aving a game by itself, and he caught it after an exciting
chase. But he thought it was a ball, and Jenny Wren had told him that
boys kick balls, so he kicked it; and after that he could not find it
anywhere.

Perhaps the most surprising thing he found was a perambulator. It was
under a lime-tree, near the entrance to the Fairy Queen's Winter Palace
(which is within the circle of the seven Spanish chestnuts), and Peter
approached it warily, for the birds had never mentioned such things to
him. Lest it was alive, he addressed it politely, and then, as it gave
no answer, he went nearer and felt it cautiously. He gave it a little
push, and it ran from him, which made him think it must be alive after
all; but, as it had run from him, he was not afraid. So he stretched out
his hand to pull it to him, but this time it ran at him, and he was so
alarmed that he leapt the railing and scudded away to his boat. You must
not think, however, that he was a coward, for he came back next night
with a crust in one hand and a stick in the other, but the perambulator
had gone, and he never saw another one. I have promised to tell you also
about his paddle. It was a child's spade which he had found near St.
Govor's Well, and he thought it was a paddle.

Do you pity Peter Pan for making these mistakes? If so, I think it
rather silly of you. What I mean is that, of course, one must pity him
now and then, but to pity him all the time would be impertinence. He
thought he had the most splendid time in the Gardens, and to think you
have it is almost quite as good as really to have it. He played without
ceasing, while you often waste time by being mad-dog or Mary-Annish. He
could be neither of these things, for he had never heard of them, but do
you think he is to be pitied for that?

Oh, he was merry. He was as much merrier than you, for instance, as you
are merrier than your father. Sometimes he fell, like a spinning-top,
from sheer merriment. Have you seen a greyhound leaping the fences of
the Gardens? That is how Peter leaps them.

And think of the music of his pipe. Gentlemen who walk home at night
write to the papers to say they heard a nightingale in the Gardens, but
it is really Peter's pipe they hear. Of course, he had no mother--at
least, what use was she to him? You can be sorry for him for that, but
don't be too sorry, for the next thing I mean to tell you is how he
revisited her. It was the fairies who gave him the chance.