The Railway Children by E. Nesbit (classic books for 11 year olds TXT) 📗

Father's away, too. But I think they'd all like to think we'd enjoyed talking about the things they used to do. Don't you think so?”

“Not Uncle Edward,” said Phyllis, in a shocked tone; “he's in Heaven.”

“You don't suppose he's forgotten us and all the old times, because God has taken him, any more than I forget him. Oh, no, he remembers. He's only away for a little time. We shall see him some day.”

“And Uncle Reggie—and Father, too?” said Peter.

“Yes,” said Mother. “Uncle Reggie and Father, too. Good night, my darlings.”

“Good night,” said everyone. Bobbie hugged her mother more closely even than usual, and whispered in her ear, “Oh, I do love you so, Mummy—I do—I do—”

When Bobbie came to think it all over, she tried not to wonder what the great trouble was. But she could not always help it. Father was not dead—like poor Uncle Edward—Mother had said so. And he was not ill, or Mother would have been with him. Being poor wasn't the trouble. Bobbie knew it was something nearer the heart than money could be.

“I mustn't try to think what it is,” she told herself; “no, I mustn't. I AM glad Mother noticed about us not quarrelling so much. We'll keep that up.”

And alas, that very afternoon she and Peter had what Peter called a first-class shindy.

They had not been a week at Three Chimneys before they had asked Mother to let them have a piece of garden each for their very own, and she had agreed, and the south border under the peach trees had been divided into three pieces and they were allowed to plant whatever they liked there.

Phyllis had planted mignonette and nasturtium and Virginia Stock in hers. The seeds came up, and though they looked just like weeds, Phyllis believed that they would bear flowers some day. The Virginia Stock justified her faith quite soon, and her garden was gay with a band of bright little flowers, pink and white and red and mauve.

“I can't weed for fear I pull up the wrong things,” she used to say comfortably; “it saves such a lot of work.”

Peter sowed vegetable seeds in his—carrots and onions and turnips. The seed was given to him by the farmer who lived in the nice black-and-white, wood-and-plaster house just beyond the bridge. He kept turkeys and guinea fowls, and was a most amiable man. But Peter's vegetables never had much of a chance, because he liked to use the earth of his garden for digging canals, and making forts and earthworks for his toy soldiers. And the seeds of vegetables rarely come to much in a soil that is constantly disturbed for the purposes of war and irrigation.

Bobbie planted rose-bushes in her garden, but all the little new leaves of the rose-bushes shrivelled and withered, perhaps because she moved them from the other part of the garden in May, which is not at all the right time of year for moving roses. But she would not own that they were dead, and hoped on against hope, until the day when Perks came up to see the garden, and told her quite plainly that all her roses were as dead as doornails.

“Only good for bonfires, Miss,” he said. “You just dig 'em up and burn 'em, and I'll give you some nice fresh roots outer my garden; pansies, and stocks, and sweet willies, and forget-me-nots. I'll bring 'em along to-morrow if you get the ground ready.”

So next day she set to work, and that happened to be the day when Mother had praised her and the others about not quarrelling. She moved the rose-bushes and carried them to the other end of the garden, where the rubbish heap was that they meant to make a bonfire of when Guy Fawkes' Day came.

Meanwhile Peter had decided to flatten out all his forts and earthworks, with a view to making a model of the railway-tunnel, cutting, embankment, canal, aqueduct, bridges, and all.

So when Bobbie came back from her last thorny journey with the dead rose-bushes, he had got the rake and was using it busily.

“I was using the rake,” said Bobbie.

“Well, I'm using it now,” said Peter.

“But I had it first,” said Bobbie.

“Then it's my turn now,” said Peter. And that was how the quarrel began.

“You're always being disagreeable about nothing,” said Peter, after some heated argument.

“I had the rake first,” said Bobbie, flushed and defiant, holding on to its handle.

“Don't—I tell you I said this morning I meant to have it. Didn't I, Phil?”

Phyllis said she didn't want to be mixed up in their rows. And instantly, of course, she was.

“If you remember, you ought to say.”

“Of course she doesn't remember—but she might say so.”

“I wish I'd had a brother instead of two whiny little kiddy sisters,” said Peter. This was always recognised as indicating the high-water mark of Peter's rage.

Bobbie made the reply she always made to it.

“I can't think why little boys were ever invented,” and just as she said it she looked up, and saw the three long windows of Mother's workshop flashing in the red rays of the sun. The sight brought back those words of praise:—

“You don't quarrel like you used to do.”

“OH!” cried Bobbie, just as if she had been hit, or had caught her finger in a door, or had felt the hideous sharp beginnings of toothache.

“What's the matter?” said Phyllis.

Bobbie wanted to say: “Don't let's quarrel. Mother hates it so,” but though she tried hard, she couldn't. Peter was looking too disagreeable and insulting.

“Take the horrid rake, then,” was the best she could manage. And she suddenly let go her hold on the handle. Peter had been holding on to it too firmly and pullingly, and now that the pull the other way was suddenly stopped, he staggered and fell over backward, the teeth of the rake between his feet.

“Serve you right,” said Bobbie, before she could stop herself.

Peter lay still for half a moment—long enough to frighten Bobbie a little. Then he frightened her a little more, for he sat up—screamed once—turned rather pale, and then lay back and began to shriek, faintly but steadily. It sounded exactly like a pig being killed a quarter of a mile off.

Mother put her head out of the window, and it wasn't half a minute after that she was in the garden kneeling by the side of Peter, who never for an instant ceased to squeal.

“What happened, Bobbie?” Mother asked.

“It was the rake,” said Phyllis. “Peter was pulling at it, so was Bobbie,