TIM TWEEDLE.

Northern Advocate, 4 February 1936, Page 2

TIM TWEEDLE.

(Sent in by Ella Day, Tanekaha R.D., Hikurangi. Age 16). Have you ever heard of Tim Tweedle? He is the little man who brushes the clouds across the sky with a feather duster —those soft, fluffy clouds, that from the earth look something like little tufts of lambs’ wool. A very busy man is Tim Tweedle, for sometimes he has to sweep the clouds over the whole of the sky when a cloudless day has been ordered and he wishes that he had someone to help him. At the first sign of rain he disappears because his feather 'duster would be useless when those big black clouds are in the sky. Now, one dajf, a terrible thing happened to Tim Tweedle. He tripped over a rainbow and went slithering down to earth, his feather duster clutched tightly in his hand: He had no wings and did not know how to get back. The rainbow was splendid for sliding down but useless for climbing up. Here and there he ran, very little and very much afraid. Suddenly a feathered something alighted quite near him and Tim Tweedle’s heart gave a bound of joy. “Oh, sir,” said Tim Tweedle, "I am the little man who sweeps the lambs’ wool clouds across the sky, and they are all filling up now but I cannot reach them with my feather duster. You see, I slid down the rainbow and have no way of getting back.” “Well, well,” said the skylark, for such was the feathered something. “I shall be going up again soon and if you like I shall take you with me.” So off they flew, the skylark filling the air with golden notes and Tim Tweedle sweeping av/ay the clouds as fast as he could. And presently. Grandfather Sun peeped out. and he must have guessed what had happened because he smiled his great big smile and said: “Dangerous things, those rainbows!” —Copied.

“Mum And Dad Read Our Page, Too.” Marua, Hikurangi. Dear Kupe. I suppose you have been wondering when you are going to receive a letter from me. I have received twenty-two points so far. I am very slow, aren’t I? A whole page for the “Young Northlanders” is a great idea, I think. Mum and Dad nearly always look at the riddles and also the letters. I run down to the stand every Tuesday night to get the paper and see if I’m in the honours list. I suppose you heard that my two sisters have been away nearly all last year and shall be away nearly all this year, so Enid will only be able to go in for a few 6f the competitions. We often take a trip down to the beach and catch about four or five fish each day. As soon as we get down there we go for a dig and then have our lunch. Did you go for a holiday at Christmas, Kupe? I haven't yet gone for a holiday, and I don’t think I will.

If I send in any riddles or poetry would I get any points or not? Well. I have nothing else to tell you, Kupe. I remain, Your warrior, WARWICK CLARIS. JUST WHAT WAS WANTED. Whau Valley. Whangarei. Dear Kupe, Here I am again, I’m afraid you must have thought I’d forgotten all about you. for you have not heard from me for it must be months. You will find enclosed the enrolment form, and I think it is a splendid idea, and also tenpence for a badge and postage. It is too good to be true! Fancy having a properly-formed club; it is just what has been needed to join us together and make us all one big happy family. I hope the “Young Northlander” has a long and very happy life, and I must send my compliments of the season to you all. The New Year has started and I hope that it is a prosperous, happy year for

I everyone. It seems strange dating our I letter 1936, but we will soon get into the way of doing it, I suppose. It doesn’t seem four years ago since Leap Year, but here it is again. It is very funny. Leap Year to me has always been lucky. Your ever true maiden, CLAUDIA WARRINGTON. TWILIGHT. The sun now sinks the hills. His time has come for rest. The sunset lingers by the rills Reflecting all that’s best. Darker, quieter grows the night: Birdies cease to twitter, And slowly Lady Moon gives light To make the ocean glitter. Gone are the golden shafts of light; Gone are the. dancing shadows; Gone are the voices of the birds That carol o’er the meadows. And humble bees and butterflies have ceased to work and play; And everything is wrapped in sleep 'Till dawns another day. (Laurel Gfting, Onerahi. Age 13). —Original.