THE FIRST TIME OUT
by ELSIE LOCKE

It was a real let-down. For the very first time Lance and Morrie had persuaded their 
fathers to take 
them on a deer-stalking weekend, and now they were told to stay at the hut in the 
morning.
"Look, be reasonable," said Mr Wiltshire, Lance's father. "You've tramped far enough 
today. You'll 
need that lie-in. We'll go out at first light and see if we can bag a deer, come back 
for breakfast,
and after that we'll show you how to move quietly in the bush. You can't pretend 
you've mastered 
that. Not yet."
"And how!" laughed Mr Grant. "Crashing through the jungle like young rhinoceroses!"
"You said we couldn't keep up with you, and we did!" protested Morrie.
"And carried our own packs, and you said our gym boots wouldn't be tough enough and 
they were, and 
we're not even tired yet!" That was Lance talking.
"No, you're not tired, you're flicking your eyelids for fun. Tell you what," said Mr 
Grant, with a 
sideways glance to his mate, " you get up first in the morning and you can come. If 
one of us gets up
first, you can slumber on. We won't wake you. I brought the thermos so we can put down 
the coffee 
tonight while the fire's going, and sneak out softly in the morning."
It sounded like a bargain. But once the boys snuggled down in their sleeping bags on 
the bunks, the 
world stopped for hours.
Lance didn't know anything more until Morrie was shouting: "Lance, hey, it's half-past 
seven and 
we're supposed to have the fire lit and the billy boiling."
The hut had the funniest stove standing on high legs. Although the men had shown them 
how to light 
it and what wood to use, it wouldn't behave. They would see it started and then go 
outside to
look at the mountains, and when they came back the hut would be full of smoke without 
the sign of a 
flame. And how could they stop looking at those mountains? As they watched, something
moved on the shingle far above, and then something else behind it.
"Get an eyeful, Lance! Deer, two of them! Where's Dad, d'you think? Whacko, if they 
can see that lot! 
How far away do you have to be to shoot them?"
It took Lance a while to pick out those distant, moving dots. "Ooh,
  I've got them! Might be chamois," he guessed. "Dad says you see them above the bush 
like that."
"Oh boy! Wouldn't it be terrific to get a chamois!"
The animals passed out of sight without being shot, and everything was quiet except 
for the river 
running past and the bellbirds in the trees. At that moment a shot rang out far above, 
in the basin
made by a tributary of the river.
Morrie jumped. "D'you think they got him?"
"A deer or a chamois?"
"I can't see anything moving where we saw those chamois."
"You nut, the shot didn't come that way! It was over there, between the mountains."
"We've got to look at that fire. They'll be coming down for their breakfast any time."
The boys worked at the fire until it was burning strongly with no smoke at all, only a 
friendly 
crackle and a soft roar in the chimney. Tiny bubbles gathered round the inside of the 
billy. "I'll go 
and
see if they're bringing home the venison," said Lance.
He ran down to the big rock at the bend of the river where the side-stream came in. 
And, yes, a man 
was coming down that valley. It was his father. He was bounding down in big leaps, and 
he
was by himself. Perhaps they'd got a huge stag, and the boys would have to help bring 
it in. Then 
Lance felt Morrie beside him on the rock, and Morrie was saying in a small, frightened 
voice:
"Where's my father?"
Mr Wiltshire had to come right up to them before he could answer that question. And he 
had to do it calmly, and try to be kind with news that could not be hidden or delayed.
"Take it easy, Morrie. There's nothing seriously wrong, but your Dad's got himself a 
nasty gash on 
the leg. He'll be all right till I get back, but I need your help, both of you. 
Nothing to panic about."
"What happened? Did you shoot him?" said Morrie.
"No, I've got more sense than that," Mr Wiltshire tried to smile. "It was a stag I 
shot. It fell into 
a gully and broke a tree as it went. Bert was jumping down this bit of a bluff to get 
at the stag and 
he
caught his leg on a spiky bit of the tree. That's why the wound is a long one, you 
see."
"Is it an artery?" said Lance, remembering his first aid lessons.
"Yes, I'm afraid it is. But it's all right. I always carry a field bandage, and I got 
a stone and 
made a tourniquet. D'you know how it works? The stone is fixed in the bandage and 
placed against the
artery. The bandage is then tightened, so that the blood is stopped before it gets as 
far as the 
wound. There's no blood spurting out now, Morrie; but you can't leave a tourniquet
on very long. So we have to hurry. You got that billy boiling?"
"Yes!" cried Morrie. He was glad to have done the first thing right.
"I'll have a quick cup of coffee and take the thermos up. Good thing I always carry a 
pencil."
The pencil was to write a message with, and Mr Wiltshire did this twice, "in case the 
first one goes 
wrong somehow." While he was writing, the boys made slices of bread and honey, and 
filled
the thermos with coffee. Then Mr Wiltshire rolled up two sleeping bags and pushed them 
into his pack 
with a ground sheet, and towels, and other odds and ends, while he gave his orders.
Lance was to take the messages out to the main road, two hours away by the route they 
had come. He 
was to stop the first car going towards Christchurch and ask them to hand the message 
in
at the road-works camp further down. Then he was to give the second message to the 
next car. And he 
was to wait until people came to help in the rescue, and guide them in, because 
otherwise
they could not find the hut. As for Morrie, he was to come up to the scene of the 
accident and learn 
the way back from there, while Mr Wiltshire would stay with Mr Grant all the time. 
They would
have no way of moving him without other men to help, because he was lying in such an 
awkward narrow place.
"Now, Lance," said his father, "we'll see how well you learned your bushcraft 
yesterday. I told you 
to notice everything: the places where you follow the river, the places where the bush 
tracks lead
off, the blaze marks made with an axe on the trees. Stop now and then to make sure, 
and look back the 
way you've come. Take special care where the river forks. You'll be getting the rescue
party lost if you follow the wrong stream. Thank goodness the river's low, but stick 
to the crossing 
we showed you, and take your time going over. Morrie, go into the hut and get a good 
pair of
socks on inside your gym boots while I see Lance on his way."
"I know it from here, Dad," said Lance. But the truth was that Mr Wiltshire had more 
to say, and he 
didn't want Morrie to hear.
"Get it straight," Lance. I think Bert's leg will be right, but I
can't be sure. I'm taking a chance on what Morrie might have to see; 
there's no other way. A man could bleed to
death with a gash like that one. A tourniquet isn't the best, it has its 
risks, and I'll have to keep finger pressure over
the artery till somebody comes to help. Now you know why you have to 
hurry, but it's even more important not to
make any mistake."
"I get it. Trust me, Dad."
With nothing to carry except the two messages and a pocketful of nuts and 
raisins, Lance could really move. It was
terrible to think of Mr Grant perhaps bleeding to death up there. But 
there was no time to worry about that now. Lance
remembered his bushcraft well, and, in perhaps half the time it had taken 
the day before, he came up the steep bank
on to the road at the crest of a hill, and at once he heard the sound of 
a car.
Now, which way was the direction of Christchurch? Lance felt confused. 
The car was already in sight, a blue Holden,
before the thought flashed to him that of course the driver could answer 
that. He stepped on to the roadway and
stretched out his arm, and the brakes went on. In the front seat sat a 
man and a woman, easily as old as his father
and smartly dressed.
"Are you going to Christchurch, please?" said Lance.
"No, sonny, we're going to the West Coast. Try the other side of the 
road."
The man grinned as the car moved off. Lance felt awful: to be laughed at, when he so 
badly needed help! He waited
for what seemed ages, until a truck came. Again he stood in the roadway 
with his arm outstretched.
"Sure, I'll take a message. What is it?" The driver read it over and 
nodded seriously. "Sure, sure. I'll be at the works
camp in ten, fifteen minutes. What about you? Coming?"
"No. I'm to stay here and guide them in, thanks."
"Looks like some one else coming," said the driver, glancing in his 
mirror.
It was the blue Holden returning. What for? Lance moved back as the truck 
started up and the car took its place, and
the man opened the door.
"My wife says she thinks, by the look of you, there might have been an 
accident. I thought you were hitching a ride.
Which of us has it right?"
"She has," said Lance, seeing for the first time the friendly face of the 
woman. "My father's mate got his leg gashed.
up deer-hunting. I've been sent to get help. The truck took the first 
message.
"The first message? Have you got two?"
The man and the woman leaned over the paper to read it and the woman 
said: "Just as I told you, Charles, there's a
jinx on every holiday. No rest for the wicked and the doctors."
"You're a doctor!'' cried Lance with joy.
"Yes," said the man, "and my wife's a nurse, and we're both sound in the 
legs. You'd better drag out our plastic
sandals, dear, if they're the best footwear you've brought. My name's Dr Downley. 
What's yours?"
"Lance Wiltshire."
The doctor took his black bag from the depths of the car boot. "I always 
carry it and it's never been wasted yet," he
explained. "Don't worry about that truck driver, Lance, he'll deliver the 
message okay. Now we'll put our own notice in
the car window, telling the rescue party where to start, and you can 
guide us in and come back to meet them. If they
follow the river at first they can't go wrong, can they? We'll put white 
paper markers at the tricky places."
The three of them set out. They could not travel as fast as
Lance had done, but neither was Mrs Downley as slow as Lance feared she 
might be, with her town skirt and light
sandals and a duffle bag slung over her shoulder. They had gone two 
thirds of the way before she slid sideways on a
muddy bank and the strap of her sandal broke.
"Now what am I to do?" she wailed. "Tie it on with a roller bandage or 
what?"
"You won't get far or fast that way. You'd better let Lance and me go 
ahead."
"And be without a nurse? That won't do, Charles."
Lance looked at his own feet and at hers. They must be about the same 
size.
"You take my gym boots, Mrs Downley, and I'll go barefoot. Mum says I've got soles 
like leather."
After a few laughs at her own appearance in the battered-looking boots, 
Mrs Downley began to speed up. "These are
fine!" she called back, but for Lance - his feet were not at all like 
leather. They bruised and prickled on the rocks, the
roots, the broken sticks, the small tough seedlings; and he didn't say a word in case 
she thought he wanted the boots back again.
When they came near the hut, they saw Morrie sitting on the big rock 
where they had watched Mr Wiltshire come
down the valley. He was watching out for them and looked small and 
miserable.
"Who are they?" he asked.
"She's a nurse," said Lance, with a sweep of pride, "and he's a doctor."
Morrie began to shake. "Dad looks queer," he said with a sob in his 
voice. "Mr Wiltshire says it's all right, but his skin
has gone white, and he feels cold, and he hardly says anything, just 
'Morrie', and 'I'm a fool', and silly things. All the
blood rushed out when the tourniquet came off. Mr Wiltshire's lying 
across the rocks with his fingers on Dad's leg and
he mustn't let go, he says ..."
"Cheer up," said the doctor, "there's nothing in what you've told me that 
a doctor can't fix.. The sun's warm. He won't
fade away. Now come along and show us where he is." Mrs Downley produced from her 
duffle bag a packet of barley sugar.
Barley sugar! It had never tasted better; Lance hadn't realised how hungry he was. He 
felt very flat as the others set off up the valley. First he must go to the hut, grab 
some food and do something about his feet. Now he knew why his father had insisted he 
should bring an old pair of sandshoes. When he put them on, the skin round his toes 
still felt sore, and he was travelling not nearly as fast when he went down the river 
for the second time.
In the end, it didn't matter. He was less than half way when
he saw three men hurrying along with strong boots and packs and determined looks on 
their faces.
"We're from the works camp," they said. "Are you the boy whose father got hurt?"
"No, I'm Lance. Mr Grant got hurt and my father's his mate. "Didn't you bring a 
stretcher?" 
 "We'll make a stretcher out of our pack frames. We read the 
notice in the car window. So you collared a real doctor! Bit 
of luck, that! And you left paper markers to show us the way." 
 They were full of fun. They seemed to think that, with a
doctor on the spot, there was nothing in the world to worry over.
When they came to the big rock and there was no sign of Morrie,
they saw no need to wait. "We go up the creek and into the
basin to the right, don't we? You can tell by the lie of the land.
They'll have left boot marks in the boggy places, and tracks
through the tussock and scrub."
 They were right; and before long they were out in the open,
looking down at where Mr Grant was lying.
 He was not between the rocks any more, but on a green bank,
with the two sleeping bags packed around him, his leg properly
bandaged and supported, his head resting comfortably upon
Morrie's knee.
 "Stretcher party reporting," said the first man.
 "You've come through fast! I was just going down," said Mr
Wiltshire. "Your guide has done well. Good for you, Lance."
He put out his hand but Lance ducked away. Now that everything was all right, he hated 
to be made a fuss of. But relief and happiness came surging up inside him, as it must 
be surging inside Morrie.
Lance looked up at the jagged ridge against the skyline, and below it he saw silver 
threads of waterfalls flashing in the midday sun. He looked down, and saw that the 
green bank was fringed with masses of creamy white flowers with gold in the centre, 
and yellow daisies thrusting out between the rocks. Further down he could see the 
antlers and the tawny hair of the stag.
 "Dad," he whispered, not really hoping, "are we going to take the stag with us?"
"Some other time, Lance. You'll get plenty of those for yourself before you're done."
Dad was right: he had things to do. It would be his turn to
hold the rough scrub aside while the stretcher bearers went through.
Yes, there would be another time for the 
mountains and the deer.
illustrated by ALAN HOWIE

WHAT DO YOU DO IN WINTER?
A Story From Canada by Jim MURPHY

Friday afternoons always went very slowly. School was out at 3.30 p.m., 
instead of the usual 3.45 time. If it was a
fine afternoon and the sun's brittle rays had melted the surface snow of 
the "Chute" down by the frozen river, Tom and
his friends could look forward to lots of fun before the sun set at 4.30 p.m.
 The "Chute", as the boys called it, was a slight rise only twelve
feet high, which was smoothed into ice by many cold seats
sliding down it on the way home after school. Some boys got
very good at sliding down it while standing in their rubber boots.
To do that took good balance. But, most daring of all was to try
to go down on ice-skates. Tom knew only four boys who could
do this successfully every time. Most of those who tried skating  
down did it only to impress their girl-friends. Most of them, too,
ended up sticking out of a snowbank, looking like a broken matchstick-and 
their girl-friends thought them more
ridiculous than ever.
Tom Taylor was thinking of these things now - at the wrong time. Mrs Field, 
noticing him gazing out the window during
her social studies lesson, said, "Tom, where did the Americans attack 
Canada, and in what year?"
Snapped out of his dreams, he had an answer in a flash - he had to do this 
often: "Near Montreal in 1814."
"We talked about that ten minutes ago. What have you been doing since 
then?"
"Nothing, Ma'am," he replied.
"That's just the trouble, young man! You listen while Maurice gives the 
answer. Maurice?"
Glancing out of the corner of his eye at Tom, Maurice said, "Near Niagara Falls at 
Queenstown Heights in 1812, Ma'am." The lesson went on.
"That Maurice," thought Tom. "Always right, never wrong, never dreams. 
Well, wait till we play him tomorrow at
hockey. I'll fix him!"
Eastern. Ontario is a beautiful place, especially for children - seen in 
the icy grip of winter. Trees bend low, weighted
heavily with a crystal-like coating of ice. Paddocks are a glaring white, 
sometimes many feet deep in a blanket of
powdery snow. Everything, living or dead or hibernating, is crushed by 
the fierce North Wind.
On his way home, Tom and his friends, Jean Bealiveau (a French-Canadian 
boy), Darry Skimore, Charlie Wenjack,
and Dennis Masters, went to the "Chute", but they each had only one turn 
sliding down because, once down, the
sides were too icy to get back up again. They had waited all day for 
this, and now they were really disappointed.
"I listened especially hard to that social studies lesson this afternoon, 
because I didn't want to be kept in after
school," said Charlie mournfully.
"Yeah, and so did Maurice. He really made me feel a fool,when he answered that 
question," said Tom eating snow off his glove.
"We're playing his team tomorrow, aren't we?"
Jean answered, "Oui," and got a snowball in his back for his troubles. It 
was Darry, a tall boy who could hit anything
he took aim at. Jean scooped a handful of snow and flicked it at Darry 
playfully, as he ran past. He shouted over his
shoulder in his broad French-Canadian accent, "I'm sorree zat I spoke the 
French, my friends. I forgot I am not in French Quebec."
The boys showed they accepted his excuse by grinning, and they ran off, 
jumping into snowbanks as they made their
way home.
In an open field they passed every day, the boys tramped down a few paths 
in the snow. They made a large wiggly
circle and connected points on the outside to the middle by other paths. 
The boys agreed to Charlie being "It", and
they all ran round and round until they were exhausted and lay panting in 
the snow. Their breath formed clouds in the
still, January air.
The sun was now setting, the air was cooling rapidly. Ice began forming on 
the beads of sweat that had fallen on their
scarves.
"Time to go home," announced Dennis.
The boys went their own way home. Charlie and Darry left together. Tom, 
Dennis and Jean went alone. The boys were so hungry that their stomachs rumbled. This 
made them run even faster.
At home, Tom's first job was to bring in the garbage cans. They were both 
frozen into the ice, and he had to kick
them several times before he could pick them up. As he went round the back 
of the house, he happened to glance at
the wall on which the garden hose hung. Remembering how angry his father 
got because he forgot to bring the
hose into the house late in the Fall, he stopped, and put the cans on the 
ground. They had been caught in the first
frost, and never had a chance to thaw out. He touched it. Frozen solid. Tom couldn't 
bend it.
Yes, his Dad had been angry all right. His Dad said it would be useless in 
the spring, like anything else you left out in
winter. They would need a new one now - all the rubber would be brittle and perished. 
Torn scooped up a handful of
snow and placed it on top, trying to hide it. Then, sheepishly, he put 
away the cans and went into the house.
Next morning Tom was up at 5.45 a.m., long before the sun. His game was at 
6.15, and lasted an hour. He quietly got
dressed, went downstairs and had a quick breakfast. A honk of a car horn 
signalled the arrival of his coach, so he
grabbed his ice-skates ,and hockey stick and rushed out.
At the rink all the boys in the team were running around trying to keep 
warm. Some had been waiting a few minutes
for the coach to arrive and unlock the door. They were looking very 
flushed. The temperature was a crisp 16 degrees
below zero, Fahrenheit (48 degrees of frost). To ward off the cold, each 
wore two thick pairs of woollen socks, a pair
of long underwear, and, most important, ear-muffs.
They also wore all their ice-hockey gear. Everyone wore shin
pads and hockey pants which had thigh pads slid into the leg to prevent 
injury; and some wore elbow pads in case
they fell heavily on to the ice. Most of this gear was to protect the 
player from injury by the puck. On their hands,
most boys had mittens under their padded hockey gloves, which protected 
them from being chopped or slashed by opponents when they had the puck.
Ice-hockey is played with a rubber disc - the puck (four inches in 
diameter and one inch thick), which is always
frozen before the game, so it slides across the ice and does not roll. 
Once Tom had seen some one shoot at goal
and hit the steel goal-post, splitting the puck in two! This was probably 
because the puck was so cold.
"Right! Everyone get your skates on and go out and warm up," said the 
coach. "Good luck!"
As one, the boys slipped into their skates and tip-toed out on to the 
rink, so they wouldn't spoil the sharpness of their
blades.
Tom's team, the Rangers, skated slowly around the rink, getting the feel 
of the ice. It was perfect. Because the sun
was not yet up, powerful lights flooded the glass-like surface of the 
ice. Paul, the goal-keeper, wanted some practice before the game began, so the coach 
lined up the Rangers. Each player waited for his turn to go in for a shot at goal.
Paul, who was laden with gear, found it too hard to skate far, and this 
was the only way to keep warm. It was also good practice for him.
On the referee's signal, both teams cleared the ice, leaving only their 
goalie and five best players. The rest of the
team went to what is known as the "bench", and sat down. After about four 
or five minutes, when first line was tired,
the reserves would be sent on to replace them. Teams usually had three 
lines, so that everyone could have a good
rest in between changes. Ice-hockey is the world's fastest team game, and 
it is very rough and tiring.
The two boys who went to "centre ice" to begin the game
were Maurice and Tom. They were both big for twelve years of age - both 
watch  watching each other closely and, in
Tom's eyes anyway, both enemies!
The referee dropped the puck. The game was on!
Sunday morning, the day after the game, was bitterly cold. Tom raised himself 
painfully and chipped a 
few bits of ice off the inside of his window. He peered out on a scene of blinding 
whiteness.
There had been a tremendous snowfall overnight. Four to six feet of snow wrapped the 
earth in an icy 
blanket. He saw by his outside thermometer that the temperature was 18 degrees below 
zero,
but Tom loved days like this. If the snow was moist and not dry, he always rang up his 
friends to 
decide a meeting place.
Usually they built a sturdy snow-fort by rolling large balls of snow and then stacking 
them together. 
They had developed a good method of building forts, which they tried to hide from 
other boys around the area. They would build the fort about five feet high, with three 
sides, then pour water on 
it. If the day was cold enough (and today was), the water would immediately freeze and 
they
would have a fort as strong as steel! After building it, the boys would choose teams, 
and spend a few 
minutes making snowballs. Then one team would attack the fort, while the other would
defend. It was fabulous fun!
 But Tom Taylor knew he wouldn't be making snow-forts today.
His Dad hadn't heard the story of yesterday's game. Tom had
made sure he was in bed before his  Dad returned from his moose-hunting trip north of 
Ottawa. But Tom knew that, as soon as his father did hear, he would be in for trouble!
A firm shake on his shoulder told him "trouble" had arrived. He was not in any hurry 
to be woken, so 
he lay there pretending to be asleep. He was rewarded by having his ear pulled, and he 
started
up wide awake, to come face to face with his father.
Mr Taylor looked at his son for some seconds before speaking: "Good morning. Sleep 
well?"
"Yes thanks, Dad. Have a good hunting trip?" Father and son always talked politely 
before they had 
words.
"Yes, I did. Bill ... Mr Brown, got a huge brute. Enough to feed both our families on 
moose steak for a month. " He smiled slightly, then looked firm once more.
"Gee, that's good!" said Tom.
There was silence. Mr Taylor was thinking how he would bring up what had happened at 
the game. 
Finally he said, "Well, aren't you going to get up, as you usually do, and go out to 
build a fort or
something?"
Cunning, thought Tom. Dad knows every trick. "No, Dad," he said aloud, I'm afraid I 
got hurt playing 
hockey yesterday."
"Tell me about it," said his father.
Tom's father was a patient listener. He heard Tom's story, but he felt something was 
missing. He began questioning.
"I see. So, just because this fellow Maurice scores two goals, you take it upon 
yourself to stop him?"
"Well ... I suppose so." Tom was not very convincing.
"And the two of you have a little tussle in the corner while the play goes up to the 
other end of the 
rink. Is that correct?"
Tom shifted uneasily. "Yes, Dad."
"Let's have a look at your injured shoulder, son."
Mr Taylor had a poke around the blue-black bruise and then said thoughtfully, "Hum . . 
. Well, Tom, I've heard you out; now hear me. I think you have acted like a very poor 
sportsman. I think the situation you are now in is your own fault . . . "
Tom was silent for a while; then he said, "Dad, I know I behaved badly, so please 
don't think I'm trying to excuse myself. This is how it started. Last Friday at school 
I was day-dreaming, and my teacher asked me a question. Well, I gave a wrong answer 
and . . ." he hesitated, "and Maurice gave 
the right answer and made me look a fool. I was wanting to get even with him when I 
started
that fight."
His father saw it all now. It didn't take him long to straighten the story out.
Tom laughed as he said, "Boy, I must have looked really stupid as I tripped over my 
own skates and 
fell into the goal-post!"
"Yes, you must have looked pretty stupid, all right," his father said, beginning to 
smile. "But you 
must go to Maurice and tell him you are very sorry for the trouble you caused him." Mr 
Taylor rose
and looked out the window.
While his father was looking at some far-off object, Tom was
thinking of all the things he could do today after all - making snow-forts, having 
snowball fights, shovelling off part of the river and playing hockey', or perhaps 
going tobogganing on that new slope
...
His thoughts were interrupted by the click of his door. His Dad had gone out, but had 
poked his head 
back in: "Mighty heavy snowfall last night. How about getting your snow-shovel and 
shovelling
off the sidewalk? You know how upset the next-door neighbours get when we don't do our 
walk."
Fathers! They always ruin your fun!
illustrated by CONRAD FRIEBOE

PROBABLY BOTH
by JOHN BATES

The Hartleys' farm lay half-way between Rowanstown, at the top of the harbour, and 
Rowanshead, which 
was the name of the headland down at the harbour entrance. Rowanstown was quite a big
place with lots of shops, four schools and a population of about seven thousand 
people. But, apart 
from the Hartleys, no one at all lived at Rowanshead. The Hartleys were glad of this. 
They could
go out in their small launch, anchor off some bay or stretch of beach which they 
fancied, and row in 
for a picnic on shore, without having to worry about whether some one else had taken 
their
favourite spot.
Sometimes, they would anchor near one of the small islands that lay offshore here and 
there down the 
coast. No one lived on any of them - they were all far too small and isolated - but, 
for some strange reason, on one of these islands some one had planted passion-fruit 
vines. These had spread 
and gone wild and grown till they hung down from the trees like supplejack in the 
bush. They
were banana passion-fruit - not the round, purple kind - but the long, yellow, soft-
skinned sort which 
not everybody likes.
One person who certainly did like them was Simon Hartley.
He was ten years old, which is about the best age for fruit-eating not so young that 
grown-ups keep 
saying you'll have stomach ache if you eat any more, and not so old that you're 
beginning to lose interest in eating ordinary things like fruit.
Simon's big brother, Bill, was past the best age. He was seventeen and worked on the 
farm, and every time 
Simon said, "Let's go round to the island in your dinghy, Bill, and get some banana 
passion-fruit," Bill would only shake his head and make some excuse such as "Take too 
long," or, "I'm going into town in 
the truck today," or, "They won't be ripe yet."
It was then that Simon's young sister, Betty, usually asked him why they shouldn't go 
by themselves in the dinghy, if, Bill wouldn't take them. She definitely was not yet 
tired of banana passion-fruit - in fact, she had only tasted them once or twice, as 
far as she could remember. But she was only seven, which is not yet quite the best 
fruit-eating stage. So, Simon's answer to her question was always, "You'll only eat 
too many and get sick, and then I'll get the blame." And, after saying that, he would 
fold his arms, and frown, and sit silently 
in deep thought.
"Actually," he thought to himself, "it's only an excuse - all that about eating too 
many and getting 
sick. It's just the answer Mum would give. There are several good reasons why I can't 
go by myself.
In the first place, it's not my dinghy, it's Bill's, and Bill would never lend it to 
me for a trip 
like this. In the second place, I'm not at all sure that I can manage it on my own, 
without Bill - down to Rowanshead and out through the entrance, and round to the 
island, in the open sea. In the third 
place, Mum would have a fit if she knew, and Dad would probably give me a hiding, or 
stop all my
pocket-money for the rest of the holidays, or both." He shook his head glumly.
"Probably both," he said, aloud. It was the fourth time these holidays that he had 
asked Bill to 
take him to the island, and each time Bill had refused.
"Both what?" asked Betty in surprise. Simon's announcement, coming after his long, 
frowning silence, 
made no sense to her at all.
"Oh, nothing," said Simon.
The next morning he slipped out of the house early, while Betty was having her hair 
done, and before 
anyone had got around to giving him jobs to do. He had no particular plan in mind - 
certainly not
to try to reach the island that day. Perhaps he would just have a look at it - "spy 
out the land" as 
he had heard his father say.
He was not alone. Boots, the house dog, trotted along with him, sometimes in front, 
sometimes behind 
or up the bank, sniffing about in the long grass.
Simon was glad to have Boots, for a bit of company that (unlike Betty) was not always 
asking 
questions. He was only a black and white mongrel, half spaniel and half fox-terrier, 
but Simon had
always been specially fond of him, right since the very first day he had arrived as a 
six-week-old 
puppy, all paws and ears.
"He's got paws as big as boots," Simon had said when he saw
him, and the name had stuck - Boots, a spaniel's paws on a terrier's body. Since then 
the body had 
grown fatter and the paws did not seem quite so big any more, but even now there were 
not
many dogs that could swim faster or further than Boots with his four great paddles.
It was a mile and a half to Rowanshead by road, but Simon decided to take the short 
cut across the 
farm paddocks, straight towards the ocean beaches.
Before long, he felt the fresh breeze from the open sea on his hot face. Behind him 
was the tussock 
grass, in front of him the sand-dunes and then the wide beach and, out beyond, the 
island - Passion-fruit Island.
"Come on, Boots!" he shouted, and charged out across the dunes on to the beach, 
yelling like an 
Indian.
In spite of the breeze, the sea was flat calm. The tide seemed to be a long way out 
and the beach 
looked very big and empty. As Simon looked about him, he realised that he had not seen 
before
how this piece of beach was really a long shallow bay. It lay between two points, the 
big point at 
Rowanshead, and the smaller one quite near him on his right, at the end of the beach 
where he
was walking now.
"I'll get the best view of the island from the end of that point," The said to himself 
and, calling 
Boots, he went along the beach and began clambering up the rocks and boulders on the 
point till he found himself up on the top and 
on tussock grass again. The point was only about thirty feet wide, but it went out a 
long way,
gettting narrower all the time, till it ended in a cliff. On the left the sea spread 
up into the bay, 
but on the right the sand went out much further. Seagulls were walking about on it, 
almost under that
side of the cliff, and Boots soon began barking at them till Simon told him to shut 
up.
Across a narrow strip of water from the sandbanks and the seagulls, lay the island, 
standing very 
high and rocky out of the sea, the dark green of its thickly-wooded top standing out 
sharply
against the pale colours of the sea.
"I never realised how close it is," he thought to himself. "I wonder how deep that 
channel is?"
He climbed down from the point and walked on to the sand bank. Shoes and socks were no 
problem, as he 
always went bare-footed in the summer. He rolled his trousers up as high as they
would go and waded out through the warmish water. Boots came bounding in after him.
"Don't come too close! You splash!" Simon roared at him and Boots soon started going 
round in circles, 
sticking his muzzle into the water now and again, and then headed back to shore.
As Simon reached deeper water, it grew colder, first just below his knees, then above 
them, till 
finally it was lapping at his rolled-up trousers - and still the island seemed quite a 
distance off.
Regretfully, Simon turned round and began tiptoeing his way back again. He was not 
going to do 
anything silly, such as trying to swim there, or something. Also, he now had an idea. 
What about
trying to paddle across on Bill's rubber mattress?
It was called a Li-Lo, the sort of thing that some people used for surfing on, or as a 
mattress for 
sunbathing on the beach with, or just for paddling about in shallow water. It was 
quite easy to steer, just like paddling a canoe, if you lay on it face-down and used 
your hands as paddles.
No one seemed to have bothered much about his absence, when he got home for lunch. 
Bill and Mr Hartley had been out on the farm, mending fences. Even Betty had only 
really noticed just before dinner that Simon and Boots were off somewhere.
"Where've you been?" she asked, as he came in the little gate from the road.
Simon did not care to tell her too much. "Oh," he said casually, "just down to 
Rowanshead, to see how many campers there are this year."
"Well, how many are there?"
"None," said Simon, who actually hadn't the faintest idea.
"Did Boots go with you?"
"'Course he did."
By the time dinner was over, Simon had decided that he would
have to go to the island the very next day. So, that afternoon, he
slipped into the kitchen and filled a screw-top jar with sugar to
eat with the passion-fruit. He would rather have brought the
passion-fruit back home with him but he knew there would be
too much of a row if he did.
Next, he went out to the garage where the Li-Lo was kept. It took him about a quarter 
of an hour to 
blow it up, and he felt all dizzy and had spots in front of his eyes by the time he 
had finished,
but it had to be done. He wanted to make sure that it was not leaking anywhere, and 
that meant 
blowing it up and leaving it all night to see if it had gone down by morning. He put 
it on its side
behind the car and hoped nobody would see it. Now there was nothing to do but wait for 
tomorrow.
The next morning came, fine and sunny, with a light northerly wind as usual. Before 
breakfast, Simon 
went out to the garage. The Li-Lo was still blown up tight as a drum, just as he had 
left it. He
let the air out and came back into the house for breakfast. Then, as he had done the 
day before, as 
soon as Betty was safely out of the way having her hair done, and while Bill and his 
father
were still drinking their tea and discussing the morning's work, off he went.
Boots was waiting at the gate, and together they went down the dusty road. Simon was 
happy and confident as he strode along, the rolled-up Li-Lo tucked under his arm, 
and his trousers' pocket bulging with a jar of sugar.
When he reached the beach the tide was still too far in, so he
climbed up the point and sat on the cliff edge, chucking stones into the sea on his 
left. The sea 
was very calm, the light northerly wind hardly ruffling it as the tide took the water 
racing south down the coast.
It was pleasant just to sit there in the sun, watching the patches of froth and 
bubbles move across from left to right between him and the island. To begin with, it 
was all 
water between the two
pieces of land. Then, slowly at first, but soon very quickly, the sandbanks began to 
appear. Before 
long, there was only the
channel itself left for the water to run through. It ran more slowly now, peacefully, 
and soon the 
seagulls were marching
about on the banks pecking at what they could find in the puddles and at the water's 
edge.
By now, Boots had run down off the point and was rushing
about on the sand, chasing seagulls. Simon followed and, sitting on one of the rocks 
at the bottom of 
the point, he blew up the Li-Lo. He then went to the edge of the water and floated the 
mattress
out on to it. The northerly wind kept blowing the head round, but he thought it would 
be all right 
once there was his weight on board helping to hold it steady.
"You'll have to stop on this side of the channel, Boots," he said.
"Go and sit up on the point till I get back," and he slid himself down on to the Li-
Lo. The water came in a bit, where the Li-Lo sagged in the middle, but, as soon as he 
stretched out perfectly flat and began paddling with his hands, it seemed safe and dry 
as a dinghy.
"Go on, Boots. Hop it!" ordered Simon again, and he began
paddling. Boots, however, decided it was all just a new way of going for a swim. As 
Simon went further 
out, he rushed into the water after him. For the first few steps he could walk, but 
soon he was swimming.
"Go back, Boots!" yelled Simon, waving his arms and nearly tipping himself 
off the Li-Lo. "Go back! Go home!"
Boots wavered, turned left for a few strokes and looked as though he was 
going to go back, but then turned right
again and came puffing and grunting on out into the channel.
Simon was about halfway across by now and, although he was trying to point 
the Li-Lo well upstream, the tide and
wind together were carrying him fast down the channel. He was in danger of 
missing the sandbanks on the island
shore altogether and being swept round the end of the island into the open water.
He hitched himself further forward, so that he could get more of his arms 
into the water to paddle with. Then he turned
and headed due north, straight up-channel against the wind and tide, and 
began really paddling for all he was worth.
It was pretty hard going, and the water kept slopping into his face over 
the front, but he began to make good progress,
getting well upstream. Looking to his left, then, he could see Boots, chin 
still straining out of the water, paddles going
with a steady flop, flop, flop. He too, had turned a bit more upstream and was coming 
across nicely. In fact, thought Simon, he's judged it a great deal better than I did!
He slowed down his paddling to a gentler rate, till he was just holding his 
own against the tide. Then, as Boots came
level with him downstream, he turned and paddled once more towards the 
island, allowing the tide to take him into
shallow water. Before long, he was climbing off the Li-Lo, his knees a bit 
shaky and his arms very sore. Boots was
wading on towards dry sand, and then giving himself a huge shake and 
looking round to see if Simon was coming.
The island rose very steeply from a narrow strip of white sand where Simon 
was standing. There were no tracks to
follow, and he had to pull himself up through the thick undergrowth as best he could, 
Boots scrambling after him.
Gradually, however, the island began to level out a bit, and the trees 
seemed taller, stretching up toward the light.
Then, halfway up a sort of bank all slippery with tangled creepers and 
vines, Simon found his first passion-fruit, half
buried in the leaves. It was quite green but, digging about with his hands, 
he quickly found another that had dropped a
bit deeper into the bank, and it was a little more ripe - still hard, but just 
beginning to turn yellow.
"Where on earth are they dropping from?" thought Simon, and he looked up 
ahead to the top of the bank-and there,
spreading in great blankets of leaves right down the twenty-foot sides of 
the trees above, were the vines, masses and
masses of them, and the fruit hanging down like fat, green waxy candles!
That was it, though - green! They were green! Frantically, Simon clawed his way up the 
rest of the bank and pushed his
head in among the vines, raking his fingers through the leaves for the 
yellow of ripe fruit like a man raking through
sand for the yellow of gold. But it was no use! He had come for nothing. 
Bill had not just been putting him off with
excuses - it really was still too early in the season.
Boots was standing at the bottom of the bank, looking up with puzzled 
interest at all the fuss going on at the top.
Simon couldn't help laughing at the expression on his face.
"Look out, Boots! Here I come!" he shouted, and throwing
himself downwards at the same time, he slithered down the bank in one great slide and 
landed in a heap at the bottom.
Simon was just getting his breath back and looking to see if the tide was still going 
out when, to his absolute amazement, there, walking round the island towards him, was 
Bill!
"Oh crikey!" groaned Simon, and got to his feet.
"You-silly-stupid-nut!" yelled Bill, very slowly and clearly, as he came up the sand.
Simon suddenly felt as though he had lost all his breath again.
"It's a good job for you that your little sister's got a bit of sense in her head," 
Bill was going on. "She knew you were fibbing yesterday when you said you'd been to 
Rowanshead. There are at least three campers down there. You said there weren't any. 
Anyway, you wouldn't take all morning looking for campers, and you wouldn't go 
straight back there again next day."
Simon still said nothing. He knew it was hopeless, and Bill went on.
"Then when I found that Li-Lo blown up in the garage last night, I had a pretty fair 
idea what you were up to." 
His voice rose again. "I told you," he said, "that they'd still be too green. Dad's 
absolutely hopping mad. He made me come  straight round here in the launch. For all we 
knew, you could have been swept miles out to sea by now. You know how strong the tide 
is just here. And now I've wasted half a day's work, and about a gallon of petrol. 
Goodness knows what Dad will do to you when we get back! Give you a darned good 
hiding, I should think or stop your pocket-money for the rest of the holidays, or-" 
"Here we go," thought Simon. 
"Probably both," said Bill. "Come on!"
illustrated by RICHARD KENNEDY

THE BOY WHO WAS AFRAID
by ARMSTRONG SPERRY

It happened many years ago, before the traders and missionaries first 
came into the South Seas, and while the
Polynesians were still great in numbers and fierce of heart. But, even 
Today, the people of Hikueru sing this story in
their chants, and tell it over the evening fires. It is the story of 
Mafatu - The Boy Who Was Afraid.
It was the sea that Mafatu feared. He had been afraid of it ever since the 
time of the great hurricane which had swept
Hikueru when he was a child of three. He had been out on the reef with 
his mother when a swift current carried their
canoe through the reef passage into the outer ocean, and capsized it. All night 
Mafatu's mother had clung to a piece
of wreckage, holding her child above the waves; when the fishermen had 
found them at dawn cast up on a pinnacle of
coral, only the boy had been alive.
Since then Mafatu, named "Stout Heart" by his proud father, had been 
afraid.
Because he was afraid, the other boys mocked him; the fisher-men would 
not take him out in their canoes lest he
should bring them ill luck; and Mafatu was left at home to make spears 
and nets, and to twist coir - the husk of the
coconut - into stout sharkline for other boys to use. Hearing the taunts of 
the islanders, Mafatu's father grew more silent and grim; and at last the boy was left 
with only two companions, a yellow dog named
Uri, and a lame albatross.
Now, once more it was the beginning of the season of storms. Soon the great 
bonitos would be swimming beyond the
reef, for they came each year at this time. They were held to be the 
special property of young boys, since it was by
killing them that a youth learned to kill the swordfishes and tiger sharks. 
Every boy in the village sharpened his spear
and looked to his canoe - every boy, except Mafatu.
Tomorrow they would take their canoes out beyond the reef. They would 
return at sunset loaded down with bonitos,
and their fathers would say, "See what a fine fisherman is my son! He will 
be a chief one of these days!" Only
Mafatu's father would be silent. His son had not gone.
That night, wandering along the beach with Uri, Mafatu heard a group of 
boys making their plans.
"Tomorrow at daybreak -" one was saying.
"It's work for us all," said another. "How else will we become fishermen 
and warriors? How else will we feed our
families, and keep the tribe alive?"
"A man must be fearless to provide food. We will all go - every one of us," 
said a third.
Mafatu, standing tense in the shadows, heard a scornful laugh. It was Kana, the only 
boy who had ever tried to be friendly with him. "Not all of us will go," he heard Kana 
scoff. "Not Mafatu! He is afraid."
"He makes good spears."
"Ho! That is women's work. Mafatu is afraid of the sea. He will never be a 
warrior," Kana laughed again. "I have tried
to be friendly with him. But he is good only for making spears and nets. 
Mafatu is a coward."
The boys disappeared down the moonlit beach. Mafatu stood quite still. 
Kana had voiced the feeling of the tribe.
Mafatu - Stout Heart - was a coward.

1. Largest fish of the mackerel family, sometimes 1O ft long.

Suddenly Mafatu knew what he must do: he must prove his courage to 
himself and to the others, or he could no
longer live in their midst. He must face Moana, the Sea God - face him and 
conquer him.
Off to the south somewhere, there were other islands. If he could win his 
way to a distant island, he could make a
place for himself among strangers. Then he would come back to Hikueru 
with his head held high, and his father would
say proudly, "Here is my son, Stout Heart!"
At his side, Uri touched his master's hand with a cold nose. Mafatu 
pulled the dog close. "We're going away, Uri," he whispered fiercely.
The outrigger canoes lay drawn up on the beach like long, slim fish. 
Silent as a shadow, the boy crossed the sand.
His heart was hammering in his throat. Into the nearest canoe he flung half a dozen 
green drinking nuts and a fish spear. Then
he picked up a paddle, and called to Uri. The dog leaped into the bow. 
There was only Kivi - Mafatu would miss his
albatross. He scanned the dark sky for sight of the bird, then gave it up 
and turned away.
The lagoon was as untroubled as a mirror. The boy shoved off, and climbed 
into the stern. Noiselessly, he propelled
the canoe forward, sending it half a length ahead with each thrust of his 
paddle. As he drew nearer to the barrier-reef,
the thunder of surf increased. The old dread of it struck at his stomach's pit, and 
made him falter in his paddling.
The reef thunder mounted: a long-drawn, hushed yet mighty sound seemed to 
have its being not in the air above, but
in the sea beneath. Out beyond, lurked a terrifying world of water and 
wind. The boy's hands tightened on his paddle.
For a second, he almost turned back. Then he seemed to hear Kana's voice 
saying, "Mafatu is a coward."
The canoe entered the race formed by the ebbing tide, which caught up the 
small craft in its churn, and swept it
forward like a chip. No turning back now. . . .
The boy was aware of a sudden whirr and fury in the sky, a beat of mighty 
wings. Startled, he glanced upward. There
was Kivi, his albatross. Mafatu's heart lifted. The bird circled slowly, 
hovered for a moment just over the bow of the
canoe, and then rose easily and lightly out through the passage in the 
reef. Out into the open ocean. Mafatu gripped
the steering paddle and followed.
Day broke over a grey and dismal world. The canoe lifted and fell idly on 
the glassy swells. The matting sail flapped
uselessly. But there seemed to be no need of a sail: the little canoe was 
riding one of the mysterious ocean currents
that flow in their courses through the length and breadth of the Pacific: Ara Moana, 
the Paths of the Sea, as the Ancients called them. They were the ocean currents that 
had carried the 
Polynesian navigators from island to island
in the childhood of the world. 
Mafatu was drifting farther and farther away from his homeland. With 
wide-flapping wings, Kivi rose from the bow of the
canoe. In ascending spirals, the bird climbed until he was no more than a 
grey speck against the lighter grey of the
sky. Now there was only Uri to keep him company. Wherever Mafatu went,
Uri, too, would go.
The canoe was the moving centre of a limitless circle of sea. The boy 
shuddered. He thought of Kana and the other
boys. What would they say when they learned that he had disappeared
Would there be sorrow in his father's heart?
 Half a mile distant, a whale heaved its varnished hulk to
surface, to throw  a jet of vapoury mist high into the air; then it
submerged, leaving scarcely a ripple to mark its passage. A
shoal of flying fish broke water, skimming away in a silver shimmer
of flight. A dolphin sped after them, smooth-rolling in pursuit.
so close that the boy could hear its breathing.
Mafatu opened one of the green drinking nuts and tilted back his head to 
let the cool liquid trickle down his throat:
more refreshing than spring water, cool on the hottest days, and as
sustaining as food. The boy scooped out the soft
flesh for Uri, and the dog ate it gratefully.
The ocean current seemed to have quickened . There was a wind rising, 
too, in little puffs and gusts. Now the canoe heeled over under the sudden attack, 
while Mafatu scrambled on to the outrigger to lend his weight for ballast. Then the 
wind dropped, and the boy breathed freely once again. He searched the skies for Kivi, 
but his albatross might
have been one of a thousand sea birds flying against the roof of the sky.
A storm was making. The wind shifted a point, bringing with it a heavy 
squall. Mafatu lowered the sail on the run and
gripped the steering paddle. All round him now was a world of tumbling 
water, grey in the hollows, greenish on the
slopes. Mafatu called a prayer to Maui, God of the Fishermen.
Somehow the sound of his own voice comforted him. The small canoe, made 
with such cunning and skill, swooped
and yielded, bucked and scudded, rising to the swells as lightly as a gull, and 
coasting like a sled down the frothing slopes.
The sky darkened. A crack of thunder shattered the world. Lightning struck 
at the hissing water. How long could the
canoe of wood hold out? Spray stung the boy's flesh and blinded his eyes.
The sail went first - with a split and a roar. Fragments swept off on the back of the 
wind. The cords that held the mast hummed like plucked wires. Then the mast cracked. 
Before Mafatu could leap to cut it clear, it snapped off and disappeared in a churn of 
black water. The boy clung to the paddle, fighting to keep his canoe from turning 
broadside.
Uri's howls were drowned by the wind. Water swept aboard and out again.
Mafatu was so scared that he paddled all the harder. The sea that he had always feared 
was rising to claim him, just as it had claimed his mother. Mafatu clung to the lashed 
steering paddle long after strength had vanished, and only the will to live locked his 
fingers about the shaft.
There was a wave lifting before the canoe. It seemed to scrape at the 
low-hanging clouds. Its crest heaved over.
Mafatu tried to cry out. Suddenly the wave was upon him. Terror in his 
soul. The canoe slewed round into the trough.
The boy flung himself forward, wound his arms about one of the benches.
The wave passed. For a second, Mafatu could not believe that he still 
breathed. He saw Uri wedged under the bow,
and pulled the dog free. Then he saw that his drinking nuts had vanished. 
His fish spear was gone. The knife that
hung about his neck by a twist of bark had been torn away. Even his waist cloth of 
tapa fibre had been wrenched off.
He was defenceless, without food or weapon, hurled forward on the breath of the 
hurricane. . . .
So gradual was the storm's easing that at first the boy was unaware of it. 
The wind was blowing itself out, moving off
into the empty spaces of the world. Uri crept forward, whimpering softly. 
Night came and passed.
Far away the wings of an albatross caught the gleam of the sun. The only 
hint of recent storm was in the rough and
tumbling waters. As the sun climbed through the hot hours of morning,
Mafatu's skin blistered and cracked. His tongue swelled in his throat. The canoe, 
stripped of sail and paddle, twisted
and shifted in the rushing waters.
The day passed. There were moments of fitful sleep, a growing agony of 
thirst for boy and dog.
With the new day, terror came. Mafatu tried to fight it back. He flung 
himself flat on the floor of the canoe and buried
his face in his arms. He must have cried out then. Uri's tail gave one 
feeble thump. With the ghost of a whimper the
animal laid his hot nose against the boy's hand.
Mafatu caught the animal to him. If Uri could have courage to die, surely 
he, Mafatu, could not do less. In that instant
he heard the beat of wings - an albatross circled above the canoe. "Kivi!" 
Mafatu cried hoarsely, "Ai, Kivi!"
The bird wheeled slowly, then flew off straight ahead for the distant 
horizon. Mafatu saw then that the current was
carrying the canoe almost due south-west. It seemed again as if his albatross were 
leading him.
Mafatu scanned the rim of the horizon. Was it? It was a cloud. . . . But the sky was 
cloudless. Far off in the sea-shimmer lay something that was neither sea nor sky. A 
shadow on the horizon - it was land!
Mafatu seized Uri in his arms and lifted him up, laughing and crying. "Uri, 
Uri! It's land! Land!"
What island could this be? Was it Tahiti, whose language was similar to 
that of Hikueru? Or was it one of the terrible
dark islands of the eaters-of-men?
All day, as the canoe drifted, the boy watched the shadow shape of the 
land. Hunger and thirst were forgotten. By
afternoon the island was clearer. Hikueru, the only land Mafatu had ever 
seen, was as flat as his hand; but this
strange island rose in a great single peak. Trees rose green and fair from 
the shore-line to the foothills of the
mountain.
Uri had caught the scent of the land now, and was quivering with delight. 
Then, from far off, came the first muffled
thunder of the reef: the boom of the surf on the barrier of coral.
Mafatu was powerless to guide his craft. He could only watch helplessly as 
the little canoe, swift as the following
gulls, rushed to meet the tides of the island where they met and churned.
Night came. The bottom star of the Southern Cross pointed to the end of the 
world. Weak with thirst, the boy drifted
into sleep.
He was awakened at midnight by a thunderous tumult in his ears. He felt the 
canoe under him lifted and flung high
into the air. Then down it crashed into splinters upon the reef. Boy and 
dog were hurled headlong into the surf.
Blindly Mafatu struck out. Uri - where was he? The boy knew that the canoe 
must have been flung over the barrier
reef, for here the water was scarcely troubled by wind or tide. Now he was 
swimming . . . his muscles did it of
themselves. Somewhere ahead was a strip of beach, salt-white in the 
darkness.
Then there was sand beneath his feet. Mafatu stumbled, fell to his knees in the 
shallows. He pulled himself half upright, swayed onward. He fell to the sand once 
more, dragging
himself slowly, painfully to the edge of the jungle. There was a murmur of water 
there, water 
trickling down a smooth
face of rock. Mafatu gave a ragged, strangling cry. He crashed on to the mossy bank. 
One cheek lay in 
the cool
water.
The moon lifted above the rim of palms. It showed the form of a boy thin with hunger; 
it showed a 
small, wet dog,
dragging himself across the beach to his master's side.
Mafatu lay without moving. Before Uri drank, he touched the boy's cheek with his hot 
muzzle.
Adapted from The Boy who was Afraid, by Armstrong Sperry. 
illustrated by GRAHAM PERCY

JACKY-JACKY  
by RUTH PARK

In he far north of Queensland, stretching out a long finger towards New 
Guinea, is Cape York Peninsula. It is about as
big as the South Island of New Zealand, and large parts of it are still 
unexplored. Yet this year it will be 122 years
since the first expedition set out to explore Cape York, and a shy, 
simple Aboriginal boy became one of the heroes of
Australian history. His name was Jacky-Jacky.
He was about sixteen, and had received a little education at a mission 
school. He could fire a gun, and he liked to
wear white cotton shorts, with a string of plaited red wool round his 
neck. Apart from that, nothing is known of Jacky-Jacky, except that the explorer 
Edmund Kennedy took him along as servant 
and interpreter for the twelve men who
formed his party.
It was a very well-equipped expedition. For days the little steamer which landed the 
party on the coast of Queensland
unloaded provisions, horses, sheep, weapons, and two drays. As Kennedy and his men 
looked over the wild and hostile country, their
hearts beat high; what would they find? Rich new land suitable for 
settlement . . . gold ... coal ... diamonds? All these
things had already been found in the great continent.
So, they set off into the mangrove swamps, and wide quicksand
morasses where flooded rivers, pelting down from the inland,
had spilled over. They groped through the fever mists, and the wide stretches where 
mosquitoes hovered in wavering,
singing clouds. Sometimes the water shuddered before them as a huge, blunt-snouted 
crocodile slid backwards into the depths of the pool.
It was not very long before the drays had to be abandoned, as they could not be 
taken any further. The provisions were
packed on the already weakening horses, and the march went on. In
all that lush, poisonous, tropical growth, there was almost
nothing for the animals to eat. Blinded by mosquitoes and stinging
flies, weakened with struggling out of bogs, several of the horses died; and Kennedy 
had to order some of the provisions to be
dumped, for there was no one to carry them.
All this time (and six weeks had already passed), the boy, Jacky-Jacky, had 
been uneasy. His keen eyes had spied
the shivering of leaves in the forest, the tiny signs of broken twigs and 
stirred dust on the track. He knew that silently,
like shadows, the wild Aborigines of the Peninsula were following them, 
curious, hostile and patient. Then one day,
they revealed themselves, a host of seventy or more, armed with 
throwing-spears and clay-painted shields.
Mr Kennedy went forward with a friendly gesture, and instantly a spear sang 
through the air, narrowly missing him.
Terror and panic filled the hearts of the white men behind him, and, ignoring the 
frantic 
shouts of Jacky-Jacky, two of them fired upon
the Aborigines, killing four and sending the rest scurrying for shelter. 
Kennedy was deeply regretful. Jacky-Jacky,
knowing his people, said sorrowfully: "Never forget, them fella. Never rest until 
revenge."
Now the explorers climbed a range of mist-clouded mountains and pushed on 
through the dripping rain-forests at the
top. All the sheep had been eaten, and the horses were almost too weak to 
move. Still the Aborigines were with
them, unseen and silent. Only every now and then a spear went whistling 
over their heads, or a stone was tossed
amidst the terrified horses. It was as though the party were surrounded by 
ghosts.
"No rest, no sleep, them fella," mourned Jacky-Jacky,
At last the expedition moved out of the haunted rain-forest on to a high, rich 
plateau, knee-deep in grass. The poor horses enjoyed their 
first full meal in weeks. Slowly the men marched across the plateau, thankful to get 
away from the Aborigines, for here there was nowhere for them to hide.
But Kennedy did not know how cunning they could be. One night they set fire 
to the grass, and a high wind rapidly
swept a wall of crackling, roaring fire across the plain. Just in time, the 
explorers reached the rainforest on the other
side of the smoking, blackened waste. Here two more horses died of 
starvation.
Kennedy did not want to admit defeat, but, gazing upon the sun-blistered, 
wearied faces of his companions, their thin
bodies bent under their packs, he found himself forced to say, "It is no use going on. 
We must make for the 
coast."
In a few days, the party staggered out into the desolate sandhills of Weymouth Bay. 
There, Kennedy 
said, "You know what the arrangements are. The schooner Ariel is to meet us at the top 
of
the Peninsula. Three of you - the strongest - myself and Jacky-Jacky will push on to 
the top and get in 
touch with the steamer. We will come back by sea and pick you up here."
He took a week's provisions and set out with the three men, the Aboriginal boy and the 
two remaining 
horses. But, within three days, the three men became so ill that they were unable to 
stagger
any further. So, putting up a temporary camp where they could rest, Kennedy left them, 
and with 
Jacky-Jacky he faced the wilderness alone. The rest of the story we know only from 
Jacky-Jacky.
They struggled on until at last from the top of a hill, Jacky-Jacky saw the glimmer of 
the sea. 
Perhaps poor Kennedy looked eagerly for the white wings of the waiting schooner, 
hoping that his
long torture was over. He had covered several hundreds of miles, over almost 
impassable country, 
climbing forbidding mountain ranges, and had suffered and starved all the way.
On the banks of a river, they fell in with a party of natives that seemed to be 
friendly. But 
Jacky-Jacky noted suspiciously that they had far too many spears with them for an 
ordinary hunting 
party.
That moonlit night, Kennedy fell asleep peacefully, but Jacky-Jacky sat up, watching 
his master. All 
the next day, which was raining, the blacks followed along, some behind, some before.
"Watchum behind, watchum behind, all time," cautioned Jacky-Jacky but Kennedy was too 
weak to take 
any notice. As he stumbled through the rain, a hail of treacherous spears suddenly 
rattled
around him. One pierced his back and he fell. Jacky-Jacky fired his gun, and one of 
the blacks 
collapsed, shot in the face. While his companions were carrying him off, Jacky-Jacky 
managed to
drag Kennedy behind a log. He pulled out the spear and cut out the barb. Then came 
another attack. 
Jacky-Jacky received a spear-wound above the eye, and Kennedy was
dangerously wounded in three places. Forcing himself to stay conscious, he called the 
boy and said, "Jacky-Jacky, I am going to die. You must take my papers and notebooks 
to the captain of
the ship that is waiting. Give me pencil and paper and I will write a letter."
This Jacky-Jacky did, crawling through a rain of spears to where the packs lay, some 
distance away. 
He returned to his master, but Kennedy died before he could scribble more than a word.
"I turned myself around and cried," said Jacky-Jacky later. "I cried about an hour, 
then I digged up 
the ground with a tomahawk, and covered him over with my shirt, and grass and logs. I 
tied up
the papers and books and put them on my head. Then, when it was dark, I went into the 
creek and walked along with
only my head above the water. In this way I went half a mile, and the Aborigines lost 
me, and so I escaped. I felt
very bad with my wounds, and it took me a week to reach the shore. Then I saw the 
ship, and I stood on the rocks
and cooeed until the men saw me, and then I was murry, murry glad."
The schooner then put into Weymouth Bay; but was in time to rescue only two of the 
men. The others had been
killed by the natives.
To understand how wonderful was Jacky-Jacky's bravery and loyalty to his poor master, 
we must remember that he
was only half-civilised himself, and the temptation to run away and leave Kennedy to 
his fate must have been great,
all through that terrible journey. But he stayed, although he was hungry and wounded 
himself, and only one man
against seventy. He obeyed his master and finished the journey as he had been told. If 
it had not been for him,
nobody would ever have known what happened on the first exploration of Cape York 
Peninsula.
illustrated by RICHARD KENNEDY

TRAINING A TIGER 
by PHILIP CROSS

I was a student at the Veterinary College in London many years ago, and my particular 
friend was a man whom we
had nicknamed "Domingo". He had first been called Domingo by
a Spanish student at the college, because Domingo Ortega was
a particularly fearless Spanish bull-fighter - but he was also
a very clumsy and awkward one. The Spanish student thought that the 
nickname was a very suitable one, because
my friend was also particularly fearless and particularly clumsy.
After a little while, Domingo was the only name by which my friend was 
known, though most of us had forgotten how
he had earned it.
Domingo and I always worked in the long vacation to earn extra money, and in our jobs 
we met many interesting people, who were also working with animals. One of these was 
Frank Leckie, a wild-animal trainer, who lived on Chapman's wild-animal farm, about 
fourteen miles from London, at a place called Goff's Oak.
Chapman's were famous the world over-as dealers who supplied
any kind of wild animal or bird to be used in films or zoos or circuses. Frank Buck, 
who was then 
the great "Bring 'em Back Alive" wild-animal hunter, sold most of the animals he 
caught to
Chapman's.
Frank Leckie ran the zoo and farm; and besides doing this he trained lions and tigers 
and other wild 
animals, and was the chief lion-tamer in the great Olympia Circus which was held in 
London at
Christmas time. I knew him well, and one day when I was going out to the farm, I asked 
Domingo if he 
would like to come with me. Domingo was delighted. Ever since he had helped Holga,
Frank Leckie's daughter, to train some lion cubs, he had been keen to get more 
experience in training 
the "big cats" - as they are called in circus language.
We went over one Wednesday afternoon to see some animals from Sumatra which had 
arrived a month 
before. There were four orangoutangs and five Sumatran tigers that Frank was to train. 
He
had already put the tigers to work; and, when we arrived, they were being prepared for 
their 
afternoon's lesson. There are two methods of training tigers, both are popular and 
effective. Frank combined the two. Briefly, this is what he did. For two hours he 
would shut the tiger in a cage, just an inch too short for him to stretch out, and an 
inch too short for him to sit up. The idea 
was to
make the tiger feel pressure - gentle pressure of course, on top of his head or 
shoulders, and on his 
nose or rump - a discipline for him, without cruelty.
The tiger then finds that if he tries to stand up in preparation for a crouch from 
which he would 
spring on to his prey, he meets the top of the cage and has to relax again; and, if he 
draws back as
a cat does, shrinking down to the ground before it springs on a bird, then he presses 
the rump 
against the back of the cage. This is a simple, effective way of training. While the 
tiger was in the
cage, Frank and one or two of his assistants would walk to and fro in front, talking 
quietly till the 
tiger was accustomed to the noise.
Frank always used a light stockwhip to gain and keep the tiger's attention. The snap 
or crack of the 
whip kept the animal nervously alert, and Frank could flick it gently to and fro on 
the ground in front of him during his first lessons in the big cage - that is, the 
cage in the circus ring - and so 
control him.
Patience, confidence, a love of animals, and a sympathy for their nervousness are the 
main things, if 
you want to train animals as brave and as highly-strung as tigers are. Once you have 
had any
experience of work "in the big cage", the fascination never loses its hold on you.
This afternoon, Domingo said to Frank, "Let Philip and me carry the table for you. 
Philip is a good 
left-hander with the whip, and I'd like the experience because I have not been with 
tigers before."
I will explain about the table. During the first lessons, three men go into the big 
cage when the 
tigers are let loose. Usually there are only five tigers, or, if they are nervous and 
highly strung,
perhaps only three.
Frank carried a chair, just a light kitchen chair, in his left hand, a light stockwhip 
in his right, 
and a revolver with three blanks and three ball cartridges. The cartridges are used 
only with tigers,
never with lions.
Domingo and I carried the table, which was seven feet long and about four feet wide. 
Inside the cage, 
we put the table on its side so that it made a kind of movable wall. I stood with the 
end of the
table on my right, and with the whip in my left hand. Domingo was at the other end, 
with the whip in 
his right hand, so that he used his left hand to lift the table. That gave us an 
easily-carried
shield behind which we could shelter if the tigers got out of control and sprang at 
us. If this 
happened, we could get behind the table with our backs to the bars of the cage and 
wait there until
Frank had calmed the tigers. Then we would start again on the training.
One point I must make clear. The table is also used as a block to prevent the tigers 
running round 
and round the ring, by presenting a broad surface to them. When they meet the table, 
they
double back to their places quite happily and do not become excited.
Now into the cage we went, and Frank quickly caught the tigers' interest. First he had 
them sitting 
down in a line facing him. Then he backed away, making the tigers get up and walk 
slowly towards 
him. Domingo and I stood eight feet
behind him with the table, ready to prevent any tiger from breaking and 
bolting round and round the ring.
All went well for a time. Twice I stopped a tiger from my end of the table; 
then Domingo let a tiger slip past him. At
once, he let go of the table and was going to chase the tiger past, and 
make her join the others by completing the
circuit of the ring. This actually is the worst thing to do, because it 
teaches the tigers that they can disobey, and it
excites them far too much if they have a couple of sprints round the ring. 
Then, their blood well up, they will spring on
their trainer out of sheer excitement, and either tigers or trainers, or 
both, will be hurt.
Knowing this, Frank spoke quietly: "Stand still," he said. "Domingo, leave 
the table, and stand with your back to the
cage between the tigers and the loose one. Philip, attract her attention 
with your whip, then let her run past me in a
direct line to the others."
"Right," I said.
Domingo, I saw out of the corner of my eye, backed quietly to his position. 
The tiger was crouched against the bars,
watching me. I walked quietly towards her . . . Now, the four tigers were 
sitting down opposite the one tiger that
crouched watching me. Domingo was about ten feet behind the crouching tiger 
and twelve or fourteen from the others.
He was watching Frank, who was standing in front of the other four tigers, 
controlling them with his quiet skill. I had
to make my tiger back slowly away from me, make her turn her head and watch 
my whip lash till she saw her
companions, and, when I permitted, slip quietly past Frank and take up her 
place.
I looked the tiger over quietly and threw the lash with a tiny crack under 
her nose to make her look down, but her
gaze held mine ... Another spin of the lash, but she still stared coldly at 
me. I was not frightened, because the tigers
were young, and there were helpers outside the cage. I was fairly expert 
with the stockwhip, and Frank, I knew, had
his tigers well under control. Moreover, a Sumatran tiger is not as big as a Bengal 
tiger, nor as fierce. If the worst had happened, we might have been badly scratched, 
but there was no real 
danger of losing our lives. Still, I took a couple of deep breaths, then tried again 
with the whip.
"Walk steadily towards her, and speak quietly to her. If necessary, push her with the 
end of your 
whip," said Frank. "She is only very nervous."
All very fine for you, I thought; you understand the business - I don't.
I took two steps, but the tiger still watched. Then I noticed she looked uncertain, 
and all the muscles along her back were quivering. I knew she couldn't spring from the 
way she sat, so I had
more confidence. Another step - then, she backed away a little. By some uncanny sixth 
sense, Frank 
seemed to be able to understand what was happening. "Back her four or five feet, then 
step to
the right and flick your lash out to the centre. She will follow it with her eyes - 
and see the others." He told me this without taking his own eyes off the other tigers.
Another step, and she backed away, still watching, but her ears were tight against her 
head, and her 
back looked firm, the muscles controlled . . . Another step, and then she crouched 
lower. I cracked my whip, and like a flash she leaped - not at me, but back to the 
others, and sat down in her place by them.
Afterwards, I asked Frank how he knew how to direct me. "We were never in danger," he 
said, "unless 
we were foolish and cornered the cats. They are not fierce, only very nervous. 
Animals'
brains are like clay - once you mould them, you know the shape they take. Take away 
the confidence of 
an animal, and you make him dangerous, because confidence is the only thing that binds
the clay you have moulded together.
"I knew what she would do, and I knew that you, being used to animals, would do 
exactly as I told you. It was simple."
I have often wondered if he knew that I was ten times more frightened than the tiger. 
After all, 
those Sumatran tigers, although they were young, were not exactly as tame as tabby 
cats.
illustrated by RICHARD KENNEDY

THE WONDROUS FLYING CHARIOT

In the reign of the ancient Emperor Ch'eng-tang, sometime in he eighteenth century 
B.C., there lived a master artisan named Ki Kung-shi. He shut himself up in his 
workshop to work on an idea of his. "When I succeed, my work will be
the wonder of all times," he told the people.
Months and months he kept at his task, and, at last, one day, he had 
brought it to success. A Flying Chariot, truly
the wonder of wonders!
This wondrous chariot could rise by itself into the air and, riding on the 
very breeze, could travel to far distances. He
went on a number of these trips, and saw a lot of the country as no other 
man had ever seen it - from the air like a bird.
The marvellous and almost unbelievable news came to the ears of the 
Emperor, who said, "This wondrous Flying
Chariot I must see. Command Ki Kung-shi to perform his magic feat before my eyes this 
afternoon."
And Ki Kung-shi that same day brought his Flying Chariot to the palace, 
and, before the eyes of the curious Emperor,
he took it up in the air on the breeze, like a graceful bird. A west wind 
was blowing, and Ki Kung-shi's magic Flying
Chariot was blown across the country as far as Honan. It was the most 
marvellous thing ever seen by the Emperor or
anyone else!
"Marvellous indeed!" exclaimed the Son of Heaven, "but, alas, it is too 
diabolically marvellous to be any good to the
people!" And he commanded Ki Kung-shi's magic Flying Chariot to be 
instantly destroyed, and forbade the ingenious
inventor to make another one on pain of death.

THE BLACKBIRD IN THE ROSE TREE
 by NAN MEDLICOTT

Long before breakfast, Mr Brown was sitting on the back step, sunning himself and 
singing a sea 
shanty.
" Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you,
A-way, you rolling river . . ."
It was fifty years since Mr Brown's sailing-ship used to run to America and, when she 
was at anchor 
in West Virginia, loading tobacco for London, he had seen and heard that "rolling 
river" many times.
Early on this spring morning, two strangers had come into Mrs Brown's life. Although 
they did not 
know it, they were going to bring a new sparkle into her faded blue eyes.
It was Mrs Brown's birthday and she had cooked a special birthday breakfast of fried 
oysters. She put 
down her third cup of tea and opened her birthday book, The World of Roses.
"Just what I've wanted for ages, dearie," she murmured.
"Glad you like it," said Mr Brown.
"Oh, I'll never get any windows done today - and I haven't touched them for a week," 
said Millie, but she spoke happily.
Mr Brown drank his tea and then changed his carpet slippers for his heavy-work boots. 
"Better get 
that place ready for the seed potatoes, or we won't have our own spuds for Christmas," 
he said
as he laced them up.
Mr Brown was leaning on his shovel and resting when he noticed two blackbirds in the 
hedge.
" I wonder," he thought, "if they're the pair I've seen about the front lately. 
Perhaps they're 
nesting somewhere near."
He looked up to see one blackbird fly down and begin to pull worms out of the soil 
that he had been 
digging. The bird flew up to the hedge with his beak full of worms and began to feed 
the waiting
bird.
"Funny," said Mr Brown aloud. "Can't be a chick," He wrinkled up his forehead. "Wonder 
why it's 
feeding a full-grown bird?"
Cautiously he went nearer to the hedge and saw that the waiting bird was badly 
injured. As it 
fluttered feebly forward to be fed, he noticed that one wing was wounded. There was 
fresh red blood on
the dark feathers and the bird was shocked and weak.
"That darned Siamese cat of the Taylors, I'll bet," said Mr Brown angrily, loud enough 
for the 
Taylors to hear. Now he could see that the blackbirds were mates.
"Your mate's in a bad way," he said to the male blackbird. The bird sat with his beak 
full of worms. 
His brilliant orange-rimmed eyes were fixed fearfully on Mr Brown.
Mr Brown began to move away. "This needs a woman's help, Mr Blackbird," he said. He 
hurried to the 
back door. "Millie! Are you there, Millie? We need you."
"What's the matter, Sam?" Mrs Brown came hurrying out of the back door, drying her 
hands on her 
blue-check apron.
"You'd better come over and see for yourself. There's a bird with a bleeding wing. She 
can hardly 
fly."
"Oh!" cried Millie, shaking her head. "That Taylor cat!"
"Just what I thought," Sam agreed.
"That's a fresh wound," said Millie, as they came nearer to the hedge. The blackbird 
took fright and 
tried to fly away, but the injured wing upset her balance and she fell sideways into 
the hedge.
She began to call in sharp cries of distress. Her mate flew up and settled 
protectively near her, and 
she managed to struggle back and perch on the top of the hedge beside him.
"Sam, whatever can we do? Do you think we could get her into the glasshouse? She'd be 
safe from the 
cat and we could keep her there till the wound heals. You prop open the door and I'll 
get
some crumbs to lure her in."
"The trouble is, Millie, they're probably nesting. I'll bet they're the   pair I've 
seen about the front lately."
"If we find their nest, can we do something?" said Mrs Brown. "Will you look, dear?"
"I'll have a search," said Mr Brown. "Get some breadcrumbs and put them in the glass-
house. Don't try 
to feed her on the ground. She may not be able to get back on to the hedge."
"What if that cat comes back?"
"You go in," said Mr Brown. "I'll keep my eyes skinned for him."
Just as he was coming up the path with the milk bottles, he heard a flutter of wings. 
The big 
blackbird flew out of the rambler rose by the front window and settled on the freshly-
dug soil. Then 
he
saw the smaller female bird in the rambler. Sam watched her make several painful 
attempts to fly down 
to join her mate. Sam stood very still and, very soon, the female blackbird fluttered 
to the
earth beside him.
Sam carefully put the two milk bottles on the front step and edged slowly forward to 
the trellis. He 
lifted the bough where the bird had been resting.
"Well, blow me down! Fancy not seeing that before. We should use the front door more 
often."
There, so low down that he could easily see the three freckled blue eggs, was the 
nest.
He called through the front door, "Millie; I've found it!"
"Where, Sam?" she asked, hurrying down the steps.
"Over here," he said, taking her arm, "between the window and the chimney. Here, in 
the rambler rose 
on the trellis."
"Right in front of our noses all the time," Mrs Brown whispered, as the moved forward. 
"Why, you 
could touch it from the window."
She stared at the two blackbirds, the big bird fossicking in the wormy soil, while his 
sick mate 
waited patiently to be fed.
"Poor little bird!" Mrs Brown whispered.
"She can fly short distances," said Mr Brown. "After all, she got here from the hedge. 
Let's leave 
them for a bit, Millie. She's more likely to get back on the nest soon if we're out of 
the way?"
Mr Brown drank his morning tea and Mrs Brown sat, with her chin on her knuckles, 
watching him. Her 
own tea grew cold.
"Sam, I'm so worried about that bird. Let's work in the front garden today. She can't 
possibly fly 
well enough to protect herself. What if the cat comes back? That horrid Cheetah - he's 
well named!" she added bitterly.
"He'll get the fright of his life if he comes near her while I'm about," said Mr 
Brown, menacingly.
"Sam, if the eggs hatch out before her wing heals, will she be able to feed the 
chicks? Young birds 
are so ravenous."
"We'll have to help, Millie. I'll see to it that there's plenty of fresh compost near. 
It's full of 
worms. If we can keep him fed, he'll feed her - that's for sure."
"How long will it take to heal? It's such a nasty wound."
"It should heal quickly, as long as it doesn't become infected." Mr Brown looked at 
his wife's 
anxious face. "I'll help you in the front garden, dear - the spuds can wait. But we 
must not go near the nest too much. They're better not disturbed."
And so, the Browns worked quietly in the flower garden. Mrs Brown did weeding and 
hoeing, while Mr 
Brown clipped the edges of the lawn, at the same time keeping a look out for the 
Taylors'
cat.
Before Mrs Brown went in to get Mr Brown's lunch, they had a look at the birds. To 
their relief, the 
mother bird had managed to get back on the nest.
By five o'clock that afternoon, the sky, which had been such a bright blue, had faded 
to a ghostly 
grey. The spring breeze died down and the still air became very warm.
"What a queer day!" exclaimed Mrs Brown to Mr Brown, as she stood watching him spread 
a bucketful of 
compost for the birds. "Cold one minute and hot the next. I'm quite shivery. Let's 
have a
peep at the nest - then I'm going in."
The female bird sat as she had been sitting since mid-day, without moving, but now her 
head was 
hunched down into her tawny breast and her injured wing spread wide across the rim of 
the
nest.
"Don't you think she looks worse, Sam?"
Mr Brown came over and looked at the bird "She's sick all right. We can only wait for 
tomorrow and 
hope she's better. She's probably still shocked. It'll take her some time to recover 
from that injury."
That evening after tea, as Mr Brown was watching through the kitchen window to make 
sure the cat was 
not about, a few flakes of snow began to drift down from the grey sky. A lone gull 
coming
in from the sea wheeled in slow circles towards the mountains.
"I don't like that." He turned to Mrs Brown. "Gulls coming in from the sea, and those 
tiny 
flakes - sure sign of a heavy fall. That sky's full of snow."
"But it's too late for snow, isn't it, Sam?" said Mrs Brown. "What ever will happen to 
that poor 
bird if it snows?"
Mr Brown got up very early next morning. He hurried to the front window. Snow lay deep 
over the whole 
garden. There was no sign of the blackbirds.
Mr Brown peered through the window into the nest. There lay three naked baby 
blackbirds. At some time 
during that bitter night the chicks had hatched. The wounded bird must have deserted
the nest.
"How can I tell Millie?" Mr Brown said to himself. "She'll he so upset."
Mrs Brown came through the front room door, clutching her dressing-gown round her 
neck. "I've got 
such a sore throat, Sam. Do you think . . . ?" she began. She stopped when she saw the 
look
on Mr Brown's face. She went to the window.
Suddenly she cried out in excitement, "Sam, they're moving! Look - they're alive!" She 
turned 
imploring eyes to Mr Brown. "But what can we do? In this cold they will die, won't 
they?"
Mr Brown gripped her arm. "Look," he whispered. "There she is!"
As they watched, the mother bird struggled up through the rambler rose and settled on 
the nest of 
chicks. There was no sign of her mate.
"He's probably gone over to the pine trees for shelter," said Mr Brown. "I must get 
outside and put a 
bucket of compost on the snow for him. It's rugged weather for birds, sick or well."
"What about those breadcrumbs, Sam? If I wrap up . . "
"No, you don't, not with a chill. You're not going out in this weather - that's for 
sure. I'll build a good fire and you can sit in here and keep an eye on the birds."
As the hours went by, the bird sat so still that Mrs Brown grew more and more 
concerned. "She isn't 
any better. In fact, she seems worse," she said to Mr Brown.
"You don't think her wound's become infected do you, Sam?''
"No. It's the cold, I'm sure. Wish I knew when her mate was coming back. She'll need 
plenty of food 
in this bitter weather."
"If he doesn't come back . . ." Mrs Brown began.
But he did come back. Later in the morning, he flew swiftly across the snow-covered 
lawn on his 
strong wings and settled on the side of the nest.
"I'd better get going," said Mr Brown. "There's Mr Blackbird waiting for food. I must 
get that 
compost."
Mr Brown wrapped himself in two woollen sweaters under his windbreaker, and Mrs Brown 
insisted that 
he wear his old red balaclava.
Before long, he was back. "The compost is frozen solid, Millie," he said. "It's as 
hard as concrete."
"Oh, no, Sam - our poor birds!" Mrs Brown cried in dismay. "Whatever shall we do?"
"We'd better mix up those crumbs in the pie-dish with some egg-yolk - that's supposed 
to be good for 
birds. I'll put the pie-dish on a box near the nest."
Mrs Brown cooked an egg and mixed the hard-boiled yolk with the breadcrumbs and 
brought the pie-dish 
to Mr Brown.
"Do wrap up, dear, before you go out again. It's a cruel day," she said, as he started 
for the front 
door with the dish.
Mr Brown found a butter box in the woodshed and, standing it on end, put it as near as 
he could to 
the nest without frightening the bird.
For the next five days, the deep, frozen snow lay on the ground and the bitter wind 
from the 
mountains blew. The faithful blackbird came back from the pine trees across the hidden 
lawn and,
filling his beak with breadcrumbs from the dish, he flew up and perched on the side of 
the nest while 
he fed his mate. Then he would fly down to the box and peck hungrily at the food. But 
it was plain that he was 
suffering from the intense cold and that each day he came less often. It seemed as if 
the
mother bird's wing would never heal.
"If the sun would only come out, she might leave the nest," said Mr Brown. "It would 
give that wing a 
chance to strengthen up a bit. She'll get very weak just sitting there."
"But if she leaves the nest the chicks will freeze to death, Sam."
"Maybe you're right," he agreed.
"Sam, we could almost touch the nest, almost …" and, with that, Mrs Brown cautiously 
began to unlatch 
the window and push it open inch by inch.
The blackbird's glittering eyes fixed on the moving shape in front of her, but she did 
not attempt to 
fly away. Mrs Brown closed the window again.
"You know, dearie, if I did it very gently, I might be able to get her to feed out of 
my hand." She 
put a little of the crumb mixture into her palm. Then she opened the window again and 
moved her
hand nearer and nearer the bird. But the blackbird was terrified. She began to make 
frantic calls for her mate. She darted her head forward and 
tried to fend off this threat to her safety with jabs of her sharp beak. Mrs Brown 
closed the window.
"That's no good, Sam. She panics as soon as I get my hand near. If only we had 
something with a long 
handle. Something we could put the crumbs in and push through the window without her
seeing us . . ."
Mr Brown suddenly interrupted her. "What about the soup-ladle with the long handle?"
He went to the kitchen and brought back a long-handled aluminium soup-ladle. He put a 
little of the 
crumb mixture into the bowl. "Here, try this."
He quietly opened the window, keeping hidden in the folds of the curtain. Then Mrs 
Brown silently 
edged the ladle towards the nest, leaning back against her husband in the shadow as 
she did so.
The nearer the ladle moved, the more frightened the bird became. Suddenly she darted 
her beak forward 
to peck at it. At the same moment, Mrs Brown gave the ladle an extra little push and 
the
bird's beak sank into the food.
Mrs Brown's hand was trembling with excitement, but she kept the ladle as steady as 
she could. The bird began to peck hungrily at the crumbs.
"Not too much," Mr Brown murmured.
"Sh!" whispered Mrs Brown. "Sh! dearie."
"Not too much - little and often," Mr Brown whispered back.
So, began the five busiest days Mr and Mrs Brown could remember. While the snow 
refused to melt and 
the sun refused to shine, seven times each day they fed the bird on the nest from the 
ladle.
On the sixth morning, the Browns woke up to bright sunshine flooding their bedroom.
"Oh, the sun! The lovely sun," said Mrs Brown. She put on her dressing-gown and 
hurried into the front room to feed her birds.
Mr Brown heard her calling, "Sam, come and look at our chicks. They've got their pin-
feathers."
Mr Brown hurried in. "Queer little codgers aren't they?"
he said, peering over her shoulder.  "No, they're not," said Mrs Brown. "They're 
sweet." 
Suddenly they saw the mother bird fly up to the nest. "Her wing! It's healed! It's 
better! Oh, Sam, how 
wonderful!"
"She wants her breakfast," said Mr Brown, looking at the bird perched on the rim of 
her nest. As Mrs 
Brown picked up the ladle,  Mr Brown whispered, "No, try your hand."
He took a little of the crumb mixture and, putting it into Mrs Brown's hand, he opened 
the window 
carefully. "Now, go on," he whispered. Mrs Brown hesitated. "Go on," whispered Mr 
Brown again. "Try!"
Mrs Brown moved her hand towards the bird until she could almost touch the nest. The 
blackbird thrust 
her beak into the
outstretched palm and then, as the Browns watched in astonishment, she began to feed 
her chicks. She 
kept picking up tiny, sodden pellets and poking them in turn into each wide
open hungry mouth.
"She's adopted us!" whispered Mrs Brown excitedly.
"We've adopted her, you mean," corrected Mr Brown, watching proudly.
illustrated by NAN REID

Homer and the Doughnuts 
written and illustrated by Robert McCloskey

One Friday night, Homer heard his mother talking on the telephone to Aunt Agnes. They 
were going to 
go in the car together to a meeting that night in Maytown. The Ladies' Club was 
meeting
there to discuss plans for a Red Cross party.
 "I think I'll come along too and talk to Uncle Charlie
while you and Aunt Agnes are at the meeting," said Homer.
Homer's Uncle Charlie and Aunt Agnes have a very modern lunch shop over in Maytown 
near the Town 
Hall. Uncle Charlie is a man with plenty of ideas. He likes buying machines to save 
himself
work in the shop. He has all sorts of machines there: an automatic. toaster, an 
automatic coffee-maker, an automatic dishwasher and an automatic doughnut maker. All 
the very latest models in
timesaving machines.
But, every time Uncle Charlie came home with a new machine, Aunt Agnes would shake her 
head and say, 
"Oh, my goodness, not another one ... not another time-saver." Aunt Agnes thought that
Uncle Charlie wasted all his spare time over at the barber shop with the sheriff and 
the boys. So, 
what was the good of time-saving machines that gave you more time to waste?
When Homer and his mother got to Maytown, they stopped at the lunch shop. Homer went 
in and said, "Hullo, Uncle Charlie," while Aunt Agnes and Homer's mother drove off to 
the meeting at the Ladies' 
Club.
"Oh, hullo, Homer," said Uncle Charlie. "You're just in time to help. I've been 
cleaning and oiling this automatic doughnut machine. Wonderful things these time-
savers . . ."
"Yes," said Homer, and he picked up a cloth and began rubbing the outside of the 
machine, while Uncle 
Charlie was busy with the inside of it.
"Look here, Homer," said Uncle Charlie after a while.
"I've got to go across to the barber shop and talk to the sheriff about something. I 
won't be long. 
While I'm away, you can put these last two pieces back inside the  doughnut machine."
Then, as Uncle Charlie went out the door, he said, "Homer, after you've put the pieces 
in, would you 
please mix up some doughnut batter and put it in the machine? You could turn the 
switch on
and make a few doughnuts for the crowd coming in from the late pictures, if you like."
"O.K.," said Homer. "I'll look after everything."
A few minutes after Uncle Charlie had gone, a man came in and said, "Good evening, 
young fellow."
Homer looked up and said, "Good evening, sir, what can I do for you?"
"Well, I'd like a cup of coffee and some doughnuts," said the customer.
"I'm sorry, mister, but there aren't any doughnuts until I mix up some batter and get 
this machine started."
"Well, I'm in no real hurry. I'll have the cup of coffee now and wait for the 
doughnuts. Fresh 
doughnuts are always worth waiting for."
"O.K.," said Homer, and he made the man a cup of coffee from the automatic coffee 
machine.
"Nice place you've got here," said the customer.
"Oh, yes," said Homer. "This is the best lunch shop in town."
"It must be a good business," said the customer. "I'm in business too. I'm a 
travelling man in 
outside advertising . . . well, I'm really a sandwich man. You know what I mean? I 
walk around with one sign hanging down my front and another hanging down my back, and 
I look just like a sandwich."
"Oh, I see," said Homer. "And you travel, too. That must be fun."
"Well, it's sometimes quite dangerous you know. I hitch rides on goods trains and big 
trucks. But any 
way of travelling is dangerous these days. Just look at aeroplanes and you'll see what 
I mean. Anyway, Mr Gabby is my name."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr Gabby," said Homer.
Just then, a large black car stopped and the driver helped a lady out of the back 
door. They both 
came into the lunch shop and the lady smiled at Homer and said, "We've just stopped 
for a quick
bite to eat. Some coffee and doughnuts would be wonderful."
Then Homer said, "I'm sorry, lady, but we have no doughnuts until I make some batter 
and start the 
doughnut machine."
"You mean that you are going to make some fresh doughnuts," said the lady. "You are a 
clever young man."
"Well," said Homer. "I've never done it before, but I think I know what to do."
"Now look, young man, you must let me help," said the lady. "I haven't made doughnuts 
for a long 
time, but I know a wonderful recipe and we must use it."
The lady took off her fur coat and her rings and her jewellery and rolled up her 
sleeves. Before 
Homer could say anything, she had put on an apron and tipped the flour into the mixing 
bowl.
"James," she said to the driver. "Pass me that baking powder. That's right. And now, 
young man, we'll need some nutmeg."
So, Homer and the driver stood there and passed things to the lady who mixed and 
stirred. Mr Gabby 
sat and sipped his coffee. 
"There," said the lady, when she had finished mixing. "Just wait until you 
taste these doughnuts!"
"It looks like a big lot of batter," said Homer as he stood on a chair and 
tipped it into the top of the doughnut machine.
"It's about ten times more than Uncle Charlie ever makes."
"Never mind, just wait until you taste them," said the lady, with a smile. Homer got 
down from the chair and pushed the button on the machine marked 
Start. Rings of batter started dropping
into the hot fat. When each ring was cooked
on one side, the machine turned it over to cook the other side. Then it 
gave the doughnut a little push and, it rolled out
of the machine all ready to eat.
"What a wonderful machine," said the lady as the first doughnut rolled out. 
She gave it to Homer. "Here, young man,
you must have the first one. Now, doesn't that taste beautiful?"
"Yes," said Homer, "it's very good."
So, the lady handed round doughnuts to James and Mr Gabby, who both said 
they were very, very nice.
Homer poured cups of coffee for everyone and they all sat down to eat some more 
doughnuts.
"I'm so glad you all like my doughnuts," said the lady, "but we really must be going 
now, James. Here's your apron, Homer, and would you put two dozen doughnuts in a bag 
for us to take away. James, you pay the young man please." She rolled down her 
sleeves, put on her jewellery and her big fur coat.
"Well, goodnight, everyone," said the lady. "I haven't had so much fun for years - I 
really haven't." And she went out of
the door and into the big black car.
"They sure are good doughnuts," said Mr Gabby, as he and Homer stood 
watching the machine make more
doughnuts.
After it had made a few dozen more doughnuts, Homer said, "That should be 
enough doughnuts for now. I'll just turn
the machine off for a while."
Homer pushed the button marked Stop and there was a little click, but 
nothing happened. The batter kept on dropping
into the hot fat. The machine kept on turning the doughnuts over and giving 
them a little push. The doughnuts kept on
rolling out of the machine, all ready to eat.
 "That's funny," said Homer. "I'm sure that's the right button." And he pushed it 
again. But the machine kept on making doughnuts.
"Oh dear!" said Homer. "I guess I must have put one of those pieces in 
backwards. I'd better phone Uncle Charlie
over at the barber shop."
While Homer was waiting for someone to answer
the phone he counted thirty-seven more doughnuts that rolled out of 
the machine.
Finally someone answered the phone. "Oh, hello, Sheriff," said Homer. "Is 
Uncle Charlie there? He is.
would you tell him that the doughnut machine won't stop making 
doughnuts. I've pushed the button marked Stop,
but it just keeps on making more doughnuts. Would you tell him to come 
over here and stop his machine."
Then the sheriff said, "O.K., Homer, he'll be right over."
By now, the window was full of doughnuts, so Homer and Mr Gabby 
started to put them on plates and
on the counter.
People had begun to look in the shop window, and someone said, "Look at 
all those doughnuts. There must be
thousands. I wonder how Charlie thinks he can sell all those."
 All this time, the machine kept on making
doughnuts.
By the time Uncle Charlie and the sheriff came and pushed through the 
crowd, the shop was full of doughnuts.
Doughnuts in the window, on the shelves, stacked on plates, piled on the 
counter and still the doughnut machine kept
on making doughnuts.
"Hello, Homer," said Uncle Charlie. "Having a little trouble I see." 
"Just you wait till your wife sees these doughnuts," said the sheriff. "It'll be your 
turn for 
trouble then, Charlie."
Uncle Charlie looked unhappy and said. "I don't suppose we can sell them all before 
Aggie gets here."
But Mr Gabby had a bright idea. "What you need is advertising," he said. "You've got 
the doughnuts, 
so all you have to do is make people want to buy them."
"Yes," said Homer. "Mr Gabby's right. He's an advertising sandwich man, so we could 
pay him to walk 
up and down outside on the streets and get people to buy our doughnuts."
"Good idea," said Uncle Charlie. "You've got a job, Mr Gabby."
They painted two big signs saying SALE OF DOUGHNUTS CHARLIE'S LUNCH SHOP, and sent Mr 
Gabby off down 
the street sandwiched between them. They painted a big sign on the window
too, and all this time the doughnut machine just kept on making doughnuts. Homer and 
Uncle Charlie kept on putting doughnuts away, and once in a while someone bought a few 
doughnuts, but
not very often.
Soon, Mr Gabby came back and said, "You know,
there's not much use advertising out on the street. There's nobody there. Everybody in 
town is right 
outside here, watching through the window."
Still the machine kept on making doughnuts.
"Oh, boy!" said Uncle Charlie. "We must get rid of these doughnuts before Aggie gets 
here."
Just then, there was a noise on the street. The lady from the big black car and the 
driver came 
pushing through the crowd and into the lunch shop.
"Oh dear, something terrible has happened!" she said.
"I've lost my diamond bracelet. I know I put it down here on the counter while I mixed 
the doughnut 
batter."
So, they all started looking around the counter for the bracelet. They moved the piles 
of doughnuts 
but they couldn't find it anywhere. And the machine just kept  making doughnuts. "Oh 
dear!" said
the lady. "I wonder where my bracelet could have gone?"
 The sheriff looked as though he thought Mr Gabby might have taken it, but Homer said, 
"He didn't take 
it, Sheriff. He's a friend of mine."
Uncle Charlie gave up looking. "This is terrible, he said. "First, there's all these 
doughnuts, then 
a diamond bracelet gets lost. Whatever will Aggie say when she gets back?"
Then the lady said, "I'll offer a reward of one hundred dollars for that bracelet. It 
really must be 
found - it really must."
While all this was going on, Homer sat down to think. After about twenty more 
doughnuts had come out 
of the machine, he shouted. "I know where the bracelet is. It was lying here on the 
counter
and got mixed up in the batter by mistake. The bracelet is cooked, inside one of
those doughnuts."
"Why, I think you're right!" said the lady. "Now isn't that strange - really strange."
"Oh, oh!" said Uncle Charlie unhappily. "Now we'll have to break up all these 
doughnuts to find the 
bracelet. What a mess that will be! Think of all the pieces and the crumbs! What will 
Aunt Aggie
say about that?"
"Oh, no," said Homer. "We won't have to break them up. I've got a good idea."
So, Homer and Mr Gabby made another big sign and put it in the window:
Fresh Doughnuts
2 for 5c while they last
$100.00 prize for finding a bracelet inside a doughtnut
P.S. you have to give the bracelet back
When the crowd outside saw the new sign in the window, everybody wanted to buy 
doughnuts. They bought 
doughnuts and doughnuts-and that's not all. They bought coffee to drink with the
doughnuts. Those that didn't buy coffee bought milk or soda fizz. For about half an 
hour, it kept 
Homer and Uncle Charlie and the sheriff and Mr Gabby and the driver all busy selling 
doughnuts and
drinks.
When only a few doughnuts were left on the counter, a boy named Rupert Black shouted, 
"I've got it." 
And, sure enough - there was the diamond bracelet inside his doughnut.
Then Rupert Black went home with a hundred dollars.
The people of Maytown went home full of doughnuts.
The lady drove off in her big black car with her diamond bracelet.
And Homer went home with his mother when she came back from the meeting with Aunt 
Aggie.

The Glorious Whitewasher 
by Mark Twain illustrated by Derek Ball

This story comes from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, published in 1876. This famous 
novel is set in a Mississippi River town of the mid-nineteenth century when the West 
was being opened up, and busy
paddle steamers sailed up and down the great river.

It was  Saturday morning and a lovely summer day.. Everyone felt like singing and 
everyone was happy.
Tom walked on to the footpath carrying a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. 
He looked at the fence and at once he felt sad, because it was a very long fence and 
he had to paint it all with whitewash. He put his brush into the whitewash and painted 
the highest board. He did this again and then once more. He looked at the little bit 
that he had whitewashed and then at the rest of the fence that still had to be done, 
and he sat down on a box, feeling beaten.
Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin bucket, singing "Buffalo Girls". Bringing 
water from the town pump had always been hard work to Tom before, but now it did not 
seem so. He remembered that there, were other children at the pump. The boys and girls 
of the town were always there swapping toys, fighting and showing off. The pump was 
only a hundred and fifty yards off, but Jim never got back with a bucket of water in 
under an hour-and even then somebody usually had to go after him.
"Say, Jim, I'll fetch the water if you'll do some white-washing."
Jim shook his head and said, "Can't, Master Tom. Old Missis told me I 
got to go and get this water and not stop to fool around with anybody. She said she 
thought you'd ask me to whitewash and so she told me
to mind my own business and she'd look after the white- washing."
"Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's the way she always talks. Give me the 
bucket. I'll only be gone a minute. She won't ever know."
"Oh, I couldn't, Master Tom. Old Missis 
would cut
 my head off for sure."
"She! She never hurts anybody - hits them over the head with her 
fingers - and who cares about that! She says awful
things, but talk doesn't hurt. Jim, I'll give you a marble. I'll give you 
a white alley!"
Jim looked interested.
"White alley, Jim! And it's a good one."
"My! That's a mighty fine marble. But Master Tom, I'm scared of old Missis -"
"You can see my sore toe as well if you give me the bucket. "
Jim was only human - this was too much for him. He put down his bucket, took the 
marble and bent over the toe while the 
bandage was being taken off. The next moment
he was running down the street with his bottom stinging. Tom was working 
hard at his painting and Aunt Polly was
going inside again with a slipper in her hand, looking very pleased with 
herself.
But Tom soon grew tired. He began to think of the fun he had planned for 
this day, and he felt sadder than ever. Soon,
the boys who had done their jobs would come running along doing all sorts 
of things, and they would laugh at him for
having to work. The very thought made him angry. He got out his things and looked at 
them - bits of toys, marbles, and
rubbish, and then put them back. There wasn't enough there to get anyone 
to do the whitewashing for him. So, he
gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. Then he had an idea - a 
wonderful idea!
He took up his brush and started to work happily. Ben Rogers came along 
soon - the very boy, of all boys, whose
teasing he had been afraid of. Ben was hopping, skipping and jumping along. 
He was very happy. He was eating
an apple, and giving a long yell from time to time, and then a deep 
ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong. He was playing
at being a steamboat.
As he came close, he slowed down, ran to the middle of the street, leaned 
far over to the right and turned around
slowly and importantly. He was boat and captain and engine bells all at 
once, so he had to pretend he was standing
on his own bridge, giving the orders and carrying them out.
"Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!" He ran out of space to move in and 
stopped beside the footpath.
"Move her backwards. Ting-a-ling-ling!" He held his arms straight down by 
his sides.
"Turn her to the right! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow! ch-chow-wow! Chow!" His 
right hand drew large slow circles in the air. It
was meant to be a forty-foot wheel.
"Turn her to the left! Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ch-chow-chow!" The left 
hand began to draw circles in the air.
"Stop her on the left! Ting-a-ling. Stop her on the left. Bring her up on 
the right! Stop her. Turn her round slowly. Ting-a-ling-ling! Chow-ow-ow! Get out that 
rope. Quickly now! Come on - out with 
your rope. What are you doing there? Turn around by that tree stump. Now let her go! 
Finished with the engines, sir! Ting-a-ling."
Tom went on whitewashing - did not look at the steam boat. Ben stared a 
moment and then said:
"Hi-yi! You're having a bit of bad luck, aren't you?"
No answer. Tom looked at his work, then he did some more painting and 
looked at it again. Ben came up beside
him. Tom wanted the apple badly, but he stuck to his work.
Ben said, "Hello, old chap, you got work, hey?"
Tom turned suddenly and said, "Why, it's you, Ben! I didn't see you."
"Say - I'm going in swimming. Don't you wish you could? But of course 
you'd rather work - wouldn't you? 'Course you would!"
Tom looked at the boy for a while and said, "What do you call work?"
"Why, isn't that work?"
Tom went on with his whitewashing, and answered, "Well, maybe it is, and 
maybe it isn't. All I know is, it suits me."
"Oh, come now, you don't mean to tell me you like it."
Tom went on painting.
"Like it? Well, I don't see why I shouldn't like it. A boy doesn't get a chance to 
whitewash a fence every day."  That made the whole thing seem different. Ben stopped 
eating his apple. Tom painted some more, stepped back to look at it, 
added some more paint, and looked at it
again.
Ben was watching every move and getting more and more interested. Soon he 
said, "Say, Tom, let me do some
whitewashing."
Tom thought, nearly said yes, then changed his mind.
"No - no, it wouldn't do, Ben. You see, Aunt Polly's very fussy about this 
fence - right here on the street you know - but if
it was the back fence I wouldn't mind and she wouldn't. Yes, she's very 
fussy about this fence. It's got to be done
very well. I reckon there's not one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, 
that can do it the way it's got to be
done."
"No - is that so? Oh come on - let me just try. Just a little bit - I'd let 
you, if you was me, Tom."
"Ben, I'd like to, honest I would. But Aunt Polly - Well, Jim wanted to do 
it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do
it, but she wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how it is? If you was to 
paint this fence and anything was to happen to
it-"
"Oh, I'll be just as careful. Now, let me try. Say -  give you the core of 
my apple."
"Well, maybe - no, Ben, I don't think so. I'm afraid-"
"I'll give you all of it!"
Tom gave up the brush, looking unhappy, but feeling happy. And, while Ben 
worked in the hot sun, Tom sat in the
shade close by, swung his legs, ate his apple, and waited. He did not have 
long to wait; boys came along once in a
while. They came to laugh but stayed to paint. By the time Ben was tired out, Tom had 
given the next turn to Billy Fisher for a kite in good order. When Billy was tired, 
Johnny 
Miller painted it for a dead rat and a string to
swing it with - and so on, hour after hour.
When the middle of the afternoon came, Tom was rich. He had the kite and 
the rat, twelve marbles, part of a jew's
harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a broken gun, a key 
that wouldn't unlock anything, a piece of chalk,
a glass top for a bottle, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six 
firecrackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar - but no dog 
- the handle of a knife, four pieces of 
orange-peel, and a broken down old window-sash.
He had had a nice, lazy afternoon - plenty of friends - and the fence had three 
coats of whitewash on it! If he hadn't run
out of whitewash, he would have left every boy in the village with nothing.

Tinirau and His Pet Whale 
retold by Margaret Orbell
illustrated by Graham Percy

Tinirau was a great chief. All the fishes in the sea did what he told them to do. He 
had a pet whale 
whose name was
Tutunui. Tinirau loved his whale and he would often go down to the beach and call him. 
Tutunui would 
always hear him
calling and come from wherever he was in the sea. Sometimes, Tinirau would ride across 
the sea 
sitting on the whale's
big back.
One day, Tinirau and his wife had a son. Tinirau wanted his son to grow up to be 
strong and brave, so 
he wanted him to be
named by the best priest he could find. Over the sea lived a priest that everyone had 
heard about. 
His name was Kae.
Tinirau asked him to come and name his son.
Kae and his people came in their canoes, and Kae named Tinirau's son. Tinirau looked 
after Kae and 
his people very well.
He gave them his best food and drink and anything that they wanted. One day, he took 
Kae down to the 
beach and called
across the sea, "Tutunui! Tutunui!"
"Why are you calling like that?" Kae said. "There is no one there!"
But, just then, something moved under the water, and they saw the big, blue face of 
the whale. He had 
answered Tinirau's
call. Kae was very surprised.
"You are staying in my house," Tinirau said to Kae. "So I must give you the very best 
food I have." 
Then Tinirau bent down and cut some meat from the whale's back. Tutunui was so big 
that he hardly noticed 
this and he didn't
mind at all.
That night, Tinirau had the meat cooked for Kae, and Kae thought it was the best food 
he had ever 
eaten.
When it was time for Kae to go home again, he said to Tinirau, "Will you let me ride 
home on the back 
of your whale
Tutunui?"
Now, Tinirau did not want to let Kae ride home on his pet whale, but he was afraid of 
Kae. Kae knew a 
lot of magic and he
might put a bad spell on Tinirau if he did not say yes.
So, in the end, Tinirau said, "All right then. I will let you ride home on my whale. 
But when you get 
near your home,
Tutunui will shake himself. This is to tell you that it is time to get off his back. 
He cannot go 
into the water near the beach,
because it is not deep enough for him to swim in. He would get stuck and die."
So, Kae climbed on to Tutunui's back and the whale swam off very fast across the sea. 
At last, they 
came close to Kae's
home and Tutunui shook himself. But Kae
did not get off his back. Tutunui went in closer and shook himself again. 
Still Kae did not get off. Kae made the whale
go into the water near the beach and Tutunui got stuck there and died.
Tinirau waited a long time, but Tutunui did not come back.
Then, one day, Tinirau smelt something cooking a long way away. He knew 
that it was Tutunui and that Kae had
killed him so that he and his people could eat him.
That made Tinirau very sad and very angry. He planned to get even with Kae. 
At first, he wanted to go to Kae's village
and fight with him. But his wife said, "Don't go and fight Kae. If you do 
this, many of our own people will be killed. Kae
knows a lot of magic, but I know some magic, too. Let me bring him back to you. Then 
you can get even with him."
Tinirau's wife went from village to village with some of her friends. 
Everywhere they went, they danced and sang and
played games for the people. And always they looked for Kae. They knew 
that they would know him by his broken
teeth. But, though they looked for a long time, they could not find Kae 
anywhere.
Then, one day, they came to a village, and at night they danced and sang. All the 
people laughed at their dances and jokes, 
but there was one man who didn't. He would
not smile and he had a very frightening face. They could not see his 
teeth, but they thought it was Kae. So, they told
their funniest jokes and did their most exciting dances and at last the 
man laughed. Then they saw by his broken
teeth that it was Kae.
When she saw this, Tinirau's wife said a magic spell. This made everyone 
in the house go so fast asleep that they
would not wake up again for a long time. Then the women lifted Kae up 
from where he was sleeping and carried
him down to their canoes. All through the night, they paddled their 
canoes, while Kae still slept. When they got to
their home, they carried Kae into Tinirau's house.
In the morning, Kae woke up. He was still sleepy and thought that he was in his own 
house. Then he heard the
people outside calling out, "Welcome, Tinirau! Welcome, Tinirau!" and he 
saw Tinirau come in.
"Welcome, Tinirau," Kae said. "Why have you come to see me?"
"Tell me instead why you have come to see me?" said Tinirau. "And tell 
me what happened to my whale Tutunui."
And Kae saw that he was in Tinirau's house, and he knew that Tinirau 
would kill him. So, Tinirau got even with Kae for
killing his pet whale.

Marco and the Marble Hand
 by Margaret Leighton
 illustrated   by Barbara Brown

"Marco! Marco!"
 Marco put his head under the bed clothes so that he
could not hear his mother's voice. But she called his name
again. Someone shook him by the shoulder. "Wake up,
sleepyhead! Have you forgotten that this is the day you
go to the market?"
 Marco woke up at once. He sat up and saw that his
mother was laughing at him.
 "Wake up!" she said again. "Your father is tying the
horse to the cart. Do you want him to go without you?" 
Then she hurried away. Marco put on his clothes as fast he could. He was shivering, 
partly with cold and partly with excitement. 
He ran down the stairs that led to the sheds below, where the animals were kept. 
Although it was the middle of summer, the stone steps felt as cold as ice underneath 
his bare feet.
It was still dark, but Beppo, their small white horse, was already tied to the two-
wheeled cart that was to take them to the market in the great city of Florence. There, 
they would sell food they had grown on the farm.
It was a long way from the little country village to the city. They had to leave very 
early if they wanted to reach Florence before the other farmers had taken the best 
selling places in the market.
Suddenly, Marco's father came through the doorway from the darkness outside. "All 
ready, Marco? 
Where is the basket of eggs ? I thought I told you to put it in the cart last night?"
Marco felt frightened, but he tried not to show it. So his father had noticed that the 
basket was missing! "Here it is, Father. I left it here on the stone shelf to keep 
cool. I wasn't going to forget!"
"Well, make sure you hold it carefully! Master Antonio's
workshop should pay a lot of money for those  
eggs," said his father. "We're lucky to have such a good customer.
He is a fine painter and one of the great 
men of Florence!"
He lifted the lamp down from the wall and hung it in
the, cart. Then he climbed up to the seat.
Marco climbed in also and found a 
comfortable spot
among the sacks of cabbages, the pairs of big, 
solid cheeses
and the baskets of fruit. The cart moved into the empty dark street that ran through 
the little group of houses that was their village. Marco looked up to where the stars 
showed between the 
roofs. Those same stars were shining
down now on the roof tops of Florence.
When the sun rose, he, Marco, would be there in Florence, the "City of the 
Red Lilies". He would soon be part of the
busy crowds. To a small boy of fourteenth-century Italy, Florence was the 
most important town in the world.
As they left the village and moved into the country, Marco's hand tightened 
on the handle of the basket of eggs. If all
went well, he might not be coming back to the village with his father.
The thought made him more excited than before. How could he wait to find 
out whether or not his plan would work?
He mustn't think of the basket, or the secret that lay hidden under the 
smooth brown and white eggs! He must think
about something else - anything else! He lay back and looked up at the stars 
again. It seemed to him that they were
smiling down upon him.
Just as the sun rose, they reached the gates of Florence and passed through 
them, with many other people who had
come to sell things at the market in the city. The streets were crowded 
with people. As they passed a shop, Marco
waved to a friend who had left his village to work in Florence. He wondered 
whether a boy from a small country village
would get homesick in such a big city.
At last, the cart stopped in the open space of the vegetable market.
"Put the basket of eggs down here just now," Marco's father told him. "And 
then take the horse and give him a drink
of water. Hurry, because I want you to get those eggs to Master Antonio as soon as you 
can."
Marco did not need to be told to hurry, but the horse took his time. He 
drank slowly, stopping for long breaths. Marco
could hardly wait. He stood first on one foot, then on the other.
What if his father should change the eggs to another basket? The thought 
frightened him. But when he got back, the
basket was just as he had left it. His father was talking to a man in a 
red and black coat.
"Off you go on your message. I'll feed the horse," he told Marco. Master 
Antonio's workshop was in another part of
the city, but Marco knew the way well. He had gone there before with his 
father or his older brothers to take the eggs
that the painter needed for mixing his colours. Master Antonio was a 
careful worker and he thought there was a lot of
difference in the way eggs mixed. Marco had heard the master tell his 
pupils that they should always get their eggs
from one place. Then they would find that their colours were always the 
same.
The memory of that workshop made Marco hot with excitement, and he walked faster 
through the crowded narrow streets, but always he kept his basket from the pushing 
crowds.
At last, he came to the house and workshop of Master Antonio. Marco 
knocked at the door. It was opened by
Taddeo, the fat old servant whom Marco knew well.
"You're late!" said Taddeo, trying to make his voice sound cross. But 
then his round, red face grew kinder.
"I want to speak to Master Antonio, if you please," Marco said.
Taddeo suddenly looked important. "Why do you want him?" he asked. 
"Master Antonio is a great man, a busy man.
I have the money for your eggs. Give them to me and run away." He held 
out his hand for the basket.
"No," Marco said. "I want to see Master Antonio himself because I have 
something else for him."
"Well, well, give it to me and I will see that he gets it," said Taddeo.
But Marco wouldn't give in. "It is only for him," he said. "It is something 
that I know he will be glad to see. "
"I tell you the master is busy," Taddeo was beginning to shout, when there 
was a step behind him. The old painter
himself appeared in the doorway.
"Ah, Marco, and with a basket of good country eggs. Come in, my boy! What 
is it you want to show me?" he said
kindly.
Marco followed Master Antonio into the big room that was full of busy 
workers: boys, young men, and older men, too.
Some were making colours; some were mixing them in small pots, some were smoothing 
down boards to use for painting, and others were rubbing chalk into the smooth 
surfaces of the 
boards to get them ready for drawing.
Marco stood staring about him until Master Antonio's voice said, "Well, my boy, what 
is it?"
Then Marco began to lift the eggs carefully from his basket. When the last 
one was out, he took out the straw that
filled the bottom of the basket.
"This is what I have brought you, sir," he said.
Master Antonio looked at what lay on the straw and he drew in his breath. 
Carefully, he lifted out a piece of marble,
old and yellow. It was a marble hand!
He held it up to the light and turned it around and around. It was made of 
marble, yes, but so cleverly that it seemed
as if the fingers and palm must be made of soft, living flesh.
"Where did you get this, Marco?" asked Master Antonio.
"I found it, beside a stream where the ground was washed away by the spring 
floods. It was the only part of the statue
that was broken off," said Marco.
The workmen, young painters, and pupils, who had come round, looked at each 
other.
"A whole statue?" asked Master Antonio. "Can you tell me what it was like?"
"It is the statue of a woman, I think. I didn't dare to dig it out, because I was 
frightened someone might see it. My
father believes that all such old statues are heathen idols and must be got 
rid of. But I had seen those you have here
in your workshop and I  know they are too beautiful to be lost!" said Marco. "I 
couldn't see it all, but I did 
uncover the other arm. I can draw that for you, if you
want me to."
 One of the pupils put the board he was carrying into  
the boy's hand, and another gave him a piece of charcoal
to draw with. Marco made a few strokes. Then, holding
his tongue between his teeth, he drew on the board the
arm and the hand that held an apple in its palm. The
master and his oldest pupil looked at each other in surprise.
"An old Greek or Roman statue," said Master Antonio. "A treasure indeed to find buried 
in the earth! You were a wise
 boy to come to me with your news, and you shall be well rewarded. If you 
show me the place where the statue is, I
shall give you this piece of gold."
Marco looked at the money. Never before in all his
life  had he had as much as that. But he shook his head.
"No thank you, master," he said. "I want no money, and I will take you 
there whenever you say. But there is something else that I want, if you please."
"Yes?" The master smiled.
"I want to come here and work in your shop, to learn to draw, to become a 
painter!" said Marco very quickly. Then,
as he stood looking up into the great man's face, his own face grew pale 
under its tan. He was scared that the master
might be angry with him.
Marco was very surprised and happy when Master Anotnio put an arm about 
his shoulders.
"Good boy!" he said, with a smile. "I knew what you wanted as soon as I 
saw you draw with the charcoal on the wood! Yes, I'll take you in. I'm a hard man to 
work for, but my boys here 
seem to like it, and we have room for another
who can draw as well as you. Here, take the money for the eggs to your 
father, and bring him back to see me. We'll have the papers ready for him to sign 
today!"
And Marco ran back through the narrow streets of Florence as though his feet had 
wings.

The Mayan Vase
written and illustrated by Roy Cowan

As it grew dark in the Yucatan forest, an Indian family got ready to go to bed. 
Chimec, the father, brought wood for the fire. His wife took the food from the table 
and made the beds. Nina, 
their daughter, took the leaf plates from the
table. The grandmother, Cuaro, stopped working on her weaving and sat near 
the fire. When the others had finished
their jobs, they sat by the fire, too. As they looked at the fire, they 
talked about what they had done that day.
"Today," said Chimec, "I went further away from our home than I have ever 
been. I went to the very top of the hills
and I saw flat land below me, covered with little trees. It's not like our 
big silent forest here in the valley. It's full of
birds, deer, bees and flowers, and there
plenty of beans that we could eat. It would be easier to live there than it is here, 
but there is no water. If there is, I 
couldn't find any.
"I looked around for a high place to see from and found a little hill that 
rose in the middle of this flat land. There was
something strange about this hill. It was made of blocks of stone that 
looked as if they had been cut by men. But
they must have been giants of men, because the stones were so big."
Cuaro, the old grandmother, said, "Did you see any pictures on these 
stones, Chimec?"
"No, Mother," said Chimec. "It was late in the day and I saw some turkeys 
from the hill and went to catch them.
Why should I look for pictures?"
"Because, if they had pictures on them, they are the work of men, and 
there will be water near the hill - perhaps in a
deep well. If you find it, we could live there more easily than we do here."
Old Cuaro saw that the family did not understand, so she went on. "There is 
a story about our people that I heard
when I was a child. A long time ago, the Indians of our tribe did not have 
to spend all day looking for food; and fields
of maize were far bigger than ours. They had driven the forest away, so 
that there were no trees near them for their
enemies to hide in. In those days, they didn't have to fight all the time 
as we do now. They had time to make beautiful
clothes and lovely vases, and time to build churches and huge houses from 
stone. And then the forest came back
and drove the men away."
"That's a good story," said Chimec, "but it couldn't be true. Men who were 
clever enough to build in stone could easily
keep the trees away. Even I can do that. After the rainy weather, I cut 
round the bark of the trees. In the summer,
they dry out and burn easily. Then, I have fresh soil where I can grow food for two or 
even three years before I have to move. They would 
know that."
"Son," said Cuaro, "the story said that they had driven the forest away, and yet in 
the end they 
would have given
everything they had to get the forest back again. I know one more thing. If you have 
really found a 
city in the forest,
you will also find water."
"I will look again tomorrow," said Chimec.
Very early the next morning, Chimec went to the forest with his bow and arrows. This 
was much richer 
country than
his own. He saw the footprints of deer and turkey. He wanted to hunt them, but he went 
on, because he 
had to find
the hill once more.
At last, he saw a steep hill, just in front of him. It was covered with trees and 
bushes. This was the place. Chimec looked about him. At first he could not see very 
much, because the light was so poor. Then he saw a huge white block of stone lying on 
the ground. It was not round, like a stone from the river, but square. It must have 
fallen from the hill.
Chimec looked up and saw rows and rows of huge white stones. All of them were square, 
like the stone on the ground.
Suddenly, he saw something bright moving in the trees behind him. It was a wild 
turkey. Chimec put an 
arrow to his
bow and ran down the hill after it. He moved quickly until the bird looked his way, 
then he stood 
quite still. When he
got close to it, he shot an arrow. The bird beat its wings loudly and flew into the 
air, but the 
arrow had hit it. Chimec
could hear it crashing down through the branches. It was a fine fat bird. His wife 
would cook it and 
they would have a
feast at home tonight! Chimec tied it to his back and set off for home.
Soon, he was back at the place where the stone had fallen from the hill. He looked up 
and saw that 
sunlight was
shining on a picture that had been carved on a row of stones. It showed men kneeling 
in front of a 
man who was
sitting on a high platform. They wore beautiful clothes and had feathers on their 
heads. But what 
Chimec noticed
most of all was their faces. They were just like the faces of his own people.
It was now growing late, so Chimec set off once more for home. He had not gone far 
when he saw 
something bright in
the earth at his feet. He bent down and began to dig with a stick. Soon, he had dug up 
a round vase 
covered with
bands of coloured design. Chimec was very pleased with his find. He put the vase under 
his cloak and 
went on. What
a lucky day it had been! He had shot a fine bird and found a valuable vase.
In time, Chimec came back to the hut where his family waited for him. First, he gave 
the turkey to his wife to cook and then he 
brought out the vase.
"Look what I have found," he said. "And there are other wonderful things up 
there. There were stones with pictures
cut in them. Pictures of men like us, but dressed in beautiful clothes."
"The vase is strange," said Cholula, his wife. "I have never seen patterns 
like this before."
Nina held it up and began to follow the design with her finger. "There is a 
design running around the top and bottom,
and a picture of the forest running around the middle of it."
Chimec could see that Nina liked looking at it, so he said, "It's too good 
a vase to be put among the ordinary pots. I
shall give it to Nina. She will take care of it."
"And I shall give her some beans to keep in it," said her mother.
"Do you see the little man in the forest?" said Nina, and she pointed to a shape among 
the leaves. It was the figure of a man. He was covered in leaves, so that he looked as 
if he was part 
of the forest.
"Well, so there is," said Chimec. "And I did not see him there before. 
Perhaps he has just come out to see
who his new owner is." He smiled as he gave the vase to Nina.
That night, Nina did not put the vase away with the other pots. Instead, 
she put it by her head, so that she could see
it as she lay down. While the others talked about the stone hills, she 
looked at the patterns of the vase and wondered
where the leaf-man had gone to. When she turned the vase round, there 
he was. She saw that he was holding a
little tree carefully in his hands. Perhaps he was a forest spirit who 
looked after the trees. Could there be other things
in the forest?
She began to turn the vase round, watching closely, and she found a bird in a tree, 
and then the Forest Spirit again. Then trees - birds, trees, the Forest Spirit, trees, 
birds - and 
then, what was this? She was sure she had seen
nothing change on the vase. The painted design did not move, but here, on 
the other side from the Forest Spirit, was a
man with a spear! He was quite clear. He wore a white cloak and he 
seemed to be hunting the bird. For a long
time, Nina watched, but he stayed quite still. She turned the vase and 
there was the Forest Spirit, just as before.
Then trees, trees, trees - and the Hunting Man again. He had changed. He was kneeling, 
looking at another figure. A figure with only his face and hands showing like the 
Forest Spirit. This 
figure was covered in long red leaf shapes.
Perhaps they were flames and he was the Fire Spirit.
In the light of the fire, this new figure seemed to move and grow brighter. But Nina 
did not see him 
move, although
she looked very hard. He was only painted on the vase. She turned the vase to see if 
the picture had 
changed on the
other side, but everything was the same. Quickly she turned it round again. Now, the 
Fire Spirit had 
grown as tall as
the trees and was sending out long red flames into the forest. The Hunting Man had 
used fire to keep 
the forest away.
The Forest Spirit was still hiding in the trees that were left. But, when Nina turned 
the vase around 
again, everything
had changed. Hunting Man was standing beside a tall maize plant - then came another 
man - another 
plant - all the way
round. Both the Fire Spirit and the Forest Spirit had gone and so had all the trees.
By now, the rest of the family had stopped talking and were asleep. The fire still 
burned brightly 
enough to show the
changing pictures on the vase, and Nina went on turning it round. She saw first the 
men and the 
plants - then huts - women cooking - and children. Then, one side of the vase changed. 
The farmers and their plants had 
gone, and there
was a great crowd of people all dressed in beautiful clothes. They were standing in 
front of tall 
buildings made of
stone. At their feet were piles of grain, baskets of fruit, and vases of all shapes 
and colours. The 
people were holding
a market. On the other side of the vase, the farmers still worked, but now she saw 
that the maize 
plants were much
smaller than the first ones.
Nina remembered her father saying, "After three years, the soil becomes tired and I 
must cut down 
more trees to
make new land to plant maize in." Perhaps it was the same in the land on the vase. But 
where was the 
new forest land? The forest had all gone a long time ago.
Now, she saw that all the people were kneeling down in front of another figure on a 
high platform. 
This time, it was a
statue holding a pot in its hand. Growing in the pot, was a maize plant. She 
remembered the Forest 
Spirit, holding in
his hands a little tree. These people were praying for maize to a statue of the Forest 
Spirit.
On the other side now, the farmers and the plants had gone. All that was left was 
earth. She turned 
the vase again
and there were the great stone houses - but all the people had gone.
She turned and turned the vase, but nobody was left in the empty land. Perhaps this 
was the end of 
the story, and
the vase would not change again . . . but once more something new appeared. Leaves 
grew out of the 
ground, out of
stones. Trees grew tall and vines grew round them, until the whole pattern became one 
of leaves, 
branches and
flowers, hiding buildings, earth and sky.
Now, Nina's tired hands stopped turning the vase - she had fallen asleep. She was 
woken by the sound of 
the others in
the morning. She looked for her vase, and then saw that Chimec had picked it up and 
was looking at 
the pattern.
"We saw you turning the vase round and round last night," he said. "Were you hunting 
in the woods! I 
can still find
only the green man myself."
"So he is back again," Nina cried.
"Back again?"
"Yes. Men came and drove him away, and burnt all the trees. Then they grew maize, 
higher than their 
heads. They
built cities and wore beautiful clothes, but after a time the maize would not grow so 
well."
"Where did you learn that, child?" Cuaro asked.
"That is the story I was once told!"
"The vase told me. As I turned it round, the pattern changed all the 
time, but I could never see it change. Only,
when I turned it, I found that the pattern on the other side had changed. 
The men had great houses and they owned
fine things, but they started to pray for grain because it wouldn't grow 
for them any more. Then, there were no more
men. The land was empty for a long time, until the trees came back to cover 
everything. Now the Forest Spirit is there
again."
"And there he is," said Chimec. "You are a clever child to think of such a 
story, just by turning an old vase around."
"But I did see it, by turning the vase, before I went to sleep!"
"Perhaps you saw it in a dream, Nina. We saw you asleep. Look – the vase is the same 
as it was when I picked it up. See – there are trees, and around here is a little 
green man, and here are more trees."
He stopped a moment, as if he didn't know what to say; then he went on, "And here, in 
the trees, is a hut and by the hut is a man – and two women, one young, one old – and 
a little girl …"

A Christmas Story  
by Ruth Dallas
illustrated   by Roger Hart

On a hot Saturday afternoon, a few days before Christmas, three children were walking 
down a road that went into the country. They were walking, one behind the other, and 
one of them was pushing an old pram. In the pram was their brother Ronald, who was one 
year old.
The road was dusty and sometimes a car passed and covered them with dust. Then they 
all turned their heads away and screwed up their eyes and mouths to keep the dust out 
- even the baby.
Maud, who was twelve, and Mervyn, who was ten, were taking turns to push the pram. 
They changed every 
third
telegraph pole. Angela, aged three, walked slowly behind. Sometimes, she stopped to 
pick up an old 
cigarette packet
or a bottle top. Sometimes, she picked daisies.
"Come on, Angela," Maud would call.
At last they came to a big white house, half-hidden among trees. "Have you got the 
money safe?" 
Mervyn asked
Maud, as they walked up the drive.
" 'Course I have," said Maud.
Half-way down the drive, a man stood on a ladder. He was cutting a hedge. He wore an 
old hat and his 
face was very
brown. He looked hard at the children.
"Excuse me," said Maud. "Are you the nursery man?"
The man looked hard at them and didn't say anything.
"Please," Maud said, "we want to buy a tree."
Mervyn touched her foot with his. "Say a Christmas tree," he whispered.
"A Christmas tree," said Maud.
"And what if I sold you a tree?" asked the man. "What would you do with it the day 
after Christmas?"
Maud and Mervyn didn't know what to say.
"A tree's alive, just like you," the man said. "It doesn't like being thrown on the 
rubbish heap as soon as Christmas is over."
The children didn't answer.
"Have you got a garden?" the man asked.
"We've got a back yard," Maud said.
"Anything growing in it?"
"Mint," said Maud. "It's mostly concrete. We live upstairs above a shop."
"Is it your Dad's shop?"
Mervyn and Maud giggled. The man smiled, too.
"What's the joke?" he asked.
"Our Dad's at sea," said Mervyn.
"My Dad's a sailor," said little Angela.
"Is he coming home for Christmas?" asked the man.
"No, he can't come," Maud said. "That's why we want to get the Christmas 
tree. It's a surprise for Mother. She's got a
sore leg and she can't go to town. It's the first Christmas Dad hasn't 
been home. He hasn't even seen wee Ronald
walking. We don't want her to be sad. We want to make her happy."
"Trees cost money you know," said the man.
"I've got one dollar here," said Maud, "and Mervyn and I have got four 
dollars between us, haven't we, Merv? We
earned it doing messages for Mrs Smith."
The man looked friendly. "I'll tell you what," he said. "You see those 
hedge clippings?"
"Yes," they said.
"Well, I'm looking for a couple of people to tidy them away for me. If 
you do that little job for me you can have your
tree in return."
"Have it?" Mervyn asked. "Free? For nothing?"
"You've got to work for it. You'll find some rakes and a barrow in the 
shed round the corner."
The man did not speak again. He went on cutting the hedge. Snip! Snip! 
The children worked hard. Even Angela
carried armfuls of clippings to the barrow for a while, till she grew 
tired.
When all the hedge clippings were picked up, the man said, "I think 
you've earned quite a nice little tree. Better come
with me and see if we can find one."
They went into the nursery and he found them a soft fir tree which was 
just the right shape for a Christmas tree.
"How are you going to get it home?" the man asked.
"In the pram," Mervyn said.
"What about the baby?"
"He can walk part of the way," said Maud. "And we can take turns to carry him."
"If you could wait till Christmas Eve," the man said, "I'll be sending a load of trees 
into town on a truck. Would you like your tree sent to you?"
The children didn't say anything.
"You leave it to me," the man said. "I'll put it in a tub, with some 
earth, and after Christmas you can put it in your
back yard. Keep it watered, and it will last until next Christmas."
"Will it cost anything?" Mervyn asked.
"Not a cent."
Maud and Mervyn whispered to each other.
"All right," said Maud at last. "You send it in the truck. You're sure 
you won't forget?"
The man took out a notebook and a pencil and wrote down their address. 
"It will be there on Christmas Eve," he said.
When they were on their way home, Maud said, "Wouldn't it be awful, if he 
forgot!"
"We'll spend the money we've saved on decorations," said Mervyn.
"I thought we were going to make our own decorations,"
said Maud, "and save the money for presents?"
" We could buy balloons," said Mervyn. "We can't
make those."
They were so busy with their plans they hardly noticed
the rough dusty road on their way home.
Christmas Eve came. All day, Maud and Mervyn had
been waiting for the tree to come. From the windows of the flat, they had 
watched the street below. Mother
soon guessed they were waiting for something. " If it's the postman you're 
looking for, you're too early," she said. "He's been
coming late every day. It's all
this Christmas mail." Then she didn't say anything for a while. She was 
waiting for a letter from Dad and she was worried because it was late.
When they were doing the dishes, they heard Knock!
knock! Knock! on the living-room door. They ran to open it. A strange man 
stood there, half-hidden by a huge
Christmas tree. The tree was planted in a green tub.
"Who is it?" called Mother.
"Where do you want it?" the man asked. "In here! In here!" Maud and Mervyn ran 
in front
him. "Here, in front of the fireplace."
"Merry Christmas," the man said, as he put the tree
in front of the empty fireplace. Then he went.
The Christmas tree made the room look much prettier.
"How-? Where-?" Mother began.
"It's our surprise," said Maud. "It didn't cost us anything," Mervyn said.
"We worked for it," said Maud.
They started to shout, as they told their Mother about the nurseryman and the hedge-
clippings.
"I helped," said Angela.
For an awful moment, the children thought Mother was going to cry. Then she laughed.
"I wonder if I could make a fairy for the top," she said.
The children brought her everything she asked for. A wooden clothes-peg, wire, 
scissors, needle and 
cotton and a
bandage. While Mother sewed, Maud and Mervyn got out their decorations and hung them 
on the tree.
Soon the tree looked very gay. Ronald and Angela jumped up and down and laughed, but 
Maud and Mervyn 
tried to
look as if they had a Christmas tree every year.
The fairy that Mother made was really wonderful. It sparkled. The body was made from a 
clothes-peg, 
the wings were
made from wire and the bandage. It even had a wand with a little star on top of it. 
Mervyn stood on a 
chair and tied it
to the tip of the tree.
Then the postman came. He had a letter for Mother. She tore it open and read it 
quickly.
"It's from Dad. He's coming home in the New Year," she said. There was some money in 
the letter. When 
she saw
this, she got up from the sofa and said she was going into town.
"How can you go, with your sore leg?" Maud asked.
"I'll manage," Mother said. "I think the fairy has waved her wand and made it feel 
better." Then she 
put Ronald to bed.
As Mother went down the stairs, she said, "Now be sure to be in bed where I come home! 
I shan't be long." She seemed very happy.
Maud and Mervyn got Angela to bed as soon as they could. They wanted to be alone so 
that they could 
tie their
presents on the tree.
By the time they were finished, it was quite late, and they had to hurry off to bed. 
They left the 
light on in the living
room for Mother.
Mervyn was asleep when Mother came home, but Maud was still awake. She knew by the 
sounds Mother was
making that she was tying presents on the tree. When she closed her eyes, she could 
see the Christmas 
tree in her
mind. She remembered how happy Mother had looked when she set off for town.
Christmas morning! It would never come, Maud thought. She lay in the dark, trying hard 
not to listen.

The Tiger-Ringing
by Winifred Holmes
illustrated by Richard Kennedy  

Tekki was an Indian boy. His people are the Nagas. They are a fierce people who live 
in the jungles and mountains of Assam.
Timothy and Jane Allen were the children of a tea-planter whose tea-garden was just 
below the Naga 
Hills. They made friends with Tekki when he came down from the mountains with his 
father,
Inato, to sell peppers and cotton. When the Nagas went back to their village, the 
Allen family went 
with them.
While the Allens were staying in Tekki's village, a man from another Naga village was 
killed by a 
tiger and the Naga hunters went out to find the animal. When the Nagas hunted a tiger, 
they
called it a tiger-ringing, because all the men of the village made a big ring around 
the tiger and 
trapped him. Timothy and Jane were allowed to watch the tiger-ringing from a safe 
place.
Soon the hunters started out. First went Inato, then Mr Allen and the three children. 
Each man held a 
long spear and a bamboo shield. Most of them had red flowers behind their ears.
As they passed a garden, Jane picked the bud of a red flower and gave it to Tekki to 
put behind his 
car like the hunters.
"Jane! I could not wear this flower!" Tekki said in a shocked voice. "This flower is 
called 
'Stay-at-home's flower', because it opens when the sun is high in the sky. Only old 
women are left behind in the 
village to see it."
"Oh, I'm sorry Tekki," said Jane "But then, what's the red flower all the hunters are 
wearing behind 
their ears?"
"That flower is called 'The flower of men who do not run away'. When we get to the 
jungle you will 
see a red flower growing there. Pick one of those and I will wear it behind my ear, 
Jane."
Jane laughed and said, "Of course - that's the right flower for you, Tekki!"
They went to the edge of the forest with the hunters and then they stopped, because 
Inato had to make 
plans. He killed a chicken to bring them good luck, and then
told the hunters to go into the jungle and look for the tiger.
"Walk carefully," he said, "because the tiger has good ears. Mr Allen, you may come 
with me, but the 
children must climb a tree and stay there. I cannot have them getting in the way and
spoiling the hunt. Tekki, do not move from the tree until I tell you. You must promise 
me."
"Would this be a good tree, Inato?" asked Mr Allen. "It is a big one with good 
branches. It is higher 
than the others, and the children would be able to see far over the jungle and watch 
the hunt."
While the children climbed the tree, the hunters went quietly into the forest. Then 
the children made 
a look-out at the top of the tree. Tekki chopped bamboo sticks with his sharp knife 
and tied
them together with pieces of bark. It was fun to do, but not very easy. They had to be 
very quiet, so 
that the tiger would not hear them.
"See, Timothy," said Tekki. "It is like the look-outs we built near the village, so 
that we could see 
our enemies coming. Even my father would say it is a good look-out."
Timothy and Jane thought it was good, too. It was very strong and just big enough for 
the three of 
them. They could see the whole jungle and they would be well out of the way of the 
tiger.
Jane looked round her happily. Then she saw the branches waving, a little way to her 
left. "Look, 
Tim," she whispered. "There's something down there. I wonder what it is."
Timothy and Tekki both jumped  up. "It is only a pig, said Tekki.
Then Jane saw the trees moving again, as the hunters began to form the ring.
"Tekki, look," she said. "The men are making a ring
now. Do you think they've found the tiger asleep?"
They all looked over the edge of the look-out platform and nearly fell off it in their 
excitement. 
They saw the trees waving in wider and wider circles. There wasn't a sound. The trees 
went on
moving. 
"We shall be inside the ring," whispered Jane "Oh, Tim, I'm frightened."
"Well, we can't move now. We promised Father and Inato. They know we're here, anyway, 
so don't 
worry. Look, Jane they've closed the circle now. I suppose
they'll start to move in and make it smaller - the way Tekki said they would."
"Yes, I suppose so," said Jane.
"Gosh, I'm hungry!" said Tim.
"So am I. Let's have a sandwich."
They took out their lunch and began to eat. Tekki opened his lunch too. He took out a 
handful of rice and a little dried fish.
"Ooh, Tekki - that smells horrible!" said Jane.
"Very good fish," said Tekki, eating happily. "You white children are weak 
in the stomach. You don't like the good
things we Nagas like."
Suddenly he stopped and pointed down. Not far from their tree came a deep 
growling. Then they saw the bushes
moving.
"It's the tiger. He is awake," said Tekki. "He smells man."
"What will he do, I wonder?" asked Timothy. Jane was too frightened to say 
anything. It was the first time either of
them had been so close to a tiger.
"Now he is smelling everything around him. He is very angry," said Tekki. 
"Listen to his growling."
They heard a slow growling from the bushes. The tiger was very angry to 
find the smell of man all around him.
The children could see that he was walking round inside the ring.
Every time he came to the hunters' ring he growled and turned back. He 
could easily have run out of the circle, past
the hunters, but their smell kept him inside.
Now the hunters were changing the ring. They made one end smaller than the other, and 
the circle turned into the
shape of the letter V.
"Now they will drive the tiger into the small end of the V," said Tekki. "Only the 
best hunters are put there. They kill the tiger 
with their spears, as he tries to run past.
I hope my father will kill him. It would be a great thing for our family."
"I wonder where my father is," thought Jane. It was
all so strange. All they could see was the jungle moving and waving down below, and 
all they could hear was the
tiger growling and moving through the trees. They
couldn't see the tiger or the men.
Their tree was near the wide end of the V.
"It won't be too dangerous for us after all," Jane
thought, more happily. "Unless the tiger smells us." She felt a little bit frightened 
again.
Mr Allen was very worried when he saw that the
children's tree would be inside the ring.
But Inato told him not to worry. "The tiger will smell
so many men that he will not notice the children," he said.
"He will be trying to get away from the hunters down here on the ground. He won't 
climb up into the trees, because he knows he would be trapped."
Now the men were ready to build a fence inside the V.
They sent a man to bring the rest of the villagers to help kill the tiger.
"We are very lucky to have got so far in one day," said Inato.
Deep growls came from the tiger. He sounded much too
close  for Mr Allen to feel safe, but because this was the
Naga's hunt he felt he must do as they said. He was surprised when Inato 
said to him, "You, White
Chief, will kill the tiger."
The hunters started to make the fence. They chopped down sticks of bamboo and branches 
of trees and joined them together with creeper and strips of bark. Then they built 
platforms on each side of the sharp end of the V. They would 
stand on these to kill the tiger with their
spears.
When the fence and the platforms were made, Inato said, "Now we will take 
our places. You, White Chief, may stand
in the best place on this first platform, because you are our guest. 
Then, when the tiger comes down from the top of
the ring, he must pass nearest to you and you may then kill him with your 
spear."
"No, Inato," said Mr Allen. "I cannot use a spear. I am only used to a 
gun. I would much rather see you kill the tiger. I have heard how clever the Naga 
hunters are, and now I want to see it 
for myself."
"Very well, White Chief," said Inato at last. "We shall do as you say."
"I wonder how the children are getting on in their tree?" thought Mr 
Allen. He turned to look at the tall tree in which
they had built their nest. "I'm glad Tekki's with them. What would their 
mother say if she could see them now? It's 
just as well she can't."
Up in their tree, Timothy and Jane were getting more and more excited. 
The grass and bushes had all been cut away
from the ground underneath them and the fence had been built.
The tiger was now very worried. He had hidden in some thick bushes that 
the hunters hadn't dared cut down. He was
growling fiercely. The smell of man made him go mad. So, he waited until 
he could fight his way out.
"Are you sure he won't smell us and jump up here?" said Jane to Tekki.
"It has never happened before," said Tekki, "so why should it happen now? 
Eat, Jane you will feel better then."
"That's a good idea, Tekki," said Timothy. "It must be well past three o'clock."
"If it's really as late as . . ." Jane never finished what she was saying. Her mouth 
dropped open and 
the words stopped coming. She was looking down at something.
Timothy and Tekki looked, too, and saw the tiger's face. He was snarling and growling 
and his ears 
and whiskers were back. He looked straight up at their tree and came towards it.
The three children were so frightened they couldn't move. Tekki put his hand over 
Jane's mouth in 
case she called out and Timothy put his arm round her shoulders. There they waited.
The tiger walked out carefully and came towards the tree. Would their father see? Or 
was he too busy 
watching the people who had just come from the village. Tekki also wondered whether 
his
father would see the tiger and stop him before he got to the tree.
The tiger came towards them till he was close enough to be able to reach them with one 
huge spring.
There was no need to keep quiet any more, Jane thought suddenly. The tiger knew they 
were there - that was clear.
She struggled to push Tekki's hand away from her mouth. She must shout to her father 
to shoot the 
tiger before it was too late. As she struggled, she heard a woman scream loudly. Mr 
Allen and
Inato turned and saw the tiger springing. There was a flash and a bang. Before the 
tiger got to the 
branch just under the children's look-out, he fell to the ground, dead.
Then the men all threw their spears. They stuck in the ground all round the tiger, but 
it was Mr 
Allen's gun that had killed him with a shot through the heart.
"We are safe,", said Tekki to Tim and Jane "The White Chief, your father, is a great 
hunter. His 
magic killed the tiger straight away. I have never seen anything more beautiful."
Mr Allen and the hunters came running up. When Jane jumped down from the tree she ran 
straight into 
her father's arms. His face was very white, but his eyes were happy.

The Little Penguin 
by John Bates illustrated by Alan Howie

This is the story of Jill who was always losing her temper. It was not 
her fault. Even when she was a little baby she
had been the same. No one knew why she was like that.
Jill was ten. She would soon be eleven. She was old enough to know that 
getting in a temper never got her what she
wanted.
Nearly always, after one of her tempers, she would run away from the rest 
of the family and hide up in her bedroom or
in the garden. She would stay there until she felt that she could talk to 
her brothers again.
Ted, her oldest brother, who was seventeen, used to try to talk to her 
when she got angry. Sometimes she would talk - sometimes Ted's voice only made it 
worse. So the family just left her alone.
For a long time now, Jill had not been in a temper and she was pleased 
with herself. The summer holidays were
starting soon and she didn't want to spoil them by getting angry.
This year's holidays were going to be fun. There were five in Jill's 
family. Her father had died when she was very small.
She and her three brothers and her mother were going in their launch to 
an island where hardly anyone ever went. They had one big tent and two smaller 
ones. All day they would swim and fish
and climb the rocks and cliffs and go exploring. It was going to be great fun. 
They were leaving on Saturday. Late on Friday afternoon, the boys began 
taking all the things they needed for their
holiday out to the launch. They had to be taken out in the dinghy and 
carefully put away in the launch where they
would not get wet.
That night, the wind blew very hard. There was going to be a storm. But 
it was too late now to think of staying at
home. Everything had been put into the launch.
"Anyway," said Ted, "who cares for a bit of rain? We'll all get wet, but 
what does that matter? As long as everything is
dry inside the launch, we'll be all right."
The weather was better on Saturday. The rain had all gone.
The boys were all working on different parts of the launch. Jill and her 
mother sat inside with John. They all wore warm
jerseys and oilskin coats. A shout came from Ted. The engine was going. 
Andrew pulled the anchor up and John
steered the boat as it moved away.
The wind had nearly stopped blowing, but the waves were still very high. 
Suddenly John gave a shout.
"There's something floating over there!" he yelled.
Everyone turned round to look.
"What is it?"
"Can't see a thing!"
"Where, John? Where?"
They all talked at once.
"I can't see it now." said John. "No! There it is again! On top of that 
wave! Now it's gone between the waves. It'll be
up again soon." Then they saw a small grey-black thing on top of a wave.
"It's something alive!" said Ted in surprise.
"Can't be a fish," said Andrew.
"Let's get it," said Jill.
Ted leaned over the side of the launch. He had a little fishing net in his 
hand. Suddenly he put the net into the sea.
John shouted as Ted turned round again, holding something very carefully in 
both hands.
"It's a penguin - a baby penguin!" said Jill.
None of them, not even mother, had ever seen a penguin except in a zoo. 
They decided that it must have
been blown in by the storm. Ted gave it to Jill to keep inside her coat. 
The poor little penguin looked half-drowned. Jill tried
to dry it and keep it warm.
When they got to the island, they put the little penguin on the beach. It was 
so young that it could not even
dive yet. Its down was still too oily and fluffy.
The family spent the rest of the day taking their things out of the launch and 
putting up the tents on the grass in the little bay where they wanted to camp. When 
Jill went to bed that night she could not stop thinking of the baby penguin.
Next morning, while the others were picking up firewood and getting 
breakfast ready, Jill went down to the sea to find
the little penguin. She had left it, the night before, in a small pool 
which she had made in the sand. But as she ran
down to find it, she could not see it anywhere.
She ran along the sand, wondering what had happened.
Then she remembered that in the night the tide had come in. It must have 
washed the penguin out to sea again. Her family knew the tide would come in again. Why 
hadn't they told her?
"They wanted to let the baby penguin go all the time!" she said angrily.
Jill went quickly on towards the point. She was looking 
about all the time for the little penguin. It just might have been washed up.
"Jill!" she heard her mother calling. "Come on, Jill. Breakfast's ready!"
Jill turned round. There they all were. She could see her three brothers 
and her mother, all standing by the tents,
watching her. She grew angrier.
"The penguin's gone!" she called back. "I'm looking
for it."
"You won't find it, Jill," Ted said.
"I'm going to find it," shouted Jill. "Come back, Jill!" called Ted. "The tide's 
coming in!"
"I won't come back!" shouted Jill "I'm going to find the penguin." She ran 
on towards the point.
As she went round the point, climbing over the rocks, she looked back once 
more. The family had all gone back into
the big tent.
I suppose they think I'll come back soon, she thought to herself. But I won't! I'll go 
on and on and on.
Round the point, everything looked different. There were great tall cliffs 
on her left with trees growing all over them. The
beach didn't seem as wide as it was where they were camping.
She walked on slowly. The sand was much harder and wetter here. Sometimes 
she had to climb over big, round
rocks which had fallen down from the cliff. A little way in front of her, 
she saw another little point, where the tide came
in quite close to the cliff. She wondered what it would be like round the 
other side of it.
On and on she went. The little penguin didn't matter any more. It was much 
more important to keep going. She would
not go back.
When she came to the second point, she had to walk into the sea a bit to get round it. 
The water looked deep. When
she looked back, she could only just see the strip of sand she had walked 
along. The tide had come in and covered up her footprints.
"Oh well," she thought, "I'll have to go on, now. I can't  go back there 
again. Anyway, I'm not going to." She was still angry with her family.
But round the point there was no beach at all! She had thought there 
would be a bay there, or a lovely wide beach
where she could go on walking. She had thought that she might walk 
right round the island. That would surprise them!
But she was the one who was surprised! There was no way she could get 
past. The cliffs rose straight out of the
water. The water was quite shallow at first. It came just above her knees, but it 
would be too hard to walk through it for long. 
The trees grew out quite far from the cliff.
They hung over the water. In front of her was a thick heavy branch which 
had broken off one of the trees. She would
have to climb over it before she could go on.
She stood on her toes and pulled herself up on to it. There she sat, one 
leg on each side of the branch, just like
someone riding a horse. Her feet were in the water. Slowly she began to 
crawl along the branch towards the cliff.
She was right in amongst the leaves and branches now. She looked up and 
thought she could see a way to get
herself up a little higher away from the water. She reached up to the 
branch above her and pulled herself on to it.
Slowly she began to climb, going from one tree-trunk to the next. She tried 
each branch carefully to see if it would
break before she climbed on to it. All she wanted to do now was to get to 
the top of the cliff. Then she might be able
to walk across the island to the camping place. But first she must get up 
this cliff, away from the water.
When she did reach the top, she found that the trees grew so close together 
that she could not get through them.
She thought she would try to walk across the island instead of around the edge, 
because that way the ground
seemed easier to walk on. Suddenly she put her foot on something sharp that 
hurt her. Blackberries! She sat on a
branch and held her bare foot till it stopped hurting. Then she looked 
around her. There were blackberries everywhere.
Now she could not go on. The further she went in, the
thicker the blackberries grew. In the end, she had to climb back into the 
trees again, to get away from the sharp prickles.
She found that she could get across from one tree to the next, if she 
were careful and climbed  on to the right branch. For
a long time, she climbed from one tree to another. In front of her, the 
blackberries were as high as a hedge. Then she saw
one tall tree. She climbed right to the top of it.
Jill stood up in her tree to call for help.
"Help! Help!" she called. "I'm lost! Ted! Andrew!" No answer came. She 
called again, using everyone's
same that she could think of. She called her dog's name,
even though she knew quite well he was not on the island at all. They had left him at 
home.
Calling for help made her tired. She tried singing all
the songs she could think of as loudly as she could. Then she went on 
calling people's names again.
It was no good. No one could hear. She was too far away.
 She was so tired. She moved about in her tree until made herself a 
little nest, like an armchair. Soon she fell asleep, and there was not a sound to be 
heard.
Late that afternoon, Ted and Andrew found her at last.
They had been looking for her most of the day. Ted had been right round 
the island in the launch. He had looked for her
along the cliffs. The others had been looking on the land. They found her 
now only because John had looked up at the sky
and seen some bright colours. It was Jill's dress.
They had to push their way through grass, which was
high as their shoulders, to get to Jill. They came right
up to where the blackberries grew before she woke.
Then Ted had to go back to the camp to fetch an axe
cut through the blackberries.
After that, Jill didn't remember much because she was so sleepy. Ted picked her up and 
carried her on his shoulders through 
the blackberries and the tall grass to the
tents below. Everybody talked to her at once. She saw her mother's face.
"What happened to the little penguin?" she asked.
"We found him while we were looking for you, about an hour after you went," Ted said. 
"The tide must have brought him back to 
the beach again. He was in a little pool
among the rocks, down by the point."
"Oh!" said Jill sleepily. She was too tired now to feel excited.
"Tomorrow," she thought, "I'll start the holidays all over again."

The Bone
by Richard Dennant
illustrated by Stephen Furlonger

Peter had the adventure of the Bone only because his parents went to see some friends 
while they were 
on holiday in Rotorua.
"What can we do with Peter?" he heard his mother ask. "There won't be anyone for him 
to play with or 
anything for him to do."
"Do you want to come, Peter?" asked his father.
"Not much, Dad."
"Well, what would you like to do, then?"
"I could go on the launch," said Peter, "and see Mokoia Island."
"That's a good idea," said his father.
"It will only take up half the day, though," said his mother.
"I could go on the launch that leaves in the morning and come back on the one that 
leaves in the 
afternoon," said Peter. "I could have a good look at the island."
"Yes," said his mother, "that's a good idea."
Next morning, Peter stood amongst the passengers on the deck of the launch, holding a 
bag of 
sandwiches and a bottle of orange drink. He knew he was going to have fun, even 
without knowing
anything about the island. 
The launch had just begun to move away from the wharf when the captain's voice came 
over the 
Loudspeaker.
He told them the story of Hinemoa, the Maori girl who swam across the lake one night 
to be with the 
man she loved. He said that the warm pool where she stopped to rest after her swim was 
still
there and that they could see it when they came to the island.
The captain had just finished his story when they came
to the island. They went on shore and soon came to Hinemoa's pool. The grownups put 
their hands into 
the water and thought it was very warm, but no one
went in for a swim. Then they looked at the big rock just over the pool, and some 
people touched it 
and made a wish. The captain had said that if they did that their wishes would come 
true.
After that, they walked around until the launch was
ready to take them back. The captain walked to where
Peter was standing.
 "We come back at four o'clock," he said. "All right?"
 Peter nodded.
 "Got your lunch?"
 "Sure," said Peter, and held up his lunch bag.
 "Right," said the captain, and began to get the
passengers together to take them back. Peter heard the
boat's engine start. Soon, he couldn't hear the engine
any more and he was alone on the island.
 In ten seconds, he was swimming in the warm water
of Hinemoa's pool. Then he got out and ran to the lake
and jumped in. The cold water stung his skin and made
him feel wide awake after his hot bath. Then he went
back to the pool to lie there before he ate his lunch.
After that, he went to have a look at the island.
 He walked for a long time across rough ground until he came to the top of a hill. 
From there, he could see a long way. He could just see the wharf that the launch had 
left earlier that morning. He thought again about Hinemoa and wondered where she had 
started her swim. After a short rest, he decided to go back to the beach.
He tried what looked like a short cut, but the ferns were very tall, and soon he 
couldn't tell where 
he was going any more. Then he fell over a piece of wood and went rolling over and 
over down the
hill. The ferns stopped him just at the edge of a cliff. He lay there, feeling 
frightened. Then his 
hand felt something hard. He looked down to see what it was, and saw that he was 
holding a big bone, with a hole through the middle.
Peter was very frightened. He remembered stories of what happens to people who break 
the Maori tapu. 
Now that he had touched the bone, it was too late to put it back. The only thing to do 
was to bury it carefully.
Then he could be sure that no ghosts would come 
back to frighten him. But the ground there was too 
hard for
him to dig with his hands, so he decided to 
bury the bone on the beach.
He took the bone and tried to get down to the beach,
but he came to a lot of rocks just above the lake. Sometimes he slipped and scratched 
his legs. Once, 
he stopped for a rest, but not for long. He didn't want to miss the launch trip back 
to Rotorua.
When he started walking again, his legs were sore from the scratches on them. He now 
slipped so often that he decided to go back up the hill and try to get to the beach 
over the rough ground.
From the water, he had been able to see the top of the hill. It had seemed quite 
close. He thought it 
would be an easy climb over to the beach where the launch had landed. But he was 
wrong. The
climb was so hard that Peter felt that the tapu was really working against him.
Then, a terrible thing happened. As he looked out across the lake, a boat came around 
a point. As it 
came closer, he saw that it was the launch on its way back to Rotorua! He felt quite 
sick. If
the launch was going back to Rotorua, he would be left alone on the island all night.
Peter started to shout, but suddenly there was a great flash of lightning and then 
thunder. Then came 
a big wind and then rain.
In that storm, no one could hear his voice. He couldn't see the launch any more 
because of the rain. 
He was alone on Mokoia Island.
Peter ran down the hill. He kept falling over and climbing to his feet again. When he 
reached the big 
rocks above the sea, he called out to the launch. As he called, the ground slipped 
away from
under his feet and he fell into the water. The bone fell out of his hand into the 
water, where it was 
lost forever.
Peter's head came up again. He swam quickly towards the beach. He reached the rock, 
which he had 
fallen off, and climbed up to it. From there, he suddenly saw Hinemoa's pool and the 
wishing
rock - just twenty feet away! He had come right around the island! He was back at 
Hinemoa's beach again!
He walked through the water to get to the beach. Already, the rain was going away and 
he could not 
hear the thunder any more. He crossed the little beach and sat in the hot pool. The 
warm
water stopped his scratches from hurting so much. Things seemed better since he had 
lost the bone. At least he would be able to keep warm in the hot pool.
Then, a long way away, he heard the noise of an
engine.
It was the launch! Suddenly Peter remembered that
the captain always took the passengers around the island before he brought them to the 
beach.
"One thing," he thought, "I don't have to say I fell in the lake. I can say it was the 
rain that made me so
wet."
But the captain didn't ask him how he had got wet. When
the launch came back to Rotorua, his father and mother were so pleased that he was 
safe that they were hardly with him at all.
As for the bone - well, it's safe enough where it fell.






