THE GOOD ENDEAVOUR LEAGUE

Bay of Plenty Beacon, Volume 10, Issue 24, 13 September 1946, Page 6

THE GOOD ENDEAVOUR LEAGUE

What ho, what ho, ma hearties. Well, I suppose you’re all back at school now and working hard once again (at least I hope you’re all working hard). Peterkin has been working very hard this last week, although I am afraid there are no results to show for his labour. Since I refused to stock our new pond with fish, Peterkin decided to do it himself. Accordingly, every day he has set off very early for the beach where he sits on the rocks until he spots a fish swimming past. As soon as he does so, he dives in and quick as a flash siezes it and brings it in to shore. But now the difficult part begins. First he finds it a great temptation to sit down and eat it right there and then. He can’t leave it where it is in case it dies, but he finds it a very difficult job to carry it the long way back to the pool. Somehow the fish always seems to disappear before Peterkin has gone half the distance (disappears inside Peterkin, that is). However, if he sticks at it long enough, he may, in the end, become too full to eat any more fish, in which case one or two might reach the pool. I say ‘might,’ because when Peterkin has eaten a lot of fish, he invariably lies down in the shade somewhere and goes sound asleep. However, no doubt we shall see. Cheerio for this week. P.T.W. 1 -

LAST WEEK’S COMPETITION

ALPHABETICAL QUIZ

Blow the man down sailors all the entries for last week’s competition which I received almost flooded me out of my cave. But strange as it may seem, I didn’t have any difficulty at all in choosing the winners, for there were only four totally correct ones sent in. Most of you tripped up on number 12 which was a letter meaning ‘Yourself.’ The answer to this one sailors was not ‘l’ but ‘U.’ The tickets this week go to: Gael Carpenter lan Brewartl Colleen Boon.

The other correct entry came from a sailor living at Waimana, but there was no name on it, so I am afraid that unlucky sailor will have to miss out. The three prize winners may collect their tickets from the Beacon Office with my best compliments. P.T.W.

NEXT WEEK’S COMPETITION

TELEGRAMS Here’s another telegram competition sailors; they always seem to be popular. This time I want you all to make up a telegram with every word starting with the letter ‘T.’ This one, I .think will keep you thinking for awhile—long enough to really earn a ticket anyway. Righto sailors, go ahead, and post your entries to P.T.W. c/o Beacon Office. P.T.W.

CONTRIBUTIONS More contributions are wanted sailors. Remember, any type of article, but especially jokes, poems and stories etc. original or copied is acceptable. (If you send in a story, do not make it too long). For every

contribution printed in the page, points will be awarded, and when ten points have been gained, the sailor will receive a free picture ticket. P.T.W.

MY MAIL BOX Dear Peter the Whaler, I would like to join the Good Endeavour League. I am 9 years 11 months old and lam in Std 4. I am enclosing the answers to the Alphabetical puzzle. Yours truly, Gael Carpenter.

(Welcome board the Good Endeavour Gael; we are glad to have you sailing with us. Congratulations on winning a ticket this week. I hope you will continue to be lucky in the competitions. Your certificate has been posted. P.T.W.)

JOKES Teacher (pointing to a picture of a Zebra): “What is this called Mary?” Mary, aged five, thinks hard, but remains silent. Teacher: Z—z—z. Mary: Zorse.

Two London children were in the country on holiday. Suddenly the little girl exclaimed: “Coo, Jimmy, look at that green snake. Is he dangerous?” “ ‘Couse he is, Siss—just as dan-"" gerous as the ripe ones.”

“Do you know David,” said the professor’s wife, “that it’s 25 years ago today since you proposed to me?”

“Indeed,” he replied absently, “and did you accept me?”

“Why is your neighbour so unpopular now?”/ “He’s fixed his lawnmower so that you have to drop sixpence in the slot to make it go.”

BLUE The Master’s out the Servant’s eross, The Misses has the ’flu, The kids at school the house is quiet, There’s nothing I can do. I’ve chewed my basket till I’m sore, There’s nothing in my dish, And if the cat’s plate I could reach I’d steal her beastly fish. . ! So here I am a sorry dog, Perhaps I’ve got the ’flu, I think I’ll sneak upstairs to “Her” She pets me if I’m blue. Copied. Murray Reid. (Four points to you Murray for this poem. P.T.W.)