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Bernard dog in atiger's mask who so frequently attacked you, and the literary record of that summer, The Boy Castaways, which is so much the best and the rarest of this author's works? It's all very well to say you are waiting; soam I waiting.

What was it that made us eventually give to the public in the thin form of a play that which had been woven for ourselves alone? One by one as you swung monkey-wise from branch to branch in the wood of make-believe you reached the tree of knowledge.

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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at disquieting confessions must be made in printing at last the play of Peter Pan; among them this, that I have no recollection of having written it. What I want to do first is to give Peter to the Five without whom he never would have existed.

How ought I to act if someother hand, who could also have made a copy, thinks it worthwhile to contest the cold rights?

Cold they are to me now as that laughter of yours in which Peter came into being long before he was caught and written down.

After that no one seems to have thought of it at all. How odd, too, that these trifles should adhere to the mind that cannot remember the long job of writing Peter.

It does seem almost suspicious, especially as I have not the original MS.

Any one of you five brothers has a better claim to the authorship than most, and I would not fight you for it, but you should have launched your case long ago in the days when you most admired me, which were in the first year of the play, owing to a rumour's reaching you that my spoils were one-and-sixpence a night. When I was your age, Michael, I took medicine without a murmur. And as an example to you, Michael, I would take it now (thankfully) if I hadn't lost the bottle.

Sometimes you swung back into the wood, as the unthinking may at a cross-road take a familiar path that no longer leads to home;or you perched ostentatiously on its boughs to please me, pretending that you still belonged; soon you knew it only as the vanished wood, for it vanishes if one needs to look for it. I, the most gallant of you all,ceased to believe that he was ploughing woods incarnadine, and with an apologetic eye for me derided the lingering faith of No. 3 questioned gloomily whether he did not really spend his nights in bed. I thought you took it quite easily, father, saying 'Thank you, kind parents, for———' MR. That is not the point; the point is that there is more in my glass than in Michael's spoon.

There were still two who knew no better, but their day was dawning. It isn't fair, I swear though it were with my last breath, it is not fair.

I hope, my dear sirs, that in memory of what we have been to each other you will accept this dedication with your friend's love.

The play of Peter is streaky with you still, though none may see this save ourselves.

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