Mr Looky's Neighbours

"It is a nuisance having to go to the dentist the same day as I'm moving house," said Mr Looky. "But 
I suppose I
might as well get it over with."
The dentist looked at Mr Looky's teeth and sighed.
"Oh dear, Mr Looky," he said. "You've got two teeth in the front that will have to come out. Would 
you like me to
make another appointment for next week?"
Mr Looky thought a minute.
"No, do it now," he said at last. "I might as well get it over and done with."
So when Mr Looky moved into his new house that afternoon, he had two front teeth missing and wore a 
scarf over his
mouth to keep warm. His new neighbour, on the right, was old Mrs Northern, and over the hedge on the 
left lived Mr
Grump.
In spite of his name, Mr Grump was a very friendly man, and as soon as the moving van had left he 
waved to Mr
Looky and called out, "Hallo there, would you like a cup of tea ?" Now Mr Looky meant to call back, 
"No, thanks all the same. I'm not feeling so good today." But because his
mouth was sore, and his missing teeth made it hard to talk, it sounded 
quite different.
Mr Grump heard him call out something like, "Notha altheseam, mot flso 
goote dah," and he was most surprised. He
stared at Mr Looky for a minute, then with a worried smile he hurried 
inside, shaking his head. As soon as he had
shut the door he rang up Mrs Northern.
"I say, Mrs Northern, do you know anything about this new neighbour of 
ours ?" he asked.
"Not a thing," said Mrs Northern sadly, for she was something of a busy-body. "What's he like?" "Well, you know, I think he 
must be a foreigner," said Mr Grump,
and he told Mrs Northern about Mr Looky's funny reply.
"Goodness, well now, that's odd," said Mrs Northern. "He might be French, 
perhaps. Looky sounds a bit French."
And having decided that, she went over to call on Mr Looky with a French 
dictionary in one hand.
Mr Looky was about to take an aspirin, and go to bed, when the door-bell 
rang. He opened the door. There stood Mrs Northern.
"Bon jour Mr Loookee," she said slowly, "comment ca va?" Which means 
something like, "Good day Mr Lucky, how
are you?"
"Wazzat?" asked Mr Looky in surprise.
"Mrs Northern," said his neighbour, holding out her hand, and giving a 
little bow.
"Oh, yes, pleased to meet you," said Mr Looky. At least, that's what he 
meant to say, but because of his teeth it
sounded more like, "Oz, pleezoo meedo."
"Why, that's not French," said Mrs Northern.
"F ... f ... fresh?" stuttered Mr Looky.
Mrs Northern couldn't think what to say next, so she smiled and bowed 
again, then walked out the gate and went home. When she got inside, she rang Mr Grump.
"Well," she said, "our new neighbour is certainly foreign, but I'm sure 
he's not French."
"Mmm, now, let me think," said Mr Grump, who was getting interested in 
the whole thing. "What about Danish, or
Spanish, or maybe he speaks Arabic."
"Oh, how exciting," said Mrs Northern. "We must try and get to know him."
So she and Mr Grump went to the library and borrowed all the dictionaries 
that they could find.
The next morning Mr Looky heard another ring on his door-bell. When he 
opened the door, there stood Mr Grump.
"Spanish?" said Mr Grump hopefully.
"What's that?" said Mr Looky and shook his head.
"Oh dear," said Mr Grump, and without another word he turned and went out 
the gate and back home.
That afternoon Mr Looky answered a ring on his doorbell to find Mrs 
Northern standing on the door-step.
"Arabic?" she said brightly.
"Eh ? " said Mr Looky. "Now look here . . .
"Oh dear, Mr Lookear," said Mrs Northern. "Never mind, we'll get there in time."
And before Mr Looky could say another word, she had gone out the gate and back to her house.
The next day Mr Grump was back again.
"Norwegian?" he said.
"NO," shouted Mr Looky and slammed the door. He was beginning to think he had very strange and curious
neighbours.
Mr Grump rang up Mrs Northern.
"The poor man," she said, "it must be terrible not being able to make yourself understood. Let's go 
over together.
Maybe we could get to know him with sign language."
Mr Grump agreed, and when Mr Looky slowly opened the door that afternoon, he saw both Mrs Northern 
and Mr
Grump smiling at him. Without a word they began to give little smiles and bows.
"Missis Northern," said Mr Grump carefully, pointing at his friend.
"Now then . . . " began Mr Looky, whose mouth was feeling a lot better now. The other two clapped 
their hands.
"That's it, that's it - Northern. Very good, very good," they said together.
Mrs Northern now pointed to Mr Grump.
"Mister Grump," she said.
"Grump, Grump, I'll grump you," shouted Mr Looky, who was thoroughly fed up with it all. "Who do you  think I am, eh, answer 
me that, eh ?"
Instead of getting angry in return, Mrs Northern and Mr Grump smiled happily.
"Why, you are Mr Lookear," said Mrs Northern.
"And you've been practising your English for us," added Mr Grump. "Congratulations."
"You'll soon be able to speak as well as we do," said Mrs Northern.
Mr Looky sighed. It seemed impossible to explain the whole thing. So instead he smiled back. His 
neighbours,
though they behaved strangely, seemed friendly enough.
"Come in and have some tea," he said slowly, pretending he couldn't speak English very well.
Mrs Northern and Mr Grump were delighted. Mr Looky was happy to have the whole thing settled. Before 
long the
three neighbours were the best of friends.
Mrs Northern and Mr Grump never did learn what country Mr Looky came from - but he learnt to speak English so quickly that 
it really didn't matter.

Who Wants a Frog?

It was just about the biggest frog Jim had seen, and there it sat on the 
edge of the football field, looking at him.
"Boy, you're a beauty," Jim said.
And it was a beauty, bright green with darker stripes on its sides and 
yellow on its back. Its eye bulged at Jim. Its
throat puffed in and out. "Crrroak!" it said.
Jim had no trouble in catching it, but as soon as he'd picked it up, the 
bell sounded the end of morning playtime. He
looked round for something to put the frog in - a box, perhaps - or a jar. 
There was nothing.
"I can't let you go," he said. "I mightn't ever find another one as big as 
you. " The frog simply blinked at him, and by
now most of the children were back in their classrooms. So Jim did the only 
thing possible. He tucked the frog under
his shirt.
"You'd better stay still," he warned. For a long time the frog did stay 
still. Jim kept his hand over the bulge on his
stomach and looked hard at the map of Canada on the blackboard. But then 
the frog began to move. It grew tired of
its prison and Jim could feel it struggling, cold and soft like jelly, against his skin.
"Crrroak!"
Miss Carter, the teacher, stopped talking and everyone turned and stared. 
Jim held on to his stomach with both
hands.
"Crrroak!" Some of the children giggled. Miss Carter tapped her foot.
"All right, Jim. Stand up."
Jim stood up very slowly with his arms wrapped round his middle.
"What's the matter?" said Miss Carter. "Have you got a pain?"
"Crrroak! Crrroak!" Jim's stomach moved up and down and the whole class 
shouted with laughter.
"It - it's a frog," Jim said. "I found it on the football field."
At that moment the frog discovered a space between the buttons of Jim's 
shirt and it leapt out, sitting on the desk,
puffing. The other children left their seats and crowded round to look.
"Crrroak!" The frog blinked at the circle of faces as though it was 
wondering what all the fuss was about. But Miss
Carter stayed by the blackboard. Jim knew that there were two sorts of 
people
in the world - those who liked frogs and crawly things, and those who 
didn't. Miss Carter was the sort who didn't. In fact
she even hated caterpillars.
"Take it out," she said.
"But please, Miss Carter," he said. "It's the biggest frog I've ever 
seen. Look at him. He's terrific."
Miss Carter smiled a very small, white smile and didn't look. "This is no 
place for frogs, Jim. Take it out at once. And
the rest of you can go back to your places and finish your work."
 Jim held the frog gently in both hands and left
the room, but as he went out the door he wondered
if he could hide the frog in the cloakroom. After
all, Miss Carter had said out, not outside.   And the
cloakroom was out, wasn't it? He looked up and
down the empty corridor and then slipped into the
cloakroom.
It was easy to take his sandwiches out of his lunchbox, put them in his 
raincoat pocket and place the frog in the
lunchbox with the lid open just enough to give it air.
"Now you stay there till lunchtime," he said.
"Well ?" said Miss Carter as he went back to his desk. "Did you get rid 
of it ?"
"Yes, Miss Carter," he said, and he began to draw a map of Canada.
As soon as the twelve o'clock bell rang, Jim had his lunchbox, with the frog safe inside, and was 
running for home.
He opened the back door. "Mum?" he called, but there was no answer. The car was out and he knew she 
nearly
always went shopping on Thursdays. He also knew of the perfect place to hide a large and very strong 
frog.
He went into the laundry and took the lid off the washing machine. Six inches of water in the bottom 
of the bowl of the
machine, and a few stones from the rockery, made an ideal pond. The frog seemed to like it, anyway. 
It splashed out
of the lunchbox and swam round and round, stretching its long, green legs. Then it flopped on to a 
stone and sat
puffing and blinking while Jim ate the squashed sandwiches from his raincoat pocket. It was almost 
time to go back
to school.
Jim picked up the washing machine lid. "Sorry old boy," he said. "But you'll have to sit in the dark for a few hours. I can't have 
you hopping all over the house. Mum doesn't like frogs much, either."
He put the lid back on the washing machine, took the last sandwich from his pocket and set off for school again, munching bread 
and 
luncheon-sausage.
That afternoon was so slow that it seemed to go on forever. Jim was restless. He chewed the ends of 
all his coloured
pencils, and got extra homework because he drew a picture of a frog on his spelling book. But after 
what seemed
years and years, three o'clock came, and Miss Carter said, "All right, children. You may go."
Jim was first out of the school grounds, and he didn't stop running until he reached home. Then he 
stopped. He
stopped in the driveway and stared. And an awful sick feeling grew inside him. There were sheets on 
the clothesline,
and towels and pyjamas, all clean and dripping wet, and inside the house there was the steady thump, 
thump,
thump, of the washing machine.
He opened the back door.
"Jim Joseph Hodges!'' called his mother. "Is that you?"
When she called him by his full name he could be sure she was mad about something.
"Yes, Mum."
"You come here this instant!"
The sick feeling grew as he went into the laundry, and he rather wanted to put his hands over his eyes. His mother was standing 
beside the 
washing machine.
There was nothing else. Only the terrible grinding sound of the motor. Jim thought of boiling water 
and masses of
soap bubbles.
"My frog!" he said. "You didn't -?"
"Oh no," said his mother. "Don't worry. I'd scarcely lifted the lid and the wretched thing jumped out - almost in my face."
"What did you do?" he asked.
"Well, if you must know," his mother said, "I screamed."
Jim looked round the floor of the laundry. "I mean, what did you do with the frog?"
"Nothing," said his mother. "It landed on the floor over there and I put a bucket over it." She 
pointed to a yellow
plastic bucket that was turned upside down. "It's under that," she said. "Take it outside - right away from here - and let it go."
Jim got down on his hands and knees and carefully lifted the edge of the bucket.
"Crrroak!"
"Oh Mum," he said. "Can't I keep him? He's the best and biggest frog I've ever seen. I'll put him in 
a safe place, promise I will."
"No!" said his mother. Then she smiled. "Look, Jim. Supposing you were a frog, where would you like 
to be ?"
"Free, I guess," said Jim. "And I suppose the best place would be the stream."
"Exactly," said his mother.
So Jim put his hand under the bucket and picked up the frog and carried it out of the house. A few 
yards down the
road there was a short, white bridge that covered a trickle of water. Jim climbed down under the 
bridge, through the
long grass and lupin, and set his frog on a patch of moss.
"You've been on a football field, in a shirt, a lunchbox, a washing machine, and a bucket," he said. 
"You've had quite
a day."
The frog blinked as though it understood, and its throat swelled. "Crrroak!" Then it jumped, 
splashed, and disappeared
under the weeds on the stream.
Jim never saw that frog again, but sometimes on a summer evening, when the air was warm and still, he would hear a sound, 
louder, deeper than all other noises.
"Crrroak! Crrroak!"

'My Mother is Funny'

My mother is funny. She is not scared to walk down our hall in the dark, and she is not scared of talking to strangers,
and she is not scared of thunder or lightning. But she is scared of things that sensible people enjoy.
One day I found the longest worm I had ever seen. It was eleven and a half inches long. I know, 
because I measured
it. I was very excited when I found it, so I ran inside to show it to Mum. She was ironing. I held it 
up for her to see.,
and I said, "Look, Mum, isn't it a beaut?"
Mum screamed at the top of her voice and ran the iron right over her hand. All the time she was 
putting burn ointment
on her hand, she growled at me for scaring her. Then, when she went back to her ironing, she found 
that she had
dropped the iron on Dad's shirt and burned a hole right through it. So Dad growled at me for making 
Mum burn his
shirt. I told him I didn't make her, she did it herself - but he didn't seem to understand what I meant.
Another time, my sister found an enormous dead rat and said she was going to show it to Mum. I remembered the worm and I 
told Marion that Mum would be scared, but she wouldn't believe me. I was 
right, though.
Mum was even more upset than she had been before. She was mixing the pudding for tea when Marion took 
the rat
in. By the time Mum had cleaned the mess of dough and broken bowl off the floor, there was no time to 
make another
pudding. It was Dad's favourite kind, too. All through dinner we had to listen to a talk from Dad 
about being kind and
gentle and not
frightening our Mother. But Mum wasn't too kind and gentle when she scrubbed Marion's hands with 
disinfectant. I
tried to tell Dad that, but he wouldn't listen to me.
After that, we were pretty careful about what we showed to Mum. Dad and I collected a whole boxful of 
wetas one weekend, and we put a glass top on the box so that we could watch them. We kept them in the garden 
shed where
Mum couldn't find them, even by accident.
Now, there's a large Alsatian dog in our street. No one has ever seen him actually bite anyone, but 
he looks and
sounds fierce, and is always kept chained up, or locked behind a high fence. He goes for a walk every 
evening, but
his owner takes him out on the end of a thick lead. We keep well out of his way. Unless he was pretty 
dangerous, they wouldn't be so careful never to let him loose, would they? And some day he just might get away, 
from that lead.
We don't want to be around if he does.
Mum had to see the dog's owner about something one day, and when she knocked on the door, 
Solomon - that's the dog - hurled himself against the other side of it so hard that the whole house shook. Marion ran 
straight home as fast
as she could, and I walked smartly to the gate and waited on the other side of it. Mum looked a bit 
white and I noticed
that she kept well back from the door while she was talking to his owner.
Our pet is a cat. Her name is Sandy and she is very old. She does not play much any more - just eats and sleeps.
She walks very slowly, and she can hardly jump at all. I'd like a dog - a small one - myself, but Dad said it would worry Sandy 
too much. He says she enjoys life in her own way, but we must not excite or worry her.
One day after school, I was playing with my trolley on the back lawn, giving Marion rides. Sandy was asleep under the peach 
tree. I was just wondering if Sandy would like a ride on the trolley - or  if it would 
scare her - when there was
a most awful noise of thudding and barking and squealing. Around the corner of our house raced the 
next-door cat,
her tail thick with fright, and after her, barking loudly, ran Solomon. I just couldn't move. The cat 
jumped clean over the
high fence between our houses. Solomon scrabbled and scraped, and jumped and whined at the fence, but 
it was too
high for him to get over. The cat was safe - but what about us ? Solomon was between us and the back 
door, so we couldn't get inside.
Marion started to cry, and I could feel my knees shaking. What would 
Solomon do when he saw us ?
Well, he did not even see us. He saw Sandy under the peach tree. He barked 
in a most awful high whine, and
bounded straight towards her. For an old cat Sandy moved quickly. She took 
one neat leap straight up in the air and
landed on the lowest branch of the peach tree. Solomon, still whining and 
barking, jumped up at her. When he
jumped his nose just touched her tail. I could see Sandy shaking all over, 
and I knew that pretty soon she would lose her balance and fall down right on top of Solomon. Poor old Sandy. I did the only 
thing I could think of.
"Mum, Mum," I yelled at the top of my voice. "Mum, come here."
Mum flew out the back door.
"How many times do I have to tell you to come and get me when you want me 
instead of yelling like that?" she said
crossly. And then she saw Solomon.
"Ooooh," she said in a scared little voice. She took a couple of steps 
towards us. "Bill, Marion, go and shut
yourselves in the workshop," she called. "I'll make sure he doesn't get 
near you while you run for it."
"Mum, look at Sandy," I said, pointing to the tree. Mum looked up at Sandy who was shaking so hard by now that I don't know 
how she stayed put, especially with Solomon leaping at her.
"Oh, poor little Sandy." said Mum. And. do you know - my scared mother ran right over to Solomon, and grabbed him by the 
back of his neck! She twisted her hands in the skin there, and dragged him right away from the tree. Solomon
was so wild that he looked twice as big as usual and I couldn't see how Mum could possibly hold him. 
He was
lurching about and rearing up on his hind legs. He seemed so tall like that that I thought he would 
pull Mum right
over, because she is not very big at all. But she just hung on to him for all she was worth.
"Marion," Mum said, quite calmly. "Run down to Solomon's place and tell them to bring his lead here 
at once." Then
she looked at me.
"Bill, I'll hold Solomon, don't worry. You bring the kitchen steps out and get Sandy down. Take her 
inside and calm
her down." I needed calming down as much as Sandy did, but I knew what Mum meant. All the time I was 
getting the
steps and taking Sandy inside, Solomon went on struggling and whining, and trying to snap at Mum 
over his
shoulder. I don't know how she held on to that great heaving weight. She always says that carrying 
the week-end
shopping home makes her arms ache, but I bet Solomon weighs more than any old week-end shopping.
"Shall I help you, Mum?" I asked, because I thought he was going to get away from her. "No, thank you, Bill. I can manage quite 
well," she said. But it looked an awful struggle to me, and she was getting tired.
At last Solomon's owner arrived. Do you know what he said ?
"He wouldn't have hurt you. He's as gentle as can be. He just doesn't like cats."
Mum is very polite and she is always telling us to be polite, too, but she was really rude to him.
"Well, we do like cats and I wasn't going to stand by and see this great brute hurting ours," she said in the crossest voice I have 
ever heard her use. "Another time, you keep him locked up. Scaring the wits out of 
little children and
cats!" And Mum marched inside without another word, looking very red and angry.
I felt quite proud of Mum for speaking up like that. Solomon didn't look, or sound, gentle, when Mum 
was trying to
hold him. I followed her inside.
"Gee, Mum, you were brave. That was a neat way you held on to Solomon," I 
said. And then I just stared at her. It
was all over, and here we were, safely inside, with a good story to tell 
Dad when he got home - and there was Mum, sitting in the chair, shaking all over and crying.
So that's my mother. She's scared of worms and wetas and rats. Yet she 
can tackle a great fierce dog and be as
calm as you like. And then she sits down and cries when everything has 
ended happily. She's brave, all right - but
she's funny, too, I'd say.

The Birthday Guinea-pigs

When Elizabeth woke on her birthday morning, she was the most excited 
eight-year-old in the world. She had not
seen her birthday present, but she knew what it was: a guinea-pig. Every 
night during the last week, Dad had been
out in the workshop, hammering and sawing, and cutting pieces of wood and 
wire-netting. He had been busy making
a cage and run for her guinea-pig. Elizabeth thought it was a beautiful 
cage. It was oblong, with one wooden side and
one wire-netting side. One end was made of wire-netting, too, and at the 
other end there was a proper little bedroom
made of wood, with its own lift-up lid, and a little doorway into it from 
the run. The run also had its own lift-up lid. Mum
had bought a bale of straw to use for bedding and, last thing before 
Elizabeth had gone to bed the night before, she
had put lots of the sweet-smelling straw into the bedroom.
 When she awoke, Elizabeth knew the guinea-pig would be in its run, 
waiting for her. She crept out of bed and tip-toed to the back door. It was a lovely, sunny morning. The lawn was crisp and green, 
and there, in the middle of the lawn, was the cage. In it, waiting for her, with its little 
pink nose quivering
against the wire was the guinea-pig.
"Oh, my darling Susan!" cried Elizabeth, and ran towards it. Suddenly she stood still, and her eyes 
felt as if they
were popping out of her head. There was not just one guinea-pig in the cage. There were two. Twins. 
What a
wonderful surprise. Both of them had white faces, and black ears, and bright little black eyes. But, 
while the back of
one was mainly black with a touch of orange, the other was mainly orange with a touch of black.
"You are Susan," said Elizabeth, looking at the mainly black one. She looked thoughtfully at the other 
one. "And you
are Josephine. Hello, Susan and Josephine."
To Elizabeth's delight, Susan and Josephine gave shrill squeaks, and began jumping up and down. The 
sounds they
made were so funny, and they looked so odd, jumping on their little short legs, that Elizabeth 
laughed out loud.
"Happy birthday, Elizabeth," came Mum's voice from behind her.
"Thank you, oh, thank you, Mum," said Elizabeth. "How did I get two of them?"
"When I went to get Susan, the other one looked so lonely without her twin that I thought you had 
better have both.
Anyway, I imagine that two will be a lot more fun than one."
"Oh, yes," said Elizabeth. "They will be wonderful fun."
So they were, for the first two or three weeks. Every morning, before school, Elizabeth went out to 
talk to her pets
and to feed them. Every day after school she brought friends home to see them. She picked them up and 
cuddled
them often. Every evening, before she had her own dinner, she put their food in the run. They had 
lettuce and carrot
and cabbage; wheat and apples and celery; mash and silver beet and, of course, water. It was amazing 
to see how
fast they nibbled it all away, and how much they ate.
Every Sunday, she helped Dad move their run to a new patch on the lawn, and clean out their bedroom, 
and fill it with
fresh straw. They loved their fresh bedding. As soon as Elizabeth began putting in the new straw, 
they waited at the
bedroom door ready to rush in. With their little noses they tried to open the door themselves. As 
soon as Elizabeth
let them in, they burrowed into the straw, until they were completely hidden.
Then, one morning, Elizabeth got up late and did not have time to see them before school. Somehow, 
after that, there
never seemed to be time in the mornings. Then there was a very wet day - too wet for her to squish 
across the lawn
to see them after school. It was so warm and comfortable by the fire, that later it seemed easier to 
let Mum give them
their dinner.
Slowly Elizabeth began to remember Susan and Josephine less and less. It became a bit of a nuisance 
to have to
feed them when she wanted to read a book or watch television. Mum talked to them every day, Elizabeth 
told herself,
so they were not really lonely. If Elizabeth thought about them when she was doing something else she 
felt a little bit
uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to do anything about it.
"Elizabeth," Mum said one day. "How long is it since you saw your guineas ?"
"Oh, yesterday or the day before," Elizabeth said carelessly.
"You think again," said Mum.
"Um-well-it was Saturday or Sunday - when I changed their straw," Elizabeth remembered.
"And today is Thursday," Mum said. Elizabeth went rather pink.
"I love them," she said quickly.
"You have got a funny way of showing it," said Mum. Elizabeth felt like crying.
"I am mean to my guineas, aren't I?" she said.
"Yes," said Mum. "Very."'
Elizabeth went straight outside to play with them. For a while after that, she played with them every day. They were growing so 
much that one day she weighed them. Susan weighed 1 pound 13 ounces, and Josephine weighed 2 pounds 1 ounce.
"Josephine," said Elizabeth severely. "You are eating more than your share of the food." After that she made sure that Susan had 
an extra piece of carrot every day so that she could grow as fat as 
Josephine.
Then, slowly, it all happened again. Every day after school, she played nurses with her friend Anne, 
until it was time
to have dinner. After dinner, it was time for bath, story and bed. Mum went back to feeding the 
guinea-pigs herself.
"Elizabeth, what about feeding your pets?" she would say.
"I'm busy," Elizabeth would say.
"So am I."
"Well, I'll feed them soon," Elizabeth would answer. But "soon" never came. Mum kept saying that a little girl who
would not look after her pets did not  deserve to have any, but Elizabeth pretended not to hear her.
"Mum, have you fed my guineas?" Elizabeth asked just before dinner one night.
"No," said Mum.
It was the first time Mum had ever said no, and Elizabeth thought she could not be hearing properly.
"I said -"  she began.
"I heard what you said," Mum interrupted.
"But you always feed them, Mum."
"Not any more," said Mum. "Why should I?"
"Someone has to," Elizabeth said crossly.
"Yes," agreed Mum. "The person whose care they are in." 
Elizabeth pulled a face. It was bright in front of the fire and outside it was growing dark. Mum was 
mean. Still – she walked to the door.
"Where are you going?" Mum asked.
"To feed my guineas, of course," Elizabeth said in a grumbling voice.
"I'm afraid you can't," Mum said quietly. Elizabeth stared.
"What do you mean ?" she asked, feeling suddenly frightened.
"Do you remember how your cousin Jenny wanted them the day she was here?" Mum said. Elizabeth swallowed hard.
She could not speak.
"Susan and Josephine have gone to have a holiday with Jenny. She promised to look after them very well," Mum went
on when Elizabeth did not speak. She felt dreadful.
"But they're mine," she wailed. "I want them back this minute. I love them."
"Perhaps," Mum said quietly. "But I think that when you really love pets, you want to look after them, and you don't
like looking after yours. Perhaps we should let Jenny keep them. Then, when you are older, we will get you another
guinea-pig."
"I don't want another guinea-pig," Elizabeth sobbed. "I want my own two back." Mum just shook her head.
Elizabeth was too miserable to eat her dinner. She could not stop thinking about her guineas. Were they happy? Had
they had their dinner? Did they have plenty of straw? Did Jenny know that Susan had to be looked after, otherwise
Josephine ate all the food? Was their bedroom
door open so that they could go out and nibble during the night ? Did Jenny know how to pick them up and cuddle
them into her neck? Did she know you could only hold Josephine for a few minutes while Susan liked being held for
ages? And, worst of all, were they missing her? Did they think she had given them away?
Elizabeth put down her knife and fork and looked at Mum.
"I don't want anything to eat," she said. "I only want Susan and Josephine. No one else can understand them the way I
do. Mum, this is absolutely the truth. I promise that if you will get them back for me I will never, never, never be mean
to my guinea-pigs again."
Susan and Josephine came back from Jenny's place four days later - and Elizabeth kept her promise. She never neglected her 
guinea-pigs again.

Mr Murgatroyd's Lodgers

Mr Murgatroyd lived in a high, lean house, full of empty rooms. It was 
one of those no-coloured houses, a bit brown
and a bit grey, but not quite anything in particular. Mr Murgatroyd lived 
in a downstairs piece of it. He did not go into
the empty rooms very often, and when he did the cobwebs and the dust and 
the high, bare ceilings worried him. He
would scuttle downstairs, all thin and furtive, more like a rat than the 
man who owned the house.
One day he had a splendid idea. He would fix the upstairs bathroom, buy 
some cheap second-hand furniture, and let
rooms. This idea pleased Mr Murgatroyd so much that, after he had fixed 
the bathroom, he painted the front door a
bright, clear green, before he hung a notice on it: "Rooms to let".
Then he stood and looked at it. Mr Murgatroyd was small, and shrivelled, 
and bitter as medicine. He looked as dusty
and cobwebby and no-coloured as his old house. He talked to himself 
because of his loneliness.
"How much shall I charge for my rooms?" he asked himself. He chuckled.
"Too much!" he declared, so sharply that the key rattled in the lock, 
probably from fear. Mr Murgatroyd scuttled,
squint and sly, back to his rooms.
Knock! Knock! Knock! came a noise on the green door, soft and light as if a 
bird were tapping with its claw. There
stood a little woman, wispy and vague as thistledown, her nose pink as a 
belladonna lily with the wind, and her hair a
bit stringy round her ears.
"I would like to live in one of your rooms," she said shyly. "I do admire 
your green door."
"Will you come this way?" said Mr Murgatroyd. Shiffle, tap, shuffle, tap, 
went the little wispy woman after him. Mr
Murgatroyd peered at her feet. His eyebrows climbed up almost to his hair. 
She had a wooden leg.
"I should tell you, I'm going to charge too much," Mr Murgatroyd said. The 
little woman sighed a rustly sigh.
"That is what I always have to pay," she said.
Mr Murgatroyd showed her to her room and left her there. He frowned as he 
went downstairs, because the thought of
that wooden leg worried him. What had happened to Miss Wispy's other leg, he wondered? As he was going back down the 
stairs, 
he heard a
knock at the door. He grinned, as he slid like a wicked shadow to open it.
There stood a sailor with a mermaid in a wheelbarrow.
"You've got rooms to let, me bully?" asked the sailor. No one had ever called Mr Murgatroyd their 
bully before. The
mermaid smiled at him through the net of her yellow hair, and made him blush.
"We'll take a room, bully!" the sailor said.
"A room with a bathroom, for my wife is very partial to a bit of water."
"You have to share the bathroom," said Mr Murgatroyd quickly.
"Then, blow me down, bully, we'll take the room next to the bathroom," declared the sailor 
triumphantly. Mr
Murgatroyd looked at the mermaid and shuffled his feet uneasily.
"I ought to mention that the rent is too much," he said nervously.
"It's always too much, isn't it, bully ?" said the sailor. When Mr Murgatroyd got back to his office 
he did not look so
sure of himself any more. A crack in the ceiling grinned down at him, and the wind outside laughed, 
in a high voice,
and rattled his window.
"Things aren't going to be as easy as I thought," muttered Mr Murgatroyd to himself. "These aren't 
the sort of tenants
I was reckoning to deal with."
Knock, knock, came on his front door. Mr Murgatroyd got wearily to his feet and went to see who was 
there.
Outside stood Mrs Piper, tawny as a lion in summer, patched and stitched in a hundred colours, while 
behind her,
trailing down the street like a gay tail, her twenty children, oldest to youngest, waited patiently. They carried, each one of them, a 
patchwork bundle wagging at their shoulders, and they smiled at Mr Murgatroyd.
"Ah, Mr Murgatroyd, dear," said Mrs Piper. "What a door! What a splendid shade of green. I see you have rooms to let."
"No children allowed!" cried Mr Murgatroyd, seizing the door handle for support. Mrs Piper blinked. 
 "Not even if I pay too much, Mr Murgatroyd, dear?" she asked.
Mr Murgatroyd could not resist the thought of too much.
 "All right!" he said, "all right, but keep those brats of yours in order Mrs Piper, or the house won t be worth living in."
"Oh, as to that," said Mrs Piper, "a few children make a house homely." And she led her rambling, scrambling, patchwork brood 
(and Mr Murgatroyd led her), to the big rooms at the back of the house. Now there was only one room left. Who would knock on 
the green door and ask for it? Mr Murgatroyd sank his head down between his shoulders in despair.
"That green door was a mistake," he muttered.
"I should have left it as it was - dust-coloured. It's attracting the wrong type. Nothing could surprise me now."
Knock! knock! came on the door, muffled and strange, as if someone was knocking in feathery gloves.
Mr Murgatroyd opened the door a crack and peered out.
There stood a large, black bear with a long leather case tucked under one arm.
"Good evening," said the bear. Mr Murgatroyd wanted to shut the door but he was afraid the bear might beat it in with his huge 
paws.
"What do you want?" he whispered.
"Room," rumbled the bear. "I'm learning to play the flute. I need a small, plain room suitable for fluting in."
"But I charge too much," Mr Murgatroyd said, still in a whisper.
"Curious!" the bear remarked. "I always pay too much."
He marched inside and peered with small, bear eyes, at the faded scrap of carpet, and the dull dingy staircase. 
"This place will suit me," he said. "There's nothing pleasant or interesting to distract me. I'll take a room."
"A bear!" declared Mr Murgatroyd in disgust. "A bear! Mrs Piper and her twenty children, a sailor, 
with his mermaid
wife in a wheelbarrow. A wispy little woman peg-legged like a pirate! What sort of tenants are these!"
Then a smile suddenly flickered over his face.
"Think how they'll fight," he muttered. "All I've got to do is wait, and they'll fight each other out 
into the street again. I'll
get new tenants, tenants with legs, not fish tails and pirate pegs, and furry flute-playing paws. I 
just don't fancy this
lot, even if they are all paying too much."
Now things had truly changed in Mr Murgatroyd's house. All its echoing, dusty quietness had gone. Up 
and down the
stairs the children ran and shouted and slid and laughed. Miss Wispy's slippered foot went flup, 
flup, flup, and her
wooden leg went clonk, clonk, clonk. Tunes trilled and swooped from the bear's flute, like larks 
escaping from hawks;
and in the bathroom, the mermaid wife barked like a sea lion and splashed her tail in the water.
"Just wait! Just wait!" said Mr Murgatroyd, grinding his teeth in a ridiculous fashion. "They'll be 
fighting soon."
The smells of Mr Murgatroyd's house changed. Mrs Piper and her children filled their rooms with wild 
flowers, so that,
when you were thinking of something serious, you might suddenly smell wild sweetpeas, elderberry 
flowers, golden
broom and briar roses. Then the bear would polish his flute, and the smell of his silver polish 
mixture would float out
from under the stairs. Miss Wispy's room was rich and strange to sniff, for it was full of her own 
lavender and
mothballs smell, and also the smell of cough cure and parsnip wine, which she made in quantities. And 
then, just
when you'd got used to these different scents, the sailor would come home, smelling of rope, salt, 
tar and seaweed.
Under his arm he carried a parcel of raw fish for his mermaid wife. Mr Murgatroyd's nose hadn't had 
such a busy time
for years.
But this was not all. Miss Wispy filled her room with parrots and potplants. Flop, clonk, flup, 
clonk, she went around
her room every day, watering and weeding, chatting and bird-seeding.
Mrs Piper and her twenty children took up painting and filled the house with pictures of hills and 
oceans, and the wild
left-over pieces of the world. And one day Mr Murgatroyd came home
and found they had painted the stairway pink and white like a candy stick. The sailor filled the bathroom with rocks
and sand to keep his mermaid happy, and a brown bear with a violin came to play duets with the black bear and his
flute. Mr Murgatroyd watched and listened.
"They'll be fighting!" he promised himself. "Soon they'll be fighting." But Mr Murgatroyd's tenants did not fight.
The mermaid and her sailor loved the pink staircase. The twenty children stood still to hear the bear on his flute. Miss Wispy 
gave everyone glasses of parsnip wine, and they had parties in one another's
rooms.
Mr Murgatroyd would creep out and listen at the foot of the pink staircase.
"They're all in the bathroom singing with the mermaid," he would guess. "Or is it Mrs Piper's room? Anyhow they're all
happy. When is the fighting going to begin?" He would wander up and down, peering at the pictures on the walls.
"They're just pictures of hills," he would
whisper. "What is so special about them?" He blinked at their bright, clear colours, and turned his back on them.
When his tenants asked him to sing with them, he said he was busy, and turned his back on them too.
But one day Mr Murgatroyd woke up and there was a new feeling in the house. There was noise
and movement, singing and dancing as usual, but it felt very purposeful, as if all the moving was in the same
direction. It was like the rustle of a river or the roaring of the sea. Mr Murgatroyd got up,
opened his door, and peeped out into the hall. It was full of coloured bundles, bottles of cough cure and parsnip wine,
pictures, pot plants, and parrots. The bear's flute lay there in its leather
case. The mermaid's wheelbarrow was parked by the door.
Downstairs came the tenants, laughing and talking together. Mr Murgatroyd understood they were 
leaving forever, taking their luggage in bundles and wheelbarrows, all helping one another.
"That's good," said Mr Murgatroyd. "I'm getting rid of them all at one go. I'll get some good tenants 
now, some
respectable, quiet tenants who'll read improving books at night."
As they shared out their bundles and went out of his green door, laughing and talking among 
themselves, the
youngest Piper child saw Mr Murgatroyd's nose poking around the door.
"Oh Mr Murgatroyd!" she said. "We're looking for a new place to live. We don't know where and we 
won't know until
we get there. It might be a forest or a hillside, it might be a cave by the sea. Isn't it exciting? 
Why don't you come too?"
Mr Murgatroyd shut his door so quickly he almost caught his nose in it. He squinted around the window 
and saw his
strange tenants milling and moiling up the street like a swarm of bees setting out on the back of a 
summer breeze.
Miss Wispy was trotting along, her arms full of bottles of parsnip wine; the sailor was pushing his fish-tailed wife in her 
wheelbarrow. The Piper children were dancing everywhere, and the bear, hung with 
bundles like a
black Christmas tree, was still managing to play the flute for them to dance to. Off they went until 
he could see them
no more. "Good!" said Mr Murgatroyd. "Good!" But he didn't sound so sure about it as he expected to.
He went out to wander over his house. There were still a few pictures in the hall, and its staircase 
was still pink. Ivy
had grown over the walls of Miss Wispy's room, and the bathroom was filled with rocks and sand and 
seaweed. Only
the bear's room was as no-coloured and plain as ever.
Suddenly Mr Murgatroyd knew that it wasn't his house any more. His strange tenants had made it their 
very own, and
had then gone off and left it, as cicadas leave old, brown, split shells clinging to a tree. Mr Murgatroyd did not want to go on 
living in a split, left-behind shell of a house.
"Why, I'll miss them - those funny tenants of mine," he thought, amazed and quite frightened at the thought of missing anyone. 
He ran to his paint box and painted a new notice for the door. "Rooms to let for free." He hung it up outside his house. "Let 
anyone who wants to, come and live here. I've got to be going," he muttered.
Then he wrapped up his toothbrush and pyjamas, and a change of clothes in a table cloth, to make a bright bundle of his own, and 
ran to the door. Far, far up the road, he saw the procession of his tenants looking like butterflies in the sunlight.
"Wait!" called Mr Murgatroyd. "Wait! Wait for me." They could not hear him but he set off after them. He was sure that when he 
caught up with them they would laugh and welcome him in, call his name aloud. Or give him a parrot, or a pot plant to carry, 
also a glass of parsnip, wine to drink.
"How much of a welcome do you imagine you'll get?" he asked himself sharply, as he set off after them.
"Too much," he replied with a rusty chuckle. And he scrambled along the road like a lean, brown dog chasing a flock of birds, 
his own bright bundle bobbing at his shoulder.

Jeff's Soccer Ball

More than anything else he could think of, Jeff wanted a soccer ball. But every time he asked for one his father refused.
"You've already got two footballs, two tennis balls, a superball and several others," Dad said. "No, Jeff." Dad was a very 
determined man, but
Jeff was determined, too. Grandfather called him
a chip off the old block.
"Now, look, Dad," Jeff said in a very reasonable
voice, "I am not asking you to pay for it. I'll save up my pocket money and buy it myself. I'm only asking you if I can have one."
Dad frowned. Jeff he said, "Don't argue. No."
"I'm not arguing, Dad, I'm just asking," Jeff said. "Why can't I have one?"
"Because I say so," his father roared. "Look,
Jeff. As it is, I spend half my life climbing the
tree to get your balls down. And I spend the other half calling you in because you kick them into the 
middle of the
road. Those are two good reasons."
"Look, Dad, I promise I won't kick it up the tree and I promise I won't kick it on the road. Now can I have one?"
His father went purple. "You've promised all that before and it hasn't 
meant a thing. Now, I've said all I am saying
about soccer balls. No. No. No."
Jeff stamped out of the room, down the hall and outside. He sat on the 
front step and brooded. He wanted a soccer
ball so badly that he would promise anything his father asked, and he 
would keep his promise too. Why couldn't Dad
see that?
Thoughtfully he fished a piece of pink chalk out of his pocket, and, 
squatting down on the concrete, began to draw.
First he drew a fat piggy face, then a fat piggy body with four little 
trotters sticking out. He was just drawing the curly
tail when Dad appeared behind him.
"Hello, Jeff, is that a pig, or a soccer ball with legs ?"
Jeff tried to rub out the drawing with his hand. How awful if Dad guessed 
that he had been thinking, "Dad's a mean
pig," when he drew it. He grinned at his father.
"Can I go to Richard's to play ?" he asked.
"Yes, when you've cleaned away your pig. Be home by half past twelve, 
Jeff." Richard was Jeff's best friend. He lived
around the corner and
three streets down. Richard had a soccer ball. When Jeff reached Richard's place, he found his friend 
sitting on the
fence, looking very cross.
"Hi, Richard," Jeff called.
"Hi, Jeff do you know what? Dad's taken my soccer ball and hidden it."
Jeff hopped up on the fence with Richard. "What for?"
"Because I kicked it across the road and broke Mrs Kelly's window. Dad says I'm not to be trusted. 
Isn't he mean ?"
The boys sat and thought. Jeff wondered which was worse - not to have a soccer ball at all, or to have 
one and not be
allowed to play with it.
"You know what?" he said at last. "We should think up something pretty good to do."
"I don't feel a bit like doing anything good," said Richard. "I'd rather do something naughty, and 
perhaps get hurt, and
make Dad sorry."
"Yes, well," said Jeff "I suppose I'd rather, too. But if I do, I'll never get a soccer ball. What 
could we do that's good?"
They thought. Boys in stories did all sorts of exciting things that were brave and dangerous and 
good, but things like
that did not seem to happen to boys like Richard and Jeff
At last Jeff said, "Mum and Dad are always grumbling about how much things cost. If we saved them a 
lot of money
they'd be pretty pleased with us, wouldn't they?"
"Yes," said Richard. "I've got to have new shoes next week."
Suddenly Jeff had an idea. "Look, you know that pine plantation behind the hospital ? What say we get 
some sacks,
and fill them up with pine cones? They burn well, and that'll save money. What do you say?" Once he 
understood,
Richard thought it was a great idea. He skipped around the back and got four sacks, and, without 
saying a word to
anyone, the boys headed off to the pine plantation. As Jeff said, there was no point in telling 
anyone what they were
going to do, because that would spoil the surprise.
It was a long walk from Richard's place. Luckily Richard had two cents in his pocket, and Jeff had 
seven cents which
he had forgotten to put in his money-box that morning. They bought some sweets, and when they reached 
the
plantation, they began by picking up all the cones they could see on the ground.
"It takes a long time just to fill one sack, doesn't it ?" said Jeff after they had been working for some time. "I've got to be home by 
half past twelve. Do you think 
it's that yet ?"
They looked at the sky. There was some way of telling the time by the 
sun, they knew, but they did not know what
that way was.
"Well, let's say it's twelve o'clock now," Richard said. "And when 
we've filled this sack and another one we'll say it's
half past."
The boys finished filling the first sack, and half-filled the second one 
with cones from the ground.
By then their backs were aching, their arms were aching, and their legs 
were aching. They were hot and tired, and sticky, and hungry. Jeff
sat down.
"I'm sure it's lunchtime," he said. "I'm awfully hungry."
Richard thought it was after lunch-time. "I'm so hungry I'm like those 
people who get lost and can only eat little mouthfuls for ever because
their stomachs shrink." Jeff looked at the cones. It had been hard work 
getting even those. Now they would have to climb the trees to get the
rest.
"Come on. Richard, I'll climb that tree and throw them down to you and you 
can fill the sack. Then we'll go home."
It was much harder up the tree and Jeff did not like being perched up high. 
But at last Richard called out, "It's full now. Let's go home."
As they trudged along, each boy carrying one empty sack and dragging one 
full one. Jeff began to worry. What if Dad didn't understand that
this time he was trying to be good ? He was sure it was later than 
half-past twelve. What if Dad was so cross with him for being late that he
would not even listen to the story ? He began to work out how he would tell 
it all to Dad. Heads down, the boys plodded along. A car coming
towards them stopped suddenly, and out jumped Jeff's  and Richard's fathers.
"Richard ! Jeffrey!" Two cross, red-faced fathers stood in front of two 
tired red-faced little boys.
"Oh, hello, Dad," said Jeff. And, to his surprise, he could hear his voice 
wobbling as though he were going to cry. "I'll tell you the whole
story." And he did, while the fathers listened. "What's the time, Dad?" 
Jeff asked when he had finished.
"It's four o'clock, and we've been looking for you boys since one o'clock. 
Hop in the car now."
"Dad," Jeff said, a bit timidly. "I'm sorry if you've been worried. We 
didn't mean - we were only trying -"
"Never mind," said Dad quietly.
"Oh, well," thought Jeff. "There's no point now in saying any more about a 
soccer ball." So he kept quiet.
But on Monday, when Dad arrived home from work, he tossed a parcel to Jeff.
"Here you are, Jeff," he said. "I think this is what you wanted."
As Jeff unwrapped the soccer ball he thought to himself, "I'll never understand Dad. But, oh, boy! What a beauty!"

When the Little Red Hen Disappeared

It was only when Dennis heard his mother calling him, that he knew he 
would have to hurry, or he would be late for
school again. He scrambled up from the ground, where he had been looking 
through a small hole beneath the old farm
house. He hurried inside, and went through the hallway to the kitchen, 
where his breakfast was waiting on the table.
He ate quickly, hoping his mother wouldn't ask him what he had been 
looking for under the house.
It was a secret he had managed to keep to himself for almost two weeks. 
He remembered the day he had first
noticed the little red hen was missing. It was the afternoon feeding time 
and, although there were dozens of other
hens, Dennis didn't have to count them to know she was missing. Of all 
four of his pets - Laddie the collie, Rascal the
kitten, Bonnie the pony and the little red hen - she was his favourite. At 
first he thought something dreadful had
happened to her. But, all the same, he went looking in all the most 
likely places.
Then, three mornings later, as he was passing the side of the house where the tall pink and blue hydrangeas grew, he noticed a 
movement and saw the 
little red hen
flattening herself under the hydrangeas and quietly disappearing beneath the house.
Quickly he dropped down on to the ground at the spot where she had disappeared and, when his eyes 
became accustomed to the gloom, he saw the little red hen settling down on a nest alongside the chimney.
His first thought had been to run inside and tell his mother the good news, but then he decided not 
to. It would be a
lovely surprise for his mother when the little red hen brought out her chicks.
Dennis finished his breakfast and called goodbye to his mother, but before riding off to school on 
his bicycle, he
ducked into the storeroom for a handful of wheat and placed it under the hydrangeas.
Next day was Saturday. Dennis was kept busy during the morning, helping his father to round up sheep. 
He thought
often about the little red hen, and by lunchtime he was so curious that he decided to try and crawl 
across the ground
under the house and count the eggs.
So, after lunch he went into the storeroom and filled his pocket with wheat from the bin; then went to the front of the house 
where there was a gap just big enough for him to crawl through. He 
thought hard before
going under. The house seemed very low to the ground, and it looked very gloomy and a long way over 
to the
chimney. He could just see the light-coloured tips of the little red hen's tail feathers sticking out 
from the edge of the
bricks.
Dennis took a deep breath and pushed himself through the small gap on his hands and knees. Keeping 
his eyes on
the chimney, he moved slowly through the thick dust, pausing often to remove rusty old tins, broken 
glass and
rubbish from his path. Dennis could hear his mother's quick footsteps moving across the floor above 
him. He knew he
was more than halfway there and stopped to rest his aching shoulders. His eyes wandered over the old 
timber where
thick cobwebs spread and met wherever he looked. Spiders came out to stare back at him and Dennis's 
eyes
widened at the enormous size of them. He hurried on, using his arms, and staying low to the ground.
From her nest, the little red hen watched Dennis coming nearer. She didn't seem happy about it. He 
stopped a few
feet from the nest, and threw down some wheat. The little red hen watched his

movements with an unfriendly eye. She took no notice whatever of the offering.
Dennis tried once more, this time holding the wheat in his hand close to the nest; but, instead of 
the hen being
coaxed off the nest, she just puffed her feathers out and made herself look bigger. She made angry noises in her throat and 
Dennis backed away in fright. He was not quick enough. The hen gave him a sharp peck on 
the hand. His
cry of pain was cut short by a loud rumble, and he felt the ground moving under him. Dennis turned 
white. He felt
weak in his arms and legs. Even before the ground began to shake, the rumble had told him he was 
right under the
house in an earthquake.
He was frightened as the old wooden house rocked and swayed above him. Somewhere inside the house 
things
crashed to the floor. The ground began to shake faster and more strongly.
Dennis wanted to crawl out as quickly as he could, but suddenly he saw the little red hen. He had 
forgotten all about
her. She was still sitting quietly on her nest, taking no notice of the din and danger around her. 
"Brave little hen," he
said, and felt much braver himself. The rocking and shaking faded away.
Bright sunlight dazzled his eyes as Dennis came out through the hole and into the garden. He stood 
for a minute by
the lavender bush, which smelt very strong in the hot sun. He broke off a piece and sniffed it. Then 
he heard his
mother calling him, so he raced to meet her.
Two days later, his father was working in the garden, when he called out excitedly to Dennis and his 
mother to come
and have a look. There under the grapevine, clucking and scratching busily, was the little red hen 
with ten chickens
running and chirping round her.
Dennis's father laughed and said what a crafty one the little red hen was. His mother agreed, and 
said she was very
glad the little red hen hadn't come to any harm after all.
Dennis said nothing. He just looked very happy.
I. R. Rodewald

"What Say We ... ?"

The first thing you notice about my cousin Milly is that she's very pretty. She's small, neat and dark. The next thing you notice is 
the way her eyes gleam, as though she's trying not to burst out laughing. She's full of laughter and jokes. And ideas. And tricks. 
And new games.
Whenever you can't think of anything interesting to do, you just have to go and see my cousin. She'll 
be quiet and
shy for a while, and mysterious. Then, suddenly, she'll give a little skip and a giggle, clasp her 
hands together and
squeal: "I know." Then she'll run away. And you chase after her, excited as anything, dying to hear 
what it is. But
she'll never, never tell until she's found just the right place for making up plans.
Sometimes it's a secret place like behind their garage in a clump of red-currant bushes, where 
there's just enough
room for two people to squash in. Sometimes she won't tell until you're in amongst a whole crowd of 
people; and then
she hisses it out of the side of her mouth, like a chook.
"What say we ... ?" she says. And it's always something you've never thought of - or might have thought of, but have 
been too scared, or too lazy, to do. Something
impossible, or crazy, or plain dangerous.
"What say we make a parachute out of a sheet and jump off the roof?"
"What say we ring up Grandma and tell her we've been kidnapped?"
"What say we hitch-hike to Wellington?"
"What say we type a letter to the Prime Minister?"
Sometimes she suggested things that were so
marvellous we'd play them for weeks on end. Once, for a whole summer we 
played Tarzan down at the river. Lots of
other people would join in, and be the crocodiles and head-hunters.
Another time Milly said, "What say we write a book?" And we did. All about 
two girls who get shipwrecked and have
to build their own hut and grow vegetables. They tame a wild goat for milk, 
and carve bowls, and make clothes out of
the skins of wild animals. At first I said I didn't think girls would be 
able to do it, but Milly said, "They'd have to. "
So every time we planned a chapter about some new thing these girls did on the island we'd stop and 
act it out, trying
to see how it felt. That way we made them do only true sorts of things, not like those adventure 
stories where people
can do anything just because they find a magic stone or something. Anyway, we sold the book to my 
father for two
dollars.
Once we made even more money than that. Milly said, "What say we put on a concert?" So we gathered 
together all
the kids we liked, and we all worked and worked. We made up plays and songs and a special dance about 
the
Maoris coming to New Zealand. We made posters to put in the shops and charged ten cents to enter. I think everyone in the town 
was there in the end., and we had fourteen dollars and sixty cents to share among six.
"What say we put all our money together to buy a camera and take turns using it?" So we did.
And that gave us another idea. Milly and I got people to dress up and act out nursery rhymes, took 
photographs of
them and stuck them in a scrap-book with the rhymes underneath. And we gave it to Milly's little 
brother for his third
birthday. He can read it now too, all by himself, although he's only four.
I could go on, and on, but I really want to tell about last Saturday. It was the third Saturday in 
February and that's
always Rodeo Day in our town. It's one of our favourite days of the year. As a matter of fact, we're 
the luckiest kids in
the town on Rodeo Day, because our grandmother owns a sort of hotel. Milly and I always go and lean 
around the
front door to stare at all the riders when they come to book in for dinner-bed-and-breakfast. They're 
big sun-tanned
looking men, with high riding boots, and stetson hats, and fancy carved
leather belts. We say "Howdy, Stranger!" like they do in cowboy films.
Sometimes we have to show them to their rooms, and they let us watch them 
polish up their saddles and bridles and
spurs. The hotel is full of their noise as they come and go, shouting and 
laughing, knocking into each other, and
clumping up and down the stairs. They remind me of the wild steers at the 
rodeo.
When you stand outside in the street on Rodeo Day you see hundreds of 
strangers, meeting and talking excitedly.
There are streams of cars heading for the showgrounds, with their 
families and picnic baskets. It makes you feel like
shouting, "Yes, we live in this town! We know all about the Rodeo! We 
even know the champion rider of New
Zealand."
But instead, you pretend to be annoyed and look down your nose at all the 
people as though they're just nuisances.
Especially the boys. I mean, the way they show off, walking along other people's fences as though they own the place! And 
throwing stones at our town's lamp-posts!
"I hate boys!" said Milly.
"So do I!" I said. "Worse than poison!"
"They're all right when they're babies."
"Up to about five. Soon Andrew will be ghastly," I said. Andrew is Milly's brother.
"I'd like to get into a fight with those ones over there," said Milly, pulling a mean face. "I bet they're going to ride the
calves. Boys are lucky pigs."
And then - it was quite queer - right at the same time, Milly and I turned to each other and said:
"I know. What say we ... ?" And both burst out laughing.
"What were you going to say?" spluttered Milly.
"What say we dress up as boys and . . . . "
"And go in the calf-riding?"
"Yes! Yes! Let's. Oh, come on," and that's how we first came to think of it. We were so excited by our plan that for
the rest of the morning we kept jigging around, getting in everyone's way and being told off. We could hardly wait.
Our Grandmother collects clothes all year round from people to give to Corso. She keeps them in the laundry until
she has time to bundle them up. Straight after lunch we locked ourselves in the laundry to dress up. Thank goodness
our mothers were too busy helping Grandma to care what we were doing.
Half an hour later, there we were, scuffing along in the dust towards the showgrounds, keeping to the trees on the side of the road 
in case one of our relations
recognised us. We had our hair hidden in boys' straw hats left over from the concert. We had on tartan shirts, jeans
and we had bare feet. We felt dusty and tough and free. We pushed and shoved and raced each other the way boys
do.
It's more fun being a boy.
When we got inside the gate, we went straight up to the shed where you enter for events, and put our names down for
the calf-riding.
I kept telling myself not to be scared - after all, the calves were not even one year old. Babies really. The trouble is they were 
baby bulls!
Of course we didn't use our real names. I was Tom McKenzie and Milly was Chuck Western.
"That your real name?" asked the man - and we nearly fainted.
"Of course!" said Milly quickly, sticking her thumbs in her jeans pockets.
"Chuck Western, eh? Not a bad sort of name for a rider!" grinned the man. We got out of there quickly.
Rodeos are marvellous. You can sit on the fence and watch the buck-jumping and wild steer riding. There's another
event where they let out a wild
steer, and the competitor has to lasso it from his horse, leap on it and pull it to the ground, then tie its feet together.
Or you can wander around the sideshows there are coconut shies, toss-the-hoop, throw-a-coin, and rifle shooting.
But we only had enough money to buy a bunch of candy floss each, so we went from stall to stall, deciding what we'd
choose if we won a prize.
"I love that black and white cat with diamond eyes," said Milly.
For years I've wanted the same thing - a fairy doll in a pink and gold dress to hang over my mirror.
Suddenly we heard the announcement over the loudspeaker that made us clutch each other in fright: "Would all the
boys entered in the calf-riding contest line up at Stall B immediately."
"I've changed my mind," I said.
"You promised," said Milly and squeezed my arm till it hurt. I knew then that she was very frightened too, so I said, "All right," 
and off we went, trembling all over.
There were only three other boys lined up. A man gave us our numbers and told us what to do. I could hardly hear him but he 
said something

like: "Hold on until you think you're going to come off - then get off and run back here."
We looked at our cards. Mine said "Tom McKenzie, No. 2". Chuck Western was on last - number five.
"I've done this plenty of times," said one of the other boys kindly. "Just remember to cling on with your knees and sort
of lean with the rest of your body."
"Sounds quite simple," muttered Milly, between shivers. She looked sort of frosty and determined. "Let's go and look
at the wild beasts," she said, trying to sound cheerful.
We could hear the calves mooing and moving restlessly around in their pen, but we couldn't see them because the
wooden slats were high and close together. We climbed up and looked down. It was then that my courage failed me.
"You mean those are the calves?" I managed to whisper. I felt sick. They looked more like bulls. Bulls with wild eyes. Angry, 
terrified bulls, full of hate and spite.
I didn't even look at Milly. I just jumped down and ran for my life. And I didn't stop until I came to the place where the
cars were parked, right away from the crowds.
Then I lay down and cried because I was such a coward. I thought Milly was probably trying to find me but I didn't
care. I just lay there between two old trucks, furious with myself.
I was just thinking I'd sneak off home when there was a tremendous roar from the crowd. And another. And another.
Bursting and dying away, like waves.
"Milly!" I thought.
I tore back, and pushed my way through the crowds to see. And sure enough - there she was....
I mean, there was Chuck Western, clinging on
with all his limbs to the wildest wild calf I've ever seen. The crowd went mad. No matter how that calf leaped or jerked
or lurched or shied, he couldn't get rid of Chuck.
Everyone just cheered and cheered. And when old Chuck suddenly sat up and flung his left leg over the calf's head
and landed on two feet, all in one gay, beautiful movement, the roar was deafening.
Old Chuck Western stood there in the arena for a minute, grinning all round. Then suddenly he pulled off his hat and
the crowd gasped as a long, black ponytail fell into view.
Well honestly, you've never seen anything like
what happened next! People streamed on to the arena from all directions and carried my crazy, marvellous cousin off
on their shoulders. They took her up to collect her prize and the announcer asked her over the loudspeaker what it felt
like to win
two dollars, and old Milly said: "It's good because now we can have a go on the sideshows."
"Who's 'we'?" asked the announcer.
"Me and Tom McKenzie," said Milly.
And I think I was the only one in the whole showgrounds who knew why she burst into giggles.
J. A. Holloway.

The Second-hand Piano

When the piano came into the second-hand shop, it was put by the window where everybody could see it. Mr Miggs, the owner 
of the shop, printed a ticket that said: "Piano, good as new, $300", and stuck it on the keyboard.
"It'll be sold by the end of the day," Mr Miggs said to himself.
People stopped to look in the shop window and it wasn't long before a woman in a red gown called out to Mr Miggs.
"My good man," she said. "I like the look of that piano. Do you mind if I 
try it?"
"Please do, Madam," said Mr Miggs.
The woman took off her red gloves. "I am a singing teacher," she said. "I 
have pupils on Mondays, Wednesdays and
Fridays and I need a good piano." She put her head back and poked at a note 
with one finger. "La-la-la-la," she sang
and poked again.
Then the strangest thing happened. The piano, which had been standing quite 
still, suddenly moved. It shivered all
over and bent in the middle. Its keys jiggled up and down. Its legs wobbled.
"Oh my goodness!" said the woman. "Why did it do that?"
"Bless me if I know," said Mr Miggs. "Would you like to try it again?"
The woman in the red gown tried a different note this time. "La-la-la," she 
sang and down came her finger.
The same thing happened. The keys jiggled up and down like chattering teeth 
and the piano bent in the middle as
though the wood had turned to rubber.
"How odd!" said Mr Miggs. "I've never seen a piano do that before."
The woman was angry. "I'm afraid it's of no use to me," she said, putting 
on her red gloves. "I want a good piano," and
she walked out of the shop.
`Well, well, well," said Mr Miggs as he shook his head at the piano. "I 
don't think you're worth three hundred dollars
after all." He took the ticket off the piano and put on a new one that 
said: "Piano. $160," and he moved the piano
back from the window.
The next day a man in tight trousers came in.
"Can I help you?" said Mr Miggs.
The man bowed. "I'm the great Frankio," he said. "You must have heard of 
me."
"Yes, yes I have," said Mr Miggs. "You have a jazz band."
The great Frankio bowed again. "That's right. It's the best jazz band in 
the land, only I need another piano. One with
more life in it. You know what I mean?"
"Yes, indeed," said Mr Miggs. "I've only the one piano in the shop but as 
you can see it's as good as new."
"I want to hear it, man. I want to hear it," said the great Frankio, and 
he marched over to the piano.
He lifted the lid. Then he lifted his hands. Thump!  At once the piano bent 
in the middle. The keys jiggled, the legs
wobbled, the whole thing shivered so much that the great Frankio almost 
fell over with fright.
"There's something wrong with it!" he said.
"Ah yes," said Mr Miggs. "It-er-sometimes does that. But I'm sure if you 
tried again -"
"No thank you!" said the great Frankio. "I tell you, man. That piano's 
spooky. If I were you I'd get rid of it."
When the great Frankio had gone, Mr Miggs had a close look at the piano. To 
be sure, it seemed all right; but when
he poked it as the singing teacher had done, or thumped it with both hands, 
the piano shivered and shuddered and wobbled and jiggled.
"Well, I never!" said Mr Miggs. "In all my life I've never seen such a 
useless piano. Out you go to the back of the shop."
And he pushed the piano into a dark corner amongst the dust and cobwebs. 
Now it had a sign on it which said: "Take me away for $10."
The piano stayed in the dark corner until the day Susan Baker came to town.
"Hello, young Susan," said Mr Miggs. "What can I do for you?"
Susan leaned over the counter and said, "Mr Miggs, I'm learning music now. 
But we haven't got a piano at home and I
have to do my practice next door. But Dad says he'll buy me a piano for my 
birthday if I can find one that doesn't cost
too much. Have you got a cheap piano?"
Mr Miggs shook his head. "Sorry, Susan," he said.
Susan pointed to the back of the shop. "What about that one?"
"That thing?" said Mr Miggs. "Oh, that's no good. There's something wrong 
with it. Come here. I'll show you."
He went to the piano and blew the dust off it. Then he poked and thumped 
the keyboard.
"See?" he said. "It won't stay still."
"Don't!" cried Susan. "Please, Mr Miggs, don't!" She pulled up a chair and 
sat down and then gently put her fingers on
the keys. The piano stayed perfectly still while she played a tune.
"There," she said when she had finished. "The poor piano is ticklish, that's all. It doesn't like being poked and thumped."
"But whoever heard of a ticklish piano?" said Mr Miggs.
Susan stroked the black and white keys.
"Wouldn't you wriggle if someone poked and thumped you?"
"Well," said Mr Miggs, scratching his head, "I daresay I would."
Susan played another tune before she stood up and looked at the ticket. "Is that the right price?" she said.
"Yes, yes," said Mr Miggs. "Tell your father he can have it for ten dollars. I'll be glad to see the last of it."
Which was very true. Mr Miggs was pleased to see the van come to take the piano away. Never again, he told himself, would he 
have another ticklish piano in his shop.
But never again did the piano shiver and shudder and wobble and jiggle, for Susan played it as it liked to be played.
After all, Susan knew how the piano felt.
Joy Cowley



