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Next comes St。 Govor's Well； which was full of water when Malcolm
the Bold fell into it。 He was his mother's favourite； and he let
her put her arm round his neck in public because she was a widow；
but he was also partial to adventures and liked to play with a
chimney…sweep who had killed a good many bears。 The sweep's name
was Sooty； and one day when they were playing near the well；
Malcolm fell in and would have been drowned had not Sooty dived
in and rescued him； and the water had washed Sooty clean and he
now stood revealed as Malcolm's long…lost father。 So Malcolm
would not let his mother put her arm round his neck any more。
Between the well and the Round Pond are the cricket…pitches； and
frequently the choosing of sides exhausts so much time that there
is scarcely any cricket。 Everybody wants to bat first； and as
soon as he is out he bowls unless you are the better wrestler；
and while you are wrestling with him the fielders have scattered
to play at something else。 The Gardens are noted for two kinds
of cricket： boy cricket； which is real cricket with a bat； and
girl cricket； which is with a racquet and the governess。 Girls
can't really play cricket； and when you are watching their futile
efforts you make funny sounds at them。 Nevertheless； there was a
very disagreeable incident one day when some forward girls
challenged David's team； and a disturbing creature called Angela
Clare sent down so many yorkers thatHowever； instead of telling
you the result of that regrettable match I shall pass on
hurriedly to the Round Pond； which is the wheel that keeps all
the Gardens going。
It is round because it is in the very middle of the Gardens； and
when you are come to it you never want to go any farther。 You
can't be good all the time at the Round Pond； however much you
try。 You can be good in the Broad Walk all the time； but not at
the Round Pond； and the reason is that you forget； and； when you
remember； you are so wet that you may as well be wetter。 There
are men who sail boats on the Round Pond； such big boats that
they bring them in barrows and sometimes in perambulators； and
then the baby has to walk。 The bow…legged children in the
Gardens are these who had to walk too soon because their father
needed the perambulator。
You always want to have a yacht to sail on the Round Pond； and in
the end your uncle gives you one； and to carry it to the Pond the
first day is splendid； also to talk about it to boys who have no
uncle is splendid； but soon you like to leave it at home。 For
the sweetest craft that slips her moorings in the Round Pond is
what is called a stick…boat； because she is rather like a stick
until she is in the water and you are holding the string。 Then
as you walk round； pulling her； you see little men running about
her deck； and sails rise magically and catch the breeze； and you
put in on dirty nights at snug harbours which are unknown to the
lordly yachts。 Night passes in a twink； and again your rakish
craft noses for the wind； whales spout； you glide over buried
cities； and have brushes with pirates and cast anchor on coral
isles。 You are a solitary boy while all this is taking place；
for two boys together cannot adventure far upon the Round Pond；
and though you may talk to yourself throughout the voyage； giving
orders and executing them with dispatch； you know not； when it is
time to go home； where you have been or what swelled your sails；
your treasure…trove is all locked away in your hold； so to speak；
which will be opened； perhaps； by another little boy many years
afterward。
But those yachts have nothing in their hold。 Does anyone return
to this haunt of his youth because of the yachts that used to
sail it？ Oh； no。 It is the stick…boat that is freighted with
memories。 The yachts are toys； their owner a fresh…water
mariner； they can cross and recross a pond only while the stick…
boat goes to sea。 You yachtsmen with your wands； who think we
are all there to gaze on you； your ships are only accidents of
this place； and were they all to be boarded and sunk by the ducks
the real business of the Round Pond would be carried on as usual。
Paths from everywhere crowd like children to the pond。 Some of
them are ordinary paths； which have a rail on each side； and are
made by men with their coats off； but others are vagrants； wide
at one spot and at another so narrow that you can stand astride
them。 They are called Paths that have Made Themselves； and David
did wish he could see them doing it。 But； like all the most
wonderful things that happen in the Gardens； it is done； we
concluded； at night after the gates are closed。 We have also
decided that the paths make themselves because it is their only
chance of getting to the Round Pond。
One of these gypsy paths comes from the place where the sheep get
their hair cut。 When David shed his curls at the hair…dresser's；
I am told； he said good…bye to them without a tremor； though Mary
has never been quite the same bright creature since； so he
despises the sheep as they run from their shearer and calls out
tauntingly； 〃Cowardy； cowardy custard！〃 But when the man grips
them between his legs David shakes a fist at him for using such
big scissors。 Another startling moment is when the man turns
back the grimy wool from the sheeps' shoulders and they look
suddenly like ladies in the stalls of a theatre。 The sheep are
so frightened by the shearing that it makes them quite white and
thin； and as soon as they are set free they begin to nibble the
grass at once； quite anxiously； as if they feared that they would
never be worth eating。 David wonders whether they know each
other； now that they are so different； and if it makes them fight
with the wrong ones。 They are great fighters； and thus so unlike
country sheep that every year they give Porthos a shock。 He can
make a field of country sheep fly by merely announcing his
approach； but these town sheep come toward him with no promise of
gentle entertainment； and then a light from last year breaks upon
Porthos。 He cannot with dignity retreat； but he stops and looks
about him as if lost in admiration of the scenery； and presently
he strolls away with a fine indifference and a glint at me from
the corner of his eye。
The Serpentine begins near here。 It is a lovely lake； and there
is a drowned forest at the bottom of it。 If you peer over the
edge you can see the trees all growing upside down； and they say
that at night there are also drowned stars in it。 If so； Peter
Pan sees them when he is sailing across the lake in the Thrush's
Nest。 A small part only of the Serpentine is in the Gardens； for
soon it passes beneath a bridge to far away where the island is
on which all the birds are born that become baby boys and girls。
No one who is human； except Peter Pan （and he is only half
human）； can land on the island； but you may write what you want
（boy or girl； dark or fair） on a piece of paper； and then twist
it into the shape of a boat and slip it into the water； and it
reaches Peter Pan's island after dark。
We are on the way home now； though； of course； it is all pretence
that we can go to so many of the places in one day。 I should
have had to be carrying David long ago and resting on every seat
like old Mr。 Salford。 That was what we called him； because he
always talked to us of a lovely place called Salford where he had
been born。 He was a crab…apple of an old gentleman who wandered
all day in the Gardens from seat to seat trying to fall in with
somebody who was acquainted with the town of Salford； and when we
had known him for a year or more we actually did meet another
aged solitary who had once spent Saturday to Monday in Salford。
He was meek and timid and carried his address inside his hat； and
whatever part of London he was in search of he always went to the
General Post…office first as a starting…point。 Him we carried in
triumph to our other friend； with the story of that Saturday to
Monday； and never shall I forget the gloating joy with which Mr。
Salford leapt at him。 They have been cronies ever since； and I
notice that Mr。 Salford； who naturally does most of the talking；
keeps tight grip of the other old man's coat。
The two last places before you come to our gate are the Dog's
Cemetery and the chaffinch's nest； but we pretend not to know
what the Dog's Cemetery is； as Porthos is always with us。 The
nest is very sad。 It is quite white； and the way we found it was
wonderful。 We were having another look among the bushes for
David's lost worsted ball； and instead of the ball we found a
lovely nest made of the worsted； and containing four eggs； with
scratches on them very like David's handwriting； so we think they
must have been the mother's love…letters to the little ones
inside。 Every day we were in the Gardens we paid a call at the
nest； taking care tha