Tricked
by Sarah Reid

"Nearly there, kids!" Dad shouted over his shoulder.  "I think I can see the lake!"   
Daniel and Melanie bounded along the narrow bush track to catch up with him, heavy packs bouncing on their backs.
"Great," puffed Melanie.  "I can't wait to have a swim!"  
Behind them, grumbling loudly to herself, came Felicity.  "I hope this hut has a mirror," she muttered.  "My hair's a mess!  And now I've got 
mud on my shorts.  Yuk!"
Way behind them all, dragging one weary foot after another, came Mum.  She was so tired she could only plod along under the weight of the 
pack, her drooping head nodding from side to side.
"Come along, dear.  We're nearly at the hut," Dad called encouragingly.  "You're doing really well.  You'll soon be fit enough for our big 
Christmas tramp.  Only two weeks away now!"  He took a deep breath.  "Ahhhhh – don't you just love the smell of the bush?"
Mum didn't answer.
Half an hour later, Felicity was still grumbling.  "I'd better not have to sleep on the floor with rats running over my face.  In fact, I refuse to sleep 
on the floor at all …"
Just then, she rounded a corner and found herself staring at a green wooden hut, nestled in the bush.  Three packs lay by the door where Daniel, 
Melanie, and their father had dropped them as they dashed off to see the lake.
Carefully, Felicity pushed open the door of the hut and stepped in.  Ten sets of bunks lined the two long walls, and Felicity quickly saw that 
nineteen beds were already filled with neatly laid out sleeping bags, packs, and people.  Only the bottom bunk by the door had not been claimed.
Just then, Felicity heard a thumping and crashing behind her.  Mum stumbled in, dropped her pack, and collapsed on that one empty bed.
"Hmmmm," said Felicity.  Then she had an idea.
She dragged the other three packs into the hut, found a face cloth in one of them, and began to gently wipe her mother's forehead.
Putting on a very worried face, she turned to an Asian couple who were sitting on their bunks writing post cards.
"I hope you've already had chicken pox," Felicity said gravely.  Their heads shot up.  "Chicken pox?" they gasped, looking at the sleeping 
mother.  They had a quick conversation in Korean, hurriedly stuffed things into their tramping packs, and slipped out the door.
Humming happily to herself, Felicity unrolled two sleeping bags on the two empty beds.  Then she began to look around.
On the bottom bunk opposite, a young woman was buttering bread for her tea.  Felicity began to dab the cloth on her mother's neck.  "Never 
mind, Mum.  I'm sure you'll be feeling better in the morning," she said loudly.  "The worst time with chicken pox is always just before the spots appear."
The woman stopped buttering bread.  She turned and mumbled something to her friend on the other side.
Within moments, Felicity was unrolling two more sleeping bags.
It wasn't long before trampers all over the hut were shoving sleeping bags, clothes, and food into their packs and heading for the door.
Just then the rest of the Potts family bustled in noisily.  "Grab your togs, Fliss," called Daniel, rummaging in his pack.  "We're going for a 
swim."
Melanie was exploring the hut.  "It's strange there aren't more people here," she commented.  "Especially at this time of year." 
"Mmmmm, strange," agreed Felicity, looking at the roof.
Melanie wandered over to the far corner of the hut, where one bed had not been emptied.  A lumpy sleeping bag rolled over and two dark eyes 
blinked at her.  Melanie bent down and peered at a spotty nose as the figure in the sleeping bag groaned.  "I'm sick!" it gasped.  "I've got …"  
But Melanie had already bounced away to find something else to do.
Two weeks later, on Christmas morning, the Potts house was very quiet.  No one bounced out of bed to open their stockings.  No one bustled 
about packing for the big tramp.  No one popped parcels under the tree or put stuffing in the turkey.
Everyone was in bed with chicken pox.

Soda Bread
by Diana Noonan

To anyone watching, we must look like a pretty strange bunch: me with my recorder, Dad with his guitar, 
and Mum with her fiddle, all walking along the beach together before the sun's properly risen, heading for 
the sea.  I look back over my shoulder to our house in the trees behind the sand dunes.  I hope my friend 
Harriet isn't looking out her window.  I don't want anyone to know what we're doing.
We walk round the corner of the beach and head for the water.  When we get close, we stop, and 
Mum takes out the music stand from her backpack and sets it up on the sand.  It's only seven-thirty and, 
phew, there's no one else on the beach.  
"I only ask you to do this on one day of the year," says Mum as if she knows what I'm thinking.    
Dad starts tuning his guitar.  "Give us an E, Kattie," he says, and I blow a note that sounds all flat 
because my recorder is cold.
Mum takes her fiddle out of its case and plays an E too.  We blow and bow and strum until Dad 
says we're ready to play.  That's when Mum looks out to sea; not at the waves, or the horizon, or the big 
bowl of yellow sun rising above the water, but to something else far away.
It's so quiet when she does that.  Except for the waves breaking and the birds calling from the 
bush, there's not another sound in the world.  Then, suddenly, she asks, "Ready?" and she's looking at 
Dad and me.  "One, two, three …" 
We play.  I work hard to get all the notes right.  I press my fingers down flat on the holes of the 
recorder.  I try not to blow too hard in case I make a squeaky note.  The tune rises into the air, and the sea 
breeze catches it and carries it far across the sea.
We play the tune twice because it's so short, and Mum is smiling when we've finished.
"Well done, team," she says.  "Thanks."
Dad and I leave her by herself then.  We walk back along the sand the way we came, and as we go, 
an Irish fiddle tune follows us along the beach and then some slow, sad music.
When we're all together again in our house, we stand around the telephone while Mum presses the 
keys that make the long line of numbers that will link us to Ireland.  She lets me listen to the strange dial 
tone and then, like magic, she's shouting "Happy birthday, Mum," into the phone and talking to my 
grandma, who I've never met.  
Dad talks too, and then it's my turn.  "Happy birthday, Grandma," I say.  
"Darlin' Kattie," says the voice on the other end of the phone.  There's a soft laugh.  "I was just 
going to bed," says Grandma, "when I heard a happy birthday tune float through the window.  It had 
come all the way across the sea from New Zealand."
I giggle, and Mum taps the glass on her watch and reminds me of what it is that I've planned to 
say.
"We're having a bread day at school today," I tell Grandma.  "Everyone has to take bread from the 
country where their families come from.  I'm taking soda bread because Mum comes from Ireland."  
We talk for a little longer, and then Mum takes the phone back and walks with it into the next 
room.
Dad and I start getting breakfast, and it seems a long time before Mum comes back and sits down 
at the table with us.  Her eyes are all red and watery like she's been crying.  She puts her arm around me 
and hugs me tight.
"Don't forget to put your soda bread in your schoolbag," she says.  
I hug Mum back.  It must be hard to live so far away from the place where you grew up.

The Big Red Tucker Takeaway Mystery
by Margaret Bremner

Although Pi's takeaway was doing a roaring trade, he had a problem.  He stood there with a frypan in his paw, dog-tired.  His 
Big Red Tucker Takeaway at the end of High Street was a great idea – a howling success, in fact.
But he was running the place single-pawed.
"This is a dog's life," he muttered as he wearily tossed another bonemeal pancake.
Just then a scruffy-looking pup poked her nose round the door.  She was wearing Rollerblades, had pierced ears and a 
tattoo, and was chewing.  She pointed to the STAFF VACANCY sign in the window.
"Got a job for me, mister?"
"Hmmm.  Is your Obedience Training Certificate up to date?"
"Nah, I'm a drop-out from Puppy Training Class."
"Doesn't sound good.  Where's your dog disc?"
"Lost it.  My name's Flos."
"Hmmm.  Can you count?"
"Yeah, too right.  I know how many biscuits make five.  And I could do home deliveries on my Rollerblades."
"OK, I'll risk it.  You're hired.  But I want to see you neatly dressed.  Striped apron, clean paws, and no chewing on the 
job. And take those Rollerblades off in the shop."
"Thanks, mister.  You won't regret it."
Flos tried hard.  She was never late for work because she slept on the rug where customers watched videos while they 
waited for their Bones to Go.  Every night, she acted as burglar alarm, and then at dawn, she started serving All Day Dogs' 
Breakfasts.  
But then things started to go missing.  First it was some cans of dogfood, and then three bottles of milk.
"OK, kid, what're you playing at?"
Flos looked as sad and hurt as only a spaniel can.  
"It's not me, mister.  Honest."
The next night a whole string of pork sausages and a puppy's birthday cake vanished into thin air.
"It's looking bad for you, kid."
So Flos set a trap.  She put a big freezer pack of meat on the counter and sprinkled a few pawfuls of bonemeal around it.  
She attached a very long black string.  It had Pi's frypan and four pot lids tied onto it.  She hid these carefully under the counter, 
then settled down to sleep with her Rollerblades on.
A terrific row woke her.  A length of rope was hanging from the skylight.  Halfway up the rope, clutching the meat pack, 
was a dark shape.  And dangling below it were the clattering frypan, four crashing pot lids, and a long black tail. 
"I should have known it.  A cat burglar!" Flos said to herself.
The thief jumped from the rope into the empty street.  Flos shot out the door and chased him on her Rollerblades.  She 
grabbed him by the tail, whipped off her collar, and tied him up with it.  
The police were most impressed, especially when they found that the thief's pawprints in the bonemeal matched up 
perfectly with their records of Skoota Snee Kee, the Siamese cat burglar. 
"So I've still got my job, boss?"
"For as long as you like, kiddo.  What will you do with the reward?"
"Buy some dog chains – they're real cool.  And I want to buy you something for giving me a chance."
"Oh, you shouldn't.  What is it?"
"A surprise."
And a surprise it was.  A few days later, Pi returned in his pick-up from the freezing works to see a giant neon-lit plastic 
bone, high up on the roof of his takeaway, flashing on and off in red and gold lights.
"Reckon it'll be good for business?"
"Reckon it will." 

The Bat
by Eli Kent

"STRIKE THREE!"
"I hate this game," Sam yells.
"Why play it, then?" I ask.
"Hey, wimp, it's your turn."  I look up.  A giant figure is standing over me.
"Hi.  I'm Matt," he says.  He hands me a bat.
"Who's pitching?" I ask.
"Me!" he says.
I start to shiver.  I get up.
"Go for it, Tom," yells Sam.
I walk up to the stand.
Matt zooms a fast ball at me.  I swing the bat.
"STRIKE ONE!"
Matt spins the ball on his finger like a basketball or a soccer ball.  Then he chucks it again.  It comes flying through the 
air, faster than light.  (Well, that's how it seems.)  I swing the bat.  CRACK!  I jump in the air.
"I hit it!" I yell.
Silence.  No one says anything.
Matt suddenly breaks the silence.  "Wanna bet?" he says.  Then he bursts out laughing.
I look at the bat.  It's snapped in half.  I turn around and see that the backstop is lying on the ground, his glove ripped off 
his hand by the ball.
"STRIKE TWO."
"Yeah, right," I think.  "I've got a broken bat, there's one more strike, and we need a home run to win."
My grandad has been watching all the time.  He walks out onto the field.  He's carrying something.  He hands it to me.
"This bat is very special," he says.
I look at the bat.  It's a pretty scrawny thing, but I don't want to say that because it might hurt Grandad's feelings.  
"I don't think this bat is up to Matt," I say to myself, "but I'll give it a try."
I turn to thank Grandad, but he's already heading back to his car.  
I hold the bat at the ready.  Matt zooms another fast ball at me.  I swing the bat.  I close my eyes.  I feel the bat connect 
with the ball, but I don't hear a sound.  I open my eyes to see the ball zooming out of the field.  I run.  Matt's mouth drops open.  
I smile at him as I pass third base.
"Come on, Matt!  Winning isn't everything."
Matt can't take it.  He throws his mitt on the ground and stamps off angrily.
As I reach home base, Grandad walks up to me.  
"I don't get it, Grandad," I say.  "What happened?"
"I don't know," says Grandad.  "My father gave me that bat when I was your age, and it always worked for me, too."
"Weird," I say.  "I mean, it is just a bat, right?"


About the Author

When Eli Kent wrote this story, he was a year 5 student at Clyde Quay School.
Eli says, "This is a story about a boy who plays softball – his confidence and his relationship with his grandfather.  I 
hope that you like it."

Silent Reading
by David Hill

What do I do on Saturdays?  I clear out the library where my mum works.
I don't clear out books or newspapers, I clear out little kids.
Heaps of little kids come to the library on Saturdays.  Most of them are OK.  But some shouldn't be in a 
library, they should be in the zoo.
A couple of Saturdays ago, one little girl kept taking books off the shelves and pushing them down the 
Returns slot.
"Don't do that, please," I told her.  The girl kept pushing books down the slot.  "Don't do that," I said 
again.  She went and grabbed more books.
So I hid on the other side of the Returns slot.  When the girl started pushing the books down, I reached 
up through the slot and grabbed her hand.  "S-s-s-s-s-s," I hissed.
CRASH!  She dropped all the books.  ZOOM!  She tore out of the library.  "One annoying kid gone," I 
thought.
That same Saturday, two boys were having races around the library.  They kept knocking books off 
shelves and banging into people.
I asked them twice to stop, but they just laughed.  So I hid inside the big cupboard where the library 
vacuum cleaner is kept.  When the boys ran past, I pushed the vacuum cleaner hose through the door so that it 
looked like a snake coming out.
"I am the library ghost," I groaned.  "Who-o-o-o."
"A-a-a-a-argh!" the boys gasped.  They galloped out of the library.  "Three annoying kids gone," I 
thought.
Then last Saturday, two little kids started chucking round the big cushions in the reading corner.  They 
threw the cushions across the floor, nearly tripping people up.  "Stop that, please," I said.
They kept throwing.  "Don't!" I said.  They threw harder.
So I got a long piece of string from Mum's desk.  I tied it to a corner of one cushion, and I put the 
cushion near some shelves.  I hid on the other side, holding the string.
The two kids came racing down the row of shelves.  They saw my cushion and grabbed for it.
I pulled the string.  The cushion slid across the carpet and disappeared under the shelf.  It must have 
looked as if it was moving by itself.
"Come on, cushions," I called in a moaning voice.  "Let's go and find those nasty little cushion-
chuckers."
GLOP!  Two mouths fell open.  ZIP!  Two people hurtled for the door.  "Five annoying little kids gone," I 
thought.
A bit later last Saturday, two little girls were sticking their hands into the library's goldfish tank, trying 
to catch the goldfish.
"Leave the fish alone," I said.  They laughed at me.  "Those fish bite!" I said.  They laughed even 
louder, but they went off to jump on the beanbags.
Then I remembered something.  In the library's toy-box was a massive plastic doll with one arm 
missing.  I grabbed it and twisted the other arm off.  It was nearly as big as a real arm.  I pulled one of my own 
arms out of my sweatshirt and stuck the doll's arm up my sleeve.  Then I waited by the goldfish tank.
When the two girls appeared again, I pretended to reach into the tank.  Then I let the doll's arm splash into 
the water.  "My arm!" I went.  "The fish bit my arm off!"
The girls stared at the arm lying in the tank.  "OHHHH!" they wailed.  VAROOM!  They sprinted off.  
"Seven annoying little kids gone," I thought.
So that's what I do on Saturdays – I clear out kids from the library.
But last night, I heard Mum telling Uncle Joel how hardly any little kids come to the library any more.  
She said some kids have told their mothers there are hand-grabbing hissers, groaning ghosts, cushion-monsters, 
and dangerous sharks in the library.
"Something's going on," said Mum.  She gave me a look.
I think ... I think that this Saturday I'll clear out my room instead.

Shelter From the Wind
by Janice Marriott

All around our house are office buildings, some with aerials on top and some with helicopter pads.  We live in the middle of the 
city, but Mum and I spend the weekends growing flowers.
"Why do you want to take a flower to your teacher?" Mum asked.
"Because," I said.
I didn't let on about what happened in the playground.
"What kind of flower do you want?"
I pointed to one.  It was tall, on a thin, hairy stalk.
The petals were crinkly like tissue paper and pink as Ms Nelisi's lipstick.
But Mum said, "Poppies are too fragile to take to your teacher."
There was one problem about getting the flower to my teacher.  
We live on one side of the motorway.  The school is on the other side.  Every day we walk across the motorway bridge 
to school.  
Even on calm, shiny days, the wind blows along the motorway through the steel bars of the overbridge.  If I wore a cap, 
the wind would blow it away.  If I don't zip up my jacket, the wind makes my jacket flap like a bird.  I usually stretch my arms 
out and fly over the motorway bridge.  I couldn't do that with a flower in my hand.
"Give your teacher some lemons," said Mum.
I didn't want Mum taking over.  I wanted to do this all myself.
While Mum was cooking our dinner, I picked the flower, burned the stem on the hot gas ring, and put the flower in 
water.
I found a plastic drink bottle and asked Mum to help me cut the bottom off it with a hot knife.
"Why?" she asked.
"No reason," I said.
The next morning, I got up early.  I took the bottle and the flower into my bedroom.  I turned the bottle upside down, put 
the flower into the bottle, and put the bottle back together with the stem pointing out of the screw-top end of  the bottle.  
No good.  The flower lay along the inside of the plastic, and I knew it would get crushed on the journey across the 
motorway bridge.
Mum came in to say breakfast was ready.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Go away."
I would have told her what I was doing if the flower was sitting safely in the plastic tube without touching the sides.  But 
I couldn't be nice when my plan wasn't working.
Mum left me alone.
I took my flower carrier apart.
I got some cardboard and cut a disc the size of the inside of the drink bottle.  Then I poked a hole in the middle of the 
cardboard with some scissors.  I slipped the cardboard disc along the stem of the flower.  Then I put the flower and the disc 
inside the bottle.  I sellotaped the bottom of the bottle back on, with the stalk poking out of the screw-top end.  It worked!  The 
flower stood up in the container without touching the sides.
"Ropati, hurry up!  And zip your jacket up.  It's windy."
I walked across the motorway bridge bent over like a banana.  I carried the flower tube tight against my chest.  I stared 
down at my shoelaces wriggling in the wind.
Ms Nelisi was in the classroom.
"For you," I said.  "Sorry I hit Jason yesterday."
The flower stood there in its tube, perfect, pink, and, I thought, very powerful.
"Thank you, Ropati.  I think you must be turning over a new leaf."
We both smiled with big curly smiles we hadn't smiled at each other for weeks.
"Tomorrow I'll bring you some leaves," I said.

Wicked Switchcraft
by Rupert Alchin

Grimelza woke up feeling dreadful.  Last night, she'd been up late at the Grand Council of Witches' Annual Disco Night.  
She'd only drunk a few potions though, so she couldn't work out why she felt so bad.  She fluffed up the gravel in her pillow 
so the chunky, jagged bits were all at the top.  Then she pulled up the covers so the horsehair blanket was all scratchy round 
her neck, but she still couldn't get comfortable.
Finally, she dragged herself out of bed.  Perhaps a hearty breakfast would help.  Feeling a bit tired and odd, she 
decided to cruise downstairs on her broomstick.  "Arreeba!" she cried as she launched herself into the air … and tumbled 
straight to the ground.  Muttering and cursing, she clambered to her feet and headed for the kitchen.
She knew just what she needed.  A lizard's egg omelette with a sprinkling of crunchy dried spiders on top and a side 
salad of soggy lawn clippings.  (Grimelza knew about the importance of vegetables in a healthy diet.)  
She gulped a big mouthful … yerrgghh, pah pah!  She spat it out in disgust.  It tasted horrible!  She needed some stale 
swamp water to rinse her mouth.  Feeling too lazy to get up, she twitched her nose in the direction of the sink.  Nothing 
happened.  Her powers seemed very weak today.
She scratched her head and wondered what was wrong.  That was when she noticed how silky her hair felt.  Normally, 
she was very proud of her frizzy, matted, split ends.  She rushed to the mirror.  She had long golden hair, peachy skin (without 
a single wart or pimple!), and clear blue eyes (not in the least bloodshot).  Usually, Grimelza found such looks hideous, but for 
some reason, today she thought she looked rather pretty.
Slowly, a thought began to form in her mind.  Last night at the disco, she'd had an argument with Wartissa, a very 
cranky old witch from Eketahuna.  Grimelza had said that it was cruel to keep children locked up in little cages while you 
fattened them up for eating.  She far preferred free-range children – they really did taste better.  Wartissa had been furious at 
this suggestion, and she'd obviously cast a spell on Grimelza.
That was it, then.  Her broomstick wasn't broken at all.  Grimelza had lost her powers!  
She was terribly upset and confused.  How could she possibly get her powers back?  No ideas sprang to mind.  So she 
decided to go down town and buy herself a nice frock.  She'd never felt like shopping before in her life, but for some reason, 
she just knew it would make her feel better. 
On the way to town, she ran into Prince Prance-a-lot.  Normally, she couldn't stand him, with his thick hair, expensive 
aftershave, purple velvet cape, and striped tights.  Today, however, she thought he looked rather dashing.
Prance-a-lot rushed up to her, waving his cape around.  
"Well, hello there, little lady," he crooned.  "You look like you've just stepped out of a beauty contest."
What a nerve!  Grimelza felt like turning him into a weta.  But before she could say the magic words, he sprang 
towards her and planted a kiss on her cheek.  Grimelza's head spun wildly.  She felt as if she were hurtling through space at a 
trillion miles an hour.  Suddenly she dropped to the ground, exhausted.
She opened her eyes.  Her skin felt lovely again – all dry and wrinkled, and her grey hair fell about her like a cloak of 
frazzled straw. Instead of aftershave, the air was filled with the delightful smell of pond weed.  Beside her sat a large green 
bullfrog in tiny striped leggings.  Grimelza was thrilled to be back to her old self again, and Prance-a-lot was much improved 
too.  
"Hello there, you handsome little fellow," she said.  She scooped him up onto her shoulder and trotted off home, 
cackling happily.  She was sure she could find a recipe in her book of spells that would turn Wartissa into Miss 
Eketahuna. 

Uenuku's Gift
by David Ellena

Let me take you back.
Back to the time when the tears of Ranginui were still falling on his lost partner, Papatuanuku.
Back to the time when their son Tàne Mahuta had created the forests of the new land.  
Among Tàne's children were the birds of the forest, who filled the mountains and valleys with song.  But in his haste to 
create them, Tàne had forgotten to give his children any colours.  They were all white.
One day, little Pìwakawaka was flitting through the bush after a juicy sandfly when she met a stranger.  He was a strong 
and powerful warrior.  Pìwakawaka flew down beside him and noticed that he was crying.
"Who are you" she asked, "and why are you crying?"
"My name is Uenuku," said the stranger.  "I'm weeping for my lost homeland of Hawaiiki.  I don't belong here."
"Don't cry," said the little bird.   "This is a beautiful place.  I can help you feel happy here."
"How can a little creature like you make me happy?" asked Uenuku.
"I can sing for you," said Pìwakawaka.
"I'll make you a deal," said Uenuku.  "If you can make me happy, I will give you and your brothers and sisters all the 
colours you desire."
So little Pìwakawaka began to sing with her little voice.  But Uenuku just stared sadly out to sea.  So Pìwakawaka called 
together all the birds of the forest to help her.
First came Kiwi.  He called to Uenuku, "KE-E WE-E  KE-E WE-E."
Still Uenuku looked sad.
Then came Kea.  "KEE-AA.  KEE-AA," he called.
Shy Kòkako tried, and so did beautiful Korimako.
But Uenuku still cried.  
One after another, all the birds sang to Uenuku, but none of them could make him smile.  Pìwakawaka even asked 
Kòtuku, but he was far too proud to come and sing.
Pìwakawaka was almost ready to give up when a glorious song rose up from the treetops.  It was Tìeke, the greatest 
singer of the forest.  "Let me try," he said.
So Tìeke sat up on Uenuku's shoulder and sang the most beautiful song of the bush.  A song of sunrise and fresh rain.  A 
song of mist through the trees and clean water in the streams.  He sang of a land of greens and blues.  Of tall, snow-topped 
mountains and lush green valleys.
Uenuku's tears stopped.  His shoulders rose up and he listened to the little bird.  Finally, a smile appeared on his face.
"Dear friends," he said.  "You have shown me the beauty of this land.  And you have shown me that I can make my 
home here."  Standing up, he called to them, "Come forward, little creatures, and I will keep my promise to you."
And with that, Uenuku turned his long hair into a beautiful rainbow.  "Fly through the rainbow, my friends," he said, 
"and all the colours you wish for shall be yours."
One by one, all the birds of the forest flew through the rainbow, and in turn, they were given their colours.  Kea's 
feathers were the green of the forest, with a flash of brightness under his wings.  Kòkako asked for the blue of the deepest lakes.  
Uenuku had to lift Kiwi up to receive the colours of the forest floor that he asked for.  Little Pìwakawaka just wanted the colours 
of the insects that were her favourite food, and Tìeke received the colours of the morning sunrise.  Only proud Kòtuku refused to 
have anything to do with it all.
"Thank you, my friends," said Uenuku.  "Go back to your forest homes.  This is my home now, and others will soon 
follow me.  Sing for them, too and everyone will be happy."  With that, Uenuku strode off into the forest.  
To this day, little Pìwakawaka still flies around us in the bush, looking for her old friend Uenuku.  And to this day, all 
the birds have kept their colours – except Kòtuku, whose feathers are still the purest white.


This story is written in the form of a legend, but it is not one of the traditional legends of Aotearoa.  You can find "The Story of 
Papa and Rangi", retold by Mihi Roberts, in the School Journal, Part 1 number 5, 1994.

Boomerang
by Kate De Goldi

Kerry liked making things.  His mother's friend Jeff said that Kerry was a designer, artist, and builder all rolled into one.  When he wasn't at school, or 
playing soccer, or hanging out with his friends, Kerry was busy making things.  
When Kerry was small, Jeff helped him with measuring or cutting or hammering, but these days Kerry could do everything by himself.  He had 
his own scissors, ruler, felts, and glue, but if he needed bigger tools, Jeff lent him his hammer or his measuring tape or sometimes even his Stanley knife.
"Boomerang, mate," Jeff said whenever he handed over his tools.
"Boomerang, mate," Kerry agreed.
They'd been saying "boomerang, mate," ever since the first time Jeff had lent Kerry his hammer to make a tea towel holder for his mum's 
birthday.
"You know what a boomerang is?" asked Jeff.
"Yeah," said Kerry.  "You throw it, and it comes back to you.  It's Australian."
"This is a boomerang hammer," said Jeff.  "It comes back to its owner."
All Jeff's tools were boomerang.  He didn't mind lending them, but they had to come back to him.
Kerry's mum said that Jeff was full of good ideas, but boomerang was his best yet.  She made her own boomerang drawer after that, for Sellotape 
and scissors and the bus timetable, which always went missing.
Jeff was Australian, like boomerangs.  He'd come across the ditch to work on a building site.  Then he met Kerry and his mum and forgot to go 
back.  The ditch was the Tasman Sea, Jeff told Kerry. Between Australia and New Zealand.
"Pretty big ditch, though," he said, showing Kerry in the atlas.
Kerry was four when Jeff came, and now he was nearly ten.  He worked out that in six years he had made over fifty cards, three pencil cases, six 
calendars, fifteen letter holders, a shoebox-full of painted stone paperweights, a carton of joke badges for the school fair, ten decorated notebooks, a cork 
noticeboard, and probably a million bookmarks.  
On Kerry's tenth birthday, Jeff gave him a new toolbox with a hammer, a bag of nails, a screwdriver, a measuring tape, and a Stanley knife.  On 
the side of the toolbox was a picture of a boomerang with the words "Boomerang, Mate!" written underneath in permanent marker.
Kerry's mum cried when he opened the toolbox present, and she cried again when he blew out the ten candles on his cake.  She cried a bit the 
next day, too, when she saw Kerry using his green-handled screwdriver for the first time.  But she cried most of all when she and Jeff sat down with Kerry 
the day after his birthday and told him that Jeff was going back to Australia to live for a while.
"How long?" Kerry asked.  He could feel his heart banging.
"Not sure, mate," said Jeff.
Kerry just stared at Jeff.  His head felt hot and strange.
"You'll come and see me," said Jeff.
Kerry didn't want to see his mother crying or Jeff looking sad, so he went to his bedroom and stared out the window.  Then he sat on the floor by 
his bed and stared at his boomerang toolbox.
Jeff didn't leave for three weeks.  Kerry's mum cried so much her face puffed up and her eyes disappeared.  Jeff finished his job and packed all 
his gear in boxes.  Kerry went to school, played soccer on Saturdays, and hung out with his friends, but he didn't make a single thing for nineteen days.  
He didn't have a single idea in his head.  He didn't touch his glue or scissors or boomerang tools.
The night before Jeff left, Kerry lay in bed thinking.  He thought about Jeff's Aussie accent and his shoulder tattoo.  He thought about his 
builder's muscles and the bald patch on the back of his head.  He thought about all the things they'd made together, about Jeff's handy hints for stapling 
and cutting and hammering.
He thought about boomerangs and what they did.
When the house was silent, Kerry got out of bed and got busy with cardboard and measuring tape, felts and glue, and his Stanley knife.  He 
worked by the light of his bedside lamp until his eyes could no longer stay open.
In the morning when Jeff's taxi came, Kerry's mum hugged Jeff and tried not to cry.  Jeff hugged Kerry and tried not to cry too.
"See you over the ditch, mate," said Jeff, blinking.  
Kerry gave Jeff the present he'd made him during the night.
It was a badge with a safety pin on the back.  The badge was coloured brown like wood; it was shaped in a curve and decorated with coloured 
stripes.  It shone with a soft varnish.
"Boomerang, mate," said Kerry, smiling at Jeff.


Me and Jonah Lomu
by Feana Tu'akoi

Whoosh!
Sione flew down the hill, gripping the coconut leaf as hard as he could.  He was going fast, but not fast enough.  Dad 
was already at the bottom, grinning and leaping around as if he'd just won a medal at the Olympics.
This was the best holiday!  Tonga was very different from New Zealand.  And it was fun seeing where Dad grew up.
This morning, they'd gone to the lagoon at Tùtù'angakava.  Dad swam a long way out, but Sione stayed near the edge.  
The water was deep and blue, so Sione was amazed when Dad stood up in the middle of the lagoon, with the water only up to his 
waist.
It was a trick, of course.  Dad was standing on a tall underwater rock called a punga.  There were lots of these rocks in 
the lagoon.  They were all the same shape and the same ghostly white colour.  Sione hadn't seen any rocks like them on dry land.
"When I was a kid," said Dad, "we thought these rocks came from outer space."
Sione thought he could be right.
Just then, it had started to rain.  
"Come on," said Dad.  "I'll show you where those rocks really came from!"
Dad and Sione walked up to a place where there were two hills side by side.  Dad showed Sione how to zoom down one 
of the hills, using the flat part of a coconut leaf stem as a sled.  
"That was cool," said Sione.
"It's quite safe, too" said Dad.  "You won't hit a rock.  There aren't any rocks around here."
"How do you know?" asked Sione.  
Dad laughed.  "I'll tell you a story," he said.  "Once, a long time ago, there were two giants.  They were fighting about 
which of them was the strongest.  Both of them were brave and cunning warriors, and each was trying to frighten the other by 
showing off his strength.
"In those days, there were clumps of giant kava plants growing all over the island.  They were enormous and very 
heavy.  Each of the giants pulled one out by the roots and shook it.  As they shook, the dirt fell from the roots of the plants, 
forming these two hills.  No rocks, just dirt."
Sione's eyes grew wider.  "Those kava plants would have to be huge to leave piles of dirt this big!" he said.  He looked 
down to the lagoon.  "You said you'd show me where those rocks came from."
"Well," said Dad, "shaking kava plants is hard work.  One of the giants, Punga, started to feel very tired.  His arms and 
shoulders were aching.  So the other giant saw his chance.  He lifted Punga up into the air and heaved him right out there into the 
lagoon."  Dad pointed out to where he and Sione had been swimming that morning.  "When he landed, Punga broke into many 
pieces, forming the rocks we still call punga today."
"So that's why they're different from all the other rocks in Tonga?"  It was a good story, but Sione didn't think it 
sounded very likely.
Dad nodded, stopping to rest for a bit as they reached the top of the hill again.
"Dad," asked Sione, "were our ancestors really giants?"
"Who knows?"  Dad shrugged.  "But have you ever noticed how big and strong us Tongans are?"  He grinned.  "Just 
look at me and Jonah Lomu!"
Sione rolled his eyes as Dad pushed off down the hill again.

Note:
The name "Tùtù'angakava" means "shaking the dirt from the kava plant".

The Lucky House
by Sue Matthew

Grandad's always talking about insects.  He says we're lucky to have insects living with us in our house.  Lucky if a bee flies in 
our window.  Lucky if an ant walks across your foot.  And extra lucky if you find a ladybird crawling on your sheets when you 
unpeg them from the line.
"If you find a beetle on your jacket," Grandad says, "it means you'll grow up tall and strong.  And if you find a spider in 
your bedroom, that means you'll always have plenty of friends."
This summer, a spider with a green, bullet-shaped body and black claws like a crab came to live in my room.  One day, 
I'd see it on the door frame.  Another day, it'd be walking across a poster on my wall.  Then later on, I'd see it on my desk while 
I did my homework. 
"Come and look at my spider, Grandad," I said.
I knew just what he was going to say.  Sure enough …
"You're very lucky she's chosen to live in your room, Sam," said Grandad.  "That's a lucky sign.  You're going to have 
plenty of company."
Late one night, Tanya came screaming down from her top bunk.  "Something's in my hair," she shrieked.  "Get it out!  
Get it out!"
The whole family woke up and came running.  Grandad was cuddling Tanya and pulling something out of her hair.  
"Shhhh!  Shhhh, Tanya," he said.  "Look, it's only a wètà." 
Only a wètà!  I looked at its spiky body and sharp nippers.  I was glad it hadn't been in my hair!  Grandad took it gently 
in his hand, opened the front door, and put it down on the path. 
"You're very lucky, Tanya," said Grandad as the twins snuggled up to him on the sofa.  "That wètà must have really 
wanted to tell you something – that's why it was trying to get close to your ear."
"What was it trying to tell her?" asked Alex.
"I thought it wanted to bite me," said Tanya.
"It didn't bite me, did it?" said Grandad.
"You just have a way with insects," smiled Mum.

That was just before Grandad got sick.  These days, he spends most of the time resting in his room.  Tanya and Alex 
have written him six books.  They're very brightly coloured and stapled at the edges, and they're all about insects.
Before Grandad came to live with us, I never used to notice insects at all.  Now, I wouldn't squash anything except flies.  
Once I would have squashed the spider on my desk, the beetle on my jacket, and especially the wètà that crawled into Tanya's 
hair.
One morning last week, I got into the shower and was just going to turn on the taps when I looked down.  In the shallow 
puddle around the plughole was a long, green stick insect.  Very carefully, I picked it up and put it on the windowsill.  It didn't 
move.  Was it dead?  Maybe it was pretending to be a twig even in the bathroom?  Maybe it thought our green shower curtain 
was a tree?
Just then Grandad came in to brush his teeth.
"Look!"  I showed him the stick insect.  
"That is special," said Grandad.  Well, I knew that already!  You don't find a stick insect in the shower every morning.
Grandad touched it very gently with one finger.  The stick insect forgot about being a twig and reared up on its thin legs.
Before Grandad could tell me this meant that I'd do well in my next maths test or that we'd all get through the winter 
without any colds, I said, "You know what this means, don't you, Grandad?"
"What?" asked Grandad, smiling at me.
"It means that this is a lucky house," I said.
Grandad looked at me, nodding and smiling.  He still had the toothpaste in one hand.  He didn't say anything, just 
reached his long arms round me and gave me a great big hug.
"That's what I think too," he said.

Pandora's Box 
a story from ancient Greece, retold by Jan McPherson

A box was hidden away in a back room of Pandora's house.  Pandora had been told never to open it or touch it.  Only the great 
god Zeus knew what was inside.
Each day as she swept the room, Pandora could see the box, high on a shelf.
It looked old and mysterious, and there were strange patterns carved on the outside.
One day, as she was sweeping and cleaning, Pandora took a chair and climbed up onto it to get a better look at the box.
"I'm just cleaning the box," Pandora said to herself, "not really touching it."
And she lifted the box down and blew dust off the lid.
Strange …  a faint humming noise seemed to be coming from inside the box.  When Pandora put her ear to the lid, the 
humming grew louder, like little high voices.
"Pandora, Pandora, open the box!" sang the little humming voices.  "Pandora, Pandora, let us out!"
Pandora was frightened.  Quickly she put the box back on the shelf and ran outside.
But each day after that, as she swept and cleaned, Pandora looked up at the box and wondered what strange humming 
things were inside.
Then one day, when Pandora was home by herself, she took down the box and opened it – just a crack …
"Ooooh!" gasped Pandora, dropping the box.
"Aaaah!" cried Pandora as a cloud of ugly creatures buzzed about the room, fighting and screeching and screaming. 
"I am Hate!" screeched one.
"I am Greed!" screamed another.
"I am Anger!"
"I am Sickness!"
"I am Lies …!"
The creatures buzzed round and round the room and then suddenly turned and headed for the door.
"No!" cried Pandora in a panic, as they flew out through the open door.  
"Come back!  Please, please come back!" she cried, running after them into the street.
But it was too late.  All the ugly, screaming creatures were halfway down the street and flying out into the world.
All … except one.
When Pandora got back, she found one beautiful little creature still inside the box, struggling to get out.
"I am Hope," said the tiny, bright-winged creature.  "Wherever they go, I follow."
The creature stood resting for a moment on the edge of the box.  Then slowly it lifted its wings in the breeze and flew 
away.
And so it happened that from the box opened by Pandora, trouble and worry and unhappiness first entered the world.
But Hope came, too.


