hat year. You ask
them.

Peter was a just master, and paid his work-people every evening. They
stood in rows on the branches, waiting politely while he cut the paper
sixpences out of his bank-note, and presently he called the roll, and
then each bird, as the names were mentioned, flew down and got sixpence.
It must have been a fine sight.

And at last, after months of labor, the boat was finished. Oh, the
deportment of Peter as he saw it growing more and more like a great
thrush's nest! From the very beginning of the building of it he slept by
its side, and often woke up to say sweet things to it, and after it was
lined with mud and the mud had dried he always slept in it. He sleeps in
his nest still, and has a fascinating way of curling round in it, for it
is just large enough to hold him comfortably when he curls round like a
kitten. It is brown inside, of course, but outside it is mostly green,
being woven of grass and twigs, and when these wither or snap the walls
are thatched afresh. There are also a few feathers here and there, which
came off the thrushes while they were building.

The other birds were extremely jealous and said that the boat would not
balance on the water, but it lay most beautifully steady; they said the
water would come into it, but no water came into it. Next they said that
Peter had no oars, and this caused the thrushes to look at each other
in dismay, but Peter replied that he had no need of oars, for he had a
sail, and with such a proud, happy face he produced a sail which he had
fashioned out of this night-gown, and though it was still rather like a
night-gown it made a lovely sail. And that night, the moon being full,
and all the birds asleep, he did enter his coracle (as Master Francis
Pretty would have said) and depart out of the island. And first, he knew
not why, he looked upward, with his hands clasped, and from that moment
his eyes were pinned to the west.

He had promised the thrushes to begin by making short voyages, with them
to his guides, but far away he saw the Kensington Gardens beckoning to
him beneath the bridge, and he could not wait. His face was flushed, but
he never looked back; there was an exultation in his little breast that
drove out fear. Was Peter the least gallant of the English mariners who
have sailed westward to meet the Unknown?

At first, his boat turned round and round, and he was driven back to the
place of his starting, whereupon he shortened sail, b