Five Children and It

The house was three miles from the station, but, before the dusty hired fly had rattled along for five minutes the children began to put their heads out of the carriage window and to say, “Aren’t we nearly there?” And every time they passed a house, which was not very often, they all said, “Oh, is this it?” But it never was, till they reached the very top of the hill, just past the chalk-quarry and before you come to the gravel-pit. And then there was a white house with a green garden and an orchard beyond, and mother said, “Here we are!”

“How white the house is,” said Robert.

“And look at the roses,” said Anthea.

“And the plums,” said Jane.

“It is rather decent,” Cyril admitted.

The Baby said, “Wanty go walky;” and the fly stopped with a last rattle and jolt.

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!” when suddenly a dry husky voice in the sand made them all jump back, and their hearts jumped nearly as fast as they did.

“Let 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?”

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 unnoticed 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? And you’re the Panther; I can see your dirty handkerchief that you forgot to change after you’d cut your thumb! 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 as you were 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. “And Jane’s hair is simply carrots.”

It was indeed of that Venetian tint so much admired by artists.

Robert was running as fast as he could, but when he turned the corner that ought to have brought him within sight of the architect’s nightmare⁠—the ornamental ironwork on the top of the house⁠—he opened his eyes so wide that he had to drop into a walk; for you cannot run with your eyes wide open. Then suddenly he stopped short, for there was no house to be seen. The front garden railings were gone too, and where the house had stood⁠—Robert rubbed his eyes and looked again. Yes, the others had wished⁠—there was no doubt about that⁠—and they must have wished that they lived in a castle; for there the castle stood, black and stately, and very tall and broad, with battlements and lancet windows, and eight great towers; and, where the garden and the orchard had been, there were white things dotted like mushrooms. Robert walked slowly on, and as he got nearer he saw that these were tents, and men in armour were walking about among the tents⁠—crowds and crowds of them.

“Oh, crikey!” said Robert fervently. “They have! They’ve wished for a castle, and it’s being besieged! It’s just like that Sand-fairy! I wish we’d never seen the beastly thing!”

“I suppose he’ll be grown up some day,” Anthea was saying, dreamily looking up at the blue of the sky that showed between the long straight chestnut-leaves. But at that moment the Lamb, struggling gaily with Cyril, thrust a stoutly-shod little foot against his brother’s chest; there was a crack!⁠—the innocent Lamb had broken the glass of father’s second-best Waterbury watch, which Cyril had borrowed without leave.

“Grow up some day!” said Cyril bitterly, plumping the Lamb down on the grass. “I daresay he will⁠—when nobody wants him to. I wish to goodness he would⁠—”

“Oh, take care!” cried Anthea in an agony of apprehension. But it was too late⁠—like music to a song her words and Cyril’s came out together⁠—

Anthea⁠—“Oh, take care!”

Cyril⁠—“Grow up now!”

The faithful Psammead was true to its promise, and there, before the horrified eyes of its brothers and sisters, the Lamb suddenly and violently grew up. It was the most terrible moment. The change was not so sudden as the wish-changes usually were. The Baby’s face changed first. It grew thinner and larger, lines came in the forehead, the eyes grew more deep-set and darker in colour, the mouth grew longer and thinner; most terrible of all, a little dark moustache appeared on the lip of one who was still⁠—except as to the face⁠—a two-year-old baby in a linen smock and white openwork socks.