The Railway Children quotes

There were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, mothers never have favourites, but if their mother had had a favourite, it might have been Roberta.

Next came Peter, who wished to be an engineer when he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well.

Mother did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull ladies, and sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to her.

… cross, never unjust, and always ready for a game—at least, if at any time he was not ready, he always had an excellent reason for it, and explained the reason to the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt sure he couldn’t help himself.

You will think that they ought to have been very happy. And so they were, but they did not know how happy till the pretty life in the Red Villa was over and done with, and they had to live a very different life indeed.

The dreadful change came quite suddenly.

Just then there was a knock at the front door.

“Who on earth!” said Father. “An Englishman’s house is his castle, of course, but I do wish they built semidetached villas with moats and drawbridges.”

Ruth—she was the parlourmaid and had red hair—came in and said that two gentlemen wanted to see the master.

Aunt Emma believed in keeping children in their proper places. And they more than returned the compliment.

Their idea of Aunt Emma’s proper place was anywhere where they were not.

So they saw very little of her. They preferred the company of the servants, who were more amusing.

“But we seem to be taking all the ugly things,” said Roberta.

“We’re taking the useful ones,” said Mother; “we’ve got to play at being poor for a bit, my chickabiddy.”

When all the ugly useful things had been packed up and taken away in a van by men in green-baize aprons, the two girls and Mother and Aunt Emma slept in the two spare rooms where the furniture was all pretty.

“Let me do it,” said Peter, thinking he could do it better himself.

Everyone thinks this when he sees another person stirring a fire, or opening a box, or untying a knot in a bit of string.

“You’ll hurt your hands, Mammy,” said Roberta; “let me.”

“As many as ever you like,” said Mother, gaily.

“The great thing is to be cheerful. Nobody can be cheerful in the dark except owls and dormice.”

So the girls lighted candles. The head of the first match flew off and stuck to Phyllis’s finger;

next moment a train had rushed out of the tunnel with a shriek and a snort, and had slid noisily past them. They felt the rush of its passing, and the pebbles on the line jumped and rattled under it as it went by.

“Oh!” said Roberta, drawing a long breath; “it was like a great dragon tearing by. Did you feel it fan us with its hot wings?”

“I suppose a dragon’s lair might look very like that tunnel from the outside,” said Phyllis.

Mother had told them more than once that they were “quite poor now,” but this did not seem to be anything but a way of speaking.

Grownup people, even Mothers, often make remarks that don’t seem to mean anything in particular, just for the sake of saying something, seemingly.

There was always enough to eat, and they wore the same kind of nice clothes they had always worn.

“Tell that to the Marines,” said the Station Master.

“It would be just as true whoever I told it to,” said Peter.

“You’re right there,” said the man, who held him. “Stow your jaw, you young rip, and come along to the station.”

It was by the Green Dragon that the old gentleman travelled.

He was a very nice-looking old gentleman, and he looked as if he were nice, too, which is not at all the same thing.

He had a fresh-coloured, clean-shaven face and white hair, and he wore rather odd-shaped collars and a top-hat that wasn’t exactly the same kind as other people’s. Of course the children didn’t see all this at first.

“The Green Dragon’s going where Father is,” said Phyllis; “if it were a really real dragon, we could stop it and ask it to take our love to Father.”

“Dragons don’t carry people’s love,” said Peter; “they’d be above it.”

“Yes, they do, if you tame them thoroughly first. They fetch and carry like pet spaniels,” said Phyllis, “and feed out of your hand. I wonder why Father never writes to us.”

At first the children thought “the proof” meant the letter the sensible Editor had written, but they presently got to know that the proof was long slips of paper with the story printed on them.

Whenever an Editor was sensible there were buns for tea.

One day Peter was going down to the village to get buns to celebrate the sensibleness of the Editor of the Children’s Globe, when he met the Station Master.

“You ought to be very proud to have such a clever mother.”

“Yes,” said Peter, “but she used to play with us more before she had to be so clever.”

“Well,” said the Station Master, “I must be getting along. You give us a look in at the station whenever you feel so inclined. And as to coals, it’s a word that—well—oh, no, we never mention it, eh?”

Then she was quiet again, and Bobbie kicked Phyllis hard under the table, because Bobbie understood a little bit the thoughts that were making Mother so quiet—the thoughts of the time when Mother was a little girl and was all the world to her mother.

It seems so easy and natural to run to Mother when one is in trouble.

Bobbie understood a little how people do not leave off running to their mothers when they are in trouble even when they are grown up, and she thought she knew a little what it must be to be sad, and have no mother to run …

But it had to be done. And it was done. Mother was extremely angry. She was seldom angry, and now she was angrier than they had ever known her. This was horrible. But it was much worse when she suddenly began to cry.

Crying is catching, I believe, like measles and whooping-cough.

At any rate, everyone at once found itself taking part in a crying-party.

“But the engine’s green,” said Phyllis.

“Yes, Miss,” said Perks, “so’s a snail some seasons o’ the year.”

The children agreed as they went home to dinner that the Porter was most delightful company.

Suddenly she put out her hand and caught hold of the nearest sleeve. The man turned with a start, and he and Roberta stood for a minute looking at each other in silence. Then the silence was broken by them both.

The man said, “Here’s a bloomin’ go!” and Roberta burst into tears.

The other man said he was blooming well blest—or something like it—but though naturally surprised they were not exactly unkind.

I’m not a confidence trick like in the newspapers—really, I’m not.”

“You’re a little lady, every inch,”

said Bill, relenting suddenly and completely. “We’ll see you gets home safe. An’ about this engine—Jim—ain’t you got ne’er a pal as can use a soldering iron? Seems to me that’s about all the little bounder wants doing to it.”

“Nous etre bong pour vous.”

I do not know whether the man understood her words, but he understood the touch of the hand she thrust into his, and the kindness of the other hand that stroked his shabby sleeve.

She pulled him gently towards the inmost sanctuary of the Station Master.

“It’s moving!” cried Bobbie. “Oh, look! and so are the others. It’s like the woods in Macbeth.”

“It’s magic,” said Phyllis, breathlessly. “I always knew this railway was enchanted.”

It really did seem a little like magic.

It really did seem a little like magic.

For all the trees for about twenty yards of the opposite bank seemed to be slowly walking down towards the railway line, the tree with the grey leaves bringing up the rear like some old shepherd driving a flock of green sheep.

“What is it? Oh, what is it?” said Phyllis; “it’s much too magic for me. I don’t like it. Let’s go home.”

“How dreadful if they had all been killed!” said Phyllis; “wouldn’t it, Bobbie?”

“We never got any cherries, after all,” said Bobbie.

The others thought her rather heartless.

For instance, she was quite oddly anxious to make other people happy. And she could keep a secret, a tolerably rare accomplishment. Also she had the power of silent sympathy.

That sounds rather dull, I know, but it’s not so dull as it sounds.

It just means that a person is able to know that you are unhappy, and to love you extra on that account, without bothering you by telling you all the time how sorry she is for you. That was what Bobbie was like.

For instance, she was quite oddly anxious to make other people happy. And she could keep a secret, a tolerably rare accomplishment. Also she had the power of silent sympathy. That sounds rather dull, I know, but it’s not so dull as it sounds.

It just means that a person is able to know that you are unhappy, and to love you extra on that account, without bothering you by telling you all the time how sorry she is for you.

That was what Bobbie was like. She knew that Mother was unhappy—and that Mother had not told her the reason.

Bobbie had another quality which you will hear differently described by different people. Some of them call it interfering in other people’s business—and some call it “helping lame dogs over stiles,” and some call it “loving-kindness.”

It just means trying to help people.

She racked her brains to think of some way of helping the Russian gentleman to find his wife and children. He had learned a few words of English now.

“I suppose I shall have to be married some day,” said Peter, “but it will be an awful bother having her round all the time.

I’d like to marry a lady who had trances, and only woke up once or twice a year.

”

It was decided that she should keep behind the others as much as possible.

“Perhaps the old gentleman won’t notice,” said Bobbie. “The aged are often weak in the eyes.”

There was no sign of weakness, however, in the eyes, or in any other part of the old gentleman, as he stepped from the train and looked up and down the platform.

And she started the race, though she hated doing it. You know why Bobbie did that. Mother only thought that Bobbie was tired of walking slowly.

Even Mothers, who love you better than anyone else ever will, don’t always understand.

“It’s all right, hardly any fire at all.”

And this, though he thought it was a lie, was rather good of Peter.

It was meant to keep Bobbie from rushing after him into danger. Of course it didn’t.

“So you’ve made another lot of friends,” said Mother; “first the railway and then the canal!”

“Oh, yes,” said Bobbie; “I think everyone in the world is friends if you can only get them to see you don’t want to be un-friends.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mother; and she sighed. “Come, Chicks. It’s bedtime.”

And some people were kind, and some were crusty. And some would give and some would not.

It is rather difficult work asking for things, even for other people, as you have no doubt found if you have ever tried it.

When the children got home and counted up what had been given and what had been promised, they felt that for the first day it was not so bad.

“We didn’t mean any harm,” said Peter.

“It ain’t what you means so much as what you does,” said Perks.

“Oh, don’t!” cried Bobbie, trying hard to be braver than Phyllis, and to find more words than Peter had done for explaining in. “We thought you’d love it. We always have things on our birthdays.”

When the clergyman called on Mrs. Perks, she told him all about it. “It was friendliness, wasn’t it, Sir?” said she.

“I think,” said the clergyman, “it was what is sometimes called loving-kindness.”

So you see it was all right in the end. But if one does that sort of thing, one has to be careful to do it in the right way. For, as Mr.

Besides parting from Father, he and I have had a great sorrow—oh, terrible—worse than anything you can think of, and at first it did hurt to hear you all talking of him as if everything were just the same.

But it would be much more terrible if you were to forget him. That would be worse than anything.

”

Mother sat with him when his sisters were out. And the words, “he’s not a coward,” made Peter determined not to make any fuss about the pain in his foot, though it was rather bad, especially at night.

Praise helps people very much, sometimes.

There were visitors, too. Mrs. Perks came up to ask how he was, and so did the Station Master, and several of the village people. But the time went slowly, slowly.

“Yes,” said Phyllis; “and then we’re going to save up all the wool and hair we can get, and in the spring we’ll line them, and then how pleased the swallows will be!”

“I’ve often thought people don’t do nearly enough for dumb animals,” said Peter with an air of virtue.

“I do think people might have thought of making nests for poor little swallows before this.”

“I’ve often thought people don’t do nearly enough for dumb animals,” said Peter with an air of virtue. “I do think people might have thought of making nests for poor little swallows before this.”

“Oh,” said Bobbie, vaguely, “if everybody thought of everything, there’d be nothing left for anybody else to think about.”

“Look at the nests—aren’t they pretty?” said Phyllis, reaching across Peter to grasp a nest.

When Bobbie had got the stocking off and saw the poor leg, she felt as though the tunnel was growing darker, and the ground felt unsteady, and nothing seemed quite real.

“Silly little girl!” said Roberta to Bobbie, and felt better.

“The poor leg,” she told herself; “it ought to have a cushion—ah!”

Her flannel petticoat today was white, but it would be quite as soft as a red one. She took it off.

“Oh, what useful things flannel petticoats are!” she said; “the man who invented them ought to have a statue directed to him.”

And she said it aloud, because it seemed that any voice, even her own, would be a comfort in that darkness.

Bobbie blew. Out went the candle.

You have no idea how black-velvety the darkness was.

“I say, Bobbie,” said a voice through the blackness, “aren’t you afraid of the dark?”

“There’s no end to this tunnel,” said Phyllis—and indeed it did seem very very long.

“Stick to it,” said Peter; “everything has an end, and you get to it if you only keep all on.”

Which is quite true, if you come to think of it, and a useful thing to remember in seasons of trouble—such as measles, arithmetic, impositions, and those times when you are in disgrace, and feel as though no one would ever love you again, and …

Mother smiled, but she sighed, too.

It is nice that your children should believe you willing to open house and heart to any and everyone who needs help. But it is rather embarrassing sometimes, too, when they act on their belief.

“Oh, well,” said Mother, “we must make the best of it.”

Perhaps it was because he had been so very nice and kind all the earlier part of the day, and now he had to have a change. This is called reaction. One notices it now and then in oneself.

Sometimes when one has been extra good for a longer time than usual, one is suddenly attacked by a violent fit of not being good at all.

“I’ll tell you what they do,” said Peter;

Peter’s Mother put her arm round him suddenly, and hugged him in silence for a minute. Then she said:—

“Don’t you think it’s rather nice to think that we’re in a book that God’s writing? If I were writing the book, I might make mistakes. But God knows how to make the story end just right⁠—in the way that’s best for us.”

“Do you really believe that, Mother?” Peter asked quietly.

But even when I can’t believe it, I know it’s true—and I try to believe. You don’t know how I try, Peter. Now take the letters to the post, and don’t let’s be sad any more.

Courage, courage! That’s the finest of all the virtues!

I dare say Jim will be here for two or three weeks yet.”

“I’m so glad,” said Peter, “that you’re going to keep him, Mother.”

“Take care of your mother, my dears,” said the old gentleman. “She’s a woman in a million.”

“Yes, isn’t she?” whispered Bobbie.

“My dear,” he said, “I’m perfectly certain he didn’t.”

If it was a false hope, it was none the less a very radiant one that lay warm at Bobbie’s heart, and through the days that followed lighted her little face as a Japanese lantern is lighted by the candle within.

I put the rhymes in to show you that their Mother really did understand a little how children feel about things, and also the kind of words they use, which is the case with very few grownup people.

I suppose most grownups have very bad memories, and have forgotten how they felt when they were little.

Of course, the verses are supposed to be spoken by the children.