The Little White Bird | Page 3

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THE LITTLE WHITE BIRD OR ADVENTURES IN KENSINGTON
GARDENS
BY
J.M. BARRIE

CONTENTS
I. David and I Set Forth Upon a Journey II. The Little Nursery
Governess III. Her Marriage, Her Clothes, Her Appetite, and an

Inventory of Her Furniture. IV. A Night-Piece V. The Fight For
Timothy VI. A Shock VII. The Last of Timothy VIII. The
Inconsiderate Waiter IX. A Confirmed Spinster X. Sporting Reflections
XI. The Runaway Perambulator XII. The Pleasantest Club in London
XIII. The Grand Tour of the Gardens XIV. Peter Pan XV. The Thrush's
Nest XVI. Lock-Out Time XVII. The Little House XVIII. Peter's Goat
XIX. An Interloper XX. David and Porthos Compared XXI. William
Paterson XXII. Joey XXIII. Pilkington's XXIV. Barbara XXV. The
Cricket Match XXVI. The Dedication

THE LITTLE WHITE BIRD
I
David and I Set Forth Upon a Journey
Sometimes the little boy who calls me father brings me an invitation
from his mother: "I shall be so pleased if you will come and see me,"
and I always reply in some such words as these: "Dear madam, I
decline." And if David asks why I decline, I explain that it is because I
have no desire to meet the woman.
"Come this time, father," he urged lately, "for it is her birthday, and she
is twenty-six," which is so great an age to David, that I think he fears
she cannot last much longer.
"Twenty-six, is she, David?" I replied. "Tell her I said she looks more."
I had my delicious dream that night. I dreamt that I too was twenty-six,
which was a long time ago, and that I took train to a place called my
home, whose whereabouts I see not in my waking hours, and when I
alighted at the station a dear lost love was waiting for me, and we went
away together. She met me in no ecstasy of emotion, nor was I
surprised to find her there; it was as if we had been married for years
and parted for a day. I like to think that I gave her some of the things to
carry.

Were I to tell my delightful dream to David's mother, to whom I have
never in my life addressed one word, she would droop her head and
raise it bravely, to imply that I make her very sad but very proud, and
she would be wishful to lend me her absurd little pocket handkerchief.
And then, had I the heart, I might make a disclosure that would startle
her, for it is not the face of David's mother that I see in my dreams.
Has it ever been your lot, reader, to be persecuted by a pretty woman
who thinks, without a tittle of reason, that you are bowed down under a
hopeless partiality for her? It is thus that I have been pursued for
several years now by the unwelcome sympathy of the tender-hearted
and virtuous Mary A----. When we pass in the street the poor deluded
soul subdues her buoyancy, as if it were shame to walk happy before
one she has lamed, and at such times the rustle of her gown is
whispered words of comfort to me, and her arms are kindly wings that
wish I was a little boy like David. I also detect in her a fearful elation,
which I am unaware of until she has passed, when it comes back to me
like a faint note of challenge. Eyes that say you never must, nose that
says why don't you? and a mouth that says I rather wish you could:
such is the portrait of Mary A---- as she and