Carol's Stable
by W. HOY
illustrated by Mary Ferguson

Carol was a little girl who did not play with dolls. Carol's dolls got 
left under cushions on chairs. They were sat upon
by grown-ups, and lost their heads, or got squashed and flattened.
But she loved all animals. Stray kittens always seemed to be about when 
Carol was on her way home from school.
Two Cocker Spaniels lived with her, and out in the back garden was a huge 
cage full of budgerigars, Java sparrows,
and canaries. She had a tabby cat called Twinky, who slept on the foot of 
her bed.
But of all animals, Carol liked best, and wanted most, a horse. Carol lived in a big town, and her house was right in among other 
houses. Even the back garden was not much bigger than a large handkerchief. There was just no room for a horse there.
Sometimes Carol's father took her to a place where you could hire a 
horse, and Carol and her father rode their horses
among the buses and cars, and down the roads between the rows of houses, 
until they reached the bay. Then Carol
learnt to canter and to gallop along the sand. Sometimes, at the edge of 
the waves,
the horse's hooves sent up little sparkles of water into the shining sky. But Carol couldn't go 
riding very often –certainly not every day. She went to the library and read all the books she could about horses. Her favourite 
book was about a 
another small girl very much like herself. This girl made make-believe horses out of socks. Yes, 
socks. Men's socks.
She stuffed them, and fastened them to the ends of broomsticks. She put on buttons for eyes, and 
cloth from old
hats for ears. Their manes were made of wool or silk fringe. Then she would put the broomstick-horse 
between her
legs and pretend she was going for a ride. Carol made a horse for herself. She made a bridle and bit 
for it and, when
her horse was finished, she called him "Midnight". Later she made another. This one she called 
"Lady". The horses
lived in the laundry. They had feed boxes fastened to the wall, and there were nails to hang their 
bridles on, with their
names printed on labels above them.
Soon the laundry was full of horses. There were grey ones, black ones, and beautiful white ones. They 
had lovely,
bright-as-buttons eyes, and long silky manes which Carol combed and brushed. Their bridles were 
decorated with
streamers of coloured ribbons, and their feed-boxes were always kept neat and clean.
One corner of the laundry was fitted up for the foals. Every day the horses were taken from their 
stalls,
their bridles and bits were put on, and they were taken out for exercise. For such small horses the 
back garden was
not too small, and they could even go up over the fence to the top of the hill behind all the houses. 
and look down on
to the harbour. There the strong wind would toss their manes and their bright-button eyes would gleam in the sunlight, and they 
would snuff at the crisp fresh air together.
The laundry looked like a real stable, with all the feed-boxes, and all the halters and bridles hanging spick and span from their 
nails. The horses stood quietly resting by their feed-boxes, and over their heads hung their names:
"Midnight", "Lady", Silver". "Belinda", "Hunter", Star", and many others.
On washing days, Carol's mother sometimes found it a tight squeeze to fit in with the horses while she did the
washing, but as they were always very quiet, she soon forgot about them.
Carol's friends enjoyed taking out a horse, putting a halter over its head, after they had stroked its mane, and then
going off for or a canter. They got on the broomsticks, held firmly on to the reins, and pranced away.
When they came back they led the horses into their stalls. They gave their horses a feed and a drink, hung their
halters on the nails, made sure that each horse was warm, and then went home themselves to tea. Carol was glad
she had found the book telling her how to make her own horses. Perhaps you'd like to make one.

The King and the Log
a folk story from the Gilbert Islands retold by SIMON BARWICK
illustrated by Conrad Frieboe

A long, long time ago, before white men ever discovered the Gilbert Islands, there was a King of 
Buariki who was
young, kind and good-tempered.
Early one stormy evening, he sat looking out of his window, when suddenly he saw a huge log come 
hurtling up the
beach toward his house.
Presently the wind died down, and the king went out to rest on the log. As he rested, the log moved 
back into the
water, and it drifted out of sight with the king still sleeping on it.
Suddenly enormous birds came swooping down from the clouds, picked up the king in their claws, and 
carried him
back to shore.
In a short time the king woke up. He found, to his surprise, that he was on the beach once more. He hurried back to his house.
When night fell, the log floated back and rolled up the beach. The king watched with horror as the log changed into a witch.
This wicked witch decided to kill the king.
As soon as the king heard this, he rushed to the village to tell all the people.
"We must all go to the beach and attack the log," he shouted. And they did so. Immediately the log 
began to cry out.
The people were astonished and many screamed and ran away. Even now, the sand at Buariki is still red.
Some people say the log was really a crocodile. It may have swum from the Solomon Islands to the Gilbert Islands.

The Brown Man's Circus
by MARGARET MAHY
illustrated by Clare Bowes

Mr Martin was the teacher of a country school. He was a good teacher, and led a very proper, 
teacherish life with
nothing unusual happening, until one particular, quite unexpected day.
Cassandra Brown came running into school with a sheet of dark-blue paper written on in GOLDEN ink. 
"Mr Martin," she cried, "a magpie just flew down and put this into my hand."
Mr Martin took the paper and read it carefully. 'Why, goodness gracious!" he cried. 'It says here 
that the Brown Man's
Circus is coming to visit us this afternoon. I just don't believe it."
Then Mr Martin screwed up that paper and threw it into a wastepaper basket, where it waited patiently 
for the right
time to come.
Mr Martin did not believe the circus was coming, but all the children knew it was true. When the 
breeze blew from the
warm North, the children could smell lions and elephants and sawdust. When they listened, they could 
hear the
rustle of the circus coming nearer and nearer.
"You children are in a funny mood today," said Mr Martin. "We will do lots of sums to quieten you all down."
However, even sums cannot quieten children when they smell the Brown Man's Circus in the wind.
Mr Martin's school was small. There was only one room. It had light-green fields to the east, and 
Dark-green bush to the west. In front of it was a winding road.
At playtime, Mr Martin remarked to the children that the bush was full of birds - all sorts of birds, from bobbing fantails to 
boasting magpies. There were sparrows, and all the members of the finch family; there were blinking owls and heavy pigeons. 
There were birds with bills and birds with bells and birds brighter than rainbows.
"It is because the Brown Man's Circus is coming," said Cassandra Brown. "It is a special circus for birds."
"If any circus was coming to the school," said Mr Martin, "somebody would have told me. There is no circus."
"Can't you hear its wheels rolling? Can't you hear its caravans jolting?" asked David.
Mr Martin pretended not to hear David, but he couldn't help listening a little bit. He began to frown 
and look uneasy.
"You children are in a funny mood today," he said. "We'll do a lot of spelling after playtime to 
quieten you down."
But, mind you, it takes more than spelling to quieten children when they can hear the Brown Man's 
Circus rolling
closer.
At lunch time, Mr Martin remarked on all the
animals standing in the light-green fields, on the east
side of the school.
 There were cows and sheep, and the farm dogs and
cats. There were rabbits, 'possums, and deer. There
were animals spotted and striped, with whiskers and
tails such as no-one had seen before.
 " It's because the Brown Man's Circus is coming,"
said Neil, "because that's the special circus for animals."
 " If any circus was coming there would have been
posters up in town," said Mr Martin. "There is no circus coming."
 "Can't you hear the lions roaring? Can't you hear the horses neighing?" Cassandra asked. 
Mr Martin pretended to tie up his shoe lace, but really he was listening. When he stood up his face was quite red.
"You children are in a funny mood today," he said. "This afternoon we will write essays. Perhaps that will quieten you down."
But all the children wrote essays about the circus.
Suddenly, suddenly balloons began to float through the open windows. Suddenly there was music, sweet and shrill, bursting in 
through the keyhole, and sliding under the door. Then all the children stood up and cheered, the birds chirped and sang together, 
while the beasts bleated and barked, and mooed and miaowed, according to their various natures.
For the Brown Man's Circus is the special circus of birds and animals and children.
The Brown Man's clowns came whirling in like Catherine wheels, twinkling like sparklers, snapping like crackers. They took the 
school all to pieces. They sat Mr Martin and the children up in the trees with the birds.
"It's the social occasion of the year," said a magpie to Mr Martin.
"I received no notification," grumbled Mr Martin in reply.
"Look at the wastepaper basket!" cried the children.
The wastepaper basket was whirling and twirling and shooting out roses 
and rockets. Then it spun and burst, and out
of the broken wickerwork stepped the Brown Man himself. He was quite 
brown in his face and hair, like rye bread, but
his coat was dark-blue and covered with golden moons and stars.
"The circus will begin," he said, and all the children and the birds and 
animals, and even Mr Martin, cheered him.
There was never a circus like the Brown Man's Circus. It came at you from 
all directions at once. Out of the bush
came a hundred lions and a hundred tigers and fifty-seven elephants, all 
dancing the great jungle dance. Over the
fields galloped eighty horses, some black, some white, some red as foxes. 
Down from the sky came the tumblers
and jugglers, swinging like bright pendulums from pink parachutes, 
throwing daisies and forget-me-nots, playing
flutes, and eating sandwiches. As for the clowns, they were everywhere. 
They sang like larks, they rang bells and
bounced like big coloured balls.
The circus tossed like a wave, swept backwards and forwards like the 
tide, spun like a top, leapt up like a fountain
and swayed like grass in the wind.
The birds and animals, the children and Mr Martin, watched and clapped, 
and sighed together. They were all as old
and as young as one another.
There never was a circus like the Brown Man's
Circus. At last it was over. The birds flew away and
the animals wandered off. The clowns lifted Mr
Martin and the children down from the trees, and put
the school back together just as it had been. The only
thing different was the broken wastepaper basket.
Then the elephants blew their trumpets, the horses
whinnied high and shrill as piccolos. The Brown Man
leapt to the head of the line, and off the circus went
down the road, bursting balloons, tossing and tricking
until they were out of sight.
"It is ten to three," said Mr Martin. "You children
may go home now, though it is a bit early. Tomorrow
we will draw pictures of the circus to hang around our
room."
When the children were gone, Mr Martin sat down
at his desk to write a letter asking for a new waste-paper basket.
"Somebody should have warned me that circus was coming," he grumbled. I'll write a very stiff sharp sort of letter to them, that I 
will."
In the one silent room of the school his pen began to scratch busily.

The Music Box
by RENE M. THOMAS
illustrated by TREVOR PLAISTED  

ON MONDAY, Amanda came to school for the first time. Miss Taylor said to 
Amanda's mother, "Don't worry about
your little girl. I'm sure she'll be happy with us."
"Goodbye, darling," said Amanda's mother, waving to her. I'll come back for 
you at two o'clock."
Amanda wanted to run after her, but Miss Taylor held her hand firmly.
"Sit here on the mat," she said. "We're going to listen to a radio story."
The other children stared at Amanda, who hung her head so they wouldn't see 
her crying. Until a few weeks ago she
had lived on a farm, and had never been to a kindergarten. Now she was 
five, old enough to begin school. Amanda
was trying to be brave, but she felt very unhappy.
When the other children went to their tables to draw, Amanda stayed 
crying on the mat.
"Would you like to play in our toyshop?" asked Miss Taylor kindly.
Amanda only sobbed. Miss Taylor was pretty, with a smiling face, but she 
wasn't her mother. The teacher tried again.
"Look at our beautiful doll, Amanda," she said. "Would you like to change 
her dress?"
But the little girl shook her head. When her mother came for her at two 
o'clock Miss Taylor said sadly, "Amanda
doesn't like us much yet, but we'll try again to-morrow."
Tuesday was exactly the same as Monday. The other children were busy with 
all kinds of exciting tasks, but Amanda
just sat and cried. Her mother nearly cried too when she saw Amanda's tired little face.
On Wednesday Miss Taylor thought of a good idea. She came to school 
carrying a wooden box. The children all
clapped their hands. They had seen the box before.
"The dancing fairy!" they shouted. "Goody!"
"We'll show Amanda the dancing fairy, shall we?" asked Miss Taylor. "Watch, dear. "
She began winding a key underneath the box. Then she lifted the lid. Oh, what a surprise for Amanda! 
Tinkling music
came from the box, while a fairy doll twirled round and round on one toe. The doll held a star-tipped 
wand, and wore a
dress covered with silver spangles.
Amanda gazed and gazed. Her tears dried up at once. She had never seen such a wonderful box before.
"The fairy doll is just like you Amanda," said Miss Taylor. "Look, she has blue eyes and golden hair."
"I can dance too, " said Amanda. And those were her very first words in the classroom.
On Thursday the little girl arrived at school with a smiling face. When she had watched the dancing 
fairy for a time,
she went to her own table to paint a picture of her. She found there were many interesting things to 
do in school.
Soon she made friends with Penny, who held her hand when they went outside to play. When two o'clock 
came Miss Taylor said to her, "Do you like school now, Amanda?"
Amanda nodded and smiled happily.

Ships in Bottles
by JUNE MORGAN illustrated by GRAHAM PERCY

MAURICE SPENT THE SUMMER HOLIDAYS with his Grandmother. She lived near a lake, so there was plenty to do, but
every day Maurice asked, "Are you going to water Miss Dean's plants today, Grandma?''
Grandma was looking after Miss Dean's flat while she was away on holiday. Maurice liked to go to Miss Dean's flat.
He could hardly wait for Grandma to put the key in the lock and open the door. But it was not Miss Dean's plants
that interested Maurice.
On top of a bookshelf lay a bottle with three flat sides. Inside the bottle two ships sailed on a blue sea. One ship had
bright yellow sails and a
red deck. Behind it sailed a smaller ship with white sails.
"How ever did the ships get in the bottle, Grandma?"
"I don't know," said Grandmother.
No matter how closely Maurice looked he could not work out how the ships got into the bottle. On a 
table was
another bottle. It was tall and round. In it was a yacht with a tall mast and white sails. The yacht 
had a tiny cabin and
a wheel house. A red flag waved from the top of the mast.
"Come along, Maurice, I have finished." Grandma pulled down the blinds.
"I wish I knew how the ships got in the bottles, Grandma. And I wish I had a ship in a bottle of my own.
"When Miss Dean comes back from her holiday you can ask her how she does it."
"How she does it? Does she do it herself?"
Waiting is a hard thing to do. Maurice was afraid that Miss Dean would not come back before it was 
time for him to
go home. But she did. One day a taxi came and Miss Dean got out of it. Maurice wanted to go straight 
away to see
her, but Grandma said he must wait until she had unpacked and had her tea. At last Maurice was able 
to go to Miss
Dean's flat.
"Come in, Maurice. Your Grandma says you would like to know how the ships got in the bottles?"
"Yes, please," said Maurice.
"Well, I have some ships ready to go into bottles, but I have no bottles."
"Grandma has some bottles. Shall I ask her for one?"
"Yes please. Maurice." Maurice ran to Grandma and she gave him two bottles. He took them back to Miss 
Dean. On
her table was a box with all sorts of interesting things in it. There were tools and bits of wood and 
some of the
smallest ships Maurice had ever seen. Miss Dean looked at the bottles and picked up one of the tiny ships.
"This one would be just right for this bottle. But first we must make the sea." She put a lump of 
grey putty on a plate
and squeezed some blue paint out of a tube. She took a knife and began to mix the paint into the 
putty.
"Would you like to do this, Maurice?"
"Yes, please." Maurice mixed and mixed until the putty was a beautiful blue. Miss Dean put a little 
bit of the putty
on the end of a knitting needle and carefully put the needle into the bottle. She pushed the putty 
down one side. Then
she pulled the needle out and put another little bit of putty on the end of it. "You can do this, 
Maurice. But be careful
not to get the putty in the wrong place."
Maurice took the needle and put some putty into the bottle. It was much harder than it looked and 
took a long time.
At last, one of the flat sides of the bottle was covered by blue sea.
"But it's an awfully rough sea," said Maurice. "I didn't get it very smooth."
"That won't matter," said Miss Dean. "Now we can put the ship in." She picked up the little ship. 
Maurice thought it was broken because the masts were bent over. But Miss Dean pulled a thread and the masts stood up very 
slowly. It was magic! Miss Dean lay the masts down again, and from 
the box she
took a thin stick with a needle stuck in one end. She poked the needle
into the ship and then pushed the ship into the mouth of the bottle.
Maurice was sure the little ship would be broken now. It had to be pushed hard to get it through the 
bottle's neck.
Very carefully, Miss Dean pushed the stick until the ship was on the
sea. A long thread was still hanging out of the bottle. She pulled the thread very gently and the masts stood up and the sails 
unfolded. There was the little ship with its gay red sails, sailing along on Maurice's blue sea.
 Next Miss Dean put a tiny dab of glue on the
needle. She poked it into the bottle so that the
dab of glue dropped on the end of the ship. When
the glue was dry, she took the stick again. This
time she stuck a little bit of broken razor-blade
on the end. The blade was pushed into the bottle,
and the thread was cut off
 The cork was put in the bottle. It was finished.
 "Can I show it to Grandma?" asked Maurice.
 "You can keep it, Maurice. You found the bottle and you made the sea. Now it is all yours."
 "My very own, to keep?"
 "Yes, your very own."
 Maurice took the bottle very carefully in both hands. Now he had his wish: a ship in a bottle of his very own, and he had helped 
to make it. 

Pepe and Namula
a folk story from Niue Island told by A. AVISON

NAMULA SAT IN HIS WEB and looked at Pepe the moth flying about.
"You dance very well," Namula called, "but my eyes are poor and I cannot see you well. Please come closer."
Pepe came closer and danced again for Namula. "Now I can see you, and you are a very good dancer. 
Would you
like to see me dance?" asked Namula.
"Yes, please," said the little moth. Namula began to dance and Pepe was drawn closer and closer. His 
head was
whirling, and he could think of nothing but the dancing Namula.
"Would you like to see my house?" asked Namula.
"Yes, please," said Pepe, and he flew straight into the sticky web.
There he stuck and there he died.
You could make up your own dance and play from this folk story.

Tangaloa and the Carpenters
a folk story from Tonga, by JOHN BARNETT illustrated by SUE WILKIE

LONG, LONG AGO a god named Tangaloa* came down from heaven with his son.
After staying for a while in Tonga, they went to Fiji. There they built themselves a fort so strong 
that no one could
enter it, unless he was let in. Tangaloa and his son brought all the
carpenters they could find, and put them in the fort.
The Fijians did not like the carpenters and their fort, and came to fight them. They tried and tried 
to win the fort, but
were unsuccessful. However, one of the Fijian gods decided to come down and join in the fight against Tangaloa and the 
carpenters.
This Fijian god made the rain pour down on the fort. Although the rain was very heavy, the wooden wall which the carpenters 
had built round the fort let in no water. After many hours of this heavy rain, the water was so deep that the fort just floated away.
It floated for many thousands of miles, and stopped at many different lands, and at each stop some of the carpenters got off.
That is why you now find carpenters in almost any part of the world.
*Pronounced Tung-a-lo-a.

The Rooster and the Thief
by RUTH DALLAS
illustrated by MARY FERGUSON

RUSTY, the black rooster with the red comb, was walking in a field. The 
wheat was harvested and some loose grains
lay on the ground. At first, Rusty picked here and picked there, but, 
finding he could not pick up all the grain, he went
back to the farmyard for his wife, Pick-pot.
When Pick-pot, the ginger hen, came to the field she picked here and picked 
there, and found there was more grain
than she could eat.
"Shall we call the others and have a feast?" she asked Rusty.
He stretched one wing and then the other. "Today we have more grain than we 
can eat," he said. "But there are days in the winter when we feel hungry. Let's store 
up some of the grain in a secret hiding
place. In the winter, when we are hungry, we can go there and eat our fill."
"You are the best husband in the world," said Pick-pot. "You can see into 
the future. But where is such a secret
hiding place to be found?"
Rusty flew up to the fence post, crowed three times, and looked to the 
right and to the left. Then he looked behind
him and in front of him. Along the road he saw some pine-trees.
"Pick-pot," he said, "if you are finished eating, let's go to the 
pine-trees and look there."
So Rusty, the black rooster with the red comb, and Pick-pot the ginger hen, 
walked down the road together till they
came to the trees. They scratched about among the pine-needles. After a 
while they found an old barrel, lying on its
side. Then they found its lid.
"What could be better?" asked Rusty. "We'll carry the wheat here, grain by 
grain. When we have a good store, we'll
put on the lid and hide the barrel."
One day, when they were carrying grain from the field to the trees. Nipper, 
the black and white cat, stopped them.
"Why do you go into the pine trees so many times a day?" he asked.
"The sun is too hot in the field," said Rusty. "We go to lie in the shade."
Another day they met Barkalot, the watch-dog.
"Why are you always coming out of the pine-trees?" he asked.
"The trees are too shady," Rusty replied. "We like to walk in the field, in 
the sun."
In this way Rusty and Pick-pot kept their store of wheat a secret.
When the barrel was full, and there was no more grain to be found in the 
field, they put on the lid and covered it with
pine-needles.
The farmer ploughed the field. Rusty and Pick-pot returned to the farm-yard 
and ate scraps the farmer's wife put out
for them. But in the farm-yard the food had to be shared with Nipper the 
black and white cat, Barkalot the watch-dog, Grunter the pig, and a lot of hens and ducks. So there were days when Rusty and 
Pick-pot felt that they had not had
enough to eat.
One day, Rusty the rooster saw Pick-pot the hen standing alone.
"It's a long time since I had any wheat in my beak," he said to her. "Let's go to the pine-trees and eat some of the grain we stored 
there."
"Wait a little longer," said Pick-pot. "The farmer's wife might scrape out the porridge pot and give 
us the scraps."
"We should at least go and look at the grain to make sure that it is safe," said Rusty, and he planned to peck a grain or two while 
he was there.
When Pick-pot saw that Rusty had made up his mind to go, she went with him to the pine trees. The barrel lay just as they had 
left it, covered with pine-needles.
"It is quite safe," said Pick-pot. "Let's go back to the farm-yard."
"Let's open the barrel and look inside," said Rusty, and he took off the round lid.
"Why, some of the wheat is gone!" he cried. "You did this, you greedy hen! You have come here on your own and eaten the 
wheat!"
"You are the one who has eaten the wheat, you wicked rooster!" Pick-pot said.
They began to fight. Their feathers flew. Rusty
drove Pick-pot away.
After Pick-pot had gone, Rusty pecked one or two grains but he felt sad. "Perhaps it was a thief, and 
not Pick-pot, "
he thought. "Perhaps we did not collect as much wheat as we imagined. I shall set a trap and find out 
whether it was
a thief, or whether it was Pick-pot."
He put the lid back. With his beak he spread some mud around the edge of the lid, where it fitted 
into the barrel. "The
mud will dry," he thought. "If anyone takes the lid off, the mud
will break. That's how I'll find out whether or not the lid has been lifted."
When he had finished sealing the barrel, he covered it with pine-needles and went back to the farm-yard.
"Don't let's quarrel," he said to Pick-pot. "Perhaps we did not collect as much wheat as we imagined."
"You know best, husband," said Pick-pot. "You can see into the past as well as the future."
Rusty did not tell Pick-pot that he had sealed the barrel. He kept close beside her, so that she was 
never out of his
sight.
Next morning, when Pick-pot was looking under the hedge to see what she could find for breakfast, 
Rusty went off to
the pine-trees alone. He found the barrel covered with pine-needles, just as he had left it. The lid 
was on, but the dry
mud round the edge of the lid was broken! When he looked in, he saw that a little more of the wheat 
was gone!
"Someone has been here!" he cried. He flew into a temper and kicked up the pine-needles all round him. "Wait till I catch him! It 
was not Pick-pot. She was with
me all the time. It was a thief! I shall keep watch tonight and find out who it is."
But when he thought of coming down to the trees at night, and staying alone in the dark, his feathers 
shook with
fright. "What if the thief is bigger than I am?" he thought. "What if it is a wild cat?"
On his way home he met his friend, Nipper, the black and white cat from the farm-yard.
"Good day," said Nipper. 'I see you are coming out of the trees again."
"Oh, Nipper," said Rusty the rooster, "when there was more wheat in the field than we could eat, Pick-pot and I laid up a store 
for the winter. But somebody has found it and is stealing it. I am going to wait in the 
trees tonight and
catch the thief. Will you come with me?"
"The thief might be a wild dog." Nipper said. "I'll come if Barkalot the watch-dog comes, too."
So they went to see Barkalot the watch-dog.
"Yes, I'll come," said Barkalot. "But what if the thief is a wild pig? Wild pigs have sharp 
tusks. Let's ask
Grunter the farm pig to come, too."
So they went to see Grunter the pig.
"What the thief is a wild cow?" Grunter said. "Wild cows have long horns. 
Let's ask Rumbler the bull to come."
"Rumbler the bull would frighten any thief,"
said Rusty the rooster.
So they went to see Rumbler the bull and asked him if he would come with 
them to wait in the trees at night.
"That is, if you are not afraid," said Rusty, strutting up and down, 
pretending to be brave.
"I would not be afraid of a thief," said Rumbler the bull, "even if he 
stood as tall as the church steeple. But if we all go
down to the trees together, he might see us coming, and run away. We
should go one at a time and meet there."
"Who will go first?" asked Rusty the rooster, beginning to shake with 
fright. Then he had a brain-wave. "Let's draw
lots," he said.
He picked five pieces of grass. He tucked them under his wing, with just 
the ends showing, and asked the others to
draw out one blade of grass each. The one who got the shortest blade of 
grass was to go first to hide in the trees.
Nipper the black and white cat, drew a blade of grass, then Barkalot the 
watch-dog. then Grunter the pig, then
Rumbler the bull. Who got the shortest blade? Rusty the rooster!
The others could not help laughing, because nobody wanted to be first.
"But- but-" said Rusty, shaking like a jelly, "when I am hiding, and someone comes in behind me, how shall I know 
whether it is a friend or the thief?"
"We'll have a pass-word," said Rumbler the bull.
"Something easy to remember," said Grunter the pig.
"A word to whisper," said Barkalot the dog. 
"Let's say, 'Hush!' " said Nipper the cat.
So it was agreed that the pass-word would be: "Hush!"
When it was nearly dark, Rusty the rooster went up to Pick-pot the hen.
"Don't expect me home tonight, my dear," he said. 'I am off on important 
business." And he would not tell Pick-pot
where he was going.
"You know best, husband," said Pick-pot.
Rusty strutted off, with his chest puffed out and his head held high. But 
the nearer he came to the pine trees the
more his feathers shook.
"I hope the others are not long in coming," he thought, as he hid in a 
bush by the barrel.
He waited a long time. Then he heard a scratching sound.
"Hush!" someone whispered.
Nipper the cat crept in beside him. They both listened.
"Hush!" Barkalot the watch-dog sneaked into the bush. They all listened.
"Hush!" Grunter the pig came in. They all listened.
"Hush!" Rumbler the bull had arrived. They all listened.
Not a sound.
 The trees grew so dark that nothing could be seen. Then the moon rose and shone through the branches. Long shadows lay on 
the ground. The moon shone on the lid of the barrel, making it look like a round door.
 In the middle of the night, Rusty the rooster heard something moving by the barrel. He pushed up close against Nipper the cat 
for company. Nipper pushed up close against Barkalot the dog. Barkalot pushed up close against Grunter the pig. Grunter pushed 
up close against Rumbler 
the bull. Rumbler had no one to push up close 
against, and he was sorry he had come.
 Look! The lid of the barrel was open! Something had gone inside!
 Rusty began to crow: "Cocka-doodle-doo!"
 Nipper began to miaow: "Miaow!"
 Barkalot began to bark: "Woof, Woof! Woof!" Grunter began to grunt: "Groo-nt!" Rumbler began to roar: "ROOO-OOO!"
 And out of the barrel ran a little mouse no 
bigger than a button, and popped into his hole 
in a tree where they couldn't get him! 

The Stone Man
by Margaret Mahy
illustrated by Nan Reid

THERE WAS ONCE this island, quite green and pleasant, just sitting on its own in the middle of the sea. It looked
quite ordinary, but you could tell there was something funny about it, because nobody went there, and nobody came
away, and even the
storms went around it.
Now, on the mainland, a little man lived with his aged mother. His name was Thomas, and, as well as 
an aged
mother, he had a boat, a little boat  just his own size. One day he thought, "I'll sail out to that 
island," although he
knew it was a dangerous place where witches had once lived.
So he sailed and sailed and came to the island at last, and landed on its soft shining sand.
The trees came marching right down to the edge of the beach, like tall green people guarding their 
island. But in
between those trees ran a path, twisting and turning as if it were made of silver wire. Now of course 
this was strange
because no one had been to that island for a thousand years, yet there was the path all clear and 
smooth as if it were
trodden every day by a thousand thousand feet. Thomas could not help wondering who the path was meant 
for.
So he boldly took his lunch box and his frying pan and set off up the path. The
only sound was the pattering of his sandshoes - no wind rustled the leaves, no birds sang. It was as 
if, in the days of
the witches, a witch had said, "Shhh!" to the whole island, and it had hushed ever since.
At last, he came to the heart of the island.
In the heart of the island, the marching trees stopped and stood at attention. There was a ring of 
grey stones, and in
the centre of the ring stood a stone man wearing a strange, pointed, stone hat. His eyelids were
closed, and his flat stone feet had the heels together and the toes apart. They looked just the right 
shape to sit a
frying pan on.
Thomas, that foolish little man, scurried round collecting bark and dry leaves and twigs. Though 
there was still no
wind, the trees began to murmur and sigh, especially when Thomas lit a camp fire between the stone 
man's stone
feet, and put his frying pan over it. He put a walnut-sized lump of butter into the pan, and three 
rashers of bacon. He
swizzled the bacon with a stick. The smell of frying bacon rose in the air.
The stone man's nose twitched. Then it twitched again, smelling the bacon. The stone lids lifted, and 
eyes like black
holes looked down at the impudent little Thomas cooking bacon over a camp fire, between the stone 
feet. A great
voice spoke, sounding like a stone bell.
"Someone has woken me up. And it isn't time for me to wake yet."
A stone hand was laid upon a stone sword.
But Thomas was quick, as well as
impudent. He remembered that his aged mother used to sing him to sleep with a certain song, and this 
was the
certain song
he now sang to the stone man.
"The mouse he runs on rustling feet, He does not laugh or sing. He fears the cat, he fears the dog, 
The owl on silent
wing. His roads they wind throughout the house, And swift he sports and leaps. He steals our food and 
runs away
Back to his nest and sleeps."
As the song began, the stone man's hand stayed, and the stone sword grew still again.
Over and over again, Thomas sang his song, and in between each verse he yawned.
The stone man yawned, his mouth wide and black, like a cave in a cliff. He had stone teeth, pointed like swords.
His stone eyelids closed with the clink and chink of falling pebbles. Thomas sang the song once more, letting his voice grow 
softer and softer until it was as thin and fine as a spider's web. Then he grabbed up his frying pan of bacon and his lunch box, and 
sped back down the silver path, back to his little bobbing boat. All the time, he was listening for the dull dead fall of stony feet 
behind him, but the only sound was of his own pittering sand-shoes and his own pattering echo.
 He sailed his boat back to the mainland, and went home to his own kitchen. His
aged mother was waiting for him. She took the frying pan out of his hand, and fried
the bacon for his supper. The smell of it was quite delicious, but neither the pictures nor the ornaments moved and came alive. 
Thomas enjoyed his bacon. He thought of
his adventures while he ate it. In the back of his mind he had a question, and it was
no good asking it for no one would be able to answer it:
"What would happen when the time came for the stone man to wake up? "
Not being able to tell, Thomas went on to the very finish of his bacon.

The Monster Egg 
by Marilyn Duckworth
illustrated by Wendy Masters

ONCE THERE WAS a little girl who liked to wake her father in the morning by sitting on him where he 
lay hunched up
under the blankets. She would climb up over him and sit in her striped pyjamas, bouncing on his back. 
He didn't like
to wake up, even if the sun was shining. He liked to sleep.
One day she said to him, "You're a Daddy egg, and I'm sitting on you to hatch you
into a Daddy. Hatch, hatch, hatch!"
But her father went on sleeping under the blankets. So she said, "You're a porridge-eater egg, and I'm 
sitting on you to
hatch you into a porridge-eater. Hatch, hatch, hatch!"
But her father went on sleeping under the blankets. So she said, "You're a toast-and-marmalade-eater 
egg, and I'm
sitting on you to make you hatch into a toast-and-marmalade-eater. Hatch, hatch, hatch!"
But her father went on sleeping under the blankets. So she said, very loudly, "You're  a monster egg, 
and I'm sitting
on you to hatch you into a monster!"
Then the blankets began to heave and rumble, and a great monster with long teeth and spiky hair leapt 
out of the bed
and waved his claws at the little girl. He arched his back like a gorilla, and began to chase the 
little girl.
The little girl screamed and ran into the corner of the room.
The little girl's mother said, "Don't worry. Here's some Daddy dust. 
Throw it at the monster, and he'll turn into a Daddy."
The little girl began to throw the Daddy dust at the monster, but he went 
on growling and leaping. So the little girl's
mother began to throw Daddy dust too, and gradually the monster grew 
quiet. His claws dropped to his sides, he shut
his mouth and smoothed down his spiky hair, and suddenly he was a smiling 
Daddy in stripy pyjamas.
And they all got dressed and went into the kitchen to eat their porridge.

John the Mouse 
by BEVERLEY RANDELL
illustrated by Barbara Brown

John was a small brown mouse who lived in a school. At the back of the teacher's cupboard, there was a small, dark hole. It was 
just the right size for a mouse, and that's where John lived.
When all the children had gone home and the school was quiet, John used to come out and look for 
things to eat.
There were always a few bread crumbs on the floor, and sometimes little pieces of cake.
One Monday morning, John felt very hungry. He was always hungry on Monday because there were no crumbs
dropped on Saturdays and Sundays.
"If I go in quietly," he said to himself, "I might have a bit of somebody's lunch." He came out from 
the back of the
cupboard and sat there to see if anybody was looking at him.
It was quite safe. All the children were sitting with their backs to him. John saw a piece of bread 
on the floor and ran
to get it. But then, just as he started to eat it, he thought he heard someone calling him.
"John, John, " said a child. "Here is John."
The children were reading from the blackboard, of course, but John did not 
know that. He was very frightened. He ran
back to his hole as fast as he could, and hid for the rest of the day.
The next day, he heard someone calling him again.
"Come. John, come," said someone. "John, John, come here," said someone else.
"I had better see what they want," said the brave mouse, and he put his 
head round the back of the cupboard.
"Come, John. come," said the children, but they were not looking at him.
"How funny," said John. "I wonder what they are looking at? I wonder who 
they are talking to?" He crept out to
see. Just then the teacher picked up a white stick and wrote "John" on the 
board. All the children called out, "John!"
At last John understood.
"Those white things on the board mean my name! They mean John!" he said. Now he knew what it was all 
about.
That afternoon, when the children had gone home, John ran out of his hole to see if his name was 
still on the board.
Yes, there it was. He was very proud because he could read it all by himself.
Then he saw a piece of chalk lying in front of him. He had an idea. He would try to write his name 
too! He picked up
the chalk with both paws. It made a white line on the floor, just as he wanted it to. "I like 
writing," said John to
himself.
For the rest of the week, John was busy reading and writing. Every night he wrote all over the floor. 
Every morning the
teacher was cross about the mess. She didn't know it was done by a mouse.
Sometimes he wrote J o n h and sometimes o J h n and sometimes J h o n - but by Thursday night he was 
quite
good at it. John, he wrote, J o h n, J o h  n, John.
On Friday morning, John thought he would like to learn a new word - it might be "mouse"! He came out of his hole
and sat on the mat with the children. But this time a little girl saw him. "Oh, look!" she shouted, 
"there's a mouse."
"Sh! children," said the teacher. "We must keep still and not frighten him." This was John's chance. 
He shook with
excitement. He ran and picked up a piece of chalk
which had dropped on the floor. Then he wrote J o h n in his very best writing.
What would you do if a mouse wrote J o h n on your classroom floor? There was so much fuss that John 
felt shy and
hid his face in his paws. But after a while, when the children had given him bits of bread and cheese and cake, he felt better. He 
wrote John, John, John, 
again and again
while they watched.
After that, John never had to find any food for himself. The children brought him everything he 
needed. They made a
small bed for him in the doll's house, and even gave him his own blankets with JOHN on them. And 
every day he sat
on the mat and learned to read with the children.
He was the happiest mouse in the whole world.



Brave Paul 
a German folk story
illustrated by Victor Ambrus

Paul was six years old and soon he was going to school. He could not read, but he could
do many other things.
He always meant to do what he was told but he did not always remember things. And so he often got 
into trouble.
One day, Paul heard his father tell his mother that there were wolves in the forest.
That pleased him. He felt very brave when he was with his friends or at home with his mother and 
father.
"I shall shoot a wolf, " he said. "I shall shoot it with my bow and arrow."
Some people thought that Paul showed off too much. The other children laughed at him. "Look! There 
goes brave
Paul," they said. "He thinks he is brave enough to fight four wolves."
One day, Paul's friend Peter was taking a horse and cart through the forest to a farm. Paul asked 
for a ride in the
cart and got all his things ready for a real wolf hunt. He took with him his drum , his wooden sword, 
his bow and
arrows, his toy gun and his knife.
They went through the forest with the
dog Tip running by the cart. Paul looked around. He thought a wolf might be hiding in the trees.
"Are wolves afraid of a drum?" he asked Peter.
"Of course they are," said Peter.
And so Paul beat his drum loudly until they were through the forest.
When they came to the farm, he asked, "Have you seen any wolves here?"
"Oh, yes," said the farmer. "Last night the wolves ate a sheep. It was near 
that shed. "
"Do you think there were many wolves?" asked Paul.
"We don't know," said the farmer.
It doesn't matter much, " said Paul. "I just wondered if I should take 
Peter with me. I could fight three wolves by
myself, but if there were more some would run away before I could kill 
them."
"You should go by yourself," said Peter. "That would be braver. I think 
there are only three wolves."
"Well," said Paul, "if there are three, one of them might bite me on the 
back. If there were only two, I could take one in each hand and kill them."
"I don't think there are more than two," said Peter. If there were more than two wolves, they would have killed more than one 
sheep."
"But, Peter, if there are two, one might bite me on the leg. You come with me and bring a stick. If 
there is only one
wolf, I could kill him."
"There must be only one wolf," said Peter. "Two wolves would kill more than one sheep."
"I can kill one wolf easily, " said Paul, "but he might tear my clothes as I fight with him. Do come 
with me, Peter."
"I don't think you are as brave as you say," said Peter. "You wanted to fight four wolves at first, 
but now you want me
to help you fight one. What will people say? They will think you are afraid."'
"I'm not afraid," said Paul. "But it would be more fun if there were two of us. If you come, I will give you the skin. I will
keep only the ears and tail for myself."
"No, thank you," said Peter. 'Now I can see that you are afraid."
"I will show you that I am not afraid," Paul shouted. He took his drum, sword, bow, knife and gun and 
off he went to
hunt wolves. He kept stopping to look all round himself. He saw a tree moving.
"I'll beat my drum," he said.
Rat-tat-tat went the drum very loudly.
"There aren't any wolves here," said Paul. But just then a brown head looked out From the shed.
Paul ran away. He threw away his drum,
and ran as fast as he could.
But when he looked back the wolf was
running after him. He lost his sword, and
his bow, and his gun. He ran so fast he fell
over and lay flat on the ground, and the
wolf jumped on to him.
Paul called for help. He thought the wolf
was going to kill him. But this was a friendly
wolf. He only shook Paul's coat and rubbed
his nose against his face.
"Help! Help!" shouted Paul.
Peter heard him and ran to his help.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Why are you shouting?"
"A wolf! A wolf!" said Paul.
"Where? I can't see any wolf."
"Be careful," Paul cried. "He has bitten
me to death."
Peter began to laugh. "That's not a wolf," he said. "That's your old friend, Tip the dog.
When you ran away, he thought it was a game and ran after you. You are bad, Tip. You shouldn't make brave Paul run like that. "
Paul got up on his feet, feeling very silly.
"Sit down, Tip," he said. "So it was only a dog. If it had been a wolf, I 
would have killed it."
"Listen to me," said Peter. "You should not show off. Are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid," said Paul. "You wait until we meet a bear. I'd much rather 
fight a bear than a wolf."

"You are showing off again," said Peter. "Only people who are afraid go 
round saying they are brave. Really brave
people never talk about the brave things they have done."

Cry Baby Cat
By Pat White
Illustrated by John Griffiths

Cry Baby Cat came in the door. He was grey with black stripes. He looked sad, and he cried softly.
The old man who owned him picked him up. Cry Baby Cat stopped crying and purred and purred.
"Why do you cry, Cry Baby Cat?" said
the old man. "You have a fish for breakfast
and a plate of meat for lunch. For your tea
there's plenty of milk. Why do you cry?"
Every morning, the old man would get
up and cook his breakfast. But first he would
put a fish on the cat's plate. He had to do
this because Cry Baby Cat was crying all
the time.
Then the old man would eat up his breakfast very quickly before the kitten began to
cry again.
After breakfast, he washed the dishes,
cleaned the kitchen, and put the kitten outside in the sunshine. Cry Baby Cat would
then begin to cry again, because he knew
that the old man was going to work and would not be home until lunch time. He would be by himself for a long time.
"Now, Cry Baby," said the old man. "I'm going to work. You are lucky. You can sit at home all day. I have to go and fill up all 
the 
holes in the road.
Goodbye, little Cry Baby, I'll see you at lunch time."
Now the old man had eaten his breakfast too quickly and he had hurried away to work too quickly. Soon 
he began to
feel sick. He sat down at the side of the road under a big tree. As he was sitting there, something 
rubbed against his
legs. It was a black cat - he had never seen such a big black cat.
"Where did you come from?" said the old man, patting the black cat.
The black cat said, "You look so sad that I would like to help you. My name is Thomas."
"My kitten, Cry Baby, makes me sad," the old man said. "He cries when I get up in the morning, and he 
cries when I go to work, and when I come home again he is still crying. The only time he stops crying is when we are 
having
something to eat. I have to eat my food as fast as he does, or he starts to cry again. It's making me 
feel sick."
"How old is this cat?" asked Thomas.
"He is six weeks old today," said the old man.
"I can help you!" said Thomas. "He needs someone to talk to when you are 
away. I will teach him how to be a good kitten.
The old man felt much happier when he heard this. "I must work hard this 
morning," he said. "Will you come home
with me at lunch time and teach my kitten not to be a cry baby?"
"All right," said Thomas, and he curled up and went to sleep.
The old man worked hard. Soon it was twelve o'clock. "It's lunch time, 
Thomas," he called. The cat opened his eyes,
stretched himself, and began to walk home with the old man.
When Cry Baby Cat ran to the gate and saw the big cat, he cried and 
cried. He tried to run away and hide, but
Thomas was too quick for him.
Thomas said kindly, "I've come to help you." But the kitten spat at him and 
ran under the house.
"Oh dear," said the old man, "you are not much help!"
"You will see," said Thomas. "I need time and some milk."
"Here you are, " said the old man, and he poured some milk into the 
kitten's blue saucer.
Cry Baby Cat heard the milk being poured out. He came into the kitchen and saw Thomas drinking from his saucer. He hissed, 
but nothing happened. He bit 
Thomas on the tail, but still nothing
happened! He was so surprised that he stopped crying and began to drink 
milk from the saucer, too.
The old man was so pleased that he gave them both two fish.
"You see," Thomas told the kitten, "you get more to eat if you don't cry." 
Then he went to sleep by the fire, and the
kitten was so tired that he went to sleep, too.
The old man made some scrambled eggs on toast. He had such a good meal that he was able to work very 
hard
indeed.
When he got home that night, there were two cats waiting for him. The big black cat walked in front 
of him, and the
little kitten walked beside him. The kitten began to cry, but Thomas hit him with his tall, and he 
began to purr. And
they both got
more meat for their tea.
Every day the two cats met the old man when he came home from work. But one day only the kitten met 
him. Where
was Thomas? The old man never found out. The kitten knew, but he could keep a secret - he was seven weeks old and a very 
wise cat for his age.
"Perhaps he's gone to teach some other silly little kitten how to be a good cat," said the old man to 
himself. "And
now I must think of a new name for my kitten, because he's not a cry baby any more."
What new name do you think he chose?

The Little Black Dog and The Motor Car
by FRANCES BYRNE illustrated by Mary Ferguson

The little black dog was always running after things, but he could not 
catch them.
He ran after every cat he saw, but he couldn't catch one. He ran after 
the little birds looking for food, but he couldn't
catch one.
He ran after other dogs because he wanted to play with them, but they all 
ran away from him.
He ran after a big lorry, but he couldn't catch that.
He ran after all the cars in the street, but he couldn't catch them.
Then, one day, he did catch a car - and this story tells you how it happened.
One sunny morning, Father and Mother were gong for a picnic. When the 
lunch basket was put on the table, the
little black dog knew that they were going to the beach.
He did not want to be left at home, and so he lay down on the floor and 
looked at the basket. He saw some red
apples go into the basket. He saw some cake. There was something with a 
nice smell that all dogs like.
"Sniff!" went the little black dog. "Sniff! I think it's a bone." And he 
lifted one of his big ears.
Then the cat outside the kitchen door said, "Meow!"
The little black dog growled, "I can't catch you now. I'm going for a 
picnic to the beach."
"Meow," said the cat "you can't catch me." And she walked about with her 
head up high.
The little dog ran outside. "Bow-wow," he barked. Away went the cat, and after her ran the little black dog.
The cat jumped on to the fence. "Meow," she said, "you can't catch me!"
"Bow-wow," barked the little black dog, and he jumped and he jumped, but he 
couldn't catch her.
His master whistled for the little black dog.
"Grr---," the little black dog growled.  "When I come  back I'll catch you." But
the cat wasn't afraid of the little black dog who couldn't catch anything.
At last the car was ready. In jumped the little black dog. Off they 
went - Father, Mother, the little boy, the little girl, and
the little black dog, and the basket in the back - off they went to the beach.
The seagulls cried loudly as they fought for the crumbs the children 
dropped.
"Bow-wow," said the little black dog, and he ran and ran over the sand, 
but the seagulls flew out to sea.
They cried, "You can't catch us."
The little black dog ran into the water,
right up to his neck, and he swam and he swam and he swam, but he couldn't 
catch the seagulls.
The little black dog ran back on to the beach and shook himself. Big drops 
of water fell from his wet coat. Then he
rolled in the sand. As soon as he was dry, the little black dog put his 
head on his paws and went fast asleep. He was
very tired because he had been chasing seagulls.
He lifted his head quickly. He could smell a strange dog. He opened one eye 
and then the other. He could see a large
dog with a long tail. Up he jumped, and away he ran after the long tail.
"Bow-wow," he barked. "Wait for me." But the big dog ran away with his tail 
up in the air.
His master whistled to him and called, "Come back. We are going home." But 
the little black dog ran after the long
tail.
" We must go, " said Father, at last. "I have to meet Grandma at the train 
at three o'clock." He looked at his watch. "I'll tell my friend who drives a lorry to look 
after the dog until we come back."
The little black dog heard the car start. Now he didn't want to be left 
alone. So he ran after the car. He ran and he ran - over the sand, then along the road. Where the road was rough, the car went 
slowly - bump, bump, bump! He might be
able to catch it. The little black dog ran so fast that his ears almost 
fell off his head.
The car went slowly over the railway-lines. He was almost up to it when the 
train came puffing across in front of him.
The little black dog sat down and puffed. "I nearly did, I nearly did," he 
said.
Just then a lorry came along. "Hop up," said the driver. And so the little 
black dog jumped up with the driver.
Over the railway-lines they went. The lorry went bumping along, and the 
little black dog sat beside the driver.
Very soon they saw the car. The lorry stopped, and the car stopped. The 
little black dog got into the car. He sat up
on the back seat with the little boy and the little girl and looked as proud as anything.
He ran after the cat, but he couldn't catch her.
He ran after the seagulls, but he couldn't catch them.
He ran after a big dog, but he couldn't catch him.
He ran after the car, and - with the help of his friend the lorry-driver - he 
did catch it.
The little dog wagged his tall. He gave a big bark. Then he lay down and 
went off to sleep very happily.


