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So
as
he
persisted
in
his
wish
,
they
had
to
grant
it
.
The
way
they
gave
him
power
to
fly
was
this
:
They
all
tickled
him
on
the
shoulder
,
and
soon
he
felt
a
funny
itching
in
that
part
and
then
up
he
rose
higher
and
higher
and
flew
away
out
of
the
Gardens
and
over
the
house-tops
.
It
was
so
delicious
that
instead
of
flying
straight
to
his
old
home
he
skimmed
away
over
St.
Paul
's
to
the
Crystal
Palace
and
back
by
the
river
and
Regent
's
Park
,
and
by
the
time
he
reached
his
mother
's
window
he
had
quite
made
up
his
mind
that
his
second
wish
should
be
to
become
a
bird
.
The
window
was
wide
open
,
just
as
he
knew
it
would
be
,
and
in
he
fluttered
,
and
there
was
his
mother
lying
asleep
.
Peter
alighted
softly
on
the
wooden
rail
at
the
foot
of
the
bed
and
had
a
good
look
at
her
.
She
lay
with
her
head
on
her
hand
,
and
the
hollow
in
the
pillow
was
like
a
nest
lined
with
her
brown
wavy
hair
.
He
remembered
,
though
he
had
long
forgotten
it
,
that
she
always
gave
her
hair
a
holiday
at
night
.
How
sweet
the
frills
of
her
night-gown
were
.
He
was
very
glad
she
was
such
a
pretty
mother
.
But
she
looked
sad
,
and
he
knew
why
she
looked
sad
.
One
of
her
arms
moved
as
if
it
wanted
to
go
round
something
,
and
he
knew
what
it
wanted
to
go
round
.
"
Oh
,
mother
,
"
said
Peter
to
himself
,
"
if
you
just
knew
who
is
sitting
on
the
rail
at
the
foot
of
the
bed
.
"
Very
gently
he
patted
the
little
mound
that
her
feet
made
,
and
he
could
see
by
her
face
that
she
liked
it
.
He
knew
he
had
but
to
say
"
Mother
"
ever
so
softly
,
and
she
would
wake
up
.
They
always
wake
up
at
once
if
it
is
you
that
says
their
name
.
Then
she
would
give
such
a
joyous
cry
and
squeeze
him
tight
.
How
nice
that
would
be
to
him
,
but
oh
,
how
exquisitely
delicious
it
would
be
to
her
.
That
I
am
afraid
is
how
Peter
regarded
it
.
In
returning
to
his
mother
he
never
doubted
that
he
was
giving
her
the
greatest
treat
a
woman
can
have
.
Nothing
can
be
more
splendid
,
he
thought
,
than
to
have
a
little
boy
of
your
own
.
How
proud
of
him
they
are
;
and
very
right
and
proper
,
too
.
But
why
does
Peter
sit
so
long
on
the
rail
,
why
does
he
not
tell
his
mother
that
he
has
come
back
?
I
quite
shrink
from
the
truth
,
which
is
that
he
sat
there
in
two
minds
.
Sometimes
he
looked
longingly
at
his
mother
,
and
sometimes
he
looked
longingly
at
the
window
.
Certainly
it
would
be
pleasant
to
be
her
boy
again
,
but
,
on
the
other
hand
,
what
times
those
had
been
in
the
Gardens
!
Was
he
so
sure
that
he
would
enjoy
wearing
clothes
again
?
He
popped
off
the
bed
and
opened
some
drawers
to
have
a
look
at
his
old
garments
.
They
were
still
there
,
but
he
could
not
remember
how
you
put
them
on
.
The
socks
,
for
instance
,
were
they
worn
on
the
hands
or
on
the
feet
?
He
was
about
to
try
one
of
them
on
his
hand
,
when
he
had
a
great
adventure
.
Perhaps
the
drawer
had
creaked
;
at
any
rate
,
his
mother
woke
up
,
for
he
heard
her
say
"
Peter
,
"
as
if
it
was
the
most
lovely
word
in
the
language
.
He
remained
sitting
on
the
floor
and
held
his
breath
,
wondering
how
she
knew
that
he
had
come
back
.
If
she
said
"
Peter
"
again
,
he
meant
to
cry
"
Mother
"
and
run
to
her
.
But
she
spoke
no
more
,
she
made
little
moans
only
,
and
when
next
he
peeped
at
her
she
was
once
more
asleep
,
with
tears
on
her
face
.
