Jamie's Picnic Lunch
One day Jamie's mother packed him a picnic lunch. She packed him a cold sausage, two honey 
sandwiches, a rosy
red apple and a bottle of milk. Jamie put all the things into a bag with a long strap, slung it over 
his shoulder like a
real workman, and off he went. He climbed over his back fence and went into the paddock and sat down 
under a
shady tree.
He opened his picnic lunch and took out the cold sausage. He was just going to take a bite, when he 
noticed a little
white dog coming towards him. The dog was sniffing along the ground and his tail stuck up in the air. 
It was Scamp,
and he belonged to Jamie's friend, Mr Potter. When Scamp saw the cold sausage in Jamie's hand, he sat 
down and
put
up his front paws, begging, as if to say, "I'm hungry, Jamie".
Jamie broke off a bit of his cold sausage and threw it to Scamp, who quickly gobbled it all up. 
Jamie kept on
throwing bits of the cold sausage to Scamp, until it was all gone, and there was none left for Jamie.
Next Jamie took out his honey sandwiches. He was just going to eat one, when he noticed lots of 
little brown
sparrows hopping round by his feet. They cocked their little heads as if to say, "We're hungry 
Jamie". So Jamie broke
off little bits of his sandwich and threw them to the sparrows. He kept on throwing little bits of 
his honey sandwiches
until they were all gone, and there were none left for Jamie.
Then Jamie decided to have a drink of milk, and he pulled the cork out of his milk bottle. He was 
just going to drink
some, when he heard, "Meow, meow." And he looked up to see his own black cat, Fluff, running towards 
him. She
must have followed Jamie from the house. "Meow, meow," wailed Fluff as if to say, "I'm thirsty Jamie. 
" So Jamie
poured some of his milk into his sandwich tin and watched Fluff lap it all up. Then he poured some 
more and then
some more until it was all gone, and
then there was none left for Jamie.
Now he only had his rosy red apple left. He was just going to bite into it, when he heard, "Baaa, 
baaa." And without
looking round, Jamie knew who that was. It was Gerda, the little white nanny goat who lived in the 
paddock where
Jamie had his picnic lunch. She was tied up behind the tree where Jamie was sitting. Jamie knew 
that Gerda loved
apples and he gave her his rosy red apple and watched her munch it to the very last bit.
So now there was nothing left for Jamie to eat.
He packed up his picnic lunch things and slung the bag over his shoulder like a real workman, and he 
went home.
He said to his mother, "I'm hungry mother," so his mother packed him another picnic lunch.
This time Jamie took it out into the garden, sat down, and ate it all up by himself.

The Lost Key
A friend of that wise and funny man, the Mulla Nasrudin, came upon him searching for something on the 
ground.
"What have you lost, Mulla ?" he asked.
"My key," said the Mulla.
"I will help you find it." So they both got down on their hands and knees to look for it. But they 
found nothing.
After a while the friend asked, "Where exactly did you drop it?"
"Inside the house," said the Mulla.
"Then why are we looking for it here?"
"Because there is more light here than inside the house," said the Mulla.

Someone Different
It was the little boy's first day at school. He held his mother's hand tightly as she talked to the 
teacher. Then she
gave him a quick hug and left him. He was sad to see her go because everything was so strange. The 
teacher smiled
at him. She led him into a classroom, full of children.
"Children," she said, "this is Gunnar. He has come to New Zealand from a country very far away, 
called Norway. He
will find it hard at first to understand our language, so you must all help him feel at home." The 
other children stared
at Gunnar. He looked at the floor, then he looked at the door, and wished that he could go home again.
Soon the class was busy at work. All morning Gunnar painted pictures by himself. He was too shy to 
speak, and the
other children were too shy to speak to him. One little girl came up and said something, but she 
spoke so fast that
Gunnar could not understand what she said. He looked away, and when he looked back she had gone. The 
teacher
came over to see his painting.
"That's very nice, Gunnar," she said. "Tell me what you would call that in Norwegian." She spoke quite slowly and Gunnar knew 
exactly what she was saying.
"'It is a hus in my country," he said.
"Why, that's nearly the same as house," said the teacher. "You say hoose, like loose, and we say 
house, like
mouse." The other children were interested.
"How do you say good morning then?" asked one girl. Gunnar looked puzzled.
"Speak slowly," said the teacher. "Gunnar will be able to understand you then." The girl asked again. 
She spoke
slowly this time. Gunnar smiled.
"Ah, we say guten morgen," he said.
"Gooten morgen," said everyone. "Gooten morgen." This was fun. They asked Gunnar how to say all sorts of things and Gunnar 
told them. Then the 
teacher
clapped her hands.
"I know that this is a lot of fun," she said, "but I think that you should start teaching Gunnar some 
English instead,
now."
That afternoon, when the children arrived home from school, their mothers asked them what they had 
done at school
that day.
"We were teachers today," they all said. "We taught English to Gunnar."
"Well, goodness me," said all the mothers, "that must have been interesting."
"We learnt Norwegian too," they said, and they told their mothers some of the words they had learnt. 
All the mothers
thought it sounded very interesting indeed.
Gunnar ran home from school happily.
"Well, did you enjoy your first day at school ?"' asked his mother.
"Oh yes," said Gunnar, in English. "I have so many new words. It is very, very much fun at school." 
Every day Gunnar
learnt more and more English. Soon he could understand the children when they spoke fast. It was not 
long before
Gunnar could speak almost as fast himself.
At the end of the year the children gave a party for their parents. Gunnar was sent to the door to 
meet them.
"Come on in," he said. "We have a surprise for
you."
The parents stepped into the room. All around the walls were pictures of Norway. The children sang a 
song in
Norwegian that Gunnar had taught them, and did a little Norwegian dance as well. Then Gunnar gave a 
talk on
Norway. He spoke in English and he didn't make one mistake. When he had finished everyone clapped.
"Veldig gut, Gunnar," called out one boy, "that was very good."
Gunnar grinned. He was happier than he had ever been before. School was fun in New Zealand. He 
couldn't wait to
come back again next term.

The Middle Daisy Who Didn't Like  Living In a Flower-Pot
On a white windowsill there stood three stone flower-pots. In each flower-pot there grew a daisy with 
an orange
middle.
The two end daisies liked it where they were; they felt rather grand being so high up. But the daisy 
in the middle
flower-pot wanted to be down on the grass where the other daisies were.
"You do not know how lucky you are," said one of the end daisies. "We get watered every morning, but 
the daisies
down on the grass have to wait until the rain comes."
"And we are sheltered from the wind here," said the other daisy. "See how sometimes the wind blows so hard that the ground 
daisies nearly get blown right over. But the middle daisy still wanted to be down on the ground.
"I would like to grow where I can stretch my roots.
There is no room to move in this stone pot.
The bees hardly ever come to visit us,
nor do the butterflies.
Sometimes the birds peck the ground
right next to where the daisies grow;
I would like to be that close to a bird.
I would like to be down with the other daisies."
At that moment Black Cat walked along the
windowsill.
He flicked his tail in the sun
and it knocked the middle flower-pot
right off the windowsill
down to the ground below.
And the stone pot broke open.
The middle daisy dug her roots deep into the earth
and felt very happy.
Up on the windowsill the two end daisies
turned their heads.

The Night Visitor
The house had settled down for the night. Dinner was over and the dishes were washed. Seven-year-old John was bathed and in 
bed, and his mother and father were sitting down in the living-room watching 
television. Suddenly the
door opened and there stood John, blinking in the strong light. He looked worried.
"Dad," he said, "I think there's a strange monster prowling round outside my window."
"Is there indeed," said father getting to his feet. "I'd better take a look." He got the torch and a 
strong iron poker from
beside the fire, and went out the back door. John and his mother stood just inside, waiting. From 
under John's window
they could hear a loud snuffling sound.
"Dad had better be careful," said John. "There aren't any dragons still living, are there?"
"No, John," said his mother, laughing. But father was already back.
"We've got a night visitor, that's all," he said, putting down the poker. "John, go and get me the 
fire-shovel.
Father took the shovel, and inside a couple of
minutes, he walked back through the door. The snuffling had stopped. On the shovel in front of him 
was a round, grey
ball of something covered with spikes.
"Oh," said John. "Is that all! A hedgehog." Even so, he was interested, for he'd never seen one so 
close before.
Father carried it into the living room and put it down in front of the electric heater. "Let's just 
watch it for a while," he
said. John sat very close to the hedgehog. It seemed to be curled up very tightly. He put his fingers 
on some of the
spikes, and found they were very sharp. "Ouch," said John.
"Why do hedgehogs have spikes ?" John asked his father.
"To protect them from other, bigger animals," his father said. "Underneath all those spikes, a 
hedgehog is a small and
rather soft animal. Just a nice meal for a fox."
"But we don't have foxes in New Zealand," said John.
"No. But hedgehogs don't belong here either. They were brought here from countries where there are foxes and stoats and 
weasels, and they're quite fond of hedgehogs.''
After a while, the hedgehog seemed to know that nobody was going to hurt 
him. The ball he had rolled himself into
seemed to get a little softer. Soon, he was almost standing straight, and 
first his pointed black nose, then a beady
black eye, looked out at John from under the bush of prickles.
"Can I feed him something?" John asked.
"That might be a good idea," said his mother. "He was out feeding, anyway, 
when you first heard him, so we're
stopping him from having his dinner."
"What was he looking for?" asked John.
"Grubs, worms, insects ... that sort of thing," said mother. "But I'm not 
getting him any of those." She went into the
kitchen and came back with a saucer of milk. She had crumbled a few small 
bits of bread into it. John pushed the
saucer close to the hedgehog till it was just under its nose. The animal 
sniffed and backed away. John pushed the
saucer closer. This time it waited for a little while, then poked its nose 
into the saucer and began to suck up the milk.
It drank nearly all of it.
Then, in the warm room where it began to feel it was not among enemies, the 
hedgehog decided to explore. It
hobbled across the carpet on its pointed, black-toed feet.
"No grubs there, I hope," said mother.
"Can I put it in a box and keep it ?" John asked.
"No," said father. "Animals should be left free unless they're like dogs and cats and don't mind 
living with people."
"What you can do, if you like, is leave a saucer of milk out on the lawn for him tomorrow night and 
see if he gets it,"
said mother.
"That would be a good idea," said John.
So that's what he did. He couldn't always be sure that the hedgehog got the milk, for there were a 
lot of cats in the
street. But sometimes, when he was in bed, he could hear his friend snuffling in the garden. And he 
felt sure the
hedgehog got the milk on those nights. And he never again woke up thinking the sounds were made by a dragon.

The Hard Boiled Egg
Timmy lived on a farm a long way from school. On fine mornings he rode his bicycle to the bus stop, 
but when it was
wet, his mother took him in the car to catch the big, red, school bus. Every day, Timmy's mother made 
sandwiches
for him to take to school for his lunch. She also gave him something else for playlunch in the middle 
of the morning.
Sometimes it was an orange. Sometimes it was an apple, and sometimes it was a banana.
"I'm afraid I have no fruit for your playlunch today," his mother said one morning.
"Please may I have a hard-boiled egg instead?" asked Timmy. He had seen other children at school 
crack their hard-boiled eggs against their heads to break the shells. He wanted to do the same.
"I am going to crack my egg against my head to break the shell," he told his mother.
"Goodness! That might hurt," said Mother.
"No," said Timmy. "That's how all the children crack their hard-boiled eggs."
Timmy looked forward to cracking and peeling his egg nearly as much as he looked forward to eating 
it. All the time
he was working in school that morning, he was thinking, just a little, about his egg. When the bell 
rang for playtime
he had not finished his work.
"Oh, Timmy," said his teacher. "Have you been having a sleep ?" She picked up his book to see how 
much he had
done. He had nearly finished. "Just do the last little bit, and put your book on the table with the 
others before you go
out," she said. His teacher did not know about the egg. She did not know how much Timmy was wanting playtime to come.
At home, Mother had just finished her housework. She went to the sink to fill the electric jug to 
make herself a cup of
tea. When she picked up the jug, an egg rolled out from behind it. "Where did that come from?" she 
asked herself.
She picked up the egg to put it away. Suddenly she had a thought which made her stop and wonder.
"Don't tell me I've given Timmy a raw egg," she said. "Don't tell me this is the hard-boiled one!" 
Very carefully she
cracked the egg into a basin. It was the hard-boiled egg.
"That means Timmy will crack an uncooked egg
on his head at playtime!" she said out loud. She looked at the time. It was half past ten. Quickly she went to the telephone. She 
dialled the number for the school. All the time she was waiting for somebody to answer she was hoping Timmy had not cracked 
that raw egg against his head. "What a mess he will be!" she was saying to herself.
At last someone answered. Quickly Mother explained why she was ringing. 
"I wonder if you could find Timmy and tell him
not to crack his egg," she said. "I'm afraid he has a 
raw one by mistake and he was looking forward to
cracking it against his head." It was Timmy's 
teacher, Miss Brown, who had answered the telephone.
"Luckily, Timmy is still finishing some work," she told Mother. "I'll go back and tell him straight  away," she promised. Miss 
Brown hurried back to her room. She found Timmy had just put his work on the table. He had an egg in his hand.
"I'm just going to crack my egg against my head," he told her.
"I wouldn't if I were you," said Miss Brown. "Your mother has discovered you have the wrong egg. That is a raw one, and your 
hard-boiled one is still at home!" Timmy was amazed.
"Thank goodness I found out before I broke 
the shell," he said.
 "Perhaps you can have your hard-boiled one for 
afternoon tea when you get home," Miss Brown said. "In the meantime be very careful of that one," she warned. And he was.  

The Mustard Egg
Needle was a long-legged, black-and-white sheepdog, with a big, fat appetite. He usually had 
dog-biscuits soaked in
warm milk for breakfast and supper, and very often a rabbit and some tasty bones in between. But, 
even so, he was
forever loping about the farm, poking his shaggy nose into everything, in search of more food.
Needle had a habit of looking shiftily back over his shoulder as if he was off where he had no 
business. Which he
usually was. For Needle was an egg-eater. He would slink down to the nest-boxes in the fowl house whenever he heard a hen 
cackle.
It all began the day a forgetful hen laid an egg in his kennel by mistake. Of course, Needle was
hungry as usual. Out flicked his tongue to taste whether this strange thing would be good to eat. It 
was. When he had
finished his feast, Needle lay down and licked the yolk off his whiskers. "What a wonderful taste," 
he thought. "Now if
that hen would only lay in my kennel each morning, I'd have an egg for breakfast every day!"
Presently, Big, the cat, padded past, his tail in the air like a great white plume. Needle leapt up 
to chase him, and
Big dashed into the hen-house to escape. Needle followed him through the pop-hole, but what he saw 
inside made him forget all about Big. There, in one of the nest-boxes, lay SIX brown eggs. Needle's mouth began 
to water. It was
astonishing how quickly he bit open the shells, and popped in his tongue to scoop out the delicious 
white and yolk.
Some time passed before Needle came out of the hen-house that day, and when he did, he had quite a 
struggle
squeezing through the pop-hole, because he suddenly seemed to have grown fatter. The farmer's wife 
couldn't
understand why there were only broken shells in the nest when she went to collect the eggs that 
evening. And the
same thing happened next day.
The following morning when she heard a hen
cackle, she watched from the kitchen window to
see what happened. By and by, along slunk
Needle. He crept into the fowl-yard, looking over
his shoulder, this way and that. Then he squirmed
through the pop-hole into the hen-house and he
didn't come out!
"So that's it," thought the farmer's wife. She
rushed down to the hen-house, and threw open
the door. There was Needle, the picture of guilt,
broken shells at his feet, and an egg in his jaws.
When he saw his mistress, he dropped the egg and
ran for his life. He just knew that eggs are not dog
food.
The farmer whipped Needle and tied him up,
but each time he was let off to muster some sheep,
he'd manage to creep away to the hen-house and
gobble up all the eggs he could find. He grew so
fat and lazy he'd pretend not to hear when the
farmer whistled to him for sheep work. Needle
didn't want to work, or do anything but lie dozing
all day in the sunshine.
"This has got to stop!" muttered the farmer
crossly to his wife. He hadn't had an egg for
breakfast for a month. He took a new-laid egg,
pricked a hole at each end, and blew out all the white and yolk.
Next, he mixed up a whole lot of mustard with water and very hot cayenne 
pepper. Very carefully, he filled up the hollow shell with this mixture, and covered the holes in the shell with sticky tape. It 
looked just like a freshly laid egg when he placed it in the hen-house nest-box.
"Now, we'll see . . ." said the farmer.
Presently, he unchained Needle. Needle sniffed and snooped round the farm yard, trying to look busy. He looked over his 
shoulder this way and that, until he was sure the farmer was out of sight. Then he headed straight for the hen-house.
Suddenly there was a terrible commotion. Hens cackled, the rooster 
crowed, geese clacked, turkeys gobbled, but
above all the noise rose the howls of Needle. He streaked from that 
hen-house whining and yelping. His mouth hung
open, his yellow-coloured tongue hung out like a piece of wet rag. His 
eyes streamed, and his whiskers dripped
mustard. He ran round in circles - he rolled in the grass. He couldn't get rid of that biting, hot taste. He rushed to the pond and 
rolled in it. And of course he could never forget how suddenly terrible eggs had begun to taste.
Needle never stole another egg in his life.

The Dough That Wouldn't Stop Rising 
It was a cold grey winter's morning. Everything in the house was very quiet. The cat was asleep in its box, the budgie
was asleep in its cage, and Mrs Marrow was asleep in her big warm bed. But not for long. The alarm clock rang
loudly. "Time to get up already," said Mrs Marrow, and opened her eyes and yawned.
Her hot-water bottle with its bright red cover was cold. She threw it on the floor, and then, still yawning, she dressed
herself and went into the kitchen. She made a cup of tea and gave her cat a saucer of milk. She looked at the date on
her calendar. It was the day before Good Friday.
"It's time to make my hot cross buns," she said, and got out her cookery book. Now the cookery book was full of
coloured pictures of delicious food. It always took Mrs Marrow a long time to find the recipe which she wanted.
"It's always the same," she grumbled. "Whenever I've got to make bread, I start reading the recipes for birthday
cakes. I wish I could make birthday cakes today instead of hot cross buns."
She set to work to make the buns but, as she kept kneading the dough, she went on wishing
that she was mixing a birthday cake. She put the dough in a very big basin, covered it with a clean
cloth and went on with her housework. Soon it was time to do her shopping, so off she went. When she came back
she saw a man standing on a ladder outside her kitchen window.
"What are you doing there?" she called out crossly. "Get down at once."
"You needn't be cross," he said. "If you could see what I'm looking at you'd know why I'm standing here. "
"Well, I'm too old to stand on ladders," she said firmly. "Get down at once and tell me what it is that you're looking
at." 
"I'm watching your bread rise," he said, springing off the ladder, down to the earth below. "I've never seen anything like
it. I was cleaning the windows of my house, and I saw your bread rising up, up and up. It's higher than the first pane
of glass in the window, and it's spread all over the bench."
"If it has risen as high as that, you'd better come in and help me to put it back in the basin," she said, and unlocked
the door.
In they went. Mrs Marrow could hardly believe her eyes. She had never 
seen so much dough in her life.
"There's only one thing large enough to put it into and that's the old 
bathtub which belonged to my great grandmother. If we're very careful, we can bring it out of the shed and put it into the kitchen. 
Then we can push the dough into it."
They carried the old pale blue bathtub inside, and then set to work to 
push the dough off the bench and into the tub.
This was quite hard work because the dough slipped and slithered as 
though it was really alive.
"It's beautiful dough, lady," said the man from next door.
"Yes, I don't know what I did to make it go like this," she said. Then 
she said crossly, "Keep still, can't you," as she
pushed the last piece into the basin.
They covered it with an old sheet, then put a flat strong piece of board 
on top of it. But the dough wouldn't stand still.
It pushed the board up, and Mrs Marrow could see that it would take a lot 
of strength to keep the dough in its place..
She uncovered the dough, and the man from next door called in his wife, 
and the three of them pushed, and pushed, and pushed, but the minute they stopped, the dough began to push itself out of the pale 
blue
bathtub again.
The grocer knocked on the door. "What's going on here?" he said.
"It's Mrs Marrow's dough," said the wife of the man next door. "It won't keep still for a minute. It must stay in the tub
or she won't get her hot cross buns made for Good Friday."
"Here," said the grocer to Mrs Marrow. "I'll hold the dough while you switch on the oven. As soon as it's hot, grab
some of this stuff, and make it into hot cross buns."
"But there's too much dough. It will make hundreds of buns," she said.
"Don't worry," said the grocer. "I'll buy them from you. There are plenty of customers who'd love some of them."
So that's what they did. The oven heated quickly. Mrs Marrow and the wife of the man from next door got to work and
made trays of buns. With one hand holding the dough down firmly, the man from next door used the other to hold a
knife and make a big X on each bun. Then the grocer pushed the trays into the oven and shut the door firmly.
A beautiful smell began to fill the kitchen. "That's funny," said Mrs Marrow. "They smell like birthday cakes instead of
hot cross buns."
"That doesn't matter," said the grocer, closing the oven door on the five hundred and fifty-fifth bun. "You've made the
most delicious buns I've ever tasted."
"We think so too," said the man from next door and his wife.
"You've made a fortune as well as these wonderful buns," said the grocer at the end of the day, and he handed Mrs.
Marrow a large bag of money
"Bless me," she said. "You've sold all the buns, and there are none left for me. I'll go home and 
make some more
right away." So she did.
The grocer and the man from next door and his wife came to morning tea on Good Friday. The buns were 
perfect hot
cross buns, but they didn't taste of birthday cake like the five hundred and fifty-five which the 
grocer had sold.
"Well," said Mrs Marrow, "it just goes to show what can happen when you keep thinking about birthday 
cake when
you're mixing hot cross buns."
She has often thought of many other things when she was doing the baking, but never again did she 
have to handle
the dough that wouldn't stop rising.

Mr Gobbledegook
1. Horse For Lunch
Mr Gobbledegook was hungry. He was very hungry indeed. He said to his wife, "I'm so hungry I could 
eat a horse."
She pretended not to hear him, so he said it again. "I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."
"Don't be so silly," replied his wife. "Of course you couldn't eat a horse."
"Yes I could!" shouted Mr Gobbledegook. "I'm hungrier than I've ever been in my life."
"Well," said Mrs Gobbledegook firmly, "I've made some tomato soup for your lunch. It's warming up on 
the stove right
now."
"Tomato soup! What's the good of tomato soup to a chap who's been working on the farm since breakfast ?"
Mrs Gobbledegook made her voice soft and soothing. "I've made some cheese scones to eat with the 
soup," she said.
"Tomato soup and cheese scones! Not very filling, are they ? Didn't you hear me say I'm hungry ? "
Mrs Gobbledegook was a patient wife. "How about apple pie to follow the tomato soup and scones ?" she asked him.
Half of Mr Gobbledegook's frown disappeared. "That sounds a little better," he said. "Anything else ?"
"Not for lunch."
"Then hurry it up," he said crossly. "I could still eat a horse." Mrs Gobbledegook's patience suddenly gave out.
"Well, go and eat one!" she snapped. She went into the kitchen and slammed the door. Then she opened 
it again and
said, "There's Old Moke by the gate. Why don't you start on him?"
Mr Gobbledegook walked out to the gate and looked at Old Moke. All the 
time he was feeling more and more hungry.
Old Moke gazed at him with large sad eyes. Mr Gobbledegook didn't really 
want to eat this faithful friend, but he was
a stubborn man. He wasn't letting his wife have the last word. He stroked 
the horse's chest.
"I'll just cut a little piece off here, Old Moke," he said. "It won't 
hurt much."
When he reached into his pocket for a penknife, the horse nuzzled his 
hand, expecting the usual lump of sugar. Mr
Gobbledegook put the point of the knife against the horse's chest. Then 
he sighed, and put it back in his pocket.
Under all that bluster he was really a kind man. He decided to try a 
piece of the mane, but when he thought about
eating it his stomach turned a somersault. So Mr Gobbledegook patted Old 
Moke's neck and went slowly back to the
house. The door was open and there was Mrs Gobbledegook, smiling gently 
at him.
"Please can I have my lunch now?" asked Mr Gobbledegook. "I would enjoy 
some tomato soup and cheese scones."
"With, apple pie to finish," added his wife.
2. The Handy Man
Mrs Gobbledegook is proud of her husband because he is a handy man. There is nothing he cannot fix. All the neighbours come 
to see Mr Gobbledegook when they want something mended.
"My bathroom tap is leaking." "My car won't start." "My drain is blocked." "My lights have fused." "The hinge is off my door." 
"I can't unscrew this lid."
 These are only a few of the sad tales poured into Mr Gobbledegook's ear, day after day. And at once he stops what he is doing so 
that he can help his friends.
 "Whatever would we do without Mr Gobbledegook ? " the neighbours ask one another. They are grateful for his kindness. There 
is just one trouble.
 He has no time to mend anything that breaks in his
 own house. He is far too busy helping his friends
 with their taps and cars and drains and lights.
 "I'll see to that later," he says. Sometimes, when
 he's feeling tired, he speaks crossly to his wife.
 "Can't you fix that pot-handle (or iron, or stool) yourself ?" he grumbles. "It's perfectly  easy."
One sunny morning Mrs Gobbledegook was working happily in her garden when she found a rose bush that needed tying up. So 
she hunted in every corner of the shed for a piece of wood she could use as a stake. But there wasn't a single piece of wood long 
enough. Mr Gobbledegook had used all the wood to mend his neighbours' fences.
Mrs Gobbledegook peeped into the kitchen to ask her husband if he could find her a stake. But he looked so comfortable, dozing 
in the armchair, newspaper on his knee. For once, no one was asking him to do something.
"I won't disturb him," she thought. "There must be a piece of wood somewhere around." She kept on 
hunting, and in
the corner of the shed, behind the spade and the rake, she found an old broom. The bristles were worn 
right down to
the wood.
"This broom is finished with," said Mrs Gobbledegook to herself, "and the handle would make a fine 
stake." She lifted
Mr Gobbledegook's sharp shiny saw down from the wall, where it hung on a nail. Now Mrs Gobbledegook 
had never
used a saw, because her husband was such a handy man. But she wanted to show him that she was handy 
too. So
she placed her foot firmly on the broom handle and began to saw with long steady strokes. Just as the 
bristly head fell
off, Mr Gobbledegook came running into the shed.
"What on earth are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm just getting a stake for my garden," replied his wife, pointing proudly to the long broom 
handle. Mr Gobbledegook
stared for a moment, then his face grew very red. He stamped his feet and waved his arms in the air. 
Poor Mrs Gobbledegook was startled.
"Look what you've done!" roared her husband. He pointed to the broom head, and when Mrs Gobbledegook looked closely she 
could see that she had sawn clean through two large nails.
"You've ruined my saw," he said, feeling the bluntness of the saw's teeth. And now he looked ready to cry. Mrs Gobbledegook 
felt sad too.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Then the smile came back to her face again. "I've been wondering and wondering what to buy you for 
your birthday next week," she told him. 
"And now I know. I'll buy you a brand new sharp shiny saw!"
"Thank you, my dear," said Mr Gobbledegook. "But next time you want something done, please ask me to help. I'm the handy 
man around this place!"

Mr Gobbledegook and Mr Whippy
One Sunday morning, Mr Gobbledegook was dozing in the morning sunshine when he heard music coming from the
street. He listened carefully as the music became louder and louder.
"I know that tune," he told his wife, who was busy cooking in the kitchen. The music tinkled on gaily. "Oh, dear, what
can the matter be? Dear, dear, what can the matter be?" And Mr Gobbledegook sang in time with it.
"Who can be playing that very old tune?" he wondered.
"That's Mr Whippy, of course," said his wife. "He comes along our street selling ice cream every Sunday morning. Will you go 
and buy some for our lunch?" She gave him some money and he set off for the gate.
"What about your spectacles?" she called after him.
Mr Gobbledegook was supposed to wear his spectacles all the time, but he thought he looked better 
without them,
so now he pretended he hadn't heard his wife calling. The music was growing fainter, and there was no 
sign of Mr
Whippy, so he bustled along the street to the next corner. And there was Mr Whippy, handing out ice 
cream to the
children who stood beside his yellow van. Mr Gobbledegook could see through the glass windows of the 
van into the
neatest of little shops, with a shelf of brightly-coloured flavourings hanging above a deep-freeze 
cabinet.
"We have all kinds of flavours," Mr Whippy was telling the children. "Strawberry, chocolate, 
pineapple, caramel . . ."
Mr Gobbledegook's mouth watered. When he stepped close to the open window, he was surprised to see 
that Mr Whippy was one of his old schoolmates.
"Nice little set-up you have here," he said. "What an easy job . . . dishing out ice cream!" Mr 
Whippy laughed.
"The children keep me busy," he said. "Would you like to ride round the block with me and see what 
goes on?" Mr
Gobbledegook was delighted.
He climbed up beside the driver's seat. Mr Whippy closed the glass window, and climbed up too. As the 
van pulled
away from the kerb, the tinkling music began again. "Oh, dear, what can the matter be?" They drove 
slowly along the
next street, where children, and sometimes grown-ups, came running to meet them. Mr Gobbledegook was very interested. He 
thought his friend had a very pleasant job.
Mr Whippy stopped the van by a brick house with a colourful garden.
"My wife was ill this morning," he said. "I'd like to see how she is. Could you mind the van for ten minutes?"
When Mr Gobbledegook nodded, his friend continued, "If children ask for ice cream, there's a price 
list on the wall."
Then he winked at Mr Gobbledegook. "Eat as much as you like yourself, old chap."
Mr Gobbledegook felt very important. But he was disappointed because there were no children in this 
street. So he
turned the ignition key, and the music began immediately, the van moving forward with bumps and 
jerks. Before long
children were running after the van. When the van stopped, they crowded beside it, so Mr Gobbledegook opened the sliding 
window.
"Well, boys and girls, what do you want?" he asked. The children all began talking at once.
"One at a time, please," said Mr Gobbledegook, holding up his hand. No two children wanted the same 
flavour on
their ice cream, and, without his spectacles, Mr Gobbledegook found it very difficult to read the 
names on the jars. It
was simple to pick the strawberry, or lemon from lime, or caramel from chocolate. More and more children came 
running to the
van. One small boy was crying bitterly because he had lost his money.
"Never mind, son," said Mr Gobbledegook. "Here's your ice cream. You can pay Mr Whippy next time." 
Without his
spectacles Mr Gobbledegook couldn't always tell the difference between a five-cent and a two-cent 
coin. Soon there
was a terrible confusion. All the children were shouting at once.
"You've given me the wrong change!"
"I didn't ask for caramel!"
"I've lost my money!"
"We want Mr Whippy!"
"I want Mr Whippy too," thought poor Mr Gobbledegook. "Why doesn't he come?" To make matters worse, the music started on 
its own, and the children began singing and dancing round the van.
"Go away! Go away!" shouted Mr Gobbledegook in a frenzy, but no one took any notice of him.
"Oh, dear, what can the matter be?" The music jingled on, while the children laughed and yelled. 
Then, to Mr
Gobbledegook's relief, Mr Whippy came running along the road.
"Having trouble?" he asked, smiling. In a short time, he had satisfied the children, fixed the music 
machine, and
headed the van back towards Mr Gobbledegook's street.
"Not such an easy job after all, is it?" he asked.
"Dear me, no!" agreed his friend. "Not for me, anyhow. I did everything the wrong way."
"Never mind," said Mr Whippy. "Every job has to be learnt properly." Then, as Mr Gobbledegook was 
getting out at
his own gate, Mr Whippy handed him a large packet of rainbow ice cream. "Here's something for your 
lunch. I hope you enjoy it."
"Thanks very much," said Mr Gobbledegook. "So long!" His wife was pleased to have the ice cream, 
because their grand-children were coming for lunch. "But I didn't give you enough money for all this," she said, surprised.
Mr Gobbledegook turned a little pink. "No, dear," he replied. "Here's your money back. I earned the ice cream for our lunch!

Daryl and the Banana Passionfruit 
Daryl sat in the grass under the banana passionfruit vine. The vine climbed and twisted up along the 
branches of an
old tree. At the top hung a yellow, plump, banana passionfruit. A fantail flew among the leaves and 
pink flowers. He
was snapping at insects dancing in the sun.
"If I were a fantail," thought Daryl, "I would fly up and get the banana passionfruit." She tried to 
reach up to get it, but,
standing on the very tip of her toes, she was not even near the fruit. She noticed the wheelbarrow 
lying beside the
puriri tree. She wheeled it to the spot under the banana passionfruit vine, and there she turned it 
over. Then she
climbed on top of the wheelbarrow. Her hand was stretched far above her head, but still the fruit was 
too high up.
Down she climbed.
"The rake," she thought, and ran to fetch it. The rake was heavy for Daryl, and it was hard to keep 
it up straight. It
didn't touch the banana passionfruit. "The bucket!"
She ran to the shed and brought back the bucket.
With the bucket on top of the upside-down wheelbarrow, Daryl climbed up. 
Gently she placed one foot on top of the
bucket. Just when she was going to put her other foot on top of it, the 
bucket wobbled. Cling - Clong - Crash! Down
came the bucket, down tumbled Daryl. She got up on her feet again.
"I am going to get it, I am, I am, I AM!" She shouted in her loudest voice 
as she stamped her feet. The fantail flew
away with frightened chirps, and the insects seemed to stop in the middle 
of their dance.
Daryl walked with long, hard steps over to the fence where the red garden 
chair was. Pulling the chair along with her,
she walked back to the banana passionfruit vine. She placed the chair on 
top of the wheelbarrow, and somehow,
while she was balancing with the bucket in one hand, she stood on top of 
the chair. She looked up. The banana
passionfruit was there, swaying gently in the wind. It looked riper and 
fatter than ever. Daryl stretched her arm up. Her
hand was close to the fruit, so close that her middle fingertip just about 
touched it. She stretched herself a bit more.
Then with a Blong, Clong, Crish, Crash, Bump, she fell to the ground. The 
chair fell one way and Daryl, with the bucket her head, fell the other way.
Daryl could hear a "Boing" from the outside of the bucket, which echoed in. a funny way. She lifted 
the bucket off her
head. The banana passionfruit fell into her lap! She held the smooth yellow fruit in her hands, when 
the fantail flew
past. He stopped suddenly, as fantails do. He stayed
on a branch while Daryl bit into the banana passionfruit to get the seeds. She almost forgot the soreness in her body
from the fall, and the small drop of sparkling red blood - on her scraped knee.
She didn't even mind. Smiling, she filled her mouth with passionfruit. The fantail flipped his tail while he dived about in the air 
catching insects.
"I knew I would get it," Daryl said to him. He winked his black eye to her.

The Little Brown Duck
A little brown duck, and a little brown drake lived, along with many other 
duck families, in the park of a great bustling
city. There was a lake in the park, with a green island in the middle. The 
ducks swam happily with their friends on the
lake, chasing each other, catching insects, and diving for the 
water-beetles and small eels they loved to eat.
One day, late in winter, the little brown duck thought about building her 
first nest. She decided to make one on the
green island, but when she waddled ashore to begin she found that all the 
best nooks had already been taken by
older ducks. So the little brown duck spread her wings and flew off across 
the street, looking for a better nesting
place.
In a small quiet garden beside a tall grey building, she found a cosy spot 
beneath the hanging branches of a camellia
bush. Here she built a fine nest lined with dead leaves and grass, mixed 
with her own down and feathers. In the nest,
she laid nine greyish-green eggs, and for four weeks she sat there to hatch them.
Often, the little brown drake flew across from
the park to keep her company under the camellia
bush, and he probably gave her the latest news
of their friends on the lake. All the other ducks
were sitting on their nests on the green island,
and the drakes had joined up in a party at one
end of it so as not to be lonely.
The little brown duck saw, one morning,
that the buds on the camellia bush had swollen
and were breaking into pink blossoms. And in the
nest below, that same day, the eggs hatched into
nine fluffy ducklings, covered in pale down. The
brown duck felt very proud. After a few days
she felt it was time for her to take her new family
out into the world beyond the garden. If she
could get them back to the lake in the park, she
would be able to teach them to swim, to dive,
and to stir up tasty insects by sitting on the water
and paddling their webbed feet. She wanted to
show them the way to hunt for seeds, worms and
frogs, too.
So the brown duck set out, leading her fluffy
babies in single file across the lawn. One by one,
they slipped through a spiked iron fence on to the
footpath. The brown duck had to go by the gate
because she was far too fat to get under it. The
park was just over the road.
But a great roar of traffic suddenly burst upon
them. The little ducklings trembled at the loud
noise. The brown duck stopped. She had not
realised how busy the streets were when she had
flown away from the park. How was she to get
her nine precious ducklings - who could not fly - across this great, wide, street, thronged with cars, buses and lorries.
The brown duck stood at the edge of the footpath
with her children clustered round her, wondering.
If only the brown drake had been there to help. But
he was swimming on the lake. He had begun to
moult, and was in rather a bad mood. Mother
brown duck didn't know what to do.
All at once she made up her mind. She took a
deep breath, quacked at her clutch to follow, and
started out over the busy road! She didn't stop
to look to left or right, either, and she wasn't
even on a pedestrian crossing!
Cars, taxis, buses, lorries and trams rushed
towards them. Horns blew, drivers yelled, bicycle
bells rang, brakes squealed. Office workers in the
nearby buildings left their desks, and ran to the
windows, or out of doors, to look at what the fuss
was about. The whole web-footed family seemed certain to be run over.
Suddenly, a whistle blew. The roaring stopped, the horns fell silent, the clatter ceased. A kind policeman had noticed the plight of 
the ducks. He blew his whistle again, and held up his hand, bringing all the traffic to 
a halt, just so the
duck and her brood could file over the road.
The policeman, the tram and bus drivers, the motorists, the cyclists, and all the people, smiled at her as she passed them proudly.
So the little brown duck safely led her family of nine across that busy street, while everyone smiled 
and waited. When
they reached the other side, the policeman waved the roaring traffic on. The office workers returned to their desks, and 
everything was just as it had been before.
Over the grassy slope in the park the little brown duck waddled proudly, quacking at her children to keep close.
Down to the lake they all marched, and, one by one, flopped into the sunlit waters to swim out to 
where the brown
drake was waiting for them.

My Name is Joseph Parker
My name is Joseph Parker. I am playing hide and seek with my brothers and sisters. I am hiding in the 
big cane
washing basket under the clothesline. I can see all the others from here but they can't see me.
That is Rangi hiding up the pine tree. You can tell, because Patch, our dog, is at the bottom of it, 
barking. He wants
to climb up too.
William is "He". He isn't coming yet. William is by the wooden fence which is home-base. He is hiding his eyes, but I bet he is 
looking. I always do.
Mattie will be in the wood-shed. She is our little sister. She always hides there, but if you find her, she cries, and runs to Mum, 
and we are told off.
 Thomas is with the chickens. I know, because they don't usually make that much noise. Thomas is our biggest brother. I like him 
best of all my brothers.
George is hiding in Patch's kennel. 
He is lucky being so small. I can't fit into it.
Samuel and Winnie have climbed on to the woodshed roof. They are lying so flat you can only see their heads.
And that is Emanuel Morgan hiding in the washing machine. He comes from next door. Mum will be angry if she sees him in it. 
It's the only one we've got.
 William has called, "Coming". He is heading straight for the woodshed.
He knows Mattie is there. Yes - there she goes, crying, and running into the house.
Now he is by the pine tree.
Patch is still barking, but Rangi has climbed right to the top, amongst all the leaves.
Even I can't see him.
Hey! Samuel has fallen from the woodshed with a loud bang!
There goes William, chasing after him,
but Samuel has arrived safely at the wooden fence.
Mattie is back again, eating a large crust.
It makes me hungry,
and my legs are sore curled up like this.
Patch has given up trying to climb Rangi's tree. He is back at his 
kennel, barking at George. There goes William to
see what all the noise is about. Poor George is stuck. William has caught 
him.
We can all come out now.


