well worth five shillings, and there they are. Would you like to see round the printing offices before you go home?’
I pocketed my five bob, and thanked him, and I said we should like it very much. He called another gentleman and said something we couldn’t hear. Then he said good-bye again; and all this time Noel hadn’t said a word. But now he said, ‘I’ve made a poem about you. It is called “Lines to a Noble Editor.” Shall I write it down?’
The Editor gave him the blue pencil, and he sat down at the Editor’s table and wrote. It was this, he told me afterwards as well as he could remember —
May Life’s choicest blessings be your lot
I think you ought to be very blest
For you are going to print my poems —
And you may have this one as well as the rest.
‘Thank you,’ said the Editor. ‘I don’t think I ever had a poem addressed to me before. I shall treasure it, I assure you.’
Then the other gentleman said something about Maecenas, and we went off to see the printing office with at least one pound seven in our pockets.
It was good hunting, and no mistake!
But he never put Noel’s poetry in the Daily Recorder. It was quite a long time afterwards we saw a sort of story thing in a magazine, on the station bookstall, and that kind, sleepy-looking Editor had written it, I suppose. It was not at all amusing. It said a lot about Noel and me, describing us all wrong, and saying how we had tea with the Editor; and all Noel’s poems were in the story thing. I think myself the Editor seemed to make game of them, but Noel was quite pleased to see them printed — so that’s all right. It wasn’t my poetry anyhow, I am glad to say.
Chapter VI.
Noel’s Princess
She happened quite accidentally. We were not looking for a Princess at all just then; but Noel had said he was going to find a Princess all by himself; and marry her — and he really did. Which was rather odd, because when people say things are going to befall, very often they don’t. It was different, of course, with the prophets of old.
We did not get any treasure by it, except twelve chocolate drops; but we might have done, and it was an adventure, anyhow.
Greenwich Park is a jolly good place to play in, especially the parts that aren’t near Greenwich. The parts near the Heath are first-rate. I often wish the Park was nearer our house; but I suppose a Park is a difficult thing to move.
Sometimes we get Eliza to put lunch in a basket, and we go up to the Park. She likes that — it saves cooking dinner for us; and sometimes she says of her own accord, ‘I’ve made some pasties for you, and you might as well go into the Park as not. It’s a lovely day.’
She always tells us to rinse out the cup at the drinking-fountain, and the girls do; but I always put my head under the tap and drink. Then you are an intrepid hunter at a mountain stream — and besides, you’re sure it’s clean. Dicky does the same, and so does H. O. But Noel always drinks out of the cup. He says it is a golden goblet wrought by enchanted gnomes.
The day the Princess happened was a fine, hot day, last October, and we were quite tired with the walk up to the Park.
We always go in by the little gate at the top of Croom’s Hill. It is the postern gate that things always happen at in stories. It was dusty walking, but when we got in the Park it was ripping, so we rested a bit, and lay on our backs, and looked up at the trees, and wished we could play monkeys. I have done it before now, but the Park-keeper makes a row if he catches you.
When we’d rested a little, Alice said —
‘It was a long way to the enchanted wood, but it is very nice now we are there. I wonder what we shall find in it?’
‘We shall find deer,’ said Dicky, ‘if we go to look; but they go on the other side of the Park because of the people with buns.’
Saying buns made us think of lunch, so we had it; and when we had done we scratched a hole under a tree and buried the papers, because we know it spoils pretty places to leave beastly, greasy papers lying about. I remember Mother teaching me and Dora that, when we were quite little. I wish everybody’s parents would teach them this useful lesson, and the same about orange peel.
When we’d eaten everything there was, Alice whispered —
‘I see the white witch bear yonder among the trees! Let’s track it and slay it in its lair.’
‘I am the bear,’ said Noel; so he crept away, and we followed him among the trees. Often the witch bear was out of sight, and then you didn’t know where it would jump out from; but sometimes we saw it, and just followed.
‘When we catch it there’ll be a great fight,’ said Oswald; ‘and I shall be Count Folko of Mont Faucon.’
‘I’ll be Gabrielle,’ said Dora. She is the only one of us who likes doing girl’s parts.
‘I’ll be Sintram,’ said Alice; ‘and H. O. can be the Little Master.’
‘What about Dicky?’
‘Oh, I can be the Pilgrim with the bones.’
‘Hist!’ whispered Alice. ‘See his white fairy fur gleaming amid yonder covert!’
And I saw a bit of white too. It was Noel’s collar, and it had come undone at the back.
We hunted the bear in and out of the trees, and then we lost him altogether; and suddenly we found the wall of the Park — in a place where I’m sure there wasn’t a wall before. Noel wasn’t anywhere about, and there was a door in the wall. And it was open; so we went through.
‘The bear has hidden himself in these mountain fastnesses,’ Oswald said. ‘I will draw my good sword and after him.’
So I drew the umbrella, which Dora always will bring in case it rains, because Noel gets a cold on the chest at the least thing — and we went on.
The other side of the wall it was a stable yard, all cobble-stones.
There was nobody about — but we could hear a man rubbing down a horse and hissing in the stable; so we crept very quietly past, and Alice whispered —
”Tis the lair of the Monster Serpent; I hear his deadly hiss! Beware! Courage and despatch!’
We went over the stones on tiptoe, and we found another wall with another door in it on the other side. We went through that too, on tiptoe. It really was an adventure. And there we were in a shrubbery, and we saw something white through the trees. Dora said it was the white bear. That is so like Dora. She always begins to take part in a play just when the rest of us are getting tired of it. I don’t mean this unkindly, because I am very fond of Dora. I cannot forget how kind she was when I had bronchitis; and ingratitude is a dreadful vice. But it is quite true.
