A Prisoner in Fairyland (The Book That 'Uncle Paul' Wrote)

m by the hair and c

roar of a rain-fed

ky

ar of the Milky Way

as

on, R.

Henry Rogers, budding philanthropist and re-awakening dreamer, went down the hill of memories at high speed that

house from cell

lked there, so softly that he hardly disturbed the thrushes that busily tapped the dewy grass for supper, he knew suddenly that he was not alone, but that shadowy figures hid everywhere, watching, waiting, wondering like himself. They trooped after him, invisible and silent

? Come out and sh

penetrated into certain corners of the shrubberies where it had been heard and understood. Answers did not come. They were no more audible than the tapping of the thrushes, or the little feet of darkn

s come

listen, on their guard. Then the leaves opened a little and the troop ventured nearer. The doors and windows of the silent, staring house had also opened. From the high nursery windows especially, queer shapes of sh

er ran a second time, and he looked ab

Escape from the golden n

its, he saw the outline of the Third Class Railway Carriage his father bought as a Chri

d four doors, real lamps in the roof, windows that opened and shut, and big round buffers. It started without war

the hay field. It looked mysterious, old, and enormous as ever. There

y years' delay, thinking perhaps the train would never start again, were now impatient. They had caught their engine-driver again at last. Steam was up. Already the blackbirds whistled. And something utterly wil

ge allowed! Animals free! Passengers with special tickets may drive the engine in their turn

kitchen-garden. The lawn was littered with discarded luggage; umbrellas dropped on flower-beds, where they instantly took root and grew; animals ran scuttling among them-birds, ponies, dogs, kittens, donkeys, and white mice in trailing swarms. There was not a minute to spare. One big Newfoundland brought several Persian kitt

plication tables have gone wrong. The City has driven me

at other voice in him kept

your seats! The Starl

your tickets! Sh

ed with

e the lime trees, and now stood at the carriage door, taking careful note of each one as he showed his ticket to the Guard. And the Guard was the blue-eyed girl. She did not clip the tickets, but merely looked at them. She looked, first at the ticket, then into the face of the passenger. The glance of the blue eyes was the

pleased they were to see him! But how ashamed he felt for having been so long away. Not one, however, reminded him

of tow stuck on with sealing-wax. It was The Tramp-Traveller of the World, the Eternal Wanderer, homeless as the wind; his viv

und beneath his broken boots. 'The rhyme we used to sing together in the Noight-Nursery when I

it, while the pretty Guard fixed her blu

l far a

my own

h p

ueer

o to them

ey always

No luggage, you know!' She pushed him in sid

up. He had no luggage, but carried on his shoul

y, 'and then sit on the back buffers and hol

ore Rogers had passed the ti

the sky, and li

n cloudy

hen m

ns in

g the ceiling-

y then, too quickly fo

was getting more

him; 'and no wonder, because you never saw me properly. On Sundays, when I

a rattle, popped his dirty head out, and called back

ess suits

y old

t of

n chimne

my

ot com

y eyes wi

ight th

I

y to fix her big blue eyes upon the next comer. And how they did come, to be sure! There was the Gypsy, the Creature of the Gravel-Pit, the long-legged, long-armed thing from the Long Walk-she could make her arm stret

was going to faint. He had thrown himself upon the summer-house floor and kicked, and t

tion, 'Men-fainters do-kick dreadfully.' And she had simply laughed till her sides ached, wh

lipped in past them. The eyes of the Guard were very

ng who included all the lesser under-gardeners as well. His sunburned face presented

wel over the Guard's head, and nearly hitting another passenger who followed too close. This was the Woman of the Haystack, an enormous, spreading traveller who utterly refused to be hurried, and onl

hair like waving grass, and open hands that he spread like wings, as though he were sowing somet

ng him come with a thrill of secret wonder, 'an

lowed him. And something, fine as star-dust, as he scattered it all about

are eyes that I would blind with it-eyes in the world tha

two monster meteors in the sky. They crossed in two big lines of glory above the house, dropping towards the cedars. The Net of Sta

seat beside her, when the train began to move. It rose soundlessly with lightni

ed her big blu

ed that it was always he who decided the destinatio

he cried, 'the cave where

ith the yellow whistle to her l

st,' he answered, 'to the moun

ugh. Formerly he had always

terfering Sun, you know-there's no time to lose

ng Spiders that fly over the fields in the dawn upon

actually found this Star Cave, for the Interferi

up. We can't hover here al

n had spent a year learning French. The idea flashed into him probably because it contained mountains, caves, and childre

the slopes of Boudry where the forests dip towards the precipi

urned swiftly in a tremendous sweeping curve, and vanished along the intricate star-rails i