THE LEGEND OF THE OLD OAK.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 239, 8 October 1932, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE LEGEND OF THE OLD OAK.

(By Phyllis Meikle, Astley Avenue, New Lynn; age 17.) Leaning languidly against the gnarled old oak, Juno broke off a morsel of cake and crumbling it between her fingers, scattered it over the velvety grass. In tho coolest manner possible, a plump spcckled thrush, selecting the largest crumb, hopped gravely towards it; scarcely had it reached it than something seemed to startle it, and with a hurried fluttering of wings it sped across tho sunlit glade.

June laughed, softly, a merry, rippling laugh that lit up her features and made her look twice as pretty. They don't seem to want to bear my story this morning, she murmured. Slipping a notebook from her pocket she withdrew a slip of paper and read: Many years ago, there lived in the forest glade a dear old, old lady, who used to wander up and down the sunlit glade, leaning on a silver-knobbed staff.

She always disappeared at the old oak. No one dared interfere with her, until one day a small boy went to the old oak intending to find an entrance, but the old lady sprang out and beat him with her silver-knobbed (staff, and after that it was known she never wandered up and down the glade again. A faint smile crossed June's face as she finished her story. Glancing up, she saw the sun was nearly setting, its golden beams shining through the trees and lighting up the moss-grown path. Hurriedly jumping up she did not notice a slip of paper fall to the soft, green grass. Taking the moss-grown path, she soon arrived home, an old ivy-covered home set in the midst of beautiful trees.

A little later a party of school girls passing the old oak, noticed the scrap of paper. Their leader, an athletic-looking girl with merry blue eyes and dark brown curls, bent down and picked it up. Surveying it, she exclaimed: "Just what we wanted, girls!" They all swarmed around her and read the neat writing. "So it is, Daphne," they said in one voice.

So, laughing merrily, they wended their way back to school, It was three days later,. June turned her steps to the old oak. The woodland glade was bathed in the pale light of a wintry afternoon. The ancient tree, with its sylvan' surroundings stood out clearcut as a picture in the sunlight filtering through the branches overhead. And on the velvety expanse of grass stood _ a group of people in quaint costumes, while hobbling down the glade came quaint bent-backed old figure with a high hat and a silver-knobbed staff.

June's grey eyes widened, and a gasp of amazement rose to her lips.

It was her story—lter istory come to life. Scarcely bad she taken two steps when the quaint villagers surrounded her and she was looking into tbe smiling faces of her chums. "We thought we would give you a surprise, June dear," explained Daphne, who was the quaint old lady. "You see, w© found your story under the oak, and we knew it was yours by your name on the back. It's the very thing for the annual play, you don't mind, do you?" "Oh, but it is so eilly," protested June. "No it is not," vowed her chums, "and what is more you are going to write more for other plays." So laughing merrily June linked arms with her chums, and they wandered slowly down the perfumed glade, chattering merrily of the coming play.