TALESFROMTHEPERILOUSREALM

BYJ.R.R.Tolkien

CopyrightHarperCollinsPublishers

77-85FulhamPalaceRoad,Hammersmith,LondonW68JB

PublishedbyHarperCollinsPublishers2008

ThiscollectionfirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyHarperCollinsPublishers1997

FarmerGilesofHamfirstpublished1949Copyright©TheJ.R.R.TolkienCopyrightTrust1949TheAdventuresofTomBombadilfirstpublished1961Copyright©TheJ.R.R.TolkienCopyrightTrust1962LeafByNigglefirstpublishedinTreeandLeaf1964

Copyright©TheTolkienTrust1964SmithofWoottonMajorfirstpublished1967

Copyright©TheTolkienTrust1967Roverandomfirstpublished1998

Copyright©TheTolkienTrust1998Introduction©TomShippey2008

®andTolkien®areregisteredtrademarksofTheJ.R.R.TolkienEstateLimited

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SourceISBN:9780007280599EbookEdition©SEPTEMBER2009:9780007348169

Version:2014-12-08

TableofContentsTitlePageCopyright

INTRODUCTIONROVERANDOM12345

FARMERGILESOFHAMFOREWORD

FARMERGILESOFHAMTHEADVENTURESOFTOMBOMBADILPREFACE1THEADVENTURESOFTOMBOMBADIL2BOMBADILGOESBOATING3ERRANTRY4PRINCESSMEE5THEMANINTHEMOONSTAYEDUPTOOLATE6THEMANINTHEMOONCAMEDOWNTOOSOON7THESTONETROLL8PERRY-THE-WINKLE9THEMEWLIPS10OLIPHAUNT11FASTITOCALON12CAT

13SHADOW-BRIDE14THEHOARD15THESEA-BELL16THELASTSHIP

SMITHOFWOOTTONMAJORSMITHOFWOOTTONMAJOR

LEAFBYNIGGLELEAFBYNIGGLE

APPENDIXONFAIRY-STORIESFAIRY-STORYORIGINS

CHILDRENFANTASYRECOVERY,ESCAPE,CONSOLATION

EPILOGUENOTES

KeepReadingAbouttheAuthorWorksbyJ.R.R.TolkienAboutthePublisher

INTRODUCTIONWedo not knowwhenTolkien began to turn his thoughts to thePerilous Realm of Faërie. In his essay “On Fairystories”, to befoundattheendofthisbook,headmitsthathetooknoparticularinterestintalesofthatkindasachild:theywerejustoneofmanyinterests. A “real taste” for them, he says, “was wakened byphilologyonthethresholdofmanhood,andquickenedtofull lifebywar”.Thisseemstobestrictlyaccurate.Thefirstofhisworksto take an interest in fairies, that we know of, is a poem called“Wood-sunshine”,writtenin1910,whenTolkienwaseighteenandstillatKingEdward’sSchoolinBirmingham.Bytheendof1915,the year in which he took his Oxford degree and immediatelyjoined thearmy to fight in theGreatWar,hehadwrittenseveralmore,someof themcontainingmajorelementsofwhatwouldbehis developed Faërie mythology. By the end of 1917, most of

whichhespentinmilitaryhospitalorwaitingtobepassedfitforactive service once more, he had writtenthe first draft of taleswhichwouldsixtyyearslaterbepublishedinTheSilmarillion,andmuchofMiddle-earth,asalsoofElvenhomebeyondit,hadtakenshapeinhismind.

What happened then is a long story, about which we nowknowagreatdealmorethanwedid,butonceagainitwassummedup concisely and suggestively by Tolkien himself, in the story“Leaf by Niggle”. It is generally accepted that this has a strongelement of self-portrait about it, with Tolkien the writer—aconfirmed“niggler”,ashesaidhimself—transposedasNigglethepainter.Niggle,thestorytellsus,wasbusyonallkindsofpictures,but one in particular started to grow on him. It began as just asingle leaf, but then it became a tree, and the tree grew to be aTree, and behind it a whole country started to open out, with“glimpses of a forest marching over the land, and of mountainstippedwithsnow”.Niggle,Tolkienwrote,“lostinterestinhisother

pictures;orelsehetookthemandtackedthemontotheedgesofhisgreatpicture”.

OnceagainthisisanaccurateaccountofwhatTolkiencanbeseen doing in the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s. During those thirtyyearshekeptworkingatvariantsof“Silmarillion”stories,writingoccasional poems, often anonymously, and making up otherstories,notalwayswrittendownandsometimestoldinitiallyonlyto his children.The Hobbit started life as one of these, set inMiddleearth,buttobeginwithconnectedonlytangentiallywiththeElvishhistoryof theSilmarils: itwas, touse themodern term,aspin-off.The Lord of the Rings was a further spin-off, this timefromTheHobbit,andinitiallymotivatedbyTolkien’spublisher’sstrongdesire for aHobbit-sequel.ButwhatTolkienstarted todo,justlikeNiggle,wastotakethingshehadwrittenbeforeandstart“tackingthemontotheedges”.TomBombadil,whohadbegunasthenameforachild’s toy,got intoprint in1934as theheroofapoem,andthenbecameperhapsthemostmysteriousfigureinthe

world ofThe Lord of the Rings. That work also drew in otherpoems, some of them comic, like Sam Gamgee’s “Oliphaunt”rhyme, first published in 1927, others grave and sad, like theversion Strider gives on Weathertop of the tale of Beren andLúthien,againgoingbacktoapoempublishedin1925,andbasedonastorywrittenevenearlier.

Quite what was the “leaf” of Tolkien’s original inspiration,andwhat hemeant by “theTree”,we cannot be sure, though the“forestmarchingovertheland”doessoundveryliketheEnts.ButthelittleallegorymakesonefurtherpointwhichcorroborateswhatTolkien said elsewhere, and that is that “fairy-stories”, whoevertells them, are not about fairies so much as about Faërie, thePerilousRealmitself.Tolkien indeedasserted therearenotmanystories actuallyabout fairies, or even about elves, and most ofthem—he was too modest to add, unless they were written byTolkien himself—were not very interesting. Most good fairy-stories are about “theaventures ofmen in thePerilousRealmor

uponitsshadowymarches”,averyexactdescriptiononceagainofTolkien’sowntalesofBerenonthemarchesorbordersofDoriath,TúrinskirmishingaroundNargothrond,orTuorescapingfromtheFallofGondolin.Tolkienremainedstronglyambivalentabouttheverynotionof“fairy”.Hedislikedtheword,asaborrowingfromFrench—theEnglishwordis“elf”—andhealsodislikedthewholeVictoriancultoffairiesaslittle,pretty,ineffectivecreatures,pronetobeingco-optedintotheserviceofmoraltalesforchildren,andoftenirretrievablyphony.Muchofhisessay“OnFairy—Stories”,indeed (published in 1945 in a memorial volume for CharlesWilliams, and there expanded from a lecture given in 1939 inhonour of Andrew Lang the fairy-tale collector) is avowedlycorrective, both of scholarly terminology and of popular taste.Tolkien thought he knewbetter,was in touchwith older, deeper,and more powerful conceptions than the Victorians knew, eventhoseaslearnedasAndrewLang.

However,whilehehadnotimeforfairies,Tolkienwasallfor

Faërie itself, the land, as BilboBaggins puts it, of “dragons andgoblinsandgiants”,thelandwhereonemayhearof“therescueofprincessesand theunexpected luckofwidow’ssons”.ThestoriesandpoemsinthisbookshowTolkientryingoutvariousapproachestoperilousrealmsofonekindoranother,allof themsuggestive,original, independent. They represent, one may say, the picturesNiggledidnot“tackontotheedgesofhisgreatpicture”.Theyhinttantalisinglyatdirectionswhichmighthavebeenexploredfurther,likethelaterunwrittenhistoryofFarmerGiles’sLittleKingdom.AndtheygivequitedifferentviewsofTolkien’sinspiration,spreadoveraperiodofat leastfortyyears,andextendingfrommaturityto old age.Also, as it happens,we know a good deal about howeachofthemcameintobeing.

Roverandom,notpublishedtill1998,beganmorethanseventyyearsearlierasastorywithasinglelimitedpurpose:toconsolea

littleboyforthelossofhistoydog.InSeptember1925theTolkienfamily,father,mother,andthreesons,John(agedeight),Michael(aged five),andbabyChristopher,wentonholiday to theseasidetownofFileyinYorkshire.Michaelatthattimewasveryattachedtoa small toydog,whichwenteverywherewithhim.Heandhisfatherandelderbrotherwentdowntothebeach,heputitdowntoplay,butwhentheywentbackforittheycouldn’tfindit:thedogwaswhitewith black spots, and on awhite shingle beach itwasinvisible.Theylookedforitwithoutsuccessthatdayandthenext,and then a storm wrecked the beach and made further searchimpossible. To cheer Michael up, Tolkien invented a story inwhichtoyRoverwasnotatoy,butarealdogturnedintoatoybyanangrywizard;thetoythenmetafriendlywizardonthebeach,whosenthimoffonvariousquestsinordertobecomearealdogagain, and be reunited with his one-time owner,the boy called“Two”. Like all Tolkien’s stories, this grew in the telling, beingwrittendown,withseveralofTolkien’sownillustrations,probably

aroundChristmas1927,andreachingfinalshapeataboutthesametimeasTheHobbit,in1936.

BesidesthebeachatFiley,whereRovermeetsthesandwizardPsamathos,Roverandom has threemain settings, the light sideoftheMoon,wheretheManintheMoonhashistower,thedarkside,where sleepingchildrencomedown themoon-path toplay in thevalley of dreams, and the undersea kingdom of the mer-king,wheretheangrywizardArtaxerxeshasgonetotakeupapositionasPacificAtlanticMagician,orPAM.BothintheMoonandunderthe sea Rover is befriended by a moon-dog, or a mer-dog, bothcalledRover,whichiswhyhehasto takethenameRoverandom.The three of them get into continual scrapes, teasing the GreatWhiteDragonontheMoon,andstirringuptheSea-serpentontheocean-bed,whosewrithingssendastormliketheonethatscatteredthe shingle at Filey, while Roverandom is carried by the greatwhaleUinacrosstheShadowySeasandbeyondtheMagicIslestowithin sight of Elvenhome itself and the light of Faery—the

nearest Tolkien comes to attaching this story to his greatermythology. “I should catch it, if thiswas found out!”, saysUin,divinghastily,andwehearnomoreofwhatwouldbeValinor.

“Catchit!”capturesthetoneofthisearlyandhumorouspiece.The littledogs’adventuresareplayful, theanimalswho transportthem, Mew the gull and Uin the whale, are no worse thancondescending, and even the three wizards who make anappearance are good-natured or, in the case of Artaxerxes,something less than competent. Nevertheless there are hints ofthings older and darker and deeper. TheGreatWhiteDragon thedogsteaseontheMoonisalsotheWhiteDragonofEnglandintheMerlin legend, foreveratwarwith theRedDragonof theWelsh;theSea-serpentrecallstheMidgardSerpentwhowillbethedeathof Thor on the day of Ragnarok; mer-dog Rover remembers aViking master who sounds very like the famous King OlafTryggvason. There is myth, and legend, and even history, inRoverandom. Nor did Tolkien forget that even for children there

mustbesuggestionsofperil inthePerilousRealm.ThedarksideoftheMoonhasblackspiders,aswellasgreyonesreadytopicklelittle dogs for their larders, while on the white side “there weresword-flies, and glass-beetleswith jaws like steel-traps, and paleunicornets with stings like spears…And worse than the insectswere the shadowbats”, not tomention, on thewayback from thevalleywherethechildrengoindreams,“nastycreepythingsinthebogs” that without the Man in the Moon’s protection “wouldotherwisehavegrabbedthelittledogquick”.Therearesea-goblinstoo,andawholelistofcalamitiescausedbyArtaxerxestippingouthisspells.AlreadyTolkienhadgraspedtheeffectofsuggestion,ofstoriesnottold,ofbeingsandpowers(liketheNecromancerinTheHobbit)heldjustoutofsight.Whateverlogicmaysay,timespenton details, even when they lead nowhere, is not all simply“niggling”.

Humourisalsothedominanttoneof“FarmerGilesofHam”,butitishumourofadifferentsort,moreadultandevenscholarly.Onceagain,thisstorybeganasataletoldimpromptutoTolkien’schildren:hiseldestsonJohnrememberedbeingtoldaversionofitasthefamilyshelteredunderabridgefromastorm,probablyaftertheymoved to Oxford in 1926. (One of the major scenes in thestoryisthedragonChrysophylaxcomingoutfromunderabridgeto rout the king and his army.) In the first written version, thenarrator is “Daddy”, and a child interrupts to ask what is a“blunderbuss”. The talewas steadily expanded, reaching its finalshape when it was read to an Oxford student society in January1940,andwaseventuallypublishedin1949.

Thefirstjokeliesinthetitle,forwehavetwoofthem,oneinEnglish andone inLatin.Tolkienpretends tohave translated thestory out of Latin, and in his “Foreword” imitates a kind ofscholarly introduction, which is thoroughly patronising. Theimaginaryeditordespises the imaginarynarrator’sLatin,sees the

tale as useful mainly for explaining place-names, and raises asnobbish eyebrow at those deluded people who “may find thecharacterandadventuresofitsheroattractiveinthemselves”.Butthetaletakesitsrevenge.Theeditorshowshisapprovalof“soberannals” and “historians of the reign of Arthur”, but the “swiftalternationsofwarandpeace”hementionscomefromthestartofthe romance ofSirGawain and theGreenKnight, asmarvellousandunhistorical a source asone couldhope to find.As the storyindicates, the truth is that the “popular lays” which the editorsneers at aremuchmore reliable than the scholarly commentaryimposed on them. All throughFarmer Giles, the old and thetraditional defeat the learned and new-fangled. The “Four WiseClerks ofOxenford” define a blunderbuss, and their definition isthatofthegreatOxfordEnglishDictionarywith(inTolkien’sday)its four successive editors. Giles’s blunderbuss, however, defiesthedefinition andworks just the same. “Plainheavy swords” are“outoffashion”attheking’scourt,andthekinggivesoneawayto

Gilesasbeingofnovalue:but theswordis“Tailbiter”(or ifoneinsistsonusingLatin,“Caudimordax”),andGilesisheartenedbyhavingit,eveninthefaceofdragons,becauseofhisloveoftheoldtalesandheroicsongswhichhavegoneoutoffashiontoo.

Goneout of fashion,maybe, but not gone away.All his lifeTolkien was fascinated by survivals: words and phrases andsayings, even stories and rhymes,which came froma prehistoricpast but which had been passed on by word of mouth, quitenaturally,oftengarbledandgenerallyunrecognized,rightdowntomoderncommonexperience.Fairy-storiesareanobviousexample,keptinbeingforcenturiesnotbyscholarsbutbyoldgranniesandnursemaids.Nursery-rhymes too.Wheredo theycomefrom?OldKingColefiguresinTolkien’s“Foreword”(suitablytransferredtoscholarly pseudohistory), and Chrysophylax quotes “HumptyDumpty” when he comes out from under the bridge. Two morenursery-rhymeswererewrittenasthe“ManintheMoon”poemsinTomBombadil.Riddlesaresurvivalsaswell,toldbyAnglo-Saxons

(we still have more than a hundred of them), and by modernschoolchildren.Andthentherearepopularsayings,alwaysopentorevision—“SunnySam”theblacksmithinvertsacoupleoftheminFarmerGiles,asdoesBilboinTheLordoftheRings,withhis“Allthat is gold does not glitter”—but never dying out. And thecommonest typesof survival arenames, ofpeople andofplaces.Theyoftendescendfromremoteantiquity, theirmeaningisoftenforgotten, but they are still overpoweringly present. Tolkienwasconvincedthatoldheroicnameshungoneveninnamesassociatedwithhisownfamily,andoneinspirationforFarmerGilesmustbetheurgeto“makesense”ofthelocalBuckinghamshireplacenamesofTameandWorminghall.

Myths are the greatest of survivals, though, and the mostimportant revenge inFarmerGiles is therevengeof themythicalontheeveryday.Forwhoistosaywhichiswhich?Itistheyoungand silly dragons who conclude “So knights are mythical!…Wealwaysthoughtso.”Itisthesillyover-civilisedcourtwhichprefers

sweetandstickyMockDragon’sTail toRealTail.Thecourtiers’descendants (Tolkien implies) will eventually substitute theirfeeble imitations for the real thing even in fantasy—just likeNokes the Cook inSmith of Wootton Major , with his saddiminished ideaof theFairyQueen andFaërie itself.Giles dealsfirmlyandfairlywithkingandcourtanddragonalike,thoughweshould not forget the assistance he receives from the parson—ascholar who makes up for all the others—and from the story’sunsungheroine, thegreymare.Sheknewwhat shewasdoingallthe time, evenwhen she sniffed atGiles’sunnecessary spurs.Hedidn’tneedtopretendtobeaknight.

TheAdventuresofTomBombadil alsoowe theirexistence toprompting from Tolkien’s family. In 1961 hisAunt Jane Neavesuggested to him that hemight bring out a little bookwithTomBombadil in it, which people like her could afford to buy as

Christmas presents. Tolkien responded by collecting a clutch ofpoemshehadalreadywrittenatdifferenttimesovertheprecedingforty years or more. Most of the sixteen had been printed,sometimes in very obscure publications, in the 1920s and 1930s,but Tolkien took the opportunity in 1962 to revise themthoroughly.By this timeTheLordoftheRingshadappeared,andwas already well-known, and Tolkien did what Niggle had donewithhisearlierpictures:heput theseearlycompositions into theoverallframeofhisgreaterone.Onceagainheusedthedeviceofthescholarlyeditor,thistimesomeonewhohasaccesstotheRedBookofWestmarch,thehobbit-compilationfromwhichTheLordof the Rings was supposed to have been drawn, and who hasdecidedthistimetoeditnotthemainstorybutthe“marginalia”—thethingswhichmedievalscribesinrealityoftenwroteroundtheedgesoftheirmoreofficialworks.

This device allowed Tolkien to put in poems which wereclearlyjustjokes,likeno.12,“Cat”,writtenaslateas1956forhis

granddaughter Joanna; or poems which had no connection withMiddle-earth,likeno.9,“TheMewlips”,originallyprintedinTheOxfordMagazine for1937andtheresub-titled“LinesInducedbySensationsWhenWaitingforanAnswerattheDoorofanExaltedAcademic Person”; or poemswhich did have such a connection,but one which nowmade Tolkien uneasy. No. 3, “Errantry”, forinstance,hadbeenfirstwrittenatleastthirtyyearsbefore,andhadthenbeenrevisedtobecomeasongsungbyBilboinTheLordofthe Rings, but the names in it did not fit Tolkien’s increasinglydeveloped Elvish languages. Editor-Tolkien accordingly explainsthatwhile the poem isBilbo’s, hemust havewritten it not longafterhisretirement toRivendell,ata timewhenhedidnotknowmuchaboutElvishtradition.BythetimeBilbocomposedtheLordoftheRingsversion,heknewbetter,thoughStriderstillthinksheshouldhaveleftwellalone.Severalotherpoems,likenos.7and8,the two troll-poems, or no. 10, “Oliphaunt”, are ascribed to SamGamgee,whichhelpstoaccountfortheirnon-seriousnature.Nos.

5and6, the two“Man in theMoon”poems,bothof themdatingback to 1923, confirmTolkien’s interest in nursery-rhymes: theyare, in Tolkien’s imagination, the old complete poems of whichmodernchildren’srhymesaregarbleddescendants,andthekindofthingthatwouldhavebeenpopularinhisimaginaryShire.

The first twoand last threepoems in thecollectionhowevershowTolkienworkingmoredeeplyandmoreseriously.No.1,thetitle poem, had also been published inTheOxfordMagazine, in1934, but no. 2, “Bombadil Goes Boating”, may date back evenfurther.LikeRoverandom,BombadilhadbegunasthenameofoneoftheTolkienchildren’stoys,buthadsoonestablishedhimselfasa kind of image of the English countryside and the country-folkand their enduring traditions, powerful, indeed masterful, butuninterested in exercising power. In both poems Tom iscontinually threatened, seriously by Barrow-wight, jokingly byotter-ladandbythehobbitswhoshootarrowsintohishat,orelseteasedbythewrenandthekingfisher,andagainbythehobbits.He

givesasgoodashegets,orbetter,butwhilethefirstpoemendsonanoteof triumphandcontentment, the secondendson anoteofloss:Tomwillnotcomeback.

The last three poems are all heavily reworked from earlieroriginals, and have become thematically much darker. “TheHoard”(goingbackto1923)describeswhatTolkieninTheHobbitwouldcall“dragon-sickness”,thegreedandpossessivenesswhichsuccessively overpowerself and dwarf and dragon and hero andleadsallofthem—likeThorinOakenshieldinTheHobbitand theelf-kingThingol“Greycloak”inTheSilmarillion—totheirdeaths.“TheLastShip”showsTolkienbalancedbetweentwourges,ontheone hand thewish to escapemortality and travel to theUndyingLands likeFrodo,andon theother the sense that this isnotonlyimpossible, butultimatelyunwelcome: the right thing todo is toturnbackand liveone’s life, likeSamGamgee.Right itmaybe,butasArwen finds, if there isnoway to reverse it thatchoice isbitter.Finally,“TheSea-Bell”remindsuswhythePerilousRealm

isperilous.Thosewhohavetravelledtoit,likethespeakerofthepoem,knowtheywillnotbeallowedtostaythere,butwhentheycome back, they are overwhelmed by a sense of loss. As SamGamgeesaysofGaladriel, theinhabitantsofFaëriemaymeannoharm,buttheyarestilldangerousforordinarymortals.Thosewhoencounter them may never be the same again. In Tolkien’seditorial fiction, though thespeakershouldnotbe identifiedwithFrodo himself, the hobbit-scribe who called the poem “FrodosDreme”wasexpressingthefearcreatedintheShirebythedimly-understood events of the War of the Ring, as also (in reality)Tolkien’sownsenseoflossandage.

These themes become stronger in Tolkien’s last publishedstory,SmithofWoottonMajor. Thisbeganwitha request fromapublisher, in 1964, that Tolkien should writea preface to a newillustratededitionofthestory“TheGoldenKey”,bytheVictorian

author GeorgeMacDonald. (Tolkien had praised the story in hisessay “On Fairy-Stories” nearly twenty years before.) Tolkienagreed, began work on the preface, and got a few pages into itwhen he started to illustrate his argument about the unexpectedpowerofFaëriewithastoryaboutacooktryingtobakeacakeforachildren’sparty.Butatthatpointhebrokeoffthepreface,whichwas never resumed, and wrote the story instead. A developedversionwasreadtoalargeaudienceinOxfordon28October1966,andthestorywaspublishedthefollowingyear.

Its title is almost aggressively plain, even more so thanFarmerGiles ofHam, andTolkien himself noted that it soundedlikeanold-fashionedschoolstory.Thename“Wootton”,however,thoughperfectlyordinaryinEngland,hasameaning,asallnamesoncedid.Itmeans“thetowninthewood”,andthesecondsentenceconfirms that itwas “deep in the trees”.Woodsand forestswereimportant forTolkien, recurring fromMirkwood toFangorn, andoneoftheirrecurrent(andrealistic)featuresisthatinthempeople

lose their bearings and their way. One feels this is true of theinhabitantsofWoottonMajor,ormanyofthem:abitsmug,easilysatisfied, concerned above all with food and drink—not entirelybad qualities, but limited. To this Smith is an exception.At thechildren’spartywhichthevillageholdseverytwenty-fouryearsheswallowsastar,andthisstarishispassportintoFaërie(orFaery,as Tolkien spells it here). The story follows Smith’s life,recountingsomeofhisvisionsandexperiencesinFaërie,butalsotakesusthroughrepeatedfestivalstillthetimewhenSmithhastogiveupthestar,andallowittobebakedintoacakeforsomeotherchild tosucceedhim.Smithknowswhenhe leavesFaërie for thelasttimethat“hiswaynowledbacktobereavement”.Heisinthesame position, if with more acceptance, as the narrator of “TheSea-bell”.Thestoryis“afarewelltoFairyland”.

ThisdoesnotmeanthatSmithhasbeenafailure.HispassporttotheOtherWorldhasmadehimabetterpersoninthisone,andhis life has done something toweakenwhat Tolkien called, in a

commentaryonhisownstory,“the ironringof thefamiliar”andthe“adamantineringofbelief”,inWootton,thateverythingworthknowing is known already. The star is also passed on, in anunexpectedway,andwillcontinuetobe.Neverthelessthepowerofthe banal remains strong, and themain conflict in the story liesbetween Alf—an emissary from Faërie into the real world, asSmithisavisitorintheoppositedirection—andhispredecessorasMasterCooktothevillage,whosenameisNokes.NokessumsupmuchofwhatTolkiendislikedinreallife.Itissadthathehassucha limited idea himself of Faërie, of whatever lies beyond thehumdrum world of the village deep among the trees, but it isinexcusablethathedeniesthattherecanbeanymoreimaginativeone, and tries to keep the children down to his own level. Sweetand sticky is his idea of a cake,insipidly pretty is his idea offairies.AgainstthisstandSmith’svisionsofthegrimelf-warriorsreturningfrombattlesontheDarkMarches,oftheKing’sTree,thewildWindandtheweepingbirch,theelf-maidensdancing.Nokes

isdauntedintheendbyhisapprenticeAlf,revealedastheKingofFaërie,butheneverchangeshismind.Hegetsthelastwordinthestory,mostoftheinhabitantsofWoottonarehappytoseeAlfgo,and the star passes out of Smith’s family and into Nokes’s. IfSmithandAlfandFaëriehavehadaneffect,itwilltakeawhiletoshow.Butthatmaybejustthewaythingsare.

Theway they are inthisworld, that is. In “Leaf byNiggle”Tolkienpresentshisvisionofaworldelsewhere,onewithroominitforMiddle-earthandFaërieandallotherhearts’desiresaswell.Nevertheless,althoughitpresentsa“divinecomedy”andendswithworld-shakinglaughter,thestorybeganinfear.Tolkienreportedinmorethanoneletterthatthewholestorycametohiminadreamandthathewroteitdownimmediately,atsometime(reportsvary)between1939and1942.Thisisthemoreplausibleinthatitissoobviouswhatkindofadreamitwas:ananxiety-dream,ofthekind

we all get. Students with an exam to take dream that they haveoverslept and missed it, academics due to make a presentationdream theyhave arrivedon thepodiumwithnothing to read andnothingintheirheads,andthefearattheheartof“LeafbyNiggle”is clearly that ofnever getting finished. Niggle knows he has adeadline—it isobviouslydeath,thejourneyweallhavetotake—hehasapaintinghedesperatelywantstofinish,butheputsthingsoffandputsthingsoff,andwhenhefinallybucklesdowntoit,firstthereisacallonhistimehecannotrefuse,andthenhegetssick,andthenanInspectorturnsupandcondemnshispaintingasscrap,andashestartstocontestthistheDriverturnsupandtellshimhemust leave nowwith no more than he can snatch up. He leaveseventhatlittlebagonthetrain,andwhenheturnsbackforit,thetrain has gone. This kind of one-thing-after-another dream is alltoofamiliar.Themotiveforitisalsoeasytoimagine,inTolkien’scase. By 1940 he had been working on his “Silmarillion”mythology for more than twenty years, and none of it had been

publishedexceptforascatteringofpoemsandthe“spin-off”TheHobbit.HehadbeenwritingTheLordoftheRingssinceChristmas1937,andittoowasgoingslowly.Hisstudywasfullofdraftsandrevisions.Onecanguessalso that, likemostprofessors,hefoundhismany administrative duties a distraction, thoughNiggle (andperhapsTolkien)isguiltilyawarethatheiseasilydistracted,andnotagoodmanagerofhistime.

Concentration and time-management arewhatNiggle has tolearn in theWorkhouse, which most critics have identified as aversionofPurgatory.HisrewardistofindthatintheOtherWorld,dreamscometrue:therebeforehimishisTree,betterthanhehadeverpainteditandbettereventhanhehadimaginedit,andbeyondittheForestandtheMountainsthathehadonlybeguntoimagine.And yetthere is room for more improvement, and to make itNiggle has to work with his neighbour Parish, who in the realworld had seemed only another distraction. What becomes theirjoint vision is recognized as therapeuticallyvaluable evenby the

Voices who judge people’s lives, but even then it is only anintroduction to a greater vision mortals can only guess at. Buteveryonehastostartsomewhere.AstheFairyQueensaysinSmith,“Betteralittledoll,maybe, thannomemoryofFaeryatall”,andbetterFaerythannosenseofanythingbeyondthemundaneworldofeveryday.

“Leaf”afterallhastwoendings,oneintheOtherWorldandoneintheworldwhichNiggleleft.TheOtherWorldendingisoneof joy and laughter, but in the real world hope andmemory arecrushed.Niggle’s great painting of the Treewas used to patch ahole, one leaf of it went to a museum, but that too was burneddownandNigglewasentirely forgotten.The lastwordseversaidabout him are “never knew he painted”, and the future seems tobelong to people like Councillor Tompkins, with his views onpracticaleducationand—rememberthatthisisastoryofatlatestthe early 1940s—the elimination of undesirable elements ofSociety. If there is a remedy for us, Tolkien says, stressing that

Niggleusestheword“quiteliterally”, itwillbe“agift”.Anotherwordfor“gift”is“grace”.

“LeafbyNiggle” ends, then,bothwithwhatTolkien in “OnFairy-Stories” calls “dyscatastrophe…sorrow andfailure”, andwithwhatheregardsasthe“highestfunction”offairy-storyandofevangelium, the “good news” or Gospel beyond it, and that is“eucatastrophe”, the “sudden joyous ‘turn’”, the “sudden andmiraculous grace”, which one finds in Grimm, in modern fairy-tale, and supremely in Tolkien’s own “Tales of the PerilousRealm”. In the Middle English poemSir Orfeo, which Tolkienedited in 1943-4 (in an anonymous pamphlet of which,characteristically, hardly any copies survive), the barons comfortthe stewardwho has just been told his lord is dead, “and tellethhimhou itgeth, / It isnobotofmannesdeth”.That’s theway itgoes,theysay,there’snohelpforit,orasTolkienrenderedthelast

line inhisposthumously-published translationof1975, “deathofman no man can mend”. The barons are compassionate, well-intentioned,andaboveallsensible: thatis theway thingsgo.Butthepoemprovesthemwrong,justthisonce,forOrfeoisalive,andhasrescuedhisqueenfromcaptivityinFaërieaswell.Wefindthesame“turn” inTheLordoftheRings,asSam,whohaslaindowntodieonMountDoomafterthedestructionoftheRing,wakestofindhimselfalive, rescued,andfacedby theresurrectedGandalf.ThereisjoyinthePerilousRealm,andonitsDarkMarchestoo,allthestrongerforthereal-lifesorrowsandlosseswhichitchallengesandsurmounts.

TOMSHIPPEY

ROVERANDOM

1

Onceuponatimetherewasalittledog,andhisnamewasRover.He was very small, and very young, or he would have knownbetter;andhewasveryhappyplayinginthegardeninthesunshinewithayellowball,orhewouldneverhavedonewhathedid.

Not every old man with ragged trousers is a bad old man:somearebone-and-bottlemen, andhave littledogsof theirown;and some are gardeners; and a few, a very few, are wizardsprowlingroundonaholidaylookingforsomethingtodo.Thisonewas a wizard, the one that now walked into the story. He camewanderingupthegarden-pathinaraggedoldcoat,withanoldpipeinhismouth, andanoldgreenhatonhishead. IfRoverhadnotbeen so busy barking at the ball, hemight have noticed the bluefeatherstuckinthebackofthegreenhat,andthenhewouldhave

suspected that themanwas awizard, as any other sensible littledogwould;butheneversawthefeatheratall.

When theoldmanstoopeddownandpickedup theball—hewasthinkingofturningitintoanorange,orevenaboneorapieceofmeatforRover—Rovergrowled,andsaid:

‘Putitdown!’Withoutevera‘please’.Of course the wizard, being a wizard, understood perfectly,

andheansweredbackagain:‘Bequiet,silly!’Withoutevera‘please’.Thenheput theball inhispocket, just to tease thedog,and

turned away. I am sorry to say that Rover immediately bit histrousers,andtoreoutquiteapiece.Perhapshealsotoreoutapieceof the wizard.Anyway the old man suddenly turned round veryangryandshouted:

‘Idiot!Goandbeatoy!’After that the most peculiar things began to happen. Rover

wasonlyalittledogtobeginwith,buthesuddenlyfeltverymuch

smaller.Thegrassseemed togrowmonstrously tallandwavefarabovehishead;andalongwayawaythroughthegrass,likethesunrising through the treesof a forest, hecould see thehugeyellowball,wherethewizardhadthrownitdownagain.Heheardthegateclickastheoldmanwentout,buthecouldnotseehim.Hetriedtobark,butonlya little tinynoisecameout, toosmall forordinarypeopletohear;andIdon’tsupposeevenadogwouldhavenoticedit.

So small had he become that I am sure, if a cat had comealong just then, shewouldhave thoughtRoverwas amouse, andwould have eaten him.Tinkerwould.Tinkerwas the large blackcatthatlivedinthesamehouse.

AttheverythoughtofTinker,Roverbegantofeelthoroughlyfrightened; but cats were soon put right out of his mind. Thegarden about him suddenly vanished, and Rover felt himselfwhisked off, he didn’t knowwhere.When the rushwas over, hefound hewas in the dark, lying against a lot of hard things; and

therehe lay, inastuffyboxby thefeelof it,veryuncomfortablyforalongwhile.Hehadnothingtoeatordrink;butworstofall,hefoundhecouldnotmove.Atfirsthe thought thiswasbecausehewas packed so tight, but afterwards he discovered that in thedaytimehecouldonlymoveverylittle,andwithagreateffort,andthenonlywhennoonewaslooking.Onlyaftermidnightcouldhewalkandwaghistail,andabitstifflyatthat.Hehadbecomeatoy.And because he had not said ‘please’ to thewizard, now all daylonghehadtositupandbeg.Hewasfixedlikethat.

Afterwhatseemedaverylong,darktimehetriedoncemoretobarkloudenoughtomakepeoplehear.Thenhetriedtobitetheother things in theboxwithhim, stupid little toy animals, reallyonlymadeofwoodorlead,notenchantedrealdogslikeRover.Butitwasnogood;hecouldnotbarkorbite.

Suddenlysomeonecameandtookoff the lidof thebox,and

letinthelight.‘Wehadbetterputafewoftheseanimalsinthewindowthis

morning, Harry,’ said a voice, and a hand came into the box.‘Wheredidthisonecomefrom?’said thevoice,asthehandtookhold ofRover. ‘I don’t remember seeing this one before. It’s nobusiness in the threepenny box, I’m sure. Did you ever seeanythingsoreal-looking?Lookatitsfuranditseyes!’

‘Markhimsixpence,’saidHarry,‘andputhiminthefrontofthewindow!’

There in the front of the window in the hot sun poor littleRoverhadtositall themorning,andall theafternoon, tillnearlytea-time; and all the while he had to sit up and pretend to beg,thoughreallyinhisinsidehewasveryangryindeed.

‘I’llrunawayfromtheveryfirstpeoplethatbuyme,’hesaidtotheothertoys.‘I’mreal.I’mnotatoy,andIwon’tbeatoy!ButIwish someonewould come andbuymequick. I hate this shop,andIcan’tmoveallstuckupinthewindowlikethis.’

‘What do you want to move for?’ said the other toys. ‘Wedon’t.It’smorecomfortablestandingstillthinkingofnothing.Themoreyourest,thelongeryoulive.Sojustshutup!Wecan’tsleepwhileyou’retalking,andtherearehardtimesinroughnurseriesinfrontofsomeofus.’

Theywouldnotsayanymore,sopoorRoverhadnooneatalltotalkto,andhewasverymiserable,andverysorryhehadbittenthewizard’strousers.

Icouldnotsaywhetheritwasthewizardornotwhosentthemother to take the little dog away from the shop.Anyway, justwhenRoverwasfeelinghismiserablest, intotheshopshewalkedwitha shopping-basket.ShehadseenRover through thewindow,andthoughtwhatanicelittledoghewouldbeforherboy.Shehadthreeboys,andonewasparticularlyfondoflittledogs,especiallyof little black andwhite dogs. So she boughtRover, and hewas

screwedupinpaperandputinherbasketamongthethingsshehadbeenbuyingfortea.

Roversoonmanagedtowrigglehisheadoutofthepaper.Hesmelt cake. But he found he could not get at it; and right downthereamongthepaperbagshegrowledalittletoygrowl.Onlytheshrimps heard him, and they asked himwhatwas thematter.Hetoldthemallaboutit,andexpectedthemtobeverysorryforhim,buttheyonlysaid:

‘How would you like to be boiled? Have you ever beenboiled?’

‘No! I have never been boiled, as far as I remember,’ saidRover, ‘though I have sometimes been bathed, and that is notparticularly nice. But I expect boiling isn’t half as bad as beingbewitched.’

‘Thenyouhavecertainlyneverbeenboiled,’ theyanswered.‘You know nothing about it. It’s the veryworst thing that couldhappentoanyone—wearestillredwithrageattheveryidea.’

Roverdidnotliketheshrimps,sohesaid:‘Nevermind,theywillsooneatyouup,andIshallsitandwatchthem!’

Afterthattheshrimpshadnomoretosaytohim,andhewaslefttolieandwonderwhatsortofpeoplehadboughthim.

Hesoonfoundout.Hewascarriedtoahouse,andthebasketwas set downon a table, and all the parcelswere taken out.Theshrimpsweretakenofftothelarder,butRoverwasgivenstraightaway to the littleboyhehadbeenbought for,who tookhim intothenurseryandtalkedtohim.

Roverwouldhavelikedthelittleboy,ifhehadnotbeentooangrytolistentowhathewassayingtohim.Thelittleboybarkedat him in the best dog-language he couldmanage (hewas rathergoodat it), butRovernever tried to answer.All the timehewasthinkinghehadsaidhewouldrunawayfromthefirstpeoplethatboughthim,andhewaswonderinghowhecoulddoit;andallthetimehehadtositupandpretendtobeg,whilethelittleboypattedhimandpushedhimabout,overthetableandalongthefloor.

Atlastnightcame,andthelittleboywenttobed;andRoverwasputonachairby thebedside,stillbegginguntil itwasquitedark.Theblindwasdown;butoutsidethemoonroseupoutofthesea, and laid the silver path across thewaters that is theway toplacesattheedgeoftheworldandbeyond,forthosethatcanwalkonit.Thefatherandmotherandthethreelittleboyslivedclosebythe sea in awhite house that looked right out over thewaves tonowhere.

When the little boys were asleep, Rover stretched his tired,stiff legs and gave a little bark that nobody heardexcept an oldwickedspiderupacorner.Thenhe jumped from thechair to thebed,andfromthebedhetumbledoffontothecarpet;andthenheran away out of the room and down the stairs and all over thehouse.

Althoughhewasverypleased tobeable tomoveagain,and

havingoncebeenrealandproperlyalivehecouldjumpandrunagooddealbetterthanmosttoysatnight,hefounditverydifficultand dangerous getting about. He was now so small that goingdownstairswasalmostlikejumpingoffwalls;andgettingupstairsagainwasverytiringandawkwardindeed.Anditwasallnouse.He foundall thedoors shut and locked, of course; and therewasnotacrackoraholebywhichhecouldcreepout.SopoorRovercouldnotrunawaythatnight,andmorningfoundaverytiredlittledogsittingupandpretendingtobegonthechair,justwherehehadbeenleft.

Thetwoolderboysusedtogetup,whenitwasfine,andrunalong the sands before their breakfast. That morning when theywokeandpulleduptheblind,theysawthesunjumpingoutofthesea,allfiery-redwithcloudsabouthishead,asifhehadhadacoldbatheandwasdryinghimselfwithtowels.Theyweresoonupand

dressed;andofftheywentdownthecliffandontotheshoreforawalk—andRoverwentwiththem.

JustaslittleboyTwo(towhomRoverbelonged)wasleavingthebedroom,he sawRover sittingon thechest-of-drawerswherehehadputhimwhilehewasdressing.‘Heisbeggingtogoout!’hesaid,andputhiminhistrouser-pocket.

ButRoverwasnot begging to goout, and certainlynot in atrouser-pocket.Hewantedtorestandgetreadyforthenightagain;forhe thought that this timehemightfindawayoutandescape,andwanderawayandaway,untilhecamebacktohishomeandhisgardenandhisyellowballonthelawn.Hehadasortofideathatifonce he could get back to the lawn, itmight come all right: theenchantmentmightbreak,orhemightwakeupandfindithadallbeenadream.So,as the littleboysscrambleddown thecliffpathand galloped along the sands, he tried to bark and struggle andwriggle in the pocket. Try how hewould, he could onlymove avery little,even thoughhewashiddenandnoonecouldseehim.

Still he did what he could, and luck helped him. There was ahandkerchief in the pocket, all crumpled and bundled up, so thatRoverwasnotverydeepdown,andwhatwithhiseffortsand thegallopingofhismaster, before longhehadmanaged topokeouthisnoseandhaveasniffround.

Verysurprisedhewas,too,atwhathesmeltandwhathesaw.Hehadnevereitherseenorsmelt theseabefore,and thecountryvillagewherehehadbeenbornwasmilesandmilesfromsoundorsnuffofit.

Suddenly,ashewasleaningout,agreatbigbird,allwhiteandgrey,wentsweepingbyjustovertheheadsoftheboys,makinganoise likeagreatcatonwings.Roverwassostartled thathefellright out of thepocket onto thesoft sand, andnooneheardhim.Thegreatbirdflewonandaway,nevernoticinghistinybarks,andthelittleboyswalkedonandonalongthesands,andneverthoughtabouthimatall.

AtfirstRoverwasverypleasedwithhimself.‘I’ve run away! I’ve run away!’ he barked, toy barking that

only other toys could have heard, and there were none to listen.Thenherolledoverandlayinthecleandrysandthatwasstillcoolfromlyingoutallnightunderthestars.

Butwhenthelittleboyswentbyontheirwayhome,andnevernoticedhim,andhewasleftallaloneontheemptyshore,hewasnotquite sopleased.The shorewasdesertedexceptby thegulls.Beside the marks of their claws on the sand the only otherfootprints tobeseenwere the tracksof the littleboys’ feet.Thatmorningtheyhadgonefortheirwalkonaverylonelypartofthebeachthattheyseldomvisited.Indeeditwasnotoftenthatanyonewent there; for though the sand was clean and yellow, and theshingle white, and the sea blue with silver foam in a little coveunderthegreycliffs,therewasaqueerfeelingthere,exceptjustatearly morning when the sun was new. People said that strangethings came there, sometimes even in the afternoon; and by the

evening the place was full of mermen and mermaidens, not tospeak of the smaller sea-goblins that rode their small sea-horseswithbridlesofgreenweedrightuptothecliffsandleftthemlyinginthefoamattheedgeofthewater.

Nowthereasonofallthisqueernesswassimple:theoldestofall the sand-sorcerers lived in that cove,Psamathists as the sea-people call them in their splashing language. PsamathosPsamathideswasthisone’sname,orsohesaid,andagreatfusshemadeabouttheproperpronunciation.Buthewasawiseoldthing,and all sorts of strange folk came to see him; for he was anexcellentmagician, andverykindly (to the rightpeople) into thebargain,ifabitcrustyonthesurface.Themer-folkusedtolaughoverhis jokes forweeks after oneofhismidnightparties.But itwasnoteasytofindhiminthedaytime.Helikedtolieburiedinthewarmsandwhenthesunwasshining,sothatnotmorethanthetipofoneofhis longearsstuckout;andeven ifbothofhisearswereshowing,mostpeoplelikeyouandmewouldhavetakenthem

forbitsofstick.

It is possible that old Psamathos knew all about Rover. Hecertainly knew the old wizard who had enchanted him; formagiciansandwizardsarefewandfarbetween,andtheyknowoneanotherverywell,andkeepaneyeononeanother’sdoingstoo,notalwaysbeing thebest of friends inprivate life.At any rate therewasRoverlyinginthesoftsandandbeginningtofeelverylonelyand ratherqueer, and therewasPsamathos, thoughRoverdidnotseehim,peepingathimoutofapileofsandthatthemermaidshadmadeforhimthenightbefore.

But the sand-sorcerer said nothing.AndRover said nothing.Andbreakfast-timewentby, and the sungothighandhot.Roverlookedat thesea,whichsoundedcool,and thenhegotahorriblefright.Atfirsthethoughtthatthesandmusthavegotintohiseyes,butsoonhesawthattherecouldbenomistake:theseawasmoving

nearerandnearer,andswallowingupmoreandmoresand;andthewavesweregettingbiggerandbiggerandmorefoamyallthetime.

The tidewascoming in,andRoverwas lying justbelow thehigh-watermark,buthedidnotknowanythingaboutthat.Hegrewmore and more terrified as he watched, and thought of thesplashing waves coming right up to the cliffs and washing himawayintothefoamingsea(farworsethananysoapybathing-tub),stillmiserablybegging.

That is indeedwhatmight have happened to him; but it didnot.IdaresayPsamathoshadsomethingtodowithit;atanyrateIimagine that the wizard’s spell was not so strong in that queercove,soclosetotheresidenceofanothermagician.Certainlywhenthe sea had come very near, andRoverwas nearly burstingwithfrightashestruggledtorollabitfurtherupthebeach,hesuddenlyfoundhecouldmove.

His size was not changed, but he was no longer a toy. Hecouldmovequicklyandproperlywithallhislegs,daytimethoughitstillwas.Heneednotbeganymore,andhecouldrunover thesandswhere theywereharder; andhecouldbark—not toybarks,butrealsharplittlefairy-dogbarksequaltohisfairy-dogsize.Hewassodelighted,andhebarkedsoloud,thatifyouhadbeenthere,youwouldhaveheardhim then, clear and far-away-like, like theechoofasheep-dogcomingdownthewindinthehills.

Andthenthesand-sorcerersuddenlystuckhisheadoutofthesand.Hecertainlywasugly,andaboutasbigasaverylargedog;but to Rover in his enchanted size he looked hideous andmonstrous.Roversatdownandstoppedbarkingatonce.

‘What are you making such a noise about, little dog?’ saidPsamathosPsamathides.‘Thisismytimeforsleep!’

Asamatteroffactalltimesweretimesforhimtogotosleep,unlesssomethingwasgoingonwhichamusedhim,suchasadanceofthemermaidsinthecove(athisinvitation).Inthatcasehegot

outofthesandandsatonarocktoseethefun.Mermaidsmaybevery graceful in thewater, butwhen they tried to dance on theirtailsontheshore,Psamathosthoughtthemcomical.

‘Thisismytimeforsleep!’hesaidagain,whenRoverdidnotanswer. Still Rover said nothing, and only wagged his tailapologetically.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked. ‘I am PsamathosPsamathides,thechiefofallthePsamathists!’Hesaidthisseveraltimesveryproudly,pronouncingeveryletter,andwitheveryPheblewacloudofsanddownhisnose.

Rover was nearly buried in it, and he sat there looking sofrightenedandsounhappythatthesand-sorcerertookpityonhim.Infacthesuddenlystoppedlookingfierceandburstoutlaughing:

‘You are a funny little dog, Little Dog! Indeed I don’tremembereverhavingseenanotherlittledogthatwasquitesuchalittledog,LittleDog!’

Andthenhelaughedagain,andafterthathesuddenlylooked

solemn.‘Haveyoubeenhavinganyquarrelswithwizards lately?’he

asked almost in a whisper; and he shut one eye, and looked sofriendlyandsoknowingoutof theotherone thatRover toldhimallaboutit.Itwasprobablyquiteunnecessary,forPsamathos,asItoldyou,probablyknewaboutitbeforehand;stillRoverfeltallthebetterfortalkingtosomeonewhoappearedtounderstandandhadmoresensethanmeretoys.

‘Itwasawizardallright,’saidthesorcerer,whenRoverhadfinished his tale. ‘Old Artaxerxes, I should think from yourdescription.HecomesfromPersia.Buthelosthiswayoneday,aseven the best wizards sometimes do (unless they always stay athome likeme), and the firstpersonhemeton the roadwent andputhimonthewaytoPershoreinstead.Hehaslivedinthoseparts,except on holidays, ever since. They say he is a nimble plum-gatherer for an old man—two thousand, if he is a day—andextremely fond of cider. But that’s neither here nor there.’ By

which Psamathos meant that he was getting away from what hewantedtosay.‘Thepointis,whatcanIdoforyou?’

‘Idon’tknow,’saidRover.‘Doyouwanttogohome?IamafraidIcan’tmakeyouyour

proper size, at least not without asking Artaxerxes’ permissionfirst,asIdon’twanttoquarrelwithhimatthemoment.ButIthinkImightventuretosendyouhome.Afterall,Artaxerxescanalwayssend you back again, if hewants to. Though of course hemightsendyousomewheremuchworse thana toyshopnext time, ifhewasreallyannoyed.’

Roverdidnotlikethesoundofthisatall,andheventuredtosay that if he went back home so small, he might not berecognized, except by Tinker the cat; and he did not very muchwanttoberecognizedbyTinkerinhispresentstate.

‘Very well!’ said Psamathos. ‘We must think of somethingelse. In the meantime, as you are real again, would you likesomethingtoeat?’

BeforeRoverhad time to say ‘Yes,please!YES!PLEASE!’thereappearedonthesandsinfrontofhimalittleplatewithbreadand gravy and two tiny bones of just the right size, and a littledrinking-bowlfullofwaterwithdrinkpuppydrinkwrittenrounditin small blue letters. He ate and drank all there was before heasked:‘Howdidyoudothat?—Thankyou!’

Hesuddenlythoughtofaddingthe‘thankyou’,aswizardsandpeople of that sort seemed rather touchy folk. Psamathos onlysmiled;soRoverlaydownonthehotsandandwenttosleep,anddreamedof bones, and of chasing cats up plum-trees only to seethem change into wizards with green hats who threw enormousplumslikemarrowsathim.Andthewindblewgentlyallthetime,andburiedhimalmostoverhisheadinblownsand.

That is why the little boys never found him, although theycamedownintothecovespeciallytolookforhim,assoonaslittle

boyTwofoundhewaslost.Theirfatherwaswiththemthistime;andwhentheyhadlookedandlookedtillthesunbegantogetlowand tea-timish, he took them back home andwould not stay anylonger:heknewtoomanyqueerthingsaboutthatplace.LittleboyTwohad to be content for some time after thatwith an ordinarythreepennytoydog(fromthesameshop);butsomehow,thoughhehad only had him such a shortwhile, he did not forget his littlebegging-dog.

At themoment,however,youcan thinkofhimsittingdownverymournful to his tea,without any dog at all;while far awayinlandtheoldladywhohadkeptRoverandspoiledhim,whenhewas an ordinary, proper-sized animal, was just writing out anadvertisement for a lost puppy—‘white with black ears, andanswers to the name of Rover’; and while Rover himself sleptaway on the sands, andPsamathos dozed close bywith his shortarmsfoldedonhisfattummy.

2

When Rover woke up, the sun was very low; the shadow of thecliffswasrightacrossthesands,andPsamathoswasnowheretobeseen.Alargeseagullwasstandingclosebylookingathim,andforamomentRoverwasafraidthathemightbegoingtoeathim.

Buttheseagullsaid:‘Goodevening!Ihavewaitedalongtimeforyoutowakeup.Psamathossaidthatyouwouldwakeabouttea-time,butitislongpastthatnow.’

‘Please, what are you waiting for me for, Mr Bird?’ askedRoververypolitely.

‘MynameisMew,’saidtheseagull,‘andI’mwaitingtotakeyouaway,as soonas themoon rises,along themoon’spath.Butwehaveoneortwothingstodobeforethat.Getuponmybackandseehowyoulikeflying!’

Roverdidnotlikeitatallatfirst.ItwasallrightwhileMewwas close to the ground, gliding smoothly along with his wingsstretched out stiff and still; butwhen he shot up into the air, orturnedsharpfromside toside,slopingadifferentwayeachtime,orstoopedsuddenandsteep,asifhewasgoingtodiveintothesea,then the littledog,with thewindwhistling inhisears,wishedhewassafedownontheearthagain.

Hesaidsoseveraltimes,butallthatMewwouldanswerwas:‘Holdon!Wehaven’tbegunyet!’

Theyhadbeenflyingaboutlikethisforalittle,andRoverhadjustbegun togetused to it, and rather tiredof it,whensuddenly‘We’reoff!’criedMew;andRoververynearlywasoff.ForMewrose like a rocket steeply into the air, and then set off at a greatpace straight down thewind. Soon theywere so high that Rovercould see, far away and right over the land, the sun going downbehinddarkhills.Theyweremakingforsomeverytallblackcliffsofsheerrock,toosheerforanyonetoclimb.Atthebottomthesea

wassplashingandsuckingattheirfeet,andnothinggrewontheirfaces, yet theywere coveredwithwhite things, pale in the dusk.Hundreds of sea-birds were sitting there on narrow ledges,sometimestalkingmournfullytogether,sometimessayingnothing,andsometimesslippingsuddenlyfromtheirperchestoswoopandcurveintheair,beforedivingdowntotheseafarbelowwherethewaveslookedlikelittlewrinkles.

ThiswaswhereMewlived,andhehadseveralpeopletosee,including the oldest and most important of all the BlackbackedGulls,andmessages tocollectbeforehesetout.SohesetRoverdownononeofthenarrowledges,muchnarrowerthanadoorstep,andtoldhimtowaitthereandnottofalloff.

YoumaybesurethatRovertookcarenottofalloff,andthatwithastiffsidewayswindblowinghedidnotlikethefeelingofitatall,crouchingascloseashecouldagainst thefaceof thecliff,and whimpering. It was altogether a very nasty place for abewitchedandworriedlittledogtobein.

At last thesunlight fadedoutof theskyentirely,andamistwas on the sea, and the first stars showed in the gathering dark.Thenabove themist, faroutacross thesea, themoon rose roundandyellowandbegantolayitsshiningpathonthewater.

Soon after,Mew came back and picked up Rover, who hadbegun to shivermiserably.Thebird’s feathers seemedwarmandcomfortableafterthecoldledgeonthecliff,andhesnuggledinascloseashecould.ThenMew leapt into theair farabove thesea,andalltheothergullssprangofftheirledges,andcriedandwailedgood-byetothem,asofftheyspedalongthemoon’spaththatnowstretchedstraightfromtheshoretothedarkedgeofnowhere.

Roverdidnotknowintheleastwherethemoon’spathledto,andatpresenthewasmuchtoofrightenedandexcitedtoask,andanyway he was beginning to get used to extraordinary thingshappeningtohim.

As they flewalongabove the silver shimmeron the sea, themoon rose higher and grewwhiter andmore bright, till no stars

daredstayanywherenearit,anditwasleftshiningallaloneintheeastern sky. No doubt Mew was going by Psamathos’ orders towhere Psamathos wanted him to go, and no doubt PsamathoshelpedMewwithmagic,forhecertainlyflewfasterandstraighterthan even the great gulls ordinarily fly, even straight down thewindwhen theyare inahurry.Yet itwasagesbeforeRoversawanythingexceptthemoonlightandtheseabelow;andallthetimethemoongotbiggerandbigger,andtheairgotcolderandcolder.

Suddenly on the edge of the sea he saw a dark thing, and itgrew as they flew towards it, until he could see that it was anisland. Over the water and up to them came the sound of atremendousbarking,anoisemadeupofallthedifferentkindsandsizesofbarks thereare:yapsandyelps,andyammersandyowls,growling and grizzling, whickering and whining, snickering andsnarling,mumping andmoaning, and themost enormous baying,likeagiantbloodhoundinthebackyardofanogre.AllRover’sfurroundhisnecksuddenlybecameveryrealagain,andstoodupstiff

asbristles; andhe thoughthewould like togodownandquarrelwithallthedogsthereatonce—untilherememberedhowsmallhewas.

‘That’stheIsleofDogs,’saidMew,‘orrathertheIsleofLostDogs,whereallthelostdogsgothataredeservingorlucky.Itisn’tabadplace,I’mtold,fordogs;andtheycanmakeasmuchnoiseasthey like without anyone telling them to be quiet or throwinganything at them. They have a beautiful concert, all barkingtogether their favouritenoises,whenever themoon shines bright.They tellme there are bone-trees there, too,with fruit like juicymeat-bonesthatdropsoffthetreeswhenit’sripe.No!Wearenotgoing there justnow!Yousee,youcan’tbecalledexactlyadog,thoughyouarenolongerquiteatoy.InfactPsamathoswasratherpuzzled,Ibelieve,toknowwhattodowithyou,whenyousaidyoudidn’twanttogohome.’

‘Where are we going to, then?’ asked Rover. He wasdisappointedatnothavingacloser lookat theIsleofDogs,after

heheardofthebone-trees.‘Straight up the moon’s path to the edge of the world, and

thenovertheedgeandontothemoon.That’swhatoldPsamathossaid.’

Roverdidnotliketheideaofgoingovertheedgeoftheworldat all, and the moon looked a cold sort of place. ‘Why to themoon?’ he asked. ‘There are lots of places on the world I haveneverbeento.Ineverheardof therebeingbonesin themoon,orevendogs.’

‘There is at least one dog, for the Man-in-the-Moon keepsone;andsinceheisadecentoldfellow,aswellasthegreatestofall the magicians, there are sure to be bones for the dog, andprobably forvisitors.As forwhyyouarebeingsent there, Idaresayyouwillfindthatoutingoodtime,ifyoukeepyourwitsaboutyou and don’t waste time grumbling. I think it is very kind ofPsamathos to bother about you at all; in fact I don’t understandwhy he does. It isn’t like him to do things without a good big

reason—andyoudon’tseemgoodorbig.’‘Thankyou,’ saidRover, feeling crushed. ‘It is verykindof

allthesewizardstotroublethemselvesaboutme,Iamsure,thoughitisratherupsetting.Youneverknowwhatwillhappennext,whenonceyougetmixedupwithwizardsandtheirfriends.’

‘Itisverymuchbetterluckthananyyappinglittlepetpuppy-dog deserves,’ said the seagull, and after that they had nomoreconversationforalongwhile.

Themoon got bigger and brighter, and theworld below gotdarkerandfartheroff.Atlast,allofasudden,theworldcametoanend,andRovercouldseethestarsshiningupoutoftheblacknessunderneath. Far down he could see the white spray in themoonlightwherewaterfallsfellovertheworld’sedgeanddroppedstraight into space. It made him feelmost uncomfortably giddy,and he nestled intoMew’s feathers and shut his eyes for a long,

longtime.Whenheopenedthemagainthemoonwasalllaidoutbelow

them,anewwhiteworldshininglikesnow,withwideopenspacesofpaleblueandgreenwherethetallpointedmountainsthrewtheirlongshadowsfaracrossthefloor.

Ontopofoneofthetallestofthese,onesotallthatitseemedto stab up towards them asMew swept down,Rover could see awhite tower. It was white with pink and pale green lines in it,shimmeringasifthetowerwerebuiltofmillionsofseashellsstillwetwithfoamandgleaming;andthetowerstoodontheedgeofawhite precipice, white as a cliff of chalk, but shining withmoonlight more brightly than a pane of glass far away on acloudlessnight.

Therewasnopathdownthatcliff,asfarasRovercouldsee;butthatdidnotmatteratthemoment,forMewwassailingswiftlydown,andsoonhesettledrightontheroofofthetower,atadizzyheightabovethemoon-worldthatmadethecliffsbytheseawhere

Mewlivedseemlowandsafe.

ToRover’sgreatsurprisealittledoorintheroofimmediatelyopenedclosebesidethem,andanoldmanwithalongsilverybeardpoppedhisheadout.

‘Not bad going, that!’ he said. ‘I’ve been timing you eversince you passed over the edge—a thousand miles a minute, Ishould reckon. You are in a hurry this morning! I’m glad youdidn’tbumpintomydog.Whereinthemoonhashegottonow,Iwonder?’

Hedrewout anenormously long telescopeandput it tooneeye.

‘There he is! There he is!’ he shouted. ‘Worrying themoonbeamsagain,drathim!Comedown,sir!Comedown,sir!’hecalledupintotheair,andthenbegantowhistlealongclearsilvernote.

Roverlookedupintotheair,thinkingthatthisfunnyoldmanmustbequitemad towhistle tohisdogup in the sky;but tohisastonishment he saw far up above thetowera littlewhitedogonwhitewingschasingthingsthatlookedliketransparentbutterflies.

‘Rover! Rover!’ called the old man; and just as our RoverjumpeduponMew’sbacktosay‘HereIam!’—withoutwaitingtowonderhowtheoldmanknewhisname—hesawthelittleflyingdogdivestraightdownoutof theskyandsettleontheoldman’sshoulders.

ThenherealisedthattheMan-in-the-Moon’sdogmustalsobecalledRover.Hewas not at all pleased, but as nobody took anynoticeofhim,hesatdownagainandbegantogrowltohimself.

TheMan-in-the-Moon’sRoverhadgoodears,andheatoncejumpedontotheroofofthetowerandbegantobarklikemad;andthenhesatdownandgrowled:‘Whobroughtthatotherdoghere?’

‘Whatotherdog?’saidtheMan.‘Thatsillylittlepuppyontheseagull’sback,’saidthemoon-

dog.Then, of course, Rover jumped up again and barked his

loudest:‘Sillylittlepuppyyourself!WhosaidthatyoucouldcallyourselfRover,athingmorelikeacatorabatthanadog?’Fromwhichyoucanseethattheyweregoingtobeveryfriendlybeforelong. That is the way, anyhow, that little dogs usually talk tostrangersoftheirownkind.

‘Oflyaway,youtwo!Andstopmakingsuchanoise!Iwanttotalktothepostman,’saidtheMan.

‘Come on, tiny tot!’ said the moon-dog; and then Roverrememberedwhatatinytothewas,evenbesidethemoon-dogwhowas only small, and instead of barking something rude he onlysaid:‘Iwouldlike to, ifonlyIhadsomewingsandknewhowtofly.’

‘Wings?’ said the Man-in-the-Moon. ‘That’s easy! Have apairandbeoff!’

Mewlaughed,andactuallythrewhimoffhisback,rightover

theedgeofthetower’sroof!ButRoverhadonlygaspedonce,andhadonlybeguntoimaginehimselffallingandfallingdownlikeastone onto the white rocks in the valley miles below, when hediscovered that he had got a beautiful pair of white wings withblackspots(tomatchhimself).Allthesame,hehadfallenalongwaybeforehecouldstop,ashewasn’tusedtowings.Ittookhimalittlewhiletogetreallyusedtothem,thoughlongbeforetheManhad finished talking toMew he was already trying to chase themoon-dog round the tower.Hewas justbeginning toget tiredbythese first efforts, when the moon-dog dived down to themountain-topandsettledattheedgeoftheprecipiceatthefootofthewalls.Roverwentdownafterhim,andsoontheyweresittingsidebyside,takingbreathwiththeirtongueshangingout.

‘SoyouarecalledRoverafterme?’saidthemoon-dog.‘Not after you,’ said our Rover. ‘I’m sure mymistress had

neverheardofyouwhenshegavememyname.’‘Thatdoesn’tmatter.Iwasthefirstdogthatwasevercalled

Rover, thousands of years ago—so you must have been calledRoverafterme!IwasaRovertoo!Ineverwouldstopanywhere,orbelong to anyone before I camehere. Ididnothingbut runawayfromthetimeIwasapuppy;andIkeptonrunningandrovinguntilonefinemorning—averyfinemorning,withthesuninmyeyes—Ifellovertheworld’sedgechasingabutterfly.

‘Anastysensation,Icantellyou!Luckilythemoonwasjustpassing under theworld at themoment, and after a terrible timefallingrightthroughclouds,andbumpingintoshootingstars,andthatsortofthing,Itumbledontoit.Slapintooneoftheenormoussilvernets that thegiantgreyspidersherespinfrommountain tomountainIfell,andthespiderwasjustcomingdownhisladdertopickle me and carry me off to his larder, when theMan-in-the-Moonappeared.

‘Heseesabsolutelyeverythingthathappensonthissideofthemoon with that telescope of his. The spiders are afraid of him,because he only lets them alone if they spin silver threads and

ropes for him. He more than suspects that they catch hismoonbeams—andthathewon’tallow—thoughtheypretendtoliveonly on dragonmoths and shadowbats. He found moonbeams’wings in that spider’s larder, and he turned him into a lump ofstone,asquickaskissyourhand.Thenhepickedmeupandpattedme,andsaid:“Thatwasanastydrop!Youhadbetterhaveapairofwings to prevent any more accidents—now fly off and amuseyourself! Don’t worry the moonbeams, and don’t kill my whiterabbits! And come home when you feel hungry; the window isusuallyopenontheroof!”

‘Ithoughthewasadecentsort,butrathermad.Butdon’tyoumakethatmistake—abouthisbeingmad,Imean.Idaren’treallyhurthismoonbeamsorhisrabbits.Hecanturnyouintodreadfullyuncomfortable shapes. Now tell me why you came with thepostman!’

‘Thepostman?’saidRover.‘Yes,Mew, theoldsand-sorcerer’spostman,ofcourse,’said

themoon-dog.Rover had hardly finished telling the tale of his adventures

whentheyheardtheManwhistling.Uptheyshottotheroof.Therethe old man was sitting with his legs dangling over the ledge,throwingenvelopesawayasfastasheopenedtheletters.Thewindtookthemwhirlingoffintothesky,andMewflewafterthemandcaughtthemandputthembackintoalittlebag.

‘I’ve justbeen readingaboutyou,Roverandom,mydog,’hesaid.‘(RoverandomIcallyou,andRoverandomyou’llhavetobe;can’t have two Rovers about here.) And I quite agree with myfriendSamathos(I’mnotgoingtoputinanyridiculousPtopleasehim)thatyouhadbetterstophereforalittlewhile.IhavealsogotaletterfromArtaxerxes,ifyouknowwhothatis,andevenifyoudon’t, telling me to send you straight back. He seems mightyannoyedwithyouforrunningaway,andwithSamathosforhelpingyou.Butwewon’tbotherabouthim;andneitherneedyou,aslongasyoustayhere.

‘Now fly off and amuse yourself. Don’t worry themoonbeams,anddon’tkillmywhiterabbits,andcomehomewhenyou are hungry! Thewindow on the roof is usually open.Good-bye!’

Hevanishedimmediatelyintothinair;andanybodywhohasneverbeentherewilltellyouhowextremelythinthemoon-airis.

‘Well,good-bye,Roverandom!’saidMew.‘Ihopeyouenjoymakingtroubleamongthewizards.Farewellforthepresent.Don’tkill the white rabbits, and all will yet be well, and you will gethomesafe—whetheryouwanttoornot.’

ThenMewflewoffatsuchapace thatbeforeyoucouldsay‘whizz!’hewasadotinthesky,andthenhadvanished.Roverwasnownotonly turned into toy-size,buthisnamehadbeenaltered,and he was left all alone on themoon—all alone except for theMan-in-the-Moonandhisdog.

Roverandom—aswehadbettercallhimtoo, for thepresent,to avoid confusion—didn’tmind.His newwingswere great fun,and themoon turnedout tobe a remarkably interestingplace, sothat he forgot to ponder anymore why Psamathos had sent himthere.Itwasalongtimebeforehefoundout.

In themeanwhile he had all sorts of adventures, by himselfandwith themoon-Rover.Hedidn’toftenflyabout in theair farfromthetower;forinthemoon,andespeciallyonthewhiteside,the insects are very large and fierce, and often so pale and sotransparentandsosilentthatyouhardlyhearorseethemcoming.Themoonbeamsonly shineand flutter, andRoverandomwasnotfrightenedof them; the big white dragon-moths with fiery eyesweremuchmorealarming;andthereweresword-flies,andglass-beetleswith jaws like steel-traps, andpaleunicornetswith stingslike spears, and fifty-seven varieties of spiders ready to eatanything they could catch.And worse than the insects were theshadowbats.

Roverandomdidwhat thebirdsdoon thatsideof themoon:he flewvery little exceptnear at home,or inopen spaceswith agood view all round, and far from insect hiding-places; and hewalked about very quietly, especially in the woods.Most thingstherewentaboutveryquietly,andthebirdsseldomeventwittered.What sounds there were, were made chiefly by the plants. Theflowers—the whitebells, the fairbells and the silverbells, thetinklebells and the ringaroses; the rhymeroyals and thepennywhistles, the tintrumpets and the creamhorns (a very palecream), andmanyotherswith untranslatable names—made tunesall day long. And the feather-grasses and the ferns—fairy-fiddlestrings,polyphonies,andbrasstongues,andthecrackeninthewoods—andallthereedsbythemilk-whiteponds,theykeptupthemusic, softly, even in the night. In fact therewas always a faintthinmusicgoingon.

But the birdswere silent; and very tinymost of themwere,hoppingaboutinthegreygrassbeneaththetrees,dodgingtheflies

and the swooping flutterbies; and many of them had lost theirwings or forgotten how to use them.Roverandomused to startlethemintheirlittleground-nests,ashestalkedquietlythroughthepalegrass, hunting the little white mice, or snuffing after greysquirrelsontheedgesofthewoods.

The woods were filled with silverbells all ringing softlytogether when he first saw them. The tall black trunks stoodstraightup,highaschurches,outofthesilvercarpet,andtheywereroofedwith pale blue leaves that never fell; so that not even thelongest telescope on earth has ever seen those tall trunks or thesilverbells beneath them. Later in the year the trees all bursttogether into pale golden blossoms; and since the woods of themoonarenearlyendless,nodoubtthataltersthelookofthemoonfrombelowontheworld.

ButyoumustnotimaginethatallofRoverandom’stimewas

spent creeping about like that.After all, the dogs knew that theMan’s eyewas on them, and they did a goodmany adventurousthingsandhadagreatdealof fun.Sometimes theywanderedofftogetherformilesandmiles,andforgottogobacktothetowerfordays.Onceortwicetheywentupintothemountainsfaraway,tilllooking back they could see the moon-tower only as a shiningneedleinthedistance;andtheysatonthewhiterocksandwatchedthe tiny sheep (no bigger than the Man-in-the-Moon’s Rover)wanderinginherdsoverthehillsides.Everysheepcarriedagoldenbell, and every bell rang each time each sheep moved a footforwardtogetafreshmouthfulofgreygrass;andallthebellsrangintune,andallthesheepshonelikesnow,andnooneeverworriedthem. The Rovers weremuch toowell brought-up (and afraid oftheMan) todoso,and therewerenootherdogs inall themoon,nor cows, nor horses, nor lions, nor tigers, nor wolves; in factnothinglargeronfourfeetthanrabbitsandsquirrels(andtoy-sizedat that), except just occasionally to be seen standing solemnly in

thoughtanenormouswhiteelephantalmostasbigasadonkey. Ihaven’tmentioned thedragons,because theydon’tcome into thestoryjustyet,andanywaytheylivedaverylongwayoff,farfromthe tower, being all very afraid of theMan-in-the-Moon, exceptone(andevenhewashalf-afraid).

Wheneverthedogsdidgobacktothetowerandflyinatthewindow, theyalways found theirdinner just ready,as if theyhadarrangedthetime;buttheyseldomsaworheardtheManabout.Hehadaworkshopdowninthecellars,andcloudsofwhitesteamandgrey mist used to come up the stairs and float away out of theupperwindows.

‘Whatdoeshedowithhimselfallday?’saidRoverandomtoRover.

‘Do?’saidthemoon-dog.‘Ohe’salwaysprettybusy—thoughhe seemsbusier than I have seen him for a long time, since youarrived.Makingdreams,Ibelieve.’

‘Whatdoeshemakedreamsfor?’

‘O!fortheothersideofthemoon.Noonehasdreamsonthisside;thedreamersallgoroundtotheback.’

Roverandom sat down and scratched; he didn’t think theexplanationexplained.Themoon-dogwouldnottellhimanymoreallthesame:andifyouaskme,Idon’tthinkheknewmuchaboutit.

However, something happened soon after that, that put suchquestions out of Roverandom’smind altogether for awhile. Thetwo dogs went and had a very exciting adventure, much tooexcitingwhile it lasted; but that was their own fault. Theywentawayforseveraldays,muchfartherthantheyhadeverbeenbeforesinceRoverandom came; and they did not bother to thinkwherethey were going. In fact they went and lost themselves, andmistakingthewaygotfartherandfartherfromthetowerwhentheythoughttheyweregettingback.Themoon-dogsaidhehadroamedalloverthewhitesideofthemoonandknewitallbyheart(hewasvery apt to exaggerate), but eventually he had to admit that the

countryseemedabitstrange.‘I’mafraid it’savery longtimesinceIcamehere,’hesaid,

‘andI’mbeginningtoforgetitabit.’As a matter of fact he had never been there before at all.

Unawarestheyhadwanderedtooneartotheshadowyedgeofthedarkside,whereallsortsofhalf-forgottenthingslinger,andpathsandmemories get confused. Just when they felt sure that at lasttheywereontherightwayhome,theyweresurprisedtofindsometallmountains risingbefore them, silent, bare, andominous; andthesethemoon-dogmadenopretenceofeverhavingseenbefore.Theyweregrey,notwhite,andlookedasiftheyweremadeofoldcoldashes;andlongdimvalleyslayamongthem,withoutasignoflife.

Thenitbegantosnow.Itoftendoessnowinthemoon,butthesnow(astheycallit)isusuallyniceandwarm,andquitedry,andturnsintofinewhitesandandallblowsaway.Thiswasmorelikeoursort.Itwaswetandcold;anditwasdirty.

‘Itmakesmehomesick,’saidthemoon-dog.‘It’sjustlikethestuff that used to fall in the townwhere I was a puppy—on theworld, you know.O! the chimneys there, tall asmoon-trees; andtheblacksmoke;andtheredfurnacefires!Igetabittiredofwhiteattimes.It’sverydifficulttogetreallydirtyonthemoon.’

Thisrathershowsupthemoon-dog’slowtastes;andastherewereno such townson theworldhundredsofyearsago,youcanalso see that he had exaggerated the length of time since he fellovertheedgeaverygreatdealtoo.However,justatthatmoment,a specially large and dirty flake hit him in the left eye, and hechangedhismind.

‘Ithinkthisstuffhasmisseditswayandfallenoffthebeastlyoldworld,’hesaid.‘Ratandrabbitit!Andweseemtohavemissedour way altogether, too. Bat and bother it! Let’s find a hole tocreepin!’

It took some time to find a hole of any sort, and theywereverywet and coldbefore theydid: in fact somiserable that they

tookthefirstsheltertheycameto,andnoprecautions—whicharethefirstthingsyououghttotakeinunfamiliarplacesontheedgeof themoon. The shelter they crawled intowas not a hole but acave,andaverylargecavetoo;itwasdarkbutitwasdry.

‘Thisisniceandwarm,’saidthemoon-dog,andheclosedhiseyesandwentoffintoadozealmostimmediately.

‘Ow!’heyelpednotlongafterwards,wakingstraightupdog-fashionoutofacomfortabledream.‘Muchtoowarm!’

Hejumpedup.HecouldhearlittleRoverandombarkingawayfurther inside thecave,andwhenhewent toseewhatwasup,hesawatrickleoffirecreepingalongthefloortowardsthem.Hedidnot feel homesick for red furnaces just then; and he seized littleRoverandomby the backof his little neck, and bolted out of thecave as quick as lightning, and flew up to a peak of stone justoutside.

Therethetwosatinthesnowshiveringandwatching;whichwas very silly of them. They ought to have flown off home, or

anywhere, faster than the wind. The moon-dog did not knoweverything about themoon, as you see, or hewould have knownthatthiswasthelairoftheGreatWhiteDragon—theonethatwasonlyhalf-afraidoftheMan(andscarcelythatwhenhewasangry).TheManhimselfwasabitbotheredbythisdragon.‘Thatdrattedcreature’waswhathecalledhim,whenhereferredtohimatall.

Allthewhitedragonsoriginallycomefromthemoon,asyouprobablyknow;butthisonehadbeentotheworldandback,sohehad learned a thing or two. He fought the Red Dragon inCaerdragoninMerlin’stime,asyouwillfindinallthemoreup-to-date history books; after which the other dragon was Very Red.Later he did lotsmore damage in theThree Islands, andwent tolive on the topof Snowdon for a time. People did not bother toclimb upwhile that lasted—except for oneman, and the dragoncaught himdrinkingout of a bottle.Thatman finished in such ahurry thathe left thebottleon the top,andhisexamplehasbeenfollowedbymanypeople since.A long time since, and not until

thedragonhadflownofftoGwynfa,sometimeafterKingArthur’sdisappearance,atatimewhendragons’tailswereesteemedagreatdelicacybytheSaxonKings.

Gwynfaisnotsofarfromtheworld’sedge,anditisaneasyflight from there to the moon for a dragon so titanic and soenormously bad as this one had become. He now lived on themoon’sedge;forhewasnotquitesurehowmuchtheMan-in-the-Mooncoulddowithhisspellsandcontrivances.All thesame,heactually dared at times to interfere with the colour-scheme.Sometimesheletrealredandgreenflamesoutofhiscavewhenhewas having a dragon-feast or was in a tantrum; and clouds ofsmokewerefrequent.Onceortwicehehadbeenknowntoturnthewholemoon red, or put it out altogether.On suchuncomfortableoccasionstheMan-in-the-Moonshuthimselfup(andhisdog),andall he saidwas ‘That dratted creature again’.Henever explainedwhat creature, or where he lived; he simply went down into thecellars,uncorkedhisbestspells,andgotthingsclearedupasquick

aspossible.

Nowyouknowallaboutit;andifthedogshadknownhalfasmuch theywould never have stoppedthere.But stop they did, atleastaslongasithastakenmetoexplainabouttheWhiteDragon,and by that time the whole of him, white with green eyes, andleakinggreen fireatevery joint, andsnortingblacksmoke likeasteamer,hadcomeoutofthecave.Thenheletoffthemostawfulbellow.Themountainsrockedandechoed,andthesnowdriedup;avalanchestumbleddown,andwaterfallsstoodstill.

Thatdragonhadwings,likethesailsthatshipshadwhentheystillwere ships andnot steam-engines; andhe did not disdain tokillanythingfromamousetoanemperor’sdaughter.Hemeanttokillthosetwodogs;andhetoldthemsoseveraltimesbeforehegotupintotheair.Thatwashismistake.Theybothwhizzedofftheirrocklikerockets,andwentawaydownthewindatapacethatMew

himselfwould have been proud of. The dragon came after them,flapping like a flapdragon and snapping like a snapdragon,knockingthetopsofmountainsoff,andsettingallthesheep-bellsringinglikeatownonfire.(Nowyouseewhytheyallhadbells.)

Very luckily, down thewindwas the right direction.Also amoststupendousrocketwentupfromthetowerassoonasthebellsgot frantic. It could be seen all over the moon like a goldenumbrella bursting into a thousand silver tassels, and it caused anunpredictedfallofshootingstarsontheworldnotlongafter.Ifitwasaguidetothepoordogs,itwasalsomeantasawarningtothedragon;buthehadgotfartoomuchsteamuptotakeanynotice.

So the chasewent fiercely on. If you have ever seen a birdchasing a butterfly, and if you can imagine amore than giganticbird chasing two perfectly insignificant butterflies among whitemountains, then you can just begin to imagine the twistings,dodgings, hairbreadth escapes, and the wild zigzag rush of thatflight home. More than once, before they got even half way,

Roverandom’stailwassingedbythedragon’sbreath.WhatwastheMan-in-the-Moondoing?Well,heletoffatruly

magnificentrocket;andafterthathesaid‘Dratthatcreature!’andalso‘Dratthosepuppies!Theywillbringonaneclipsebeforeitisdue!’Andthenhewentdownintothecellarsanduncorkedadark,blackspellthatlookedlikejellifiedtarandhoney(andsmeltliketheFifthofNovemberandcabbageboilingover).

At thatverymoment thedragonswoopedup rightabove thetowerandliftedahugeclawtobatRoverandom—bathimrightoffinto the blank nowhere. But he never did. TheMan-in-the-Moonshotthespellupoutofalowerwindow,andhitthedragonsploshon the stomach (where all dragons are peculiarly tender), andknocked him crank-sideways.He lost all hiswits, and flew bangintoamountainbeforehecouldgethissteeringright;and itwasdifficulttosaywhichwasmostdamaged,hisnoseorthemountain—bothwereoutofshape.

Sothetwodogsfellinthroughthetopwindow,andnevergot

back their breath for a week; and the dragon slowly made hislopsidedwayhome,whereherubbedhisnoseformonths.Thenexteclipse was a failure, for the dragon was too busy licking histummy to attend to it.And he never got the black sploshes offwhere the spell hit him. I amafraid theywill last for ever.TheycallhimtheMottledMonsternow.

3

The next day the Man-in-the-Moon looked at Roverandom andsaid: ‘Thatwasanarrowsqueak!Youseem tohaveexplored thewhitesideprettywellforayoungdog.Ithink,whenyouhavegotyourbreathback,itwillbetimeforyoutovisittheotherside.’

‘CanIcometoo?’askedthemoon-dog.‘It wouldn’t be good for you,’ said the Man, ‘and I don’t

advise you to.Youmight see things that wouldmake youmorehomesickthanfireandchimney-stacks,andthatwouldturnoutasbadasdragons.’

Themoon-dogdidnotblush,becausehecouldnot;andhedidnot say anything, but he went and sat down in a corner andwonderedhowmuchtheoldmanknewofeverythingthatwenton,and everything that was said, too. Also for a little while he

wonderedwhatexactlytheoldmanmeant;butthatdidnotbotherhimlong—hewasalightheartedfellow.

As forRoverandom,whenhehadgot his breathback,a fewdayslater,theMan-in-the-Mooncameandwhistledforhim.Thendownanddown theywent together;down the stairs, and into thecellars which were cut inside the cliff and had small windowslookingoutofthesideoftheprecipiceoverthewideplacesofthemoon;andthendownsecretstepsthatseemedtoleadrightunderthemountains,untilafteralongwhiletheycameintoacompletelydark place, and stopped, though Roverandom’s head went onturninggiddilyafterthemilesofcorkscrewingdownwards.

In complete darkness theMan-in-the-Moon shone palely allbyhimselflikeaglow-worm,andthatwasallthelighttheyhad.Itwas quite enough, though, to see the door by—a big door in thefloor. This the old man pulled up, and as it was lifted darknessseemed to well up out of the opening like a fog, so thatRoverandomcouldnolongerseeeventhefaintglimmeringofthe

Manthroughit.‘Downyougo,gooddog!’saidhisvoiceoutoftheblackness.

Andyouwon’tbesurprisedtobetoldthatRoverandomwasnotagooddog,andwouldnotbudge.Hebackedintothefurthestcornerofthelittleroom,andsethisearsback.Hewasmorefrightenedofthatholethanoftheoldman.

Butitwasnotanygood.TheMan-in-the-Moonsimplypickedhimupanddroppedhimplumpintotheblackhole;andashefelland fell intonothing,Roverandomheardhimcallingout, alreadyfarabovehim:‘Dropstraight,andthenflyonwiththewind!Waitformeattheotherend!’

Thatoughttohavecomfortedhim,butitdidnot.Roverandomalwayssaidafterwards thathedidnot thinkevenfallingover theworld’sedgecouldbeworse;and thatanyway itwas thenastiestpartofallhisadventures,andstillmadehimfeelasifhehadlosthis tummy whenever he thought of it. You can tell he is stillthinking of itwhen he cries out and twitches in his sleep on the

hearthrug.Allthesame,itcametoanend.Afteralongwhilehisfalling

graduallysloweddown,untilatlasthealmoststopped.Therestofthe way he had to use his wings; and it was like flying up, up,throughabigchimney—luckilywithastrongdraughthelpinghimalong.Jollygladhewaswhenhegotatlasttothetop.

Therehelaypantingattheedgeoftheholeattheotherend,waiting obediently, and anxiously, for the Man-in-the-Moon. Itwasagoodwhilebeforeheappeared,andRoverandomhadtimetosee thathewasat thebottomofadeepdarkvalley, ringedroundwith lowdarkhills.Blackclouds seemed to rest upon their tops;andbeyondthecloudswasjustonestar.

Suddenly the little dog felt very sleepy; a bird in somegloomy bushes nearby was singing a drowsy song that seemedstrange and wonderful to him after the little dumb birds of theothersidetowhichhehadgotused.Heshuthiseyes.

‘Wake up, you doglet!’ called a voice; and Roverandom

bouncedupjustintimetoseetheManclimbingoutoftheholeonasilverropewhichalargegreyspider(muchlargerthanhimself)wasfasteningtoatreecloseby.

The Man climbed out. ‘Thank you!’ he said to the spider.‘And now be off!’And off the spiderwent, andwas glad to go.Thereareblackspidersonthedarkside,poisonousones,ifnotaslargeas themonstersof thewhiteside.Theyhateanythingwhiteorpaleor light, andespeciallypale spiders,which theyhate likerichrelationsthatpayinfrequentvisits.

Thegreyspiderdroppedbackdowntheropeintothehole,andablackspiderdroppedoutofthetreeatthesamemoment.

‘Nowthen!’criedtheoldmantotheblackspider.‘Come back there! That is my private door, and don’t you

forgetit.Justmakemeanicehammockfromthosetwoyew-trees,andI’llforgiveyou.

‘It’sa longishclimbdownandup through themiddleof themoon,’hesaidtoRoverandom,‘andIthinkalittlerestbeforethey

arrivewoulddomegood.Theyareverynice,buttheyneedagooddealof energy.Ofcourse I could take towings,only Iwear ‘emout so fast; also itwouldmeanwidening the hole, asmy size inwingswouldhardlyfit,andI’mabeautifulrope-climber.

‘Now what do you think of this side?’ the Man continued.‘Darkwithapalesky,while totherwaspalewithadarksky,eh?Quiteachange,onlythereisnotmuchmorerealcolourherethanthere,notwhatIcallrealcolour,loudandlotsofittogether.Thereare a few gleams under the trees, if you look, fireflies anddiamond-beetlesandruby-moths,andsuchlike.Tootiny,though;too tiny like all the bright things on this side. And they live aterriblelifeofit,whatwithowlslikeeaglesandasblackascoal,andcrowslikevulturesandasnumerousassparrows,andalltheseblackspiders. It’s theblack-velvetbob-owlers, flyingall togetherinclouds, that Ipersonally like least.Theywon’tevengetoutofmyway;Ihardlydaregiveoutaglimmer,ortheyallgettangledinmybeard.

‘Stillthissidehasitscharms,youngdog;andoneofthemisthatnobodyandno-doggyonearthhaseverseenitbefore—whentheywereawake—exceptyou!’

ThentheMansuddenlyjumpedintothehammock,whichtheblackspiderhadbeenspinningforhimwhilehewas talking,andwentfastasleepinatwinkling.

Roverandomsataloneandwatchedhim,withawaryeyeforblack spiders too.Littlegleamsof firelight, red,green,gold, andblue,flashedandshiftedhereandtherebeneaththedarkwindlesstrees.Theskywaspalewithstrangestarsabovethefloatingwispsofvelvetcloud.Thousandsofnightingalesseemedtobesinginginsome other valley, faint beyond the nearer hills. And thenRoverandomheard the soundof children’svoices, or the echooftheechooftheirvoicescomingdownasuddensoft-stirringbreeze.Hesatupandbarkedtheloudestbarkhehadbarkedsincethistalebegan.

‘Bless me!’ cried the Man-in-the-Moon, jumping up wide

awake,straightoutofthehammockontothegrass,andnearlyontoRoverandom’stail.‘Havetheyarrivedalready?’

‘Who?’askedRoverandom.‘Well,ifyoudidn’thearthem,whatdidyouyapfor?’saidthe

oldman.‘Comeon!Thisistheway.’

Theywent down a long grey path,marked at the sideswithfaintly luminous stones, andoverhungwithbushes. It ledon andon, and thebushesbecamepine-trees, and theairwas filledwiththesmellofpine-treesatnight.Thenthepathbegantoclimb;andafteratimetheycametothetopofthelowestpointintheringofhillsthathadshutthemin.

ThenRoverandom lookeddown into thenext valley; and allthe nightingales stopped singing, like turning off a tap, andchildren’svoicesfloatedupclearandsweet,fortheyweresingingafairsongwithmanyvoicesblendedtoonemusic.

Downthehillsideracedandjumpedtheoldmanandthedogtogether.Myword!theMan-in-the-Mooncouldleapfromrocktorock!

‘Come on, come on!’ he called. ‘I may be a bearded billy-goat, a wild or garden goat, but you can’t catch me!’ AndRoverandomhadtoflytokeepupwithhim.

Andsotheycamesuddenlytoasheerprecipice,notveryhigh,but dark and polished like jet. Looking over, Roverandom sawbelowagardenintwilight;andashelookeditchangedtothesoftglowofanafternoonsun, thoughhecouldnotseewhere thesoftlightcamefromthat litall thatshelteredplaceandneverstrayedbeyond.Grey fountainswere there, and long lawns; and childreneverywhere, dancing sleepily, walking dreamily, and talking tothemselves.Somestirredasifjustwakingfromdeepsleep;somewerealreadyrunningwideawakeandlaughing:theyweredigging,gathering flowers, building tents and houses, chasing butterflies,kickingballs,climbingtrees;andallweresinging.

‘Where do they all come from?’ asked Roverandom,bewilderedanddelighted.

‘Fromtheirhomesandbeds,ofcourse,’saidtheMan.‘Andhowdotheygethere?’‘ThatIain’tgoingtotellyouatall;andyou’llneverfindout.

Youarelucky,andsoisanyone,togetherebyanywayatall;butthe children don’t come by your way, at any rate. Some comeoften, and some come seldom, and I make most of the dream.Someof it theybringwith them,of course, like lunch to school,and some (I am sorry to say) the spiders make—but not in thisvalley,andnot ifIcatch‘emat it.Andnowlet’sgoandjointheparty!’

Thecliffofjetslopedsteeplydown.Itwasmuchtoosmoothevenforaspidertoclimb—notthatanyspidereverdaredtry;forhemightslidedown,butneitherhenoranythingelsecouldgetupagain;andinthatgardenwerehiddensentinels,nottomentiontheMan-in-the-Moon,withoutwhomnopartywascomplete,forthey

werehisownparties.Andhenowslidbangintothemiddleofthisone.Hejustsat

down and tobogganed, swish! right into themidst of a crowd ofchildrenwithRoverandomrollingon topofhim,quite forgettingthat he could fly. Or could have flown—for when he pickedhimselfupatthebottomhefoundthathiswingshadgone.

‘What’s that littledogdoing?’ said a smallboy to theMan.Roverandomwasgoingroundandroundlikeatop,tryingtolookathisownback.

‘Lookingforhiswings,myboy.Hethinkshehasrubbedthemoff on the toboggan-run, but they’re in my pocket. No wingsalloweddownhere,peopledon’tgetoutofherewithoutleave,dothey?’

‘No! Daddy-long-beard!’ said about twenty children all atonce,andoneboycaughtholdoftheoldman’sbeardandclimbedup it onto his shoulder. Roverandom expected to see him turnedintoamothorapieceofindiarubber,orsomething,onthespot.

But‘Myword!you’reabitofarope-climber,myboy!’saidtheMan. ‘I’ll have to give you lessons.’And he tossed the boyrightupintotheair.Hedidnotfalldownagain;notabitofit.Hestuckup in the air; and theMan-in-the-Moon threwhima silverropethatheslippedoutofhispocket.

‘Just climb down that quick!’ he said; and down the boyslithered into the old man’s arms, where he was welltickled.‘You’llwakeup, ifyou laughso loud,’ said theMan,andheputhimdownonthegrassandwalkedoffintothecrowd.

Roverandom was left to amuse himself, and he was justmakingforabeautifulyellowball(‘Justlikemyownathome,’hethought)whenheheardavoiceheknew.

‘There’s my little dog!’ it said. ‘There’s my little dog! Ialways thought he was real. Fancy him being here, when I’velookedandlookedalloverthesandsandcalledandwhistledevery

dayforhim!’As soon as Roverandom heard that voice, he sat up and

begged.‘Mylittlebeggingdog!’said littleboyTwo(ofcourse);and

heranupandpattedhim.‘Wherehaveyoubeento?’But all Roverandom could say at first was: ‘Can you hear

whatI’msaying?’‘Of course I can,’ said little boy Two. ‘But when mummy

brought you home before, you wouldn’t listen to me at all,althoughIdidmybestbark-talkforyou.AndIdon’tbelieveyoutried to say much to me either; you seemed to be thinking ofsomethingelse.’

Roverandomsaidhowsorryhewas,andhetoldthelittleboyhowhehadfallenoutofhispocket;andallaboutPsamathos,andMew, andmany of the adventures he had had since hewas lost.That ishow the littleboyandhisbrothersgot toknowabout theoddfellowinthesand,andlearnedalotofotherusefulthingsthey

might otherwisehave missed. Little boy Two thought that‘Roverandom’wasasplendidname.‘Ishallcallyouthattoo,’hesaid.‘Anddon’tforgetthatyoustillbelongtome!’

Thentheyhadagamewiththeball,andagameofhide-and-seek,andarunandalongwalk,andarabbit-hunt(withnoresult,of course, except excitement: the rabbits were exceedinglyshadowy),andmuchsplashingintheponds,andallkindsofotherthingsoneafteranotherforendlessages;andtheygottolikeoneanotherbetterandbetter.Thelittleboywasrollingoverandoveronthedewygrass,inaverybed-timishlight(butnooneseemstomindwet grass or bed-time in that place), and the little dogwasrollingover andoverwithhim, and standingonhishead likenodogoneartheverhasdonesinceMotherHubbard’sdeaddogdidit;andthelittleboywaslaughingtillhe—vanishedquitesuddenlyandleftRoverandomallaloneonthelawn!

‘He’swaked up, that’s all,’ said theMan-in-the-Moon,whosuddenly appeared. ‘Gone home, and about time too. Why! it’s

onlyaquarterofanhourbeforehisbreakfasttime.He’llmisshiswalk on the sands thismorning.Well,well! I am afraid it’s ourtimetogo,too.’

So,veryreluctantly,Roverandomwentbacktothewhitesidewiththeoldman.Theywalkedalltheway,andittookaverylongtime;andRoverandomdidnotenjoyitasmuchasheoughttohavedone. For they saw all kinds of queer things, and had manyadventures—perfectly safe,of course,with theMan-in-the-Moonclose at hand. That was just as well, as therewere lots of nastycreepy things in the bogs thatwould otherwise have grabbed thelittledogquick.Thedarksidewasaswetasthewhitesidewasdry,and full of the most extraordinary plants and creatures, which Iwould tell you about, if Roverandom had taken any particularnoticeofthem.Buthedidnot;hewasthinkingofthegardenandthelittleboy.

At last theycame to thegreyedge,and they lookedpast thecindervalleyswheremanyof thedragons lived, throughagap inthemountainstothegreatwhiteplainandtheshiningcliffs.Theysaw theworld rise, a pale green and goldmoon, huge and roundabove the shoulders of the Lunar Mountains; and Roverandomthought: ‘That iswheremy little boy lives!’ It seemed a terribleandenormouswayaway.

‘Dodreamscometrue?’heasked.‘Someofminedo,’saidtheoldman.‘Some,butnotall;and

seldom any of them straight away, or quite like they were indreamingthem.Butwhydoyouwanttoknowaboutdreams?’

‘Iwasonlywondering,’saidRoverandom.‘About that littleboy,’said theMan.‘I thoughtso.’Hethen

pulledatelescopeoutofhispocket.Itopenedouttoanenormouslength.‘Alittlelookwilldoyounoharm,Ithink,’hesaid.

Roverandomlookedthroughit—whenhehadmanagedatlasttoshutoneeyeandkeeptheotheropen.Hesawtheworldplainly.

Firsthesawthefarendofthemoon’spathfallingstraightontothesea; and he thought he saw, faint and rather thin, long lines ofsmallpeoplesailingswiftlydownit,buthecouldnotbequitesure.The moonlight quickly faded. Sunlight began to grow; andsuddenly there was the cove of the sandsorcerer (but no sign ofPsamathos—Psamathosdidnotallowhimselftobepeepedat);andafter a while the two little boys walked into the round picture,goinghandinhandalongtheshore.‘Lookingforshellsorforme?’wonderedthedog.

Very soon the picture shifted and he saw the little boys’father’swhitehouseonthecliff,withitsgardenrunningdowntothe sea; and at the gate he saw—anunpleasant surprise—the oldwizardsittingonastonesmokinghispipe,asifhehadnothingtodobutwatchthereforever,withhisoldgreenhatonthebackofhisheadandhiswaistcoatunbuttoned.

‘What’s old Arta-what-d’you-call-him doing at the gate?’Roverandomasked.‘Ishouldhavethoughthehadforgottenabout

melongago.Andaren’thisholidaysoveryet?’‘No,he’swaitingforyou,mydoglet.Hehasn’t forgotten. If

you turn up there just now, real or toy, he’ll put some newbewitchment onyoupretty quick. It isn’t that heminds somuchabout his trousers—they were soon mended—but he is veryannoyed with Samathos for interfering; and Samathos hasn’tfinishedmakinghisarrangementsyetfordealingwithhim.’

Just thenRoverandomsawArtaxerxes’ hat blownoff by thewind, and off the wizard ran after it; and plain to see, he had awonderful patch on his trousers, an orangecoloured patch withblackspots.

‘I shouldhave thought that awizard couldhavemanaged topatchhistrousersbetterthanthat!’saidRoverandom.

‘But he thinks he has managed it beautifully!’ said the oldman.‘Hebewitchedapieceoffsomebody’swindow-curtains;theygot fire insurance, and he got a splash of colour, and both aresatisfied.Still,youareright.Heisfailing,Idobelieve.Sadafter

allthesecenturiestoseeamangoingoffhismagic;butluckyforyou, perhaps.’ Then the Man-in-the-Moon closed the telescopewithasnap,andofftheywentagain.

‘Here are yourwings again,’ he saidwhen theyhad reachedthe tower. ‘Now fly off and amuse yourself! Don’t worry themoonbeams,don’tkillmywhiterabbits,andcomebackwhenyoufeelhungry!—orhaveanyothersortofpain.’

Roverandom at once flew off to find themoon-dog and tellhimabout theotherside;but theotherdogwasabit jealousofavisitor being allowed to see things which he could not, and hepretendednottobeinterested.

‘Soundsanastypartaltogether,’hegrowled.‘I’msureIdon’twanttoseeit.Isupposeyou’llbeboredwiththewhitesidenow,and only having me to go about with, instead of all your two-leggedfriends.It’sapitythePersianwizardissuchasticker,and

youcan’tgohome.’Roverandomwas rather hurt; and he told themoondog over

andoveragainthathewasjollygladtobebackatthetower,andwouldneverbeboredwiththewhiteside.Theysoonsettleddowntobegoodfriendsagain,anddid lotsand lotsof things together;andyetwhatthemoon-doghadsaidinbadtemperturnedouttobetrue.ItwasnotRoverandom’sfault,andhedidhisbestnottoshowit,butsomehownoneoftheadventuresorexplorationsseemedsoexciting to him as they had done before, and he was alwaysthinkingofthefunhehadinthegardenwithlittleboyTwo.

Theyvisitedthevalleyofthewhitemoon-gnomes(moonums,for short) that ride about on rabbits, and make pancakes out ofsnowflakes, and grow little golden appletrees no bigger thanbuttercups in their neat orchards. They put broken glass andtintacksoutsidethelairsofsomeofthelesserdragons(whiletheywere asleep), and lay awake till the middle of the night to hearthemroarwithrage—dragonsoftenhavetendertummies,asIhave

told you already, and they go out for a drink at twelvemidnightevery night of their lives, not to speak of between-whiles.Sometimesthedogsevendaredtogospider-baiting—bitingwebsandsettingfreethemoonbeams,andflyingoffjustintime,whilethe spiders threw lassoes at them from the hill-tops. But all thewhileRoverandomwaslookingoutforPostmanMewandNewsoftheWorld (mostlymurders and football-matches, as even a littledog knows; but there is sometimes something better in an oddcorner).

HemissedMew’snextvisit,ashewasawayonaramble,buttheoldmanwasstillreadingthelettersandnewswhenhegotback(andheseemed inamightygoodhumour too, sittingon the roofwithhisfeetdanglingovertheedge,puffingatanenormouswhiteclay-pipe,sendingoutcloudsofsmokelikearailway-engine,andsmilingrightroundhisroundoldface).

Roverandomfelthecouldbearitnolonger.‘I’vegotapaininmyinside,’hesaid.‘Iwanttogobacktothelittleboy,sothathis

dreamcancometrue.’Theoldmanputdownhisletter(itwasaboutArtaxerxes,and

veryamusing),andtookthepipeoutofhismouth.‘Mustyougo?Can’t you stay? This is so sudden! So pleased to havemet you!Youmustdropinagainoneday.Deelightedtoseeyouanytime!’hesaidallinabreath.

‘Very well!’ he went on more sensibly. ‘Artaxerxes isarrangedfor.’

‘How??’askedRoverandom,reallyexcitedagain.‘Hehasmarriedamermaidandgonetoliveatthebottomof

theDeepBlueSea.’‘I hope she will patch his trousers better!A green seaweed

patchwouldgowellwithhisgreenhat.’‘My dear dog! He was married in a complete new suit of

seaweed green with pink coral buttons and epaulettes of sea-anemones; and they burnt his old hat on the beach!Samathosarrangeditall.O!Samathosisverydeep,asdeepastheDeepBlue

Sea,andIexpecthemeanstosettlelotsofthingstohislikingthisway,lotsmorethanjustyou,mydog.

‘Iwonderhowitwill turnout!Artaxerxesisgettingintohistwentiethortwenty-firstchildhoodatthemoment,itseemstome;andhemakesalotoffussaboutverylittlethings.Mostobstinatehe is, tobesure.Heused tobeaprettygoodmagician,buthe isbecoming badtempered and a thorough nuisance.When he cameanddugupoldSamathoswithawoodenspadeinthemiddleoftheafternoon,andpulledhimoutofhisholebytheears,theSamathistthoughtthingshadgonetoofar,andIdon’twonder.“Suchalotofdisturbance, just at my best time for sleeping, and all about awretchedlittledog”:thatiswhathewritestome,andyouneedn’tblush.

‘SoheinvitedArtaxerxestoamermaid-party,whenboththeirtempers had cooled down a bit, and that is how it all happened.TheytookArtaxerxesoutforamoonlightswim,andhewillnevergoback toPersia,orevenPershore.He fell in lovewith the rich

mer-king’selderlybutlovelydaughter,andtheyweremarriedthenextnight.

‘It is probably just as well. There has not been a residentMagician in theOcean for some time. Proteus, Poseidon, Triton,Neptune, and all that lot, they’ve all turned into minnows ormussels long ago, and in any case they never knew or botheredmuchaboutthingsoutsidetheMediterranean—theyweretoofondof sardines. Old Niord retired a long while ago, too. He was ofcourseonlyabletogivehalfhisattentiontobusinessafterhissillymarriage with the giantess—you remember she fell in love withhimbecausehehadcleanfeet(soconvenientinthehome),andfelloutoflovewithhim,whenitwastoolate,becausetheywerewet.He’sonhislastlegsnow,Ihear;quitedoddery,poorolddear.Oil-fuelhasgivenhimadreadfulcough,andhehasretiredtothecoastofIcelandforalittlesunshine.

‘There was the OldMan of the Sea, of course. He was mycousin,andI’mnotproudofit.Hewasabitofaburden—wouldn’t

walk, and always wanted to be carried, as I dare say you haveheard.Thatwasthedeathofhim.Hesatonafloatingmine(ifyouknowwhatImean)ayearortwoago,rightononeofthebuttons!Notevenmymagiccoulddoanythingwiththatcase.ItwasworsethantheoneofHumptyDumpty.’

‘WhataboutBritannia?’askedRoverandom,whoafterallwasanEnglishdog;thoughreallyhewasabitboredwithallthis,andwanted to hear more about his ownwizard. ‘I thought Britanniaruledthewaves.’

‘Shenever reallygetsher feetwet.Shepreferspatting lionsonthebeach,andsittingonapennywithaneelforkinherhand—and in any case there is more tomanage in the sea than waves.NowtheyhavegotArtaxerxes,andIhopehewillbeofuse.He’llspendthefirstfewyearstryingtogrowplumsonpolyps,Iexpect,i fthey let him; and that’ll be easier than keeping themerfolk inorder.

‘Well,well,well!WherewasI?Ofcourse—youcangoback

now,ifyouwantto.Infact,nottobetoopolite,it’stimeyouwentback as soon as possible. Old Samathos is your first call—anddon’tfollowmybadexampleandforgetyourPswhenyoumeet!’

Mewturnedupagaintheverynextday,withanextrapost—an immense number of letters for the Man-in-the-Moon, andbundles of newspapers:The Illustrated Weekly Weed, OceanNotions,TheMer-mail,TheConch,andTheMorningSplash.Theyall had exactly the same (exclusive) pictures of Artaxerxes’wedding on the beach at full moon, with Mr PsamathosPsamathides, the wellknown financier (a mere title of respect),grinninginthebackground.Buttheywerenicerthanourpictures,for theywere at least coloured; and themermaid really did lookbeautiful(hertailwasinthefoam).

The time had come to say good-bye. TheMan-in-the-Moonbeamed on Roverandom; and the moon-dog tried to look

unconcerned.Roverandomhimselfhad ratheradrooping tail,butallhesaidwas:‘Good-bye,pup!Takecareofyourself,don’tworrythe moonbeams, don’t kill the white rabbits, and don’t eat toomuchsupper!’

‘Pup yourself!’ said the moon-Rover. ‘And stop eatingwizards’trousers!’Thatwasall;andyet,Ibelieve,hewasalwaysworrying the oldMan-in-the-Moon to send him on a holiday tovisitRoverandom,andthathehasbeenallowedtogoseveraltimessincethen.

After that Roverandom went back with Mew, and the Manwentback intohis cellars, and themoon-dog sat on the roof andwatchedthemoutofsight.

4

Therewasa coldwindblowingoff theNorthStarwhen theygotnear the world’s edge, and the chilly spray of the waterfallssplashedoverthem.Ithadbeenstiffergoingonthewayback,foroldPsamathos’magicwasnotinsuchahurryjust then;andtheyweregladtorestontheIsleofDogs.ButasRoverandomwasstillhisenchantedsize,hedidnotenjoyhimselfmuchthere.Theotherdogsweretoolargeandnoisy,andtooscornful;andthebonesofthebone-treesweretoolargeandbony.

Itwasdawnof thedayafter thedayafter tomorrowwhenatlasttheysightedtheblackcliffsofMew’shome;andthesunwaswarmontheirbacks,andthetipsofthesand-hillockswerealreadypaleanddry,bythetimetheyalightedinthecoveofPsamathos.

Mew gave a little cry, and tappedwith his beak on a bit of

wood lying on the ground. The bit of wood immediately grewstraight up into the air, and turned into Psamathos’ left ear, andwasjoinedbyanotherear,andquicklyfollowedbytherestofthesorcerer’suglyheadandneck.

‘What do you two want at this time of day?’ growledPsamathos.‘It’smyfavouritetimeforsleep.’

‘We’reback!’saidtheseagull.‘Andyou’veallowedyourselftobecarriedbackonhisback,I

see,’Psamathossaid,turningtothelittledog.‘Afterdragon-huntingIshouldhavethoughtyouwouldhave

foundalittleflightbackhomequiteeasy.’‘Butplease, sir,’ saidRoverandom, ‘I leftmywingsbehind;

theydidn’treallybelongtome.AndIshouldrather like tobeanordinarydogagain.’

‘O! all right. Still I hope you have enjoyed yourself as“Roverandom”. You ought to have done. Now you can be justRover again, if you reallywant to be; and you can go home and

playwithyouryellowball, and sleeponarmchairswhenyougetthe chance, and sit on laps, and be a respectable little yap-dogagain.’

‘Whataboutthelittleboy?’saidRover.‘Butyouranawayfromhim,silly,allthewaytothemoon,I

thought!’saidPsamathos,pretendingtobeannoyedandsurprised,butgivingamerrytwinkleoutofoneknowingeye.‘HomeIsaid,andhomeImeant.Don’tsplutterandargue!’

PoorRoverwassplutteringbecausehewastryingtogetinaverypolite‘MrP-samathos’.Eventuallyhedid.

‘P-P-Please, Mr P-P-P-samathos,’ he said, most touchingly.‘P-Pleasep-pardonme,butIhavemethimagain;andIshouldn’trunawaynow;andreallyIbelongtohim,don’tI?SoIoughttogobacktohim.’

‘Stuffandnonsense!Ofcourseyoudon’tandoughtn’t!Youbelongtotheoldladythatboughtyoufirst,andbackyou’llhavetogotoher.Youcan’tbuystolengoods,orbewitchedoneseither,as

youwouldknow, ifyouknewtheLaw,yousilly littledog.LittleboyTwo’smotherwastedsixpenceonyou,andthat’sanendofit.And what’s in dream-meetings anyway?’ wound up Psamathoswithahugewink.

‘IthoughtsomeoftheMan-in-the-Moon’sdreamscametrue,’saidlittleRoversadly.

‘O! did you! Well that’s the Man-in-the-Moon’s affair. Mybusiness is tochangeyoubackatonce intoyourpropersize,andsendyoubackwhereyoubelong.Artaxerxeshasdepartedtootherspheresofusefulness, soweneedn’t bother abouthimanymore.Comehere!’

He took hold of Rover, and hewaved his fat hand over thelittledog’shead,andheypresto—therewasnochangeatall!Hediditalloveragain,andstilltherewasnochange.

ThenPsamathosgot rightupoutof thesand,andRoversawfor the first time that he had legs like a rabbit. He stamped andramped, and kicked sand into the air, and trampled on the

seashells, and snorted like an angry pugdog; and still nothinghappenedatall!

‘Donebyaseaweedwizard,blisterandwarthim!’heswore.‘DonebyaPersianplum-picker,potandjamhim!’ heshouted,andkeptonshoutingtillhewastired.Thenhesatdown.

‘Well, well!’ he said at last when hewas cooler. ‘Live andlearn! ButArtaxerxes ismost peculiar.Who could have guessedthat he would remember you amidst all the excitement of hiswedding, and go and waste his strongest incantation on a dogbeforegoingonhishoneymoon—asifhisfirstspellwasn’tmorethananysillylittlepuppyisworth?Ifitisn’tenoughtosplitone’sskin.

‘Well! I don’t need to think out what is to be done, at anyrate,’Psamathoscontinued.‘Thereisonlyonepossiblething.Youhavegottogoandfindhimandbeghispardon.Butmyword!I’llrememberthisagainsthim,tilltheseaistwiceassaltandhalfaswet.Justyoutwogoforawalk,andbebackinhalfanhourwhen

mytemper’sbetter!’MewandRoverwent along the shore andup the cliff,Mew

flying slowly and Rover trotting along very sad. They stoppedoutside the littleboys’ father’shouse;andRoverevenwent inatthegate, and sat in a flower-bedunder theboys’window. Itwasstillveryearly,buthebarkedandbarkedhopefully.Thelittleboyswere either still fast asleep or away, for nobody came to thewindow. Or so Rover thought. He had forgotten that things aredifferentontheworldfromtheback-gardenofthemoon,andthatArtaxerxes’bewitchmentwasstillonhissize,and thesizeofhisbark.

After a little while Mew took him mournfully back to thecove. There an altogether new surprise was waiting forhim.Psamathos was talking to a whale!A very large whale, Uin theoldest of the Right Whales. He looked like a mountain to littleRover, lyingwith his great head in a deep pool near thewater’sedge.

‘SorryIcouldn’tgetanythingsmalleratamoment’snotice,’saidPsamathos.‘Butheisverycomfortable!’‘Walkin!’saidthewhale.

‘Good-bye!Walkin!’saidtheseagull.‘Walkin!’saidPsamathos;‘andbequickaboutit!Anddon’t

biteorscratchaboutinside;youmightgiveUinacough,andthatyouwouldfinduncomfy.’

Thiswasalmostasbadasbeingaskedtojumpintotheholeinthe Man-in-the-Moon’s cellar, and Rover backed away, so thatMewandPsamathoshad topushhim in.Pushhim theydid, too,withoutacoax;andthewhale’sjawsshuttowithasnap.

Insideitwasverydarkindeed,andfishy.ThereRoversatandtrembled;andashesat(notdaringeventoscratchhisownears)heheard, or thought he heard, the swish and beating of thewhale’stailinthewaters;andhefelt,orthoughthefelt,thewhaleplungedeeperanddownertowardsthebottomoftheDeepBlueSea.

Butwhenthewhalestoppedandopenedhismouthwideagain

(delightedtodoso:whalesprefergoingabout trawlingwiththeirjawswideopenandagoodtideoffoodcomingin,butUinwasaconsiderateanimal)andRoverpeepedout,itwasdeep,altogetherimmeasurablydeep,butnotatallblue.Therewasonlyapalegreenlight;andRoverwalkedouttofindhimselfonawhitepathofsandwindingthroughadimandfantasticforest.

‘Straightalong!Youhaven’tfartogo,’saidUin.Roverwentstraightalong,asstraightasthepathwouldallow,

and soon before him he saw the gate of a great palace, made itseemedofpinkandwhitestonethatshonewithapalelightcomingthroughit;andthroughthemanywindowslightsofgreenandblueshoneclear.Allroundthewallshugesea-treesgrew,tallerthanthedomes of the palace that swelled up vast, gleaming in the darkwater. The great indiarubber trunks of the trees bent and swayedlike grasses, and the shadow of their endless branches wasthronged with goldfish, and silverfish, and redfish, and bluefish,andphosphorescentfishlikebirds.Butthefishesdidnotsing.The

mermaidssanginsidethepalace.Howtheysang!Andallthesea-fairies sang inchorus, and themusic floatedoutof thewindows,hundreds ofmer-folk playing on horns and pipes and conches ofshell.

Sea-goblinswere grinning at him out of the darkness underthetrees,andRoverhurriedalongasfastashecould—hefoundhisstepsslowand ladendeepdownunder thewater.Andwhydidn’thedrown?Idon’tknow,butIsupposePsamathosPsamathideshadgivensomethoughttoit(heknowsmuchmoreabouttheseathanmostpeoplewouldthink,eventhoughheneversetstoeinit,ifhecanhelpit),whileRoverandMewhadgoneforawalk,andhehadsatandsimmereddownandthoughtofanewplan.

AnywayRoverdidnotdrown;buthewasalreadywishinghewassomewhereelse,eveninthewhale’swetinside,beforehegotto thedoor:suchqueershapesandfacespeeredathimoutof thepurplebushesandthespongeythicketsbesidethepaththathefeltveryunsafeindeed.Atlasthegottotheenormousdoor—agolden

archwayfringedwithcoral,andadoorofmother-of-pearlstuddedwith sharks’ teeth. The knocker was a huge ring encrusted withwhite barnacles, and all the barnacles’ little red streamers werehangingout;butofcourseRovercouldnot reach it,norcouldhehavemoveditanyway.Sohebarked,and tohissurprisehisbarkcamequite loud.Themusic inside stopped at the third bark, andthedooropened.

Whodoyou thinkopened it?Artaxerxeshimself, dressed inwhatlookedlikeplum-colouredvelvet,andgreensilktrousers;andhestillhadalargepipeinhismouth,onlyitwasblowingbeautifulrainbow-colouredbubblesinsteadoftobacco-smoke;buthehadnohat.

‘Hullo!’he said. ‘Soyou’ve turnedup! I thoughtyouwouldgettiredofoldP-samathos’(howhesnortedoverthatexaggeratedP) ‘before long. He can’t do quite every-thing.Well, what haveyoucomedownhere for?Weare justhavingaparty, andyou’reinterruptingthemusic.’

‘Please, Mr Arterxaxes, I mean Ertaxarxes,’ began Rover,ratherflusteredandtryingtobeverypolite.

‘Onevermindaboutgetting it right! Idon’tmind!’said thewizard rather crossly. ‘Get on to the explanation, and make itshort;I’venotimeforlongrigmaroles.’Hehadbecomeratherfullofhisown importance (with strangers), sincehismarriage to therich mer-king’s daughter, and his appointment to the post ofPacificandAtlanticMagician(thePAMtheycalledhimforshort,whenhewasnotpresent). ‘Ifyouwant to seemeaboutanythingpressing,youhadbettercomeinandwaitinthehall;Imightfindamomentafterthedance.’

HeclosedthedoorbehindRoverandwentoff.Thelittledogfound himself in a huge dark space under a dimly-lighted dome.There were pointed archways curtained with seaweed all round,andmostofthemweredark;butoneofthemwasfulloflight,andmusiccameloudlythroughit,musicthatseemedtogoonandonforever,neverrepeatingandneverstoppingforarest.

Rover soongot very tired ofwaiting, so hewalked along tothe shining doorway and peeped through the curtains. He waslooking into a vast ballroomwith seven domes and ten thousandcoral pillars, lit with purest magic and filled with warm andsparkling water. There all the golden-haired mermaids and thedarkhairedsirensweredancing interwovendancesas theysang—not dancing on their tails, but wonderful swim-dancing, up anddown,aswellastoandfro,intheclearwater.

Nobody noticed the little dog’s nose peeping through theseaweedatthedoor,soaftergazingforawhilehecreptinside.Thefloorwasmade of silver sand and pink butterfly shells, all openand flapping in the gently swirlingwater, and he had picked hiswaycarefullyamongthemforsomeway,keepingclosetothewall,beforeavoicesaidsuddenlyabovehim:

‘Whatasweetlittledog!He’saland-dog,notasea-dog,I’msure.Howcouldhehavegothere—suchatinymite!’

Rover looked up and saw a beautiful mer-lady with a large

blackcombinhergoldenhair,sittingonaledgenotfarabovehim;her regrettable tailwasdanglingdown,andshewasmendingoneof Artaxerxes’ green socks. She was, of course, the new MrsArtaxerxes (usually known as Princess Pam; she was ratherpopular, which was more than you could say for her husband).Artaxerxeswas at themoment sittingbesideher, andwhetherhehadthetimeornotforlongrigmaroles,hewaslisteningtooneofhiswife’s.Or had been, beforeRover turned up.MrsArtaxerxesputanendtoherrigmarole,andtohersockmending,assoonasshecaughtsightofhim,andfloatingdownpickedhimupandcarriedhimbacktohercouch.Thiswasreallyawindow-seatonthefirstfloor (an indoorswindow)—therearenostairs insea-houses,andno umbrellas, and for the same reason; and there is not muchdifferencebetweendoorsandwindows,either.

Themer-ladysoonsettledherbeautiful(andrathercapacious)selfcomfortablyonhercouchagain,andputRoveronherlap;andimmediately there was an awful growl from under the window-

seat.‘Liedown,Rover!Liedown,gooddog!’saidMrsArtaxerxes.

She was not talking to our Rover, though; she was talking to awhite mer-dog who came out now, inspite of what she said,growlingandgrumblingandbeatingthewaterwithhislittleweb-feet,andlashingitwithhislargeflattail,andblowingbubblesoutofhissharpnose.

‘Whatahorrible little thing!’ thenewdogsaid.‘Lookathismiserabletail!Lookathisfeet!Lookathissillycoat!’

‘Lookatyourself,’ saidRover from themer-lady’s lap, ‘andyouwon’twant to do it again!Who called youRover?—a crossbetweenaduckandatadpolepretendingtobeadog!’Fromwhichyou can see that they took rather a fancy to one another at firstsight.

Indeed,theysoonmadegreatfriends—notquitesuchfriends,perhaps,asRoverandthemoon-dog,ifonlybecauseRover’sstayundertheseawasshorter,andthedeepsarenotsuchajollyplace

as the moon for little dogs, being full of dark and awful placeswhere light has never been and never will be, because they willneverbeuncoveredtilllighthasallgoneout.Horriblethingslivethere, too old for imagining, too strong for spells, too vast formeasurement.Artaxerxeshadalready found thatout.ThepostofPAMisnotthemostcomfortablejobintheworld.

‘Nowswimawayandamuseyourselves!’saidhiswife,whenthedog-argumenthaddieddownandthetwoanimalsweremerelysniffingatoneanother.‘Don’tworrythefire-fish,don’tchewthesea-anemones, don’t get caught in the clams; and come back tosupper!’

‘Please,Ican’tswim,’saidRover.‘Dearme!Whatanuisance!’shesaid.‘NowPam!’—shewas

the only one so far that called him this to his face—‘here issomethingyoucanreallydo,atlast!’

‘Certainly,mydear!’said thewizard,veryanxious toobligeher,andpleasedtobeabletoshowthathereallyhadsomemagic,

andwasnotanentirelyuselessofficial(limpetstheycalltheminsea-language).Hetookalittlewandoutofhiswaistcoat-pocket—it was really his fountain-pen, but it was no longer any use forwriting:mer-folkuseaqueerstickyinkthatisabsolutelynouseinfountain-pens—andhewaveditoverRover.

Artaxerxeswas,inspiteofwhatsomepeoplehavesaid,averygoodmagician in his own way (or Rover would never have hadthese adventures)—rather aminor art, but still needing a deal ofpractice.AnywayaftertheveryfirstwaveRover’stailbegantogetfishyandhisfeettogetwebby,andhiscoattogetmoreandmorelikeamackintosh.Whenthechangewasover,hesoongotusedtoit; and he found swimming a good deal easier to pick up thanflying, very nearly as pleasant, and not so tiring—unless youwantedtogodown.

Thefirst thinghedid,aftera trialswimroundtheballroom,

wastobiteattheotherdog’stail.Infun,ofcourse;butfunornot,there was nearly a fight on the spot, for the mer-dog was a bittouchy-tempered.Roveronlysavedhimselfbymakingoffasfastas possible; nimble and quick he had to be, too.Myword! therewasachase, inandoutofwindows,andalongdarkpassages,androundpillars,andoutandupandroundthedomes; tillat last themerdoghimselfwas exhausted, andhisbad temper too, and theysatdowntogetheronthetopofthehighestcupolanexttotheflag-pole. The mer-king’s banner, a seaweed streamer of scarlet andgreen,spangledwithpearls,wasfloatingfromit.

‘What’s your name?’ said the mer-dog after a breathlesspause. ‘Rover?’hesaid. ‘That’smyname,soyoucan’thave it. Ihaditfirst!’

‘Howdoyouknow?’‘Ofcourse Iknow! I can seeyouareonlyapuppy, andyou

havenotbeendownherehardlyfiveminutes.Iwasenchantedagesand ages ago, hundreds of years. I expect I’m the first of all thedogRovers.

‘My first master was a Rover, a real one, a sea-rover whosailedhisship in thenorthernwaters; itwasa longshipwithredsails,anditwascarvedlikeadragonattheprow,andhecalleditthe Red Worm and loved it. I loved him, though I was only apuppy,andhedidnotnoticememuch;forIwasn’tbigenoughtogo hunting, and he didn’t take dogs to sail with him. One day Iwent sailing without being asked. He was saying farewell to hiswife; thewindwasblowing, and themenwere thrusting theRedWormoutovertherollersintothesea.Thefoamwaswhiteaboutthe dragon’s neck; and I suddenly felt that I should not see himagain after that day, if I didn’t go too. I sneaked on boardsomehow,andhidbehindawaterbarrel;andwewerefaratseaandthelandmarkslowinthewaterbeforetheyfoundme.

‘That’swhentheycalledmeRover,whentheydraggedmeout

bymytail.“Here’safinesea-rover!”saidone.“Andastrangefateis on him, that turns never home,” said anotherwith queer eyes.AndindeedIneverdidgobackhome;andIhavenevergrownanybigger,thoughIhavegrownmucholder—andwiser,ofcourse.

‘There was a sea-fight on that voyage, and I ran up on thefore-deckwhilethearrowsfellandswordclasheduponshield.ButthemenoftheBlackSwanboardedus,anddrovemymaster’smenall over the side. He was the last to go. He stood beside thedragon’shead,andthenhedivedintotheseainallhismail;andIdivedafterhim.

‘HewenttothebottomquickerthanIdid,andthemermaidscaughthim;but I told them tocarryhimswift to land, formanywould weep, if he did not come home. They smiled at me, andliftedhimup,andborehimaway;andnowsomesaytheycarriedhim to the shore, and some shake their heads at me.You can’tdependonmermaids,exceptforkeepingtheirownsecrets;they’rebetterthanoystersatthat.

‘I often think they really buried him in the white sand. FarawayfromherethereliesstillapartoftheRedWormthatthemenoftheBlackSwansank;oritwastherewhenlastIpassed.Aforestofweedwasgrowingrounditandoverit,allexceptthedragon’shead;somehownotevenbarnaclesweregrowingonthat,andunderittherewasamoundofwhitesand.

‘Ileftthosepartslongago.Iturnedslowlyintoaseadog—theolder sea-women used to do a good deal of witchcraft in thosedays,andoneofthemwaskindtome.Itwasshethatgavemeasapresenttothemer-king,thereigningone’sgrandfather,andIhavebeen in and about the palace ever since. That’s all about me. Ithappenedhundredsofyearsago,andIhaveseenagooddealofthehighseasandthelowseassincethen,butIhaveneverbeenbackhome.Nowtellmeaboutyou!Isupposeyoudon’tcomefromtheNorthSea by any chance, do you?—weused to call it England’sSeainthosedays—orknowanyoftheoldplacesinandabouttheOrkneys?’

OurRover had to confess that he had never heard before ofanythingbutjust‘thesea’,andnotmuchofthat.‘ButIhavebeentothemoon,’hesaid,andhetoldhisnewfriendasmuchaboutitashecouldmakehimunderstand.

Themer-dogenjoyedRover’staleimmensely,andbelievedatleasthalfof it. ‘A jollygoodyarn,’he said, ‘and thebest Ihaveheard for a long time. I have seen the moon. I go on topoccasionally,youknow,butIneverimagineditwaslikethat.Butmyword!thatsky-puphasgotacheek.ThreeRovers!Two’sbadenough,butthree’simpossible!AndIdon’tbelieveforamomenthe is older than I am; if he is a hundredyet, I shouldbemightysurprised.’

He was probably quite right too. The moon-dog, as younoticed,exaggeratedalot.‘Andanyway,’wentonthemerdog,‘heonlygavehimselfthename.Minewasgivenme.’

‘Andsowasmine,’saidourlittledog.‘Andfornoreasonatall,andbeforeyouhadbeguntoearnit

any way. I like the Man-in-the-Moon’s idea. I shall call youRoverandom,too;andifIwereyouIshouldsticktoit—youneverdo seem to know where you are going next! Let’s go down tosupper!’

Itwasafishysupper,butRoverandomsoongotusedtothat;itseemed to suit his webby feet. After supper he suddenlyrememberedwhyhehadcomeallthewaytothebottomofthesea;and off he went to look forArtaxerxes. He found him blowingbubbles, and turning them into realballs toplease the littlemer-children.

‘Please,MrArtaxerxes,couldyoubebotheredtoturnme—’beganRoverandom.

‘O! go away!’ said the wizard. ‘Can’t you see I can’t bebothered?Notnow,I’mbusy.’ThisiswhatArtaxerxessaidalltoooften to people he did not think were important. He knew wellenoughwhatRoverwanted;buthewasnotinahurryhimself.

SoRoverandomswamoffandwent tobed,or rather roosted

inabunchofseaweedgrowingonahighrockinthegarden.Therewastheoldwhalerestingjustunderneath;andifanyonetellsyouthatwhalesdon’tgodown to thebottomorstop theredozing forhours,youneednotletthatbotheryou.OldUinwasineverywayexceptional.

‘Well?’hesaid.‘Howhaveyougoton?Iseeyouarestilltoy-size.What’sthematterwithArtaxerxes?Can’thedoanything,orwon’the?’

‘I think he can,’ saidRoverandom. ‘Look atmynew shape!ButifeverItrytogetontothematterofsize,hekeepsonsayinghowbusyheis,andhehasn’ttimeforlongexplanations.’

‘Umph!’saidthewhale,andknockedatreesidewayswithhistail—the swish of it nearly washed Roverandom off his rock. ‘Idon’t think that PAM will be a success in these parts; but Ishouldn’t worry. You’ll be all right sooner or later. In themeanwhile there are lots of new things to see tomorrow. Go tosleep!Good-bye!’Andheswamoffintothedark.Thereportthat

he took back to the covemade oldPsamathos very angry all thesame.

Thelightsofthepalacewereall turnedoff.Nomoonorstarcamedownthroughthatdeepdarkwater.Thegreengotgloomierandgloomier,untilitwasallblack,andtherewasnotaglimmer,exceptwhenbigluminousfishwentbyslowlythroughtheweeds.YetRoverandomsleptsoundly thatnight,and thenextnight,andseveralnightsafter.Andthenextday,andthedayafter,helookedforthewizardandcouldn’tfindhimanywhere.

Onemorningwhenhewas beginning already to feel quite asea-dog and towonder if hehad come to stay there for ever, themer-dogsaid tohim: ‘Bother thatwizard!Orrather,don’tbotherhim!Givehimamisstoday.Let’sgooffforareallylongswim!’

Off they went, and the long swim turned into an excursionlastingfordays.Theycoveredaterrificdistanceinthetime;they

wereenchantedcreatures,youmustremember,andtherewerefewordinary things in the seas that could keep up with them.Whentheygottiredofthecliffsandmountainsatthebottom,andoftheracingrunsinthemiddleheights,theyroseupandupandup,rightthroughthewaterforamileandabit;andwhentheygottothetop,nolandwastobeseen.

Theseaallroundthemwassmoothandcalmandgrey.Thenitsuddenlyruffledandwentdarkinpatchesunderalittlecoldwind,thewindatdawn.Swiftlythesunlookedupwithashoutovertherimofthesea,redasifhehadbeendrinkinghotwine;andswiftlyheleapedintotheairandwentoffforhisdailyjourney,turningalltheedgesofthewavesgoldenandtheshadowsbetweenthemdarkgreen.Ashipwassailingonthemarginoftheseaandthesky,anditsailedrightintothesun,sothatitsmastswereblackagainstthefire.

‘Where’sthatgoingto?’askedRoverandom.‘O!JapanorHonoluluorManilaorEasterIslandorThursday

orVladivostok,or somewhereorother, I suppose,’ said themer-dog,whosegeographywasabitvague,inspiteofhishundredsofyears of boasted prowlings. ‘This is the Pacific, I believe; but Idon’tknowwhichpart—awarmpart,bythefeelofit.It’s ratheralargepieceofwater.Let’sgoandlookforsomethingtoeat!’

When they got back, some days later, Roverandom at oncewenttolookforthewizardagain;hefelthehadgivenhimagoodlongrest.

‘Please, Mr Artaxerxes, could you bother—‘ he began asusual.

‘No!Icouldnot!’saidArtaxerxes,evenmoredefinitelythanusual.This timehe reallywasbusy, though.TheComplaintshadcomeinbypost.Ofcourse,asyoucanimagine,allkindsofthingsgowronginthesea,thatnoteventhebestPAMintheoceancouldprevent, and some of which he is not even supposed to haveanythingtodowith.Wreckscomedownplumpnowandagainontheroofofsomebody’ssea-house;explosionsoccurinthesea-bed

(Oyes!theyhavevolcanoesandallthatkindofnuisancequiteasbadlyaswehave)andblowupsomebody’sprizeflockofgoldfish,orprizebedofanemones,oroneandonlypearl-oyster,orfamousrockandcoralgarden;orsavagefishhaveafight in thehighwayandknockmer-childrenover;orabsent-mindedsharksswiminatthe dining-roomwindow and spoil the dinner; or the deep, dark,unmentionable monsters of the black abysses do horrible andwickedthings.

Themer-folkhavealwaysputupwithallthis,butnotwithoutcomplaining.Theylikedcomplaining.Theyusedofcoursetowriteletters toTheWeeklyWeed ,TheMermail, andOceanNotions;buttheyhadaPAMnow,and theywrote tohimaswell,andblamedhimforeverything,eveniftheygottheirtailsnippedbytheirownpetlobsters.Theysaidhismagicwasinadequate(asitsometimeswas) and thathis salaryought tobe reduced (whichwas truebutrude);and thathewas toobigforhisboots (whichwasalsonearthemark: theyshouldhavesaidslippers,hewastoolazytowear

bootsoften);andtheysaidlotsbesidestoworryArtaxerxeseverymorning, and especially on Mondays. It was always worst (byseveralhundredenvelopes)onMondays;and thiswasaMonday,soArtaxerxesthrewalumpofrockatRoverandom,andheslippedofflikeashrimpfromanet.

Hewasjollygladwhenhegotoutintothegardentofindthathe was still unchanged in shape; and I dare say if he had notremovedhimselfquickthewizardwouldhavechangedhimintoasea-slug,orsenthimtotheBackofBeyond(whereverthatis),oreven to Pot (which is at the bottom of the deepest sea). Hewasveryannoyed,andhewentandgrumbledtothesea-Rover.

‘You’dbettergivehimaresttillMondayisover,atanyrate,’advised themer-dog; ‘and I shouldmissoutMondaysaltogether,infuture,ifIwereyou.Comeandhaveanotherswim!’

After thatRoverandomgave thewizardsucha longrest thattheyalmostforgotaboutoneanother—notquite:dogsdon’tforgetlumps of rock very quickly. But to all appearances Roverandom

hadsettleddowntobecomeapermanentpetofthepalace.Hewasalways off somewherewith the mer-dog, and often the mer-childrencamealongaswell.Theywerenotas jollyas real, two-legged children in Roverandom’s opinion (but then of courseRoverandomdidnotreallybelongtothesea,andwasnotaperfectjudge), but they kept him happy; and theymight have kept himthereforeverandhavemadehimforgetlittleboyTwointheend,ifithadnotbeenforthingsthathappenedlater.Youcanmakeupyour mind whether Psamathos had anything to do with theseevents,whenwecometothem.

There were plenty of these children to choose from, at anyrate.Theoldmer-kinghadhundredsofdaughtersandthousandsofgrandchildren,andallinthesamepalace;andtheywereallfondofthe two Rovers, and so was Mrs Artaxerxes. It was a pity thatRoverandomneverthoughtoftellingherhisstory;sheknewhowto manage the PAM in any mood. But in that case, of course,Roverandomwouldhavegonebacksoonerandmissedmanyofthe

sights. ItwaswithMrsArtaxerxes, and someof themerchildrenthathevisitedtheGreatWhiteCaves,whereallthejewelsthatarelostinthesea,andmanythathavealwaysbeeninthesea,andofcoursepearlsuponpearls,arehoardedandhidden.

Theywenttoo,anothertime,tovisitthesmallerseafairiesintheir little glass houses at the bottom of the sea. The sea-fairiesseldomswim,butwandersingingoverthebedoftheseainsmoothplaces,ordriveinshellcarriagesharnessedtothetiniestfishes;orelsetheyrideastridelittlegreencrabswithbridlesoffinethreads(whichofcoursedon’tprevent thecrabsfromgoingsideways,astheyalwayswill);andtheyhavetroubleswiththesea-goblinsthatare larger, and ugly and rowdy, and do nothing except fight andhunt fish and gallop about on sea-horses. Those goblins can liveoutofthewaterforalongwhile,andplayinthesurfatthewater’sedgeinastorm.Socansomeofthesea-fairies,buttheypreferthecalm warm nights of summer evenings on lonely shores (andnaturallyareveryseldomseeninconsequence).

AnotherdayoldUinturnedupagainandgavethetwodogsarideforachange; itwas likeridingonamovingmountain.Theywereawayfordaysanddays;andtheyonlyturnedbackfromtheeasternedgeoftheworldjustintime.Therethewhalerosetothetop and blewout a fountain ofwater so high that a lot of itwasthrownrightofftheworldandovertheedge.

Anothertimehetookthemtotheotherside(orasnearashedared),and thatwasa still longerandmoreexciting journey, themostmarvellousofallRoverandom’stravels,asherealisedlater,whenhewasgrowntobeanolderandawiserdog.Itwouldtakethe whole of another story, at least, to tell you of all theiradventures in Uncharted Waters and of their glimpses of landsunknowntogeography,before theypassed theShadowySeasandreachedthegreatBayofFairyland(aswecallit)beyondtheMagicIsles;andsawfaroffinthelastWesttheMountainsofElvenhomeand the light of Faery upon the waves.Roverandom thought hecaughtaglimpseofthecityoftheElvesonthegreenhillbeneath

theMountains, aglint ofwhite far away;butUindived again sosuddenlythathecouldnotbesure.Ifhewasright,heisoneofthevery few creatures, on two legs or four,who canwalk about ourownlandsandsaytheyhaveglimpsedthatotherland,howeverfaraway.

‘I should catch it, if thiswas found out!’ saidUin. ‘No onefromtheOuterLandsissupposedevertocomehere;andfeweverdonow.Mum’stheword!’

What did I say about dogs? They don’t forget illtemperedlumpsofrock.Wellthen,inspiteofallthesevariedsight-seeingsand these astonishing journeys, Roverandom kept it in hisunderneath mind all the time.And it came back into his uppermind,assoonaseverhegotbackhome.

Hisveryfirstthoughtwas:‘Where’sthatoldwizard?What’stheuseofbeingpolitetohim!I’llspoilhistrousersagain,ifIget

halfachance.’Hewas in that frame ofmindwhen, after trying in vain to

have a word alone withArtaxerxes, he saw the magician go by,down one of the royal roads leading from the palace.Hewas ofcoursetooproudathisagetogrowatailorfinsorlearntoswimproperly.Theonlythinghedidlikeafishwastodrink(eveninthesea,sohemusthavebeenthirsty);hespentalotoftimethatmighthave been employed on official business conjuring up ciderintolarge barrels in his private apartments. When he wanted to getabout quickly, he drove. When Roverandom saw him, he wasdriving in his express—agigantic shell shaped like a cockle anddrawn by seven sharks. People got out of theway quick, for thesharkscouldbite.

‘Let’s follow!’ saidRoverandom to themer-dog;and followthey did; and the two bad dogs dropped pieces of rock into thecarriage whenever it passed under cliffs. They could nip alongamazinglyfast,asItoldyou;andtheywhizzedahead,hidinweed-

bushesandpushedanythingloosetheycouldfindovertheedge.Itannoyed thewizard intensely, but they took care that he did notspotthem.

Artaxerxeswasinaverybadtemperbeforehestarted,andhewas in a rage before he had gone far, a rage not unmixed withanxiety. For hewas going to investigate the damage done by anunusualwhirlpoolthathadsuddenlyappeared—andinapartoftheseathathedidnotlikeatall;hethought(andhewasquiteright)that there were nasty things in that direction that were best leftalone. I dare say you can guesswhatwas thematter;Artaxerxesdid.TheancientSea-serpentwaswaking,orhalfthinkingaboutit.

He had been in a sound sleep for years, but now he wasturning.Whenhewasuncoiledhewouldcertainlyhavereachedahundred miles (some people say he would reach from Edge toEdge,butthatisanexaggeration);andwhenheiscurledupthereisonlyonecaveother thanPot(whereheused to live,andmanypeoplewishhimback there),onlyonecave inall theoceans that

willholdhim,and that isveryunfortunatelynotahundredmilesfromthemer-king’spalace.

Whenheundidacurlortwoinhissleep,thewaterheavedandshook and bent people’s houses and spoilt their repose formilesandmilesaround.ButitwasverystupidtosendthePAMtolookinto it; for of course the Sea-serpent is much too enormous andstrong and old and idiotic for any one to control (primordial,prehistoric, autothalassic, fabulous, mythical, and silly are otheradjectives applied to him); andArtaxerxes knew it all only toowell.

Not even theMan-in-the-Moonworking hard for fifty yearscouldhaveconcoctedaspelllargeenoughorlongenoughorstrongenough to bind him. Only once had the Man-in-the-Moon tried(whenspeciallyrequested),andatleastonecontinentfellintotheseaasaresult.

PooroldArtaxerxesdrovestraightuptothemouthoftheSea-serpent’scave.Buthehadnosoonergotoutofhiscarriagethanhe

saw the tip of theSea-serpent’s tail sticking out of the entrance;larger itwas than a rowof giganticwater-barrels, and green andslimy.Thatwas quite enough for him.Hewanted to go home atoncebeforetheWormturnedagain—asallwormswillatoddandunexpectedmoments.

It was little Roverandom that upset everything! He did notknowanythingabouttheSea-serpentoritstremendousness;allhethought about was baiting the illtempered wizard. So when achance came—Artaxerxeswas standing staring stupid-like at thevisibleendoftheserpent,andhissteedsweretakingnoparticularnoticeofanything—hecreptupandbitoneofthesharks’tails,forfun.Forfun!Whatfun!Thesharkjumpedstraightforward,andthecarriagejumpedforwardtoo;andArtaxerxes,whohadjustturnedround toget into it, fell onhisback.Then the sharkbit theonlything itcouldreachat themoment,whichwas theshark infront;and that shark bit the next one; and so on, until the last of theseven,seeingnothingelsetobite—blessme!theidiot,ifhedidnot

goandbitetheSea-serpent’stail!The Sea-serpent gave a new and very unexpected turn!And

thenextthingthedogsknewwasbeingwhirledallovertheplaceinwater gonemad, bumping into giddy fishes and spinning sea-trees,scaredoutoftheirlivesinacloudofuprootedweeds,sand,shells,slugs,periwinkles,andoddments.Andthingsgotworseandworse, and the serpent kept on turning. And there was oldArtaxerxes,clingingontothereinsofthesharks,beingwhirledallovertheplacetoo,andsayingthemostdreadfulthingstothem.Tothe sharks, I mean. Luckily for this story, he never knew whatRoverandomhaddone.

Idon’tknowhowthedogsgothome.Itwasalong,longtimebeforetheydid,atanyrate.Firstofalltheywerewashedupontheshore in one of the terrible tides caused by the Sea-serpent’sstirrings;andthentheywerecaughtbyfishermenontheothersideoftheseaandjollynearlysenttoanAquarium(adisgustingfate);and thenhavingescapedthatby theskinof their feet theyhad to

get all the way back themselves as best they could throughperpetualsubterraneancommotion.

And when at last they got home there was a terriblecommotion there too.All the mer-folk were crowded round thepalace,allshoutingatonce:

‘BringoutthePAM!’(Yes!theycalledhimthatpublicly,andnothing longer or more dignified.) ‘Bring out the PAM! BRINGOUTTHEPAM!’

AndthePAMwashidinginthecellars.MrsArtaxerxesfoundhim there at last, andmade him come out; and all themer-folkshouted,whenhelookedoutofanattic-window:

‘Stop this nonsense! STOP THIS NONSENSE! STOP THISNONSENSE!’

And they made such a hullabaloo that people at all theseasidesallovertheworldthoughttheseawasroaringlouderthan

usual. It was!And all the while the Seaserpent kept on turning,trying absentmindedly toget the tipofhis tail inhismouth.Butthankheavens!hewasnotproperlyand fullyawake,orhemighthave come out and shaken his tail in anger, and then anothercontinentwouldhavebeendrowned.(Ofcoursewhetherthatwouldhavebeenreallyregrettableornotdependsonwhichcontinentwastakenandwhichyouliveon.)

But themer-folk did not live on a continent, but in the sea,andrightinthethickofit;andverythickitwasgetting.Andtheyinsisted that it was the mer-king’s business to make the PAMproduce some spell, remedy, or solution to keep the Sea-serpentquiet: they could not get their hands to their faces to feedthemselvesorblowtheirnoses,thewatershookso;andeverybodywasbumpingintoeverybodyelse;andallthefishwereseasick,thewaterwassowobbly;anditwassoturbidandsofullofsandthateveryonehadcoughs;andallthedancingwasstopped.

Artaxerxesgroaned,buthehadtodosomething.Sohewentto

his workshop and shut himself up for a fortnight, during whichtimetherewere threeearthquakes, twosubmarinehurricanes,andseveral riots of themerpeople.Thenhe cameout and let loose amostprodigiousspell(accompaniedwithsoothingincantation)atadistance from the cave; and everybody went home and sat incellars waiting—everybody except Mrs Artaxerxes and herunfortunatehusband.Thewizardwasobligedtostay(atadistance,butnotasafeone)andwatch theresult;andMrsArtaxerxeswasobligedtostayandwatchthewizard.

AllthespelldidwastogivetheSerpentaterriblebaddream:he dreamed that he was covered all over with barnacles (veryirritating, and partly true), and also being slowly roasted in avolcano (very painful, and unfortunately quite imaginary). Andthatwokehim!

ProbablyArtaxerxes’magicwasbetterthanwassupposed.Atanyrate,theSea-serpentdidnotcomeout—luckilyforthisstory.Heputhisheadwherehistailwas,andyawned,openedhismouth

aswideasthecave,andsnortedsoloudthateveryoneinthecellarsheardhiminallthekingdomsofthesea.

AndtheSea-serpentsaid:‘StopthisNONSENSE!’And he added: ‘If this blitheringwizard doesn’t go away at

once, and if he ever somuch as paddles in the sea again, I shallCOME OUT; and I shall eat him first, and then I shall knockeverythingtodrippingsmithereens.That’sall.Goodnight!’

AndMrsArtaxerxescarriedthePAMhomeinafaintingfit.Whenhehadrecovered—andthatwasquick,theysawtothat

—hetookthespellofftheSerpent,andpackedhisbag;andallthepeoplesaidandshouted:

‘Send the PAM away! A good riddance! That’s all. Good-bye!’

And themer-king said: ‘We don’twant to lose you, butwethink you ought to go.’ And Artaxerxes felt very small andunimportant altogether (whichwasgood for him).Even themer-doglaughedathim.

Butfunnilyenough,Roverandomwasquiteupset.Afterall,hehadhisown reasons forknowing thatArtaxerxes’magicwasnotwithouteffect.Andhehadbitten the shark’s tail, too,hadn’the?Andhehadstarted thewhole thingwith that trouser-bite.Andhebelonged to theLandhimself,andfelt itwasabithardonapoorland-wizardbeingbaitedbyallthesesea-folk.

Anywayhe cameup to the old fellow and said: ‘Please,MrArtaxerxes—!’

‘Well?’saidthewizard,quitekindly(hewassogladnottobecalled PAM, and he had not heard a ‘Mister’ forweeks). ‘Well?Whatisit,littledog?’

‘Ibegyourpardon,Idoreally.Awfullysorry,Imean.Inevermeant to damage your reputation.’ Roverandom was thinking ofthe Sea-serpent and the shark’s tail, but (luckily) Artaxerxesthoughthewasreferringtohistrousers.

‘Come, come!’ he said. ‘Wewon’t bring up bygones. Leastsaid, soonest mended, or patched. I think we had both better go

backhomeagaintogether.’‘But please, Mr Artaxerxes,’ said Roverandom, ‘could you

bothertoturnmebackintomypropersize?’‘Certainly!’ said thewizard,glad to findsomebody that still

believedhecoulddoanythingatall.‘Certainly!But you are best and safest as you are,while you are down

here.Let’sgetawayfromthisfirst!AndIamreallyandtrulybusyjustnow.’

Andhereallyandtrulywas.Hewentintotheworkshopsandcollected all his paraphernalia, insignia, symbols, memoranda,books of recipes, arcana, apparatus, and bags and bottles ofmiscellaneous spells. He burned all that would burn in hiswaterproof forge; and the rest he tipped into the back-garden.Extraordinary things took place there afterwards: all the flowerswentmad, and thevegetablesweremonstrous,andthefishes thatatethemwereturnedintosea-worms,sea-cats,sea-cows,sea-lions,sea-tigers,sea-devils,porpoises,dugongs,cephalopods,manatees,

and calamities, or merely poisoned; and phantasms, visions,bewilderments,illusions,andhallucinationssproutedsothickthatnobodyhadanypeaceinthepalaceatall,andtheywereobligedtomove.Infacttheybegantorespectthememoryofthatwizardafterthey had lost him. But thatwas long afterwards.At themomenttheywereclamouringforhimtodepart.

WhenallwasreadyArtaxerxessaidgood-byetothemer-king—rather coldly; and not even the mer-children seemed to mindverymuch,hehadsooftenbeenbusy,andoccasionsofthebubbles(liketheoneItoldyouabout)hadbeenrare.Someofhiscountlesssisters-in-law tried tobepolite, especially ifMrsArtaxerxeswasthere;butreallyeverybodywasimpatienttoseehimgoingoutofthe gate, so that they could send a humble message to the Sea-serpent:

‘Theregrettablewizardhasdepartedandwillreturnnomore,YourWorship.Pray,gotosleep!’

Of course Mrs Artaxerxes went too. The mer-king had so

many daughters that he could afford to lose one without muchgrief,especiallythetentheldest.Hegaveherabagofjewelsandawet kiss on the doorstep and went back to his throne. Buteverybody else was very sorry, and especially Mrs Artaxerxes’mass of mer-nieces and mer-nephews; and they were also verysorrytoloseRoverandomtoo.

The sorriest of all and the most downcast was the merdog:‘Justdropmealinewheneveryougototheseaside,’hesaid,‘andIwillpopupandhavealookatyou.’

‘Iwon’tforget!’saidRoverandom.Andthentheywent.The oldest whale was waiting. Roverandom sat on Mrs

Artaxerxes’ lap, and when they were all settled on the whale’sback,offtheystarted.

Andall thepeoplesaid:‘Good-bye!’veryloud,and‘Agoodriddanceofbadrubbish’quietly,butnottooquietly;andthatwasthe end of Artaxerxes in the office of Pacific and AtlanticMagician. Who has done their bewitchments for them since, I

don’t know. Old Psamathos and the Man-in-the-Moon, I shouldthink,havemanageditbetweenthem;theyareperfectlycapableofit.

5

Thewhale landedonaquietshorefar, farawayfromthecoveofPsamathos;Artaxerxeswasmostparticularabout that.ThereMrsArtaxerxes and the whale were left, while the wizard (withRoverandominhispocket)walkedacoupleofmilesorso to theneighbouring seaside town toget anold suit and agreenhat andsometobacco,inexchangeforthewonderfulsuitofvelvet(whichcreatedasensation in thestreets).Healsopurchasedabath-chairforMrsArtaxerxes(youmustnotforgethertail).

‘Please,MrArtaxerxes,’beganRoverandomoncemore,whentheyweresittingon thebeachagain in theafternoon.Thewizardwas smoking a pipe with his back against the whale, looking

happier than he had done for a long while, and not at all busy.‘Whataboutmypropershape,ifyoudon’tmind?Andmypropersize,too,please!’

‘O verywell!’ saidArtaxerxes. ‘I thought Imight just havehadanapbeforegettingbusy;butIdon’tmind.Let’sgetitover!Where’s my—‘ And then he stopped short. He had suddenlyrememberedthathehadburntandthrownawayallhisspellsatthebottomoftheDeepBlueSea.

He really was dreadfully upset. He got up and felt in histrouser-pockets, and his waistcoat-pockets, and his coat-pockets,inside and out, and he could not find the least bit of magicanywhere inanyof them. (Ofcoursenot, the sillyold fellow;hewassoflusteredhehadevenforgottenthatitwasonlyanhourortwo since he had bought his suit in a pawnbroker’s shop. As amatteroffactithadbelongedto,oratanyratehadbeensoldby,anelderly butler, and he had gone through the pockets prettythoroughlyfirst.)

Thewizardsatdownandmoppedhis foreheadwithapurplehandkerchief, looking thoroughly miserable again. ‘I really amvery,verysorry!’hesaid.‘Inevermeanttoleaveyoulikethisforeverandever;butnowIdon’tseethatitcanbehelped.Letitbealessontoyounottobitethetrousersofnicekindwizards!’

‘Ridiculous nonsense!’ said Mrs Artaxerxes. ‘Nice kindwizard,indeed!Thereisnoniceorkindorwizardaboutit,ifyoudon’t give the little dog back his shape and size at once—andwhat’smore I shallgoback to thebottomof theDeepBlueSea,andnevercomebacktoyouagain.’

PooroldArtaxerxeslookedalmostasworriedashedidwhentheSea-serpentwasgivingtrouble. ‘Mydear!’hesaid. ‘I’mverysorry, but I went and put my very strongestanti-removal spell-preserver on the dog—after Psamathos began to interfere (drathim!)andjusttoshowhimthathecan’tdoeverything,andthatIwon’thavesand-rabbitwizardsinterferinginmyprivatebitoffun—and I quite forgot to save the antidotewhen Iwas clearing up

downbelow!Iusedtokeepitinalittleblackbaghangingonthedoorinmyworkshop.

‘Dear,dearme!Iamsureyou’llagreethatitwasonlymeanttobeabitoffun,’hesaid,turningtoRoverandom,andhisoldnosegotverylargeandredwithhisdistress.

He went on saying ‘dear, dear, deary me!’ and shaking hishead and beard; and he never noticed that Roverandom was nottakinganynotice,andthewhalewaswinking.MrsArtaxerxeshadgot up and gone to her luggage, and now she was laughing andholdingoutanoldblackbaginherhand.

‘Nowstopwagglingyourbeard,andgettobusiness!’shesaid.But when Artaxerxes saw the bag, he was too surprised for amomenttodoanythingbutlookatitwithhisoldmouthwideopen.

‘Comealong!’saidhiswife.‘Itisyourbag,isn’tit?Ipickeditup,andseveralotherlittleoddmentsthatbelongedtome,onthenastyrubbishheapyoumadeinthegarden.’Sheopenedthebagtopeep inside, and out jumped the wizard’s magic fountain-pen

wand, and also a cloud of funny smoke came out, twisting itselfintostrangeshapesandcuriousfaces.

Then Artaxerxes woke up. ‘Here, give it to me! You’rewastingit!’hecried;andhegrabbedRoverandombythescruffofhisneck,andpoppedhimkickingandyappingintothebag,beforeyou could say ‘knife’.Thenhe turned thebag round three times,wavingthepenintheotherhand,and—

‘Thankyou!That’lldonicely!’hesaid,andopenedthebag.Therewasaloudbang,andlo!andbehold!therewasnobag,

only Rover, just as he had always been before he first met thewizardthatmorningonthelawn.Well,perhapsnotjustthesame;hewasabitbigger,ashewasnowsomemonthsolder.

It is no good trying to describe how excited he felt, or howfunnyand smaller everything seemed, even theoldestwhale;norhow strong and ferocious Rover felt. For just one moment helookedlonginglyat thewizard’strousers;buthedidnotwantthestorytobeginalloveragain,so,afterhehadrunamileincircles

for joy, and nearly barked his head off, he came back and said‘Thankyou!’;andheevenadded‘Verypleasedtohavemetyou’,whichwasverypoliteindeed.

‘That’sallright!’saidArtaxerxes.‘Andthat’sthelastmagicIshalldo.I’mgoingtoretire.Andyouhadbetterbegettinghome.Ihavenomagiclefttosendyouhomewith,soyou’llhavetowalk.Butthatwon’thurtastrongyoungdog.’

So Rover said good-bye, and the whale winked, and MrsArtaxerxesgavehimapieceofcake;andthatwasthelasthesawof them for a long while. Long, long afterwards,when he wasvisitingaseasideplacethathehadneverbeentobefore,hefoundoutwhathadhappenedtothem;fortheywerethere.Notthewhale,ofcourse,buttheretiredwizardandhiswife.

Theyhadsettledinthatseasidetown,andArtaxerxes,takingthenameofMrA.Pam,hadsetupacigaretteandchocolateshop

near thebeach—buthewasvery,verycarefulnever to touch thewater (even freshwater, and that he found no hardship).A poortradeforawizard,buthedidatleasttrytoclearupthenastymessthathiscustomersmadeonthebeach;andhemadeagooddealofmoneyoutof‘Pam’sRock’,whichwasverypinkandsticky.Theremayhavebeentheleastbitofmagicinit,forchildrenlikeditsomuchtheywentoneatingitevenafter theyhaddroppedit in thesand.

ButMrsArtaxerxes, I should sayMrsA. Pam,mademuchmoremoney.Shekeptbathing-tentsandvans,andgaveswimminglessons,anddrovehomeinabath-chairdrawnbywhiteponies,andwore the mer-king’s jewels in the afternoon, and became veryfamous,sothatnooneeveralludedtohertail.

In the meanwhile, however, Rover is plodding down thecountrylanesandhighways,goingalongfollowinghisnose,which

isboundtoleadhimhomeintheend,asdogs’nosesdo.‘All theMan-in-the-Moon’sdreamsdon’t come true, then—

justashe saidhimself,’ thoughtRoverashepaddedalong. ‘Thiswasevidentlyone thatdidn’t. Idon’tevenknowthenameof theplacewherethelittleboyslive,andthat’sapity.’

Thedryland,hefound,wasoftenasdangerousaplaceforadog as the moon or the ocean, though much duller. Motor aftermotorracketedby,filled(Roverthought)withthesamepeople,allmakingallspeed(andalldustandallsmell)tosomewhere.

‘Idon’tbelievehalfofthemknowwheretheyaregoingto,orwhy they are going there, or would know it if they got there,’grumbledRoverashecoughedandchoked;andhis feetgot tiredonthehard,gloomy,blackroads.Soheturnedintothefields,andhadmanymildadventuresofthebirdandrabbitsortinanaimlesskind ofway, andmore than one enjoyable fightwith other dogs,andseveralhurriedflightsfromlargerdogs.

Andsoatlast,weeksormonthssincethetalebegan(hecould

nothavetoldyouwhich),hegotbacktohisowngardengate.Andtherewas the littleboyplayingon the lawnwith theyellowball!Andthedreamhadcometrue,justashehadneverexpected!!

‘There’sRoverandom!!!’criedlittleboyTwowithashout.AndRoversatupandbegged,andcouldnotfindhisvoiceto

barkanything,andthelittleboykissedhishead,andwentdashinginto the house, crying: ‘Here’smy little begging dog come backlargeandreal!!!’

Hetoldhisgrandmotherallaboutit.HowwasRovertoknowthathehadbelongedtothelittleboys’grandmotherallthewhile?He had only belonged to her a month or two, when he wasbewitched.ButIwonderhowmuchPsamathosandArtaxerxeshadknownaboutit?

The grandmother (very surprised indeed as she was at herdog’s return looking so well and not motorsmashed or lorry-

flattenedatall)didnotunderstandwhatonearththelittleboywastalkingabout;thoughhetoldherallheknewaboutitveryexactly,andoverandoveragain.Shegatheredwithagreatdealoftrouble(shewasofcoursejustthewee-estbitdeaf)thatthedogwastobecalledRoverandomandnotRover,because theMan-in-the-Moonsaid so (‘What odd ideas the child has, to be sure’); and that hebelongednottoherafterallbuttolittleboyTwo,becausemummybroughthimhomewith the shrimps (‘Verywell,mydear, ifyoulike; but I thought I bought him from the gardener’s brother’sson’).

I haven’t told you all their argument, of course; itwas longandcomplicated,as itoften iswhenbothsidesare right.All thatyouwanttoknowisthathewascalledRoverandomafterthat,andhedidbelongtothelittleboy,andwentback,whentheboys’visittotheirgrandmotherwasover,tothehousewherehehadoncesatonthechestof-drawers.Heneverdidthatagain,ofcourse.Helivedsometimesinthecountryandsometimes,mostofthetime,inthe

whitehouseonthecliffbythesea.HegottoknowoldPsamathosverywell,neverwellenoughto

leaveouttheP,butwellenough,whenhewasgrownuptoalargeanddignifieddog,todighimupoutofthesandandhissleepandhavemanyandmanyachatwithhim.IndeedRoverandomgrewtobe very wise, and had an immense local reputation, and had allsortsofotheradventures(manyofwhichthelittleboyshared).

But the ones I have told you about were probably themostunusual and the most exciting. Only Tinker says she does notbelieveawordofthem.Jealouscat!

FARMERGILESOFHAMAegidiiAhenobarbiJuliiAgricoledeHammo

DominideDomitoAuleDraconarieComitis

RegniMinimiRegisetBasileimirafacinoraetmirabilisexortus

orinthevulgartongueTheRiseandWonderfulAdventuresofFarmerGiles,LordofTameCountofWorminghallandKingoftheLittleKingdom

FOREWORD

OfthehistoryoftheLittleKingdomfewfragmentshavesurvived;butbychanceanaccountofitsoriginhasbeenpreserved:alegend,perhaps, rather than an account; for it is evidently a latecompilation, full of marvels, derived not from sober annals, butfromthepopularlaystowhichitsauthorfrequentlyrefers.Forhimthe events that he records lay already in a distant past; but heseems,nonetheless,tohavelivedhimselfinthelandsoftheLittleKingdom.Suchgeographicalknowledgeasheshows(itisnothisstrongpoint)isofthatcountry,whileofregionsoutsideit,northorwest,heisplainlyignorant.

Anexcuseforpresentingatranslationofthiscurioustale,outof its very insular Latin into the modern tongue of the UnitedKingdom,maybefoundin theglimpse that itaffordsof life ina

darkperiodofthehistoryofBritain,nottomentionthelightthatitthrowsontheoriginofsomedifficultplace-names.Somemayfindthecharacterandadventuresofitsheroattractiveinthemselves.

TheboundariesoftheLittleKingdom,eitherintimeorspace,arenoteasy todetermine fromthescantyevidence.SinceBrutuscametoBritainmanykingsandrealmshavecomeandgone.ThepartitionunderLocrin,Camber,andAlbanac,wasonlythefirstofmanyshiftingdivisions.Whatwiththeloveofpettyindependenceon the one hand, and on the other the greed of kings for widerrealms, the years were filled with swift alternations of war andpeace,ofmirthandwoe,ashistoriansofthereignofArthurtellus:atimeofunsettledfrontiers,whenmenmightriseorfallsuddenly,and song-writers had abundant material and eager audiences.Somewhereinthoselongyears,afterthedaysofKingCoelmaybe,butbeforeArthurortheSevenKingdomsoftheEnglish,wemustplace the eventshere related; and their scene is thevalleyof theThames,withanexcursionnorth-westtothewallsofWales.

ThecapitaloftheLittleKingdomwasevidently,asisours,initssouth-eastcorner,butitsconfinesarevague.ItseemsnevertohavereachedfaruptheThamesintotheWest,norbeyondOtmoortotheNorth;itseasternbordersaredubious.Thereareindicationsin a fragmentary legend of Georgius son of Giles and his pageSuovetaurilius (Suet) that at one time an outpost against theMiddleKingdomwasmaintainedatFarthingho.Butthatsituationdoes not concern this story, which is now presented withoutalterationor further comment, though theoriginal grandiose titlehasbeensuitablyreducedtoFarmerGilesofHam.

FARMERGILESOFHAM

ÆgidiusdeHammowasamanwholivedinthemidmostpartsofthe IslandofBritain. In full his namewasÆgidiusAhenobarbusJuliusAgricoladeHammo; forpeoplewere richly endowedwithnames in those days, now long ago, when this island was stillhappily divided intomanykingdoms.Therewasmore time then,and folk were fewer, so that most men were distinguished.However, thosedaysarenowover,soIwill inwhatfollowsgivethemanhisnameshortly,andin thevulgarform:hewasFarmerGilesofHam,andhehadaredbeard.Hamwasonlyavillage,butvillageswereproudandindependentstillinthosedays.

FarmerGileshadadog.Thedog’snamewasGarm.Dogshadto be contentwith short names in the vernacular: theBook-latinwasreservedfortheirbetters.Garmcouldnottalkevendog-latin;

buthecouldusethevulgartongue(ascouldmostdogsofhisday)eithertobullyortobragortowheedlein.Bullyingwasforbeggarsandtrespassers, bragging for other dogs, and wheedling for hismaster.GarmwasbothproudandafraidofGiles,whocouldbullyandbragbetterthanhecould.

Thetimewasnotoneofhurryorbustle.Butbustlehasverylittletodowithbusiness.Mendidtheirworkwithoutit;andtheygot throughadealbothofworkandof talk.Therewasplenty totalkabout,formemorableeventsoccurredveryfrequently.Butatthemomentwhenthistalebeginsnothingmemorablehad,infact,happenedinHamforquitealongtime.WhichsuitedFarmerGilesdowntotheground:hewasaslowsortoffellow,rathersetinhisways,andtakenupwiththisownaffairs.Hehadhishandsfull(hesaid)keepingthewolffromthedoor:thatis,keepinghimselfasfatand comfortable as his father before him. The dog was busyhelping him. Neither of them gave much thought to the WideWorldoutsidetheirfields,thevillage,andthenearestmarket.

ButtheWideWorldwasthere.Theforestwasnotfaroff,andawaywestandnorthweretheWildHills,andthedubiousmarchesof the mountain-country. And among other things still at largethere were giants: rude and uncultured folk, and troublesome attimes. There was one giant in particular, larger andmore stupidthanhisfellows.Ifindnomentionofhisnameinthehistories,butitdoesnotmatter.Hewasverylarge,hiswalking-stickwaslikeatree, and his tread was heavy. He brushed elms aside like tallgrasses;andhewastheruinofroadsandthedesolationofgardens,for his great feet madeholes in them as deep as wells; if hestumbledintoahouse,thatwastheendofit.Andallthisdamagehedidwhereverhewent, forhisheadwas farabove the roofsofhouses and left his feet to look after themselves. He was near-sighted and also rather deaf. Fortunately he lived far off in theWild,andseldomvisited the lands inhabitedbymen,at leastnoton purpose. He had a great tumbledown house away up in themountains;buthehadveryfewfriends,owingtohisdeafnessand

hisstupidity,andthescarcityofgiants.Heusedtogooutwalkingin the Wild Hills and in the empty regions at the feet of themountains,allbyhimself.

One fine summer’s day this giant went out for a walk, andwandered aimlessly along, doing a great deal of damage in thewoods.Suddenlyhenoticedthatthesunwassetting,andfelt thathissupper-timewasdrawingnear;buthediscoveredthathewasinapartof thecountry thathedidnotknowat all andhad losthisway.Makingawrongguessattherightdirectionhewalkedandhewalkeduntilitwasdarknight.Thenhesatdownandwaitedforthemoon to rise. Then he walked and walked in the moonlight,stridingoutwithawill,forhewasanxioustogethome.Hehadlefthisbestcopperpotonthefire,andfearedthatthebottomwouldbeburned.Buthisbackwastothemountains,andhewasalreadyinthe lands inhabitedbymen.Hewas, indeed,nowdrawingnear tothe farmofÆgidiusAhenobarbusJuliusAgricolaand thevillagecalled(inthevulgartongue)Ham.

Itwasa finenight.Thecowswere in the fields,andFarmerGiles’sdoghadgotoutandgoneforawalkonhisownaccount.Hehadafancyformoonshine,andrabbits.Hehadnoidea,ofcourse,thatagiantwasalsooutforawalk.Thatwouldhavegivenhimagood reason for goingoutwithout leave, but a still better reasonfor staying quiet in the kitchen.At about two o’clock the giantarrivedinFarmerGiles’sfields,brokethehedges,trampledonthecrops,andflattenedthemowing-grass.Infiveminuteshehaddonemoredamagethantheroyalfoxhuntcouldhavedoneinfivedays.

Garmhearda thump-thumpcomingalongtheriverbank,andhe ran to the west side of the low hill on which the farmhousestood, just toseewhatwashappening.SuddenlyhesawthegiantstriderightacrosstheriverandtreaduponGalathea,thefarmer’sfavouritecow,squashingthepoorbeastasflatasthefarmercouldhavesquashedablackbeetle.

ThatwasmorethanenoughforGarm.Hegaveayelpoffrightandboltedhome.Quiteforgettingthathewasoutwithoutleave,he

cameandbarkedandyammeredunderneathhismaster’sbedroomwindow.Therewasnoanswer for a long time.FarmerGileswasnoteasilywakened.

‘Help!help!help!’criedGarm.Thewindow opened suddenly and awell-aimed bottle came

flyingout.‘Ow!’saidthedog,jumpingasidewithpractisedskill.‘Help!

help!help!’Outpoppedthefarmer’shead.‘Dratyou,dog!Whatbeyoua-

doing?’saidhe.‘Nothing,’saidthedog.‘I’ll give you nothing! I’ll flay the skin off you in the

morning,’saidthefarmer,slammingthewindow.‘Help!help!help!’criedthedog.Out came Giles’s head again. ‘I’ll kill you, if you make

anothersound,’hesaid.‘What’scometoyou,youfool?’‘Nothing,’saidthedog;‘butsomething’scometoyou.’

‘What d’youmean?’ saidGiles, startled in themidst of hisrage.NeverbeforehadGarmansweredhimsaucily.

‘There’s a giant in your fields, an enormous giant; and he’scoming thisway,’ said the dog. ‘Help! help!He is trampling onyoursheep.HehasstampedonpoorGalathea,andshe’sasflatasadoormat. Help! help! He’s bursting all your hedges, and he’scrushing all your crops.Youmust be bold and quick,master, oryouwillsoonhavenothingleft.Help!’Garmbegantohowl.

‘Shutup!’saidthefarmer,andheshut thewindow.‘Lord-a-mercy!’ he said to himself; and though the night was warm, heshiveredandshook.

‘Get back to bed and don’t be a fool!’ said his wife. ‘Anddrownthatdoginthemorning.Thereisnocall tobelievewhatadogsays;they’lltellanytale,whencaughttruantorthieving.’

‘May be, Agatha,’ said he, ‘and may be not. But there’ssomethinggoingoninmyfields,orGarm’sarabbit.Thatdogwasfrightened.Andwhyshouldhecomeyammeringinthenightwhen

hecouldsneakinatthebackdoorwiththemilkinthemorning?’‘Don’tstandtherearguing!’saidshe.‘Ifyoubelievethedog,

thentakehisadvice:beboldandquick!’‘Easier said than done,’ answered Giles; for, indeed, he

believedquitehalfofGarm’stale.Inthesmallhoursofthenightgiantsseemlessunlikely.

Still,propertyisproperty;andFarmerGileshadashortwaywith trespassers that few could outface. So he pulled on hisbreeches,andwentdownintothekitchenandtookhisblunderbussfromthewall.Somemaywellaskwhatablunderbusswas.Indeed,this veryquestion, it is said,wasput to theFourWiseClerksofOxenford,andafterthoughttheyreplied:‘Ablunderbussisashortgunwith a large bore firingmany balls or slugs, and capable ofdoing executionwithin a limited rangewithout exact aim. (Nowsupersededincivilisedcountriesbyotherfirearms.)’

However,FarmerGiles’sblunderbusshadawidemouth thatopenedlikeahorn,anditdidnotfireballsorslugs,butanything

thathecouldsparetostuffin.Anditdidnotdoexecution,becauseheseldomloadedit,andneverletitoff.Thesightofitwasusuallyenoughforhispurpose.Andthiscountrywasnotyetcivilised,fortheblunderbusswasnotsuperseded:itwasindeedtheonlykindofgun that there was, and rare at that. People preferred bows andarrowsandusedgunpowdermostlyforfireworks.

Well then, FarmerGiles took down the blunderbuss, and heput in a good charge of powder, just in case extreme measuresshould be required; and into thewidemouth he stuffed old nailsandbitsofwire,piecesofbrokenpot,bonesandstonesandotherrubbish. Then he drew on his top-boots and his overcoat, and hewentoutthroughthekitchengarden.

The moon was low behind him, and he could see nothingworse than the long black shadows of bushes and trees, but hecouldhearadreadfulstamping-stumpingcomingupthesideofthehill.Hedidnot feel eitherboldorquick,whateverAgathamightsay;buthewasmoreanxiousabouthispropertythanhisskin.So,

feelingabit looseabout thebelt, hewalked towards thebrowofthehill.

Suddenlyupovertheedgeofitthegiant’sfaceappeared,paleinthemoonlight,whichglitteredinhislargeroundeyes.Hisfeetwerestillfarbelow,makingholesinthefields.Themoondazzledthegiantandhedidnotseethefarmer;butFarmerGilessawhimand was scared out of his wits. He pulled the trigger withoutthinking,andtheblunderbusswentoffwithastaggeringbang.Byluckitwaspointedmoreorlessatthegiant’slargeuglyface.Outflewtherubbish,andthestonesandthebones,andthebitsofcrockandwire,andhalfadozennails.Andsince the rangewas indeedlimited, by chance and no choice of the farmer’smany of thesethingsstruckthegiant:apieceofpotwentinhiseye,andalargenailstuckinhisnose.

‘Blast!’saidthegiantinhisvulgarfashion.‘I’mstung!’Thenoisehadmadenoimpressiononhim(hewasratherdeaf),buthedidnotlikethenail.Itwasalongtimesincehehadmetanyinsect

fierce enough to pierce his thick skin; but he had heard tell thatawayEast,intheFens,thereweredragonfliesthatcouldbitelikehotpincers.Hethoughtthathemusthaverunintosomethingofthekind.

‘Nasty unhealthy parts, evidently,’ said he. ‘I shan’t go anyfurtherthiswaytonight.’

So he picked up a couple of sheep off the hill-side, to eatwhenhegothome,andwentbackovertheriver,makingoffaboutnor-nor-westatagreatpace.Hefoundhiswayhomeagainintheend,forhewasatlastgoingintherightdirection;butthebottomwasburnedoffhiscopperpot.

As for Farmer Giles, when the blunderbuss went off itknockedhimoverflatonhisback;andtherehelaylookingatthesky and wondering if the giant’s feet would miss him as theypassedby.Butnothinghappened,andthestamping-stumpingdiedawayinthedistance.Sohegotup,rubbedhisshoulder,andpickedup the blunderbuss. Then suddenly he heard the sound of people

cheering.Most of the people of Ham had been looking out of their

windows; a fewhad put on their clothes and come out (after thegianthadgoneaway).Somewerenowrunningupthehillshouting.

The villagers had heard the horrible thump-thump of thegiant’sfeet,andmostofthemhadimmediatelygotunderthebed-clothes; some had got under the beds.ButGarmwas both proudandfrightenedofhismaster.Hethoughthimterribleandsplendid,whenhewasangry;andhenaturallythoughtthatanygiantwouldthink the same. So, as soon as he saw Giles come out with theblunderbuss(asignofgreatwrathasarule),herushedoff to thevillage,barkingandcrying:

‘Comeout!Comeout!Comeout!Getup!Getup!Come,andseemygreatmaster!Heisboldandquick.Heisgoingtoshootagiantfortrespassing.Comeout!’

The top of the hill could be seen frommost of the houses.When the people and the dog saw the giant’s face rise above it,

theyquailedandheldtheirbreath,andallbutthedogamongthemthought that this would prove amatter too big for Giles to dealwith. Then the blunderbuss went bang, and the giant turnedsuddenlyandwentaway,andintheiramazementandtheirjoytheyclappedandcheered,andGarmnearlybarkedhisheadoff.

‘Hooray!’theyshouted.‘Thatwilllearnhim!MasterÆgidiushasgivenhimwhat for.Nowhewillgohomeanddie,andservehim right and proper.’ Then they all cheered again together. Butevenastheycheered,theytooknotefortheirownprofitthatafterall this blunderbuss could really be fired. There had been somedebate in the village inns on that point; but now thematter wassettled.FarmerGileshadlittletroublewithtrespassersafterthat.

Whenallseemedsafesomeofthebolderfolkcamerightupthe hill and shook handswith FarmerGiles.A few—the parson,and the blacksmith, and the miller, and one or two persons ofimportance—slappedhimontheback.Thatdidnotpleasehim(hisshoulderwasverysore),buthefeltobligedtoinvitethemintohis

house.Theysatroundinthekitchendrinkinghishealthandloudlypraisinghim.Hemadenoefforttohidehisyawns,butaslongasthedrinklastedtheytooknonotice.Bythetimetheyhadallhadone or two (and the farmer two or three), he began to feel quitebold;when theyhadall had twoor three (andhehimself fiveorsix), he felt as bold as his dog thought him. They parted goodfriends;andheslappedtheirbacksheartily.Hishandswerelarge,red,andthick;sohehadhisrevenge.

Nextdayhefoundthatthenewshadgrowninthetelling,andhehadbecomeanimportantlocalfigure.Bythemiddleofthenextweekthenewshadspreadtoall thevillageswithin twentymiles.He had become the Hero of the Countryside. Very pleasant hefoundit.Nextmarketdayhegotenoughfreedrinktofloataboat:that is to say, he nearly had his fill, and came home singing oldheroicsongs.

At last even the King got to hear of it. The capital of thatrealm,theMiddleKingdomoftheislandinthosehappydays,was

sometwentyleaguesdistantfromHam,andtheypaidlittleheedatcourt, as a rule, to the doings of rustics in the provinces.But sopromptanexpulsionofagiantsoinjuriousseemedworthyofnoteand of somelittle courtesy. So in due course—that is, in aboutthree months, and on the feast of St Michael—the King sent amagnificentletter.Itwaswritteninreduponwhiteparchment,andexpressed the royal approbation of ‘our loyal subject and well-belovedÆgidiusAhenobarbusJuliusAgricoladeHammo’.

Theletterwassignedwitharedblot;butthecourtscribehadadded:

EgoAugustusBonifaciusAmbrosiusAurelianusAntoninusPius et Magnificus, dux rex, tyrannus, et BasileusMediterranearumPartium,subscribo;

and a large red seal was attached. So the document was plainlygenuine. It afforded great pleasure to Giles, and was muchadmired, especially when it was discovered that one could get aseatandadrinkbythefarmer’sfirebyaskingtolookatit.

Better than the testimonial was the accompanying gift. TheKingsentabelt anda longsword.To tell the truth theKinghadnever used the sword himself. It belonged to the family and hadbeenhanginginhisarmourytimeoutofmind.Thearmourercouldnot say how it came there, orwhatmight be the use of it. Plainheavyswordsofthatkindwereoutoffashionatcourtjustthen,sothe King thought it the very thing for a present to a rustic. ButFarmer Giles was delighted, and his local reputation becameenormous.

Giles much enjoyed the turn of events. So did his dog. Henevergothispromisedwhipping.Gileswasa justmanaccordingtohislights;inhishearthegaveafairshareofthecredittoGarm,thoughheneverwentasfarastomentionit.Hecontinuedtothrow

hardwordsandhardthingsatthedogwhenhefeltinclined,buthewinkedatmanylittleoutings.Garmtooktowalkingfarafield.Thefarmerwentaboutwithahighstep,and lucksmiledonhim.Theautumn and early winter work went well.All seemed set fair—untilthedragoncame.

In those days dragons were already getting scarce in theisland. None had been seen in the midland realm of AugustusBonifacius for many a year. There were, of course, the dubiousmarchesandtheuninhabitedmountains,westwardandnorthward,buttheywerealongwayoff.Inthosepartsonceuponatimetherehaddweltanumberofdragonsofonekindandanother,andtheyhadmaderaidsfarandwide.ButtheMiddleKingdomwasinthosedays famous for the daring of the King’s knights, and so manystraydragonshadbeenkilled,orhadreturnedwithgravedamage,thattheothersgaveupgoingthatway.

ItwasstillthecustomforDragon’sTailtobeservedupattheKing’sChristmasFeast;andeachyearaknightwaschosenforthedutyofhunting.HewassupposedtosetoutuponStNicholas’Dayandcomehomewithadragon’s tailnot later than theeveof thefeast. But formany years now the Royal Cook had made amarvellous confection, a Mock Dragon’s Tail of cake andalmondpaste,withcunningscalesofhardicing-sugar.Thechosenknight thencarried this into thehallonChristmasEve,while thefiddlesplayedandthetrumpetsrang.TheMockDragon’sTailwaseatenafterdinneronChristinasDay,andeverybodysaid(topleasethecook)thatittastedmuchbetterthanRealTail.

That was the situation when a real dragon turned up again.Thegiantwaslargelytoblame.Afterhisadventureheusedtogoabout in themountains visiting his scattered relationsmore thanhadbeenhiscustom,andmuchmore than they liked.Forhewasalwaystryingtoborrowalargecopperpot.Butwhetherhegottheloan of one or not, he would sit and talk in his long-winded

lumbering fashion about the excellent country down away East,andallthewondersoftheWideWorld.Hehadgotitintohisheadthathewasagreatanddaringtraveller.

‘Aniceland,’hewouldsay,‘prettyflat,soft tothefeet,andplentytoeatforthetaking:cows,youknow,andsheepallovertheplace,easytospot,ifyoulookcarefully.’

‘Butwhataboutthepeople?’saidthey.‘Ineversawany,’saidhe.‘Therewasnotaknighttobeseen

orheard,mydearfellows.Nothingworsethanafewstingingfliesbytheriver.’

‘Whydon’tyougobackandstaythere?’saidthey.‘Ohwell,there’snoplacelikehome,theysay,’saidhe. ‘But

maybeIshallgobackonedaywhenIhaveamind.AndanywayIwentthereonce,whichismorethanmostfolkcansay.Nowaboutthatcopperpot.’

‘And these rich lands,’ they would hurriedly ask, ‘thesedelectable regions full of undefended cattle, which, way do they

lie?Andhowfaroff?’‘Oh,’hewouldanswer,‘awayeastorsou’east.Butit’salong

journey.’Andthenhewouldgivesuchanexaggeratedaccountofthe distance that he hadwalked, and thewoods, hills, and plainsthathehadcrossed,thatnoneoftheotherlesslong-leggedgiantseversetout.Still,thetalkgotabout.

Thenthewarmsummerwasfollowedbyahardwinter.Itwasbitter cold in the mountains and food was scarce. The talk gotlouder.Lowlandsheepandkinefromthedeeppasturesweremuchdiscussed. The dragons pricked up their ears. Theywere hungry,andtheserumourswereattractive.

‘So knights are mythical!’ said the younger and lessexperienceddragons.‘Wealwaysthoughtso.’

‘At least they may be getting rare,’ thought the older andwiserworms;‘farandfewandnolongertobefeared.’

Therewasonedragonwhowasdeeplymoved.ChrysophylaxDiveswas his name, for hewas of ancient and imperial lineage,andveryrich.Hewascunning,inquisitive,greedy,well-armoured,butnotoverbold.Butatanyratehewasnotintheleastafraidoffliesorinsectsofanysortorsize;andhewasmortallyhungry.

So one winter’s day, about a week before Christmas,Chrysophylaxspreadhiswingsandtookoff.HelandedquietlyinthemiddleofthenightplumpintheheartofthemidlandrealmofAugustusBonifaciusrexetbasileus.Hedidadealofdamageinashort while, smashing and burning, and devouring sheep, cattle,andhorses.

ThiswasinapartofthelandalongwayfromHam,butGarmgotthefrightofhislife.Hehadgoneoffonalongexpedition,andtakingadvantageofhismaster’sfavourhehadventuredtospendanightortwoawayfromhome.Hewasfollowinganengagingscentalong the eaves of a wood, when he turned a corner and camesuddenlyuponanewandalarmingsmell;he ran indeedslap into

the tailofChrysophylaxDives,whohad just landed.NeverdidadogturnhisowntailroundandbolthomeswifterthanGarm.Thedragon,hearinghisyelp,turnedandsnorted;butGarmwasalreadyfaroutofrange.Heranalltherestofthenight,andarrivedhomeaboutbreakfast-time.

‘Help!help!help!’hecriedoutsidethebackdoor.Gilesheard,anddidnotlikethesoundofit.Itremindedhim

that unexpected thingsmay happen, when all seems to be goingwell.

‘Wife, let that drafted dog in,’ said he, ‘and take a stick tohim!’

Garm came bundling into the kitchenwith his eyes startingandhistonguehangingout.‘Help!’hecried.

‘Now what have you been a-doing this time?’ said Giles,throwingasausageathim.

‘Nothing,’ panted Garm, too flustered to give heed to thesausage.

‘Well,stopdoingit,orI’llskinyou,’saidthefarmer.‘I’ve done nowrong. I didn’tmean no harm,’ said the dog.

‘ButIcameonadragonaccidental-like,anditfrightenedme.’The farmerchoked inhisbeer. ‘Dragon?’ saidhe. ‘Dratyou

for a good-for-nothingnosey-parker!What d’youwant to go andfindadragon forat this timeof theyear,andmewithmyhandsfull?Wherewasit?’

‘Oh!Northover thehillsand faraway,beyond theStandingStonesandall,’saidthedog.

‘Oh,awaythere!’saidGiles,mightyrelieved.‘They’requeerfolkinthoseparts,I’veheardtell,andaughtmighthappenintheirland.Letthemgetonwithit!Don’tcomeworritingmewithsuchtales.Getout!’

Garmgotout,andspreadthenewsalloverthevillage.Hedidforgettomentionthathismasterwasnotscaredintheleast.‘Quitecoolhewas,andwentonwithhisbreakfast.’

Peoplechattedaboutitpleasantlyattheirdoors.‘Howlikeold

times!’theysaid.‘JustasChristmasiscoming,too.Soseasonable.Howpleased theKingwillbe!Hewillbeable tohaveRealTailthisChristmas.’

Butmorenewscameinnextday.Thedragon,itappeared,wasexceptionallylargeandferocious.Hewasdoingterribledamage.

‘WhatabouttheKing’sknights?’peoplebegantosay.Others had already asked the same question. Indeed,

messengers were now reaching the King from the villages mostafflictedbyChrysophylax, and they said tohimas loudly and asoftenastheydared:‘Lord,whatofyourknights?’

But the knights did nothing; their knowledge of the dragonwasstillquiteunofficial.So theKingbrought thematter to theirnotice,fullyandformally,askingfornecessaryactionattheirearlyconvenience.Hewas greatly displeasedwhen he found that theirconvenience would not be early at all, and was indeed dailypostponed.

Yettheexcusesoftheknightswereundoubtedlysound.First

ofall,theRoyalCookhadalreadymadetheDragon’sTailforthatChristmas, being a man who believed in getting things done ingoodtime.Itwouldnotdoatalltooffendhimbybringinginarealtailatthelastminute.Hewasaveryvaluableservant.

‘NevermindtheTail!Cuthisheadoffandputanendtohim!’criedthemessengersfromthevillagesmostnearlyaffected.

But Christmas had arrived, and most unfortunately a grandtournamenthadbeenarrangedforStJohn’sDay:knightsofmanyrealms had been invited and were coming to compete for avaluableprize.ItwasobviouslyunreasonabletospoilthechancesofthemidlandKnightsbysendingtheirbestmenoffonadragon-huntbeforethetournamentwasover.

AfterthatcametheNewYearHoliday.But each night the dragon had moved; and each move had

brought him nearer to Ham. On the night of New Year’s Daypeoplecouldseeablazeinthedistance.Thedragonhadsettledinawoodabouttenmilesaway,anditwasburningmerrily.Hewasa

hotdragonwhenhefeltinthemood.After thatpeoplebegan to lookatFarmerGilesandwhisper

behindhisback.Itmadehimveryuncomfortable;buthepretendednottonoticeit.Thenextdaythedragoncameseveralmilesnearer.ThenFarmerGileshimselfbegan to talk loudlyof thescandaloftheKing’sknights.

‘Ishould like toknowwhat theydo toearn theirkeep,’saidhe.

‘Soshouldwe!’saideveryoneinHam.Butthemilleradded:‘Somemenstillgetknighthoodbysheer

merit, I am told. After all, our good Ægidius here is already aknight inamannerofspeaking.Didnot theKingsendhima redletterandasword?’

‘There’s more to knighthood than a sword,’ said Giles.‘There’sdubbingandallthat,orsoIunderstand.AnywayI’vemyownbusinesstoattendto.’

‘Oh!buttheKingwoulddothedubbing,Idon’tdoubt, ifhe

wereasked,’saidthemiller.‘Letusaskhim,beforeitistoolate!’‘Nay!’saidGiles.‘Dubbingisnotformysort.Iamafarmer

andproudofit:aplainhonestmanandhonestmenfareillatcourt,theysay.Itismoreinyourline,MasterMiller.’

Theparsonsmiled:notatthefarmer’sretort,forGilesandthemillerwerealwaysgivingoneanotherasgoodas theygot,beingbosom enemies, as the saying was in Ham. The parson hadsuddenlybeenstruckwithanotionthatpleasedhim,buthesaidnomoreatthattime.Themillerwasnotsopleased,andhescowled.

‘Plain certainly, and honest perhaps,’ said he. ‘But do youhave to go to court and be a knight before you kill a dragon?Courage is all that is needed, as only yesterday I heard MasterÆgidiusdeclare.Surelyhehasasmuchcourageasanyknight?’

All the folk standing by shouted: ‘Of course not!’ and ‘Yesindeed!ThreecheersfortheHeroofHam!’

ThenFarmerGileswenthomefeelingveryuncomfortable.Hewas finding that a local reputation may require keeping up, and

thatmayproveawkward.Hekickedthedog,andhidtheswordinacupboardinthekitchen.Uptillthenithadhungoverthefireplace.

The next day the dragon moved to the neighbouring village ofQuercetum (Oakley in the vulgar tongue).He ate not only sheepand cows and one or two persons of tender age, but he ate theparson too. Rather rashly the parson had sought to dissuade himfromhisevilways.Then therewasa terriblecommotion.All thepeopleofHamcameup thehillheadedby theirownparson;andtheywaitedonFarmerGiles.

‘We look to you!’ they said; and they remained standinground and looking, until the farmer’s face was redder than hisbeard.

‘Whenareyougoingtostart?’theyasked.‘Well,Ican’tstarttoday,andthat’safact,’saidhe.‘I’ve a lot on hand with my cowman sick and all. I’ll see

aboutit.’Theywentaway;butintheeveningitwasrumouredthatthe

dragonhadmovedevennearer,sotheyallcameback.‘WelooktoyouMasterÆgidius,’theysaid.‘Well,’saidhe,‘it’sveryawkwardformejustnow.Mymare

hasgonelame,andthelambinghasstarted.I’llseeaboutitassoonasmaybe.’

So theywent away oncemore, notwithout some grumblingand whispering. The miller was sniggering. The parson stayedbehind,andcouldnotbegotridof.Heinvitedhimself tosupper,andmadesomepointedremarks.Heevenaskedwhathadbecomeoftheswordandinsistedonseeingit.

Itwaslyinginacupboardonashelfhardlylongenoughforit,andassoonasFarmerGilesbroughtitoutinaflashitleapedfromthe sheath, which the farmer dropped as if it had been hot. Theparsonsprangtohisfeet,upsettinghisbeer.Hepickedtheswordupcarefullyandtriedtoputitbackinthesheath;butitwouldnot

gosomuchasafootin,anditjumpedcleanoutagain,assoonashetookhishandoffthehilt.

‘Dearme!Thisisverypeculiar!’saidtheparson,andhetookagoodlookatbothscabbardandblade.Hewasaletteredman,butthe farmer could only spell out large uncialswith difficulty, andwas none too sure of the reading even of his own name. That iswhyhehadnevergivenanyheed to thestrange letters thatcoulddimlybeseenonsheathandsword.AsfortheKing’sarmourer,hewassoaccustomed to runes,namesandothersignsofpowerandsignificance upon swords and scabbards that he hadnot botheredhisheadaboutthem;hethoughtthemoutofdate,anyway.

Buttheparsonlookedlong,andhefrowned.Hehadexpectedto find some lettering on the sword or on the scabbard, and thatwasindeedtheideathathadcometohimthedaybefore;butnowhewassurprisedatwhathesaw,forlettersandsignstherewere,tobesurebuthecouldnotmakeheadortailofthem.

‘There is an inscription on this sheath, and some, ah,

epigraphicalsignsarevisiblealsouponthesword,’hesaid.‘Indeed?’saidGiles.‘Andwhatmaythatamountto?’‘The characters are archaic and the language barbaric,’ said

the parson, to gain time. ‘A little closer inspection will berequired.’Hebegged the loanof the sword for thenight, and thefarmerlethimhaveitwithpleasure.

Whentheparsongothomehetookdownmanylearnedbooksfromhisshelves,andhesatupfar into thenight.Nextmorning itwasdiscoveredthatthedragonhadmovednearerstill.AllthepeopleofHambarredtheirdoorsandshutteredtheirwindows;andthosethathadcellarswentdown into themand sat shivering in the candle-light.

But theparsonstoleoutandwent fromdoor todoor,andhetold,toallwhowouldlistenthroughacrackorakeyhole,whathehaddiscoveredinhisstudy.

‘OurgoodÆgidius,’hesaid,‘bytheKing’sgraceisnowtheownerofCaudimordax,thefamousswordthatinpopularromancesismorevulgarlycalledTailbiter.’

Thosethatheardthisnameusuallyopenedthedoor.They all knew the renown of Tailbiter, for that sword had

belonged to Bellomarius, the greatest of all the dragonslayers ofthe realm. Some accounts made him the maternal great-great-grandfather of the King. The song and tales of his deeds weremany, and if forgotten at court, were still remembered in thevillages.

‘This sword,’ said the parson, ‘will not stay sheathed, if adragon iswithin fivemiles; andwithout doubt in a braveman’shandsnodragoncanresistit.’

Thenpeoplebegantotakeheartagain;andsomeunshutteredthe windows and put their heads out. In the end the parsonpersuaded a few to come and join him; but only the miller wasreallywilling.ToseeGilesinarealfixseemedtohimworththe

risk.Theywentupthehill,notwithoutanxiouslooksnorthacross

theriver.Therewasnosignofthedragon.Probablyhewasasleep;hehadbeenfeedingverywellalltheChristmastime.

Theparson(and themiller)hammeredon thefarmer’sdoor.Therewasnoanswer,sotheyhammeredlouder.AtlastGilescameout.His facewasvery red.Healsohad satup far into thenight,drinkingagooddealofale;andhehadbegunagainassoonashegotup.

Theyallcrowdedroundhim,callinghimGoodÆgidius,BoldAhenobarbus,GreatJulius,StaunchAgricola,PrideofHam,HerooftheCountryside.AndtheyspokeofCaudimordax,Tailbiter,TheSwordthatwouldnotbeSheathed,DeathorVictory.TheGloryoftheYeomanry, Backbone of the Country, and the Good of one’sFellowMen,untilthefarmer’sheadwashopelesslyconfused.

‘Now then! One at a time!’ he said, when he got a chance.‘What’sallthis,what’sallthis?It’smybusymorning,youknow.’

So they let the parson explain the situation.Then themillerhadthepleasureofseeingthefarmerinastightafixashecouldwish.Butthingsdidnotturnoutquiteasthemillerexpected.ForonethingGileshaddrunkadealofstrongale.ForanotherhehadaqueerfeelingofprideandencouragementwhenhelearnedthathisswordwasactuallyTailbiter.HehadbeenveryfondoftalesaboutBellomariuswhenhewasaboyandbeforehehadlearnedsensehehadsometimeswishedthathecouldhaveamarvellousandheroicsword of his own. So it came over him all of a sudden that hewould takeTailbiterandgodragonhunting.Buthehadbeenusedtobargainingallhislife,andhemadeonemoreefforttopostponetheevent.

‘What!’saidhe.‘Megodragon-hunting?Inmyoldleggingsandwaistcoat?Dragon-fightsneedsomekindofarmour,fromallI’veheard tell.There isn’tanyarmour in thishouse,and that’safact,’saidhe.

Thatwasabitawkward,theyallallowed;buttheysentforthe

blacksmith.Theblacksmithshookhishead.Hewasaslow,gloomyman,vulgarlyknownasSunnySam, thoughhispropernamewasFabricius Cunctator.He neverwhistled at hiswork, unless somedisaster (such as frost in May) had duly occurred after he hadforetold it.Sincehewasdaily foretellingdisastersofeverykind,few happened that he had not foretold, and he was able to takecredit of them. It was his chief pleasure; so naturally he wasreluctanttodoanythingtoavertthem.Heshookhisheadagain.

‘Ican’tmakearmouroutofnaught,’hesaid.‘Andit’snotinmyline.You’dbestgetthecarpentertomakeyouawoodenshield.Notthatitwillhelpyoumuch.He’sahotdragon.’

Theirfacesfell;butthemillerwasnotsoeasilytobeturnedfromhisplanofsendingGilestothedragon,ifhewouldgo;orofblowingthebubbleofhislocalreputation,ifherefusedintheend.‘Whataboutring-mail?’hesaid.‘Thatwouldbeahelp;anditneednotbeveryfine.Itwouldbeforbusinessandnotforshowingoffatcourt. What about your old leather jerkin, friend Ægidius?And

there is a great pile of links and rings in the smithy. I don’tsupposeMasterFabriciushimselfknowswhatmaybelyingthere.’

‘Youdon’tknowwhatyouaretalkingabout,’saidthesmith,growingcheerful. ‘If it’sreal ring-mailyoumean, thenyoucan’thaveit.Itneedstheskillofthedwarfs,witheverylittleringfittingintofourothersandall.EvenifIhadthecraft,Ishouldbeworkingforweeks.Andweshallallbeinourgravesbeforethen,’saidhe,‘orleastwaysinthedragon.’

They all wrung their hands in dismay, and the black smithbegan to smile. But they were now so alarmed that they wereunwilling togiveup themiller’splanand they turned tohim forcounsel.

‘Well,’saidhe,‘I’veheardtellthatintheolddaysthosethatcouldnotbuybrighthauberksoutof theSouthlandswould stitchsteel rings on a leather shirt and be content with that. Let’s seewhatcanbedoneinthatline?’

SoGiles had to bring out his old jerkin, and the smithwas

hurriedbacktohissmithy.There theyrummagedineverycornerand turned over the pile of old metal, as had not been done formanyayear.Atthebottomtheyfound,alldullwithrust,awholeheapof small rings, fallen fromsome forgottencoat, suchas themillerhadspokenof.Sam,moreunwillingandgloomyasthetaskseemedmorehopeful,wasset toworkon thespot,gatheringandsorting and cleaning the rings; and when (as he was pleased topointout)thesewereclearlyinsufficientforonesobroadofbackandbreastasMasterÆgidius, theymadehimsplitupoldchainsandhammerthelinksintoringsasfineashisskillcouldcontrive.

They took the smaller ringsof steel and stitched themon tothe breast of the jerkin, and the larger and clumsier rings theystitched on the back; and then, when still more rings wereforthcoming,sohardwaspoorSamdriven,theytookapairofthefarmer’sbreechesandstitchedringsontothem.Anduponashelfinadarknookofthesmithythemillerfoundtheoldironframeofahelmet,andhesetthecobblertowork,coveringitwithleatheras

wellashecould.Thework took themall the rest of the day, and all the next

day—which was Twelfthnight and the eve of the Epiphany, butfestivities were neglected. Farmer Giles celebrated the occasionwithmorealethanusual;butthedragonmercifullyslept.Forthemomenthehadforgottenallabouthungerorswords.

Early on the Epiphany they went up the hill, carrying thestrange result of their handiwork. Giles was expecting them. Hehadnownoexcuseslefttooffer;soheputonthemailjerkinandthebreeches.Themillersniggered.ThenGilesputonhistopbootsandanoldpairofspurs;andalsotheleather-coveredhelmet.Butatthelastmomentheclappedanoldfelthatoverthehelmet,andoverthemailcoathethrewhisbiggreycloak.

‘Whatisthepurposeofthat,Master?’theyasked.‘Well,’ saidGiles, ‘if it is your notion to go dragonhunting

jinglinganddinglinglikeCanterburyBells, itain’tmine.Itdon’tseemsensetometoletadragonknowthatyouarecomingalong

the road sooner than need be.And a helmet’s a helmet, and achallenge to battle. Let the worm see only my old hat over thehedge,andmaybeI’llgetnearerbeforethetroublebegins.’

Theyhad stitchedon the rings so that theyoverlapped, eachhanging loose over the one below, and jingle they certainly did.Thecloakdidsomethingtostopthenoiseofthem,butGilescutaqueerfigureinhisgear.Theydidnottellhimso.Theygirdedthebelt round his waist with difficulty, and they hung the scabbarduponit;buthehadtocarrythesword,foritwouldnolongerstaysheathed,unlessheldwithmainstrength.

ThefarmercalledforGarm.Hewasa justmanaccordingtohislights.‘Dog,’hesaid,‘youarecomingwithme.’

Thedoghowled.‘Help!help!’hecried.‘Now stop it!’ said Giles. ‘Or I’ll give you worse than any

dragoncould.Youknowthesmellofthisworm,andmaybeyou’ll

proveusefulforonce.’ThenFarmerGilescalled forhisgreymare.Shegavehima

queerlookandsniffedatthespurs.Butshelethimgetup;andthenoff theywent, andnoneof them felthappy.They trotted throughthevillage,andallthefolkclappedandcheered,mostlyfromtheirwindows.Thefarmerandhismareputasgoodafaceonitastheycould;butGarmhadnosenseof shameandslunkalongwithhistaildown.

They crossed the bridge over the river at the end of thevillage.Whenatlasttheywerewelloutofsight,theyslowedtoawalk.Yet all too soon they passed out of the lands belonging toFarmerGilesandtootherfolkofHamandcametopartsthatthedragon had visited. There were broken trees, burned hedges andblackenedgrass,andanastyuncannysilence.

Thesunwas shiningbright, andFarmerGilesbegan towishthathedaredshedagarmentortwo;andhewonderedifhehadnottaken a pint too many. ‘A nice end to Christmas and all,’ he

thought.‘AndI’llbeluckyifitdon’tprovetheendofmetoo.’Hemoppedhisfacewithalargehandkerchief—green,notred;forredragsinfuriatedragons,orsohehadheardtell.

But he did not find the dragon. He rode down many lanes,wideandnarrow,andoverotherfarmers’desertedfields,andstillhedidnotfind thedragon.Garmwas,ofcourse,ofnouseatall.Hekeptjustbehindthemareandrefusedtousehisnose.

They came at last to awinding road that had suffered littledamageandseemedquietandpeaceful.AfterfollowingitforhalfamileGilesbegantowonderwhetherhehadnotdonehisdutyandall thathis reputation required.Hehadmadeuphismind thathehadlookedlongandfarenough,andhewasjustthinkingofturningback,andofhisdinner, andof tellinghis friends that thedragonhad seen him coming and simply flown away,when he turned asharpcorner.

Therewas thedragon, lyinghalfacrossabrokenhedgewithhishorribleheadinthemiddleoftheroad.‘Help!’saidGarmand

bolted.Thegreymaresatdownplump,andFarmerGileswentoffbackwards into a ditch.When he put his head out, therewas thedragonwideawakelookingathim.

‘Goodmorning!’saidthedragon.‘Youseemsurprised.’‘Goodmorning!’saidGiles.‘Iamthat.’‘Excuse me,’ said the dragon. He had cocked a very

suspicious earwhenhecaught the soundof rings jingling, as thefarmer fell. ‘Excusemyasking,butwereyou looking forme,byanychance?’

‘No,indeed!’saidthefarmer.‘Who’da’thoughtofseeingyouhere?Iwasjustgoingforaride.’

He scrambled out of the ditch in a hurry and backed awaytowards the grey mare. She was now on her feet again and wasnibblingsomegrassatthewayside,seemingquiteunconcerned.

‘Thenwemeetbygoodluck,’saidthedragon.Thepleasureismine. Those are your holiday clothes, I suppose.A new fashion,perhaps?’FarmerGiles’sfelthathadfallenoffandhisgreycloak

hadslippedopen;buthebrazeneditout.‘Aye,’ said he, ‘brand-new. But I must be after that dog of

mine.He’sgoneafterrabbits,Ifancy.’‘I fancy not,’ said Chrysophylax, licking his lips (a sign of

amusement). ‘He will get home a long time before you do, Iexpect.Butprayproceedonyourway,Master—letmesee,Idon’tthinkIknowyourname?’

‘NorIyours,’saidGiles;‘andwe’llleaveitatthat.’‘As you like,’ saidChrysophylax, licking his lips again, but

pretendingtoclosehiseyes.Hehadawickedheart(asdragonsallhave),butnotaveryboldone(as isnotunusual).Hepreferredameal that he did not have to fight for, but appetite had returnedafteragoodlongsleep.TheparsonofOakleyhadbeenstringy,anditwasyearssincehehadtastedalargefatman.Hehadnowmadeuphismindtotrythiseasymeat,andhewasonlywaitinguntiltheoldfoolwasoffhisguard.

Buttheoldfoolwasnotasfoolishashelooked,andhekept

his eye on the dragon, even while he was trying to mount. Themare, however, had other ideas, and she kicked and shied whenGilestriedtogetup.Thedragonbecameimpatientandmadereadytospring.

‘Excuseme!’saidhe.‘Haven’tyoudroppedsomething?’An ancient trick, but it succeeded; for Giles had indeed

droppedsomething.WhenhefellhehaddroppedCaudimordax(orvulgarlyTailbiter),andthereitlaybythewayside.Hestoopedtopickitup;andthedragonsprang.ButnotasquickasTailbiter.Assoonasitwasinthefarmer’shand,itleapedforwardwithaflash,straightatthedragon’seyes.

‘Hey!’ said the dragon, and stopped very short. ‘What haveyougotthere?’

‘OnlyTailbiter,thatwasgiventomebytheKing,’saidGiles.‘Mymistake!’ said the dragon. ‘I beg your pardon.’ He lay

andgrovelled,andFarmerGilesbegantofeelmorecomfortable.‘Idon’tthinkyouhavetreatedmefair.’

‘Hownot?’saidGiles.‘AndanywaywhyshouldI?’‘You have concealed your honourable name and pretended

that ourmeetingwas by chance; yet you are plainly a knight ofhigh lineage. It used, sir, to be the custom of knights to issue achallenge in such cases, after a proper exchange of titles andcredentials.’

‘Maybeitused,andmaybeitstillis,’saidGiles,beginningtofeel pleased with himself.A man who has a large and imperialdragongrovellingbeforehimmaybeexcusedifhefeelssomewhatuplifted.‘Butyouaremakingmoremistakesthanone,oldworm.Iam no knight. I am FarmerÆgidius of Ham, I am; and I can’tabide trespassers. I’ve shot giants with my blunderbuss beforenow, for doing less damage than you have. And I issued nochallengeneither.’

The dragon was disturbed. ‘Curse that giant for a liar!’ hethought. ‘I have been sadlymisled.And nowwhat on earth doesonedowithaboldfarmerandaswordsobrightandaggressive?’

Hecouldrecallnoprecedentforsuchasituation.‘Chrysophylaxismy name,’ said he, ‘Chrysophy-lax the Rich.What can I do foryourhonour?’headdedingratiatingly,withoneeyeonthesword,andhopingtoescapebattle.

‘Youcantakeyourselfoff,youhornyoldvarmint,’saidGiles,also hoping to escape battle. ‘I onlywant to be shot of you.Goright away from here, and get back to yourown dirty den!’ Hestepped towards Chrysophylax, waving his arms as if he wasscaringcrows.

ThatwasquiteenoughforTailbiter.Itcircledflashingtheair;then down it came, smiting the dragon on the joint of the rightwing, a ringing blow that shocked him exceedingly. Of courseGilesknewverylittleabouttherightmethodsofkillingadragon,ortheswordmighthavelandedinatendererspot;butTailbiterdidthe best it could in inexperienced hands. Itwas quite enough forChrysophylax—hecouldnotusehiswingfordays.Uphegotandturnedtofly,andfoundthathecouldnot.Thefarmersprangonthe

mare’sback.Thedragonbegantorun.Sodidthemare.Thedragongalloped over a field puffing and blowing. So did themare. Thefarmerbawledandshouted,asifhewaswatchingahorserace;andallthewhilehewavedTailbiter.Thefasterthedragonranthemorebewilderedhebecame;andallthewhilethegreymareputherbestlegforemostandkeptclosebehindhim.

Ontheypoundeddownthelanes,andthroughthegapsinthefences,overmanyfieldsandacrossmanybrooks.Thedragonwassmoking and bellowing and losing all sense of direction.At lasttheycame suddenly to thebridgeofHam, thunderedover it, andcame roaring down the village street. There Garm had theimpudencetosneakoutofanalleyandjoininthechase.

Allthepeoplewereattheirwindowsorontheroofs.Somelaughedandsomecheered;andsomebeattinsandpans

andkettles;andothersblewhornsandpipesandwhistles;andtheparsonhadthechurchbellsrung.Suchato-doandanongoinghadnotbeenheardinHamforahundredyears.

Justoutsidethechurchthedragongaveup.Helaydowninthemiddleoftheroadandgasped.Garmcameandsniffedathistail,butChrysophylaxwaspastallshame.

‘Goodpeople,andgallantwarrior,’hepanted,asFarmerGilesrode up, while the villagers gathered round (at a reasonabledistance) with hayforks, poles, and pokers in their hands. ‘Goodpeople,don’tkillme!Iamveryrich.IwillpayforallthedamageI have done. I will pay for the funerals of all the people I havekilled, especially the parson of Oakley; he shall have a noblecenotaph—thoughhewasratherlean.Iwillgiveyoueachareallygoodpresent,ifyouwillonlyletmegohomeandfetchit.’

‘Howmuch?’saidthefarmer.‘Well,’ said the dragon, calculating quickly.He noticed that

thecrowdwasratherlarge.‘Thirteenandeightpenceeach?’‘Nonsense!’saidGiles.‘Rubbish!’saidthepeople.‘Rot!’said

thedog.‘Twogoldenguineaseach,andchildrenhalfprice?’said the

dragon.‘What about dogs?’ said Garm. ‘Go on!’ said the farmer.

‘We’relistening.’‘Ten pounds and a purse of silver for every soul, and gold

collarsforthedogs?’saidChrysophylaxanxiously.‘Killhim!’shoutedthepeople,gettingimpatient.‘Abagofgold foreverybody,anddiamonds for the ladies?’

saidChrysophylaxhurriedly.‘Nowyou’retalking,butnotgoodenough,’saidFarmerGiles.

‘You’veleftdogsoutagain,’saidGarm.‘Whatsizeofbags?’saidthemen.‘Howmanydiamonds?’saidtheirwives.

‘Dearme!dearme!’saidthedragon.‘Ishallberuined.’‘Youdeserve it,’ saidGiles. ‘Youcanchoosebetweenbeing

ruined and being killed where you lie.’ He brandished Tailbiter,and thedragon cowered. ‘Makeupyourmind!’ thepeople cried,gettingbolderanddrawingnearer.

Chrysophylaxblinked;butdeepdowninsidehimhelaughed:

a silent quiverwhich they did not observe. Their bargaining hadbeguntoamusehim.Evidentlytheyexpectedtogetsomethingoutof it. They knew very little of theways of thewide andwickedworld—indeed, therewasnoonenowliving inall the realmwhohad had any actual experience in dealingwith dragons and theirtricks.Chrysophylaxwasgettinghis breathback, andhiswits aswell.Helickedhislips.

‘Nameyourownprice!’hesaid.Then they all began to talk at once. Chrysophylax listened

withinterest.Onlyonevoicedisturbedhim:thatoftheblacksmith.‘No good’ll come of it,markmywords,’ said he. ‘Aworm

won’treturn,saywhatyoulike.Butnogoodwillcomeofit,eitherway.’

‘Youcanstandoutof thebargain, if that’syourmind,’ theysaidtohim,andwentonhaggling,takinglittlefurthernoticeofthedragon.

Chrysophylax raisedhishead;but ifhe thoughtof springing

on them, or of slipping off during the argument he wasdisappointed.FarmerGileswasstandingby,chewingastrawandconsidering;butTailbiterwasinhishand,andhiseyewasonthedragon.

‘You lie where you be!’ said he, ‘or you’ll get what youdeserve,goldornogold.’

Thedragon lay flat.At last theparsonwasmadespokesmanandhesteppedupbesideGiles.‘VileWorm!’hesaid.‘Youmustbring back to this spot all your illgotten wealth; and afterrecompensingthosewhomyouhaveinjuredwewillshareitfairlyamongourselves.Then,ifyoumakeasolemnvownevertodisturbour landagain,nor tostirupanyothermonster to troubleus,wewill letyoudepartwithbothyourheadandyourtail toyourownhome.And now you shall take such strong oaths to return (withyour ransom) as even the conscience of a worm must holdbinding.’

Chrysophylax accepted, after a plausible show of hesitation.

Heevenshedhottears,lamentinghisruin,tillthereweresteamingpuddles in the road; but no one was moved by them. He sworemanyoaths,solemnandastonishing,thathewouldreturnwithallhiswealthonthefeastofStHilariusandStFelix.Thatgavehimeightdays,andfartooshortatimeforthejourney,aseventhoseignorantofgeographymightwellhavereflected.Nonethelesstheylethimgo,andescortedhimasfarasthebridge.

‘Toournextmeeting!’hesaid,ashepassedovertheriver.‘Iamsureweshallalllookforwardtoit.’

‘We shall indeed,’ they said. They were, of course, veryfoolish. For though the oaths he had taken should have burdenedhis conscience with sorrow and a great fear of disaster, he had,alas! no conscience at all.And if this regrettable lack in one ofimperial lineagewasbeyond thecomprehensionof the simple, atthe least theparsonwithhisbooklearningmighthaveguessed it.Maybe he did. He was a grammarian, and could doubtless seefurtherintothefuturethanothers.

Theblacksmithshookhisheadashewentbacktohissmithy.‘Ominous names,’ he said. ‘Hilarius and Felix! I don’t like thesoundofthem.’

TheKing, of course, quickly heard the news. It ran throughthe realm like fire and lost nothing in the telling. TheKingwasdeeplymoved, for various reasons, not the least being financial;andhemadeuphismindtorideatonceinpersontoHam,wheresuchstrangethingsseemedtohappen.

He arrived four days after the dragon’s departure, comingover the bridge on his white horse, with many knights andtrumpeters, and a large baggage-train.All the people had put ontheir best clothes and lined the street to welcome him. Thecavalcadecametoahaltintheopenspacebeforethechurchgate.FarmerGileskneltbeforetheKing,whenhewaspresented;buttheKing told him to rise, and actually patted him on the back. Theknightspretendednottoobservethisfamiliarity.

The King ordered the whole village to assemble in Farmer

Giles’s large pasture beside the river, and when they were allgathered together (including Garm, who felt that he wasconcerned), Augustus Bonifacius rex et basileus was graciouslypleasedtoaddressthem.

He explained carefully that the wealth of the miscreantChrysophylax all belonged to himself as lord of the land. Hepassed rather lightly over his claim to be considered suzerain ofthe mountain-country (which was debatable); but ‘we make nodoubtinanycase,’saidhe,‘thatallthetreasureofthiswormwasstolen fromour ancestors.Yetweare, as all know,both just andgenerous,andourgood liegeÆgidiusshallbesuitablyrewarded;nor shall anyofour loyal subjects in this placegowithout sometokenofouresteem,fromtheparsontotheyoungestchild.ForwearewellpleasedwithHam.Hereatleastasturdyanduncorruptedfolkstillretaintheancientcourageofourrace.’Theknightsweretalkingamongthemselvesaboutthenewfashioninhats.

Thepeoplebowedandcurtsied,andthankedhimhumbly.But

theywishednowthattheyhadclosedwiththedragon’sofferoftenpoundsallround,andkeptthematterprivate.Theyknewenough,at any rate, to feel sure that theKing’s esteemwouldnot rise tothat.Garmnoticedthattherewasnomentionofdogs.FarmerGileswas theonlyoneof themwhowasreallycontent.Hefeltsureofsomereward,andwasmightygladanywaytohavecomesafelyoutofanastybusinesswithhislocalreputationhigherthanever.

TheKingdidnotgoaway.HepitchedhispavilionsinFarmerGiles’s field, and waited for January the fourteenth, making asmerryashecouldinamiserablevillagefarfromthecapital.Theroyal retinue ate up nearly all the bread, butter, eggs, chickens,baconandmutton,anddrankupeverydropofoldaletherewasinthe place in the next three days. Then they began to grumble atshortcommons.But theKingpaidhandsomelyforeverything(intallies to be honoured later by the Exchequer, which he hoped

wouldshortlyberichlyreplenished);sothefolkofHamwerewellsatisfied,notknowingtheactualstateoftheExchequer.

January the fourteenth came, the feast of Hilarius and ofFelix, andeverybodywasupandaboutearly.Theknightsputontheirarmour.Thefarmerputonhiscoatofhome-mademail,andtheysmiledopenly,untiltheycaughttheKing’sfrown.ThefarmeralsoputonTailbiter,anditwentintoitssheathaseasyasbutter,andstayedthere.Theparsonlookedhardatthesword,andnoddedtohimself.Theblacksmithlaughed.

Midday came. People were too anxious to eat much. Theafternoonpassedslowly.StillTailbitershowednosignof leapingfromthescabbard.Noneofthewatchersonthehill,noranyofthesmall boys who had climbed to the top of tall trees, could seeanything by air or by land that might herald the return of thedragon.

The blacksmithwalked aboutwhistling; but itwas not untileveningfellandthestarscameoutthattheotherfolkofthevillage

begantosuspectthatthedragondidnotmeantocomebackatall.Stilltheyrecalledhismanysolemnandastonishingoathsandkeptonhoping.When,however,midnightstruckandtheappointeddaywas over, their disappointment was deep. The blacksmith wasdelighted.

‘Itoldyouso,’hesaid.Buttheywerestillnotconvinced.‘Afterallhewasbadlyhurt,’saidsome.‘We did not give him enough time,’ said others. ‘It is a

powerful longway to themountains, and hewould have a lot tocarry.Maybehehashadtogethelp.’

But thenextdaypassedand thenext.Then theyall gaveuphope.TheKingwasinaredrage.Thevictualsanddrinkshadrunout, and the knights were grumbling loudly. They wished to gobacktothemerrimentsofcourt.ButtheKingwantedmoney.

Hetookleaveofhisloyalsubjects,buthewasshortandsharpaboutit;andhecancelledhalfthetalliesontheExchequer.HewasquitecoldtoFarmerGilesanddismissedhimwithanod.

‘Youwillhear fromus later,’he said, and rodeoffwithhisknightsandhistrumpeters.

Themorehopefulandsimple-mindedthoughtthatamessagewouldsooncomefromthecourttosummonMasterÆgidiustotheKing,tobeknightedattheleast.Inaweekthemessagecame,butitwasofdifferentsort.Itwaswrittenandsignedintriplicate:onecopy for Giles; one for the parson; and one to be nailed on thechurchdoor.Onlythecopyaddressedtotheparsonwasofanyuse,forthecourt-handwaspeculiarandasdarktothefolkofHamastheBook-latin.But the parson rendered it into the vulgar tongueandreaditfromthepulpit.Itwasshortandtothepoint(foraroyalletter);theKingwasinahurry.

‘WeAugustusB.A.A.P.andM. rexetceteramakeknownthatwehavedetermined, for thesafetyofour realmandforthe keeping of our honour, that the worm or dragon styling

himself Chrysophylax the Rich shall be sought out andcondignly punished for his misdemeanours, torts, felonies,andfoulperjury.All theknightsofourRoyalHouseholdareherebycommanded toarmandmake ready to rideupon thisquest,sosoonasMasterAegidiusA.J.Agricolashallarriveat this our court. Inasmuch as the saidAegidius has provedhimself a trusty man and well able to deal with giants,dragons,andotherenemiesoftheKing’speace,nowthereforewe command him to ride forth at once, and to join thecompanyofourknightswithallspeed.’

People said this was a high honour and next door to beingdubbed. Themillerwas envious. ‘FriendÆgidius isrising in theworld,’saidhe.‘Ihopehewillknowuswhenhegetsback.’

‘Maybeheneverwill,’saidtheblacksmith.‘That’s enough from you, old horse-face!’ said the farmer,

mightyputout.‘Honourbeblowed!IfIgetbackeventhemiller’s

companywillbewelcome.Still,itissomecomforttothinkthatIshallbemissingyoubothforabit.’Andwiththatheleftthem.

You cannot offer excuses to the King as you can to yourneighbours; so lambs or no lambs, ploughing or none, milk orwater,hehad togetuponhisgreymareandgo.Theparsonsawhimoff.

‘Ihopeyouaretakingsomestoutropewithyou?’hesaid.‘Whatfor?’saidGiles.‘Tohangmyself?’‘Nay!Takeheart,MasterÆgidius!’saidtheparson.‘Itseems

tomethatyouhavealuckthatyoucantrust.Buttakealsoalongrope, foryoumayneed it,unlessmy foresightdeceivesme.Andnowfarewell,andreturnsafely!’

‘Aye!And come back and find all my house and land in apickle. Blast dragons!’ said Giles. Then, stuffing a great coil ofropeinabagbyhissaddle,heclimbedupandrodeoff.

Hedidnottakethedog,whohadkeptwelloutofsightallthemorning. But when he was gone, Garm slunk home and stayed

there,andhowledallthenight,andwasbeatenforit,andwentonhowling.

‘Help, ow help!’ he cried. ‘I’ll never see dearmasteragain,andhewassoterribleandsplendid.IwishIhadgonewithhim,Ido.’

‘Shutup!’saidthefarmer’swife,‘oryou’llneverlivetoseeifhecomesbackorhedon’t.’

The blacksmith heard the howls. ‘A bad omen,’ he saidcheerfully.

Manydayspassedandnonewscame.‘Nonewsisbadnews,’hesaid,andburstintosong.

WhenFarmerGilesgot tocourthewas tiredanddusty.Butthe knights, in polished mail and with shining helmets on theirheads,wereallstandingbytheirhorses.TheKing’ssummonsandtheinclusionofthefarmerhadannoyedthem,andsotheyinsisted

on obeying orders literally, setting off the moment that Gilesarrived. The poor farmer had barely time to swallow a sop in adraughtofwinebeforehewasoffontheroadagain.Themarewasoffended.Whatshe thoughtof theKingwas luckilyunexpressed,asitwashighlydisloyal.

Itwasalready late in theday. ‘Too late in theday tostartadragon-hunt,’ thoughtGiles.But theydidnotgo far.Theknightswere innohurry,once theyhad started.They rodealongat theirleisure,inastragglingline,knights,esquires,servants,andponiestrussedwithbaggage;andFarmerGilesjoggingbehindonhistiredmare.

When evening came, they halted and pitched their tents.Noprovision had beenmade for FarmerGiles and he had to borrowwhat he could. The mare was indignant,and she forswore herallegiancetothehouseofAugustusBonifacius.

Thenextdaytheyrodeon,andallthedayafter.Onthethirdday they descried in the distance the dim and inhospitable

mountains.BeforelongtheywereinregionswherethelordshipofAugustusBonifaciuswasnotuniversallyacknowledged.Theyrodethenwithmorecareandkeptclosertogether.

OnthefourthdaytheyreachedtheWildHillsandthebordersof the dubious lands where legendary creatures were reputed todwell. Suddenly one of those riding ahead came upon ominousfootprintsinthesandbyastream.Theycalledforthefarmer.

‘Whatarethese,MasterÆgidius?’theysaid.‘Dragon-marks,’saidhe.‘Leadon!’saidthey.SonowtheyrodewestwithFarmerGilesattheirhead,andall

theringswerejinglingonhisleathercoat.Thatmatteredlittle;foralltheknightswerelaughingandtalking,andaminstrelrodewiththemsingingalay.Everynowandagaintheytookuptherefrainofthe song and sang it all together, very loud and strong. It wasencouraging,forthesongwasgood—ithadbeenmadelongbeforeindayswhenbattlesweremorecommonthantournaments;butit

wasunwise.Theircomingwasnowknown toall thecreaturesofthatland,andthedragonswerecockingtheirearsinallthecavesoftheWest.TherewasnolongeranychanceoftheircatchingoldChrysophylaxnapping.

Asluck(orthegreymareherself)wouldhaveit,whenatlastthey drew under the very shadow of the darkmountains, FarmerGiles’smarewent lame.Theyhadnowbegun to ridealongsteepand stony paths, climbing upwards with toil and ever-growingdisquiet. Bit by bit she dropped back in line, stumbling andlimping and looking so patient and sad that at last FarmerGileswasobligedtogetoffandwalk.Soontheyfoundthemselvesrightatthebackamongthepack-ponies;butnoonetookanynoticeofthem. The knights were discussing points of precedence andetiquette,andtheirattentionwasdistracted.Otherwisetheywouldhaveobservedthatdragon-markswerenowobviousandnumerous.

They had come, indeed, to the places where Chrysophylaxoftenroamed,oralightedaftertakinghisdailyexerciseintheair.

The lower hills, and the slopes on either side of the path, had ascorchedandtrampledlook.Therewaslittlegrass,andthetwistedstumpsofheatherandgorsestoodupblackamidwidepatchesofashandburnedearth.Theregionhadbeenadragons’playgroundformanyayear.Adarkmountain-wallloomedupbeforethem.

FarmerGileswasconcernedabouthismare;buthewasgladof the excuse for no longer being so conspicuous. It had notpleasedhim tobe ridingat theheadof suchacavalcade in thesedrearyanddubiousplaces.A little laterhewasgladder still, andhad reason to thank his fortune (and his mare). For just aboutmidday—itbeingthentheFeastofCandlemas,andtheseventhdayof their riding—Tailbiter leapedoutof its sheath,and thedragonoutofhiscave.

Withoutwarningor formalityheswoopedout togivebattle.Down he came upon them with a rush and a roar. Far from hishomehehadnotshownhimselfoverbold, inspiteofhisancientandimperiallineage.Butnowhewasfilledwithagreatwrath;for

hewasfightingathisowngate,asitwere,andwithallhistreasuretodefend.Hecameroundashoulderofthemountainlikeatonofthunderbolts,withanoiselikeagaleandagustofredlightning.

The argument concerning precedence stopped short.All thehorsesshiedtoonesideortheother,andsomeoftheknightsfelloff.Theponiesandthebaggageandtheservantsturnedandranatonce.Theyhadnodoubtastotheorderofprecedence.

Suddenlytherecamearushofsmokethatsmotheredthemall,andrightinthemidstofitthedragoncrashedintotheheadoftheline. Several of the knights were killed before they could evenissue their formal challenge to battle, and several others werebowledover,horsesandall.Asfortheremainder,theirsteedstookchargeof them,andturnedroundandfled,carrying theirmastersoff,whethertheywisheditorno.Mostofthemwisheditindeed.

Buttheoldgreymaredidnotbudge.Maybeshewasafraidofbreakingherlegsonthesteepstonypath.Maybeshefelttootiredto runaway.Sheknewinherbones thatdragonson thewingare

worsebehindyouthanbeforeyou,andyouneedmorespeedthanarace-horse for flight to be useful. Besides, she had seen thisChrysophylaxbefore,andrememberedchasinghimoverfieldandbrook in her own country, till he lay down tame in the villagestreet. Anyway she stuck her legs out wide, and she snorted.FarmerGileswentaspaleashisfacecouldmanage,buthestayedbyherside;forthereseemednothingelsetodo.

And so it was that the dragon, charging down the line,suddenlysawstraightinfrontofhimhisoldenemywithTailbiterinhishand.Itwasthelastthingheexpected.Heswervedasidelikeagreatbatandcollapsedonthehillsideclosetotheroad.Upcamethegreymare,quiteforgettingtowalklame.FarmerGiles,muchencouraged,hadscrambledhastilyonherback.

‘Excuseme,’ said he, ‘butwere you looking forme, by anychance?’

‘No,indeed!’saidChrysophylax.‘Whowouldhavethoughtofseeingyouhere?Iwasjustflyingabout,’‘Thenwemeetbygoodluck,’saidGiles, ‘andthepleasure ismine; forIwas lookingforyou.What’smore,Ihaveabonetopickwithyou,severalbonesinamannerofspeaking.’

Thedragonsnorted.FarmerGilesputuphisarmtowardoffthehotgust,andwithaflashTailbitersweptforward,dangerouslynearthedragon’snose.

‘Hey!’saidhe,andstoppedsnorting.Hebegantotrembleandbackedaway,andallthefireinhimwaschilled.‘Youhavenot,Ihope,cometokillme,goodmaster?’hewhined.

‘Nay!nay!’saidthefarmer.‘Isaidnaughtaboutkilling.’Thegreymaresniffed.

‘Thenwhat,mayIask,areyoudoingwithalltheseknights?’saidChrysophylax. ‘Knights alwayskill dragons, ifwedon’t killthemfirst.’

‘I’mdoingnothingwith themat all.They’renaught tome,’

said Giles. ‘And anyway, they are all dead now or gone. WhataboutwhatyousaidlastEpiphany?’

‘Whataboutit?’saidthedragonanxiously.‘You’re nigh on a month late,’ said Giles, ‘and payment is

overdue.I’vecometocollectit.YoushouldbegmypardonforallthebotherIhavebeenputto.’

‘Idoindeed!’saidhe.‘Iwishyouhadnottroubledtocome.’‘It’llbeeverybitofyour treasure this time, andnomarket-

tricks,’ saidGiles, ‘or deadyou’ll be, and I shall hangyour skinfromourchurchsteepleasawarning.

‘It’scruelhard!’saidthedragon.‘Abargain’sabargain,’saidGiles.‘Can’t I keep just a ring or two, and a mite of gold, in

considerationofcashpayment?’saidhe.‘Not a brass button!’ said Giles.And so they kept on for a

while,chafferingandarguing likefolkatafair.Yet theendof itwasasyoumightexpect;forwhateverelsemightbesaid,fewhad

everoutlastedFarmerGilesatabargaining.Thedragonhadtowalkallthewaybacktohiscave,forGiles

stuck to his side with Tailbiter held mighty close. There was anarrowpaththatwoundupandroundthemountain,andtherewasbarelyroomforthetwoofthem.

Themarecamejustbehindandshelookedratherthoughtful.Itwas fivemiles, if itwasa step,andstiffgoing;andGiles

trudged along, puffing and blowing, but never taking his eye offtheworm.Atlastonthewestsideofthemountaintheycametothemouthof thecave. Itwas largeandblackand forbidding,and itsbrazendoorsswungongreatpillarsof iron.Plainly ithadbeenaplaceofstrengthandprideindayslongforgotten;fordragonsdonotbuildsuchworksnordelvesuchmines,butdwellrather,whentheymay,inthetombsandtreasuriesofmightymenandgiantsofold. The doors of this deep house were set wide, and in theirshadow they halted. So far Chrysophylax had had no chance toescape, but coming now to his own gate he sprang forward and

preparedtoplungein.FarmerGileshithimwith theflatof thesword. ‘Woa!’said

he. ‘Before yougo in, I’ve something to say to you. If you ain’toutsideagaininquicktimewithsomethingworthbringing,Ishallcomeinafteryouandcutoffyourtailtobeginwith.’

Themaresniffed.ShecouldnotimagineFarmerGilesgoingdown alone into a dragon’s den for any money on earth. ButChrysophylax was quite prepared to believe it,with Tailbiterlookingsobrightandsharpandall.Andmaybehewasright,andthemare,forallherwisdom,hadnotyetunderstoodthechangeinher master. Farmer Giles was backing his luck, and after twoencounterswasbeginningtofancythatnodragoncouldstanduptohim.

Anyway,outcameChrysophylaxagaininmightyquicktime,withtwentypounds(troy)ofgoldandsilver,andachestofringsandnecklacesandotherprettystuff.

‘There!’saidhe.

‘Where?’ saidGiles. ‘That’s not half enough, if that’swhatyoumean.Norhalfwhatyou’vegot,I’llbebound.’

‘Ofcoursenot!’saidthedragon,ratherperturbedtofindthatthefarmer’switsseemedtohavebecomebrightersincethatdayinthevillage.‘Ofcoursenot!ButIcan’tbringitalloutatonce.’

‘Norattwice,I’llwager,’saidGiles.‘Inyougoagain,andoutagaindoublequick,orI’llgiveyouatasteofTailbiter!’

‘No!’saidthedragon,andinhepoppedandoutagaindoublequick.‘There!’saidhe,puttingdownanenormousloadofgoldandtwochestsofdiamonds.

‘Nowtryagain!’saidthefarmer.‘Andtryharder!’‘It’s hard, cruel hard,’ said the dragon, as he went back in

again.Butby this time thegreymarewasgetting abit anxiouson

herownaccount.‘Who’sgoingtocarryallthisheavystuffhome,Iwonder?’thoughtshe;andshegavesuchalongsadlookatallthebagsandboxesthatthefarmerguessedhermind.

‘Neveryouworry, lass!’ saidhe. ‘We’llmake theoldwormdothecarting.’

‘Mercyonus!’saidthedragon,whooverheardthesewordsashecameoutofthecaveforthethirdtimewiththebiggestloadofall,andamortofrichjewelslikegreenandredfire.‘Mercyonus!IfIcarryallthis,itwillbenearthedeathofme,andabagmoreInevercouldmanage,notifyoukilledmeforit.’

‘Thenthereismorestill,isthere?’saidthefarmer.‘Yes,’ said the dragon, ‘enough to keepme respectable.’He

spokenearthetruthforararewonder,andwiselyasitturnedout.‘If you will leave me what remains,’ said he very wily, ‘I’ll beyourfriendforever.AndIwillcarryallthistreasurebacktoyourhonour’sownhouseandnottotheKing’s.AndIwillhelpyoutokeepit,whatismore,’saidhe.

Thenthefarmertookoutatoothpickwithhislefthand,andhethought very hard for a minute. Then ‘Done with you!’ he said,showinga laudablediscretion.Aknightwouldhavestoodoutfor

thewholehoardandgotacurselaiduponit.Andaslikelyasnot,ifGiles had driven theworm to despair, hewould have turned andfoughtintheend,TailbiterornoTailbiter.InwhichcaseGiles,ifnot slain himself, would have been obliged to slaughter histransportandleavethebestpartofhisgainsinthemountains.

Well, thatwas the end of it. The farmer stuffed his pocketswithjewels,justincaseanythingwentwrong;andhegavethegreymare a small load to carry.All the rest he boundon the backofChrysophylax in boxes and bags, till he looked like a royalpantechnicon.Therewasnochanceofhisflying,forhisloadwastoogreat,andGileshadtieddownhiswings.

‘Mighty handy this rope has turned out in the end!’ hethought,andherememberedtheparsonwithgratitude.

Sooffnowthedragontrotted,puffingandblowing,with themare at his tail, and the farmer holding out Caudimordax verybrightandthreatening.Hedaredtrynotricks.

Inspiteoftheirburdensthemareandthedragonmadebetter

speedgoingbackthanthecavalcadehadmadecoming.ForFarmerGileswasinahurry—nottheleastreasonbeingthathehadlittlefood in his bags.Also he had no trust in Chrysophylax after hisbreakingofoaths so solemnandbinding, andhewonderedmuchhowtogetthroughanightwithoutdeathorgreatloss.Butbeforethatnightfellheranagainintoluck;fortheyovertookhalfadozenoftheservantsandponiesthathaddepartedinhasteandwerenowwandering at a loss in theWildHills.They scattered in fear andamazement,butGilesshoutedafterthem.

‘Hey, lads!’ said he. ‘Comeback! I have a job for you, andgoodwageswhilethispacketlasts.’

So they entered his service, being glad of a guide, andthinking that their wages might indeed come more regular nowthanhadbeenusual.Thentheyrodeon,sevenmen,sixponies,onemare,andadragon;andGilesbegan to feel likea lordandstuckouthischest.Theyhaltedasseldomastheycould.AtnightFarmerGilesropedthedragontofourpickets,onetoeachleg,withthree

mentowatchhiminturn.Butthegreymarekepthalfaneyeopen,incasethemenshouldtryanytricksontheirownaccount.

Afterthreedaystheywerebackoverthebordersoftheirowncountry; and their arrival caused suchwonder and uproar as hadseldombeenseenbetweenthetwoseasbefore.Inthefirstvillagethattheystoppedatfoodanddrinkwasshoweredonthemfree,andhalf theyoung ladswanted to join in theprocession.Giles choseoutadozenlikelyyoungfellows.Hepromisedthemgoodwages,andboughtthemsuchmountsashecouldget.Hewasbeginningtohaveideas.

Afterrestingadayherodeonagain,withhisnewescortathisheels. They sang songs in his honour: rough and ready, but theysoundedgoodinhisears.Somefolkcheeredandotherslaughed.Itwasasightbothmerryandwonderful.

Soon Farmer Giles took a bend southward, and steeredtowardshisownhome,andneverwentnearthecourtoftheKingnor sent any message. But the news of the return of Master

Ægidius spread like fire from the West; and there was greatastonishment and confusion. For he came hard on the heels of aroyal proclamation bidding all the towns and villages to go intomourning for the fall of the brave knights in the pass of themountains.

WhereverGileswent themourningwascast aside, andbellsweresetringing,andpeoplethrongedbythewaysideshoutingandwaving their caps and their scarves. But they booed the poordragon,tillhebeganbitterlytoregretthebargainhehadmade.Itwas most humiliating for one of ancient and imperial lineage.WhentheygotbacktoHamallthedogsbarkedathimscornfully.AllexceptGarm:hehadeyes,ears,andnoseonlyforhismaster.Indeed,hewentquiteoffhishead,andturnedsomersaultsallalongthestreet.

Ham, of course, gave the farmer a wonderful welcome; butprobablynothingpleasedhimmorethanfindingthemilleratalossforasneerandtheblacksmithquiteoutofcountenance.

‘Thisisnottheendoftheaffair,markmywords!’saidhe;buthe could not think of anything worse to say and hung his headgloomily.FarmerGiles,withhissixmenandhisdozenlikelyladsandthedragonandall,wentonup thehill,and there theystayedquietforawhile.Onlytheparsonwasinvitedtothehouse.

Thenewssoonreachedthecapital,andforgettingtheofficialmourning, and their business as well, people gathered in thestreets.Therewasmuchshoutingandnoise.

TheKingwasinhisgreathouse,bitinghisnailsandtugginghisbeard.Betweengriefandrage(andfinancialanxiety)hismoodwassogrimthatnoonedaredspeaktohim.Butatlastthenoiseofthe town came to his ears; it did not sound like mourning orweeping.

‘Whatisall thenoiseabout?’hedemanded.‘Tell thepeopleto go indoors andmourn decently! It soundsmore like a goose-fair.’

‘Thedragonhascomeback,lord,’theyanswered.

‘What!’ said theKing. ‘Summonourknights,orwhat is leftofthem!’

‘There is no need, lord,’ they answered. ‘With MasterÆgidius behind him the dragon is tame as tame. Or so we areinformed. The news has not long come in, and reports areconflicting.’

‘BlessourSoul!’saidtheKing,lookinggreatlyrelieved.‘AndtothinkthatweorderedaDirgetobesungforthefellow

the day after tomorrow! Cancel it! Is there any sign of ourtreasure?’

‘Reports say that there is a veritable mountain of it, lord,’theyanswered.

‘Whenwillitarrive?’saidtheKingeagerly.‘AgoodmanthisÆgidius—sendhimintousassoonashecomes!’

Therewassomehesitationinreplyingtothis.Atlastsomeonetook courage and said: ‘Your pardon, lord, but we hear that thefarmer has turned aside towards his ownhome.But doubtless he

willhastenhereinsuitableraimentattheearliestopportunity.’‘Doubtless,’saidtheKing.‘Butconfoundhisraiment!Hehad

no business to go home without reporting. We are muchdispleased!’

The earliest opportunity presented itself, and passed, and sodidmanylaterones.Infact,FarmerGileshadbeenbackforagoodweekormore,andstillnowordornewsofhimcametothecourt.

On the tenth day the King’s rage exploded. ‘Send for thefellow!’hesaid;andtheysent.Itwasaday’shardridingtoHam,eachway.

‘Hewillnotcome,lord!’saidatremblingmessengertwodayslater.

‘Lightning of Heaven!’ said the King. ‘Command him tocomeonTuesdaynext,orheshallbecastintoprisonforlife!’

‘Your pardon, lord, but he still will not come,’ said a trulymiserablemessengerreturningaloneontheTuesday.

‘Ten Thousand Thunders!’ said theKing. ‘Take this fool to

prisoninstead!Nowsendsomementofetchthechurlsinchains!’hebellowedtothosethatstoodby.

‘Howmanymen?’theyfaltered.‘There’sadragon,and…andTailbiter,and—’

‘And broomstales and fiddlesticks!’ said the King. Then heorderedhiswhitehorse, and summonedhisknights (orwhatwasleft of them) and a company ofmen-at-arms, and he rode off infieryanger.Allthepeopleranoutoftheirhousesinsurprise.

ButFarmerGileshadnowbecomemorethantheHerooftheCountryside:hewastheDarlingoftheLand;andfolkdidnotcheertheknightsandmen-at-armsastheywentby,thoughtheystilltookofftheirhatstotheKing.AshedrewnearertoHamthelooksgrewmoresullen;insomevillagesthepeopleshuttheirdoorsandnotafacecouldbeseen.

ThentheKingchangedfromhotwrathtocoldanger.HehadagrimlookasherodeupatlasttotheriverbeyondwhichlayHamandthehouseofthefarmer.Hehadamindtoburntheplacedown.

ButtherewasFarmerGilesonthebridge,sittingonthegreymarewith Tailbiter in his hand. No one else was to be seen, exceptGarm,whowaslyingintheroad.

‘Good morning, lord!’ said Giles, as cheerful as day, notwaitingtobespokento.

TheKing eyed him coldly. ‘Yourmanners are unfit for ourpresence,’ said he; ‘but that does not excuse you from comingwhensentfor.’

‘Ihadnotthoughtofit,lord,andthat’safact,’saidGiles.‘Ihadmattersofmyown tomind, andhadwasted timeenoughonyourerrands.’

‘TenThousandThunders!’criedtheKinginahotrageagain.‘Tothedevilwithyouandyourinsolence!Norewardwillyougetafterthis;andyouwillbeluckyifyouescapehanging.Andhangedyoushallbe,unlessyoubegourpardonhereandnow,andgiveus

backoursword.’‘Eh?’ saidGiles. ‘Ihavegotmy reward, I reckon.Finding’s

keeping,andkeeping’shaving,wesayhere,andIreckonTailbiterisbetterwithmethanwithyourfolk.Butwhatarealltheseknightsandmenfor,byanychance?’heasked.‘Ifyou’vecomeonavisit,you’dbewelcomewithfewer.Ifyouwanttotakemeawayyou’llneedalotmore.’

TheKing choked, and the knightswent very red and lookeddown their noses. Some of the men-at-arms grinned, since theKing’sbackwasturnedtothem.

‘Givememysword!’shoutedtheKing,findinghisvoice,butforgettinghisplural.

‘Giveusyourcrown!’saidGiles:astaggeringremark,suchashad never before been heard in all the days of the MiddleKingdom.

‘Lightning of Heaven! Seize him and bind him!’ cried theKing,justlyenragedbeyondbearing.‘Whatdoyouhangbackfor?

Seizehimorslayhim!’Themen-at-armsstrodeforward.‘Help!help!help!’criedGarm.

Justatthatmomentthedragongotupfromthebridge.Hehadlainthereconcealedunderthefarbank,deepintheriver.Nowheletoffaterriblesteam,forhehaddrunkmanygallonsofwater.Atoncetherewasathickfog,andonlytheredeyesofthedragontobeseeninit.

‘Go home, you fools!’ he bellowed. ‘Or I will tear you topieces.Thereareknightslyingcoldinthemountainpass,andsoontherewill bemore in the river.All theKing’s horses and all theKing’smen!’heroared.

Then he sprang forward and struck a claw into theKing’swhite horse; and it galloped away like the ten thousand thundersthat the King mentioned so often. The other horses followed as

swiftly: some had met this dragon before and did not like thememory. The men-atarms legged it as best they could in everydirectionsavethatofHam.

Thewhitehorsewasonlyscratched,andhewasnotallowedtogofar.AfterawhiletheKingbroughthimback.Hewasmasterofhisownhorseatanyrate;andnoonecouldsaythathewasafraidofanymanordragonon the faceof theearth.The fogwasgonewhenhe got back, but sowere all his knights and hismen.Nowthings looked very different with the King all alone to talk to astoutfarmerwithTailbiterandadragonaswell.

But talkdidnogood.FarmerGileswasobstinate.Hewouldnotyield,andhewouldnotfight,thoughtheKingchallengedhimtosinglecombatthereandthen.

‘Nay,lord!’saidhe,laughing.‘Gohomeandgetcool!Idon’twanttohurtyou;butyouhadbestbeoff,orIwon’tbeanswerablefortheworm.Goodday!’

And that was the end of the Battle of the Bridge of Ham.

NeverapennyofallthetreasuredidtheKingget,noranywordofapology from Farmer Giles, who was beginning to thinkmightywell of himself. What is more, from that day the power of theMiddleKingdomcametoanendinthatneighbourhood.Formanya mile round about men took Giles for their lord. Never a mancouldthe King with all his titles get to ride against the rebelÆgidius; for he had become the Darling of the Land, and thematterofsong;anditwasimpossibletosuppressallthelaysthatcelebratedhisdeeds.Thefavouriteonedealtwith themeetingonthebridgeinahundredmock-heroiccouplets.

Chrysophylax remained long in Ham,much to the profit ofGiles; for themanwhohas a tamedragon isnaturally respected.Hewashousedinthetithebarn,withtheleaveoftheparson,andtherehewasguardedby the twelve likely lads. In thiswayarosethefirstofthetitlesofGiles:DominusdeDomitoSerpente,whichis in thevulgarLordof theTameWorm,or shortlyofTame.Assuchhewaswidelyhonoured;buthestillpaidanominaltributeto

theKing:sixoxtailsandapintofbitter,deliveredonStMatthias’Day,thatbeingthedateofthemeetingonthebridge.Beforelong,however,headvancedtheLordtoEarl,andthebeltoftheEarlofTamewasindeedofgreatlength.

After some years he became Prince JuliusÆgidius and thetributeceased.ForGiles,beingfabulouslyrich,hadbuilthimselfahallofgreatmagnificence,andgatheredgreatstrengthofmen-at-arms.Very bright and gay theywere, for their gearwas the bestthatmoneycouldbuy.

Eachofthetwelvelikelyladsbecameacaptain.Garmhadagold collar, and while he lived roamed at his will, a proud andhappy dog, insufferable to his fellows; for heexpected all otherdogs toaccordhimtherespectdue to the terrorandsplendourofhismaster. The greymare passed to her days’ end in peace andgavenohintofherreflections.

In the end Giles became a king, of course, the King of theLittleKingdom.HewascrownedinHaminthenameofÆgidius

Draconarius;buthewasmoreoftenknownasOldGilesWorming.For thevulgar tonguecameintofashionathiscourt,andnoneofhisspeecheswereintheBook-latin.Hewifemadeaqueenofgreatsize and majesty, and she kept a tight hand on the householdaccounts. There was no getting round QueenAgatha—at least itwasalongwalk.

Thus Giles became at length old and venerable and had awhite beard down to this knees, and a very respectable court (inwhich merit was often rewarded), and an entirely new order ofknighthood.TheseweretheWormwardens,andadragonwastheirensign:thetwelvelikelyladsweretheseniormembers.

ItmustbeadmittedthatGilesowedhisriseinalargemeasuretoluck,thoughheshowedsomewitsintheuseofit.Boththeluckandthewitsremainedwithhimtotheendofhisdays,tothegreatbenefitofhisfriendsandhisneighbours.Herewardedtheparsonveryhandsomely;andeventheblacksmithandthemillerhadtheirbit. For Giles could afford to be generous. But after he became

Kingheissuedastronglawagainstunpleasantprophecy,andmademillingaroyalmonopoly.Theblacksmithchangedtothetradeofanundertaker;butthemillerbecameanobsequiousservantofthecrown. The parson became a bishop, and set up his see in thechurchofHam,whichwassuitablyenlarged.

Now thosewho live still in the lands of theLittleKingdomwillobserveinthishistorythetrueexplanationofthenamesthatsomeofitstownsandvillagesbearinourtime.ForthelearnedinsuchmattersinformusthatHam,beingmadethechieftownofthenew realm,by anatural confusionbetween theLordofHamandthe Lord of Tame became known by the latter name, which itretains to this day; forThamewith anh is follywithoutwarrant.Whereas in memory of the dragon, upon whom their fame andfortune were founded, the Draconarii built themselves a greathouse, fourmilesnorth-westofTame,upon the spotwhereGilesand Chrysophylax first made acquaintance. That place becameknown throughout the kingdom as Aula Draconaria, or in the

vulgarWorminghall,aftertheking’snameandhisstandard.The face of the land has changed since that time, and

kingdomshavecomeandgone;woodshavefallen,andrivershaveshifted,andonlythehillsremain,andtheyareworndownbytherain and thewind. But still that name endures; thoughmen nowcallitWunnle(orsoIamtold);forvillageshavefallenfromtheirpride. But in the days of which this tale speaksWorminghall itwas, and a Royal Seat, and the dragon-standard flew above thetrees; and allthingswentwell there andmerrily,while Tailbiterwasaboveground.

Envoy

Chrysophylax begged often for his liberty; and he provedexpensivetofeed,sincehecontinuedtogrow,asdragonswill,liketrees,aslongasthereislifeinthem.Soitcametopass,aftersome

years,whenGilesfelthimselfsecurelyestablished,thatheletthepoorwormgobackhome.Theypartedwithmanyexpressionsofmutual esteem, and a pact of non-aggressionupon either side. Inhisbadheartofhearts thedragonfeltaskindlydisposed towardsGiles as a dragon can feel towards anyone. After all there wasTailbiter:his lifemighteasilyhavebeen taken,andallhishoardtoo.Asitwas,hestillhadamortoftreasureathomeinhiscave(asindeedGilessuspected).

Heflewbacktothemountains,slowlyandlaboriously,forhiswingswereclumsywith longdisuse,andhissizeandhisarmourwere greatly increased. Arriving home, he at once routed out ayoungdragonwhohadhadthetemeritytotakeupresidenceinhiscavewhileChrysophylaxwasaway.Itissaidthatthenoiseofthebattle was heard throughout Venedotia. When, with greatsatisfaction,hehaddevouredhisdefeatedopponent,hefeltbetter,andthescarsofhishumiliationwereassuaged,andhesleptforalongwhile.Butatlast,wakingsuddenly,hesetoffinsearchofthat

tallest and stupidest of the giants,whohadstartedall the troubleonesummer’snightlongbefore.Hegavehimapieceofhismind,andthepoorfellowwasverymuchcrushed.

‘A blunderbuss, was it?’ said he, scratching his head. ‘Ithoughtitwashorseflies!’

finisorinthevulgar

THEADVENTURESOFTOMBOMBADIL

PREFACETheRedBookcontains a largenumberofverses.A feware

includedinthenarrativeoftheDownfalloftheLordoftheRings,orintheattachedstoriesandchronicles;manymorearefoundonloose leaves, while some are written carelessly in margins andblank spaces. Of the last sort most are nonsense, now oftenunintelligible even when legible, or half-remembered fragments.From thesemarginalia are drawnNos. 4, 12, 13; though a betterexample of their general character would be the scribble, on thepagerecordingBilbo’sWhenwinterfirstbeginstobite:

ThewindsowhirledaweathercockHecouldnotholdhistailup;

ThefrostsonippedathrostlecockHecouldnotsnapasnailup.‘Mycaseishard!thethrostlecried,And‘Allisvane’thecockreplied;Andsotheysettheirwailup.

Thepresent selection is taken from the older pieces,mainlyconcerned with legends and jests of the Shire at the end of theThirdAge, that appear tohavebeenmadebyHobbits, especiallyby Bilbo and his friends, or their immediate descendants. Theirauthorship is, however, seldom indicated. Those outside thenarratives are in various hands, andwere probablywritten downfromoraltradition.

IntheRedBookitissaidthatNo.5wasmadebyBilbo,andNo.7bySamGamgee.No.8ismarkedSG,andtheascriptionmay

be accepted.No. 11 is alsomarkedSG, though atmost Sam canonlyhavetouchedupanolderpieceofthecomicbestiaryloreofwhichHobbitsappeartohavebeenfond.InTheLordoftheRingsSamstatedthatNo.10wastraditionalintheShire.

No. 3 is an example of another kind which seems to haveamused Hobbits: a rhyme or story which returns to its ownbeginning,andsomaybereciteduntil thehearers revolt.SeveralspecimensarefoundintheRedBook,buttheothersaresimpleandcrude. No. 3 is much the longest and most elaborate. It wasevidently made by Bilbo. This is indicated by its obviousrelationship to the long poem recited by Bilbo, as his owncomposition,inthehouseofElrond.Inorigina‘nonsenserhyme’,it is in the Rivendell version found transformed and applied,somewhat incongruously, to the High-elvish and NúmenoreanlegendsofEärendil.ProbablybecauseBilbo invented itsmetricaldevicesandwasproudofthem.Theydonotappearinotherpiecesin theRedBook.Theolder form,heregiven,mustbelong to the

early days after Bilbo’s return from his journey. Though theinfluenceofElvishtraditionsisseen,theyarenotseriouslytreated,and the names used (Derrilyn, Thellamie, Belmarie, Aerie) aremereinventionsintheElvishstyle,andarenotinfactElvishatall.

The influenceof theeventsat theendof theThirdAge,andthewideningofthehorizonsoftheShirebycontactwithRivendellandGondor,istobeseeninotherpieces.No.6,thoughhereplacednexttoBilbo’sMan-in-the-Moonrhyme,andthelastitem,No.16,mustbederivedultimatelyfromGondor.Theyareevidentlybasedon the traditions ofMen, living in shorelands and familiar withrivers running into theSea.No.6actuallymentionsBelfalas (thewindy bay of Bel), and the Sea-ward Tower,Tirith Aear, ofDolAmroth.No. 16mentions theSevenRivers1 that flowed into theSeaintheSouthKingdom,andusestheGondorianname,ofHigh-elvish form,Fíriel, mortal woman.2 In the Langstrand and DolAmroththereweremanytraditionsoftheancientElvishdwellings,and of the haven at the mouth of the Morthond from which

‘westwardships’hadsailedasfarbackasthefallofEregionintheSecondAge.Thesetwopieces,therefore,areonlyre-handlingsofSouthernmatter, though thismay have reached Bilbo byway ofRivendell.No.14alsodependsontheloreofRivendell,ElvishandNúmenorean, concerning the heroic days at the end of the FirstAge; it seems tocontainechoesof theNúmenorean taleofTúrinandMimtheDwarf.

Nos.1and2evidentlycome from theBuckland.They showmore knowledge of that country, and of the Dingle, the woodedvalleyof theWithywindle,1 than anyHobbitswest of theMarishwerelikelytopossess.TheyalsoshowthattheBucklandersknewBombadil,2 though, no doubt, they had as little understanding ofhispowersas theShirefolkhadofGandalf’s:bothwere regardedas benevolent persons, mysterious maybe and unpredictable butnonetheless comic.No. 1 is the earlier piece, and ismade up ofvarious hobbit-versions of legends concerning Bombadil. No. 2usessimilartraditions,thoughTom’srailleryishereturnedinjest

uponhis friends,who treat itwithamusement (tingedwith fear);but it was probably composed much later and after the visit ofFrodoandhiscompanionstothehouseofBombadil.

The verses, of hobbit origin, here presented have generallytwo features in common.They are fondof strangewords, andofrhymingandmetricaltricks—intheirsimplicityHobbitsevidentlyregarded such things as virtues or graces, though they were, nodoubt,mere imitationsofElvishpractices.Theyarealso,at leaston the surface, lighthearted or frivolous, though sometimes onemayuneasily suspect thatmore ismeant thanmeets the ear.No.15,certainlyofhobbitorigin,isanexception.Itisthelatestpieceandbelongs to theFourthAge;but it is includedhere,becauseahandhas scrawled at its headFrodosDreme. That is remarkable,and though the piece is most unlikely to have been written byFrodohimself,thetitleshowsthatitwasassociatedwiththedarkand despairing dreams which visited him inMarch and Octoberduring his last three years. But there were certainly other

traditions,concerningHobbitsthatweretakenbythe‘wandering-madness’, and if they ever returned, were afterwards queer anduncommunicable.The thoughtof theSeawas ever-present in thebackgroundofhobbitimagination;butfearofitanddistrustofallElvishlore,wastheprevailingmoodintheShireattheendoftheThirdAge, and thatmoodwas certainlynot entirelydispelledbytheeventsandchangeswithwhichthatAgeended.

1Lefnui,Morthond-Kiril-Ringló,Gilrain-Sernui,andAnduin.

2The name was borne by a princess of Gondor, through whom Aragorn claimeddescentfromtheSouthernline.ItwasalsothenameofadaughterofElanor,daughterofSam,buthername, if connectedwith the rhyme,mustbederived from it; it couldnothaveariseninWestmarch.

1GrindwallwasasmallhytheonthenorthbankoftheWithywindle;itwasoutsidetheHay, and so was well watched and protected by agrind or fence extended into the

water.Breredon(BriarHill)wasalittlevillageonrisinggroundbehindthehythe,inthenarrowtonguebetweentheendoftheHighHayandtheBrandywine.AttheMithe, theoutflowof theShirebourn,wasa landing-stage, fromwhicha lane ran toDeephallowandsoontotheCausewayroadthatwentthroughRusheyandStock.

2Indeed they probably gave him this name (it is Bucklandish in form) to add to hismanyolderones.

1THEADVENTURESOFTOM

BOMBADILOldTomBombadilwasamerryfellow;brightbluehisjacketwasandhisbootswereyellow,greenwerehisgirdleandhisbreechesallofleather;heworeinhistallhataswan-wingfeather.HelivedupunderHill,wheretheWithywindleranfromagrassywelldownintothedingle.

OldTominsummertimewalkedaboutthemeadowsgatheringthebuttercups,runningaftershadows,

ticklingthebumblebeesthatbuzzedamongtheflowers,sittingbythewatersideforhoursuponhours.

Therehisbearddangledlongdownintothewater:upcameGoldberry,theRiver-woman’sdaughter;pulledTom’shanginghair.Inhewenta-wallowingunderthewater-lilies,bubblinganda-swallowing.

‘Hey,TomBombadil!Whitherareyougoing?’saidfairGoldberry.‘Bubblesyouareblowing,frighteningthefinnyfishandthebrownwater-rat,startlingthedabchicks,anddrowningyourfeather-hat!’

‘Youbringitbackagain,there’saprettymaiden!’saidTomBombadil.‘Idonotcareforwading.Godown!Sleepagainwherethepoolsareshady

farbelowwillow-roots,littlewater-lady!’

Backtohermother’shouseinthedeepesthollowswamyoungGoldberry.ButTom,hewouldnotfollow;onknottedwillow-rootshesatinsunnyweather,dryinghisyellowbootsandhisdraggledfeather.

UpwokeWillow-man,beganuponhissinging,sangTomfastasleepunderbranchesswinging;inacrackcaughthimtight:snick!itclosedtogether,trappedTomBombadil,coatandhatandfeather.

‘Ha,TomBombadil!Whatbeyoua-thinking,peepinginsidemytree,watchingmea-drinkingdeepinmywoodenhouse,ticklingmewithfeather,

drippingwetdownmyfacelikearainyweather?’‘Youletmeoutagain,OldManWillow!Iamstifflyinghere;they’renosortofpillow,yourhardcrookedroots.Drinkyourriver-water!GobacktosleepagainliketheRiver-daughter!’

Willow-manlethimloosewhenheheardhimspeaking;lockedfasthiswoodenhouse,mutteringandcreaking,whisperinginsidethetree.Outfromwillow-dingleTomwentwalkingonuptheWithywindle.Undertheforest-eaveshesatawhilea-listening:ontheboughspipingbirdswerechirrupingandwhistling.Butterfliesabouthisheadwentquiveringandwinking,untilgreycloudscameup,asthesunwassinking.

ThenTomhurriedon.Rainbegantoshiver,roundringsspatteringintherunningriver;awindblew,shakenleaveschillydropsweredripping;intoashelteringholeOldTomwentskipping.

OutcameBadger-brockwithhissnowyforeheadandhisdarkblinkingeyes.Inthehillhequarriedwithhiswifeandmanysons.Bythecoattheycaughthim,pulledhiminsidetheirearth,downtheirtunnelsbroughthim.Insidetheirsecrethouse,theretheysata-mumbling:‘Ho,TomBombadil!Wherehaveyoucometumbling,burstinginthefront-door?Badger-folkhavecaughtyou.You’llneverfinditout,thewaythatwehavebroughtyou!’

‘Now,oldBadger-brock,doyouhearmetalking?

Youshowmeoutatonce!Imustbea-walking.Showmetoyourbackdoorunderbriar-roses;then-cleangrimypaws,wipeyourearthynoses!Gobacktosleepagainonyourstrawpillow,likefairGoldberryandOldManWillow!’

ThenalltheBadger-folksaid:‘Webegyourpardon!’TheyshowedTomoutagaintotheirthornygarden,wentbackandhidthemselves,a-shiveringanda-shaking,blockedupalltheirdoors,earthtogetherraking.

Rainhadpassed.Theskywasclear,andinthesummer-gloamingOldTomBombadillaughedashecamehoming,unlockedhisdooragain,andopenedupashutter.Inthekitchenroundthelampmothsbegantoflutter;

Tomthroughthewindowsawwakingstarscomewinking,andthenewslendermoonearlywestwardsinking.DarkcameunderHill.Tom,helitacandle;upstairscreakingwent,turnedthedoor-handle.‘Hoo,TomBombadil!Lookwhatnighthasbroughtyou!I’mherebehindthedoor.NowatlastI’vecaughtyou!You’dforgottenBarrow-wightdwellingintheoldmoundupthereonhill-topwiththeringofstonesround.He’sgotlooseagain.Underearthhe’lltakeyou.PoorTomBombadil,paleandcoldhe’llmakeyou!’

‘Goout!Shutthedoor,andnevercomebackafter!Takeawaygleamingeyes,takeyourhollowlaughter!Gobacktograssymound,onyourstonypillowlaydownyourbonyhead,likeOldManWillow,likeyoungGoldberry,andBadger-folkinburrow!

Gobacktoburiedgoldandforgottensorrow!’

OutfledBarrow-wightthroughthewindowleaping,throughtheyard,overwalllikeashadowsweeping,uphillwailingwentbacktoleaningstone-rings,backunderlonelymound,rattlinghisbone-rings.

OldTomBombadillayuponhispillowsweeterthanGoldberry,quieterthantheWillow,snuggerthantheBadger-folkortheBarrow-dwellers;sleptlikeahumming-top,snoredlikeabellows.Hewokeinmorning-light,whistledlikeastarling,sang,‘Come,derry-dol,merry-dol,mydarling!’Heclappedonhisbatteredhat,boots,andcoatandfeather,openedthewindowwidetothesunnyweather.

WiseoldBombadil,hewasawaryfellow;brightbluehisjacketwas,andhisbootswereyellow.NoneevercaughtoldTominuplandorindingle,walkingtheforest-paths,orbytheWithywindle,oroutonthelily-poolsinboatuponthewater.ButonedayTom,hewentandcaughttheRiver-daughter,ingreengown,flowinghair,sittingintherushes,singingoldwater-songstobirdsuponthebushes.

Hecaughther,heldherfast!Water-ratswentscutteringreedshissed,heronscried,andherheartwasfluttering.SaidTomBombadil:‘Here’smyprettymaiden!Youshallcomehomewithme!Thetableisallladen:yellowcream,honeycomb,whitebreadandbutter;rosesatthewindow-sillandpeepingroundtheshutter.YoushallcomeunderHill!Nevermindyourmother

inherdeepweedypool:thereyou’llfindnolover!’OldTomBombadilhadamerrywedding,crownedallwithbuttercups,hatandfeathershedding;hisbridewithforgetmenotsandflag-liliesforgarlandwasrobedallinsilver-green.Hesanglikeastarling,hummedlikeahoney-bee,liltedtothefiddle,claspinghisriver-maidroundherslendermiddle.

Lampsgleamedwithinhishouse,andwhitewasthebedding;inthebrighthoney-moonBadger-folkcametreading,danceddownunderHill,andOldManWillowtapped,tappedatwindow-pane,astheysleptonthepillow,onthebankinthereedsRiver-womansighingheardoldBarrow-wightinhismoundcrying.

OldTomBombadilheedednotthevoices,taps,knocks,dancingfeet,allthenightlynoises;slepttillthesunarose,thensanglikeastarling:‘Hey!Comederry-dol,merry-dol,mydarling!’sittingonthedoor-stepchoppingsticksofwillow,whilefairGoldberrycombedhertressesyellow.

2BOMBADILGOESBOATINGTheoldyearwasturningbrown;theWestWindwascalling;TomcaughtabeechenleafintheForestfalling.‘I’vecaughtahappydayblownmebythebreezes!Whywaittillmorrow-year?I’lltakeitwhenmepleases.ThisdayI’llmendmyboatandjourneyasitchanceswestdownthewithy-stream,followingmyfancies!’

LittleBirdsatontwig.‘Whillo,Tom!Iheedyou.I’veaguess,I’veaguesswhereyourfanciesleadyou.ShallIgo,shallIgo,bringhimwordtomeetyou?’

‘Nonames,youtell-tale,orI’llskinandeatyou,babblingineveryearthingsthatdon’tconcernyou!IfyoutellWillow-manwhereI’vegone,I’llburnyou,roastyouonawillow-spit.That’llendyourprying!’Willow-wrencockedhertail,pipedasshewentflying:‘Catchmefirst,catchmefirst!Nonamesareneeded.I’llperchonhishitherear:themessagewillbeheeded.“DownbyMithe,”I’llsay,“justassunissinking.”Hurryup,hurryup!That’sthetimefordrinking!’

Tomlaughedtohimself:‘MaybethenI’llgothere.Imightgobyotherways,buttodayI’llrowthere.’Heshavedoars,patchedhisboat;fromhiddencreekhehauledherthroughreedandsallow-brake,underleaningalder,thendowntheriverwent,singing:‘Silly-sallow,Flowwithy-willow-streamoverdeepandshallow!’

‘Whee!TomBombadil!Whitherbeyougoing,bobbinginacockle-boat,downtheriverrowing?’

‘MaybetoBrandywinealongtheWithywindle;maybefriendsofmindfireformewillkindledownbytheHays-end.LittlefolkIknowthere,kindattheday’send.NowandthenIgothere.’

‘Takewordtomykin,bringmebacktheirtidings!Tellmeofdivingpoolsandthefishes’hidings!’

‘Naythen,’saidBombadil,‘Iamonlyrowingjusttosmellthewaterlike,notonerrandsgoing.’‘Teehee!CockyTom!Mindyourtubdon’tfounder!Lookoutforwillow-snags!I’dlaughtoseeyouflounder.’

‘Talkless,FisherBlue!Keepyourkindlywishes!Flyoffandpreenyourselfwiththebonesoffishes!Gaylordonyourbough,athomeadirtyvarletlivinginaslovenhouse,thoughyourbreastbescarlet.I’veheardoffisher-birdsbeakinaira-danglingtoshowhowthewindisset:that’sanendofangling!’

TheKing’sfishershuthisbeak,winkedhiseye,assingingTompassedunderbough.Flash!thenhewentwinging;droppeddownjewel-blueafeather,andTomcaughtitgleaminginasun-ray:aprettygifthethoughtit.Hestuckitinhistallhat,theoldfeathercasting:‘BluenowforTom,’hesaid,‘amerryhueandlasting!’

Ringsswirledroundhisboat,hesawthebubblesquiver.

Tomslappedhisoar,smack!atashadowintheriver.‘Hoosh!TomBombadil!‘TislongsincelastImetyou.Turnedwater-boatman,eh?WhatifIupsetyou?’

‘What?Why,Whisker-lad,I’drideyoudowntheriver.Myfingersonyourbackwouldsetyourhidea-shiver.’‘Pish,TomBombadil!I’llgoandtellmymother;“Callallourkintocome,father,sister,brother!Tom’sgonemadasacootwithwoodenlegs:he’spaddlingdownWithywindlestream,anoldtuba-straddling!’

‘I’llgiveyourotter-felltoBarrow-wights.They’lltawyou!Thensmotheryouingold-rings!Yourmotherifshesawyou,she’dneverknowherson,unless‘twasbyawhisker.Nay,don’tteaseoldTom,untilyoubefarbrisker!’

‘Whoosh!’saidotter-lad,river-watersprayingoverTom’shatandall;settheboata-swaying,diveddownunderit,andbythebanklaypeering,tillTom’smerrysongfadedoutofhearing.

OldSwanofElver-islesailedpasthimproudly,gaveTomablacklook,snortedathimloudly.Tomlaughed:‘Youoldcob,doyoumissyourfeather?Givemeanewonethen!Theoldwaswornbyweather.Couldyouspeakafairword,Iwouldloveyoudearer:longneckanddumbthroat,butstillahaughtysneerer!IfonedaytheKingreturns,inuppinghemaytakeyou,brandyouryellowbill,andlesslordlymakeyou!’OldSwanhuffedhiswings,hissed,andpaddledfaster;inhiswakebobbingonTomwentrowingafter.TomcametoWithy-weir.Downtheriverrushing

foamedintoWindle-reach,a-bubblinganda-splashing;boreTomoverstonespinninglikeawindfall,bobbinglikeabottle-cork,tothehytheatGrindwall.

‘Hoy!Here’sWoodmanTomwithhisbilly-beardon!’laughedallthelittlefolkofHays-endandBreredon.‘Ware,Tom!We’llshootyoudeadwithourbowsandarrows!Wedon’tletForest-folknorbogiesfromtheBarrowscrossoverBrandywinebycockle-boatnorferry.’‘Fie,littlefatbellies!Don’tyemakesomerry!

I’veseenhobbit-folkdiggingholestohide‘em,frightenedifahornygoatorabadgereyed‘em,afearedofthemoony-beams,theiroldshadowsshunning.I’llcalltheorksonyou:that’llsendyourunning!’

‘Youmaycall,WoodmanTom.Andyoucantalkyourbeardoff.Threearrowsinyourhat!Youwe’renotafearedof!Wherewouldyougotonow?Ifforbeeryou’remaking,thebarrelsaintdeepenoughinBreredonforyourslaking!’

‘AwayoverBrandywinebyShirebournI’dbegoing,buttooswiftforcockle-boattherivernowisflowing.I’dblesslittlefolkthattookmeintheirwherry,wishthemeveningsfairandmanymorningsmerry.’RedflowedtheBrandywine;withflametheriverkindled,assunsankbeyondtheShire,andthentogreyitdwindled.MitheStepsemptystood.Nonewastheretogreethim.SilenttheCausewaylay.SaidTom:‘Amerrymeeting!’

Tomstumpedalongtheroad,asthelightwasfailing.

Rusheylampsgleamedahead.Heheardavoicehimhailing.‘Whoathere!’Poniesstopped,wheelshaltedsliding.Tomwentploddingpast,neverlookedbesidehim.

‘Hothere!beggarmantrampingintheMarish!What’syourbusinesshere?Hatallstuckwitharrows!Someone’swarnedyouoff,caughtyouatyoursneaking?Comehere!Tellmenowwhatitisyou’reseeking!Shire-ale,I’llbebound,thoughyou’venotapenny.I’llbidthemlocktheirdoors,andthenyouwon’tgetany!’

‘Well,well,Muddy-feet!Fromonethat’slateformeetingawaybackbytheMithethat’sasurlygreeting!Youoldfarmerfatthatcannotwalkforwheezing,cart-drawnlikeasack,oughttobemorepleasing.

Penny-wisetub-on-legs!Abeggarcan’tbechooser,orelseI’dbidyougo,andyouwouldbetheloser.Come,Maggot!Helpmeup!Atankardnowyouoweme.Evenincockshutlightanoldfriendshouldknowme!’Laughingtheydroveaway,inRusheyneverhalting,thoughtheinnopenstoodandtheycouldsmellthemalting.TheyturneddownMaggot’sLane,rattlingandbumping,Tominthefarmer’scartdancingroundandjumping.StarsshoneonBamfurlong,andMaggot’shousewaslighted;fireinthekitchenburnedtowelcomethebenighted.

Maggot’ssonsbowedatdoor,hisdaughtersdidtheircurtsy,hiswifebroughttankardsoutforthosethatmightbethirsty.Songstheyhadandmerrytales,thesuppingandthedancing;GoodmanMaggotthereforallhisbeltwasprancing,Tomdidahornpipewhenhewasnotquaffing,

daughtersdidtheSpringle-ring,goodwifedidthelaughing.

Whenotherswenttobedinhay,fern,orfeather,closeintheinglenooktheylaidtheirheadstogether,oldTomandMuddy-feet,swappingallthetidingsfromBarrow-downstoTowerHills:ofwalkingsandofridings;ofwheat-earandbarley-corn,ofsowingandofreaping;queertalesfromBree,andtalkatsmithy,mill,andcheaping;rumoursinwhisperingtrees,south-windinthelarches,tallWatchersbytheFord,Shadowsonthemarches.OldMaggotsleptatlastinchairbesidetheembers.EredawnTomwasgone:asdreamsonehalfremembers,somemerry,somesad,andsomeofhiddenwarning.Noneheardthedoorunlocked;ashowerofrainatmorninghisfootprintswashedaway,atMitheheleftnotraces,atHays-endtheyheardnosongnorsoundofheavypaces.

ThreedayshisboatlaybythehytheatGrindwall,andthenonemornwasgonebackupWithywindle.Otter-folk,hobbitssaid,camebynightandloosedher,draggedheroverweir,andupstreamtheypushedher.

OutfromElvet-isleOldSwancamesailing,inbeaktookherpainterupinthewatertrailing,drewherproudlyon;ottersswambesideherroundoldWillow-man’scrookedrootstoguideher;theKing’sfisherperchedonbow,onthwartthewrenwassinging,merrilythecockle-boathomewardtheywerebringing.ToTom’screektheycameatlast.Otter-ladsaid:‘Whishnow!What’sacootwithouthislegs,orafinlessfishnow?’O!silly-sallow-willow-stream!Theoarsthey’dleftbehindthem!LongtheylayatGrindwallhytheforTomtocomeandfindthem.

3ERRANTRY

Therewasamerrypassenger,amessenger,amariner:hebuiltagildedgondolatowanderin,andhadinheraloadofyelloworangesandporridgeforhisprovender;heperfumedherwithmarjoramandcardamonandlavender.

Hecalledthewindsofargosieswithcargoesintocarryhim

acrosstheriversseventeenthatlaybetweentotarryhim.HelandedallinlonelinesswherestonilythepebblesontherunningriverDerrilyngoesmerrilyforeveron.Hejourneyedthenthroughmeadow-landstoShadow-landthatdrearylay,andunderhillandoverhillwentrovingstillawearyway.

Hesatandsangamelody,hiserrantrya-tarrying;hebeggedaprettybutterflythatflutteredbytomarryhim.Shescornedhimandshescoffedathim,

shelaughedathimunpitying;solonghestudiedwizardryandsigaldryandsmithying.

Hewoveatissueairy-thintosnareherin;tofollowherhemadehimbeetle-leatherwingandfeatherwingofswallow-hair.Hecaughtherinbewildermentwithfilamentofspider-thread;hemadehersoftpavilionsoflilies,andabridalbedofflowersandofthistle-downtonestledownandrestherin;andsilkenwebsoffilmywhiteandsilverlighthedressedherin.

Hethreadedgemsinnecklaces,butrecklesslyshesquanderedthemandfelltobitterquarrelling;thensorrowinghewanderedon,andthereheleftherwithering,asshiveringhefledaway;withwindyweatherfollowingonswallow-winghespedaway.

Hepassedthearchipelagoeswhereyellowgrowsthemarigold,wherecountlesssilverfountainsare,andmountainsareoffairy-gold.Hetooktowarandforaying,a-harryingbeyondthesea,androamingoverBelmarie

andThellamieandFantasie.

Hemadeashieldandmorionofcoralandofivory,aswordhemadeofemerald,andterriblehisrivalrywithelven-knightsofAerieandFaerie,withpaladinsthatgolden-hairedandshining-eyedcameridingbyandchallengedhim.Ofcrystalwashishabergeon,hisscabbardofchalcedony;withsilvertippedatplenilunehisspearwashewnofebony.Hisjavelinswereofmalachiteandstalactite—hebrandishedthem,

andwentandfoughtthedragon-fliesofParadise,andvanquishedthem.

HebattledwiththeDumbledors,theHummerhorns,andHoneybees,andwontheGoldenHoneycomb;andrunninghomeonsunnyseasinshipofleavesandgossamerwithblossomforacanopy,hesatandsang,andfurbishedupandburnisheduphispanoply.

Hetarriedforalittlewhileinlittleislesthatlonelylay,andfoundtherenaughtbutblowinggrass;

andsoatlasttheonlywayhetook,andturned,andcominghomewithhoneycomb,tomemoryhismessagecame,anderrandtoo!Inderring-doandglamouryhehadforgotthem,journeyingandtourneying,awanderer.Sonowhemustdepartagainandstartagainhisgondola,foreverstillamessenger,apassenger,atarrier,a-rovingasafeatherdoes,aweather-drivenmariner.

4PRINCESSMEE

LittlePrincessMeeLovelywasshe

Asinelven-songistold:

ShehadpearlsinhairAllthreadedfair;

Ofgossamershotwithgold

Washerkerchiefmade,Andasilverbraid

Ofstarsaboutherthroat.

Ofmoth-weblightAllmoonlit-white

Sheworeawovencoat,

AndroundherkirtleWasboundagirdle

Sewnwithdiamonddew.

ShewalkedbydayUndermantlegrey

Andhoodofcloudedblue;

Butshewentbynight

Allglitteringbright

Underthestarlitsky,

AndherslippersfrailOffishes’mail

Flashedasshewentby

Toherdancing-pool,Andonmirrorcool

Ofwindlesswaterplayed.

AsamistoflightInwhirlingflight

Aglintlikeglassshemade

WhereverherfeetOfsilverfleet

Flickedthedancing-floor.

ShelookedonhighTotherooflesssky,

Andshelookedtotheshadowyshore;

Thenroundshewent,Andhereyesshebent

Andsawbeneathhergo

APrincessSheeAsfairasMee:

Theyweredancingtoetotoe!

SheewasaslightAsMee,andasbright;

ButSheewas,strangetotell,

HangingdownWithstarrycrown

Intoabottomlesswell!

HergleamingeyesIngreatsurprise

LookeduptotheeyesofMee:

Amarvellousthing,

Head-downtoswing

Aboveastarrysea!

OnlytheirfeetCouldevermeet;

Forwherethewaysmightlie

TofindalandWheretheydonotstand

Buthangdowninthesky

NoonecouldtellNorlearninspell

Inalltheelven-lore.

SostillonherownAnelfalone

Dancingasbefore

WithpearlsinhairAndkirtlefair

Andslippersfrail

Offishes’mailwentMee:Offishes’mail

Andslippersfrail

AndkirtlefairWithpearlsinhairwentShee!

5THEMANINTHEMOONSTAYEDUPTOOLATE

Thereisaninn,amerryoldinn

beneathanoldgreyhill,

AndtheretheybrewabeersobrownThattheManintheMoonhimselfcamedown

onenighttodrinkhisfill.

Theostlerhasatipsycat

thatplaysafive-stringedfiddle;

Andupanddownherunshisbow,Nowsqueakinghigh,nowpurringlow,

nowsawinginthemiddle.

Thelandlordkeepsalittledog

thatismightyfondofjokes;

Whenthere’sgoodcheeramongtheguests,Hecocksanearatallthejests

andlaughsuntilhechokes.

Theyalsokeepahornédcow

asproudasanyqueen;

Butmusicturnsherheadlikeale,Andmakesherwavehertuftedtail

anddanceuponthegreen.

AndO!therowofsilverdishes

andthestoreofsilverspoons!

ForSundaythere’saspecialpair,Andthesetheypolishupwithcare

onSaturdayafternoons.

TheManintheMoonwasdrinkingdeep,

andthecatbegantowail;

Adishandaspoononthetabledanced,Thecowinthegardenmadlypranced,

andthelittledogchasedhistail.

TheManintheMoontookanothermug,

andthenrolledbeneathhischair;

Andtherehedozedanddreamedofale,Tillintheskythestarswerepale,

anddawnwasintheair.

Theostlersaidtohistipsycat:

‘ThewhitehorsesoftheMoon,

Theyneighandchamptheirsilverbits;Buttheirmaster’sbeenanddrownedhiswits,

andtheSun’llberisingsoon!’

Sothecatonhisfiddleplayedhey-diddle-diddle,

ajigthatwouldwakethedead:

Hesqueakedandsawedandquickenedthetune,WhilethelandlordshooktheManintheMoon:

‘It’safterthree!’hesaid.

TheyrolledtheManslowlyupthehill

andbundledhimintotheMoon,

Whilehishorsesgallopedupinrear,Andthecowcamecaperinglikeadeer,

andadishranupwithaspoon.

Nowquickerthefiddlewentdeedle-dum-diddle;

thedogbegantoroar,

Thecowandthehorsesstoodontheirheads;Theguestsallboundedfromtheirbeds

anddanceduponthefloor.

Withapingandapongthefiddle-stringsbroke!

thecowjumpedovertheMoon,

Andthelittledoglaughedtoseesuchfun,AndtheSaturdaydishwentoffatarun

withthesilverSundayspoon.

TheroundMoonrolledbehindthehill,

astheSunraisedupherhead.

Shehardlybelievedherfieryeyes;Forthoughitwasday,tohersurprise

theyallwentbacktobed!

6THEMANINTHEMOON

CAMEDOWNTOOSOON

TheManintheMoonhadsilvershoon,

andhisbeardwasofsilverthread;

Withopalscrownedandpearlsallbound

abouthisgirdlestead,

Inhismantlegreyhewalkedoneday

acrossashiningfloor,

Andwithcrystalkeyinsecrecy

heopenedanivorydoor.

Onafiligreestairofglimmeringhair

thenlightlydownhewent,

Andmerrywasheatlasttobefree

onamadadventurebent.

Indiamondswhitehehadlostdelight;

hewastiredofhisminaret

Oftallmoonstonethattoweredalone

onalunarmountainset.

Hewoulddareanyperilforrubyandberyl

tobroiderhispaleattire,

Fornewdiademsoflustrousgems,

emeraldandsapphire.

Hewaslonelytoowithnothingtodo

butstareattheworldofgold

Andhearktothehumthatwoulddistantlycome

asgailyrounditrolled.

Atpleniluneinhisargentmoon

inhishearthelongedforFire:

Notthelimpidlightsofwanselenites;

forredwashisdesire,

Forcrimsonandroseandember-glows,

forflamewithburningtongue,

Forthescarletskiesinaswiftsunrise

whenastormydayisyoung.

He’dhaveseasofblues,andthelivinghues

offorestgreenandfen;

Andheyearnedforthemirthofthepopulousearth

andthesanguinebloodofmen.

Hecovetedsong,andlaughterlong,

andviandshot,andwine,

Eatingpearlycakesoflightsnowflakes

anddrinkingthinmoonshine.

Hetwinkledhisfeet,ashethoughtofthemeat,

ofpepper,andpunchgalore;

Andhetrippedunawareonhisslantingstair,

andlikeameteor,

Astarinflight,ereYuleonenight

flickeringdownhefell

Fromhisladderypathtoafoamingbath

inthewindyBayofBel.

Hebegantothink,lesthemeltandsink,

whatinthemoontodo,

Whenafisherman’sboatfoundhimfarafloat

totheamazementofthecrew,

Caughtintheirnetallshimmeringwet

inaphosphorescentsheen

Ofblueywhitesandopallights

anddelicateliquidgreen.

Againsthiswishwiththemorningfish

theypackedhimbacktoland:

‘Youhadbestgetabedinaninn,’theysaid;

‘thetownisnearathand.’

Onlytheknellofoneslowbell

highintheSeawardTower

Announcedthenewsofhismoonsickcruise

atthatunseemlyhour.

Notahearthwaslaid,notabreakfastmade,

anddawnwascoldanddamp.

Therewereashesforfire,andforgrassthemire,

forthesunasmokinglamp

Inadimback-street.Notamandidhemeet,

novoicewasraisedinsong;

Thereweresnoresinstead,forallfolkwereabed

andstillwouldslumberlong.

Heknockedashepassedondoorslockedfast,

andcalledandcriedinvain,

Tillhecametoaninnthathadlightwithin,

andhetappedatawindow-pane.

Adrowsycookgaveasurlylook,

and‘Whatdoyouwant?’saidhe.

‘Iwantfireandgoldandsongsofold

andredwineflowingfree!’

‘Youwon’tgetthemhere,’saidthecookwithaleer,

‘butyoumaycomeinside.

SilverIlackandsilktomyback—

maybeI’llletyoubide.’

Asilvergiftthelatchtolift,

apearltopassthedoor;

Foraseatbythecookintheingle-nook

itcosthimtwentymore.

Forhungerordrouthnaughtpassedhismouth

tillhegavebothcrownandcloak;

Andallthathegot,inanearthenpot

brokenandblackwithsmoke,

Wasporridgecoldandtwodaysold

toeatwithawoodenspoon.

ForpuddingsofYulewithplums,poorfool,

hearrivedsomuchtoosoon:

Anunwaryguestonalunaticquest

fromtheMountainsoftheMoon.

7THESTONETROLL

Trollsataloneonhisseatofstone,Andmunchedandmumbledabareoldbone;

Formanyayearhehadgnaweditnear,

Formeatwashardtocomeby.Doneby!Gumby!

Inacaveinthehillshedweltalone,

Andmeatwashardtocomeby.

UpcameTomwithhisbigbootson.SaidhetoTroll:‘Pray,whatisyon?

Foritlooksliketheshino’mynuncleTim,

Asshouldbea-lyin’ingraveyard.Caveyard!Paveyard!

ThismanyayearhasTimbeengone,

AndIthoughthewerelyin’ingraveyard.’

‘Mylad,’saidTroll,‘thisboneIstole.Butwhatbebonesthatlieinahole?

Thynunclewasdeadasalumpo’lead,

AforeIfoundhisshinbone.

Tinbone!Thinbone!

Hecanspareashareforapooroldtroll;

Forhedon’tneedhisshinbone.’

SaidTom:‘Idon’tseewhythelikeso’theeWithoutaxin’leaveshouldgomakin’free

Withtheshankortheshino’myfather’skin;Sohandtheoldboneover!

Rover!Trover!

Thoughdeadhebe,itbelongstohe;

Sohandtheoldboneover!’

‘Foracoupleo’pins,’saysTroll,andgrins,‘I’lleattheetoo,andgnawthyshins.

Abito’freshmeatwillgodownsweet!

I’lltrymyteethontheenow.

Heenow!Seenow!

I’mtiredo’gnawingoldbonesandskins;

I’veamindtodineontheenow.’

Butjustashethoughthisdinnerwascaught,Hefoundhishandshadholdofnaught.

Beforehecouldmind,Tomslippedbehind

Andgavehimtheboottolarnhim.

Warnhim!Darnhim!

Abumpo’thebootontheseat,Tomthought,

Wouldbethewaytolarnhim.

ButharderthanstoneisthefleshandboneOfatrollthatsitsinthehillsalone.

Aswellsetyourboottothemountain’sroot,

Fortheseatofatrolldon’tfeelit.

Peelit!Healit!

OldTrolllaughed,whenheheardTomgroan,

Andheknewhistoescouldfeelit.

Tom’slegisgame,sincehomehecame,Andhisbootlessfootislastinglame;

ButTrolldon’tcare,andhe’sstillthere

Withthebonehebonedfromitsowner.

Doner!Boner!

Troll’soldseatisstillthesame,

Andthebonehebonedfromitsowner!

8PERRY-THE-WINKLE

TheLonelyTrollhesatonastone

andsangamournfullay:

‘Owhy,OwhymustIliveonmyown

inthehillsofFaraway?

Myfolkaregonebeyondrecall

andtakenothoughtofme;

aloneI’mleft,thelastofall

fromWeathertoptotheSea.’

‘Istealnogold,Idrinknobeer,

Ieatnokindofmeat;

butPeopleslamtheirdoorsinfear,

whenevertheyhearmyfeet.

OhowIwishthattheywereneat,

andmyhandswerenotsorough!

Yetmyheartissoft,mysmileissweet,

andmycookinggoodenough.’

‘Come,come!’hethought,‘thiswillnotdo!

Imustgoandfindafriend;

a-walkingsoftI’llwanderthrough

theShirefromendtoend.’

Downhewent,andhewalkedallnight

withhisfeetinbootsoffur;

toDelvinghecameinthemorninglight,

whenfolkwerejustastir.

Helookedaround,andwhodidhemeet

butoldMrsBunceandall

withumbrellaandbasketwalkingthestreet;

andhesmiledandstoppedtocall:

‘Goodmorning,ma’am!Gooddaytoyou!

IhopeIfindyouwell?’

Butshedroppedumbrellaandbaskettoo,

andyelledafrightfulyell.

OldPotttheMayorwasstrollingnear;

whenheheardthatawfulsound,

heturnedallpurpleandpinkwithfear,

anddiveddownunderground.

TheLonelyTrollwashurtandsad:

‘Don’tgo!’hegentlysaid,

butoldMrsBunceranhomelikemad

andhidbeneathherbed.

TheTrollwentontothemarket-place

andpeepedabovethestalls;

thesheepwentwildwhentheysawhisface,

andthegeeseflewoverthewalls.

OldFarmerHogghespilledhisale,

BillButcherthrewaknife,

andGriphisdog,heturnedhistail

andrantosavehislife.

TheoldTrollsadlysatandwept

outsidetheLockholesgate,

andPerry-the-Winkleuphecrept

andpattedhimonthepate.

‘Owhydoyouweep,yougreatbiglump?

You’rebetteroutsidethanin!’

HegavetheTrollafriendlythump,

andlaughedtoseehimgrin.

‘OPerry-the-Winkleboy,’hecried,

‘come,you’retheladforme!

Nowifyou’rewillingtotakearide,

I’llcarryyouhometotea.’

Hejumpedonhisbackandheldontight,

and‘Offyougo!’saidhe;

andtheWinklehadafeastthatnight,

andsatontheoldTroll’sknee.

Therewerepikelets,therewasbutteredtoast,

andjam,andcream,andcake,

andtheWinklestrovetoeatthemost,

thoughhisbuttonsallshouldbreak.

Thekettlesang,thefirewashot,

thepotwaslargeandbrown,

andtheWinkletriedtodrinkthelot,

inteathoughheshoulddrown.

Whenfullandtightwerecoatandskin,

theyrestedwithoutspeech,

tilltheoldTrollsaid:‘I’llnowbegin

thebaker’sarttoteach,

themakingofbeautifulcramsomebread,

ofbannockslightandbrown;

andthenyoucansleeponaheather-bed

withpillowsofowlet’sdown.’

‘YoungWinkle,where’veyoubeen?’theysaid.

‘I’vebeentoafulsometea,

andIfeelsofat,forIhavefed

oncramsomebread,’saidhe.

‘Butwhere,mylad,intheShirewasthat?

OroutinBree?’saidthey.

ButWinkleheupandansweredflat:

‘Iainta-goingtosay.’

‘ButIknowwhere,’saidPeepingJack,

‘Iwatchedhimrideaway:

hewentupontheoldTroll’sback

tothehillsofFaraway.’

ThenallthePeoplewentwithawill,

bypony;cart,ormoke,

untiltheycametoahouseinahill

andsawachimneysmoke.

TheyhammeredupontheoldTroll’sdoor.

‘Abeautifulcramsomecake

Obakeforus,please,ortwo,ormore;

Obake!’theycried,‘Obake!’

‘Gohome,gohome!’theoldTrollsaid.

‘Ineverinvitedyou.

OnlyonThursdaysIbakemybread,

andonlyforafew.’

‘Gohome!Gohome!There’ssomemistake.

Myhouseisfartoosmall;

andI’venopikelets,cream,orcake:

theWinklehaseatenall!

YouJack,andHogg,oldBunceandPott

Iwishnomoretosee.

Beoff!Beoffnowallthelot!

TheWinkle’stheboyforme!’

NowPerry-the-Winklegrewsofat

througheatingofcramsomebread,

hisweskitbust,andneverahat

wouldsituponhishead;

forEveryThursdayhewenttotea,

andsatonthekitchenfloor,

andsmallertheoldTrollseemedtobe,

ashegrewmoreandmore.

TheWinkleaBakergreatbecame,

asstillissaidinsong;

fromtheSeatoBreetherewentthefame

ofhisbreadbothshortandlong.

Butitweren’tsogoodasthecramsomebread;

nobuttersorichandfree,

asEveryThursdaytheoldTrollspread

forPerry-the-Winkle’stea.

9THEMEWLIPS

TheshadowswheretheMewlipsdwell

Aredarkandwetasink,

Andslowandsoftlyringstheirbell,

Asintheslimeyousink.

Yousinkintotheslime,whodare

Toknockupontheirdoor,

Whiledownthegrinninggargoylesstare

Andnoisomewaterspour.

Besidetherottingriver-strand

Thedroopingwillowsweep,

Andgloomilythegorcrowsstand

Croakingintheirsleep.

OvertheMerlockMountainsalongandwearyway,

Inamouldyvalleywherethetreesaregrey,

Byadarkpool’sborderswithoutwindortide,

Moonlessandsunless,theMewlipshide.

ThecellarswheretheMewlipssit

Aredeepanddankandcold

Withsinglesicklycandlelit;

Andtheretheycounttheirgold.

Theirwallsarewet,theirceilingsdrip;

Theirfeetuponthefloor

Gosoftlywithasquish-flap-flip,

Astheysidletothedoor.

Theypeepoutslyly;throughacrack

Theirfeelingfingerscreep,

Andwhenthey’vefinished,inasack

Yourbonestheytaketokeep.

BeyondtheMerlockMountains,alongandlonelyroad,

Throughthespider-shadowsandthemarshofTode,

Andthroughthewoodofhangingtreesandthegallowsweed,

YougotofindtheMewlips—andtheMewlipsfeed.

10OLIPHAUNT

Greyasamouse,Bigasahouse,Noselikeasnake,Imaketheearthshake,AsItrampthroughthegrass;TreescrackasIpass.WithhornsinmymouthIwalkintheSouth,Flappingbigears.BeyondcountofyearsIstumproundandround,Neverlieontheground,

Noteventodie.OliphauntamI,Biggestofall,Huge,old,andtall.Ifeveryou’dmetme,Youwouldn’tforgetme.Ifyouneverdo,Youwon’tthinkI’mtrue;ButoldOliphauntamI,AndIneverlie.

11FASTITOCALON

Look,thereisFastitocalon!Anislandgoodtolandupon,

Although’tisratherbare.

Come,leavethesea!Andletusrun,Ordance,orliedowninthesun!

See,gullsaresittingthere!

Beware!

Gullsdonotsink.

Theretheymaysit,orstrutandprink:Theirpartitistotipthewink,

IfanyoneshoulddareUponthatisletosettle,

OronlyforawhiletogetRelieffromsicknessorthewet,

Ormaybeboilakettle.

Ah!foolishfolk,wholandonHIM,Andlittlefiresproceedtotrim

Andhopeperhapsfortea!

ItmaybethatHisshellisthick,Heseemstosleep;butHeisquick,

Andfloatsnowinthesea

Withguile;

AndwhenHehearstheirtappingfeet,Orfaintlyfeelsthesuddenheat,

WithsmileHEdives,

AndpromptlyturningupsidedownHetipsthemoff,anddeeptheydrown,

Andlosetheirsillylives

Totheirsurprise.

Bewise!

TherearemanymonstersintheSea,ButnonesoperilousasHE,OldhornyFastitocalon,Whosemightykindredallhavegone,ThelastoftheoldTurtle-fish.Soiftosaveyourlifeyouwish

ThenIadvise:

Payheedtosailors’ancientlore,Setfootonnounchartedshore!

Orbetterstill,

YourdaysatpeaceonMiddle-earth

InmirthFulfil!

12CAT

Thefatcatonthemat

mayseemtodream

ofnicemicethatsuffice

forhim,orcream;

buthefree,maybe,

walksinthought

unbowed,proud,whereloud

roaredandfought

hiskin,leanandslim,

ordeepinden

intheEastfeastedonbeasts

andtendermen.

Thegiantlionwithiron

clawinpaw,

andhugeruthlesstooth

ingoryjaw;

theparddark-starred,

fleetuponfeet,

thatoftsoftfromaloft

leapsonhismeat

wherewoodsloomingloom—

farnowtheybe,fierceandfree,andtamedishe;

butfatcatonthemat

keptasapet,hedoesnotforget.

13SHADOW-BRIDE

Therewasamanwhodweltalone,

asdayandnightwentpast

hesatasstillascarvenstone,

andyetnoshadowcast.

Thewhiteowlspercheduponhishead

beneaththewintermoon;

theywipedtheirbeaksandthoughthimdead

underthestarsofJune.

Therecamealadycladingrey

inthetwilightshining:

onemomentshewouldstandandstay,

herhairwithflowersentwining.

Hewoke,ashadhesprungofstone,

andbrokethespellthatboundhim;

heclaspedherfast,bothfleshandbone,

andwrappedhershadowroundhim.

Therenevermoreshewalksherways

bysunormoonorstar;

shedwellsbelowwhereneitherdays

noranynightsthereare.

Butonceayearwhencavernsyawn

andhiddenthingsawake,

theydancetogetherthentilldawn

andasingleshadowmake.

14THEHOARD

Whenthemoonwasnewandthesunyoungofsilverandgoldthegodssung:inthegreengrasstheysilverspilled,andthewhitewaterstheywithgoldfilled.ErethepitwasdugorHellyawned,eredwarfwasbredordragonspawned,therewereElvesofold,andstrongspellsundergreenhillsinhollowdellstheysangastheywroughtmanyfairthings,andthebrightcrownsoftheElf-kings.Buttheirdoomfell,andtheirsongwaned,

byironhewnandbysteelchained.Greedthatsangnot,norwithmouthsmiled,indarkholestheirwealthpiled,gravensilverandcarvengold:overElvenhometheshadowrolled.Therewasanolddwarfinadarkcave,tosilverandgoldhisfingersclave;withhammerandtongsandanvil-stoneheworkedhishandstothehardbone,andcoinshemade,andstringsofrings,andthoughttobuythepowerofkings.Buthiseyesgrewdimandhisearsdullandtheskinyellowonhisoldskull;throughhisbonyclawwithapalesheenthestonyjewelsslippedunseen.Nofeetheheard,thoughtheearthquaked,whentheyoungdragonhisthirstslaked,

andthestreamsmokedathisdarkdoor,Theflameshissedonthedankfloor,andhediedaloneintheredfire;hisboneswereashesinthehotmire.

Therewasanolddragonundergreystone;hisredeyesblinkedashelayalone.Hisjoywasdeadandhisyouthspent,hewasknobbedandwrinkled,andhislimbsbentinthelongyearstohisgoldchained;inhisheart’sfurnacethefirewaned.Tohisbelly’sslimegemsstuckthick,silverandgoldhewouldsnuffandlick:heknewtheplaceoftheleastringbeneaththeshadowofhisblackwing.Ofthieveshethoughtonhishardbed,

anddreamedthatontheirfleshhefed,theirbonescrushed,andtheirblooddrank:hisearsdroopedandhisbreathsank.Mail-ringsrang.Heheardthemnot.Avoiceechoedinhisdeepgrot:ayoungwarriorwithabrightswordcalledhimforthtodefendhishoard.Histeethwereknives,andofhornhishide,butirontorehim,andhisflamedied.

Therewasanoldkingonahighthrone:hiswhitebeardlayonkneesofbone;hismouthsavouredneithermeatnordrink,norhisearssong;hecouldonlythinkofhishugechestwithcarvenlidwherepalegemsandgoldlayhid

insecrettreasuryinthedarkground;itsstrongdoorswereiron-bound.

Theswordsofhisthanesweredullwithrust,hisgloryfallen,hisruleunjust,hishallshollow,andhisbowerscold,butkinghewasofelvishgold.Heheardnotthehornsinthemountain-pass,hesmeltnotthebloodonthetroddengrass,buthishallswereburned,hiskingdomlost;inacoldpithisbonesweretossed.Thereisanoldhoardinadarkrock,forgottenbehinddoorsnonecanunlock;thatgrimgatenomancanpass.Onthemoundgrowsthegreengrass;theresheepfeedandthelarkssoar,

andthewindblowsfromthesea-shore.TheoldhoardtheNightshallkeep,whileearthwaitsandtheElvessleep.

15THESEA-BELL

Iwalkedbythesea,andtherecametome,

asastar-beamonthewetsand,

awhiteshelllikeasea-bell;

tremblingitlayinmywethand.

InmyfingersshakenIheardwaken

adingwithin,byaharbourbar

abuoyswinging,acallringing

overendlessseas,faintnowandfar.

ThenIsawaboatsilentlyfloat

onthenight-tide,emptyandgrey.

‘Itislaterthanlate!Whydowewait?’

Ileaptinandcried:‘Bearmeaway!’

Itboremeaway,wettedwithspray,

wrappedinamist,woundinasleep,

toaforgottenstrandinastrangeland.

Inthetwilightbeyondthedeep

Iheardasea-bellswingintheswell,

dinging,dinging,andthebreakersroar

onthehiddenteethofaperilousreef;

andatlastIcametoalongshore.

Whiteitglimmered,andtheseasimmered

withstar-mirrorsinasilvernet;

cliffsofstonepaleasruel-bone

inthemoon-foamweregleamingwet.

Glitteringsandslidthroughmyhand,

dustofpearlandjewel-grist,

trumpetsofopal,rosesofcoral,

flutesofgreenandamethyst.

Butundercliff-eavesthereweregloomingcaves,

weed-curtained,darkandgrey;

acoldairstirredinmyhair,

andthelightwaned,asIhurriedaway.

Downfromahillranagreenrill;

itswaterIdranktomyheart’sease.

Upitsfountain-stairtoacountryfair

ofever-eveIcame,farfromtheseas,

climbingintomeadowsofflutteringshadows:

flowerslaytherelikefallenstars,

andonabluepool,glassyandcool,

likefloatingmoonsthenenuphars.

Aldersweresleeping,andwillowsweeping

byaslowriverofripplingweeds;

gladdon-swordsguardedthefords,

andgreenspears,andarrow-reeds.

Therewasechoofsongalltheeveninglong

downinthevalley;manyathing

runningtoandfro:hareswhiteassnow,

volesoutofholes;mothsonthewing

withlantern-eyes;inquietsurprise

brockswerestaringoutofdarkdoors.

Ihearddancingthere,musicintheair,

feetgoingquickonthegreenfloors.

ButwhereverIcameitwaseverthesame:

thefeetfled,andallwasstill;

neveragreeting,onlythefleeting

pipes,voices,hornsonthehill.

Ofriver-leavesandtherush-sheaves

Imademeamantleofjewel-green,

atallwandtohold,andaflagofgold;

myeyesshonelikethestar-sheen.

WithflowerscrownedIstoodonamound,

andshrillasacallatcock-crow

proudlyIcried:‘Whydoyouhide?

Whydononespeak,whereverIgo?

HerenowIstand,kingofthisland,

withgladdon-swordandreed-mace.

Answermycall!Comeforthall!

Speaktomewords!Showmeaface!’

Blackcameacloudasanight-shroud.

LikeadarkmolegropingIwent,

tothegroundfalling,onmyhandscrawling

witheyesblindandmybackbent.

Icrepttoawood:silentitstood

initsdeadleaves;barewereitsboughs.

TheremustIsit,wanderinginwit,

whileowlssnoredintheirhollowhouse.

ForayearandadaytheremustIstay:

beetlesweretappingintherottentrees,

spiderswereweaving,inthemouldheaving

puffballsloomedaboutmyknees.

Atlasttherecamelightinmylongnight,

andIsawmyhairhanginggrey.

‘BentthoughIbe,Imustfindthesea!

Ihavelostmyself,andIknownottheway,

butletmebegone!’ThenIstumbledon;

likeahuntingbatshadowwasoverme;

inmyearsdinnedawitheringwind,

andwithraggedbriarsItriedtocoverme.

Myhandsweretornandmykneesworn,

andyearswereheavyuponmyback.

whentheraininmyfacetookasalttaste,

andIsmelledthesmellofsea-wrack.

Birdscamesailing,mewing,wailing;

Iheardvoicesincoldcaves,

sealsbarking,androckssnarling,

andinspout-holesthegulpingofwaves.

Wintercamefast;intoamistIpassed,

toland’sendmyyearsIbore;

snowwasintheair,iceinmyhair,

darknesswaslyingonthelastshore.

Therestillafloatwaitedtheboat,

inthetidelifting,itsprowtossing.

WearyIlay,asitboremeaway,

thewavesclimbing,theseascrossing,

passingoldhullsclusteredwithgulls

andgreatshipsladenwithlight,

comingtohaven,darkasaraven,

silentassnow,deepinthenight.

Houseswereshuttered,windroundthemmuttered,

roadswereempty.Isatbyadoor,

andwheredrizzlingrainpoureddownadrain

IcastawayallthatIbore:

inmyclutchinghandsomegrainsofsand,

andasea-shellsilentanddead.

Neverwillmyearthatbellhear,

nevermyfeetthatshoretread,

neveragain,asinsadlane,

inblindalleyandinlongstreet

raggedIwalk.TomyselfItalk;

forstilltheyspeaknot,menthatImeet.

16THELASTSHIP

Fíriellookedoutatthreeo’clock:

thegreynightwasgoing;

farawayagoldencock

clearandshrillwascrowing.

Thetreesweredark,andthedawnpale,

wakingbirdswerecheeping,

awindmovedcoolandfrail

throughdimleavescreeping,

Shewatchedthegleamatwindowgrow,

tillthelonglightwasshimmering

onlandandleaf;ongrassbelow

greydewwasglimmering.

Overthefloorherwhitefeetcrept,

downthestairtheytwinkled,

throughthegrasstheydancingstepped

allwithdewbesprinkled.

Hergownhadjewelsuponitshem,

assherandowntotheriver,

andleaneduponawillow-stem,

andwatchedthewaterquiver.

Akingfisherplungeddownlikeastone

inablueflashfalling,

bendingreedsweresoftlyblown,

lily-leavesweresprawling.

Asuddenmusictohercame,

asshestoodtheregleaming

withfreehairinthemorning’sflame

onhershouldersstreaming.

Flutestherewere,andharpswerewrung,

andtherewassoundofsinging,

likewind-voiceskeenandyoung

andfarbellsringing.

Ashipwithgoldenbeakandoar

andtimberswhitecamegliding;

swanswentsailingonbefore,

hertallprowguiding.

FairfolkoutofElvenland

insilver-greywererowing,

andthreewithcrownsshesawtherestand

withbrighthairflowing.

Withharpinhandtheysangtheirsong

totheslowoarsswinging:

‘Greenistheland,theleavesarelong,

andthebirdsaresinging.

Manyadaywithdawnofgold

thisearthwilllighten,

manyaflowerwillyetunfold,

erethecornfieldswhiten.

‘Thenwhithergoye,boatmenfair,

downtherivergliding?

Totwilightandtosecretlair

inthegreatforesthiding?

ToNorthernislesandshoresofstone

onstrongswansflying,

bycoldwavestodwellalone

withthewhitegullscrying?’

‘Nay!’theyanswered.‘Faraway

onthelastroadfaring,

leavingwesternhavensgrey,

theseasofshadowdaring,

wegobacktoElvenhome,

wheretheWhiteTreeisgrowing,

andtheStarshinesuponthefoam

onthelastshoreflowing.

‘Tomortalfieldssayfarewell,

Middle-earthforsaking!

InElvenhomeaclearbell

inthehightowerisshaking.

Heregrassfadesandleavesfall,

andsunandmoonwither,

andwehaveheardthefarcall

thatbidsusjourneythither’.

Theoarswerestayed.Theyturnedaside:

‘Doyouhearthecall,Earth-maiden?

Fíriel!Fíriel!’theycried.

‘Ourshipisnotfull-laden.

Onemoreonlywemaybear.

Come!Foryourdaysarespeeding.

Come!Earth-maidenelven-fair,

ourlastcallheeding.’

Fíriellookedfromtheriver-bank,

onestepdaring;

thendeepinclayherfeetsank,

andshehaltedstaring.

Slowlytheelven-shipwentby

whisperingthroughthewater:

‘Icannotcome!’theyheardhercry.

‘IwasbornEarth’sdaughter!’

Nojewelsbrighthergownbore,

asshewalkedbackfromthemeadow

underroofanddarkdoor,

underthehouse-shadow.

Shedonnedhersmockofrussetbrown,

herlonghairbraided,

andtoherworkcamesteppingdown.

Soonthesunlightfaded.

Yearstillafteryearflows

downtheSevenRivers;

cloudpasses,sunlightglows,

reedandwillowquivers

asmornandeve,butnevermore

westwardshipshavewaded

inmortalwatersasbefore,

andtheirsonghasfaded.

SMITHOFWOOTTONMAJOR

SMITHOFWOOTTONMAJOR

Therewas a village once, not very long ago for thosewith longmemories, not very far away for those with long legs. WoottonMajor itwas calledbecause itwas larger thanWoottonMinor, afewmilesawaydeepinthetrees;butitwasnotverylarge,thoughitwasatthattimeprosperous,andafairnumberoffolklivedinit,good,bad,andmixed,asisusual.

Itwas a remarkable village in itsway, beingwell known inthe country round about for the skill of its workers in variouscrafts,butmostofallforitscooking.IthadalargeKitchenwhichbelonged to the Village Council, and the Master Cook was animportantperson.TheCook’sHouseandtheKitchenadjoinedthe

GreatHall,thelargestandoldestbuildingintheplaceandthemostbeautiful. It was built of good stone and good oak andwaswelltended, though itwas no longer painted or gilded as it had beenonceuponatime.IntheHallthevillagersheldtheirmeetingsanddebates,andtheirpublicfeasts,andtheirfamilygatherings.SotheCookwaskeptbusy,sinceforalltheseoccasionshehadtoprovidesuitable fare. For the festivals, of which thereweremany in thecourse of a year, the fare thatwas thought suitablewas plentifulandrich.

Therewasonefestivaltowhichalllookedforward,foritwastheonlyoneheldinwinter.Itwentonforaweek,andonits lastday at sundown there was a merry-making called The Feast ofGoodChildren, towhich notmanywere invited.No doubt somewhodeservedtobeaskedwereoverlooked,andsomewhodidnotwere invited by mistake; for that is the way of things, howevercarefulthosewhoarrangesuchmattersmaytrytobe.Inanycaseitwas largely by chance of birthday that any child came in for the

Twenty-four Feast, since that was only held once in twenty-fouryears, and only twenty-four children were invited. For thatoccasion the Master Cook was expected to do his best, and inaddition tomanyother good things itwas the custom for him tomaketheGreatCake.Bytheexcellence(orotherwise)ofthishisnamewaschiefly remembered, foraMasterCookseldomifeverlastedlongenoughinofficetomakeasecondGreatCake.

Therecameatime,however,whenthereigningMasterCook,to everyone’s surprise, since it had never happened before,suddenlyannounced thatheneededaholiday;andhewentaway,nooneknewwhere;andwhenhecamebacksomemonthslaterheseemed rather changed.Hehadbeenakindmanwholikedtoseeotherpeopleenjoyingthemselves,buthewashimselfserious,andsaidvery little.Nowhewasmerrier,andoftensaidanddidmostlaughable things; and at feasts hewould himself sing gay songs,

which was not expected ofMaster Cooks.Also he brought backwithhimanApprentice;andthatastonishedtheVillage.

It was not astonishing for the Master Cook to have anapprentice.Itwasusual.TheMasterchoseoneinduetime,andhetaught him all that he could; and as they both grew older theapprentice tookonmoreof the importantwork, so thatwhen theMaster retiredordied therehewas, ready to takeover theofficeand becomeMaster Cook in his turn. But thisMaster had neverchosen an apprentice. He had always said ‘time enough yet’, or‘I’mkeepingmyeyesopenandI’llchoose,onewhenIfindonetosuitme’.But nowhe broughtwith him amere boy, and not onefrom the village. He was more lithe than theWootton lads andquicker,soft-spokenandverypolite,butridiculouslyyoungforthework, barely in his teens by the look of him. Still, choosing hisapprenticewastheMasterCook’saffair,andnoonehadtherightto interfere in it; so the boy remained and stayed in the Cook’sHouseuntilhewasoldenoughtofindlodgingsforhimself.People

soonbecameusedtoseeinghimabout,andhemadeafewfriends.They and the Cook called himAlf, but to the rest he was justPrentice.

The next surprise came only three years later. One springmorningtheMasterCooktookoffhistallwhitehat,foldeduphiscleanaprons,hunguphiswhitecoat, tookastoutashstickandasmallbag,anddeparted.Hesaidgoodbyetotheapprentice.Nooneelsewasabout.

‘Goodbye for now, Alf,’ he said. ‘I leave you to managethingsasbestyoucan,whichisalwaysverywell.Iexpectitwillturnoutallright.Ifwemeetagain,Ihopetohearallaboutit.Tellthem that I’vegoneon anotherholiday, but this time I shan’t becomingbackagain.’

Therewasquitea stir in thevillagewhenPrenticegave thismessagetopeoplewhocametotheKitchen.‘Whatathingtodo!’

theysaid.‘Andwithoutwarningorfarewell!WhatarewegoingtodowithoutanyMasterCook?Hehasleftnoonetotakehisplace.’In all their discussions no one ever thought of making youngPrenticeintoCook.Hehadgrownabittallerbutstilllookedlikeaboy,andhehadonlyservedforthreeyears.

Intheendfor lackofanyonebetter theyappointedamanofthevillage,whocouldcookwellenoughinasmallway.Whenhewas younger he had helped the Master at busy times, but theMaster had never taken to him and would not have him asapprentice. He was now a solid sort of man with a wife andchildren, and careful with money. ‘At any rate he won’t go offwithoutnotice,’theysaid,‘andpoorcookingisbetterthannone.ItissevenyearstillthenextGreatCake,andbythattimeheshouldbeabletomanageit.’

Nokes,forthatwashisname,wasverypleasedwiththeturnthingshad taken.Hehadalwayswished tobecomeMasterCook,and had never doubted that he could manage it. For some time,

whenhewasaloneintheKitchen,heusedtoputonthetallwhitehatandlookathimselfinapolishedfryingpanandsay:‘Howdoyoudo,Master.Thathatsuitsyouproperly,mighthavebeenmadeforyou.Ihopethingsgowellwithyou.’

Thingswentwellenough;foratfirstNokesdidhisbest,andhehadPrentice tohelphim.Indeedhelearneda lotfromhimbywatchinghimslyly,thoughthatNokesneveradmitted.Butinduecourse the time for the Twenty-four Feast drew near, andNokeshadtothinkaboutmakingtheGreatCake.Secretlyhewasworriedaboutit,foralthoughwithsevenyears’practicehecouldturnoutpassable cakes and pastries for ordinary occasions, he knew thathisGreatCakewouldbeeagerlyawaited,andwouldhavetosatisfysevere critics.Notonly the children.A smaller cakeof the samematerials and baking had to be provided for those who came tohelpat thefeast.Alsoitwasexpectedthat theGreatCakeshould

have something novel and surprising about it and not be amererepetitionoftheonebefore.

Hischiefnotionwasthatitshouldbeverysweetandrich;andhe decided that it should be entirely covered in sugar-icing (atwhichPrentice had a clever hand). ‘Thatwillmake it pretty andfairylike,’hethought.Fairiesandsweetsweretwooftheveryfewnotionshehadaboutthetastesofchildren.Fairieshethoughtonegrewoutof;butofsweetsheremainedveryfond.‘Ah!fairylike,’hesaid,‘thatgivesmeanidea’;andsoitcameintohisheadthathewouldstickalittledollonapinnacleinthemiddleoftheCake,dressed all in white, with a little wand in her hand ending in atinselstar,andFairyQueenwritteninpinkicingroundherfeet.

But when he began preparing the materials for the cake-makinghefoundthathehadonlydimmemoriesofwhatshouldgoinsideaGreatCake;sohelookedinsomeoldbooksofrecipesleftbehindbypreviouscooks.Theypuzzledhim,evenwhenhecouldmakeouttheirhand-writing,fortheymentionedmanythingsthat

hehadnotheardof,andsomethathehadforgottenandnowhadnotime toget;buthe thoughthemight tryoneor twoof thespicesthatthebooksspokeof.Hescratchedhisheadandrememberedanold black box with several different compartments in which thelastCookhadoncekeptspicesandotherthingsforspecialcakes.He had not looked at it since he took over, but after a search hefounditonahighshelfinthestore-room.

He took it down and blew the dust off the lid; butwhen heopenedithefoundthatverylittleofthespiceswereleft,andtheywere dry and musty. But in one compartment in the corner hediscovered a small star, hardly as big as one of our sixpences,black-lookingasifitwasmadeofsilverbutwastarnished.‘That’sfunny!’hesaidasheheldituptothelight.

‘No, it isn’t!’ said a voice behind him, so suddenly that hejumped. Itwas thevoiceofPrentice,andhehadnever spoken totheMasterinthattonebefore.IndeedheseldomspoketoNokesatall unless he was spoken to first. Very right and proper in a

youngster;hemightbecleverwithicingbuthehadalot tolearnyet:thatwasNokes’sopinion.

‘What do you mean, young fellow?’ he said, not muchpleased.‘Ifitisn’tfunnywhatisit?’

‘Itisfay,’saidPrentice.‘ItcomesfromFaery.’Then the Cook laughed. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘It

meansmuchthesame;butcall it thatifyoulike.You’llgrowupsome day. Now you can get on with stoning the raisins. If younoticeanyfunnyfairyones,tellme.’

‘What are you going to do with the star, Master?’ saidPrentice.

‘PutitintotheCake,ofcourse,’saidtheCook.‘Justthething,especially if it’sfairy,’ he sniggered. ‘I daresay you’ve been tochildren’spartiesyourself,andnotsolongagoeither,wherelittletrinketslikethiswerestirredintothemixture,andlittlecoinsandwhat not. Anyway we do that in this village: it amuses thechildren.’

‘Butthisisn’tatrinket,Master,it’safay-star,’saidPrentice.‘Soyou’ve said already,’ snapped theCook. ‘Verywell, I’ll

tellthechildren.It’llmakethemlaugh.’‘Idon’tthinkitwill,Master,’saidPrentice.‘Butit’stheright

thingtodo,quiteright.’‘Whodoyouthinkyou’retalkingto?’saidNokes.In time the Cake was made and baked and iced, mostly by

Prentice.‘Asyouaresosetonfairies,I’llletyoumaketheFairyQueen,’Nokessaidtohim.

‘Very good,Master,’ he answered. ‘I’ll do it if you are toobusy.Butitwasyourideaandnotmine.’

‘It’smyplacetohaveideas,andnotyours,’saidNokes.

At theFeast theCake stood in themiddle of the long table,insidea ringof twenty-four redcandles. Its top rose intoa smallwhitemountain,upthesidesofwhichgrewlittletreesglitteringas

ifwith frost;on its summit stooda tinywhite figureonone footlikeasnow-maidendancing,andinherhandwasaminutewandoficesparklingwithlight.

The children looked at it with wide eyes, and one or twoclapped their hands, crying: ‘Isn’t it pretty and fairy-like!’ Thatdelighted the Cook, but the apprentice looked displeased. Theywere both present: theMaster to cut up theCakewhen the timecame,andtheapprenticetosharpentheknifeandhandittohim.

AtlasttheCooktooktheknifeandsteppeduptothetable.‘Ishould tell you,my dears,’ he said, ‘that inside this lovely icingthere is a cakemade ofmany nice things to eat; but also stirredwellintherearemanyprettylittlethings,trinketsandlittlecoinsandwhatnot,andI’mtoldthatitisluckytofindoneinyourslice.Therearetwenty-fourintheCake,sothereshouldbeoneforeachofyou,iftheFairyQueenplaysfair.Butshedoesn’talwaysdoso:she’satrickylittlecreature.YouaskMrPrentice.’Theapprenticeturnedawayandstudiedthefacesofthechildren.

‘No!I’mforgetting,’saidtheCook.‘There’stwenty-fivethisevening.There’salsoalittlesilverstar,aspecialmagicone,orsoMrPrentice says. So be careful! If you break one of your prettyfrontteethonit, themagicstarwon’tmendit.ButIexpectit’saspeciallyluckythingtofind,allthesame.’

Itwasagoodcake,andnoonehadanyfault to findwith it,exceptthatitwasnobiggerthanwasneeded.Whenitwasallcutuptherewasalargesliceforeachofthechildren,butnothingleftover:nocomingagain.Theslicessoondisappeared,andeverynowandthenatrinketoracoinwasdiscovered.Somefoundone,andsomefoundtwo,andseveral foundnone;for that is thewayluckgoes,whether there isadollwithawandon thecakeornot.ButwhentheCakewasalleaten,therewasnosignofanymagicstar.

‘Blessme!’saidtheCook.‘Thenitcan’thavebeenmadeofsilverafter all; itmusthavemelted.OrperhapsMrPrenticewasright and it was really magical, and it’s just vanished and goneback to Fairyland. Not a nice trick to play, I don’t think.’ He

lookedatPrenticewith a smirk, andPrentice lookedathimwithdarkeyesanddidnotsmileatall.

All the same, the silver star was indeed a fay-star: theapprenticewasnotonetomakemistakesaboutthingsofthatsort.What had happened was that one of the boys at the Feast hadswallowed it without ever noticing it, although he had found asilvercoininhissliceandhadgivenittoNell,thelittlegirlnexttohim:she lookedsodisappointedat findingnothing lucky inhers.He sometimeswonderedwhat had really becomeof the star, anddidnotknowthatithadremainedwithhim,tuckedawayinsomeplacewhereitcouldnotbefelt;forthatwaswhatitwasintendedtodo.Thereitwaitedforalongtime,untilitsdaycame.

TheFeast hadbeen inmid-winter, but itwasnow June, and

thenightwashardlydarkatall.Theboygotupbeforedawn,forhedidnotwish to sleep: itwashis tenthbirthday.He lookedoutofthe window, and the world seemed quiet and expectant.A littlebreeze,coolandfragrant,stirredthewakingtrees.Thenthedawncame,andfarawayheheardthedawn-songofthebirdsbeginning,growingasitcametowardshim,untilitrushedoverhim,fillingallthelandroundthehouse,andpassedonlikeawaveofmusicintotheWest,asthesunroseabovetherimoftheworld.

‘ItremindsmeofFaery,’heheardhimselfsay;‘butinFaerythe people sing too.’ Then he began to sing, high and clear, instrangewordsthatheseemedtoknowbyheart;andinthatmomentthestarfelloutofhismouthandhecaughtitonhisopenhand.Itwas bright silver now, glistening in the sunlight; but it quiveredandrosealittle,asifitwasabouttoflyaway.Withoutthinkingheclappedhishandtohishead,andtherethestarstayedinthemiddleofhisforehead,andheworeitformanyyears.

Fewpeopleinthevillagenoticeditthoughitwasnotinvisible

to attentive eyes; but it became part of his face, and it did notusuallyshineatall.Someofitslightpassedintohiseyes;andhisvoice,whichhadbeguntogrowbeautifulassoonasthestarcametohim,becameevermorebeautifulashegrewup.Peoplelikedtohearhimspeak,evenifitwasnomorethana‘goodmorning’.

He became well known in his country, not only in his ownvillagebutinmanyothersroundabout,forhisgoodworkmanship.His father was a smith, and he followed him in his craft andbetteredit.Smithsonhewascalledwhilehisfatherwasstillalive,and then just Smith. For by that time he was the best smithbetween Far Easton and the Westwood, and he could make allkindsofthingsofironinhissmithy.Mostofthem,ofcourse,wereplain and useful, meant for daily needs: farm tools, carpenters’tools,kitchen toolsandpotsandpans,barsandbolts andhinges,pot-hooks, fire-dogs, and horse-shoes, and the like. They werestrong and lasting, but they also had a grace about them, beingshapelyintheirkinds,goodtohandleandtolookat.

Butsomethings,whenhehadtime,hemadefordelight;andtheywerebeautiful, forhe couldwork ironintowonderful formsthatlookedaslightanddelicateasasprayofleavesandblossom,butkept the stern strengthof iron,or seemedeven stronger.Fewcould pass by one of the gates or lattices that he made withoutstopping to admire it; no one could pass through it once it wasshut.He sangwhenhewasmaking thingsof this sort; andwhenSmithbegantosingthosenearbystoppedtheirownworkandcametothesmithytolisten.

Thatwasallthatmostpeopleknewabouthim.Itwasenoughindeed and more than most men and women in the villageachieved,eventhosewhowereskilledandhardworking.Buttherewasmoretoknow.ForSmithbecameacquaintedwithFaery,andsomeregionsofitheknewaswellasanymortalcan;thoughsincetoomanyhadbecomelikeNokes,hespokeofthistofewpeople,

except hiswife andhis children.HiswifewasNell, towhomhegave the silver coin, and his daughterwasNan, and his sonwasNed Smithson. From them it could not have been kept secretanyway,for theysometimessawthestarshiningonhisforehead,whenhecamebackfromoneofthelongwalkshewouldtakealonenowandthenintheevening,orwhenhereturnedfromajourney.

From time to time he would go off, sometimes walking,sometimes riding, and it was generally supposed that it was onbusiness;andsometimesitwas,andsometimesitwasnot.Atanyratenottogetordersforwork,ortobuypig-ironandcharcoalandother supplies, though heattended to such things with care andknew how to turn an honest penny into twopence, as the sayingwent. But he had business of its own kind in Faery, and hewaswelcomethere;forthestarshonebrightonhisbrow,andhewasassafeasamortalcanbe in thatperilouscountry.TheLesserEvilsavoidedthestar,andfromtheGreaterEvilshewasguarded.

For that he was grateful, for he soon became wise and

understoodthatthemarvelsofFaerycannotbeapproachedwithoutdanger, and thatmany of theEvils cannot be challengedwithoutweaponsofpowertoogreatforanymortaltowield.Heremainedalearner and explorer, not awarrior; and though in time he couldhaveforgedweaponsthatinhisownworldwouldhavehadpowerenoughtobecomethematterofgreat talesandbeworthaking’sransom, he knew that in Faery they would have been of smallaccount.Soamongallthethingsthathemadeitisnotrememberedthatheeverforgedaswordoraspearoranarrow-head.

InFaeryatfirsthewalkedforthemostpartquietlyamongthelesserfolkandthegentlercreaturesinthewoodsandmeadsoffairvalleys, and by the bright waters in which at night strange starsshone and at dawn the gleaming peaks of far mountains weremirrored.Someofhis briefer visits he spent lookingonly at onetreeoroneflower;butlaterinlongerjourneyshehadseenthingsofbothbeautyand terror thathecouldnot clearly remembernorreport to his friends, though he knew that theydwelt deep in his

heart.Butsomethingshedidnotforget,andtheyremainedinhismindaswondersandmysteriesthatheoftenrecalled.

Whenhefirstbegantowalkfarwithoutaguidehethoughthewoulddiscoverthefurtherboundsoftheland;butgreatmountainsrose before him, and going by long ways round about them hecame at last to a desolate shore. He stood beside the Sea ofWindless Storm where the blue waves like snow-clad hills rollsilentlyoutofUnlight to the longstrand,bearing thewhiteshipsthatreturnfrombattlesontheDarkMarchesofwhichmenknownothing. He saw a great ship cast high upon the land, and thewatersfellbackinfoamwithoutasound.Theelvenmarinersweretallandterrible;theirswordsshoneandtheirspearsglintedandapiercing light was in their eyes. Suddenly they lifted up theirvoices in a song of triumph, and his heartwas shakenwith fear,andhefelluponhisface,andtheypassedoverhimandwentaway

intotheechoinghills.

Afterwardshewentnomore to thatstrand,believing thathewas inan island realmbeleagueredby theSea,andhe turnedhismind towards themountains,desiring tocome to theheartof thekingdom. Once in these wanderings he was overtaken by a greymistandstrayed longata loss,until themist rolledawayandhefoundthathewasinawideplain.Farofftherewasagreathillofshadow,and out of that shadow, which was its root, he saw theKing’sTreespringingup, towerupon tower, into the sky,and itslight was like the sun at noon; and it bore at once leaves andflowers and fruits uncounted, and not one was the same as anyotherthatgrewontheTree.

Henever saw thatTree again, thoughheoften sought for it.

OnonesuchjourneyclimbingintotheOuterMountainshecametoa deep dale among them, and at its bottom lay a lake, calm andunruffled thoughabreezestirred thewoods thatsurroundedit. Inthatdalethelightwaslikearedsunset,butthelightcameupfromthelake.Fromalowcliffthatoverhungithelookeddown,anditseemed thathecouldsee toan immeasurabledepth;and therehebeheld strange shapes of flame bending and branching andwaveringlikegreatweedsinasea-dingle,andfierycreatureswentto and fro among them.Filledwithwonder hewent down to thewater’sedgeandtrieditwithhisfoot,butitwasnotwater:itwasharder thanstoneandsleeker thanglass.Hesteppedon it andhefellheavily,andaringingboomranacrossthelakeandechoedinitsshores.

Atonce thebreeze rose to awildWind, roaring like agreatbeast,anditswepthimupandflunghimontheshore,anditdrovehimuptheslopeswhirlingandfallinglikeadeadleaf.Heputhisarmsaboutthestemofayoungbirchandclungtoit,andtheWind

wrestledfiercelywiththem,tryingtotearhimaway;butthebirchwas bentdownto thegroundbytheblastandenclosedhimin itsbranches.WhenatlasttheWindpassedonheroseandsawthatthebirch was naked. It was stripped of every leaf, and it wept, andtearsfellfromitsbrancheslikerain.Hesethishanduponitswhitebark,saying:‘Blessedbethebirch!WhatcanIdotomakeamendsor give thanks?’He felt the answer of the tree pass up from hishand:‘Nothing,’itsaid.‘Goaway!TheWindishuntingyou.Youdonotbelonghere.Goawayandneverreturn!’

As he climbed back out of that dale he felt the tears of thebirch trickle down his face and theywere bitter on his lips. Hisheartwassaddenedashewentonhislongroad,andforsometimehedidnotenterFaeryagain.Buthecouldnotforsakeit,andwhenhereturnedhisdesirewasstillstrongertogodeepintotheland.

AtlasthefoundaroadthroughtheOuterMountains,andhe

wenton till he came to the InnerMountains, and theywerehighand sheer and daunting.Yet in the end he found a pass that hecouldscale,anduponadayofdaysgreatlydaringhecamethroughanarrowcleftandlookeddown,thoughhedidnotknowit,intotheVale of Evermorn where the green surpasses the green of themeadsofOuterFaeryastheysurpassoursinourspringtime.Theretheairissolucidthateyescanseetheredtonguesofbirdsastheysingonthetreesuponthefarsideofthevalley,thoughthatisverywideandthebirdsarenogreaterthanwrens.

On the inner side the mountains went down in long slopesfilledwiththesoundofbubblingwaterfalls,andingreatdelighthehastened on.As he set foot upon the grass of theVale he heardelvenvoicessinging,andonalawnbesideariverbrightwithlilieshecameuponmanymaidensdancing.Thespeedandthegraceandtheever-changingmodesof theirmovementsenchantedhim,andhe stepped forward towards their ring. Then suddenly they stoodstill,andayoungmaidenwithflowinghairandkiltedskirtcame

outtomeethim.Shelaughedasshespoketohim,saying:‘Youarebecoming

bold, Starbrow, are you not? Have you no fear what the Queenmightsay,ifsheknewofthis?Unlessyouhaveherleave.’Hewasabashed, for he became aware of his own thought and knew thatshe read it: that the star on his forehead was a passport to gowherever he wished; and now he knew that it was not. But shesmiledasshespokeagain:Come!Nowthatyouarehereyoushalldancewithme’;andshetookhishandandledhimintothering.

There theydanced together,and forawhileheknewwhat itwastohavetheswiftnessandthepowerandthejoytoaccompanyher.Forawhile.Butsoonasitseemedtheyhaltedagain,andshestoopedand tookupawhite flowerfrombeforeher feet,andsheset it inhishair.‘Farewellnow!’shesaid.‘Maybeweshallmeetagain,bytheQueen’sleave.’

He remembered nothing of the journey home from thatmeeting,untilhefoundhimselfridingalongtheroadsinhisowncountry;andinsomevillagespeoplestaredathiminwonderandwatched him till he rode out of sight.When he came to his ownhousehisdaughter ranout andgreetedhimwithdelight—hehadreturnedsoonerthanwasexpected,butnonetoosoonforthosethatawaitedhim.‘Daddy!’shecried.‘Wherehaveyoubeen?Yourstarisshiningbright!’

When he crossed the threshold the star dimmed again; butNelltookhimbythehandandledhimtothehearth,andtheresheturnedand lookedathim. ‘DearMan,’shesaid, ‘wherehaveyoubeenandwhathaveyouseen?Thereisaflowerinyourhair.’Shelifteditgentlyfromhishead,anditlayonherhand.Itseemedlikea thing seen from a great distance, yet there it was, and a lightcame from it that cast shadows on the walls of the room, nowgrowing dark in the evening. The shadow of theman before herloomedupanditsgreatheadwasbowedoverher.‘Youlooklikea

giant,Dad,’saidhisson,whohadnotspokenbefore.Theflowerdidnotwithernorgrowdim;andtheykeptitasa

secretandatreasure.Thesmithmadealittlecasketwithakeyforit,and there it layandwashandeddownformanygenerations inhiskin;and thosewho inherited thekeywouldat timesopen thecasket and look long at the Living Flower, till the casket closedagain:thetimeofitsshuttingwasnottheirstochoose.

Theyearsdidnothaltinthevillage.Manynowhadpassed.AttheChildren’sFeastwhenhe received the star the smithwasnotyettenyearsold.ThencameanotherTwenty-fourFeast,bywhichtime Alf had become Master Cook and had chosen a newapprentice,Harper.TwelveyearslaterthesmithhadreturnedwiththeLivingFlower;andnowanotherChildren’sTwenty-fourFeastwas due in the winter to come. One day in that year Smith waswalking in thewoodsofOuterFaery, and itwasautumn.Golden

leaves were on the boughs and red leaves were on the ground.Footsteps came behind him, but he did not heed them or turnround,forhewasdeepinthought.

Onthatvisithehadreceivedasummonsandhadmadeafarjourney. Longer it seemed to him than any he had yetmade.Hewasguidedandguarded,buthehadlittlememoryofthewaysthathe had taken; for often he had been blindfolded by mist or byshadow,untilatlasthecametoahighplaceunderanight-skyofinnumerablestars.TherehewasbroughtbeforetheQueenherself.She wore no crown and had no throne. She stood there in hermajesty and her glory, and all about her was a great hostshimmeringandglittering like thestarsabove;but shewas tallerthan the points of their great spears, and upon her head thereburned awhite flame.Shemade a sign for him to approach, andtremblinghestepped forward.Ahighclear trumpetsounded,andbehold!theywerealone.

Hestoodbeforeher,andhedidnotkneel incourtesy,forhe

was dismayed and felt that for one so lowly all gestureswere invain.Atlengthhelookedupandbeheldherfaceandhereyesbentgravely upon him; and he was troubled and amazed, for in thatmoment heknewher again: the fairmaidof theGreenVale, thedancer at whose feet the flowers sprang. She smiled seeing hismemory,anddrewtowardshim;andtheyspokelongtogether,forthemost part without words, and he learnedmany things in herthought, someofwhichgavehim joy, andothers filledhimwithgrief.Thenhismindturnedbackretracinghislife,untilhecametothe day of the Children’s Feast and the coming of the star, andsuddenlyhesawagainthelittledancingfigurewithitswand,andinshameheloweredhiseyesfromtheQueen’sbeauty.

But she laughed again as she had laughed in the Vale ofEvermorn.‘Donotbegrievedforme,Starbrow,’shesaid.‘Nortoomuchashamedofyourownfolk.Bettera littledoll,maybe, thannomemoryofFaeryatall.Forsome theonlyglimpse.Forsometheawaking.Eversincethatdayyouhavedesiredinyourheartto

seeme,andIhavegrantedyourwish.ButIcangiveyounomore.Nowat farewell Iwillmakeyoumymessenger. If youmeet theKing,saytohim:Thetimehascome.Lethimchoose.’

‘ButLadyofFaery,’hestammered,‘wherethenistheKing?’ForhehadaskedthisquestionmanytimesofthepeopleofFaery,andtheyhadallsaidthesame:‘Hehasnottoldus.’

And theQueenanswered: ‘Ifhehasnot toldyou,Star-brow,then Imaynot.Buthemakesmany journeys andmaybemet inunlikelyplaces.Nowkneelofyourcourtesy.’

Thenheknelt,andshestoopedandlaidherhandonhishead,andagreatstillnesscameuponhim;andheseemedtobebothintheWorldandinFaery,andalsooutsidethemandsurveyingthem,so that hewas at once in bereavement, and in ownership, and inpeace.Whenafter awhile the stillnesspassedhe raisedhis headandstoodup.Thedawnwasintheskyandthestarswerepale,andtheQueenwasgone.Faroffheheardtheechoofatrumpetinthemountains. The high fieldwhere he stoodwas silent and empty:

andheknewthathiswaynowledbacktobereavement.

Thatmeeting-placewasnowfarbehindhim,andherehewas,walking among the fallen leaves, pondering all that he had seenandlearned.Thefootstepscamenearer.Thensuddenlyavoicesaidathisside:‘Areyougoingmyway,Starbrow?’

He started and came out of his thoughts, and he saw amanbesidehim.Hewastall,andhewalkedlightlyandquickly;hewasdressedallindarkgreenandworeahoodthatpartlyovershadowedhis face. The smith was puzzled, for only the people of Faerycalledhim‘Starbrow’,buthecouldnotremembereverhavingseenthismantherebefore;andyethefeltuneasilythatheshouldknowhim.‘Whatwayareyougoingthen?’hesaid.

‘I am going back to your village now,’ the man answered,‘andIhopethatyouarealsoreturning.’

‘Iamindeed,’saidthesmith.‘Letuswalktogether.Butnow

something has come back to my mind. Before I began myhomewardjourneyaGreatLadygavemeamessage,butweshallsoon be passing from Faery, and I do not think that I shall everreturn.Willyou?’

‘Yes,Ishall.Youmaygivethemessagetome.’‘ButthemessagewastotheKing.Doyouknowwheretofind

him?’‘Ido.Whatwasthemessage?’‘TheLadyonly askedme to say tohim:The timehascome.

Lethimchoose.’‘Iunderstand.Troubleyourselfnofurther.’

Theywentonthensidebysideinsilencesavefortherustleofthe leavesabout their feet;butaftera fewmileswhile theywerestillwithintheboundsofFaerythemanhalted.Heturnedtowardsthesmithandthrewbackhishood.Thenthesmithknewhim.He

wasAlfthePrentice,asthesmithstillcalledhiminhisownmind,rememberingalwaysthedaywhenasayouthAlfhadstoodintheHall,holding thebrightknife for thecuttingof theCake,andhiseyes had gleamed in the light of the candles.Hemust be an oldmannow, forhehadbeenMasterCook formanyyears;butherestanding under the eaves of the Outer Wood he looked like theapprenticeoflongago,thoughmoremasterly:therewasnogreyinhis hair norline on his face, and his eyes gleamed as if theyreflectedalight.

‘Ishouldliketospeaktoyou,SmithSmithson,beforewegobacktoyourcountry,’hesaid.Thesmithwonderedatthat,forhehimselfhadoftenwishedtotalktoAlf,buthadneverbeenabletodo so.Alf had alwaysgreetedhimkindly andhad looked at himwithfriendlyeyes,buthadseemedtoavoid talking tohimalone.Hewaslookingnowat thesmithwithfriendlyeyes;butheliftedhishandandwithhisforefingertouchedthestaronhisbrow.Thegleamlefthiseyes,andthenthesmithknewthatithadcomefrom

thestar,and that itmusthavebeenshiningbrightlybutnowwasdimmed.Hewassurprisedanddrewawayangrily.

‘Doyounotthink,MasterSmith,’saidAlf,‘thatitistimeforyoutogivethisthingup?’

‘What is that toyou,MasterCook?’heanswered. ‘AndwhyshouldIdoso?Isn’t itmine?Itcame tome,andmayamannotkeepthingsthatcometohimso,attheleastasaremembrance?’

‘Some things. Those that are free gifts and given forremembrance.Butothersarenotsogiven.Theycannotbelongtoaman for ever, nor be treasured as heirlooms. They are lent.Youhavenotthought,perhaps,thatsomeoneelsemayneedthisthing.Butitisso.Timeispressing.’

Thenthesmithwastroubled,forhewasagenerousman,andherememberedwithgratitudeallthatthestarhadbroughttohim.‘ThenwhatshouldIdo?’heasked.‘ShouldIgiveittooneoftheGreatinFaery?ShouldIgiveittotheKing?’Andashesaidthisahopespranginhisheartthatonsuchanerrandhemightoncemore

enterFaery.‘Youcouldgive it tome,’saidAlf, ‘butyoumightfind that

toohard.Willyoucomewithmetomystoreroomandputitbackintheboxwhereyourgrandfatherlaidit?’

‘Ididnotknowthat,’saidthesmith.‘Nooneknewbutme.Iwastheonlyonewithhim.’‘ThenIsupposethatyouknowhowhecamebythestar,and

whyheputitinthebox?’‘HebroughtitfromFaery:thatyouknowwithoutasking,’Alf

answered.‘Heleftitbehindinthehopethatitmightcometoyou,his only grandchild. So he told me, for he thought that I couldarrangethat.Hewasyourmother’sfather.Idonotknowwhethershe told you much about him, if indeed she knew much to tell.Riderwashisname,andhewasagreattraveller:hehadseenmanythings and could do many things before he settled down andbecameMasterCook.Buthewentawaywhenyouwereonlytwoyears old—and they could find no one better to follow him than

Nokes,poorman.Still,asweexpected,IbecameMaster in time.ThisyearIshallmakeanotherGreatCake:theonlyCook,asfarasisremembered,evertomakeasecondone.Iwishtoputthestarinit.’

‘Verywell,youshallhaveit,’saidthesmith.HelookedatAlfasifhewastryingtoreadhisthought.‘Doyouknowwhowillfindit?’

‘Whatisthattoyou,MasterSmith?’‘Ishouldliketoknow,ifyoudo,MasterCook.Itmightmake

iteasierformetopartwithathingsodeartome.Mydaughter’schildistooyoung.’

‘Itmightanditmightnot.Weshallsee,’saidAlf.

They said no more, and they went on their way until theypassedoutofFaeryandcamebackatlasttothevillage.ThentheywalkedtotheHall;andintheworldthesunwasnowsettinganda

redlightwasinthewindows.Thegildedcarvingsonthegreatdoorglowed,andstrangefacesofmanycolours lookeddownfromthewater-sprouts under the roof.Not long ago theHall hadbeen re-glazed and re-painted, and there had been much debate on theCouncilaboutit.Somedislikeditandcalledit‘new-fangled’,butsome with more knowledge knew that it was a return to oldcustom.Still,sinceithadcostnooneapennyandtheMasterCookmusthavepaidforithimself,hewasallowedtohavehisownway.But thesmithhadnotseen it insucha lightbefore,andhestoodandlookedattheHallinwonder,forgettinghiserrand.

Hefeltatouchonhisarm,andAlfledhimroundtoasmalldoor at the back. He opened it and led the smith down a darkpassage into the store-room. There he lit a tall candle, andunlockingacupboardhetookdownfromashelftheblackbox.Itwaspolishednowandadornedwithsilverscrolls.

He raised the lid and showed it to the smith. One smallcompartmentwas empty; the otherswere now filledwith spices,

freshandpungent,andthesmith’seyesbegantowater.Heputhishandtohisforehead,andthestarcameawayreadily,buthefeltasuddenstabofpain,and tears randownhis face.Though thestarshone brightly again as it lay in his hand, he could not see it,exceptasablurreddazzleoflightthatseemedfaraway.

‘Icannotseeclearly,’hesaid.‘Youmustputitinforme.’Heheldouthishand,andAlftookthestarandlaiditinitsplace,anditwentdark.

Thesmith turnedawaywithoutanotherwordandgropedhisway to the door. On the threshold he found that his sight hadcleared again. Itwas evening and theEven-starwas shining in aluminousskyclosetotheMoon.Ashestoodforamomentlookingattheirbeauty,hefeltahandonhisshoulderandturned.

‘Yougaveme the star freely,’ saidAlf. ‘Ifyou stillwish toknowtowhichchilditwillgo,Iwilltellyou.’

‘Idoindeed.’‘Itshallgotoanyonethatyouappoint.’

Thesmithwastakenabackanddidnotansweratonce.‘Well,’hesaidhesitating, ‘Iwonderwhatyoumay thinkofmychoice. IbelieveyouhavelittlereasontolovethenameofNokes,but,well,his littlegreat-grandson,NokesofTownsend’sTim, iscoming totheFeast.NokesofTownsendisquitedifferent.’

‘Ihaveobservedthat,’saidAlf.‘Hehadawisemother.’‘Yes,myNell’ssister.ButapartfromthekinshipIlovelittle

Tim.Thoughhe’snotanobviouschoice.’Alfsmiled.‘Neitherwereyou,’hesaid.‘ButIagree.IndeedI

hadalreadychosenTim.’‘Thenwhydidyouaskmetochoose?’‘TheQueenwishedmetodoso.Ifyouhadchosendifferently

Ishouldhavegivenway.’ThesmithlookedlongatAlf.Thensuddenlyhebowedlow.‘I

understand at last, sir,’ he said. ‘You have done us too muchhonour.’

‘Ihavebeenrepaid,’saidAlf.‘Gohomenowinpeace!’

When the smith reached his own house on the westernoutskirtsof thevillagehefoundhissonby thedoorof theforge.He had just locked it, for the day’sworkwas done, and now hestoodlookingupthewhiteroadbywhichhisfatherusedtoreturnfromhis journeys.Hearing footsteps,he turned in surprise to seehimcomingfromthevillage,andheranforwardtomeethim.Heputhisarmsabouthiminlovingwelcome.

‘I’vebeenhopingforyousinceyesterday,Dad,’hesaid.Thenlooking into his father’s face he said anxiously: ‘How tired youlook!Youhavewalkedfar,maybe?’

‘Very far indeed, my son. All the way from Daybreak toEvening.’

Theywentintothehousetogether,anditwasdarkexceptforthefireflickeringonthehearth.Hissonlitcandles,andforawhilethey sat by the fire without speaking; for a great weariness and

bereavement was on the smith. At last he looked round, as ifcomingtohimself,andhesaid:‘Whyarewealone?’

Hissonlookedhardathim.‘Why?Mother’soveratMinor,atNan’s.It’sthelittlelad’ssecondbirthday.Theyhopedyouwouldbetheretoo.’

‘Ahyes.Ioughttohavebeen.Ishouldhavebeen,Ned,butIwasdelayed;andIhavehadmatterstothinkofthatputallelseoutofmindforatime.ButIdidnotforgetTomling.’

Heput his hand in his breast anddrewout a littlewallet ofsoft leather. ‘I havebrought him something.A trinket oldNokesmaybewouldcall it—but itcomesoutofFaery,Ned.’Outof thewallethetookalittlethingofsilver.Itwaslikethesmoothstemofa tiny lily from the top of which came three delicate flowers,bendingdownlikeshapelybells.Andbellstheywere,forwhenheshookthemgentlyeachflowerrangwithasmallclearnote.Atthesweet sound the candles flickered and then for a moment shonewithawhitelight.

Ned’seyeswerewidewithwonder. ‘MayI lookat it,Dad?’hesaid.Hetookitwithcarefulfingersandpeeredintotheflowers.‘Theworkisamarvel!’hesaid.‘And,Dad,thereisascentinthebells:ascent that remindsmeof, remindsme,wellofsomethingI’veforgotten.’

‘Yes, the scent comes for a little while after the bells haverung.But don’t fear to handle it,Ned. Itwasmade for ababe toplaywith.Hecandoitnoharm,andhe’lltakenonefromit.’

Thesmithputthegiftbackinthewalletandstoweditaway.‘I’ll take it over to Wootton Minor myself tomorrow,’ he said.‘Nan and her Tom, andMother, will forgiveme, maybe.As forTomling,histimehasnotyetcomeforthecountingofdays…andofweeks,andofmonths,andofyears.’

‘That’sright.Yougo,Dad.I’dbegladtogowithyou;butitwillbesometimebeforeIcangetovertoMinor.Icouldn’thavegone today,even if Ihadn’twaitedhere foryou.There’sa lotofworkinhand,andmorecomingin.’

‘No, no, Smith’s son! Make it a holiday! The name ofgrandfather hasn’t weakenedmy arms yet a while. Let the workcome!There’llbetwopairsofhandstotackleitnow,allworkingdays.Ishallnotbegoingonjourneysagain,Ned:notonlongones,ifyouunderstandme.’

‘It’sthatwayisit,Dad?Iwonderedwhathadbecomeofthestar.That’shard.’Hetookhisfather’shand.‘I’mgrievedforyou;but there’s good in it too, for this house. Do you know,MasterSmith, there ismuchyoucan teachmeyet, ifyouhave the time.AndIdonotmeanonlytheworkingofiron.’

They had supper together, and long after they had finishedthey still sat at the table,while the smith toldhis sonofhis lastjourney inFaery, andofother things that came tohismind—butaboutthechoiceofthenextholderofthestarhesaidnothing.

At lasthis son lookedathim,and ‘Father,’he said, ‘doyouremember the daywhen you came backwith the Flower?And Isaidthatyoulookedlikeagiantbyyourshadow.Theshadowwas

thetruth.SoitwastheQueenherselfthatyoudancedwith.Yetyouhavegivenupthestar.Ihopeitmaygotosomeoneasworthy.Thechildshouldbegrateful.’

‘Thechildwon’tknow,’saidthesmith.‘That’sthewaywithsuchgifts.Well,thereitis.Ihavehandeditonandcomebacktohammerandtongs.’

It is a strange thing, but oldNokes, who had scoffed at hisapprentice, had never been able to put out of his mind thedisappearance of the star in the Cake, although that event hadhappened so many years ago. He had grown fat and lazy, andretired from his office when he was sixty (no great age in thevillage). He was now near the end of his eighties, and was ofenormousbulk,forhestillateheavilyanddotedonsugar.Mostofhisdays,whennotattable,hespentinabigchairbythewindowof his cottage, or by the door if it was fine weather. He liked

talking,sincehestillhadmanyopinionstoair;butlatelyhistalkmostlyturnedtotheoneGreatCakethathehadmade(ashewasnowfirmlyconvinced),forwheneverhefellasleepitcameintohisdreams.Prenticesometimesstoppedforawordortwo.Sotheoldcookstillcalledhim,andheexpectedhimselftobecalledMaster.ThatPrenticewascareful todo;whichwasapoint inhis favour,thoughtherewereothersthatNokeswasmorefondof.

One afternoon Nokes was nodding in his chair by the doorafterhisdinner.HewokewithastarttofindPrenticestandingbyandlookingdownathim.‘Hullo!’hesaid.‘I’mgladtoseeyou,forthatcake’sbeenonmymindagain.Iwasthinkingofitjustnowinfact.ItwasthebestcakeIevermade,andthat’ssayingsomething.Butperhapsyouhaveforgottenit.’

‘No,Master. I remember it verywell.Butwhat is troublingyou?Itwasagoodcake,anditwasenjoyedandpraised.’

‘Of course. I made it. But that doesn’t trouble me. It’s thelittletrinket,thestar.Icannotmakeupmymindwhatbecameof

it.Ofcourseitwouldn’tmelt.Ionlysaidthattostopthechildrenfrom being frightened. I have wondered if one of them did notswallow it. But is that likely?You might swallow one of thoselittlecoinsandnotnotice it,butnot that star. Itwassmallbut ithadsharppoints.’

‘Yes,Master.Butdoyoureallyknowwhatthestarwasmadeof? Don’t trouble your mind about it. Someone swallowed it, Iassureyou.’

‘Thenwho?Well,I’vealongmemory,andthatdaysticksinitsomehow.Icanrecallallthechildren’snames.Letmethink.Itmust have beenMiller’s Molly! She was greedy and bolted herfood.She’sasfatasasacknow.’

‘Yes,therearesomefolkwhogetlikethat,Master.ButMollydidnotbolthercake.Shefoundtwotrinketsinherslice.’

‘Oh,didshe?Well,itwasCooper’sHarrythen.Abarrelofaboywithabigmouthlikeafrog’s.’

‘I should have said, Master, that he was a nice boy with a

largefriendlygrin.Anywayhewassocarefulthathetookhisslicetopiecesbeforeheateit.Hefoundnothingbutcake.’

‘Thenitmusthavebeenthatlittlepalegirl,Draper’sLily.Sheusedtoswallowpinsasababyandcametonoharm.’

‘NotLily,Master.Sheonly ate thepaste and the sugar, andgavetheinsidetotheboythatsatnexttoher.’

‘ThenIgiveup.Whowasit?Youseemtohavebeenwatchingveryclosely.Ifyou’renotmakingitallup.’

‘Itwas theSmith’s son,Master; and I think itwasgood forhim.’

‘Goon!’laughedoldNokes.‘Ioughttohaveknownyouwerehaving a gamewithme. Don’t be ridiculous! Smith was a quietslow boy then.Hemakesmore noise now: a bit of a songster, Ihear; but he’s cautious.No risks for him.Chews twicebeforeheswallows,andalwaysdid,ifyoutakemymeaning.’

‘Ido,Master.Well,ifyouwon’tbelieveitwasSmith,Ican’thelp you. Perhaps it doesn’tmattermuch now.Will it ease your

mindifItellyouthatthestarisbackintheboxnow?Hereitis!’Prenticewaswearing a dark green cloak, whichNokes now

noticedforthefirsttime.Fromitsfoldsheproducedtheblackboxandopeneditundertheoldcook’snose.‘Thereisthestar,Master,downinthecorner.’

OldNokesbegancoughingandsneezing,butatlasthelookedintothebox.‘Soitis!’hesaid.‘Atleastitlookslikeit.’

‘It is the sameone,Master. Iput it theremyself a fewdaysago.ItwillgobackintheGreatCakethiswinter.’

‘A-ha!’ saidNokes, leering atPrentice; and thenhe laughedtill he shook like a jelly. ‘I see, I see!Twenty-four children andtwenty-fourluckybits,andthestarwasoneextra.Soyounippeditout before the baking and kept it for another time. You werealways a tricky fellow: nimble one might say. And thrifty:wouldn’twasteabee’skneeofbutter.Ha,ha,ha!Sothatwasthewayofit.Imighthaveguessed.Well,that’sclearedup.NowIcanhave a nap in peace.’ He settled down in his chair. ‘Mind that

prenticemanofyoursplaysyounotricks!Theartfuldon’tknowallthearts,theysay.’Heclosedhiseyes.

‘Goodbye,Master!’saidPrentice,shuttingtheboxwithsuchasnap that thecookopenedhiseyesagain. ‘Nokes,’he said, ‘yourknowledge is sogreat that Ihaveonly twiceventured to tell youanything.ItoldyouthatthestarcamefromFaery;andIhavetoldyouthatitwenttothesmith.Youlaughedatme.NowatpartingIwilltellyouonethingmore.Don’tlaughagain!Youareavainoldfraud, fat, idle and sly. I didmost of yourwork.Without thanksyoulearnedallthatyoucouldfromme—exceptrespectforFaery,and a little courtesy.You have not even enough to bidme goodday.’

‘If it comes to courtesy,’ saidNokes, ‘I see none in callingyour elders and betters by ill names. Take your Fairy and yournonsensesomewhereelse!Gooddaytoyou, if that’swhatyou’rewaiting for. Now go along with you!’ He flapped his handmockingly. ‘Ifyou’vegotoneofyour fairy friendshidden in the

Kitchen,sendhimtomeandI’llhavea lookathim.Ifhewaveshislittlewandandmakesmethinagain,I’ll thinkbetterofhim,’helaughed.

‘WouldyouspareafewmomentsfortheKingofFaery?’theotheranswered.ToNokes’sdismayhegrewtallerashespoke.Hethrewbackhiscloak.HewasdressedlikeaMasterCookataFeast,buthiswhitegarmentsshimmeredandglinted,andonhisforeheadwasagreatjewellikearadiantstar.Hisfacewasyoungbutstern.

‘Oldman,’hesaid, ‘youareat leastnotmyelder.As tomybetter: you have often sneered at me behind my back. Do youchallengemenowopenly?’Hesteppedforward,andNokesshrankfromhim, trembling.He tried toshout forhelpbut found thathecouldhardlywhisper.

‘No,sir!’hecroaked.‘Don’tdomeaharm!I’monlyapooroldman.’

TheKing’sfacesoftened.‘Alas,yes!Youspeakthetruth.Donotbeafraid!Beatease!ButwillyounotexpecttheKingofFaery

to do something for you before he leaves you? I grant you yourwish.Farewell!Nowgotosleep!’

HewrappedhiscloakabouthimagainandwentawaytowardstheHall; but before hewas out of sight the old cook’s gogglingeyeshadshutandhewassnoring.

When theold cookwoke again the sunwasgoingdown.Herubbedhiseyesandshiveredalittle,fortheautumnairwaschilly.‘Ugh! What a dream!’ he said. ‘It must have been that pork atdinner.’

Fromthatdayhebecamesoafraidofhavingmorebaddreamsofthatsortthathehardlydaredeatanythingforfearthatitmightupset him, and his meals became very short and plain. He soonbecamelean,andhisclothesandhisskinhungonhiminfoldsandcreases. The children called him old Rag-and-Bones. Then for atimehe found thathecouldget about thevillageagainandwalk

with nomore help than a stick; and he livedmany years longerthanhewouldotherwisehavedone. Indeed it is said that he justmadehiscentury:theonlymemorablethingheeverachieved.Buttillhislastyearhecouldbeheardsayingtoanythatwouldlistentohis tale: ‘Alarming,youmightcall it;but a sillydream,whenyoucome to thinkof it.Kingo’Fairy!Why,hehadn’tnowand.Andifyoustopeatingyougrowthinner.That’snatural.Standstoreason.Thereain’tnomagicinit.’

The time for the Twenty-four Feast came round. Smithwasthere to sing songs andhiswife to helpwith the children.Smithlookedat themas theysanganddanced,andhe thought that theyweremorebeautifulandlivelythantheyhadbeeninhisboyhood—foramomentitcrossedhismindtowonderwhatAlfmighthavebeendoing inhisspare time.Anyoneof themseemedfit tofindthe star. But his eyesweremostly on Tim: a rather plump little

boy,clumsyinthedances,butwithasweetvoiceinthesinging.Attable he sat silent watching the sharpening of the knife and thecuttingof theCake.Suddenly,hepipedup: ‘DearMrCook,onlycut me a small slice please. I’ve eaten so much already, I feelratherfull.’

‘Allright,Tim,’saidAlf.‘I’llcutyouaspecialslice.Ithinkyou’llfinditgodowneasily.’

Smithwatched asTim ate his cake slowly, butwith evidentpleasure; thoughwhenhefoundnotrinketorcoinin ithe lookeddisappointed.But soon a light began to shine in his eyes, andhelaughedandbecamemerry,andsangsoftlytohimself.Thenhegotupandbegantodanceallalonewithanoddgracethathehadnevershownbefore.Thechildrenalllaughedandclapped.

‘All is well then,’ thought Smith. ‘So you are my heir. Iwonder what strange places the star will lead you to? Poor oldNokes.Still I suppose hewill never knowwhat a shocking thinghashappenedinhisfamily.’

He never did. But one thing happened at that Feast thatpleased him mightily. Before it was over theMaster Cook tookleaveofthechildrenandofalltheothersthatwerepresent.

‘Iwillsaygoodbyenow,’hesaid.‘InadayortwoIshallbegoingaway.MasterHarperisquitereadytotakeover.Heisaverygood cook, and as you know he comes from your own village. Ishallgobackhome.Idonotthinkyouwillmissme.’

The children saidgoodbye cheerfully, and thanked theCookprettily forhisbeautifulCake.Only littleTim tookhishandandsaidquietly,‘I’msorry.’

InthevillagetherewereinfactseveralfamiliesthatdidmissAlf for some time. A few of his friends, especially Smith andHarper, grieved at his going, and they kept the Hall gilded andpainted in memory ofAlf. Most people, however, were content.Theyhadhadhimforaverylongtimeandwerenotsorrytohaveachange. But old Nokes thumped his stick on the floor and saidroundly: ‘He’s gone at last!And I’m glad for one. I never liked

him.Hewasartful.Toonimble,youmightsay.’

LEAFBYNIGGLE

LEAFBYNIGGLE

TherewasoncealittlemancalledNiggle,whohadalongjourneyto make. He did not want to go, indeed the whole idea wasdistastefultohim;buthecouldnotgetoutofit.Heknewhewouldhavetostartsometime,buthedidnothurrywithhispreparations.

Niggle was a painter. Not a very successful one, partlybecausehehadmanyother things todo.Mostof these thingshethought were a nuisance; but he did them fairly well, when hecouldnotgetoutofthem:which(inhisopinion)wasfartoooften.The laws in his country were rather strict. There were otherhindrances,too.Foronething,hewassometimesjustidle,anddidnothingatall.Foranother,hewaskindhearted,inaway.Youknowthesortofkindheart:itmadehimuncomfortablemoreoftenthanitmadehimdoanything;andevenwhenhedidanything,itdidnot

prevent him from grumbling, losing his temper and swearing(mostlytohimself).Allthesame,itdidlandhiminagoodmanyodd jobs for his neighbour,Mr Parish, a man with a lame leg.Occasionallyheevenhelpedotherpeoplefromfurtheroff,iftheycameandaskedhim to.Also,nowandagain,he rememberedhisjourney,andbegan topacka few things inan ineffectualway:atsuchtimeshedidnotpaintverymuch.

Hehadanumberofpicturesonhand;mostofthemweretoolarge and ambitious for his skill.Hewas the sort of painterwhocanpaintleavesbetterthantrees.Heusedtospendalongtimeona single leaf, trying to catch its shape, and its sheen, and theglisteningofdewdropsonitsedges.Yethewantedtopaintawholetree, with all of its leaves in the same style, and all of themdifferent.

Therewasonepictureinparticularwhichbotheredhim.Ithadbegunwithaleafcaughtinthewind,anditbecameatree;andthetreegrew,sendingoutinnumerablebranches,andthrustingoutthe

most fantastic roots.Strangebirds came and settledon the twigsandhadtobeattendedto.Thenall roundtheTree,andbehindit,throughthegapsintheleavesandboughs,acountrybegantoopenout; and therewere glimpses of a forestmarching over the land,andofmountainstippedwithsnow.Nigglelostinterestinhisotherpictures;orelsehetookthemandtackedthemontotheedgesofhisgreatpicture.Soon thecanvasbecameso large thathehad togetaladder,andheranupanddownit,puttinginatouchhere,andrubbing out a patch there.When people came to call, he seemedpolite enough, though he fiddled a little with the pencils on hisdesk.Helistenedtowhattheysaid,butunderneathhewasthinkingallthetimeabouthisbigcanvas,inthetallshedthathadbeenbuiltfor it out in his garden (on a plot where once he had grownpotatoes).

He could not get rid of his kind heart. ‘I wish I was morestrong-minded’ he sometimes said to himself, meaning that hewished other people’s troubles did not make him feel

uncomfortable.Butforalongtimehewasnotseriouslyperturbed.‘At any rate, I shall get this one picture done, my real picture,beforeIhavetogoonthatwretchedjourney,’heusedtosay.Yethe was beginning to see that he could not put off his startindefinitely.Thepicturewouldhave to stop justgrowingandgetfinished.

One day,Niggle stood a littleway off from his picture andconsidereditwithunusualattentionanddetachment.Hecouldnotmake up his mind what he thought about it, and wished he hadsomefriendwhowouldtellhimwhattothink.Actuallyitseemedtohimwhollyunsatisfactory,andyetvery lovely, theonly reallybeautiful picture in theworld.What hewould have liked at thatmomentwouldhavebeentoseehimselfwalkin,andslaphimonthe back and say (with obvious sincerity): ‘Absolutelymagnificent!Iseeexactlywhatyouaregettingat.Dogetonwithit, and don’t bother about anything else! We will arrange for apublicpension,sothatyouneednot.’

However,therewasnopublicpension.Andonethinghecouldsee: it would need some concentration, somework, harduninterruptedwork, to finish the picture, evenat its present size.He rolled up his sleeves, and began to concentrate. He tried forseveral days not to bother about other things. But there came atremendouscropofinterruptions.Thingswentwronginhishouse;hehadtogoandserveona jury in the town;adistantfriendfeltill; Mr Parish was laid up with lumbago; and visitors kept oncoming. It was springtime, and they wanted a free tea in thecountry:Niggle lived in a pleasant little house,miles away fromthetown.Hecursedtheminhisheart,buthecouldnotdenythathehadinvitedthemhimself,awaybackinthewinter,whenhehadnotthought it an ‘interruption’ to visit the shops and have tea withacquaintancesinthetown.Hetriedtohardenhisheart;butitwasnotasuccess.Thereweremanythingsthathehadnotthefacetosayno to,whetherhe thought themdutiesornot; and thereweresomethingshewascompelledtodo,whateverhethought.Someof

hisvisitorshintedthathisgardenwasratherneglected,andthathemightgetavisitfromanInspector.Veryfewofthemknewabouthis picture, of course; but if they had known, it would not havemademuchdifference. Idoubt if theywouldhave thought that itmatteredmuch. I dare say itwas not really a very good picture,thoughitmayhavehadsomegoodpassages.TheTree,atanyrate,wascurious.Quiteuniqueinitsway.SowasNiggle;thoughhewasalsoaveryordinaryandrathersillylittleman.

At length Niggle’s time became really precious. Hisacquaintancesinthedistanttownbegantorememberthatthelittleman had got tomake a troublesome journey, and some began tocalculate how long at the latest he could put off starting. Theywonderedwhowould take his house, and if the gardenwould bebetterkept.

Theautumncame,verywetandwindy.Thelittlepainterwasinhisshed.Hewasupontheladder,tryingtocatchthegleamofthewestering sunon thepeakof a snow-mountain,whichhehad

glimpsed just to the left of the leafy tip of one of the Tree’sbranches.Heknewthathewouldhavetobeleavingsoon:perhapsearly next year. He could only just get the picture finished, andonly so so, at that: therewere some cornerswhere hewould nothavetimenowtodomorethanhintatwhathewanted.

Therewas a knock on the door. ‘Come in!’ he said sharply,andclimbeddowntheladder.Hestoodonthefloor twiddlinghisbrush. It was his neighbour, Parish: his only real neighbour, allotherfolklivedalongwayoff.Still,hedidnotlikethemanverymuch: partly because he was so often in trouble and in need ofhelp;andalsobecausehedidnotcareaboutpainting,butwasverycritical about gardening.When Parish looked at Niggle’s garden(whichwas often) he sawmostly weeds; andwhen he looked atNiggle’spictures(whichwasseldom)hesawonlygreenandgreypatchesandblacklines,whichseemedtohimnonsensical.Hedidnot mind mentioning the weeds (a neighbourly duty), but herefrainedfromgivinganyopinionofthepictures.Hethoughtthis

was very kind, and he did not realise that, even if itwas kind,itwasnotkindenough.Helpwiththeweeds(andperhapspraiseforthepictures)wouldhavebeenbetter.

‘Well,Parish,whatisit?’saidNiggle.‘I oughtn’t to interrupt you, I know,’ said Parish (without a

glanceatthepicture).‘Youareverybusy,I’msure.’Nigglehadmeant to say something like thathimself,buthe

hadmissedhischance.Allhesaidwas:‘Yes.’‘ButIhavenooneelsetoturnto,’saidParish.‘Quiteso,’saidNigglewithasigh:oneofthosesighsthatare

aprivatecomment,butwhicharenotmadequiteinaudible.‘WhatcanIdoforyou?’

‘My wife has been ill for some days, and I am gettingworried,’saidParish.‘Andthewindhasblownhalfthetilesoffmyroof,andwaterispouringintothebedroom.IthinkIoughttogetthedoctor.Andthebuilders,too,onlytheytakesolongtocome.Iwaswondering ifyouhadanywoodandcanvasyoucould spare,

justtopatchmeupandseemethroughforadayortwo.’Nowhedidlookatthepicture.

‘Dear, dear!’ said Niggle. ‘You are unlucky. I hope it is nomorethanacoldthatyourwifehasgot.I’llcomeroundpresently,andhelpyoumovethepatientdownstairs.’

‘Thankyouverymuch,’ saidParish, rather coolly. ‘But it isnotacold,itisafever.Ishouldnothavebotheredyouforacold.Andmywifeisinbeddownstairsalready.Ican’tgetupanddownwithtrays,notwithmyleg.ButIseeyouarebusy.Sorrytohavetroubledyou.Ihadratherhopedyoumighthavebeenabletosparethe time to gofor the doctor, seeing how I’m placed; and thebuildertoo,ifyoureallyhavenocanvasyoucanspare.’

‘Ofcourse,’saidNiggle;thoughotherwordswereinhisheart,whichatthemomentwasmerelysoftwithoutfeelingatallkind.‘Icouldgo.I’llgo,ifyouarereallyworried.’

‘I am worried, very worried. I wish I was not lame,’ saidParish.

So Niggle went. You see, it was awkward. Parish was hisneighbour,andeveryoneelsealongwayoff.Nigglehadabicycle,andParishhadnot,andcouldnotrideone.Parishhadalameleg,agenuinelamelegwhichgavehimagooddealofpain:thathadtoberemembered,aswellashissourexpressionandwhiningvoice.Ofcourse,Nigglehadapictureandbarelytimetofinishit.ButitseemedthatthiswasathingthatParishhadtoreckonwithandnotNiggle.Parish,however,didnotreckonwithpictures;andNigglecouldnotalterthat.‘Curseit!’hesaidtohimself,ashegotouthisbicycle.

It was wet and windy, and daylight was waning. ‘No morework forme today!’ thoughtNiggle,andall the time thathewasriding,hewaseitherswearingtohimself,orimaginingthestrokesofhisbrushonthemountain,andonthesprayofleavesbesideit,thathehadfirstimaginedinthespring.Hisfingerstwitchedonthehandlebars.Nowhewasoutoftheshed,hesawexactlythewayinwhichtotreatthatshiningspraywhichframedthedistantvisionof

themountain.But he had a sinking feeling in hisheart, a sort offearthathewouldnevernowgetachancetotryitout.

Niggle found the doctor, and he left a note at the builder’s.Theofficewasshut,andthebuilderhadgonehometohisfireside.Niggle got soaked to the skin, and caught a chill himself. ThedoctordidnotsetoutaspromptlyasNigglehaddone.Hearrivednextday,whichwasquiteconvenientforhim,asbythattimethereweretwopatientstodealwith,inneighbouringhouses.Nigglewasinbed,withahightemperature,andmarvellouspatternsofleavesand involved branches forming in his head and on the ceiling. ItdidnotcomforthimtolearnthatMrsParishhadonlyhadacold,and was getting up. He turned his face to the wall and buriedhimselfinleaves.

Heremainedinbedsometime.Thewindwentonblowing.Ittook away a good many more of Parish’s tiles, and some ofNiggle’saswell:hisownroofbegan to leak.Thebuilderdidnotcome.Niggledidnotcare;notforadayor two.Thenhecrawled

out to look for some food (Niggle had no wife). Parish did notcomeround:therainhadgotintohislegandmadeitache;andhiswife was busy mopping up water, and wondering if ‘that MrNiggle’ had forgotten to call at the builder’s. Had she seen anychanceofborrowing anythinguseful, shewouldhave sentParishround,legornoleg;butshedidnot,soNigglewaslefttohimself.

At the end of a week or so Niggle tottered out to his shedagain.Hetriedtoclimbtheladder,butitmadehisheadgiddy.Hesatandlookedat thepicture,buttherewerenopatternsofleavesor visions of mountains in his mind that day. He could havepaintedafar-offviewofasandydesert,buthehadnottheenergy.

Nextdayhefeltagooddealbetter.Heclimbedtheladder,andbegantopaint.Hehad justbeguntoget into itagain,whentherecameaknockonthedoor.

‘Damn!’ said Niggle. But he might just as well have said‘Comein!’politely,forthedooropenedallthesame.Thistimeaverytallmancamein,atotalstranger.

‘Thisisaprivatestudio,’saidNiggle.‘Iambusy.Goaway!’‘I aman Inspector ofHouses,’ said theman, holdinguphis

appointment-card,sothatNiggleonhisladdercouldseeit.‘Oh!’hesaid.‘Your neighbour’s house is not satisfactory at all,’ said the

Inspector.‘I know,’ saidNiggle. ‘I took a note to the builder’s a long

timeago,buttheyhavenevercome.ThenIhavebeenill.’‘Isee,’saidtheInspector.‘Butyouarenotillnow.’‘But I’mnot abuilder.Parishought tomakea complaint to

theTownCouncil,andgethelpfromtheEmergencyService.’‘Theyarebusywithworsedamagethananyuphere,’saidthe

Inspector.‘Therehasbeenafloodinthevalley,andmanyfamiliesare homeless. You should have helped your neighbour to maketemporary repairs and prevent the damage from getting morecostlytomendthannecessary.Thatis thelaw.Thereisplentyofmaterialhere:canvas,wood,waterproofpaint.’

‘Where?’askedNiggleindignantly.‘There!’saidtheInspector,pointingtothepicture.‘Mypicture!’exclaimedNiggle.‘I dare say it is,’ said the Inspector. ‘Buthouses come first.

Thatisthelaw.’‘But I can’t…’ Niggle said no more, for at that moment

anothermancamein.VerymuchliketheInspectorhewas,almosthisdouble:tall,dressedallinblack.

‘Comealong!’hesaid.‘IamtheDriver.’Niggle stumbleddown from the ladder.His fever seemed to

havecomeonagain,andhisheadwasswimming;hefeltcoldallover.

‘Driver?Driver?’hechattered.‘Driverofwhat?’‘You, and your carriage,’ said the man. ‘The carriage was

orderedlongago.Ithascomeatlast.It’swaiting.Youstarttodayonyourjourney,youknow.’

‘Therenow!’saidtheInspector.‘You’llhavetogo;butit’sa

badwaytostartonyour journey, leavingyour jobsundone.Still,wecanatleastmakesomeuseofthiscanvasnow.’

‘Ohdear!’saidpoorNiggle,beginningtoweep.‘Andit’snotevenfinished!’

‘Notfinished!’saidtheDriver.‘Well,it’sfinishedwith,asfarasyou’reconcerned,atanyrate.Comealong!’

Nigglewent, quite quietly. TheDriver gave him no time topack,sayingthatheoughttohavedonethatbefore,andtheywouldmissthetrain;soallNigglecoulddowastograbalittlebaginthehall.Hefoundthatitcontainedonlyapaint-boxandasmallbookofhisownsketches:neitherfoodnorclothes.Theycaughtthetrainall right.Nigglewas feelingvery tiredandsleepy;hewashardlyaware of what was going on when they bundled him into hiscompartment. He did not care much: he had forgotten where hewassupposedtobegoing,orwhathewasgoingfor.Thetrainranalmostatonceintoadarktunnel.

Nigglewokeupinaverylarge,dimrailwaystation.APorter

went along the platform shouting, but he was not shouting thenameoftheplace;hewasshoutingNiggle!

Nigglegotoutinahurry,andfoundthathehadlefthislittlebagbehind.Heturnedback,butthetrainhadgoneaway.

‘Ah, there you are!’ said the Porter. ‘This way! What! Noluggage?YouwillhavetogototheWorkhouse.’

Nigglefeltveryill,andfaintedontheplatform.TheyputhiminanambulanceandtookhimtotheWorkhouseInfirmary.

Hedidnot like the treatmentat all.Themedicine theygavehimwasbitter.Theofficialsandattendantswereunfriendly,silent,and strict; and he never saw anyone else, except a very severedoctor,whovisitedhimoccasionally. Itwasmore likebeing inaprison than inahospital.Hehadtoworkhard,atstatedhours:atdigging, carpentry, andpaintingbareboards all oneplain colour.Hewasneverallowedoutside,andthewindowsalllookedinwards.They kept him in the dark for hours at a stretch, ‘to do somethinking,’theysaid.Helostcountoftime.Hedidnotevenbeginto

feel better, not if that could be judged by whether he felt anypleasureindoinganything.Hedidnot,noteveningettingintobed.

Atfirst,duringthefirstcenturyorso(Iammerelygivinghisimpressions),heusedtoworryaimlesslyaboutthepast.Onethinghekeptonrepeatingtohimself,ashelayinthedark:‘IwishIhadcalled on Parish the first morning after the high winds began. Imeant to.The first loose tileswouldhavebeeneasy to fix.ThenMrsParishmightneverhavecaughtcold.ThenIshouldnothavecaughtcoldeither.ThenIshouldhavehadaweeklonger.’Butintimeheforgotwhatitwasthathehadwantedaweeklongerfor.Ifheworriedatallafterthat,itwasabouthisjobsinthehospital.Heplanned themout, thinkinghowquicklyhe could stop that boardcreaking,orrehangthatdoor,ormendthattable-leg.Probablyhereallybecame ratheruseful, thoughnooneever toldhimso.Butthat,ofcourse,cannothavebeenthereasonwhytheykeptthepoorlittle man so long. They may have been waiting for him to getbetter,andjudging‘better’bysomeoddmedicalstandardoftheir

own.Atanyrate,poorNigglegotnopleasureoutoflife,notwhat

he had been used to call pleasure. He was certainlynot amused.Butitcouldnotbedeniedthathebegantohaveafeelingof—wellsatisfaction: bread rather than jam. He could take up a task themomentonebell rang, and lay it asidepromptly themoment thenextonewent,alltidyandreadytobecontinuedattherighttime.Hegotthroughquitealotinaday,now;hefinishedsmallthingsoffneatly.Hehadno ‘timeofhisown’ (exceptalone inhisbed-cell), and yet he was becomingmaster of his time; he began toknowjustwhathecoulddowithit.Therewasnosenseofrush.Hewasquieterinsidenow,andatresting-timehecouldreallyrest.

Thensuddenlytheychangedallhishours;theyhardlylethimgo to bed at all; they took himoff carpentry altogether and kepthimatplaindigging,dayafterday.Hetookitfairlywell.Itwasalongwhilebeforeheevenbegantogropeinthebackofhismindfor the curses that he had practically forgotten. He went on

digging, till hisback seemedbroken,hishandswere raw, andhefelt that he could notmanage another spadeful. Nobody thankedhim.Butthedoctorcameandlookedathim.

‘Knockoff!’hesaid.‘Completerest—inthedark.’

Nigglewaslyinginthedark,restingcompletely;sothat,ashehadnotbeeneitherfeelingor thinkingatall,hemighthavebeenlyingthereforhoursorforyears,asfarashecouldtell.ButnowheheardVoices: not voices that hehad everheardbefore.ThereseemedtobeaMedicalBoard,orperhapsaCourtofInquiry,goingon close at hand, in an adjoining room with the door open,possibly,thoughhecouldnotseeanylight.

‘Now the Niggle case,’ said a Voice, a severe voice, moreseverethanthedoctor’s.

‘Whatwasthematterwithhim?’saidaSecondVoice,avoicethatyoumighthavecalledgentle,thoughitwasnotsoft—itwasa

voiceofauthority,andsoundedatoncehopefulandsad.‘WhatwasthematterwithNiggle?Hisheartwasintherightplace.’

‘Yes, but it did not function properly,’ said the FirstVoice.‘And his head was not screwed on tight enough: he hardly everthought at all. Look at the time he wasted, not even amusinghimself!He never got ready for his journey.Hewasmoderatelywell-off,andyethearrivedherealmostdestitute,andhadtobeputinthepaupers’wing.Abadcase,Iamafraid.Ithinkheshouldstaysometimeyet.’

‘It would not do him any harm, perhaps,’ said the SecondVoice.‘But,ofcourse,heisonlyalittleman.Hewasnevermeantto be anything verymuch; and hewas never very strong. Let uslook at theRecords.Yes. There are some favourable points, youknow.’

‘Perhaps,’saidtheFirstVoice;‘butveryfewthatwillreallybearexamination.’

‘Well,’ said the Second Voice, ‘there are these. He was a

painterbynature.Inaminorway,ofcourse;still,aLeafbyNigglehasacharmofitsown.Hetookagreatdealofpainswithleaves,just for their own sake.But he neverthought that thatmadehimimportant.ThereisnonoteintheRecordsofhispretending,eventohimself,thatitexcusedhisneglectofthingsorderedbythelaw.’

‘Thenhe shouldnot haveneglected somany,’ said theFirstVoice.

‘Allthesame,hedidansweragoodmanyCalls.’‘Asmallpercentage,mostlyof theeasier sort,andhecalled

thoseInterruptions.TheRecordsarefulloftheword,togetherwithalotofcomplaintsandsillyimprecations.’

‘True; but they looked like interruptions to him, of course,poorlittleman.Andthereisthis:heneverexpectedanyReturn,assomanyof his sort call it.There is theParish case, theone thatcame in later.HewasNiggle’s neighbour, never did a stroke forhim,andseldomshowedanygratitudeatall.Butthereisnonoteinthe Records that Niggle expected Parish’s gratitude; he does not

seemtohavethoughtaboutit.’‘Yes,thatisapoint,’saidtheFirstVoice;‘butrathersmall.I

thinkyouwillfindNiggleoftenmerelyforgot.ThingshehadtodoforParishheputoutofhismindasanuisancehehaddonewith.’

‘Still, there is this last report,’ said the SecondVoice, ‘thatwetbicycle-ride.Iratherlaystressonthat.Itseemsplainthatthiswasagenuinesacrifice:Niggleguessedthathewasthrowingawayhis last chancewith his picture, and he guessed, too, that Parishwasworryingunnecessarily.’

‘Ithinkyouputittoostrongly,’saidtheFirstVoice.‘Butyouhave the last word. It is your task, of course, toput the bestinterpretationon the facts.Sometimes theywill bear it.What doyoupropose?’

‘Ithinkitisacaseforalittlegentletreatmentnow,’saidtheSecondVoice.

NigglethoughtthathehadneverheardanythingsogenerousasthatVoice.ItmadeGentleTreatmentsoundlikealoadofrich

gifts,andasummonstoaKing’sfeast.ThensuddenlyNigglefeltashamed. To hear that he was considered a case for GentleTreatmentoverwhelmedhim, andmadehimblush in thedark. Itwas like being publicly praised, when you and all the audienceknewthatthepraisewasnotdeserved.Nigglehidhisblushesintheroughblanket.

There was a silence. Then the First Voice spoke to Niggle,quiteclose.‘Youhavebeenlistening,’itsaid.

‘Yes,’saidNiggle.‘Well,whathaveyoutosay?’‘CouldyoutellmeaboutParish?’saidNiggle.‘Ishouldlike

toseehimagain.Ihopeheisnotveryill?Canyoucurehisleg?Itused to give himawretched time.Andplease don’tworry abouthim and me. He was a very good neighbour, and let me haveexcellentpotatoes,verycheap,whichsavedmealotoftime.’

‘Didhe?’saidtheFirstVoice.‘Iamgladtohearit.’Therewasanothersilence.NiggleheardtheVoicesreceding.

‘Well, Iagree,’heheard theFirstVoicesay in thedistance. ‘Lethimgoontothenextstage.Tomorrow,ifyoulike.’

Niggle woke up to find that his blinds were drawn, and hislittle cell was full of sunshine. He got up, and found that somecomfortableclotheshadbeenputoutforhim,nothospitaluniform.After breakfast the doctor treated his sore hands, putting somesalveonthemthathealedthematonce.HegaveNigglesomegoodadvice,andabottleoftonic(incaseheneededit).Inthemiddleofthemorning they gaveNiggle a biscuit and a glass ofwine; andthentheygavehimaticket.

‘Youcangototherailwaystationnow,’saidthedoctor.‘ThePorterwilllookafteryou.Goodbye.’

Niggleslippedoutofthemaindoor,andblinkedalittle.The

sunwasverybright.Alsohehadexpectedtowalkoutintoalargetown,tomatchthesizeofthestation;buthedidnot.Hewasonthetop of a hill, green, bare, swept by a keen invigorating wind.Nobodyelsewasabout.Awaydownunderthehillhecouldseetheroofofthestationshining.

Hewalkeddownhill tothestationbriskly,butwithouthurry.ThePorterspottedhimatonce.

‘Thisway!’he said, and ledNiggle to abay, inwhich therewas a very pleasant little local train standing: one coach, and asmallengine,bothverybright,clean,andnewlypainted.Itlookedasifthiswastheirfirstrun.Eventhetrackthatlayinfrontoftheenginelookednew:therailsshone,thechairswerepaintedgreen,andthesleepersgaveoffadelicioussmelloffreshtarinthewarmsunshine.Thecoachwasempty.

‘Wheredoesthistraingo,Porter?’askedNiggle.‘Idon’t think theyhave fixed itsnameyet,’ said thePorter.

‘Butyou’llfinditallright.’Heshutthedoor.

Thetrainmovedoffatonce.Nigglelaybackinhisseat.Thelittleenginepuffedalonginadeepcuttingwithhighgreenbanks,roofedwithbluesky.Itdidnotseemverylongbefore theenginegaveawhistle,thebrakeswereputon,andthetrainstopped.Therewasnostation,andnosignboard,onlyaflightofstepsupthegreenembankment.At the topof thesteps therewasawicket-gate inatrimhedge.By thegate stoodhis bicycle; at least, it looked likehis, and there was a yellow label tied to the bars withNIGGLEwrittenonitinlargeblackletters.

Nigglepushedopenthegate,jumpedonthebicycle,andwentbowlingdownhillinthespringsunshine.Beforelonghefoundthatthepathonwhichhehadstartedhaddisappeared,andthebicyclewas rollingalongover amarvellous turf. Itwasgreenandclose;and yet he could see every blade distinctly. He seemed toremember having seen or dreamed of that sweep of grasssomewhere or other. The curves of the land were familiarsomehow.Yes: thegroundwasbecoming level, as it should, and

now, of course, it was beginning to rise again. A great greenshadowcamebetweenhimandthesun.Nigglelookedup,andfelloffhisbicycle.

BeforehimstoodtheTree,hisTree,finished.Ifyoucouldsaythat of a Tree that was alive, its leaves opening, its branchesgrowing andbending in thewind thatNigglehad sooften feltorguesses,andhadsooftenfailedtocatch.HegazedattheTree,andslowlyheliftedhisarmsandopenedthemwide.

‘It’sagift!’he said.Hewas referring tohisart, andalso totheresult;buthewasusingthewordquiteliterally.

Hewent on looking at the Tree.All the leaves he had everlabouredatwerethere,ashehadimaginedthemratherthanashehadmadethem;andtherewereothersthathadonlybuddedinhismind,andmanythatmighthavebudded,ifonlyhehadhadtime.Nothingwaswrittenonthem, theywere justexquisite leaves,yettheyweredatedasclearasacalendar.Someofthemostbeautiful—and the most characteristic, the most perfect examples of the

Niggle style—were seen to have been produced in collaborationwithMrParish:therewasnootherwayofputtingit.

Thebirdswere building in theTree.Astonishingbirds: howtheysang!Theyweremating,hatching,growingwings,andflyingaway singing into the Forest even while he looked at them. Fornow he saw that the Forest was there too, opening out on eitherside, and marching away into the distance. TheMountains wereglimmeringfaraway.

AfteratimeNiggleturnedtowardstheForest.NotbecausehewastiredoftheTree,butheseemedtohavegotitallclearinhismindnow, andwas aware of it, andof its growth, evenwhenhewas not looking at it.As hewalked away, he discovered an oddthing: the Forest, ofcourse, was a distant Forest, yet he couldapproachit,evenenterit,withoutitslosingthatparticularcharm.He had never before been able towalk into the distancewithoutturning it intomere surroundings. It really added a considerableattraction towalking in thecountry,because,asyouwalked,new

distances opened out; so that you now had double, treble, andquadrupledistances,doubly,trebly,andquadruplyenchanting.Youcouldgoonandon,andhaveawholecountryinagarden,orinapicture (ifyoupreferred tocall it that).Youcouldgoonandon,but not perhaps for ever. There were the Mountains in thebackground.Theydidgetnearer,veryslowly.Theydidnotseemtobelongtothepicture,oronlyasalinktosomethingelse,aglimpsethrough the trees of something different, a further stage: anotherpicture.

Nigglewalkedabout,buthewasnotmerelypottering.Hewaslooking round carefully. The Tree was finished, though notfinishedwith—‘Justtheotherwayabouttowhatitusedtobe,’hethought—but in the Forest there were a number of inconclusiveregions, that still needed work and thought. Nothing neededalteringanylonger,nothingwaswrong,asfarasithadgone,butitneeded continuing up to a definite point. Niggle saw the pointprecisely,ineachcase.

Hesatdownunderaverybeautifuldistanttree—avariationofthe Great Tree, but quite individual, or it would be with a littlemoreattention—andheconsideredwheretobeginwork,andwhereto end it, and howmuch time was required. He could not quiteworkouthisscheme.

‘Ofcourse!’hesaid.‘WhatIneedisParish.Therearelotsofthingsaboutearth,plants,andtreesthatheknowsandIdon’t.Thisplacecannotbeleftjustasmyprivatepark.Ineedhelpandadvice:Ioughttohavegotitsooner.’

He got up andwalked to the placewhere he had decided tobeginwork.He tookoffhiscoat.Then,downina littleshelteredhollow hidden from a further view, he saw aman looking roundratherbewildered.Hewas leaningonaspade,butplainlydidnotknowwhattodo.Nigglehailedhim.‘Parish!’hecalled.

Parish shouldered his spade and came up to him. He stilllimpedalittle.Theydidnotspeak,justnoddedastheyusedtodo,passing in the lane, but now theywalked about together, arm in

arm.Without talking,Niggle and Parish agreed exactlywhere tomakethesmallhouseandgarden,whichseemedtoberequired.

Astheyworkedtogether,itbecameplainthatNigglewasnowthebetterofthetwoatorderinghistimeandgettingthingsdone.Oddly enough, it was Niggle who became most absorbed inbuildingandgardening,whileParishoftenwanderedaboutlookingattrees,andespeciallyattheTree.

One day Niggle was busy planting a quickset hedge, andParish was lying on the grass near by, looking attentively at abeautifulandshapelylittleyellowflowergrowinginthegreenturf.NigglehadputalotofthemamongtherootsofhisTreelongago.Suddenlyparishlookedup:hisfacewasglisteninginthesun,andhewassmiling.

‘Thisisgrand!’hesaid.‘Ioughtn’t tobehere,really.Thankyouforputtinginawordforme.’

‘Nonsense,’ saidNiggle. ‘I don’t rememberwhat I said, butanywayitwasnotnearlyenough.’

‘Ohyes,itwas,’saidParish.‘Itgotmeoutalotsooner.ThatSecondVoice, you know: he hadme sent here; he said you hadaskedtoseeme.Ioweittoyou.’

‘No.YouoweittotheSecondVoice,’saidNiggle.‘Webothdo.’

Theywentonlivingandworkingtogether:Idonotknowhowlong.Itisnousedenyingthatatfirsttheyoccasionallydisagreed,especiallywhentheygottired.Foratfirsttheydidsometimesgettired. They found that they had both been provided with tonics.Eachbottlehad the same label:A fewdrops tobe taken inwaterfromtheSpring,beforeresting.

They found the Spring in the heart of the Forest; only oncelongagohadNiggle imagined it,buthehadneverdrawnit.Nowheperceivedthatitwasthesourceofthelakethatglimmered,farawayandthenourishmentofallthatgrewinthecountry.Thefewdropsmadethewaterastringent,ratherbitter,butinvigorating;anditclearedthehead.Afterdrinkingtheyrestedalone;andthenthey

got up again and things went on merrily.At such times Nigglewould think of wonderful new flowers and plants, andParishalways knew exactly how to set them and where they would dobest.Longbeforethetonicswerefinishedtheyhadceasedtoneedthem.Parishlosthislimp.

As theirworkdrew toanend theyallowed themselvesmoreand more time for walking about, looking at the trees, and theflowers, and the lights and shapes, and the lie of the land.Sometimes theysang together;butNiggle found thathewasnowbeginning to turn his eyes, more and more often, towards theMountains.

Thetimecamewhenthehouseinthehollow,thegarden,thegrass,theforest,thelake,andallthecountrywasnearlycomplete,initsownproperfashion.TheGreatTreewasinfullblossom.

‘Weshallfinishthisevening,’saidParishoneday.‘Afterthatwewillgoforareallylongwalk.’

Theysetoutnextday,andtheywalkeduntiltheycameright

through the distances to the Edge. It was not visible, of course:therewas no line, or fence, orwall; but theyknew that theyhadcometothemarginofthatcountry.Theysawaman,helookedlikea shepherd; hewaswalking towards them,down thegrass-slopesthatledupintotheMountains.

‘Doyouwantaguide?’heasked.‘Doyouwanttogoon?’For amoment a shadow fell betweenNiggle andParish, for

Niggleknewthathedidnowwanttogoon,and(inasense)oughttogoon;butParishdidnotwanttogoon,andwasnotyetreadytogo.

‘Imustwait formywife,’ said Parish toNiggle. ‘She’d belonely. I rathergathered that theywouldsendherafterme,sometimeorother,whenshewasready,andwhenIhadgotthingsreadyforher.Thehouseisfinishednow,aswellaswecouldmakeit;butI should like toshow it toher.She’llbeable tomake itbetter, Iexpect: more homely. I hope she’ll like this country, too.’ Heturned to the shepherd. ‘Are you a guide?’ he asked. ‘Could you

tellmethenameofthiscountry?’‘Don’tyouknow?’saidtheman.‘ItisNiggle’sCountry.Itis

Niggle’s Picture, or most of it: a little of it is now Parish’sGarden.’

‘Niggle’s Picture!’ said Parish in astonishment. ‘Did youthink of all this,Niggle? I never knew youwere so clever.Whydidn’tyoutellme?’

‘Hetriedtotellyoulongago,’saidtheman,‘butyouwouldnotlook.Hehadonlygotcanvasandpaintinthosedays,andyouwanted tomend your roofwith them.This iswhat you and yourwifeusedtocallNiggle’sNonsense,orThatDaubing.’

‘Butitdidnotlooklikethisthen,notreal,’saidParish.‘No,itwasonlyaglimpsethen,’saidtheman;‘butyoumight

havecaughttheglimpse,ifyouhadeverthoughtitworthwhiletotry.’

‘Ididnotgiveyoumuchchance,’saidNiggle.‘Inever triedto explain. I used to call youOldEarthgrubber.Butwhatdoes it

matter? We have lived and worked together now. Things mighthave been different, but they could nothave been better.All thesame,IamafraidIshallhavetobegoingon.Weshallmeetagain,I expect: there must be many more things we can do together.Goodbye!’He shook Parish’s handwarmly: a good, firm, honesthand it seemed. He turned and looked back for a moment. Theblossom on theGreat Treewas shining like flame.All the birdswere flying in theairandsinging.Thenhesmiledandnodded toParishandwentoffwiththeshepherd.

Hewasgoing to learn about sheep, and thehighpasturages,andlookatawidersky,andwalkeverfurtherandfurthertowardsthe Mountains, always uphill. Beyond that I cannot guess whatbecameofhim.Even littleNiggle inhisoldhomecouldglimpsethe Mountains far away, and they got into the borders of hispicture;butwhat theyare really like, andwhat liesbeyond themonlythosecansaywhohaveclimbedthem.

‘Ithinkhewasasillylittleman,’saidCouncillorTompkins.‘Worthless,infact;nousetoSocietyatall.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Atkins, who was nobody ofimportance, justa schoolmaster. ‘I amnot so sure; itdependsonwhatyoumeanbyuse.’

‘Nopracticaloreconomicuse,’saidTompkins.‘Idaresayhecouldhavebeenmadeintoaserviceablecogofsomesort, ifyouschoolmasters knewyour business.But you don’t, and sowe getuselesspeopleofhissort.IfIranthiscountryIshouldputhimandhis like to some job that they’re fit for, washing dishes in acommunal kitchenorsomething,andIshouldsee that theydid itproperly.Or Iwouldput themaway. I shouldhaveputhim awaylongago.’

‘Puthimaway?Youmeanyou’dhavemadehimstartonthejourneybeforehistime?’

‘Yes, if youmust use thatmeaninglessold expression.PushhimthroughthetunnelintothegreatRubbishHeap:that’swhatI

mean.’‘Then you don’t think painting isworth anything, notworth

preserving,orimproving,orevenmakinguseof?’‘Of course, painting has uses,’ said Tompkins. ‘But you

couldn’tmakeuseofhispainting.Thereisplentyofscopeforboldyoungmennotafraidofnewideasandnewmethods.Noneforthisold-fashioned stuff. Private daydreaming. He could not havedesigned a telling poster to save his life. Always fiddling withleavesandflowers.Iaskedhimwhy,once.Hesaidhethoughttheywerepretty!Canyoubelieve it?He saidpretty!“What,digestiveandgenitalorgansofplants?”Isaidtohim;andhehadnothingtoanswer.Sillyfootler.’

‘Footler,’ sighed Atkins. ‘Yes, poor little man, he neverfinishedanything.Ahwell,his canvaseshavebeenput to “betteruses”, since he went. But I am not so sure, Tompkins. Youremember that largeone, theone theyused topatch thedamagedhousenextdoortohis,afterthegalesandfloods?Ifoundacorner

of it torn off, lying in a field. It was damaged, but legible: amountain-peak and a spray of leaves. I can’t get it out of mymind.’

‘Outofyourwhat?’saidTompkins.‘Whoareyoutwotalkingabout?’saidPerkins,interveningin

thecauseofpeace:Atkinshadflushedratherred.‘The name’s not worth repeating,’ said Tompkins. ‘I don’t

knowwhywearetalkingabouthimatall.Hedidnotliveintown.’‘No,’saidAtkins;‘butyouhadyoureyeonhishouse,allthe

same.Thatiswhyyouusedtogoandcall,andsneerathimwhiledrinkinghistea.Well,you’vegothishousenow,aswellastheonein town, so youneednot grudge himhis name.Wewere talkingaboutNiggle,ifyouwanttoknow,Perkins.’

‘Oh, poor little Niggle!’ said Perkins. ‘Never knew hepainted.’

ThatwasprobablythelasttimeNiggle’snameevercameupin conversation.However,Atkinspreserved theoddcorner.Most

ofitcrumbled;butonebeautifulleafremainedintact.Atkinshaditframed.LaterheleftittotheTownMuseum,andforalongtimewhile‘Leaf:byNiggle’hungthereinarecess,andwasnoticedbya feweyes.But eventually theMuseumwasburnt down, and theleaf,andNiggle,wereentirelyforgotteninhisoldcountry.

‘Itisprovingveryusefulindeed,’saidtheSecondVoice.‘Asaholiday,andarefreshment.Itissplendidforconvalescence;andnot only for that, for many it is the best introduction to theMountains. It works wonders in somecases. I am sending moreandmorethere.Theyseldomhavetocomeback.’

‘No,thatisso,’saidtheFirstVoice.‘Ithinkweshallhavetogivetheregionaname.Whatdoyoupropose?’

‘The Porter settled that some time ago,’ said the SecondVoice. ‘Train forNiggle’sParish in thebay: he has shouted thatforalongwhilenow.Niggle’sParish.Isentamessagetobothof

themtotellthem.’‘Whatdidtheysay?’‘Theybothlaughed.Laughed—theMountainsrangwithit!’

APPENDIX

ONFAIRY-STORIES

Iproposetospeakaboutfairy-stories,thoughIamawarethatthisisarashadventure.Faërieisaperilousland,andinitarepitfallsfortheunwaryanddungeonsfortheoverbold.AndoverboldImaybeaccounted,forthoughIhavebeenaloveroffairy-storiessinceIlearnedtoread,andhaveat timesthoughtabout them,Ihavenotstudied them professionally. I have been hardly more than awanderingexplorer (or trespasser) in the land, fullofwonderbutnotofinformation.

Therealmoffairy-storyiswideanddeepandhighandfilledwithmanythings:allmannerofbeastsandbirdsarefoundthere;shorelessseasandstarsuncounted;beautythatisanenchantment,andanever-presentperil;bothjoyandsorrowassharpasswords.Inthatrealmamanmay,perhaps,counthimselffortunatetohave

wandered,butitsveryrichnessandstrangenesstiethetongueofatraveller who would report them. And while he is there itisdangerousforhimtoasktoomanyquestions,lestthegatesshouldbeshutandthekeysbelost.

Thereare,however,somequestionsthatonewhois tospeakabout fairy-stories must expect to answer, or attempt to answer,whatever the folk of Faërie may think of his impertinence. Forinstance:Whatarefairy-stories?Whatistheirorigin?Whatistheuseofthem?Iwilltrytogiveanswerstothesequestions,orsuchhints of answers to them as I have gleaned—primarily from thestoriesthemselves,thefewofalltheirmultitudethatIknow.

FAIRY-STORY

What is a fairy-story? In this case you will turn to theOxfordEnglish Dictionary in vain. It contains no reference to thecombinationfairy-story, and isunhelpfulon thesubjectoffairiesgenerally. In the Supplement,fairytale is recorded since the year1750,anditsleadingsenseissaidtobe(a)ataleaboutfairies,orgenerally a fairy legend;with developed senses, (b) an unreal orincrediblestory,and(c)afalsehood.

The last two senses would obviously make my topichopelesslyvast.But the first sense is toonarrow.Not toonarrowforanessay;itiswideenoughformanybooks,buttoonarrowtocoveractualusage.Especiallyso,ifweacceptthelexicographer’sdefinition offairies: ‘supernatural beings of diminutive size, inpopular belief supposed to possess magical powers and to have

greatinfluenceforgoodorevilovertheaffairsofman’.Supernatural is a dangerous and difficultword in any of its

senses, looser or stricter. But to fairies it can hardly be applied,unlesssuper istakenmerelyasasuperlativeprefix.Foritismanwhois,incontrasttofairies,supernatural(andoftenofdiminutivestature);whereastheyarenatural,farmorenaturalthanhe.Suchistheir doom.The road to fairyland is not the road toHeaven; noreven to Hell, I believe, though some have held that it may leadthitherindirectlybytheDevil’stithe.

O seeyenot yonnarrow roadSo thickbesetwi’ thorns andbriers?

That is the path of Righteousness, Though after it but fewinquires.

Andseeyenotyonbraid,braidroadThatliesacrossthelilyleven?

ThatisthepathofWickedness,ThoughsomecallittheRoadtoHeaven.

Andseeyenotyonbonny roadThatwindsaboutyon ferniebrae?

That is the road to fairElfland,Where thou and I this nightmaungae.

As fordiminutive size: I do not deny that the notion is aleadingone inmodernuse. I haveoften thought that itwouldbeinteresting to try to findouthow thathascome tobe so;butmyknowledgeisnotsufficientforacertainanswer.Ofoldtherewere

indeedsome inhabitantsofFaërie thatweresmall (thoughhardlydiminutive),butsmallnesswasnotcharacteristicofthatpeopleasawhole.Thediminutivebeing,elforfairy,is(Iguess)inEnglandlargelyasophisticatedproductofliteraryfancy.1Itisperhapsnotunnatural that inEngland, the landwhere the loveof thedelicateand fine has often reappeared in art, fancy should in thismatterturn towards the dainty and diminutive, as in France it went tocourt and put on powder and diamonds. Yet I suspect that thisflower-and-butterfly minuteness was also a product of‘rationalisation’, which transformed the glamour of Elfland intomere finesse, and invisibility into a fragility that could hide in acowslip or shrink behind a blade of grass. It seems to becomefashionable soon after the great voyages had begun to make theworld seem too narrow to hold both men and elves; when themagic land of Hy Breasail in the West had become the mereBrazils, the land of red-dye-wood.2 In any case it was largely aliterary business in whichWilliam Shakespeare and Michael

Drayton played a part.1 Drayton’sNymphidia is one ancestor ofthatlonglineofflower-fairiesandflutteringspriteswithantennaethat I so disliked as a child, andwhichmy children in their turndetested.AndrewLanghadsimilar feelings. In thepreface to theLilacFairyBook he refers to the tales of tiresome contemporaryauthors: ‘theyalwaysbeginwitha littleboyorgirlwhogoesoutand meets the fairies of polyanthuses and gardenias andappleblossom…Thesefairiestrytobefunnyandfail;ortheytrytopreachandsucceed.’

But the business began, as I have said, long before thenineteenthcentury,and longagoachieved tiresomeness,certainlythe tiresomeness of trying to be funny and failing. Drayton’sNymphidiais,consideredasafairystory(astoryaboutfairies),oneof the worst ever written. The palace of Oberon has walls ofspider’slegs,

Andwindowsoftheeyesofcats,Andfortheroof,insteadofslats,Iscoveredwiththewingsofbats.

TheknightPigwiggenridesonafriskyearwig,andsendshislove, Queen Mab, a bracelet of emmets’ eyes, making anassignation in a cowslip-flower.But the tale that is toldamid allthisprettiness isadullstoryof intrigueandslygo-betweens; thegallantknightandangryhusbandfallintothemire,andtheirwrathisstilledbyadraughtof thewatersofLethe. Itwouldhavebeenbetter ifLethehadswallowedthewholeaffair.Oberon,Mab,andPigwiggen may be diminutive elves or fairies, as Arthur,Guinevere, and Lancelot are not; but the good and evil story ofArthur’scourtisa‘fairy-story’ratherthanthistaleofOberon.

Fairy,asanounmoreorlessequivalenttoelf,isarelatively

modern word, hardly used until the Tudor period. The firstquotationintheOxfordDictionary(theonlyonebeforeA.D.1450)issignificant.ItistakenfromthepoetGower:ashewereafaierie.ButthisGowerdidnotsay.Hewroteashewereoffaierie,‘asifhewere come from Faërie’. Gower was describing a young gallantwhoseekstobewitchtheheartsofthemaidensinchurch.

HiscroketkembdandthereonsetANouchewithachapelet,OrellesoneofgrenelevesWhichlatecomoutofthegreves,Alforhesholdesemefreissh;Andthushelokethonthefleissh,RihtasanhaukwhichhathasihteUponthefoultherheschallihte,

AndashewereoffaierieHeschewethhimtoforehereyhe.1

Thisisayoungmanofmortalbloodandbone;buthegivesamuchbetterpictureoftheinhabitantsofElflandthanthedefinitionof a ‘fairy’ underwhichhe is, by a double error, placed.For thetroublewiththerealfolkofFaërieisthattheydonotalwayslooklikewhat they are; and they put on the pride and beauty thatwewould fain wear ourselves.At least part of the magic that theywieldforthegoodorevilofmanispowertoplayonthedesiresofhis body and his heart. The Queen of Elfland, who carried offThomas the Rhymer upon her milk-white steed swifter than thewind, came riding by the Eildon Tree as a lady, if one ofenchantingbeauty.SothatSpenserwasinthetruetraditionwhenhecalledtheknightsofhisFaëriebythenameofElfe.Itbelonged

tosuchknightsasSirGuyonratherthantoPigwiggenarmedwithahornet’ssting.

Now, though I have only touched (wholly inadequately) onelves andfairies, Imust turnback; for Ihavedigressed frommypropertheme:fairy-stories.Isaidthesense‘storiesaboutfairies’wastoonarrow.1Itistoonarrow,evenifwerejectthediminutivesize,forfairystoriesarenotinnormalEnglishusagestoriesaboutfairiesorelves,butstoriesaboutFairy,thatisFaërie,therealmorstateinwhichfairieshavetheirbeing.Faëriecontainsmanythingsbesideselvesandfays,andbesidesdwarfs,witches, trolls,giants,ordragons: itholds the seas, the sun, themoon, the sky; and theearth,andall things thatare in it: treeandbird,waterandstone,wine and bread, and ourselves, mortal men, when we areenchanted.

Stories that are actually concerned primarily with ‘fairies’,thatiswithcreaturesthatmightalsoinmodernEnglishbecalled‘elves’,arerelativelyrare,andasarulenotveryinteresting.Most

good‘fairy-stories’areabouttheaventuresofmeninthePerilousRealmoruponitsshadowymarches.Naturallyso;forifelvesaretrue, and really exist independentlyofour tales about them, thenthis also is certainly true: elvesarenotprimarilyconcernedwithus,norwewiththem.Ourfatesaresundered,andourpathsseldommeet.EvenuponthebordersofFaërieweencounterthemonlyatsomechancecrossingoftheways.1

Thedefinitionof a fairy-story—what it is,orwhat it shouldbe—doesnot,then,dependonanydefinitionorhistoricalaccountofelfor fairy,butupon thenatureofFaërie: thePerilousRealmitself,and theair thatblowsin thatcountry. Iwillnotattempt todefine that, nor to describe it directly. It cannot be done. Faëriecannot becaughtinanetofwords;foritisoneofitsqualitiestobe indescribable, though not imperceptible. It has manyingredients,butanalysiswillnotnecessarilydiscoverthesecretofthewhole.YetIhopethatwhatIhavelatertosayabouttheotherquestionswillgivesomeglimpsesofmyownimperfectvisionof

it.ForthemomentIwillsayonlythis:a‘fairy-story’isonewhichtouchesonorusesFaërie,whateveritsownmainpurposemaybe:satire,adventure,morality,fantasy.FaërieitselfmayperhapsmostnearlybetranslatedbyMagic1—butitismagicofapeculiarmoodand power, at the furthest pole from the vulgar devices of thelaborious,scientific,magician.Thereisoneproviso:ifthereisanysatirepresent in the tale,one thingmustnotbemade funof, themagic itself. That must in that story be taken seriously, neitherlaughed at nor explained away. Of this seriousness themedievalSirGawainandtheGreenKnightisanadmirableexample.

Butevenifweapplyonlythesevagueandill-definedlimits,itbecomes plain thatmany, even the learned in suchmatters, haveusedtheterm‘fairy-tale’verycarelessly.Aglanceatthosebooksof recent times that claim to be collections of ‘fairy-stories’ isenoughtoshowthattalesaboutfairies,aboutthefairfamilyinanyof itshouses,or evenaboutdwarfs andgoblins, areonlya smallpart of their content. That, aswe have seen,was to be expected.

But these books also contain many tales that donot use, do noteventouchupon,Faërieatall; thathaveinfactnobusinesstobeincluded.

Iwillgiveoneor twoexamplesof theexpurgations Iwouldperform.Thiswillassistthenegativesideofdefinition.Itwillalsobefoundtoleadontothesecondquestion:whataretheoriginsoffairy-stories?

Thenumberofcollectionsof fairy-stories isnowverygreat.In English none probably rival either the popularity, or theinclusiveness,orthegeneralmeritsofthetwelvebooksoftwelvecolourswhichweowetoAndrewLangandtohiswife.Thefirstofthese appeared more than fifty years ago (1889), and is still inprint.Mostofitscontentspassthetest,moreorlessclearly.Iwillnot analyse them, though an analysis might be interesting, but InoteinpassingthatofthestoriesinthisBlueFairyBooknoneareprimarilyabout ‘fairies’, fewrefer to them.Mostof the talesaretakenfromFrenchsources:ajustchoiceinsomewaysatthattime,

as perhaps it would be still (though not to my taste, now or inchildhood). At any rate, so powerful has been the influence ofCharles Perrault, since hisContes de ma Mère l’Oye were firstEnglished in the eighteenth century, and of such other excerptsfromthevaststorehouseof theCabinetdesFéesashavebecomewell known, that still, I suppose, if you asked aman to name atrandom a typical ‘fairy-story’, hewould bemost likely to nameone of these French things: such asPuss-in-Boots,Cinderella, orLittle Red RidingHood. With some peopleGrimm’s Fairy Talesmightcomefirsttomind.

But what is to be said of the appearance in theBlue FairyBookofAVoyagetoLilliput? Iwillsaythis:itisnotafairy-story,neitherasitsauthormadeit,norasithereappears‘condensed’byMissMayKendall. It has nobusiness in this place. I fear that itwas included merely because Lilliputians are small, evendiminutive—theonlywayinwhichtheyareatallremarkable.ButsmallnessisinFaërie,asinourworld,onlyanaccident.Pygmies

arenonearertofairiesthanarePatagonians.Idonotrulethisstoryout because of its satirical intent: there is satire, sustained orintermittent,inundoubtedfairy-stories,andsatiremayoftenhavebeenintendedintraditionaltaleswherewedonotnowperceiveit.I rule it out, because the vehicle of the satire, brilliant inventionthough it may be, belongs to the class of travellers’ tales. Suchtalesreportmanymarvels,buttheyaremarvelstobeseeninthismortalworldinsomeregionofourowntimeandspace;distancealoneconceals them.The talesofGulliverhavenomore rightofentrythantheyarnsofBaronMunchausen;orthan,say,TheFirstMen in theMoon orTheTime-Machine. Indeed, for theEloi andthe Morlocks there would be a better claim than for theLilliputians. Lilliputians are merely men peered down at,sardonically, from just above the house-tops. Eloi andMorlockslive far away in an abyss of time so deep as to work anenchantmentuponthem;andiftheyaredescendedfromourselves,itmayberememberedthatanancientEnglishthinkeroncederived

t h eylfe, the very elves, through Cainfrom Adam.1 Thisenchantment of distance, especially of distant time, is weakenedonlyby thepreposterousand incredibleTimeMachine itself.Butweseeinthisexampleoneofthemainreasonswhythebordersoffairy-story are inevitably dubious. Themagic of Faërie is not anend in itself, its virtue is in its operations: among these are thesatisfaction of certain primordial human desires. One of thesedesires is to survey the depths of space and time.Another is (aswillbeseen)toholdcommunionwithotherlivingthings.Astorymaythusdealwiththesatisfactionofthesedesires,withorwithouttheoperationof eithermachineormagic, and inproportion as itsucceeds it will approach the quality and have the flavour offairystory.

Next,aftertravellers’tales,Iwouldalsoexclude,orruleoutoforder,anystorythatusesthemachineryofDream,thedreamingof actual human sleep, to explain the apparent occurrence of itsmarvels. At the least, even if the reported dream was in other

respects in itself a fairy-story, I would condemn the whole asgravelydefective: likeagoodpictureinadisfiguringframe.It istruethatDreamisnotunconnectedwithFaërie.Indreamsstrangepowersofthemindmaybeunlocked.InsomeofthemamanmayforaspacewieldthepowerofFaërie,thatpowerwhich,evenasitconceivesthestory,causesittotakelivingformandcolourbeforetheeyes.A realdreammay indeedsometimesbea fairy-storyofalmost elvish ease and skill—while it is beingdreamed.But if awakingwritertellsyouthathistaleisonlyathingimaginedinhissleep, he cheats deliberately the primal desire at the heart ofFaërie: the realization, independent of the conceiving mind, ofimaginedwonder.Itisoftenreportedoffairies(trulyorlyingly,Ido not know) that they are workers of illusion, that they arecheatersofmenby‘fantasy’;butthatisquiteanothermatter.Thatis their affair. Such trickeries happen, at any rate, inside tales inwhich the fairies arenot themselves illusions;behind the fantasyrealwillsandpowersexist,independentofthemindsandpurposes

ofmen.It isatanyrateessential toagenuinefairy-story,asdistinct

fromtheemploymentofthisformforlesserordebasedpurposes,thatitshouldbepresentedas‘true’.Themeaningof‘true’inthisconnection Iwill consider inamoment.But since the fairy-storydeals with ‘marvels’, it cannot tolerate any frame or machinerysuggestingthatthewholestoryinwhichtheyoccurisafigmentorillusion. The tale itself may, of course, be so good that one canignoretheframe.Oritmaybesuccessfulandamusingasadream-story.SoareLewisCarroll’sAlicestories,withtheirdream-frameand dream-transitions. For this (and other reasons) they are notfairy-stories.1

ThereisanothertypeofmarvelloustalethatIwouldexcludefromthetitle‘fairy-story’,againcertainlynotbecauseIdonotlikeit: namely pure ‘Beast-fable’. I will choose an example fromLang’sFairyBooks:TheMonkey’sHeart, aSwahili talewhich isgivenintheLilacFairyBook.Inthisstoryawickedsharktrickeda

monkey into riding on his back, and carried him halfway to hisownland,beforeherevealedthefactthatthesultanofthatcountrywassickandneededamonkey’shearttocurehisdisease.Butthemonkey outwitted the shark, and induced him to return byconvincing him that the heart had been left behind at home,hanginginabagonatree.

Thebeast-fablehas,ofcourse,aconnectionwithfairystories.Beasts and birds and other creatures often talk like men in realfairy-stories. In somepart (often small) thismarvelderives fromone of the primal ‘desires’ that lie near the heart of Faërie: thedesireofmentoholdcommunionwithotherlivingthings.Butthespeech of beasts in the beast-fable, as developed into a separatebranch,haslittlereferencetothatdesire,andoftenwhollyforgetsit.Themagicalunderstandingbymenof theproper languagesofbirdsandbeastsandtrees,thatismuchnearertothetruepurposesofFaërie.Butinstoriesinwhichnohumanbeingisconcerned;orin which the animals are the heroes and heroines, and men and

women, if theyappear, aremere adjuncts; andaboveall those inwhichtheanimalformisonlyamaskuponahumanface,adeviceofthesatiristorthepreacher,inthesewehavebeast-fableandnotfairy-story:whether itbeReynard theFox, orTheNun’sPriest’sTale, orBrerRabbit, ormerelyTheThreeLittlePigs.Thestoriesof Beatrix Potter lie near the borders of Faërie, but outside it, Ithink, for the most part.1 Their nearness is due largely to theirstrongmoralelement:bywhichImeantheirinherentmorality,notanyallegoricalsignificatio. ButPeterRabbit, thoughitcontainsaprohibition, and though there are prohibitions in fairyland (as,probably, thereare throughout theuniverseoneveryplaneandineverydimension),remainsabeast-fable.

NowTheMonkey’sHeart isalsoplainlyonlyabeastfable. Isuspectthatitsinclusionina‘FairyBook’isduenotprimarilytoits entertaining quality, but precisely to the monkey’s heartsupposedtohavebeenleftbehindinabag.ThatwassignificanttoLang,thestudentoffolklore,eventhoughthiscuriousideaishere

usedonlyasajoke;for,inthistale,themonkey’sheartwasinfactquitenormalandinhisbreast.Nonethelessthisdetail isplainlyonlyasecondaryuseofanancientandverywidespread folk-lorenotion,whichdoesoccurinfairystories;2thenotionthatthelifeorstrength of aman or creaturemay reside in some other place orthing;orinsomepartofthebody(especiallytheheart)thatcanbedetachedandhiddeninabag,orunderastone,orinanegg.Atoneend of recorded folk-lore history this idea was used by GeorgeMacDonaldinhisfairy-storyTheGiant’sHeart,whichderivesthiscentral motive (as well as many other details) from well-knowntraditional tales.At theotherend, indeedinwhat isprobablyoneof the oldest stories inwriting, it occurs inThe Tale of the TwoBrothers on the Egyptian D’Orsigny papyrus. There the youngerbrothersaystotheelder:

‘Ishallenchantmyheart,andIshallplaceituponthetopoftheflowerof thecedar.Nowthecedarwillbecutdownandmyheartwillfalltotheground,andthoushaltcometoseekfor it, even though thou pass seven years in seeking it; butwhenthouhasfoundit,putitintoavaseofcoldwater,andinverytruthIshalllive.’1

Butthatpointofinterestandsuchcomparisonsasthesebringus to the brink of the second question: What are the origins of‘fairy-stories’?Thatmust,ofcourse,mean:theoriginororiginsofthe fairy elements.To askwhat is the origin of stories (howeverqualified)istoaskwhatistheoriginoflanguageandofthemind.

1Iamspeakingofdevelopmentsbeforethegrowthofinterestinthefolk-loreofothercountries.TheEnglishwords,suchaself,havelongbeeninfluencedbyFrench(from

whichfay andfaërie, fairy are derived); but in later times, through their use intranslation, bothfairy andelf have acquired much of the atmosphere of German,Scandinavian,andCeltic tales,andmanycharacteristicsof thehuldu-fólk, thedaoine-sithe,andthetylwythteg.

2FortheprobabilitythattheIrishHyBreasailplayedapartinthenamingofBrazilseeNansen,InNorthernMists,ii,223-30.

1Their influencewasnotconfinedtoEngland.GermanElf,Elfeappears tobederivedfromAMidsummer-night’sDream,inWieland’stranslation(1764).

1ConfessioAmantis,v.7065ff.

1ExceptinspecialcasessuchascollectionsofWelshorGaelictales.Inthesethestoriesabout the ‘Fair Family’ or the Shee-folk are sometimes distinguished as ‘fairy-tales’from ‘folk-tales’ concerning other marvels. In this use ‘fairytales’ or ‘fairy-lore’ areusuallyshortaccountsoftheappearancesof‘fairies’ortheirintrusionsupontheaffairsofmen.Butthisdistinctionisaproductoftranslation.

1This is true also, even if they are only creations of Man’s mind, ‘true’ only asreflectinginaparticularwayoneofMan’svisionsofTruth.

1Seefurtherbelow,p.368.

1Beowulf,111-12.

1SeeNoteAattheend(p.389).

1TheTailorofGloucester perhapscomesnearest.Mrs.Tiggywinklewouldbeasnear,butfor thehinteddream-explanation.IwouldalsoincludeTheWindintheWillows inBeast-fable.

2Suchas,forinstance:TheGiantthathadnoHeartinDasent’sPopularTalesfromtheNorse;orTheSea-Maiden inCampbell’sPopularTalesoftheWestHighlands (no.iv,cf.alsono.i);ormoreremotelyDieKristallkugelinGrimm.

1Budge,EgyptianReadingBook,p.xxi

ORIGINS

Actually the question: What is the origin of the fairy element?landsusultimatelyinthesamefundamentalinquiry;buttherearemany elements in fairy-stories (such as this detachable heart, orswan-robes, magic rings, arbitrary prohibitions, wicked step-mothers, and even fairies themselves) that such can be studiedwithout tackling this main question. Such studies are, however,scientific (at least in intent); theyare thepursuitof folkloristsoranthropologists:thatisofpeopleusingthestoriesnotastheyweremeant tobeused,butasaquarry fromwhich todigevidence,orinformation, about matters in which they are interested. Aperfectly legitimate procedure in itself—but ignorance orforgetfulnessofthenatureofastory(asathingtoldinitsentirety)has often led such inquirers into strange judgements. To

investigatorsofthissortrecurringsimilarities(suchasthismatteroftheheart)seemspeciallyimportant.Somuchsothatstudentsoffolk-lore are apt to get off their own proper track, or to expressthemselvesinamisleading‘shorthand’:misleadinginparticular,ifit gets out of theirmonographs into books about literature. Theyare inclined to say that any two stories that are built round thesame folk-lore motive, or are made up of a generally similarcombinationofsuchmotives,are‘thesamestories’.WereadthatBeowulf ‘is only aversionofDatErdmänneken’; that ‘The BlackBullofNorrowayisBeautyandtheBeast’,or‘isthesamestoryasErosandPsyche’;thattheNorseMastermaid(ortheGaelicBattleof the Birds1 and its many congeners and variants) is ‘the samestoryastheGreektaleofJasonandMedea’.

Statementsof thatkindmayexpress (inundueabbreviation)someelementoftruth;buttheyarenottrueinafairy-storysense,theyarenot true inartor literature. It isprecisely thecolouring,theatmosphere,theunclassifiableindividualdetailsofastory,and

aboveallthegeneralpurportthatinformswithlifetheundissectedbonesoftheplot,thatreallycount.Shakespeare’sKingLearisnotthe same as Layamon’s story in hisBrut.Or to take the extremecaseofRedRidingHood:itisofmerelysecondaryinterestthatthere-told versions of this story, inwhich the little girl is saved bywood-cutters,isdirectlyderivedfromPerrault’sstoryinwhichshewaseatenbythewolf.Thereallyimportantthingis that thelaterversionhasahappyending(moreorless,andifwedonotmournthe grandmother overmuch), and that Perrault’s version had not.Andthatisaveryprofounddifference,towhichIshallreturn.

Ofcourse,Idonotdeny,forIfeelstrongly,thefascinationofthedesiretounraveltheintricatelyknottedandramifiedhistoryofthebranchesontheTreeofTales.Itiscloselyconnectedwiththephilologists’ study of the tangled skein of Language, of which Iknowsomesmallpieces.Butevenwithregardtolanguageitseemstomethattheessentialqualityandaptitudesofagivenlanguageina living moment is both more important to seize and far more

difficulttomakeexplicitthanitslinearhistory.Sowithregardtofairy-stories, I feel that it ismore interesting,andalso in itswaymoredifficult, toconsiderwhat theyare,what theyhavebecomeforus,andwhatvalues the longalchemicprocessesof timehaveproduced in them. In Dasent’s words I would say: ‘Wemust besatisfiedwith thesoup that is setbeforeus,andnotdesire toseethe bones of the ox out of which it has been boiled.’1 Though,oddly enough,Dasent by ‘the soup’meant amishmash of boguspre-history founded on the early surmises of ComparativePhilology;andby‘desiretoseethebones’hemeantademandtoseetheworkingsandtheproofsthatledtothesetheories.By‘thesoup’Imeanthestoryasitisservedupbyitsauthororteller,andby ‘thebones’ its sources ormaterial—evenwhen (by rare luck)those can be with certainty discovered. But I do not, of course,forbidcriticismofthesoupassoup.

Ishallthereforepasslightlyoverthequestionoforigins.Iamtoounlearned todealwith it in anyotherway;but it is the least

importantofthethreequestionsformypurpose,andafewremarkswill suffice. It is plain enough that fairy-stories (in wider or innarrowersense)areveryancient indeed.Related thingsappear inveryearlyrecords;andtheyarefounduniversally,whereverthereislanguage.Wearethereforeobviouslyconfrontedwithavariantof the problem that the archaeologist encounters, or thecomparative philologist: with the debate betweenindependentevolution (or ratherinvention) of the similar;inheritance from acommonancestry;anddiffusionatvarioustimesfromoneormorecentres.Mostdebatesdependonanattempt(byoneorbothsides)atover-simplification;andIdonotsuppose that thisdebate isanexception. The history of fairy-stories is probablymore complexthanthephysicalhistoryofthehumanrace,andascomplexasthehistory of human language. All three things: independentinvention, inheritance, and diffusion, have evidently played theirpart inproducing the intricatewebofStory. It isnowbeyondallskillbutthatoftheelvestounravelit.1Ofthesethreeinventionis

themostimportantandfundamental,andso(notsurprisingly)alsothemostmysterious.To an inventor, that is to a storymaker, theothertwomustintheendleadback.Diffusion(borrowinginspace)whetherofanartefactorastory,onlyreferstheproblemoforiginelsewhere.Atthecentreofthesupposeddiffusionthereisaplacewhere once an inventor lived. Similarly withinheritance(borrowing in time): in this way we arrive at last only at anancestral inventor. While if we believe that sometimes thereoccurredtheindependentstrikingoutofsimilar ideasandthemesordevices,wesimplymultiplytheancestralinventorbutdonotinthatwaythemoreclearlyunderstandhisgift.

Philologyhasbeendethronedfromthehighplaceitoncehadin this court of inquiry. Max Müller’s view of mythology as a‘diseaseoflanguage’canbeabandonedwithoutregret.Mythologyisnotadiseaseatall,thoughitmaylikeallhumanthingsbecomediseased.Youmight aswell say that thinking is a disease of themind. It would be more near the truth to say that languages,

especially modern European languages, are a disease ofmythology.ButLanguagecannot,all thesame,bedismissed.Theincarnatemind, the tongue, and the tale are in ourworld coeval.Thehumanmind,endowedwith thepowersofgeneralisationandabstraction,seesnotonlygreen-grass,discriminatingitfromotherthings(andfindingitfairtolookupon),butseesthatitisgreenaswellasbeinggrass.Buthowpowerful,howstimulatingtotheveryfacultythatproducedit,wastheinventionoftheadjective:nospellorincantationinFaërieismorepotent.Andthatisnotsurprising:suchincantationsmightindeedbesaidtobeonlyanotherviewofadjectives,apartofspeechinamythicalgrammar.Themindthatthoughtoflight,heavy,grey,yellow,still,swift, alsoconceivedofmagicthatwouldmakeheavythingslightandabletofly,turngreylead into yellow gold, and the still rock into a swift water. If itcoulddotheone,itcoulddotheother;itinevitablydidboth.Whenwe can take green from grass, blue from heaven, and red fromblood,wehavealreadyanenchanter’spower—upononeplane;and

thedesire towield thatpower in theworldexternal toourmindsawakes.Itdoesnotfollowthatweshallusethatpowerwelluponany plane. We may put a deadly green upon a man’s face andproduceahorror;wemaymaketherareandterriblebluemoontoshine; or we may cause woods to spring with silver leaves andramstowearfleecesofgold,andputhotfireintothebellyofthecoldworm.Butinsuch‘fantasy’,asitiscalled,newformismade;Faëriebegins;Manbecomesasub-creator.

An essential power of Faërie is thus the power of makingimmediatelyeffectivebythewill thevisionsof‘fantasy’.Notallare beautiful or evenwholesome, not at any rate the fantasies offallenMan.Andhehasstainedtheelveswhohavethispower(inverityor fable)withhisownstain.Thisaspectof ‘mythology’—sub-creation, rather than either representation or symbolicinterpretationofthebeautiesandterrorsoftheworld—is,Ithink,toolittleconsidered.IsthatbecauseitisseenratherinFaëriethanupon Olympus? Because it is thought to belong to the ‘lower

mythology’ rather than to the ‘higher’? There has been muchdebate concerning the relations of these things, offolk-tale andmyth; but, even if there had been no debate, the question wouldrequiresomenoticeinanyconsiderationoforigins,howeverbrief.

Atonetimeitwasadominantviewthatallsuchmatterwasderivedfrom‘nature-myths’.TheOlympianswerepersonificationsof the sun, of dawn, of night, and so on, and all the stories toldabout them were originallymyths (allegories would have been abetter word) of the greater elemental changes and processes ofnature. Epic, heroic legend, saga, then localised these stories inreal places and humanised them by attributing them to ancestralheroes,mightierthanmenandyetalreadymen.Andfinallytheselegends, dwindling down, became folk-tales,Märchen, fairy-stories—nursery-tales.

That would seem to be the truth almost upside down. Thenearer the so-called ‘nature myth’, or allegory of the largeprocesses of nature, is to its supposed archetype, the less

interesting it is, and indeed the less is it of a myth capable ofthrowing any illuminationwhatever on theworld. Let us assumeforthemoment,asthistheoryassumes,thatnothingactuallyexistscorresponding to the ‘gods’ ofmythology: no personalities, onlyastronomicalormeteorologicalobjects.Thenthesenaturalobjectscan only be arrayed with a personal significance and glory by agift,thegiftofaperson,ofaman.Personalitycanonlybederivedfromaperson.Thegodsmayderivetheircolourandbeautyfromthehighsplendoursofnature,but itwasManwhoobtainedthesefor them, abstracted them from sun and moon and cloud; theirpersonality they get direct from him; the shadow or flicker ofdivinity that is upon them they receive through him from theinvisibleworld, the Supernatural. There is no fundamentaldistinction between the higher and lower mythologies. Theirpeoples live, if they live at all, by the same life, just as in themortalworlddokingsandpeasants.

Letus takewhat looks likeaclearcaseofOlympiannature-

myth:theNorsegodThórr.HisnameisThunder,ofwhichThórristhe Norse form; and it is not difficult to interpret his hammer,Miöllnir,aslightning.YetThórrhas(asfarasourlaterecordsgo)averymarkedcharacter,orpersonality,whichcannotbefoundinthunderor in lightning,even thoughsomedetailscan,as itwere,berelatedtothesenaturalphenomena:forinstance,hisredbeard,his loud voice and violent temper, his blundering and smashingstrength. None the less it is asking a question without muchmeaning, ifweinquire:Whichcamefirst,nature-allegoriesaboutpersonalizedthunderinthemountains,splittingrocksandtrees;orstories about an irascible, not very clever, red-beard farmer, of astrength beyond common measure, a person (in all but merestature)veryliketheNorthernfarmers,thebœndrbywhomThórrwaschieflybeloved?ToapictureofsuchamanThórrmaybeheldtohave ‘dwindled’, or from it thegodmaybeheld tohavebeenenlarged.But I doubtwhether either view is right—not by itself,notifyouinsistthatoneofthesethingsmustprecedetheother.It

is more reasonable to suppose that the farmer popped up in theverymomentwhenThundergotavoiceandface;thattherewasadistantgrowlofthunderinthehillseverytimeastory-tellerheardafarmerinarage.

Thórrmust, of course, be reckoned amember of the higheraristocracyofmythology: oneof the rulers of theworld.Yet thetale that is told of him inThrymskvitha (in the Elder Edda) iscertainlyjustafairy-story.Itisold,asfarasNorsepoemsgo,butthatisnotfarback(sayAD900oralittleearlier,inthiscase).Butthereisnorealreasonforsupposingthatthistaleis‘unprimitive’,atanyrateinquality:thatis,becauseitisoffolk-talekindandnotvery dignified. Ifwe could go backwards in time, the fairy-storymightbefoundtochangeindetails,ortogivewaytoothertales.But therewouldalwaysbea ‘fairy-tale’as longas therewasanyThórr. When the fairy-tale ceased, there would be just thunder,whichnohumanearhadyetheard.

Something really ‘higher’ is occasionally glimpsed in

mythology: Divinity, the right to power (as distinct from itspossession),thedueworship;infact‘religion’.AndrewLangsaid,and isby somestill commended for saying,1 thatmythology andreligion (in the strict sense of that word) are two distinct thingsthat have become inextricably entangled, thoughmythology is initselfalmostdevoidofreligioussignificance.2

Yet these things have in fact become entangled—or maybetheyweresunderedlongagoandhavesincegropedslowly,througha labyrinth of error, through confusion, back towards re-fusion.Even fairy-stories as a whole have three faces: the Mysticaltowards the Supernatural; the Magical towards Nature; and theMirrorofscornandpitytowardsMan.TheessentialfaceofFaërieisthemiddleone,theMagical.Butthedegreeinwhichtheothersappear(ifatall)isvariable,andmaybedecidedbytheindividualstory-teller.TheMagical,thefairy-story,maybeusedasaMirourde l’Omme; and itmay (but not so easily) bemade a vehicle ofMystery. This at least is what George MacDonald attempted,

achieving stories of power and beauty when he succeeded, as inTheGoldenKey (whichhecalleda fairy-tale);andevenwhenhepartlyfailed,asinLilith(whichhecalledaromance).

For a moment let us return to the ‘Soup’ that I mentionedabove. Speaking of the history of stories and especially of fairy-storieswemaysaythatthePotofSoup,theCauldronofStory,hasalways been boiling, and to it have continually been added newbits,daintyandundainty.Forthisreason,totakeacasualexample,the fact that a story resembling the one known asTheGoosegirl(Die Gänsemagd in Grimm) is told in the thirteenth century ofBertha Broadfoot,mother of Charlemagne, really proves nothingeither way: neither that the story was (in the thirteenth century)descending from Olympus or Asgard by way of an alreadylegendarykingofold,on itsway tobecome aHausmärchen; northat it was on its way up. The story is found to be widespread,unattached to the mother of Charlemagne or to any historicalcharacter.Fromthisfactbyitselfwecertainlycannotdeducethat

it isnot trueofCharlemagne’smother, thoughthat is thekindofdeductionthatismostfrequentlymadefromthatkindofevidence.TheopinionthatthestoryisnottrueofBerthaBroadfootmustbefounded on something else: on features in the story which thecritic’sphilosophydoesnotallow tobepossible in ‘real life’, sothat he would actually disbelieve the tale, even if it were foundnowhereelse;orontheexistenceofgoodhistoricalevidencethatBertha’sactuallifewasquitedifferent,sothathewoulddisbelievethe tale, even if his philosophy allowed that it was perfectlypossiblein‘reallife’.Noone,Ifancy,woulddiscreditastorythatthe Archbishop of Canterbury slipped on a banana skin merelybecausehefoundthatasimilarcomicmishaphadbeenreportedofmany people, and especially of elderly gentlemen of dignity.Hemightdisbelievethestory, ifhediscoveredthat initanangel(orevena fairy)hadwarned theArchbishop thathewould slip ifheworegaitersonaFriday.Hemightalsodisbelieve thestory, if itwasstated tohaveoccurred in theperiodbetween, say,1940and

1945.Somuchforthat.Itisanobviouspoint,andithasbeenmadebefore;butIventuretomakeitagain(althoughitisalittlebesidemy present purpose), for it is constantly neglected by thosewhoconcernthemselveswiththeoriginsoftales.

Butwhatofthebananaskin?Ourbusinesswithitreallyonlybeginswhen it has been rejected by historians. It ismore usefulwhenithasbeenthrownaway.Thehistorianwouldbelikelytosaythatthebanana-skinstory‘becameattachedtotheArchbishop’,ashedoessayonfairevidencethat‘theGoosegirlMärchenbecameattachedtoBertha’.Thatwayofputtingit isharmlessenough, inwhat is commonly known as ‘history’. But is it really a gooddescriptionofwhat isgoingonandhasgoneon in thehistoryofstory-making?Idonotthinkso.IthinkitwouldbenearerthetruthtosaythattheArchbishopbecameattachedtothebananaskin,orthatBerthawasturnedintotheGoosegirl.Betterstill:IwouldsaythatCharlemagne’smother and theArchbishopwereput into thePot,infactgotintotheSoup.Theywerejustnewbitsaddedtothe

stock.A considerable honour, for in that soupweremany thingsolder, more potent, more beautiful, comic, or terrible than theywereinthemselves(consideredsimplyasfiguresofhistory).

ItseemsfairlyplainthatArthur,oncehistorical(butperhapsassuchnotofgreat importance),wasalsoputintothePot.Therehe was boiled for a long time, together with many other olderfiguresanddevices,ofmythologyandFaërie,andevensomeotherstraybonesofhistory(suchasAlfred’sdefenceagainsttheDanes),untilheemergedasaKingofFaërie.ThesituationissimilarinthegreatNorthern‘Arthurian’courtoftheShield-KingsofDenmark,theScyldingasofancientEnglishtradition.KingHrothgarandhisfamily havemanymanifestmarks of true history, farmore thanArthur;yeteven in theolder (English)accountsof themtheyareassociatedwithmanyfiguresandeventsof fairy-story: theyhavebeen in the Pot. But I refer now to the remnants of the oldestrecordedEnglishtalesofFaërie(oritsborders),inspiteofthefactthattheyarelittleknowninEngland,nottodiscusstheturningof

thebear-boyintotheknightBeowulf,ortoexplaintheintrusionoftheogreGrendelintotheroyalhallofHrothgar.Iwishtopointtosomething else that these traditions contain: a singularlysuggestive example of the relation of the ‘fairy-tale element’ togodsandkingsandnamelessmen,illustrating(Ibelieve)theviewthatthiselementdoesnotriseorfall,butisthere,intheCauldronofStory,waitingforthegreatfiguresofMythandHistory,andfortheyetnamelessHeorShe,waitingforthemomentwhentheyarecast into the simmering stew,onebyoneor all together,withoutconsiderationofrankorprecedence.

The great enemy of King Hrothgar was Froda, King of theHeathobards.YetofHrothgar’sdaughterFreawaruwehearechoesof a strange tale—not ausual one inNorthernheroic legend: theson of the enemy of her house, Ingeld son of Froda, fell in lovewith her and wedded her, disastrously. But that is extremelyinteresting and significant. In thebackgroundof the ancient feudloomsthefigureofthatgodwhomtheNorsemencalledFrey(the

Lord) or Yngvi-frey, and the Angles called Ing: a god of theancient Northernmythology (and religion) of Fertility andCorn.Theenmityoftheroyalhouseswasconnectedwiththesacredsiteof a cult of that religion. Ingeld and his father bear namesbelongingtoit.Freawaruherselfisnamed‘ProtectionoftheLord(ofFrey)’.Yetoneofthechiefthingstoldlater(inOldIcelandic)aboutFreyisthestoryinwhichhefallsinlovefromafarwiththedaughterof theenemiesof thegods,Gerdr,daughterof thegiantGymir,andwedsher.DoesthisprovethatIngeldandFreawaru,ortheir love, are ‘merely mythical’? I think not. History oftenresembles ‘Myth’, because they are both ultimately of the samestuff.If indeedIngeldandFreawarunever lived,orat leastneverloved, then it is ultimately from nameless man and woman thatthey get their tale, or rather into whose tale they have entered.TheyhavebeenputintotheCauldron,wheresomanypotentthingsliesimmeringagelongonthefire,amongthemLove-at-first-sight.So too of the god. If no young man had ever fallen in love by

chance meeting with a maiden, and found old enmities to standbetweenhimandhislove,thenthegodFreywouldneverhaveseenGerdr the giant’s daughter from the high-seat ofOdin.But ifwespeakofaCauldron,wemustnotwhollyforget theCooks.Therearemany things in theCauldron,but theCooksdonotdip in theladlequiteblindly.Theirselectionisimportant.Thegodsareafterallgods,anditisamatterofsomemomentwhatstoriesaretoldofthem.Sowemustfreelyadmitthatataleofloveismorelikelytobe told of a prince in history, indeed is more likely actually tohappeninanhistoricalfamilywhosetraditionsarethoseofgoldenFrey and the Vanir, rather than those of Odin the Goth, theNecromancer,glutterofthecrows,LordoftheSlain.Smallwonderthatspell means both a story told, and a formula of power overlivingmen.

But when we have done all that research—collection andcomparison of the tales of many lands—can do; when we haveexplained many of the elements commonly found embedded in

fairy-stories (such as stepmothers, enchanted bears and bulls,cannibal witches, taboos on names, and the like) as relics ofancientcustomsoncepractisedindailylife,orofbeliefsonceheldasbeliefsandnotas‘fancies’—thereremainsstillapointtoooftenforgotten:thatistheeffectproducednowbytheseoldthingsinthestoriesastheyare.

Foronethingtheyarenowold,andantiquityhasanappealinitself. The beauty and horror ofThe Juniper Tree (Von demMachandelboom), with its exquisite and tragic beginning, theabominable cannibal stew, the gruesome bones, the gay andvengefulbird-spirit comingoutof amist that rose from the tree,has remainedwithme since childhood; and yet always the chiefflavour of that tale lingering in the memory was not beauty orhorror,butdistanceandagreatabyssoftime,notmeasurableevenb ytwe tusend Johr. Without the stew and the bones—whichchildren are now too often spared in mollified versions ofGrimm1—thatvisionwouldlargelyhavebeenlost.IdonotthinkI

washarmedby thehorrorinthefairytalesetting,outofwhateverdark beliefs and practices of the past it may have come. Suchstorieshavenowamythicalortotal(unanalysable)effect,aneffectquite independent of the findings of Comparative Folk-lore, andonewhich it cannot spoil or explain; they open a door onOtherTime,andifwepassthrough,thoughonlyforamoment,westandoutsideourowntime,outsideTimeitself,maybe.

Ifwepause, notmerely tonote that suchold elements havebeen preserved, but to thinkhow they have been preserved, wemust conclude, I think, that it has happened, often if not always,preciselybecauseofthisliteraryeffect.Itcannothavebeenwe,oreventhebrothersGrimm, that first felt it.Fairy-storiesarebynomeans rocky matrices out of which the fossils cannot be prisedexcept by an expert geologist. The ancient elements can beknocked out, or forgotten and dropped out, or replaced by otheringredients with the greatest ease: as any comparison of a storywith closely related variantswill show.The things that are there

must often have been retained (or inserted) because the oralnarrators, instinctively or consciously, felt their literary‘significance’.1 Even where a prohibition in a fairy-story isguessedtobederivedfromsometaboooncepractisedlongago,ithasprobablybeenpreservedinthelaterstagesofthetale’shistorybecauseofthegreatmythicalsignificanceofprohibition.Asenseof that significancemay indeed have lain behind some of thetaboos themselves. Thou shalt not—or else thou shall departbeggaredintoendlessregret.Thegentlest‘nursery-tales’knowit.EvenPeterRabbitwasforbiddenagarden, losthisbluecoat,andtooksick.TheLockedDoorstandsasaneternalTemptation.

1SeeCampbell,op.cit.,vol.i

1PopularTalesfromtheNorse,p.xviii

1Exceptinparticularlyfortunatecases;orinafewoccasionaldetails.Itisindeedeasiertounravelasinglethread—anincident,aname,amotive—thantotracethehistoryofanypicturedefinedbymanythreads.Forwiththepictureinthetapestryanewelementhas come in: the picture is greater than, and not explained by, the sum of thecomponent threads.Therein lies the inherentweaknessof the analytic (or ‘scientific’)method:itfindsoutmuchaboutthingsthatoccurinstories,butlittleornothingabouttheireffectinanygivenstory.

1Forexample,byChristopherDawsoninProgressandReligion.

2This is borne out by themore careful and sympathetic study of ‘primitive’ peoples:that is,peoplesstill living inan inheritedpaganism,whoarenot,aswesay,civilised.The hasty survey finds only their wilder tales; a closer examination finds theircosmologicalmyths;onlypatienceandinnerknowledgediscoverstheirphilosophyandreligion:thetrulyworshipful,ofwhichthe‘gods’arenotnecessarilyanembodimentatall,oronlyinavariablemeasure(oftendecidedbytheindividual).

1They should not be spared it—unless they are spared the whole story until theirdigestionsarestronger.

1SeeNoteBatend(p.390).

CHILDREN

I will now turn to children, and so come to the last and mostimportantof the threequestions:what, if any, are thevalues andfunctionsof fairy-storiesnow?It isusuallyassumedthatchildrenare the natural or the specially appropriate audience for fairy-stories. In describing a fairy-storywhich they think adultsmightpossibly read for their own entertainment, reviewers frequentlyindulge in suchwaggeries as: ‘this book is for children from theagesofsix tosixty’.But Ihaveneveryetseen thepuffofanewmotor-model that began thus: ‘this toy will amuse infants fromseventeen to seventy’; though that to my mind would be muchmore appropriate. Is there anyessential connection betweenchildren and fairy-stories? Is there any call for comment, if anadult reads them for himself?Reads them as tales, that is, not

studies them as curios. Adults are allowed to collect and studyanything,evenoldtheatreprogrammesorpaperbags.

Among those who still have enough wisdom not to thinkfairy-stories pernicious, the common opinion seems to be thatthere is a natural connection between the mindsof children andfairy-stories, of the same order as the connection betweenchildren’sbodiesandmilk.Ithinkthisisanerror;atbestanerrorof false sentiment, and one that is thereforemost oftenmade bythose who, for whatever private reason (such as childlessness),tend to think of children as a special kind of creature, almost adifferent race, rather than as normal, if immature,members of aparticularfamily,andofthehumanfamilyatlarge.

Actually, the association of children and fairy-stories is anaccidentofourdomestichistory.Fairy-storieshaveinthemodernletteredworld been relegated to the ‘nursery’, as shabby or old-fashioned furniture is relegated to the play-room, primarilybecausetheadultsdonotwantit,anddonotmindifitismisused.1

Itisnotthechoiceofthechildrenwhichdecidesthis.Childrenasaclass—exceptinacommonlackofexperiencetheyarenotone—neither like fairy-stories more, nor understand them better thanadultsdo;andnomorethantheylikemanyotherthings.Theyareyoungandgrowing,andnormallyhavekeenappetites,sothefairy-stories as a rule go down well enough. But in fact only somechildren, and some adults,have any special taste for them; andwhen they have it, it is not exclusive, nor even necessarilydominant.1 It is a taste, too, thatwould not appear, I think, veryearly in childhood without artificial stimulus; it is certainly onethatdoesnotdecreasebutincreaseswithage,ifitisinnate.

It is true that in recent times fairy-storieshaveusuallybeenwrittenor‘adapted’forchildren.Butsomaymusicbe,orverse,ornovels,orhistory,orscientificmanuals.Itisadangerousprocess,evenwhenitisnecessary.Itisindeedonlysavedfromdisasterbythe fact that theartsandsciencesarenotasawhole relegated tothe nursery; the nursery and schoolroom are merely given such

tastesandglimpsesoftheadultthingasseemfitfortheminadultopinion(oftenmuchmistaken).Anyoneofthesethingswould,ifleftaltogetherinthenursery,becomegravelyimpaired.Sowouldabeautiful table, a good picture, or a useful machine (such as amicroscope),bedefacedorbroken,ifitwereleftlongunregardedinaschoolroom.Fairy-storiesbanishedinthisway,cutofffromafulladultart,wouldintheendberuined;indeedinsofarastheyhavebeensobanished,theyhavebeenruined.

The value of fairy-stories is thus not, in my opinion, to befound by considering children in particular. Collections of fairy-stories are, in fact, by nature attics and lumber-rooms, only bytemporary and local custom playrooms. Their contents aredisordered, and often battered,a jumble of different dates,purposes,andtastes;butamongthemmayoccasionallybefoundathing of permanent virtue: an old work of art, not too muchdamaged,thatonlystupiditywouldeverhavestuffedaway.

Andrew Lang’sFairy Books are not, perhaps, lumberrooms.

They are more like stalls in a rummage-sale. Someone with aduster and a fair eye for things that retain some value has beenround the attics and box-rooms.His collections are largely a by-product of his adult study of mythology and folk-lore; but theyweremadeintoandpresentedasbooksforchildren.1SomeofthereasonsthatLanggaveareworthconsidering.

Theintroductionto thefirstof theseriesspeaksof‘childrentowhomand forwhom they are told’. ‘They represent’, he says,‘the young age of man true to his early loves, and have hisunblunted edge of belief, a fresh appetite for marvels’. ‘“Is ittrue?”’hesays,‘isthegreatquestionchildrenask.’

Isuspectthatbeliefandappetiteformarvelsarehereregardedas identical or as closely related. They are radically different,though the appetite for marvels is not at once or at firstdifferentiatedbyagrowinghumanmindfromitsgeneralappetite.It seems fairly clear that Lang was usingbelief in its ordinarysense:beliefthatathingexistsorcanhappeninthereal(primary)

world. Ifso, thenI fear thatLang’swords,strippedofsentiment,canonlyimplythatthetellerofmarvelloustalestochildrenmust,ormay,oratanyratedoestradeontheircredulity,onthelackofexperiencewhichmakesitlesseasyforchildrentodistinguishfactfromfiction inparticularcases, though thedistinction in itself isfundamentaltothesanehumanmind,andtofairy-stories.

Children are capable, of course, ofliterary belief, when thestory-maker’sartisgoodenoughtoproduceit.Thatstateofmindhasbeencalled‘willingsuspensionofdisbelief’.Butthisdoesnotseem to me a good description of what happens. What reallyhappens is that the storymaker proves a successful ‘sub-creator’.HemakesaSecondaryWorldwhichyourmindcanenter.Insideit,whatherelatesis‘true’:itaccordswiththelawsofthatworld.Youthereforebelieveit,whileyouare,asitwere,inside.Themomentdisbelief arises, the spell is broken; themagic, or rather art, hasfailed.YouarethenoutinthePrimaryWorldagain,lookingatthelittle abortiveSecondaryWorld fromoutside. If you areobliged,

by kindliness or circumstance, to stay, then disbelief must besuspended (or stifled), otherwise listening and looking wouldbecomeintolerable.Butthissuspensionofdisbeliefisasubstituteforthegenuinething,asubterfugeweusewhencondescendingtogamesormake-believe,orwhentrying(moreorlesswillingly)tofindwhatvirtuewecanintheworkofanartthathasforusfailed.

A real enthusiast for cricket is in the enchanted state:SecondaryBelief.I,whenIwatchamatch,amonthelowerlevel.Icanachieve(moreorless)willingsuspensionofdisbelief,whenIamheld thereandsupportedbysomeothermotive thatwillkeepawayboredom: for instance, awild,heraldic,preference fordarkblue rather than light.Thissuspensionofdisbeliefmay thusbeasomewhattired,shabby,orsentimentalstateofmind,andsoleantothe‘adult’.Ifancyitisoftenthestateofadultsinthepresenceof a fairy-story. They are held there and supported by sentiment(memoriesofchildhood,ornotionsofwhatchildhoodoughttobelike);theythinktheyoughttolikethetale.Butiftheyreallyliked

it,foritself,theywouldnothavetosuspenddisbelief:theywouldbelieve—inthissense.

Now if Lang hadmeant anything like this theremight havebeensometruthinhiswords.Itmaybearguedthatitiseasiertoworkthespellwithchildren.Perhapsitis,thoughIamnotsureofthis.Theappearancethatitissoisoften,Ithink,anadultillusionproduced by children’s humility, their lack of critical experienceandvocabulary, and theirvoracity (proper to their rapidgrowth).Theylikeortrytolikewhatisgiventothem:iftheydonotlikeit,theycannotwellexpresstheirdislikeorgivereasonsforit(andsomay conceal it); and they like a great mass of different thingsindiscriminately,without troubling to analyse the planes of theirbelief. InanycaseIdoubt if thispotion—theenchantmentof theeffective fairy-story—is really one of the kind that becomes‘blunted’byuse,lesspotentafterrepeateddraughts.

‘“Is it true?” is the great question children ask’, Lang said.Theydoaskthatquestion,Iknow;anditisnotonetoberashlyor

idlyanswered.1Butthatquestionishardlyevidenceof‘unbluntedbelief’,orevenofthedesireforit.Mostoftenitproceedsfromthechild’s desire to knowwhich kind of literature he is facedwith.Children’s knowledge of the world is often so small that theycannotjudge,off-handandwithouthelp,betweenthefantastic,thestrange (that is rare or remote facts), the nonsensical, and themerely‘grown-up’(thatisordinarythingsoftheirparents’world,much ofwhich still remains unexplored). But they recognise thedifferentclasses,andmaylikeallofthemattimes.Ofcoursethebordersbetweenthemareoftenfluctuatingorconfused;butthatisnotonlytrueforchildren.Weallknowthedifferencesinkind,butwearenotalwayssurehowtoplaceanythingthatwehear.Achildmaywellbelievea report that thereareogres in thenextcounty;manygrown-uppersonsfinditeasytobelieveofanothercountry;andasforanotherplanet,veryfewadultsseemabletoimagineitaspeopled,ifatall,byanythingbutmonstersofiniquity.

Now I was one of the children whom Andrew Lang was

addressing—IwasbornataboutthesametimeastheGreenFairyBook—thechildrenforwhomheseemedtothinkthatfairy-storiesweretheequivalentoftheadultnovel,andofwhomhesaid:‘Theirtaste remains like the taste of their naked ancestors thousandsofyears ago; and they seem to like fairy-tales better than history,poetry, geography, or arithmetic.’ 1 But dowe really knowmuchabout these‘nakedancestors’,except that theywerecertainlynotnaked? Our fairy-stories, however old certain elements in themmaybe,arecertainlynot the sameas theirs.Yet if it is assumedthatwehavefairy-storiesbecausetheydid,thenprobablywehavehistory,geography,poetry,andarithmeticbecausetheylikedthesethingstoo,asfarastheycouldgetthem,andinsofarastheyhadyet separated the many branches of their general interest ineverything.

And as for children of the present day, Lang’s descriptiondoesnotfitmyownmemories,ormyexperienceofchildren.Langmayhavebeenmistakenaboutthechildrenheknew,butifhewas

not, thenatany ratechildrendifferconsiderably,evenwithin thenarrow borders of Britain, and such generalizations which treatthem as a class (disregarding their individual talents, and theinfluencesofthecountrysidetheylivein,andtheirupbringing)aredelusory. I hadno special childish ‘wish to believe’. Iwanted toknow.Beliefdependedonthewayinwhichstorieswerepresentedtome,byolderpeople,orby theauthors,oron the inherent toneand quality of the tale. But at notime can I remember that theenjoyment of a story was dependent on belief that such thingscould happen, or had happened, in ‘real life’. Fairy-stories wereplainly not primarily concerned with possibility, but withdesirability. If they awakeneddesire, satisfying it while oftenwhetting it unbearably, they succeeded. It is not necessary to bemore explicit here, for I hope to say something later about thisdesire, a complex of many ingredients, some universal, someparticular tomodernmen(includingmodernchildren),oreventocertain kinds of men. I had no desire to have either dreams or

adventureslikeAlice,andtheaccountofthemmerelyamusedme.Ihadverylittledesiretolookforburiedtreasureorfightpirates,andTreasureIsland leftme cool. Red Indianswere better: therewerebowsandarrows(Ihadandhaveawhollyunsatisfieddesiretoshootwellwithabow),andstrangelanguages,andglimpsesofanarchaicmodeoflife,and,aboveall,forestsinsuchstories.ButthelandofMerlinandArthurwasbetterthanthese,andbestofallthenamelessNorthofSigurdoftheVölsungs,andtheprinceofalldragons. Such lands were pre-eminently desirable. I neverimaginedthatthedragonwasofthesameorderasthehorse.AndthatwasnotsolelybecauseIsawhorsesdaily,butnevereventhefootprint of a worm.1 The dragon had the trademarkOf Faëriewrittenplainuponhim.InwhateverworldhehadhisbeingitwasanOther-world.Fantasy,themakingorglimpsingofOther-worlds,was the heart of the desire of Faërie. I desired dragons with aprofounddesire.Ofcourse,Iinmytimidbodydidnotwishtohavethem in the neighbourhood, intruding into my relatively safe

world, in which it was, for instance, possible to read stories inpeaceofmind,freefromfear.1Buttheworldthatcontainedeventhe imagination of Fáfnir was richer and more beautiful, atwhatevercostofperil.Thedweller in thequiet and fertileplainsmayhearof thetormentedhillsandtheunharvestedseaandlongfortheminhisheart.Fortheheartishardthoughthebodybesoft.

All the same, important as I now perceive the fairystoryelement in early reading to have been, speaking for myself as achild, I can only say that a liking for fairystories was not adominantcharacteristicofearlytaste.Arealtasteforthemawokeafter ‘nursery’ days, and after the years, few but long-seeming,between learning to read and going to school. In that (I nearlywrote‘happy’or‘golden’,itwasreallyasadandtroublous)timeIliked many other things as well, or better: such as history,astronomy,botany,grammar,andetymology.IagreedwithLang’sgeneralised ‘children’ not at all in principle, and only in somepoints by accident: Iwas, for instance, insensitive to poetry, and

skipped it if it came in tales.Poetry I discovered much later inLatin and Greek, and especially through being made to try andtranslateEnglishverse intoclassicalverse.Areal taste for fairy-stories was wakened by philology on the threshold of manhood,andquickenedtofulllifebywar.

Ihavesaid,perhaps,morethanenoughonthispoint.Atleastit will be plain that in my opinion fairy-stories should not bespeciallyassociatedwithchildren.Theyareassociatedwiththem:naturally, because children are human and fairy-stories are anatural human taste (though not necessarily a universal one);accidentally, because fairy-stories are a large part of the literarylumber that in latter-dayEurope has been stuffed away in attics;unnaturally, because of erroneous sentiment about children, asentimentthatseemstoincreasewiththedeclineinchildren.

It is true that the age of childhood-sentiment has producedsomedelightfulbooks(especiallycharming,however,toadults)ofthe fairy kind or near to it; but it has also produced a dreadful

undergrowth of stories written or adapted to what was or isconceived to be themeasure of children’sminds and needs. Theoldstoriesaremollifiedorbowdlerised,insteadofbeingreserved;theimitationsareoftenmerelysilly,Pigwiggenrywithouteventheintrigue; or patronizing; or (deadliest of all) covertly sniggering,with an eye on the other grownups present. I will not accuseAndrewLangofsniggering,butcertainlyhesmiledtohimself,andcertainly too often he had an eye on the faces of other cleverpeople over theheads of his child-audience—to the very gravedetrimentoftheChroniclesofPantouflia.

Dasentrepliedwithvigourandjusticetotheprudishcriticsofhis translations from Norse popular tales.Yet he committed theastonishingfollyofparticularlyforbiddingchildrentoreadthelasttwoinhiscollection.Thatamancouldstudyfairy-storiesandnotlearn better than that seems almost incredible. But neithercriticism, rejoinder,norprohibitionwouldhavebeennecessary ifchildren had not unnecessarily been regarded as the inevitable

readersofthebook.I do not deny that there is a truth inAndrew Lang’s words

(sentimental though theymay sound): ‘Hewhowould enter intotheKingdomofFaërieshouldhavetheheartofalittlechild.’Forthat possession is necessary to all high adventure, into kingdomsbothlessandfargreaterthanFaërie.Buthumilityandinnocence—thesethings‘theheartofachild’mustmeaninsuchacontext—donot necessarily imply an uncritical wonder, nor indeed anuncritical tenderness.Chesterton once remarked that the childrenin whose company he saw Maeterlinck’sBlue Bird weredissatisfied‘becauseitdidnotendwithaDayofJudgement,anditwasnotrevealedtotheheroandtheheroinethattheDoghadbeenfaithfulandtheCatfaithless’.‘Forchildren’,hesays,‘areinnocentandlovejustice;whilemostofusarewickedandnaturallyprefermercy.’

AndrewLangwasconfusedonthispoint.Hewasatpains todefendtheslayingoftheYellowDwarfbyPrinceRicardoinoneof

hisown fairy-stories. ‘I hate cruelty’, he said, ‘…but thatwas infairfight,swordinhand,andthedwarf,peacetohisashes!diedinharness.’Yetitisnotclearthat‘fairfight’islesscruelthan‘fairjudgement’;orthatpiercingadwarfwithaswordismorejustthantheexecutionofwickedkingsandevil stepmothers—whichLangabjures: he sends the criminals (as he boasts) to retirement onamplepensions.Thatismercyuntemperedbyjustice.Itistruethatthis plea was not addressed to children but to parents andguardians, to whom Lang was recommending his ownPrincePrigio andPrince Ricardo as suitable for their charges.1 It isparents and guardians who have classified fairy-stories asJuvenilia.Andthisisasmallsampleofthefalsificationofvaluesthatresults.

Ifweusechildinagoodsense(ithasalsolegitimatelyabadone)wemustnotallow that topushus into thesentimentalityofonly usingadult orgrown-up in a bad sense (it has alsolegitimately a good one). The process of growing older is not

necessarily allied to growing wickeder, though the two do oftenhappentogether.Childrenaremeanttogrowup,andnottobecomePeterPans.Not to lose innocence andwonder, but to proceedontheappointed journey: that journeyuponwhich it iscertainlynotbetter to travel hopefully than to arrive, though we must travelhopefullyifwearetoarrive.Butit isoneof thelessonsoffairy-stories(ifwecanspeakofthelessonsofthingsthatdonotlecture)that on callow, lumpish, and selfish youth peril, sorrow, and theshadowofdeathcanbestowdignity,andevensometimeswisdom.

Let us not divide the human race into Eloi and Morlocks:prettychildren—‘elves’astheeighteenthcenturyoftenidioticallycalled them—with their fairytales (carefully pruned), and darkMorlockstendingtheirmachines.Iffairy-storyasakindisworthreadingatallitisworthytobewrittenforandreadbyadults.Theywill, of course, putmore in and getmore out than children can.Then, as a branch of a genuine art, children may hope to getfairystories fit for them to read and yetwithin theirmeasure; as

theymayhopetogetsuitableintroductionstopoetry,history,andthesciences.Thoughitmaybebetterforthemtoreadsomethings,especially fairy-stories, that arebeyond theirmeasure rather thanshortofit.Theirbooksliketheirclothesshouldallowforgrowth,andtheirbooksatanyrateshouldencourageit.

Verywell,then.Ifadultsaretoreadfairy-storiesasanaturalbranch of literature—neither playing at being children, norpretendingtobechoosingforchildren,norbeingboyswhowouldnotgrowup—whatarethevaluesandfunctionsofthiskind?Thatis, I think, the last and most important question. I have alreadyhintedatsomeofmyanswers.Firstofall:ifwrittenwithart,theprime value of fairy-stories will simply be that value which, asliterature, they share with other literary forms. But fairy-storiesofferalso, in a peculiar degree or mode, these things: Fantasy,Recovery,Escape,Consolation,all thingsofwhichchildrenhave,asarule,lessneedthanolderpeople.Mostofthemarenowadaysverycommonlyconsideredtobebadforanybody.Iwillconsider

thembriefly,andwillbeginwithFantasy.

1In the case of stories and other nursery lore, there is also another factor.Wealthierfamiliesemployedwomentolookaftertheirchildren,andthestorieswereprovidedbythesenurses,whoweresometimesintouchwithrusticandtraditionalloreforgottenbytheir ‘betters’. It is longsince thissourcedriedup,atanyrate inEngland;but itoncehadsome importance.Butagain there isnoproofof thespecial fitnessofchildrenastherecipientsofthisvanishing‘folk-lore’.Thenursesmightjustaswell(orbetter)havebeenlefttochoosethepicturesandfurniture.

1SeeNoteCatend(p.392).

1ByLangandhishelpers.Itisnottrueofthemajorityofthecontentsintheiroriginal(oroldestsurviving)forms.

1Farmore often they have askedme: ‘Was he good?Was hewicked?’That is, theywere more concerned to get the Right side and theWrong side clear. For that is aquestionequallyimportantinHistoryandinFaërie.

1PrefacetotheVioletFairyBook.

1SeeNoteDatend(p.393).

1Thisis,naturally,oftenenoughwhatchildrenmeanwhentheyask:‘Isittrue?’Theymean:‘Ilikethis,butisitcontemporary?AmIsafeinmybed?’Theanswer:‘ThereiscertainlynodragoninEnglandtoday’,isallthattheywanttohear.

1PrefacetotheLilacFairyBook.

FANTASY

Thehumanmindiscapableofformingmentalimagesofthingsnotactuallypresent.Thefacultyofconceivingtheimagesis(orwas)naturallycalledImagination.But inrecent times, in technicalnotnormallanguage,Imaginationhasoftenbeenheldtobesomethinghigher thanthemere image-making,ascribedto theoperationsofFancy (a reduced and depreciatory form of the older wordFantasy); an attempt is thus made to restrict, I should saymisapply, Imagination to ‘the power of giving to ideal creationstheinnerconsistencyofreality’.

Ridiculousthoughitmaybeforonesoill-instructedtohavean opinion on this critical matter, I venture to think the verbaldistinction philologically inappropriate, and the analysisinaccurate. The mental power of image-making is one thing, or

aspect; and it should appropriately be called Imagination. Theperception of the image, the grasp of its implications, and thecontrol,whicharenecessarytoasuccessfulexpression,mayvaryin vividness and strength: but this is a difference of degree inImagination, not a difference in kind. The achievement of theexpression, whichgives (or seems togive) ‘the innerconsistencyof reality’,1 is indeed another thing, or aspect, needing anothername:Art, the operative link between Imagination and the finalresult, Sub-creation. For my present purpose I require a wordwhich shall embrace both the Sub-creative Art in itself and aqualityofstrangenessandwonderintheExpression,derivedfromtheImage:aqualityessentialtofairy-story.Ipropose,therefore,toarrogate to myself the powers of Humpty-Dumpty, and to useFantasyfor thispurpose: inasense, that is,whichcombineswithitsolderandhigheruseasanequivalentofImaginationthederivednotionsof‘unreality’(thatis,ofunlikenesstothePrimaryWorld),offreedomfromthedominationofobserved‘fact’,inshortofthe

fantastic. I am thus not only aware but glad of the etymologicalandsemanticconnectionsoffantasywithfantastic:withimagesofthingsthatarenotonly‘notactuallypresent’,butwhichareindeednot to be found in our primary world at all, or are generallybelievednot tobefound there.Butwhileadmitting that, Idonotassenttothedepreciativetone.Thattheimagesareofthingsnotintheprimaryworld(ifthatindeedispossible)isavirtuenotavice.Fantasy(inthissense)is,Ithink,notalowerbutahigherformofArt,indeedthemostnearlypureform,andso(whenachieved)themostpotent.

Fantasy, of course, starts out with an advantage: arrestingstrangeness.Butthatadvantagehasbeenturnedagainstit,andhascontributedto itsdisrepute.Manypeopledislikebeing‘arrested’.TheydislikeanymeddlingwiththePrimaryWorld,orsuchsmallglimpsesofitasarefamiliartothem.They,therefore,stupidlyandevenmaliciouslyconfoundFantasywithDreaming,inwhichthereisnoArt;1 andwithmental disorders, inwhich there is not even

control:withdelusionandhallucination.But the error or malice, engendered by disquiet and

consequentdislike,isnottheonlycauseofthisconfusion.Fantasyhas also an essential drawback: it is difficult to achieve. Fantasymaybe,asIthink,notlessbutmoresub-creative;butatanyrateitisfoundinpracticethat‘theinnerconsistencyofreality’ismoredifficult to produce, the more unlike are the images and therearrangementsofprimarymaterial to theactualarrangementsofthe PrimaryWorld. It is easier to produce this kind of ‘reality’with more ‘sober’ material. Fantasy thus, too often, remainsundeveloped; it is and has been used frivolously, or only half-seriously, ormerely for decoration: it remainsmerely ‘fanciful’.Anyoneinheritingthefantasticdeviceofhumanlanguagecansaythegreensun.Manycanthenimagineorpictureit.Butthatisnotenough—thoughitmayalreadybeamorepotentthingthanmanya‘thumbnail sketch’ or ‘transcript of life’ that receives literarypraise.

TomakeaSecondaryWorld insidewhich thegreensunwillbecredible, commandingSecondaryBelief,willprobably requirelabour and thought, and will certainly demand a special skill, akind of elvish craft. Few attempt such difficult tasks. But whentheyareattemptedandinanydegreeaccomplishedthenwehavearareachievementofArt: indeednarrativeart, story-making in itsprimaryandmostpotentmode.

In human art Fantasy is a thing best left to words, to trueliterature. Inpainting,for instance, thevisiblepresentationof thefantasticimageistechnicallytooeasy;thehandtendstooutrunthemind, even to overthrow it.1 Silliness or morbidity are frequentresults.ItisamisfortunethatDrama,anartfundamentallydistinctfromLiterature,shouldsocommonlybeconsideredtogetherwithit, or as abranchof it.Among thesemisfortuneswemay reckonthedepreciationofFantasy.Forinpartatleastthisdepreciationisduetothenaturaldesireofcriticstocryuptheformsofliteratureor ‘imagination’ that they themselves, innately or by training,

prefer. And criticism in a country that has produced so great aDrama,andpossessestheworksofWilliamShakespeare,tendstobe far too dramatic. But Drama is naturally hostile to Fantasy.Fantasy,evenofthesimplestkind,hardlyeversucceedsinDrama,when that is presented as it shouldbe, visibly and audibly acted.Fantastic forms are not to be counterfeited.Men dressed up astalking animalsmay achievebuffoonery ormimicry, but theydonotachieveFantasy.Thisis,Ithink,wellillustratedbythefailureof the bastard form, pantomime. The nearer it is to ‘dramatisedfairy-story’theworseitis.Itisonlytolerablewhentheplotanditsfantasyarereducedtoamerevestigiaryframeworkforfarce,andno‘belief’ofanykindinanypartoftheperformanceisrequiredorexpectedofanybody.Thisis,ofcourse,partlyduetothefactthattheproducersofdramahaveto,ortryto,workwithmechanismtorepresent either Fantasy or Magic. I once saw a so-called‘children’s pantomime’, the straight story ofPuss-in-Boots, witheven themetamorphosis of the ogre into amouse.Had this been

mechanically successful it would either have terrified thespectatorsorelsehavebeenjustaturnofhigh-classconjuring.Asitwas,thoughdonewithsomeingenuityoflighting,disbeliefhadnotsomuchtobesuspendedashung,drawn,andquartered.

InMacbeth,whenitisread,Ifindthewitchestolerable:theyhave a narrative function and some hint of dark significance;though they are vulgarised, poor things of their kind. They arealmostintolerableintheplay.Theywouldbequiteintolerable,ifIwerenotfortifiedbysomememoryofthemastheyareinthestoryasread.IamtoldthatIshouldfeeldifferentlyifIhadthemindoftheperiod,withitswitch-huntsandwitch-trials.Butthatistosay:ifIregardedthewitchesaspossible,indeedlikely,inthePrimaryWorld; in other words, if they ceased to be‘Fantasy’. Thatargumentconcedesthepoint.Tobedissolved,ortobedegraded,isthelikelyfateofFantasywhenadramatisttriestouseit,evensucha dramatist as Shakespeare.Macbeth is indeed a work by aplaywrightwhoought,at leaston thisoccasion, tohavewrittena

story,ifhehadtheskillorpatienceforthatart.A reason, more important, I think, than the inadequacy of

stage-effects, is this: Drama has, of its very nature, alreadyattemptedakindofbogus,orshallIsayatleastsubstitute,magic:thevisibleandaudiblepresentationof imaginarymen ina story.Thatisinitselfanattempttocounterfeitthemagician’swand.Tointroduce, evenwithmechanical success, into this quasi-magicalsecondary world a further fantasy or magic is to demand, as itwere,an inneror tertiaryworld. It isaworld toomuch.Tomakesuchathingmaynotbeimpossible.Ihaveneverseenitdonewithsuccess.But at least it cannot be claimed as the propermode ofDrama,inwhichwalkingandtalkingpeoplehavebeenfoundtobethenaturalinstrumentsofArtandillusion.1

For this precise reason—that the characters, and even thescenes,areinDramanotimaginedbutactuallybeheld—Dramais,even though itusesa similarmaterial (words,verse,plot), anartfundamentally different from narrative art. Thus, if you prefer

Drama toLiterature (asmany literarycriticsplainlydo),or formyourcriticaltheoriesprimarilyfromdramaticcritics,orevenfromDrama, youare apt to misunderstand pure story-making, and toconstrainittothelimitationsofstage-plays.Youare,forinstance,likely to prefer characters, even the basest and dullest, to things.Verylittleabouttreesastreescanbegotintoaplay.

Now ‘Faërian Drama’—those plays which according toabundant records the elves have often presented to men—canproduce Fantasy with a realism and immediacy beyond thecompassof anyhumanmechanism.As a result their usual effect(uponaman)istogobeyondSecondaryBelief.IfyouarepresentataFaëriandramayouyourselfare,or think thatyouare,bodilyinsideitsSecondaryWorld.TheexperiencemaybeverysimilartoDreaming and has (it would seem) sometimes (by men) beenconfoundedwithit.But inFaëriandramayouare inadreamthatsomeothermind isweaving,and theknowledgeof thatalarmingfactmayslipfromyourgrasp.ToexperiencedirectlyaSecondary

World:thepotionistoostrong,andyougivetoitPrimaryBelief,howevermarvelloustheevents.Youaredeluded—whetherthat isthe intention of the elves (always or at any time) is anotherquestion.Theyatanyratearenotthemselvesdeluded.ThisisforthemaformofArt,anddistinctfromWizardryorMagic,properlysocalled.Theydonotliveinit,thoughtheycan,perhaps,affordtospendmoretimeatitthanhumanartistscan.ThePrimaryWorld,Reality, of elves and men is the same, if differently valued andperceived.

We need aword for this elvish craft, but all thewords thathavebeenappliedtoithavebeenblurredandconfusedwithotherthings.Magicisreadytohand,andIhaveuseditabove(p.323),but I should not have done so:Magic should be reserved for theoperationsoftheMagician.Artisthehumanprocessthatproducesbytheway(itisnotitsonlyorultimateobject)SecondaryBelief.Artof thesamesort, ifmoreskilledandeffortless, theelvescanalsouse,orsothereportsseemtoshow;but themorepotentand

speciallyelvishcraftIwill,forlackofalessdebatableword,callEnchantment. Enchantment produces a Secondary World intowhichbothdesignerandspectatorcanenter,tothesatisfactionoftheirsenseswhile theyare inside;but in itspurity it isartistic indesire and purpose. Magic produces, or pretends to produce, analterationin thePrimaryWorld.Itdoesnotmatterbywhomit issaid to be practised, fay or mortal, it remains distinct from theothertwo;itisnotanartbutatechnique;itsdesireispowerinthisworld,dominationofthingsandwills.

Totheelvishcraft,Enchantment,Fantasyaspires,andwhenitissuccessfulofallformsofhumanartmostnearlyapproaches.Atthe heart of many man-made stories of the elves lies, open orconcealed, pure or alloyed, the desire for a living, realised sub-creativeart,which(howevermuchitmayoutwardlyresembleit)isinwardly wholly different from the greed for self-centred powerwhichisthemarkofthemereMagician.Ofthisdesiretheelves,intheirbetter(butstillperilous)part,arelargelymade;anditisfrom

themthatwemaylearnwhatisthecentraldesireandaspirationofhumanFantasy—eveniftheelvesare,allthemoreinsofarastheyare, only a product of Fantasy itself.That creative desire is onlycheatedbycounterfeits,whether the innocentbut clumsydevicesofthehumandramatist,orthemalevolentfraudsofthemagicians.In this world it is for men unsatisfiable, and so imperishable.Uncorrupted, it does not seek delusion, nor bewitchment anddomination; it seeks shared enrichment, partners in making anddelight,notslaves.

Tomany, Fantasy, this sub-creative art which plays strangetricks with the world and all that is in it, combining nouns andredistributing adjectives, has seemed suspect, if not illegitimate.To some it has seemed at least a childish folly, a thing only forpeoplesor forpersons in theiryouth.As for its legitimacy IwillsaynomorethantoquoteabriefpassagefromaletterIoncewrotetoamanwhodescribedmythandfairy-storyas‘lies’;thoughtodohimjusticehewaskindenoughandconfusedenoughtocallfairy-

storymaking‘BreathingaliethroughSilver’.

‘DearSir,’Isaid—‘Althoughnowlongestranged,Manisnotwhollylostnorwhollychanged.Dis-gracedhemaybe,yetisnotde-throned,andkeepstheragsoflordshiponceheowned:Man, Sub-creator, the refracted Light through whom issplintered from a singleWhite tomany hues, and endlesslycombined in living shapes that move from mind to mind.ThoughallthecranniesoftheworldwefilledwithElvesandGoblins, thoughwedaredtobuildGodsandtheirhousesoutofdarkand light,andsowed theseedofdragons—‘twasourright(usedormisused).Thatrighthasnotdecayed:wemakestillbythelawinwhichwe’remade.’

Fantasy is a natural human activity. It certainly does notdestroy or even insult Reason; and it does not either blunt theappetitefor,norobscuretheperceptionof,scientificverity.Onthecontrary. The keener and the clearer is the reason, the betterfantasywillitmake.Ifmenwereeverinastateinwhichtheydidnotwant toknowor couldnotperceive truth (factsor evidence),thenFantasywouldlanguishuntiltheywerecured.Iftheyevergetinto that state (itwouldnot seematall impossible),Fantasywillperish,andbecomeMorbidDelusion.

ForcreativeFantasyisfoundeduponthehardrecognitionthatthings are so in the world as it appears under the sun; on arecognition of fact, but not a slavery to it. So upon logic wasfoundedthenonsensethatdisplaysitselfinthetalesandrhymesofLewisCarroll. Ifmen really could not distinguish between frogsandmen,fairy-storiesaboutfrog-kingswouldnothavearisen.

Fantasycan,ofcourse,becarriedtoexcess.Itcanbeilldone.It can be put to evil uses. It may even delude the minds out of

whichitcame.Butofwhathumanthinginthisfallenworldisthatnot true? Men have conceived not only of elves, but they haveimaginedgods,andworshippedthem,evenworshippedthosemostdeformed by their authors’ own evil. But they have made falsegods out of other materials: their notions, their banners, theirmonies;eventheirsciencesandtheirsocialandeconomictheorieshave demanded human sacrifice.Abususnon tollit usum. Fantasyremains a human right: we make in our measure and in ourderivative mode, because we are made: and not only made, butmadeintheimageandlikenessofaMaker.

1Thatis:whichcommandsorinducesSecondaryBelief.

1This is not true of all dreams. In some Fantasy seems to take a part. But this isexceptional.Fantasyisarational,notanirrational,activity.

1SeeNoteEatend(p.394).

1SeeNoteFatend(p.396).

RECOVERY,ESCAPE,CONSOLATION

Asforoldage,whetherpersonalorbelongingtothetimesinwhichwe live, it may be true, as is often supposed, that this imposesdisabilities(cf.p.350).But it is in themainanideaproducedbythemerestudyoffairy-stories.Theanalyticstudyoffairy-storiesisasbadapreparationfor theenjoyingor thewritingof themaswouldbe thehistorical studyof thedramaofall landsand timesfortheenjoymentorwritingofstage-plays.Thestudymayindeedbecomedepressing. It is easy for the student to feel thatwith allhis labour he is collecting only a few leaves,manyof themnowtorn or decayed, from the countless foliage of theTree ofTales,withwhichtheForestofDaysiscarpeted.Itseemsvaintoaddtothe litter.Who can design a new leaf? The patterns from bud to

unfolding, and the colours from spring to autumn were alldiscoveredbymenlongago.But that isnot true.Theseedof thetree can be replanted in almost any soil, even in one sosmokeridden (as Lang said) as that of England. Spring is, ofcourse,notreallylessbeautifulbecausewehaveseenorheardofother like events: like events, never from world’s beginning toworld’sendthesameevent.Eachleaf,ofoakandashandthorn,isa unique embodiment of the pattern, and for some eye this veryyear may bethe embodiment, the first ever seen and recognised,thoughoakshaveputforthleavesforcountlessgenerationsofmen.

Wedonot,orneednot,despairofdrawingbecauseall linesmustbeeithercurvedorstraight,norofpaintingbecausethereareonly three‘primary’colours.Wemay indeedbeoldernow, insofarasweareheirsinenjoymentorinpracticeofmanygenerationsofancestorsinthearts.Inthisinheritanceofwealththeremaybeadangerofboredomorofanxietytobeoriginal,andthatmayleadtoadistasteforfinedrawing,delicatepattern,and‘pretty’colours,

orelsetomeremanipulationandover-elaborationofoldmaterial,clever and heartless. But the true road of escape from suchweariness is not tobe found in thewilfully awkward, clumsy, ormisshapen,notinmakingallthingsdarkorunremittinglyviolent;nor in themixingofcolourson throughsubtlety todrabness,andthefantasticalcomplicationofshapestothepointofsillinessandon towards delirium. Before we reach such states we needrecovery.Weshouldlookatgreenagain,andbestartledanew(butnot blinded) by blue and yellow and red. We should meet thecentaurandthedragon,andthenperhapssuddenlybehold,liketheancientshepherds,sheep,anddogs,andhorses—andwolves.Thisrecoveryfairy-storieshelpustomake.Inthatsenseonlyatasteforthemmaymakeus,orkeepus,childish.

Recovery (which includes return and renewal of health) is are-gaining—regainingofaclearview.Idonotsay‘seeing thingsas they are’ and involve myself with the philosophers, though Imightventure to say ‘seeing thingsasweare (orwere)meant to

see them’—asthingsapart fromourselves.Weneed, inanycase,tocleanourwindows;sothatthethingsseenclearlymaybefreedfrom the drab blur of triteness or familiarity—frompossessiveness. Of all faces those of ourfamiliares are the onesbothmostdifficulttoplayfantastictrickswith,andmostdifficultreally to see with fresh attention, perceiving their likeness andunlikeness:thattheyarefaces,andyetuniquefaces.Thistritenessisreallythepenaltyof‘appropriation’:thethingsthataretrite,or(inabadsense)familiar,arethethingsthatwehaveappropriated,legallyormentally.Wesayweknowthem.Theyhavebecomelikethethingswhichonceattractedusbytheirglitter,ortheircolour,ortheirshape,andwelaidhandsonthem,andthenlockedtheminourhoard,acquiredthem,andacquiringceasedtolookatthem.

Ofcourse,fairy-storiesarenottheonlymeansofrecovery,orprophylactic against loss. Humility is enough. And there is(especially for thehumble)Mooreeffoc,orChestertonianFantasy.Mooreeffoc isa fantasticword,but itcouldbeseenwrittenup in

every townin this land.It isCoffeeroom,viewedfromthe insidethroughaglassdoor,asitwasseenbyDickensonadarkLondonday; and it was used by Chesterton to denote the queerness ofthingsthathavebecometrite,whentheyareseensuddenlyfromanewangle.Thatkindof ‘fantasy’mostpeoplewouldallow tobewholesomeenough;anditcanneverlackformaterial.Butithas,Ithink, only a limited power; for the reason that recovery offreshness of vision is its only virtue. The wordMooreeffoc maycauseyousuddenlytorealisethatEnglandisanutterlyalienland,losteitherinsomeremotepastageglimpsedbyhistory,orinsomestrangedimfuturetobereachedonlybyatime-machine;toseetheamazing oddity and interest of its inhabitants and their customsand feedinghabits; but it cannot do more than that: act as atimetelescopefocusedononespot.Creativefantasy,because it ismainly trying to do something else (make something new),mayopenyourhoardand let all the locked things flyaway likecage-birds. The gems all turn into flowers or flames, and youwill be

warned that allyouhad (orknew)wasdangerousandpotent,notreallyeffectivelychained,freeandwild;nomoreyoursthantheywereyou.

The ‘fantastic’ elements in verse and prose of other kinds,evenwhenonlydecorativeoroccasional,helpinthisrelease.Butnot so thoroughly as a fairy-story, a thing built on or aboutFantasy,ofwhichFantasy is thecore.Fantasy ismadeoutof thePrimaryWorld,butagoodcraftsmanloveshismaterial,andhasaknowledgeandfeelingforclay,stoneandwoodwhichonlytheartof making can give. By the forging of Gram cold iron wasrevealed;by themakingofPegasushorseswere ennobled; in theTrees of the Sun andMoon root and stock, flower and fruit aremanifestedinglory.

And actually fairy-stories deal largely, or (the better ones)mainly,withsimpleorfundamentalthings,untouchedbyFantasy,but these simplicities are made all the more luminous by theirsetting.For thestory-makerwhoallowshimself tobe ‘freewith’

Naturecanbeherlovernotherslave.Itwasinfairy-storiesthatIfirst divined the potency of the words, and the wonder of thethings,suchasstone,andwood,andiron;treeandgrass;houseandfire;breadandwine.

Iwill nowconcludebyconsideringEscapeandConsolation,whicharenaturallycloselyconnected.Thoughfairy-storiesareofcoursebynomeanstheonlymediumofEscape,theyaretodayoneofthemostobviousand(tosome)outrageousformsof‘escapist’literature;andit is thusreasonabletoattachtoaconsiderationofthem some considerations of this term ‘escape’ in criticismgenerally.

I have claimed that Escape is one of the main functions offairy-stories,andsinceIdonotdisapproveofthem,itisplainthatIdonotacceptthetoneofscornorpitywithwhich‘Escape’isnowsooftenused:atoneforwhichtheusesofthewordoutsideliterarycriticismgivenowarrantatall.InwhatthemisusersofEscapearefond of calling Real Life, Escape is evidently as a rule very

practical, and may even be heroic. In real life it is difficult toblameit,unlessitfails;incriticismitwouldseemtobetheworsethebetteritsucceeds.Evidentlywearefacedbyamisuseofwords,andalsobyaconfusionofthought.Whyshouldamanbescorned,if,findinghimselfinprison,hetriestogetoutandgohome?Orif,whenhecannotdoso,hethinksandtalksaboutother topics thanjailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become lessrealbecausetheprisonercannotseeit.InusingEscapeinthiswaythecriticshavechosenthewrongword,and,whatismore,theyareconfusing,notalwaysbysincereerror, theEscapeofthePrisonerwith the Flight of the Deserter. Just so a Partyspokesmanmighthave labelled departure from the misery of the Führer’s or anyotherReichandevencriticismofitastreachery.Inthesamewaythese critics, to make confusion worse, and so to bring intocontempttheiropponents,sticktheirlabelofscornnotonlyontoDesertion, but on to real Escape, and what are often itscompanions,Disgust,Anger,Condemnation,andRevolt.Notonly

dotheyconfoundtheescapeof theprisonerwith theflightof thedeserter; but they would seem to prefer the acquiescence of the‘quisling’ to the resistance of the patriot. To such thinking youhave only to say ‘the land you loved is doomed’ to excuse anytreachery,indeedtoglorifyit.

Fora triflinginstance:not tomention(indeednot toparade)electric street-lamps of mass-produced pattern in your tale isEscape(inthatsense).But itmay,almostcertainlydoes,proceedfrom a considered disgust for so typical a product of the RobotAge, that combines elaboration and ingenuity of means withugliness,and(often)withinferiorityofresult.Theselampsmaybeexcludedfromthetalesimplybecausetheyarebadlamps;anditispossible thatoneof the lessons tobe learnt from the story is therealizationofthisfact.Butoutcomesthebigstick:‘Electriclampshavecometostay’,theysay.LongagoChestertontrulyremarkedthat,assoonasheheardthatanything‘hadcometostay’,heknewthat itwould be very soon replaced—indeed regarded as pitiably

obsoleteandshabby.‘ThemarchofScience, its tempoquickenedby the needs of war, goes inexorably on…making some thingsobsolete, and foreshadowing new developments in the utilizationof electricity’: an advertisement. This says the same thing onlymoremenacingly.Theelectricstreet-lampmayindeedbeignored,simplybecauseitissoinsignificantandtransient.Fairy-stories,atany rate, have manymore permanent and fundamental things totalk about. Lightning, for example. The escapist is not sosubservienttothewhimsofevanescentfashionastheseopponents.Hedoesnotmakethings(whichitmaybequiterationaltoregardasbad)hismastersorhisgodsbyworshippingthemasinevitable,even ‘inexorable’. And his opponents, so easily contemptuous,havenoguarantee thathewill stop there:hemight rousemen topull down the street-lamps. Escapism has another and evenwickederface:Reaction.

Notlongago—incrediblethoughitmayseem—Iheardaclerkof Oxenford declare that he ‘welcomed’ the proximity of mass-

production robot factories, and the roar of self-obstructivemechanical traffic, because it broughthisuniversity into ‘contactwith real life’.Hemayhavemeant that thewaymenwere livingandworkinginthetwentiethcenturywasincreasinginbarbarityatan alarming rate, and that the loud demonstration of this in thestreetsofOxfordmightserveasawarningthatitisnotpossibletopreserveforlonganoasisofsanityinadesertofunreasonbymerefences,withoutactualoffensiveaction(practicalandintellectual).I fear he did not. In any case the expression ‘real life’ in thiscontextseemstofallshortofacademicstandards.Thenotionthatmotor-cars are more ‘alive’ than, say, centaurs or dragons iscurious; that theyaremore ‘real’ than, say,horses ispatheticallyabsurd. How real, how startlingly alive is a factory chimneycompared with an elm tree: poor obsolete thing, insubstantialdreamofanescapist!

For my part, I cannot convince myself that the roof ofBletchleystationismore‘real’thantheclouds.Andasanartefact

I find it less inspiring than the legendary dome of heaven. Thebridgetoplatform4istomelessinterestingthanBifröstguardedbyHeimdallwiththeGjallarhorn.FromthewildnessofmyheartIcannotexcludethequestionwhetherrailway-engineers,iftheyhadbeenbroughtuponmorefantasy,mightnothavedonebetterwithall their abundant means than they commonly do. Fairystoriesmightbe,Iguess,betterMastersofArtsthantheacademicpersonIhavereferredto.

Much that he (Imust suppose) and others (certainly)wouldcall‘serious’literatureisnomorethanplayunderaglassroofbythe sideof amunicipal swimming-bath.Fairy-storiesmay inventmonstersthatflytheairordwell inthedeep,butat least theydonottrytoescapefromheavenorthesea.

Andifweleaveasideforamoment‘fantasy’,Idonotthinkthatthereaderorthemakeroffairy-storiesneedevenbeashamedof the‘escape’ofarchaism:ofpreferringnotdragonsbuthorses,castles,sailing-ships,bowsandarrows;notonlyelves,butknights

andkingsandpriests.Foritisafterallpossibleforarationalman,afterreflection(quiteunconnectedwithfairy-storyorromance),toarriveatthecondemnation,implicitatleastinthemeresilenceof‘escapist’ literature, of progressive things like factories, or themachine-gunsandbombsthatappear tobetheirmostnaturalandinevitable,darewesay‘inexorable’,products.

‘The rawness and ugliness of modern European life’—thatreal life whose contact we should welcome—‘is the sign of abiological inferiority, of an insufficient or false reaction toenvironment.’1Themaddestcastlethatevercameoutofagiant’sbaginawildGaelicstoryisnotonlymuchlessuglythanarobot-factory, it is also (to use a very modern phrase) ‘in a very realsense’agreatdealmorereal.Whyshouldwenotescapefromorcondemn the ‘grim Assyrian’ absurdity of top-hats, or theMorlockianhorrorof factories?Theyarecondemnedevenby thewriters of that most escapist form of all literature, stories ofScience fiction.These prophets often foretell (andmany seem to

yearn for) a world like one big glass-roofed railway-station. Butfrom them it is asa ruleveryhard togatherwhatmen in suchaworld-town willdo. They may abandon the ‘full Victorianpanoply’forloosegarments(withzip-fasteners),butwillusethisfreedommainly,itwouldappear,inordertoplaywithmechanicaltoys in thesoon-cloyinggameofmovingathighspeed.Tojudgeby someof these tales theywill still be as lustful, vengeful, andgreedyasever;andtheidealsoftheiridealistshardlyreachfartherthan thesplendidnotionofbuildingmore townsof thesamesorton other planets. It is indeed an age of ‘improved means todeterioratedends’.Itispartoftheessentialmaladyofsuchdays—producingthedesiretoescape,notindeedfromlife,butfromourpresenttimeandself-mademisery—thatweareacutelyconsciousbothof theuglinessofourworks,andof theirevil.So that tousevil andugliness seem indissolublyallied.We find itdifficult toconceiveofevilandbeautytogether.Thefearofthebeautifulfaythatranthroughtheelderagesalmosteludesourgrasp.Evenmore

alarming: goodness is itselfbereft of its proper beauty. InFaërieonecanindeedconceiveofanogrewhopossessesacastlehideousasanightmare(fortheeviloftheogrewillsitso),butonecannotconceiveofahousebuiltwithagoodpurpose—aninn,ahostelfortravellers, the hall of a virtuous and noble king—that is yetsickeninglyugly.Atthepresentdayitwouldberashtohopetoseeonethatwasnot—unlessitwasbuiltbeforeourtime.

This, however, is the modern and special (or accidental)‘escapist’aspectoffairy-stories,whichtheysharewithromances,andotherstoriesoutoforaboutthepast.Manystoriesoutofthepasthaveonlybecome‘escapist’intheirappealthroughsurvivingfroma timewhenmenwereasa ruledelightedwith theworkoftheirhands intoour timewhenmanymenfeeldisgustwithman-madethings.

But there are alsoother andmoreprofound ‘escapisms’ thathave always appeared in fairy-tale and legend. There are otherthingsmore grim and terrible to fly from than the noise, stench,

ruthlessness, and extravagance of the internalcombustion engine.There are hunger, thirst, poverty, pain, sorrow, injustice, death.Andevenwhenmenarenotfacinghardthingssuchasthese,thereare ancient limitations from which fairy-stories offer a sort ofescape,andoldambitionsanddesires (touching thevery rootsoffantasy)towhichtheyofferakindofsatisfactionandconsolation.Somearepardonableweaknessesorcuriosities:suchasthedesiretovisit,freeasafish,thedeepsea;orthelongingforthenoiseless,gracious, economical flight of a bird, that longing whichtheaeroplanecheats, except in raremoments, seenhighandbywindanddistancenoiseless, turning in the sun: that is,preciselywhenimaginedandnotused.There areprofounderwishes: suchas thedesire to converse with other living things. On this desire, asancient as the Fall, is largely founded the talking of beasts andcreatures in fairy-tales, and especially themagical understandingof their proper speech. This is the root, and not the ‘confusion’attributed to themindsofmenof theunrecordedpast,analleged

‘absenceof the senseof separationofourselves frombeasts’.1Avividsenseofthatseparationisveryancient;butalsoasensethatit was a severance: a strange fate and a guilt lies on us. Othercreatures are like other realms with which Man has broken offrelations,andseesnowonlyfromtheoutsideatadistance,beingatwarwiththem,oronthetermsofanuneasyarmistice.Thereareafewmenwhoareprivilegedtotravelabroadalittle;othersmustbecontentwithtravellers’tales.Evenaboutfrogs.Inspeakingofthatrather oddbutwidespread fairy-storyTheFrog-KingMaxMüllerasked in his prim way: ‘How came such a story ever to beinvented? Human beings were, we may hope, at all timessufficiently enlightened to know that a marriage between a frogandthedaughterofaqueenwasabsurd.’Indeedwemayhopeso!Forifnot,therewouldbenopointinthisstoryatall,dependingasitdoesessentiallyonthesenseof theabsurdity.Folk-loreorigins(or guesses about them) are here quitebeside the point. It is oflittleavail toconsider totemism.Forcertainly,whatevercustoms

or beliefs about frogs and wells lie behind this story, the frog-shapewasandispreservedinthefairy-story1preciselybecauseitwassoqueerandthemarriageabsurd,indeedabominable.Though,of course, in the versions which concern us, Gaelic, German,English,2thereisinfactnoweddingbetweenaprincessandafrog:the frogwas an enchantedprince.And thepoint of the story liesnot in thinking frogs possible mates, but in the necessity ofkeepingpromises(eventhosewithintolerableconsequences)that,together with observing prohibitions, runs through all Fairyland.ThisisoneofthenotesofthehornsofElfland,andnotadimnote.

And lastly there is the oldest and deepest desire, the GreatEscape: the Escape from Death. Fairy-stories provide manyexamples andmodes of this—whichmight be called the genuineescapist, or (I would say)fugitive spirit. But so do other stories(notably those of scientific inspiration), and so do other studies.Fairy-storiesaremadebymennotbyfairies.TheHuman-storiesoftheelvesaredoubtlessfulloftheEscapefromDeathlessness.But

our stories cannot be expected always to rise aboveour commonlevel.Theyoftendo.Fewlessonsaretaughtmoreclearlyinthemthantheburdenofthatkindofimmortality,orratherendlessserialliving, to which the‘fugitive’ would fly. For the fairy-story isspeciallyapt to teachsuch things,ofoldandstill today.Death isthethemethatmostinspiredGeorgeMacDonald.

Butthe‘consolation’offairy-taleshasanotheraspectthantheimaginativesatisfactionofancientdesires.Farmore important istheConsolationof theHappyEnding.Almost Iwouldventure toassertthatallcompletefairystoriesmusthaveit.AtleastIwouldsay thatTragedy is the true formofDrama, its highest function;but theopposite is trueofFairy-story.Sincewedonotappear topossess a word that expresses this opposite—I will call itEucatastrophe. Theeucatastrophic tale is the true form of fairy-tale,anditshighestfunction.

Theconsolationoffairy-stories,thejoyofthehappyending:ormorecorrectlyofthegoodcatastrophe,thesuddenjoyous‘turn’

(forthereisnotrueendtoanyfairytale):1thisjoy,whichisoneofthe things which fairystories can produce supremely well, is notessentially ‘escapist’, nor ‘fugitive’. In its fairy-tale—orotherworld—setting,itisasuddenandmiraculousgrace:nevertobe counted on to recur. It does not deny the existence ofdyscatastrophe, of sorrow and failure: the possibility of these isnecessarytothejoyofdeliverance;itdenies(inthefaceofmuchevidence, if you will) universal final defeat and in so far isevangelium,givingafleetingglimpseofJoy,Joybeyondthewallsoftheworld,poignantasgrief.

It is the mark of a good fairy-story, of the higher or morecompletekind, thathoweverwild itsevents,however fantasticorterrible the adventures, it can give to child orman that hears it,whenthe‘turn’comes,acatchofthebreath,abeatandliftingoftheheart,nearto(orindeedaccompaniedby)tears,askeenasthatgivenbyanyformofliteraryart,andhavingapeculiarquality.

Evenmodernfairy-storiescanproducethiseffectsometimes.

Itisnotaneasythingtodo;itdependsonthewholestorywhichisthesettingoftheturn,andyetitreflectsaglorybackwards.Atalethat in anymeasure succeeds in this point has notwholly failed,whateverflawsitmaypossess,andwhatevermixtureorconfusionof purpose. It happens even in Andrew Lang’s own fairy-story,PrincePrigio,unsatisfactoryinmanywaysasthatis.When‘eachknight came alive and lifted his sword and shouted “long livePrincePrigio”’, thejoyhasa littleof thatstrangemythicalfairy-storyquality,greaterthantheeventdescribed.Itwouldhavenonein Lang’s tale, if the event described were not a piece of moreseriousfairy-story‘fantasy’thanthemainbulkofthestory,whichisingeneralmorefrivolous,havingthehalf-mockingsmileofthecourtly, sophisticatedConte.1 Far more powerful andpoignant isthe effect in a serious tale of Faërie.1 In such stories when thesudden‘turn’comeswegetapiercingglimpseofjoy,andheart’sdesire, that for amoment passes outside the frame, rends indeedtheverywebofstory,andletsagleamcomethrough.

SevenlongyearsIservedforthee,TheglassyhillIclambforthee,ThebluidyshirtIwrangforthee,Andwiltthounotwaukenandturntome?

Heheardandturnedtoher.2

1Christopher Dawson,Progress and Religion, pp. 58, 59. Later he adds: ‘The fullVictorianpanoplyoftop-hatandfrock-coatundoubtedlyexpressedsomethingessentialin thenineteenthcenturyculture,andhence ithaswith thatculturespreadallover theworld, as no fashion of clothing has ever done before. It is possible that ourdescendants will recognise in it a kind of grimAssyrian beauty, fit emblem of theruthlessandgreatagethatcreatedit;buthoweverthatmaybe,itmissesthedirectandinevitablebeautythatallclothingshouldhave,becauselikeitsparentcultureitwasoutoftouchwiththelifeofnatureandofhumannatureaswell.’

1SeeNoteGatend(p.397).

1Orgroupofsimilarstories.

2TheQueenwhosoughtdrinkfromacertainWellandtheLorgann(Campbell,xxiii);DerFroschkönig;TheMaidandtheFrog

1SeeNoteHatend(p.398).

1This is characteristic of Lang’s wavering balance. On the surface the story is afollower of the ‘courtly’ Frenchconte with a satirical twist, and ofThackeray’sRoseandtheRing inparticular—akindwhichbeing superficial, even frivolous,bynature,does not produce or aim at producing anything so profound; but underneath lies thedeeperspiritoftheromanticLang.

1OfthekindwhichLangcalled‘traditional’,andreallypreferred.

2TheBlackBullofNorroway.

EPILOGUEThis‘joy’whichIhaveselectedasthemarkofthetruefairy-story(orromance),orasthesealuponit,meritsmoreconsideration.

Probably everywritermaking a secondaryworld, a fantasy,everysub-creator,wishes insomemeasure tobea realmaker,orhopesthatheisdrawingonreality:hopesthatthepeculiarqualityof this secondaryworld (if not all the details)3 are derived fromReality,orareflowingintoit.Ifheindeedachievesaqualitythatcan fairly be described by the dictionary definition: ‘innerconsistencyofreality’,itisdifficulttoconceivehowthiscanbe,ifthe work does not in some way partake of reality. The peculiarqualityofthe‘joy’insuccessfulFantasycanthusbeexplainedasasuddenglimpseof theunderlying realityor truth. It isnotonlya‘consolation’forthesorrowofthisworld,butasatisfaction,andananswer to that question, ‘Is it true?’ The answer to this question

thatIgaveatfirstwas(quiterightly):‘Ifyouhavebuiltyourlittleworldwell, yes: it is true in that world.’ That is enough for theartist(ortheartistpartoftheartist).Butinthe‘eucatastrophe’wesee inabriefvision that theanswermaybegreater—itmaybeafar-offgleamorechoofevangelium in therealworld.Theuseofthiswordgivesahintofmyepilogue.Itisaseriousanddangerousmatter.Itispresumptuousofmetotouchuponsuchatheme;butifbygracewhatIsayhasinanyrespectanyvalidity,itis,ofcourse,onlyonefacetofatruthincalculablyrich:finiteonlybecausethecapacityofManforwhomthiswasdoneisfinite.

I would venture to say that approaching the Christian Storyfromthisdirection,ithaslongbeenmyfeeling(ajoyousfeeling)that God redeemed the corrupt making creatures, men, in a wayfitting to this aspect, as to others, of their strange nature. TheGospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind whichembraces all the essence of fairy-stories. They contain manymarvels—peculiarlyartistic,1beautiful,andmoving:‘mythical’in

theirperfect,self-containedsignificance;andamongthemarvelsisthegreatestandmostcompleteconceivableeucatastrophe.Butthisstory has entered History and the primary world; the desire andaspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment ofCreation.TheBirthofChrististheeucatastropheofMan’shistory.The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of theIncarnation.Thisstorybeginsandendsinjoy.Ithaspre-eminentlythe ‘inner consistency of reality’. There is no tale ever told thatmenwouldratherfindwastrue,andnonewhichsomanyscepticalmenhaveacceptedastrueonitsownmerits.FortheArtofithasthesupremelyconvincingtoneofPrimaryArt,thatis,ofCreation.Torejectitleadseithertosadnessortowrath.

It isnotdifficult to imagine thepeculiarexcitementand joythat one would feel, if any specially beautiful fairystory werefound to be ‘primarily’ true, its narrative to be history, withouttherebynecessarilylosingthemythicalorallegoricalsignificancethatithadpossessed.Itisnotdifficult,foroneisnotcalledupon

totryandconceiveanythingofaqualityunknown.Thejoywouldhave exactly the samequality, if not the samedegree, as the joywhichthe‘turn’inafairy-storygives:suchjoyhastheverytasteofprimary truth. (Otherwise itsnamewouldnotbe joy.) It looksforward(orbackward:thedirectioninthisregardisunimportant)totheGreatEucatastrophe.TheChristianjoy,theGloria,isofthesamekind;butitispre-eminently(infinitely,ifourcapacitywerenotfinite)highandjoyous.Becausethisstoryissupreme;anditistrue.Arthasbeenverified.GodistheLord,ofangels,andofmen—andofelves.LegendandHistoryhavemetandfused.

But inGod’s kingdom the presence of the greatest does notdepressthesmall.RedeemedManisstillman.Story,fantasy,stillgo on, and should go on. The Evangelium has not abrogatedlegends; ithashallowedthem,especiallythe‘happyending’.TheChristian has still towork,withmind aswell as body, to suffer,hope, and die; but he may now perceive that all his bents andfaculties have apurpose,which canbe redeemed.Sogreat is the

bountywithwhichhehasbeentreated thathemaynow,perhaps,fairly dare to guess that in Fantasy hemay actually assist in theeffoliation and multiple enrichment of creation. All tales maycometrue;andyet,atthelast,redeemed,theymaybeaslikeandasunlike the forms thatwegive themasMan, finally redeemed,willbelikeandunlikethefallenthatweknow.

3Forallthedetailsmaynotbe‘true’:itisseldomthatthe‘inspiration’issostrongandlasting that it leavens all the lump, and does not leavemuch that ismere uninspired‘invention’.

1TheArtishereinthestoryitselfratherthaninthetelling;fortheAuthorofthestorywasnottheevangelists.

NOTESA(page327)The very root (not only the use) of their ‘marvels’ is satiric, amockery of unreason; and the ‘dream’ element is not a meremachinery of introduction and ending, but inherent in the actionandtransitions.Thesethingschildrencanperceiveandappreciate,if left to themselves. But to many, as it was to me,Alice ispresented as a fairy-story and while this misunderstanding lasts,thedistasteforthedream-machineryisfelt.ThereisnosuggestionofdreaminTheWindintheWillows. ‘TheMolehadbeenworkingveryhard all themorning, spring-cleaninghis little house.’So itbegins, and that correct tone is maintained. It is all the moreremarkablethatA.A.Milne,sogreatanadmirerofthisexcellentbook,shouldhaveprefacedtohisdramatisedversiona‘whimsical’opening inwhich a child is seen telephoningwith a daffodil.Or

perhaps it is not very remarkable, for a perceptive admirer (asdistinct from a great admirer) of the book would never haveattempted todramatise it.Naturallyonly the simpler ingredients,thepantomime,andthesatiricbeast-fableelements,arecapableofpresentationinthisform.Theplayis,onthelowerlevelofdrama,tolerably good fun, especially for those who have not read thebook; but some children that I took to seeToad of Toad Hall,broughtawayastheirchiefmemorynauseaattheopening.Fortheresttheypreferredtheirrecollectionsofthebook.

B(page346)Of course, these details, as a rule, got into the tales,even in thedays when they were real practices, because they had a story-makingvalue.IfIweretowriteastoryinwhichithappenedthataman was hanged, thatmight show in later ages, if the storysurvived—initselfasignthatthestorypossessedsomepermanent,

andmore than localor temporary,value—that itwaswrittenataperiodwhenmenwere really hanged, as a legal practice.Might:the inferencewouldnot,ofcourse, in that future timebecertain.Forcertaintyonthatpointthefutureinquirerwouldhavetoknowdefinitelywhen hangingwas practised andwhen I lived. I couldhave borrowed the incident from other times and places, fromother stories; I could simply have invented it. But even if thisinference happened to be correct, the hanging-scene would onlyoccurinthestory,(a)becauseIwasawareofthedramatic,tragic,ormacabreforceofthisincidentinmytale,and(b)becausethosewhohandeditdownfeltthisforceenoughtomakethemkeeptheincidentin.Distanceoftime,sheerantiquityandalienness,mightlater sharpen the edge of the tragedy or the horror; but the edgemustbethereevenfortheelvishhoneofantiquitytowhetit.Theleast useful question, therefore, for literary critics at any rate, toask or to answer about Iphigeneia, daughter ofAgamemnon, is:Does the legendofhersacrificeatAuliscomedownfroma time

whenhuman-sacrificewascommonlypractised?I say only ‘as a rule’, because it is conceivable thatwhat is

nowregardedasa‘story’wasoncesomethingdifferent in intent:e.g. a record of fact or ritual. I mean ‘record’ strictly. A storyinventedtoexplainaritual(aprocessthatissometimessupposedto have frequently occurred) remains primarily a story. It takesformassuch,andwillsurvive(longaftertheritualevidently)onlybecause of its story-values. In some cases details that now arenotablemerely because they are strangemay have once been soeveryday and unregarded that theywere slipped in casually: likementioningthataman‘raisedhishat’,or‘caughtatrain’.Butsuchcasualdetailswillnotlongsurvivechangeineverydayhabits.Notinaperiodoforaltransmission.Inaperiodofwriting(andofrapidchangesinhabits)astorymayremainunchangedlongenoughforeven its casual details to acquire the value of quaintness orqueerness.MuchofDickensnowhasthisair.Onecanopentodayan edition of a novel of his thatwas bought and first readwhen

things were so in everyday life as they are in the story, thoughthese everyday details are now already as remote from our dailyhabits as the Elizabethan period. But that is a special modernsituation.Theanthropologistsandfolk-loristsdonot imagineanyconditionsofthatkind.Butiftheyaredealingwithunletteredoraltransmission,thentheyshouldallthemorereflectthatinthatcasethey are dealing with items whose primary object wasstorybuilding, and whose primary reason for survival was thesame.TheFrog-King(seep.382)isnotaCredo,noramanualoftotem-law:itisaqueertalewithaplainmoral.

C(page349)Asfarasmyknowledgegoes,childrenwhohaveanearlybentforwritinghavenospecialinclinationtoattemptthewritingoffairy-stories, unless that has been almost the sole form of literaturepresentedtothem;andtheyfailmostmarkedlywhentheytry.Itis

not an easy form. If children have any special leaning it is toBeast-fable,whichadultsoftenconfusewithFairy-story.ThebeststoriesbychildrenthatIhaveseenhavebeeneither‘realistic’(inintent),orhavehadastheircharactersanimalsandbirds,whowerein themain thezoomorphichumanbeingsusual inBeast-fable. Iimagine that this form is so often adopted principally because itallowsa largemeasureofrealism: therepresentationofdomesticevents and talk that children really know. The form itself is,however,asarule,suggestedorimposedbyadults.Ithasacuriouspreponderance in the literature, good and bad, that is nowadayscommonlypresented to young children: I suppose it is felt to gowith ‘Natural History’, semi-scientific books about beasts andbirdsthatarealsoconsideredtobeproperpabulumfortheyoung.And it is reinforced by the bears and rabbits that seem in recenttimesalmosttohaveoustedhumandollsfromtheplayroomsevenof little girls. Childrenmake up sagas, often long and elaborate,about theirdolls. If theseare shaped likebears,bearswillbe the

charactersofthesagas;buttheywilltalklikepeople.

D(page355)I was introduced to zoology and palaeontology (‘for children’)quite as early as toFaërie. I sawpicturesof livingbeasts andoftrue (so I was told) prehistoric animals. I liked the ‘prehistoric’animals best: they had at least lived long ago, and hypothesis(based on somewhat slender evidence) cannot avoid a gleam offantasy. But I did not like being told that these creatures were‘dragons’.Icanstillre-feeltheirritationthatIfeltinchildhoodatassertions ofinstructive relatives (or their gift-books) such asthese: ‘snowflakes are fairy jewels’, or ‘are more beautiful thanfairyjewels’;‘themarvelsoftheoceandepthsaremorewonderfulthan fairyland’. Children expect the differences they feel butcannot analyse to be explained by their elders, or at leastrecognised,not tobe ignoredordenied. Iwaskeenlyalive to the

beautyof‘Real things’,but itseemedtomequibblingtoconfusethiswiththewonderof‘Otherthings’.IwaseagertostudyNature,actuallymoreeagerthanIwastoreadmostfairy-stories;butIdidnotwanttobequibbledintoScienceandcheatedoutofFaëriebypeoplewhoseemedtoassumethatbysomekindoforiginalsinIshould prefer fairytales, but according to some kind of newreligionIoughttobeinducedtolikescience.Natureisnodoubtalifestudy,orastudyforeternity(forthosesogifted);butthereisapart of man which is not ‘Nature’, and which therefore is notobligedtostudyit,andis,infact,whollyunsatisfiedbyit.

E(page364)Thereis,forexample,insurrealismcommonlypresentamorbidityor un-ease very rarely found in literary fantasy. The mind thatproducedthedepictedimagesmayoftenbesuspectedtohavebeeninfactalreadymorbid;yetthisisnotanecessaryexplanationinall

cases.Acuriousdisturbanceofthemindisoftensetupbytheveryact of drawing things of this kind, a state similar in quality andconsciousnessofmorbiditytothesensationsinahighfever,whenthe mind develops a distressing fecundity and facility in figure-making, seeing forms sinister or grotesque in all visible objectsaboutit.

I am speaking here, of course, of the primary expression ofFantasy in ‘pictorial’ arts, not of ‘illustrations’; nor of thecinematograph.Howevergoodinthemselves,illustrationsdolittlegood to fairy-stories. The radical distinction between all art(including drama) that offers avisible presentation and trueliteratureisthatitimposesonevisibleform.Literatureworksfrommind to mind and is thus more progenitive. It is at once moreuniversal andmorepoignantlyparticular. If it speaksofbread orwine orstone ortree, it appeals to thewhole of these things, totheir ideas; yet eachhearerwill give to themapeculiar personalembodiment in his imagination. Should the story say ‘he ate

bread’,thedramaticproducerorpaintercanonlyshow‘apieceofbread’according tohis tasteor fancy,but thehearerof the storywill think of bread in general and picture it in some formof hisown.Ifastorysays‘heclimbedahillandsawariverinthevalleybelow’,theillustratormaycatch,ornearlycatch,hisownvisionofsuch a scene; but every hearer of the words will have his ownpicture,anditwillbemadeoutofallthehillsandriversanddaleshe has ever seen, but specially out of The Hill, The River, TheValleywhichwereforhimthefirstembodimentoftheword.

F(page366)Iamreferring,ofcourse,primarilytofantasyofformsandvisibleshapes. Drama can be made out of the impact upon humancharacters of some event of Fantasy, or Faërie, that requires nomachinery,or thatcanbeassumedor reported tohavehappened.But that is not fantasy in dramatic result; the human characters

hold thestageanduponthemattention isconcentrated.Dramaofthis sort (exemplified by some of Barrie’s plays) can be usedfrivolously, or it can be used for satire, or for conveying such‘messages’ as the playwright may have in his mind—for men.Drama is anthropocentric. Fairy-story and Fantasy need not be.Thereare,forinstance,manystoriestellinghowmenandwomenhave disappeared and spent years among the fairies, withoutnoticingthepassageof time,orappearingtogrowolder.InMaryRose Barrie wrote a play on this theme. No fairy is seen. Thecruellytormentedhumanbeingsarethereall thetime.Inspiteofthe sentimental star and the angelic voices at the end (in theprinted version) it is a painful play, and can easily be madediabolic:bysubstituting(asIhaveseenitdone)theelvishcallfor‘angelvoices’at theend.Thenon-dramatic fairystories, insofarastheyareconcernedwiththehumanvictims,canalsobepatheticorhorrible.But theyneednotbe. Inmostof them the fairiesarealso there, on equal terms. In some stories they are the real

interest. Many of the short folk-lore accounts of such incidentspurport to be just pieces of ‘evidence’ about fairies, items in anagelongaccumulationof‘lore’concerningthemandthemodesoftheir existence. The sufferings of human beings who come intocontactwiththem(oftenenough,wilfully)arethusseeninquiteadifferentperspective.Adramacouldbemadeaboutthesufferingsofavictimofresearchinradiology,buthardlyaboutradiumitself.But it is possible to be primarily interested in radium (notradiologists)—or primarily interested in Faërie, not torturedmortals. One interest will produce a scientific book, the other afairy-story.Dramacannotwellcopewitheither.

G(page382)Theabsenceofthissenseisamerehypothesisconcerningmenofthelostpast,whateverwildconfusionsmenoftoday,degradedordeluded,maysuffer.Itisjustaslegitimateanhypothesis,andone

more in agreement with what little is recorded concerning thethoughts ofmen of old on this subject, that this sensewas oncestronger. That fantasies which blended the human form withanimalandvegetableforms,orgavehumanfacultiestobeasts,areancient is, of course, no evidence for confusion at all. It is, ifanything,evidencetothecontrary.Fantasydoesnotblurthesharpoutlines of the realworld; for it depends on them.As far as ourwestern,European,world is concerned, this ‘sense of separation’has in fact been attacked and weakened inmodern times not byfantasy but by scientific theory. Not by stories of centaurs orwerewolvesorenchantedbears,butbythehypotheses(ordogmaticguesses) of scientificwriters who classed Man not only as ‘ananimal’—that correct classification is ancient—but as ‘only ananimal’.Therehasbeenaconsequentdistortionofsentiment.Thenatural loveofmennotwhollycorruptforbeasts,and thehumandesireto‘getinsidetheskin’oflivingthings,hasrunriot.Wenowgetmenwholoveanimalsmorethanmen;whopitysheepsomuch

that they curse shepherds as wolves; who weep over a slainwarhorseandvilifydeadsoldiers.It isnow,notinthedayswhenfairy-storieswerebegotten,thatweget‘anabsenceofthesenseofseparation’.

H(page384)The verbal ending—usually held to be as typical of the end offairy-storiesas‘onceuponatime’isofthebeginning—‘andtheylivedhappilyeverafter’isanartificialdevice.Itdoesnotdeceiveanybody. End-phrases of this kind are to be compared to themarginsandframesofpictures,andarenomoretobethoughtofastherealendofanyparticularfragmentoftheseamlessWebofStorythantheframeisofthevisionaryscene,orthecasementoftheOuterWorld.Thesephrasesmaybeplainorelaborate,simpleor extravagant, as artificial and as necessary as frames plain, orcarved,orgilded.‘Andif theyhavenotgoneawaytheyare there

still.’ ‘Mystory isdone—seethere isa littlemouse;anyonewhocatchesitmaymakehimselfafinefurcapofit.’‘Andtheylivedhappilyeverafter.’‘Andwhentheweddingwasover,theysentmehomewithlittlepapershoesonacausewayofpiecesofglass.’

Endingsofthissortsuitfairy-stories,becausesuchtaleshaveagreatersenseandgraspoftheendlessnessoftheWorldofStorythanmostmodern ‘realistic’ stories, already hemmedwithin thenarrowconfinesoftheirownsmalltime.Asharpcutintheendlesstapestry isnotunfittinglymarkedbya formula,evenagrotesqueor comic one. It was an irresistible development of modernillustration (so largely photographic) that borders should beabandonedandthe‘picture’endonlywiththepaper.Thismethodmaybesuitableforphotographs;butitisaltogetherinappropriatefor thepictures that illustrateor are inspiredby fairy-stories.Anenchanted forest requires amargin, even an elaborate border. Toprintitconterminouswiththepage,likea‘shot’oftheRockiesinPicturePost,asifitwereindeeda‘snap’offairylandora‘sketch

byourartistonthespot’,isafollyandanabuse.As for the beginnings of fairy-stories: one can scarcely

improve on the formulaOnce upon atime. It has an immediateeffect.Thiseffectcanbeappreciatedbyreading,forinstance,thefairy-storyTheTerribleHead intheBlueFairyBook.ItisAndrewLang’sownadaptationof the storyofPerseusand theGorgon. Itbegins‘onceuponatime’,anditdoesnotnameanyyearorlandorperson.Nowthistreatmentdoessomethingwhichcouldbecalled‘turningmythologyintofairy-story’.Ishouldprefer tosaythat itturnshighfairy-story(forsuchistheGreektale)intoaparticularformthatisatpresentfamiliarinourland:anurseryor‘oldwives’form.Namelessnessisnotavirtuebutanaccident,andshouldnothavebeenimitated;forvaguenessinthisregardisadebasement,acorruption due to forgetfulness and lack of skill. But not so, Ithink,thetimelessness.Thatbeginningisnotpoverty-strickenbutsignificant. It produces at a stroke the senseof agreatunchartedworldoftime.

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AbouttheAuthorFAERIEisaperilousland,andinitarepitfallsfortheunwaryanddungeons for theoverbold…The realmof fairy-story iswide anddeep and high and filledwithmany things: allmanner of beastsand birds are found there; shoreless seas and stars uncounted;beautythatisanenchantment,andanever-presentperil;bothjoyandsorrowassharpasswords.Inthatrealmamanmay,perhaps,counthimselffortunatetohavewandered,butitsveryrichnessandstrangeness tie the tongue of a travellerwhowould report them.And while he is there it is dangerous for him to ask too manyquestions,lestthegatesshouldbeshutandthekeysbelost.

J.R.R.Tolkien1

1FromOnFairy-Stories,alecturegivenon8March1939.Thefull

1FromOnFairy-Stories,alecturegivenon8March1939.Thefulltextisreproducedattheendofthisbook.

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