Mundane Musings

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 200, 12 November 1927, Page 20 (Supplement)

Mundane Musings

Holiday Tasks

“You'll see that he does his holiday task, won't you?” said Noel's mother to me at the station, as she pressed three railway tickets, for the transport of Noel, bicycle and dog, into my hand. “Of course,” I replied. “What is it?” “He’s got to read Scott’s ‘Woodstock,’ ” replied Noel’s mother. “How ghast—l mean, that will be delightful,” I replied, seeing Noel’s eye upon me. “All right, I'll see that he does it. Good-bye.” That was the beginning of the holidays. About the middle Noel looked up suddenly as he was having breakfast, and said “Bother.” “Never mind, Noel,” I said, absently —I was reading the Home papers, and had just got to the bit about Lady Dabb-Conger eloping with her husband’s chauffeur —“we’ll go to-morrow j instead.” “I wasn’t thinking of that,” he replied. “I’ve just remembered my holiday task.” I put down the paper with a start. I had just remembered my promise. “You don’t mean to say, Noel,” I said, solemnly, “that you haven’t yet read that fascinating book, ‘Woodstock,’ by one of the greatest romantic writers of the world? What is this generation coming to, I wonder?” “Have you read it, auntie?” inquired Noel innocently. “Me? Well, I —I —well, as a matter of fact —you see ” “Because I thought, if you had, perhaps you could tell me about it, and then I shouldn’t have the sweat of reading it.” I thought deeply. “Would that, strictly speaking, be quite fair, Noel” “No, perhaps it wouldn’t.” said Noel, who still has the prep.-school standard of honour. I breathed a sigh of relief. I haven’t. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Noel,” I said. “You shall read it aloud, to me. I’ll make it my holiday task, too, listening to it. It will —er —refresh my memory of the work; and, besides, we can laugh at all the jokes together. It’s so much nicer than . laughing at them alone, isn’t it” | “Right-o,” said Noel. “When shall j we begin? To-day?” | “Make it to-morrow, Noel,” I said hastily*. “I’ve got to finish ‘The Blood -Hunter of Hackney’ to-day, so that I can take it back to the library. | They asked me to return my copy as j soon as possible, as there is such a I run on it. Duty before pleasure, you j know.” It was unfortunate that circum- J stances, in the shape of the reviving weather, cricket, bathing and other duties, should so have concurred that it was a week before Noel’s return home that we remembered the holiday task to which we had been looking : forward. . ! “We’ll start to-night, Noel, I said. So that evening Noel produced, in a I strikingly unthumbed condition, the copy of “Woodstock” his mother had inserted in a corner of his suitcase, while I produced the vague-looking frock I was knitting for Mrs. Dibden’s vague-looking baby, and prepared myself to listen. Noel read a few pages. “Do you think, auntie,” he said, after a slight pause, “it’s going to be very exciting?” “Exciting, Noel?” I answered. I should just say it is! How the girl with the green eyes is going to get away from that horrible Red-handed Robold, who has just tied her to a tree with a two-minute bomb beside it, in the middle of an impenetrable forest, I simply can’t —er —I mean . . .” The blank expression on Noel’s face pulled me up in time. Somehow my thoughts had strayed to “The crimefiend of Finchley.” “How silly of me, Noel! I must have been thinking of another of Scott’s books . . . go on.” Noel went on. I had gone mentally through the weekly accounts, knocked off twopence in the butcher’s faulty addition, and written a pretty stiff letter to the laundry about the ironmould on my washing-silk frock, when I heard Noel say: “Do you remember if we come to any jokes soon, auntie ?” “Jokes?” I repeated, collecting my straying thoughts. “Ah, yes, Jokes, I think the jokes come all together, toward the end. Scott’s humour was like that, you know. It took a long time to work up. Sometimes it took such a long time that the book was over before the jokes had begun. Still.” I added, determined to be fair, “I’ve always heard he was a very good son.” There was a long silence. Then Noel spoke, hesitatingly. “You don’t think he’s just a little bit dull, do you, auntie?” I put down my knitting firmly. “I will ’fess up, Noel. I expect my literary taste is awful, but I never could read him, myself. I think we’ve done enough holiday task for to-night, don't you? Let’s go really wild and have a game of tiddley-winks.”