ur knuckles in our
eyes.

XIV. Peter Pan

If you ask your mother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a
little girl she will say, "Why, of course, I did, child," and if you
ask her whether he rode on a goat in those days she will say, "What
a foolish question to ask; certainly he did." Then if you ask your
grandmother whether she knew about Peter Pan when she was a girl, she
also says, "Why, of course, I did, child," but if you ask her whether he
rode on a goat in those days, she says she never heard of his having a
goat. Perhaps she has forgotten, just as she sometimes forgets your name
and calls you Mildred, which is your mother's name. Still, she could
hardly forget such an important thing as the goat. Therefore there was
no goat when your grandmother was a little girl. This shows that, in
telling the story of Peter Pan, to begin with the goat (as most people
do) is as silly as to put on your jacket before your vest.

Of course, it also shows that Peter is ever so old, but he is really
always the same age, so that does not matter in the least. His age
is one week, and though he was born so long ago he has never had a
birthday, nor is there the slightest chance of his ever having one. The
reason is that he escaped from being a human when he was seven days'
old; he escaped by the window and flew back to the Kensington Gardens.

If you think he was the only baby who ever wanted to escape, it shows
how completely you have forgotten your own young days. When David heard
this story first he was quite certain that he had never tried to escape,
but I told him to think back hard, pressing his hands to his temples,
and when he had done this hard, and even harder, he distinctly
remembered a youthful desire to return to the tree-tops, and with that
memory came others, as that he had lain in bed planning to escape as
soon as his mother was asleep, and how she had once caught him half-way
up the chimney. 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