Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  The Railway Children. By E. Nesbit (Wells Gardner, 6s.). — Every child is fascinated by the wonders of the great iron road and its flying messengers. The many little people who watch for Mrs. Nesbit’s Yuletide contributions will enter into the daily pleasures of the Railway Children quite as keenly as did that happily placed family. The railway made up their young lives, but it brought them romance and excitement as well as a store of entrancing knowledge.

  1905 Publisher’s Advertisement, Longman’s Green & Co.

  From: 1905 publisher’s advertisement, Longman’s Green & Co.

  WORKS BY E. NESBIT.

  LAYS AND LEGENDS, 1st Series.

  “The work of a genuine poet.” — Athenaeum.

  “Remarkable volume of verse.” — Morning Post.

  “Genuine poetry.” — Literary World.

  “Really exquisite.” — Spectator.

  “Verses of singular beauty, and the beauty is allied with a strength quite masculine. There is a note of passion in every poem, and a note of a quality hitherto attained only by Mrs. Browning.” — Vanity Fair.

  LAYS AND LEGENDS. 2nd Series.

  “Fresh and powerful. E. Nesbit has taken a foremost place among our poets.” — Daily Chronicle.

  “E. Nesbit’s verse rings true and tuneful, and often displays much lyrical force and not a little real inspiration.” — The Times.

  “E. Nesbit has no ordinary imagination . . , fresh and spontaneous.” — Academy.

  “Except Miss Rossetti, who is hors concours, E. Nesbit is quite the best writer among English women.” — Manchester Guardian.

  LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO., 39 Paternoster Row, E.C.

  A POMANDER OF VERSE.

  “A finished daintiness, a natural yet cultivated perfume.” — Athenaeum.

  “The best work E. Nesbit has accomplished.” — Daily Chronicle.

  “For perfume and delicacy this little book has nothing contemporary.” — Manchester Guardian.

  ‘‘ E. Nesbit has not only a happy turn of phrase and a true sense of metre, but something to say.” — The Times.

  IN HOMESPUN.

  “A series of admirable tales.” — Daily Telegraph.

  “Very pathetic. Great power.” — Spectator.

  “In these ten stories E. Nesbit runs the gamut of human passion.” — Vanity Fair.

  ‘‘ These Kentish peasants are as life-like and as estimable as ever ‘Thrums’ or Galloway could produce. The volume is thoroughly worth a perusal.” — Pall Mall Gazette.

  “The stories have vigour, delicacy and pathos.” — The Globe.

  “It is many a long day since we had the pleasure of reading a volume of stories so much to our taste as In Homespun. Whereever we turn we discover reasons for applause.” — Literary World.

  JOHN LANE, Vigo Street, W.

  WORKS BY E. NESBIT. — Continued.

  SONGS OF LOVE AND EMPIRE.

  “Sincere and touching.” — Daily Chronicle.

  “It is poetry, it is true poetry, it is poetry which should live.” — Pall Mall Gazette.

  ‘‘ True poetry, instinct with passionate and tender feeling.” — Church Times.

  “A true ring of genuine inspiration.” — Saturday Review.

  “This popular poet.” — Academy.

  A. CONSTABLE & CO., 16 James Street, Haymarket, S.W.

  THE RED HOUSE.

  “Fresh, sunny and tenderly human.” — Daily Chronicle.

  “A humorous and pleasant chronicle.” — The Times.

  “Mingles fun and sentiment with grace and ease.” — Academy.

  “A finesse, a sureness of touch, a delicacy of reserve combined with a glorious frankness in these days only too rare.” — Illustrated London News.

  THE LITERARY SENSE.

  “Distinctly original and a particularly readable volume.” — The Sketch.

  “Uniformly well written in delightfully ironical vein.” — Daily Chronicle.

  “The book should do good.” — The Globe.

  ‘‘ Delightfully clever.” — Vanity Fair.

  “One of the best collections of short stories with a sentimental interest that we have met with for a long time.” — Standard.

  “This volume will come as a welcome oasis to many.” — Athenaeum.

  METHUEN & CO., 36 Essex Street, Strand, W.C.

  THIRTEEN WAYS HOME.

  “The best work of their kind which we have encountered for many a long day.” — Literary World.

  “Written with undoubted charm and ability.” — Daily News.

  “These stories charm us by truth of sentiment and an admirable simplicity.” — Daily Chronicle.

  “E. Nesbit has the faculty of holding the attention and retaining it” — The Globe.

  A. TREHERNE & CO., Ltd., 3 Agar Street, W.C.

  CHILDREN’S BOOKS.

  THE TREASURE SEEKERS.

  “A remarkably well written book.” — Standard.

  “The book is full of humour, children will fairly revel in it.” — Literature.

  “E. Nesbit has made a decidedly happy hit in The Treasure Seekers. It ought to be one of the favourite gift books of the season, and must be appreciated by all grown up people with a sense of humour.” — The Times.

  THE WOULDBEGOODS.

  “Couldn’t be better.” — Literary World.

  “A really charming book.” — Morning Post.

  “Very well written and highly diverting “ — Daily News.

  “We strongly recommend this as a book to be read.” — Spectator.

  NINE UNLIKELY TALES.

  “Nine Unlikely Tales have all the usual charm of E. Nesbit’s works. Every one of these stories is a delight. Every one should read it for its sly satire and delightful touches of character beside the all-absorbing interest of its plot.” — Saturday Review.

  “Clever, fantastic stories.” — The Globe.

  “In invention and construction the stories will bear comparison with any of their genre — grace of writing, happy originality and pleasant humour.” — Pall Mall Gazette.

  FIVE CHILDREN AND IT.

  “Few boys and girls, or indeed men and women, will be willing to lay down the book until the last page.” — The World.

  “Wholesome and most entertaining medicine.” — Spectator.

  “It is refreshing to find a writer who has not forgotten what fairyland is really like.” — Saturday Review.

  “E. Nesbit’s children are so natural, such very human children.” — Morning Leader.

  T. FISHER UNWIN, 11 Paternoster Buildings- B.C.

  THE NEW TREASURE SEEKERS.

  “We have no more delightful writer of books for children than E. Nesbit. It was an eminent and veteran novelist who said that the children in E. Nesbit’s books are ‘the real thing’.” — Daily Chronicle.

  “E. Nesbit’s stories about children, ordinary, naughty, adorable children, need no introduction.” — The Outlook.

  ‘‘ There is an extraordinary charm about all E. Nesbit’s stories.” The Graphic.

  T. FISHER UNWIN, 11 Paternoster Buildings, B.C.

  THE BOOK OF DRAGONS.

  “Gaily written.” — The Outlook.

  “Abounding in agreeable fancy.” — The Globe.

  “There is some delightful writing in this Book of Dragons.” Pall Mall Gazette.

  “It is highly diverting to read.” — Observer.

  “No child will be dull who manages to secure this book.” — The Bookman.

  “The mingling of everyday life with fantastic romance is very skilfully done.” — Daily Graphic.

  HARPER & BROTHERS, 45 Albemarle Street, W.

  PUSSY AND DOGGY TALES.

  “Delightfully humorous.” — The Times. “Admirable both in matter and style.” — Review of the Week.

  “They teach a closer sympathy between animals and children.” The Queen.

  J. M. DENT & CO., 29 & 30 Bedford Street, Strand, W.C.

  TH
E PHOENIX AND THE CARPET.

  ‘‘ Written with all E. Nesbit’s accustomed charm and delightful humour.” — Saturday Review.

  “All the qualities of quick fancy and humour.” — Daily News. “E. Nesbit doth delight both young and old, and happy are the children who possess her books.” — Daily Chronicle.

  “E. Nesbit is at her best in The Phoenix and the Carpet.” GEORGE NEWNES Ltd., 7-12 Southampton Street, Strand, W.C.

  The Autobiography

  Edith Nesbit, c. 1883

  MY SCHOOL DAYS

  This informative memoir was originally serialised in The Girl’s Own Paper from October 1896 to September 1897.

  CONTENTS

  PART I. — STUART PLAID.

  PART II. — LONG DIVISION.

  PART III. — SOUTH WITH THE SWALLOWS.

  PART IV. — IN THE DARK

  PART V. — THE MUMMIES AT BORDEAUX

  PART VI.

  PART VII. — DISILLUSION.

  PART VIII. — IN AUVERGNE.

  PART IX. — LA HAYE.

  PART X. — PIRATES AND EXPLORERS.

  PART XI.

  PART XII.

  INTRODUCTION

  Not because my childhood was different from that of others, not because I have anything strange to relate, anything new to tell, are these words written. For the other reason rather that I was a child as other children, that my memories are their memories, as my hopes were their hopes, my dreams their dreams, my fears their fears. I open the book of memory to tear out some pages for you others.

  There is nothing here that is not in my most clear and vivid recollection.

  When I was a little child I used to pray fervently, tearfully, that when I should be grown up I might never forget what I thought and felt and suffered then.

  Let these pages speak for me, and bear witness that I have not forgotten.

  PART I. — STUART PLAID.

  When I was small and teachable my mother was compelled to much travel and change of scene by the illness of my elder sister; and as she liked to have me more or less within reach, I changed schools as a place-hunter changes his politics.

  The first school I went to was a Mrs. Arthur’s — at Brighton. I remember very little about the lessons, because I was only seven years old, but I remember — to my inmost fibre I remember the play. There was a yard behind the house — no garden and there I used to play with another small child whose name I have forgotten. But 1 know that she wore a Stuart plaid frock, and that I detested her.

  On the first day of my arrival we were sent into the “playground” with our toys. Stuart plaid, as I must call her, having no other name, had a battered doll and three scallop-shells I had a very complete little set of pewter tea-things in a cardboard box.

  “Let’s change for a bit,” said Stuart plaid.

  Mingled politeness and shyness compelled my acquiescence. She took my new tea-things, and I disconsolately nursed the battered torso of her doll. But this grew very wearisome, and I, feeling satisfied that the claims of courtesy had been fully met, protested mildly.

  “Now then,” said Stuart plaid, looking up from the tea-things, “don’t be so selfish; besides, they’re horrid little stupid tin things. I wouldn’t give twopence for them.”

  “But I don’t want you to give twopence for them; I want them back.”

  “Oh, no you don’t!”

  “Yes I do,” said I, roused by her depreciation of my property-, “and I’ll have them too, so there!”

  I advanced towards her — I am afraid with some half-formed determination of pulling her hair.

  “A11 right,” she said, “you stand there and I’ll put them in the box and give them to you.”

  “Promise!”

  “Yes, if you don’t move.”

  She turned her back on me. It took her a very long time to put them in the box. I stood tingling with indignation, and a growing desire to slap her face. Presently she turned.

  “You would have them back,” she said, grinning unpleasantly, “and here they are.”

  She put them into my hands. She had bitten every single cup, saucer, and plate into a formless lump!

  While I stood speechless with anger and misery, she came close to me and said tauntingly

  “There, now! aren’t you sorry you didn’t let me have them?”

  “I’ll go home,” I said, struggling between pride and tears.

  “Oh, no you won’t,” said Stuart plaid, thrusting her mocking face close to mine; “and if you say a word about it I’ll say you did it and pinched me as well. And Mrs. Arthur’ll believe me, because I’m not a new girl, and you are!”

  I turned away without a word, and I never did tell — till now. But I never said another word to Stuart plaid out of school. She tortured me unremittingly. When I had been at school a week or two my paint-box suffered at her hands, but I bore it meekly and in silence, only seeking to replace my Vandyke brown by mud from the garden. Chinese white I sought to manufacture by a mixture of chalk picked up on the sea-shore, and milk from my mug at tea-time. It was never a successful industry. I remember the hot white streets, and the flies, and Brill’s baths, and the Western Road, and the bitter pang of passing, at the end of a long procession, our own house, where always some one might be at the window, and never any one was. I used to go home on Saturdays, and then all bitterness was so swallowed up in the bliss of the homereturning, that I actually forgot the miseries of my school-life; but I was very unhappy there. Mrs. Arthur and the big girls were kind enough to me, but Stuart plaid was enough to blight any lot. She blighted mine, and I suppose no prisoner ever hailed the falling of his fetters with the joy I felt when at last, after three or four days of headache and tears, I was wrapped in a blanket and taken home with the measles.

  When I got better we went for the midsummer holidays to a lovely cottage among the beech-woods of Buckinghamshire. I shall never forget the sense of rest and delight that filled my small heart when I slipped out under the rustic porch at five o’clock the first morning, and felt the cool velvet turf under my feet. Brighton pavement had been so hard and hot. Then, instead of the long rows of dazzling houses with their bow windows and green-painted balconies, there were lovely trees acacias and elms, and a big copper beech. In the school walks we never had found any flowers but little pink bind-weed, by the dusty roadside. Here there were royal red roses, and jasmine, and tall white lilies, and in the hedge by the gate, sweet-brier and deep-cupped white convolvulus. I think I saw then for the first time how lovely God’s good world is, and ever since then, thank God, I have been seeing it more and more. That was a happy morning.

  The boys — whom I had not seen for ever so long, because of the measles — were up already. Alfred had a rabbit for me — a white rabbit with pink eyes — in a hutch he had made himself. And Harry led me to a nook among the roots of the copper beech, where he showed me two dormice in an old tea-caddy.

  “You shall go shares in them if you like,” he said.

  There was honey in the comb for breakfast, and new-laid eggs, and my mother was there in a cool cotton gown pouring out tea, and purring with pleasure at having all her kittens together again. There were cool raspberries on the table too, trimmed with fresh green leaves, and through the window we saw the fruit garden and its promise. That was summer indeed.

  After breakfast my mother called me to her -she had some patterns in her hand.

  “You must be measured for some new frocks, Daisy,” she said.

  “Oh, how nice. What colour?”

  “Well, some nice white ones, and this pretty plaid.” She held up a pattern as she spoke. It was a Stuart plaid.

  “Oh, not that!” I cried.

  “Not this pretty plaid, darling? Why not?”

  If you’ll believe me, I could not say why not. And the frock was made, and I wore it, loathing it, till the day when I fell out of the apple-tree, and it broke my fall by catching on a branch. But it saved my life at the expense of its own; and I gave a feast
to all the dolls to celebrate its interment in the rag-bag.

  I have often wondered what it is that keeps children from telling their mothers these things-and even now I don’t know. I only know I might have been saved many of these little-big troubles if I had only been able to explain. But I wasn’t; and to this day my mother does not know how and why I hated that Stuart plaid frock.

  PART II. — LONG DIVISION.

  I spent a year in the select boarding establishment for young ladies and gentlemen at Stamford, and I venture to think that I should have preferred a penal settlement. Miss Fairfield, whose school it was was tall and pale and dark, and I thought her as good and beautiful as an angel. I don’t know now whether she was really beautiful, but I know she was good. And her mother — dear soul — had a sympathy with small folly in disgrace, which has written her name in gold letters on my heart.