A Treasury of Children's Stories by Gerrard T Wilson

Alice on Top of the World

Gerrard T Wilson (The crazymad writer)

www.crazymadwriter.com

Alice on Top of the World

The Crazymad Writer

Alice on Top of the World

Text copyright ÂŠ 2010 Gerrard T Wilson Gerrard T Wilson asserts the moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

Conditions of sale: This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisherâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Alice on Top of the World

Welcome to my Treasury of childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s stories. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x;s packed, full to gills with stories, songs, limericks and rhymes. I sincerely hope that you enjoy it as much as I did, compiling it.

Gerrard T Wilson

Alice on Top of the World

I am Life â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and Death, it said coldly to Alice

Alice on Top of the World

Contents

There are so many stories, limericks and songs crammed into this Treasury I am unable to record them onto this page with any degree of order. The best way to enjoy it is by delving randomly into and out of this book as often and as much as you like.

Alice on Top of the World

The quick-witted Nott

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Hello and welcome to A Children’s Treasury of Stories. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did, compiling it. Within the following pages I have tried to include something for everyone, from funny to scary, serious to crazy, and a whole lot more in between. I have always loved travelling, exploring exotic places. Over the years I have visited many countries, some very different from Ireland, where I live. In the late 1970‘s I lived and worked in Africa – Nigeria and Liberia. I loved it, and long to visit tropical Africa once again. I spent five years in Australia. I revisit it as much as time money permits. One of my favourite countries is The Philippines – the wonderfully decorated jeepneys are a must-see. Another country I absolutely love is Thailand; the Grand Palace in Bangkok is truly mindblowing. In 1999 I went back to school for a year, as a mature student, studying Art and Design. It was a wonderful experience, and I thoroughly recommend it. In December 2004 I began writing Wot, Nott, Kakuri and the HU BA HOU (pronounced HOW) on a part-time basis. Although I found it to

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories be quite time consuming, I was pleasantly surprised at how easy I found the process. My only regret is that I did not begin writing years earlier. When people ask me where I get the ideas for my stories, I tell them that my life experiences (though, with a lot of imagination added), are the inspiration for many of them. The rest of my ideas come right out of the blue, like magic. I get a sliver of an idea that soon develops into a whole lot more â&#x20AC;&#x201C; it always amazes me how this hapens. I get a real buzz when writing. The more imaginative and creative it is the happier I am.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Originally Intended for Publication on April 1st. The other day I heard the Earth was flat, That all these years it‘s been like a mat, That you hardly see or notice there, Until you are told the Earth is square. If it is square then I am sure, What I have learnt was oh so flawed. But perhaps it‘s all a dream of sorts, And when I awake all will be as before, And if it‘s not then I must learn, Not to walk too far or else I will fall, Off the edge….

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

My Crazymad Life UFO?

My story begins in June, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t recall the exact date, but I think that is was close to the longest day. I was outside in the back garden, playing with my two dogs. It was quite late; close to ten in the evening, but due to the time of year was still fairly bright. As I threw the ball away from me, and my dogs raced off to see who might retrieve it first, a faint light close to the horizon caught me attention. At first I thought nothing more of it. That it was just that, a simple light, probably from an aircraft, but as it continued to grow in size, I began to take it more seriously. After only a few short minutes this small light had grown so large it was now a fiery streak racing across the sky. Thoughts raced through my mind, was in a UFO with little green men invading the Earth? Were our lives about to be changer forever? I watched the unfolding spectacle in shocked silence. There was no one there with me apart from my two dogs who, oblivious to the moment, tugged at the ball each trying to secure it.

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories In less than five minutes this light had grown into a huge fireball streaking across the rapidly reddening sky. Unable and, indeed, unwilling to take my eyes from the Unidentified Flying Object, I studied this once in a lifetime experience with every bit of my undivided attention. Although this object, this thing streaking across the sky now seemed to be so close, not a sound was to be heard from it. Apart from a lone blackbird singing in a nearby tree, it was so quiet. It was eerily quiet. This UFO, for want of a beater word, was now at its closest point, directly in from of me, and the colours contained within and without it were unbelievable. I could see every colour of the rainbowâ&#x20AC;&#x201C; and then some. These flaming colours streaked behind the fiery object almost as far as the horizon. There was black too, a fiery, smoky blackness the likes of which I had never before seen, and never since. Although this happened so very long ago I can remember it so vividly. As it zoomed past in its eerie silence, I remember wishing if only I had a camera, to record the strange pheromone. But I had none. And there had been no time to go indoors and find one. As the moment passed, and the fiery spectacle began to streak away from me, and it grew smaller and smaller into the distance, I felt honoured, privileged to have been a part of the cosmic spectacle â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the cosmic achievement that I hade just witnessed, 15

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Many years have passed since then, so many years of worries, concerns and ‗events‘ that we humans feel are so important. They are as nothing compared to that evening in June…

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

A question to ponder...

Conkers Bonkers – Part One If your child happens to eat a conker or two this autumn, Don‘t worry, as the vitamins they contain, Are ‗added value‘ brain food.

(Do you think this is correct?)

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Conkers Bonkers – Part Two Conkers is a pastime, That we remember every year, When September comes we search about, To find these gems so rare. When we‘ve collected bagfuls, Enough for you and me, We rush them home to sort and grade, Into classes one to three. The first is left to use right now, And try our luck at play, The second, to treat, to cure and bake, Into champions, I do say. The third is left for a whole year long, Stuck up the chimney flu, Until their day of glory comes, I‘ll make do with one and two.

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

Are You Normal?

Are you normal? Do you want to be, A faceless person in a heaving sea, With no aims, ambitions, dreams or goals, Just happily plodding along that road?

Are you quietly dying? Don't you feel the magic of each new day, The sounds of laughter as children play, The warmth of the sun on your back, so good, The sounds of birds, the smell of wood?

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Are you passing time? Don‟t you wonder at the sky so blue, The start and end so vague to you? I hear you say, I am happy still, So too is an ant that has no will!

Wake up wake up It‟s not too late, There still is time to change your fate, Renounce the normal, do something mad, Shock them all create a fad.

Be yourself, alive with goals, With dreams and wonders still untold, Celebrate life in your own distinctive way, It‟s yours alone; you must have your say, Lest you sink into oblivion (without a trace).

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

Fizzy Cherry Cola

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Fizzy Cherry Cola I can imagine you thinking, ‗What‘s so scary about ‗Fizzy Cherry Cola?‘ To be truthful there is nothing scary about it, but having said that, please look carefully into the picture of the bottle before making your final assumptions… Well, did you see anything? Did you see all those troubled souls trapped inside the bottle? Did you see the expressions on their poor, pitiful faces, knowing they have no hope of ever escaping it, that the only release they might hope for is that someone happens upon the bottle, and drinks them? Mr Singe – Gupta – was an old man who had seen many changes over the course of his seventy-five years on this earth. When he was sixteen years of age, his family emigrated from India to the colder climes of England. Along with his parents, brothers, and sisters, Gupta began a new life in a county so different from the hot, tropical one he was used to, and so loved. Snow; snow was one of the first things the notoriously fickle English weather hurled at the Singe family after their arrival one cold, dark, wet December day. The snow remained stubbornly on the ground until mid February. Gupta thought it might never melt. Nineteen sixty-three will 22

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories always be remembered as the year of the big freeze, a time when the whole country came to a standstill. As the days, weeks, months and years slowly passed, the Singe family settled down well into their new life. Despite feeling homesick for the old ways and the warm sun of the tropics, the each carved out a grand new life for their growing families. Four years after his arrival in England, Gupta met a beautiful young Indian woman called Sonita whom he fell madly in love with and then married. Two years later, after the arrival of a baby son, Gupta and his wife were about as happy and contented as they could possibly be. Having opened a shop, a convenience store that became indispensable to the local community, Indian and English alike, Gupta worked day and night to make is a success. Life was good for the Singe family. They looked forward to a long, happy and contented life together. One day, however, all of this changed, it changed utterly and completely, when a man – a newly arrived immigrant – entered the shop, enquiring if Gupta knew of anyone who had a room to rent. Happy to help a fellow compatriot find his feet in a foreign land, Gupta said, ―I have a flat for rent over my shop.‖ He pointed upward. ―Mind you it is quite small.‖ His eyes beaming, the man replied, ―Small is okay, if I have as much room in heaven I will be so happy.‖ 23

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Would you like to see it?‖ Gupta asked the heavily bearded man. ―Yes, please,‖ he replied, offering Gupta his hand. ―My name is Ali,‖ he said, smiling, ―I am very pleased to meet you.‖ Having returned the greeting, Gupta led him outside to a separate door. Turning the key, Gupta invited Ali to follow him up the narrow stairway leading to the flat. ―It is perfect,‖ said Ali as he wandered around the three small rooms, then back again to Gupta. ―I haven‘t yet told you how much the rent is,‖ Gupta warned. ―How much?‖ ―Three pounds per week, with a month in advance.‖ The smile on Ali‘s face disappeared, and he said, ―That much?‖ ―It is the going rate,‖ Gupta said defensively. Buttoning his coat, Ali apologised for wasting Gupta‘s time, saying, ―Thank you for showing me your wonderful flat, but it is sadly more than I can afford…‖ At this point Gupta felt bad, so far removed from the teachings of his religion, to help his fellow man. As they walked down the narrow stairway, Gupta thought about it some more. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he said cheerfully, ―I tell you what I will do…‖ Ali listened with interest. 24

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―For the first six months, I will rent you the flat for only two pounds per week, after that it will return to the original three – I can‘t be anymore fair than that!‖ Smiling again, Ali quickly agreed to his terms, promising to help in the shop during his spare time as a way of making up for the shortfall in rent. ―If you give me a hand at the busy times, when I really need it,‖ said Gupta, ―that will be fine.‖ So it was agreed, and within the week, Ali had moved into his new flat. For a while, everything went swimmingly, with Ali gladly helping in the shop whenever Gupta needed him. However, this happy situation failed to last, with Ali making more and more excuses as to why he was unable to help Gupta when he asked him. The kind-hearted Gupta readily accepted Ali‘s excuses, thinking how he might feel if the tables were turned. Although Sonita had some doubts as to the validity of Ali‘s excuses, she also accepted them in the spirit of genuine Indian hospitality. One particularly busy evening, just after Ali had made another weak excuse as to why he was unable to lend a hand, Gupta decided to look further into the situation of their lessee.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―You can‘t be serious, Gupta,‖ said Sonita after she had heard what her husband intended to do. ―Suppose he finds out what you are doing? What will happen, then?‖ ―Don‘t worry, my wife,‖ Gupta replied, trying to calm her concerns. ―I just want to find out who we really have living above us…‖ ―But?‖ ―It will be okay, I will be watching him from afar. I will be extra careful that he does not see me.‖ Nothing more happened for over a fortnight. Sonita had almost forgotten about her husband‘s plan to follow their lessee, to try to find out what he was getting up to in his spare time, until one evening when Gupta came down from the flat with another lame excuse why Ali was unable to help. Tearing off his shop coat, Gupta grabbed hold of his raincoat and hat, putting them on in a flash. ―What are you doing?‖ Sonita asked as her husband closed the venation blinds on the door. Lifting one, he peered through it. ―Watching,‖ Gupta replied in a whisper. ―Watching what?‖ ―Shush, I think I can hear him…‖ There was a bang as Ali pulled his front door closed behind him. 26

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―I am going to follow him, so I am,‖ said Gupta as he carefully opened the shop door, to see Ali turning the corner at the end of the rain soaked street. ―Be careful, my husband, Sonita warned as her husband disappeared into the night. As he made his way along the cold, wet streets, Ali had absolutely no idea that he was being followed, spied upon. Even when he reached his destination, a large red brick house, where he knocked once, then twice and then once again, he saw nothing to tell him someone was following. After a couple of minutes, a young woman opened the black painted door. After greeting Ali, she invited him in. ―That‘s it,‖ said Gupta from his position of concealment across the road, behind a pillar-box. ―It‘s a woman, and a rich one at that judging by the size of her house!‖ Happy that he had solved the case, that Ali was seeing a woman, that he was not the dark, shady character he had been beginning to imagine, Gupta made his way back to his shop. ―Well?‖ asked Sonita as Gupta took off his rain-soaked coat and hat. ―Well what?‖ he teased. ―Ali – where did he go?‖

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Oh, Ali,‖ Gupta answered, pretending he had all but forgotten about him. ―Come on,‖ Sonita warned as she grabbed hold of an egg. ―No, not the stock,‖ Gupta cried, in fake concern for his profits. ―You have one second, then you get it,‖ Sonita laughed, raising the egg, making ready to throw it. ―All right, all right,‖ Gupta laughed, ―I will tell you what I saw. There is nothing to worry about, my wife,‖ he explained, ―Ali has been making himself busy – with a woman, that‘s all, a woman.‖ ―A woman?‖ Sonita exclaimed, ―then why all the secrecy?‖ ―He must be a shy lover, I guess.‖ The Singe‘s stopped asking Ali to help in the shop, thinking he had other, more amorous things on his mind than baked beans and cornflakes. Despite this change, Ali never once asked why they had stopped asking him. Whenever he came into the shop, when they were particularly busy, he never offered to help; he simply paid for his purchases and left without saying a word. As the days passed, Ali withdrew further into himself and his secretive life. He never ever spoke to the Singe‘s about it, until one quiet evening when he came down to the shop, to purchase a pint of milk… 28

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Hello, Gupta,‖ said Ali, seeing him enter the shop. ―Hello, Ali,‖ Gupta replied with the same welcoming smile he offered all his valued customers. ―I‘m in need of some milk,‖ Ali explained. ―It‘s thirsty work trying to study.‖ ―You are studying?‖ Gupta asked, surprised that Ali could actually find the time, considering his work amorous commitments. ―Oh, yes, I am studying the Cryptic Agenda for improving one‘s whereabouts in the order of life,‖ Ali proudly informed him. ―Hmm, that is a mouthful…‖ ―It is more than that, Gupta,‖ said Ali as he placed the bottle of milk onto the shop counter, and rummaged in his pockets for some change. ―What exactly is it?‖ Sorting the money from an assortment of buttons, coins, keys and pieces of paper that he had taken out from his pocket, Ali placed the correct amount onto the counter, and said, ―It is a complete way of life – a life change. Oh, Gupta, I am so happy…‖ ―I am pleased for you,‖ said Gupta, with the same customer-welcoming smile he had offered him minutes earlier. Over the coming weeks, Ali visited the shop on a growing number of occasions, each time buying milk, cheese or eggs. 29

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―My, you do like your protein,‖ Gupta exclaimed one evening, when Ali purchased two pints of milk and a dozen extra large eggs. ―We need protein,‖ Ali replied in all seriousness, ―for the Transmigration…‖ ―The trans – what?‖ ―The Transmigration,‖ Ali repeated, raising a finger to his lips lest the customer at the rear of the shop might hear, ―is when we pass over to the next stage of existence – to Alocyrrehcyzzif…‖ ―Alocyrrehcyzzif?‖ asked Gupta, struggling to pronounce the word, let alone understand it. Smiling from ear to ear, as if he had just won a million pounds on the lottery, Ali said, ―It is Nirvana – Heaven, whatever you wish to call it. In our case we call it Alocyrrehcyzzif .‖ Confused, Gupta asked, ―Who is calling it this?‖ ―The Cryptic Agenda, of course,‖ he answered. ―Gupta, I have so much that I want to tell you and your lady wife… You see, this is why I have been unable to help in your wonderful shop. I have been taking my studies.‖ ―I know that, you already told me.‖ ―Yes, it is true – I must tell you all about it!‖ ―Try and relax, Ali, have a drink of cola – it‘s on the house.‖ 30

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―No, I cannot drink cola!‖ Ali replied, horrified by such a suggestion. ―Cola is reserved for the Holy Ones.‖ ―The holy ones?‖ ―Yes, at the centre, where I have been taking my studies, I have learnt that cola, and the bottle in particular, are a part of our Transmigration – we cannot partake of it until we are pure.‖ ―But everyone drinks cola,‖ said Gupta, scratching his head, frustrated by the increasingly weird conversation they were having. ―Jean Walters – my Numinous – has explained it to me; she has shown me the way to Alocyrrehcyzzif. She told me to eat protein and follow the true ways of The Cryptic Agenda.‖ ―It sounds like you have been sucked into a cult.‖ ―No, no!‖ Ali insisted, ―It‘s not a cult – It‘s the true path to perfection.‖ ―Doesn‘t every religion say that?‖ asked the customer to the rear of the shop who had been listening to their conversation with a growing curiosity. Neither Ali nor Gupta answered, Gupta because he fully believed in his religion, and Ali because he fully believed in the Cryptic Agenda, Transmigration and Alocyrrehcyzzif. ―I will speak with you on the morrow,‖ said Ali as he opened the shop door, exiting the shop. 31

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―That‘s a weird one,‖ said the man as he approached the counter. ―I beg your pardon,‖ said Gupta, his mind set on his obviously brainwashed compatriot. ―I said, he‘s a strange one, spouting that mumbo-jumbo. I always say you can‘t beat the established religions.‖ ―And which one might you be a part of?‖ ―Me – none – I‘m an atheist,‖ he proudly professed, ―but if I were in one, it would be an established religion, not one of those new-age things – here today and gone tomorrow.‖ With that piece of profound thought still ringing in his ears, Gupta handed the man his change and thanked him for his custom. True to his word, Ali returned to the shop the next evening. While there, he tried so hard to convince Gupta that he and his wife should join the Cryptic Agenda. He went on and on about how happy they would be after they had joined. In the end, Gupta had to ask him to leave, saying he was quite happy with his present religion. After leaving the shop – without getting any new converts, Ali made his way through the quiet streets to the large, red brick house where he worshipped and studied. When she opened the door to him, Jean Walters, the assistant Grand Master, was disappointed to see Ali alone.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―I am sorry,‖ he said quietly, ―but I was unable to convince my friends to come…‖ ―The Grand Master will not be pleased,‖ Jean replied, bidding him enter. ―You know the way through,‖ she said as she left Ali alone in the hall. After taking off his shoes, Ali walked quietly into a small, dimly lit room where he spent most of his free time studying the word. Seeing six other people (three of them new) seated upon the floor on their cushions Ali joined them. After several minutes in quiet contemplation of the Bottle of Transmigration displayed in front of them on the altar (it appeared strikingly similar to a bottle of Cherry Cola), Ali could hear the sound of people talking behind the purple coloured curtain used as a backdrop. Suddenly the curtain opened, allowing Jean and The Grand Master to enter. ―We welcome you all,‖ said Jean in her usual slippery smooth voice, ―despite the fact that one of you has failed in your duty to the Cryptic Agenda.‖ In the dimly lit room, all eyes rested on Ali. He smiled nervously. After Jean had finished welcoming the new converts, she brought everyone up to date on the Cryptic Agenda‘s recent activities. When she had finished, she introduced the Grand Master, a tall, bearded man

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories called George Ducket. As Jean disappeared behind the thick curtain, the group welcomed the Grand Master with a round of applause. ―Thank you, thank you,‖ said the Grand Master, inspecting the seven people sitting on their cushions before him. ―Thank you so much for coming out on so chilly an evening.‖ The Grand Master welcomed the three groups of two, but ignored the lone group of one. He praised the newcomers for having the faith and insight to join them their Cryptic Agenda, which would culminate in the Transmigration of the Soul towards Alocyrrehcyzzif. Although Ali was totally committed to the cause, he felt increasingly awkward as the Grand Master continued to heap praise on the real followers, ignoring him. After listening for a good fifteen minutes, with seemingly no end in sight of the Grand Master‘s praise for the real followers, Ali was unable to take any more. Standing up, shouting at the top of his voice, he said, ―I have tried to get two converts – Gupta and Sonita Singe – but I need some more time to convince them to come… I am sorry, I am so sorry that I have let you and the Cryptic Agenda down. If there is any way I can make amends for this terrible thing, Grand Master, please, please tell me!‖ As if he had heard nothing at all, the Grand Master stared over Ali‘s head to the front of the room. Then the curtain opened again, revealing a sullen faced Jean as she walked slowly, methodically across to the Bottle of Transmigration, before carefully picking it up from the altar. 34

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Ah, so you have the Bottle of Transmigration,‖ the Grand Master said cheerfully when Jean stood next to him with it. ―That is good, very good…‖ Ali was puzzled. Had the Grand Master not heard what he had said? Moreover, if not, why not? He watched the bottle with acute interest. ―Ali,‖ said the Grand Master, beckoning him to come closer. ―Ali, it has been decided to give you the chance of full Transmigration. Perhaps, in Alocyrrehcyzzif, you will find your true place.‖ Ali was ecstatic, to think he was being offered Transmigration – and so soon! ―Approach us,‖ the Grand Master ordered, ―approach the bottle of Bottle of Transmigration. Your time is here, it is your time‖ Hardly able to believe his luck, especially after failing to get even a single convert, Ali stepped towards the front of the room. The Grand Master beckoned him to stand in front of Jean who was holding the Bottle of Transmigration before him. ―Ali, have you any last words?‖ he asked. ―Last words?‖ Ali thought, in shocked surprise, ―I don‘t like the sound of THAT!‖ ―Jean, please unscrew the bottle top.‖

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories With increasingly frightened, eyes, Ali watched Jean unscrew the bottle top. ―Do you have anything to say, Ali?‖ Ali‘s mouth opened, but no words came out. ―Very well,‖ said the Grand Master, ―remove it.‖ With that command, Jean removed the bottle top and pointed the bottle directly at Ali. No sooner had she done this, a vortex exploding from the bottle took hold of Ali and began pulling him kicking and screaming back into it. It was over in an instant; Ali was gone. Silence returned to the darkened room. Screwing the top onto the bottle, Jean carefully returned in to the altar in front of the curtain. ―That, my dear people, is how we Transmigrate,‖ said the Grand Master as he began to take off his official garments. ―The only problem, however, is that in order for it to work properly you must have first died.‖ He stared into the bottle, watching the contorted face of Ali floating around on the inside, with so many other like-minded souls who had fallen foul of the Cryptic Agenda, failing to find them converts. ―As you can see,‖ the Grand Master explained, ―if you enter the Bottle of

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Transmigration before your physical body has died, you are cursed to remain there for all eternity…‖ After the service was over, and everyone had left, the Grand Master, calling Jean to come over to him, said, ―What were those names Ali called out before he left us so untimely?‖ ―Gupta and Sonita Singe.‖ she told him. ―Do you know where we can find them?‖ ―I do,‖ she replied, smiling. ―They run a small convenience store, not too far from here.‖ ―That‘s good,‖ said the Grand Master, also smiling. ―I think we should pay them a visit…‖

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Sparky Parents I will tell you this, from me to you, To raise good children all that you have to do, Is be good parents, be shining bright, The spark of their dreams and the light of their lives, So that while they are young and when everything‘s new, You can be their best friend and they also with you, Childhood is fleeting, and before very long, They will have gone from the nest and left you alone, So pull up a blanket, lay down ‗neath the stars, And dream close together of pipes, cloaks and cars.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Mary Had a „Little‟ Lamb Mary had a „little‟ lamb so round, so fat, so plump, It tried to follow everywhere but it couldn‟t even jump.

Then one day while she was out it opened up the door, And trotted off right down the road to find its Mary dear.

Despite it searching high and low the poor lamb could not see, That Mary had eloped and gone with Jill‟s young Jack hee hee.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

The Fog It was a cold November evening, so cold the weak, autumnal sun made no inroad into the heavy frost that had descended the previous night. As I approached my friends‘ house, I looked forward to the warmth of their fire, the congenial atmosphere, and a glass of warm Madeira wine. It was a custom, a family tradition to offer their visitors this warming imbibe, a custom that had survived the passage of time, including the family‘s migration from the tiny outpost of the same name, far out in the Atlantic Ocean, to merry old England. Generations of guests had enjoyed this warming drink on such cold wintry nights. Opening the gate, I walked along the path, admiring the garden that was always in such pristine condition, no matter what time of year or how bad the weather happened to be. Lifting the doorknocker, a facsimile of a lion‘s head, I gave the door an assertive knock. I waited for my hosts to respond. ―Is that Jeremiah?‖ Christine asked, calling to her husband, upstairs. 40

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Yes, darling,‖ Charles replied, making his way downstairs, to the door. Opening it, he greeted me. Seeing how frosty and cold it was outside, he said, ―Welcome, Jeremiah. You must be frozen – come in. Hand me your coat and hat, then get yourself to the sitting room.‖ I made my way into the sitting room, where Charles offered me the armchair directly in front of their roaring log fire. Stretching out my hands, warming them, I thanked him for his hospitality. Entering the room, Christine said, ―Jeremiah, it‘s so good to see you – and on such a cold night!‖ ―You know me,‖ I chuckled, ―out in all weathers…‖ ―Out in all weathers is one thing – but this?‖ she replied, opening the curtains, gazing at the frost covered ground. ―How about a nice glass of Madeira, to warm you up?‖ Charles asked. ―Sounds good,‖ I replied. Picking up the bottle of Madeira wine that had been resting in front of the fire, warming, he said, ―Won‘t be a tick.‖ I smiled; I had no need to reply, because my two friends, whom I had known all my life, knew me inside out. ―Here you are,‖ said Charles, ―a glass for the weary traveller.‖ He handed me a glass full to the brim with the fiery brown liquid. ―And one for you, dear,‖ he added, offering his wife a glass, also. 41

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories As my two hosts joined me, relaxing in their wonderfully comfortable armchairs, sitting in front of the sparkling, crackling log fire, I thanked my God to have been blessed with such good friends. As we caught up with all the gossip, talked about our plans for the future, and reminisced about the good, fun times we had enjoyed over the years, the evening passed quickly (time seems to have that effect, when you‘re having a good time, doesn‘t it?). Glancing at my watch, I was shocked to see that was past eleven, so knocking back the last of my Madeira wine (my fourth glassful, I might add), I thanked my congenial hosts for their hospitality, then extricated myself from the comfortable chair. ―You‘re welcome,‖ said Christine, giving me a little peck on the cheek. Handing me my coat and hat, Charles said, ―You‘re always welcome in our home.‖ Buttoning my coat, pulling the belt tightly closed, I shivered, thinking of the cold night facing me outside. After donning my hat, I was ready to go. Charles gasped in shock when he opened the door. ―Look,‖ he said, ―I‘ve never seen so bad a fog!‖ While we had been cosy and warm inside, drinking our Madeira wine, having a good time, a heavy fog had descended. It was bad, really bad, a pea souper if ever I saw one. 42

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―You will have to stay here for the night,‖ Charles insisted. ―You‘ll never find your way home in that!‖ ―The spare room is made up,‖ said Christine. ―It will be no bother.‖ I thanked them for the kind offer, and would have gladly accepted it at any other time, but having early start on the morrow, I had to get home, to prepare for it. Thanking Charles and his beautiful wife for the lovely evening, I bid them goodnight, making my way down the fog-shrouded garden path. As the gate closed behind me, I heard Christine saying to her husband, ―I do hope he will be all right…‖ As the door closed behind me, I pulled up the collar of my coat, and with eyes staring down at the pavement (it being the only thing I could see clearly in the fog) I began the long walk home. Surrounded, engulfed by such an extraordinarily thick fog, everything on the journey home appeared different. Even the streetlights took on an unreal, surreal appearance within the foggy gloom. At one point, I almost walked into one, just avoiding it at the last second. The intersections in the road, the places where I had to pass from one street to another proved a real hazard. Although there were no cars or vehicles, I was still terribly afraid when I crossed these places. At one point, when I was half way across a particularly wide street, I thought I heard a car fast approaching. Panicking, I ran for my life. I need not have bothered, though, because nothing came, and all that I got for my efforts was a grazed knee when I tripped on the curb and fell. It hurt. 43

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories As I limped forlornly along, the warm Madeira wine but a memory, I saw no one else. Apparently, I was the only person foolish enough to be roaming the streets in the mother of all fogs, especially at so late an hour. Suddenly I stopped; puzzled by the unfamiliar looking street I found myself in. ―Did I take a wrong turn, back there, when I fell?‖ I whispered. Squinting, trying to see through the pea soup, I tried to make out some of the buildings. It was impossible – it was far too foggy to have any hope of seeing them clearly. There were gates, though. ―That‘s a good start,‖ I said, touching the first one. It felt slightly familiar. ―These gates, these metal gates – do I recognise them?‖ I asked. Opening the first one, I had a brainwave. ―I will knock on the door of this house, so I will,‖ I said, ―and ask the householder to tell me where I am. Yes, that‘s a good idea,‖ I muttered, making my way up the red and black tiled path. On reaching the door, I knocked it hopefully. However, no one answered the door. Despite knocking the door another three times, no one came to see who it was. Undaunted by this failure, I made my way out through the gate, to try my luck at the next house.―There will be someone in here,‖ I muttered, ―I am certain of it.‖ Despite knocking six times, however, the door remained unanswered. ―Third time lucky,‖ I said loudly, giving the next door along a loud rata-tat-tat. I waited, I waited, and I waited some more, but no one answered that door either. 44

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Where is everyone?‖ I complained, exiting the gate, dejected and miserable. Giving up on this tack, I retraced my steps to where I had tripped on the curb. When I got there, I immediately saw where I had gone wrong. ―Ah,‖ I said happily, ―I took the wrong turn…silly me!‖ Keeping to the inside of the path, the buildings (what I could see of them, that is) took on an increasingly familiar appearance. ―Won‘t be long now,‖ I said quietly, my spirits rising, ―until I‘m home, drinking a nice cup of tea.‖ ―Conkers bonkers,‖ I laughed as I passed alongside the horse chestnut trees bordering the Council Offices grounds. Under these trees, the fog was much lighter. I bent down, searching for conkers. My cold fingers soon found one. As I held the conker tightly, my mind returned to my childhood days, when conkers were such prized possessions. It‘s strange how our priorities in life change as we grow older, isn‘t it? Something that is so important to us today might be of little or no interest to us tomorrow. Where I am now living, in Ireland, children (and adults) have little or no idea about playing the game of conkers. The sheer number of conkers left rotting beneath horse chestnut trees every autumn never ceases to amaze me. Perhaps children nowadays are just too busy playing with their Nintendo‘s and so forth. Pocketing my shiny new conker, I continued my journey along the deserted road. It‘s only a mile to go,‖ I whispered confidently to myself. 45

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―It‘s only a mile, only one short mile until I can turn the key in my front door, and have that cup of tea. I began whistling, thinking about it. Although I now knew where I was, my progress began to falter. You see, because I was getting closer to the river, the fog became thicker and thicker and thicker. In fact, it became so thick, so dense, it got to the point I could not even see the ground beneath my feet. From there on, I chose my steps carefully, cautiously, slowly. I did not want fall a second time. Because I was now walking so slow, ever sound, every footfall seemed that bit clearer, that bit louder. My own footsteps seemed to take on a life or their own, echoing audaciously down the empty streets. Stopping at a curb, I listened in case a stray vehicle might happen to approach. Strangely, peculiarly, I heard the sounds of footsteps, footsteps somewhere deep in the fog. My ears cocked, but the sound of the footsteps – they stopped. Was there someone out there, someone lost in the fog, someone following me, hoping to find his or her way home in safely? Could I have imagined it? Was it just the sound of my footsteps, echoing into the night? I waited, trying to calm my rattling nerves. After hearing nothing for well over five minutes, I began walking again. Hearing only the sound from my feet, I relaxed, breathing that bit lighter. This reprieve, however, did not last for long, because the sound of the footsteps, the other set of footsteps, began again. This time, they were closer than before.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories It was odd, strange, bizarre – frightening, for whenever I stopped walking the sound of the other footsteps also stopped. When I began walking again, they did likewise. Like an invisible shadow, the footsteps followed me. I began to get scared, thinking it a lunatic who would slit my throat without a moment‘s hesitation. I tried rapping on another few doors, hoping the occupants of these houses might see fit to answer. No one answered, not even one. I was puzzled and confused, wondering how everyone could be in bed – and fast asleep. Only a half-mile left to go; although the footsteps had not gone, they were at least no closer to me. I saw that as a positive. I was still in with a chance of getting home without someone murdering me in the dark of the night. ―Excuse me, please,‖ a male voice said, somewhere in front of me. ―I beg your pardon?‖ I replied, happy that another soul was abroad (apart from the one who owned the menacing footsteps, that is). ―I bought this parrot from you only last week...‖ the voice continued, ―...but it‘s dead.‖ ―Hmm, that sounds familiar,‖ I whispered, listening intently. ―It appears all right to me,‖ said a second person – also a male.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―All right?‖ the first man replied, his voice rising with anger, ―I suppose he‘s all right, if you happen to like dead parrots…ones that have been nailed to their perches!‖ I laughed. There was no one in front of me. I was listening to a television programme – a repeat of Monty Python‘s Flying Circus, to be exact. I wondered where it was coming from, but because of the almighty pea soup, it was impossible to find out. Despite this failure, it did cheer me up, though, and I set off with renewed vigour, thinking at least one other person was still awake – even if they were only watching ancient repeats on the telly. ―A quarter mile to go, Jeremiah,‖ I told myself. ―Only a quarter of a mile, then you will be out of this terrible fog, safe from whoever is following you.‖ My house, my home was getting tantalisingly close, as minute-byminute, yard-by-yard, I trundled through the pea soup I was in. Suddenly, I saw a gate, and I shouted, ―I know that gate! It‘s Mrs Pereira‘s front gate!‖ I was so happy, seeing it. I felt like kneeling down and kissing it, but I did not. No. Instead, I began to run; I began running as if my life depended on it. ―No one is going to get me,‖ I yelled defiantly, ―no one at all!‖ Yes, it was still foggy, incredibly foggy, but I kept on running, dashing down the street to my house, my home. Like a man possessed, I sped

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories through that fog as if it wasn‘t even there, forward towards my final destination. Stopping at a gate, MY GATE, I fumbled in my pocket, trying to find my key. Pulling it out, I inserted it into the door lock. Opening the door – my front door – I went in. I was home. NOTHING could harm me now. ―Excuse me,‖ a voice called out from behind me. Turning round, I looked out from my doorway, into the fog. ―Who‘s there?‖ I asked, afraid. ―Oh, I‘m sorry to be bothering you,‖ the voice continued. ―I think I have something that belongs to you…‖ My eyes narrowing, I said, ―Where are you? Show yourself!‖ Footsteps, I listened with trepidation to the sound of footsteps, his footsteps, getting closer and closer. Suddenly, from out of the fog, he appeared; a man, an incredibly old man, in a black coat so long it dusted the ground. He was smiling; the old man was actually smiling. With an arm outstretched, he said, ―I believe this is yours?‖ Leaning out from the doorway, I tried to distinguish the object. ―It‘s my hat!‖ I cried out, quite in surprise, ―Where did you find it?‖ ―You dropped it, a mile or so back,‖ he replied, handing it to me. ―I knew it was yours, because no one else was about. I would have

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories returned it to you sooner, but in all this fog, I had quite a job trying to work out where you actually were. I had to keep stopping and starting, listening to your footsteps… You are okay with that, aren‘t you?‖ ―Yes, yes, and thanks,‖ I replied, relieved that he was not an axe murderer. ―I‘ll be on my way, so,‖ he said, turning towards the gate. Feeling guilty for having such bad thoughts about him, I said, ―You wouldn‘t like to come in for a cup of tea, would you?‖ ―It depends,‖ the pensioner replied. ―On what?‖ ―On whether you have any biscuits,‖ he said, laughing. ―I‘m afraid not,‖ I replied. ―Never mind...‖ he answered, once more heading for the gate. ―How about a glass of warm Madeira wine?‖ I asked.

If there is a moral to this story, I think it is this: When the night is so dark you yearn for the dawn more than anything else, remember that when it finally arrives it will never be exactly what you expected.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Hickety, Pickety Hickety, pickety, my black hen, She struts around and around again, I wonder will she lay me an egg, Cos if she don‟t I‟ll roast her leg.

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Part One: The Fabled Crest AN EXTRACT. We were not boy wizards, vampire‘s assistants or even living skeletons, we normal everyday people living normal everyday lives, with no inkling of the tremendous events that were about to unfold. Our adventure begins with the arrival of a peculiarly small Christmas card, which sent us hurtling to the land of Onisha. Umahia, the Grand Mystic, wanted our help. He needed our help in defeating Miafra who had stolen his powers, the seasons, free will and all time. Umahia told us that we had powers, powers that we had absolutely no inkling we possessed, which might, just might defeat the evil man… We had no idea that we were going to be attacked by Protectors atop Hound-Horses, fight a statue hell-bent on killing us, be betrayed in our sleep and be forced to fight a dangerous beast called Dragonsaur. No, we had no idea at all, and iIf we had, we might have chosen not to heed

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Umahia‘s call, leaving Onisha and the Earth exposed to untold dangers…

Chapter One A Knock on the Door 24th December. Sitting comfortably in his favourite armchair in front of a roaring fire, Wot was looking forward to a relaxing evening at home watching all his favourite Christmas television programmes. He had already opened the present he had bought himself – a really warm and comfy pair of Christmas slippers, decorated with all sorts of festive scenes and motifs. Before turning on the set, Wot slipped a little book from out of his shirt pocket, and opened it. It was in this that he took part in his favourite pastime - writing poetry. He loved writing his poems, he received so much pleasure in writing them, and he never suffered from writers‘ block, which others can on occasion be so callously inflicted with. When he took pen to paper, and with the words flowing freely, he was in another world. Some of his poems were long, others so short they were finished almost as soon as they had begun. He wrote happy ones that made him laugh, sad ones that made him cry and every other conceivable type. Down through the years in which he had been writing, recording his thoughts and feelings in rhyming verse there was one thing he had always felt, and somehow known; it was a talent he 54

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories possessed, a gift, which he must never neglect. Picking up his pen, Wot wrote down the following... “Christmas Eve so still I know But something‟s in the wind There‟s a sense of magic about It‟s now we need our friends.”

The quick-witted Nott

Those were all the words that came to Wot, and they puzzled him. What meaning or relevance they had, if any, eluded his tired mind, but he recorded them dutifully into his little book, calling his poem „Words in the Wind‟. Wot tried reading it out aloud, hoping he might somehow understand it better, but made no difference. Scratching his head in frustration, Wot finally gave up and slid the book safely into his shirt pocket, and then relaxed in front of the warm fire, listening to the logs crackle and sparkle up the chimney. It was a perfect start to a perfect 55

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Christmas. He felt so content he could have sat there all night without a care in the world. Suddenly Wot‘s relaxation was interrupted by a loud knock. His first thoughts were that, in his half-sleep, he had been imagining it. He was not expecting anyone at so late an hour, so ignoring the noisy interruption Wot closed his eyes and once again relaxed, listening to the crackling logs sparkling up the chimney. To his annoyance another, even louder knock struck the door. ―Who on earth can it possibly be?‖ he asked, yawning, as he reluctantly rose from his wonderfully comfortable chair. On approaching the door, Wot‘s eyes were magnetically drawn to the old coat stand upon which he had placed a peculiar Christmas card earlier that day. It was small, very small and, more surprisingly, was from his best friend, Nott. He picked it up remembering how surprised he had been that Nott would have sent so small a card. Looking at the picture, a wonderful summer scene of a house in the country, Wot was again intrigued by it. He studied it closer… The house had whitewashed walls with weathered, wooden beams that seemed to have been strategically placed for the maximum visual pleasure of the onlooker.

The building was

surrounded by a large cottage-garden in the full bloom of summer. It even had rambling roses around the door. There was a duck-pond, an arbour, a rustic garden shed and so much very more, and all enclosed by a white picket fence. It was in most ways a perfect picture of summer, not your usual Christmas card theme by any means. Studying it in finer 56

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories detail, Wot held the card ever closer. At this point he had completely forgotten to see who might actually be at the door. Wot‘s eyes, again magnetically drawn into the picture, noticed how big and sturdy the door of the house in the card actually was; it was dark brown in colour sporting a large, brass knocker. ―They don‘t build them like that any more,‖ he said without realising he was even speaking. “It‟s a bloody good job they don‟t,” a voice suddenly boomed out Wot got such a fright he dropped the card, and very nearly jumped out of his brand-new Christmas slippers. “Take it easy, you could have killed me!” the mysterious voice boomed again. Where on earth was it coming from? Imagining there was someone hiding, playing a prank, Wot looked all around – everywhere, but he didn‘t, he couldn‘t see anyone. He was confused and puzzled with no idea what he should do next. In fact he wasn‘t one hundred percent sure that he had heard the voice at all. ―This might all be in my imagination,‖ he said, though not very convincing, as he stood stock-still unable to decide his next move. “Are you listening to me? Wot, I am speaking to you!” the mysterious voice boomed yet again. Being personally addressed by an, apparently, bodiless voice totally confused poor Wot, and his mind raced fearing the worst. He wondered, was it a g-g-ghost? Or was he going actually mad? 57

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories “Pick me up!” the voice shouted. Trying to show some courage, Wot whispered, ―Where are you?‖ “On the floor, at your feet!” the voice said tersely. On looking down, the only thing poor Wot could see was the small Christmas card he had just dropped, so he said, ―I can‘t see you! There‘s nothing there!‖ Then looking along the hallway, rying to spot the mysterious person who might be playing an unwelcome prank, Wot still saw no one. ―I can‘t see where you are!‖ he whispered. The voice beginning to lose patience, shouted, “Wot. I always thought you were a bit slow – now you have proven it. I AM IN THE CARD. Pick it up! BUT CAREFULLY!” Confused, wondering how anybody could possibly be inside a Christmas card, Wot bent down and gingerly picked it up. Carefully opening it, he half expected to see someone crammed inside, but he didn‘t. No. Except for the short, standard greeting of Happy Christmas there was nothing to be seen. The voice, loosing what little patience it had left, interrupted Wot‘s floundering thoughts, shouting, “LOOK IN THE WINDOW, you berk.” With those words something clicked in Wot‘s bamboozled brain. The voice THAT voice was starting to sound familiar! Scratching his head, trying to figure out just who it might actually be, Wot closed the card and once and again looked at the picture on its front. His eyes drawn to 58

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories the quaint old house and its wonderful leaded windows, saw something, they saw something moving. Wot he saw someone – someone he recognised, he saw his best friend, Nott, staring out from one of the small windows, waving frantically in a most agitated manner. This was just too much for poor Wot, and he passed out dropping the card onto the floor once again…

The Outlander, Wot.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Don‟t be a Gadabout! If you chose to walk alone, Down country lanes far from home, Don‘t be shocked if someone jumps out, To say ‗hello‘ to the gadabout, Who strolls around like he owns the place, Each yard and inch, each wall and gate. You might now say, ‗That‘s him, not me, Who has a problem with affinity.‘ But I tell you this, in truth, steer clear, From spots remote in park or weir, And if you chose to heed my call, Your life will be good; you will not fall.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

A bit of fun from the perspective of an aspiring writer

Publishers and Writers Publishers and writers think each other are blighters, I want my book sold now says the writer so old now, You‘ll just have to wait say the agents, not great, That I won‘t do says the writer so blue, I‘m sure it will sell say my friends, wishing well.

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

Ring a Ring a Roses Ring a ring a roses, A pocketful of posies, Atichoo atichoo, We all fall down sneeze.

Dancing round the garland, Children all a starving, Atichoo atichoo, We all fall down.

Ring a ring a roses, A pocketful of posies, Atichoo atichoo, We all fall down.

Lying in our bedsteads, Stay there till weâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;re all dead, Atichoo atichoo, We all fell down, Atichoo atichoo. We all fell down.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

My Crazymad Life: Sally Gap Waterfall…

In this little tome I will be telling you about the scariest, most frightening experience of my entire life. So here we go… Way back in the mists of time, in the far off year of 1975 I went for a drive with my brother, Tony. We were living in Dublin, then, and a drive into the country, in my new Ford Cortina (well it was almost new) was a real treat. Asking where were we heading, Tony was delighted to hear that it was the Wicklow Mountains (we always called them the Dublin Mountains —I have no idea just why). It was in the spring, May if I recall correctly, a wonderful warm and sunny day. As I headed up the winding roads, with not a care in the world, I had absolutely no idea the fate that was awaiting me… After enjoying ourselves in the beautiful gardens of Powerscourt, I pointed the Cortina towards the higher ground and continued driving

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories until I spied a beautiful waterfall running down the mountainside in the distance. I have always called it the Waterfall at Sally Gap though I am sure it has another, more correct title. The road led us all the way up the top of the waterfall and the stream feeding into it. Pulling into a small, car-parking area, I immediately got out of the car and strolled over to enjoy the views. As I walked along the sides of the stream (I can still remember the sound that the murky brown waters made as they gurgled along), there was no hint of the tremendous, hidden power within it. As I followed the increasingly more rocky banks towards the waterfall proper, my brother shouted over, warning me of the large and very smooth rocks. And in those days, when everyone, including men, wore platform-soled shoes, it was a warning to heed. But unfortunately, I had no time to heed this warning because at that very instant my shoes lost their grip, and I slipped helplessly into the rushing waterfall. At this point the gradient of the falling waters must have been about 40%, with the shape of the rushing streamâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s bed a deep V. As the cold, cruel waters pushed me down the increasingly steep incline, they seemed to have taken on a life of their own, a life whose only purpose was to kill me. They say that in times such as this, your life flashes past your eyes, well, in my case it most certainly did not, my only thoughts were that I was a goner, and that was that.

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories Suddenly I had a piece of unexpected, extraordinary luck when my right foot became jammed between some rocks. The ferocious waters continued to pound, to pour over my aching body, but I had stopped moving, which had to be good! Shouting to my brother, I asked him to go up to the road and stop any passing cars, in the hope they might have a rope to pull me out with. He didn't, he simply stood there laughing oblivious to the extreme danger I was in. He was of no use or help to me, and in the end I realised that my only hope of salvation rested with myselfâ&#x20AC;Ś Luckily, my jammed foot was not gong anywhere, and this one small point saved my life. While trying to stop myself from panicking, I searched frantically for any handhold that I could use to pull myself out from the rushing waters. I was now cold, my hands were turning numb, but I persisted, until after what seemed like an eternally I managed to find a handhold secure enough to trust my life with. As I pulled myself up (while praying earnestly) my right foot slipped out from between the rocks, and slowly, ever so slowly I escaped the Waterfall of Sally Gap. I drove all the way home wearing only my underwear, wrapped up in a car rug. All that my brother could do was laugh, saying how everyone was looking at me. This really did happen. It is a true story, which I am only now recording onto paper. And to this day, despite returning to the spot on several occasions, I have never, ever ventured any closer to it again than the seat of my car, in the par parking area. Any thoughts???

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

Hickory Dickory Dock Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck one, The mouse ran down, Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck two, He grew wings and flew, Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck three, The mouse roamed free, Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck four, He plays some more,

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck five, “I‟m glad to be alive!” Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck six, The mouse, he slipped, Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck seven, The mouse went to heaven, Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck eight, Mouse at the Pearly Gates, Hickory dickory dock.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck nine, The mouse now dines, Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck ten, Off we go again, Hickory dickory dock, Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck eleven, The mouse, still in heaven, Hickory dickory dock. Hickory dickory dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck twelve, The mouse fell down to hell, Hickory dickory dock – he‟s gone, He‟s gone, he‟s gone…

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

A Short, Scary Story Suddenly I find myself alone and on a strange beach. Not far out, directly in font, a large ship passes hurriedly by. It‘s one of those huge oil tankers that transport the lifeblood of our increasingly industrialised world. As I watch it slide effortlessly through the dark, murky waters not one sign of life is in evidence along its entire length. Taking note of my immediate surroundings and the situation I find myself in, I cast my eyes both left and right. The beach that I have somehow been landed upon is flat, stretching far away into the distance. Looking down to my feet, and the damp sand beneath them, it‘s all too obvious how different this is from those warm, golden beaches in warmer climes. This one is definitely closer to home. It reminds me of Dollymount Strand, a few short miles from the city of Dublin. A beach that because of its huge size and splendid isolation, on first sight always energises my soul, but which, on closer inspection of its grey, cold, compacted sand and abundant ever-present litter, creates within me a sigh of pensive melancholy at how uncaring a large section of mankind truly is.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Directly in front of my wet shoe, almost touching it, a green plastic bottle lies waiting for eternity to erase its unwanted presence. I grab a spade (I don‘t know where it came from) and begin digging a hole. After only a couple of inches down, the sand has changed dramatically into a congealed sticky blackness that turns my stomach, threatening to expel its last meal, complaining of the obscenity it‘s been subjected to. With the help of the spade‘s sharp blade, while trying to ignore this imminent expulsion, I tap the offending article into the newly excavated hole. It has no sooner has it ‗plopped‘ into when the seawaters run in, covering the bottle in a slimy mess of liquefied grunge. My senses fixed, temporarily locked onto the achingly slow demise of the green plastic bottle are suddenly jolted when my heart skips a beat. There is water all around me. Where is it all coming from? Only moment earlier the waterline was several yards away, but now, with the hole well and truly consigned to the annals of oblivion, the lapping waters are surrounding me. It‘s lucky that I am wearing these Wellingtons –heaven knows where I got them! I haven‘t owned a pair off Wellingtons for years. But here I am, standing on a strange beach, (is it really Dollymount?) facing the imminent arrival of hide tide, wearing a pair of Wellingtons. The tide and its rushing waters continue on relentlessly, waiting for neither man nor beast as it has done for millennia. I can‘t stay here. I turn around and only then do I realise how far from shore I actually am.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Wasting no time, I walk in a brisk pace toward the safety of dry land. With large strides and determination of mind I splash through the encroaching waters, remembering days long ago, splashing through the puddles of my childhood. It‘s fun! Life should always be so. We lose far too much of the magic of youth in our journey through life. I‘m giddy. After only a few short minutes I find it increasingly harder to walk – the waters having now advanced several feet before me. Even the splashing that I enjoyed only minutes earlier has taken on a more serious tone. My pace is too slow. I will have to speed up if I am to have any hope of escaping the encroaching waters. Breaking into a saunter I soon catch up with the waters‘ vanguard, and for a time I even outpace it, but the promise of dry land is still a long way off. Almost halfway across the huge, cold beach of my eternal winter, and still slightly ahead of the inward bound waters, I see a problem directly in front of me. Less than twenty yards ahead, there is a dip in the land. It‘s only a couple of feet deep – three at the most, but wide enough to pose a real danger. I quicken my stride. I try valiantly to outpace the rushing waters. I must cross the depression before the tide fills it in.

As I race full-pelt into

the sunken area, I can feel the soft sand slipping, sliding beneath my feet. It‘s hard to maintain my speed up. I try. It‘s difficult. Half afraid, I glance over my shoulder. I can see the waters tumbling down the slope 71

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories churning the sand bubbling, boiling. I‘m still ahead. I still have a hope of outrunning it! Shifting my gaze to the far side of the dip, and the relative safety of its brow, I head onwards with renewed determination. I can outrun it. I know I can. In no time at all I am striding, boots now splashing, up the other side. The sand here is so loose underfoot. My speed slows down. I can‟t slow down. I must reach the top. The waters rising, my feet are churning, the sand, I‘m clinging, fighting, climbing. No, I‘m lying. The water‘s reaching over my boots and into, my feet are freezing – I‘m loosing, tripping. Beneath the water, I‘m slipping, sliding, dying. Finished. I am gone...

Beneath warn, dry sheets, sweet smelling linen. I am back in my bed, oh how I‘m smiling. How did this happen? Was I only dreaming? It must be so; it‘s still not morning. I roll right over to cuddle up anew. But what‘s this happening? What‘s spilling out? Where did this water come from? Am I wearing Wellingtons?

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Dawning Has Woken Dawning has woken, my spirit, it‘s yearning, Sunrise has broken first light of the day, I sing forth in honour, I sing for the dawning, I sing forth in hope this month of the May.

A time of pure magic, of light in the garden, Gone is the darkness, winter‘s cold chill, I sing for God‘s love ever so near us, Here to protect us while life still remains.

Give me the springtime, Give me the warming, Life‘s precious magic, Returning anew, I sing for the season, I sing with this reason, God‘s closer us now this month of the May.

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

Dawning has woken my spirit, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s yearning, Sunrise has broken first light of the day, I sing forth in honour, I sing for the dawning, I sing forth in hope all month of the May.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

My Crazymad Life: A Walk on the Beach…

When asked what is the most memorable thing that I can remember from my childhood, I am always in no doubt as to what it actually is. I was ten years of age—I can still remember the day so clearly, we were on holiday in Ireland, out walking, taking a stroll on a wonderful stretch of deserted coastline. As I walked along, ahead of my parents and brother and sister, the scene beneath my feet absolutely enthralled me. I marvelled at the rocks, the pools, the sea weed—everything. My attention suddenly was drawn away from all this natural wonder; to something decidedly manmade, reflecting the suns rays. I leant over to see what it could possibly be and was astonished to find an exquisite golden-coloured locket and chain, half hidden in the beach debris. I picked it up, studying the fine detail.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories The locket and chain were heavy, highly detailed and exquisitely crafted. On one side of the locket there were five glass domes surrounding a larger one. Beneath each of the smaller domes a lock of human hair had been carefully inserted, while under the central, larger dome two locks of hair had been carefully positioned.

Turning over the locket, I saw seven

names carefully engraved onto the golden coloured surface. And believe me, at ten years of age that really gets your imagination going! ―Was it an amulet?‖ I wondered. Well, in my mind and at that tender age it most certainly was. Some people have asked was it an inspiration for The Amulet of Oxmosis I featured in my novel Wot, Nott, Kakuri and the HU BA HOU. All that I can say is, “Read the story and see for yourself…”

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

A Mouse Last night as I lay down in bed, I heard him... Scratching.

Up there, in the dark cold attic, I heard him... Scratching.

A trap I placed, not too far from him, A tempting morsel set upon it, I heard a snap... No more scratching.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

A Christmas Story… Christmas Eve so still I know, But something‟s in the wind, There‟s a sense of magic about, It‟s now we need our friends.

Last Christmas Eve began no different from any other morning. I rose at 7.30, as I always do, and, yawning, opened the blinds to see what the day offered. It was a cool, dark morning so typical of midwinter. A thin wisp of frost covered the ground, my car and a few scattered toys the children had absentmindedly left out; just looking onto the frosty wonderland sent shivers down my spine…. Taking hold of my dressing gown, embracing its wonderful warmth, I pull the cord tighter. ―That‘s better,‖ I whisper quietly, not wanting to awaken anyone. Still yawning, I walk down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I plug in the kettle for the most important part of the day – my first mug 78

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories of coffee. For someone who has never imbibed of this aromatic concoction it is impossible to understand the importance. Why, even the simple act of spooning the granules sends my pulse racing. ―Coffee‘s coming!‖ my receptive brain cells inform my eagerly awaiting body. When I pour the hot, boiling water into the mug, releasing the full aroma of the coffee beans, my taste buds go into overdrive. Last but not least, I add a few drops of milk – just to colour it. Now it‘s ready to drink. Raising the mug to my lips, I take a big gulp – it‘s wonderful. I am now able to contemplate another day. Pulling up a high-stool to the café bar, I place myself upon it. Then, almost without thinking, I grab the TV remote control and press the green button. It‘s an old television that has slowed considerably over the years, each morning taking longer to awaken. When the picture finally materialises, my mind is drawn away from the ‗coffee ceremony‘ to the scene upon it. I stop slouching, I stare, shifting, edging closer to the cathode ray tube, unable to take in the spectacle I see. ―It‘s him!” I exclaim. ―This can‟t be right. Where are the programme presenters?‖ I ask. After placing my half empty mug upon the worktop I rub my eyes in wonderment. ―It‘s him, it‟s really him!‖ I repeat over and over unwilling to believe what I can actually see. I check the television station. It‘s the same one I watch every morning for the early news. But instead of the news all I can see is the full, round face of Father Christmas staring back at me. I flick across to another channel, but there he is again. I try each and every one of the myriad 79

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories channels available, but the same image of Father Christmas is on every one. ―What‘s going on here?‖ I ask drumming the counter in confusion. Then the penny drops - ―Sure, it‘s December 24th,‖ I proclaim. ―It‘s Christmas Eve, and everyone knows that Santa comes at Christmas. That‘s why he‘s on TV; it must be some sort of seasonal, charity special!‖ I say, trying to convince myself in the process. More relaxed, believing that I have sorted it out, I reach for my mug and take another swig of coffee; it‘s almost cold. ―Why is it that cold coffee tastes so awful?‖ I moan. I desperately need another mug full. Pulling myself away from the TV, I switch on the kettle and reach for the coffee jar. It‘s only then do I notice something odd, something very odd indeed. The TV – it not even plugged in! Scratching my head in utter bewilderment, trying to convince myself that I‘m not going completely barmy, I follow the cord all the way from the TV to the wall socket. I again find it out. I scratch my head, trying to make some sense of it. ―Hmm,‖ I whisper. ―I know what I‘ll do.‖ Reaching for the remote control I promptly press the red button. ―Hah, that will sort you out, ‖ I laugh. And for a while it did; the picture on the screen obediently disappears, leaving a rectangle of greyness it its wake. ―Hah, I knew that would fix it,‖ I laugh, proud to have erased Santa from my sight.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Just then the kettle, having boiled, switched off. I spoon another measure of coffee and pour the hot water over it. ―Another few drops of milk and all will be well in the world,‖ I say putting the bizarre experience well and truly behind me. ―Why did you do that?‖ a voice suddenly asks. I freeze. ―Who said that?‖ I ask, too scared to raise my eyes from the worktop. ―I did,‖ the voice replied. ―Who?‖ ―Look up, Jeremiah.‖ the mysterious voice commands. ―Look up, to see the face of Christmas,‖ Gathering up courage, with trembling hands and shaking mug, I lift my gaze up. Once again the happy face Father Christmas is beaming out from the screen, smiling at me nonchalantly. I fall off the stool in shock, knocking over the newly filled mug in the process ―What‘s wrong, Jeremiah?‖ the old man asks. Pulling myself up to the counter, righting the overturned mug, I stare at the screen, and ask, ―Is that really you, Santa?‖ ―It most certainly is, Jeremiah,‖ he replies. ―But why?‖ I ask, unable to think of anything more better to say. ―It‘s Christmas, that‘s why,‖ he answers. He‘s right. What better time for Father Christmas to appear than during the festive season? ―Can everyone see you?‖ I ask.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Eying me with his large, round eyes, Santa says, ―You mean, am I on every TV in the entire country?‖ ―Yes, can everyone see you?‖ I ask him again. Before replying the old man laughs, a real jovial Santa Laugh, and then he says, ―No, I‘m afraid not. I am only on this television – for your eyes only.‖ After that, Santa‘s mood changes dramatically. He became quite, most unlike the Father Christmas we have all learned to expect and to love. He remains silent – and so do I. For what seems like an eternity the old man, with head lowered and eyes cast down, remains silent. As I patiently wait for Santa to begin speaking again, I find my mind wandering, my thoughts drifting, drifting back to my childhood, all those long years ago. I find myself young once again, I am carefree without a worry or a care in the world – it‘s fantastic. How could I have forgotten the magic of Christmas, a time when anything is possible, if you believe it to be? With these thoughts, my mind returns to the present realising just what I have lost over the years. Somewhere along the way I have lost something incredibly special. I have lost – we have all lost the magic of youth. I can now see so clearly how, as we grow older, we lose the frame of mind, the mindset that is open to – anything, and where everything is possible. Shouting at the top of my voice, I cry, ―I must do something to rectify this!‖ Then I see Father Christmas – Santa and all

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories the other wonderful names that he is called, looking down at me, smiling. ―You know see, don‘t you?‖ he asks kind-heartedly. Shaking with excitement, I reply, ―I do, I most certainly do, and it‘s fantastic! How do we lose this – this enchantment? How can we be so blind? There are children – everywhere – now living this dream, but my mind has been closed to this, all adults‘ minds are closed to this world. How, what must I do to change this?‖ I implore. At this point, something most strange happens. For a second or two I feel, a little feint – it lasts no more three seconds at tops, but when my light-headedness lifts, lo-and-behold, standing right there in front of me, and as large as life, is Father Christmas. I fall off the stool again in shock. ―Phew! I thought I might never get here,‖ the old man says, brushing down his red suit with a gloved hand. ―You‘re here,‖ I blurt out. Looking himself over, making sure that everything is where it‘s supposed to be, Santa replies, ―Yes, it seems so.‖ Then he adds, ―Though I do think it‘s about time I got a new outfit, this one is getting a bit thin at the seams, and the red does show up all that soot.‖ ―A new outfit?‖ ―Yes, something more practical, like grey. What do you think?‖ Even though I am still in an acute state of shock, at meeting Father Christmas, I almost choke at the thought of him sporting a grey Santa Suit. ―You must be mad, considering such a thing,‖ I tell him. 83

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Santa looks at me questioningly, and then pushing his round, rimless glasses up his wrinkly nose, says, ―Perhaps you‘re right. I could be mistaken for a burglar, and no amount of ho, ho hoeing might get me out from that.‖ I say nothing, nor does the old man. Silence once again takes hold of our meeting – it reigns. Apart from Santa taking out a large, linen handkerchief to blow his nose, not a sound can be heard. I wonder how my wife and two children (a boy and a girl) have been able to sleep though all the commotion, the shouting that I have been doing (not to mention the blaring TV). Oh well, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy... Finally, Father Christmas begins to speak, but this time it‘s with a clear purpose. This man, this good, old man has a definite, planned strategy in mind. He says, ―Listen, Jeremiah I have much to tell you, and so little time to say it, heed my words…‖ Santa talks. I listen. Sometimes I have to interrupt, asking a question or for clarification on an item, but for the most part it is he who speaks. What Father Christmas then tells me, on that cold December morning, I have, somehow, always known deep within my heart. He tells me that our life here on Earth is short, that we are here for a purpose, an opportunity that must not be wasted. He says, ―Grab the moment, be it Christmas or any time of the year. Live life to the full – that is how we can change the mindset of mankind, for the better.‖ The old man finished, saying, ―That is all I can tell you, Jeremiah. I hope that you 84

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories can now fully understand the importance of saving the Spirit of Christmastime, not just for a few short weeks each year, but for always.‖ ―I do, ―I reply with a conviction that I have never, ever, in my fifty-two years of life, experienced before.‖ ―Then I will leave it up to you,‖ he says, ―I have a busy night, ahead, I must be away...‖ And with that he is gone – disappeared into thin air… While gathering my racing thoughts, struggling to get my mind round the strange encounter, I hear the first awakenings of my wife and children. Pulling back the curtain, I look outside, through the steamed up window, to see that it‘s beginning to snow. ―That‘s nice,‖ I say happily. ―I thought you hated the snow,‖ my wife, Breda, say from the open doorway. ―I used to, but not any more – it‘s Christmas! Let‘s go out and make snowmen.‖ Breda looks at me suspiciously. The mere mention of snow is enough for Eric and Victoria, and they dash out from their bedrooms yelling in wild excitement. Victoria pulls a heavy sweater over her head, trying to get it past her pigtails, while Eric, well, he‘s just being Eric shoving one arm into his duffle coat while at the same time trying to tuck his shirt into his pants with the other, and with little or no success at either.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Snow!!!‖ the shout in unison, displaying all too plainly the magic of youth that we can so easily forget. ―Last one out‘s a rotten egg,‖ I shout as they scramble past determined not to be that egg. ―It‘s only just begun snowing, Breda complains, ―and what about your dressing gown?‖ We don‘t hear Breda‘s words; we are out in a wonderland, dancing, singing and playing in the softly falling snow. ―Look,‖ I called over to Eric and Victoria. ―Look at this snowflake, see how it‘s formed.‖ The two children, with wide-open eyes and even more open minds, watch as I point to a particularly large snowflake that has landed on the arm of my dressing gown. ―Look, look closely at it. See its beauty.‖ I exclaim. ―And did you know there were never two snowflakes the same – ever! Isn‘t that amazing.‖ Eric and Victoria‘s faces edge closer to the most wondrous snowflake discovered. Then, because of their warm breath, it begins to melt. ―It‘s melting,‖ they shout, distraught at its impending demise. ―Don‘t worry, let‘s find another, even more wondrous one than that,‖ I urge. ―Hurray, it‘s Christmas,‖ they cheere. ―Hurray for daddy, even though he‘s a bit weird.‖ When we are all played out (we even managed to build a small snowman) we head back indoors. Breda gives me a cross look (though not too cross), and then tells us that breakfast is ready, piping hot 86

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories chocolate with pancakes dripping in butter and honey – a perfect start to a perfect Christmas.

Much later, after Eric and Victoria are long gone to bed, Breda, snuggling up close to me on the couch, asks, ―What came over you, today?‖ ―What do you mean?‖ I reply, playing it curiously. ―You‘re different. It‘s like you‘ve rediscovered your childhood,‖ she says. ―There‘s a magic about you – Is this making any sense?‖ she asks intriguingly. ―More sense than you can ever imagine,‖ I reply smiling. ―And a Happy Christmas to you.‖

A Note: If anyone reading this thought that I was going to tell Breda that I actually saw Father Christmas that morning, you are in for a surprise – I didn‟t. Though, perhaps, just perhaps, I might have told Eric and Victoria – what do you think?

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Twinkle Twinkle, twinkle little car, Shiny bright – it goes so far! Speeding fast along the road, It struck a lamppost, now it‟s towed.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Greengrocer Jack and the Talking Cabbages AN EXTRACT

Faces! Hurriedly walking over to the shop door, Jack closed it securing the hefty bolt with a bang; he needed some time to think… ―If any more customers come, they will jolly well have to wait,‖ he said nervously, like someone was about to jump out from the rows of vegetables and grab hold him. As he stood stock-still with only his thoughts for company, Jack‘s brain raced and his heart pounded as he struggled with coming to terms with the remarkable thing he had just witnessed... ―I have seen it, but I still don‘t believe it,‖ he eventually managed to say, wiping the sweat from his brow in the process. Suddenly, it came to him, and he cried out, ―I can see it, now. Why didn‘t I notice it before, in the onions? How could I have overlooked 89

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories something so blatantly obvious?‖ Breathing deeply, in slow and regular intakes, Jack tried to compose himself and steady his jittery nerves. ―Okay,‖ he whispered. ―Come on, Jack, there must be a rational explanation for it. Yes, there must be – but what???‖ It was a quiet for a Friday morning, the fine weather having obviously attracted the customers elsewhere. ―Thank heavens business is slack today,‖ said Jack, stepping tentatively toward the potato counter, ―I have no idea what I might say if someone were to knock on the door, looking for service.‖ Plucking up courage, Jack approached the potato counter where he studied it in detail. Despite giving it his full his attention, everything appeared just as it should be; row up on row of neatly arranged potatoes, their best sides facing forward, waiting for eager housewives to purchase them. Everything looked right, everything was right, except for one small thing – THE POTATOES, THE KING EDWARD POTATOES HAD FACES UPON THEM, and they were looking right back at him…

Rubbing his eyes in disbelief, Jack still clung onto the hope that the apparition might somehow disappear, but it didn‘t. He leaned closer, to inspect the potatoes in even greater detail, but, yes, they definitely did have faces on them. Tearing away from the potatoes, Jack rushed over to the onion counter where he found each and every onion sporting a face, tattooed upon its 90

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories shiny skin. Beads of perspiration trickled down Jack‘s brow as he dashed from counter to counter around the old wooden shop, where the same scene repeated itself at each and every one. Every vegetable, every fruit now had a face engrained upon it. Faces staring, faces with eyes, questioning eyes, but questioning what??? When he reached the cabbage counter, at the far end of the shop, Jack finally stopped running. Puffing and panting, he said, ―Got to catch my breath, I‘m too old for this sort of skuldurry. ‖ Coughing and wheezing breathlessly, Jack stared into the cabbage counter, hoping that he might find some sort of normality there, but each and every head of cabbage sported its own unique face that stared right back at him. ―Am I going mad?‖ Jack shouted. ―This can‘t really be happening.‖ “Oh, but it is,” a voice boomed from within the heads of cabbage…

CONTINUED...

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

Last Night I heard a sound by my bedside last night, I heard a lone sound, how I got such a fright. Something passed by me deep in the night, I heard a faint sound; did it want my poor life?

I made no sound; I was still, in such fright, As I lay in bed in the deep of the night, I could hear it close by, how I longed for the light. What was this dark thing evading my sight?

An evil black form, a shadowy sight, Began to rise slowly in front of my eyes. As I lay in bed on my left-hand side, This dark, wicked thing slowly rose into sight.

I could not move a muscle; I was frozen in fright, As the dark, frightful vision continued in height, Till itâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s malevolent eyes were almost in sight. Only then did I close mine, despite the dark night.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories I knew it was wicked, the devil personified, That he wanted my sight, the light of my life. If I kept my eyes closed, shut tight as the night. I might just be spared the Grim Reaper‘s cold scythe. Finally, eventually, I opened my eyes, Had he gone, departed – left, from my bedside? But no! He was there (though lower again), Starting beginning to rise over again. How could I be free from this terrible beast, That wanted my soul, my heart and my peace? Perhaps, if this time my eyes remained firmly closed, It might well just give up and go away home. So as my eyes closed, again, in such fright, I prayed and I hoped that I‘d last out the night. I could feel its Dark Presence so close by my brow, But kept my eyes shut, it wouldn‟t bother me now. The darkness and danger passed from me that night, Vanishing, returning away from my sight. I rolled over, so comfy, lulled back into nod, Till the next time it happens, it‘s just me and my God. This really did happen… 93

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Featured, below, is what I imagine „Wot and Nott‟ postage stamps would look like.

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Alice On Top of the World AN EXTRACT

Into The Abyss It was many years later when Alice had her next adventure, and whilst she was quite surprised to be having one at all, after the passing of so many years, she was even more surprised to see that she was a child again, no older than when she had first entered Wonderland and slipped through that fascinating Looking Glass. ―How curious,‖ she whispered, trying to recall the child she had once been. ―You took your time getting here,‖ said the White Rabbit who suddenly appeared in front of her. ―I beg your pardon?‖ Alice replied, remembering how rude he could be, if he felt so inclined.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―I said you took your time getting here. You should have been here fourteen years ago,‖ the Rabbit huffed indignantly as he began hopping quickly away from Alice. ―But,‖ Alice spluttered, running after him, ―I have no idea how I arrived, let alone why I am so late!‖ ―We accept no ifs or buts, here – you should know that by now,‖ said the Rabbit, as he opened a door which had appeared as suddenly as he. Stepping through, he said, ―Hurry up, please don‘t dawdle.‖ As she followed him through the doorway, trying her to keep up with the fast-hopping Rabbit, Alice surmised that he must have got out his bed on the wrong side, this morning, to be so grumpy on so wonderful a day. And it really was a wonderful day, with a warm sun shining brightly upon them. ‗I wonder where I might possibly be?‘ thought Alice, as she admired the pink forget-me-nots skirting a winding path before her.

―Am I in

Wonderland?‖ she asked, just as another door, the same as the first one, appeared. Giving Alice a most peculiar look, the Rabbit said, ―Of course we are not in Wonderland.‖ Opening the door, he told her, ―We are on the top of the world.‖ Having said that, he scurried off, hopping down another winding path, also bordered by pink forget-me-nots.

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―The top of the world?‖ Alice cried out, quite in surprise. ―Why, that‘s impossible!‖ The Rabbit stopped hopping. Turning around, facing Alice, he said, ―Then how can you be here, if it‘s impossible?‖ Flummoxed by the Rabbit‘s question, Alice found herself struggling to find a reply. The only thing she was able to come up with was, ―I bet you are mad!‖ ―That all depends,‖ the Rabbit replied quite matter-of-factly. ―It all depends on what?‖ ―On whether you mean mad or mad.‖ ―That‘s silly,‖ said Alice. ―They both mean the very same thing.‖ ―If you were mad number one,‖ said the White Rabbit, with full conviction of the soundness of his case, ―and someone happened to tell you that you were mad number two, you might be very mad indeed, at so fundamental a mistake.‖ ―But I‘m not mad!‖ Alice insisted, becoming ever more frustrated at so silly a conversation. ―How do you know that you aren‘t mad,‖ asked the Rabbit, who appeared to be enjoying flummoxing Alice, so ―when you can‘t tell the difference between mad number one and mad number two, I might ask?‖ 98

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―I just know that I‘m not mad!‖ Alice insisted, stamping her foot, displaying her annoyance at what she considered was questionable logic. Changing the subject, from her possible madness or claimed sanity, Alice informed the Rabbit that another door had appeared and was awaiting his attention. Turning round, the White Rabbit took hold of the handle and tried to open the door, but it remained stubbornly shut. ―Might I try?‖ Alice asked, feeling very un-mad. Standing away from the door, the White Rabbit said nothing, but his pink, beady eyes watched her intently. The door opened easily for Alice. Feeling vindicated, she said, ―Could a mad person have done that?‖ Without waiting for a reply, she stepped through the doorway and fell into a gaping hole on the far side. ―No, they mightn‘t,‖ said the Rabbit, laughing as she disappeared into the hole. ―But would they have fallen down there?‖ Laughing again, he hopped through doorway and into the hole, following Alice… After a long fall in near to total darkness, a fall that reminded Alice of the time she had fallen down the rabbit hole, into Wonderland, the speed of her descent began to slow. In fact it slowed so much it stopped altogether, and she began rising again. ―I don‘t want to return up there, even if it is to the top of the world,‖ she insisted. Staring at the speck of light high above her, she said, ―It‘s far too far!‖ 99

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Hearing something passing her by (she had no idea what it could be, for it was far too dark to see properly), Alice jumped onto its back. Holding on tightly, she rode out from the well. Alice was surprised to see that she was riding a baby hippopotamus, whose skin was as smooth as silk. She wondered how she had been able to stay upon it for second let alone long enough to escape from the dark, dreary place. Alice had so sooner begun thinking about this, when she felt herself slipping, sliding off the baby hippopotamus. Landing with a bump on the hard, dusty ground, she moaned, ―I don‘t like this place I don‘t like it at all.‖

―You don‘t like it!‖ said the baby hippopotamus, in a surprisingly low voice for such an extreme animal. ―How do you think I feel? There‘s not a drop of water to be seen – anywhere. And we hippos need so much of it!‖ Brushing her dress, removing the dust from it, Alice said, ―Mr Hippopotamus, I would like to thank you for the ride from out of that cave, or whatever it happens to be. Moreover, it was the most comfortable hippopotamus ride I have ever had (Alice omitted to tell the hippopotamus that it was the only one she had had), thank you, again.‖

100

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―My dear child,‖ it answered, ―you are so light I hardly noticed you there. Any time you feel the need to take a ride from out of that dark space, please feel free to jump on my back as I pass you by.‖ ―Thank you, thank you so much,‖ she told him. ―I shall keep your invitation in my invitation book, and if I don‘t find a need for it, I will treasure it always.‖ After that the hippopotamus returned to the darkness, searching for some water. However, before he had a chance to begin, Alice heard another soft landing (though it has to be said that it was not as soft as hers). Before she could say Jack Robinson, the White Rabbit appeared, sitting back to front on the baby hippo‘s back, riding out, into the bright light. After the White Rabbit had thanked the baby hippopotamus for the ride (Alice felt he was nowhere near as grateful as she had been), he scolded Alice for having fallen down the hole, before him. He said, ―If there is to be any hole-falling done around here, we must first have a vote, to decide who shall be first and who second. Is that clear?‖ Although Alice nodded in agreement, she harboured a suspicion that he was quite possibly mad number one, and if not that he was most certainly mad number two. Another winding path suddenly appeared before them, but this one, although also bordered by flowers, was in no way as inviting as the 101

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories previous ones. You see, instead of pink forget-me-nots, giant aspidistras sporting green, snapping beaks awaited them. ―Come on, Alice, we have to find our way up, to the very top of the world‖ said the Rabbit as he hurried past the plants with their snap, snapping beaks. Alice gasped as the first plant, snapping hungrily at his thick fur, tore a large wad from his back. ―Come on, we must return to the top of the world,‖ he ordered, seemingly oblivious to the dangers posed by the snapping beaks. Having no intention of admitting that she was afraid of some silly old flowers that the Rabbit considered quite harmless, and having even less intention of asking him for his help, Alice got ready to pass down the dangerous path. By now the White Rabbit was so far ahead of her, Alice doubted she might ever catch up with him. Closing her eyes, taking a first tentative step, she began her way down the aspidistra-bordered path, hoping, just hoping to catch up with the fast hopping Rabbit. Alice hadn‘t finished taking her first step, when one of the snapping beaks tried to remove a piece from her left ear. A second beak, sensing an easy target, pulled violently at her hair, while a third green beak tried to bite off her nose.

102

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Stop that!‖ Alice told the bad-mannered plants. ―Stop that this instant or I shall be forced to dig you all up, and replant you with rhubarb,‖ she warned. Like a switch had been turned, the beaks stopped attacking. Inspecting her head, Alice made sure that it was intact. After she was satisfied that everything was as it had previously been, she said, ―Thank you. I can‘t ever imagine what has got into you, to behave so rudely. Don‘t you know that plants are supposed to be nice, not terrible, awful things?‖ As she studied the giant plants, with their green beaklike mouths close in front of her, Alice thought she heard a cry, so she asked, ―Who is crying?‖ Despite listening intently, Alice heard no reply, as all the while the cry from somewhere deep within the group of plants continued. Then they began swaying, their beak mouths on stalks high above them, also swaying. ―Stop it, stop it,‖ Alice ordered. ―Tell me which of you is crying?‖ Although it was still swaying, one of the plants began speaking, it said, ―She is crying, the little offshoot, close to my wife – see.‖ One of its long strappy leaves pointed across to the right. ―Your wife?‖ Alice asked, in surprise that a plant might actually be married.

103

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Yes,‖ the aspidistra replied, swaying some more. ―Can you see them?‖ ―I might, if you stopped swaying,‖ she said. ―I am beginning to feel quite sick from it all.‖ ―I can‘t,‖ the plant told her. ―None of us can. When we are upset, we sway. That‘s why we sway so much in the wind, because we don‘t like it, because it upsets us so.‖ ―Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?‖ ―You can promise that you won‘t dig us up…‖ a baby voice sobbed. ―Of course I won‘t dig you up,‖ Alice promised. ―I only said that because of the terrible way you were treating me.‖ The plants stopped swaying, allowing Alice to see the child aspidistra tucked lovingly under its mother‘s green leaves. Showing no fear for her safety, disappearing beneath the huge plants (she now trusted them unquestionably), Alice approached the baby plant and its doting mother. ―I am sorry,‖ she said, ―if I upset you. Will you please forgive me?‖ ―Yes, I will,‖ said the baby plant, trying to hold back sob. ―And we are sorry, so sorry that we frightened you. We are like this because we are so hungry… we are usually happy, with smiling beaks to welcome the weary traveller.‖ Confused, Alice asked, ―Hungry? How can you be hungry when your roots can find all the food that you need?‖ 104

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Fertilizer, all plants need fertilizer at some time in their lives,‖ the baby aspidistra explained. ―None of us have had any fertilizer for ages. I have never had any – ever! I don‘t even know what it looks like!‖ ―This is a most terrible state of affairs,‖ said Alice, scratching her head, trying to work out what could be done to remedy the unfortunate situation. Raising a finger, she asked, ―Can I go fetch you some?‖ If their beaks had been able to smile, every last beak skirting that path would have been smiling radiantly at Alice. They became so excited at the prospect of getting some fertilizer they began talking furiously amongst themselves. In fact, the plants‘ conversation became so loud, so noisy Alice could hardly hear herself think. In the end she had to ask them to stop. ―Stop, stop talking, please,‖ she said, ―my ears are hurting from it all.‖ It stopped; the excited talking stopped, except for one of the plants, the mother aspidistra, who said, ―Do you know where you can find us some fertilizer?‖ ―I, I don‘t know,‖ Alice replied uncertainly. Smiling, Alice was sure she saw the beak smiling, when it said, ―Go to the fertilizer mine, there you will find all the fertilizer we need.‖ ―Where is it, the mine?‖ Alice asked.

105

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―I am sorry, I don‘t know, none of us know where it is located,‖ the mother aspidistra confessed. ―But we do know that it most surely exists.‖ Seeing how sad the mother plant had become, Alice said, ―I will find you some fertilizer, I will find enough fertilizer to feed you all – I promise.‖

CONTINUED...

106

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Giggle My Boots Giggle my boots, gaggle my hat, Goggle my shirtsleeves and fraggle that cat. I am friggled with laughter, for I know that it‘s true, That you really do love me, not Johnny Lazoo.

You see, Johnny Lazoo, a man of some strength, Wanted to court you, wanted to bend, Your ear with his stories, your eye with his looks, But you never gave his as much as one look. The day that you said, ‗I‘ll marry you, I will,‘ Was the happiest day of my life; it was brill, To think that you chose me over Johnny Lazoo, Makes me friggle with laughter, knowing it‘s true.

Before I heard off with my bride and my life, I will give you this piece of excellent advice. If you are planning to woo your beau, here‘s the rub, Friggle her with laughter and griggle her with love.

107

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

A Little Nut Tree I had a little nut tree, Nothing would it bear, Despite the muck I spread around, Its base with love and care.

Why don‘t you grow just one nut? If you‘re okay, I pressed, I can‘t, the tree replied to me, My roots are a stinking mess.

108

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

109

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

AN EXTRACT

Here Lies the Body of Jacob Marley Exiting the counting-house, two gentlemen walked dejectedly away from it. ―Mr Fosdyke,‖ said the first gentleman, ―I am deeply saddened that anyone could be so cold of heart, especially so at this time of the year.‖ ―Indeed, Mr Hartwell,‖ the second gentleman replied. ―Imagine, wanting to put the poor and destitute into prisons, to punish them, so, because of their bad luck. Mr Scrooge must surely be the coldest person in England, this Christmas.‖ ―His clerk was suffering mightily, so cold that it was in his office,‖ Mr Hartwell gentleman said to his colleague. ―Did you see the fire they had set in the grate?‖ Nodding, Mr Fosdyke replied, ―I did. Mr Scrooge could never be anything other than cold of heart, burning his coal one piece at a time.‖ ―Come; we have others to call upon before this day has finished with us,‖ Mr Hartwell said, cheering up. ―Yes,‖ Mr Fosdyke replied. ―I am sure they will – all of them – offer us a better welcome than Mr Scrooge.‖

110

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories As the gentlemen made their way along the narrow, cobbled street, the sound of their footsteps echoed in the cold shadowy doorways and arches lining it. Rounding a bend in the street, Mr Hartwell gasped with shock when he spied someone lying face down upon it. ―Look,‖ he said, pointing. ―Someone is in need of our help.‖ Approaching the person (it was male), they tried to ascertain who it might be. ―Who is it?‖ Mr Fosdyke asked his colleague ―I don‘t know,‖ Mr Hartwell replied. ―Help me to roll him over, so we can take a look at his face.‖ They rolled him over, onto his back. ―Why, he‘s barely more than a child!‖ Mr Hartwell cried out, quite in surprise. ―Yes,‖ Mr Fosdyke concurred. ―No more than eleven or twelve years of age, I‘d hazard a guess.‖ ―He‘s wet to the bone,‖ said Mr Hartwell. ―And almost as cold as the grave,‖ Mr Fosdyke added. ―Come; we must get him indoors, before a warm fire, lest he expires from exposure this very night.‖ Later, at the gentlemen‘s base, the boy, seated in a chesterfield chair in front of a roaring log fire, offered his hands to the flames, warming them. ―Begging your pardon, sirs,‖ he timidly said, ―but how did I get here, wherever it is?‖ Offering him a mug of piping hot tea, Mr Fosdyke said, ―You are safe, here; it‘s our base. We found you lying unconscious in the street.‖ ―And on so cold a night,‖ Mr Hartwell added. ―We feared for your life, we did.‖ Accepting the tea, the boy said, ―Thank you, sirs, for helping me.‖ 111

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Sitting on a chair adjacent the boy, ―Mr Fosdyke said, ―Pray tell us your name, lad.‖ ―And why you were lying there, unconscious, in the street,‖ Mr Hartwell implored. ―Your parents must be sick with worry.‖ Staring blankly into his mug, the boy offered them no explanation as to why this was so. ―Has the cat got your tongue,‖ Mr Fosdyke asked, jesting, trying to lighten his mood. Running a finger around the rim of his mug, the boy said, ―My name is Tommy, Tommy Tilbert, sirs.‖ ―And?‖ Mr Hartwell asked, urging him on. ―And...I was playing.‖ he told them, uncomfortably recalling it. ―Playing outside, at four of the o‘clock – in the month of December?‖ Mr Hartwell asked, thinking he heard incorrectly. ―Yes, sir,‖ Tommy replied. ―It‘s true!‖ ―It‘s alright,‖ said Mr Fosdyke,‖ we believe you, don‘t we Mr Hartwell?‖ ―Humph, yes,‖ he replied, clearing his throat. ―You must have had good reason to be there, on so cold an evening.‖ ―I did, I did!‖ Tommy insisted. Running his finger ever faster around the rim of his mug, he said, ―You see, sirs...I was set upon.‖ ―Set upon?‖ Mr Hartwell asked, concerned for the boy. ―Yes, sir,‖ he answered. 112

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Who attacked you?‖ Mr Fosdyke asked, worried for the child. His finger stopping, Tommy looked up from his mug, and said, ―Street urchins.‖ ―Why did they attack you?‖ the gentlemen asked. ―Because I am homeless.‖ ―But they are also homeless,‖ said Mr Hartwell, scratching his head, confused by it. ―They attacked me because I am not one of them, in their gang,‖ Tommy explained. ―I have not always been homeless, sirs.‖ ―Why are you homeless, then?‖ Mr Fosdyke curiously asked. His finger running around the ring of his mug once again, Tommy‘s thoughts deepened, remembering how it had come about. ―Did you get lost?‖ Mr Hartwell asked. ―Because if you did, we shall do all that we can to reunite you with your parents.‖ Bursting into tears, Tommy wailed, ―My mum and dad are dead!‖ Stunned by this news, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke were at a loss as to what they might say in reply. ―Mum and dad died last year, just before Christmas,‖ Tommy sobbed. ―They died of consumption – both of them.‖ ―I am so sorry to hear that,‖ Mr Hartwell said, in all honesty. ―Please accept my sincerest sympathies,‖ said Mr Fosdyke.

113

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Thank you, sirs,‖ said Tommy. Wiping the tears away from his eyes, he said, ―The landlord came to our house the day after their funeral. He told me to get out, that he had to fumigate it, after them dying from consumption, there. That‘s what he said. He told me I could return a week later, when the fumes were gone. But when I returned, there was a new family in our house, and they ran me, threatening me with the police, so they did.‖ ―Have you any brothers or sisters?‖ Mr Hartwell enquired. ―No, sir, not any.‖ ―Have you any relatives?‖ Mr Fosdyke asked. ―Apart from an uncle and aunt, somewhere in Pimlico, that I cannot find, no one at all,‖ Tommy glumly replied. ―That‘s why I was on the street, so it is.‖ ―And why the street urchins picked on you,‖ said Mr Hartwell. ―Yes, sir,‖ Tommy replied. Taking off one of his shoes, he reached into it (the gentlemen thought it was to fish out a stray stone). Withdrawing his hand, Tommy said, ―But they didn‘t get this.‖ He showed them a shiny bright sixpence. Seeing it, the gentleman laughed, so amused that they were. Perturbed by their reaction, Tommy said, ―Why are you laughing? This is my life sayings!‖ ―We are laughing with you,‖ Mr Fosdyke kindly explained, ―not at you.‖ ―Mind your money well,‖ Mr Hartwell told Tommy. Later, after they had shown Tommy upstairs, to bed, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke sat in front of the fire, drinking port and discussing their find. ―The child fell asleep the instant his head hit the pillow,‖ said Mr Hartwell.

114

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Indeed,‖ Mr Fosdyke concurred, ―he was so tired, roaming the streets for almost a year, he was unable to keep his eyes open long enough to bid us goodnight.‖ ―We must go search for the child‘s uncle and aunt, this very evening,‖ said Mr Hartwell. ―Indubitably,‖ Mr Fosdyke concurred. Mrs Mapplethorpe, the housekeeper, will watch over the child while we are gone.‖ Lighting a taper from the fire, Mr Hartwell offered it to his pipe. Sucking, breathing in the sweet smoke, he relaxed, enjoying the moment. ―You know something, Mr Fosdyke,‖ he said, blowing out smoke. ―I have been thinking.‖ ―Thinking,‖ Mr Fosdyke replied, ―about what?‖ Chewing thoughtfully on his pipe, Mr Hartwell said, ―About Christmas.‖ ―Christmas?‖ ―Yes, Christmas,‖ he replied. ―Let me explain...‖ By the time Mr Hartwell had finished explaining, telling Mr Fosdyke his thoughts about Christmas, his colleague was feeling confused. ―Let me get this straight,‖ he said, ―you want to make Christmas better by making it easier?‖ ―Yes, in a nutshell, that‘s it,‖ Mr Hartwell casually replied. ―But how is that possible?‖ Mr Fosdyke asked. ―There are so many poor and destitute in England, let alone the rest of the world, it would take a miracle to achieve such an ambition.‖

115

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Placing his glass of port onto the mantelpiece, Mr Hartwell looked hard in his friend‘s eyes, and then said, ―A miracle is exactly what I am hoping for.‖ Thinking his colleague had, perhaps, had a drink too many, Mr Fosdyke reached up to the mantelpiece and pushed the glass gently away from him. Laughing good naturedly, Mr Hartwell said, ―That was my first glass of port, as well you know.‖ Reclaiming his glass, he sipped the brown coloured liquid. ―I can see that you are confused, old chap,‖ he said, ―so I will put it another way.‖ Returning his glass to the mantelpiece, Mr Hartwell said, ―What did Scrooge say about Christmas?‖ ―He said many things about Christmas,‖ Mr Fosdyke replied, ―and all of them unfavourable.‖ ―He most certainly did,‖ Mr Hartwell agreed. Gazing into the fire, he watched the sparks flying up the chimney, and then said, ―He told us that his partner, Mr Marley, died seven years previous, this very night.‖ ―It‘s true; he did,‖ Mr Fosdyke answered. ―I thought it most peculiar that such a terrible thing happening – and so close to Christmas – had not softened his temperament, not even a bit.‖ Inspecting his pipe, Mr Hartwell saw that it had gone out. Tapping it against the fireplace, he emptied it of spent tobacco. Refilling his pipe, he said, ―If I was Mr Marley, alive and well, not dead as a doornail in a cold and damp grave, I would use my money to make this a Christmas that everyone in Christendom would enjoy and remember for the rest of their lives.‖ ―I am sorry, old chap,‖ said Mr Fosdyke, ―but I cannot see how talking about Marley can make Christmas any easier.‖

116

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―After we have visited his grave, I believe you will.‖ Later that evening, on their way across London, trying to find Tommy‘s uncle and aunt, the gentlemen digressed from their route. Stopping at the graveyard where old Marley lay buried, Mr Fosdyke and Mr Hartwell entered it, searching for his grave. ―I say,‖ Mr Fosdyke whispered, ―Is this really necessary, visiting such a dreary place – and on so cold an evening?‖ Pointing ahead, to the low corner of the graveyard, Mr Hartwell said, ―I‘ll wager you a shilling that Marley is buried, there, in the paupers‘ lot. Come; let us inspect it.‖ Stepping into the low corner of the graveyard, avoiding a newly excavated grave awaiting its occupant, Mr Fosdyke swathed his coat collar high around his nose, and then said, ―This is an abysmal place, rank with the stench of death. One might wonder if the corpses lying within it are covered at all.‖ Pointing again, Mr Hartwell said, ―There; that is old Marley‘s grave.‖ ―That one,‖ Mr Fosdyke incredulously asked, ―the grave with the smallest headstone of them all? Surely, not even Scrooge would bury someone he knew in so miserly a manner.‖ Approaching the grave, the gentlemen inspected its diminutive headstone. It read: Here lies the body of Jacob Marley. Born 1785 Died 1836. ―Oh, that he was alive again,‖ Mr Hartwell said, patting the cold stone. ―I am sure he would see things, namely money, in a different light.‖

117

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―You told me that when I got here, to this wretched man‘s grave, I would understand how to make Christmas easier,‖ said Mr Fosdyke, ―but I am none the wiser. I am as perplexed as before we set off.‖ Coming clean, Mr Hartwell said, ―I had a hunch, a gut feeling, the instant Mr Scrooge told us his partner was dead, that we had to come here.‖ Removing his hat, Mr Fosdyke scratched his head thoughtfully through his thinning grey hair. Donning his hat, he said, ―If I had just met you, I would have thought you a candidate ripe for Bedlam, saying such a strange thing. But I do know you – and for a considerable time at that – so I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Pray tell me some more.‖ Coughing, nervously clearing his throat, Mr Hartwell said, ―That‘s about it, old chap. Whatever it happens to be,‖ he said, ―be it intuition, sixth sense or an insight into a realm of creation that I know little about, I knew it was right for us to come here this evening.‖ ―I hope you are right, because we are sitting ducks, ripe for the picking, hidden away at the back of this graveyard,‖ Mr Fosdyke replied. ―Vagabonds pay no heed to Christmas, you know.‖ Suddenly, there was a sound, like someone stepping on dried leaves. Pointing to the nearest tree, Mr Hartwell whispered, ―Hush!‖ What the gentlemen saw next was scarier by far than mere vagabonds... CONTINUED...

118

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

The cat sat on the hot tin roof, Enjoying the wonderful day, His felt so good, (And so he should), He'd just eaten a little mouse, hooray!

119

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

Spam Sam There was a young man named Sam, Who thought everything was made out of Spam, Then one day, far from home, With no money, and hungry, he phoned, Asking, â&#x20AC;&#x2014;Can I eat my Spam elbow with jam?

120

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

121

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

AN EXTRACT

No, Our Best Chinaâ&#x20AC;&#x;s in There! Mr and Mrs Privet, of number five Dorsley Drive, were anything but normal. They had been normal only a few weeks earlier, but they were now as crazy as everyone incarcerated in the local loony bin was. On the outside, Mr Privet, a tall, bald and incredibly thin man, appeared quite normal, but just beneath the surface, barely hidden, he was a seething mass of nervous ticks, idiosyncratic behaviour, peptic ulcers and, above all, just plain looniness. As well as suffering from the same mad ways as her loopy husband, the extraordinarily fat Mrs Privet was also suffering from the dreadful infliction of hearing voices in her head. 122

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories She might hear them at any time of the day or night, and would oftentimes jump up in her bed, screaming in a most alarming way, giving her husband such a fright he would begin shaking uncontrollably. It was a most dreadful state of affairs altogether. Despite suffering from these awful conditions, Mr and Mrs Privet tried to continue living as normal a life as was possible, but hardly a day went by without one of them experiencing a mad interlude that would make most normal people simply roll over and die. Before I continue with my story, I must also tell you about their son Box, Box Privet. This child (the veritable apple of their eyes) was, like his father, of a tall and incredibly thin physique. At times, this trait would cause him to be the butt of jokes and jibes by his classmates and acquaintances. However, he paid little or no attention to them, because his mind was always set firmly on the love, the passion of his life – electronics. Upstairs, in his small bedroom, Box would work for hours on end with his soldering iron, long nose pliers and tweezers, creating, crafting bringing his new ideas to life. It was a lonely existence, but he loved it. I have already told you how Mr and Mrs Privet had been quite normal only a few weeks earlier. In all truthfulness, the Privet‘s had been one of the happiest families in their entire estate of mock Elizabethan detached houses. But

123

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories now they were mad, living in fear for their lives, the happy and contented existence they had so enjoyed, in tatters, a shambles, a mere shadow of what it had once been. You see, the Privet‘s had been hiding a secret, a big secret. And while it had been contained and suppressed, as they felt is should still be, they had been enjoying that happy and contented life, but from the moment, the very instant this secret, this terrible secret had escaped from its place of incarceration, a private boarding school going by the name of Hagswords, their happy and carefree life had come to an abrupt end. This secret, this big dark secret was in reality a young girl, an orphan, the Privet‘s only niece, going by the of Harry Rotter. She had actually been baptised Harriet, but from an early age had insisted that everyone call her Harry. Let me tell you about Harriet – Harry... She was the boldest, cruellest, nastiest child you could ever be unfortunate enough to meet. To look as her, with her flowing locks of golden hair and a face that appeared so innocent, so angelic, one might easily be fooled into believing that butter could last forever in her mouth without melting. But she wasn‘t an angel, no, the unfortunate truth, the terrible truth was she was an out and out scoundrel, a bully who had no respect for anyone but herself. Bullies can and so very often do make the lives of those living around them as miserable as hell – Harry proved to be no exception to this rule.

124

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories While Harriet – Harry – had been safely ensconced in her school everything had been just fine, and the Privet‘s had been able to forgot about their troublesome niece, but from the moment she broke out, escaped from that high security ‗special‘ boarding school, and found her way to the home of her only living relations, the Privets, their lives changed forever. ―Excuse me, please,‖ said Harry, ever so mannerly when Mrs Privet opened the front door, ―I am your only niece. Will you please put me up for a few days?‖ ―Its young Harriet, isn‘t it?‖ said Mrs Privet, patting her nervously upon the head. ―Are you on a school break?‖ Ignoring the question while resisting the urge to kick the condescending woman in the shins, Harry smiled, and said, ―I prefer to be called Harry, if it all right with you?‖ ―Yes, yes, that‘s fine,‖ said Mrs Privet as she ushered Harry through the doorway, looking up and down the road, to see if anyone had been following her. The road, however, was deserted. ―Please go into the front room,‖ said Mrs Privet. The cat made a mad dash past Harry, through the open doorway. Harry entered the room. It reminded her of Hagswords – far too much stained glass and wood panelling for her liking. ―Sit down, sit down, Harry, and make yourself comfortable,‖ said Mrs Privet. ―I will go fetch

125

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories you some lemonade, you must be so thirsty after your travelling. Then I will go tell your uncle the good news.‖ Leaving Harry alone in the room, Mrs Privet returned to the hallway where she opened the small door under the stairs that led down to the cellar, a den of sorts. Calling her husband, she said, ―Dear…. we have a visitor…‖ ―Who is it?‖ a voice called up from below. ―It‘s your niece.‖ BANG. There was a sound like a baldhead striking a beam in the low slung ceiling, and then there was silence. ―Did you hear me, darling?‖ Mumbles from below. ―Darling?‖ Mr Privet began speaking, and in a hushed voice, he asked, ―Are you sure it‘s our niece – THAT niece?‖ ―Yes, dear, it‘s young Harriet – I mean Harry, Harry Rotter.‖ ―Harriet or Harry – you should know what sex they are.‖ ―He, she‘s a girl, she just likes the name Harry – shortened, you know.‖ ―I don‘t know if I know anything anymore,‖ Mr Privet grumbled as he made his way up the narrow staircase, ―having to deal with your

126

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ‗unusual‘ relations. Puffing and panting, Mr Privet emerged from the cellar. ―Where is she, then?‖ he barked, looking up and down the hallway. ―I put her in the front room.‖ ―Our best china‘s in there!‖ he hollered, storming down the hallway and then bursting into the room like an elephant was chasing after him. Inside, he found Harry carefully inspecting a piece of their hand-painted fine bone china. ―That‘s an heirloom – but it‘s not worth anything,‖ he muttered, eying Harry‘s canvas shoulder bag with suspicion, while also trying, but unsuccessfully, to close the battered door. ―Not worth anything?‖ she asked, raising an eyebrow. ―No, not a penny…‖ ―Can I have it, then, as a keepsake?‖ Almost choking on his words, Mr Privet fumbled to find others, words that might save his prized china. ―Mr Privet?‖ ―I... we...we can‘t give it away… we promised your Granny, on her death bed, that we would always treasure it…‖ Studying his face, particularly the sweat beading upon it, Harry searched for signs of deceit. ―Okay,‖ she said, ―it was just a thought.‖ 127

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Then scanning the room, she added, ―There must be loads of things amongst all this rubbish that you don‘t want.‖ ―No, no, everything‘s spoken for,‖ Mr Privet squeaked in reply. Then changing the subject from their prized possessions, he asked Harry the reason for her visit. ―Oh, I have already told your wife,‖ she said, ―I will be staying with you for a few days…‖ This time Mr Privet almost choked on Harry‘s words. Mrs Privet, carrying a tray with a tall glass of lemonade upon it, entered the room, ―Everything all right?‖ she asked, smiling naively at them.

CONTINUED...

128

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

I AM I am black. I am blind, I am a slave, who has no free will, I work for the good of all, not for the sake of the individual, I have no dreams, I have no plans and I receive no rewards, I am conditioned to serve, and I do without question, And I will continue to do so until the day I die, I am â&#x20AC;&#x201C; an ant.

129

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Tree Bill I know of a tree named Bill, It‘s a peculiar tree – even still, It‘s been strange all its life, A tree scared by the night, That‘s Bill, the tree on nerve pills.

130

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

131

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

AN EXTRACT

Hard Times Jimmy Wilson, a small child with jet-black hair, was incredibly strong, a little battler by all accounts who let nothing stand in the way of him doing anything he chose to do. That was a good trait to for him to have, considering his family were so poor. You see, his father had died when Jimmy was only four years of age, leaving his wife, their poor bedraggled mother, to rear him, his brothers (Bill and Jack) and sisters (Doreen and Kathleen) all on her own. In those days, in the nineteen twenties, life was incredibly hard, especially so in the impoverished northeast of England, There was social welfare system to fall back on, to help you out in the hard times. It was survival of the fittest, nothing

132

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories more nothing less. However, she tried, their poor mother tried so valiantly to eke out an existence, a decent life for herself and her five children, to give them some semblance of the carefree, happy childhood all children truly deserve. Although his father had died when he was young, Jimmy insisted that he remembered him, and nothing gave him more pleasure than listening to his mother recounting stories about his father. Each evening, when she had tucked Jimmy in bed, he listened to them. ―Mum, tell me the story about the time dad found that piece of coal, you know, the one that was a big as a house.‖ This was Jimmy‘s favourite story, he must have heard it a hundred times, but he never tired of it. Smiling, she said, ―Okay, but only if you promise to fall fast asleep as soon as I have finished it.‖ ―Yes, yes, I promise,‖ Jimmy answered, settling into his pillow, ready for his all-time favourite story. Staring down at her son, the mother saw her beloved husband‘s eyes staring back at her. Wiping away a tear, she began the story… When the story was finished, his mother leant over and kissed her sleeping son on the forehead. Glancing across two her other sons, she saw that they too were asleep. After blowing each of them a kiss, she made her way out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Looking into the adjacent room, where he daughters shared the same

133

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories bed, she saw that they too were sleeping peacefully. Shuffling down the stairs, to the front door, she pushed the bolt into its night-time position. Returning upstairs, she climbed into her bed – alone. Missing her husband so much, she cried herself to sleep. Next morning, Jimmy, as per usual, was first to awaken. It was fivethirty. After donning his clothes, then having a quick wash in the basin on the tallboy, he made his way downstairs, to the kitchen. Pantry would better describe it, because it was TINY. Jimmy, however, had no idea that it was so small. Why would he? Where they lived, everyone‘s kitchen was of the same diminutive size. It was normal as far as he was concerned, perfectly normal. After pouring some oat flakes into his bowl, a cracked and chipped affair, Jimmy poured in a smidgeon of skimmed milk. Picking up his spoon, mixing the milk and raw flakes together, he scoffed the lot back with such gusto anyone watching might have thought he had not eaten for a week. The breakfast over, Jimmy hurriedly donned his duffle coat and gloves. Picking up the coal bucket and shovel, he made his way across the cold tiles of the hallway to the front door, where he carefully slid back the bolt to its daytime position. Opening the door, he stepped out, into the darkness of the early morning. It was cold and bleak outside; a weak, waning moon hung low in the sky. A coating of frost covered everything in sight. Shivering, pulling 134

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories up the hood of his coat, Jimmy made his way down the lonely cobbled street… Although Jimmy tried to be quite, not to awaken anyone in the small terraced houses bordering the street, his galvanised bucket would every now and again let out a bang and a clatter loud enough to awaken the dead, as its handle caught on the mountings supporting it. Like everything his family owned, the bucket was well past its best. Stilling the bucket with his gloved hand, after it made a particularly loud clatter, Jimmy felt the cold of its metal leech through his thick woollen gloves. He shivered. ―Hello, Jim,‖ a cheery voice called out from the darkness, opposite. Scanning the street, squinting, trying to see through the weak, watery moonlight, Jimmy made out the shape, the outline of another child. It was Eric, his best friend Eric. ―Oh, it‘s you,‖ he said gloomily. ―What‘s up, Jim?‖ Eric asked, sensing his mood. ―Oh, it‘s nothing, really…‖ Placing his bucket onto the timeworn old cobbles (it banged and clattered so loudly, Jimmy feared everyone in the entire street might be awoken), then folding his arms, Eric said, ―Come on, out with it, Jim.‖ Pointing to his bucket, Jimmy said, ―Pick it up, I‘ll explain along the way.‖

135

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories As the two friends made their way down the desolate street (taking special care that their buckets remained silent), Jimmy began speaking, he said, ―Eric, you know, I won‘t always be poor… We – all of us – won‘t always be poor…‖ Smiling, Eric replied, ―I know that, Jim. There‘s a rainbow out there, somewhere, with a pot of gold at the end of it, with our names inscribed indelibly upon it.‖ ―I mean it, Eric, I really do!‖ Jimmy insisted, thinking his best friend was not taking him at all seriously. ―I know you do, Jim,‖ he replied, ―I really do.‖ Stopping alongside a fence bordering the street they had just entered, Eric leant down and tugged at its base. It lifted. ―Go on,‖ he said, ―You, first. I‘ll pass the buckets in through to you.‖ Being so small, Jimmy passed easily under the fence. Eric, however, was another matter. ―Here you are,‖ he said, passing the buckets to Jimmy. Crouching down, on all fours, Eric began crawling under the fence. However, he became stuck. ―Are you holding it up all the way?‖ he called out from his undignified position below. ―Yes, I am.‖ Then why am I stuck?‖

136

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Because you‘re too big,‖ Jimmy explained. ―I told you only last week this would soon happen. ―You are growing too fast. This hole is now too small for you.‖ Huffing and puffing, Eric would hear none of it, and he tried even harder to pass through the small space. RIP. Accompanied by a loud ripping sound, he suddenly shot through the gap under the fence. ―There, I told you I could do it,‖ Eric said triumphantly, trying to forget the sound he had just heard. ―Come on,‖ he said, ―we have a good way to go, yet.‖ With that, he began sliding his way down the steep incline ahead of them. From behind, Jimmy‘s eyes were drawn to the consequence of the ripping sound, a sound they had both heard whether Eric admitted it or not – a tear in the seat of his pants. ―Eric, wait!‖ he called out. Eric, being Eric, would hear none of it, and he barrelled on, slipping and sliding his way down the slope. By the time Jimmy had caught up with him, at the bottom of the slope, his best friend had come to realise the errors of his ways. Feeling rather embarrassed, he asked, ―You wouldn‘t happen to have a pin handy, would you?‖ Laughing, Jimmy rummaged through his duffle coat pockets, to see if he had anything resembling a pin. Withdrawing a gloved hand, he sorted through the various items upon it. There was a pencil, a rubber,

137

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories two blackjack sweets, a half-eaten sherbet fountain, a three-quarters licked gobstopper covered in fluff – and a pin. Eric was in luck. ―Ah, here you are,‖ he said, separating the pin from a sticky bit of something that might have once been a piece of liquorice shoelace. With the problem of the torn trousers thus sorted, the two friends began the task they were there for – to collect coal, the coal their families desperately needed to keep warm. You see, from the moment they had passed under the fence, they had been within the grounds of the local coalmine. Now, well within it, at the base of the largest of its many slagheaps, where the best bits of coal tended to fall and collect, silence and subterfuge were paramount. The only problem, however, was that the owners of the coalmine also knew this, and men, guards, patrolled it day and night, to stop the likes of them taking even one small piece of coal. This was a bone of contention for Jimmy, because the owners of the coalmine ignored the slagheaps, allowing them to grow bigger and bigger. In his young mind, he could see no problem, nothing at all wrong with collecting the pieces of coal that gathered there. ―Hurry up, Eric,‖ said Jimmy, who had already half filled his battered old bucket. ―I‘m going as fast as I can,‖ Eric replied. Stopping, cocking his head to one side, he asked, ―Did you hear something?‖

138

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Holding a lump of shiny black coal in his hand, Jimmy froze with fright. However, he heard nothing, not a thing. Finally, picking up enough courage to speak, he said, ―It must have been a piece of coal falling down the slagheap.‖ Relieved, the two boys resumed their coal collecting duties… When their buckets were full, Jimmy and Eric began the long, torturous return journey back up the slippery slagheap. It would have been a hard enough task for an adult to try, but for two small children encumbered by buckets filled to the top with heavy coal it was a slow, painful, torturous process that took them a full thirty minutes to do. Their fingers ached from the frost and their toes were numb. It was going to be a very slow climb indeed. After climbing for thirty minutes, the two boys were barely thirty feet higher from where they had started. It was beginning to get bright; the weak watery moon gone, replaced by a golden globe rising slowly above the eastern horizon. Although its rays were weak, they were warm enough to begin melting the frost. It was a double-edged sword. As their fingers and toes began to defrost, so too did the slagheap, making it all the more slippery underfoot. Again thinking he heard something, Eric looked down over his shoulder. At the base of the slagheap, he saw a man, a guard staring up at them. ―Oi! You two!‖ the man hollered. ―What do you think you‘re doing?‖ 139

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Hearing this, the boys stopped dead in their tracks, hoping they might blend into the slagheap and thus disappear from sight. Shouting up at them, the guard said, ―You‘re trespassing! You do know that, don‘t you?‖ Receiving no reply, he said angrily, ―Trespassers get shot!‖ Well, that certainly did it, on hearing those words Jimmy and Eric dropped their buckets, coal and all, and scorched their way up the remainder of the slagheap so fast the guard was left speechless. He was also left hurt, as the two buckets came tumbling down the slagheap, smashing into him, knocking him for six. Eric had no problem passing under the fence, this time. He shot through the gap as if he had lost several pounds in weight, and he kept on running, way ahead of Jimmy, all the way home. It was only when he entered the safety of their own street did he slow down, allowing his friend to catch up. Puffing and panting, the two boys struggled to catch their breath. People were beginning to stir, people with questioning faces, wondering why Jimmy and Eric had coal dust all over them, but no coal in evidence to see. Embarrassed to have returned empty-handed, Eric suggested, ―Same time tomorrow?‖ Smiling, Jimmy replied, ―You bet!‖ ―But we have no buckets!‖ Eric bemoaned. 140

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories With a mischievous grin, Jimmy replied, ―That guard has another thing coming if he thinks he‘s keeping my bucket! Don‘t worry, Eric. We will retrieve our buckets, and he will get his comeuppance! See you tomorrow, bye.‖ CONTINUED...

141

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

142

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Slug Talk:

Oh to have legs like insects and things, To walk on all fours is something I dream, Or even just two, like HU-MAN THEINGS. Would make me so happy, would realise my dreams

I dream of the day, I grow legs and see, What it feels like to walk, not slime so lowly, You see, I am a poor slug with no legs at all, A garbled old thing, just slime and slow drawl.

Now don‘t get me wrong it‘s not all bad, I confess, There are some perks living in a damp mess, But I cannot help wonder about legs, I admit, Oh lord give me legs, be it two, four or six.

143

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

One day, while I was contentedly slipping and sliming my way down the garden path, I came face to face with a snail! ‗A snail?‘ I can hear you asking, ‗What‘s so strange about that?‘ read on my friend, read on... This was no ordinary snail, not by a long chalk. The snail in front of me, barring my way down the garden path, was big, enormous, it was a veritable GIANT! ‗Yeh, yeh,‘ I can now hear you saying, ‗Who does he think he is, snails could never be considered large by any stretch of the imagination.‘ Normally I would have to agree with you, that snails, like slugs, are small, quite nondescript creatures, but this one really and truly was a GIANT! This snail, standing there, proud and erect, in his huge shell with yellow and brown markings, stripes, running along it, made me look like a dwarf, a midget in comparison.

144

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Smiling, low and syrupy, he began speaking, he said, ―Hello there, my slimy friend, and what a grand day it is for anyone fortunate enough to still have his wife.‖ Thrown off my guard by such a peculiar introductory piece of gesticulated vocabulary, I struggled to find words sufficient for a reply. Suffering from no such affliction, the huge snail began speaking again, he said, ―Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Myles; Smiles Myles is how my dear wife used to address me...that is, until yesterday...‖ With that, he began sobbing, slow, laborious, gelatinous and slimy blubbering. Peeved, feeling for the hurt, the pain that this mountain of a snail was so obviously enduring, I said, ―What do you mean...until yesterday?‖ A smile; for a split second I thought I saw a smile on his slippery face, then sobbing even louder, he continued with his story, ―My poor wife in gone,‖ he howled, ―taken by the HU-MAN THEINGS, to be sold in their market, boiled in the pot and then eaten.‖

145

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

―Why, that‘s terrible!‖ I said, on hearing of this aberration from their accepted way of behaviour.‖How did it happen?‖ I asked, genuinely feeling an affinity for the snail giant before me. Holding back his sobs, he said, ―They were there...in the park, early yesterday morning...‖ ―How did it happen?‖ I asked, totally drawn into his sorry story. ―I had forgotten that it was Friday, market day,‖ he blubbered, ―but why should I have remembered,‖ he continued, ―for they had never hunted us, before!‖ ―Hunted?‖ ―Yes, hunted,‖ he said loudly, enforcing his point. ―Like, like ...animals!‖ ―But we are animals, albeit small ones, no insult indented, Myles, to your own great size,‖ I replied. ―None taken,‖ he answered blankly ―They were there...inside the gates of the park...lying in wait for us, me and the missus. We were going into the park for our breakfast; there are some fine dahlias in there, very fine dahlias indeed.‖ For a moment, he cheered up, remembering the flowers. ―And then what happened?‖ I asked, yet fearing his reply.

146

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―They got us,‖ he replied morosely. ―There were so many of them milling out, running after us snails, picking us up like so many loose potatoes – and not just us, but also our friends, we never stood a chance, not any of us. It was horrible, I tell you, real horrible.‖ Then he stopped talking and stared at me. I wondered why he was doing it. Then he continued with his story, saying, ―They got us all, every last one...‖ ―If they got you all,‖ I asked quizzically, seeing a whole in his story, ―how come you are here, talking to me, and not in the stew pot?‖ ―I, I, I – was dropped, that‘s it,‖ he said, quick-wittedly. ―One of the HU-MAN THEINGS – a woman – dropped me, slime you know,‖ he said with a mischievous wink. Knowing that some HU-MAN THEINGS, particularly women, have an aversion to slime, I found myself all too easily believing Myles slippery, slimy words. Without allowing me time to respond, Myles said, ―It was horrible, I tell you, falling from so great a height. Look at that,‖ he said, lifting his head. ―See that scar?‖ he asked, ―I got it from the fall, so I did!‖ I spied a small mark under his chin. His slippery words, having done their job wonderfully, bamboozling my brain into believing all that he was saying, Myles went in for the kill. ―And now my poor children are orphans.‖ Having said that, he began wiling like there was no tomorrow.

147

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―That‘s awful,‖ I replied, forgetting the fact that in order to orphaned BOTH parents had to be gone, no father or mother.‖ Myles nodded. ―And how many are there?‖ I asked. ―Fifty-three, at the last count,‖ he replied, his chest puffed and proud. ―So many mouths to feed...‖ ―Yes,‖ he agreed. ―How many boys and how many girls?‖ I asked, continuing with the topic. ―Males and females? What do you mean how many males and females?‖ Myles asked me suspiciously, thinking the conversation had moved on to another topic. ―Your children,‖ I said, ―how many boys and girls do you have? ―Twenty-three boys and thirty-nine girls,‖ he replied. ―That‘s sixty-three,‖ I said, confused. Myles, having none of it, bursting into slippery, slimy sobs so loud they might have resurrected the dead, never told me the true number. ―At this very moment,‖ he roared, ―my poor wife is most certainly stewing in a pot, and if she is not there she has most certainly already been eaten!‖ Feeling like a cad, I mumbled, ―Is there anything I can do?‖ Seizing the moment, his opportunity, Myles said, ―You can give me some money...to buy my orphaned children some food...‖

148

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

With absolutely no hesitation, I bent down and stuck my head into my pocket, searching for my wallet. ―Ah!‖ I said triumphantly, through my clenched teeth, ―I‘ve found it!‖ My wallet, however, dangling precariously from my mouth, was soon gone, for Myles, the giant brute of a snail slithering towards me at breakneck speed had swiped it. ―What are you doing?‖ I asked the snail with my money. ―But they are so hungry...‖ he said surgery and slimy. ―I will need all of this money just to keep the wolf from the door... Surely you can see this?‖ I believed him; I totally believed what he was telling me. Then he dropped it, the giant, African land snail dropped my wallet... Leaning down, stooping his head, to reclaim it (and my money) within his razor-sharp teeth, I saw it, I saw his own wallet, his big, bulging wallet, fall out of his pocket and onto the ground. Even though he also had seen it fall to ground, Myles ignored it.

149

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories I thought you said that you had no money?‖ I asked the giant, brute of a snail. ―That‘s right,‖ he replied, brazening it out, ―I haven‘t got a penny.‖ My eyes having finally opened to his lies, I said, ―What‘s that, then, scotch mist?‖ Being in a corner, the rat of a snail made a desperate lunge for the two wallets, trying to scoop them up from the ground with his razor sharp teeth. I, however, was having none of it. My goat being up, I rushed on a slime trail par excellence, faster than I had ever moved in my life, headlong into the affray, snatching the two wallets from under his startled nose. ―What, what are you doing?‖ he asked, eyeing the two wallets with some considerable concern, ―You have got my wallet!‖ Shaking the wallets, I replied, ―And you had mine, if you care to remember!‖ ―But, but...‖ he sobbed (this time they were for real).

150

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―But, smut,‖ I scolded, my heart now closed to his utterings. Decency; my own decency getting the better of the urge I had, wanting to punch Myles in the face (assuming I had hands to punch him with, that is), I threw his bulging wallet back at him, saying, ―Heaven knows where you got all that money...away with you before I change my mind!‖ The snail, grabbing hold of his wallet in his ever so sharp teeth, made an ignominious and speedy escape.

The moral of this story is this: If you blindly believe everything that you are told, you deserve everything that befalls you.

151

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

152

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

AN EXTRACT January 1st When the mother of all battles was finally over, and Miafra defeated, everyone in Onisha rejoiced, celebrating far into the night. Around glowing campfire embers, music was played, songs were sung and old friendships rekindled. Despite having suffered so much, while trying to oust the man who would be a god, everyone thought it was the best day of their life. Far away a portly Outlander, helped by a beautiful, almost godlike young lady, struggled to bring Nott to his senses. The vision he had seen, within the ceremonial fire greeting the New Year, had shaken Nott to the core. ―I saw him!‖ he gasped. ―I saw Miafra, as large as life. Wot; will we ever be rid of that terrible man?‖ ―Hold on a minute,‖ Wot answered. ―We don‘t know it was him. It might be that overactive imagination of yours, playing tricks, again.‖ ―We don‘t know?‖ Nott replied, aghast at what he had just heard. ―What do you want, a photo maybe? And as for my ‗overactive imagination,‘ I don‘t recall you complaining when I used it to trick 153

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Miafra into summoning the combined powers of Light and Darkness, to destroy him.‖ ―Now listen here…‖ ―Take it easy, both of you,‖ said Kakuri, butting in, trying to calm them. ―You‘re achieving nothing, acting like this.‖ ―But,‖ said Nott. ―No ifs or buts – either of you,‖ she insisted. ―It‘s time we returned to Onisha City.‖ ―It‘s an awfully long way,‖ Nott grumbled. ―It‘s a pity we dispatched old Dragonfly.‖ ―There are more ways of getting around Onisha other than giant insects,‖ Kakuri told him. ―Other ways?‖ ―Yes,‖ she answered. ―There are old ways, many of which I am only beginning to understand.‖ Intrigued by what she was suggesting, Nott said, ―Tell me some more.‖ ―Come; follow me,‖ she said, heading away without telling him, Following Kakuri down the small hill, away from the Minna with the ceremonial flame still burning within it, Wot and Nott entered the forest. Battling their way through the densely packed trees, shrubs and prickly vines, trying to keep up with Kakuri, it was hard going. ―This is ridiculous,‖ Nott whispered. ―You‘d think we are in a race.‖ ―Give her some leeway,‖ Wot answered. ―She‘s been through a lot, these last few days.‖ 154

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Hmm,‖ Nott answered, grumbling under his breath. Thirty minutes later Kakuri finally stopped walking. Pointing ahead, to a clearing within the dense forest, Wot said, ―Look, she‘s stopped!‖ ―And about time too,‖ Nott answered. From a distance away the Outlanders watched Kakuri with interest, for she was acting in a most unusual way. ―What on earth is she doing?‖ Nott asked. ―Shush, she might hear you.‖ ―But what is she doing?‖ Nott asked him again. ―Something.‖ ―Something? What sort of an answer is that?‖ Nott griped. ―Just watch her,‖ said Wot. ―I don‘t have the answer to everything, you know.‖ As the Outlanders watched, sure that Kakuri had no idea they were spying on her, they were intrigued when she arranged a number of stones into a loose circle. When she had completed this task, she set about smoothing the soul within it. Having done that, Kakuri stood back admiring her work. ―Come closer,‖ she said, waving to Wot and Nott. Embarrassed that she had seen them, they tried to act busy. ―Come,‖ she called out again, ―we have a date with the wind.‖ Entering the clearing, Nott said, ―A date with the wind? I think the girl has a touch of the fevers.‖

155

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Wot said nothing; he was far too intrigued by what Kakuri was doing, for words. Stepping into the circle, Kakuri said, ―Please join me with this circle of stones.‖ Wot willingly entered. Nott, however, remained stubbornly outside it. Gesturing for him to join them, Wot said, ―Come on; step inside, Nott.‖ ―Before I go stepping into that, circle thing,‖ he answered, pointing suspiciously at it, ―I want to know what you intend doing with it.‖ Laughing, Kakuri said, ―Okay, Nott, I will tell you…‖ Minutes later, when Kakuri had finished telling him what she intended to do inside the circle of stones, Nott entered it. ―Let‘s get on with it,‖ he said, urging her on. ―Earlier,‖ Kakuri began, ―I told how I can remember the old ways, the magical ways my forebears embraced. I don‘t understand how this is so, but it is. Moreover, I realise that I must also embrace it, because in so doing we have our best hope, perhaps our only hope of returning Onisha to its original state, its Mystical state.‖ ―What has that got to do with this circle of stones?‖ Nott asked, tentatively kicking one of them. ―I am getting to it,‖ she answered. ―I‘m listening,‖ he answered impatiently. ―Wot, Nott, I now realise how much of the old ways were lost. Miafra was by no means the chief instigator in this calamity. No. We, ourselves, each and every Onishian is as culpable as he. Miafra saw an

156

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories opportunity, and seized it, that‘s all. It was our fault. We are as much to blame as he, perhaps even more.‖ ―Hold on a minute,‖ said Nott, ―I thought he was the bad guy, but you are now telling us that everyone is to blame. This is a tad confusing too say the least. What do you think about it, Wot?‖ His thoughts far away, in another place, in another time (or was it a place without time?), Wot was slow to answer. Returning to the present, seeing his friend‘s probing eyes staring at him, he said, ―Pardon?‖ ―I was asking for your thoughts as to everyone being as guilty as Miafra for the troubles we have just fought our way thorough!‖ ―Yes, Horatio, I suppose, to a point, that is correct,‖ Wot answered obliquely. ―Horatio? Don‘t start that again!‖ Nott chided Kakuri made a mental note regarding Horatio. Steering the conversation away from Horatio, Wot said to Kakuri, ―This circle of stones. Tell us how you will use them?‖ ―There are harnessers, for controlling the elements – water, fire, earth and air,‖ she explained. ―In this particular instance, it is the air we are seeking to harness, the wind to be precise.‖ ―The wind?‖ he asked, scratching his head, confused ―Yes, the wind,‖ she answered. ―I intend to use it, to harness it as a means of returning us to Onisha City.‖ Without further adieu, Kakuri knelt on the ground. Writing in the loose soil with a finger, she wrote: Water, fire, earth and air, 157

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories All four elements, I do declare, Part of life, so true, so strong, Heed the words of Kakuri. The daughter of Suru calls, The air, the wind, the breeze, the storm, Transport us to Onisha City, Heed the words of Kakuri. The sky darkened; storm clouds, gathering apace, grew larger and larger, then darker and darker. The gentle breeze turned into a gale, thrashing the forest hard in a wild, excited frenzy. Within the circle of stones, though, the air remained peculiarly still. Staring at the hurricane conditions, so close and yet do far from them, Nott wondered how Kakuri had produced such a phenomenon – and so easily. ―Hold on, it might get a bit bumpy from here on,‖ she warned. ―It might get a bit bumpy, you tell us,‖ Nott answered. ―How on earth do you know thaaaaaatttttttt?‖ Engulfed within a funnel of spiralling air, Wot, Nott and Kakuri, rising from the ground, shot through the tree canopy, high into the sky. Then they were gone. Apart from few shredded leaves falling onto the ground, the forest was silent…

CONTINUED...

158

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Where have you gone, Father Christmas? Father Christmas where have you gone? Will I never be able to tell my son, Of times gone by, of simpler days, When you reigned supreme Christmas day?

Santa came, he took your place, He does your job with greater haste, In colours chosen by market men, To sell more drinks in glass and cans.

The buzzwords now are buy, buy, buy, Spend your money – don‘t wonder why, Santa Claus, in red and white, Drinks his coca cola, he must be right…

159

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

A Time of Dark… A time of dark, a time of night, A time of sadness devoid of light, November skulks, it burns with pain, For nothing‘s left, no life remains.

And yet within this month, so cold, I feel a spark, a beam of hope, Though it be small, so small to see, It is still there, for you for me. So next November, when you‘re feeling low, Recall these words, there is a glow, Although it‘s hidden so far from view, When December comes so will Christmas too.

160

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Horrible Horace, Lousy Linda and Miss Battle-Scars‟ School Chair AN EXTRACT

One day, on his way to school, Horrible Horace said, ―I‘m fed up with having to go to school, it‘s so boring. I want to do something interesting, something exciting with my life, like fishing, or sailing – or exploring, not sums, reading and geometry, and all that other boring old stuff that Miss Battle-Scars tries to drum into us.‖ Despite having such strong feelings on the subject – how boring school was – Horrible Horace continued on his way there, walking, trundling along the same, tired old path he had used since he was five. When he arrived at school, he stopped at the gates and looking through them, he said, ―There must be more to life than just going to school – there must!‖ Just then, he heard the sound of the bell ringing, telling him and 161

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories all of the other schoolchildren that it was time to get into line before they went inside. Dragging his feet, Horrible Horace reluctantly slipped through the gate and into line, behind his friends, Barmy Bernard and Tinkering Tommy... ―Watcha, Horace,‖ said Barmy Bernard, ―Do you want to know what I have in my satchel?‖ he asked, his eyes gleaming wild with excitement. ―No, not really,‖ Horrible Horace replied, his eyes on the ground along with his spirits. ―What‘s wrong with you, Horrible?‖ asked Tinkering Tommy. ―Anyone would think you had lost your marbles, or ever worse – your conkers.‖ ―Conkers bonkers,‖ the two boys chortled cheerfully. Horrible Horace, however, did not hear them; he did not join in with their amusement, for his thoughts, like his spirits and eyes, were on the ground, forlorn. Nudging him, Barmy Bernard said, ―Well, Horrible, do you want to see what I have in my satchel?‖ ―Let me take a look,‖ said Tinkering Tommy,‖ and if it‘s what I think it is, I‘ll show it to him.‖ Opening his satchel, Barmy Bernard showed his second best friend (Horrible Horace being his first) the object he had secreted within it. Sticking his hands in (without looking, first), Tinkering Tommy cried out, ―No! Get it away from me!‖ Withdrawing his hands as fast as he could, he said, ―I thought it was a frog, but it‘s not! It‘s a tarantula

162

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories spider, all fat and hairy!‖ he gasped. ―I could have been bitten to death!‖ Laughing at his innocence, Barmy Bernard said, ―It won‘t bite you, it‘s my pet.‖ Unconvinced by his argument, Tinkering Tommy, checking his fingers, to be sure the spider had not bitten him, edged away from the satchel, saying, ―Why on earth did you bring a tarantula into school?‖ Smiling mischievously Barmy Bernard said, ―Because I‘m a little bit barmy, maybe?‖ ―A little bit?‖ he snapped. ―More like a whole lot – and then some!‖ ―Stop talking, you two,‖ Miss Battle-Scars called out, pointing her bell at the two errant children. ―And get into line!‖ ―But we are in line,‖ Tinkering Tommy protested, wiping his hands in his blazer (in case any poison from the spider happened to be on them). ―Well, make it a little less messy,‖ she ordered. ―And as for you, Horrible Horace,‖ she quipped, ―You look so gloomy anyone would be forgiven for thinking you were going to a funeral.‖ After ringing her bell for a second time, she waved the first line of children into the school. On his way into his classroom, Horrible Horace, passing Miss BattleScars, cast a sneaky glance up at her. He usually had something to say, be it cheerful or cheeky (depending on his mood), but today he said nothing, the words simply failed him.

163

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Inside, sitting quietly at his desk, Horrible Horace took out his study book and opened it. It was their geography lesson, the only subject that he actually liked. The reason why he liked it – and so much – was because of all the wonderful, exotic places they read about, places like Ecuador (where the best coffee came from), Ceylon (where the finest teas came from), and Africa (where man-eating lions came from), yes he always enjoyed geography lessons. However, he still hated school; he hated it so much. After the geography lesson was over, Horrible Horace‘s mood had lightened. You see, they had been reading about the South Pacific, wild and exotic places such as Tonga, Tahiti, and the ever so far away Pitcairn Island, where the mutiny on the Bounty sailors had settled. Leaning across to his best friend sitting at the desk beside him, he whispered, ―Well?‖ ―Well what?‖ Barmy Bernard replied. ―What have you got in your satchel that had Tinkering Tommy in such a flap?‖ Grinning, leaning down to his satchel resting on the floor next to his desk, his Barmy friend opened it, and said, ―This!‖ ―Wow! Wow! Wow!‖ said Horrible Horace. ―I‘d never in a thousand years have imagined you would have brought your pet tarantula into school!‖ Still grinning, his best friend replied, ―Wait until you see what I am going to do with it...‖ 164

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

―What? What? What?‖ said Horrible Horace. ―Are you really going to do that with it? And do you truly want ME to help you to do it?

―Yes,‖ Barmy Bernard replied, ―unless you want me to ask Lousy Linda, instead?‖ ―No, not her!‖ Horrible Horace protested. You see, last Christmas, during the performance of the nativity play (with Lousy Linda playing the part of Mary, and Horrible Horace, Joseph), when the three wise men entered the stable, presenting gifts, she had sneakily kissed him. Ever since that dastardly trick, he had avoided her like the plague.) ―So, you will help me?‖ Yes, yes of course I will,‖ Horrible Horace, replied, ―on condition that you tell no one.‖

165

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―But how will they know it was us, how will we get the credit for doing it, if we don‘t tell anyone?‖ his Barmy friend interjected. ―You and I will know,‖ he replied. ―That‘s how spies do business, and if it‘s good enough for spies its good enough for us. Now where is your satchel?‖

During their dinner break, standing in the doorway of the classroom, on guard for anyone who might happen to pass by, Barmy Bernard felt decidedly jumpy. ―What‘s taking you so long?‖ he asked his Horrible friend. ―Almost finished,‖ Horrible Horace replied, pushing Miss Battle-Scars chair carefully back into position under her desk. ―There,‖ he declared, ―it‘s all done!‖ ―Someone‘s coming!‖ Barmy Bernard cried out. ―Get out!‖ With that, the two boys dashed across to the window, where after quickly opening it they bailed out of the classroom, into the playground. ―What have you two been up to?‖ asked Lousy Linda, when she saw them bailing of the window, falling hard to the ground. ―Ow! That hurt!‖ said Barmy Bernard, rubbing his soreness, searching for blood (he was sure he had cut something, but he was unable to find any blood, not even one tiny drop). ―Belt up, you berk,‖ Horrible Horace quipped, handing him back his satchel. ―Like spies, remember?‖ ―Oh, yes, spies it is.‖ 166

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Without answering Lousy Linda‘s question, the two boys began walking away from her, and the scene of their crime. ―I‘m going to tell Miss Battle-Scars,‖ she warned. Stopping, knowing that she was all too capable of doing such a dastardly deed, Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard turned and stared into the eyes of the girl of their nightmares. ―So, that got your attention,‖ she gloated. His voice croaky with suspicion, Barmy Bernard asked, ―What do you want...to say nothing?‖ Raising an eyebrow, Horrible Horace said, ―Yeh, what do you want, to keep stumpf?‖ With her hands on her hips, looking ever so smug, Lousy Linda replied, ―A kiss, I want a kiss from each of you!‖ ―A kiss?‖ the two boys bemoaned. ―Yuk! Anything but that!‖ Standing her ground, fully intent on achieving her wish, no matter what, Lousy Linda said, ―It‘s a kiss or nothing...‖ The two boys, their heads lowered, ashamed that they had allowed themselves to get into such a dire situation, drew shapes in the dusty ground with their feet, hoping the moment might pass. It did not. ―Well, are you going to kiss me?‖ asked Lousy Linda. ―Or must I go tell teacher what you have been up to?‖ ―But...you didn‘t see!‖ mumbled Barmy Bernard. ―So, you have been up to something!‖ laughed their Lousy classmate. ―I knew it, I just knew it!‖ 167

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―But, but...‖ the Barmy bungler mumbled. ―Shut up!‖ warned Horrible Horace. ―Don‘t you think you‘ve said enough?‖ Feeling powerful, in control of the conversation – and where it was heading (two big, fat and juicy kisses), Lousy Linda continued with her torturous line of enquiry, ―Well, are you boys going to kiss me, or do I have to go tell on you?‖ Having painted themselves into a corner, the two boys had no option other than facing their demons. ―Okay,‖ said Horrible Horace, ―we‘ll do it, we‘ll kiss you.‖

―What? Are you stark raving mad!‖ Barmy Bernard asked, thinking his best friend had flipped his cork. ―Hush,‖ said Horrible Horace,‖ we have a fair damsel to kiss, ―What has gotten into you?‖ asked Barmy Bernard, ―I thought you hated kissing, and especially so with HER!‖ Ignoring his best friend, Horrible Horace approached his nemesis, then holding his breath he dived in and kissed her on the cheek. Having done

168

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories it, he retreated as fast as was humanly possible. Wiping his lips clean, he said, ―It‘s your turn now, Barmy, and the best of British luck.‖ Holding his breath, copying his best friend‘s selfless example, Barmy Bernard waded in to the affray, kissing Lousy Linda on the other cheek, then retreating fast and furious, to what he considered was a safe distance, he also wiped his lips. Smiling from ear to ear, Lousy Linda was in paradise. One boy kissing her would have been tremendously good, but two of them left her speechless with delight. ―Okay,‖ said Barmy Bernard, ―now that that‘s over, what do we do next?‖ Smiling mischievously, Horrible Horace said, ―We wait until Miss Battle-Scars rings her bell.‖ ―Then we will go inside,‖ Barmy Bernard continued, speaking for him, ―and sit down at our desks, waiting for her to do likewise?‖ ―Yeh,‖ his best friend replied, laughing.

―Then the fireworks will

begin...‖ Although she was standing a distance from the two boys, Lousy Linda was well within earshot. However, she showed no reaction, no reaction at all, to what they had been saying. Why would she, though, when she was still in paradise?

169

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Ring a ling, the school bell rang out, ring a ling a ling. ―Dinner break‘s over. Everybody into line,‖ Miss Battle-Scars ordered. ―That also means you, Tommy Tilbert!‖ When all of the pupils had lined up to her satisfaction, Miss BattleScars said, ―First line of children will now proceed into school.‖ When they had gone in, she said, ―Second line of children will now proceed into school.‖ So it continued until all of the children had filed past her, into their various classrooms. Sitting down at his desk, Barmy said, ―Where did you vanish to, Horrible?‖ ―I had a bit of business to attend to,‖ he replied. ―Business? What business?‖ his best friend asked. ―I can‘t say anymore, like spies, remember?‖ Seemingly satisfied with this explanation, Barmy Bernard said, ―It won‘t be long now, Horrible!‖ ―No, not long at all,‖ his best friend, answered indifferently

170

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―What‘s poured water on your party?‖ Barmy Bernard asked. ―You are acting almost a glum as when you arrived at school this morning.‖ Nodding his head in the direction of Lousy Linda, he replied, ―It‘s her, old Lousy boots...‖ ―Her? I thought she was okay, that she was happy after we made fools of ourselves, kissing her.‖ She was...until she came back into class, to the scene of our crime... look at her, with those beady eyes of hers, scanning everything, wondering what we have done.‖ ―Do you think she will tell old Battle-Scars?‖ ―I‘m sure of it...and that‘s why I–‖ ―Arithmetic lesson,‖ said Miss Battle-Scars, as she entered the classroom and began wiping the blackboard with the duster. ―Please take out your exercise books.‖ Desks opened; small fingers and hands searched for the dreaded Arithmetic exercise books. ―Has everyone got their books open?‖Miss Battle-Scars asked, eying each child as she spoke. ―Pst, Horrible,‖ Barmy Bernard whispered. ―She‘s not sitting down!‖ ―Shush!‖ Horrible Horace warned, speaking rather loudly. ―Do you want everyone to hear?‖ ―Sorry,‖ Barmy apologised, ―got a bit carried away.‖ ―What did you say?‖ asked Lousy Linda, from two desks behind.

171

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Ignoring her, the two boys copied down the sums Miss Battle-Scars was writing on the blackboard. ―I heard what you said!‖ Lousy Linda retorted. ―Turning to face her, Barmy Bernard said, ―Then why did you ask, if you already know that it‘s on her chair?‖ ―Hah!‖ Lousy Linda cried out, ―So that‘s it, you‘ve put something on Battle-Scars‘ chair!‖ ―That‘s it? What‘s it?‖ asked Miss Battle-Scars, who had meanwhile stopped writing on the blackboard, to listen. Along with her teacher‘s eyes, Lousy Linda felt those of every child in the classroom fixed doggedly upon her. ―Well?‖ Miss Battle-Scars asked. ―What is so important that you have to shout about it, distracting your fellow pupils from their sums?‖ ―I, I, I was...‖ the Lousy pupil replied, her lame excuse fast running out of steam and momentum. ―There will be no ifs and buts, here,‖ her teacher chided. ―But I never said that...‖ she protested. ―There have been far too many of those types of excuses, here, already.‖ ―It was them – THEM!‖ Lousy Linda snarled, fighting back, pointing a trembling finger at Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard. ―It was those two creeps who started it!‖ she roared. ―If you are going to try and implicate your fellow pupils in something that is all too obviously of your own making,‖ Miss Battle-Scars 172

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories warned, ―I suggest you come up to the front of the classroom and sit in my chair, where everyone can keep a watchful eye on you.‖ Begrudgingly, reluctantly, the Lousy pupil got up from her desk and made her way to the front of the classroom. Edging closer and closer to her teacher‘s chair, Lousy Linda eyed it with growing concern. ―Well, what are you waiting for, child?‖ said Miss Battle-Scars, ―Sit, sit down and start arithmeticking!‖ ―But, but what if...‖ ―No ifs and buts, remember?‖ Pulling the chair out from under the desk, Lousy Linda was certain she was going to see something lurking there, like a frog, or a wasps nest, or even a stink bomb, ready to explode when sat upon, but she saw nothing, nothing at all. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Lousy Linda plonked herself down on the chair... KAPOW! BLAM, PHYZZT! The chair (with Lousy Linda still sitting upon it) shot high into the air, so high both it and the startled girl smashed hard into the ceiling. ―What are you doing up there, child?‖ asked Miss Battle-Scars, from below. ―I told you to do your sums, not shoot into the air like a sky rocket. Get down here at once,‖ she warned, ―and finish your sums!‖ Grabbing hold of the light fitting, before the chair returned to earth with a bang, the frightened replied, ―But...I can‘t get down...‖

173

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

―Of course you can,‖ Miss Battle-Scars insisted. ―Let go of that light. I will catch you,‖ she said, standing beneath her, with both arms outstretched. ―Go on, go, on, go on!‖ the children chanted from the safety of their desks. ―Jump, jump, jump!‖ they shouted.

Did Lousy Linda return safely to earth, or is she still up there, doing her sums, writing and arithmeticking from that lofty location? To find out, let us return to Horrible Horace and Barmy Bernard... On his way home, Barmy Bernard said, ―Horrible, I still don‘t understand how Miss Battle-Scars chair was able to shoot up like that. My pet tarantula could never do that – and where is it, anyway?‖ ―There was a slight change of plan,‖ his best friend coyly admitted. ―A change of plan?‖

174

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Yes,‖ he continued. ―After Lousy Linda cornered us for a kiss – I can still taste it, the sugar and spice. Yuk! – I had to get my revenge, our revenge.‖ ―And?‖ ―Tinkering Tommy.‖ ―Tinkering Tommy? What about him?‖ ―I went looking for him – that‘s why you couldn‘t find me, I was with him. I asked for his help. You know how good he is at making things – and devices.‖ ―That he is,‖ his Barmy friend agreed, nodding. ―With our Tinkering friend‘s help, I substituted your tarantula for a powerful spring secreted under her seat. The rest is history.‖ ―But where did the spring come from?‖ Barmy asked, scratching his head in wonderment at it all. Smiling ever so mischievously, Horrible Horace said, ―From his dad‘s motor bike and sidecar, of course. He said he hardly ever uses it! And do you want to know something else?‖ he asked. ―What?‖ ―With days such as this, I feel school is going to be anything but boring from here on. Now what shall we do tomorrow?‖ As our story finishes, with Lousy Linda having got her comeuppance, and with Horace and his best friend happy that they had been instrumental in it coming about, we see a middle-aged man, donning his helmet and gloves. Sitting casually atop his beloved old motorbike and 175

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories sidecar, he is looking forward to a nice drive out into the countryside, then CRASH, BANG, WALLOP, the whole caboodle falls apart beneath him.

Pardon? You want to know what Horrible Horace did with the tarantula? He hid it inside Miss Battle-Scars desk. That is what he did with it. Horrible Horaceâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s school days will without doubt never be boring again. THE END

176

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

The Cat Sat Smiling at Alice ‗I am a Cat‘, it said smiling at her, A Cheshire Cat - you can tell by my fur, My paws and whiskers are also a hint, But the smile on my face is most significant‘. ‗I can see by your fur‘, said Alice – ‗I do, And also your paws and whiskers – it‘s true, But that smile on your face has me all in a tizz, Coming and going in such a whiz‘.

177

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Still smiling at Alice, the Cat dryly replied, ‗You‘d never believe me; you‘d think I had lied, If the smile on my face was gone – it‘s a fact, No one would listen or look at this Cat‘.

Without offering Alice the chance to reply, The Cat went on with his horrible lie, Creeping closer and closer, until ever so near, When he pounced, lashed out, cutting her ear.

Feeling the hurt and the blood running down, Alice said, ‗Oh, I was such a clown, To have ever believed a Cat with a grin, Take that, and that, you horrible thing‘.

178

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Dustbin Man Dustbin man, dustbin man, ho, ho, ho, I‘m the dustbin man, Smelly bins, dusty bins, full of pongy stuff, The dustbin man says I must rush! Milk cart man, milk cart man, ho, ho, ho, I‘m the milk cart man, Ice cold milk, fresh cold milk, milk so good to drink, The milk cart man says, drink, drink, drink!

Bread van man, bread van man, ho, ho, ho, I'm the bread van man, Fresh hot bread, white hot bread, bread so good to eat, The bread van man says, eat, eat, eat! Dustbin man, dustbin man, ho, ho, ho, I‘m the dustbin man, Smelly bins, dusty bins, full of pongy things The dustbin man says sing, sing, sing!!!

179

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Louco‟s Preferred Drink My drink of choice, My choice of drink, It gets me going, Keeps me in the pink.

I keep it there, Up on the shelf, Close by me, Just my own self.

And when I feel, So tired and low, It perks me up, From head to toe, It‟s… Louco‟s aid

180

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

181

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

The Tales of Beetle, About

The Circus of Grotesques While I was attending the afternoon performance of the Circus of Grotesques, a show that I had heard so much about (and not all of it being good, I might add), a most peculiar thing happened; something appeared on the back seat of my classic Volkswagen Beetle... Exiting the marquee, I scrunched up the piece of paper the girl in the ticket booth had given me, when purchasing my ticket, a flyer advertising the Circus of Grotesques, and all of its eccentrically gross abnormalities. Dropping the flyer, I grumbled, ―The Circus of Grotesques: it will change your life forever. Hah, that was certainly a load of old codswallop. It certainly hasn‘t changed mine!‖ Arriving back at my bug, glancing casually through the side windows, onto the rear seat, I saw what appeared to be a bundle of cloths stacked 182

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories upon it. Confused, knowing only too well that I had not left anything there, I concluded that some person or persons unknown must have broken into my car while I was at the circus, and put them there. Tentatively placing my hand upon the door handle, I tried to open it. The door, however, didn‘t budge; my car was still securely locked. Withdrawing the key from my trouser pocket, I inserted it into the lock and carefully, ever so slowly turned it. With a reassuring click, the mechanism unlocked. I cautiously opened the door. Staring in at the mysterious bundle that someone has quite obviously taken a great deal of time and effort to put there – and all without forcing entry into my beloved old bug, I scratched my head. I could not understand why anyone would want to do it in the first place, let alone go to the bother of locking the door again when they were finished. Scratching my head, still as confused, I tilted the driver‘s seat forward and, leaning in, delved a hand into the mysterious bundle. Yanking it back fast, frightened, I raced away from my car as fast as my legs would carry me. You see, the thing that had frightened me, that had scared me half to death, was the bundle of cloths had suddenly moving. There was something ALIVE within it. After several minutes in splendid isolation, far away from my car – and the thing lurking within, I gathered my composure and nerve, and cautiously, ever so cautiously returned to it. Re-entering my vehicle, I could feel my newfound bravery slipping, sliding away. All that I 183

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories wanted to do was to run, to run away as fast as my legs would carry me, but I did not. No. For some peculiar reason, I stayed put, waiting, watching, listening for any more signs of life from the mysterious bundle before me. I did not have to wait long, for all too soon the bundle began to move. In fright, I felt the contents of my stomach, my wonderful breakfast of hot, sticky porridge, trying its utmost to escape – and by the wrong route. At the last second, the very last second before I took flight, I heard a noise, I heard something that I had never in my wildest dreams expected to hear – I heard the unmistakable sound of a baby, a baby contentedly gurgling and glooping away to itself, and uttering the nonsensical mutterings that only babies are capable of doing. My fears abating, I delved a hand into the bundle. After peeling away layer upon layer of pastel coloured cloths, I revealed the happy, smiling face of an ever so tiny little baby child. Tears of joy welled in my eyes; I was young again, staring down at the innocent, helpless tot before me.

184

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Looking around, thinking it might be some sort of a sick, practical joke being perpetrated upon me, I was afraid that someone would spot the wee article in the back seat of my car, a baby that was quite obviously not mine, and I panicked. ―They might think that I have kidnapped it!‖ I whispered. But no, no one appeared; no one came to claim the baby, to speak for it – or against me. Calming down, I come to the conclusion that it must have been abandoned. Leaning in further, I tried speaking to it, but because it was so very young all that I got by way of return were more giggles, gloops and nonsensical mutterings, interspersed by wet dribbly bubbles discharging from its ever so tiny mouth. ―What are you doing here?‖ I asked it questioningly. The helpless article smiled up at me, blowing yet more bubbles, its little arms thrashing about erratically, but still saying nothing. Knowing only too well that I would never get an answer from the little tyke, my thoughts drifted to the problem of what I should do with it. ―Shall we bring you to the police?‖ I asked. ―Surely they‘ll know what to do with you, and how to find your mummy and your daddy.‖ Upon hearing these words the baby began crying, wailing so loudly I feared that if anyone had been passing, they would most surely have believed I was murdering it. ―Okay, okay,‖ I said, ―we‘ll give the police a miss, for now.‖ To my utter surprise, the wee bairn stopped crying. Relieved, I whispered, ―You win the first round, little one. But whether you like it 185

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories or not, I still have to work out what to do with you.‖ This time, thankfully, the baby did not cry. It just stared up at me with its huge, round eyes, pointing. Yes, it pointed – I am sure of it. Yes, yes, its little arm were still thrashing about in all directions, but amidst all this thrashing I believed – I knew, for some peculiar reason, that it was pointing to the driver‘s seat. You are probably now thinking, ‗He‘s a crazy man, loopy-doopy in the head,‘ please allow me to continue, to explain... Concluding that the wee tot wanted to be taken for a drive (yes, I truly believed this), I settled it, sitting up, within the pile of pastel coloured cloths. Sitting in the driver‘s seat, I inserted the key into the ignition switch and turned it on. Gurgling and glooping in its own peculiar way, the old engine burst into life, and Betsy (the name I had many years pervious affectionately given to my old bug) pulled away from the curb. In little more than a few minutes of pleasant driving – and on such a wonderful day – I had forgotten that the wee bairn was actually there (you see, it had been so very quiet). It was only after I had taken a left turn, onto a road that I always enjoyed driving along, with its twists and turns and ever so wonderful scenery, did I remember that I had a passenger. ―Are you alright, back there?‖ I asked, glancing into my rear view mirror, to see. With that, I lost control of Betsy. Swerving right, left again and then right again, along the road that had suddenly lost all of its appeal, a road that if I did not regain control of Betsy – and fast,

186

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories had every chance of taking my life, I glanced into the rear view mirror, shocked by what I had seen. Spotting a lay-by, I wrestled with the steering wheel and managed to guide Betsy to a safe halt. Pulling up the handbrake, I turned off the ignition switch. I sat there sweating, shaking, trying to get my head around what I had seen in the rear view mirror, the vision, the thing that had frightened me, so, and caused me to lose control of the vehicle. ―That was fun,‖ said a voice from behind me.‖ Can we do it again?‖ Turning round, I faced the thing that had startled me – a five-year-old boy draped in the same multicoloured cloths the baby had been swathed in, moments earlier.

Laughing, poking me in the arm as it spoke, the child said, ―Well, can we do it again?‖ In a voice barely audible, I whispered, ―W, who are you? And where is the baby?‖

187

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories The smile disappearing from its face, the child cryptically replied, ―I am who I am, be it baby or tot, and anyone else that you need me to be.‖ Having absolutely no idea what he was talking about, I said, ―I don‘t know what you have done with the wee bairn, but I do know that if you don‘t return him – and pronto, there‘ll be trouble, heaps of it, for both of us!‖ Lifting one of the cloths, a beautiful peach coloured one, the child said, ―See this?‖ I nodded. ―This is just one layer of many, is it not?‖ I nodded again. ―My present appearance, like this piece of cloth, is also one of many.‖ Scratching my head, bewildered that so young a child could be lecturing me – and in so philosophical a manner, I said, ―Are you trying to tell me that you are the baby I found in my car?‖ Nodding, the child replied, ―You have said it.‖ Taking this to be yes, I asked, ―But how?‖ The child, however, did not attempt to explain; he just fiddled about with the coloured cloths draped around him. After several minutes in complete silence, the child spoke again, saying, ―This is a wonderful place. What do you call it?‖ ―It‘s a lay-by,‖ I replied nonchalantly. ―It is far more than that.‖

188

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Well, it‘s also a picnic area, you know, because it‘s quite scenic,‖ I added. ―It‘s so green and brown,‖ the child continued. ―Look at those flowers‖ he said, excitedly pointing to a stand of rose bay willow herbs not far from the car. ―What colour are they?‖ ―They‘re mauve, I suppose,‖ I replied, thinking nothing more of it. ―No, they‘re exact colour?‖ ―They‘re exact colour?‖ I grumbled, ―I don‘t know! Orwellian Violet? Fizzing Fruit Purple? Onishian Plum? I have never given it any real thought, you know, they‘re exact colour.‖ Turning round, to see if my suggestions were getting any reaction from my unexpected travelling companion, I was shocked to see that he had grown older. The baby, the child, now a good fifteen years of age, a pimply faced teenager, was giving me a most un-approving look. ―What sort of a jalopy do you call this?‖ he asked, thumping the back of my seat with one of his hands. ―It must be as old as you – how old are you, anyway? No, don‘t tell me, let me guess.‖ Scratching his pimply chin, the disdainful individual‘s eyes gave me the once over, and then he said, ―I reckon you must be sixty on a good day, and sixty five on a bad one. Am I right? What sort of a day are you having, anyway, you old fart?‖

189

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Bamboozled by the sudden appearance of a teenager – and a particularly bad-mannered one at that – sitting so smugly on the back seat of my car, I struggled to find words for a reply, words to, hopefully, calm the obnoxious individual. However, when I had finally found some, he had already moved to the next matter. ―How fast can this old crate go?‖ he asked, thumping my seat again. ―Well, how fast?‖ Hoping to pacify him, I said, ―When it was new–‖ The obnoxious individual cut me off midsentence, saying, ―Like, a million years ago? Hah, hah!‖ To say his bad attitude was grating on my nerves would be an understatement, the spotty faced adolescent, sitting so smugly on the rear seat of my car, was annoyance personified. Trying to contain the situation, I tried another way of gaining control, of calming the spotty face teenager. ―My name is Gerrard,‖ I said, ―What‘s yours?‖ The spotty faced individual, however, made no effort to answer me. Whacking the back of my seat, returning to his question, he said, ―Well, how fast can this jalopy go?‖ Deciding that another change of tactics was required, I said – and firmly, ―If you answer my question, I might, just might answer yours!‖ ―Hah, hah,‖ he laughed. ―The old codger has spunk! I like that, you old fart, good on ya!‖

190

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

Although it was undeniably some progress, I still felt no affinity with the youth sitting behind me, indeed, if anything, I wanted rid of him all the sooner. Having said that, he reminded me of someone, and it scared me... You want to know who he reminded me of, don‘t you? Read on, my friend, read on... ―So you see,‖ he continued, ―my name is Versavious. I don‘t like it, but I‘m stuck with it. I guess someone had a weird sense of humour, what say you?‖ It was only then, when he had finally told me his name, could I face up to – and admit – who he reminded me off – it was I. You see, I too had that name, though in my case it was, thankfully, the middle one. Extending my hand, I offered it to the pimply faced youth – Versavious. Slapping his squarely upon mine, he laughed loudly, and said, ―Come on, then, give her some welly, and show me how fast this old bucket can go.‖ Slapping Betsy into first gear, pushing the pedal to the metal, with the back wheels spinning, spitting out gravel, we roared off down that winding, county road. 191

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Thirty miles per hour?‖ Versavious bemoaned. ―Is that as fast as it can go?‖ ―Patience,‖ I chided. ―We are still in third gear.‖ Pressing hard on the clutch pedal, I shifted up into fourth (and last) gear. With Betsy‘s old but exceptionally reliable engine roaring ever louder, the needle on the speedometer climbed higher and higher. Forty miles per hour. Fifty miles per hour Sixty miles per hour. ―Come on, give it more welly!‖ Versavious yelled, slapping the passenger seat in front of him for the umpteenth time, in his growing excitement and pleasure. I did, I gave it more welly. Coaxing Betsy to go faster and faster, I watched the speedometer needle move further around the dial. Seventy miles per hour. Seventy-five miles per hour. ―Give it some more!‖ Versavious screamed. ―Come on, faster! Eighty, I want to see eighty miles per hour!‖ ―Come on, old girl,‖ I said, patting the metal dashboard, willing Betsy on. ―Just another five miles per hour, and we are there. Come on, old girl, I know you can do it.‖ Although the speedometer needle was still climbing, its rate of progress was much slower than before, painfully slower. Seventy-six miles per hour. The doors began rattling noisily. Seventy-seven miles per hour. The rear view mirror, separating from its mount, fell to the floor. Seventy-eight miles per hour. The steering wheel began vibrating within my sweating hands. Seventy-nine miles 192

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories per hour. With a pop and crack one of the chrome hubcaps took flight, banging and clattering noisily as it disappeared into the distance. Eighty miles per hour!‖ I yelled, trying to make myself heard about the roar of the engine, the rush of the wind, the noise from the tyres thrashing the tarmac, and various other bits and pieces falling off both the inside and outside my cherished car. ―Versavious!‖ I cried out. ―We‘ve done it, we‘ve really done it!‖ Versavious, however, was strangely silent. Because we were travelling so fast, and with no rear view mirror to look into, to see what could be the matter with him, I had to wait until we had slowed down considerably, before I dared turn round, to see why he was so quiet. When our speed had decreased to only thirty miles per hour, I glanced over my shoulder, into the rear of the car. I was shocked by what I then saw, because sitting behind me, as quiet as a church mouse, was a man, a man well into his fifties. ―W, who are you?‖ I spluttered, in my confusion. The man, however, remained silent, staring unblinkingly past me, to the road ahead. ―A, are you VersaviousI‖ I asked.

193

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

He nodded; at least I think he nodded, for his head hardly moved at all. Leaning back, I offered my hand, to shake his. Pointing unemotionally to the road ahead, he made no move to offer his hand. Facing forward, returning my attention to the road, I panicked with fright, for in my eagerness to make his acquaintance I had all but forgotten that we were still moving. We were heading straight for a tree, and an extremely large one at that. Wrestling with the steering wheel, I steered old Betsy away from certain destruction with only seconds to spare. As the car screeched to a halt mere inches away from the tree that had had my name upon it, I was shaking with fright. Wiping my sweating brow, I opened the door and staggered away from the car and my unusual passenger. It was only after several minutes of deep breathing, trying to return to some semblance of composure, did I remember him â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Versavious. Returning my gaze to Betsy, I saw him. he was still there, sitting upon the back seat, as cool as a cucumber, enswathed in the pastel coloured cloths.

194

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Waving, trying to get his attention, I wondered why he was still there. ―He‘s not even looking this way!‖ I hissed. ―What sort of a person is he, anyway?‖ Then I heard it, I heard his words – and the tot‘s, saying, ―I am who I am, be it baby or tot, and anyone else that you need me to be.‖ ―How on earth did he do that?‖ I whispered.

On those words,

Versavious stared out of the window, directly at me. Waving, I signalled for him to come over, to join me, but he did not. No. He remained there, inside the car, as if his life depended on it. ―If the mountain won‘t go to Mohammed, I said, ―Mohammed will have to go to the mountain.‖ Retracing my steps, I returned to Betsy. ―Why didn‘t you come over?‖ I asked, opening the door, tilting the driver‘s seat forward. ―Did you want me to?‖ Versavious, the fifty-year-old version, replied. Exasperated, I said, ―Of course! Didn‘t you see me waving?‖ To that remark, my unusual passenger made no reply. ―Are you feeling alright?‖ I asked. ―Is there any reason why I should not be feeling alright?‖ he answered. ―Well...‖ I said, fumbling to find words. ―It was a bit hairy, back there... You know, almost crashing into that tree!‖

195

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Hmm,‖ he said, ―I have seen it all before... The speed of youth, the foolhardy dangers we are so willing to take, when we think we will live forever...‖

Taken aback by his melancholy musings, I once again found myself struggling to find words, as I too began slipping into the same sombre mood. Versavious speaking again brought me out of it. ―What do you see when you look at me?‖ he asked. ―What do I see?‖ Nodding, he tapped his chest. ―I see...I see a man in his fifties – and a moustache...‖ Then pointing, I added, ―And those pastel coloured cloths...‖ Smiling, (it quite surprised me, I can assure you), Versavious said, ―Exactly!‖ ―Exactly?‖ ―You have said it.‖ ―I have?‖ 196

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories Lifting one of the cloths, a cerise coloured one, he said, ―Look at this, it is beautiful, is it not?‖ ―I suppose so...if you like pink, that is.‖ ―It‘s not a question of colour,‖ he replied, letting go of the cloth, the smile disappearing from face. ―Have you not learned anything from the child?‖ ―The child?‖ I asked, confused, then realising that it was the five-yearold version of himself that he was pertaining to, I said, ―He – you told me that you are but one of many... Is that what you are getting at?‖ I asked, my heart pounding fast in my chest. ―That...‖ ―...That, as it falls away, is replaced by another, more beautiful one,‖ said Versavious, finishing the sentence for me.‖ After saying that, my travelling companion said nothing more on the subject. Indeed, he was so quiet and still as we drove along that quiet country road, he would have had no trouble at all in passing himself off as a corpse. We were a good five miles further down the road before I started speaking again, and dared to look into my jerry-rigged rear view mirror. To be utterly truthful, I had absolutely no wish to do either. Listening to the sound of Betsy‘s dependable old engine put-putting away behind me, I was in a world of my own. So, what did happen next? Do you think Versavious grew any older? Read on my friend, read on... ―I‘m thirsty,‖ a creaky, crabby old voice croaked from behind me. 197

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Me too,‖ I replied, opening the window, paying little or no heed to the change in my passenger‘s voce. ―It‘s getting dreadfully hot. There‘s a petrol station about a mile up the road,‖ I said, ―I‘ll pull in there and buy us some water.‖ Despite it being only a mile up the road, we never reached that petrol station. No. It might well have been a hundred miles away for all the good it did Versavious. We were barely a hundred yards further along the road, when I heard the same crabby, creaky old voice calling out to me. ―Water, water...‖ it implored, ―I must have some water...‖ Looking into my rear view mirror, I got the shock of my life, for the fifty year old version of Versavious had transformed into one so old, so wizened, so incredibly crinkly, I feared for his very life. Pulling the car over to the side of the road, I opened the door and jumped out. Tilting my seat forward I leaned in to my passenger and asked him if there was anything I could do to alleviate his distress. ―I‘m sorry,‖ I said, ―but I haven‘t got any water. Can you wait until we reach the petrol station? It‘s less than a mile, now.‖ Staring up at me, with weak, watery eyes, so different from those of the little baby, less than one hour earlier, but feeling like a lifetime away, the old man said, ―No water? Is there no water at all?‖

198

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories ―Take it easy, old timer,‖ I replied. ―There‘ plenty of water,‖ Then I whispered, ―The only problem is it‘s not here...‖ Lifting his bony arm, the old man, his even bonier hand clutching one of the layers of cloth covering him, said, ―See this?‖ ―It‘s purple,‖ I replied. Gesturing with one of his thin fingers (there were little more than bones covered in skin), Versavious motioned for me to come closer. With my ear tucked close to his mouth, so close I could hear ever intake of his slow, laboured breathing, he whispered, ―Have you still not learned? Do you still not see?‖ Feeling terribly inadequate, that I had failed him, I replied, ―The colour; it‘s not the colour, is it?‖ Nodding, he leaned back into the seat and then closed his eyes. Withdrawing from the car, speaking ever so quietly to myself, hoping that my elderly passenger might not hear me, I whispered, ―Come on, Gerrard, think! It‘s purple – I already know that, but what else is it? What did the child say? He said...he said...he said it‘s a layer, one of many. What does that mean? What, what, what?‖ Rubbing my chin, telling my brain to get into gear, I suddenly remembered the teenage version of Versavious, and I said, ―What did he say? What was he trying to tell me? Hmm, the only thing he was

199

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories interested in doing was slagging me off, not to mention my car... MY CAR!‖ I cried out. ―THAT‘S IT! Why didn‘t I see it, sooner?‖ A Note: For all of you reading this, wondering where it is going, please be patient. All will soon be revealed... ―Versavious pushed me to drive Betsy faster than I was comfortable with, much faster that I would have otherwise done. That‘s it, that‟s the lesson – I‘m sure of it!‖ I cried out. Pacing back and forth alongside the car, I must have looked like a lunatic. Jabbering away to myself, I concluded that the lesson, the lesson the baby, the tot, the teenager, the fifty-year-old man and the ancient old timer had given me was to push myself; that I was capable of achieving so much more than I would have otherwise thought. It‘s the layers!‖ I cried out. ―Peel one away one layer, to reveal another one that is better than its predecessor.‖ Returning to Betsy, I opened the door. Leaning, I said, ―Versavious, I understand–‖ but he was gone. The only thing left to show that he had been there at all was a neat pile of pastel coloured cloths stacked upon the rear seat. Postscript: Diving home, my mind was still reeling from the extraordinary person (people?) that I had met. There was a happy and contented baby, a philosophical tot, a bad-mannered teenager, a man in his fifties with the knowledge of maturity behind him, and a man so old, so ancient he

200

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories faded away into nothing, but not before he had imparted an valuable lesson, a lesson that will change my life forever. I had no sooner thought this, when something on my seat began poking into me. Raising my derriere, I delved a hand under and tried to find the culprit that was causing me such discomfort. Pulling it out, the culprit, I stared at it quite gobsmacked. You see, it was a crumpled up piece of paper, the flyer advertising the Circus of Grotesques. ―I thought I threw this away,‖ I whispered, reading words printed upon it. They read, ‗The Circus of Grotesques: it will change your life forever.‘ It was right; my life had certainly, most certainly been changed forever.

201

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

Alice from Wonderland? This, my story, is strangely bizarre, It happened one morning: I was not in my car, I was still in my in bed; I had been fast asleep, Then I found myself falling down a tunnel, so deep. What on earth is happening? I whispered in fright, As I fell ever faster down that tunnel without light, With a bump and a crash my falling it stopped, And I lay in a heap, but at the bottom of what? Rubbing my soreness, I looked all around, The most curious of places I had ever found, All about me were queer things to see, Like a Cat, a Mad Hatter â&#x20AC;&#x201C; and a Mouse drowning in tea.

202

A Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x;s Treasury of Stories

Despite drowning in tea, the Mouse struggled not, As the Hatter and Rabbit stuck his head in the pot, But the biggest surprise I ever did see, Was Alice, urging them on, laughing, hee, hee.

Yes, Alice, holding the lid, was spurring them on, Come on, she said, and get the job done, Finish the Mouse, or youâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;ll have to answer to me, Look, here is the lid - duck him under that tea! When the Mouse had been finished, despatched to his maker, Alice turned on the Hatter, saying youâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;re no better, Than a mouse or a lizard or even a carpenter, Take that, and that, you rotten old Hatter!

203

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

A Song from Alice On Top of the World Christmastime is nowhere at all, It‘s nowhere at all, if it‘s not in your heart. If it‘s not in your wishes, right there from the start, Christmastime is nowhere at all.

Christmastime, a time to be glad, A time to rejoice in all that you have, But let us remember this time of good cheer, Is also a time to erase every fear.

Christmastime is nowhere at all, It‘s nowhere at all, if it‘s not in your heart. If it‘s not in your wishes, right there from the start, Christmastime is nowhere at all.

Christmastime, it‘s a time to be glad, It a time to rejoice in all that you have, But let us remember this time of good cheer, Is a time to share blessings, this is my prayer.

204

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories I‟m the crazy-mad writer, The crazy-mad writer today. I‟m the crazy-mad writer, The crazy-mad writer, hey hey! You may think that I‟m not serious, And I might even agree. But I‟m still the crazy-mad writer, The crazy-mad writer, hee hee.

You can purchase further copies of this book, and the others, By visiting my website: www.crazymadwriter.com 

Forget the Celebrities: Read about MY Crazymad Life.



Nursery Rhymes – My Crazymad Way.



My Little Red Book of Poems.



HARRY – oh, she is a ROTTER!



Alice on Top of the Wold



Horrible Horace



Tales of the Extraordinary



Slug Talk



Jimmy, the Glue Factory, and Mad Mr Viscous



The Tales of Beetle, About



The Three Little Faerie Sisters

205

A Children‟s Treasury of Stories

That‟s it for now, All the best, from the crazy-mad writer.

www.crazymadwriter.com

206