Mr Robins’ Holiday

Press, Volume LXXV, Issue 22851, 26 October 1939, Page 5 (Supplement)

Mr Robins’ Holiday

There lived in the town of Dapley a nice little man with a mole on his cheek, a gentle stammer, and a pair ol broad, brown, but not thick hands, with which he had become most expert in using hammer, naiis. carving knives, and other tools. At the top of the main street he owned a shop, a workroom, a window for showing his wares, and a fascinating door of white wood with a row of red, yellow, and blue glass panes, not as you would expect right up high, but cutting through the middle of the door so that as the children left his shop they could see the world outside in blue, in yellow, in red. It was almost worth coming to see the nice little carpenter because of his coloured glass panes. It was really so funny, for instance, to watch the prim bowler hatted doctor hurrying past with a ghostly blue nose which could be changed in- a flash to yellow. It was funnier still to make the lettuces and cabbages in the fruiterer’s shelves red as poppies. This was all part of the carpenter’s sense of humour which was as quaintly unexpected as a mischievous paper-bag blowing now here, now there, along a pavement in a nor’-wester. All the people who came to his shop were children, for he spent most of his time making rocking horses, trains, and dobbins, and the dobbins were by far the most popular. His name was Mr Robins.

There were always children outside looking at the. finished dobbins or inside spending their spare money on new ones or buying extra parts or ' having broken parts mended. Some he made like motorcars. others like aeroplanes, others like old, old chariots with bright patterns covering the wheels, and others»like Chinese carts with weird birds and dragons painted on the body and shafts. The Dapley boys and girls had become so accustomed to Mr Robins’ shop that they would meet there to discuss all sorts of plans, to ask him for advice, to learn from him how to use a hammer and saw, and how to paint their own wooden toys. And so, when they discovered a notice, neatly printed and stuck to the door, saying—THlS SHOP WILL BE CLOSED FOR FOUR DAYS—they were filled with dismay and immediately began to guess why Mr Robins had deserted them. “Perhaps he’s ill.” said Peter White.

£By Helen Shaw)

“But he was quite well last night. 1 don’t believe he’s ever ill,” answered Jpey Brown. “My axle’s broken. 1 simply must have it mended," Tom Dickens told them.

“Let’s go and ask someone.” So they set off down the street and they asked the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, and the bird man. ’ . “Could you tell us, please, wffat has happened to Mr Robins who makes our dobbins?" But neither the bird man nor the butcher neither the grocer nor the fruiterer knew anything of Mr Robins. As they walked, skipping from shop to shop, from man to woman, they gathered up quite a crowd of other boys and girls, and they tramped down the main street, turned into side streets and across the parks and squares until they had formed themselves into a kind of procession. each one whispering to his neighbour. “Where’s Mr Robins who makes our dobbins?”

“Look! My axle’s broken. Who’s to mend it?” “I’ve lost a wheel. I want a new one.”.

“His shop has never been closed before.”

“Hi! Have you seen Mr Robins?" At last they left the town behind and at this stage most of them had tc for tea, but Toiji, Peter, and Joey said they didn’t care about their tea, really, and went on walking until they came to Mr Robins’ house, a four-roomed cottage with a windmill, a sleepy cat. and a pool of goldfish on the lawn. At the. door they knocked and each one expected to see the little man’s face with the mole on his cheek, but instead a woman came. She had great blue eyes like saucers and a pretty frock of many coloured squares and she was holding a slice of bread in one hand. “Oh. excuse me,’’ she said softly, “but I’ve been feeding the ducks. What do you want?’’. Joey stepped forward. “Mr Robins. Where’s he gone? There’s a notice on the door of his shop." “Why," smiled the woman, “didn’t you know? He’s run awav with the circus.” “The circus! Isn’t he ever going to make dobbins any more?” “Oh. I really don’t know at all. You see, Mr Robins has a passion for elephants. His heart’s ambition is to sit on an elephant’s back and pass it down buns on the end *of a fishing line.”

“How strange!’ said Tom. “He never told us about that."

“No. ' He wouldn’t have told you It’s his greatest secret and there’s never more than one you can tell such a thing to."

Joey kicked the door-mat sadly “Well, thank you for telling us.” “I know just how you feel. I expect it’s the way I did when my father cut down a tree that I’d been used to watching all my life. A pear tree. Every day, there it was outside my window. Sometimes in blossom, sometimes covered with fruit, and however it was the pear tree was a part of my life. Well, don’t be too sad. Perhaps Mr Robins will grow tired of feeding elephants some day soon.” The door closed. Tom, Joey, and Peter walked silently back to their now cold teas, and after that they told the othei children about Mr Robins. “He’s riding elephants.” “He’s joined a circus.” “Heard about Mr Robins? He’s taming animals in a circus.” “The dobbin-maker’s run away with a lion man. He rides tigers and elephants.” “Mr Robins has joined a circus. He performs on the trapeze.” And so the story grew and grew, faster and larger than a rolling snowball, until at last they said that Mr Robins had bought a circus, three lions. 20 elephants, and a herd of little white ponies each with a girl driver. They said it was the best circus there had ever been, and looked forward to its arrival.

But Joey didn’t listen to the circus stories. He thought them exceedingly foolish and he thought it even more foolish that Mr Robins, a sensible carpenter who made the finest dobbins and aeroplanes and trains should go running away to. sit on the back of a great heavyfooted elephant just for the pleasure of feeding it with buns hooked on to a fishing line. “Buns!” he muttered one morning as he wandered about in a field of clover. He was looking for a river. Just a nice, simple rivei and a willow tree for shade, because it was almost summer hot. and perhaps a magpie or two to chase. He felt quite tired of the elephant and the bun and the lion-tamers. He walked slowly, swishing his bare toes through the clover, twinking off the leaves between his big toe and his next toe. So far he hadn’t found a river, but only a willow tree, and he wanted both. He climbed over a fence and then over another fence and gave a happy sigh, for he could see between the ' bright new willow leaves a flash of water and he was just choosing out the hollow grassv nlace where h p

would sit and dangle his feet m the water and rest his head against a tree trunk when he saw Mr Robins. Yes, that was unmistakably the dobbin-maker. Joey crept closer and closer. There was the brown mole on his cheek.

“Where’s your elephant?" he shouted.

Mr Robins turned round. He smiled and then put his hand to his mouth. “Sh! You might disturb it.” “What?” asked Joey, full of curt

osity. . “This,” said Mr Robins Joyfully pointing to a jam-jar which-stooi in the grass beside him. “I fount him. Wasn’t it clever?” Joey just stared and stared, foi in the jam jar sat a little green frog on a large dock leal. “And don’t you think these are nice also, Joey?” “Yes. Oh, ye-es.” Scattered on the grass where several bunches 01 buttercups, freshly picked. “What’d you say you’d gone ott to ride elephants for?” • Well, Joey, I-I w-w-wanted a holiday, just a little one. Elephants and b-b-buns. Frogs and buttercups. Is there any difference. U well, p’raps there is, p’raps there isn’t. But I’m having such a very nice time.” . „„ i(l The green frog jumped up on w dock leaf as if to say, Tees, be having a lovely holiday with me the buttercups and the river, we phants were too difficult. Ana sj Joey just nodded and sat dowt with his back to the tree trunk an stared at the running water. “I never did believe that st« about the elephant, Joey, said afterwards, when the shop... once more opened and the debtor nose could again be seen W" blue ghostly light; but Joey swered slowly, “O well. ~c [ , and elephants! There isnt rn difference really.” waS , And I don’t suppose there It was Mr Robins’ paper-bag s*”* of humour. Just think how a PJP bag blowing now here, now ® makes a punpy wonder and w and dash there and then ne • ite yes. a sense of humour a lot of excitement in a town.

ADVICE— . _ m en Great things are done when and mountains meet: ((ie This is not done by jostling street' A PUESTION— • t jgarn Why of the sheep do you not peace? -heat Because I don’t want you to my fleece „ -WILLIAM BLAKb-