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Paths
from
everywhere
crowd
like
children
to
the
pond
.
Some
of
them
are
ordinary
paths
,
which
have
a
rail
on
each
side
,
and
are
made
by
men
with
their
coats
off
,
but
others
are
vagrants
,
wide
at
one
spot
,
and
at
another
so
narrow
that
you
can
stand
astride
them
.
They
are
called
Paths
that
have
Made
Themselves
,
and
David
did
wish
he
could
see
them
doing
it
.
But
,
like
all
the
most
wonderful
things
that
happen
in
the
Gardens
,
it
is
done
,
we
concluded
,
at
night
after
the
gates
are
closed
.
We
have
also
decided
that
the
paths
make
themselves
because
it
is
their
only
chance
of
getting
to
the
Round
Pond
.
One
of
these
gypsy
paths
comes
from
the
place
where
the
sheep
get
their
hair
cut
.
When
David
shed
his
curls
at
the
hairdresser
's
,
I
am
told
,
he
said
good-bye
to
them
without
a
tremor
,
though
his
mother
has
never
been
quite
the
same
bright
creature
since
;
so
he
despises
the
sheep
as
they
run
from
their
shearer
,
and
calls
out
tauntingly
,
'
Cowardly
,
cowardly
custard
!
'
But
when
the
man
grips
them
between
his
legs
David
shakes
a
fist
at
him
for
using
such
big
scissors
.
Another
startling
moment
is
when
the
man
turns
back
the
grimy
wool
from
the
sheep
's
shoulders
and
they
look
suddenly
like
ladies
in
the
stalls
of
a
theatre
.
The
sheep
are
so
frightened
by
the
shearing
that
it
makes
them
quite
white
and
thin
,
and
as
soon
as
they
are
set
free
they
begin
to
nibble
the
grass
at
once
,
quite
anxiously
,
as
if
they
feared
that
they
would
never
be
worth
eating
.
David
wonders
whether
they
know
each
other
,
now
that
they
are
so
different
,
and
if
it
makes
them
fight
with
the
wrong
ones
.
They
are
great
fighters
,
and
thus
so
unlike
country
sheep
that
every
year
they
give
my
St.
Bernard
dog
,
Porthos
,
a
shock
.
He
can
make
a
field
of
country
sheep
fly
by
merely
announcing
his
approach
,
but
these
town
sheep
come
toward
him
with
no
promise
of
gentle
entertainment
,
and
then
a
light
from
last
year
breaks
upon
Porthos
.
He
can
not
with
dignity
retreat
,
but
he
stops
and
looks
about
him
as
if
lost
in
admiration
of
the
scenery
,
and
presently
he
strolls
away
with
a
fine
indifference
and
a
glint
at
me
from
the
corner
of
his
eye
.
The
Serpentine
begins
near
here
.
It
is
a
lovely
lake
,
and
there
is
a
drowned
forest
at
the
bottom
of
it
.
If
you
peer
over
the
edge
you
can
see
the
trees
all
growing
upside
down
,
and
they
say
that
at
night
there
are
also
drowned
stars
in
it
.
If
so
,
Peter
Pan
sees
them
when
he
is
sailing
across
the
lake
in
the
Thrush
's
Nest
.
A
small
part
only
of
the
Serpentine
is
in
the
Gardens
,
for
soon
it
passes
beneath
a
bridge
to
far
away
where
the
island
is
on
which
all
the
birds
are
born
that
become
baby
boys
and
girls
.
No
one
who
is
human
,
except
Peter
Pan
(
and
he
is
only
half
human
)
,
can
land
on
the
island
,
but
you
may
write
what
you
want
(
boy
or
girl
,
dark
or
fair
)
on
a
piece
of
paper
,
and
then
twist
it
into
the
shape
of
a
boat
and
slip
it
into
the
water
,
and
it
reaches
Peter
Pan
's
island
after
dark
.
We
are
on
the
way
home
now
,
though
of
course
,
it
is
all
pretence
that
we
can
go
to
so
many
of
the
places
in
one
day
.
I
should
have
had
to
be
carrying
David
long
ago
,
and
resting
on
every
seat
like
old
Mr.
Salford
.
That
was
what
we
called
him
,
because
he
always
talked
to
us
of
a
lovely
place
called
Salford
where
he
had
been
born
.
He
was
a
crab-apple
of
an
old
gentleman
who
wandered
all
day
in
the
Gardens
from
seat
to
seat
trying
to
fall
in
with
somebody
who
was
acquainted
with
the
town
of
Salford
,
and
when
we
had
known
him
for
a
year
or
more
we
actually
did
meet
another
aged
solitary
who
had
once
spent
Saturday
to
Monday
in
Salford
.
He
was
meek
and
timid
,
and
carried
his
address
inside
his
hat
,
and
whatever
part
of
London
he
was
in
search
of
he
always
went
to
Westminster
Abbey
first
as
a
starting-point
.
Him
we
carried
in
triumph
to
our
other
friend
,
with
the
story
of
that
Saturday
to
Monday
,
and
never
shall
I
forget
the
gloating
joy
with
which
Mr.
Salford
leapt
at
him
.
They
have
been
cronies
ever
since
,
and
I
notice
that
Mr.
Salford
,
who
naturally
does
most
of
the
talking
,
keeps
tight
grip
of
the
other
old
man
's
coat
.
The
two
last
places
before
you
come
to
our
gate
are
the
Dogs
'
Cemetery
and
the
chaffinch
's
nest
,
but
we
pretend
not
to
know
what
the
Dogs
'
Cemetery
is
,
as
Porthos
is
always
with
us
.
The
nest
is
very
sad
.
It
is
quite
white
,
and
the
way
we
found
it
was
wonderful
.
We
were
having
another
look
among
the
bushes
for
David
's
lost
worsted
ball
,
and
instead
of
the
ball
we
found
a
lovely
nest
made
of
the
worsted
,
and
containing
four
eggs
,
with
scratches
on
them
very
like
David
's
handwriting
,
so
we
think
they
must
have
been
the
mother
's
love-letters
to
the
little
ones
inside
.
Every
day
we
were
in
the
Gardens
we
paid
a
call
at
the
nest
,
taking
care
that
no
cruel
boy
should
see
us
,
and
we
dropped
crumbs
,
and
soon
the
bird
knew
us
as
friends
,
and
sat
in
the
nest
looking
at
us
kindly
with
her
shoulders
hunched
up
.
But
one
day
when
we
went
there
were
only
two
eggs
in
the
nest
,
and
the
next
time
there
were
none
.
The
saddest
part
of
it
was
that
the
poor
little
chaffinch
fluttered
about
the
bushes
,
looking
so
reproachfully
at
us
that
we
knew
she
thought
we
had
done
it
;
and
though
David
tried
to
explain
to
her
,
it
was
so
long
since
he
had
spoken
the
bird
language
that
I
fear
she
did
not
understand
.
He
and
I
left
the
Gardens
that
day
with
our
knuckles
in
our
eyes
.
If
you
ask
your
mother
whether
she
knew
about
Peter
Pan
when
she
was
a
little
girl
,
she
will
say
,
'
Why
,
of
course
I
did
,
child
'
;
and
if
you
ask
her
whether
he
rode
on
a
goat
in
those
days
,
she
will
say
,
'
What
a
foolish
question
to
ask
;
certainly
he
did
.
'
Then
if
you
ask
your
grandmother
whether
she
knew
about
Peter
Pan
when
she
was
a
girl
,
she
also
says
,
'
Why
,
of
course
I
did
,
child
,
'
but
if
you
ask
her
whether
he
rode
on
a
goat
in
those
days
,
she
says
she
never
heard
of
his
having
a
goat
.
Perhaps
she
has
forgotten
,
just
as
she
sometimes
forgets
your
name
and
calls
you
Mildred
,
which
is
your
mother
's
name
.
Still
,
she
could
hardly
forget
such
an
important
thing
as
the
goat
.
Therefore
there
was
no
goat
when
your
grandmother
was
a
little
girl
.
This
shows
that
,
in
telling
the
story
of
Peter
Pan
,
to
begin
with
the
goat
(
as
most
people
do
)
is
as
silly
as
to
put
on
your
jacket
before
your
vest
.
Of
course
,
it
also
shows
that
Peter
is
ever
so
old
,
but
he
is
really
always
the
same
age
,
so
that
does
not
matter
in
the
least
.
His
age
is
one
week
,
and
though
he
was
born
so
long
ago
he
has
never
had
a
birthday
,
nor
is
there
the
slightest
chance
of
his
ever
having
one
.
The
reason
is
that
he
escaped
from
being
a
human
when
he
was
seven
days
old
;
he
escaped
by
the
window
and
flew
back
to
the
Kensington
Gardens
.
