FIRST PRIZE STORY.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18946, 17 December 1929, Page 10 (Supplement)

FIRST PRIZE STORY.

“CHRISTMAS IN POVERTY STREET.” The little grey town lay at the base of the hills, scattered untidily round the docks, reclaimed land, and canneries that had made it what it was. Round its twisty, aimless streets there hung always the tang of tar, petrol and lumber, rotting fruit, kerosene and fish, and over it all, penetrating it all, was the indescribable smell of the harbour itself. The Old Man’s home was away from this. It was a big white house on the heights above the town, and it knew

only the aromatic odour of the pinetrees and the freshness of the seabreezes. For the Old Man owned most of the boats in the harbour, and a good many of the adjoining shabby little houses, and could afford to live where he wished. You would have thought he would have been happy, with all that. But he wasn’t. He stood alone in his dining-room and glowered at the imposing array of good things on the table. All those beautiful eatables, and there were no one but himself to eat them. . . He sighed and regarded the table gloomily. Then he pressed a button. When a man-servant appeared he said irritably, “James! You know I can’t eat this stuff! Bring me my tea!” Soon it was brought.

“I only thought, sir,” said the man apolgetically, “being Christmas and all that—” “Christmas nothing!” roared the other. “Will being Christmas help < me to digest the stuff?” He ate a dry biscuit, and followed it with a glass of hot water. Then he went over to an armchair and stared resentfully into the blazing fire—a tired, bitter, lonely old man, with a large banking account and a poor digestion. In one of the Old Man’s dingy, insanitary little houses down by the water-front was a far more cheerful scene. Tim Kelly (who worked in the docks when strikes and bad weather would allow him) was lustily banging a billy with a battered enamel soupladle, and calling out in his great hearty voice to “the kids,” who were playing IIIIII!IIIUIIIIIIUimi(!nilllll!!!!!imi{f!illfirU!l!ll!IIIIIIIIll|[||![!!l||||imininf||(

zoos in the bedroom, to come and get their tea. In they trooped, flushed and excited—chubby little Kevin and Kathleen, the twins, Denis of the flaming hair and freckly Pat. Last of all came Maureen, who was lame, and eleven, and the pride of her father’s heart. Mrs Kelly, stout and flushed, with wispy hair and soiled apron, made the tea in a cracked, green teapot and kept order among the unruly little crowd. What a meal that was! Though beef took the place of lordly turkey, and the plum-duff was made with fewer eggs than the recipe demanded, yet were they eaten with so much noise, appreciation and good-will that no-one noticed. . . . Later, when all the young Kellys had been packed off to bed, Tim Kelly gazed contentedly into the glowing fire, and said slowly, “After all, Mother, we’ve got a lot to be thankful for.” She nodded, and her tired grey eyes were dim with inward peace and happiness. “Aye, father,” she agreed, “a lot to be thankful for.” (Original.) Loma Stokes, 101, Edward Avenue, St Albans. FIRST PRIZE ESSAY. (JUNIOR.) “ MY HAPPIEST DAY THIS YEAR ” The happiest day spent this year was at a pretty little place called Mitchell’s. A party, including my father and mother, myself and two little sisters, arranged to go by car early one Sunday morning. The trip to Mitchell's is one of the most enjoyable it is possible to find anywhere in New Zealand. You pass through Kumara, once a prosperous gold mining township, but now almost deserted, evidence of the old miners’ work being seen in the heaps of tailings on either side of the road. After a stretch of about seven miles through native bush full of ferns and beautiful nikau palms Mitchell’s is reached. It is an ideal place for a day’s outing, as it affords boating, fishing, swimming and mountaineering, and a visit to the Avaterfall should not be missed. We parked our car in a shadv spot, just on the fringe of the bush, a little stream on one side and the beautiful Lake Brunner in front of us. Then we made our camp-fire up with stones. I helped to collect the firewood, which is plentiful, sometimes crossing the little stream. Before very long dinner was ready, and we all sat down in the shade of the bush.

*Wild pigs caused some excitement, an old mother pig with about eight young ones being attracted by the agreeable smell of our food. A few stones thrown into the scrub, however, kept them from coming too near. It was thought advisable, however, to place our luncheon baskets in the car out of reach of the pigs, which, as we left for the lake, we could see hunting for scraps. A trip round the lake in a motor-launch was delightful, the only incident to mar It being one of the ladies losing her hat! This was recovered after the motor-boat had circled round it about five or six times. We were out on the lake for about two and a half hours, including a trip through the bush on the other side. On our return we felt hungry again, and afternoon tea was prepared. The pigs were still hovering near our camp, but kept out of our way. Leaving Mitchell’s at about five o’clock, we ar rived in Greymouth about 7.30, having spent a most enjoyable day. Colin Rouse (nine years).

SECOND PRIZE STORY. Nine o’clock! Ten! Eleven! The old clock on the mantel piece struck each hour slowly and deliberately. Mrs Lynton sighed. She must go to bed. “I can’t help it,” she murmured. “I couldn’t possibly afford any presents for the children. I—l really tried.” Then she rose stiffly from her chair, switched off the light, and left the room. It was Christmas Eve! The children had all hung up their stockings, in the firm belief that they would be full in the morning. There was Keith, aged three; and Ruth, aged twelve. In between came the ten-year-old twins, May and Ronnie. However, morning dawned, and the sun shone in the window of the little l cottage on the outskirts of the settlement. Ronnie was the first to awaken.

lililllllllllllilllllllllllllllUlllllHlllllllllllliilllllllllllllllllllllilllllllllllilllllllillllllll He sat up and reached for his stocking. “Empty!” he gasped. Then he climbed out of bed, and looked about the room. “In case Father Christmas has

hidden some toys somewhere,” he explained to Keith, who was awake by now. Just at this point, Ruth and May came running in, carrying their empty stockings. May was on the verge of tears. “Santa Claus forgot to come,” she quavered. “I suppose it’s because we live so far away. He—he probably missed us,” said Ronnie, bravely, determined not to cry. “Never mind,” said Ruth, trying to smile. “We must make the best of things. It’s not our fault.” “Ooh! I know! Let’s decorate the kitchen, and make it nice for Mummy when she gets up,” suggested Ronnie. “Yes, do!” agreed May. “After all, toys aren’t everything.” So they dressed, and assembled in the kitchen. “It’s only a quarter past six.” said Ruth. “Mother won’t be up till halfpast seven. Ronnie, will you bring in some evergreens please? And May will make some paper chains.” When, at last, Mother came into the kitchen, it certainly looked more like Christmas. Paper chains extended gaily from the lamp, to the four corners of the room. Each picture was crowned with a garland of greenery. The table was set with the best cloth, and the party cups; which were only used on special occasions. Ruth had even placed some buttercups and wild daisies in a jam jar, and stood it in the centre of the table, on a paper mat made by May, for that purpose. But the children had been so engrossed in the preparing of the room, that they had entirely forgotten to get the breakfast. "Never mind!” said Mother, after she had admired their work, and apologised for the empty stockings. So they made merry with bread and butter, and tea, with a little cheese, as a treat. “And I was going to make some fried scones, too,” lamented Ruth. “Never mind!” said Mother again. "Three cheers for Mother! ” shouted Ronnie, and they were given with a right good will! Iris Anderson, 56, Rochester Street, lanwood. (Age 14 years). VERY HIGHLY COMMENDED. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven! The chimes of the old post-office clock rang out sharp and clear in the still silent air. It was Christmas, and all the world was supposed to be gay and carefree. The houses, trees and bushes were wrapped in a cloak of soft, white ermine and it was indeed a true “Old English Christmas.” In the homes of the rich, great yule log fires were burning, the rooms were decorated with mistletoe and the sound of children’s happy voices added a sweet charm to the comfort and luxury of it all. But what about the houses of the poor, where there was no trace of luxury or comfort, no fires to warm hands blue with cold, and no presents to satisfy the desires of children? Was Christmas a happy, carefree time for them? I wonder. In a house in the slums of London a girl and a boy were sleeping on straw. The little girl awoke, sat up, rubbed her eyes and shivered. She was a fraillooking child with fair hair and pathetic blue eyes that had something hidden in the depths which told of privation and hunger. She touched the sleeping boy who woke up with “Merry Christmas, Sis, has Santa Claus been?” He reached for a sock that lay near-by, but it was devoid of any candy, toy or fruit that delights the hearts of little children. At the sight the girl began to cry, but the boy, slipping a comforting arm around her said, “Never mind, Sis, remember that Mum said we should have everything we wanted when Daddy’s ship comes home.” But he was thinking how cruel, how unfair it was that the children of the rich should have everything, and his little sister nothing. The selfish rich, if they would only be generous and for a while cease thinking of self. How they could cheer and make happy many homes at Christmas!

I 1 - They got up and went into another room where their mother, a sweet, refined looking lady, was waiting for them. She smiled at them and kissed them, saying, "I am sorry Santa Claus did not come to you, but, my darlings, wait just a little while longer and you will never be disappointed again.” She beckoned them to a table on which was a piece of dry bread and a slice or two of bacon. That was their Christmas fare for breakfast, dinner and tea. But not a grumble came from them, they were only too thankful for something to eat at all. They spent the rest of the day huddled together in a corner while their mother told them tales of the time when they were rich and had a big house in the country. At the end of the day they went to bed tired but not happy like most children. The moon peeping through the window sighed. Why was not the whole world rich and happy? Marjorie Fraser, 21, Montreal Street, Sydenham. FATHER CHRISTMAS. (Original.) Quietly over the snow one night Came Father Christmas with his one big light, A-twinkling bright, his reindeer prance, And the children dance. For Father Christmas is coming their way, And they think of the presents there’ll be next day! Quietly and swiftly back home he goes, Then sits by the fire and warms his toes; His night’s work is done and he thinks of the fun The children will have on the morrow. The girls and the boys will each have their toys, And no one will have any sorrow I Douglas Webb, 132, Nayland Street, Sumner.