A LITTLE WORLD FOR LITTLE PEOPLE

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 318, 31 March 1928, Page 27

A LITTLE WORLD FOR LITTLE PEOPLE

IN THE JOY SHOP

FRIENDSHIP IS A STEADY LIGHT SHINING IN DARK PLACES RAT-a-tat-tat. . . . The Doorkeeper knocked loudly on the counter of the Joy Shop and stood twiddling his thumbs with the greatest impatience. The little gilt clock on the topmost shelf chimed sleepily. “Shop!” eaiied the Doorkeeper, knocking again. The round, genial face of the Joy Shop man appeared at the window. “Come in,” said the Doorkeeper. “You’re not attending to business, friend. You musn’t keep customers waiting like this. I’ve been here exactly eight minutes and twenty-five seconds by that clock up there and I’m sure it’s running slow.” “I set it this morning by Happy Town time and nothing ever goes wrong in Happy Town,” said the Joy Shop man. “I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting, but the Little Thought calJcd me out to look at a rainbow and I thought some of the colours would be useful for bottling and letting loose on dull days. . . . Now, what can I show you, sir?” “I want a sailor suit and a hat with the name of a ship on it. also some short white socks like little boys wear.” “I am afraid I have none in stock just now,” said the Joy Shop man, briskly, “but a new shipment is expected in shortly.” “Dear, oh dear,” sighed the Doorkeeper. “That’s the worst of shops. You go in to buy a suit of clothes or a toothbrush and come out with an umbrella or a mousetrap. It’s a pity about this. I wanted those things most particularly,” “But why?” asked the Joy Shop man. “Well,” answered the Doorkeeper, in a confidential whisper, “just for a little while I wanted to be a small boy again. Of course, it would have meant tricking the Dawn Lady, but she knows me so well that I am sure she would have forgiven me. You see she’s running a painting competition for non-prize-winners and when I heard about it my heart gave a great bound. Then I discovered that it is only for children of fifteen and under, so I sat all the morning on the steps of the Place-of-You-Never-Can-Tell and thought about it. Now, this is what I would like to do. If I had a sailor suit, a hat, with the name of a ship on it and some short white socks like little boys wear I could come down Tiptoe Street with some of the new Sunbeams and my painting in my pocket.” “But you’re bigger than any of them.” “I could bend my legs.” “And you would have to raise your hat to the Dawn Lady. ’

“I could just tip it.” “But,” said the Joy Shop man, very sternly, “when she asked for your name, age and address you would have to tell her a story.”

The Doorkeeper whistled softly under his breath. “Oh, I won’t bother about waiting for the next shipment,” he said, hurriedly, “and I certainly don’t want an umbrella or a mousetrap. Would you please hand me down one of those jolly little packets of aniseed balls.”

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