St. George lowered his spear, bent his head, dug his heels into his horse’s sides, and came thundering over the turf. The dragon charged with a roar and a squeal—a great blue whirling combination of coils and snorts and clashing jaws and spikes and fire.
“Missed!” yelled the crowd. There was a moment’s entanglement of golden armour and blue-green coils, and spiky tail, and then the great horse, tearing at his bit, carried the Saint, his spear swung high in the air, almost up to the mouth of the cave.
The dragon sat down and barked viciously, while St. George with difficulty pulled his horse round into position.
“End of Round One!” thought the Boy. “How well they managed it! But I hope the Saint won’t get excited. I can trust the dragon all right. What a regular play-actor the fellow is!”
St. George had at last prevailed on his horse to stand steady, and was looking round him as he wiped his brow. Catching sight of the Boy, he smiled and nodded, and held up three fingers for an instant.
“It seems to be all planned out,” said the Boy to himself. “Round Three is to be the finishing one, evidently. Wish it could have lasted a bit longer. Whatever’s that old fool of a dragon up to now?”
The dragon was employing the interval in giving a ramping-performance for the benefit of the crowd. Ramping, it should be explained, consists in running round and round in a wide circle, and sending waves and ripples of movement along the whole length of your spine, from your pointed ears right down to the spike at the end of your long tail. When you are covered with blue scales, the effect is particularly pleasing; and the Boy recollected the dragon’s recently expressed wish to become a social success.
St. George now gathered up his reins and began to move forward, dropping the point of his spear and settling himself firmly in the saddle.
“Time!” yelled everybody excitedly; and the dragon, leaving off his ramping, sat up on end, and began to leap from one side to the other with huge ungainly bounds, whooping like a Red Indian. This naturally disconcerted the horse, who swerved violently, the Saint only just saving himself by the mane; and as they shot past the dragon delivered a vicious snap at the horse’s tail which sent the poor beast careering madly far over the Downs, so that the language of the Saint, who had lost a stirrup, was fortunately inaudible to the general assemblage.
Round Two evoked audible evidence of friendly feeling towards the dragon. The spectators were not slow to appreciate a combatant who could hold his own so well and clearly wanted to show good sport; and many encouraging remarks reached the ears of our friend as he strutted to and fro, his chest thrust out and his tail in the air, hugely enjoying his new popularity.
St. George had dismounted and was tightening his girths, and telling his horse, with quite an Oriental flow of imagery, exactly what he thought of him, and his relations, and his conduct on the present occasion; so the Boy made his way down to the Saint’s end of the line, and held his spear for him.
“It’s been a jolly fight, St. George!” he said with a sigh. “Can’t you let it last a bit longer?”
“Well, I think I’d better not,” replied the Saint. “The fact is, your simple-minded old friend’s getting conceited, now they’ve begun cheering him, and he’ll forget all about the arrangement and take to playing the fool, and there’s no telling where he would stop. I’ll just finish him off this round.”
He swung himself into the saddle and took his spear from the Boy. “Now don’t you be afraid,” he added kindly. “I’ve marked my spot exactly, and he’s sure to give me all the assistance in his power, because he knows it’s his only chance of being asked to the banquet!”
St. George now shortened his spear, bringing the butt well up under his arm; and, instead of galloping as before, trotted smartly towards the dragon, who crouched at his approach, flicking his tail till it cracked in the air like a great cart-whip. The Saint wheeled as he neared his opponent and circled warily round him, keeping his eye on the spare place; while the dragon, adopting similar tactics, paced with caution round the same circle, occasionally feinting with his head. So the two sparred for an opening, while the spectators maintained a breathless silence.
Though the round lasted for some minutes, the end was so swift that all the Boy saw was a lightning movement of the Saint’s arm, and then a whirl and a confusion of spines, claws, tail, and flying bits of turf. The dust cleared away, the spectators whooped and ran in cheering, and the Boy made out that the dragon was down, pinned to the earth by the spear, while St. George had dismounted, and stood astride of him.
It all seemed so genuine that the Boy ran in breathlessly, hoping the dear old dragon wasn’t really hurt. As he approached, the dragon lifted one large eyelid, winked solemnly, and collapsed again. He was held fast to earth by the neck, but the Saint had hit him in the spare place agreed upon, and it didn’t even seem to tickle.
“Bain’t you goin’ to cut ’is ’ed orf, master?” asked one of the applauding crowd. He had backed the dragon, and naturally felt a trifle sore.
“Well, not to-day, I think,” replied St. George, pleasantly. “You see, that can be done at any time. There’s no hurry at all. I think we’ll all go down to the village first, and have some refreshment, and then I’ll give him a good talking-to, and you’ll find he’ll be a very different dragon!”
At that magic word refreshment the whole crowd formed up in procession and silently awaited the signal to start. The time for talking and cheering and betting was past, the hour for action had arrived. St. George, hauling on his spear with both hands, released the dragon, who rose and shook himself and ran his eye over his spikes and scales and things, to see that they were all in order. Then the Saint mounted and led off the procession, the dragon following meekly in the company of the Boy, while the thirsty spectators kept at a respectful interval behind.
There were great doings when they got down to the village again, and had formed up in front of the inn. After refreshment St. George made a speech, in which he informed his audience that he had removed their direful scourge, at a great deal of trouble and inconvenience to himself, and now they weren’t to go about grumbling and fancying they’d got grievances, because they hadn’t. And they shouldn’t be so fond of fights, because next time they might have to do the fighting themselves, which would not be the same thing at all. And there was a certain badger in the inn stables which had got to be released at once, and he’d come and see it done himself. Then he told them that the dragon had been thinking over things, and saw that there were two sides to every question, and he wasn’t going to do it any more, and if they were good perhaps he’d stay and settle down there. So they must make friends, and not be prejudiced, and go about fancying they knew everything there was to be known, because they didn’t, not by a long way. And he warned them against the sin of romancing, and making up stories and fancying other people would believe them just because they were plausible and highly-coloured. Then he sat down, amidst much repentant cheering, and the dragon nudged the Boy in the ribs and whispered that he couldn’t have done it better himself. Then every one went off to get ready for the banquet.
Banquets are always pleasant things, consisting mostly, as they do, of eating and drinking; but the specially nice thing about a banquet is, that it comes when something’s over, and there’s nothing more to worry about, and to-morrow seems a long way off. St. George was happy because there had been a fight and he hadn’t had to kill anybody; for he didn’t really like killing, though he generally had to do it. The dragon was happy because there had been a fight, and so far from being hurt in it he had won popularity and a sure footing in Society. The Boy was happy because there had been a fight, and in spite of it all his two friends were on the best of terms. And all the others were happy because there had been a fight, and—well, they didn’t require any other reasons for their happiness. The dragon exerted himself to say the right thing to everybody, and proved the life and soul of the evening; while the Saint and the Boy, as they looked on, felt
that they were only assisting at a feast of which the honour and the glory were entirely the dragon’s. But they didn’t mind that, being good fellows, and the dragon was not in the least proud or forgetful. On the contrary, every ten minutes or so he leant over towards the Boy and said impressively, “Look here! you will see me home afterwards, won’t you?” And the Boy always nodded, though he had promised his mother not to be out late.
At last the banquet was over, the guests had dropped away with many good-nights and congratulations and invitations, and the dragon, who had seen the last of them off the premises, emerged into the street followed by the Boy, wiped his brow, sighed, sat down in the road and gazed at the stars. “Jolly night it’s been!” he murmured. “Jolly stars! Jolly little place this! Think I shall just stop here. Don’t feel like climbing up any beastly hill. Boy’s promised to see me home. Boy had better do it, then! No responsibility on my part. Responsibility all Boy’s!” And his chin sank on his broad chest and he slumbered peacefully.
“Oh, get up, dragon,” cried the Boy, piteously. “You know my mother’s sitting up, and I’m so tired, and you made me promise to see you home, and I never knew what it meant or I wouldn’t have done it!” And the Boy sat down in the road by the side of the sleeping dragon, and cried.
The door behind them opened, a stream of light illumined the road, and St. George, who had come out for a stroll in the cool night-air, caught sight of the two figures sitting there—the great motionless dragon and the tearful little Boy.
“What’s the matter, Boy?” he inquired kindly, stepping to his side.
“Oh, it’s this great lumbering pig of a dragon!” sobbed the Boy. “First he makes me promise to see him home, and then he says I’d better do it, and goes to sleep! Might as well try to see a haystack home! And I’m so tired, and mother’s—” here he broke down again.
“Now don’t take on,” said St. George. “I’ll stand by you, and we’ll both see him home. Wake up, dragon!” he said sharply, shaking the beast by the elbow.
The dragon looked up sleepily. “What a night, George!” he murmured; “what a—”
“Now look here, dragon,” said the Saint, firmly. “Here’s this little fellow waiting to see you home, and you know he ought to have been in bed these two hours, and what his mother’ll say I don’t know, and anybody but a selfish pig would have made him go to bed long ago—”
“And he shall go to bed!” cried the dragon, starting up. “Poor little chap, only fancy his being up at this hour! It’s a shame, that’s what it is, and I don’t think, St. George, you’ve been very considerate—but come along at once, and don’t let us have any more arguing or shilly-shallying. You give me hold of your hand, Boy—thank you, George, an arm up the hill is just what I wanted!”
So they set off up the hill arm-in-arm, the Saint, the Dragon, and the Boy. The lights in the little village began to go out; but there were stars, and a late moon, as they climbed to the Downs together. And, as they turned the last corner and disappeared from view, snatches of an old song were borne back on the night-breeze. I can’t be certain which of them was singing, but I think it was the Dragon!
1898
The Deliverers of Their Country
E. NESBIT
It all began with Effie’s getting something in her eye. It hurt very much indeed, and it felt something like a red-hot spark—only it seemed to have legs as well, and wings like a fly. Effie rubbed and cried—not real crying, but the kind your eye does all by itself without your being miserable inside your mind—and then she went to her father to have the thing in her eye taken out. Effie’s father was a doctor, so of course he knew how to take things out of eyes—he did it very cleverly with a soft paint-brush dipped in castor-oil. When he had got the thing out, he said:
“This is very curious.” Effie had often got things in her eye before, and her father had always seemed to think it was natural—rather tiresome and naughty perhaps, but still natural. He had never before thought it curious. She stood holding her handkerchief to her eye, and said:
“I don’t believe it’s out.” People always say this when they have had something in their eyes.
“Oh, yes—it’s out,” said the doctor—“here it is on the brush. This is very interesting.”
Effie had never heard her father say that about anything that she had any share in. She said, “What?”
The doctor carried the brush very carefully across the room, and held the point of it under his microscope—then he twisted the brass screws of the microscope, and looked through the top with one eye.
“Dear me,” he said. “Dear, dear me! Four well-developed limbs; a long caudal appendage; five toes, unequal in lengths, almost like one of the Lacertidæ, yet there are traces of wings.” The creature under his eye wriggled a little in the castor-oil, and he went on: “Yes; a bat-like wing. A new specimen, undoubtedly. Effie, run round to the professor and ask him to be kind enough to step in for a few minutes.”
“You might give me sixpence, daddy,” said Effie, “because I did bring you the new specimen. I took great care of it inside my eye; and my eye does hurt.”
The doctor was so pleased with the new specimen that he gave Effie a shilling, and presently the professor stepped round. He stayed to lunch, and he and the doctor quarrelled very happily all the afternoon about the name and the family of the thing that had come out of Effie’s eye.
But at tea-time another thing happened. Effie’s brother Harry fished something out of his tea, which he thought at first was an earwig. He was just getting ready to drop it on the floor, and end its life in the usual way, when it shook itself in the spoon—spread two wet wings, and flopped on to the tablecloth. There it sat stroking itself with its feet and stretching its wings, and Harry said, “Why, it’s a tiny newt!”
The professor leaned forward before the doctor could say a word. “I’ll give you half a crown for it, Harry, my lad,” he said, speaking very fast; and then he picked it up carefully on his handkerchief.
“It is a new specimen,” he said, “and finer than yours, doctor.”
It was a tiny lizard, about half an inch long—with scales and wings.
So now the doctor and the professor each had a specimen, and they were both very pleased. But before long these specimens began to seem less valuable. For the next morning, when the knife-boy was cleaning the doctor’s boots, he suddenly dropped the brushes and the boot and the blacking, and screamed out that he was burnt.
And from inside the boot came crawling a lizard as big as a kitten, with large, shiny wings.
“Why,” said Effie, “I know what it is. It is a dragon like St. George killed.”
And Effie was right. That afternoon Towser was bitten in the garden by a dragon about the size of a rabbit, which he had tried to chase, and next morning all the papers were full of the wonderful “winged lizards” that were appearing all over the country. The papers would not call them dragons, because, of course, no one believes in dragons nowadays—and at any rate the papers were not going to be so silly as to believe in fairy stories. At first there were only a few, but in a week or two the country was simply running alive with dragons of all sizes, and in the air you could sometimes see them as thick as a swarm of bees. They all looked alike except as to size. They were green with scales, and they had four legs, and a long tail and great wings like bats’ wings, only the wings were a pale, half-transparent yellow, like the gear-cases on bicycles.
And they breathed fire and smoke, as all proper dragons must, but still the newspapers went on pretending they were lizards, until the editor of the Standard was picked up and carried away by a very large one, and then the other newspaper people had not any one left to tell them what they ought not to believe. So that when the largest elephant in the Zoo was carried off by a dragon, the papers gave up pretending—and put: “Alarming Plague of Dragons” at the top of the paper.
And you have no idea how alarming it was, and at the same time how aggravating. The large-sized d
ragons were terrible certainly, but when once you had found out that the dragons always went to bed early because they were afraid of the chill night-air, you had only to stay indoors all day, and you were pretty safe from the big ones. But the smaller sizes were a perfect nuisance. The ones as big as earwigs got in the soap, and they got in the butter. The ones as big as dogs got in the bath, and the fire and smoke inside them made them steam like anything when the cold-water tap was turned on, so that careless people were often scalded quite severely. The ones that were as large as pigeons would get into work-baskets or corner drawers, and bite you when you were in a hurry to get a needle or a handkerchief. The ones as big as sheep were easier to avoid, because you could see them coming; but when they flew in at the windows and curled up under your eider-down, and you did not find them till you went to bed, it was always a shock. The ones this size did not eat people, only lettuces, but they always scorched the sheets and pillow-cases dreadfully.
Of course, the County Council and the police did everything that could be done: it was no use offering the hand of the Princess to anyone who killed a dragon. This way was all very well in olden times—when there was only one dragon and one Princess; but now there were far more dragons than princesses—although the Royal Family was a large one. And besides, it would have been mere waste of princesses to offer rewards for killing dragons, because everybody killed as many dragons as they could quite out of their own heads and without rewards at all, just to get the nasty things out of the way. The County Council undertook to cremate all dragons delivered at their offices between the hours of ten and two, and whole waggon-loads and cart-loads and truck-loads of dead dragons could be seen any day of the week standing in a long line in the street where the County Council lived. Boys brought barrow-loads of dead dragons, and children on their way home from morning school would call in to leave the handful or two of little dragons they had brought in their satchels, or carried in their knotted pocket-handkerchiefs. And yet there seemed to be as many dragons as ever. Then the police stuck up great wood and canvas towers covered with patent glue. When the dragons flew against these towers, they stuck fast, as flies and wasps do on the sticky papers in the kitchen: and when the towers were covered all over with dragons, the police-inspector used to set light to the towers, and burnt them and dragons and all.
The Victorian Fairy Tale Book (The Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) Page 45