But I expect it was only an odd one.I tell you the carpet's good through and through.It hadn't got no moths when it left my 'ands--not so much as an hegg.'
'But that's just it,' interrupted Jane; 'there WAS so much as an egg.'
The man made a sort of rush at the children and stamped his foot.
'Clear out, I say!' he shouted, 'or I'll call for the police.Anice thing for customers to 'ear you a-coming 'ere a-charging me with finding things in goods what I sells.'Ere, be off, afore Isends you off with a flea in your ears.Hi! constable--'
The children fled, and they think, and their father thinks, that they couldn't have done anything else.Mother has her own opinion.
But father said they might keep the egg.
'The man certainly didn't know the egg was there when he brought the carpet,' said he, 'any more than your mother did, and we've as much right to it as he had.'
So the egg was put on the mantelpiece, where it quite brightened up the dingy nursery.The nursery was dingy, because it was a basement room, and its windows looked out on a stone area with a rockery made of clinkers facing the windows.Nothing grew in the rockery except London pride and snails.
The room had been described in the house agent's list as a 'convenient breakfast-room in basement,' and in the daytime it was rather dark.This did not matter so much in the evenings when the gas was alight, but then it was in the evening that the blackbeetles got so sociable, and used to come out of the low cupboards on each side of the fireplace where their homes were, and try to make friends with the children.At least, I suppose that was what they wanted, but the children never would.
On the Fifth of November father and mother went to the theatre, and the children were not happy, because the Prossers next door had lots of fireworks and they had none.
They were not even allowed to have a bonfire in the garden.
'No more playing with fire, thank you,' was father's answer, when they asked him.
When the baby had been put to bed the children sat sadly round the fire in the nursery.
'I'm beastly bored,' said Robert.
'Let's talk about the Psammead,' said Anthea, who generally tried to give the conversation a cheerful turn.
'What's the good of TALKING?' said Cyril.'What I want is for something to happen.It's awfully stuffy for a chap not to be allowed out in the evenings.There's simply nothing to do when you've got through your homers.'
Jane finished the last of her home-lessons and shut the book with a bang.
'We've got the pleasure of memory,' said she.'Just think of last holidays.'
Last holidays, indeed, offered something to think of--for they had been spent in the country at a white house between a sand-pit and a gravel-pit, and things had happened.The children had found a Psammead, or sand-fairy, and it had let them have anything they wished for--just exactly anything, with no bother about its not being really for their good, or anything like that.And if you want to know what kind of things they wished for, and how their wishes turned out you can read it all in a book called Five Children and It (It was the Psammead).If you've not read it, perhaps I ought to tell you that the fifth child was the baby brother, who was called the Lamb, because the first thing he ever said was 'Baa!' and that the other children were not particularly handsome, nor were they extra clever, nor extraordinarily good.
But they were not bad sorts on the whole; in fact, they were rather like you.
'I don't want to think about the pleasures of memory,' said Cyril;'I want some more things to happen.'
'We're very much luckier than any one else, as it is,' said Jane.
'Why, no one else ever found a Psammead.We ought to be grateful.'
'Why shouldn't we GO ON being, though?' Cyril asked--'lucky, Imean, not grateful.Why's it all got to stop?'
'Perhaps something will happen,' said Anthea, comfortably.'Do you know, sometimes I think we are the sort of people that things DOhappen to.'
'It's like that in history,' said Jane: 'some kings are full of interesting things, and others--nothing ever happens to them, except their being born and crowned and buried, and sometimes not that.'
'I think Panther's right,' said Cyril: 'I think we are the sort of people things do happen to.I have a sort of feeling things would happen right enough if we could only give them a shove.It just wants something to start it.That's all.'
'I wish they taught magic at school,' Jane sighed.'I believe if we could do a little magic it might make something happen.'
'I wonder how you begin?' Robert looked round the room, but he got no ideas from the faded green curtains, or the drab Venetian blinds, or the worn brown oil-cloth on the floor.Even the new carpet suggested nothing, though its pattern was a very wonderful one, and always seemed as though it were just going to make you think of something.
'I could begin right enough,' said Anthea; 'I've read lots about it.But I believe it's wrong in the Bible.'
'It's only wrong in the Bible because people wanted to hurt other people.I don't see how things can be wrong unless they hurt somebody, and we don't want to hurt anybody; and what's more, we jolly well couldn't if we tried.Let's get the Ingoldsby Legends.
There's a thing about Abra-cadabra there,' said Cyril, yawning.
'We may as well play at magic.Let's be Knights Templars.They were awfully gone on magic.They used to work spells or something with a goat and a goose.Father says so.'
'Well, that's all right,' said Robert, unkindly; 'you can play the goat right enough, and Jane knows how to be a goose.'
'I'll get Ingoldsby,' said Anthea, hastily.'You turn up the hearthrug.'
So they traced strange figures on the linoleum, where the hearthrug had kept it clean.They traced them with chalk that Robert had nicked from the top of the mathematical master's desk at school.
