of a sudden--only you don’t because--what _is_ the word, Teddy?”

“Condensedmilk,” said Teddy.

“I don’t _fink_ it is,” said Miss Waterlow.

“As near as you can get nowadays.”

Miss Waterlow sighed. She never seemed to get very near.

“Perhaps I shall never tell them,” said Miss Waterlow sadly. “Perhaps they don’t have the word.”

“Perhaps they don’t,” said Teddy. “It’s a funny thing about them,” he went on, waking up slightly, “what a few words they _have_ got. Take ‘condensedmilk’ as an example. It does, but it isn’t _really_, if you see what I mean. That’s why I never talk to ’em now. They don’t get any _richness_ into their words--they don’t get any what I call flavour. There’s no _bite_.”

“I want a word--”

“Better go to sleep,” said Teddy, his head nodding suddenly again.

“Shan’t I ever be able to tell them?” asked Miss Waterlow wistfully.

“Never,” said Teddy sleepily. “They’ve got the wrong words.”

Miss Waterlow lay there, wrapt in drowsy and enchanted memories of that golden land to which she could never quite return. She would tell them all about it some day ... but not now ... not now ... not now....

She gave a little sigh, and was asleep.

SAND BABIES

They had never been to the seaside before, so you can imagine how pleased they were when Mr. Merryweather said, “I think we will go to the sea this summer, it will do the children good.”

They all began to jump about and get very excited, all except John. John had heard about the sea, but he didn’t quite believe it. So he said to his Father:

“When you go to the theathide, do you weally _thee_ the thea?”

All the other children laughed, and Mary the eldest, who knew everything, said, “Silly, of _course_ you do!”

John kept his eyes on his Father, and said, “Do you weally?” And his Father said, “Yes, old boy, you do.” Then John gave a great sigh of happiness and said, “I fort perhaps you did.” And he walked round and round the garden, singing, “I’m going to thee the thea!”

Mary went off with her Mother to talk about what sort of clothes they would all want. Mary was ten; and when you are ten and the eldest, almost everything depends upon you. John was three and the youngest, and sometimes Mary was not quite sure whether she was John’s mother or not. If you could have two mothers, then she was one of them.

“The great question,” said Mr. Merryweather next day, “is, where shall we go?”

John looked at him as if he could hardly believe. “I _fort_ we were going to the thea,” he said, almost crying.

“Silly, of course we are,” said Mary. “But there are lots of places by the sea. Let’s go to a place where there are heaps of lovely shells.”

“And sand,” said Margaret.

“And rocks,” said Joan. “And pools.”

“SHELLS--SAND--ROCKS--POOLS,” wrote Mr. Merryweather on his cuff. “Anything else?”

John tried to speak once or twice, but nothing happened.

“Yes, darling?” said his Mother.

“Thea,” said John faintly.

“AND SEA,” wrote Mr. Merryweather. “And what do _you_ want, Stephen?”

Stephen was four. He thought a good deal, but never said anything, so if it hadn’t been for Joan, nobody would ever have known what he wanted.

“Stephen wants the same as me, don’t you, Stephen?” said Joan quickly.

Stephen nodded. He was thinking of something else.

On the Monday they all went off. As soon as they got out at the station, Mr. Merryweather said, “I can smell the sea,” and Mary said, “So can I,” but she couldn’t really. John very nearly cried again, because he thought the sea was something you saw, not just something you smelt, but Mary told him that to-morrow after breakfast he would really _see_ it, Wouldn’t he, Mother? And Mrs. Merryweather said, Yes, it was too late now; better wait till to-morrow.

So they waited till to-morrow. As soon as they had finished breakfast, and they were all too excited to eat much (except Stephen, who could think just as well, whether he was eating or whether he wasn’t), Mary took them out. Mr. Merryweather stayed behind to read his paper, and Mrs. Merryweather stayed behind to see about dinner, because they knew they could trust Mary. Joan and Stephen walked in front, Joan chattering to Stephen, and Stephen thinking; then came Margaret, talking eagerly over her shoulder to Mary; and then came Mary holding John’s hand, and saying, “We’re nearly there, dear.”

Suddenly they turned the corner, and there they were.

Mary said proudly: “There, darling, _there’s_ the sea.”

Margaret said: “Isn’t it _lovely_?”

Joan said: “Oh, _look_, Stephen!”

Stephen said nothing, of course.

And John opened his mouth to say something, turned very red, and burst into tears.

They were all very sorry for John--except Stephen, who was thinking of something else. The worst of it was that none of them knew what was the matter with him. Had he had too much breakfast? Or too little? Was he tired? Would he like Margaret to take him back? John couldn’t tell them. He didn’t know.

“What would you like to do, darling?” said Mary. “Shall we pick some lovely shells?”

John sniffed and nodded.

They went on to the beach. There were many other children there, but they were much too happy to take any notice of the Merryweather family.

“Now,” said Mary, “let’s see who can find the prettiest shell. Oh, look at _this_ one!”

“Oh, and _this_ one, Mary!” said Margaret.

“Well put them in my bag,” said Mary. “Would you like to hold the bag, darling?”

“Yeth,” said John meekly. Afraid to look at it again, he stood with his back to the sea, and dropped the shells into the bag as they were given to him. Why had the sea made him cry like that? He didn’t know. Perhaps Stephen....

He looked at Stephen.

No, it was no good asking Stephen.

POOR ANNE

She was christened Anne Lavender, so that her full name was Anne Lavender Lavender. This was an idea of Mr. Lavender’s. He was very proud of his family, and it distressed him to think that when his daughter, the beautiful Miss Lavender, married, her name might be something quite ugly, like Winks.

“Whereas,” he explained to Anne’s Mamma, “if we call her Anne Lavender Lavender, her name, when she marries this man Winks, will be Anne Lavender-Winks, and people will know at once that she is one of us.”