THE POSTIE'S BAG

Evening Star, Issue 21073, 9 April 1932, Page 5

THE POSTIE'S BAG

1 Asquith street, Caversham. Dear Big Brother Bill, —It is a long time since I last wrote to you, but 1 always look forward to reading your Saturday’s column. I am sending in this week’s competition, and I hope I am successful. Didn’t we have lovely weather over Easter, Brother Bill? I with a party spent one day picnicking at Green Island Beach, and another at a farm at Mosgiel. We had a very enjoyable time at both places. We have two lovely kittens, and we have named one Lou and the other Tom. I am in Form 11. at Caversham School, and I am going to work hard this year to tryto gain my proficiency certificate. I think I will bring my letter to an end now. With love to all the family and yourself—Yours sincerely, Yvonne M'Farlane. [Many thanks for your letter, Yvonne M'Farlane. Your name is in the honour square fcr neat writing. The weather was most certainly delightful at Easter, as you say in your letter. Our city' was at her best in every way, which was excellent, and enabled heradmirers to boast a little before the many visitors to Dunedin. Y.ou know; the old saying that our friends are those who know all our faults but love us just the same. Well, the friends of Dunedin who know and love her many beauties are most frequently disappointed because she will insist on showing her worst side. Rain and mist, and more rain and mist, are not the best advertisement for a city,, are they ? But at Easter we all had a great and boastful time. We live in the loveliest city in the world, and she backed our boasting right royally. Brother Bill took some visitors over 100 miles of most beautiful panoramic scenery without losing sight of _ the city at any moment, and the visitors went home firmly believing that there was no place lovelier in all the world. You would have a great time at the beach and on the farm. You must write a letter some time, and tell the family of your many adventures during your happy holiday.] 16 Hastings street, Kaikorai. Dear Big Brother Bill, —May I join your happy family? I am thirteen years old, and I go to the Technical High School. I am taking the commercial course, which I find very interesting. I read your page in the ‘ Star ’ every Saturday night and try to do the puzzles, which I find very interesting. I did not go away for my holidays at Easter, but I walked to Whare Flat on Easter Monday. It was very warm walking, and we stopped only twice for something to eat. 1 am entering for the competition this week and I hape the names are all correct. I have two sisters, one six years older than myself and the other one year and nine months younger. Hoping to see my letter in the ‘ Star,’ 1 will close. Love to all aunts and uncles and yourself.—l remain, yours sincerely, Ina Farquharson. [You are quite welcome to the family, Ina Farquharson. Most certainly you are not too old to join. Indeed, there is no age limit. It is all the better for folk to hold on the joys of childhood as long as possible. Brother Bill thinks that the secret of growing old gracefully is to hold on to one’s interest in all childlike pleasures and interests; in this way the years always treat one very kindly. Hiking to Whare Flat must have been a rather strenuous business, especially when the weather was really warm as on Easter Monday. But you would feel reward when the journey was over. Did your sisters go with you? Brother Bill is glad to know that you find the columns interesting, and enjoyable. Did you know that there are folk living in odd corners of the world who write letters to Brother Bill saying that they enjoy the reading of the columns? Lidia, France, America, England; our family is a wide-spread one as well as being large. We are all glad to welcome Ina Farquharson to the number.] 18 Montague street, N.E.V. Dear Big Brother Bill,—l am writing to you to let you know that I have not forgotten you; the last time I wrote to you was about three years ago. I am having a try at your competition, which seemed to be fairly easy. Both my brothers were at an Easter camp, and one of them was cook. I am twelve years of age and go to the North-east Valley Schoool. I would have written my letter on paper which I won at the Sunday School picnic to match the envelopes, but it has no lines. As 1 have nothing else to say I will close, hoping to have luck in the competition.—Maureen Brown. [Many thanks for your letter, Maureen Brown. It is a long time since the last letter* but .better late than never,

and it is a compliment when one’s name remains in a friend’s mind for so long a time even though no letters are written. So Brother Bill felt quite happy to bo remembered. Your last words in the letter suggest what is true about other things as well as writing letters. It is easier to write on the lines, but much harder to write evenly where there are no lines. Did it over occur to you, little Sister Maureen, that mother and father, teachers at school, Sunday school teachers, and Big Brother Bill are all very anxious to give the bairns lines on which to write the story of their life evenly and neatly, without wavering lines and nasty, black marks to spoil the fair copy when it is done? When mother or father gives advice to their daughter they ought to be listened to most carefully. Some day, they think _as they speak, their small daughter will be a woman grown, and, in some difficulty, she will say to herself: “ Well, I must do this in this fashion, and I know that I shall be right because mother said so.” In this way it is always easier to write on the lines than where no lines have been given. Try it by beginning to practice now. Write again soon.]

32 Linwood avenue, Dunottar,

Dear Big Brother Bill, —At last I have made a start to write you a letter. I am nine years old, and go to the Maori Hill School. I like reading your page in the ‘ Star,’ and do enjoy hearing your talks about animals and insects. A party of us visited the fish hatcheries at Easter time. We took the train to Port Chalmers, going through two tunnels. Then we went aboard the Tarewai, a small steamer, which took us across to the hatcheries. In one large glass case there was a variety of fish of different colours. In another case there was a small octopus, which the caretaker took out and held in his hand. It looked very ugly. After standing about an hour looking at the various kinds of fish, we went for a walk along the beach, where I saw a large, red octopus crawling along in the water. Wo arrived home after an exciting outing. This is all now, Brother Bill; with love to the aunts and uncles and yourself.—l remain, your small bairn, Roland Anderson. [Many thanks for your letter, Roland Anderson. Your name is in the Honour Square on account of the interesting letter that you wrote to Brother Bill. The Fish Hatchery at Portobello is a most interesting place to visit, and your account of it is in* teresting, too. The red octopus that you saw in the water may not have been really red, but may have taken on that colour for a temporary reason. The octopus, like many of Mother Nature’s children, has the power in some cases to make himself the colour of the background against which he is hiding. The larger kind of octopus, ■the tremendous fellow that lives in the sinister darkness at the sea bottom, is usually a dull and dirty white in colour; but if anything makes him angry he then becomes a dull and nasty red. He’s a nasty fellow at all times,* of course; but Brother Bill thinks that a red octopus is a horrible thing to look at. But here is a curious thing about him, whether he be red or white. You know that he has a beak of hard, bony gristle very like that of a parrot? Now, a whale is very fond of octopus for dinner, and on occasions eats beak and all. But the beak does just what we would expect, and Mr Whale suffers agonies of indigestion over it. To give himself ease from the acute discomfort the stomach of the whale wraps the bony heak in a mass of gluey stuff, and one* day the whale is violently ill and disgorges the whole lump. Then the waves carry the lump to shore, where it is found one day by some jubilant man or woman as a lump of ambergris worth pounds an ounce. And out of the beak of the octopus that caused Mr Whale such acute trouble the chemists of the world make delightful perfumes. So out of the nastiness is made something that makes the world sweeter 1 , which is a rather wonderful business altogether. It would be a good thing if all the world’s ugliness could be made to change into sweetness and light in the same fashion, wouldn’t it? Write again soon.]