Пітер Пен у Кенсінгтонському Саді
The Little house
Shewasnotintheleastcold.Shewaswearingarusset-colouredpelisseandhadthehoodoverherhead,sothatnothingofhershowedexceptherdearlittlefaceandhercurls.Therestofherrealselfwashiddenfarawayinsidesomanywarmgarmentsthatinshapesheseemedratherlikeaball.Shewasaboutfortyroundthewaist.
TherewasagooddealgoingonintheBabyWalk,whereMaimiearrivedintimetoseeamagnoliaandaPersianlilacstepovertherailingandsetoffforasmartwalk.Theymovedinajerkysortofwaycertainly,butthatwasbecausetheyusedcrutches.Anelderberryhobbledacrossthewalk,andstoodchattingwithsomeyoungquinces,andtheyallhadcrutches.Thecrutcheswerethesticksthataretiedtoyoungtreesandshrubs.TheywerequitefamiliarobjectstoMaimie,butshehadneverknownwhattheywereforuntilto-night.
Shepeepedupthewalkandsawherfirstfairy.Hewasastreetboyfairywhowasrunningupthewalkclosingtheweepingtrees.Thewayhediditwasthis:hepressedaspringinthetrunksandtheyshutlikeumbrellas,delugingthelittleplantsbeneathwithsnow.’Oyounaughty,naughtychild!’Maimiecriedindignantly,forsheknewwhatitwastohaveadrippingumbrellaaboutyourears.
Fortunatelythemischievousfellowwasoutofearshot,butachrysanthemumheardher,andsaidsopointedly,’Hoity-toity,whatisthis?’thatshehadtocomeoutandshowherself.Thenthewholevegetablekingdomwasratherpuzzledwhattodo.
’Ofcourseitisnoaffairofours,’aspindle-treesaidaftertheyhadwhisperedtogether,’butyouknowquitewellyououghtnottobehere,andperhapsourdutyistoreportyoutothefairies;whatdoyouthinkyourself?’
