ROUND THE CORNER IN HAPPY TOWN

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 56, 28 May 1927, Page 26 (Supplement)

ROUND THE CORNER IN HAPPY TOWN

JINGLE BELLS

Paul lived in a valley which in the summer was a fairyland of appleblossom, with smaller flowers sprinkling the fields, where grassy hills, fading into blue, rose about his home, a low, thatched farmhouse.

Stretching away from Paul’s garden gate was a long white road that crept snakelike around the green hills. Sometimes in the winter this green would disappear in one night, and Paul would wake to whiteness in the little farmyard and a crown of whiteness on each tree, and through the air snow would be falling, to continue all day and all night. One day, at such a time as this, Paul sat on a high stool and looked outside at a white and dazzling world. Not a sign of colour was to be seen anywhere. and no movement except the ceaseless turning and falling of the silent snowflakes as they piled up on the sill outside and flattened against the glass. And in Paul’s heart \vas a great disappointment. Usually a> this time of the day, once a week, far over the twisting road, up the hillside —now hidden from view—he would watch The Green Dragon coach coming. For Paul lived in the days when trains were still little more than dream things in the brains of men, and when travelling was done in bright coaches, those olden-day chariots of romance that were drawn by their shining-coated horses over the little roads of England.

Week after week Paul would watch The Green Dragon. Sometimes he would race across the fields to hwe a closer view, and wave his small hand as it passed him by.

But this week there had been no coaches running—which meant no post and no way even of getting provisions you might happen to have run out of. Of course, Paul’s mother was wise and laid up stores against days like these and she would make up a big fire and try to brighten things up as much as possible, in the evenings gathering little Paul into her arms to tell him wonderful stories about the far-off world he had never seen.

But the sad thing was that in a few days his birthday would be here and there was no way of getting into the nearest town to buy presents.

Everyone said the thaw would soon come. In England snow never lasted very long, and Paul’s heart would bound at the thought. But though the snow at last actually did stop falling, the world still lay white and silent under its soft covering, like a Sleeping Beauty waiting for the kiss of the Sun.

One day, just two days before his birthday, as Paul sat at the window he began to get very sleepy and slowly his head sank forward on his arm, his eyes closed and he fell asleep. He was wakened by the sound of bells, little tinkling bells, and of his mother’s voice calling him. ‘Look. Pauli” she said. “Look up the road and see what is coming.” And Paul, clambering up on his chair, and staring out over the white world, saw «■ wonderful thing.

Plunging through the soft snow with jingling bells round their necks were three black horses dragging a green sleigh. Nearer and nearer it came to Paul’s house till it reached the white gate, where it stopped. Hurrying into the hall and flinging open the front door, Paul’s mother and father stood there waiting, while a coachman in green stepped off the box and walked across the yard.

Paul, watching from his perch at the window, had never seen such a thing before. Where could it have come from? And why had it stopped at their door?

But in another minute he understood. His mother was back in the room and was telling him to hurry upstairs for his outdoor clothes.

‘‘lt is an old sleigh belonging to Squire Haverland,” she explained. “He has had it put away for years, and the snow has never, until now, been thick enough to bring it out. He is sending it into town to fetch some parcels, and thought we might like to go too.”

You may be sure that Paul did not take very long to muffle himself up in his warmest clothes, and in a few minutes, tucked up safely on the front seat beside the driver, while his mother and father sat behind, he was speeding away over the shining snow, drawn by the black, gleaming horses, to the little gay town of shops, the only sound being the bells round the horses’ necks, which tinkled as they went.

A SIMPLE TRICK

Get a small stick, and tell someone that he will get tired out before he has carried the stick out of the room you are in. He will laugh at you, but you can show him you are right. Chip a wee bit olf the stick with your knife, and tell him to carry it out of the room, .And go on doing this until he is quite tired of carry these tiny scraps of stick outside. It won’t be long before he will own up that he is tired, and then everyone can laugh, and say you were quite right.

POURING OUT

Jill loves jam and Claude loves cake, And Bee loves buttered toast; I love to sit beside the uot And pour out tea the most. Jill and jam, and Claude and cake, And buttered toast and Bee — But oh, I love the pouring out When we sit down to tea. Take away one-third of Six, and leave nine. Answer: Take away “S” which is one-third of the word six, and you have IX left. Smiles are smiles only when the heart pulls the wires.

TWILIGHT Sing a song of twilight. When the world is still and grey, And stealing o’er the hedgerows With the drowsy scent of hay. Come the faery-folk a-peeping. For the shadows make them bold, And they want to know where mortals Hide their store of sunshine gold. TOE PIXIES When morning comes, the pixies wake With ' joy and gratitude. They think of life so full of love, And fun, and friends, and food. And then they medidate a while On all there is to do That helps to give real happiness By thoughtful service, too. By thinking of these pleasant things In this nice, quiet way They do their parts with merry hearts To bless the coming day. WASTEFUL The thrushes are a. cheery pair But not so young as once they were, And Mrs. Thrush, I am afraid, Is worried by their sparrow maid. “You flighty creature I” she will say. ‘•Don’t brush those wholesome crumbs away I How often shall I have to speak? Just peck them up. You’ve got a beak! ” —Sent in by Phyllis Symon.

NEIGHBOURS Croak, said the Toad, I’m hugry, I think, To-day I’ve had nothing to eat or to drink; I’ll crawl to a garden and jump through the pales, And there I’ll dine nicely on slugs and on snails. Ho, ho! quoth the Frog, is that what you mean ? Then I’ll hop away to the next meadow stream, There I will drink, and eat worms and slugs, too, And then I shall have a good dinner, like you. A CORK TRICK Now this trick will not only amuse your friends, but it will give you much fun doing it First of all, get a basin of water with a cork floating on the top of it, and ask your friend to make the cork go to the bottom of the bowl without touching it. He’ll try pushing it down with his finger, so that it bobs to the bottom. But it won’t stay there. Still, you who know the trick can make it do so. You just get a glass and quickly press it down in the bowl with the cork inside. And you’ll find the cork sink to the bottom of the water almost at once. CHIMES New days, new ways Pass by. . . Love stays.

THE LITTLE PEAR TREE

There were six pears on the little pear tree, and they were almost ready to pick. The gardener was very proud of them, and hoped soon to have them on the table. They had been hard and green, but little by little, as the sun shone on them, they became pale yellow and a faint pink blush on one cheek. What beauties they were! One night, however, one of the pears, for some reason or another, fell with a thud from the tree upon the soft ground beneath.

“There!” said the tree, as she felt the pear go, “now he will be good for nothing. Hang on tightly, the rest of you! ”

The pear that had fallen lay all night alone under the tree, but very early in the morning, just as the sun was rising, little Bunny Cotton-tail came hopping along, looking for his breakfast.

“Dear me! Dear me!” he said. “They’ve been and mowed the lawn again, and all that lovely clover I was saving for my breakfast is gone. Whatever shall I do?” Just then he spied the pear lying on the ground, and gave a great hop over to it. Here was a treat indeed! He settled himself down beside it, and nibbled. How crisp and juicy it was! “Thank you for the good breakfast, little pear,” he said as he hopped away. And that was a great satisfaction to the fallen pear. It lay there on the ground, and the warm sun shone upon it, just as it had always done, and the fresh breeze blew over it, and the night dews watered it. And little by little it began to ripen, just as the pears that were left upon the trees were ripening; only, perhaps, a trifle faster. Then, presently, along came Rubythroat. the humming-bird, looking for nectar in the dump of blue larkspur.

“Hum-m-m, what’s this?” he hummed to himself. “Not a single flower left! Here’s a pretty how-d’ do!” Then the sweet scent of the fallen pear attracted his notice, and “Hum-m-m,” his long bill was sucking its sweet juice.

“Much obliged, I’m sure,” he hummed, as he darted away. And again the fallen pear felt satisfied. And so it went on, hour by hour. Busy little insects ran over the fallen pear and tasted his sweetness. Painted butterflies and industrious bees found his nectar. And even the hornets that had built their paper home in the gooseberry bush near the kitchen, where they kept the air free from troublesome flies, slaked their thirst at the fountain of the fallen pear.

Last of all came Bushy-tail, the squirrel. Nuts were scarce this time of year, but seeds were good—pear seeds' So he caught up the remnant

of the fallen “pear and whisked it away to the big wild-cherry tree at the edge of the wood. There he sat, high up, and ate the little pear seeds for his supper—all but one. That fell to the ground, and the earth covered it.

In the meantime the gardener had picked the five golden pears that were

still hanging on tightly to the pear tree. He took them to the cook, who put them on a damask napkin in a gleaming silver dish. “I thought there were to be six,” she said. “Master will be disappointed.” “There were,” answered the gardener, “but one fell off, and so was good for nothing. So the five blushing pears had a place of honour on the table among the flowers and shining candles, and everybody praised their beauty and their flavour. “There should have been six.” said the master, “but one fell off the tree, and so was good for nothing.” What do you think about it? FAIRY SHOES Cobbler, cobbler, sole me a shoe— Stitch it speedily, cobbler, do; The pipes of the pixie pipers call And I must away to the Fairies’ ball. Cobbler, cobbler, heel me a shoe. Stitch it skillfully, cobbler, do; Wax your gossamers, pull them tight, For I shall be dancing the livelong night. Cobbler, cobbler, post me your bill: “Primrose Cottages,” under the hill. Pearls of the morning dew we use To pay for the patching of fairy shoes. ON THE VELDT The little Bantu children who live on the veldt in South Africa have no toys bought ready made in a shop, and yet they are a happy-hearted throng. Let us peep in upon them at their play. Chocolate brown are their hands, their roguish shiny faces, their plump little bodies; black are their tight little curls and bright eye's. How they laugh and how interested and absorbed they are in their games of “Let’s pretend.” Bantu children have the pleasure of making everything themselves. We watch, longing to lend a hand. There are the boys, building the walls of the round doll’s house with interlaced sticks and twigs, covered with dabs of clay. The only opening is a low one for going out and in, and the door is just a hurdle that can be put up at night. The girls come with armfuls of reeds and grasses, and thatch the pointed roof. They make, too, the grass mats for sleeping, and fetch the wood to build up a fire in the hollow in the middle of the hut. All this is just a copy of what they have watched going on when their grown-up relations and friends build a new home.

And it 'is a fine time they have with the clay, especially as there is no one to bother them about clothes, or keeping their feet dry. They knead it and work it and roll it till it is soft enough to form into little pots and pans and baskets, on the models of those used in the daily life of tlieir homes, those

i huts clustered together in the near distance like a group of bee-hives. The doll family comes next —grand-

parents, fathers and mothers, and babies are all there, life-like in clay, as are the oxen, goats, and sh'eep which form their property. All being now complete, we are quickly plunged into stirring and lively times. All the ceremonies of a wedding are gone through—so many clay oxen must be given to the father of the clay bride; visits are made in correct and lengthy fashion; grand feasts are prepared and given to neighbours near and far—and the daily work is carried on as the children have seen it done from their babyhood in the huts of the kraal. So the games go on with these children of the Bantu, scattered over the v r eldt. and on the eastern slopes where the wooded mountains run down to meet the white foam at the edge of the dark blue sea.

THE ELF-WIFE I Klidyr, the elf-wife, j Keeps a small tavern I In a moss-carpeted, j Fern-curtained cavern. ; When fairies come riding On wood-mice for horses, i They halt by her threshold; j She brings in the courses. And brims all the flower-cups :On her wide toadstool table, I Then takes the mice, squeaking, i To a leaf-littered stable. And there’s never a fairy ■ But knows the small tavern i In the moss-carpeted, j Fern-curtained cavern. Lt is only by loving a thins that T j van make it yours. .....aonal* | —George Macao"""