TOLD BY READERS

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 72, 26 March 1932, Page 2 (Supplement)

TOLD BY READERS

RESULT OF FORTNIGHTLY SHORT-STORY j| I COMPETITION. . __ |

Entries for the short story competition were not as heavy as usual this week. The usual 5/ prize was won by Jean Hill, Waitakere, for "The Tramp," a story with something original about it which distinguished it from all other contributions. .Commended entries were sent in by Noelle Macdonald, Bernice Bryant and Billy Pigott.

THE TRAMP. (Winning entry by Jean Hill, Waitakere, Kaipara Line, age 17.) The tramp sat down on an old log. He sighed and looked at his shabby clothes. They were dusty and old, and his boots were worn and thin. "If I were a. millionaire," he thought, as he' nibbled a hard, dry crust, "I'd live in a wonderful house and have servants to wait on me. I'd do as I liked, and there would be nobody to interfere with me." * "But you'll never be a millionaire if you don't continue on your way," warned the wind. Oh, how the tramp hated winds at that moment. He realised he was cold and hungry.

"And I'd have a cheerful fire in a tiled grate, and a table laden with a good, hot meal," and the tramp stretched out his hands as if to warm them in front of a playful flame, which leaped and danced over many a log.

Thus he fell into a sound sleep. His bed was no more than the moss and tufts of grass on the,side of the road; bis pillow was a rotten log; his blankets the sun's warm rays; his house the earth, with the sky for a roof.

And while he lay sleeping his dreams became real. For one wild moment he was a, man of leisure.

He was walking up a path which was bordered with a tanglement of" flowers, and in the midst of tall trees was a framework which gradually grew until the man beheld a mansion before him. The tufts of grass vanished, and the now millionaire found himself walking on carpets, thick and soft. The old log was just a memory. In his cosy bedroom was a bed covered with blankets and an eiderdown. Beside his bed was a bookcase filled with books that he might read to his heart's content.

Through his palace of dreams the rich man walked. Ah! Surely that was the crackling of a log fire blazing merrily in the grate, and could he not smell some appetising savoury that his cook was preparing for him.

He strolled on to a porch. The sunbeams filtered through the window, and as the owner otf, the mansion sank into a cosy lounge chair, he looked about him. The rays of the sun were glancing everywhere, and the dreamer imagined them to be streets paved with gold and he was walking up them. Yes, it was a wonderful house; it was a wonderful life. He gazed cut on to the road below, and there, in the dust, was a man tramp, tramping along in search of work.

The rich man rose, but as he opened the window to call out the mansion vanished.

The tramp sat up, yawned and rubbed his eyes. The sun was sinking-; it no longer warmed him with ite rays. The wind was stronger and colder, and dark clouds were becoming visible in the sky. Once more, in the place of carpeted floors, was a hard, stony road; once more before him arose the sight of his shabby clothes and boots. The tramp eighed, picked up his old stick/then along the country road 'he went, his dream just a memory to dwell on, but as he thought of it he looked about him. Then he shook his head.

"No, give me the green fields and the dusty country road. God made them for me; they are mine, and in them I will live." »' A GOOD TRICK. ;(By W. S. Eea, 5, Haverstock Koad, Sandringham,) Here is a simple trick which is very mystifying to onlookers. Select some cricketer's name, and •write rt in soap on your arm; for instance, "Hobbs." That is all the preparation needed. Now take several pieces of paper (about four inches square) and ask your audience to name any cricketers. As each person calls a name appear to write it down, but really write the name down you have on your arm. Do this on every piece, rolling each paper up as you finish writing. Now mix the papers in a hat and ask someone to pick one out. Now burn the rest on an enamel plate and rub the black burnt pieces over the name on your arm. The name -will appear,_ and, behold, on opening the remaining piece of paper, the names will be fotmd. to coincide.

But it was just too late. The old teatree fence around the fowlyard gave Way. There was a confusion of squawking and flying feathers, and the car came to a full stop, but so suddenly that I had to make a hurried clutch at my relative to prevent myself from being deposited among the frightened birds. "Well, enjoyed your drive?" "Uncle," I said reproachfully, "I didn't think for one moment. that you couldn't drive." "Well, you see it's only my second try at it, but I thought I could manage -it all right. Anyhow, I didn't flo .so badly, 'cos we've arrived here and the car's the only thing that looks any the worse for the outing," added uncle ruefully. And the new car certainly did, for it was scratched badly and in on* place a dent in the mudguard portrayed signs of the collision' with the fowlyard fence. But in spite of it all, both uncle and I had to laugh, for now that the drive was %ver we certainly saw the funny side of it.

GETTING THERE ! (By Jean Hill, Waitakere, Kaipara Line; age 17.) I jumped out of the train, collected my suitcases and staggered off along the plat" >rm. "Hulloa! Where do you think you're off to?". "Oh! it's you, Uncle Jim. I wondered if you'd be down to' meet me. How's dear old Dobbin? I s'pose you brought him down in the trap?"

"Trap!" uncle's eyes twinkled, as he laughed scornfully. "Why, m'dear, traps are old-fashioned these clays. No, I didn't bring a trap—l brought my car."

"Your car! Oh, nunky, have you really got a car, and you never told us. What sort is it? Can you drive? When did—"

"Here, young lady, not so fast. Perhaps I'll answer those questions when I get enough breath—but here we are."

"Oh, what a beauty," I exclaimed, as I eyed uncle's new car admiringly. Uncle stowed my luggage in the back and I scrambled excitedly into the front seat beside him, "Fernleigh Farm" was a good three miles'from the station and I was quite thrilled at i the prospect of whizzing along the dusty white road and past the green meadows and winding creeks.

We started off with a jerk that nearly sent me through the windscreen, and after swerving violently to avoid a collision with a telephone pole, the car seemed to find the road. This evidently gave uncle or his new purchase (I couldn't say which) perfect confidence, for in another second the dust was simply whirling about us; the meadows were just flashes of green, and on looking back I saw the station a speck in the distance—that is, when I got a chance to see through the dust. And then it happened!

Turning a corner I was horrified to see coming towards us a herd of cows. Surely now uncle would lessen his speed. But, no! On we Ave"nt, ever getting closer and closer. Frantically I hung on to the handle of the door. The automobile was zig-zagging wildly from one side'of the road to the other; cows were running in all directions, but get through them we did. Several times I began to speak, but uncle always gave me such a look that I relapsed into silence again.

Suddenly in front of us we saw an old and tottering figure. In vain uncle tooted the horn.

"Deaf!" I gasped. The car swung dangerously to one side, ran for a few seconds with one wheel in a shallow ditch, righted itself, then continued its mad career along the country highway. Around another corner, then "Fernleigh Farm." I sighed with relief, for all through that hair-raising drive I was conscious of the fact that I had not paid my insurance premium.

A turn that jumbled up the suitcases in the back, took us straight for the gate post. At the last moment we swerved to the left and just missed an affectionate embrace with a tree, but uncle did not stop. We were going up the drive still at the same break-neck speed. Over the vegetable garden and on toward the fowlhouse we sped.

"Uncle," I almost shouted, as the car showed no signs of slowing down, "stop or you'll have us killed. Put on the brake." m "Dash it, haven't I got my foot on the brake, but I can't stop the thing.".

"No, quick, that's the accelerator— the other one—yes, that's it."