Children’s Column

Putaruru Press, Volume XI, Issue 511, 2 March 1933, Page 3

Children’s Column

FOR YOUNG PUTARURU FOLK.

Motto For The Week: Think all you speak, but speak not all you think. Dear Girls and Boys,— I wish some of you who know lots of riddles, catches puzzles and games would set to work and send some to me for the Column. I’m sure you could send dozens. I’m afraid I’ve exhausted my supply of riddles, anyway. Do try to help me, please. Have you ever heard the story of a traveller, a porter, a donkey and a donkey’s shadow ? I’ll tell it to you this week. One hot, hot day a traveller hired a porter who owned a donkey to carry two large and heavy bags across a stretch of desert. They loaded the bags on the back of the donkey and set off. The day grew hotter as the hours dragged on and at last they had to call a halt and rest. The donkey was unloaded and the traveller said, “ I’m going to lie here.” With these words he lay down in the shadow cast on the sand by the donkey’s body. The porter had to sit in the blazing sun. He mopped his brow and at last screwed up courage to ask the traveller if there was not room for him, too, in the shadow. “ Not a bit,” said the man. “ The shadow just covers me and no more. I am going to have a i sleep,” and he closed his eyes. The j porter waited a little while then said quietly to the donkey, “ Gee-up!” The animal walked forward, and when the shadow fell on the porter he said, “ Whoa!” As may be imagined the heat soon awakened the sleeping traveller. When he saw the porter in the shade he said, “ Here! What have you been up to?” “He is my donkey,” said the porter. “Indeed! I have hired him, and for the time being he is mine,” said the traveller, getting up to lead the donkey back again. “He is my donkey, and his shadow is mine, too,” cried the porter, leading the donkey back. They argued for a while; then the porter said, “ Let the donkey decide who shall rest in his shadow.” They both then stood back and called and coaxed the animal, each in his own direction. The donkey looked at first one and then the other, as if he was making up his mind. Then he kicked ♦his heels in the air and with a loud and joyful hee-haw he bolted over the desert home. “ He’s gone Rome!” gasped the porter, “ and now we shall have to carry the bags ourselves!” The traveller burst out laughing. “ You’ll soon find there is nothing to laugh at,” grumbled the porter. “ I was laughing at you and me,” said the traveller. “We are a pair of donkeys ourselves. Fighting for a shadow and we lost the substance! Come along, porter, take a bag; we deserved all we have got.” What do you all think about the Correspondent’s Tree ? I wonder how many of you were interested enough to count up how many letters Jill has had altogether? I must close this letter now. My love, JILL.

A SPANIEL’S WARNING. “ What is the matter, Mick ? Come downstairs,” cried one of the maids the other day as she heard the King | Charles Spaniel howling on the upstair landing of a house in Wanstead Park. Mick took no notice. He sat outside the nursery door and howled. The children were all out, but that often happened and he never before behaved like this. Soon the maid became alarmed, for Mick gave a long-drawn-out howl as if he were desperate. Rushing upstairs the maid heard a noise of crackling in the nursery, and, throwing the door open, found the big toy box ablaze.

Story for Tiny Tots.

OLE LUCKOIE; OR THE DUSTMAN. There is no one in the whole world who knows so many stories as Ole Luckoie, the Dustman. Oh! his are delightful stories. In the evening, when children are sitting quietly at table, or on their little stools, he takes off his shoes, comes softly upstairs, opens the door very gently, and all of a sudden throws dust into the children’s eyes. He then glides behind them and breathes gently, very gently, upon the back of their necks, whereupon their heads become immediately heavy! But it does them no harm, for the Dustman means it kindly; he only wants the children to be quiet, and they are most quiet when they are in bed. They must be quiet, in order that he may tell them his stories. When the children are asleep, the Dustman sits down upon the bed; he is gaily dressed, his coat is of silk, but of what colour it is impossible to say, for it seems now green, now red, now blue, according to the light. Under each arm he holds an unmbrella; one, which has pictures painted on it, he holds over the good children ; it makes them have the most delightful dreams all night long. The other, which has nothing on it, he holds over the naughty children, so that they sleep heavily, and wake up in the morning not having dreamed at all. Now let us hear the stories the Dustman told a little boy by the name of Hialmar, to whom he came every evening for a whole week through. There are seven stories altogether, for a week has seven days. Next week will be published the story he told on Monday.

FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR. A poor beggar, carrying a ragged old bag, crept along from house to house. Grumbling at his lot, he wondered that those who lived in rich houses and whose pockets were full of money should want still more. He remarked how in their attempts to increase their weath they often lost all they had. “ Grasping and greedy is what they are,” said he. At that moment Fortune suddenly appeared before the beggar. “ I have long wished to help you,” said She, “I have a pile of golden coins here. Open your bag and let me fill it. You may have all it will hold, but if any coin falls out the whole lot will turn to dust. Take my warning, your bag is old; don’t fill it so full that it bursts.” The beggar was completely overcome with joy. With trembling hands he held the bag open, and watched the golden stream of coins pour into it. The bag soon began to feel heavy. “Is that enough?” asked Fortune’s voice. “ No, not yet,” replied the beggar. “Is the bag not now showing signs of bursting?” “ No, no! More yet!” cried the beggar. “Be careful,” said the voice. “You are already very rich.” “ Just a little more, just a handful!” implored the beggar. “ There, the bag is quite full,” said Fortune. “ Take care, or it will burst for certain.” “ It will hold a few more coins,” said the greedy beggar, still holding it open; but at the moment the words left his mouth, the bag split. The treasure spilt on the ground and turned to dust. Fortune had vanished. The beggar had nothing left but his torn and empty sack, and his bitter thoughts. —Russian Fable.

BEHEADING. When dressed I oft the table grace At dinner-time, the head’s my place; With knife in hand cut off my head, Then I’m just what you do with bread. Again behead, if not too glaring, Pray let me ask: What! are you staring ? (Answer at end of column.) CHARADE. When glorious spring or summer reigns My first is heard, whose lovely strains Give pleasure to vigorous swain, Who, whistling, trudges o’er the plain. When for a journey you provide, if on a horse’s back you ride, My second oft stands your friend, And helps you to your journey’s end. Ye who delight in flowerets gay, No doubt my whole will soon display; For when connected, ’twill explain One of fair Flora’s beauteous train. (Answer at end of column.) RIDDLE IN RHYME. Three letters a river proclaim; Three letters an ode give to fame; Three letters an attribute name; Three letters a compliment claim. (Answer at end of column.) TRY THESE RIDDLES. How do you spell hungry horse in four letters? In which month do schoolgirls eat the least ? What key will never fit a door? What room can a policeman never enter ? (Answer at end of column.) A RIDDLE AND ITS ANSWER. Why did the tin whistle? It did, as you heard To-day when ’twas blown by that funny old man; It made such a noise, just as shrill as a bird. Why did the tin whistle ? Because a tin can! HALFWAY DOWN. Halfway down the stairs Is a stair Where I sit. There isn’t any Other stair Quite like it. I’m not at the bottom, I’m not at the top; So this is the stair Where I always stop. Halfway up the stairs Isn’t up, And isn’t down. It isn’t in the nursery, It isn’t in the town. And all sorts of funny thoughts Run round my head: It isn’t really Anywhere! It’s somewhere else Instead. —A. A. Milne. THE WOEBEGONE CAT. You’re dirty, and wet, and unfit to be seen, Oh, pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been ? I went on a ramble to look for some mice And I met with some cats who were not very nice. They clawed me, and bit me, and pushed me as well, And head over heels in a bucket I fell. I’m dirty and wet, and unfit to be seen, But excuse me this once, and I’ll lick myself clean.

MY BOAT. C I had a little row-boat, It was called the Mary Jane, I And I always kept it fastened r To the boat house by a chain. v P My little boat had seats for two, And it was awfully nice; g And when the raging north wind s blew t I sailed her once or two. ] But it somehow got afloat one day, | And drifted out to sea; And now I often wonder Where my Mary Jane can be! j i MAN AND HIS SHOES. i How much a man is like his shoes! 1 For instance, both have souls to lose, 1 Both have been tanned, both been made tight, by cobblers; both get left and right; Both need a mate to be complete, And both are made to go on feet. They both need healing, oft are sold, And both in time will turn to mould. With shoes the last is first; with men The first shall be the last; as when The shoes wear out, they’re mended new; When men wear out, they’re men dead, too. They both are trod upon, and both Will tread on others, nothing loth. Both have their tees, and both incline, When polished, in the world to shine. And both peg out. How would you choose: To be a man, or be his shoes? ANSWERS. Charade.—Lark-spur. Beheading.—-Meat, eat, at. Riddle in Rhyme.—XYD (Exe Wye Dee). LEG (elegy). NRG (energy;. UXL (you excel). Answers to the Riddles. —1MTGG. 2.—February, for it has only 28 days. 3.—A donkey. 4.—A mush-