The Spider's Gift
By Sue Bludgen

Jenny and Mo were friends.
Mo lived across the road from Jenny in a little old house. A large, black, 
hairy spider lived at Mo's house, too, in the
room he used for his workshop. The spider had spun a web in a corner of the 
window and sat there, watching people
come and go.
Jenny didn't like that spider much. It had long, hairy legs and big, dark 
eyes that glittered in the sun.
One day, Jenny went to visit Mo. She sat on a stool in the corner and 
watched Mo carve.
Jenny looked at the spider. It had spun a sticky, silvery web and was 
waiting to catch a fly for its supper.
"Yuk," thought Jenny. "Who'd want to eat a fly?"
Mo put down his chisel and began to sweep up some chips of wood.
"Can I please do some carving?" Jenny asked.
"Ae," said Mo.
Mo showed Jenny how to hold the chisel and the hammer. He showed her how 
to make sure she kept her fingers
away from the sharp chisel.
Small chips of wood flew onto the floor as she carved. Mo looked at what she had done. "Ka pai," he 
said.
Jenny looked up at Mo. She forgot to keep her fingers away from the chisel.
"Ouch!" she yelled. There was a sharp pain in her thumb. Blood was dripping onto the workbench. Jenny 
started to cry.
Mo reached up quickly to the window and pulled down the spider's web. The spider scuttled away into a 
crack in the window sill.
Mo wrapped the web around Jenny's
thumb. The silvery threads stuck to her skin.
"The pungawerewere has given you a koha," said Mo, smiling. "Your hand will be
better soon."
Jenny looked to see if the spider was still sitting in the window. She felt sad that the beautiful, 
sparkling web was gone.
Next time Jenny visited Mo, the spider had made a brand new web. "Look,"" said Jenny, showing the 
spider her hand. "Thank you for
lending me your web." The cut had healed, and Jenny didn't feel scared of the spider any more.
Every day, Jenny worked on her carving. She was careful to keep her fingers well away from the sharp 
chisel. And every day, the spider
watched from the window.
When Jenny's carving was finished, she showed it to Mo. "Is it a koha for 
the pungawerewere?" asked Mo. Jenny
nodded.
She carefully put her carving on the window sill next to the spider's web. 
Now there were two spiders in the window
one real and one made of wood.
"This is for you," said Jenny to the spider. "I hope you like it. Thank 
you, spider, thank you."

Where's Pete?
By Penelope Newman
 
The bell rang, and everyone sat down.
Mrs Spicer looked around.
"Where's Pete?'' she asked.
"Oh, I think I saw him being kidnapped by wild bears this morning," said 
Nicola. "They were planning a picnic, and
they wanted him to come too."
"Is that right?" said Mrs Spicer, smiling.
"Oh, I just remembered. I think I saw him setting off to climb Mount 
Everest this morning," said Andrew. "He probably
won't be back till at least lunchtime."
"Really?" said Mrs Spicer.
"No, no, I'm sure I saw him waving from the window of an alien 
spaceship," said Hiria. "He seemed to be having a
good time, anyway."
"Oh yes?'' said Mrs Spicer.
"Well, he told me he was going on a balloon trip round Africa today," said Briar. "I hope he took his 
sandwiches - its a really long way!"
""How interesting," said Mrs Spicer.
"I heard he was off to the Himalayas," said Tom. "He wants to catch a blue speckled snurk. They're 
very  rare." 
"OK," said Mrs Spicer with a grin. "Does anybody really know where Pete is?"
"All right, then," said Lily. "He's still playing with Gavin, out there in the playground."
Mrs Spicer sighed with relief. "Oh, good. And who's Gavin?"
"Oh," said Lily. "Just his pet dinosaur."

Sky
by Peter Friend

"Melanie, why is the sky blue?" Linda asked her big sister.
"Not now, kid, I'm busy," said Melanie, unpacking grocery bags full of packets and tins and stacking them in cupboards and on shelves.  "Go 
and ask Aunty Jane."
So Linda did.
"Aunty Jane, why is the sky blue?"
Aunty Jane thought for a moment.
"Because God ran out of purple paint," she said.
"I don't believe you," said Linda and went looking for her father.
She found him in the garage, brushing dried grass off the lawnmower.
"Dad, why is the sky blue?"
"There's an anticyclone coming in from the north-west," he said.  "It was on the TV weather last night, remember?  It should blow the rest of 
this cloud away.  Maybe I'll get the lawns mowed this afternoon."
"I didn't know we had an Aunty Cyclone," said Linda.  Dad just laughed.
"Dad says the sky's blue because Aunty Cyclone's coming to visit from the north-west," she told Aunty Jane.  "I don't believe him, either.  
Really, why is the sky blue?"
Aunty Jane thought for a moment.
"Because millions of sky people have all put their jeans out to dry at the same time," she said.
"I still don't believe you," said Linda and went looking for her brother.
"Michael, why is the sky blue?" she asked.
"It's not blue – it's grey," he said, looking out the window.  "More rain coming, I reckon.  Just in time to spoil my soccer game."
"It's not all grey," said Linda.  "There are some blue bits as well.  See?"
But Michael didn't hear her – he was already bouncing his soccer ball down the hallway and asking if anyone had seen his boots.
Linda went looking for Aunty Jane.  She couldn't find her anywhere, but in the laundry she found Mum, fixing the washing machine again.
"Mum, why is the sky blue?" she asked.
"That's a tough one," said Mum, unscrewing a big metal thing from an even bigger blue plastic thing.  "Remember Grandad's lamp – the one 
with all the crystal prisms?  Remember how it made nice rainbow patterns on the walls?  Well, the sky's sort of like a huge crystal prism, and all the 
other colours bounce away into space, but blue bounces down to us.  Something like that, anyway."
"But why?" asked Linda.
Mum shrugged and put a shiny little screw next to some other shiny little screws.
Linda went looking for Aunty Jane again.  She found her in the backyard, sitting on the bench and drinking cocoa.
"Melanie's too busy, and Dad blames Aunty Cyclone, and Michael doesn't think the sky's blue at all, and Mum says blue is bouncier than the 
other colours.  Aunty, really and truly, why is the sky blue?"
Aunty Jane put her finger under Linda's chin and gently lifted it until all Linda could see was the sky.
"Linda, why is the sky blue?" Aunty Jane asked.
Linda stared and thought and then stared and thought some more.
"Because it's really an ocean, and all the clouds are fish swimming in it," she said.
Aunty Jane smiled.  "I believe you.  That's a good answer.  Yes, I like that one."
"I liked your answers, too," said Linda.
They sat together on the bench and watched the clouds swimming through the sky.

Queen of the River
by Kura Wehipeihana

Te Kuini o te Awa – that's what we call my kuia – Queen of the River!
She doesn't look much like a queen.  This morning she's wearing her yellow gumboots, an old sunhat, a red shirt, and a 
pair of Koro's old trousers.  But Kui knows more than anyone else about the river and the sea.  She knows all the customs, and 
she always knows the best place to fish for whitebait!
"Fix your shoes up, moko," laughs Kui.  "One's on the way to Porirua, and the other one's heading off to Wellington!"
I look down at my shoes and see that I've put them on the wrong feet.
We've packed food in a kete for our lunch.  We've got a loaf of rèwena bread, some pork dripping, a jar of honey, and a 
drink.  
We pile our gear onto Kui's little red motorbike.  Then we both put on our helmets, climb onto the bike, and zoom off in 
a cloud of dust and smoke.  As we drive along, we sing Kui's motorbike song: 
Waka whero rere ana –
Kauruki ki mua, kauruki ki muri,
Puehu ki runga, puehu ki raro,
Puehu ki ngà wàhi katoa.
E rere ana màua ki te awa,
Ki te hopu ìnanga!*

When we get to the river, Mere is already there.  She's the same age as my kui, and she's almost as good at catching 
whitebait.
"Tènà koe, Mere," calls Kui.
"Tènà koe, Kei Kei."  (That's Kui's name.)  "And you too, moko.  Isn't it a lovely morning?"
"Don't get too close," says Kui.  "You know the rules – our nets have to be at least 10 metres apart."
Kui's bossy, but she's always right!  She turns to me and says, "Now we just have to watch and wait.  As soon as there's 
a rising tide – that's when the whitebait will swim in."
And she's right.  The tide starts to come in, and soon we're scooping up whitebait.  At last Kui says, "That's enough 
now.  We'll go home and make some fritters.  And then we'll take some to the hospital for Koro Mekameka."
When we get home, Kui tells me what to do.  "Put two cups of whitebait and two eggs into a bowl," she says, "and stir it 
all together." 
 Kui melts butter in the frying pan and drops in spoonfuls of the fritter mixture.  When both sides are cooked through, 
they're ready.
They taste delicious!  Some for Kui, some for Koro Mekameka – and some for me!
We put Koro's fritters on a plate, and Kui and I walk to the hospital.  
"We've brought you these fritters to make you feel better, Koro," I say.  "Kui's really good at catching whitebait!"
"Is that right?" says Koro.  "And someone's good at making fritters, too."
"That's me!" I say, and I hug Koro.
Kui and I walk home together.  That night in bed, I dream that I'm a whitebait, escaping from Kui's net and swimming 
out to sea on the tide.

The writer of this story died recently, just before the story was first published, in Màori, in He Kohikohinga 20.
Our Tree House
by Vivienne Joseph

We were packing up to leave our old house.
"Don't leave anything behind," said Mum.  "Have you packed your Rollerblades?"
We nodded.
"Skateboards?"
"Yeah, yeah," we said.
"What about your tree house?  Have you taken everything out?"
Our tree house.  We'd forgotten all about it!
We raced to the tree.  Jeremy hooked the rope ladder down with the old broom handle.  He climbed up.  The ladder 
swung from side to side.
When he reached the tree house, he pulled up the ladder so I couldn't follow him.
"What's the password?" he yelled.
"Gargoyles," I yelled back.
He threw the ladder down, and I climbed up.
I pulled the door shut behind me and breathed in the woody smell.  There were cobwebs hanging like little curtains 
across the window.  Leaves lay on the floor like a carpet.  I could feel the wind blowing through the broken boards.  It'd been a 
long time since we'd played in the tree house.
"I don't think we'll have time to fix it up before we go," Jeremy said.  He poked his finger into one of the holes.
"Do you remember when we had the war with the kids next door?" I asked.  "And they tried to pull the tree house down 
with that rope?"
Jeremy grinned.  "And the time you fell out of the tree and had to go to the doctor?"
I didn't smile.  I'd cut my knee, and the injection the doctor gave me had hurt!
The tree rocked, and I closed my eyes.  It felt as if we were in a ship at sea.  The wind in the branches made a sound like 
waves crashing.
"Remember when we were pirates?" I asked.  
"All the gear's still here," Jeremy said, "in the chest."
We opened up the lid and looked inside the pirate chest, which we'd made out of a wooden box.
"My old sword – yay!" I yelled.
"My cutlass!" yelled Jeremy.
Jeremy charged me with his cutlass.  I swung my sword and ducked away.  We had a really great fight in and out of the 
tree house.
Soon the floor was covered with swords, cloaks, hats – all the stuff we'd had since we were little kids.
I looked at Jeremy.
"I'll have to go and get a box," I said.  
Jeremy scratched his head.  "Better bring more than one," he said. 
When everything was packed, we tied rope around the boxes and lowered them to the ground.
Mum said there were two children younger than us coming to live in our house, so we left the pirate chest and some of 
the babyish things we didn't want.
The tree groaned as we climbed down.  I thought it was saying goodbye to us, but I didn't say anything to Jeremy.  He'd 
have only laughed at me.
We stood at the bottom and looked up.  The ladder waved in the wind.  Jeremy pushed it under the tree house door with 
the broom handle.
There was the sound of a truck pulling into our driveway.  Jeremy gave me the broom handle and ran off.  I hid it in the 
long grass by the fence.
"They'll have to work out how to climb up to the tree house by themselves," I whispered to the tree.  The tree creaked as 
if it agreed, and I hugged it around the trunk.
Above me, glittering in the sunlight, the leaves danced.  They sounded just like someone laughing.

Trapped by an Octopus
by Janet Slater Bottin

There were seven kids in our family.  Mum really had to stretch the money to make sure we all got enough to eat.  Our meals 
were pretty ordinary apart from the original mixtures Mum created from recycled leftovers.  Some of those were very interesting 
indeed!  And we always had to eat up everything on our plates.
About the only time we got special treats was on birthdays and at Christmas.  So party invitations were always a big 
deal.
"I'll make you something different to wear," said Mum when I told her about the fancy dress party.  My heart sank.  I 
imagined the fabulous costumes my friends' parents would hire for them, and I watched with dread as Mum started ripping an 
old sheet into strips.
"Oh well," I thought, "at least there'll be lots of real food!"  My mouth watered as I thought about it – chippies, sausage 
rolls, ice cream, CHOCOLATE …!

"SURPRISE!" said Mum.
I was surprised!  Mum hadn't done too badly with the old sheet, after all.  I giggled as I wriggled into it.
"I've stuffed all the tentacles, but I've only filled the two for your arms halfway," said Mum.
I shoved my hands into the tentacles.  I could feel the stuffing halfway down – more scraps of old sheet!   The other six 
tentacles dangled, three from the front and three from the back.
Time to go!  My stomach gurgled in anticipation.  I slipped into my octopus costume and slid my arms down as far as 
they'd go.  
Mum zipped me in.  My brother had made me a paper bag mask of an octopus head. 
I was fully disguised.
Dancing at the fancy dress party was fun.  As I spun round, the tentacles all swung out.  I giggled as they thwacked the 
boys.
"Who is that octopus?" everyone asked.
At last it was suppertime.  I swung across to the loaded tables.  What a spread!  Where should I start?  Chippies?
Yeah, chicken-flavoured chippies.  Then the savouries.  Then the chocolate cake!
I reached out towards the chippie bowl.  Suddenly, I found that I had a major problem!  My hands were stuck halfway 
down the tentacles.  I couldn't use them!  No way could I take off my costume – I only had my underwear on underneath!
All I could do was stand there drooling, watching all that beautiful food slowly disappear before my ravenous eyes – 
trapped by an octopus!
I'll never forget it!

Ghost Train
by Bill Nagelkerke

Patrick and Pete went to the Show.  When they got there, Dad gave Patrick some money for rides.
"Look after Pete," he said.
"OK," said Patrick.
"Do what Patrick tells you," Dad said to Pete.
"I will," said Pete.
"I'll be at the sheep-shearing," said Dad.  "See you later.  Have fun!"
Pete and Patrick bought some candyfloss on their way to the rides.  "What shall we go on first?" asked Patrick.
"The Ghost Train," said Pete.  "It's new this year."
"No way!" said Patrick.  "You'd be scared."
"No I wouldn't," said Pete.
"Anyway, the dodgem cars are cool fun," said Patrick.  "Let's go on them."
"I don't like the way they bump hard into each other," said Pete.
"That's just what I like," said Patrick.  "You wait here for me, then."
So Pete had to wait.
"Wow, wicked!" said Patrick when he got off.
"Can we go on the Ghost Train now?" Pete asked.
"No way!" said Patrick.  "You'd be scared stiff.  How about the Ferris Wheel?"
Pete shook his head.  "I don't like it when it gets up really high and it stops to let someone else on and the seat swings."
"That's just what I like," said Patrick.  "I wish it went even higher.  You wait here for me, then."
Pete had to wait.  He squinted to see Patrick at the top of the Ferris Wheel.  It was high.
"Awesome!  Out of this world!" said Patrick when he came down.  "What shall we do next?"
"The Ghost Tr—," began Pete, but Patrick interrupted.
"I know.  Let's go on the Whizz."
"I get dizzy," said Pete.  "It spins so fast."  
"That's just what I like about it," said Patrick.  "I wish it went faster.  I'll have a go while –"
"I wait here," Pete finished.
"While you ride on the little merry-go-round," said Patrick.  "It turns reeeeally slowly."
So Pete had a really slow spin on the merry-go-round while Patrick was flung around fast on the Whizz.  It made Pete 
feel dizzy just to watch.
"Mega-awesome!" said Patrick when the ride was over.
"It's not fair," said Pete.  "I haven't picked anything."  He looked at Patrick.  "I still want to go on the Ghost Train."  
Patrick sighed. 
"Oh, all right then.  But don't blame me if you're scared."
"I won't be," said Pete.  "I promise."
They got on board the Ghost Train.
"This is just what I like," said Pete.  And he wasn't scared at all.
But Patrick was.

For another Pete and Patrick story, see School Journal, Part 1 Number 1, 1996.
Too Good to Be True
By Vivienne Joseph

We were taking
the dog for a walk.
"Just listen to Hank panting," said Mum.
After the walk, Hank flopped down on his stomach like a seal.
Later on, when we were going for a ride in the car, Marty and I had to help 
push Hank into the back.
"That dog is far too fat," said Mum. "We'll call into the vet's and weigh 
him."
Hank sat on the scales.
"He's ten kilos overweight," said the vet. "He needs to go on a diet."
We all looked at each other. Hank on a diet? There's nothing in this 
world that Hank loves more than food. Not even
me.
"Nah," said Marty. "Hank would be sad if we did that. "
The vet shook her head. "Hank could have a heart attack if he keeps 
putting on weight," she said.
"He's only five," we cried.
The vet smiled and gave us a booklet.
"Read this," she said. "It will tell you what to do."
We read the booklet on the
way home. It said that Hank
needed to eat less food. And that
he should go on lots of long walks.
That night, Mum cut off a piece of
dog sausage and weighed it. She frowned
as she read the booklet. "It says here that he
can only have half of this."
We looked at the small piece of sausage.
"But he can have some rice mixed with vegies," Mum
said.
Hank was waiting for his tea. We put down his food.
He gulped it as fast as he could. Then he stood
over his bowl and licked it clean.
Schlurp! Schlurp! Schlurp!
He sat down and peered into his empty bowl.
Marty gave him a pat.
"Poor dog," he said. "I know you want more food,
but we want you to be our friend for a long time, so this
is all you can have."
He looked at us.
His mouth drooped.
His tail drooped.
His eyes drooped.
For the next few weeks, it was awful. Every mealtime,
Hank wanted more food. Every day, we took him for
long walks. Sometimes we had to pull him along on the
lead to make him move.
One day, Hank was nowhere to be found.
"Hank!" Marty called.
"Here, Hank!" I called.
"Hank!" Mum called. No Hank. We went down to the beach to look for him. No 
Hank. We walked down to the dairy.
No Hank. When we walked back up our drive, we saw Hank. He was lying on the 
lawn, with his nose in a yoghurt pot.
He looked up at us and wagged his tail. "Just look!" yelled Marty. The 
garden looked as if a tornado had been through
it. Rubbish was lying everywhere. Plastic bags hung on plants. Something 
green and slimy was dripping down the
steps. "He's stolen someone's rubbish bag," said Mum.
"He's never done anything like this before," I said. "He must have been terribly hungry."
Marty and I cleaned up the garden.
Mum still gave Hank his dog roll for tea. But he was not allowed any rice 
and vegies.
The next time we took him to the vet, he had lost three kilos. The vet 
was pleased. "I know how hard it is to put a
Labrador on a diet," she said. She patted Hank on the head.
Hank made his eyes look big. He slurped her hand and wagged his tail.
"You have been a very, very good dog," she said.
"Too good to be true," said Mum.
The vet must have wondered why we all laughed.

Blood and Warts
By John Lockyer

Scott ran into the kitchen. He bumped his hand on the table.
"Ouch!" he cried. "My wart's bleeding!"
"Let me see,"' said his mum.
She put a bandage round his hand and said, "I'd like the doctor to see 
that wart."
At the medical centre, the doctor poked and pressed Scott's wart. "I 
think that wart should come off," he said.
"No!" cried Scott. "I don't want you to take it off."
The doctor held Scott's hand. "If I don't take the wart off, it might start 
bleeding again. You might get an infection in your hand."
Scott looked at the wart. "Will you use a knife?"
The doctor smiled. "No knives,"" he said. "No cuts. All I use for warts is 
this."
He went to the fridge and came back with a small stainless steel pot. "This 
is dry ice," he said.
"Will it hurt?" asked Scott.
The doctor opened the pot. Using small tongs, he pulled out a cube of smoky 
dry ice. "It might sting just a little bit" he said.
"No!" cried Scott. "I don't want dry ice."
"It's the best way," said the doctor. "Dry ice will kill your wart."
Scott squeezed his eyes shut. His mother held his hand. The doctor rubbed the freezing cold dry ice 
over the wart.
Scott shook his hand. "The wart's still there," he said.
"Yes," said the doctor. "It'll fall off in a few days."
"Do I need a bandage?"
"A plaster will do," said the doctor. "Then you can go home."
Scott's mother helped him open the car door because his hand was sore. She helped him open the window 
and put on his seat belt too.
"I don't like blood!"' said Scott. "I don't like warts! I don't like freezing cold dry ice! And I don't 
like having a sore hand!" "I know what you do like," said Mum. "What?" said Scott. "Ice cream," she
said. "Let's get some." At the mall, Scott walked over to the ice cream
stand. The ice cream man saw Scott's plaster. "What happened?" he asked. "I bumped my wart on the 
table," Scott said. "There was blood everywhere. The doctor said my wart had to come off
or I might get an infection. He put freezing cold dry ice on it, and I got a plaster. He said my wart 
will fall off in a few days. I don't like blood. I don't like dry ice. I don't like warts,

and I don't like my sore hand."
"I know just how you feel," said the ice cream
man. "After making freezing cold ice creams all day, my hand gets sore too, and I feel grumpy. Do you 
know what I do to make myself feel
better?"
Scott shook his head.
"I give myself an extra big scoop of special ice cream. I keep it in a little fridge under the 
counter. Would you like some? I'm sure it will make
you feel better."
"What flavour is it?" asked Scott.
The ice cream man peeked inside the fridge.
"'Its strawberry red, just like blood," he said. "It has a streak of vanilla through the middle, just 
like your plaster. And under the vanilla are
chunks of chocolate, just like your wart."
"What do you call it?" asked Scott.
The ice cream man grinned. "Blood and warts," he said.
"I'll have some," said Scott.
"'A double scoop?"' asked the ice cream man.
Scott looked at his mother. She nodded.
The ice cream man scooped two dollops of blood and warts ice cream into a crispy cone and handed it to Scott. Scott liked the 
ice cream. The strawberry didn't really look like blood, the vanilla didn't really look like the plaster, and the chocolate chunks 
didn't really look like his wart. But it tasted great, and for the first time that day, Scott smiled.
His mum and the ice cream man smiled too.

Orfie the Flying Fox
a story from Samoa
by Emma Kruse Va'ai

When the cyclone was over, my dad brought home a baby flying fox.  He was curled up into a tiny, furry ball with shiny little 
bright eyes that peered out of my father's shirt pocket.  We sat wide-eyed round our kitchen table and stared at him.
My dad said, "He's got nowhere to stay now.  The rainforest has been destroyed, and there are no fruit trees left for 
flying foxes to feed on."
"Can we keep him?" asked my sister.
"Can I touch him?" I asked.
"Can I feed him?"
"Can I give him a name?"
We all crowded round the table.  The flying fox made small, squeaky sucking noises.
"Poor little orphan," said Mum.  She held out her finger, and the flying fox curled his claws around it.  Mum lifted him 
up.
We laughed as he hung upside down, looking at us.  He spread out his velvety black wings and wrapped them neatly 
round his body.
"Poor little Orfie," said my five-year-old brother.
"Orphan," we all said.
"ORFIE!" he yelled.  "His name is Orfie."
"You don't have to yell," I yelled.
"Well, then," said Dad.  "Orfie the flying fox – sounds all right to me." 
Orfie the flying fox lived in our kitchen, hanging upside down on a bamboo rod placed beside the wood stove, where it 
was warm.  We fed him pieces of ripe fruit – pawpaw, mango, avocado, breadfruit, and guava.  After sleeping all day, he would 
wake up at night and nibble at the fruit.  Then he would flap his wings and dive around the kitchen or hover in mid-air like a 
helicopter. 
After a while, we let him outside, and he would fly around the house.  Sometimes we'd wake up when he landed on 
the wire window shutters.  With his wings spread out in the moonlight, he looked like Batman.
After a year, Orfie started to go out more often, and sometimes he didn't come back for a few days.  Then one night he 
flew away and never returned.
My little brother was heartbroken.  Every night he asked the same question.  "Do you think Orfie will come back 
tonight?"
Dad said, "Orfie's not an orphan any more.  He's got a new home in the rainforest now, and probably a new family to 
take care of."
"Do you think he's all right?  Do you think he's happy?"
"I'm sure he is," said Mum.  "And if he's not, I'm sure he knows the way back to us."

Holly and the Frog Prince
by Elaine Horsfield

Holly's mother read her a story about a princess who kissed a frog.  The frog turned into a handsome prince, and they got 
married.
"Revolting," said Holly, pulling a face.  "You'd never catch me kissing a yukky frog."
"I should hope not," said her mother, kissing her goodnight.
That night it rained.  It rained all the next day … and the next.  Frogs croaked in the dam – "Ribbit," they said.
Holly was bored.  The holidays seemed to be going on for ever, and Bindi was too little to be much fun.
She gazed out the window and watched the rain make a puddle in the sandpit.  
After lunch, the rain stopped, and the sun came out.  
"I'm going out to play in my swimming pool," she said.
"You haven't got a swimming pool," said her mother, nursing Bindi.
"That's what you think," said Holly.
Holly sloshed along the path to the flooded sandpit.  Then she stopped.  A very large, green frog was sitting in her 
sandpit.
"Revolting," said Holly.  
"Ribbit," said the frog.
"Shoo," said Holly, flapping her hands at the frog.
"Ribbit," said the frog.
"Move, frog!" shouted Holly, stamping her feet.
"Ribbit," said the frog and blinked at Holly.
"Get out of my sandpit!" yelled Holly, hitting the puddle with a stick.  Still the frog just sat and stared at Holly.
Holly sat on the edge of the sandpit and thought.  She wasn't scared of frogs, but she wasn't all that excited about having 
one living in her sandpit, either.
Holly looked hard at the frog.  Maybe it was worth a try.  After all, Bindi was too little to play with, and a prince would 
be more fun than a frog …
She shut her eyes tight, screwed up her mouth, bent over – and kissed it.
SPLOSH!
In the middle of the puddle, dripping wet, sat the ugliest prince Holly had ever seen.  He had no teeth, his hair grew in 
tufts, one eye looked at the wart on the end of his nose, and the other eye stared solemnly at Holly.  He smelt just like dirty socks.
"Revolting!" said Holly, and before the prince had time to blink either eye, she kissed him again.
SPLOSH!
This time when she cautiously opened her eyes, she found she was once again looking at the big green frog.
"OK, frog," growled Holly, "you win.  Just stay out of my way!"
That night, she hid the Frog Prince book under her bed.
"Revolting," she said.  "You won't catch me kissing a yukky frog."
"I should hope not," said her mother as she turned out the light.

Christmas
by David Beck

"I'm getting a surfboard for Christmas," said Kerry.
"Dad's getting me a BMX," said Owen.
"I'm getting my own stereo," said Morgan.
Tim moved over to the library corner and picked up a book.  When playtime came, he ran over to the far corner of the 
field.  He knew a good place there, under the pine trees.
Thud!  A pine cone hit the ground beside him.  Tim picked it up and rolled it round in his hand.  There were lots of them 
lying on the ground.  He picked up four of the biggest and lined them up.  He gave them twigs for arms, dry grass for hair, and 
dandelion flowers for eyes.  
Thud!  Another cone hit the ground.  A real whopper!  Its seed-heads had opened up so much that he could see right 
down between each one to where the seeds had been.  He stood it up behind the others.  "You're the boss," he said.  Then 
something in the pine cone caught his eye, something shiny.  He picked it up to see what it was.
"What have you got there?" yelled Owen, running towards him.
"I can't see anything special," said Morgan.
"Just a dirty old pine cone," said Kerry.  They ran off, bouncing their ball.
Tim watched them go.  He held the pine cone up to the light again.  "There is something there," he said.  Turning the 
cone over, he knocked it against his hand.  Out fell a small, round lump of shiny gum.  He picked it up and put it into his pocket.
Back in the classroom, Tim showed the piece of gum to his teacher.  "Look," he said, "there's something inside it."
Mr McLay found Tim a magnifying glass.  Tim peered at the gum through the glass.  Inside the lump of gum was a tiny 
spider.
"That's a real find, Tim," said Mr McLay.  He helped Tim make a cardboard stand to display the piece of gum.
"That's neat," said Kerry.  "I wish I'd found it."

Christmas morning came at last.  Tim got up early.  He carefully wrapped the piece of gum, with its display stand, in bright 
Christmas paper.  Then he ran into his mum's room and jumped up onto her bed.
"Merry Christmas, Mum," he said.  "This is for you."
He handed her the package.  
"Merry Christmas to you too," Mum said.  She gave him a hug and tore off the wrapping paper.  
"Oh, Tim," she said, "it's beautiful!  Put it on the mantelpiece where we can see it.  And now, here's your present."
Tim felt the parcel all over before starting to unwrap it.  First a handle popped out and then a large, round shape.  "A 
magnifying glass!"  He threw his arms round his mother.  
"Have a happy Christmas," she said.
"Thanks, Mum," said Tim.
