The Railway Children | Page 4

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.

Peter had a birthday--his tenth. Among his other presents was a model
engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The other
presents were full of charm, but the Engine was fuller of charm than
any of the others were.
Its charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days. Then,
owing either to Peter's inexperience or Phyllis's good intentions, which
had been rather pressing, or to some other cause, the Engine suddenly
went off with a bang. James was so frightened that he went out and did
not come back all day. All the Noah's Ark people who were in the
tender were broken to bits, but nothing else was hurt except the poor
little engine and the feelings of Peter. The others said he cried over
it--but of course boys of ten do not cry, however terrible the tragedies
may be which darken their lot. He said that his eyes were red because
he had a cold. This turned out to be true, though Peter did not know it
was when he said it, the next day he had to go to bed and stay there.
Mother began to be afraid that he might be sickening for measles, when
suddenly he sat up in bed and said:
"I hate gruel--I hate barley water--I hate bread and milk. I want to get
up and have something REAL to eat."
"What would you like?" Mother asked.
"A pigeon-pie," said Peter, eagerly, "a large pigeon-pie. A very large
one."
So Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was
made. And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was
cooked, Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better. Mother
made a piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being made. It
began by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter was, then it
went on:
He had an engine that he loved With all his heart and soul, And if he
had a wish on earth It was to keep it whole.
One day--my friends, prepare your minds; I'm coming to the worst--

Quite suddenly a screw went mad, And then the boiler burst!
With gloomy face he picked it up And took it to his Mother, Though
even he could not suppose That she could make another;
For those who perished on the line He did not seem to care, His engine
being more to him Than all the people there.
And now you see the reason why Our Peter has been ill: He soothes his
soul with pigeon-pie His gnawing grief to kill.
He wraps himself in blankets warm And sleeps in bed till late,
Determined thus to overcome His miserable fate.
And if his eyes are rather red, His cold must just excuse it: Offer him
pie; you may be sure He never will refuse it.
Father had been away in the country for three or four days. All Peter's
hopes for the curing of his afflicted Engine were now fixed on his
Father, for Father was most wonderfully clever with his fingers. He
could mend all sorts of things. He had often acted as veterinary surgeon
to the wooden rocking-horse; once he had saved its life when all human
aid was despaired of, and the poor creature was given up for lost, and
even the carpenter said he didn't see his way to do anything. And it was
Father who mended the doll's cradle when no one else could; and with
a little glue and some bits of wood and a pen-knife made all the Noah's
Ark beasts as strong on their pins as ever they were, if not stronger.
Peter, with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about his Engine
till after Father had had his dinner and his after-dinner cigar. The
unselfishness was Mother's idea--but it was Peter who carried it out.
And needed a good deal of patience, too.
At last Mother said to Father, "Now, dear, if you're quite rested, and
quite comfy, we want to tell you about the great railway accident, and
ask your advice."
"All right," said Father, "fire away!"

So then Peter told the sad tale, and fetched what was left of the Engine.
"Hum," said Father, when he had looked the Engine over very
carefully.
The children held their breaths.
"Is there NO hope?" said Peter, in a low, unsteady voice.
"Hope? Rather! Tons of it," said Father, cheerfully; "but it'll want
something besides hope--a bit of brazing say, or some solder, and a
new