the Princesses the most beautiful in all the world, of the Princes
with magic swords, still unsatisfied, creeps closer yet, saying: "Now
tell me a real story," adding for my comprehending: "You know: about
a little girl who lived in a big house with her father and mother, and
who was sometimes naughty, you know."

So perhaps among the many there may be some who for a moment will turn
aside from tales of haughty Heroes, ruffling it in Court and Camp, to
listen to the story of a very ordinary lad who lived with very
ordinary folk in a modern London street, and who grew up to be a very
ordinary sort of man, loving a little and grieving a little, helping a
few and harming a few, struggling and failing and hoping; and if any
such there be, let them come round me.

But let not those who come to me grow indignant as they listen,
saying: "This rascal tells us but a humdrum story, where nothing is
as it should be;" for I warn all beforehand that I tell but of things
that I have seen. My villains, I fear, are but poor sinners, not
altogether bad; and my good men but sorry saints. My princes do not
always slay their dragons; alas, sometimes, the dragon eats the
prince. The wicked fairies often prove more powerful than the good.
The magic thread leads sometimes wrong, and even the hero is not
always brave and true.

So let those come round me only who will be content to hear but their
own story, told by another, saying as they listen, "So dreamt I. Ah,
yes, that is true, I remember."