The Little White Bird E-Book

J.m Barrie

• Herausgeber: J. M. Barrie
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Sir James Matthew Barrie, 1st Baronet, OM (9 May 1860 – 19 June 1937) was a Scottish author and dramatist, the child of a family of small-town weavers, and best remembered today as the creator of Peter Pan. He was educated in Scotland but moved to London, where he developed a career as a novelist and playwright. There he met the Llewelyn Davies boys who inspired him to write about a baby boy who has magical adventures in Kensington Gardens (included in The Little White Bird), then to write Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up, a "fairy play" about an ageless boy and an ordinary girl named Wendy who have adventures in the fantasy setting of Neverland. Peter Pan quickly overshadowed his previous work, although he continued to write successfully, and it became his best-known work, credited with popularising the name Wendy, which was very uncommon previously. Barrie unofficially adopted the Davies boys following the deaths of their parents. Barrie was made a baronet by George V in 1913, and a member of the Order of Merit in 1922. Before his death, he gave the rights to the Peter Pan works to Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children in London, which continues to benefit from them.

Leseprobe

The Little White Birdor, Adventures in Kensington gardens

By

J. M. Barrie

To the best of our knowledge, the text of this

work is in the “Public Domain”.

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1. David and I Set Forth Upon a Journey

2. The Little Nursery Governess

3. Her Marriage, Her Clothes, Her Appetite, and an Inventory of Her

Furniture

4. A Night-Piece

5. The Fight For Timothy

6. A Shock

7. The Last of Timothy

8. The Inconsiderate Waiter

9. A Confirmed Spinster

10. Sporting Reflections

11. The Runaway Perambulator

12. The Pleasantest Club in London

13. The Grand Tour of the Gardens

14. Peter Pan

15. The Thrush’s Nest

16. Lock-Out Time

17. The Little House

18. Peter’s Goat

19. An Interloper

20. David and Porthos Compared

21. William Paterson

22. Joey

23. Pilkington’s

24. Barbara

25. The Cricket Match

26. The Dedication

1. David and I Set Forth Upon a Journey

Sometimes the little boy who calls me father brings me an invitation from his mother: “I shall be so pleased if you will come and see me,” and I always reply in some such words as these: “Dear madam, I decline.” And if David asks why I decline, I explain that it is because I have no desire to meet the woman.

“Come this time, father,” he urged lately, “for it is her birthday, and she is twenty-six,” which is so great an age to David, that I think he fears she cannot last much longer.

“Twenty-six, is she, David?” I replied. “Tell her I said she looks more.”

I had my delicious dream that night. I dreamt that I too was twenty-six, which was a long time ago, and that I took train to a place called my home, whose whereabouts I see not in my waking hours, and when I alighted at the station a dear lost love was waiting for me, and we went away together. She met me in no ecstasy of emotion, nor was I surprised to find her there; it was as if we had been married for years and parted for a day. I like to think that I gave her some of the things to carry.

Were I to tell my delightful dream to David’s mother, to whom I have never in my life addressed one word, she would droop her head and raise it bravely, to imply that I make her very sad but very proud, and she would be wishful to lend me her absurd little pocket handkerchief. And then, had I the heart, I might make a disclosure that would startle her, for it is not the face of David’s mother that I see in my dreams.

Has it ever been your lot, reader, to be persecuted by a pretty woman who thinks, without a tittle of reason, that you are bowed down under a hopeless partiality for her? It is thus that I have been pursued for several years now by the unwelcome sympathy of the tender-hearted and virtuous Mary A——. When we pass in the street the poor deluded soul subdues her buoyancy, as if it were shame to walk happy before one she has lamed, and at such times the rustle of her gown is whispered words of comfort to me, and her arms are kindly wings that wish I was a little boy like David. I also detect in her a fearful elation, which I am unaware of until she has passed, when it comes back to me like a faint note of challenge. Eyes that say you never must, nose that says why don’t you? and a mouth that says I rather wish you could: such is the portrait of Mary A—— as she and I pass by.