Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Wouldbegoods: Being the Further Adventures of the Treasure Seekers by E. Nesbit (ebook reader for laptop .txt) 📖
- Author: E. Nesbit
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When Albert’s uncle returned he was very hot, with a beaded brow, but pale as the Dentist when the peas were at their worst.
‘Did you catch her?’ H. O. asked.
Albert’s uncle’s brow looked black as the cloud that thunder will presently break from. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Is she your long-lost nurse?’ H. O. went on, before we could stop him.
‘Long-lost grandmother! I knew the lady long ago in India,’ said Albert’s uncle, as he left the room, slamming the door in a way we should be forbidden to.
And that was the end of the Canterbury Pilgrimage.
As for the lady, we did not then know whether she was his long-lost grandmother that he had known in India or not, though we thought she seemed youngish for the part. We found out afterwards whether she was or not, but that comes in another part. His manner was not the one that makes you go on asking questions. The Canterbury Pilgriming did not exactly make us good, but then, as Dora said, we had not done anything wrong that day. So we were twenty-four hours to the good.
Note A.—Afterwards we went and saw real Canterbury. It is very large. A disagreeable man showed us round the cathedral, and jawed all the time quite loud as if it wasn’t a church. I remember one thing he said. It was this:‘This is the Dean’s Chapel; it was the Lady Chapel in the wicked days when people used to worship the Virgin Mary.’
And H. O. said, ‘I suppose they worship the Dean now?’
Some strange people who were there laughed out loud. I think this is worse in church than not taking your cap off when you come in, as H. O. forgot to do, because the cathedral was so big he didn’t think it was a church.
Note B. (See Note C.) Note C. (See Note D.) Note D. (See Note E.) Note E. (See Note A.)This ends the Canterbury Pilgrims.
CHAPTER 13. THE DRAGON’S TEETH; OR, ARMY-SEED
Albert’s uncle was out on his bicycle as usual. After the day when we became Canterbury Pilgrims and were brought home in the dog-cart with red wheels by the lady he told us was his long-lost grandmother he had known years ago in India, he spent not nearly so much of his time in writing, and he used to shave every morning instead of only when requisite, as in earlier days. And he was always going out on his bicycle in his new Norfolk suit. We are not so unobserving as grown-up people make out. We knew well enough he was looking for the long-lost. And we jolly well wished he might find her. Oswald, always full of sympathy with misfortune, however undeserved, had himself tried several times to find the lady. So had the others. But all this is what they call a digression; it has nothing to do with the dragon’s teeth I am now narrating.
It began with the pig dying—it was the one we had for the circus, but it having behaved so badly that day had nothing to do with its illness and death, though the girls said they felt remorse, and perhaps if we hadn’t made it run so that day it might have been spared to us. But Oswald cannot pretend that people were right just because they happen to be dead, and as long as that pig was alive we all knew well enough that it was it that made us run—and not us it.
The pig was buried in the kitchen garden. Bill, that we made the tombstone for, dug the grave, and while he was away at his dinner we took a turn at digging, because we like to be useful, and besides, when you dig you never know what you may turn up. I knew a man once that found a gold ring on the point of his fork when he was digging potatoes, and you know how we found two half-crowns ourselves once when we were digging for treasure.
Oswald was taking his turn with the spade, and the others were sitting on the gravel and telling him how to do it.
‘Work with a will,’ Dicky said, yawning.
Alice said, ‘I wish we were in a book. People in books never dig without finding something. I think I’d rather it was a secret passage than anything.’
Oswald stopped to wipe his honest brow ere replying.
‘A secret’s nothing when you’ve found it out. Look at the secret staircase. It’s no good, not even for hide-and-seek, because of its squeaking. I’d rather have the pot of gold we used to dig for when we were little.’ It was really only last year, but you seem to grow old very quickly after you have once passed the prime of your youth, which is at ten, I believe.
‘How would you like to find the mouldering bones of Royalist soldiers foully done to death by nasty Ironsides?’ Noel asked, with his mouth full of plum.
‘If they were really dead it wouldn’t matter,’ Dora said. ‘What I’m afraid of is a skeleton that can walk about and catch at your legs when you’re going upstairs to bed.’ ‘Skeletons can’t walk,’ Alice said in a hurry; ‘you know they can’t, Dora.’
And she glared at Dora till she made her sorry she had said what she had. The things you are frightened of, or even those you would rather not meet in the dark, should never be mentioned before the little ones, or else they cry when it comes to bed-time, and say it was because of what you said.
‘We shan’t find anything. No jolly fear,’ said Dicky.
And just then my spade I was digging with struck on something hard, and it felt hollow. I did really think for one joyful space that we had found that pot of gold. But the thing, whatever it was, seemed to be longish; longer, that is, than a pot of gold would naturally be. And as I uncovered it I saw that it was not at all pot-of-gold-colour, but like a bone Pincher has buried. So Oswald said—
‘It IS the skeleton.’
The girls all drew back, and Alice said, ‘Oswald, I wish you wouldn’t.’
A moment later the discovery was unearthed, and Oswald lifted it up, with both hands.
‘It’s a dragon’s head,’ Noel said, and it certainly looked like it.
It was long and narrowish and bony, and with great yellow teeth sticking in the jaw.
Bill came back just then and said it was a horse’s head, but H. O. and Noel would not believe it, and Oswald owns that no horse he has ever seen had a head at all that shape.
But Oswald did not stop to argue, because he saw a keeper who showed me how to set
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