All children could have such
recollections if they would press their hands hard to their temples,
for, having been birds before they were human, they are naturally a
little wild during the first few weeks, and very itchy at the
shoulders, where their wings used to be. So David tells me.
I ought to mention here that the following is our way with a story:
First, I tell it to him, and then he tells it to me, the understanding
being that it is quite a different story; and then I retell it with
his additions, and so we go on until no one could say whether it is
more his story or mine. In this story of Peter Pan, for instance, the
bald narrative and most of the moral reflections are mine, though not
all, for this boy can be a stern moralist, but the interesting bits
about the ways and customs of babies in the bird-stage are mostly
reminiscences of David's, recalled by pressing his hands to his
temples and thinking hard.
Well, Peter Pan got out by the window, which had no bars. Standing on
the ledge he could see trees far away, which were doubtless the
Kensington Gardens, and the moment he saw them he entirely forgot that
he was now a little boy in a nightgown, and away he flew, right over
the houses to the Gardens. It is wonderful that he could fly without
wings, but the place itched tremendously, and, perhaps we could all
fly if we were as dead-confident-sure of our capacity to do it as was
bold Peter Pan that evening.
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