Біла пташка

           ButasPetersatbytheshoretootlingdivinelyonhispipehesometimesfellintosadthoughtsandthenthemusicbecamesadalso,andthereasonofallthissadnesswasthathecouldnotreachtheGardens,thoughhecouldseethemthroughthearchofthebridge.Heknewhecouldneverbearealhumanagain,andscarcelywantedtobeone,butoh,howhelongedtoplayasotherchildrenplay,andofcoursethereisnosuchlovelyplacetoplayinastheGardens.Thebirdsbroughthimnewsofhowboysandgirlsplay,andwistfultearsstartedinPeter’seyes.

           Perhapsyouwonderwhyhedidnotswimacross.Thereasonwasthathecouldnotswim.Hewantedtoknowhowtoswim,butnooneontheislandknewthewayexcepttheducks,andtheyaresostupid.Theywerequitewillingtoteachhim,butalltheycouldsayaboutitwas,“Yousitdownonthetopofthewaterinthisway,andthenyoukickoutlikethat.”Petertrieditoften,butalwaysbeforehecouldkickouthesank.Whathereallyneededtoknowwashowyousitonthewaterwithoutsinking,andtheysaiditwasquiteimpossibletoexplainsuchaneasythingasthat.Occasionallyswanstouchedontheisland,andhewouldgivethemallhisday’sfoodandthenaskthemhowtheysatonthewater,butassoonashehadnomoretogivethemthehatefulthingshissedathimandsailedaway.

           OncehereallythoughthehaddiscoveredawayofreachingtheGardens.Awonderfulwhitething,likearunawaynewspaper,floatedhighovertheislandandthentumbled,rollingoverandoverafterthemannerofabirdthathasbrokenitswing