“And flowers and burning leaves,” said Judy. “It’s his old

garden-coat as well.” She sniffed very audibly. “Oh, I love that smoky

smell.”

“It’s the good old English smell,” said the figure contentedly,

while they put his neck-tie straight and arranged the pocket flaps for

him. “It’s English country—England.”

“Don’t other countries smell, then?” inquired Tim. “I mean, could

any one tell you were English by your smell?” He sniffed again, with

satisfaction. “Weeden’s the same,” he went on, without waiting for an

answer, “only much stronger, and so’s the potting shed.”

“But yours is sweeter much,” said Judy quickly. To share

odours with an Authority like the Head Gardener was distinctly a

compliment, but Daddy must come first, whatever happened. “How funny,”

she added, half to herself, “that England should have such a jolly

smell. I wonder what it comes from?”

“Where does England come from?” asked Tim, pausing a moment

to stare into the figure’s face. “It’s an island, of

course—England—but—”

“A piece of land surrounded by water,” began the figure, but was

not allowed to finish. A chorus of voices interrupted:

“Make a story of it, please. There’s just time. There’s half an

hour. It’s nice and dark. Ugh! Something very awful or very silly,

please….”

There followed a general scuffle for seats, with bitter complaints

that he only had two pointed knees. Maria was treated with scant

respect. There was also criticism of life—that he had no lap, “no

proper lap,” that it was too dark to see his face, that everybody in

turn had got “the best place,” but, chiefly, that there was “very

little time.” Time was a nuisance always: it either was time to go, or

time to stop, or else there was not time enough. But at length quiet

was established; the big armchair resembled a clot of bees upon a

honeycomb; the fire burned dully, and the ceiling was thick with

monstrous fluttering shadows, vaguely shaped.

“Now, please. We’ve been ready for ages.”

A deep hush fell upon the room, and only a sound of confused

breathing was audible. The figure heaved a long, deep sigh as though

it suffered pain, paused, cleared its throat, then sighed again more

heavily than before. For the moment of creation was at hand, and

creation is not accomplished without much travail.

But the children loved the pause, the sigh, the effort. Not

realising with what difficulty the stories were ground out, nor that

it was an effort against time—to make a story last till help came

from outside —they believed that something immense and wonderful was

on the way, and held their breath with beating hearts. Daddy’s stories

were always marvellous; this one would be no exception.

Marvellous up to a point, that is: something in them failed. “He’s

trying,” was their opinion of them; and it was the trying that they

watched and listened to so eagerly. The results were unsatisfying, the

effect incomplete; the climax of sensation they expected never came.

Daddy, though they could not put this into words, possessed fancy

only; imagination was not his. Fancy, however, is the seed of

imagination, as imagination is the blossom of wonder.