BIG BROTHER BILL and the BAIRNS

Evening Star, Issue 23497, 10 February 1940, Page 6

BIG BROTHER BILL and the BAIRNS

LIKE THE SUNDIAL, I RECORD ONLY THE SUNNY HOURS

Th* winner of the competition on j Saturday, Feburary 6, was Joyce Knowles. 34 Malvern street, Dunedin, ff.l. Congratulations, prize will be sosetd. THE POSHE S BAG 466 a Leith street, liunedin, N.l, January 29. Dear Big Brother Bill,—As 1 have, dot written to you for a long time I| am going to do so now. I spent■ inyi holidays on a- farm at Kaiwera, and it: was lovely there out in the fresh air. Every morning X fed. the chickens, and, amongst the 13' of -.them; - was- a' little: lame onevWho'soon learnt to feed out' of my hand. It was amusing to watch* him hopping .along on one leg, and he loved me to pick him up and stroke his soft, downy Ifehthers. • I always gave him the biggest-'-share, and now he has got ever so < much better, and as he has only a slight .limp I can hardly tell him from the rest. I gathered the hens’ eggs every day," too, and when I had anything for them to eat I called out “ Chook! Chookl Chock!” and

they all came running up to me to see what I had for them. At night I helped to put the calves in their pen, and it- was great fun chasing them round the field to get them in. When the cows were getting milked I went up to the shed and had about a quart of lovely warm .milk to drink every day. It was jnst taken from the cows when I got it, and it seemed much nicer than the milk we get in town. One night .we all went eeling and we caught two beauties. We had one for tea and ,it was just lovely. Often in the evening 1 took Baldy, the dog, for a wee run on the chain. He was a beautiful big dog, like a husky, and We had a lovely white chest. I was very sorry when ray holiday at the farm was over, and I do wish we could have a farm in town. This is all just now, arid I hope it finds you and all the bairns well and happy.—l remain, your loving bairn, Norma Scrivener (aged lo>.

[Thank you for-your letter, Norma Scrivener. Your description of a farm holiday will make all the bairns envious. 1 Your name is on the Honour Post ahd you are winner of the best letter prize. Your kindness to the lame chicken saved its life. In the wild, all the-halt and lame creatures are left to die. It is Nature’s way of ensuring the strongest only shall live. So, had the lame chicken been left to fend for itself, the others would have starved and pecked it to death, because even among tame fowls wild habits still persist. Brother Bill enjoys milk straight from the cow, but did he have to get it himself, would be compelled to go without it. Your idea of a farm to each city house is splendid, Norma, but would then become the country again. Write again soon.] 89 Rankeilor street, Dunedin. S.l. January 14. Dear Big Brother Bill, —It is a long time since I last wrote to you. To-day I am going to tell you about when I went to Hillend for my. holiday. Hillend is near Milton and Balclutha. The place I was at had about 1,600 sheep and 30 or 40 cows. When I was there they were shearing the sheep and I was helping them to draft some, of the sheep. When you are drafting you put the old sheep in one pen and the lambs in another pen. I found three new hen nests up there, and I received threepence for each nest. They also had three wee pups about a fortnight old. and they did not have their eyes open. There were a wee kitten and three or four cats. As this is nil I have to say. I will close now.—From Eileen Johnston. JThank you for your letter, Eileen. Johnston, Your name is on the Honour Post for neat writing. Sheep drafting seems pretty hard work for a small girl, Eileen, but that doesn’t matter as long as you enjoyed it. You appear to have done so, too. Discovering hens’ nests at threepence a time would be more profitable'. Brother Bill suspects you Would look so carefully there vsaMn’t he any others left to discover. Ks is glad to know you had such a good time.]

Dear Big Brother Bill, —Could I be a member of your club, because 1 always look up Saturday night’s ‘Star,’ and my big brother lets me have a look at it. My name is Bob Rodgers, of Howard street. I am in Standard I. — Yours- affectionately, Bob Rodgers. [Thank-you for your letter, Bob Rodgers. It was a little one, but welcome. Welcome to the _ bairns' club. Brother Bill hopes that big brother will allow you to see your name in print. Write again soon.] Sawyers Bay (near Tannery), January 31. Dear Big Brother Bill, —I am entering this week’s competition to tell you about the lovely time I have had these holidays. I travelled down to Balclutha by motor car with my brother. 1 stayed there a week, then I came back to Dunedin for two or three weeks. I am now staying with my greatgrandma. My name is Betty Hutton. I am 12 years, old, and I will be going into Form I. when this holiday breaks (which will be very soon). I will close now.—With love to all the bairns, yours sincerely, Betty Hutton. [Thank you for your letter, Betty Hutton. By the time you read this holidays will be past, school once more the order of each day. But it’s a jolly fine thing that days of school discipline can be sweetened with memories of happy holidays, and thoughts of other holidays to come. A good school year to you, Betty. Write again soon.] WHO KNOWS MOST? See that you have plenty of writing paper and t a pencil for. everybody at your next party and then it need never fall flat. Why, even the youngest member can join in, even if only able to scribble on the paper. I expect you already know heaps of games you can play with pencil and paper, but do you know this one ? Draw up a list of questions beforehand; write them down one side of the paper, leaving room for the answers at the other. Give each guest a copy and allow 10 minutes, say, for the answers to be written down. No peeping at your neighbour’s paper or talking about the questions allowed! Naturally the difficulty of the questions

will depend on the age of the guests. Here, however, are 10 questions for older boys and girls:—(l) _ What is freeaing point on a Fahrenheit thermometer? (2) How many first teeth does a child usually get? (3) Who first got to the North Pole? (4) How many States are there in the U.S.A.? (5) Who is the oldest reigning Sovereign in Europe? (6) From what country did the potato come? (7) What is the name of the capital of Iran? (8) What is the chemical formula of water? (9) Who invented dynamite? (10) How far is it to the moon? The answers, which naturally must not be announced until the time is up, are as follows: (1) 32deg. (2) 20. (3) Peary, in 1909. (4) 48. (5) King Gustaf V. of Sweden (born 1858). (6) South America. (7) Teheran. (8) H2O. (9) Alfred Nobel. (10) 238,000 miles.

THE COLDEST SPOT IN THE NORTH MEASURED IN CENTIGRADE The coldest place in the world is not, as perhaps you imagine, at the North Pole, where the temperature is seldom more than SSdeg below zero Fahrenheit. The little town of Oi-Mekon, in the east of Siberia, has the record. In winter the temperature can go right down to lOOdeg below zero Fahrenheit

(that is, 132 deg of frost). Quicksilver thermometers cannot be used there, since quicksilver freezes at about 94deg below zero Fahrenheit. It is so cold there that if you were t.o try to pour water out of a bucket it would freeze on the way and break into pieces as it reached the ground. The inhabitants, however, would doubtless be very surprised if you told them they lived in the coldest place in the world, because they do not feel it greatly owing to the dryness of the climate. THE GOOD AND THE CLEVER If only the good were clever, And only the clever were good, This world would be better than ever We dreamed that it possibly could. But, alas, it is seldom or never ' The two hit it off as they should; The good are so hard on the clever, The clever so rude to the good. BLACK FELLOW PLAYS SAFE We have now received this story told of a native of Melville Island, in the North-west of Australia, 70 miles out from Darwin. Bismarck was the blackfellow’s name, and ho had been visiting Darwin in his dugout canoe. Wishing to return to his island with three other islanders, Bismarck got ready to set out, but heard somehow about the way in which “ white men’s ships are stopped at sea these times,” and that on occasion shots are tired at them. He decided to ‘‘ play safe,” and, returning to the Darwin township, he asked the Native Affairs Department to give him a red flag. The department passed him on to the Customs, who listened to his plea that he might begiven something which would satisfy any vessel that might challenge his canoe. In due course he was presented with a document containing the following particulars: ‘‘Ship, native canoe. Nationality, Australian. Master, Bismarck. Mature of cargo, ballast. Destination, Melville Island.” And so Bismarck and his companions set out to paddle and sail their big canoe on its 70-mile trip to Melville Island, satisfied that the green ticket “ big fella boss ” had given them was a charm to take them safely through all hazards. THE LITTLE BAGS OF MOSS Hundreds of people among the Highlands of Scotland, especially in damp places at the foot of the mountains, are busy gathering what is known as Sphagnum moss. Found only in marshy districts, it was used as a dressing centuries ago, the clansmen believing it to be one of the finest remedies for injured limbs. During the last war Sphagnum moss was carried by Scottish soldiers on active service, and now great supplies of the moss are being despatched to Edinburgh for treatment before being sent to hospitals in France. In the loneliest parts of Scotland women may now be seen gathering the moss in little gauze bags. After being sterilised it will be used for surgical dressings. TIGER We were talking the other day with an Indian boy who has seen a tiger leap into a farmyard and carry oft a calf as the cow was being milked close by; here are two other tiger stories. Lin Sing was the Chinese postman in a district of Malay, who was going his round on a bicycle when he saw to his horror a man-eating tiger in the roadway. He knew it was the maneater that had been terrifying the neighbourhood. Poor Lin Sing fell off his bicycle and fell on bis knees, praying to the tiger not to kill him. The tiger paid no heed to the Chinaman, but padded up to the bicycle and surveyed with deep interest the wheel that was still spinning. Then he returned to the undergrowth, and Lin Sing, changing bis prayer to one of thankfulness, was later picked up by a trolley and lived to tell the tale.

This is one of several anecdotes by Mr •!. B. Thurston about the man-eat-ing tigers of Malaya, which are greatly dreaded. One of them bore off a young girl from a throng of Javanese women, and deposited her in the jungle. Her rescuers, going with fire crackers to seek her, found her unhurt.

TRUE NEGRO TALES Annie Belle Koogle, the' beloved friend of the Negroes, gave us a lovely party the other day, and it seems worth while to pass on a few of her stories to other friends of the Negroes all over the world. There was a Negress who could not write her name. The bank of the little city where she lived honoured her che’ques signed with a eross, but one day she presented a cheque signed with a circle. On being asked for an explanation, she said: “ Well, l’s jest got married, an’ I changed ma name.” A Negro was running down the street when he was accosted by someone saying: “ Eli, where are you going? ” and the Negro answered: “Boss, I ain’t gwine nowhere; I’se jest leavin’ where I was at.” Another Negro was called before the court to tel! what he knew about a shooting incident. “ Now, Sam,” said the Judge, “ state what you saw and hoard.” “ Well,” replied the Negro, “ when dey started arguin’ f began dancing backward. When dev got louder 1 clum de fence. When dey got started shooting I began grabbing for distance.” At a Negro Methodist revival the minister proceeded down the aisle of the church tapping people on the shoulder and saying: “Do you belong to the Army of the Lord?” Finally he came to an old man, who said ; “ No, I’se a Baptist.” “ Oh,” said the minister, “ you belong to the Navy.” A Negro was just starting on a new job in a warehouse. The foreman said to him: “ Rastus, I want you to move all those bags of cement from here to that far corner.” Rastus completed this back-breaking job, and had hardly time to get his breath when the foreman said: “Now, I want all these drums of pitch piled over there.” When the work was done the foreman continued: “ Now I want every piece of this steampipe laid carefully up against that wall.” At the end of that job, as Rastus sank on to a barrel for a moment’s rest, the foreman said; “ Now, one more little thing before you go to lunch—just carry these few thousand feet of lumber into the next building.” Unable to stand it any longer, Rastus turned to the foreman and exclaimed: “Say, boss, I said my name was Simson, not Samson.” OLD TIN SHED A GOOD-NIGHT TALE A piece of good fortune has come to tjie owner of a wooden shed which was pulled down in a garden in Kent. In a box was £165 in Treasury notes. The lucky tinder had’ bought the shed for £1 some years ago. The story recalls the extraordinary adventure of an old tin hut of which we read in the Derbyshire volume of the King’s England, the most remarkable store of countryside stories in existence.

It is a generation since two brothers of Chelmorton, Jonathan and Barnaby Swan, sold the moorland farm on which they had toiled all their lives. They were growing old and longed for change and travel, but they could not bear to be without, a home. An idea came to them. They built themselves a little house on wheels made of pitch pine and covered with corrugated iron, and one day,, to the astonishment of the neighbourhood, these old bachelors set out in their tin hut, harnessed to two strong carthorses, to wander the country like raggle-taggle gipsies. They spent the first night on the common, where a fair was in full swing, and were lulled to sleep by noisy roundabouts. This was the beginning of long and happy days of wandering. The children in the lanes would watch for them and bring them- posies and pails of water, and be invited to tea in the tin hut. Often the old men would take their delighted nephews on holiday tours. The years rolled by, and the sad day came when Jonathan died. A home had to be found for Barnaby, who was helpless alone and very old, but there was little money left-—only ten pounds found hidden in the toby jug. So it was that, out of very limited means. Nephew Rowland paid for Uncle Barnaby’s board in a Derbyshire cotage. they were all so kind to_ him that the old man passed the remainder of his days in happiness. As for the tin hut, it was sold and resold, used as a pavilion for cricket and football clubs, turned into a children’s playground shelter, and made a canteen during the wai. It was years afterwards that Rowland Swan one day had a surprise; he came across the tin hut in a sale room, and for the sake of old times he bought it as a tool-shed. While he was carrying in the tools a heavy fork fell and splintered the matchwood of the hut, starting up a plank of the floor. It struck something hard, and there, wrapped in sacking, he found a heavy parcel. As Rowland Swan seized hold of it out rolled eight hundred gold sovereigns. , For twenty years the old hut had served many masters; it had been in the hands of navvies, soldiers, athletes, and parties of children; but in the end it yielded up the secret unguessed by any of them, and it delivered its treasure to the right address.

“ A lot of things will be coming through in your greenhouse now,” says a gardening expert. He’s quite right. The other day it was a cricket ball hit by the budding Hammond next door,