The Railway Children by E. Nesbit (most important books to read .TXT) 📖

nice for the babies. And that's why all the animals are so good to the mother animals. They never fight them, you know.”

“I know,” said Peter, interested; “two buck rabbits will fight all day if you let them, but they won't hurt a doe.”

“No; and quite wild beasts—lions and elephants—they're immensely gentle with the female beasts. And we've got to be, too.”

“I see,” said Peter.

“And their hearts are soft, too,” the Doctor went on, “and things that we shouldn't think anything of hurt them dreadfully. So that a man has to be very careful, not only of his fists, but of his words. They're awfully brave, you know,” he went on. “Think of Bobbie waiting alone in the tunnel with that poor chap. It's an odd thing—the softer and more easily hurt a woman is the better she can screw herself up to do what HAS to be done. I've seen some brave women—your Mother's one,” he ended abruptly.

“Yes,” said Peter.

“Well, that's all. Excuse my mentioning it. But nobody knows everything without being told. And you see what I mean, don't you?”

“Yes,” said Peter. “I'm sorry. There!”

“Of course you are! People always are—directly they understand. Everyone ought to be taught these scientific facts. So long!”

They shook hands heartily. When Peter came home, his sisters looked at him doubtfully.

“It's Pax,” said Peter, dumping down the basket on the table. “Dr. Forrest has been talking scientific to me. No, it's no use my telling you what he said; you wouldn't understand. But it all comes to you girls being poor, soft, weak, frightened things like rabbits, so us men have just got to put up with them. He said you were female beasts. Shall I take this up to Mother, or will you?”

“I know what BOYS are,” said Phyllis, with flaming cheeks; “they're just the nastiest, rudest—”

“They're very brave,” said Bobbie, “sometimes.”

“Ah, you mean the chap upstairs? I see. Go ahead, Phil—I shall put up with you whatever you say because you're a poor, weak, frightened, soft—”

“Not if I pull your hair you won't,” said Phyllis, springing at him.

“He said 'Pax,'” said Bobbie, pulling her away. “Don't you see,” she whispered as Peter picked up the basket and stalked out with it, “he's sorry, really, only he won't say so? Let's say we're sorry.”

“It's so goody goody,” said Phyllis, doubtfully; “he said we were female beasts, and soft and frightened—”

“Then let's show him we're not frightened of him thinking us goody goody,” said Bobbie; “and we're not any more beasts than he is.”

And when Peter came back, still with his chin in the air, Bobbie said:—

“We're sorry we tied you up, Pete.”

“I thought you would be,” said Peter, very stiff and superior.

This was hard to bear. But—

“Well, so we are,” said Bobbie. “Now let honour be satisfied on both sides.”

“I did call it Pax,” said Peter, in an injured tone.

“Then let it BE Pax,” said Bobbie. “Come on, Phil, let's get the tea. Pete, you might lay the cloth.”

“I say,” said Phyllis, when peace was really restored, which was not till they were washing up the cups after tea, “Dr. Forrest didn't REALLY say we were female beasts, did he?”

“Yes,” said Peter, firmly, “but I think he meant we men were wild beasts, too.”

“How funny of him!” said Phyllis, breaking a cup.

* * * * * *

“May I come in, Mother?” Peter was at the door of Mother's writing room, where Mother sat at her table with two candles in front of her. Their flames looked orange and violet against the clear grey blue of the sky where already a few stars were twinkling.

“Yes, dear,” said Mother, absently, “anything wrong?” She wrote a few more words and then laid down her pen and began to fold up what she had written. “I was just writing to Jim's grandfather. He lives near here, you know.”

“Yes, you said so at tea. That's what I want to say. Must you write to him, Mother? Couldn't we keep Jim, and not say anything to his people till he's well? It would be such a surprise for them.”

“Well, yes,” said Mother, laughing, “I think it would.”

“You see,” Peter went on, “of course the girls are all right and all that—I'm not saying anything against THEM. But I should like it if I had another chap to talk to sometimes.”

“Yes,” said Mother, “I know it's dull for you, dear. But I can't help it. Next year perhaps I can send you to school—you'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“I do miss the other chaps, rather,” Peter confessed; “but if Jim could stay after his leg was well, we could have awful larks.”

“I've no doubt of it,” said Mother. “Well—perhaps he could, but you know, dear, we're not rich. I can't afford to get him everything he'll want. And he must have a nurse.”

“Can't you nurse him, Mother? You do nurse people so beautifully.”

“That's a pretty compliment, Pete—but I can't do nursing and my writing as well. That's the worst of it.”

“Then you MUST send the letter to his grandfather?”

“Of course—and to his schoolmaster, too. We telegraphed to them both, but I must write as well. They'll be most dreadfully anxious.”

“I say, Mother, why can't his grandfather pay for a nurse?” Peter suggested. “That would be ripping. I expect the old boy's rolling in money. Grandfathers in books always are.”

“Well, this one isn't in a book,” said Mother, “so we mustn't expect him to roll much.”

“I say,” said Peter, musingly, “wouldn't it be jolly if we all WERE in a book, and you were writing it? Then you could make all sorts of jolly things happen, and make Jim's legs get well at once and be all right to-morrow, and Father come home soon and—”

“Do you miss your Father very much?” Mother asked, rather coldly, Peter thought.

“Awfully,” said Peter, briefly.

Mother was enveloping and addressing the second letter.

“You see,” Peter went on slowly, “you see, it's not only him BEING Father, but now he's