Short Stories for Children

by Walter De la Mare

‘It’s not the bricks, ma’am, but the people,’ replied the Admiral, as he followed her up a flight of stairs into a room which immediately overlooked the street.

  There – behind the Brussels curtains at the window, and seated on a rather lumpy armchair – the Admiral spent most of his morning, watching all that went on in the street below, but especially the boy. And once more he came to two conclusions: first, that Mike was not now wearing the jacket, and next that he was making less money even than the day before. Life seemed to be gone out of him. He sat hunched up beside his chalks and his empty cap – his bony face as grey as ashes. He hardly dared even raise his eyes when anybody paused to examine his pictures. Now and again, however, he would glance anxiously up and down the street as if in search of somebody.

  ‘He’s looking for me,’ muttered the Admiral to himself. ‘He wants to return the jacket. God bless me! Still, steady does it; steady does it.’

  He returned to his window in the early afternoon. The boy looked even more miserable and dejected than ever, but nonetheless he had begun to tinker a bit at his picture, The Old Victery. On this occasion the Admiral had brought field-glasses with him. With these he could now watch his young friend at work so closely as almost to fancy he could hear him breathe. Indeed, he could see even a round-headed ant making its way along the crack between two paving-stones; and the tiny bits of chalk resembled coloured rocks.

  Mike laboured on, now rubbing out, now chalking in, and the Admiral could follow every tint and line and stroke. At last – though by no means as if he were satisfied – the boy stood up and examined what he had done. At sight of it he seemed to droop and shrink. And no wonder. The Admiral almost wept aloud. The thing was ruined. There was the ship, there the sea, and there the sky; but where the lovely light and airiness, the romance, the wonder? Where the picture?

  Admiral Rumbold was at his wits’ end. The day was drawing on. He began to think that his intended kindness had ruined the boy for good and all. He sat back in his chair absolutely at a loss what to do next. One thing was certain. He must go soon and have a word with the boy – hearten and liven him up. He must give him a good square meal, put some ‘beef’ into him, and – perhaps – take the jacket back. It had been little but a deceit and a failure. He must take the jacket back, then think things over.

  He leant forward to rise from his chair, and as he did so cast a last desperate glance at the opposite side of the street. Then he paused. Fine weather was still in the heavens. The first colours of evening were beginning to stretch across London’s skies – shafts of primrose, melted gold, and faint crimson lighting up the walls of the houses, flooding the streets with light. And Mike was no longer alone. He was still squatting tailor-fashion under his wall and as motionless as if he had been carved out of ebony, but a pace or so away stood an odd-looking old gentleman in a sort of long curry-coloured ulster. This old gentleman had a beard and wore a high conical black felt hat with a wide rim to it. An umbrella, less neat but more formidable in appearance even than the Admiral’s, was tucked under his arm.

  He was not merely looking at, he was intent on, ‘lost’ in the pictures. He stooped over them each in turn, spending at least two or three minutes over every one, except The Old Victery, at which he just glanced and went on.

  When he found himself at the end of the row, he turned back and examined them all over again. Admiral Rumbold watched these proceedings with bated breath. The old man in the ulster had now turned to Mike, who at once scrambled to his feet, leaving his chalks, his cap, and a small newspaper parcel on the pavement. The two of them in the clear-coloured evening light were soon talking together almost as if they were father and son. They were talking about the pictures, too; for every now and again Mike’s new acquaintance, bent almost double, would point with the stump of his umbrella at one of them, tracing out a line, or hovering over a patch of colour. At the same time, his beard turned over his shoulder towards Mike, he would seem to be praising, or criticising, or explaining, or asking questions. Once, indeed, he stooped, caught up a piece of chalk, and himself drew a few lines on the pavement as if to show the boy exactly what he meant. ‘So!’ the Admiral heard him end, brushing his fingers.

  There could be no doubt this eccentric old gentleman in the wide black hat was interested not only in the pictures but also in Mike. He looked as if in his excitement he might go on talking till midnight. But no; at this very moment he seemed to be making some kind of proposal to the boy. He had put his hand on his shoulder as if in encouragement. Mike hesitated; then cast a long look into the sky, as if to consult the weather. After that his mind seemed to be made up. He hastily took up his cap, his chalks, and his parcel, and the two of them set off down Little St Ann’s together.

  At this Admiral Rumbold paused no longer. He seized his hard billycock hat, his field-glasses and his malacca cane, and clattered down the stairs out into the street. Keeping well behind them, he followed Mike and the old gentleman out of Little St Ann’s into Ashley Court, and so across into Jermyn Street. At this corner, so intent was he in his pursuit, that he barely escaped being run over by a two-horse grocery van.

  Mike and the old gentleman were now so clearly in sight that the Admiral had time to pause and address a policeman.

  ‘Good evening, constable,’ he said. ‘I want you to tell me if by any chance you happen to know the name of that old gentleman in the hat yonder, walking with that lad there?’

  The policeman fixed his eyes on the pair.

  ‘Well, sir, to tell you the truth, sir,’ he said at last, ‘I’ve seen him somewhere though I couldn’t say rightly just where. I’ve even been told who he is. But bless me, if I can lay tongue to the name of him. I wish I could, sir. He looks as if it might be worth while.’ Admiral Rumbold thanked the policeman and hastened on.

  At the moment when he once more came within sight of the two of them a long-haired youngish young man in a dark, loose cape or cloak had but just met and passed them by. This young man was also wearing a black wide-brimmed hat. As soon as politeness permitted, he not only stopped dead, but stood intently watching the pair until Admiral Rumbold himself had come up with him. The Admiral glanced him over.

  ‘You will excuse me, sir,’ he said, ‘but if I am not mistaken, you are as much interested in that old gentleman yonder as I am myself. A most impressive figure! Could you oblige me with his name?’

  ‘His name, sir!’ exclaimed the young man. ‘Gracious heavens! why, that’s old B——. That’s “old B in a Bonnet”! – the crankiest, craziest old creature in the British Isles. But make no mistake, sir. What that old boy doesn’t know about pictures and painting isn’t worth a tallow candle. He’s a Master. Wait till he’s dead, that’s all. Then the whole world will be wagging with him.’

  ‘You don’t say so!’ shouted the Admiral. ‘A Master! Painting! – eh? I am very greatly obliged to ’ee – very greatly obliged. And you think if he’s taken a fancy to that lad there – sees promise in him, I mean – well – that the lad’s in luck’s way?’

  ‘“Think?”’ replied the young man. ‘Bless your heart, sir, I know.’

  The Admiral detained him no longer. He saluted him and passed on. He could say no more. He was satisfied. All was well. The magic jacket, then, had not played him false; Mike’s ‘steepish bit of hill’ was well begun. He found himself at the further end of Jermyn Street, and in the traffic of the Haymarket. The old man in the ulster had disappeared. But no, there he was – old B – some little distance down on the opposite side of the street, and at the window of a print-seller’s shop. He was talking to the boy at his side – pointing, gesticulating, his bushy beard wagging. And Mike was listening, gazing in, entranced. Admiral Rumbold turned on his heel. He had never professed to know much about pictures. Then why should he now suddenly feel downcast and depressed? He was tired, too, and extremely thirsty. It was almost as if he missed his jacket.

  * As printed in CSC (1947). First published in Number Six Joy Street, Oxford 1928. It w
as called ‘The Jacket’ in LF (1933).

  Dick and the Beanstalk*

  In the county of Gloucestershire there lived with his father, who was a farmer, a boy called Dick. Their farm was not one of the biggest of the Gloucestershire farms thereabouts. It was of the middle size, between large and small. But the old house had stood there, quiet and peaceful, for at least two hundred years, and it was built of sound Cotswold stone. It had fine chimney-stacks and a great roof. From his window under one of its gables Dick looked out across its ploughland and meadows to distant hills, while nearer at hand its barns, stables and pigsties clustered around it, like chicks round a hen.

  Dick was an only son and had no mother. His father – chiefly for company’s sake – had never sent him to school. But being a boy pretty quick in his wits, Dick had all but taught himself, with his father’s help, to read and write and figure a little. And, by keeping his eyes and his ears open wherever he went, by asking questions and, if need be, finding out the answers for himself, he had learned a good deal else besides.

  When he was a child he had been sung all the old rhymes and told most of the country tales of those parts by his mother, and by an old woman who came to the farm when there was sewing to be done, sheets to be hemmed, or shirts to be made. She was a deaf, poring old woman, but very skilful with her needle; and he never wearied of listening to the tales she told him; though at times, and particularly on dark windy nights in the winter, he would at last creep off rather anxious and shuddering to bed.

  These tales not only stayed in Dick’s head, but lived there. He not only remembered them, but thought about them; and he sometimes dreamed about them. He not only knew almost by heart what they told, but would please himself by fancying what else had happened to the people in them after the tales were over or before they had begun. He could not only find his way about in a story-book, chapter by chapter, page by page, but if it told only about the inside of a house he would begin to wonder what its garden was like – and in imagination would find his way out into it and then perhaps try to explore even further. It was in this way, for example, that Dick had come to his own conclusions on which finger Aladdin wore his ring, and the colour of his uncle the Magician’s eyes; on what too at last had happened to the old Fairy Woman in The Sleeping Beauty. After, that is, she had ridden off on her white ass into the forest when the magic spindle had begun to spread the deathly slumber over her enemies that was not to be broken for a hundred years. He knew why she didn’t afterwards come to the Wedding!

  And as for Blue-beard’s stone-turreted and many-windowed castle, with its chestnut gallery to the east, and its muddy moat with its carp, under the cypresses, Dick knew a good deal more about that than ever Fatima did! So again, if he found out that Old Mother Hubbard had a cat, he could tell you the cat’s name. And he could describe the crown that Molly Whuppie was crowned with when she became Queen, even to its last emerald. He was what is called a lively reader.

  Dick often wished he had been born the youngest of three brothers, for then he would have gone out into the world early to seek his fortune. And in a few years, and after many adventures, he would have come back again, his pockets crammed with money, a Magic Table on his back or a Cap of Invisibility in his pocket, and have lived happily with his father ever afterwards. He had long been certain too that if only he could spruce up his courage and be off if but a little way, even if only into one of the next counties, Warwickshire or Wiltshire, Monmouthshire or Somerset, adventures would be sure to come. He itched to try his luck.

  But there was a hindrance. His father would hardly let him out of his sight. And this was natural. Poor man, he had no daughters, so Dick was his only child as well as his only son. And his mother was dead. Apart then from his farm, the farmer had but one thought in the world – Dick himself. Still, he would at times give him leave to jog off alone to the nearest market town on an errand or two. And going alone for Dick was not the same thing as not going alone.

  Sometimes Dick went further. He had an uncle, a very fat man, who was a mason at Moreton-in-the-Marsh, and an old widowed aunt who had a windmill and seven cats at Stow-on-the-Wold. He would visit them. He had also been to the Saffron Fair at Cirencester; and had stayed till the lights came out and the flares of the gingerbread stalls and Merry-go-rounds. But as for the great cities of Gloucestershire – Gloucester itself, or Bristol; or further still, Exeter, or further the other way, London (where his old friend and namesake Dick Whittington had been Lord Mayor three-and-a-half times) – Dick had never walked the streets of any of them, except in his story-books or in dreams. However, those who wait long enough seldom wait in vain.

  On his next birthday after the one on which he had gone to the Saffron Fair, his father bought him for a birthday present a rough-coated pony. It was hog-maned – short and bristly; it was docktailed, stood about eleven hands high, and was called Jock. His father gave Dick leave to ride about the country when his morning’s work was done, ‘just to see the world a bit’, as he said, and to learn to fend for himself. And it was a bargain and promise between them that unless any mischance or uncommon piece of good fortune should keep him late, Dick would always be home again before night came down. Great talks of the afternoon’s and evening’s doings the two of them would have over their supper together in the farmhouse kitchen. His father began to look forward to them as much as Dick looked forward to them himself. Very good friends they were together, Dick and his father.

  Now one winter morning – in the middle of January – of the next year, Dick asked leave of his father to have the next whole fine day all to himself. The weather had been frosty, the evening skies a fine shepherd’s red, and everything promised well. He told his father he wanted to press on further afield than he had before – ‘beyond those hills over there’. And as the days were now short, he must be off early, since there were few hours after noon before dark. His father gave him leave, but warned him to be careful of what company he got into and against any folly or foolhardiness. ‘Don’t run into mischief, my son,’ he said, ‘nor let mischief run into you!’ Dick laughed and promised.

  Next day, before dawn, while still the stars were shining, he got up, put on his clothes, crept downstairs, ate a hurried breakfast and cut himself off a hunch of bread and meat in the larder to put in his pocket. Then he scribbled a few lines to his father to tell him that he had gone, pinned the paper to the kitchen table, and having saddled up his pony set out due north-west into the morning.

  There had been a very sharp frost during the night. It was as though a gigantic miller had stalked over the fields scattering his meal as he went. The farm ruts were hard and sharp as stone, and, as they jogged along, Jock’s hoofs splintered the frozen puddles lying between them as if they were fine thin glass. Soon the sun rose, clear as a furnace, though with so little heat yet that its beams were not strong enough even to melt the rime that lay in the hollows and under the woods.

  Now on the Friday before this, Dick had come to a valley between two round hills, and had looked out beyond it. But it had been too late in the day to go further. He reached this valley again about ten o’clock of the morning, and pushed on, trotting steadily along between its wooded slopes, following a faint overgrown grass-track until at last the track died away, and he came out on the other side. Here was much emptier, flatter country, though not many miles distant snow-topped hills began again. These hills were strange to him, and he had no notion where he was.

  The unploughed fields were larger here than any he was accustomed to, and were overgrown with weeds. In these a multitude of winter birds were feeding. The hedges were ragged and untended, and there was not a house to be seen. Dick got off Jock’s back and took out his lunch. Uncommonly good it tasted in the sharp cold air. And as he ate – sitting on a green knoll in the thin pale sunshine – he looked about him. And he saw a long way off what at first sight he took to be a column of smoke mounting up into the sky. He watched it awhile, marvelling. But there was no show of fire
or of motion in it. It hung still and glimmering between the frosty earth and the blue of space. If not smoke, what could it be? Dick pondered in vain.

  Having hastily finished his bread and meat, and feeling much the better for it, he mounted again and set off as fast as Jock could carry him in its direction. About three o’clock in the afternoon he drew near. And he found himself at last in a hollow where was an old tumbledown cottage, its thatch broken, its chimney fallen, its garden run wild. And growing within a few paces of this old cottage – towering up high above it, its top beyond view – was a huge withered tangle of what looked like a coarse kind of withywind or creeper. It went twisting and writhing corkscrew-fashion straight up into the air and so out of sight. Dick could not guess how far, because the sunlight so dazzled his eyes. But when he examined this great growth closely, and its gigantic pods of dried-up seeds as big as large kidney-shaped pebble-stones that still clung to its stem, he decided that it must be beans.

  Never had he seen anything to match these beans. Who could have planted them, and when, and for what purpose? And where was he gone to? And then, in a flash, Dick realized at last where he himself was, and what he was looking at. There could be no doubt in the world. This was Jack’s old cottage. This was where Jack had lived with his mother – before he met the friendly butcher on his way to market. And this huge tangled ladder here – which must have sprung up again as mighty as ever after Jack had cut it down and the Giant had fallen headlong – was Jack’s famous Beanstalk.

  Poor old woman, thought Dick. Jack’s mother must be dead and gone ages and ages ago. And Jack too. He spied through the broken wall where a window had been. The hearth was full of old nettles. The thatch was riddled with abandoned bird-nests and rat-holes. There was not a sound in earth or sky; nor any trace of human being. He sat down on a hummock in the sun not far from the walls, and once more gazed up at the Beanstalk; and down again; and in his mind Dick went through all Jack’s strange adventures. He knew them by heart.