THE WENDY HUT

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 83, Issue 41, 18 February 1939, Page 12

THE WENDY HUT

OUR CHILDREN’S CORNER

THE CALL OF THE EAGLE

Chief Black Eagle looked sombrely down Coyote Valley, upon the log cabins that indicated the coming of the dreaded Palefaces into the Shawanoes’ territory.

Chief Black Eagle had been away for many moons on a lone mission, and during that time the white folk had come to the shores of Faithful Lake, cleared the dense forests and built their homes. Their appearance was very disturbing to the returned brave.

As he thought over these things, the sound of a clear, boyish voice raised in song fell upon his ears. It came from somewhere in the forest. A sly smile spread across the features of Chief Black Eagle. With his tomahawk grasped in his hand, and his hunting knife loosened in its sheath, the Indian stole stealthily away among the forest trees.

Alden McDonald received no warning of his danger until the Shawanoe Indian strode out on to the dusky trail and stood stock still, with tomahawk upraised, barring the way. After several moments the chief spoke. “Why must you palefaces steal our country, take our hunting grounds and slay our people? I kill you all.” “Well, go on, and may your efforts be rewarded.” came the calm, clear reply.

The Indian s weapon-hand dropped to his side, for he was vastly puzzled. "You don't fear death, then,” the Indian answered.

“Do you think that we white folk are less courageous than you Indians? Can your people avoid the hour of death? Even now the shadow of death lurks near you. Get off the trail!” Alden called. There was the light of truth in the twelve-year-old boy’s eyes and the ring of sincerity in his voice, that made Chief Black Eagle leap aside from the trail. At the same moment Alden struck quickly with the butt of his rifle, and a rattlesnake lay writhing in the centre of the path.

"You saved my life,” exclaimed the Indian, though rather guiltily, for he had every intention of scalping the innocent boy.

••Your hour hasn’t come yet,” the 1 boy answered. i The Indian hung his head. When | he looked up a light shone in his black eyes that had never been seen there I before. "Listen brother learn to call like an eagle and in your own hour of need I’ll answer,” the Indian said, turned, and strode off in the direction of his lodge. Some years passed. A band of marauding Indians from another territory swept down upon the little settlement, and soon it was in smoking ruins and the settlers were all taken captive. But the Shawanoes showed no intention of either joining the attackers or opposing them. Neither did they join the throng that danced that night around the poles, to which Alden McDonald and the others were bound. The white people knew that the dance would end with them being flung on to the dry wood piled around them.

All hope seemed past, when Alden suddenly remembered. Twice he uttered the eagle’s call, and, to his delight, he heard the answering calls.

A band of screaming, savage Indians broke suddenly from the dark fringe of trees. Chief Black Eagle came rushing into the forefront of the charge; madness in his fiery eyes, his tomahawk upraised. This was the sort of thing for which the fierce red man had been waiting. Even in the maddened moments of massacre he didn’t forget his promise nor the reason for which he had hidden his braves in the adjoining valley. Let others slay as they would, his duty lay where Alden McDonald and the other settlers stood bound to the poles. Alden smiles as this strange man stood on guard before him, but no answering light showed in the Indian’s eyes, nor did he attempt to release the prisoners. Chief Black Eagle’s eyes followed every phrase of the battle. Then, when it was over, he released the prisoners.

“Well, you are certainly an honest Injun, chief,” was all Alden could say.

THE NEW HOUSE

Mrs. Sparrow hopped discontentedly about the beam, behind which she had her nest. "I’m tired of straw tucked away in eaves,’ ’she said. "Why don’t you go and get a nice home for me in a tree like the other birds?” Mr. Sparrow, however, didn't care for work in any form, and, looking for a place in which to build a house, and then building it, seemed very much like hard work to him. So he hopped about, trying to think of a good reason for not building a new home. At last he thought of something. “How would you like to rent a house, my dear?” he asked. "Then we can see whether we like living in a tree.” Mrs. Sparrow was quite agreeable io that, so off flew Mr. Sparrow. “I'll have a nice dinner waiting for you when you get back,” Mrs. Sparrowcalled after him, so he didn't feel so badly about the unaccustomed work. He came back soon to report he had found a very fine house to let. As a matter of fact it had belonged to another bird and his family, who had deserted it to follow- the sun, but that didn’t prevent Mr. Sparrow from moving into it. He led Mr. Sparrow Io the nest. She examined it carefully, then said in approving tones: "You've found a very nice house indeed. John. It's so high, and we’re out of reach of the cat, and It's so nice and airy.” "Too airy, if you ask me.” said Mr. Sparrcw. “I wish there were more leaves on the tree. It's going to be cold and draughty here. I'm afraid." "Nonsense, John,” said Mrs. Sparrow sharply. “The weather is quite warm, and it's getting warmer all the time. It won't be cold here.” "It will be cold here if it snows,” laid Mr. Sparrow pessimistically. There couldn’t be any snow at this time of the year. Feel how hot the sun is,” replied Mrs. Sparrow. “The sun doesn’t shine at night,” insisted Mr. Sparrow, "and snow will make a very cold covering.” Mrs. Sparrow, however, declined to carry on the conversation, and started to set her new house in order. That night, when the sun went down, however, she gave a big shiver, but she didn’t say anything, and settled down to sleep. It seemed after only a few- minutes though that she was awakened by something cold and damp falling on her face. "John, John!” she said: “it’s snowing!” Mr. Sparrow woke up slowly. “So it is, so it is,” he murmured sleepily. But he was wise enough not to say "I told you so.” “Well, we'd better flyback to our old home. There won’t be any snow there,” he said.

And that is what they had to do. Mrs. Sparrow was very glad to get baek to her old, cosy home, and she has never since expressed any desire to move away from it again.

In Frolicksome Mood

THE LUCKY LOAF

In a little old village there lived an old woman who was also little, but very energetic, and she lived alone in her own little cottage, keeping house for herself.

She did not have very much money, though, and one day, when she was getting ready to make some bread, as she did every week, she discovered she had no yeast, and not a penny to buy any with. “Oh, deary, deary me,” she said. “What shall I do now?” But there wasn’t any answer to her question, so she took off her apron and wandered sadly out into her garden. She looked at the bright flowers, then suddenly her eyes caught sight of several puffballs of thistle down floating in the breeze.

“Why, the very thing,” she exclaimed. “Nothing could be lighter than thistle down, and if I mixed some of that with the flour my bread would rise beautifully.” And quickly she ran after the thistle down and gathered it up in her hand. She went back to her kitchen and soon had the bread ready for the oven. She put it in and settled back comfortably . . . but a dreadful thing

happened! No sooner did the loaf begin to cook than it began to rise at a tremendous speed, and before the old woman knew what was happening the oven door was burst open and the dough began to fill the room. It din’t stop rising even then. When it had filled the room from wall to wall it began pushing out the ceiling, and finally it went completely through the roof. When the old woman could gather her wits together sufficiently she ran to the neighbours for help, and soon all the people in the village were gathered around her little cottage. But none of them could offer any suggestion. After a few hours the bread was thoroughly cooked, and it stopped rising. One of the pillagers went up to the bulging wall of the cottage and broke off a piece of the gigantic loaf. He tasted it, then cried out m delight: “This is delicious; it is the finest, lightest bread I have ever tasted.” Immediately the other villagers ran to the bread so that they could get some to taste, but the village constable strode forward and stopped them. “Now then,” he said, “this isn’t fair. If you want to taste this wonderful bread you will have to pay a penny. Put your money in my helmet.”

And since all the villagers were very eager to taste the bread and when they tasted it wanted as much more as they could g£fc, the pennies came rolling in. People in the neighbouring villages heard about the strange loaf of bread and came flocking to see it in their

THE LIFE OF A PLANT. A wise old philosopher once described, very briefly and very beautifully, the full meaning of life when he wrote that there was a time for all things—a time for work and a time for play, a time tor sleeping and a time for waking. Now it is spring, the time for waking, and the joyous songs of the thrushes seem to be ringing the plants awaKe. There are four great chapters in the life of a plant—leafing, flowering, fruiting and withering away. As in most countries, there is a regular changing of seasons, so these seasons are shown in the variation of the plant, with its spring foliage, its ummer flowers, its autumn fruits and its winter rest, or death. Spring is the season of young things, and we see this in the crowds of seedlings that rise from the ground. The seeds were formed in the sunshine of the previous summer; they were scattered in the autumn, and have lain asleep in the ground throughout the cold and storms of winter. As the spring showers moisten the ground and the water soaks into the seeds, the living matter reawakens and the young stem grows towards the light. Day by day the plant strengthens and grows, helped by the sun and the growing warmth of the temperature, until at last the buds appear. A few

j days later they break into flower, Iflowers of pale golds and creams, the delicate young blossoms that are the heralds of the richer colours, the reds, blues and purples of summer. As you glance around your gardens during these lengthening evenings you will notice the daisies folded back to sleep, and the daffodils slowly nodding in the last breeze. Then as the little puffs of scent arise from the freesias and the stocks, remember the wonderful story of the life of these plants and how they were prepared months ago, in the hot, still days of summer.

Why doesn’t an egg mind being boiled? —Because it becomes hardened to it.

Who dares Io sit before the King with his hat on?—The King’s coach-

What kind ot fishermen are always unhappy?—The whalers (wailers).

What has a heart that doesn’t beat?—A cabbage.

dozens. After a few days all the bread had been beaten, but the old woman didn’t mind. She had sufficient money to have the walls and roof of her cottage mended and still had enough to keep her in comfort for the rest of her days.

Wendy’s Letter-Box

(Letters to be addressed “WENDY,” co “Chronicle” Office, Box 105, Wanganui.)

Quaint Antics Of Kangaroos Interest Visitors

Dear lies o£ Letterland, — By jove, but I seemed to have managed quite well last Lettcrland Day, and I hope you found the page interesting enough. 1 wonder how the Weather Clerk is treating our Wendy. Rain can so easily mar a holiday, can’t it? Beyond this point 1 am afraid I’m tongue-tied, so I will choose another story, and this time it is about Red Indians! Long ago, says the legend, the great Manito, god of the Red Indians, decided to walk among his people in disguise, in order to test their characters. He considered kindness a greater virtue than courage, so he ehanged himself into an old man, and limping on a crutch, set out on his adventure. It was summer, and Manito met with much kindness, which he rewarded gratefully, until he came to a certain village where a feast was being prepared. Looking weary and hot, he sat down on the scorched grass and watched the proceedings. He could smell the salmon cooking, and the bear steaks and the new bread. He saw the maidens carrying cool water from the spring to make refreshing drinks. He saw the young men painting their faces red, green anil blue, the colour of lightning, and putting feathers in their black hair. He knew the young men were going to dance to the songs of the maidens, and he was pleased to see I hem looking happy though nobody took any notice of him. When the women had finished cooking they put on their best clothes and their blue beads, and then the young chief came out and lighted the tire round which they were to dance, to keep evil away while they were enjoying the revels. Then the drums sounded, and the feast started. The meats were spread out on the grass round the lire, and as the people took their places some of them threw impatient glances at the old man sitting quietly a little way off. But not one crumb of food did they offer the poor stranger. “I certainly have not asked for anything,” thought Manito. ”1 have not given them a fair chance. 1 will approach 4nd speak to them.” When the dancing and singing began, he hobbled towards the circle and bowed to the chief. “1 can hear the roar of water.” he said. ‘‘The ice has given way beneath the sun, there is a mighty torrent pouring down into the river, and soon this place will be in the midst of flood. Save yourselves while there is yet time.”

“Take your beggar’s face out of my sight!” shouted the chief. ‘‘Begone before 1 set my young men upon you!” Manito began to plead humbly, and then the young men snatched up the rattles which they used during the dance, and rattling them angrily, drove the old man away. They chased him to the edge of the forest, shaking their rattles in bis ears, and hitting him with them, and suddenly Manito turned round and looked at them!

Then the Hood burst into the village, and all the young men were changed into snakes with rattles in their tails. And to this day the rattle snake rattles its tail, just as the Red Indians shake their rattles when they dance, or when they are on the war path. Oh! Look at that clock! Deary me, but the Press will be late if 1 tarry another instant. Cheerio! MR. PRINTERMAX.

THE BEAVER. The beaver is a very interesting animal. About 30 inches long, he has webbed hind feet, very strong, chisellike teeth, and a remarkable tail, oroad and flat, which he uses to steer himself when he is swimming. His coat is of reddish brown fur, with a thick undercoat, and it is so soft and warm that it is often the beaver’s undoing, for trappers like to take his coat. So many beavers have been killed to make furs, that now they exist in numbers only in North America. Beavers live in colonies near a creek or a river, in which they build their winter homes, or lodges, as they are called. In the warm weather they live idi the woods, but when the cold weather begins to hint at snow and frost to come, they begin to build their homes of logs, half in and half out of the water. Logs and boughs, gnawed with their strong teeth, are plastered together with mud, which becomes as hard as iron in cold weaher, and so makes the lodge secure from attack by enemies. Sometimes the walls are six feet thick, and inside they are neatly lined with grass. There are several underwater entrances, and, of course,* there are air holes.

When building or repairing a lodge, the beavers will fell whole trees, gnawing around their trunks until' they crash to the ground. Then 1 hey are pushed into the water and guided to where building operations are being carried on. The lodges must be in deep water, to ensure this, beavers will often build dams, also of boughs and logs, plastered with mud, which are triumphs of engineering skill. Sometimes these dams are over 100 feet long and 12 feet wide.

Our Birthday Book

“MANY HAPPY RETURNS’' OU IHE WAY IO FEBRUARY 18, J 93.7. “Lilac Time,” Marybank. “Bonnie Mary,” Mangaweka. “Puss in Boots,” Wangaehu. “Chinook,” Kai Iwi. “Lloma,” Ratana. “Daddy Xmas Wife,” Wanganui East. FEBRUARY 19. “Love-in-a-Mist,” Patea. “Daisy Leaf,” Wellington. “The Mysterious Wanderer,” Wanganui. “Mother-in-law’s Sweetheart,” Ohingaiti. FEBRUARY 19. “Hut’s Nurse,” Wanganui. “Jack-out-of-the-Box,” Mangamaliu. “Singing Stream,* Hunterville. “Sulky Sue,” Utiku. “The Maiturti Lover,” Karioi. FEBRUARY 21. “Bright Eyes,” Patea. “Tawhero,” Wanganui. “The Gardener,” Sanson. “Coral Dawn,” Taihapc. ‘Magpieite,” Winiata. “Pauline Potoa,” Rata. FEBRUARY 22. “Golden Dawn,” Gonvillc. “Mountain Maid,” Marton. “Miss New Zealand,” Mataroa. “Royal Thistle,” Hunterville. “Ashes of Viblets,” Greatford. Stewart Tartan,” Bulls. “Irish Lily,” Nukumaru. “Kia-u-Kite-Pai,” Kauangaroa. “Holly Berry,” Aramoho. FEBRUARY 23. “Moengarau,” Brunswick. “Morepork,” Fielding. “Old Gran’s Little Girl,” Ohingaiti. FEBRUARY 24. “Easter Egg,” Rata. “Sudden Storm,” Wanganui. “Honolulu Dream Girl,” Marton. “Queen of the Woods,” W anganui.

THE FATE OF BLACK MARK

A good many years ago, when pirate ships were still sailing the seas, there was a pirate who was extremely fond of pickled onions. He loved them, and they were the only things that he really loved, for he was feared from one end of the world to the other for his cruelty. Even his crew hated him, for he was as brutal with them as he was with his prisoners.

One day news reached him of a rich cargo which was being shipped to a wealthy nation, and he immediately set out from the island, where his ship had ben anchored, in search of the booty. He captured the unfortunate ship, made the survivors walk the plank, and took from the holds the gold bullion and chests of jewels, and rich silks and tapestries. These were soon transferred to the Lily Anne, Black Mark’s own ship, I and the pirate looked about for further prey. So successful was he in finding ships that a month passed, and the Lily Anne was still on the sea. A cargo of bullion was due to pass that way in a week or two, so there was no thought of returning to the' island i hide-away yet, even though the provisions were running low. The crew soon tired of their scanty rations, and complained amongst themselves of the way Black Mark had all the best food served to himself, and plenty of it, at that! Black Mark was a greedy man at the best of times, but where pickled onions were concerned he could make his ordinary manners look delightful. But he gorged so on the pickled onions that at length they ran out, too, and the pirate went about with a black scowl on his ugly face, and his temper twice as bad as usual. His men muttered among themselves more and more frequently, but every one of them was terrified of their captain, and no one could think

of a scheme for getting rid of him which would be sure to succeed. One day, however, the cook found a bottle half filled with pickled onions, which had somehow been pushed to the back of a cupboard—probably because the cook himself liked pickled onions. Anyhow, the sight of the onion jar gave him an idea, which he quickly told to all the'* crew. They were willing to take a chance on the plan succeeding, so they made all the arrangements.

That night the pirate nearly leaped out of his chair when he saw the bottle of pickled onions. In a voice like brimstone, he roared out to have the cook clapped in irons until he could be dealt with for concealing the onions. Then he fell upon the bottle.

The bottle was very tall, with a long neck, and rather a narrow opening at the top, and Black Mark had to take a fork and dig right down into the bottle. The onions got fewer and fewer in number, and finally, with only two left in the bottle, he had to plunge practically half his arm into

That was what his crew was waiting for. To a man they leaped upon him, and because his hand and arm were in the bottle he could not get to his wicked pistols. Quickly the pirate crew overpowered him, then with cheers and shouts carried him up on deck.

Some of the men hastened to throw out a plank from the side of the deck, then the cook took a sword, and with its sharp point gently assisted the pirate down to the edge, until, with a yell of fear, he toppled off, and fell into the foam-capped waves. And that was the end of Black Mark, who owed his downfall solely to the fact, that he liked pickled onions too much for his own good.

“THE PIXIE SCHOOL."

Underneath the willows, By the shallow pool. That is where the pixies Hold the pixie school. Sitting on the toadstools Singing all together, Little pixies practise In the sunny weather. Singing lesson over, By the pool they play. Good-night, little pixies. You’ve had a busy day!

A TREE-CLIMBING FISH.

A fish that will climb on to the roots of a tree to bask in the sunshine is found in Queensland, Australia, and round the Indian Ocean. The mud-skipper lives near the low-tide mark on muddy flats and gets its name from its habit of skipping a yard or so over thr mud. Mangrove trees grow in the tidal zone and at low tide their roots are exposed. The modified fins of the mud-skipper enable it to climb the roots of the mangrove trees and take a sunbath.

“Good Morning ” Say Our Canine Friends

A STORY OF SHIPS

A few years ago saw the hundredth anniversary of the crossing of the Atlantic by a steam ship under its own power, without the assistance of sails. That day in 1833 marked the start of the modem era in shipping, and the little Sirius, which accomplished the passage, was the direct ancestor of the, “floating palaces,” such as the Queen Mary and the Normandie, and al! the other great liners which sail the seven seas. And yet it was a floating Jog which first provided man with a means of crossing water, without actually swimming or wading, and gave him his first boat. Then, some ingenious, person thought of lashi.ng together a number of logs, so that several people could be carried at the same time, and a raft was made. The next development camo when; someone thought of hollowing out a log, so that men might sit less pre-; cariously than they did when simply perched on the trunk, or perhaps it was when a sheet of curved bark was used as a boat. At any rate, after the primitive floating Jog or raft, the canoe was the next type of boat to be evolved. Probably a long time elapsed before man thought of the canoe, but after that stage was reached it was not long before he was improving upon sheets of bark and clumsy hollowed logs. Soon canoes were made in two steps; first a framework being constructed, and then an outer covering of wood or 'skin placed over it. That same principle is still used to-day. though now metal takes the place of wood and hide. Simple canoes soon gave way, in the more civilised lanzis, to what might be called ships. The earliest ships were built by the Egyptians. They had two masts for sails, and were also propelled by oars. Later, however, these galleys, as they are known, were built with only one mast.

The Egyptian, however, were not really a sea-minded people, and they were very soon outstripped by the Phoenicians, who traded throughout the Mediterranean, and even went across to Britain for tin. The Phoenicians solved the problem of how to get more oarsmen on board, and thus making more speed without increasing the length of the ship. They placed tiers of rowers one above the other. These tiered galleys were called bireme or trireme, according to j

whether they had two or three tiers. The Egyptians, Phoenicians. Romans and Greeks built ships in the same i manner—first a keel and ribs, then 'planking fastened o.n carvel fashion (with the edges of the planks flush with one another). The Vikings built their ships on the same principle, but the planking was clinker-built, the planks overlapping. These Viking ships were given strange figure heads to make them look like dragons or serpents, an.i if the boats really had been monsters they could not have been feared more than were the raiders and pl.ates who often manned themIn the middle ages oars ceased to be used, and sailing vessels appeared. These grew larger and more complicated in line with the. passing years, and by the fifteenth century they wet'* built with four or five masts, and high forecastles and sterncastles, brilliantly painted and adorned, Ihe kind of ships with winch England won her title of Mistress of Ihe Seas. Then came the lay of th? manysailed ships, hull built mor? or less on the same lines as the modern snip; the clippers, and brigs .and barquontir.es. With the nineteenth century came the steam ship, and the use of iron and steel, instead of timbers. Manv objections were raised *.o the use of metal, for people declared that lion would sink. However, ships were built of metal, and proved themselves seaworthy, so that argument was soon confounded. Steam snips had been experimented with during the eighteenth century, nut not til! the eighteen-hundreds did they prove practical.

Steam ships began to ply regular passages between poris, and soon attempts were made to cross th? A:!.*in-ti-2, rr.d to go round the Cape of Good Hopp, which was ac?mi >lishen of course

There is an interesting Ifl'Je strry al tar bed to the Sirius, wrich v. as realiv built to plv between Cork and London. The Great Western was built especially to cross the Atlantic under steam, and it duly started off on its journey. But the Sirius also started across the Atlantic, and reached America a whole day before the Great Western, securing for itself the record of being the first ship to cross using only steam.