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The Magic World
‘Supper’s ready,’ as any one would have expected, the bell was saying —
Ding dong dell!
I could tell
Where you ought to go
To break the spell.
Then some one left off ringing the bell, so of course it couldn’t say any more. So the two went on. A little way down the road a cow-bell tinkled behind the wet hedge of the lane. And it said – not, ‘Here I am, quite safe,’ as a cow-bell should, but —
Ding dong dell
All will be well
If you…
Then the cow stopped walking and began to eat, so the bell couldn’t say any more. The Prince and Princess went on, and you will not be surprised to hear that they heard the voices of five more bells that night. The next was a school-bell. The schoolmaster’s little boy thought it would be fun to ring it very late at night – but his father came and caught him before the bell could say any more than —
Ding a dong dell
You can break up the spell
By taking…
So that was no good.
Then there were the three bells that were the sign over the door of an inn where people were happily dancing to a fiddle, because there was a wedding. These bells said:
We are the
Merry three
Bells, bells, bells.
You are two
To undo
Spells, spells, spells…
Then the wind who was swinging the bells suddenly thought of an appointment he had made with a pine forest, to get up an entertaining imitation of sea-waves for the benefit of the forest nymphs who had never been to the seaside, and he went off – so, of course, the bells couldn’t ring any more, and the Prince and Princess went on down the dark road.
There was a cottage and the Princess pulled her veil closely over her face, for yellow light streamed from its open door – and it was a Wednesday.
Inside a little boy was sitting on the floor – quite a little boy – he ought to have been in bed long before, and I don’t know why he wasn’t. And he was ringing a little tinkling bell that had dropped off a sleigh.
And this little bell said:
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, I’m a little sleigh-bell,
But I know what I know, and I’ll tell, tell, tell.
Find the Enchanter of the Ringing Well,
He will show you how to break the spell, spell, spell.
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, I’m a little sleigh-bell,
But I know what I know…
And so on, over and over, again and again, because the little boy was quite contented to go on shaking his sleigh-bell for ever and ever.
‘So now we know,’ said the Prince, ‘isn’t that glorious?’
‘Yes, very, but where’s the Enchanter of the Ringing Well?’ said the Princess doubtfully.
‘Oh, I’ve got his address in my pocket-book,’ said the Prince. ‘He’s my god-father. He was one of the references I gave your father.’
So the next night the Prince brought a horse to the garden, and he and the Princess mounted, and rode, and rode, and rode, and in the grey dawn they came to Wonderwood, and in the very middle of that the Magician’s Palace stands.
The Princess did not like to call on a perfect stranger so very early in the morning, so they decided to wait a little and look about them.
The castle was very beautiful, decorated with a conventional design of bells and bell ropes, carved in white stone.
Luxuriant plants of American bell-vine covered the drawbridge and portcullis. On a green lawn in front of the castle was a well, with a curious bell-shaped covering suspended over it. The lovers leaned over the mossy fern-grown wall of the well, and, looking down, they could see that the narrowness of the well only lasted for a few feet, and below that it spread into a cavern where water lay in a big pool.
‘What cheer?’ said a pleasant voice behind them. It was the Enchanter, an early riser, like Darwin was, and all other great scientific men.
They told him what cheer.
‘But,’ Prince Bellamant ended, ‘it’s really no use. I can’t keep under water more than two minutes however much I try. And my precious Belinda’s not likely to find any silly old bell that doesn’t ring, and can’t ring, and never will ring, and was never made to ring.’
‘Ho, ho,’ laughed the Enchanter with the soft full laughter of old age. ‘You’ve come to the right shop. Who told you?’
‘The bells,’ said Belinda.
‘Ah, yes.’ The old man frowned kindly upon them. ‘You must be very fond of each other?’
‘We are,’ said the two together.
‘Yes,’ the Enchanter answered, ‘because only true lovers can hear the true speech of the bells, and then only when they’re together. Well, there’s the bell!’
He pointed to the covering of the well, went forward, and touched some lever or spring. The covering swung out from above the well, and hung over the grass grey with the dew of dawn.
‘That?’ said Bellamant.
‘That,’ said his god-father. ‘It doesn’t ring, and it can’t ring, and it never will ring, and it was never made to ring. Get into it.’
‘Eh?’ said Bellamant forgetting his manners.
The old man took a hand of each and led them under the bell.
They looked up. It had windows of thick glass, and high seats about four feet from its edge, running all round inside.
‘Take your seats,’ said the Enchanter.
Bellamant lifted his Princess to the bench and leaped up beside her.
‘Now,’ said the old man, ‘sit still, hold each other’s hands, and for your lives don’t move.’
He went away, and next moment they felt the bell swing in the air. It swung round till once more it was over the well, and then it went down, down, down.
‘I’m not afraid, with you,’ said Belinda, because she was, dreadfully.
Down went the bell. The glass windows leaped into light, looking through them the two could see blurred glories of lamps in the side of the cave, magic lamps, or perhaps merely electric, which, curiously enough have ceased to seem magic to us nowadays. Then with a plop the lower edge of the bell met the water, the water rose inside it, a little, then not any more. And the bell went down, down, and above their heads the green water lapped against the windows of the bell.
‘You’re under water – if we stay five minutes,’ Belinda whispered.
‘Yes, dear,’ said Bellamant, and pulled out his ruby-studded chronometer.
‘It’s five minutes for you, but oh!’ cried Belinda, ‘it’s now for me. For I’ve found the bell that doesn’t ring, and can’t ring, and never will ring, and wasn’t made to ring. Oh Bellamant dearest, it’s Thursday. Have I got my Sunday face?’
She tore away her veil, and his eyes, fixed upon her face, could not leave it.
‘Oh dream of all the world’s delight,’ he murmured, ‘how beautiful you are.’
Neither spoke again till a sudden little shock told them that the bell was moving up again.
‘Nonsense,’ said Bellamant, ‘it’s not five minutes.’
But when they looked at the ruby-studded chronometer, it was nearly three-quarters of an hour. But then, of course, the well was enchanted!
‘Magic? Nonsense,’ said the old man when they hung about him with thanks and pretty words. ‘It’s only a diving-bell. My own invention.’
* * * * *
So they went home and were married, and the Princess did not wear a veil at the wedding. She said she had had enough veils to last her time.
* * * * *
And a year and a day after that a little daughter was born to them.
‘Now sweetheart,’ said King Bellamant – he was king now because the old king and queen had retired from the business, and were keeping pigs and hens in the country as they had always planned to do – ‘dear sweetheart and life’s love, I am going to ring the bells with my own hands, to show how glad I am for you, and for the child, and for our good life together.’
So he went out. It was very dark, because the baby princess had chosen to be born at midnight.
The King went out to the belfry, that stood in the great, bare, quiet, moonlit square, and he opened the door. The furry-pussy bell-ropes, like huge caterpillars, hung on the first loft. The King began to climb the curly-wurly stone stair. And as he went up he heard a noise, the strangest noises, stamping and rustling and deep breathings.
He stood still in the ringers’ loft where the pussy-furry caterpillary bell-robes hung, and from the belfry above he heard the noise of strong fighting, and mixed with it the sound of voices angry and desperate, but with a noble note that thrilled the soul of the hearer like the sound of the trumpet in battle. And the voices cried:
Down, down – away, away,
When good has come ill may not stay,
Out, out, into the night,
The belfry bells are ours by right!
And the words broke and joined again, like water when it flows against the piers of a bridge. ‘Down, down – .’ ‘Ill may not stay – .’ ‘Good has come – .’ ‘Away, away – .’ And the joining came like the sound of the river that flows free again.
Out, out, into the night,
The belfry bells are ours by right!
And then, as King Bellamant stood there, thrilled and yet, as it were, turned to stone, by the magic of this conflict that raged above him, there came a sweeping rush down the belfry ladder. The lantern he carried showed him a rout of little, dark, evil people, clothed in dust and cobwebs, that scurried down the wooden steps gnashing their teeth and growling in the bitterness of a deserved defeat. They passed and there was silence. Then the King flew from rope to rope pulling lustily, and from above, the bells answered in their own clear beautiful voices – because the good Bell-folk had driven out the usurpers and had come to their own again.
Ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring! Ring, bell!
A little baby comes on earth to dwell. Ring, bell!
Sound, bell! Sound! Swell!
Ring for joy and wish her well!
May her life tell
No tale of ill-spell!
Ring, bell! Joy, bell! Love, bell! Ring!
* * * * *
‘But I don’t see,’ said King Bellamant, when he had told Queen Belinda all about it, ‘how it was that I came to hear them. The Enchanter of the Ringing Well said that only lovers could hear what the bells had to say, and then only when they were together.’
‘You silly dear boy,’ said Queen Belinda, cuddling the baby princess close under her chin, ‘we are lovers, aren’t we? And you don’t suppose I wasn’t with you when you went to ring the bells for our baby – my heart and soul anyway – all of me that matters!’
‘Yes,’ said the King, ‘of course you were. That accounts!’
VIII
JUSTNOWLAND
‘Auntie! No, no, no! I will be good. Oh, I will!’ The little weak voice came from the other side of the locked attic door.
‘You should have thought of that before,’ said the strong, sharp voice outside.
‘I didn’t mean to be naughty. I didn’t, truly.’
‘It’s not what you mean, miss, it’s what you do. I’ll teach you not to mean, my lady.’
The bitter irony of the last words dried the child’s tears. ‘Very well, then,’ she screamed, ‘I won’t be good; I won’t try to be good. I thought you’d like your nasty old garden weeded. I only did it to please you. How was I to know it was turnips? It looked just like weeds.’ Then came a pause, then another shriek. ‘Oh, Auntie, don’t! Oh, let me out – let me out!’
‘I’ll not let you out till I’ve broken your spirit, my girl; you may rely on that.’
The sharp voice stopped abruptly on a high note; determined feet in strong boots sounded on the stairs – fainter, fainter; a door slammed below with a dreadful definiteness, and Elsie was left alone, to wonder how soon her spirit would break – for at no less a price, it appeared, could freedom be bought.
The outlook seemed hopeless. The martyrs and heroines, with whom Elsie usually identified herself, their spirit had never been broken; not chains nor the rack nor the fiery stake itself had even weakened them. Imprisonment in an attic would to them have been luxury compared with the boiling oil and the smoking faggots and all the intimate cruelties of mysterious instruments of steel and leather, in cold dungeons, lit only by the dull flare of torches and the bright, watchful eyes of inquisitors.
A month in the house of ‘Auntie’ self-styled, and really only an unrelated Mrs. Staines, paid to take care of the child, had held but one interest – Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. It was a horrible book – the thick oleographs, their guarding sheets of tissue paper sticking to the prints like bandages to a wound… Elsie knew all about wounds: she had had one herself. Only a scalded hand, it is true, but a wound is a wound, all the world over. It was a book that made you afraid to go to bed; but it was a book you could not help reading. And now it seemed as though it might at last help, and not merely sicken and terrify. But the help was frail, and broke almost instantly on the thought – ‘They were brave because they were good: how can I be brave when there’s nothing to be brave about except me not knowing the difference between turnips and weeds?’
She sank down, a huddled black bunch on the bare attic floor, and called wildly to some one who could not answer her. Her frock was black because the one who always used to answer could not answer any more. And her father was in India, where you cannot answer, or even hear, your little girl, however much she cries in England.
‘I won’t cry,’ said Elsie, sobbing as violently as ever. ‘I can be brave, even if I’m not a saint but only a turnip-mistaker. I’ll be a Bastille prisoner, and tame a mouse!’ She dried her eyes, though the bosom of the black frock still heaved like the sea after a storm, and looked about for a mouse to tame. One could not begin too soon. But unfortunately there seemed to be no mouse at liberty just then. There were mouse-holes right enough, all round the wainscot, and in the broad, time-worn boards of the old floor. But never a mouse.
‘Mouse, mouse!’ Elsie called softly. ‘Mousie, mousie, come and be tamed!’
Not a mouse replied.
The attic was perfectly empty and dreadfully clean. The other attic, Elsie knew, had lots of interesting things in it – old furniture and saddles, and sacks of seed potatoes, – but in this attic nothing. Not so much as a bit of string on the floor that one could make knots in, or twist round one’s finger till it made the red ridges that are so interesting to look at afterwards; not even a piece of paper in the draughty, cold fireplace that one could make paper boats of, or prick letters in with a pin or the tag of one’s shoe-laces.
As she stooped to see whether under the grate some old match-box or bit of twig might have escaped the broom, she saw suddenly what she had wanted most – a mouse. It was lying on its side. She put out her hand very slowly and gently, and whispered in her softest tones, ‘Wake up, Mousie, wake up, and come and be tamed.’ But the mouse never moved. And when she took it in her hand it was cold.
‘Oh,’ she moaned, ‘you’re dead, and now I can never tame you’; and she sat on the cold hearth and cried again, with the dead mouse in her lap.
‘Don’t cry,’ said somebody. ‘I’ll find you something to tame – if you really want it.’
Elsie started and saw the head of a black bird peering at her through the square opening that leads to the chimney. The edges of him looked ragged and rainbow-coloured, but that was because she saw him through tears. To a tearless eye he was black and very smooth and sleek.
‘Oh!’ she said, and nothing more.
‘Quite so,’ said the bird politely. ‘You are surprised to hear me speak, but your surprise will be, of course, much less when I tell you that I am really a Prime Minister condemned by an Enchanter to wear the form of a crow till … till I can get rid of it.’
‘Oh!’ said Elsie.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said the Crow, and suddenly grew smaller till he could come comfortably through the square opening. He did this, perched on the top bar, and hopped to the floor. And there he got bigger and bigger, and bigger and bigger and bigger. Elsie had scrambled to her feet, and then a black little girl of eight and of the usual size stood face to face with a crow as big as a man, and no doubt as old. She found words then.
‘Oh, don’t!’ she cried. ‘Don’t get any bigger. I can’t bear it.’
‘I can’t do it,’ said the Crow kindly, ‘so that’s all right. I thought you’d better get used to seeing rather large crows before I take you to Crownowland. We are all life-size there.’
‘But a crow’s life-size isn’t a man’s life-size,’ Elsie managed to say.
‘Oh yes, it is – when it’s an enchanted Crow,’ the bird replied. ‘That makes all the difference. Now you were saying you wanted to tame something. If you’ll come with me to Crownowland I’ll show you something worth taming.’
‘Is Crow-what’s-its-name a nice place?’ Elsie asked cautiously. She was, somehow, not so very frightened now.
‘Very,’ said the Crow.
‘Then perhaps I shall like it so much I sha’n’t want to be taming things.’
‘Oh yes, you will, when you know how much depends on it.’
‘But I shouldn’t like,’ said Elsie, ‘to go up the chimney. This isn’t my best frock, of course, but still…’
‘Quite so,’ said the Crow. ‘I only came that way for fun, and because I can fly. You shall go in by the chief gate of the kingdom, like a lady. Do come.’
But Elsie still hesitated. ‘What sort of thing is it you want me to tame?’ she said doubtfully.
The enormous crow hesitated. ‘A – a sort of lizard,’ it said at last. ‘And if you can only tame it so that it will do what you tell it to, you’ll save the whole kingdom, and we’ll put up a statue to you; but not in the People’s Park, unless they wish it,’ the bird added mysteriously.
‘I should like to save a kingdom,’ said Elsie, ‘and I like lizards. I’ve seen lots of them in India.’
‘Then you’ll come?’ said the Crow.
‘Yes. But how do we go?’
‘There are only two doors out of this world into another,’ said the Crow. ‘I’ll take you through the nearest. Allow me!’ It put its wing round her so that her face nestled against the black softness of the under-wing feathers. It was warm and dark and sleepy there, and very comfortable. For a moment she seemed to swim easily in a soft sea of dreams. Then, with a little shock, she found herself standing on a marble terrace, looking out over a city far more beautiful and wonderful than she had ever seen or imagined. The great man-sized Crow was by her side.
‘Now,’ it said, pointing with the longest of its long black wing-feathers, ‘you see this beautiful city?’
‘Yes,’ said Elsie, ‘of course I do.’
‘Well … I hardly like to tell you the story,’ said the Crow, ‘but it’s a long time ago, and I hope you won’t think the worse of us – because we’re really very sorry.’
‘If you’re really sorry,’ said Elsie primly, ‘of course it’s all right.’
‘Unfortunately it isn’t,’ said the Crow. ‘You see the great square down there?’
Elsie looked down on a square of green trees, broken a little towards the middle.
‘Well, that’s where the … where it is – what you’ve got to tame, you know.’
‘But what did you do that was wrong?’
‘We were unkind,’ said the Crow slowly, ‘and unjust, and ungenerous. We had servants and workpeople doing everything for us; we had nothing to do but be kind. And we weren’t.’
‘Dear me,’ said Elsie feebly.
‘We had several warnings,’ said the Crow. ‘There was an old parchment, and it said just how you ought to behave and all that. But we didn’t care what it said. I was Court Magician as well as Prime Minister, and I ought to have known better, but I didn’t. We all wore frock-coats and high hats then,’ he added sadly.
‘Go on,’ said Elsie, her eyes wandering from one beautiful building to another of the many that nestled among the trees of the city.
‘And the old parchment said that if we didn’t behave well our bodies would grow like our souls. But we didn’t think so. And then all in a minute they did– and we were crows, and our bodies were as black as our souls. Our souls are quite white now,’ it added reassuringly.
‘But what was the dreadful thing you’d done?’
‘We’d been unkind to the people who worked for us – not given them enough food or clothes or fire, and at last we took away even their play. There was a big park that the people played in, and we built a wall round it and took it for ourselves, and the King was going to set a statue of himself up in the middle. And then before we could begin to enjoy it we were turned into big black crows; and the working people into big white pigeons – and they can go where they like, but we have to stay here till we’ve tamed the… We never can go into the park, until we’ve settled the thing that guards it. And that thing’s a big big lizard – in fact … it’s a dragon!’
‘Oh!’ cried Elsie; but she was not as frightened as the Crow seemed to expect. Because every now and then she had felt sure that she was really safe in her own bed, and that this was a dream. It was not a dream, but the belief that it was made her very brave, and she felt quite sure that she could settle a dragon, if necessary – a dream dragon, that is. And the rest of the time she thought about Foxe’s Book of Martyrs and what a heroine she now had the chance to be.
‘You want me to kill it?’ she asked.
‘Oh no! To tame it,’ said the Crow.
‘We’ve tried all sorts of means – long whips, like people tame horses with, and red-hot bars, such as lion-tamers use – and it’s all been perfectly useless; and there the dragon lives, and will live till some one can tame him and get him to follow them like a tame fawn, and eat out of their hand.’
‘What does the dragon like to eat?’ Elsie asked.
‘Crows,’ replied the other in an uncomfortable whisper. ‘At least I’ve never known it eat anything else!’
‘Am I to try to tame it now?’ Elsie asked.
‘Oh dear no,’ said the Crow. ‘We’ll have a banquet in your honour, and you shall have tea with the Princess.’
‘How do you know who is a princess and who’s not, if you’re all crows?’ Elsie cried.
‘How do you know one human being from another?’ the Crow replied. ‘Besides … Come on to the Palace.’
It led her along the terrace, and down some marble steps to a small arched door. ‘The tradesmen’s entrance,’ it explained. ‘Excuse it – the courtiers are crowding in by the front door.’ Then through long corridors and passages they went, and at last into the throne-room. Many crows stood about in respectful attitudes. On the golden throne, leaning a gloomy head upon the first joint of his right wing, the Sovereign of Crownowland was musing dejectedly. A little girl of about Elsie’s age sat on the steps of the throne nursing a handsome doll.
‘Who is the little girl?’ Elsie asked.
‘Curtsey! That’s the Princess,’ the Prime Minister Crow whispered; and Elsie made the best curtsey she could think of in such a hurry. ‘She wasn’t wicked enough to be turned into a crow, or poor enough to be turned into a pigeon, so she remains a dear little girl, just as she always was.’
The Princess dropped her doll and ran down the steps of the throne to meet Elsie.
‘You dear!’ she said. ‘You’ve come to play with me, haven’t you? All the little girls I used to play with have turned into crows, and their beaks are so awkward at doll’s tea-parties, and wings are no good to nurse dollies with. Let’s have a doll’s tea-party now, shall we?’
‘May we?’ Elsie looked at the Crow King, who nodded his head hopelessly. So, hand in hand, they went.
I wonder whether you have ever had the run of a perfectly beautiful palace and a nursery absolutely crammed with all the toys you ever had or wanted to have: dolls’ houses, dolls’ china tea-sets, rocking-horses, bricks, nine-pins, paint-boxes, conjuring tricks, pewter dinner-services, and any number of dolls – all most agreeable and distinguished. If you have, you may perhaps be able faintly to imagine Elsie’s happiness. And better than all the toys was the Princess Perdona – so gentle and kind and jolly, full of ideas for games, and surrounded by the means for playing them. Think of it, after that bare attic, with not even a bit of string to play with, and no company but the poor little dead mouse!
There is no room in this story to tell you of all the games they had. I can only say that the time went by so quickly that they never noticed it going, and were amazed when the Crown nursemaid brought in the royal tea-tray. Tea was a beautiful meal – with pink iced cake in it.
Now, all the time that these glorious games had been going on, and this magnificent tea, the wisest crows of Crownowland had been holding a council. They had decided that there was no time like the present, and that Elsie had better try to tame the dragon soon as late. ‘But,’ the King said, ‘she mustn’t run any risks. A guard of fifty stalwart crows must go with her, and if the dragon shows the least temper, fifty crows must throw themselves between her and danger, even if it cost fifty-one crow-lives. For I myself will lead that band. Who will volunteer?’
Volunteers, to the number of some thousands, instantly stepped forward, and the Field Marshal selected fifty of the strongest crows.
And then, in the pleasant pinkness of the sunset, Elsie was led out on to the palace steps, where the King made a speech and said what a heroine she was, and how like Joan of Arc. And the crows who had gathered from all parts of the town cheered madly. Did you ever hear crows cheering? It is a wonderful sound.
Then Elsie got into a magnificent gilt coach, drawn by eight white horses, with a crow at the head of each horse. The Princess sat with her on the blue velvet cushions and held her hand.
‘I know you’ll do it,’ said she; ‘you’re so brave and clever, Elsie!’
And Elsie felt braver than before, although now it did not seem so like a dream. But she thought of the martyrs, and held Perdona’s hand very tight.
At the gates of the green park the Princess kissed and hugged her new friend – her state crown, which she had put on in honour of the occasion, got pushed quite on one side in the warmth of her embrace – and Elsie stepped out of the carriage. There was a great crowd of crows round the park gates, and every one cheered and shouted ‘Speech, speech!’
Elsie got as far as ‘Ladies and gentlemen – Crows, I mean,’ and then she could not think of anything more, so she simply added, ‘Please, I’m ready.’
I wish you could have heard those crows cheer.
But Elsie wouldn’t have the escort.
‘It’s very kind,’ she said, ‘but the dragon only eats crows, and I’m not a crow, thank goodness – I mean I’m not a crow – and if I’ve got to be brave I’d like to be brave, and none of you to get eaten. If only some one will come with me to show me the way and then run back as hard as he can when we get near the dragon. Please!’
‘If only one goes I shall be the one,’ said the King. And he and Elsie went through the great gates side by side. She held the end of his wing, which was the nearest they could get to hand in hand.
The crowd outside waited in breathless silence. Elsie and the King went on through the winding paths of the People’s Park. And by the winding paths they came at last to the Dragon. He lay very peacefully on a great stone slab, his enormous bat-like wings spread out on the grass and his goldy-green scales glittering in the pretty pink sunset light.
‘Go back!’ said Elsie.
‘No,’ said the King.
‘If you don’t,’ said Elsie, ‘I won’t go on. Seeing a crow might rouse him to fury, or give him an appetite, or something. Do – do go!’
So he went, but not far. He hid behind a tree, and from its shelter he watched.
Elsie drew a long breath. Her heart was thumping under the black frock. ‘Suppose,’ she thought, ‘he takes me for a crow!’ But she thought how yellow her hair was, and decided that the dragon would be certain to notice that.
‘Quick march!’ she said to herself, ‘remember Joan of Arc,’ and walked right up to the dragon. It never moved, but watched her suspiciously out of its bright green eyes.
‘Dragon dear!’ she said in her clear little voice.
‘Eh?’ said the dragon, in tones of extreme astonishment.
‘Dragon dear,’ she repeated, ‘do you like sugar?’
‘Yes,’ said the dragon.
‘Well, I’ve brought you some. You won’t hurt me if I bring it to you?’
The dragon violently shook its vast head.
‘It’s not much,’ said Elsie, ‘but I saved it at tea-time. Four lumps. Two for each of my mugs of milk.’
She laid the sugar on the stone slab by the dragon’s paw.
It turned its head towards the sugar. The pinky sunset light fell on its face, and Elsie saw that it was weeping! Great fat tears as big as prize pears were coursing down its wrinkled cheeks.
‘Oh, don’t,’ said Elsie, ‘don’t cry! Poor dragon, what’s the matter?’
‘Oh!’ sobbed the dragon, ‘I’m only so glad you’ve come. I – I’ve been so lonely. No one to love me. You do love me, don’t you?’
‘I – I’m sure I shall when I know you better,’ said Elsie kindly.
‘Give me a kiss, dear,’ said the dragon, sniffing.
It is no joke to kiss a dragon. But Elsie did it – somewhere on the hard green wrinkles of its forehead.
‘Oh, thank you,’ said the dragon, brushing away its tears with the tip of its tail. ‘That breaks the charm. I can move now. And I’ve got back all my lost wisdom. Come along – I do want my tea!’
So, to the waiting crowd at the gate came Elsie and the dragon side by side. And at sight of the dragon, tamed, a great shout went up from the crowd; and at that shout each one in the crowd turned quickly to the next one – for it was the shout of men, and not of crows. Because at the first sight of the dragon, tamed, they had left off being crows for ever and ever, and once again were men.
The King came running through the gates, his royal robes held high, so that he shouldn’t trip over them, and he too was no longer a crow, but a man.
And what did Elsie feel after being so brave? Well, she felt that she would like to cry, and also to laugh, and she felt that she loved not only the dragon, but every man, woman, and child in the whole world – even Mrs. Staines.
She rode back to the Palace on the dragon’s back.
And as they went the crowd of citizens who had been crows met the crowd of citizens who had been pigeons, and these were poor men in poor clothes.
It would have done you good to see how the ones who had been rich and crows ran to meet the ones who had been pigeons and poor.
‘Come and stay at my house, brother,’ they cried to those who had no homes. ‘Brother, I have many coats, come and choose some,’ they cried to the ragged. ‘Come and feast with me!’ they cried to all. And the rich and the poor went off arm in arm to feast and be glad that night, and the next day to work side by side. ‘For,’ said the King, speaking with his hand on the neck of the tamed dragon, ‘our land has been called Crownowland. But we are no longer crows. We are men: and we will be Just men. And our country shall be called Justnowland for ever and ever. And for the future we shall not be rich and poor, but fellow-workers, and each will do his best for his brothers and his own city. And your King shall be your servant!’
