50 Fairy Stories

by Belinda Gallagher

  Cyril wanted to dig out a cave to play smugglers in, but the others thought it might bury them alive, so it ended in all spades going to work to dig a hole through the castle to Australia. The children dug and they dug and they dug, and their hands got sandy and hot and red, and their faces got damp and shiny. The Lamb had tried to eat the sand, and had cried so hard when he found that it was not, as he had supposed, brown sugar, that he was now tired out, and was lying asleep in a warm fat bunch in the middle of the half-finished castle. This left his brothers and sisters free to work really hard, and the hole that was to come out in Australia soon grew so deep that Jane, who was called Pussy for short, begged the others to stop.

  Cyril and Anthea knew that Australia was not quite so near as all that, but they agreed to stop using the spades and go on with their hands. This was quite easy, because the sand at the bottom of the hole was very soft and fine and dry, like sea sand.

  The party were just making up their minds that the sand makes you thirstier when it is not by the seaside, and someone had suggested going home for lemonade, when Anthea suddenly screamed:

  “Cyril! Come here! Oh, come quick! It’s alive! It’ll get away! Quick!”

  They all hurried back.

  “Perhaps it is a snake,” said Jane, shuddering.

  “Oh, don’t be silly!” said Anthea, “it’s not a snake. It’s got feet, I saw them, and fur! No – not the spade. You’ll hurt it! Dig with your hands.”

  But Cyril merely observed that his sister must have gone off her nut, and he and Robert dug with spades while Anthea sat on the edge of the hole, jumping up and down with hotness and anxiety. They dug carefully, and presently everyone could see that there really was something moving in the bottom of the hole.

  Then Anthea cried out, “I’m not afraid. Let me dig,” and fell on her knees and began to scratch like a dog does when he has suddenly remembered where it was that he buried his bone.

  “Oh, I felt fur,” she cried, half laughing and half crying. “I did indeed! I did!” Suddenly a dry husky voice in the sand made them all jump back, and their hearts jumped nearly as fast as they did.

  “Leave me alone,” it said. And now everyone heard the voice and looked at the others to see if they had too.

  “But we want to see you,” said Robert bravely.

  “I wish you’d come out,” said Anthea, also taking courage.

  “Oh, well – if that’s your wish,” the voice said, and the sand stirred and spun and scattered, and something brown and furry and fat came rolling out into the hole and the sand fell off it, and it sat there yawning and rubbing the ends of its eyes with its hands.

  “I believe I must have dropped asleep,” it said, stretching itself.

  The children stood round the hole in a ring, looking at the creature they had found. It was worth looking at. Its eyes were on long horns like a snail’s eyes, and it could move them in and out like telescopes. It had ears like a bat’s ears, and its tubby body was shaped like a spider’s and covered with thick soft fur. Its legs and arms were furry too, and it had hands and feet like a monkey’s.

  “What on earth is it?” Jane said. “Shall we take it home?”

  The thing turned its long eyes to look at her, and said, “Does she always talk nonsense, or is it only the rubbish on her head that makes her silly?”

  It looked scornfully at Jane’s hat as it spoke.

  “She doesn’t mean to be silly,” Anthea said gently, “We none of us do, whatever you may think! Don’t be frightened.”

  It said. “Me frightened? Upon my word! Why, you talk as if I were nobody in particular.” All its fur stood out like a cat’s when it is going to fight.

  “Well,” said Anthea, still kindly, “perhaps if we knew who you are in particular we could think of something to say that wouldn’t make you cross.”

  “You don’t know?” it said. “Well, I knew the world had changed – but – well, really – do you mean to tell me seriously you don’t know a Psammead when you see one? Or, in plain English, then, a sand-fairy. Don’t you know a sand-fairy when you see one?”

  Of course no one could think of anything to say, but at last Robert thought of ‘How long have you lived here?, and he said it at once.

  “Oh, ages – several thousand years,” replied the Psammead.

  “Was the world like this then?”

  It stopped digging.

  “Not a bit,” it said, “it was nearly all sand where I lived, and coal grew on trees. We sand-fairies used to live on the seashore, and the children used to come with their little flint-spades and flint-pails and make castles for us to live in. That’s thousands of years ago, but I hear that children still build castles on the sand. It’s difficult to break yourself of a habit.”

  “Why did you stop living in castles?” asked Robert.

  “It’s a sad story,” said the Psammead gloomily. “It was because they would build moats to the castles, and the nasty wet bubbling sea used to come in, and of course as soon as a sand-fairy got wet it caught cold, and generally died. And so there got to be fewer and fewer.”

  “And did you get wet?” Robert inquired.

  The sand-fairy shuddered. “Only once,” it said, “the end of the twelfth hair of my top left whisker – I feel the place still in damp weather. I scurried away to the back of the beach, and dug myself a house deep in warm dry sand, and there I’ve been ever since. And the sea changed its lodgings afterwards. And now I’m not going to tell you another thing.”

  “Just one more, please,” said the children. “Can you give wishes now?”

  “Of course,” said it, “didn’t I give you yours a few minutes ago? You said, ‘I wish you’d come out,, and I did.”

  “Oh, please, mayn’t we have another?”

  “Yes, but be quick about it. I’m tired of you.”

  I daresay you have often thought what you would do if you had three wishes given you. These children had often talked this matter over, but, now the chance had suddenly come to them, they could not make up their minds.

  “Quick,” said the sand-fairy crossly.

  No one could think of anything. Only Anthea did manage to remember a private wish of her own and Jane’s which they had never told the boys. “I wish we were all as beautiful as the day,” she said in a great hurry.

  The children looked at each other, but each could see that the others were not any better looking than usual. The Psammead pushed out its long eyes, and seemed to be holding its breath and swelling itself out till it was twice as fat and furry as before. Suddenly it let its breath go in a long sigh.

  “I’m really afraid I can’t manage it,” it said apologetically, “I must be out of practise.”

  The children were horribly disappointed.

  “Oh, do try again!” they said.

  “Well,” said the sand-fairy, “the fact is, I was keeping back a little strength to give the rest of you your wishes with. If you’ll be contented with one wish a day amongst the lot of you I daresay I can screw myself up to it. Do you agree to that?”

  “Yes, oh yes!” said Jane and Anthea. The boys nodded.

  It stretched out its eyes farther than ever, and swelled and swelled and swelled.

  “I do hope it won’t hurt itself,” said Anthea.

  “Or crack its skin,” Robert said anxiously.

  Everyone was very much relieved when the sand fairy, after getting so big that it almost filled up the hole in the sand, suddenly let out its breath and went back to its proper size.

  “That’s all right,” it said, panting heavily. “It’ll come easier tomorrow. It’ll last till sunset.”

  “Did it hurt much?” asked Anthea.

  “Only my whisker, thank you,” said he. “Good day.”

  It scratched suddenly and fiercely with its hands and feet, and disappeared in the sand. Then the children looked at each other, and each child suddenly found itself alone with three perfect strangers, all radiantly beautiful.

  They stood
for some moments in perfect silence. Each thought that its brothers and sisters had wandered off, and that these strange children had stolen up while it was watching the swelling form of the sand-fairy.

  Anthea spoke first, “Excuse me,” she said very politely to Jane, who now had enormous blue eyes and a cloud of russet hair, “but have you seen two little boys and a little girl anywhere about?”

  “I was just going to ask you that,” said Jane. And then Cyril cried:

  “Why, it’s you! I know the hole in your pinafore! You are Jane, aren’t you? Crikey! The wish has come off, after all. I say, am I as handsome as you are?”

  “If you’re Cyril, I liked you much better before,” said Anthea decidedly. “You look like the picture of the young chorister, with your golden hair, you’ll die young, I shouldn’t wonder. And if that’s Robert, he’s like an Italian organ grinder. His hair’s all black.”

  “You two girls are like Christmas cards, then – that’s all – silly Christmas cards,” said Robert angrily.

  “Well, it’s no use finding fault with each other,” said Anthea, “let’s get the Lamb and lug it home to dinner. The servants will admire us most awfully, you’ll see.”

  Baby was just waking when they got to him, and not one of the children but was relieved to find that he at least was not as beautiful as the day, but just the same as usual.

  “I suppose he’s too young to have wishes naturally,” said Jane. “We shall have to mention him specially next time.”

  Anthea ran forward and held out her arms.

  “Come to own Panther, ducky,” she said.

  The Baby looked at her disapprovingly, and put a sandy pink thumb in his mouth.

  “G’way long!” said the Baby.

  “Come to own Pussy,” said Jane.

  “Wants my Panty,” said the Lamb dismally, and his lip trembled.

  “Here, come on, Veteran,” said Robert, “come and have a yidey on Yobby’s back.”

  “Yah, narky narky boy,” howled the Baby, giving way altogether. Then the children knew the worst. The baby did not know them!

  They looked at each other in despair, and it was terrible to each, in this dire emergency, to meet only the beautiful eyes of perfect strangers, instead of the merry, friendly, little eyes of its own brothers and sisters.

  “This is most truly awful,” said Cyril. “I can’t carry him home screaming like that. Fancy having to make friends with our own baby! It’s too silly.”

  That, however, was exactly what they had to do. It took over an hour, and the task was not rendered any easier by the fact that the Lamb was by this time as hungry as a lion and as thirsty as a desert.

  At last he consented to allow these strangers to carry him home by turns, but as he refused to hold on to such new acquaintances he was a dead weight and most exhausting.

  “Thank goodness, we’re home!” said Jane, staggering through the iron gate to where Martha, the nursemaid, stood at the front door shading her eyes with her hand and looking out anxiously. “Here! Do take baby!”

  Martha snatched the baby from her arms.

  “Thanks be, he’s safe back,” she said. “Where are the others, and whoever to goodness gracious are all of you?,

  “We’re us,go home to your of course,” said Robert.

  “And who’s us, when you’re at home?” asked Martha scornfully.

  “I know we look different, but I’m Anthea, and we’re so tired, and it’s long past dinner time.”

  “Then go home to your dinners, whoever you are, and if our children put you up to this play-acting you can tell them from me they’ll catch it, so they know what to expect!” With that she did bang the door. Cyril rang the bell violently. No answer. Presently cook put her head out of a bedroom window and said:

  “If you don’t take yourselves off, I’ll go and fetch the police.” And she slammed down the window.

  “It’s no good,” said Anthea. “Oh, do, do come away before we get sent to prison!”

  The boys said it was nonsense, and the law of England couldn’t put you in prison for just being as beautiful as the day, but all the same they followed the others out into the lane.

  “We shall be our proper selves after sunset, I suppose,” said Jane.

  It was a horrible afternoon. There was no house near where the children could beg a crust of bread or even a glass of water. They were afraid to go to the village, because they had seen Martha go down there with a basket, and there was a local constable. True, they were all as beautiful as the day, but that is a poor comfort when you are as hungry as a hunter and as thirsty as a sponge.

  It came at last to their sitting down in a row under the hedge, with their feet in a dry ditch, waiting for sunset.

  At last hunger and fright and crossness and tiredness – four very nasty things – all joined together to bring one nice thing, and that was sleep. The children lay asleep in a row, with their beautiful eyes shut and their beautiful mouths open. Anthea woke first. The sun had set, and the twilight was coming on.

  “Wake up,” she said, almost in tears of joy, “it’s all right. Oh, Cyril, how nice and ugly you do look, with your old freckles and your brown hair and your little eyes. And so do you all!” she added, so that they might not feel jealous.

  When they got home they were very much scolded by Martha, who told them about the strange children.

  “A good-looking lot, I must say, but that impudent.”

  “I know,” said Robert, who knew by experience how hopeless it would be to try to explain things to Martha.

  “And where on earth have you been all this time, you naughty little things, you?”

  “In the lane.”

  “Why didn’t you come home hours ago?”

  “We couldn’t because of them,” said Anthea.

  “‘Who?”

  “The children who were as beautiful as the day. They kept us there till after sunset. We couldn’t come back till they’d gone. You don’t know how we hated them! Oh, do, do give us some supper – we are so hungry.”

  “Hungry! I should think so,” said Martha angrily,

  “out all day like this. Well, I hope it’ll be a lesson to you not to go picking up with strange children – down here after measles, as likely as not! Now mind, if you see them again, don’t you speak to them – not one word.”

  “If ever we do see them again we’ll tell you,” Anthea said, and Robert, fixing his eyes fondly on the cold beef that was being brought in on a tray by cook, added in heartfelt undertones, “And we’ll take jolly good care we never do see them again.”

  And they never have.

  Christmas Every Day

  By W D Howells

  READING TIME: 12 MINUTES

  The little girl came into her papa’s study and asked for a story. He tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would not let him. So he began:

  “Well, once there was a little pig—”

  She put her hand over his mouth to stop him, saying that she had heard pig stories till she was sick of them.

  “Well, what kind of story shall I tell, then?”

  “About Christmas. It’s getting to be the season. It’s past Thanksgiving already.”

  “It seems to me,” her papa argued, “that I’ve told as often about Christmas as I have about little pigs.”

  “Christmas is more interesting.”

  “Well, then, I’ll tell you about the little girl that wanted it to be Christmas every day in the year. How would you like that?”

  “First-rate!” said the little girl, and she nestled into comfortable shape in his lap, ready for listening…

  Once there was a little girl who liked Christmas so much that she wanted it to be Christmas every day. As soon as Thanksgiving was over she began to send letters to the Christmas Fairy to ask if she could, and – just the day before Christmas – she got a letter from the fairy, saying she might have Christmas every day for a year, and then they would see about having it longer.r />
  The little girl was a good deal excited already, preparing for the old-fashioned, once-a-year Christmas that was coming the next day, and perhaps the fairy’s promise didn’t make such an impression on her as it would have made at some other time. She just resolved to keep it to herself, and surprise everybody with it as it kept coming true, and then it slipped out of her mind altogether.

  She had a splendid Christmas. She went to bed early, so as to let Santa Claus have a chance at the stockings, and in the morning she was up the first of anybody and went and felt them, and found hers all lumpy with packages of candy, and oranges and grapes, and books and rubber balls, and all kinds of small presents. Then she waited around till the rest of the family were up, and she was the first to burst into the library when the doors were opened, and look at the large presents laid out – books, and boxes of stationery, and dolls, and little stoves, and skates, and photograph-frames, and little easels, and boxes of water-colours, and Turkish paste, and nougat, and candied cherries, and dolls, houses – and the big Christmas tree, lighted and standing in a waste basket in the middle.

  She had a splendid Christmas all day. She ate so much candy that she did not want any breakfast, and she went round giving the presents she had got for other people, and came home and ate turkey and cranberry for dinner, and plum-pudding and nuts and raisins and oranges and more candy, and then went out sledging, and came in with a stomach-ache, crying, and her papa said he would see if his house was turned into that sort of fool’s paradise another year, and they had a light supper, and pretty early everybody went to bed cross.

  The little girl slept very heavily, and she slept very late, but she was wakened at last by the other children dancing round her bed with their stockings full of presents in their hands.

  “What is it?” said the little girl, and she rubbed her eyes and tried to rise up in bed.

  “Christmas! Christmas! Christmas!” they all shouted, and waved their stockings.

  “Nonsense! It was Christmas yesterday.”

  Her brothers and sisters just laughed. “We don’t know about that. It’s Christmas today, anyway. You come into the library and see.”