[Illustration: _Painted for Princess Mary's Gift Book by J. J. Shannon,
_I desire to express my very best thanks to the Authors and Artists who
have so generously
contributed to my Gift Book._
PRINCESS MARY'S GIFT BOOK
All profits from sale are given to
THE QUEEN'S "WORK FOR
which is acting
The National Relief Fund
HODDER & STOUGHTON
LONDON . NEW YORK . TORONTO
H.R.H. PRINCESS MARY _Frontispiece_
_Painting by_ J. J. SHANNON, R.A.
A HOLIDAY IN BED _J. M. Barrie_ 1
Author of "Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens."
_Painting by_ W. RUSSELL FLINT, A.R.W.S., _and
Drawings by_ C. E. BROCK
THE SPY _G. A. Birmingham_ 9
_Drawings by_ H. R. MILLAR Author of "General John Regan."
CHARLIE THE COX _Hall Caine_ 17
_Painting by_ CHARLES NAPIER HEMY, R.A., _and_ Author of
_Drawings by_ ARCH WEBB
CANADA'S WORD _Ralph Connor_ 22
_Drawings by_ A. J. GOUGH Author of "The Sky Pilot."
BIMBASHI JOYCE _A. Conan Doyle_ 23
Author of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes."
_Painting and Drawings by_ R. TALBOT KELLY, R.I.
THE ANT-LION _J. H. Fabre_ 31
_Painting and Drawings by_ E. J. DETMOLD
("The Insects' Homer").
AN ANGEL OF GOD _Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler_ 35
_Drawings by_ STEVEN SPURRIER, R.I. Author of "Concerning
A MODEL SOLDIER _Charles Garvice_ 43
_Drawings by_ J. H. HARTLEY Author of "Nance."
THE LAND OF LET'SPRETEND _Lady Sybil Grant_ 57
Author of "The Chequer Board."
_Painting and Drawings by_ ARTHUR RACKHAM, R.W.S.
MAGEPA THE BUCK _H. Rider Haggard_ 63
_Drawings by_ J. BYAM SHAW, A.R.W.S. Author of "She."
TRUE SPARTAN HEARTS _Beatrice Harraden_ 75
Author of "Ships that Pass in the Night."
_Painting and Decorations by_ EDMUND DULAC
BIG STEAMERS _Rudyard Kipling_ 79
Author of "The Jungle Book."
_Painting and Drawings by_ NORMAN WILKINSON, R.I.
A TRUE STORY FROM CAMP _The Bishop of London_ 81
_Drawings by_ JOSEPH SIMPSON, R.B.A.
THE EBONY BOX _A. E. W. Mason_ 83
_Painting and Drawings by_ W. B. WOLLEN, R.I. Author of
A SPELL FOR A FAIRY _Alfred Noyes_ 101
Author of "A Tale of Old Japan."
_Painting and Drawings by_ CLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON, A.R.W.S.
OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH: A PIMPERNEL
STORY _Baroness Orczy_ 105
_Painting by_ A. C. MICHAEL _and_ Author of "The Scarlet
_Drawings by_ H. M. BROCK, R.I.
WHAT CAN A LITTLE CHAP DO? _John Oxenham_ 112
_Painting by_ EUGENE HASTAIN _and_ Author of "Barbe of
_Drawings by_ GORDON BROWNE, R.I.
ALTOGETHER DIFFERENT _W. Pett Ridge_ 115
_Painting by_ M. E. GRAY _and_ Author of "Mord Em'ly."
_Drawings by_ LEWIS BAUMER
THE ESCAPE _Annie S. Swan_ 123
_Drawings by_ HAROLD EARNSHAW Author of "Mary Garth."
FLEUR-DE-LIS _Kate Douglas Wiggin_ 130
Author of "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm."
_Painting by_ CARLTON A. SMITH, R.I., _and_
_Drawings by_ EDMUND J. SULLIVAN, A.R.W.S.
SPARTAN HEARTS, by Beatrice Harraden, was first
published in a volume
entitled "Untold Tales of the
Past"; BIG STEAMERS, by Rudyard Kipling, in "A History
of England," by C. R. L. Fletcher and Rudyard Kipling;
BIMBASHI JOYCE, by Arthur Conan Doyle, in "The Green
Flag, and other Stories"; and we have to thank Messrs.
William Blackwood & Sons, The Oxford University Press,
and Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. for permission
include these contributions in Princess Mary's Gift
With these exceptions the poems and stories in this
book have not previously
been issued in volume
The illustrations have all been specially
drawn, and an exhibition
of the work of the artists
who have thus contributed to Princess Mary's Gift Book
will be held at the Leicester Galleries, Leicester
Square, W.C., and the originals sold in aid of the
Queen's "Work for Women" Fund.
A Holiday in Bed by J.M. Barrie
[Illustration: _Painting by_ W. RUSSELL FLINT, A.R.W.S., _and Drawings
by_ C. E. BROCK]
PEOPLE have tried a holiday
in bed before now, and found it a failure,
but that was because they were ignorant
of the rules. They went to bed
with the open intention
of staying there, say, three days, and found to
their surprise that each morning they wanted to get up. This was a novel
experience to them; they flung about restlessly, and probably shortened
their holiday. The proper thing is to take your holiday
in bed with a
of getting up in another quarter of an hour. The real
pleasure of lying in bed after you are awake is largely due to the
feeling that you ought to get up. To take another quarter of an hour
then becomes a luxury. You are, in short, in the position of the man who
dined on larks. Had he seen the hundreds that were ready for him, all
set out on one monster
dish, they would have alarmed him; but getting
them two at a time, he went on eating till all the larks were gone. His
feeling of uncertainty
as to whether these might not be his last two
larks is your feeling that, perhaps, you will have to get up in a
quarter of an hour. Deceive yourself in this way, and your holiday
bed will pass only too quickly.
Sympathy is what all the world is craving
for, and sympathy
is what the
ordinary holiday-maker never gets. How can we be expected to sympathise
with you when we know you are off to Perthshire to fish? No; we say we
wish we were you, and forget that your holiday
is sure to be a hollow
mockery; that your child will jam her finger in the railway carriage,
to the end of the journey; that you will lose your luggage;
that the guard will notice your dog beneath the seat, and insist on its
being paid for; that you will be caught in a Scotch mist on the top of a
mountain, and be put on gruel for a fortnight; that your wife will fret
herself into a fever about the way the servant, who has been left at
home, is treating her cousins, the milkman, and the policeman; and that
you will be had up for trespassing. Yet, when you tell us you are off
to-morrow, we have never the sympathy
to say, "Poor fellow, I hope
you'll pull through somehow." If it is an exhibition
you go to gaze at,
we never picture you dragging your weary legs from one department to
another, and wondering why your back aches. Should it be the seaside, we
talk heartlessly to you about the "briny," though we must know, if we
would stop to think, that if there is one holiday
all the others, it is that spent at the seaside, when you wander
the weary beach and fling pebbles at the sea, and wonder how long it
will be till dinner-time. Were we to come down to see you, we should
probably find you, not on the beach, but moving slowly through the
village, looking in at the one milliner's window, or laboriously reading
what the one grocer's labels say on the subject of pale ale, compressed
beef, or vinegar. There was never an object that called aloud for
sympathy more than you do, but you get not a jot of it. You should take
the first train home and go to bed for three days.
To enjoy your holiday
in bed to the full, you should let it be vaguely
understood that there is something amiss with you. Don't go into
details, for they are not necessary; and, besides, you want to be dreamy
more or less, and the dreamy
state is not consistent
with a definite
ailment. The moment one takes to bed he gets sympathy. He may be
suffering from a tearing headache
or a tooth that makes him cry out; but
if he goes about his business, or even flops in a chair, true sympathy
is denied him. Let him take to bed with one of those illnesses of which
he can say with accuracy
that he is not quite certain what is the matter
with him, and his wife, for instance, will want to bathe his brow. She
must not be made too anxious. That would not only be cruel to her, but
it would wake you from the dreamy
state. She must simply see that you
are "not yourself." Women have an idea that unless men are "not
themselves" they will not take to bed, and as a consequence
your wife is
of you. Every little while she will ask you if you
are feeling any better now, and you can reply, with the old regard for
truth, that you are "much about it." You may even (for your own
pleasure) talk of getting up now, when she will earnestly
urge you to
stay in bed until you feel easier. You consent; indeed, you are ready to
do anything to please her.
[Illustration: And wonder how long it will be till dinner-time]
The ideal holiday
in bed does not require the presence of a ministering
angel in the room all day. You frequently prefer to be alone, and point
out to her that you cannot have her trifling
with her health for your
sake, and so she must go out for a walk. She is reluctant, but finally
goes, protesting that you are the most unselfish of men, and only too
good for her. This leaves a pleasant aroma behind it, for even when
lying in bed, we like to feel that we are uncommonly fine fellows. After
she has gone you get up cautiously, and, walking stealthily
wardrobe, produce from the pocket of your greatcoat a good novel. A
holiday in bed must be arranged for beforehand. With a gleam in your eye
you slip back to bed, double your pillow to make it higher, and begin to
read. You have only got to the fourth page, when you make a horrible
discovery--namely, that the book is not cut. An experienced
holiday-maker would have had it cut the night before, but this is your
first real holiday, or perhaps you have been thoughtless. In any case
you have now matter to think of. You are torn in two different ways.
There is your coat on the floor with a knife in it, but you cannot reach
the coat without getting up again. Ought you to get the knife or to give
up reading? Perhaps it takes a quarter of an hour to decide this
question, and you decide it by discovering a third course. Being a sort
of an invalid, you have certain privileges which would be denied you if
you were merely sitting in a chair in the agonies of neuralgia. One of
privileges of a holiday
in bed is that you are entitled to
cut books with your fingers. So you cut the novel in this way, and read
[Illustration: You are in the middle of a chapter--]
Those who have never tried it may fancy that there is a lack of incident
in a holiday
in bed. There could not be a more monstrous
are in the middle of a chapter, when suddenly you hear a step upon the
stairs. Your loving
ears tell you that the ministering angel has
returned, and is hastening to you. Now, what happens? The book
disappears beneath the pillow, and when she enters the room softly
are lying there with your eyes shut. This is not merely incident; it is
What happens next depends on circumstances. She says, in a low voice:
"Are you feeling any easier now, John?"
"Oh, I believe he is sleeping."
Then she steals from the room, and you begin to read again.
[Illustration: A Holiday in Bed
Princess Mary's Gift Book
by Russell Flint, A.R.W.S._]
[Illustration: --Suddenly you hear a step]
During a holiday
in bed one never thinks, of course, of analysing his
actions. If you had done so in this instance, you would have seen that
you pretended sleep because you had got to an exciting passage. You love
your wife, but, wife or no wife, you must see how the passage ends.
Possibly the little scene plays differently, as thus:
"John, are you feeling any easier now?"
"Are you asleep?"
"What a pity! I don't want to waken him, and yet the fowl will be
"Is that you back, Marion?"
"Yes, dear; I thought you were asleep."
"No, only thinking."
"You think too much, dear. I have cooked a chicken for you."
"I have no appetite."
"I'm so sorry, but I can give it to the children."
"Oh, as it's cooked, you may as well bring it up."
[Illustration: You are lying there with your eyes shut]
In that case the reason of your change of action is obvious. But why do
you not let your wife know that you have been reading? This is another
matter that you never reason about. Perhaps it is because of your
craving for sympathy, and you fear that if you were seen enjoying a
novel the sympathy
would go. Or perhaps it is that a holiday
in bed is
never perfect without a secret. Monotony must be guarded against, and so
long as you keep the book to yourself your holiday
in bed is a healthy
excitement. A stolen
book (as we may call it) is like stolen
sweeter than what you can devour
openly. The boy enjoys his stolen
because at any moment he may have to slip it down the leg of his
trousers and pretend
that he has merely climbed the tree to enjoy the
scenery. You enjoy your book doubly
because you feel that it is a
forbidden pleasure. Or do you conceal
your book from your wife lest she
should think you are over-exerting yourself? She must not be made
anxious on your account? Ah, that is it.
People who pretend
(for it must be pretence) that they enjoy their
holiday in the country, explain that the hills or the sea give them such
an appetite. I could never myself feel the delight of being able to