WHICH WAS WITCH?
A Korean Folk Tale
retold by ELEANOR M. JEWETT
There was once a wise and learned man named Kim Su-ik. He lived just inside the south 
gate of 
Seoul but he might as well have lived anywhere for all the thought he gave the matter. 
His mind
was entirely taken up with study and books, and one could say of him, as Im Bang said 
of another 
scholar, "He used to awake at first cock-crow, wash, dress, take up his book and never 
lay it
aside. On his right were pictures, on his left were books, and he happy between. He 
rose to be a 
Prime Minister."
One night Kim Su-ik was absorbed in studying a famous Chinese book when he suddenly 
felt hungry. He 
clapped his hands to summon a servant, and immediately the door of his room opened.
His wife stepped in.
"What does the master of the house desire?" said she.
"Food," he answered briefly, his attention already returned to the book in his lap.
"I have little in the house but a few roasted chestnuts. If that will suffice I will 
bring them to 
you myself. The servants have long since gone to their sleeping quarters."
Kim Su-ik grunted his approval and went on with his studies. In a very short time the 
door opened 
again and his wife came in bearing a brass bowl full of hot roasted chestnuts. He 
helped himself
to one and was in the act of putting it into his mouth when once more the door opened 
and in stepped 
his wife with a brass bowl full of hot roasted chestnuts.
But his wife was already there, standing beside him with the bowl in her hands!
Kim Su-ik, his mouth still open and a chestnut half in it, looked in astonishment from 
one to the 
other of the identical women They were as like as two pins - faces, features, figures, 
clothes, the
way they stood, the way they used their fingers and moved their shoulders. Never were 
twins more completely alike. Kim Su-ik passed his hands before his eyes. 
He must have overdone his studying, he thought to himself, read too late and too 
steadily.
His eyes were playing tricks on him, that was all. He was seeing double.
But when he looked again the two women were still there, and, what was stranger still, 
they seemed 
not to be aware of each other, but stood quietly, gracefully, their eyes fastened on 
him as if
waiting to know his pleasure.
The scholar leaped to his feet, choking back the cry of terror that rose in his 
throat. He knew, 
suddenly, without a doubt, what this meant. It was midnight, the moon was at the full, 
ghosts, evil
spirits, witches and goblins would be abroad, filled with power. One of these two 
creatures standing 
before him was his wife, known and loved by him all his wedded life - and perhaps not 
quite fully appreciated, he hastily decided. The other must be a witch, able to change 
into any form she chose in the twinkling of an eye. But which was which? How could he 
protect his wife and drive this evil double 
from beside her?
Being a quick thinker as well as a learned one, Kim Su-ik plunged into 
action. He seized the arm of one of the women
with his right hand, and before the other could realise what he was about 
he had her arm fast in his left hand. They
turned mildy reproachful eyes upon him but made no effort to free 
themselves.
"My dear," said one, too much study has fevered your brain."
"My dear," said the other, "too much reading of books has affected your 
mind. "
Kim Su-ik looked from one to the other. Not a particle of difference was 
there to give him a hint as to which was wife
and which was witch. He shook them gently. They smiled indulgently as at 
a child. He shook harder. NO resentment,
no struggle to get free. He was tempted to relax his grip on the two 
arms, but he knew he must not for a moment do
that, and hung on more firmly than ever.
Minutes went by, then hours, the dull slow-moving hours between midnight 
and cockcrow. The three stood silent,
motionless, in the same spot. Kim Su-ik grew weary beyond words. So, 
too, must his wife be weary, but neither of the
two women he held so tightly by the arm said anything or showed by any 
movement or expression of the face that she
was tired, puzzled or angry.
His wife would have been tired and puzzled - angry, too, perhaps, but she would not 
have blustered or scolded. Any other
woman would, were she witch or human. But surely his wife would say 
something. What in the world had got into her?
Was she bewitched? Or walking in her sleep? Perhaps she was not either 
of these two women. He wanted to rush into
the other part of the house to see if she was there, thus proving that 
both of these were witches.
But he did nothing, just hung on, grimly, silently.
At long last a cock crowed. Immediately the woman at his left tried to 
wrench her arm free. The other remained quiet.
Kim Su-ik dropped the unresisting one and threw all his strength into a struggle with 
the other. Like a wild thing the
creature fought, biting, snarling, spitting, leaping back and forth. 
Still the scholar held on to her and would not let go.
The arm in his hand shrank and grew hairy. The whole figure dwindled, the eyes grew 
round and 
green and blazed with fury.
Another cock crowed and another, and the first gray light of dawn melted 
the dark shadows out of doors. But Kim Su-ik had
no thought or time to notice the coming of day. With a hideous shriek the 
creature changed before his very eyes into a
powerful wildcat. In horror he loosed his hold, and she leaped through the 
window and was gone.
"I still think you are studying too much," said a quiet, familiar voice 
behind him, and there stood his wife, pale, trembling a
little, but smiling confidently.
"Why didn't you let me know which was which?" demanded Kim Su-ik.
His wife laughed. "I don't know what you are talking about! You behaved 
very strangely, but then one never knows what to
expect of a scholar. Which was which what?"
"Witch!" said Kim Su-ik
illustrated by RICHARD KENNEDY

THE GREAT MONEY-RAISING SCHEME
by LENA SCOTT
The setting of this story is a tiny settlement - school, hall, and 
blacksmith's forge - situated where three roads meet in
the South Wairarapa. The time is the 1930s, when New Zealand was going 
through a financial depression, and the
district was much more isolated and sparsely-populated than it is today.
When you are born and spend your schooldays, as I did, in a scattered 
country district, and then grow up and leave
home to work in all sorts of places, you are bound to look back on those 
years as happy, lively ones, and certain
events stick in your memory to mark each year. The exact dates are all 
forgotten, but you remember the year you
broke your arm, because it was the year the family camped at the lake. You 
know it must have been your Standard
Five year, when you got stuck on long-division sums, because that was the 
time the new teacher came to board at your home. I had nothing against Miss Raynor as 
a teacher - she was neither too strict 
nor too soft, and you had to do something
pretty awful before she sent you in to see the headmaster. But when Dad 
first came home from a School Committee
meeting and said the new teacher would have to board with us because we 
were the only family with a spare room at
the time, my brother Joe and I were pretty glum about it.
For the first few weeks, of course, Mum was extra fussy about our manners, 
and our tidiness, and whether or not we
had washed behind our ears; but that wore off after a while, and Miss Raynor became 
just like one of the family. She taught us how to play Bagatelle
and Monopoly in the long winter evenings, and helped the girls make some 
dresses, and gave me extra coaching till I mastered the long-division; and at the end 
of the year, when she left Bainsville to get 
married, we were really sorry to see her go.
It must have been that year that Johnnie and Ginge and I started the 
grand money-raising scheme, because dubbing-in for Miss Raynor's
farewell present, and then the Christmas shopping, left us really hard-up 
for the rest of the long holidays.
I had set my heart on owning a bike at that time, and Mum said that if 
the price of wool stayed so low, I would just have to save up for it
myself. My best friends - Johnnie Winiata, from the Pa on the Red Rock 
road, and Ginger Patterson, who lived across the river from us - were both saving for 
something, too. Ginge was mad on models, and he 
wanted a really big meccano set. He had thought he would get it
for his birthday, in March, but after he had accidentally screwed a crane 
he was building into the top of his mother's polished table, he
knew his only hope was to buy it himself.
Johnnie wanted a saddle, which floored us when he first mentioned it, 
because he had always ridden bareback or on a sack, like the rest
of us. He had a khaki-coloured pony that was nothing much to look at, and 
he always rode it in an old cow-halter with string reins and
never a bit in its mouth. Farley, he called it - short for Phar Lap -  and it could 
jump like a stag. Anyhow, Johnnie's brothers and cousins had been riding in rodeo 
events, and winning money at bulldogging, and 
Johnnie's ambition was to do the same. So he had to have a saddle,
and that meant real money. We looked at him with a new respect when he 
told us.
Well, we really bent our brains over this problem of raising money, and 
finally Ginge had a brilliant idea. He had seen a sign in the second-hand dealer's 
shop in Featherston, saying "Scrap metal bought - and he 
thought of all the scrap metal lying round at the Butts. The Butts
was a forty-acre patch of roughish land at the back of the Patterson 
farm, and Ginge's father leased it to the Army Department for the
Territorials to practise shooting.
At the end of the rifle-range, behind the big hinged targets, were clay banks spotted 
all over with 
bullet holes, and if you dug a hole out with a knife, you came to the squashed bullet.
"Who'd buy squashed bullets, though?" Johnnie wanted to know.
"They're lead, aren't they?" Ginge retorted. "Lead melts down, and it can be made into 
new bullets, 
see? I should think scrap lead would be worth about sixpence a pound, and it's mighty 
heavy;
about a cupful would weigh a pound."
It certainly wouldn't take us long to dig a cupful, and Johnnie and I soon caught on 
to the idea. 
That night we got permission from our parents, and Ginge's father rang the Army 
officer in town to
see when they would be using the rifle-range again. Apparently it wouldn't be wanted 
for some time, 
and we were welcome to the lead; so the great money-raising scheme got under way the 
very
next day. Mind you, it sounds easy, talking about digging spent bullets out of a clay 
bank, weighing 
them after washing off the mud and clay, and bagging them up to take to town. But 
after the
first few days, when we took our lunch over to the Butts and egged each other on with 
plans for 
spending the money we would get, it was a different story.
Our hands got sore with blisters, our pocket-knives got blunt more and more often, and 
the hours 
dragged. The deep concrete trench behind the targets was sweltering hot on sunny days, 
and a
cold draughty funnel on windy ones. When it rained, we got covered from head to toe in 
the gluey 
yellow clay, and the work slowed down considerably. But we took turns at weighing the 
lead, with
an old spring-balance Mum had lent us, and marking the weights in a notebook with a 
column for each 
of our names. It was amazing how the totals mounted up, and we were forever doing sums 
to
find out how much per hour we had earned.
One day, Ginge went through to Woodville with his father to buy rams, and Johnnie and 
I dug alone. 
There were times when all of us were needed to help at home; and times when we just
couldn't face a day's digging without a bit of a spell. Some days, when the weather 
was nice, we 
wasted a few hours playing forts in the little concrete shelters dotted along the 
range. We cut
manuka sticks for rifles, and pretended we were recruits learning to shoot. We lay 
down at the butts, pretending to aim, while the one whose turn it was to be officer 
in charge shouted orders and criticised us. One morning we found a queer post at the 
end of the
target-trench; it had a moveable arm, rather like a railway signal, worked by ropes 
and pulleys from 
a pit off to one side.
"I know what it is," said Ginge at last, when we'd found out how to work it. "It must 
be the 
all-clear signal. See, there'd be chaps in the trench here between shoots, looking 
after the 
target-changing, and keeping records. They'd have to move round a bit between the 
targets; then they'd hoist this 
thing so that the officer back at the butts would know they were safe in their pits 
before he gave
another order to fire. Otherwise they'd get their heads blown off."
"Gee,"said Johnnie, digging a bullet out of a tree-trunk off to the right of the 
trench. "Some of 
these chaps must be just learning, eh? They missed by a mile!"
We decided that we'd never apply for the job of target-tending, if we ever joined the 
Territorials. 
We kept plugging away, working
from one end of the trench to the other, and carefully marking the place where we left 
off each 
night, so we would know where we were up to.
One day we realised quite suddenly that there was only a fortnight left of our longed-
for Christmas 
holidays, and it was hard to think where the time had gone. Then my Gran came up from
Wellington for the day, and Mum said I had to stay home to see her. I was quite glad 
of the spell, 
really, as my hands were almost raw by this time. Then one of Johnnie's relations died 
over at
the Cape, and he was four days away at the tangi. It was then that Ginge and I nearly 
gave up.
"We've got most of the lead now," Ginge pointed out. "Seems a bit silly to work too 
hard - what are holidays for, after all?"
"Let's call it a day, and have a dip in the river on the way home," I suggested.
"Come on," said Ginge, dropping his knife into his pocket.
"Anyhow," I went on, as we strolled away from the pits, "Dad said it was too big a job 
for boys 
like us - he reckoned we'd be sick of it pretty soon -"
Ginge stopped dead. "What?" he said.
"Dad said we'd get bored - they never really expected us to finish it," I replied, 
stopping too. 
Ginge's face took on the stubborn look he got sometimes when we were having a tough 
game of footy
against Clareville school.
"Come on," he said again, and without another word we went back to the trench and 
started digging again.
The next day, Johnnie was back, and we got on faster while we listened to his 
description of the 
tangi. By the end of that week we had finished, and the clay bank looked as if it had 
been
scratched apart by a flock of mad hens. We surveyed the ruins with weary eyes.
"Won't be worth doing again for several years," Ginge said thoughtfully, and it didn't 
sound as if 
he was sorry about it.
That afternoon we went back to our place, and totted up our tallies. We'd worked 
twenty-four days 
altogether; Johnnie and I had averaged about fifteen pounds of lead a day, and Ginge 
nearer
twenty. At sixpence a pound, we'd made near enough to thirty pounds cash amongst us, 
and I can tell 
you that was a dazzling amount of money to us. We had covered pages and pages of 
scrap-paper with our calculations, and Mr Herd's hair would have stood on end if he'd 
seen our methods, but we were blissfully happy as we changed papers and checked each 
other's sums again.
So you can imagine how we felt when we carted all that lead into Mr Ranfurly's shop 
and watched anxiously as he weighed it on the scales. Ginge's guess of sixpence a 
pound was too low. Mr Ranfurly paid us sevenpence-halfpenny, and we were wealthy 
beyond our wildest hopes!
First-off, we treated ourselves to a bang-up feed of fish-and-chips, with ice-cream to 
follow. Then 
we wandered through town,
comparing different models of bikes, admiring the very meccano set Ginge had set his 
heart on, then 
squashing our noses on the window of the saddler's shop. But we didn't buy anything 
that day. Oh no; when you're used to counting every penny, and 
suddenly find yourselves really rich, you don't rush off and splurge it on
the first thing that takes your fancy. You keep your money for a long time, and talk 
of what you'll buy, and change your mind 
a thousand times, and gloat over it and count it until your family is
nearly driven mad - at least, that's what we did.
It was a great summer, the year we were in Standard Five!
illustrated by CONRAD FRIEBOE

THE WORD MARKET
by NORTON JUSTER
In the Phantom Tollbooth, a boy named Milo finds his way to a strange and fascinating 
land. His 
travelling companion
is Tock - a watchdog that (naturally) ticks. " The Word Market" describes one of their 
most 
entertaining adventures.
As they approached the market, Milo could see crowds of people pushing and shouting 
their way among 
the stalls,
buying and selling, trading and bargaining. Huge wood-wheeled carts streamed into the 
market square 
from the
orchards, and long caravans bound for the four corners of the kingdom made ready to 
leave. Sacks and 
boxes were
piled high, waiting to be delivered to the ships that sailed the Sea of Knowledge; and 
off to one 
side a group of
minstrels sang songs to the delight of those either too young or too old to engage in 
trade. But 
above all the noise
and tumult of the crowd could be heard the merchants' voices loudly advertising their 
products.
"Get your fresh-picked ifs, ands, and buts."
"Hey-yaa, hey-yaa, nice ripe wheres and whens."
"Juicy, tempting words for sale."
So many words and so many people! They were from every place imaginable and some 
places even beyond 
that, and
they were all busy sorting, choosing, and stuffing things into cases. As soon as one 
was filled, 
another was begun.
There seemed to be no end to the bustle and activity.
Milo and Tock wandered up and down the aisles looking at the wonderful assortment of 
words for sale. 
There were
short ones and easy ones for everyday use, and long and very important ones for 
special occasions, 
and even some
marvellously fancy ones packed in individual gift boxes for use in royal decrees and 
pronouncements.
"Step right up, step right up - fancy, best-quality words right here," announced one 
man in a booming 
voice. "Step right up -- ah, what can I do for you, little boy? How about a nice 
bagful of pronouns-or maybe you'd like our 
special
assortment of names?"
Milo had never thought much about words before, but these looked so good that he 
longed to have some.
"Look, Tock," he cried, "aren't they wonderful?"
"They're fine, if you have something to say," replied Tock in a tired voice, for he 
was much more 
interested in finding a
bone than in shopping for new words.
 "Maybe if I buy some I can learn how to use them," said Milo
eagerly, as he began to pick through the words in the stall. Finally
he chose three which looked particularly good to him - "quagmire", "flabbergast", and 
"upholster". He had no idea what they meant,
but they looked very grand and elegant.
"How much are these?" he inquired, and when the man whispered the answer he quickly 
put them back on 
the shelf
and started to walk on.
"Why not take a few pounds of 'happys'?" advised the salesman. "They're much more 
practical - and very 
useful for
Happy Birthday, Happy New Year, happy days, and happy-go-lucky."
"I'd like to very much," began Milo, "but-"
"Or perhaps you'd be interested in a package of 'goods', always handy for good 
morning, good 
afternoon, good
evening, and goodbye," he suggested.
Milo did want to buy something, but the only money he had was the coin he needed to 
get back through 
the tollbooth,
and Tock, of course, had nothing but the time.
"No, thank you," replied Milo. "We're just looking," and they continued on through the 
market.
As they turned down the last aisle of stalls, Milo noticed a wagon that seemed 
different from the 
rest. On its side was
a small, neatly lettered sign that said "DO IT YOURSELF," and inside were twenty-six 
bins filled with 
all the letters of
the alphabet from A to Z.
"These are for people who like to make their own words," the man in charge informed 
him. "You can pick any assortment you like, or buy a special box complete with all 
letters, punctuation marks, and a book of 
instructions.
Here, taste an A; they're very good. "
Milo nibbled carefully at the letter and discovered that it was quite sweet and 
delicious - just the 
way you'd expect an A
to taste.
"I knew you'd like it," laughed the letter man, popping two G's and an R into his 
mouth and letting 
the juice drip down
his chin. "A's are one of our most popular letters. All of them aren't that good," he 
confided in a 
low voice. "Take the
Z, for instance - very dry and sawdusty. And the X? Why, it tastes like a trunkful of 
stale air. 
That's why people hardly
ever use them. But most of the others are quite tasty. Try some more."
He gave, Milo an I, which was icy and refreshing, and Tock a crisp, crunchy C.
"Most people are just too lazy to make their own words," he continued, "but it's much 
more fun."
"Is it difficult? I'm not much good at making words," admitted Milo, spitting the pips 
from a P.
"Perhaps I can be of some assistance - a-s-s-i-s-t-a-n-c-e," buzzed an unfamiliar 
voice, and when Milo 
looked up he
saw an enormous bee, at least twice his size, sitting on top of the wagon.
"I am the Spelling Bee," announced the Spelling Bee. "Don't be alarmed -- a-l-a-r-m-e-
d. "
Tock ducked under the wagon, and Milo, who was not very fond of normal-sized bees, 
began to back away slowly.
"I can spell anything - a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g," he boasted, testing his wings. "Try me, try 
me!"
"Can you spell goodbye?" suggested Milo, as he continued to back away.
The bee gently lifted himself into the air and circled lazily over Milo's head.
"Perhaps - p-e-r-h-a-p-s - you are under the misapprehension -- m-i-s-a-p-p-r-e-h-e-n-
s-i-o-n - that I am dangerous," he said
turning a smart loop to the left. "Let me assure - a-s-s-u-r-e - you that my 
intentions are 
peaceful - p-e-a-c-e-f-u-l." And with
that he settled back on top of the wagon and fanned himself with one wing. "Now," he 
panted, "think 
of the most
difficult word you can and I'll spell it. Hurry up, hurry up!" And he jumped up and 
down impatiently.
"He looks friendly enough," thought Milo, not sure just how friendly a friendly 
bumblebee should be, 
and tried to think
of a very difficult word. "Spell 'vegetable'," he suggested, for it was one that 
always troubled him 
at school.
"That is a difficult one," said the bee, winking at the letter man. "Let me see now 
... hmmmmmm . . . He frowned and wiped
his brow and paced slowly back and forth on top of the wagon. "How much time do I 
have?"
"Just ten seconds," cried Milo excitedly. "Count them off, Tock. "
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear," the bee repeated, continuing to pace nervously. 
Then, just as 
the time ran out,
he spelled as fast as he could - " v-e-g-e-t-a-b-l-e. "
"Correct," shouted the letter man, and everyone cheered.
"Can you spell everything?" asked Milo admiringly.
"Just about," replied the bee with a hint of pride in his voice.
"You see, years ago I was just an ordinary bee minding my own business, smelling 
flowers all day, and 
occasionally
picking up part-time work in people's bonnets. Then one day I realised that I'd never 
amount to 
anything without an
education and, being naturally good at spelling, I decided that -"
"Balderdash!" shouted a booming voice. And from around the wagon stepped a large 
beetle-like insect 
dressed in a
lavish coat, striped pants, checked vest, spats, and a high silk hat. "Let me repeat - 
Balderdash!" he 
shouted again,
swinging his cane and clicking his heels in mid-air. "Come now, don't be ill-mannered. 
Isn't someone 
going to
introduce me to the little boy?"
"This," said the bee with complete disdain, "is the Humbug. A very dislikable fellow."
"Nonsense! Everyone loves a Humbug," shouted the Humbug. "As I was saying to the king 
just the other 
day –"
"You've never met the king," accused the bee angrily. Then, turning to Milo, he said, 
"Don't believe 
a thing this old
fraud says."
"Bosh!" replied the Humbug. "We're an old and noble family, honourable to the core - 
Insecticus Humbugium, if I may
use the Latin. Why, we fought in the crusades with Richard the Lion Heart, crossed the 
Atlantic with 
Columbus,
blazed trails with the pioneers, and today many members of the family hold important 
government 
positions
throughout the world. History is full of Humbugs. "
"A very pretty speech - s-p-e-e-c-h," sneered the bee. "Now why don't you go away? I 
was just 
advising the lad of the
importance of proper spelling."
"Bah!" said the bug, putting an arm around Milo. "As soon as you learn to spell one 
word, they ask 
you to spell
another. You can never catch up - so why bother? Take my advice, my boy, and forget 
about it. As my 
great-great-grandfather George Washington Humbug used to say-"
"You, sir," shouted the bee very excitedly, "are an imposter-"
"A slavish concern for the composition of words is the sign of a bankrupt intellect," 
roared the 
Humbug, waving his
cane furiously.
Milo didn't have any idea what this meant, but it seemed to infuriate the Spelling 
Bee, who flew down 
and knocked off
the Humbug's hat with his wing.
"Be careful," shouted Milo as the bug swung his cane, again catching the bee on the 
foot and knocking 
over the box
of W's.
"My foot!" shouted the bee.
"My hat!" shouted the bug-and the fight was on.
The Spelling Bee buzzed dangerously in and out of range of the Humbug's wildly 
swinging cane as they 
menaced and
threatened each other, and the crowd stepped back out of danger.
"There must be some other way to-" began Milo. And then he yelled, "WATCH OUT," but it 
was too late.
There was a tremendous crash as the Humbug in his great fury tripped into one of the 
stalls, knocking 
it into another,
then another, then another, then another, until every stall in the market place had 
been upset and 
the words lay
scrambled in great confusion all over the square.
The bee, who had tangled himself in some bunting, toppled to the ground, knocking Milo 
over on top of 
him, and lay
there shouting. "Help!Help! There's a little boy on me." The bug
sprawled untidily on a mound of squashed letters and Tock, his alarm ringing 
persistently, was buried 
under a pile of
words.
"Done what you've looked," angrily shouted one of the salesmen. He meant to say, "Look 
what you've 
done," but the
words had got so hopelessly mixed up that no one could make any sense at all.
"Do going to we what are!" complained another, as everyone set about straightening 
things up as well 
as they could.
For several minutes no one spoke an understandable sentence, which added greatly to 
the confusion. As 
soon as
possible, however, the stalls were righted and the words swept into one large pile for 
sorting.
The Spelling Bee, who was quite upset by the whole affair, had flown off in a huff, 
and just as Milo 
got to his feet the
entire police force of Dictionopolis appeared - loudly blowing his whistle.
"Now we'll get to the bottom of this," he heard someone say. "Here comes Officer 
Shrift."
Striding across the square was the shortest policeman Milo had ever seen. He was 
scarcely two feet 
tall and almost
twice as wide, and he wore a blue uniform with white belt and gloves, a peaked cap, 
and a very 
fierce expression. He
continued blowing the whistle until his face was beet red, stopping only long enough 
to shout, 
"You're guilty, you're
guilty," at everyone he passed. "I've never seen anyone so guilty," he said as he 
reached Milo. Then, 
turning towards
Tock, who was still ringing loudly, he said, "Turn off that dog; it's disrespectful to 
sound your 
alarm in the presence of
a policeman."
He made a careful note of that in his black book and strode up and down, his hands 
clasped behind his 
back,
surveying the wreckage in the market place.
"Very pretty, very pretty." He scowled. "Who's responsible for all this? Speak up or 
I'll arrest the 
lot of you."
"You," said the policeman, pointing an accusing finger at the Humbug, who was brushing 
himself off 
and straightening
his hat, "you look suspicious to me."
The startled Humbug dropped his cane and nervously replied, "Let me assure you, sir, 
on my honour as 
a gentleman,
that I was merely an innocent bystander, minding my own business, enjoying the 
stimulating sights and sounds of the world of commerce, when this young lad -"
"AHA!" interrupted Officer Shrift, making another note in his little book. "Just as I 
thought: boys 
are the cause of
everything."
"Pardon me," insisted the Humbug, "but I in no way meant to imply that-"
"Silence!" thundered the policeman, pulling himself up to full height and glaring 
menacingly at the 
terrified bug. "And
now," he continued, speaking to Milo, "where were you on the night
Of July 27?"
"What does that have to do with it?" asked Milo.
"It's my birthday, that's what," said the policeman as he wrote "Forgot my birthday" 
in his little 
book. "Boys always
forget other people's birthdays. "
"You have committed the following crimes," he continued: "having a dog with an 
unauthorised alarm, 
sowing
confusion, upsetting the applecart, wreaking havoc, and mincing words."
"Now see here," growled Tock angrily.
"And illegal barking," he added, frowning at the watchdog. "It's against the law to 
bark without 
using the barking
meter. Are you ready to be sentenced?"
"Only a judge can sentence you," said Milo, who remembered reading that in one of his 
schoolbooks.
"Good point," replied the policeman, taking off his cap and putting on a long black 
robe. "I am also 
the judge. Now
would you like a long or a short sentence?"
"A short one, if you please," said Milo.
"Good," said the judge, rapping his gavel three times. "I always have trouble 
remembering the long 
ones. How about 'I
am'?
That's the shortest sentence I know."
Everyone agreed that it was a very fair sentence, and the judge continued: "There will 
also be a 
small additional
penalty of six million years in prison. Case closed," he pronounced, rapping his gavel 
again. "Come 
with me, I'll take
you to the dungeon."
"Only a jailer can put you in prison," offered Milo, quoting the same book.
"Good point," said the judge, removing his robe and taking out a large bunch of keys. 
"I am also the jailer." And with that he led them away.
"Keep your chin up," shouted the Humbug. "Maybe they'll take a million years off for 
good behaviour."
illustrated by GRAHAM PERCY  
 
Chicken Scraps
by John Bates

Every day, during the school holidays, Alan had to feed the hens. He hated doing it, 
but it was his 
special holiday job, so it had to be done. There were always plenty of other jobs that 
needed
doing, and Alan could escape these by feeding the hens. If he didn't feed the hens, he 
would still 
have to do something else, like going down town shopping. This would be even worse 
than the
hens, because it would take longer and meant getting dressed up as well. So, if there 
had to be 
holiday jobs, he would stick to feeding the hens. But he still hated doing it.
"Alan!" his mother would call out after breakfast."Can you do some shopping for me, 
this morning?" 
Or it might be: "Alan, would you like to mow the front lawn?" Or: "Could you go down 
the
garden and pick some beans?"
To all these questions, Alan would answer, "Sorry, Mum, I'm just going. I've got to 
feed the hens."
It was all right. It was safe. As long as he had to feed the hens, he had an excuse.
Outside the back door was a large tin of scraps - bits of stale bread, meat and 
vegetables, anything 
the hens would have a peck at.
The tin was sometimes a bit smelly. Alan was supposed to wash it out every morning 
after it had been 
emptied,  but he hardly ever remembered to. So the fresh scraps were 
nearly always tipped on top of the old. It was a sticky sort of mess.
After breakfast each day, Alan picked up the scraps and started off with them down the 
garden. The 
tin banged against his legs. It scraped along the concrete path. It bumped against any
branches of fruit trees that stuck out into the path. It knocked off a few flower 
heads.
When Alan bumped the tin down a step, some of the scraps would splash out on to the 
path.
"I wish you'd take more care with the scraps, Alan," his mother would say. "You spilt 
them all down 
the path yesterday morning. I had to clean them up when I went down to pick the 
beans."
"Sorry, Mum," Alan would say, and for a day or two, until it seemed heavy once more, 
he wouldn't drag 
it down the path.
"Why can't I just go straight down?" he thought to himself. "It must be six times as 
far, 
going round all these zig-zags."
You could go straight down into the garden, not using the path at all First, just 
below the house, 
there was a great big hedge. It had a worn patch in one place near the middle. You 
could climb up
there and then slide down, on to the lawn below, if you gave a bit of a jump at the 
beginning.
The lawn that came next was easy to cross. At the edge came a sudden drop of about six 
feet. Last of 
all you had to scramble under the orange trees and under the big plum tree. Then you 
were
down at the bottom, right beside the chicken-run.
"I think I'll try it," Alan decided. "The only things to worry about are the hedge, 
and the six-foot 
drop over the lawn. The rest will be easy."
After breakfast he dragged the scrap tin round the side of the house to the workshop. 
There he found 
a short piece of rope, which he tied to the handle of the tin. Dragging the tin after 
him by the
rope, he climbed up into the hedge. Some of the loose scraps on top of the tin fell 
out into the 
hedge, but it was all right.
When he had reached the top of the slide, Alan had a rest, peering over on to the lawn 
below.
"Now I'll let the tin down." He began to lower it down the slide.
It was no good. Halfway down, the tin stuck. Alan pulled it up a bit and tried 
dropping it suddenly, 
hoping to force a way. A lot of scraps came out, but still the tin stuck.
"Well, I'm not going to give up now," thought Alan. "It'll be easy once I get on the 
lawn."
He pulled the tin up to the top of the slide again, undid the rope, and tossed it over 
on to the 
lawn. Then, holding the tin tightly in his arms, he jumped with it over the slide.
With a crash, he reached the lawn and rolled over. The scraps flew in all directions. 
The tin, still 
on his chest, was clanking like a drum. Sadly, he climbed to his feet, shook the 
potato peelings
out of his hair, and began scraping the mess back in to the tin as best he could.
He carried the tin down the path the rest of the way, and, with a rather ashamed face, 
gave what was 
left to the hens.
"Sorry, chicks! Not much today."
As he walked slowly back up to the house again, he felt the sticky front of his shirt.
"I couldn't help it, Mum. I fell over," he said, when he reached the kitchen door. To 
himself he was 
thinking, "Well, that was a flop. I'll have to work out some other way.
For several days after this, the hen scraps were taken in the usual way. It was too 
risky going over 
the hedge with them. On the other hand, it was no good taking them round the path to 
the lawn
and going across from there. The distance saved would hardly be worth the trouble. 
Lowering the tin 
over the lawn's edge would be easy enough, but there were still the trees to drag it 
under.
Rotten plums lay thick in the grass there, and thistles, too. No, it would be too much 
of a mess. 
Might as well give up the idea.
And yet, as the days went by, the scrap bucket seemed to grow heavier and heavier. 
Alan could not 
help thinking that, somehow, there must be a way. He was sure that he had been on to a 
good
idea, the idea of going straight down, not zig-zag. He hadn't worked it out yet, but 
he would in the end.
"Really," Alan said to himself, "it's like being a light house-keeper stuck up in the 
air, and the boat with the supplies waiting down at the bottom. How does he get the  
supplies up to the top? He
can't keep running up and down all those stairs. He hasn't got a lift. What does he 
do?"
And then, in a flash, "Got it!" said Alan. You
 use a wire! A long wire, or something, with the supplies
going up and down on a pulley. It's easy!"
In great excitement, he began working out his plans. Wire, of course, he couldn't use. 
It would need 
seven or eight clothes-lines joined together, to reach from the upstairs porch of the 
house right
down to the hen-run. Rope, then? Half a dozen bits from the boatshed? No, that would 
be no good 
either. Too many knots. They would stick on the pulley. String? String would break.
At last, he had the answer. A fishing line was the only thing that would be both long 
enough, and 
strong enough. He went down to the boatshed and picked out a nice thick green one. He 
cut the
hooks off, tied a heavy sinker on the end, and went upstairs to the top floor porch.
Below him was the hedge and, behind it, the lawn. Alan took careful aim, and threw the 
sinker towards 
the lawn. It landed safely on the grass, the line curving out behind it. Alan tied the 
other end
to a rail on the porch and then rushed off downstairs, and round on to the lawn.
From the lawn he tossed the sinker on again, in the direction of the hen-run. It 
sailed high over the 
orange trees and landed with a plop in the middle of the plum tree, dragging the line 
after it. Alan
jumped off the edge of the lawn, crawled under the orange trees and began to climb up 
the plum tree.
With all the leaves and fruit getting in the way, it was hard to see where the sinker 
had got to. 
Once he had found it, he climbed on to a strong branch where he could see. He placed 
his back
against the trunk and pulled the line in, until it was stretched tight.
"That's fine," thought Alan. "Now for the last bit!"
With the sinker in his hand, he took aim for the hen-run, and fired.
Out whizzed the line! Up flew the sinker, high over a 
peach tree, and down with a crash on the tin roof of the
hen-house. There was a terrible squawking from the hens, but Alan, smiling happily, 
was already sliding down the plum tree to the ground.
At the back of the hen-run Alan climbed a peach tree and tied the line round the 
highest part of the 
trunk. He jumped down on to the roof, again sending the hens into a fit of squawking, 
and then
down in to the garden.
Now he had to choose his pulley. A big one was no use, because the fishing line would 
soon slip off 
the wheel and get jammed. Alan picked out the smallest pulley he could find, slipped 
it in his
pocket, and went back up to the house.
On his way past the kitchen, he picked up the scrap tin and took it upstairs with him. 
He had already 
fed the hens that morning and the tin was still empty, but he wanted to try out his 
idea.
Tomorrow, if all went well, he would send down the first full load.
He slipped the pulley on, and tied the handle of the bucket to it with some string. 
Next, for safety, 
he tied the bucket to the rail of the porch. Then, leaning out over the edge, he began 
pulling in the
line until it was as tight as wire, running straight from the porch to the hen-house 
roof.
Alan tied the end round and round the porch rail. The bucket hung out in space just 
below. It was kept from going by the safety string tied to its handle.
"Ready for launching!" said Alan. He leaned out and untied the safety string. Away 
flew the bucket! 
Over the hedge, over the lawn, skimming the orange trees, knocking the top of the plum 
tree,
and, then with a crash, landing on the hen-house roof. Angry squawks came from the 
hen-run.
"Boy, oh boy!" thought Alan. He rushed off down the garden to collect the bucket and 
pulley.
Next day, straight after breakfast, he brought the heavy tin into the kitchen, and 
dragged it 
upstairs. Luckily, his mother wasn't about at the time, and she did not notice what he 
was doing.
"Mum!" called out Alan from the stairs. "Have a look out the window in a minute. 
You'll see something 
you've never seen before."
And, by the time his mother had answered, he had made his way up the rest of the 
stairs, through his 
mother's bedroom, and out on to the porch.
He put the tin down carefully on the floor, tied the line to the pulley, and then to 
the rail.
"What are you doing up there?" his mother called out from below.
"It's O.K. You'll see," sang out Alan. He lifted the heavy tin over the edge of the 
porch.
This was the hardest part, tying the handle of the tin to the bottom of the pulley, 
without dropping the lot. It was much heavier, really, than he thought it would be. 
Under its weight the whole line seemed to be 
about a foot lower than before. Alan tied the bucket on carefully. At the same time he 
kept an eye
on the safety-string which tied the pulley to the rail. 
As he leaned out, he noticed his mother's face looking up from the window below.
"Alan!" she shouted. "Don't do it!"
"It's all right Mum," said Alan. "It's quite safe. I tried it out yesterday, while you 
were down town 
shopping. Had a bit of trouble with the plum tree," he added, in a lower voice, "but 
she should clear it all right."
He looked down the line. It was lovely and tight. Everything was ready.
"Alan!" his mother called. "The string will break!"
"No, it won't, Mum," said Alan. "It's fishing line." He untied the safety-string. 
"Watch out! Here she goes!"
There was a whizz, and a whir. The bucket, swinging madly, picked up speed.
Over the hedge, over the lawn, skimming the orange trees, and then, Crash! The extra 
weight had 
pulled the line too low. Crash, went the bucket, straight into the top of the plum 
tree!
A fountain of chicken scraps flew up in the air. The bucket sprang up once more from 
the tree, as it 
lost its load. Slowly, jerking, empty now, it slid on down to the hen-run.
Alan hung out over the edge of the porch, his face white, his mouth open. Below him, 
her face also 
white, his mother gazed at the disappearing tin.
Next morning, at breakfast, Alan's father suddenly looked up from his newspaper.
He said, "I think we'll let Henry feed the hens from now on, Alan. You're getting a 
bit too old for 
an easy job like that. From now on you can do your mother's morning shopping for her, 
down town."
Alan blinked.
"And, if there's no shopping to be done," his father went on, "you could help by doing 
a few jobs in the garden. Like mowing the front lawn, or picking the 
beans." And now, Alan's father looked very hard at him. "Or, perhaps, cleaning the 
chicken scraps off the plum tree".
illustrated by RICHARD KENNEDY

Jungle Brothers
by Kenneth Gilbert.

Cappy, Dirk Fallon's little monkey, sat in the strange forest,
looking sadly at his master, who was lying quite still.
Dirk, a young gold-hunter, was very sick. He lay beside an animal track. When he first 
felt hot and 
dizzy he was
frightened that he would die alone. Then he fainted.
Cappy sat beside Dirk. He did not understand why the big, kind man would not answer. 
Danger seemed to 
be everywhere in the thick bush.
Cappy was not happy. He knew something very bad had happened to his master. He knew, 
too, that 
darkness
was creeping over the rain forest. At night the jungle becomes alive.
Cappy had never lived there, but he knew that it was dangerous to stay on the ground 
at night. He 
cried, and rubbed Dirk's cheeks with his soft little paws. He was
trying to say it was time to leave this place.
But Dirk lay there not moving. Cappy was frightened. Yet he would not leave the man he 
loved. And yet 
he knew he might die if he stayed. Suddenly he heard monkey voices speaking his own
language.
He had seen no other monkeys in this land. For a moment he was no longer afraid. He 
sat up and 
looked about. Again he heard the monkey talk. This time it was closer.
He was excited. Here were friends! In his squeaky little voice he called a greeting to 
let them know 
he was lonely and
wanted friends.
He listened for a reply, but none came. Soon, however, he saw a leafy branch sway. 
Then he saw grey 
shapes
running among the branches and leaping cleverly from one to another. They were coming 
closer. He 
called out again.
This time there was an answer. It was a deep, barking reply. All at once, the trees 
seemed filled 
with monkeys. They
looked like himself. Their leader looked angry. He was chattering excitedly.
Cappy couldn't understand a lot of it. These were wild monkeys and their speech was 
different from 
that of the tame
monkeys he had known in a zoo. They were the same colour though. The old king asked 
where he came 
from. They
came closer and asked him to come into the trees and fight. But Cappy had something 
these jungle 
people did not
know about.
Inside Dirk's pack was a little silver bell. Cappy loved it. He rang it when he wanted 
to show anger, 
joy or excitement.
Now he leaped to the pack and pulled out the bell. He rang it noisily and looked at 
the strangers to 
see if they were
surprised.
They were so surprised they could not talk. Some of them were frightened. Baby monkeys 
ran to their 
mothers.
The old king wanted to find out about the bell. He gave a bark, and dropped to a lower 
branch. He 
hung there while he
looked at Cappy and the strange, shiny thing he held. Cappy shook the bell again.
The king became very interested. He came closer, making friendly sounds deep in his 
throat. About a 
hundred
members of the tribe also came near.
But Cappy was not fooled. He saw the greedy look in the king's eyes. He jingled the 
bell noisily and bared his teeth in a snarl.
Most times this would have started a fight. But the king was interested only in 
getting the shining 
thing that made
such a pleasing noise. He took no notice of Cappy's snarl, and came even closer. Cappy 
grew afraid, and moved
closer to his master and pulled hard at his sleeve to awaken him.
Suddenly the king gave an angry bark and dropped to a lower branch. He ran along it, 
and went to jump 
on Cappy.
But at that moment, one of the male monkeys in the higher branches called out. The 
king at once 
sprang to safety.
The hair round his neck and along his back lifted. He showed his teeth and chattered. 
The monkeys 
were afraid. A
snake was sliding silently along the jungle track.
Cappy had never seen a boa constrictor before. They are one of the worst enemies of 
the monkeys. 
Something told
him it was dangerous. He wanted to run away with the wild monkeys, but he didn't want 
to leave his 
master. He
shook the bell, picked up a piece of wood, and threw it straight at the big snake's 
head.
The boa was surprised and angry. It stopped and hissed a warning. Then it saw the man 
lying there as 
if he were
dead. At once it was scared.
The boa might have gone round the man, but Cappy's attack made it get ready to fight.
It gave another awful hiss as it got ready to strike. The boa was not poisonous, but 
with its long 
body it could crush
the life even from a big wild pig.
Before the snake could strike, Cappy picked up another stick, and hit it on the head. 
The boa was so 
strong that it
would not have noticed being hit with a stick. But Cappy's movement caught its eye. 
So, instead of 
striking at the
man, it struck at the monkey.
Little Cappy was too quick to be caught. He jumped
aside with a shriek. At the same time he jingled his bell. As
though this were a signal, the tribe of wild monkeys came to 
help him.
With loud cries they began throwing sticks, branches, and green coconuts 
at the snake.
The attack and the noise were too much for the boa. He was struck on the head and 
body, and he could do nothing about it. He could only lie there and hiss horribly at 
his enemies.
After a few minutes, he gave up, and slid away. Cappy gave a shout, and 
rang his silver bell madly.
The monkey king looked at the bell. He had never before wanted anything 
so much. He came closer to Cappy, and made friendly noises and signs. If he could get 
near enough, he could grab the tinkling thing.
Cappy was afraid. Again he shook his master's arm to warn him of danger. 
But Dirk Fallon was still deep in the fever.
Nearer and nearer came the monkey king. He wanted the bell no matter what he had to do 
to get it. Yet he was not sure about the man who was lying there so still. Was this a 
trap? It might be, but he must have the shining thing in his own fingers.
The other monkeys began to feel brave. Suddenly, Cappy was surrounded by monkeys. 
Their faces were unfriendly.
And the most unfriendly was the king. He came sliding toward Cappy. Cappy clung to his 
master, chattering and showing his fangs.
The king was not afraid. He kept coming, holding his paws out, as though asking for 
the bell. Cappy clutched it tighter than ever. Suddenly, Dirk Fallon moved and groaned 
and the wild monkeys fled to the trees.
The king fled with them. Cappy shrieked his joy.
Yet one wild monkey stayed. This was a good-looking young female with 
fine eyes. She seemed to be friendly in a shy way. She moved back a little way when 
the king gave a warning cry, but she soon returned. She pretended to be interested in 
something on a palm tree. She tore off some of the bark, sniffed it and picked it 
apart. All the time she
watched the strange monkey with the bell.
Cappy thought he would try to make friends. He drew nearer. Too late, he saw he had 
been tricked. There was a sound behind him. He turned round quickly and found the 
monkey king there. Cappy couldn't run back to the safety of
his master's body, for, with a savage snarl, the king leaped.
Next moment Cappy was fighting with a clever, cruel enemy. Cappy was 
bitten and torn in many places. He was fighting bravely, but the king was winning.
Then there came a roar. All the monkeys were frightened and stopped their noise.
Cappy saw a huge cat with a spotted coat. This was a jaguar - a terrible killer.
It was a female jaguar. She was wild with hunger. Her cubs were hidden 
nearby. She had to hunt all the time to feed herself and them. She was thin and 
hungry. She would have attacked a man, if she caught him near her den.
She had heard the noise of the monkeys. She knew it would be easier to 
hunt them when they were excited. Now she was among them, her face snarling. She 
struck right and left at the screaming monkeys. Somehow they escaped. But Cappy and 
the fighting king were slower. The jaguar charged. They saw her coming, and they 
jumped apart. The king leaped for the nearest branch. Cappy turned as always to 
Dirk Fallon, who had always saved him in the past. But now Dirk lay still. The jaguar 
saw him. She 
was frightened of
the man, but she did not run.
She was mad with hunger, and she was mad with anger because the man might be a danger 
to her cubs. 
She would
fight, kill! She got ready to spring.
Cappy sat on Dirk Fallon's chest. He was too scared to run. He did not know that he 
would cause his 
master's death
if he stayed there. Then he saw the jaguar jump, and with all his might he threw the 
bell at the 
jaguar's head.
It struck her with a tinkling sound. The jaguar was surprised. She had never heard a 
bell before. It 
was strange. She
was afraid of the man again. She did not know what to do.
But the shining thing hadn't hurt her. She got ready to leap again. Then she heard a 
small noise.
Now she became afraid, and crept away into the bush. Some rubber-workers hurried up.
They were natives. They were surprised to see Dirk. He was now waking up. His long 
sleep had given 
him back his
strength. They understood he had been sick. They acted quickly. One went for water. 
Another got some 
leaves. He
squeezed a few drops of juice from them into the water and gave Dirk a drink.
He choked at the bitter taste. After a time his eyes opened. He stared at the men.
"Thank you," he said. "Lucky you came along."
"Yes," smiled their leader. "You have been very sick, but now you will be well. Our 
camp is near. It 
was lucky we
heard the bell and came to find you."
Dirk did not understand. "Bell?" he asked. Then he understood. "0h, my monkey's bell. 
He's probably 
been having a
fine time playing around with it while I've been
asleep. He's got himself scratched somehow. But nothing ever happens to him. Does it, 
Cappy?"
Cappy chattered back happily. It didn't matter that he couldn't tell Dirk how he had 
saved them from 
two jungle killers.
What did it matter? Dirk was well again. Cappy looked down. In one hand he held a few 
hairs torn out 
of the monkey
king's neck. In the other he held the bell that had worked magic when it was needed.
illustrated by RICHARD KENNEDY

Fire In The Veldt 
by Frederick C. Parmee

Mogai opened his eyes. and looked at the wall of his hut. It had been 
made black by smoke. He stretched himself
and yawned.
"Come, sleepy fellow," called his brother, Zuma. "It is time we men were 
away to the herds. We shall miss the
truck." He loved to speak in this grown-up way to his younger brother.
Mogai lifted his head from the wooden head-rest that his father had 
carved for him the year before. He pushed away
the blanket that he and his brother shared, and got up. Then he ran out 
into the sunshine. It was not yet six o'clock,
but the African sun was already bright in the sky.
Again he stretched himself, and looked down the hillside. This was the 
time that Mogai liked best. The sun was
shining in a clear blue sky, yet the air was still cool. Then he heard a shout from 
his brother, and at once he began racing to the river.
He dived into the water with a loud splash. It was so cold that he 
gasped. Soon he was playing in the stream. He
laughed and shouted with his brother and other boys from nearby villages.
A little later he sat on the smooth mud floor outside the kitchen. His 
swim had made him feel fresh.

1. Veldt (pronounced "velt") : Open country in South Africa, having grass or bushes, 
but not many trees.

His mother gave him some food in his bowl. He made a lot of noise as he 
ate! His games had made him very hungry
indeed. As soon as he had finished he handed his bowl to one of his 
sisters, and dashed out to the track that ran
down the hill beside the village.
When he arrived, the large farm truck was there, and several boys were 
climbing on to it. They were very excited.
They fought over the few sacks that lay on the back of the truck. They 
wanted them to sit on. Mogai, who came late,
pushed a smaller boy from his sack. He then sat down to enjoy the ride up 
to the farm.
As soon as the truck stopped, the boys jumped down and ran towards the yard 
where the cattle were waiting to be let
out. Only three boys were chosen to look after them. They were Mogai, his 
brother Zuma, and Nyati. The others were
sent off to work in the fields.
The three boys shouted and waved their sticks, and at last they got the 
cattle out of the yard and up the hillside to
the grazing fields. There the cattle settled down to munch steadily. Moving slowly, 
they ate as they went.
The boys sat in the shade beneath a large rock. Here they talked, and 
played games with stones while the sun rose
higher and higher in the sky.
The day became hotter, and the cattle stood close together beneath any 
patch of shade they could find. They stood
quite still, with hanging heads. High above them, vultures were slowly 
flying around, watching and waiting.
Hotter still and hotter it grew, until even the boys were quiet. The only sound was 
the noise of the lorry far off in the
field below. Mogai leaned forwards on his elbow and watched the bees at 
work among the flowers hidden in the grass.
Zuma and Nyati were also very interested in the bees.
"Let us find their home, Little One," said Zuma, "for I have a great liking for their 
sweet dripping honey-comb." Mogai clapped 
his hands at that, and they all rose to their feet. They had forgotten how hot it was.
Nyati's sharp eye soon spotted where the bees were flying. A little 
later, he gave a shout of joy as he pointed to a hole beneath a rotten tree stump. 
Bees were going in and out of the hole all the time.
The boys went closer. Then Mogai suddenly cried out in pain. "Ow-ya!" he howled. He 
had been stung by a bee that had got trapped in his thick hair.
"Coward!" said Nyati. "The Zulu does not make such a noise over so small a matter."
"He is little," said Zuma in defence of his brother.
"Ya, he is a squealing pig!" said Nyati. Zuma looked at him angrily. He 
gripped his stick in his right hand.
"He is my brother," he said angrily, and the two boys began to fight. 
Mogai joined in, and soon the three of them were
rolling on the ground in clouds of dust. They had forgotten the bees, and 
were fighting with all their might.
During the fight, Zuma's foot struck the stump and caused the bees to fly 
out in an angry cloud. The boys at once
gave up the fight, and ran away.
When they were back under the shade of the rock, they laughed at what had 
happened. Then Zuma saw that some of
the cattle had gone too far as they looked for shade. The boys rounded 
them up. When they returned to their shade
they again began to talk about the bees' nest.
"Let us try again," said Nyati.
"We shall smoke them out," said Zuma. "Little One," he said to Mogai, "go to the hut 
over there and get some fire."
Mogai did not want to go, but he had to, because he was the smallest. He went round 
the side of the hill and dropped down into the 
grass. Then he moved forward carefully on
his stomach. He kept in the shadow, as he made his way round the side of 
the house, where a woman was bending
over a fire.
Suddenly he got to his feet and dashed forward at full speed. He snatched a 
large piece of burning wood from the fire
before the woman knew what was happening.
Away down the hill he went, running madly and laughing. In a moment he was 
back at the rock, holding a burning
stick in his hand.
"Well done, Little One," said Nyati, and Mogai knew that Nyati no longer 
thought he was a coward.
They climbed once more up to the bees' nest. When they reached it, they put 
down the burning stick in front of the
hole, and covered it with green grass, so that it began to smoke. Then they 
waved the yellow smoke towards the
hole. Before long, the buzzing of the bees inside had died down. The boys 
began to dig the nest out as fast as they
could.
They had forgotten the burning stick. Soon a few blades of grass caught 
alight, and the little flame from it began to
creep over the grass.
When he heard the sound of the flames, Nyati turned round.
"The grass is on fire," he cried. "Quick - put it out."
And soon, the three boys were stamping on the flames with their small hard 
feet. At last all the flames seemed to be
out, and they turned to their work once more.
By this time, however, a breeze had begun to blow, and a patch of partly burnt grass 
turned to a brighter red then to a
bright orange - and then burst into flames. But the three boys did not 
notice it. All that they could think about was the dripping honey-comb they would soon 
dig up.
It was Mogai who shouted the warning this time, but the fire was now moving quickly 
away from them. 
In terror now,
they ran here and there, stamping and beating the flames with sticks and with their 
feet. But as fast 
as they put out
one part of the fire line, another ran forward, spread out and joined up the line once 
more. The 
flames swept on,
moving ever more quickly in the wind.
"It's too high for us now," yelled Zuma at last, as they stopped for a rest. "Run, 
Mogai, run for help."
But the clouds of smoke had already been seen down on the farm, and a truckload of men 
came racing up 
the hill. At
the same time a second smaller truck raced back to the sheds. Men jumped off it, 
gathered all the 
sacks they could
find, and soaked them in water. Then they got back on to the truck and raced up to the 
fire. At once 
they jumped off
and began beating out the flames with the sacks.
Some of the men raced in an old car to get ahead of the fire line. When they were well 
ahead they 
stopped, and
began to light fires in a line along the side of the hill. They worked very quickly, 
and they managed 
to send the new
line of flame towards the line of the main fire that was rushing towards them.
A long line of women now arrived, bringing on their heads buckets of water from the 
stream. They 
poured it on the
grass behind the new fire line, so that it would not catch fire if the wind turned the 
flames around.
The main flames now reached some bushes. The wind sent the flames leaping forward. 
Behind the line of the main fire a large gang of men were hard at work. The two fires 
raced to meet each other. The flames leapt high in the air as they met. Then they died 
down, leaving
patches of black, smoking grass and pieces of burning wood. Every spark was put out, 
as the women 
brought more
water and poured it hissing over the last burning patches.
A few men stayed behind after the trucks and the old
car had gone back to the farm. They watched to make sure that the fire did not start 
again. All the 
men were tired and
angry.
In  that dry dusty country, fire is one of the main dangers. All night the fire had to 
be watched. A  
number of times,
gangs of men were called from their huts to beat out flames that had started up again. 
By daybreak 
the fire had been
finally beaten.
That night Zuma and Mogai crept back to their village. They hoped to pass unseen into 
their hut but 
their father saw
them and began shouting at them. He then picked up a stick and began to beat the boys. 
His wife did not like him beating the boys, but he took no notice of her.
"The Zulu boy must learn the ways of fire," he said at last to them. "You could have 
burnt the whole countryside by your carelessness. Go now from me. You will go without 
your meal. You have to be taught a lesson."
The two boys crept to the back of the hut, and lay down while the others ate. They 
were sore and very 
unhappy. But
the smell of stew gave them more pain than the beating had done.
At last their father got up and went to talk to a friend. As soon as his footsteps had 
died away, 
their mother entered
the hut. She called softly to them, and put bowls of steaming stew in their hands. 
They ate silently, 
each one thinking
over the day and his part in it.
illustrated by OLGA VOLGER

Billy's Story
by Barry Mitcalfe

Billy was a funny kid. Just how funny, the bait-boy didn't know, until the day of the 
Sunday School picnic.
The picnic was at Wreck Bay. It was given this name because one broken mast and the 
iron deck of an 
old ship
showed out of the sand, just above low tide mark.
It wasn't much of a wreck to look at, but the sand had been washed out round its 
sides, so that it 
sat in a deep pool,
and on the day of the picnic they were not allowed to go near it.
Instead they had all sorts of games, and then races. Billy won the hopping, but, with 
his lame foot, 
he came last in
everything else. Jackie Dykes, who was always giving cheek, began calling him "Hoppy", 
and some of 
the others joined in, trying  to make Billy wild.

1. Bait boy: boy who puts bait on fish hooks.

Billy said to the bait-boy, "Come on, let's leave them all. I'll show you 
that thing I told you about."
The bait-boy didn't remember Billy telling him about anything, but he 
went. He stuck up for Billy, as best he could.
The others came along behind them. There were too many of them. They 
began running up, as close as they could,
and away again, calling "Hoppy Billy! Hoppy Billy!" Billy and the 
bait-boy pretended not to hear them.
Then someone shouted, "Look out," and they saw Mrs Pascoe coming after 
them. They stopped.
"Hullo, you boys. You're very quiet all of a sudden," said Mrs Pascoe. "I hope you're 
not thinking of going near the wreck."
"Oh, no, Mrs Pascoe," they were glad to say. She went back to the rocks 
and sat there, keeping an eye on them.
It was then that Billy asked them if they knew about the wreck. Jackie 
Dykes said, "Course they did," so Billy asked him, "What, then?"
"Everything about it," Jackie Dykes said. But Billy said, "Do you know 
why no one will get those mussels?" and
Jackie said, "It's too deep, that's why."
 But Billy said, "It's deeper round the rocks, and they
have to walk two miles to get them there."
That set them all thinking.
"Maybe those mussels on the wreck are poison," said one of the others.
"They are, in a kind of way," said Billy. "They're poison all right. 
Dead men's flesh and dead men's bones."
The way he said, "Dead men's flesh and dead men's bones," made them 
think. But as nobody said anything, Billy
asked, "You know what this boat was before she was wrecked?"
"Course I do. Everyone knows that."
"What, then?"
They all began to think. "It was a - was a dirty little cheese boat, that's what," 
said Jackie Dykes. "Taking butter and cheese, that's what."
"That's what you think," said Billy. "That's what they might tell YOU. Do you know the 
TRUE story? 
You don't? Well,
I'll tell you then. Did you ever hear of blackbirders?"
"They catch blackbirds," said Jackie.
"They're pirates, and murderers, that's what," said Billy. "And they went to the 
Pacific Islands 
and took black men to
work as slaves. Yeah! And the worst of them all was Black Jack Hands. And no one will 
tell you about it," Billy shouted, "because it's too old for you."
"Well, how do you know then?" asked Jackie.
"Never you mind," Billy said. "Black Jack Hands was the terror of the seas. He'd raid 
an island, and 
he'd make the
people slaves. He'd take all their things, and the island would be just nothing. And 
the people would 
be his slaves.
He'd take them to his fort and make them work, cutting out caves in the cliffs for his 
guns. And, if 
any other ship
came near, he'd blow it clean out of the water. So nobody could get him and he could 
do what he liked.
"Then one day he heard some of the slaves talking about an island far to the East, 
where the people 
wore nothing but
pearls. The pearls were so thick they were like sand, but the water they were in was 
so deep that 
only the people on
the island could get them, because they were the best divers in the world.
"So Black Jack Hands sailed out into the East where this island was, and found it. He 
took all the 
people slaves, and
he ripped the pearls from their necks and ears. He said, "Now, you'll dive and get me 
some more," but no one would move.
"He told them again, and then he killed some and fed
them to the sharks, which always followed his ship, like dogs. But their chief still 
told them not 
to dive. So he killed
the chief.
"Then a great wind began to blow. It blew them right away from the island. The boat 
was rocking so much they couldn't get their sails up or stand up, or anything. The 
sailors and slaves were all rolling about, but Black Jack Hands and his mates held on 
to the ropes. And it blew harder.
"Black Jack took down his cat o' nine tails and snarled, "Get up, you lazy dogs!' and 
he beat the 
sailors and the slaves, but they kept holding on. So he and the mates kicked all the 
sailors and
the slaves into the hold. They closed it up and said, 'Let them rot!'
"Just then the man holding the wheel began screaming out and trying to swing it round, 
but it was no 
good. There was a terrible crash, the masts were broken, and they were wrecked. And 
the
sea was as high as mountains. And the mates tried to swim and they were drowned. And 
Black Jack Hands 
tried to swim and he was drowned. All the slaves and sailors in the hold were
drowned, caught like rats.
"And then the wind stopped, and the sea became calm, and the boat was there for people 
to see, just 
like it is today, sitting buried in the sand. And they're there too. Dead
men's bones. Nobody go near." The boys were quiet for some time. The bait-boy decided 
to ask Mr Biggs, the storekeeper, where the wreck came from. He hoped Billy's story 
was true, but he was afraid it might not be.
But when the bait-boy asked Mr Biggs, all he said was, "Couldn't say, exactly," which 
was what Mr Biggs said 
about almost everything, so that wasn't much help. The bait-boy asked old Bill, who 
was sitting on a box outside  the store window, why nobody ate the mussels from the 
wreck, and Bill said, "Iron. Iron's poison."
The bait-boy was sorry he had asked now. It had been such a good story.
Next morning, walking up the beach, he saw Billy sitting on the rocks at the far end, 
with two of the others. He came closer. Billy seemed to be doing a lot of talking. 
Then the
bait-boy heard the name Black Jack Hands. He 
thought, "Here we go again".
He came up to them, and none of them said anything. They were so interested in Billy's 
story.
"Huh!" said the bait-boy. "Poison," he said. "Dead men's bones," he said. "Pah!" and 
they were listening to him now.
"Iron's poison. That's why they don't eat those mussels.
They grow on iron."
"Oh yeah?" said Billy. "What they grow on has got nothing to do with it. It's what 
they eat that matters."
But the others were on the bait-boy's side.
"All right," said Billy. "You don't believe me? Just come with me. I'll show you."
And he set off towards the wreck, with the others behind. "Iron's 
poison?" he said. "Huh!" And began to walk out
through the water towards the wreck.
"You think I'm scared?" he yelled, pulling off mussel after mussel.
They watched him as he came back through the water, up the beach to the 
dry sand, where he sat, broke one on
another and sucked it down.
"Not bad," he said. The others watched his face closely, for signs of 
sickness or death.
"Think I'll have another," he said, and broke it. "Look at this nice fat 
one. Dare you to eat one."
So the bait-boy broke one and ate it, although he didn't like the way Billy said, 
"Dead Men's bones," as it went down.
Soon they were all eating and going out to the wreck for more. It was like 
raiding an orchard.
they were full, they filled their shirts and set off home. Billy made them 
all promise to keep the place a secret. The bait-boy promised, and then made Billy 
promise too, because he knew if there was anybody who 
would blab, it was Billy.
Illustrated by RICHARD KENNEDY

Eskimo Boy
by Pipaluk Freuchen

Ivik, the Eskimo boy, went across the frozen sea with his family to an 
island off Greenland. His father was going to
spend the summer hunting. The food he caught would be stored for the next 
winter.
But, soon after the ice melted, Ivik's father was killed. His canoe, or 
kayak, was smashed. Ivik and the rest of the
family were alone on the island until the sea froze again. They had no 
one to hunt food and look after them.
Like all Eskimo boys, Ivik wanted to show he could hunt, but no animals 
came near the camp. He and his grandfather
could catch only a few birds.
Ivik's family grew thin. Their clothes wore out, but they had no furs to 
make new ones. They were very cold all the
time.
Ivik Goes for Help
That night the sea froze at last. In the morning there were big patches 
of ice. The few openings in the ice grew
smaller. But dark clouds came up from the southwest at the same time.
"That wind." said Grandfather, "brings big animals for us to hunt, but it also brings 
bad weather and snow. We
will have no smooth ice to cross on."
Ivik and Grandfather talked about hunting. Ivik was
young and not as strong as he would be in a few years. He
did not know how to hunt.
Grandfather knew everything about animals and how to hunt them, but he was old and 
weak.
"We are short of meat and blubber for lamp oil," said Grandfather.
The ice is still too thin for people on the mainland to drive their sleds out to the 
island. But as soon as the ice can hold them they'll come. They know how lonely we are 
and how we want to hear all the news."
They sat silent for a while. Ivik knew that Grandfather wanted to say something more, 
but the old man did not like to say it.
"Perhaps I will have to try to walk across the ice," Ivik said at last.
"My legs are too weak," said Grandfather. "I am not strong enough."
Ivik knew Grandfather was sad because he could not fetch help. He had been the 
strongest man of his camp when he was younger.
"When we have slept once more, the ice will be thick
enough," Ivik said. "Walking fast will keep me warm. There's  the moon 
to see by at night."
They got up and went to tell Ivik's mother he was to
walk across the ice next day to find help.
His mother said nothing. She knew how dangerous it was for him to go. But she knew he 
must go if they were to live. She wondered what food they could spare for him to
take. He would not be able to move fast. He would have to make his way
carefully across the thin ice, and he was so weak.
How good it would have been if she could have given him something nice to eat.
They had no light in the hut. it was cold and dark. His mother asked Ivik to sleep 
while she mended his clothes.
Grandfather had been digging around the meatstand. He found an old seal flipper and 
chopped it into bits with his
axe. He mixed these bits with pieces of straps that had been dog harness.
"This is good to chew on," he said, "when you walk a long way with an empty stomach."
At last Ivik was ready. He took his father's old spear. It had a short handle and a 
sharp iron tip. His father had killed
many animals with it. Ivik thought he could use it to walk with, and to test the ice.
He set out. His mother and Grandfather went with him a little way. They did not say 
goodbye or warn him. All of them
knew the trip was dangerous. Goodbyes are always
sad.
And so Ivik went off. He walked and walked and walked.
New ice at sea is strong. It is safer than the fresh-water ice, which breaks easily. 
Ivik dropped the spear in front, just
to be sure. If the spear-handle didn't go through, then it was safe to walk on.
When he came to spots with no snow, it was easy to tell if they were dangerous. Black 
ice is always dangerous.
When it turns white, it is hard enough to walk on.
After walking for about six hours, Ivik felt tired. He pulled round in front the bag 
Grandfather had given him, and began
to stuff the food into his mouth.
There were a few pieces of bone and skin, even a bit of fat. It was better food than 
the bits of skin they had been
eating. Ivik ate all the food in the bag. He forgot that he
had still a long way to go. 
As he walked on, he thought what fun it would be to meet some strangers. But then, he 
remembered, he would
have to tell about his father's death. He suddenly felt very sad.
The ice no longer cracked beneath him. It was stronger. Ivik forgot to  be careful.  
He went on.
He felt thirsty. It was no good eating snow; that would make him weak. He started 
walking toward some ice crags. There he could chop off a few bits of fresh ice. Once 
they
were warmed  under his jacket he could put them in his mouth.
It was getting dark, but Ivik's eyes grew used to it.
The Bear
He found he was not very far from the first ice crag. This was wonderful because by 
now he was very 
thirsty. He
thought he would be stronger and able to walk faster if his throat was not so dry.
He walked more quickly and became careless. It was too late when he saw something 
moving toward him. 
He could
not see what it was in the dark.
At first he thought it was a fox, but it grew bigger and bigger. He suddenly saw that 
it was a polar 
bear.
He had no dogs to help him attack the bear. It was no good trying to run away. There 
was only one 
hope; that the
bear was so full it would not want to bother about him.
Ivik remembered he was a hunter with his father's own spear in his hand. This was the 
spear that had 
killed so many
animals.
The bear came closer. It was a middle-sized bear, but it was hungry. When polar bears 
have had good 
hunting they
grow a layer of fat under the skin which keeps them warm all winter. This makes them 
slow. They dig 
themselves into
the snow to sleep until the summer comes back. Then they come out of their holes, 
hungry for food.
But bears that are thin at the end of summer can't sleep through the winter. They must 
hunt for food. 
This is hard
when the days are dark.
This bear was hungry and dangerous.
It saw something moving, which smelled like food; so it made straight for Ivik, ready 
to kill him.
But Ivik did not look like a seal. Instead of running away he came forward. The bear 
did not know what to 
do.
Ivik did not think much about danger. Here was food, meat and warm fur. If he could 
get the bear, all 
his troubles
would be over. He would be known as the "bear-killer".
Ivik had seen his father kill bears. He knew that you hold the end of the spear 
against your chest, 
and drive the point
between the bear's ribs.
This is done while the bear is busy with the dogs. They leap and worry it. It has 
enough to do to 
fight them off. They jump around the bear biting its back.
But Ivik was alone. He had no dogs. He had no help of any kind. At that moment, the 
bear turned 
slowly.
The next moment Ivik attacked. The head of the spear almost touched the bear's fur, 
but the bear 
jumped back. The spear hit it in the belly.
The bear gave a terrible roar. It turned round and attacked the spear.
Ivik  could never remember clearly what happened next. He tried to hold on to the 
spear. But 
he was thrown over
the bear, and he spun around on the ice. Although he was frightened, he could hear the 
ice cracking under him.
He got up, waiting for the bear to rush him. It hit at the spear, broke part of it off 
and chewed it to bits. Ivik ran away 
as fast as he could. He
turned his head, and saw the bear was about to follow him.
He saw the bear pulling again at the spear. Its mad roars made Ivik run faster. He ran 
as he had never run in all his life 
until he reached the ice
crag.
When he found himself lying on his stomach on a ledge of ice, he began to think.
"How did I get up here, anyway? How did I climb up this wall of ice?"
He lay there until his heart stopped pounding.
The bear's roars were now growls. Then Ivik heard its claws scraping the ice crag.
"Now it's coming after me," Ivik thought. But he was not afraid.
"I have speared a bear!" he said to himself. Soon he began to feel very cold. He was 
very, very tired.
He was sitting on an ice crag, as high as he could climb. He began to shiver.
Then he noticed he had lost his right mitten. Perhaps it had dropped when he was 
thrown over the bear. Perhaps he lost it 
when he was
running. He did not know. But his fingers were now very cold. He put his hand against 
his stomach to warm his fingers. He 
shivered as the
wind blew under his fur jacket. It took a long time to warm his fingers till they 
would move again.
His boots were half-frozen, too. He shook with fear. The bear was alive down below. In 
the darkness Ivik could not tell if it 
was going to die.
Once in a while he could hear the bear.
He did not know how long he had been there. He was so weak he could not move.
What was he to do? There was no way out.
And then Ivik no longer knew what was happening. The bear's growls, the cold, the ice, 
all went. He never knew what 
happened. He slept for a
long, long time.
When he woke it was light. He could see the mainland
and the places where he had played. But he was so cold he
could hardly move. He tried to pull his legs up, but his
knees would not bend. Luckily, he had pulled his arms out
of his sleeves and put them against his bare body as he
slept. But there was no warmth there now.
"If I could get down I'd go home to my mother and grandfather. All I want is to be 
with them," he said to himself.
But a little while later he remembered he could not go back. There, too, he would find 
only hunger and cold. He had to get to the mainland
and save them all.
When is was light enough to see the ice he saw a dark patch  of blood. And there lay 
the bear. His spear had stopped the 
bear. It was
still alive, but it was dying.
"My bear is almost dead," Ivik whispered. "Soon there will be fresh meat, warm skins 
for clothes."
He would skin the bear and take as much meat as he could carry back to the others. His 
sisters and 
his brother
would be surprised: their brother, a real hunter!
He wished his father were alive. He would have told everybody what a great hunter his 
son was. He 
would have asked
them all to a feast.
He stared at the bear. It was growing weaker. It could not move its hind legs. A knife 
would finish 
it off.
But Ivik could not climb down. His arms and legs would not move. The only part he 
could still use was 
his brain.
"I must get up," he thought. "I must go down to my bear."
But he lay where he was.
"Yes, it's true," he thought. "It's wiser not to rush. If I wait a while, the bear 
will be weaker and 
then it'll be easier to
kill."
He remembered that the blade of his hunting knife had been broken. Grandfather had 
sharpened it to a 
new point, but
now it was shorter. It was not much longer than his thumb.
More time passed. He did not move. 
Sleds! Sleds! 
Ivik lay dreaming. He lifted his head. He did not know why nothing had changed, but 
somehow something 
seemed
different.
 The bear was still there, lying flatter than it had been. But Ivik no longer cared. 
He just wanted 
to rest. He was so tired.
But there it was again. This time he not only lifted his head, but raised his body. 
There was 
something there!
Then he saw a fox sitting near by. It was waiting for a share of the kill. Ivik 
laughed aloud. Foxes 
go only where great
hunters go. "They know me already," Ivik said to himself.
There it was again! It was something. He could hear a sound far, far away. It was the 
howl of dogs, 
of dogs hunting.
Did he really hear the dogs? Perhaps he was dreaming again. Then he heard the sound of 
men's voices.
Ivik stood up. Far away he could see two sleds, black specks  moving toward him. 
Halfway to them he 
saw a bear
running, chased by the men's dogs. The first dogs were almost upon the bear. Those 
pulling the sled 
howled in anger
because they could not catch up.
The men stopped and cut loose the sled dogs. The leader caught up with the bear and 
sank its teeth 
in its rump. The
bear turned as swiftly as a cat and slapped at the dog. The dog jumped aside, howling.
The racing  bear saw its only chance was to reach the ice crag where Ivik was. As it 
sped along, 
it tried to shake
off the dogs at its back and heels. Now and again it struck at them with its paws. 
Whenever it hit one, 
the dog flew far to
the side, but the bear dared not stop to bite it. It had to get away, so it ran across 
the ice.
More and more dogs were cut loose and the bear was surrounded. It reached the foot of 
the ice crag 
where the dogs
stopped it. They leapt on its back. The bear grabbed a dog. It threw it down to bite 
it, but others 
leapt at its neck or
tugged at its ears. The bear jumped and turned round. The dogs kept away from its 
jaws. There were 
too many of
them for the bear to shake off.
Ivik heard its savage roars and the whines of the dogs. The sleds were moving slowly. 
The last dogs 
were cut loose
from them and the hunters grabbed their spears.
They rushed into the fight. It was hard for them to tell the difference between the 
dogs and the 
bear. They waited for a
chance to use their spears. One of them struck and the bear roared. It turned on the 
man, but the 
hunter on the other
side struck it with his spear. The sharp point went between the ribs. The bear rose on 
its hind legs. 
It took several
leaps up the ice wall, then fell. It rolled like a snowball down the slopes to the 
men's feet. It 
was dead.
The men shouted with joy. This was their first bear for
the season. They now had fresh meat and a fine bearskin. Ivik decided to do a little 
shouting 
himself: "I got a
bear!  I, too, got a bear! " he shouted.
The men stopped. They were frightened. Who could be
shouting? They looked at each other in fear. Then they heard the same voice again. It 
sounded like 
the shout of a
woman or a boy.
"Here I am," shouted Ivik."I need help."
The men looked up and saw someone sitting on the ice
crag. It was a boy. But how did he get up there? There were no sled marks.
Then they noticed the bear, nearly dead. They killed it
easily with a spear. Ivik had done the real work.
Ivik never knew how he got down the ice crag. He forgot his pain. He went up to the 
two men who did not know him at first. He should have waited for them to speak first, 
but they were men he knew well.
He had to speak.
"It's a great  joy  to meet you!" he said.
It was then that they knew who it was.
Ivik was almost crying. Now he and his family were
saved. But the six months of hunger and cold had made him tough. He did not give way 
to tears. Very 
quietly he told the men it was good that they came and helped him.
"You fought and killed it alone, by yourself?" they asked. They could not believe 
their eyes.
"When did you come here?" they asked.
"I was on a trip to visit the mainland. A bear happened to get in my way. I had to 
stick a spear in it to get past," Ivik said.
Both men praised him loudly. Here was a young boy, alone and without the right 
weapons, and hungry. He had gone to get help for his family, and on the way had killed
bear!
They looked at Ivik. They could see he needed help.
They chased the dogs from his bear and saw his broken spear. They found his mitten. 
From the marks in 
the snow they could see how he fought with the bear, and how it had thrown him on the
ice while he tried to kill it.
Ivik took his knife and stuck it in the bear's neck. He drank the blood in greedy 
gulps. This was all 
he wanted. He felt strength and warmth running through him, from his fingertips to his 
toes. He lay there, happy to have real food again, happy his family was saved.
He drank as long as he could. When he lifted his head he fell beside his bear in a 
faint. He did not 
know the men were trying to waken him.
When his eyes opened, Ivik found himself wrapped in furs. The hunters prepared him hot 
soup and 
meat. He soon felt better. They cut up the bears and put them on the sleds. Then the 
hunters took Ivik back to his camp, a proud hunter, with food and furs for his family.
illustrated by INGRID VANG NYMAN

The Fabulous McFanes
by Maurice Duggan

The circus was packing to move. It had given its last show, and men were now taking 
down the big 
tent. It took eight men an hour to fold the tent, but Trumpeter, the elephant, could 
lift it on to the
back of the truck in just two minutes. Soon all the animals were in their cages ready 
to leave.
The McFanes - Laddie, Jennie, and Mr and Mrs McFane - were helping to get things ready 
for the move. 
This was the family's last day with the circus. They were leaving the circus and going 
to live
in the country.
Mr McFane got into the lion's cage. The lion got to its feet and came towards him. 
"Hallo, Fury," Mr 
McFane said, and gave the old lion a pat.
"He looks cold, Dad," Laddie McFane said. "His fur is getting thin. Good job he's not 
staying here 
for the winter, like us."
"Hop in here and fork out this hay, Laddie," Mr McFane said. "We'll give him a clean 
bed."
Laddie climbed into the lion's cage and began to throw out the hay.
"Be careful with that fork, son," Mr McFane said.
"Oh, make him roar, Dad," Laddie said. "Please make him roar."
Mr McFane put one hand in his pocket, clicked his tongue softly and said, "Speak up, 
Fury."
The lion roared twice. Mr McFane took a liquorice strap from his pocket and gave it to 
Fury.
"Never more than two roars," Mr McFane said. "And never less. It's a useful trick. 
People want a lion to roar. But it's his cough that really scares them - he's got 
asthma."
Laddie forked out hay from under the lion's big paws.
"Careful there," Mr McFane said. "I don't want you to hurt the old 
boy." Fury opened his mouth, licked his lips,
looked at Laddie, and lay down.
"He's very old," Laddie said. "And he smells a bit."
Mr McFane looked at his son. "Mind your manners, Laddie, if you please. 
There's no need to be rude to him. Get on
with the hay and we'll keep the talking until later."
Not far away, Jennie and her mother were tidying the red "gipsy" caravan 
which was used as a ticket office at the
circus gates. They were packing dishes, knives and forks, and pots.
"I wish we were going with the circus," Jennie said.
"And I don't," Mrs McFane said. "It has been hard enough to get your 
father to leave the circus, so don't go undoing
all my work. For one thing, a mother with two grown children should not 
be riding around a circus ring on a horse."
"Oh, Mum," Jennie said, "that's not true."
"True or no, it's what I think," Mrs McFane said.
"But I was just beginning to get the hang of it all," said Jennie 
sadly." I was just beginning to get used to the
trapeze. I'll soon forget how to swing on a trapeze."
"Well, I hope so," Mrs McFane said. "I couldn't bear to watch you. It's 
too dangerous." She smiled." The Fabulous McFane children have picked up enough tricks 
to last them for some time. 
There's more in the world than lions and
horses and trapeze swinging, and such things. Just pack those cups, 
there's a girl, and we'll leave the talking until
we've finished."
Jennie looked through the caravan window and felt sad.
She would miss it all. The whole family would miss it. Mrs
McFane would miss it, too, even though she pretended that she would not.
Jennie went outside. Timmo, the grey monkey, swung down from the back of the elephant 
and came 
towards her, jumping on to her shoulder. Jennie walked across to the elephant and 
patted its
tough, grey trunk. Trumpeter was happy to see her.
"I hope neither of you will get sea-sick," Jennie said, to the elephant and to the 
monkey." Fury won't like it a bit, poor thing."
At the sound of the lion's name, the elephant moved. "Trumpeter," Jennie said, "you 
should be 
friends with Fury. You're all such cheats, anyway, pretending to be wild animals.''
Trumpeter trumpeted, and the monkey ran quickly along his trunk and sat on his head. 
The elephant 
snuffled and closed his small eyes. He seemed to be asleep. The circus was almost 
ready to
go.
"It's just as well, I suppose," Laddie said, sadly, coming up to her. "I was always 
afraid old Fury 
would go to sleep in the middle of the act and bite Dad's head off. Are you coming 
down to the
ship, Jen? They're going now."
They ran. They were just in time to be lifted on to Trumpeter's back. The monkey sat 
on Jennie's 
shoulder and Trumpeter walked along slowly, following where he was led.
There was a crowd at the wharf to watch the circus leave. The McFane family stood at 
the gate.
"If you're not with the circus, I can't unlock the gate and let you through," the 
gatekeeper said.
So they just stood there and watched.
Trumpeter stood very still while men put a padded sling
under him. He trumpeted only once as the crane took him into the air, swung him out 
over the ship, 
and let him down into the open hold.
The crane swung back. The hook came down. A man then put the hook into the sling round 
Fury's cage, 
waved his hand in the air, and the crane began to lift up the hook. One end of the 
cage
lifted higher than the other. The sling slipped and broke open the cage door. The cage 
dropped to the wharf. Fury shook his mane and blinked. He walked slowly out through 
the opening, and
went towards the gate.
"Run," the gatekeeper shouted. "Run for your lives." The McFanes stood 
quietly.
"Do you think I could open the gate now?" Mr McFane said."I wouldn't 
want to miss this chance of doing a last little
act."
Mr McFane unlocked the gate and walked towards the lion. Although he 
pretended to be very serious, he found it hard
not to laugh. Mr McFane and the lion stopped and looked at each other. Mr 
McFane put his hand into his pocket, and
said in a quiet voice, "Speak up, Fury."
The lion roared twice. Nobody saw Mr McFane flick the rolled-up liquorice 
strap into the  lion's mouth. The lion
swallowed and coughed. Mr McFane smiled. He began to laugh, and then 
remembered all the people who were
watching. It wouldn't do to make it seem too easy. He picked up a piece 
of wood and shook it at the lion.
"Back to bed," Mr McFane said quietly. The lion backed towards the cage. 
"Do your stuff, Fury," Mr McFane said
quietly. "Remember you're a man-eater. Speak up, Fury."
The lion roared twice again, and backed slowly into the cage. Mr McFane 
threw a handful of liquorice straps on to the
straw. Then he closed and locked the door. For the first time in ten 
years Fury gave four long roars.
Mr McFane smiled. "Now there's a clever animal." he said. "I wonder will 
you ever roar again, Fury? Go to sleep, boy,
and dream of Africa."
Mr McFane fixed the sling and the hook and waved up to the driver of the 
crane. The cage lifted into the air.
"Why didn't you say you were Mr McFane?" the gatekeeper said. "I'd have 
let you through like a shot."
"I'm not with the circus now," Mr McFane said. "I didn't expect that 
last little act, at all."
"Tell me," a newspaper reporter said, coming up to the gate, "isn't it true that that 
lion is as 
tame as a kitten? Isn't it true that he wouldn't hurt a fly? Were you really in any 
danger?"
"I saw you running, young man. You climbed on to that roof like Timmo the monkey," Mrs 
McFane said.
"But he's a tame lion really, isn't he?" the reporter asked.
"Didn't you hear the roars, and the cough?" Laddie asked.
"Yes, of course," the reporter said. "But I . . .
"A lion is a lion," Mr McFane said, with a frown. "He's not a pet cat." Would you be 
ready to get 
into his cage, or to put your head into his mouth for twenty seconds or so? Would you 
do that?"
"Well, no," the reporter said. "But I still say he's a tame lion. Someone at the 
circus told me that 
Fury's father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather too, for all I know, were zoo 
lions."
"Sea lions?" Mr McFane said, smiling.
"Zoo lions," the young man said. "That doesn't make him very wild, now does it?"
"Listen," Mr McFane said. "I'll tell you the truth, and you can write it in your 
paper." The reporter took out paper and pencil. "Yes," Mr McFane said, "I caught him 
myself, barehanded, in 
Africa,
where he'd just killed and eaten seven newspaper reporters who wouldn't stop trying to 
make a fool of 
him."
"Oh well," the reporter said angrily. "If you won't be serious..." And he walked away.
"Dad, you shouldn't tease," Jennie said, laughing.
"Look," Mr McFane said. "The ship is moving. Do you see the tugs on the far side of 
her?"
Mrs McFane sniffed back a tear.
"Look," she said, pointing to the ship, "do you see the caravan? It's still on deck."
The gipsy caravan was tied on the open deck and had not yet been covered up. They kept 
looking at it as the ship sailed away. Jennie 
wondered if Timmo would still be sitting on Trumpeter's head.
They watched the ship slowly sail away, leaving a cloud of black smoke  behind.
"That's that," Jennie said softly. "That's the end of The Fabulous McFanes."
"Nonsense," Mr McFane said. "Nonsense, Jennie girl. It's sad, I know, but it's not the 
end. We'll be as fabulous as we ever were, just you wait and see. Eh, Mum?" he 
said,
turning to Mrs McFane. "We'll be as fabulous as ever, isn't that so?"
Mrs McFane nodded. "Yes," she said, quietly, "I'm afraid that we will."
illustrated by RICHARD KENNEDY

THE LITTLE BRUMBY
by RUTH PARK
illustrated by RICHARD KENNEDY

He was a little fellow, the colour of mahogany. He was so bright, so rounded, so 
shiny, he looked like a well-polished, little, wooden horse, carved by a master. His 
hoofs stood four-square; the arch of his neck was like the bow
of a bridge. His mane rose from his neck like a crest, then fell in a long, dark, 
wheaten sweep down one side.
The little brumby sniffed the air; he smelt the burning smell of the long summer's 
sun, and the scorchy smell of bush
fires, a long way off. His pricked ears moved this way and that, listening for the 
drumming of hoofs, the whinny of the
mares, and the shrill challenging whistle of his father. This is how it always was at 
the waterhole in the evening, with
the sun going down in clear, bright colours over the dusty plain, and the mob of wild 
horses moving up
towards the spring. 
As usual his father, the stallion, went ahead. He trotted round and round the 
waterhole, his large, brilliant eyes
flashing this way and that, looking for danger. When he considered that all was safe, 
he whistled, and the mares and
the foals and the young horses moved forward like a wave of chestnut and sorrel and 
piebald grey. Over the bank they
went; down into the water, standing chest-deep in the coolness and drinking their 
fill. All the time the big stallion
moved slowly and watchfully around the edge of the waterhole, sniffing the air for the 
scent of enemies.
All at once the stallion burst into action, pawing the ground, and giving a wild 
scream that startled the mob into panic.
They bolted out of the spring, a milling mass of wet, gleaming backs and dripping 
tails, and in a few moments they
were streaming across the plain, the sound of their unshod hoofs like diminishing 
drum-beats. But it was too late for a few.

1. Wild horse.
 
The horse-musterers, on their sturdy station ponies, had crept up 
in the lee of the wind, and no scent had come to the stallion's nostrils until too 
late. Out of the fleeing mob the men
cut two mares with foals at foot, an old roan horse with a lame knee, and the little 
brumby. Dark-stained with sweat,
limping and trembling with terror, these were at last brought into the station 
stockyards. Sometimes men came and
looked at them. The little brumby stood quite still, shaking with excitement and fear, 
looking wide-eyed at these
strange creatures that were neither slinking dingo, fleet emu
nor bounding kangaroo.
At last came the time for his breaking-in. He was driven into the "crush", two strong, 
swinging gates which fastened
together, holding him completely helpless. The little brumby stood with his ears flat, 
his teeth bared, and his nostrils
opened wide and red. He was so angry he forgot to be frightened. He wanted to bite, to 
lash out with his bone-hard
heels, but he could not move. He was saddled with a special saddle with a strong 
girth, and as it was the first time he
had felt anything on his back, he hated it.
He was busy fighting the bridle when a man dropped lightly off the rails. The gates 
were opened, and, with a bound like a grasshopper's, the little brumby laid his ears 
flatter yet and 
bolted for the open. It was a moment before he realised that there was a man on
his back. Then he gave a scream of rage.
Standing straight upright, he pawed the air until he toppled backwards, and then, with 
a wrenching sideways twist, he sprang 
into the air, all four feet off the ground. He struck the earth with a thud
that would have unseated anybody but the horse-breaker on his back; then he was off 
across the backyard, in a prancing, 
bucking, kicking flight, his back hoofs flying like bullets. Suddenly, quick as
lightning, he swung about and crushed the rider's leg against the stockyard rails. 
There was a grunt of pain as the man 
slipped off, and in a wild frenzy of relief and delight the little brumby gathered
himself and hurtled across the stockyard.
Up . . . up . . . he had the lightness of a bird. He soared into the air; his front 
hoofs struck the topmost rail and knocked 
it flying, and with a twisting flounder he was over the top.
Pain shot through his knees as he crashed on the other side, but before the men within 
the stockyard could gather their wits 
he was up, and running rapidly over the paddock. Across the fence he
flew, and a cloud of dust was all they saw as he disappeared into the heat haze, 
heading for the wide plain, and the sunset 
waterhole, and the companionship of the wild mob.

DRIFT
by 0. E. MIDDLETON decorations by RALPH HOTERE

Hone stopped the truck on the firm black sand and he and Grandpa Tapa got 
out. Dust from the road had drifted on to
the back of the truck, settling on Grandma Tapa's head-scarf and on her 
old black dress, powdering Rewi's hair and face.
The boy helped the old lady to her feet, picked up the kit and jumped 
down. Stiffly, she followed him and they all
stood looking out at the hazy, sparkling Tasman.
"You all set, Mum?" Grandpa Tapa asked gruffly.
"Yes, all set. Got the gear and the knife and the tobacco. Got my boy to 
look after me, too . . . Eh, Rewi! " She put
her free arm around the boy and gave him a hug.
"Take care of her, Rewi. We won't be long."
"O.K., Grandpa."
Hone and Grandpa Tapa got back into the truck. Hone started the engine, 
Rewi and Grandma Tapa waved, and soon
the truck was a dwindling speck on the endless stretch of beach.
The old lady shook her head as they turned towards the water. "I hope 
they'll be all right. Grandpa said not to worry. "
"He always says that. The rocks are slippery up there. You have to watch 
out one of those big waves doesn't sweep
you off."
"They'll be O.K., Grandma."
He would much rather have gone up the coast with Hone and Grandpa. At 
dead low tide, the sea fell back, green and
sullen, baring rocks that bristled with mussels. As you tore off the close packed 
shells, your eyes kept straying to the heaving swaying kelp. All 
at once someone would shout a warning and there was barely time
to scramble clear before the sudden swell swept up. Later, there was the 
hard climb up the rocks with the heavy kits, the race back
against the tide . . .
The old woman put down the kit. She took out a fishing-line, baited the 
hook carefully with a strip of eel and rigged up the kon-tiki. When
all was ready, she set the little raft adrift and began playing out the 
line.
For a long time the boy and the old woman stood at the water's edge 
watching the pale square of sail carry the tiny raft further and further
out. At last the trip worked, letting down the sinker and bait and 
Grandma Tapa walked backwards up the line, spread out the sugar-sack
and sat down.
Further down the beach, two parked cars twinkled in the haze. Fishermen 
in brightly-coloured shirts, shorts and caps, stood in the sea,
casting with long surf-rods. From the cliffs and the sand-hills came the 
dry, incessant scraping of cicadas.
"If I had a fine big surf-rod, I wouldn't be sitting here like this," 
Rewi thought.
"Grandma, can I take the knife and look for a stick?"
"Yes, take it. Don't be too long though."
He sped up the beach and searched the litter of driftwood along the 
spring-tide-line until he found what he wanted.
Among the tangle of bleached sticks and dried kelp lay a clump of 
tropical yams, driven by wind and current from some far-off shore. Not
knowing what they were, and inwardly curious, he stirred the strange, 
shrivelled tubers a moment with his foot.
As he dawdled back he trimmed the straight manuka stake and sharpened one end. He 
glanced up and saw that Grandma Tapa was
puffing one of her home-made smokes. Her still, dark shape seemed to 
merge into the beach. Only the pale thread above her head
seemed to have life.
Away down the beach, the surf-fishermen leaned out over the shallows, 
lunging into deeper water with their long rods.
Rewi fell to paring the hard point once more. He dropped his
eyes and saw a stunted shadow transfixed by a spear, drifting over the 
sand at his feet.
The next time he glanced towards her, Grandma Tapa was standing upright, 
feet braced as she handled the line. As
he reached her side, it began to hiss through her fingers as the thing on 
the other end struggled to break free.
"It's no baby, anyway!" she said with a chuckle.
"Maybe it's a shark?"
She made no answer, but kept a steady strain on the line, hauling it in, or 
letting it out with the movements of the
fish.
After one extra-long   run, the surging died down.
"He's gone to the bottom," she said. She drew the old line as taut as she 
dared and plucked it sharply several times.
Once more it grew slack, then began to sing through her fingers again.
Rewi looked up and saw that his grandmother's lips were moving. Although the cool sea 
kept creeping over their bare
feet and up their legs, sweat stood out on her cheeks and forehead.
Far down the beach, a lone figure still leaned out over the surf. The 
crumbling, grey-brown cliffs and high dunes hung
in the haze like the coast of Africa. Over everything flowed the ceaseless, 
dry crackle of the cicadas.
Although the fish was slowly giving ground, Grandma Tapa dared not risk its 
full weight on the line. Rewi stayed close
beside her, moving from time to time as the tide crept up. As he stared out 
over the sea, a small ship came in sight.
It moved slowly down the coast towards them until he could make out the 
small figures on its decks.
Grandma Tapa saw it too. She screwed up her eyes and watched it in silence.
"Do you know what that is?" she said at last.
"A coaster, maybe? Or a trawler?"
"It's a Jap boat. A big one too. See, there are no birds following it." 
She gave a chuckle: "They know better."
"It's very close," Rewi said.
"Yes. Too close." She bent her eyes to the line once more.
The big fish went on struggling. Though steadily weakening, it kept making 
sudden runs that strained the line and cut
into the creases in the old woman's fingers.
Every so often, Rewi's eyes strayed to the Japanese fishing boat. With an uneasy, 
guilty feeling, he gazed after it as
it slipped out of sight down the coast.
There was a sudden flurry in the sea eighty yards out and the snout and 
one curling fluke of a big ray broke the
surface.
"It's a sting-ray!" Rewi cried.
"I see him," Grandma Tapa answered quietly.
The tide flowed strongly now. Spray wet their faces and the sun cast soft 
shadows on the sea.
Grandma Tapa stared up the coast. "Why don't they come now? How are we 
going to bring him in on our own?"
Rewi gripped the manuka stake. "We'll do it! Try to ease him up where 
it's shallow." He cocked his head, waiting for
the ray to surface again. He felt deaf from the interminable murmur of 
the surf, the harsh shrilling of the cicadas. The
waves broke more and more strongly, making endless patterns of white and 
green before his eyes, hiding the
movements of the tiring ray. The sun stared
straight into their faces now like the head-lamp of a great motor-bike. 
"I'm going to try to bring him in. Take care, boy. Mind his sting!"
As she hauled in the last of the line, he grasped the spear in both hands 
and went out to meet the ray. Twice he
dashed forward, ready to strike: each time the ray threshed the water and 
plunged away, narrowly missing him.
At the third try, he stabbed it twice through the body. Waiting his 
chance, he drove in the spear once more, with all
his might
and, dodging the swinging tail, dragged the ray on to firm sand.
Still holding the spear with one hand, he took the knife from his 
grandmother, planted a foot on the slippery back, and
hacked off the tail. Next he cut off the huge meaty flukes, washed them 
and dropped them into the sugar-sack.
All at once, a man appeared beside them. He wore a coloured shirt and 
shorts and a cap with a long peak. He carried
a fine long rod and was panting after his run.
"Oh!"he said, catching sight of what was left of the ray, "I thought 
you had one of those great big snapper …"
"No. Just a sting-ray. Very nice though if you cook it right," Grandma Tapa said 
simply, with a polite smile.
"You don't mean to say you eat them!"
The old lady fell silent, confused by the brash manner of the stranger.
"Yes, we eat them," Rewi said coolly. He looked straight at the fisherman. "Would you 
like the sting?"
"No, thanks! You wouldn't catch me touching one of those things. I'd sooner cut my 
line!"
The boy laughed, but it was no longer the laugh of a boy. It was a sound full of scorn 
and of a deep, 
inner exultation.
Quickly grasping the tail beyond where the sting stuck out, he heaved it out into the 
surf.
"Well, guess I'd better be going …" The man shouldered his rod and turned away. He 
drifted slowly down 
the beach
towards the solitary car, a vaguely forlorn figure in his coloured clothes.
Grandma Tapa rolled up the line, carefully put away the kontiki and picked up the kit. 
A murmur that 
was neither surf
nor cicadas came from far up the beach. She put her hand on the boy's arm and stood 
still, listening.
"It's them!" she said at last, unable to keep back the joy from her face and voice . 
.. . . . And about time too!"
 

