LITMIR.BIZ

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you are a clumsy,” said Ellen, as she bent down to mop up the water. “That was for your father’s shaving.”

      “I meant to,” said Michael calmly.

      Ellen’s red face went quite white with surprise.

      “Meant to? You meant – well, then, you’re a very bad, heathen boy, and I’ll tell your Ma, so I will—”

      “Do,” said Michael, and he went on down the stairs.

      Well, that was the beginning of it. Throughout the rest of the day nothing went right with him. The hot, heavy feeling inside him made him do the most awful things, and as soon as he’d done them he felt extraordinarily pleased and glad and thought out some more at once.

      In the kitchen Mrs Brill, the cook, was making scones.

      “No, Master Michael,” she said, “you can’t scrape out the basin. It’s not empty yet.”

      And at that he let out his foot and kicked Mrs Brill very hard on the shin, so that she dropped the rolling-pin and screamed aloud.

      “You kicked Mrs Brill? Kind Mrs Brill? I’m ashamed of you,” said his Mother a few minutes later when Mrs Brill had told her the whole story. “You must beg her pardon at once. Say you’re sorry, Michael!”

      “But I’m not sorry. I’m glad. Her legs are too fat,” he said, and before they could catch him he ran away up the area steps and into the garden. There he purposely bumped into Robertson Ay, who was sound asleep on top of the best rock plants, and Robertson Ay was very angry.

      “I’ll tell your Pa!” he said threateningly.

      “And I’ll tell him you haven’t cleaned the shoes this morning,” said Michael, and was a little astonished at himself. It was his habit and Jane’s always to protect Robertson Ay, because they loved him and didn’t want to lose him.

      But he was not astonished for long, for he had begun to wonder what he could do next. And it was no time before he thought of something.

      Through the bars of the fence he could see Miss Lark’s Andrew daintily sniffing at the Next-door lawn and choosing for himself the best blades of grass. He called softly to Andrew and gave him a biscuit out of his own pocket, and while Andrew was munching it he tied Andrew’s tail to the fence with a piece of string. Then he ran away with Miss Lark’s angry, outraged voice screaming in his ears, and his body almost bursting with the exciting weight of that heavy thing inside him.

      The door of his Father’s study stood open – for Ellen had just been dusting the books. So Michael did a forbidden thing. He went in, sat down at his Father’s desk, and with his Father’s pen began to scribble on the blotter. Suddenly his elbow, knocking against the inkpot, upset it, and the chair and the desk and the quill pen and his own best clothes were covered with great spreading stains of blue ink. It looked dreadful, and fear of what would happen to him stirred within Michael. But, in spite of that, he didn’t care – he didn’t feel the least bit sorry.

      “That child must be ill,” said Mrs Banks, when she was told by Ellen – who suddenly returned and discovered him – of the latest adventure. “Michael, you shall have some syrup of figs.”

      “I’m not ill. I’m weller than you,” said Michael rudely.

      “Then you’re simply naughty,” said his Mother. “And you shall be punished.”

      And, sure enough, five minutes later, Michael found himself standing in his stained clothes in a corner of the nursery, facing the wall.

      Jane tried to speak to him when Mary Poppins was not looking, but he would not answer, and put out his tongue at her. When John and Barbara crawled along the floor and each took hold of one of his shoes and gurgled, he just pushed them roughly away. And all the time he was enjoying his badness, hugging it to him as though it were a friend, and not caring a bit.

      “I hate being good,” he said aloud to himself, as he trailed after Mary Poppins and Jane and the perambulator on the afternoon walk to the Park.

      “Don’t dawdle,” said Mary Poppins, looking back at him.

      But he went on dawdling and dragging the sides of his shoes along the pavement in order to scratch the leather.

      Suddenly Mary Poppins turned and faced him, one hand on the handle of the perambulator.

      “You,” she began, “got out of bed the wrong side this morning.”

      “I didn’t,” said Michael. “There is no wrong side to my bed.”

      “Every bed has a right and a wrong side,” said Mary Poppins, primly.

      “Not mine – it’s next the wall.”

      “That makes no difference. It’s still a side,” scoffed Mary Poppins.

      “Well, is the wrong side the left side or is the wrong side the right side? Because I got out on the right side, so how can it be wrong?”

      “Both sides were the wrong side, this morning, Mr Smarty!”

      “But it has only one, and if I got out the right side—” he argued.

      “One more word from you—” began Mary Poppins, and she said it in such a peculiarly threatening voice that even Michael felt a little nervous. “One more word and I’ll—”

      She did not say what she would do, but he quickened his pace.

      “Pull yourself together, Michael,” said Jane in a whisper.

      “You shut up,” he said, but so low that Mary Poppins could not hear.

      “Now, sir,” said Mary Poppins. “Off you go – in front of me, please. I’m not going to have you stravaiging behind any longer. You’ll oblige me by going on ahead.” She pushed him in front of her. “And,” she continued, “there’s a shiny thing sparkling on the path just along there. I’ll thank you to go and pick it up and bring it to me. Somebody’s dropped their tiara, perhaps.”

      Against his will, but because he didn’t dare not to, Michael looked in the direction in which she was pointing. Yes – there was something shining on the path. From that distance it looked very interesting, and its sparkling rays of light seemed to beckon him. He walked on, swaggering a little, going as slowly as he dared and pretending that he didn’t really want to see what it was.

      He reached the spot and, stooping, picked up the shining thing. It was a small, round sort of box with a glass top and on the glass an arrow marked. Inside, a round disc that seemed to be covered with letters swung gently as he moved the box.

      Jane ran up and looked at it over his shoulder.

      “What is it, Michael?” she asked.

      “I won’t tell you,” said Michael, though he didn’t know himself.

      “Mary Poppins, what is it?” demanded Jane, as the perambulator drew up beside them. Mary Poppins took the little box from Michael’s hand.

      “It’s mine,” he said jealously.

      “No, mine,” said Mary Poppins. “I saw it first.”

      “But I picked it up.” He tried to snatch it from her hand, but she gave him such a look that his hand fell to his side.

      She tilted the round thing backwards and forwards, and in the sunlight the disc and its letters went careering madly inside the box.

      “What’s it for?” asked Jane.

      “To go round the world with,” said Mary Poppins.

      “Pooh!” said Michael. “you go round the world in a ship, or an aeroplane. I know that. The box thing wouldn’t take you round the world.”

      “Oh,

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