IN POLLYWOGLIA

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 236, 24 December 1927, Page 25

IN POLLYWOGLIA

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In Pollywoglia, which is the land where the golliwogs live, they have fairies just as we have here, but the fairies and the golliwogs were never friends. Here, the fairy folk are not afraid of us, if we always smile and never get c.ross, but in Pollywoglia they used to be afraid of the golliwogs because they were so ugly. “With their black faces, their pointed noses and untidy hair, no nice fairy would be seen talking to one!” said the Queen of the Fairies to her subjects. So you can imagine what poor little Tinkletoes felt like when she stayed out late one night, and the sun rose. “Whatever shall I do?” she cried. “I liavo danced and danced all night, and forgotten all about the time, and now the sun has risen.” That was the trouble—the sun having risen. Fairies dance at night because of the dew that is on their wings. When the sun shines it dries the dew up so that the fairies cannot use their wings. Poor little Tinkletoes crept under the largest mushroom she could find, and waited for something to happen. By and by along came Peter, the Golliwog. And he was just as ugly as the Queen had said. “Hullo, my pretty dear, what is your trouble?” he said. “Please, I can’t fly home because the sun had dried my wings,” sobbed Tinkletoes, hoping nobody saw her. “Well, why don’t you wet them again?” said Peter. "Please, it must be dewdrops,” explained Tinkletoes, “that fall nice and softly.” Peter looked at her, and he felt so sorry for her; she was such a little tiling. “I know,” he cried suddenly. “You wait here a moment.” And off he ran down to the bottom of the field where the dew still lay on the grass. Ho knelt down and buried his mop of hair in the dew. Back he came, and stood in front of Tinkletoes. “Spread out your wings,” he cried. And, us the fairy did so, he shook his head of hair, and the dew flicked off in tiny drops on to her wings. She flapped them and they worked. “Oil thank you, sir!” she cried. “I can fly now. And I’ll go to the Queen and tell her how kind you are!” And she rose in the air and flitted away like a tiny butterfly. And that is why the pretty fairies and the ugly golliwogs are great friends to-day. For the fairies know that even if the golliwogs have long noses and black faces, they have kind hearts. FELICE LYTTON (aged 15).

CHRISTMAS LAND The twelfth stroke stirred the quiet of the night. Margaret awoke with a start —it was midnight on Christmas Eve, which as you know is a magic time when wonderful things often happen. There was a flash, and Margaret found herself standing in a silver-paved road in a strange land, with tiny houses on either side, whence sounds of merriment reached her. Our heroine approached a fairy standing at the door of one of the houses, and said timidly, “Please would you tell me where I am?”

"Why! you’re in Christmas-land, of course,” replied the fairy, “and if you wish to see Father Christmas, just walk to the end of this road and down Plum Pudding Street, where he lives.” Margaret followed the fairy's directions, but found Plum Pudding Street very different from what she had expected, for it was paved with cobblestones. At the very end of it stood a little brown house with twisted chimneys, from which columns of smoke rose into the air. A jolly elf appeared who said, “Come in! Welcome to ‘Holly House’!” He led her into a large room where hundreds of pixies were packing parcels of toys into four sacks. In the midst of them stood a little old man, in a red cloak and hood; he had twinkly, blue eyes and a snow-white be&rd. Father Christmas greeted Margaret kindly and after showing her round the room led her to a kitchen where Mother Christmas, assisted by six fairies, was making mince-pies and all manner of Christmas dainties. Then they entered a playroom where sat two laughing children—the Christmas children, a merry pair, “always up to pranks,” the old man said.

Suddenly Father Christmas realised that it was getting late and hurried into his airplane with the toy-sacks behind him. Then he remembered Margaret. “You must go now,” he said, and waved his hand. Everything disappeared, and Margaret found Yierself back in bed. —Joan Brookfield (aged 10).