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How are the Norse gods able to remain wrinkle-free and forever young? This story explains how, and also tells us how they almost lost the secret of eternal youth.

Read by Elizabeth.
Adapted for Storynory by Charlotte Seabag-Montefiore.

Anyone lucky enough to go to Asgard, where the Norse gods
live, would see at once that all of them, with the exception of
Odin, are young, beautiful and handsome. Odin is the exception
as he does have such a long beard, and he would look much
younger if he shaved it off. But no-one shaves in Asgard, and
now I am thinking about it, this may be because the other male
gods look too young to grow a beard…. How do they manage
this, you might well ask, given that they’ve been up in Asgard
for quite a while? The answer lies in Idun, and her Golden
Apples.

One day Odin, and Loki left Asgard to see what was
going on in Midgard, the Land of Men. You may know that
Odin is the father of the Norse gods, Loki is the god of fire and
mischief. Anyway, these two gods had been trekking all
day in the mountains, and come nightfall, they were definitely
hungry. They saw some cows grazing, and they decided to kill
one and have a few steaks. Odin jointed the beef,
while Loki got the fire going. This was the work of a moment
for him as he was the god of fire, even though the wood was
wet, – it would have taken you or me a lot longer. Soon the meat

was cooking over the fire. But there was a problem: the fire was
hot, the meat was there, -but for some reason, it would not cook.
Try as they would, and the three of them did try, their dinner
remained raw.

“Hmph” said Odin. “There’s trouble about.”

In the light of the fire, they saw a shadow of a huge bird. They
looked up and saw an an eagle perched on a branch, silhouetted against the night sky.
“That’s no eagle” said Odin. The bird laughed “No, I am no eagle and your meat will not cook
unless you agree to give me whatever I want.” The gods were tired,
cold and hungry so they agreed without inquiring as to the demands of the strange creature.

At once the meat began to
sizzle: how good it smelt! But just as they were about to help
themselves, the creature in the shape of an eagle, swooped down
and grabbed the best bit with his beak. He gulped it down – no
chewing for him – and took another piece. “No, you don’t “
said Loki, and he shoved a great log at the bird, trying to beat
him off. But instead, the eagle grabbed the log and Loki found
himself stuck fast on the other end of it. He could not let go!
Now the eagle flew low, so that Loki was dragged behind and
terribly bashed and bounced about by rocks and branches as
they flew over the ground. At last the eagle put him down. “I am
the Giant Thjasse” he said “and you’re not the only one who can
change shape. You will never be free unless you agree to get me
Idun’s golden apples. Do you?”

Loki hesitated: Thjasse wasn’t really asking for apples, he was
asking for what Asgard prized above all, eternal youth and
beauty. What would his punishment be if he stole that? But he
was tired of being bruised and dragged about, so he agreed.
Thjasse flew off screeching, “Keep your word or you’ll have me
to deal with!” and Loki, who didn’t want that, brushed himself
down thoughtfully. Then he rejoined Odin who
were already tucking into their steaks, and began to eat himself.

This expedition to Midgard had not been very successful and
soon the three gods returned to Asgard. Loki did intend to keep
his word, and he began by making friends with Idun, keeper
of the Golden Apples. This wasn’t hard, as Idun was as sweet
and good-natured as her lovely apples! Loki made a good start
by telling her about his travels: he had plenty of funny and
interesting tales to tell. Every time he went to get his own apple
– for all the gods ate them once a week – he took the chance to
tell Idun something or make her laugh. One day, he said:”You
know, Idun, these are wonderful apples, but they’re second best,
I have seen better”.

“I don’t believe you”.

“You don’t believe me? Come and see for yourself”.

“I think I will” said Idun.

“Why don’t you bring your own apples?” said the crafty
Loki. “Then you could really compare them”.

Idun went to fetch her wondrous apples. She kept them in the
sort of basket they deserved: it was made of purest gold, just
the right size, and the handle was studded with rubies. It was so
pretty!

Loki and Idun made for the gates of Asgard. Loki looked up.
He saw a huge shadow in the sky – he knew what that meant.
All of a sudden, Idun shivered. “I’m not sure I want to go” she
said. “I’ll come another day”.

“A walk outside will do you good” said Loki and he took her by
the arm and they went through the gate.

Idun screamed, and no wonder. The eagle-Thjasse swooped
down for his prize, Idun and her apples. Poor Idun was flying
through the air, with Thjasse’s huge claws closed tightly round
her waist without scratching her. “Careful with those apples” he
screeched, and poor Idun screamed again. She was fated to be
held prisoner in Thjasse’s cold and gloomy castle.

Meanwhile, at first, no-one in Asgard noticed she had gone.
Then things changed. The goddesses ,complained to each other
of one or two grey hairs. Odin, who must have been the oldest
if he was the father of the gods, got backache. And one or two
little wrinkles, crow’s feet, smile lines, that sort of thing, began
to appear on the faces of the gods. They were not happy about it:
if they were gods, they had to be immortal. Besides who doesn’t
want to look young and beautiful?

They held a assembly of the gods. The number one suspect in the Case of
the Missing Apples was Loki, for suspicion always fall on him
when there is mischief afoot. It was an uproarious meeting with
all the gods demanding that Loki tell the truth, and all sorts of
threats and divine curses were banded about:

“Alright, alright, I did it” Loki, finally admitted. “I was forced
into it.”

Then Thor, the strongest of the gods, seized hold of Loki and
shook him terribly so that he was in fear of his life.

“Stop stop,” cried Loki,”I’ll get the apples back. If you kill me,
you will never eat those apples again, and you can all suffer the
aches and pains of old age.”

When things had calmed down, the gods helped Loki turn into
the shape of a falcon.

He flew and flew until he reached Thjasse’s castle. Idun was
walking on the ramparts, – with her jewelled
basket. Quickly, Loki turned her into a nut, clutched it tight
with his claws, and soared high towards Asgard. It was lucky he
had a good start, for soon Thjasse came home. How he roared
when he saw that Idun and her apples were gone! He guessed
what had happened, changed at once into an eagle, and flew off,
spurred on by anger and fury. Loki flew as quickly as he could, -
falcons fly very fast- , but it is the eagle that rules the skies, and
little by little Thjasse gained on him.

Everyone in Asgard was watching, fearful. Would Loki get back
in time? The gods rushed off and laid great fires on the walls.
Near fainting with exhaustion, the falcon flew over the wall and
fell to the ground exhausted. In an instant the flames leapt into the sky,
and Thjasse was burned. He fell, and died. Loki and her golden
apples were safely back home. Youth and beauty returned to
Asgard for evermore!

And that was the story of Idun and the golden apples, adapted for storynory by
Charlotte Seabag-Montefiore. We do hope you enjoyed it, and look out for more norse stories on Storynory.com.

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The Norse legends come from Northern Europe including, Iceland, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. The Pagan gods of the Norse people often represented forces of nature. In this story you will hear about Thor, the god of Thunder, Sif, the goddess of the harvest, and Loki the god of fire and mischief. There are plenty of wonderful stories about the Norse gods – and we will be telling you a selection here at Storynory over the coming weeks.

Read by Elizabeth. Adapted for Storynory by Charlotte Sebag-Montefiore.

What do Thursdays mean to you? They are not gloomy like Mondays, or glorious like Fridays, or lazy like Sundays…. They seem quite boring really, unless, that is, you know about Norse mythology. But once you have heard the stories of the Norse gods, you will realise that Thursdays are meant to be loud, thunderous, stormy days, for they are named after Thor, the red-headed, hammer yielding, thunder-clapping god of the Norse people.

Although Thor was a raucous fellow, he did, underneath it all, have one soft spot – and that was for his beautiful wife, whose name was Sif, and whom he loved tenderly and dearly. She had long, thick wondrous golden hair, that flowed down her back like a field of corn. In fact, it was Sif who made the Norse people’s crops grow, and their fields yield long heavy ears of corn that would keep people well fed and happy. She travelled over the Northern world, and wherever there were families, farms and people tilling the land, Sif was sure to be near at hand smoothing their path against the cruel winds, cold and winters of the North.

Of course as every lady knows, beautiful hair does not take care of itself. She was very proud of her hair, and did not allow herself to have a bad hair day. Especially as she knew she was not the only one who was very proud of her hair, Thor her husband was very proud of it too, and often boasted of it when he was drinking his mead to anyone who was around to listen. Morning, noon and night, Sif combed her wondrous hair with a jewelled comb, and she often washed in pure sparkling streams, and lay it out in the sun to dry on a rock. As you can imagine, with hair as thick as hers, it took quite a while to dry.

One day, while she was sitting on a bank of the softest moss outside her house in Asgard, where the gods live, drying her golden hair in the sun, Sif went to sleep. It’s easy to go to sleep in the sun when you’re not doing much. And it’s especially easy, if another god puts a spell on you so that nothing can wake you).

It was Loki, the god of fire and mischief, who cast this sleeping spell on Sif. He found her dozing with her gorgeous hair flowing all around her, and his evil mouth smiled at this chance to make trouble in the Thunder-God’s household. He knew that Sif’s hair of gold was Thor’s greatest treasure – and he was determined to take it away from him.

And while she was asleep, Loki took his shears and chopped off Sif’s hair, every single lovely lock! One by one they tumbled onto her shoulders and down her dress. Her head was bare, as if she’d had a haircut in the army or become a convict on a prison ship – the poor thing!

A while later, Sif woke up. Her head and neck felt cold and light, – she looked up and saw the sun was still shining. Then she felt for her hair, – there was nothing there! Looking down, she caught sight of the clusters of curls that lay all around her. Horrified, she rushed inside and burst into tears…and rain fell in bucketfuls on all the corn in the north, so the people asked “What in heaven’s happened to Sif?” She continued to cry and cry.

That night Thor came home. But when he called to his lovely wife, he did not hear her sweet voice in reply.
Thor thought she must be somewhere else, so he put his hammer down, and whistled as he walked over to the homes and palaces of the other gods to look for her. Sif was nowhere to be found. Sadly, Thor came home, he did not like coming back to an empty house. “Sif” he called again and again, “come back to me”.

And then he heard his name, in a whisper. Sif stood in the shadows, so that Thor could only see her outline.
“My husband,” she sobbed,” I am ashamed for you to set your eyes on me. I must leave Asgard, the home of the gods, which is beautiful and perfect, and go to hide elsewhere.”

“Don’t speak like that. What has happened to you my sweet, that you say such terrible things?” asked the Thunder-God tenderly. “Come out so that I can see you.”

“My crowning beauty, my hair has gone. An evil-doer has cut it and taken it from me. I do not want you to see me like this, so I must leave.”

Thor saw that it was true, Sif had lost her hair. Her shaven head was still beautiful, but the dancing joy had gone from her eyes. Instead her face was puffy with sobbing and her distress touched the heart Thor.

And then the men of the Earth heard the skies roar with agonised Thunder –

“Who was it who did this, Sif?” raged Thor. “I, the strongest of the gods, I will find whoever did this and kill him. I will make the other gods use all their strength, all their magic and all their powers to give you back your wonderful golden hair!”

Thor led Sif in her veil to the Court of the Immortals , where some of the other gods and goddesses were seated on crystal benches sipping mead in Council. None of them could tell Thor who had cut Sif’s hair. Finally Odin, the chief of the gods, and the father of Thor, spoke. “It must have been Loki who did this” he pronounced. He is the god of fire, and we all know that fire can wreak much mischief. [And] Nobody else would do such a thing. Though fire was not the cause of this, a great mischief it was, and Loki has ever loved mischief. But Thor, you must not kill him here. There can be no killings among[st] the gods in Asgard. I will find Loki for you. But do not kill him. Besides, he has many skills, and maybe he will find a way to return Sif’s beauty to her.”

“Hmph” grunted Thor who was red with rage. “I’d like to kill him! …but that wouldn’t help Sif”. Odin spoke again, “Control your rage, my son. I will call the call, and all must answer it, even Loki!”

Odin’s call was terrible to hear, but all the gods and goddesses who were not in the Council chamber, had to leave what they were doing and assemble . Even Loki. Loki saw at once that everyone was against him, so he said “Where is your proof that I am the culprit?” “Come”, said Odin. “Do not lie, do not avoid the truth. You have done Sif and Thor a great wrong, and you must repair it!”
“I cannot grow hair, joked Loki. And even if I could, it would not be on her head!” None of the gods laughed. Loki looked at Thor whose temper was legendary, and he looked at Odin [as he] who solemnly said again “You must make good the wrong you have done ‘’, and [he] Loki saw that he would indeed have to find a way to restore Sif’s beauty.

So Loki left Asgard. He did not leave in order to escape from Thor, though that was part of it. He left to try and find a solution. He did not go to the Giants in Jotunheim, even though [for although] he had been there before, and had friends there – as far as it is possible to have friends among the Giants – and he did not go to Midgard, the land of the mortals. For he knew that there had never been a man or woman who could do anything that would restore Sif’s hair. No, Loki went under the earth.

This is not something that you or I could do, for the innards of the earth are molten hot and we would not survive. But Loki was the god of fire, and so he was able to go down and down inside the passages of the earth. That is where the Gnomes live. You might think the gnomes were ugly, but they didn’t think so, and Loki didn’t mind. Down inside the earth, the Gnomes were master smiths and the rich guardians of metals, minerals and crystals: they had learnt [to] with hammer and tongs to fashion articles of much beauty and magic from them. Loki had seen them make a magic spear that hit whatever it was thrown at, and a boat which could sail anywhere, and which you could fold and put in your pocket.

Loki was crafty, and he always flattered the Gnomes whenever he went to see them. He praised their work to the skies, and promised them the earth although they already had it! Resisting flattery and false promises needs more wisdom than the Gnomes possessed, so they grew to like him. Nobody else had ever been nice to them, not even when they were babies, so their hearts softened. Then he said “Have you gold and skills enough to make a cap of floor-length hair as fine as silk?” The Gnomes set to work at once. They stitched, threaded, weaved and span[ for days, [but] until finally the Cap of Golden Hair was ready! Even Loki was impressed. “’Tis true, you are master smiths indeed. None are better. Will you give me this Cap in return for the Heavens and the Earth?”

The Gnomes who were not clever, gave Loki the Cap of Golden Hair, although the Earth was already theirs, and the Heavens were not Loki’s to give. Loki said his farewells, and was glad to return to the fresh air of Midgard with the Cap. Then he ascended to Asgard and the Heavens and went to find Sif. “Take your veil off, Sif” he said “for you will have golden hair again”. And he wrapped the Cap around Sif’s head where it fitted perfectly. Sif was so overjoyed with her new hair that she twirled around, her long locks flowing behind her. Her eyes sparkled once more and as the glow returned to her cheeks, she looked truly beautiful.

And that is the story of how Sif lost and regained her golden hair.

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We’ve now heard how Dorothy defeated the Wicked Witch of the West, and rescued her
companions. In this chapter we shall meet the Winged Monkeys again – and hopefully they will be more friendly this time !

Read by Natasha.

You will remember there was no road–not even a pathway–between the
castle of the Wicked Witch and the Emerald City. When the four
travelers went in search of the Witch she had seen them coming, and so
sent the Winged Monkeys to bring them to her. It was much harder to
find their way back through the big fields of buttercups and yellow
daisies than it was being carried. They knew, of course, they must go
straight east, toward the rising sun; and they started off in the right
way. But at noon, when the sun was over their heads, they did not know
which was east and which was west, and that was the reason they were
lost in the great fields. They kept on walking, however, and at night
the moon came out and shone brightly. So they lay down among the sweet
smelling yellow flowers and slept soundly until morning–all but the
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman.

The next morning the sun was behind a cloud, but they started on, as if
they were quite sure which way they were going.

“If we walk far enough,” said Dorothy, “I am sure we shall sometime
come to some place.”

But day by day passed away, and they still saw nothing before them but
the scarlet fields. The Scarecrow began to grumble a bit.

“We have surely lost our way,” he said, “and unless we find it again in
time to reach the Emerald City, I shall never get my brains.”

“Nor I my heart,” declared the Tin Woodman. “It seems to me I can
scarcely wait till I get to Oz, and you must admit this is a very long
journey.”

“You see,” said the Cowardly Lion, with a whimper, “I haven’t the
courage to keep tramping forever, without getting anywhere at all.”

Then Dorothy lost heart. She sat down on the grass and looked at her
companions, and they sat down and looked at her, and Toto found that
for the first time in his life he was too tired to chase a butterfly
that flew past his head. So he put out his tongue and panted and
looked at Dorothy as if to ask what they should do next.

“Suppose we call the field mice,” she suggested. “They could probably
tell us the way to the Emerald City.”

“To be sure they could,” cried the Scarecrow. “Why didn’t we think of
that before?”

Dorothy blew the little whistle she had always carried about her neck
since the Queen of the Mice had given it to her. In a few minutes they
heard the pattering of tiny feet, and many of the small gray mice came
running up to her. Among them was the Queen herself, who asked, in her
squeaky little voice:

“What can I do for my friends?”

“We have lost our way,” said Dorothy. “Can you tell us where the
Emerald City is?”

“Certainly,” answered the Queen; “but it is a great way off, for you
have had it at your backs all this time.” Then she noticed Dorothy’s
Golden Cap, and said, “Why don’t you use the charm of the Cap, and call
the Winged Monkeys to you? They will carry you to the City of Oz in
less than an hour.”

“I didn’t know there was a charm,” answered Dorothy, in surprise.
“What is it?”

“It is written inside the Golden Cap,” replied the Queen of the Mice.
“But if you are going to call the Winged Monkeys we must run away, for
they are full of mischief and think it great fun to plague us.”

“Won’t they hurt me?” asked the girl anxiously.

“Oh, no. They must obey the wearer of the Cap. Good-bye!” And she
scampered out of sight, with all the mice hurrying after her.

Dorothy looked inside the Golden Cap and saw some words written upon
the lining. These, she thought, must be the charm, so she read the
directions carefully and put the Cap upon her head.

“Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!” she said, standing on her left foot.

“What did you say?” asked the Scarecrow, who did not know what she was
doing.

“Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!” Dorothy went on, standing this time on her
right foot.

“Hello!” replied the Tin Woodman calmly.

“Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!” said Dorothy, who was now standing on both feet.
This ended the saying of the charm, and they heard a great chattering
and flapping of wings, as the band of Winged Monkeys flew up to them.

The King bowed low before Dorothy, and asked, “What is your command?”

“We wish to go to the Emerald City,” said the child, “and we have lost
our way.”

“We will carry you,” replied the King, and no sooner had he spoken than
two of the Monkeys caught Dorothy in their arms and flew away with her.
Others took the Scarecrow and the Woodman and the Lion, and one little
Monkey seized Toto and flew after them, although the dog tried hard to
bite him.

The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were rather frightened at first, for
they remembered how badly the Winged Monkeys had treated them before;
but they saw that no harm was intended, so they rode through the air
quite cheerfully, and had a fine time looking at the pretty gardens and
woods far below them.

Dorothy found herself riding easily between two of the biggest Monkeys,
one of them the King himself. They had made a chair of their hands and
were careful not to hurt her.

“Why do you have to obey the charm of the Golden Cap?” she asked.

“That is a long story,” answered the King, with a Winged laugh; “but as
we have a long journey before us, I will pass the time by telling you
about it, if you wish.”

“I shall be glad to hear it,” she replied.

“Once,” began the leader, “we were a free people, living happily in the
great forest, flying from tree to tree, eating nuts and fruit, and
doing just as we pleased without calling anybody master. Perhaps some
of us were rather too full of mischief at times, flying down to pull
the tails of the animals that had no wings, chasing birds, and throwing
nuts at the people who walked in the forest. But we were careless and
happy and full of fun, and enjoyed every minute of the day. This was
many years ago, long before Oz came out of the clouds to rule over this
land.

“There lived here then, away at the North, a beautiful princess, who
was also a powerful sorceress. All her magic was used to help the
people, and she was never known to hurt anyone who was good. Her name
was Gayelette, and she lived in a handsome palace built from great
blocks of ruby. Everyone loved her, but her greatest sorrow was that
she could find no one to love in return, since all the men were much
too stupid and ugly to mate with one so beautiful and wise. At last,
however, she found a boy who was handsome and manly and wise beyond his
years. Gayelette made up her mind that when he grew to be a man she
would make him her husband, so she took him to her ruby palace and used
all her magic powers to make him as strong and good and lovely as any
woman could wish. When he grew to manhood, Quelala, as he was called,
was said to be the best and wisest man in all the land, while his manly
beauty was so great that Gayelette loved him dearly, and hastened to
make everything ready for the wedding.

“My grandfather was at that time the King of the Winged Monkeys which
lived in the forest near Gayelette’s palace, and the old fellow loved a
joke better than a good dinner. One day, just before the wedding, my
grandfather was flying out with his band when he saw Quelala walking
beside the river. He was dressed in a rich costume of pink silk and
purple velvet, and my grandfather thought he would see what he could
do. At his word the band flew down and seized Quelala, carried him in
their arms until they were over the middle of the river, and then
dropped him into the water.

“`Swim out, my fine fellow,’ cried my grandfather, `and see if the
water has spotted your clothes.’ Quelala was much too wise not to
swim, and he was not in the least spoiled by all his good fortune. He
laughed, when he came to the top of the water, and swam in to shore.
But when Gayelette came running out to him she found his silks and
velvet all ruined by the river.

“The princess was angry, and she knew, of course, who did it. She had
all the Winged Monkeys brought before her, and she said at first that
their wings should be tied and they should be treated as they had
treated Quelala, and dropped in the river. But my grandfather pleaded
hard, for he knew the Monkeys would drown in the river with their wings
tied, and Quelala said a kind word for them also; so that Gayelette
finally spared them, on condition that the Winged Monkeys should ever
after do three times the bidding of the owner of the Golden Cap. This
Cap had been made for a wedding present to Quelala, and it is said to
have cost the princess half her kingdom. Of course my grandfather and
all the other Monkeys at once agreed to the condition, and that is how
it happens that we are three times the slaves of the owner of the
Golden Cap, whosoever he may be.”

“And what became of them?” asked Dorothy, who had been greatly
interested in the story.

“Quelala being the first owner of the Golden Cap,” replied the Monkey,
“he was the first to lay his wishes upon us. As his bride could not
bear the sight of us, he called us all to him in the forest after he
had married her and ordered us always to keep where she could never
again set eyes on a Winged Monkey, which we were glad to do, for we
were all afraid of her.

“This was all we ever had to do until the Golden Cap fell into the
hands of the Wicked Witch of the West, who made us enslave the Winkies,
and afterward drive Oz himself out of the Land of the West. Now the
Golden Cap is yours, and three times you have the right to lay your
wishes upon us.”

As the Monkey King finished his story Dorothy looked down and saw the
green, shining walls of the Emerald City before them. She wondered at
the rapid flight of the Monkeys, but was glad the journey was over.
The strange creatures set the travelers down carefully before the gate
of the City, the King bowed low to Dorothy, and then flew swiftly away,
followed by all his band.

“That was a good ride,” said the little girl.

“Yes, and a quick way out of our troubles,” replied the Lion. “How
lucky it was you brought away that wonderful Cap!”

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In this story, Katie and her best friend Isis go on a Pony Trek.    If you like horses, you’ll definitely love this story, and even if you aren’t quite such a horsey person,  you will learn about a scary modern legend  that has grown up in the western part  of  England called Cornwall.

Read by Natasha. Story by Bertie. Duration 19 Minutes. Pictures by CaiJia Eng

It was the first day of term in the New Year.  Isis was standing in the playground talking to Judith and Andy about their holidays.  All three of them had lovely suntans,  Judith and Andy from their skiing trips, and Isis from her stay on a Caribbean island.  When Katie joined them, she had her usual pale white skin, with a touch of red on her nose from the cold winter air.

“Oh hi Katie, what did you do for Christmas?” asked Isis.

“Oh Mum and I went to grandma’s as usual,” replied Katie.  

That evening, as Katie’s mum ladled out her home-made pumpkin soup for dinner, Katie asked:  ”Why can’t we be rich like Isis and her mum? I mean, we’re witches, so we could easily magic up some money and then we could go on lovely holidays and I could have a pony.”

“Oh Katie,” replied her mother. “We can’t do that.   Only the Government is allowed to make money. Using magic to do it is called alchemy, and it’s against the law.”

“Oh,” said Katie. “That’s a pity.  Isis is always talking about her pony, and I would really like to have one too.”

“Well maybe she will let you ride hers,” said her mother softly.  ”Ponies aren’t just expensive, they are a lot of work, and I’m sure that Isis could do with some help looking after hers.”

On Friday morning, Isis said to Katie, “Why don’t you come down to the pony farm with me tomorrow?  You can have a ride on Bessie if you like.” And Katie was thrilled.  ”What a clever mother I have,” she thought. “I’m sure she did a little magic spell to make that happen.”  But in fact, her mother had just dropped a heavy hint to Isis’s mum at the school gate, along the lines of “Katie’s always telling me how Isis adores her pony.  I think it’s a stage that every girl goes through, but we really can’t afford one.”

On Saturday, as they drove to the Pony Farm, Katie’s mum said: “Remember, don’t use any magic.  We don’t want Isis’s mum to seeing you doing any spells.”

“Promise mum,” said Katie who was very excited just to be going riding for the first time.  

When they arrived, Isis was already tightening the saddle on Bessie and expertly adjusting the stirrups. She knew all about how the reins and the tackle fitted.  Of course, she herself wore all the smartest riding clothes,  including jodhpurs, a trim tweed jacket, and buckled shoes.  Katie just had her jeans and trainers. She had to borrow a hard hat from the stable.

Isis lifted her foot into the stirrup, and swung her other leg over the pony. She looked a perfect picture sitting on top of the dapple-coated Bessie, and Katie could not help feeling a pang of envy.   Isis gave Bessie a little kick, and rode her over to the ring, where she cantered and jumped over some small fences.

When it was Katie’s turn to have a go, Isis said: “Now remember, the most important thing is to let Bessie know that you are the boss.  Horses can smell fear, so be firm.”

Katie found it a little bit of a struggle to climb up onto the saddle, but Bessie stood very still for her.  Isis said:

“Don’t slouch. Hold the reins low, you’re not a cowboy. Give her a gentle kick.”

Katie kicked, but Bessie didn’t move.

“She knows you’re a beginner,” sighed Isis.

“Yes,” thought Katie, “But I know she will like me. We witches have an affinity with animals.”  And she concentrated very hard before saying, “Click cluck” with the back of her mouth. Bessie started to walk.  After fifteen minutes, and a little coaching from Isis, Katie was already trotting.

Isis’s mum said to Katie’s: “She’s a natural.”  And at the end of the morning, Katie was really excited and thrilled just to have been on a horse.

After that, Isis often invited Katie to ride Bessie. And Katie helped look after her too.  When nobody was looking, she used just a little magic to clean up the stable, which gave Isis and her more time to brush down Bessie’s coat and to gossip about school.

At half term, Isis and her mum rented a cottage in Cornwall.  There was a stable nearby, and they planned to go riding every day.  Isis asked if they could bring Katie too, and her mum gladly agreed, because she knew it would be more fun for her daughter to have a friend with her.  

As Katie was packing, her mum said: “Remember Katie, no magic on this holiday.” And Katie promised, “Yes mum.  No magic.”  She kissed Solomon goodbye and said, “Be a good kittie while I’m away. Leave the mice alone. They have right to live too you know.” And Solomon rubbed her face against Katie’s, purred, and thought, “No chance.  I’ll get those pesky mice as soon as you’re gone.”

It was a long drive down to Cornwall, but Isis’s car was so comfortable that it was no hardship.  When they were off the motorway, they drove along long country lanes with high hedges on either side.  They were heading upwards, towards the moors.  The satnav  said, “Take the next left”  and they turned into a little farm.  Their cottage was in fact a newly converted barn.  It was extremely comfortable inside, with warm central heating, a huge flat panel TV, and a lovely pink bathroom.  Through the windows they could see the old stone farm house and the stables.

The next morning, Katie and Isis went to look at the ponies. They met a stable boy who was leading out a sleek black horse on long elegant legs.

“He’s a bit of an aristocrat of a horse,” said Katie admiringly.

And the boy said: (West Country Accent)

“He took a right fright yesterday afternoon and threw the boss.”

“What spooked him?” asked Isis?

“What else?” asked the boy, “But the Beast.”

“The beast?  You’re kidding us,” said  Isis.

But Katie said: “I suppose he means the Beast of Bodmin Moor.”

“That be the one,” said the boy.

“He’s like a big wild cat,” said Katie, “Some people think he’s a puma or a panther that escaped from the zoo.”

“Your friend’s got the low down,” said the boy. “Perhaps you’ll get a look at him yourself, if you’re very unlucky…”

Isis turned her nose up at him. She did not want to admit that he had got her rather spooked herself.  

“But most people think it’s just a rumour ,and the Beast doesn’t exist,” whispered Katie when he was out of earshot, “So he was probably just making it up to frighten us any way.”

They went inside the stable and found a girl who told them that the lad was always making up stories to scare the visitors.  ”He should be sacked,” she said, “Only ,he’s the boss’s nephew.  And it’s not true. Nobody was thrown off yesterday, especially not the boss, who isn’t even here this week.”

She found them two ponies, one called Yorkie who was black, and another called Steptoe who was brown with a shaggy mane and looked a little bit like a miniature carthorse.  As Isis was the more experienced rider of the two girls, she took Yorkie who was the most frisky of the two ponies.  Isis’s mum would have the tall black horse.

That afternoon, they set out on their first trek.  They rode up to a lake where their ponies waded in for a drink.  Over the next few days they explored the local paths and trails. It was not far from the farm before they were away from the hedges and long glass and up on more stony desolate country.  They rode to an old deserted prison, which was rather spooky. Katie managed a few canters, and Isis’s pony jumped over a ditch.

When they got back to the farm, they played hide and seek in the hay loft and watched DVDs on TV. Isis’s mum drove into the village to fetch takeaway dinners, and Katie tried Chinese food and learned how to use chop sticks.  All in all it was a perfect holiday.

On Friday, they took a packed lunch and rode out on an extra long trek. It was their aim to reach some ancient stones left on the moors by Druids centuries ago.  The sun was shining brightly for the time of the year, and it was a crisp bright day.  A bold fox sat on a stone wall and watched them approach, before slowly jumping down and trotting off to the woods.  Brightly coloured pheasants pecked the grass in the fields.  A scarecrow provided a perch for the beady-eyed birds.   Katie’s pony plodded on in his usual docile way, until, quite out of character, he shied back and gave Katie a jolt.  ”Whoa!” she said, what’s got into you?”  And then she saw an snake – probably an adder – slithering through the grassy ditch and disappearing into some long grass.

“That’s ok,” she said, “he’s gone.”

Further up the track ,they found an old deserted farm house.  They rode into the walls of its tumbled-down garden, and were thinking of stopping for lunch when all of a sudden a huge black cat jumped over the wall – only this was no kitty-cat like Solomon – this was the size of a large dog, only much thinner and sleeker.  He was black, with bright yellow eyes, yellow teeth, and a red tongue.  He was facing Isis who had her back to the farmhouse… her black pony started to rear and stomp all over the place… her mum screamed as Isis was flung clear of its back – one of her feet was caught in the stirrup – and oh it looked like it twisted nastily as she fell to the ground – the pony darted round the big cat and ran into the next field, but Isis was left on the ground.  Her mum was in near hysterics. She was crying. The cat growled and fixed her with his stare.  He looked like he was about to pounce.

“Katie, do some magic !” screamed Isis .

And Katie, who was already thinking of a spell, shouted “Catnip!”  And then she said:

“Hey Cat – Don’t hurt my friend!”… and the cat turned around and said:

“I don’t mean to!”

“Then why did you scare her pony like that?” asked Katie, with difficulty, because her own pony was fritting around, fairly unsettled, even at a distance.

Isis’s mum had stopped screaming and was watching in a amazement as Katie carried on this conversation with the creature…

“Well,” said the cat, “I wouldn’t have done if I knew you could talk… Listen, I’m hungry. I don’t suppose you have anything to eat with you do you?”

“Just a cheese sandwich,” said Katie, starting to take off her back back.

“No thanks,” said the cat.

“Sorry, I’m a vegetarian” said Katie. “I’m sure you would get better food if you went back to the zoo.”

The cat, who was now sitting in front of Katie’s horse, licking his paw, looked up and said:  ”I don’t come from the zoo.  I had an owner who kept me secretly in his back garden.  I was in a cage, and he fed me on tins of yucky cat food, so I ran away when he forgot to lock the door.  I’ve lived up here for the past few years.  I catch rabbits and pheasants, but I don’t like the cold or the rain.  Whenever I try to ask people for help, they get scared and run away. ”

“You’re lucky a farmer hasn’t shot you,” said Katie. “That will happen one day you know.  Hey, why don’t you let us take you to the zoo? I’m sure they will look after you.”

And since Katie seemed like such a nice girl, and so trustworthy, the cat agreed to go back to the farm with them.  Isis’s leg really hurt, and it was with much difficulty that her mum helped her back onto her pony, but it was either that or call the air ambulance, and Isis didn’t fancy flying in a helicopter which would be really noisy and uncomfortable.

The Beast of Bodmin followed them back to the farm, trotting behind the horses,  and when they saw the stable boy Katie called out : “Hey have you got any legs of lamb in the freezer. We’ve got a hungry Beast here.”

“Wow!” said the boy, and legged it for the farm house as fast as he could.

The Beast stayed with Katie while Isis went to the hospital with her mum.  They both promised not to breathe a word to anybody about the magic that they had witnessed, not even to Katie’s mum.  Katie gave him a pint of milk, a pot of cream, and some leftovers of duck in plum source.  

“I’m sure they will have steak in the zoo,” she promised.  And the Beast of  Bodmin purred contentedly, because although he was hungry,  he was at least warm by the radiator and looking forward to his new life in the enclosure, where food would be brought to him, and visitors would admire him.

And that was the story of Katie and the Pony who was spooked.

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Dorothy has defeated the Wicked Witch of the West, but her friends have been badly hurt in the fight. Can the Yellow Winkies help her to rescue them?

Read by Natasha. Duration 9.29.

The Cowardly Lion was much pleased to hear that the Wicked Witch had
been melted by a bucket of water, and Dorothy at once unlocked the gate
of his prison and set him free. They went in together to the castle,
where Dorothy’s first act was to call all the Winkies together and tell
them that they were no longer slaves.

There was great rejoicing among the yellow Winkies, for they had been
made to work hard during many years for the Wicked Witch, who had
always treated them with great cruelty. They kept this day as a
holiday, then and ever after, and spent the time in feasting and
dancing.

“If our friends, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, were only with us,”
said the Lion, “I should be quite happy.”

“Don’t you suppose we could rescue them?” asked the girl anxiously.

“We can try,” answered the Lion.

So they called the yellow Winkies and asked them if they would help to
rescue their friends, and the Winkies said that they would be delighted
to do all in their power for Dorothy, who had set them free from
bondage. So she chose a number of the Winkies who looked as if they
knew the most, and they all started away. They traveled that day and
part of the next until they came to the rocky plain where the Tin
Woodman lay, all battered and bent. His axe was near him, but the
blade was rusted and the handle broken off short.

The Winkies lifted him tenderly in their arms, and carried him back to
the Yellow Castle again, Dorothy shedding a few tears by the way at the
sad plight of her old friend, and the Lion looking sober and sorry.
When they reached the castle Dorothy said to the Winkies:

“Are any of your people tinsmiths?”

“Oh, yes. Some of us are very good tinsmiths,” they told her.

“Then bring them to me,” she said. And when the tinsmiths came,
bringing with them all their tools in baskets, she inquired, “Can you
straighten out those dents in the Tin Woodman, and bend him back into
shape again, and solder him together where he is broken?”

The tinsmiths looked the Woodman over carefully and then answered that
they thought they could mend him so he would be as good as ever. So
they set to work in one of the big yellow rooms of the castle and
worked for three days and four nights, hammering and twisting and
bending and soldering and polishing and pounding at the legs and body
and head of the Tin Woodman, until at last he was straightened out into
his old form, and his joints worked as well as ever. To be sure, there
were several patches on him, but the tinsmiths did a good job, and as
the Woodman was not a vain man he did not mind the patches at all.

When, at last, he walked into Dorothy’s room and thanked her for
rescuing him, he was so pleased that he wept tears of joy, and Dorothy
had to wipe every tear carefully from his face with her apron, so his
joints would not be rusted. At the same time her own tears fell thick
and fast at the joy of meeting her old friend again, and these tears
did not need to be wiped away. As for the Lion, he wiped his eyes so
often with the tip of his tail that it became quite wet, and he was
obliged to go out into the courtyard and hold it in the sun till it
dried.

“If we only had the Scarecrow with us again,” said the Tin Woodman,
when Dorothy had finished telling him everything that had happened, “I
should be quite happy.”

“We must try to find him,” said the girl.

So she called the Winkies to help her, and they walked all that day and
part of the next until they came to the tall tree in the branches of
which the Winged Monkeys had tossed the Scarecrow’s clothes.

It was a very tall tree, and the trunk was so smooth that no one could
climb it; but the Woodman said at once, “I’ll chop it down, and then we
can get the Scarecrow’s clothes.”

Now while the tinsmiths had been at work mending the Woodman himself,
another of the Winkies, who was a goldsmith, had made an axe-handle of
solid gold and fitted it to the Woodman’s axe, instead of the old
broken handle. Others polished the blade until all the rust was
removed and it glistened like burnished silver.

As soon as he had spoken, the Tin Woodman began to chop, and in a short
time the tree fell over with a crash, whereupon the Scarecrow’s clothes
fell out of the branches and rolled off on the ground.

Dorothy picked them up and had the Winkies carry them back to the
castle, where they were stuffed with nice, clean straw; and behold!
here was the Scarecrow, as good as ever, thanking them over and over
again for saving him.

Now that they were reunited, Dorothy and her friends spent a few happy
days at the Yellow Castle, where they found everything they needed to
make them comfortable.

But one day the girl thought of Aunt Em, and said, “We must go back to
Oz, and claim his promise.”

“Yes,” said the Woodman, “at last I shall get my heart.”

“And I shall get my brains,” added the Scarecrow joyfully.

“And I shall get my courage,” said the Lion thoughtfully.

“And I shall get back to Kansas,” cried Dorothy, clapping her hands.
“Oh, let us start for the Emerald City tomorrow!”

This they decided to do. The next day they called the Winkies together
and bade them good-bye. The Winkies were sorry to have them go, and
they had grown so fond of the Tin Woodman that they begged him to stay
and rule over them and the Yellow Land of the West. Finding they were
determined to go, the Winkies gave Toto and the Lion each a golden
collar; and to Dorothy they presented a beautiful bracelet studded with
diamonds; and to the Scarecrow they gave a gold-headed walking stick,
to keep him from stumbling; and to the Tin Woodman they offered a
silver oil-can, inlaid with gold and set with precious jewels.

Every one of the travelers made the Winkies a pretty speech in return,
and all shook hands with them until their arms ached.

Dorothy went to the Witch’s cupboard to fill her basket with food for
the journey, and there she saw the Golden Cap. She tried it on her own
head and found that it fitted her exactly. She did not know anything
about the charm of the Golden Cap, but she saw that it was pretty, so
she made up her mind to wear it and carry her sunbonnet in the basket.

Then, being prepared for the journey, they all started for the Emerald
City; and the Winkies gave them three cheers and many good wishes to
carry with them.

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Happy 12 everyone ! We are starting 2012 with a Bertie story this week, and a Katie story next… and look out for the final chapters of the Wizard of Oz and a spectacular Greek Myth.

Just in case you are new to Bertie and his stories – let us explain – these days he is a frog and has some pond-life friends, but in the past he was a human prince.

In this story, we hear about one of Bertie’s human adventures. It took him to the jungle of Papua New Guinea along the famed Kokoda Trail. The Lovely Princess Beatrice came with him. They were in search of long lost Cousin Jonas who has discovered the Secret of Eternal Youth. The Wicked Queen wants it – but will she us it, as promised for the good of mankind?

And by the way, the secret or sweet potato is also known in America as a yam.

Read by Natasha. Story by Bertie. Duration 31 min.

Only last week, I was walking past the Palace Pond, when I heard a deep groan. I looked at the water, and saw some angry-looking bubbles on the surface. Then I heard an unmistakable voice:

“Oh Tim, When are you going to grow up?” It was Colin the Carp, groaning and grumping as usual. Perhaps this time, he had good reason. Tim the Tadpole was annoying him by tickling his belly.

Sadie, the elegant black swan, heard his complaint too. She swam out of the rushes and said: “I don’t think Little Tim is ever going to grow up into a frog. In fact, I think he has discovered the Secret of Eternal Youth.”

“Ooh that sounds exciting,” said Tim. “Er what is it?”

As ever, Prince Bertie the Frog was on hand to answer Tim’s questions.

“Let me tell you Tim,” he said. “It’s a potato.”

When Prince Bertie said this, Colin the Carp thrashed the water with his tail so hard that some drops splashed on my face.

“Is this pond full of fools?” groaned Colin. “How can the Secret of Eternal Youth be a Potato? That frog’s brain is a potato, more like…!”

“Well actually,” said Bertie, “The Secret of Eternal Youth really is a potato. Or to be precise, it is a Sweet Potato. I know that for a fact because when I was a human prince, I brought it back from the Jungle….”

“Oooh Bertie, do tell us the story…” pleaded Tim. Colin sighed heavily, but all the other pond life gathered around excitedly to hear Bertie’s story – and I pricked up my ears too….

It was winter. The Palace cook was off work with a cold. At breakfast time, the Wicked Queen went into the kitchen and made Bertie’s porridge herself.

“There you are Bertie,” she said, as she placed the steaming bowl of milky oats in front of him on the dining room table, ” Just how you like it.”

” I don’t really feel like porridge today,” said the Prince. “I’ve got a bit of a rotten tummy.”

For a second, an angry glint flashed across the Queen’s eye, and then she said soothingly, “Come on now, eat up. There’s nothing like a bowl of porridge to get you through the morning.”

“Sorry, I’d rather not,” said Bertie. He looked guiltily across the table at Princess Beatrice who was frowning at him. After breakfast, she tapped Bertie on the shoulder at the foot of the stairs.

“There’s no need to be so rude to my step-mother,” she said frostily.

“I can’t help it,” said Bertie. “Sometimes she just scares the life out of me.”

“Couldn’t you see how hurt she was when you wouldn’t eat her porridge? You seemed to think she had dropped poison in it.”

“Well… yeah……,” said Bertie, quite sarcastically.

“Oh sometimes ….you’re just impossible,” said Beatrice annoyed, and she started to stomp off, which was not at all like her. Then she turned around and said: “Not every step-mother is wicked you know. And she’s going to be your mother-in-law one day, so you better start seeing the sweet side of her.”

Bertie was upset, as well as hungry, as he climbed the stairs. The last thing he wanted to do was to get on the wrong side of Beatrice. She had such a lovely character, she just couldn’t see that her step-mother, the Queen, truly was wicked. The world might well be full of lovely mother-in-laws, and charming step-mothers, but this one was well.. like something out of a scary fairytale.

For the rest of the week, the Wicked Queen, was so sweet, and so full of thoughtful little gestures, that Bertie became more suspicious of her than ever. On Saturday morning, she bought Beatrice a present – a delicate and beautiful orchid for her collection. It had snowy white flowers, with beautiful purple centres that looked just like butterflies.

As they admired the lovely plant, the Queen said casually, “Or course, if you want to see rare orchids in the wild, you really ought to go to Papua New Guinea.”

“Really?” said Beatrice. “Perhaps Bertie and I can go there on holiday.”

“Oh you would love it,” said the Queen, “The biodiversity is incredible.”

Bertie tried not to groan. He knew that “biodiversity” – which means a wide selection of life forms – was just the word to use if you wanted to persuade Beatrice of anything. She truly loves the environment and all living things.

“Oh Bertie ! Do let’s go there for our holiday,” she cooed. “I do so want to go to Papua New Guinea to see the Biodiversity.”

“And while you are there,” said the Queen, “You can look up our long lost cousin Jonas. He lives in the Rain Forest and is an expert on the nature of New Guinea.”

“Oh how wonderful,” said Beatrice.

Bertie sighed. He knew that the wicked Queen was plotting something – but there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

But what was the Queen up to? Was she planning for them to be kidnapped by pirates or eaten by cannibals? He didn’t dare suggest anything of the sort to Beatrice. She would be furious with him. He would have to wait for clues. And gradually the clues came. The nearer they got to the holiday, the more the Queen spoke about Cousin Jonas. There was an article about him on the internet with a photograph. He stood on a cliff with with the tree tops of the jungle spreading out for miles behind him. He looked about 25 years old – not a day older than when he left the palace 25 years ago.

“I do believe,” revealed the Queen, “that Cousin Jonas has discovered the Secret of Eternal Youth. Just think Beatrice darling… what a benefit this could be to humanity ! We could make medicines that could cure every illness. Bring back the secret to me, my sweet, or else it may never get out. Greedy Cousin Jonas is just keeping it to himself. That can’t be right. Go to him, Beatrice, with your sweet smile, and persuade him to do the right thing.”

Bertie tried to seem keen on the Wicked Queen’s plan to benefit mankind, but it was no use – Beatrice knew that he was thinking negative thoughts. Her manner was a little colder than usual to her prince.

They flew first to Australia, and then to Port Moresby, the capital of Papua New Guinea. At the airport, they were met by their tour guide, an Australian called Roger Jolly. “Mates call me Jolly Roger,” he said with a grin as he firmly shook their hands.

He showed them the way to the car – which was, as it turned out, a pick-up truck. Princess Beatrice sat in the cab next to Jolly Roger. Prince Bertie sat on the back of the truck with the luggage. He was kept company buy Roger’s righthand-man, a Papua New Guinean called Simon, and known to his mates as Sly Si.

As they drove through the town, Bertie saw that most of the houses were defended by barbed wire and metal gates. “Don’t go for a walk in Port Moresby,” warned Sly Si. “There are plenty of murders.”

And Bertie decided that he could manage without stretching his legs that evening.

They drove to the gleaming white Yacht Club, which was where all the rich people and foreigners liked to hang out. That evening they ate grilled fish out in the warm tropical air. Beatrice told him that they wanted to find Cousin Jonas in the village of Tanga. Jolly Roger looked at Sly Si. Si said: “That’s in the Owen Stanley Mountains, about four or five days hike along the Kokoda Trail.”

“Great, I love walking,” said Beatrice.

“That’s good,” said Jolly Roger, with a smile,”Because the Kokoda Trail is just about the toughest walk in the world.”

Two days later, they drove out to the Owen’s Corner, which is at the start of the famed Kokoda trail. Five porters joined Bertie in the back of the truck, each with a huge rucksack.

They drove as far as they could, before the road just petered out. Before them rose the mountains, covered in dense jungle. The only sign of human life was a bronze monument.

“That’s to the heroes of the Second World War,” explained Roger. “The Australians fought the Japanese through these mountains and beat them off – otherwise Australia might have been invaded.” Then turning to Sly Si he said, “And the locals played a big part too. The worked as porters. They carried the injured on stretchers, and tended to their wounds. The troops called them Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels, because they never abandoned an injured solider, even under heavy fire. ”

After a minute or two of silence, to acknowledge the heroes of the past, they heaved their packs onto their backs and began to plod down the same trail that the troops and the angels had taken in 1942.

At first they went down, but soon they were climbing. The rain started to pitter-patter on the broad leaves above their heads. Some of it managed to dribble down the backs of their collars. The porters cut long walking sticks for them for Beatrice and Bertie. Still it was hard to get a good foothold. Beatrice was the first to slide face down in the mud.

“Bertie, where were you looking? Why didn’t you catch me?” she said testily as he helped her up. Bertie ignored the unfair remark, and said. “Don’t worry dearest. It can’t be like this all the way.”

“Oh yes it can,” said Jolly Roger with a grin.

Often the jungle track divided – one path going one way – the other in a different direction. Fortunately, the porters knew the trail just as certainly as Beatrice knew her way around the palace gardens. Quite often the trail disappeared all together. The porters took out their machetes and scythed a path through the undergrowth, with as little effort as if they were spreading butter on bread. The great packs did not seem to give them any trouble at all. And most remarkable of all – some of them weren’t even wearing boots on their feet – but flip-flops, as if they were strolling down to the beach.

It was still raining that night when they struck camp. The porters cut big logs to get a fire going, and Bertie and Beatrice washed in an icy cold mountain stream. Bertie did his best to help put up the tents, but most of the work was done by the porters. They brewed up the best drink of tea ever. And then they ate a supper of Vegetable Stew – made from a packet – and Sweet Potato Mash. One of the porters was carrying a ruck sack that was filled with nothing but sweet potatoes. Sweet Potatoes were to be the main diet along the trail.

And at long last, they stretched out in their lovely dry sleeping blankets and fell asleep to the mysterious whoops and cries of the jungle birds and animals.

Over the next few days they crossed gushing rivers with the help of ropes, and struggled up and down steep slopes. The rain stopped, and often the sun brightened things up. Sometimes they waded through long wet grass, and slug-like leaches fastened themselves to their legs.

“They like sucking Bertie’s blue blood,” said Jolly Roger, who usually had a joke to hand.

“They have good taste,” said Beatrice, “UGGH There’s one on me…. Get it off me Bertie…”

“I thought you liked all living things,” said Bertie as he sprayed it with insect repellent.

“I do,” she said, “It’s not their fault they like our blood.”

Roger made sure that they treated any little cuts and grazes with stinging iodine, because he said wounds could go rotten in the damp jungle air. Sly Si always came up at the back of the line, to make sure that nobody got left behind. They were in good hands – but if anyone twisted an ankle, there was only one way out of the jungle – on a stretcher carried by the porters.

They stopped often to drink water, and for Beatrice to photograph wild orchids. She wasn’t disappointed – there were many that she had not seen before, even in books. One time Sly Si pointed and said “Look over there,” and he started to walk towards a huge snake that was draped over some branches. He took it in his arms and wrapped it around himself. Then suddenly he made a choking nose and rolled his eyes:

“Oh no, it’s a python and it can squeeze the life out of him,” squealed Beatrice in horror.

But it was just an empty skin that a python had shed.

“Nice one,” laughed Jolly Roger, as Sly Si draped the skin back on the tree, to scare the next group of hikers.

On the fourth day, they reached Jonas’s village. It was on a high plateau, overlooking the tops of the trees for miles and miles. The village huts stood on stilts, growing out of a green lawn that was almost as perfect as a cricket pitch. The hikers were greeted by a group of local kids who wanted to know the latest rugby scores. Bertie made up for their lack of sports results, by handing out pens and badges.

“Can you take us to Jonas?” asked Beatrice hopefully. But they did not have to – because a youthful looking man was walking towards them.

“He can’t be fifty years old. He must be Jonas’s son,” whispered Bertie. But Beatrice was ready to believe that this relative of hers had discovered the Secret of Eternal Youth.

“Er, Prince Jonas, I presume,” said Bertie.

“It’s quite a while since anybody has called me Prince,” replied the youth, “But I am Jonas.”

“Well I’m Prince Bertie and this is your relative, Princess Beatrice. You may not know her, because she was born after you left the palace.”

“Yes, that was a long time ago,” said Jonas. “Well I haven’t heard from my family for a long time. Welcome to my home. Have some tea and, we’ll get dinner ready for you. Hope you like sweet potatoes. It’s all we have around here.”

“We can provide tinned sardines,” said Bertie.

“Oh wonderful,” enthused Jonas.

“And chocolate..” added Bertie.

“You must come more often,” said Jonas.

As they sat around the fire that evening, a sky crammed with stars looked down upon them. They were about as far away from anywhere as you could possibly get. All around the clearing was steep jungle – and it was at least three days hike until you got to anything like a road. The word “remote” hardly summed it up. While they tucked in to their feast of sweet potatoes, sardines and chocolate, the villagers sung and banged drums for them. When the din died down, Beatrice said:

“Cousin Jonas, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how old are you?”

“I will probably seem ancient to a youngster like you,” admitted Jonas, “It was my fiftieth birthday last month.”

“Wow,” said Bertie .

“Pretty old aren’t I?” said Jonas.

“But you can’t be that old,” said Beatrice. “You hardly look older than Bertie.”

“Hmm. Well, you can’t beat a diet of fresh air, mountain water, and sweet potatoes,” explained Jonas.

“Oh come on, you must have a bigger secret than that,” said Beatrice, “Do tell…”

“Worried about getting lines are you? I shouldn’t be concerned at your age. Well perhaps I will tell,” said Jonas. “We’ll see in the morning. ”

After Beatrice had gone to bed, Bertie and Jonas stayed up for one last square of chocolate each. “Do you ever miss your life of comfort and ease in the palace?” asked Bertie.

“Sometimes,” said Jonas. “But I had no choice. I had to leave.”

‘Why?” asked Bertie.

“In a word, Hilda.”

“Ah Hilda,” said Bertie. “I understand. In fact, one day I might have to leave because of Hilda.” Because… you see … Hilda was the person who is now better known as the Wicked Queen.

Later on, as Bertie lay awake in his sleeping bag, he wondered about his moral dilemma. Loyalty to Beatrice dictated that he should help her on her mission to take Jonas’s secret back to the Queen. But his instinct that the Queen had no good intentions, meant that he ought to warn Cousin Jonas. Even though his limbs were weak from the day’s jungle hike, the problem kept turning around his head and preventing him from falling asleep.

In the morning, Beatrice began her assault on Jonas with all her batteries of charm and persuasion.
Bertie could hardly believe the way she fluttered her eyelids and pleaded: ‘Dear Jonas, just think of all the good you could do for humanity if you shared your secret.”

And Jonas was clearly weakening and saying things like, “Well I suppose it has been a bit selfish of me to keep it to myself. I just didn’t want it fall into the wrong sort of hands.”

“Oh I promise will do the best thing possible for your secret. We’ll give it to my step-mother who is ever such a clever woman, isn’t she Bertie? ” said Beatrice. And Bertie had no choice but to nod. He felt a real heel, knowing that Beatrice was going to give it to Hilda, because she really believed that her step-mother would use it for the good of mankind.

At last Jonas gave in. “Well I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’ve developed a special breed of Sweet Potato. I make it into a kind of paste and rub it into my skin. Everyone who has tried it – including many of the villagers here – seems to stay young. I can’t say if lasts eternally – it’s too early to say yet – and I suppose it always will be – ha ha.”

“Oh thank you,” said Beatrice throwing her arms around him. “Will you let us take some back home with us?”

“I’ll get some ready for you,” said Jonas. “Enough to put under a microscope – and some left over for your personal use.”

“Oh I don’t want to use it myself,” insisted Beatrice.

Bertie felt he could hold in his conscience no more. Later, when Beatrice was hunting for orchids on the other side of this village, he said to Jonas.

“Look please don’t let on that I told you this. Beatrice is such a sweet girl. She just can’t see any bad in her stepmother…who is somebody you know..”

“Who exactly…?” asked Jonas, suspiciously.

“Hilda,” said Bertie. “I fear that your secret might not be put to the best use. But what am I to do? If Beatrice catches on that I’ve told you this, I will be right in the do-do.”

“Well we don’t want you dumped in the do-do, do we?” said Jonas. “I have an idea. I’ll give one preparation to you – secretly – and I’ll give another one for Beatrice to give to her step-mother. It will be a nice little present from me to Hilda.”

The next day, their trekking expedition restarted along the Kokoda trail. At first, their stiff limbs protested at being made to work again, but they soon got into the swing of things. Some fine weather saw them through the day. They climbed even higher into the Owen Stanley Mountains, where the air became thinner, and strange trees and shrubs fascinated the botanist in Beatrice. After that, the way was mostly down. On the final day, they waded through some long bush grass, and out into the welcome end-of-trail station to be greeted by the universal symbol of civilisation – Coca- Cola.

After a few blissful days on the beach at Buna, they flew back to Port Moresby, on to Sydney, and then back home. Beatrice carried a jar of the Secret Sweet Potato Cream in her hand luggage. Bertie carried an even more secret formula inside his suitcase.

“You little darling!” exclaimed the Wicked Queen as Beatrice handed over the jar from Uncle Jonas. “We’re RICHHHHHHH!”

‘What do you mean, rich?” asked Beatrice.

“Oh don’t you see? People will pay a fortune for an anti-wrinkle cream that actually works. And as for a hair restorer, even the King would give his crown for one of those, if it did what it said on the tin. It’s what human kind has been striving for all these centuries…. The Cure for Baldness…. The Removal of Wrinkles…..The End of Cellulite… The Eat What You Want and be as Thin as a School Girl Diet….. in short, The Secret of Eternal Youth….”

In her delight, t he Queen was looking younger already – she did a little dance of glee.

And Beatrice was so upset that she turned to Bertie, her eyes full of tears, and said. “Don’t you dare say a word… ” before she ran up to her room.

“I don’t think that’s quite what Beatrice thought you meant by the good of mankind,” he said to the Queen, before leaving the room. Out in the corridor he smiled to himself, because he had already sent the even more secret formula to a top scientist who was working on all sorts of cures for various illnesses.

“Foolish children!” said the queen to herself, as she swept upstairs to her dressing room. “Now let’s just try out a little of this on ourself.”

She stood before the mirror and rubbed some of the sweet potato cream into her face. Almost instantly, the deep troughs around her eyes disappeared. She looked twenty years young.

“I’m beeeee-autiful, ” she exclaimed. .

But when she woke up in the morning, she opened her mouth and all she could say was ‘WAAAAA’ because Uncle Jonas and supplied an extra strong formula, and she had turned back into a baby. Bertie called the Palace Nanny and told her to keep the development a secret. The Wicked Queen grew back into her former self within a week, though, as Bertie noted, her face was perhaps just a bit older and a bit more evil looking than before.

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A cast of mice and humans feature in our play for Christmas. The setting is an English country house. The mice who live in the house are as excited about Christmas as the human occupants.

Among the humans, Archie plans to ask Edie to marry him. Not everyone is pleased by the match. His mother, Lady Margaret does not wish to lose a son. His cousin Rupert, the black sheep of the family, thinks he should inherit the family fortune. Edie’s guardian, Aunt Millicent thinks that Archie is soft in the head.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the maid Flossie fears that her family will go hungry for Christmas, and the cook, Mrs. Scratchit has no sympathy. The mice are hoping to pick up a few crumbs.

Just as Archie is about to propose to Edie, the engagement ring goes missing…. Has it been stolen? The American visitor, Murray Buckley, decides to play detective.

Written for Storynory by our own Elizabeth Donnelly. With the voices of Elizabeth, Jonathan Rigby and Johan Munir.

“We Three Kings” arranged and sung by Gabriella Burnel, with James Hewins on base and Jay Vadukai on percussion.

The Christmouse Mystery

SOUNDS OF SCUFFLING AND PANTING

Morris.

(hurried)Come on. This way to the conservatory. Quickly!

Doris.

(out of breath) I’m scuttling as fast as I can.

Morris.

Just around this corner. We can peep through the crack in the skirting board.

Boris. (unfit/heavy breathing)

Slow down.

Morris.

Come on!

They arrive out of breath.

Doris.

So what am I looking at?

Morris.

There. See? It’s the shiniest thing I’ve ever seen.

Doris.

(GASP)What a lovely ring!

Morris.

Shhh! Listen to the humans! Master Archie’s saying something.

sound effect indicating switch from mice world to human world

Archie and Rupert in the conservatory on Christmas Eve morning.

Archie (with enthusiasm and teeth)

It was Grandmother’s engagement ring. Father gave it to me this morning.

Rupert

Must be worth a pretty penny.

Archie

So aren’t you going to wish me luck, Rupert?

Rupert

Whatever for? You’ll be set up for life! You’ll have Edie and the house. And before you know it a few little sprouts tearing up the place. Who will keep me in my old age?

Archie

Oh don’t be so daft you old fool! I’m hardly going to boot you out now just because I’m getting married.

Rupert

Hmm…(beat.) When are you going to ask her?

Archie

Well Edith and her aunt arrive this evening, but I thought I’d wait ‘til tomorrow morning. An extra special Christmas present!

Rupert

Christmas Day eh?(faintly ironic)What a perfect time to pop the question.

Archie

Yes it is rather isn’t it. I thought I’d recite my favourite poem first, before doing the deed.

Rupert (wearily)

What’s that?

Archie

One by Lewis Carroll. It’s called, “You are old, Father William”

Rupert

(Mutters) How romantic! Just right for a lovely young girl.

Archie

What?

Rupert (still muttering)

Trust you to make an ass of yourself.

Archie?

What?

Rupert

Spot on for a proposal I’m sure.

Archie

Would you like to hear it? It’s ever so good.

(recites at pace, enthused, finding the poem hilarious)

You are old, Father William’, the young man said,

‘And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head –

Do you think, at your age, it is right?’

SNORTS WITH LAUGHTER

‘In my youth’, Father William…

Rupert (interrupting)

Best save the rest for Edith old chap.

Archie

Very good

——–

TRANSITION EFFECT.

FOLLOWED BY THE SOUND OF SCRATCHING

Doris.

shhhhhhh! I can hear something.

Boris.

Sorry. I just need to make this hole a bit bigger – too many mince pies.

Doris.

Shhhhhhh! not you. One of the humans is crying.

Morris.

We’re all here. So it can’t be us this time.

Doris.

Come on we’d better take a look.

Boris.

I told you I’m a bit stuck

STRAINING NOISES. Eeuuuuuuugggh! SIGH of relief

Morris.

There we go. Where to?

Doris.

It’s coming from the kitchen. I hope it’s not Flossie. Mrs Scratchit’s always so rotten to her.

Boris.

She’s rotten to everyone!

SCUTTLING NOISE.

TRANSITION EFFECT

In the kitchen.

CHOPPING. BOILING. SOUND OF SOBBING.

Mrs Scratchit.

(refined cockney) Well I’ve no time for this I tell you. There’s far too much work to be done. Can’t have you sitting here sobbing when there’s potatoes what need peeling.

Flossie.

(Yorkshire) I am sorry m’am it all got t’better o’ me (sniffing). Father’s too poo-erly to go to work and what with mother’s one eye and the thirteen babbies – there’ll be nowt for Christmas dinner. So I was only asking if you’d lend us a potato. Mother can do wonders meking food go further. That way they’d all have a bite to eat see – well just one, of the potato.

Mrs Scratchit.

(outraged) I(“Eh”) can’t be seen to be handing out food willy nilly. Who’s to say it’d stop there?

Flossie.

Oh but Mrs Scratchit! Christmas won’t be Christmas without a potato!

Mrs. Scratchit.

Now listen here young Flossie. I’m orf to speak to Jeffreys about the butcher’s boy, but when I come back I expect to find them potatoes one hundred percent peeled and no two ways about it! …and don’t think I won’t be counting them!

DOOR SLAMS.

Flossie sobs.

SERVICE BELL RINGS.

Flossie.

Dear me! Where is everyone? Milly won’t be back for ages. And Molly’s in bed with a head cold. (calling) Mandy? Mandy?. I suppose I’d better go upstairs. What a fine state I’m in for it.

——–

TRANSITION EFFECT

Doris.

Come on then. Back to the conservatory.

Morris.

Now you’re just being nosey.

Doris.

When has that ever stopped you! Anyhow I bet Master Rupert’s up to something.

Boris.

He’d certainly got the pip about the proposal.

Doris.

Fancy not being happy for Archie.

Morris.

What a bounder!

——

TRANSITION EFFECT

In the conservatory.

Flossie.

Yes sir?

Rupert.

Ah Flossie! just the ticket. I was hoping you’d come.

Flossie.

What can I do for you Master Rupert?

Rupert.

Well I’m in a bit of a funk old girl and in need of some cheering up.

Flossie.

I doubt I’m the person for that sir.

Rupert.

I’m not so sure about that! A pretty young thing like you.

Flossie.

Pardon Master Rupert?

Rupert.

My life’s in ruins Floss. Have you heard the news?

Flossie.

No sir.

Rupert.

Archie’s finally going to ask Edith to marry him. He’s got the ring from Lord Henry. A fine thing it is too. Oh Floss that ring would have been mine if father hadn’t got me crossed off the inheritance list. But now once Archie’s married he’ll be next in line for the house and I’ll have to stay here with nothing while the twit lords it up over me.

Flossie.

Well things could be worse sir.

Rupert.

How so old girl? This house would’ve been mine.

Flossie.

At least you’ve summit to eat this Christmas. Mother’s got thirteen mouths to feed and three more on the way.

Rupert.(to himself)

Wow she really does pop them out.

Flossie.

Mrs Scratchit wouldn’t give me the leftovers to take home. Y’know sometimes I wonder what to mek of it all. I work every hour God sends and still me family’s back at home with nowt to eat.

Rupert.

I’m sure we can see to that.

I’m so glad you’re here. I fear Christmas will be rather dull this year. The guests will be descending upon us soon and then there’ll be no escape.

Wait a minute I do believe that is a sprig of mistletoe hanging over the door.

Flossie.

Master Rupert, behave yourself.

Rupert.

Just one kiss Floss, it is tradition!

Flossie.

I’d lose my position if anyone saw us.

Rupert.

Have it your own way! Oh it’s all so unfair. If my father hadn’t disgraced himself by running off with the circus. I’d be heir and I’d make you Lady of this house.

Flossie.

Oh don’t talk so daft.

Rupert

But as it stands I’m stuck here living off the charity of my tedious relatives with not a penny to my name.

CRASH! (from afar)

Is Lady Margaret at it again? God help us all!

Flossie

That’ll be the fifth vase she’s thrown at Lord Henry this week!

—

TRANSITION EFFECT

Dorris.

Did you hear that crash?

Morris.

Shall we take a look?

Boris.

At this rate they’ll be no china left by Boxing Day!

Doris.

Boris!

Morris.

Come on slow coach!

Boris (unfit)

Coming!

—

TRANSITION EFFECT

Lord Henry.

I can’t see what you’re making all this heavy weather about.

Lady Margaret (stammering through tears)

How can you be so insensitive?

Lord Henry.

I really think you’re over-reacting darling.

Lady Margaret.

I’ll give you overreacting! CRASH

Lord H.

Good Shot!! You almost got me that time.

Lady M.

You’re a brute if you can’t see how wounded I am.

Lord H.

You will still see him every day.

Lady M.

How could I expect you to understand? I am losing my son to another woman!

Lord H.

Well he is 36.

Lady M.

Thoughtless! that’s what you are! I should never have let you give him that ring! (LOUDLY) You’re insufferable! SMASH!

Lord H.

(nonchalantly)Was that one ming?

Jeffreys.

(coughs in the doorway) huh huh.

Excuse me, sir, m’am. The Buckleys have arrived.

Lady M. (with angelic calmness)

Very good Jeffreys. We’ll receive them in the drawing room.

Jeffreys.

Yes m’am.

Lord H.

You’d better buck up darling.

Lady M.

Go and boil your head!

—–

CRUNCH OF FOOTSTEPS ON GRAVEL.

Boris.

Oo look there’s a woman approaching who’s being eaten by a fox!

Doris.

Don’t be silly that’s her scarf.

Boris.

Eeeuuugh!

Morris.

Looks like he’s eaten a few foxes though!

Doris.

You mustn’t be rude!

—-

CRUNCH OF GRAVEL

Murray Buckley.

Gee whizz honey! This sure is something!

Imelda Buckley.

Oh Murraykins! Isn’t it beautiful. I could just picture us living here. beat. Can you get me one?

Murray Buckley.

A Jacobian manor?

Imelda.

Sure!

Murray Buckley.

uumm…

Imelda.

Pleease?

Murray.

Oh heck! why not? anything for you sugarlips.

Smmmmmmmmoooch!

Imelda.

(with delight)

Oh Murray!

Jeffreys. (from nowhere, disapprovingly)

Good afternoon

Murray B.

Oh hey there fella. Fancy creeping up on us like that!

Jeffreys.

(drolly)

Yes. Fancy. (beat.) Lord Henry and Lady Margaret expect you in the drawing room. Jenkins will see to your luggage. If you’d like to follow me.

Murray B.

(under his breath)

Do you think he’s an original feature of the house?

Imelda.

(whispering and stifling laughter)

Shhhh You’ll get us sent to the tower or something!

—

SCRATCHING

Morris.

Come on then – back to the drawing room. The festivities will soon be underway.

Doris/ Boris

Right-Oh/Coming!

—-

Lord Henry.

You will be on your best behaviour Margaret. It is Christmas after all.

Lady Margaret.

I don’t know what you mean. You’re the one that’s been utterly beastly since breakfast.

Jeffreys.

The Buckleys, sir.

Lord Henry.

Ah yes. Thank you Jeffreys.

Imelda.

Oh isn’t this divine. Is it very old?

Jeffreys.

A mere 400 years.

Lady Margaret.

(to Imelda)Oh you mustn’t take any notice of Jeffreys. Servants are such snobs! (laughs).(To Jeffreys) Be a darling Jeffers and bring us up some tea.

So… You’re both looking splendid.

Murray.

Why thanks. You know Imelda and I are so excited to spend Christmas over here. I mean we travel a lot you know. Like last week we did Europe and the week before that we did Asia, but you know there’s something about England we really love,

Imelda.

Just love it!

Murray.

I mean we’re staying here for two days!

And you know I was just saying to Imelda that the house just looked so great on the drive up here, wasn’t I Meldy?

Imelda.

yeah. beat. what?

Murray.

I was just saying. You know like one of those Christmas picture cards, covered in snow.

Imelda.

yeah. in snow.

Lord Henry.

You’re too kind.

Murray.

But what’s new with you kid? The cook tried to poison your soup? The footman run off with your daughter?

Imelda.

Murray quit kidding about. He’s been reading a lot of these British detective stories.

Lord Henry.

No! I like a chap with a sense of humour. Afraid not dear fellow. Only excitement on the cards is that our son Archie is finally going to pop the question to Edith Harvey, something he should have done years ago if you ask me. I gave him my mother’s ring this morning.

Lady Margaret.

And I wish he hadn’t! You don’t have children yet do you Imelda? But I’m sure you understand.

Imelda.

Sure. beat. (excited) What kinda ring?

Lord Henry.

Rather a rare one actually. My mother inherited it from her grand-mama. Something they came across in India. Absolutely priceless of course. Sapphires and diamonds. Tremendous looking thing. (with charm)Would match the colour of your eyes.

Imelda

(coquettish)

Oh Lord Henry. Do you really think so?

Lady M. (to Murray)

He never says nice things like that to me.

Lord Henry.

Well I don’t think they make engagement rings in blood-shot red.

Lady M.

I was quite a looker before I married him you know.

Lord Henry.

Yes it’s all my fault. beat. That she’s so hideous. We only let her out on special occasions.

Lady M.

Oh do desist Henry. Nobody else finds you funny.

Jeffreys.

The tea m’am.

Lady M.

Thanks Jeffers. Over there if you would. (to Imelda) A bit of a fossil but when it comes down to it he’s a love really!

—–

SCRATCHING

Doris.

Oo look at those cakes.

Boris.

Do you think there’re more in the kitchen?

Morris.

Come on!

Doris

We’d better be careful. You remember what happened last time Mrs Scratchit caught us.

Morris.

Poor Uncle Horace.

—-

Kitchen. boiling and clanging.

Mrs Scratchit.

Now look here Master Archibald I’ll have you know I (“Eh”) run a kitchen and not a tea room. If you’re hungry you can go upstairs and have tea with the others, but I’ll not have you spoiling your appetite picking away down here when I’m spending all day preparing for tonight’s dinner.

Archie.

Oh Nora, be a sport. …I’ll show you the ring.

Mrs Scratchit.

I (“eh”) ‘ave better things what to be doing with may time than gawping at rings and the like. Tide and time wait for no man young Archibald!

Archie.

Be a pal. What about a slice of bread and jam? No? Or, a taste of that cake mixture? (teasingly) I know you want to see it really.

Mrs Scratchit.

It’s very fine I’m sure.

Archie.

Here. Take a look at this! (opening box)

Mrs Scratchit.

Well I never! Can’t say my Albert, Gawd be good to ‘im, ever gave me anything like that!

SERVICE BELL RINGS

running footsteps.

Flossie. (from off)

They’re here. They’re here.

Archie.

Sounds like Edith’s arrived. Oh crikey! I’m awfully nervous all of a sudden!

Flossie bumps into Archie who is standing behind the door.

Archie/Flossie

Oh!! (Bumps into Archie)

Flossie

I’m sorry Master Archie. I didn’t see you there.

Archie.

Did you say Edith’s arrived?

Flossie.

Yes with her aunt Millicent.

Archie.

Golly! well best get going.

Mrs Scratchit.

Aren’t you forgetting something?

Archie.

Right. yes! thanks!!

Flossie.

Even the box is beautiful. Lucky Edith! SIGH

Archie

See you later girls.

Mrs Scratchit.

Girls indeed! the cheeky young upstart. I’m a married woman I’ll have you know.

—-

Doris.

Oo i want to have a look at Edith. She always looks like a princess.

Boris.

But, the cake…

Morris.

Time to go Boris, you spend your life eating!… This way! I know a shortcut to the front of the house.

Boris.

No, but…

Doris.

Keep up Boris!

—-

CRUNCH OF FOOTSTEPS ON GRAVEL.

Aunt Millicent.

This is the last time I let you drag me orf on holiday Edith! We could have been perfectly happy spending Christmas at home. And now you’ve brought me out to this godforsaken place, full of half-wits I’m sure.

And as for that driver leaving us at the end of the lane to walk through bogland and who knows what else- I’ve never been so insulted in my life. Why there wasn’t a car waiting for us at the railway station is beyond me. Some welcome I must say!

Edith.

Oh please try to enjoy the holiday Aunt Millicent. It’ll be lovely to have so many people to spend Christmas with.

Aunt Millicent.

And I’ll say this once and once only. Don’t be getting any ideas about that Archibald Winterbury. He’s a dimwit if you ask me.

Edith.

Oh Aunt Millicent how can you be so unkind?

Aunt Millicent.

I’m concerned for your future happiness my child. Until you are married, you are my responsibility. I owe that much to your mother and father, god rest their souls.

Edith.

Well I’m determined to have a lovely time and I wish you were too!

Aunt Millicent.

Impertinence doesn’t become you Edith!

Archie.

(Shouts from afar)Edith!

(standing next to her)How are you my sweet? You’re looking ravishing. as ever. snorts

Edith.

Thanks Archie. You always say the nicest things!

Archie.(cautiously)

Aunt Millicent!

Aunt Millicent.

snarls audibly

Lord Henry.

Lady Wentworth, Miss Edith. Delighted to see you. Do come with us. I’ll introduce you to the Buckleys, they’ve just arrived.

Lady Margaret.

How do you do?

Millicent.

How do you do?

Lady Margaret.

I hope you had a pleasant journey.

Edith.

Oh yes thank you.

Millicent.

What rot! It was far from pleasant.

Edith.

At least we’re here now.

Lady Margaret. (escorting the guests inside)

Yes. Do you know Murray and Imelda Buckley?. Henry and I met them at the Fetherstonhaugh’s in the autumn.

Millicent.

Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.

Lady M.

We were all gathered in the drawing room, when all of a sudden, one of their terriers took a fancy to Imelda’s mink. Next thing it started to chase her about the room! So Henry, stepped up to play the gallant hero and tackled the poor mutt, taking Imelda down with him. You should have heard her screams as he tried to prise the dog off her. The expression on Lady Fetherstonhaugh’s face was quite a picture!

Anyhow, we’ve been pals ever since. They’re a lovely pair. He’s made his money in cars and her father owns the biggest sweet factory in America.

Millicent. (unimpressed)

How fascinating.

Lady M.

And here they are.

(introducing) Lady Millicent Wentworth and her ward Edith Harvey. Murray and Imelda Buckley.

Millicent.

How do you do?

Murray.

Oh we’re just fine honey!

Lord Henry.

Do sit down ladies.

Murray.

So girls where have you come from today?

Millicent. (indignantly)

We have travelled up from London, where we reside.

Imelda.

Oh I do love London, such a glamourous place don’t you think? Everyone’s so… (hesitates to complete the sentence acknowledging Millicent)…attractive.

Millicent.

snarls

Lady Margaret.

Ah Rupert! Glad you could join us. I think we have the full set.

Rupert.

Good evening everyone. (noticing Imelda) I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.

Imelda.

(charmed)Imelda Buckley

Rupert.

Rupert Winterbury. Resident black sheep.

Archie.

Come on coz. No need for all that.

Rupert.

All what? I was just introducing myself to this charming young lady.

Murray.

My wife.

Rupert.

Oh lucky you. Didn’t realise matey. Silly me.

Archie.(whispering)

I say Edith, would you care to see the Christmas tree?

Edith.

How ripping!

Millicent.

Yes that sounds delightful, thank you Archie. How kind of you.

Archie.

Well, I…

Edith.

Aunt Millicent you must be tired after the long journey. Why don’t you sit here a while?

Aunt M.

Nonsense. I’m fresh as a daisy.

Archie.

Flossie and Jenkins did a splendid job with the decorations.

Aunt M.

Lovely! lead the way…exit

Murray.

Do you think she did that on purpose?

Imelda.

What?

Murray.

Stopped the couple from being alone together.

Imelda.

Oh.

Lady M.

Of course she knew what she was up to. Remarkable woman.

Rupert.

Who’s for a drop of fizz?

Lord Henry.

Splendid idea!

Imelda.

Oh just a little.

Lady Margaret.

Thank you Rupert.

Murray.

Gee thanks!

Rupert.

I propose a toast. To Aunt Millicent, a good egg!

Lady Margaret.

Rupert darling not too loud.

whispering

To good old Aunt Millicent!

Imelda.

I don’t get it!

Lord Henry.

Down the hatch!

—–

Morris.

I think it’s time we went back down the hatch.

Doris.

Yes we don’t want mother and father to worry.

Boris.

Oo do you think we’ll have carols? Mother said she’d sing my favourite if we were good.

Morris.

Let’s find out.

Scratching and panting

Mother mouse

Oh there you are darlings! we wondered what’d become of you.

Morris/Boris/Doris.

Sorry mother!

Father mouse

Yes we’ve all been waiting. Sit yourselves down.

Morris/Boris/Doris – Yes father!

MUSIC Rag-time Christmas carol sung by mother mouse

Boris.

That was topping, mother!

Mother Mouse

Thank you Boris. Now all of you off to bed. The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner it’ll be Christmas.

Morris.

Goodnight Mama.

Mother.

Goodnight Morris.

Doris.

Goodnight Mama.

Mother

Goodnight Doris.

Boris.

Goodnight Mama.

Mother.

Goodnight Boris. Sweet dreams!

Boris. Oh goody! I don’t care much for savoury dreams. I hope I’ll dream of Christmas cake and peppermint humans!

Doris.

I’m so excited I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep.

Boris. Snores

Morris and Doris.

(laughing) Boris!

Goodnight!

———

Church bells chime.

Morris.

whispering

Doris! Doris! It’s Christmas!

Doris. (sleepy)

mmm?

Morris.

Wake up! It’s Christmas Day!

Doris.

gasps with delight. whoopee!

Morris and Doris.

(an excited whisper) Boris! Boris!

Boris.

snores contentedly

Morris.

Maybe best to leave him, he seems happy enough.

Doris.

Yes, he’s probably dreaming about food.

Morris.

Most likely!

Doris.

Oo I wonder if Archie’s proposed yet. I hope we haven’t missed it.

Morris.

Let’s go upstairs.

Doris.

Oo yes! I’m so excited!

—–

SCRATCHING

Doris.

Look it’s Lady Margaret and Archie.

Morris.

I wonder why they’re not with the others.

——

Lady Margaret.

What was it you wanted to tell me Archie?

Archie.

I’m in a bit of a fix Mama. You saw what happened yesterday. Aunt Millicent wouldn’t leave Edie’s side. How am I meant to propose if I have no time alone with her?

Lady Margaret.

Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing darling.

Archie.

Oh but Mummy! you know I want to marry Edith more than anything. Couldn’t you help me? It’d make me so happy!

Lady Margaret.

Well,(sigh) if that’s what you really want. I was planning on giving the guests a viewing of my latest sculpture. I’ll do it after breakfast and that’ll get everyone out of the way.

Archie.

Oh thank you Mother! you’re such a brick!

Lady Margaret.

Anything for you my darling boy!

——

Doris.

Fancy Lady Margaret helping Archie propose.

Morris.

She’s certainly changed her tune.

Doris.

It is the season of good will.

(They laugh.)

Morris.

Let’s follow them to the breakfast room.

Dorris.

You lead the way.

—-

Lady Margaret.

Good morning everyone! and Happy Christmas!

Lord Henry.

Yes Happy Christmas.

Edith.

Oh I do love Christmas.

Murray.

Happy Christmas!

Rupert. (unconvincing enthusiasm)

Season’s greetings one and all!

Lady Margaret.

I propose that as the first activity of the day, I give you all a private viewing of my latest nude sculpture. It’s a self-portrait.

Lord Henry.

Couldn’t it wait? We’ve just eaten.

Lady Margaret.

I have been slaving away in my studio for some months and I’d love to share with you the fruits of my labour.

Imelda.

How liberating!

Rupert.

Ra-ther!

Millicent.

Did she say nude sculpture? That confirms it. I am spending Christmas with a group of depraved bohemians. Heaven help us all!

Archie.

whispering

Edie! Stay here.

Edie.

What?

Archie.

Let them go off!

As group exits

Aunt Millicent.

This is obscene.

Rupert.

(with delight) Yes. Isn’t it?

Edie

Archie, shouldn’t we join the party? Your mother did seem keen for everyone to be there at the great unveiling.

Archie.

Oh no. trust me , it’s fine.

I’ve been desperate to have a minute alone with you since you arrived. Now I’m not really sure how to go about this.

Edie.

About what? Archie you’re shaking.

Archie.

Am I? oh yes. Silly me.

Well, the thing is you’re a smashing girl Edith and well, I’m ever so fond of you.

Edie.

Are you Archie? Oh how lovely because, I’m fond of you too.

Archie.

Oh really? Well that’s marvellous because you see… over the years you’ve always been the one girl for me. No-one else comes close and you see… If you’d just look at the Christmas tree for a moment.

Edith.

Look at the Christmas tree?

Archie.

yes. if you would.

Edith.

Very well.

Archie.

(seeing box is empty)GASPS (shocked)Dash it!

Edith.

Something the matter? Should I still be looking at the tree?

Archie.

(confused) Just give me two ticks.

Edith.

Whatever’s happened? (seeing the box) gasp Oh Archie!

Archie.

Oh now I’ve blown it! Made a complete hash of this one, Edie. An utter botch-up!! In fact I don’t think I could have made a bigger dog’s breakfast of it if I’d served up pooch porridge and mongrel marmalade washed down with lashings of labrador tea!

Edith.

What’s wrong?

Archie.

The engagement ring. It’s gone. See the box is empty!

Edith.

You were going to ask me to marry you? Oh Archie!

Archie.

I don’t understand. I’ve had it with me at all times since father gave it to me yesterday.

—-

Morris.

Who’d have thought it? Someone’s stolen the ring.

Doris.

But who would do such a rotten thing?

Morris.

A few names spring to mind, but we mustn’t point the paw just yet.

—

Service bell rings

Archie.

I’ll call for father, he’ll know what to do.

Edith.

You sure it’s not in your pocket?

Archie.

I’ve turned them inside out. It was safely in its box last time I looked.

Flossie.

Yes sir.

Archie.

Ah Flossie. Could you fetch Lord Henry. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.

Flossie.

Yes Master Archie. I’ll bring him here at once.

Archie.

Oh blast it!

Edith.

Try to keep calm Archie, I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this.

Archie.

I feel such a fool. Rupert said I’d make an ass of myself.

Lord Henry.

Archie. whatever’s the matter?

Archie.

Oh Father. I’m in a bit of a jam. please don’t be cross. I know you said to guard the ring with my life.

Lord Henry.

yes.

Archie.

well it’s gone.

Lord Henry.

Gone?

Archie.

I had it with me at all times. Slept with it on the night table last night. But I opened the box just now to have one last look for luck, and found it was empty!

Lord Henry.

Heavens dear boy!

Edith

Should we call the police?

Lord Henry.

On Christmas Day? Hmmm. No it must be in the house. No-one’s left the house in the last 24 hours so if someone’s taken it it must still be here. I’ll ask Jeffreys to search the servants’ quarters.

Archie.

Do you really think one of the servants took it?

Lord Henry.

I’d like to think not. But it seems a sensible place to start.

Lady Margaret.

Something the matter darling? I wondered where you’d got to.

Lord Henry.

A bit of a situation on our hands. It seems the ring’s been stolen.

Lady Margaret.

Stolen? How’s that possible? You only gave it to Archie yesterday.

Aunt Millicent.

Did I hear correctly that there’s a thief among us? Edith that’s the last straw. I demand that we leave immediately!

Lord Henry.

We request that everybody stays until the ring is found.

Aunt M.

I hope you’re not accusing me of theft dear boy!

Lord Henry.

Of course not Lady Wentworth. We only wish that we all remain together until this is resolved.

Edith.

Please don’t take offence Aunt Millicent. Besides, there won’t be a train until after Boxing Day.

Aunt M.

grunts indignantly.

Murray.

Why is everyone looking so glum? Did Santy-Claus not bring you what you wanted?

Lord Henry.

There’s been a theft. The diamond ring’s been taken.

Imelda.

Taken?

Lord H.

So we ask that everyone keep calm and stay together.

Murray.

Is this a game? I do love a good mystery.

Lord H.

Afraid not dear chum. Archie’s just discovered the ring has gone.

Archie.

I was ever so careful. Didn’t let it out of my sight. Except for when I was sleeping.

Edith.

bursts into tears

This is all so awful. And I was so looking forward to Christmas.

Archie.

Oh you mustn’t cry Edie!

Rupert. (slyly)

At least it’s livened things up.

Jeffreys. (aside to Lord Henry)

Lord Henry, luncheon will be served presently.

Lord Henry.

Very good. Thank you Jeffreys.

Rupert.

Come on then I’m not letting this get in the way of my goose!

Archie.

I say coz! you are being rather heartless.

Rupert.

No need to get shirty. Just famished, that’s all.

Lord Henry.

Ladies and gentlemen. This is a tricky situation to say the least. The police have been called but until they arrive we’d like to carry on as normal. It is Christmas after all. So if you’d care to follow me, luncheon is served.

Imelda. (whispering)

Who’d have thought it? Do you think it’s someone in this room?

Murray. (whispering)

Definitely!

—

SCRATCHING

Morris.

Oo Christmas lunch.

Dorris.

Let’s see if we can catch some crumbs! Boris will be sorry to have missed this.

Morris.

Have you worked out who it was yet?

Doris.

Haven’t the foggiest.

—–

Lady Margaret.

Well I know this is all a bit of a shock. But I wanted to thank you all for joining us this Christmas nonetheless. I’m sure the thief will be caught in time, but until then, I’d like to raise a toast to our guests. Good health!

Lord Henry/Lady M./Archie

Good health!

Rupert.

Nora’s done us proud. This looks magnificent.

Murray.

Funny that you’re so hungry Master Rupert. Oh yes I didn’t see you at breakfast. Late night was it? …Waiting for Archie to fall asleep so that you could CREEP INTO HIS ROOM?!

Rupert.

I beg your pardon.

Archie.

I say dear fellow I hope you’re not accusing Rupert. He may be slovenly but he’s no thief.

Rupert.

Thanks Arch!

Murray.

“The resident black sheep” was how you introduced yourself, the disinherited heir. It all makes sense. You wanted to make a few bucks and get the heck out of here.

Imelda.

Murray dear, what’s come over you? I’m so sorry everyone!

Lady Margaret.

Really Mr Buckley. Please refrain from making accusations.

Murray.

I’m not accusing anyone honey. I’m just speculating to see who here has a motive.

Aunt M.

Well I think it’s quite inappropriate, especially while we’re lunching.

Murray.

Well maybe that’s because you’re not quite as innocent as you look. A seemingly respectable old lady…

Aunt M.

I beg your pardon!

Lord Henry.

Yes steady on dear fellow.

Murray.

But you made it quite clear you didn’t want Edith to have anything to do with Archie.

Aunt M.

This is preposterous!

Murray.

So perhaps you stole the ring to prevent the engagement.

Aunt M.

How dare you!

Lady Margaret.

I must apologise for this Lady Wentworth. Please Mr Buckley you’ve gone too far.

Murray.

Or have I? You changed your tune rather quickly Lady Margaret. Yesterday you were praising Lady Wentworth for preventing the couple from being alone together.

Archie.

Is this true mother?

Murray.

And today you encouraged it, taking us for a viewing of your sculpture, giving Archie the perfect opportunity to propose. Why would you do that unless you knew there would be no proposal?

Lady Margaret.

This is incredible! I refuse to dignify that with an answer.

Lord Henry.

My dear fellow. This really isn’t the time or the place.

Murray.

I haven’t crossed you off the list yet Lord Henry. You complained that there was little excitement in your life, so who’s to say you haven’t set the whole thing up? (having an epiphany) Yes that’s it! You invited me and Meldy along knowing we love a good mystery and planned the whole thing. (excitedly) Honey the whole thing’s a hoax. (realising) Aha! And to prove it… that isn’t your real hair Lady Wentworth. Lady Wentworth is in fact…

Millicent.

high pitched yelp!

Take your hands orf my hair!!

Murray.

Maybe I got a bit carried away there.

Imelda.

Murray you’re embarrassing me.

Jeffreys. (aside to Lord Henry)

Lord Henry, the servants’ quarters have been searched and it hasn’t been found.

Lord Henry.

oh.

Jeffreys

Would you care for the cake now?

Lord Henry.

Thank you Jeffreys.

Murray.

So who’s left? Last but not least, I must come to you my darling. My angel, my honey-bee, love of my life, my sweetness…

Rupert.

Would you hurry up?

Murray.

I know what you’re like babycakes, when you see something, you just gotta have it.

Imelda.

Murray how could you! (bursts into tears)I thought you loved me. And I never even saw the ring.

Murray.

Oh yeah. you’re right. Well then that just leaves (noticing Flossie enter)… yes perfect timing. The maid… Flora or whatever your name is.

Flossie.

Yes sir?

Murray.

I overheard you talking to Jenkins about how hard up your family is. Well a diamond ring could buy a few Christmas dinners could it not?

Flossie.

Pardon sir?

Lord Henry.

Take no notice Flossie. Mr Buckley’s playing detective. We’ve all had a turn.

Flossie.

Well I never! He certainly knows how to insult a girl.

—–

scratching

Boris.

Happy Christmas everyone!

Doris/Morris

Boris!

Boris.

I had such a delicious sleep. Have I missed anything?

Doris.

Have you missed anything?!

Morris.

Quite a lot actually. The ring’s been stolen and now Mr. Buckley is having a go at playing detective.

Boris.

Hold on. Stolen?

Doris.

Yes so far he has accused, Master Rupert, Aunt Millicent, Lady Margaret, Lord Henry, his wife Imelda and Flossie.

Morris.

I wonder who it was.

—

scratch of a record sound effect. RAG-TIME MUSIC

Murray (to listeners).

Who do you think it was?

Was it the jealous cousin, Master Rupert, planning to make some money and run away?

Was it battle-axe, Aunt Millicent, intent on keeping Edith as a companion?

Was it the doting mother, Lady Margaret, convinced that no woman was good enough for her son?

Was it Lord Henry, adding some spice to his dull life?

Was it Imelda Buckley, the girl who just has to have it all?

or was it Flossie, the maid, desperately in need of money to help her starving family?

…or was it one of those pesky mice?

—-

Boris.

I know where it’s hidden.

Morris.

You do?

Boris.

Yes and I’ll show you. (excitedly) Follow me!!

Anti-climactic musical refrain in the style of Laurel and Hardy theme tune as Boris waddles very slowly, as is custom, being so fat

Doris.

Can’t you go any faster Boris?

Boris.

Afraid not.

music cuts and dialogue switches back to regular tempo

Morris.(to Doris)

Oo I wonder where the thief has stashed the swag!

Boris.

All will be revealed.

Morris.

…eventually

Doris.

Boris, you’ve just taken us to the kitchen.

Morris.

Was this just a trick?

Doris.

What are you doing? Come out of the larder. What if Mrs Scratchit catches you?

Morris.

I like that very much, I must say. You’ve brought us all the way down here just so you can fill your tum with Christmas cake.

Doris.

Please stop Boris, you’re making an awful mess of it.

Morris.

We should have known he only thinks about his stomach.

Doris.

Now he’s pulling away at something.

Morris.

Must be a sugared almond…Does look good. I think I’ll tuck in.

Doris.

Do they make golden almonds?

realisation

Morris.

Hold on! Surely not…

Doris.

Is that the…?

Morris.

No. It can’t be…

Boris. (pulling it out of the cake)

The ring my dears!!

Doris/Morris

GASP

Doris/ Morris

Oh I say!/ Well I never!

Morris.

But how did it find its way in there?

Doris.

What a cunning thief!

Boris.

Don’t be silly Doris. There was no thief. This is what I was trying to tell you yesterday, but neither of you would listen.

Morris.

Wait! Someone’s coming…back to the skirting board. Quickly!

—-

Mrs Scratchit.

GASP

Look at me Christmas cake all over the floor!

Scream

A mouse! Gawd help me!

—–

Morris.

Close shave. So what was it you were saying?

Doris.

Yes, how did the ring end up in the cake?

Boris.

It happened yesterday when Archie was showing the ring to Mrs Scratchit. When Flossie ran in she bumped into Archie, causing him to drop it in the mixture. But as everyone was fussing about Edith’s arrival, nobody spotted it. Except me of course.

Morris.

What an observant little rodent you are!

Doris.

Yes, sozzo Bozzo! We’ll know always to listen to you from now on.

Boris.

Not to worry Dolly, but I think we’d better get this ring back to the humans.

Doris.

Edith’ll be pleased.

Morris.

Even if noone else is! laughs

scratching/ running/ breathless

———

back in the dining room.

Mrs Scratchit.

(whispering from doorway)

Pst!! Jeffreys! Jeffreys! may I have a word.

Jeffreys.

Excuse me sir.

Lord Henry.

Ah Mrs Scratchit! Merry Christmas! So glad you’ve appeared, Rupert was just saying how delectable your goose was.

Mrs Scratchit.

(troubled)

Thank you, sir.

Lord Henry.

And now we are all keenly awaiting the pièce de résistance, Mrs Scratchit’s famous Christmas cake. I still have fond memories of last year’s.

Mrs Scratchit.

Well that’s just what I come up here to tell you.

Lady Margaret.

Something the matter Nora? You look like you’ve had a bit of a shock.

Rupert.

Get the girl some brandy.

Mrs Scratchit.

As a matter of fact I ‘ave. Just now I went into the larder to fetch the thing – you know how I like to bring it up meself on Christmas Day.

Lord Henry.

Yes Mrs Scratchit.

Mrs Scratchit.

But you’ll never believe what I found.

Lord Henry.

Oh?

Murray.

Was it a murder weapon?

Mrs Scratchit.

The whole thing ruined. Just a heap of crumbs. And what’s more… a family of mice running in and out of it.

ALL.

gasp!

Mrs Scratchit.

My beautiful cake no longer fit for human consumption!

(aside) You may give it to your mother if you like, Flossie.

Lord Henry.

Catastrophe!

Rupert.

This puts that ring nonsense into perspective. Here, ladies and gentlemen, is a real tragedy!

Imelda. (anxious whisper)

Murray! You know I can’t stand mice.

Murray.

Does that mean there’s no dessert?

Millicent.

Edith! I won’t be made to stay. This place is insanitary!

Imelda.

scream

A mouse!

Lord Henry.

Quick Jeffreys, catch it!

Jeffreys.(wearily)

Very good, sir.

Rupert.

It’s running down the middle of the table.

Imelda.

Murray. Do something!

Millicent.

How ghastly!

Rupert.

It’s heading straight for you Archie.

Edith.

(thrilled scream) It’s jumped in his lap!

Rupert.

Too quick for you, dear boy, it’s darted under the table.

Millicent.

Where did it go? The pest must be located. Who knows what it’s carrying! We’ll all contract the bubonic plague.

Archie.

I say!

Edith.

What is it Arch?

Archie.

You’ll never guess what it’s left behind.

Lady Margaret.

Probably best not to tell us darling.

Archie.

Look everyone…!(holds up the ring)

Lord Henry/ Lady Margaret/ Murray

The ring, egad!/ Golly!/ Geez!

Rupert

Good show!

Imelda

I don’t get it!

Archie

The mouse was carrying the ring in its mouth.

Millicent.

Didn’t I tell you it’d be carrying something (laughs to herself, at first loudly, then lessens as no-one else joins in).

Rupert.

Well fancy that. That really was entertaining!

Lady Margaret.

Well I never!

Archie

Now, where was I? (takes a breath)….Miss Edith Harvey would you do me the greatest honour of being my wife?

Edith.

Oh Archie! You’ve made me the happiest girl alive.

Aunt Millicent.

I think you’d better wash that first my child. Can’t have you contracting something before your wedding day!

Edith

Thank you Aunt Millicent!

Rupert.

Aren’t you going to give my new coz-in-law a kiss?

Archie.

Right-o!

Imelda.

Oh Murray! I do love happy endings. It’s like being at the movies.

Murray.

I know you do honey-bunch.

Lord Henry.

Jeffreys, time for the champagne I think. And Flossie is it true about your family going without this Christmas?

Flossie.

Yes sir.

Lord Henry.

Well we’ve enough to feed an army. I’ll make sure a hamper is sent to their home post-haste.

Flossie.

Oh thank you sir. You don’t know what that’ll mean to them.

Lord Henry.

Don’t mention it. Thanks Jeffreys.

Happy Christmas everyone! To Edith and Archie!

All.

Edith and Archie.

Church Bells chime.

—–

Doris.

I’m so glad that all worked out.

Morris.

Me too.

Boris.

Listen to this, I’ve got a joke…

Morris.

Go on.

Boris.

What do angry mice send at Christmas?

Doris.

I don’t know. What do angry mice send at Christmas?

Boris.

Cross-Mouse Cards! get it?

Morris and Doris.

giggle

RAG TIME CAROL PLAYS OUT

THE END

Download the audio, Right click, Save as

Prince Bertie the Frog has always considered himself to be something of a comedian. His speciality is penguin jokes. He is delighted when he is asked to do a Christmas Eve performance of his stand-up comedy act at a pond in a neighbouring kingdom.

Bertie and Tim the Tadpole plan to fly back to their own pond in time for Christmas Day. Unfortunately, snow and fog is disrupting all the transport. They find themselves at a bus depot with a motley collection of creatures, including a penguin.

Pictures for Storynory by Ivana Nohel. Click Pictures to enlarge
Read by Natasha
Story by Bertie

Hello, this is Natasha, and I’m delighted to wish you a very happy Christmas for the sixth year of Storynory. A big thank you to all our listeners, especially those who have been with us since the very beginning. And now, I would like to hand you over to our host, Prince Bertie the Frog who has been polishing his stand up comedy act lately..

[Play up Music - Jazzy Christmas Carol - and fade]

Bertie’ voice in slightly echo-y microphone… touch of feedback

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Tadpoles and frogs, birds and fish…. Insects and creepy crawlies, it’s an honour to be with you tonight of all nights, Christmas Eve, and I mean that most sincerely, folks.

Here’s a little story about a man who had 12 penguins in the back of his car. A policeman stopped him and said, ” I say, I say I say, it’s against the law to drive penguins around in the back of you car. You must take them to the zoo.”

And the man said, “I am sorry officer. I promise to take my penguins to the zoo right away.”

The next day, the same man took the 12 penguins for a drive again. This time he dressed them in dark sun glasses and swimming trunks. The policeman stopped him at the roundabout and said: “You can’t fool me with that disguise. You promised yesterday to take those penguins to the zoo.” And the man said:

“Yes officer. I did take them to the zoo. That was yesterday. Today I’m taking them to the beach”.

[Canned Laughter...... ]

Natasha’s Narrator voice….

And that was a little taste of Bertie the Frog’s sense of humour. As you may know, Bertie loves to tell jokes. His speciality is penguin jokes like that one. Opinions are divided about how funny they are. Some people, like Tim the Tadpole, think they are hilarious. Others, like Colin the Carp, think they are about as amusing as a toe caught in the door – or perhaps that should be a fin.

One Christmas, Bertie was really thrilled to be invited to do his stand up comedy act in front of the entire pond. Only, it wasn’t the usual pond where he lives. He was invited abroad – to the next door Kingdom – to perform in front of all the Posh Pondlife who lived in the palace pond over there. He and Tim the Tadpole sneaked on board an aeroplane inside the handbag of an out-of-work princess who was flying home for Christmas. When she arrived home at her palace, she was rather surprised to see a green frog hop out of her handbag. She didn’t even notice that there was a tiny little tadpole hiding inside his armpit.

Bertie made his way down to the water’s edge in time to do his act. All the pondlife at the next door Kingdom really loved his penguin jokes. His biggest fan of all was a happy Carp called Caroline who asked him to marry her -but he couldn’t accept, because he was already engaged to the lovely Princess Beatrice.

Unfortunately, Bertie could not stay for the stage party, because he had to fly home to his own pond in time for Christmas. He and Tim hitched a lift to the airport on the back of a duck who flew them to Departure Terminal. They hid among the suitcases of the Christmas holiday makers, and anxiously watched the flight information screens. Most of the flights were marked “Delayed” in red letters.

“Oh dear,” said Bertie, “I think we are in for a bit of a wait.”

“Never mind,” said Tim, “We can buy last minute Christmas presents. I’ll get some duty free slime for Uncle Joe , and a box of chocolate covered dead flies for Colin.”

“I don’t think that we can get those here,” said Bertie, “You need a boarding pass to buy anything at the airport. ”

“Oh,” said Tim.

A little later, there was a rather disappointing announcement over the Tannoy.

“We regret to inform you that all fights are cancelled due to exceptionally heavy snow and thick fog. Passengers are advised to continue their journey as best they can, by car, bus or foot. Royal United Airports would like to wish you a very happy Christmas.”

The passengers looked glum, and some prepared to spend Christmas night sleeping on the floor of the airport. Bertie said: “We don’t have a car, or a bus pass, and it’s too far to hop on foot.”

“I know!” declared Tim. And Bertie sighed, because he expected that his little friend was about to say something exceptionally stupid. But Tim surprised him with a really good idea: “Let’s take the train.”

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Bertie. “I love trains. When I was a prince I used to drive one… but that’s a story for another time.”

There was a station right at the airport, and Bertie and Tim managed to hop onto a train almost right away. They would have to change at Doncaster, but otherwise it was a straight-forward journey home. They settled in to the first class buffet, where they hid inside a cupboard, and started to munch on a mince pie and a fruit cake.

“Oh dear! Will we miss Santa?” asked Tim, anxiously, as the train came to a halt about 15 minutes down the track.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Bertie, “You’ll be home just in time to open your presents.”

Back on the pond Sadie the Swan was singing a Christmas carol for all the pondlife:

God rest you merry, Gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay,
For Jesus Christ our Saviour
Was born upon this Day.
To save us all from Satan’s power,
When we had gone astray.
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy.

But her heart wasn’t quite in the Christmas celebrations – The festive mood did not come easily when she was worried about absent friends.

“Tish, Tish,” she said, “Bertie and Tim should be back by now. Something must have happened….”

“You’re right,” said Colin, “I expect the audience killed them for telling such terrible penguin jokes.”

“Oh Colin, don’t be so horrid,” said Sadie, who was now more upset than ever.

“Well they probably just got delayed by the fog,” suggested Colin. “They might be late for Christmas, but they will be back, unfortunately, I guarantee..”

“But if Bertie’s not here, who will be our Santa and hand out all the presents?” fretted Sadie. “Only Bertie knows where they are all hidden.”

“Well that’s typical,” grumped Colin, “Trust a frog to mess up everyone’s Christmas.”

….

The frog in question was on the move again, only very slowly. The train heaved and hoed into a station before clanking to a halt. The guard walked through the corridor calling, “All Change, Everybody out – you can’t sleep here. Sir, up you get…. Happy Christmas Ma’m ‘fraid this train’s cancelled. Too much snow on the tracks…”

“Can’t a train get through a bit of snow,” complained a very stressed-looking man.

“No, no, sir,” said the guard. “It’s the wrong type of snow.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Regulations,” said the guard. “Nothing I can do about it. Now….. just step out the front of the station. The bus stop is on the right hand side.”

Bertie, with Tim in on his back, hopped off the train and onto the dark platform. The only light came from a flickering neon bulb in the waiting room. “Brr it’s cold,” said Tim, “And rather creepy.”

“Yes, we’d better find that bus,” agreed Bertie.

“Where can we buy a ticket?” asked Tim.

“You won’t need a ticket little Tim,” said Bertie. “You’re under 12 weeks old. Kids go free. And tonight, so do frogs. The important thing is not to get trodden on.”

Just then, a little boy called out:

“Oh look mummy, there’s a frog. I’m going to stamp on him.”

“Don’t be so unkind,” said his mother. “Frogs have a right to live too you know, especially at Christmas.” Bertie wanted to add “Here here, well spoken,” but he wasn’t taking any chances and he hopped off as fast as he could.

The driver wanted everyone to buy a bus ticket. The passengers, who had already paid for air and train tickets, were in no mood to pay again, and were arguing with him.

“The airline should stump up for this bus”, said a man with a moustache.

“And give us compensation. They’ve ruined our Christmas,” added his wife.

“You should have read the terms and conditions on the website,” said the driver. “No refunds for delays on account of the wrong type of snow.”

This bickering gave Bertie and Tim the perfect chance to climb on board, unseen, and hide under a seat.

The driver, who also wanted to get home for Christmas, finally relented and let everyone on the bus without paying. They drove down a dark road for about twenty minutes and came to a halt.

“Right-oh, everyone off, this is the end of the line,” said the driver.

“What do you mean the end of the line? We’ve got to get Doncaster.” said the lady who had been complaining earlier on.

“Doncaster?” laughed the driver. “That’s miles away.”

“Well we shan’t budge,” said the lady. “Come one everybody let’s stage a sit-in.” There were cheers and grunts up and down the bus.

“Fine by me,” said the Driver. “I’m off home for Christmas. You can sleep in the bus if you like.”

And he left.

The passengers were furious, and started to shout at the driver, but he was already gone. Some people complained. Some people settled down for a Christmas night on the bus seats. Others climbed out to breath some air that was more than just a bit fresh, it was cold enough to chill a penguin.

“Bertie,” said Tim, “Where are we?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Bertie.

“Oh,” he sniffed, “We shall miss Christmas after all.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Bertie. “You can’t miss Christmas. It’s everywhere. We’ll have it here. Let’s see what sort of a place this is.”

They found a hole in the floor of the bus, just by the brake pedal, jumped down, and landed softly in the snow. It was very dark. Large shadows loomed around them.

“Are they monsters?” asked Tim timidly.

“No they’re buses,” said Bertie. “I expect this is some sort of depot. Listen, I can hear a duck quacking. Perhaps there’s a nice cosy pond hereabouts.

And they moved off in the direction of the quack. But they didn’t find a pond. Only a sort of left luggage office, with suitcases and, crates, and parcels that had not made it to their destinations in time for Christmas. They found their way in through a mousehole in the wall.

“I’m sure that quack came from in here,” said Bertie.

“QUACK!”

“There it is a again!”

“HONK!”

“And I do believe that was a goose!”

“Of course I’m a goose,” said a goosey sort of voice.

And in the thin moonlight that came through the window, Bertie saw that there was a duck and a goose, both sitting in crates.

“We’re stuck here for Christmas,” said the Duck,

“That’s a coincidence, because so are we,” said Tim.

“MUUUURRRR !” it’s not at all nice,” said a cat, who was abandoned inside a cat carrier, “People are so inconsiderate. They are sitting at home stuffing themselves with cooked birds – I beg your pardon – and here we are shivering at the station, living gifts that got lost in the post.”

“Well well,” said Bertie, “What an odd collection of lost souls we are.”

“Speak for yourself,” said an even more peculiar voice.

“Who’s that?” asked Bertie, “I can’t see so well in the dark.”

“I’m a penguin,” said the voice,”On my way to the zoo, but abandoned here because of the ice and snow. I love ice and snow, but I can’t get out of this wretched cage and enjoy it.”

“Ha Ha!” said Bertie, “This is really funny- peculiar. I know loads of penguin jokes, but I’ve never met a real live penguin before. Do you know this one… What do penguins have for lunch?”

“No I don’t,” said the Penguin.

“Iceberg-ers!, HA ! HA!” exclaimed Bertie.

“That’s not funny,” said the Penguin.

“Hey what do you call a penguin in the desert?….. Lost ! HA HA.”

“Oh Bertie that’s the funniest one yet,” exclaimed Tim. And the duck, the goose and the cat started to chuckle, not so much at the joke, but because the penguin was getting really cross – and a cross penguin is quite a funny sight.

Now, at the pond, Sadie was not able to sleep. She was getting her feathers in a fret about her friends. In fact, if the truth be told, even Colin was a little worried, though he would never have said so.

“Oh Colin, They should have been back hours ago,” she said sadly. “how would we ever know if something terrible had happened to them?”

“Well expect we’d hear eventually from one of those birds,” said Colin, “They always have the news.”

And as it happened, a thirsty sparrow was nearby, pecking at the ice on the pond.

“Hey Dicky Bird,” said Colin, “What’s the latest gossip?”

“Oh haven’t you heard?, it’s all over Twitter,” he replied.

“I wouldn’t know anything that’s all over Twitter,” said Colin, “Because I’m a fish… duhh.”

“Well,” said the bird, “They’re tweeting about a frog who is telling hilarious penguin jokes to a collection of birds and animals. One of them’s a penguin and he’s getting really cross. They say it’s really funny. I’m just flying off there to see.”

“Oh how can we thank you enough!” said Sadie. “That must be Bertie!”

“No it can’t be,” said Colin, “Bertie’s jokes aren’t funny. It must be some other frog if they are laughing.”

But Sadie was already flapping her great black wings and asking the sparrow for directions. He pointed her in the direction of the remote bus depot, some miles away, and she went skidding over the ice and soared into the air. High up in the sky, she saw that there were indeed flocks of birds heading the same way – all wanting to join the audience for the hilarious Christmas show. When Sadie landed at the depot, quite a crowd was gathered on the roof and at the windows.

“I say, I say I say..” Bertie was saying….”Why did the Penguin cross the road….? er, oh, I’ve forgotten that one. UM…. it must be getting late.” And he looked under his arm, and saw that little Tim was already asleep.

“Well boys, birds, gulls, gals and everyone else…. you’ve been a lovely audience, but I’m afraid that’s it for tonight. Happy Christmas!”

And Sadie said:

“Oh Bertie. You were wonderful. Happy Christmas.”

“By Jove, Sadie, I didn’t know you were in the audience ! ”

“I just got here,” said Sadie,”Your fame is travelling far and wide. Hop on my back. I’ll fly you and Tim home for Christmas.”

And unlike most of the transport that Christmas night, Sadie’s private flight did not break down, get cancelled by fog, or stop in some remote depot. Of course there was one other carrier that was flying that night – and that was pulled by reindeer… Bertie spotted the famous sleigh, and he called out:

“Hey Santa. There are some lost animals abandoned in the bus depot down there. Perhaps you could go and cheer them up”

“Yo Ho Ho!” replied Santa. “Presents on the way.”

And that was the story of Bertie, lost at Christmas.

I do hope that you enjoyed. Don’t forget there are loads more stories on Storynory.com

Bertie and all the pond life would like to wish you a very merry Christmas!

(Jazzy God Rest You Merry Gentlemen licensed from Premium Beat)

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“Trust is the glue of friendship.”

When friends do not trust each other, they both fall into trouble. The fox and the wolf live together, but the wolf is a bully, and secretly the fox hates him. They both find themselves at the bottom of a trap set by a man. Their only hope of escape is to trust one another. Can a wolf trust a fox? And vice versa?

Read by Elizabeth.
Adapted by Bertie from the 1001 nights.
Duration 18 minutes.

The Wolf and the Fox, from the 1001 Nights

Praise be to Allah, Sherehezade is married to the Sultan Sharyar. He says to her: “My eloquent Queen, I love stories about animals: although they live apart from us, their friendships and fights are like ours in so many ways. There is much wisdom to be had from tales of their world.”

And Sherehezade replied, “Oh Great One, you are right to say that there is much we can learn from the Animal Kingdom. And one such story comes to my mind. It is a tale of betrayal and trust. It is a story about The Wolf and the Fox. ”

And the Sultan rested his head on his hand, and stretched out on the couch to listen to her story.

The Wolf and the Fox had so much in common that they were like brothers. They both loved to steal and to hunt, but given the choice, they would always prefer to steal. These two strong-pawed bandits of the animal world lived together in one den. But the Wolf was far bigger and more powerful than the fox, and he thought himself to be the better of the pair. The Fox, though smaller, knew that he was much smarter than the wolf, and he resented the way that the Wolf always acted like he was the Big Boss.

One day, as they sat in the sun outside their cave, the Fox said to the Wolf:

“My friend. You are like a brother to me. So let me give you some kind advice. Mend your ways. Be a bandit no more. Do not steal from the Son of Adam again”. (By the Son of Adam he meant Man).

The Wolf turned his great head to his friend, and lifted up one shaggy ear. The Fox went on:

“I know how you love to creep into man’s vineyard, dig up his vines, and eat his grapes. I know how you like to jump into his fields and steal his lambs. I also see how he hates you for this, and how he is planning your destruction. You would be wise to fear him for he is full of cunning. He knows how to shoot birds down from the sky, how to lift fish from the water, how to burn wood, and how to cut up rocks. Someone that smart is bound to out-wit one like you eventually. So do as I advise: Make peace with the Son of Adam, and steal from him no more.”

The Wolf listened, and he did not welcome these words, for he felt deep down that the Fox was insulting him. Did he mean to hint that he was just a bit stupid? Or at any rate, he realised that the Fox thought himself to be far cleverer than him. And so he lifted up his great paw, and punched his friend hard in the face. The poor animal went rolling over and over and was quite stunned. When he staggered back to his feet the Wolf growled at him:

“It is not for you to advise your betters.”

It took the Fox a moment or two to recover himself. When he could manage a smile he said softly: “Of course, you are right Brother Wolf. Forgive me. I am full of regret for my sin against you, whom I love more than any other creature in the world.”

And the Wolf looked him up and down, saw that the Fox was fittingly afraid of him, and added in a stern voice:

“Learn from this lesson. Don’t poke your nose into other people’s business.”

The Fox bowed his head and said:

“To hear your voice is to obey, my brother.”

“That’s more like it,” said the Wolf. “At least those were wise words said in the right place.”

“Oh yes,” said the Fox, more humbly than ever, “As the poet once said, the blow of a teacher is at first hurtful, but in the end it is sweeter than honey.”

And from that time on, he was always careful to show the Wolf the greatest respect, and to flatter him whenever possible. But inwardly he hated the tyrant, and was looking for the chance to take his revenge. The months passed, and the Wolf forgot all about the incident, but the Fox did not. One day, he was skulking along the wall of the vineyard, looking for a way to sneak in and steal some grapes, when he found a hole large enough for a fox – even for a wolf – to creep through.

At first he was delighted, and then he thought to himself, “This is to good to be true. I think The Son of Adam is plotting something here.” And he stretched through the hole and gently tapped the ground on the other side with his paw. It was just as he thought. The man had laid sticks and leaves across a deep pit. It was a trap to catch a thief.

“Praised be Allah that I have found this cunning trap!” said the Fox happily, “And may my enemy the Wolf fall straight into it !” And he ran back to the den with a spring in his step.

“Good news,” he said as the Wolf was just shaking off his sleep. “I have found an easy way into the vineyard. You can sneak in and fill your belly with man’s juicy grapes. The ripe fruit is shining on the vines, ready for you to eat.”

The Wolf had no reason to doubt the Fox’s words, and he went trotting off to the vineyard in search of a delicious and easy breakfast. He found the hole in the wall, just where the Fox had told him to look, and he easily crawled through it – but on the other side he fell through the sticks and leaves tumbled straight down into the the trap. The Fox saw his friend’s misfortune, and he was jubilant.

“At last fortune has taken pity on me! Greed has pulled the Wolf down to his doom!”

And with tears in his eyes, he peered over the edge of the pit and saw the sorrowful Wolf looking up at him:

“My one true friend,” said the Wolf, “I see that you are crying for me.”

“No! Not one bit !” laughed the Fox. “I am crying because I am thinking how long you lived before this day, and I am sad because you didn’t fall into this deep hole sooner.”

These cruel words stunned and hurt the wolf even more than his fall had done. Quite shocked, he replied:

“In the name of Allah, have mercy on your brother. Go and speak to my mother. She will know what to do and will bring help.”

But the Fox was quite unmoved by the Wolf’s plea. He snarled up his muzzle to show his yellow teeth and said:

“You stupid, witless beast, why should I help you who have been a tyrant over me?”

“But, but” pleaded the Wolf, “You have always protested your love for me. You have sworn to be my servant. You have promised to look after me, even in my old age. How can you turn against me like this?”

“Oh you deluded, self-deceiving fool,” jeered the Fox, “That was my fear talking, not my heart. In truth I hate you for you are a bully and a brute.”

Still unable to fully believe these words, the Wolf, half thinking that his friend was joking, said, “I pray, Do not speak to me with the tongue of an enemy. Do not look at me with the eyes of a foe. For the wise poet spoke well when he said: ‘Forgiveness is noble, and kindness is the best of treasures’.”

“Oh now you beg and scrape,” said the Fox, “But that is only because you are down there in the dark hole, and I am up here in the sun.”

“If you rescue me from this pit, I shall repent my ways!” howled the Wolf. But the Fox just laughed at him.

And at last the Wolf realised that his former friend truly did hate him, that there was no hope in him helping him, and all was lost. He began to weep and howl more piteously ever.

Now, even the Fox had a place in his heart that was not either filled with hatred or cunning, At last he was moved by the fate of the Wolf. He went over to the hole and said:

“My friend. Why are you crying so? I was only joking when I said those words. Here, pull on my tail and heave yourself out.” And so saying he dangled his red bushy tail into the hole for the Wolf to take hold of. But the Wolf, full of dumb desire for revenge, did not make use of the tail to save himself. Instead, he seized it, pulled the Fox down into the hole with him, and growled triumphantly:

“So now you have fallen into the snare of your own intent, you traitor, and in it, you shall share my fate!”

The Fox, full of fear, began to beg and scrape: “Oh Brave and powerful master, do not strike me and kill me now, or you will not benefit from my plan and we shall both die here. Is it not better that we should both save ourselves?”

The Wolf, already feeling a little calmer, began to regret that he had not saved himself when he had the chance, and he asked:

“And how exactly do you propose to save us?”

“Easy,” said the Fox, “Lift me up on your head, and I can scramble out of this pit. I will run and fetch a vine to use as a rope to help you climb out.”

But the Wolf shook his shaggy head and said: “Oh Fox, I respect you for never giving up, but I am not the fool you take me to be. As the poet said, ” The worst of enemies is your nearest friend. Greet him with a smiling face, but be ready to do battle with him.” And that is why I do not trust your words. No. It would be a bad thing for me to die here alone. You shall wait here with me, and we shall die together when the man comes and finds us trapped here.”

“Wise words,” said the Fox, “But not for every case. It cannot be right to always be suspicious. Trust is the glue of friendship. Without trust, each one of us is on his own. Without Trust there can be no working together. The choice is yours. Trust me or die. What have you to lose? For if you do not trust me, your number’s up anyway.”

Now the Wolf, who of course did hope to live, saw that he had little to lose by helping the Fox, and he lifted him up on his head. The Fox grasped at the edge of the hole with his claws, got a hold of a vine, and scrambled up into the daylight.

“Be sure to keep your word,” called up the Wolf, “Run and fetch that rope and pull me out.”

“Ha! HA!” cried, the Fox, Not a Chance! If I help you out, you will take your revenge and kill me. ” And he ran off up the hill towards the village. There he started to make a great din, so much so that the man came out holding a rake in his hand. He saw the Fox and started to chase him. The Fox turned and ran, meaning to lead him to the pit where he would find the wolf and kill him. But as he ran, the fox thought: “Is it not sad that we are all alone in this world, and can trust no one.”

And when he reached the pit, he dangled his tail down into the hole once again and said:

“Wolf, quick, pull yourself out by my tail. If you drag me down into the pit once again, we are both dead, because the man is no more than a minute away. Be wise. See that we are joined together by our common enemy. Either we live or die together.”

And the Wolf, seeing that he had but one chance to live, pulled himself out by the Fox’s tail and ran for the woods. The Fox ran too, but in a different direction, because he did not wish to debate trust and suspicion with the Wolf again. There was too much danger in that discussion.

And as Sherehezade reached the end of her story, the light of morning began to creep in through the window.

“That was truly a wonderful and instructive story,” said the Sultan. “How right I was when I said that we have much to learn from stories of the animals.”

“Your instructions were indeed wise’, said Sherehezade, ‘and if you shall spare my life today, tomorrow night I will tell you another tale even more wonderful. And the Sultan, who delighted in her stories, could hardly wait for the next of the 1001 nights.

And that was the story of the Fox and the Wolf. We don’t quite have a 1001 stories on Storynory.com yet, but we do have several hundred free audio tales, and they should be enough to keep you going for quite a while. So be like the Sultan, and listen to a Story every night.

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The Sun is our narrator for these three stories adapted from Aesop’s Fables. He looks down on the Earth and sees all the human folly. He tells us the tale of the Milkmaid whose head is full of dreams. Then he relates the famous story of Juno and the Peacock about a bird who wants magnificent feathers. And his last story features himself and the North Wind.

As ever, these charming tales by Aesop come with morals for life.

Kindly sponsored by Audible. Claim your special offer here.

Read by Natasha.
Adapted by Bertie
Pictures by Milo Winter
Duration 12.10.

In the morning I am soft and gentle. In the middle of the day, I am harsh and white. When the evening comes, I rest my red head on the mountains. Yes, as you have probably guessed by now, I am the sun.

All day long, I look down on the Earth and I see all the things that go on – all the wisdom – and the folly – but mostly the folly. As for the things that go bump in the night – I don’t see any of those – but I hear all the best gossip from my pretty lady friend, the moon.

From my vantage point, I can’t help but see a few juicy stories unfold. I will tell you three of them today, and with the help of the Great storyteller, Aesop, I shall give you a moral for each of them.

The Milkmaid

My first tale is of a milkmaid. Only yesterday, I Looked down and caught sight of her – I did not fail to notice how pretty she was. I watched her going along the lane with a pail of milk on her head. I shone brightly for the lovely girl, and my rays set off her blond hair and made her heart happy. I could see that she was chatting away to nobody but herself. I tuned in my ear and listened to what she was saying:

“This lovely creamy milk will give me plenty of butter to churn,” she said, “Yes, I will make the best butter, and I will take it to market. I will get a good price for my butter, and with the money I make, I will buy a lot of eggs for hatching. How nice it will be when the yard is full of fine young chicks! Then, when May Day comes I will sell the hens, and with the money I’ll buy a lovely new dress for the fair. All the young men will look at me. They will come and try out their smooth talk on me , —but I shall very quickly send them about their business!”"

She smiled , as she thought of the witty one-liners that she would deliver to all the smooth-talking young men. And as she imagined the scene, she tossed her head scornfully. But oh ! Down fell the pail – and out spilled the milk onto the ground. The white creamy liquid trickled into the ditch, and with it, the pretty maid’s day dreams – her butter, her profit, her chickens, her eggs, her new dress, and her vain young men – all disappeared into the ground.

I looked down on all this and tried not to smile at the poor milkmaid’s misfortune. But I could not help remembering the words of a wise old lady : Don’t count your chickens before they are hatched. It’s a  very valuable lesson in life.

Juno and The Peacock

My next story is about the Peacock. He is the most royal of birds – or so he thinks.. When I shine down with my bright rays, [ We are keeping the Sun in the Story] he loves to open up his feathers to show off all his wonderful colours. How he gleams with emerald gold, purple, and azure ! Why, he is so shining, that he considers himself a worthy rival to me ! But he was not always so bright and beautiful. Once, long ago, he was just an ordinary, dusty sort of farmyard bird. This bothered him, for in his heart, he longed for greatness. His life abruptly changed when, one day, as he was pecking grass by the lake, he met the goddess Juno. He knew that his chance for transformation had come .

“Divine Juno, lovely goddess,” he said, “Why are my feathers so plain and ordinary? I want to be beautiful. I long for everyone to admire me. In fact, I want to be the most indisputably magnificent bird in the world. You are a goddess. You can do this for me in an instant. If you work your will, even the Emperor will admire and envy me . I pray, Dear Goddess – make me magnificent.”

Juno looked at the dull and ordinary bird and thought, “How vain and pretentious he is! I will give him what he wants, but I will teach him a lesson.”

When the peacock next saw his reflection in the water, he realised that she had granted his wish – for he was beautiful beyond his dreams. His feathered tail was more magnificent than the tapestry that hung behind the Emperor’s throne. The other birds gathered round to admire him – and how he strutted up and down like a king ! And how he patronised all the scruffy farmyard birds – the hens, the geese, the ducks, and other such riff-raff !

But the the other birds were not gazing at him, as he thought they should. They were looking up into the sky. He too looked up, and he saw how the powerful, and kingly eagle span out his wings, and soared high into the heavens – so high that he flew up to wish me Good Morning through the clouds.

Who could doubt that the eagle was the most royal of all the birds? Not the Ducks and the Geese who squawked in homage to the soaring king.

“Pa,” said the Peacock, “I will fly even higher.” He lifted his wings – but they were heavy and weighed down with decorative feathers. Yes, he looked wonderful, but the sly goddess had made him pay a price for his beauty – he could not longer fly.

“Hmmm”, I thought, as I looked down. “That peacock is all show”. There’s an important lesson here. It’s not only feathers that make fine birds. Oh yes, there is a good the moral in this tale: Don’t harm your strength and your health for the sake of beauty.

The Wind & The Sun

And my last story features a truly radiant character. This, if you will permit me, is a story about myself. I have a rather gusty friend called the North Wind. I was watching in amusement one day how he tormented a man who was walking along the road. He was trying to blow the man’s hat off, and how he huffed and he puffed with all his might. But the man was wise to him, and he held his hat firmly down on his head.

I laughed: “Ho ho North Wind. That man’s got one up on you.”

“Well I bet you can’t do any better,” hissed the North Wind testily.

“I bet I can,” I said. And I shone down with my warmest, most health-giving rays. The man felt gladness as he walked along. He smiled. And then he took his hat off to cool his head.

“There you see,” I said, “Gentle and kind persuasion win where force and bluster fail.”

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Do you think animals should wear clothes? Let us know when you have listened to this amusing poem. It tells the story of Albert Orangutan, who is a very fashionable ape.

Read by Richard Scott.

Written by Glenn Lawrence for Storynory.

Original Pictures for Storynory by Sophie Green.

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On a routine mission to the moon, Astropup finds the Moon Dog who hands him the Key to the Universe. Our hero’s first instinct is to share the key with his human masters. His commander, the Parrot Major, says that the secret is far too important and powerful to be given to such an untrustworthy species as people. The situation presents a dilema for Astropup.

In this story we will here a slightly unusual version of Pandora’s Box.

With four original pictures for Storynory by Nick Hayes. Nick’s book, The Rime of the Modern Mariner, is reviewed here by the Guardian.

Read by Richard. Story by Bertie. Duration 27 Min.

This is Richard, and I am here to introduce the latest instalment in our canine space adventure, Astropup. If you have heard the earlier stories, you will know that Astropup tells them in his own words. So, if you will just hang on for a moment, let me adjust the microphone stand down to dog level.

Thank you Richard. This story is about a moral dilemma. A moral dilemma is when an animal, or a bird, or a person… or perhaps even a fish… and I suppose we should not entirely dismiss insects and creepy crawlies… has to look deep into his or her soul and ask is it more right to do this – or is it more right to do that? This or that? Left or Right? Up or Down ? Sometimes both ways are a bit wrong… and a bit right… so which way do you go?

I had this moral dilemma while on a routine mission to the moon. As you know, by the standards of the universe, it’s little more than a skip and a jump to the moon – a mere 240,000 miles. The humans gave me a special probe to take there. It was a gizmo that measured moisture, and temperature, and ultra-sonic thingies, and solar whatnots, and all sorts of clever stuff. Some smart-Alec scientist made it in the shape of a bone to encourage me to bury it. My comrade the parrot, who came along with me, thought that was very funny.

Our Lunar Module touched down on the moon nice and soft-like. After two days cooped up in that tin can, I was desperate to go space walkies, and I wasn’t going to hang around while the parrot put me on a lead. I bounded out of the hatch and out onto the moon. Soon I found myself bouncing around like a rubber ball. On the moon, you take a little leap and you fly forward about twelve feet. It’s great fun.

“RRRRWOOF ! ” I barked with glee.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” squawked the Parrot Major, adding, “Dunderhead.” He was never the politest of birds. And yes, I realised that I had. Of course, I had left the bone-shaped space probe behind in the ship. I used my tail as a rudder to try and steer myself round and back to our craft, but it had no effect, and I just kept bouncing in the wrong direction.

“Help!!! I can’t stop!” I called out. The parrot came hopping after me, but not nearly fast enough to catch me up.

I must have bounced uncontrollably for about a mile or so before I finally came to an abrupt halt in a shallow crater. It was most disconcerting, and I wondered if I would ever find my way back. I looked around and every direction looked a bit the same – all covered in dusty old rocks – and I wasn’t even sure which way I had come.

“Oh dear”, I said. “Oh dear oh dear!” I am doomed to die on this forsaken moon! Awe, Awe, Awe AWEOOOOOOOOOO!!”"

The strangest thing was, I heard my voice echoing back.

“AWEOOOOOOOOOO!!”

Only, I wasn’t quite sure that it was my voice, because I think I know what I sound like, and that wasn’t quite it. And then I heard a “Woof Woof Woof ! ” and I knew that wasn’t me, because I hadn’t woofed at all.

That was a moment of great excitement, when I realised that I was not the only dog on the moon. I peered over in the direction of a hill and I saw the unmistakable silhouette of one of my own kind. He was pointing his muzzle in the air and baying at the the planet Earth. Soon I was taking giant lunar leaps in the direction of the dog. I could hear the parrot squawking over the radio.

“Wrong Way! Come back here you dumb pootch!”

But I took not a jot of notice. I was heading for a close encounter with my own kind. It was no trouble to climb a hill on the moon. I just bounded up. Now I was close to the moon dog, I could see he had grey hairs around his nose. He was an indistinct breed – just a dog sort of dog. But the strangest thing was that he was breathing the thin air of the moon without an oxygen mask. Later on, the parrot explained how that was impossible, and said that I must have dreamed that part of the story – but I swear to you now on my master’s grave that it was true. He greeted me in the traditional way, with the quick sniff around the hind quarters: I was unable to return the courtesy as I had a glass helmet wrapped around my face. We both wagged our tails. So far so good. But would I understand his woof? I was pleasantly surprised when he said clearly, and without an accent.

“I have been waiting for you these past 2000 years.”

“Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry if I’m late.”

“No,” said he, “You are right on time. I must give you this.” And so saying he scratched at the moon dust with his paw and revealed a small golden object.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is,” said he, “the key to the universe.”

There was much more that I wanted to ask, but I was unable to do so, for they were his last words. He curled around, tucked his nose under his paw, and settled into eternal sleep.

Needless to say, I was deeply moved. … Here I had found proof of a higher canine intelligence, only to see him pass away to the great park from which no dog returns. Moments like those are the tears of the universe.

I think if I had not brought the key back in my mouth, the parrot would have assumed that I had made the whole story up. But there it was. I dropped it on the floor of the Lunar Module – the golden proof that I was neither doggy-dreaming nor fibbing.

“What’s that?” he squawked

“It is”, I said gravely, “They Key to the Universe.”

“Ohh,” said the Major, “I see. Well if you’re not as dumb as you look, you’ll keep that strictly to yourself and not tell the humans.”

“And Why should I do that?” I asked.

“Because,” he said, “It’s way too valuable to entrust to mankind.” I have to say that these words jarred in my ears somewhat. The heart of every dog beats to the drum of loyalty to his or her master. I had one master, my dear Jenny, who looked after me when I was at home on shore leave. But I had another when I was working for the Space Force. Yes, I had to admit that even up there on the moon, I felt that I was still mankind’s best friend. I tried to explain my moral dilemma to the parrot as best as I could, and he retorted:

“Don’t give me ManKind’s Best Friend. You’re Mankind’s Best Slave more like.” I could see that he was still angry with the humans for court marshalling him, a sorry story which you no doubt have heard in the episode entitled “The Parrot Who Betrayed the World”.

“Well anyway,” I said, “It’s just a key – what’s all the fuss about?”

“Ah,” said the Parrot, “It’s not just any old key. This key will open Pandora’s Box.”

“Panda’s Box?” I gruffed quizzically.

“Pandora’s Box, cloth ears,” said the Parrot. Now the parrot of course, was the brainiest bird I have ever known, apart from of course, the wise old owl who commanded the Ship of Birds, but that’s another story which perhaps you’ve heard. My friend the Parrot Major spent every spare moment stuffing knowledge and learning into every cell of his bird brain. And so it was not entirely surprising that he knew the story of the key to the Universe.

“It’s an ancient legend. Long ago, on the slopes of Mount Olympus in Greece, a shepherd dog found a metal box. Like the slave he was, he took it up in his mouth and tail wagging he brought it to his master as a present. On the box was written the name, Pandora, which means, gift of God. The shepherd tried to open the box, but it was locked firmly shut. He took it to his friend the blacksmith, who put it on his anvil and bashed it with all his might with his heaviest hammer, but still the box would not break or open or even dent. The box was indestructible. So next, the too friends took the box to a famous Oracle who could communicate with the gods. She told them that the box contained the secrets of the Universe, but to open it, they would need the golden key, which, she said, was buried on the moon, and guarded by the Moon Dog. She predicted that one day, the key could come back to Earth, the box would be opened, and the secrets of the universe would be revealed to the opener. As the moon was rather a long way off, they sold the box for a few drachma in the market. Last year, according to the newspapers, it turned up in an auction and was sold to the British Museum for £1 million. The museum asked the help of the best locksmiths in London, and yet not one of them could prise the box open. They even hired an ace safe cracker, who had robbed several banks, but even he failed. Right now, it is on display in the museum. All we have to do is, when we get back to earth, is to break into the British Museum, steal the box, and open it – and then we will be in possession of great knowledge that will make us rich and powerful beyond the wildest dreams.”

“Well that doesn’t sound too difficult,” I said.

And the parrot replied, “Well not for a master brain like mine.”

On the way back down to Earth, the parrot faked a malfunction in the computer of the our spacecraft. Instead of bringing us down in the Gulf of Mexico, was per our orders, he plopped us in the English Channel where we were picked up by the Royal Navy. From there, we were taken to London where the Space Agency paid for us to stay in a plush hotel on Park Lane. It was the first time I have ever slept in a four poster bed. The pillows were the softest I have ever rested my chin on. It was just a shame that the Parrot was perched on the bed rail, because at 1am he squawked:

“Oi Pooch, Time to Wake Up.”

15 minutes later we were in the middle of Hyde Park. “This is a strange time to go walkies,” I moaned.

“You stupid mutt,” said the `Parrot Major. His manners always did leave something to be desired. “We’re not here to go walkies. We are here to hide the key. Now get digging.” And so I dug. And then he told me to dig some more, and some more, until the hole was deep enough to satisfy him. Finally he dropped the key in, and I covered it up with earth using my hind legs.

Next stop was Russell Square, which we reached by night bus. We found ourselves outside the firmly closed gates of the famous British Museum.

“What next” I asked the master planner.

“Wait and see,” he said.

And we waited. And we Waited. And I tucked my muzzle under my paws. And I closed one eye. And then = Woooooosh ! I was up on my four feet. A streak of light shot out of the sky and straight through the dome of the Museum.

“What was in the Solar System was that?” I asked.

And the Parrot replied with the two words that rouse my heckles and my anger more than any other pair of words in the universe.

“Cat People.”

“GRRRRRRRR” I said. And then for good measure I added ‘Woof Woof Woof !” The din I was creating enhanced the general sense of confusion. There were alarms and sirens going off all over the place.

“It’s no good barking you stupid head off,” snapped the Parrot. “Calm down and stop all that silly noise. The Cat People have been following us ever since we left the orbit of the moon. They’re after Pandora’s Box the same as we are.”

“And are we just going to let them take it? ” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, because it’s no good to anyone without the key. And only we know where the key is hidden. Now wait here while I have a quick parley with the enemy. ” So saying, he flapped off up to the roof of the Museum where two hideous forms were already climbing out of the hole that they had made with their in-coming vessel. From a distance you might have thought they were a couple of ninja humans – more flexible and better balanced than most – but pretty much like people. But the arching of their spines, the backward bending of their knees, not to mention the curling of their tails – were all give-aways to an experienced space dog. There was no doubt about it. They were cat people alright. Ugggg!

I could see that the parrot was fluttering about their heads – just out of claw distance – and speaking to them – but not for long – because soon the sky filled with the juddering noise of a police helicopter. In an instant, they were off into the shadows of the London Skyline. The parrot flew back to me.

‘We’ll meet them in Hyde Park just before dawn,” he said.

“Oh Yuk,” I replied.

I found it hard to contain a growl when we came face to face with the hideous cat people. Quite frankly I was most furious with myself, for if I had stayed true to my instincts, and loyal to the humans, I would not now be dealing with the most treacherous species in the universe – a horrific form of cat. This was what came of putting my trust in a parrot with a grudge the size of infinity.

They had what some deluded humans might consider to be pretty kitty-cat features. Neat purse-like lips, pink little noses, and pointy velvety ears. Their eyes were sly little slits that shone in the dark. It makes my stomach turn to think of them. Compared to an earth cat they were huge – but by the standards of cat people, they were on the small side. They were the most dreaded and dangerous sort of feline. They were siamese cat commandos, from an elite regiment that prowled deep behind enemy lines leaving chaos, mayhem and confusion in their wake.

“Grrrrrrrrrrr” I said. I couldn’t help myself. And both the cat people raised the laser guns that were strapped across their chest.

“Steady on,” Squawked the parrot, “We’re meeting in a spriit of inter-galactic-cross-species trust and cooperation.”

“Well I’m watching their every move,” I said.

“Likewise,” hissed the nastiest looking of the cat commandos.

The parrot turned to me and said in a haughty voice: “Your job is to shut up and dig.” And so turning my hind-quarters on the cat people I started to dig, and in doing so, kicked earth in their faces. I could hear them hissing, sneezing and spitting out dirt. That made my work rather more pleasant.

Finally I found the key and held it firmly between my front teeth. There was no way that I was letting it go before they produced the box. One of the cat people placed it on the ground and stood back covering it with a laser gun.

“Put the guns on the ground over by that tree,” said the Parrot, “Or the deal’s off.” And after some mewing and complaining the pair did as he said.

The Parrot took they key from me and turned it with his beak in the lock of Pandora’s Box. The lid sprung open. One of the cat people pounced and tried to grab the box, but I met him with barred teeth and he backed off.

“Okay everyone, calm down,” said the Parrot. “It appears that there is a scroll inside this box and on it are written the 3 secrets of the universe. They are in Ancient Greek of course, but fortunately I have made a study of the language. Those of you who are interested should stay still and listen while I translate.”

And this is what he read:

“I, Bonzotes, the greatest of the dog philosophers, hereby summarise for all posterity the secrets of the universe which I have discovered through a lifetime of contemplation on . ”

1) The Theory of Relativity
Time passes seven times faster for dogs than for human beings. Therefore one year of a dog’s life is equal to seven of a person’s. In that time a dog enjoys life seven times more forcefully than a person. The smell of horse manure or a dead rabbit is seven times as enjoyable for a dog as for a human..

2)The Big Bone Theory
The universe starts with a whimper and ends with a woof. It expands and contracts like the chest of a panting dog. It will expand and contract nine times in all. On each contraction, cats will lose one of their nine lives and become less of a menace to other creatures.

3)The Survival of the stupidest.
Superior intelligence will be the downfall of birds, bees, cats, humans and other smarty-pants know-it-all animals. Brains will tempt them to tamper with life itself, and will lead to their own destruction. The dumber animals who concentrate on food, water, sleep and running around the park will prevail. I therefore urge dogs to act as if they were stupid. Stupidity is the most intelligent course to take.

I could see from their spiky fur and arched backs that the cat people did not appreciate these secrets.

“You’re making it up,” hissed one.

“Hand over the scroll,” hissed the other showing his claws. And in the dawn light I could see that that parrot’s green feathers were turning a shade paler than usual. I started to growl and one of the cat people lashed at my face scratching me dreadfully. I bit his ankle as hard as I could but the other cat person was clawing my backside. The pain was searing. I can chase any number of Earth cats up the nearest tree, but this pair were far bigger and stronger than the worldly sort. It was a fight that I could not win, though the parrot was taking advantage of it to pop the scroll back into Pandora’s box and fly off with it. My comrade was deserting me – leaving me to be torn to shreds by the dreaded cat people until I heard the sound of music to my ears. A great cacophony of woofs and barks. Two Alsatian dogs and a Doberman Pincher came racing down the hill to where we were fighting. The stench of cat must have filled the morning air of the park. They went crazy for it and were reading to shred the catty alien intruders. The cat commandos saw that their number was up and turned and fled. They would have liked to have grabbed their guns but by now some bull dogs were standing between them and the tree. The cat people headed for straight for their space ship which was just then collecting an early morning parking ticket on Park Lane. I saw them shoot up into the sky and outer orbit.

“Good Riddance” I growled, as the park dogs gave them a send off with a chorus of barks. I saw some early morning human strollers staring up at the sky. So the cat people now shared the Secrets of the Universe with the parrot and me. And a fat lot of good it would do them. I thought of Bonzotes the brainiest dog of them all – and then looked at my new park friends as they woofed and howled – and I thought – yes – dog-kind is safe. We have followed the advice of the great one.

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Portia is the heroine of Shakespeare’s play, The Merchant of Venice. At the end of the play she appears as an extremely clever lawyer. This tale is adapted from near the beginning of the story – where her husband is chosen by an unusual test. As you will hear, it is rather like a fairytale.

Read and written by Elizabeth for Storynory. Duration 23 minutes.

A long time ago, in Italy , there lived a beautiful young woman named Portia. Everyone who knew her thought that she was the luckiest girl alive. She wore the finest dresses, and ate the most delicious food. Every evening, the funniest jesters in Italy performed for her and the best musicians played. And she had the most glorious bedroom any Princess could wish for, draped in cloths of satin and velvet. And on a dressing table sat an oak box of necklaces and bracelets dripping with diamonds and pearls.

But in spite of this wonderful life, there was one thing that troubled Portia, and that was, now she had reached the age of eighteen she was expected to find a husband.

Her parents had died some years before. And her father, a very intelligent man who loved his daughter dearly, had not left her future happiness to chance. He knew that he would not be around to help her choose a husband, and so, he came up with a test to see that the right man got the job.

And this was the test…

Behind a red curtain at the end of the grand hall was a platform. And on it were placed three caskets: one of gold, one of silver and one of lead. Inside one of the caskets was a portrait of Portia. Whoever wanted to be Portia’s husband had to choose the correct casket, where he would find her picture.

But there was a risk that came with this challenge. Every man who tried his luck had to promise that if he picked the wrong casket, not only would he never see Portia again, but he would never marry anyone! This was to make sure that anyone who tried had very serious intentions.

Word of Portia’s beauty had spread to every corner of the world, and men, young and old, tall and short, fat, thin, pale, tanned, handsome, ugly, charming, rude, pretty much men of every variety flocked to her town, fair Belmont, to meet her.

It was after a day of meeting and greeting that she finally managed to have some time alone with her maid, Nerissa.

“Did you really not take a shining to any of the young lads?” asked Nerissa.

“It’s not up to me, is it?,” replied Portia, “This has got to be the most random way of choosing a husband ever.”

“Portia! Do you really have such little faith in your father?” responded Nerissa, and then she said more softly, and slyly…”Supposing that young Bassanio turned up…. I know you thought he was a nice lad”

“Him ! Oh yes, well he was, I admit, rather nice…. for a man… but he’s not been here for at least two years.”

“Well you never know..” said the serving girl. “Anyway what did you think of today’s batch?”

“You’ll have to remind me of them – I saw so many!”

Nerissa drew out a scroll from her apron pocket. Unrolling it, she said,

“First there was the Neapolitan, what did you make of him?”

“Oh him!” sighed Portia, “All he did was talk about his horse and how wonderful it was,” To amuse her companion, she did an impression of him: “It runs so fast, it jumps so high, oh and his teeth!” and “oh his coat!” and “I must tell you about his neck…!”

“No, you’re right!” Nerissa cut in. Portia laughed.

“I think he was starting to look a bit like a horse!” Portia added.

“Well, then there was the Roman.” said Nerissa.

“Goodness he was a misery guts! He didn’t laugh at a single joke. And before you say anything, my jokes aren’t that bad!… Oh yes he said to me,
“What’s the point of beauty in the world when everything decays…? If he’s like that as a young man imagine what he’ll be like when he’s older.
I’d rather marry a skull – it’d have a better sense of humour!”

“Next was Monsieur Le Bon, The French lord.” said Nerissa, looking down the list of suitors.

“Monsieur Le Bon! I’d never met anyone like him before, or like “them” I should say!”

“Sorry?” inquired Nerissa.

“He was certainly more than one person. He kept becoming different personalities. One minute he was dancing on his own (to no music), the next he was fencing his own shadow: ‘Don’t you think for one moment you will get away you pesky little shadow. -But it is me, Monsieur Le Bon. Non! I am Monsieur Le bon. -This cannot be! Aha – I have surprised you! Oh non! Mais oui! Oh non!’ I think he is all the company he will ever need. If I did marry him, I’d be marrying twenty husbands!”

“So that’s Italy and France crossed off the list! What did you make of that nice young man from England?” asked Nerissa.

“Falconbridge? He was lovely to look at, but it was hopeless. He spoke no Latin, French or Italian and you know how ropey my English is. There’s little conversation to be had with a mime artist! And as for his outfit, he was dressed in such a strange way. Certainly a man of international style – he was wearing an Italian jacket, French trousers, and a German hat – it was peculiar!”

“Speaking of Germans, how did you like the Duke of Saxony?”

“I didn’t like him very much in the morning when he was sober, but it only got worse in the afternoon when he was drunk!”

“Oh well you needn’t worry, love. When they heard about the text, they all decided they weren’t up to it and will be leaving Belmont tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, a new day, and a new hoard of visitors will arrive!” , Portia sighed.

The next day, as the sun first appeared on the horizon, and its beams danced across the choppy waves, a fleet of ships could be seen approaching the port of Belmont. These belonged to the Prince of Morocco. He, like many other princes before him, had come to seek Portia’s hand in marriage.

Portia was fast asleep when the ships docked at dawn. She never received visitors before midday and this gave the new guest time to prepare for their meeting. He was due to meet Portia on the stroke of noon in the grand hall where he would face the challenge.

When 12 o’clock arrived, Portia, with Nerissa at her side, was sitting in the grand hall, at the far end where the red curtains were hung. Noble ladies and gentlemen, sworn to secrecy, gathered at the other end of the hall to watch the challenge, (for royal romance has always been a great spectator sport.)

As soon as the Prince of Morocco walked into the room, his eyes were drawn to Portia and he was struck by her beauty.

Portia watched as he entered with his train of servants. She had never seen a man dressed so exotically. He wore brilliantly dyed clothes in orange and sapphire blue, and an elaborate turban clasped with a ruby. She met him with a smile, and nodded to the the red curtains. He walked towards them with his attendants. On reaching the curtains, one of Portia’s servants drew them open to reveal the three caskets.

“My picture is in one of them,” said Portia, “and if you chose correctly, you will win me as your bride.”

“Thank you, I must choose carefully then,” said the prince.

Looking at the three caskets, one of gold, one of silver and one of lead, he noticed the clues that hung above each one.

Stopping first at the box made of lead, he read the clue,

“Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath!”

He pondered over this, “‘Must give’, What would I be giving for? What would I get in return for everything I already have? Lead? I should give up everything I am worth for lead? No. When people risk everything, they do it hoping the outcome will be worth it. I shall not give up all my wealth and honour for something paltry!”

“What about the silver?” He said stepping in front of the second casket. He read aloud the clue that hung above it.

“Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.”

“As much as he deserves.” I must think about this carefully. I do deserve a lot, and yet is a lot, enough to deserve the lady. I do in birth deserve her and in wealth and in upbringing, but more than any of these I deserve her in love. For no-one could be more loving than I am. Why should I carry on? I could stop at this silver chest.”

He looked around for the servant that guarded the three keys, but checking himself, he spoke,

“I’ll have one last look at the gold casket, just to be sure.”

He read its clue,

“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.”

“That has to be Portia, every man alive wants to marry her! Now I think about it, how could she possibly be placed inside lead? What a terrible thought. And why would she be placed in the silver casket? It was foolish of me to think so. Silver is worth a tenth of the value of gold. The finest jewels are set in gold and nothing less!”

He turned to Portia.

“I’ve made my decision and I will stand by it. The key to the gold casket if you please.”

Portia nodded to the servant holding the three keys.

“If you find my portrait inside it, I shall be yours!” She said.

Without hesitation, the prince unlocked the golden box and lifted its lid.

“Oh No!” He cried. He lifted out the contents of the chest. There was no sight of Portia’s picture, but instead he had found a skull. In its eye socket was lodged a piece of parchment. He unrolled it and read out loud,

“All that glitters is not gold.”

“Oh what a fool, I’ve been,” he said. “Yes of course, many men desire what is beautiful on the surface and are tricked just as I have been. Farewell, Portia, it is with great sadness I leave you and you have my word I shall never tell anyone which casket I chose.”

And the Moroccan Prince and his attendants left the grand hall.

The court sat down for lunch, during which, Portia was told that another suitor had arrived. This time it was a nobleman from Spain, the Prince of Aragon.

At two o’clock, Portia and Nerissa took up their places in the grand hall to wait for the visitor’s arrival. As the clock chimed upon the hour, the large panelled doors were opened to receive the young Prince. He was very handsome, with a jacket of crimson velvet and jet black hair.

With great confidence he strutted down the hall towards Portia.

“There are the caskets, noble prince.” said Portia. “ Do you agree to the terms of the challenge?” she asked.

“I do indeed. I swear that I will never tell anyone which casket I chose, and that if pick the wrong one, I shall leave right away, never return, and never, in all my life, marry.”

“He seems to take these vows as if they were nothing to him.” whispered Nerissa, “He must be pretty confident!”

The Prince began to examine the caskets.

Standing in front of the lead, he read its clue,
“Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.”

“Give everything I have!” he exclaimed, “Never – what’s mine is mine, I’d never risk it for anything!”

“What’s written on the golden chest?”

“Who chooseth me shall get what many men desire.”

“What many men desire? I don’t belong to the common masses, my tastes are by far superior!”

“On to the silver.” “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.”

“Well said. For he that wins the lady must deserve her. Her father would not give her away to anyone unworthy. I know I am deserving! The key to the silver chest, please!”

Portia nodded to her servant who handed the silver key to the Spaniard.

Seizing it from his hand, the Spanish Prince hastily unlocked the casket, flashing a smile over his shoulder to the assembled crowd, before lifting the lid.

But the crowd saw his smile leave is face pretty swiftly as he pulled out a picture of a clown.

“What is this? Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserve. Is this all I deserve? A fool in place of a beautiful bride?” and then all of a sudden realising, “By valuing myself so highly I have made a fool of myself in front of all these people and so I have become the fool in the picture! Farewell lady, I shall never trouble you again.”

And with that he left. As he was on the way out, a servant passed him in the doorway on his way to the princess:

“My lady, a young Venetian man has arrived at the gate. He is very witty and brings you all manner of gifts. He asks if he might take the challenge.”

“Claudio,” replied Portia, “Are you related to him? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak so highly of anyone!”

“I promise you I’m not, my lady.”

“Admit him!”

“Very good. My lady.”

Shortly after this exchange Claudio reentered followed by a young man. Portia recognised him at once. It was Bassanio – the one she had always liked, but had not seen for two years. He was a scholar and a soldier, whose wit was as sharp as his sword. But after her father’s death, Bassanio had been away at war.

He approached the chairs on which Portia and Nerissa sat , before bowing deeply. Then he took Portia’s hand and kissed it.

But Portia looked downcast.

“Oh please don’t take the test”, she said, “It would be too cruel for me to get my hopes up, and then for you to fail it, and never be able to marry another. ”

He smiled at her and she returned his smile.

“Couldn’t you delay the challenge a day or two?” she asked.

If Bassanio chose the wrong casket like the other suitors before him, this would be the last time she would ever see him.

But he replied resolutely. “I can’t put it off any longer. It is torture to stand in front of the three caskets, knowing that in one of them lies the future I have always dreamed of.”

Portia felt herself about to blush, but determined not to, quickly replied,

“Torture? Men speak to please when they are being tortured!”

He smiled. “I promise you nothing but the truth.”

All this had been said privately, but now Portia said out loud so that the audience could hear:

“Choose as you think best. In one of the caskets lies my portrait, which if you find, you’ll find me as a wife,” she said trying to seem calm whilst her heart raced inside her.

He picked up the gold casket that the Moroccan prince had chosen. Portia looked away. Nerissa nudged her as the young man put it down. Next he studied the silver casket – looking at the marks which showed what weight of silver it was. Portia felt certain he was about to choose the wrong one. But he put it back on the table and pondered over the lead casket.

“Lead, silver, and gold.” said Bassanio. “Well often the most worthless things are decorated to make them seem of value, so I won’t be tricked by gaudy gold or even silver. Material wealth is worthless in comparison with the truly precious treasures in this life, love and happiness…”

Portia and Nerissa looked on as Bassanio examined the caskets once again.

“Oh you poor thing.” Nerissa whispered as she noticed Portia biting her lip in anticipation. “He’s a clever lad, that Bassanio, he’ll not go wrong.”

“ And so, I have made my decision.” Bassanio announced. “The key to the lead casket please,” he requested.

Portia sighed with relief. She knew it to be the correct choice after the previous suitors had failed with gold and silver.

Bassanio opened the chest to find her portrait and a scroll. He read it aloud,

“You that choose not by the view
Chance as fair and choose as true.
Since this fortune falls to you.
Be content and seek no new.
If you be well pleased with this
And hold your fortune for your bliss.
Turn you where your lady is
And claim her with a loving kiss.”

Bassanio did exactly that.

Nerissa thrilled by the sight of the young couple wiped a tear of happiness from her eye. Portia and Bassanio were to be married…

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The famous Wicked Witch of the West sends armies of strange creatures to attack Dorothy and her friends. But neither wolves nor crows can get the better of them. The Winged Monkeys prove to be the most dangerous threat. This is an EXCITING chapter….

Read by Natasha. Duration 29.

12. The Search for the Wicked Witch

The soldier with the green whiskers led them through the streets of the
Emerald City until they reached the room where the Guardian of the
Gates lived. This officer unlocked their spectacles to put them back
in his great box, and then he politely opened the gate for our friends.

“Which road leads to the Wicked Witch of the West?” asked Dorothy.

“There is no road,” answered the Guardian of the Gates. “No one ever
wishes to go that way.”

“How, then, are we to find her?” inquired the girl.

“That will be easy,” replied the man, “for when she knows you are in
the country of the Winkies she will find you, and make you all her
slaves.”

“Perhaps not,” said the Scarecrow, “for we mean to destroy her.”

“Oh, that is different,” said the Guardian of the Gates. “No one has
ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves
of you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and
fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her. Keep to the West, where
the sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her.”

They thanked him and bade him good-bye, and turned toward the West,
walking over fields of soft grass dotted here and there with daisies
and buttercups. Dorothy still wore the pretty silk dress she had put
on in the palace, but now, to her surprise, she found it was no longer
green, but pure white. The ribbon around Toto’s neck had also lost its
green color and was as white as Dorothy’s dress.

The Emerald City was soon left far behind. As they advanced the ground
became rougher and hillier, for there were no farms nor houses in this
country of the West, and the ground was untilled.

In the afternoon the sun shone hot in their faces, for there were no
trees to offer them shade; so that before night Dorothy and Toto and
the Lion were tired, and lay down upon the grass and fell asleep, with
the Woodman and the Scarecrow keeping watch.

Now the Wicked Witch of the West had but one eye, yet that was as
powerful as a telescope, and could see everywhere. So, as she sat in
the door of her castle, she happened to look around and saw Dorothy
lying asleep, with her friends all about her. They were a long
distance off, but the Wicked Witch was angry to find them in her
country; so she blew upon a silver whistle that hung around her neck.

At once there came running to her from all directions a pack of great
wolves. They had long legs and fierce eyes and sharp teeth.

“Go to those people,” said the Witch, “and tear them to pieces.”

“Are you not going to make them your slaves?” asked the leader of the
wolves.

“No,” she answered, “one is of tin, and one of straw; one is a girl and
another a Lion. None of them is fit to work, so you may tear them into
small pieces.”

“Very well,” said the wolf, and he dashed away at full speed, followed
by the others.

It was lucky the Scarecrow and the Woodman were wide awake and heard
the wolves coming.

“This is my fight,” said the Woodman, “so get behind me and I will meet
them as they come.”

He seized his axe, which he had made very sharp, and as the leader of
the wolves came on the Tin Woodman swung his arm and chopped the wolf’s
head from its body, so that it immediately died. As soon as he could
raise his axe another wolf came up, and he also fell under the sharp
edge of the Tin Woodman’s weapon. There were forty wolves, and forty
times a wolf was killed, so that at last they all lay dead in a heap
before the Woodman.

Then he put down his axe and sat beside the Scarecrow, who said, “It
was a good fight, friend.”

They waited until Dorothy awoke the next morning. The little girl was
quite frightened when she saw the great pile of shaggy wolves, but the
Tin Woodman told her all. She thanked him for saving them and sat down
to breakfast, after which they started again upon their journey.

Now this same morning the Wicked Witch came to the door of her castle
and looked out with her one eye that could see far off. She saw all
her wolves lying dead, and the strangers still traveling through her
country. This made her angrier than before, and she blew her silver
whistle twice.

Straightway a great flock of wild crows came flying toward her, enough
to darken the sky.

And the Wicked Witch said to the King Crow, “Fly at once to the
strangers; peck out their eyes and tear them to pieces.”

The wild crows flew in one great flock toward Dorothy and her
companions. When the little girl saw them coming she was afraid.

But the Scarecrow said, “This is my battle, so lie down beside me and
you will not be harmed.”

So they all lay upon the ground except the Scarecrow, and he stood up
and stretched out his arms. And when the crows saw him they were
frightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and did not dare
to come any nearer. But the King Crow said:

“It is only a stuffed man. I will peck his eyes out.”

The King Crow flew at the Scarecrow, who caught it by the head and
twisted its neck until it died. And then another crow flew at him, and
the Scarecrow twisted its neck also. There were forty crows, and forty
times the Scarecrow twisted a neck, until at last all were lying dead
beside him. Then he called to his companions to rise, and again they
went upon their journey.

When the Wicked Witch looked out again and saw all her crows lying in a
heap, she got into a terrible rage, and blew three times upon her
silver whistle.

Forthwith there was heard a great buzzing in the air, and a swarm of
black bees came flying toward her.

“Go to the strangers and sting them to death!” commanded the Witch, and
the bees turned and flew rapidly until they came to where Dorothy and
her friends were walking. But the Woodman had seen them coming, and
the Scarecrow had decided what to do.

“Take out my straw and scatter it over the little girl and the dog and
the Lion,” he said to the Woodman, “and the bees cannot sting them.”
This the Woodman did, and as Dorothy lay close beside the Lion and held
Toto in her arms, the straw covered them entirely.

The bees came and found no one but the Woodman to sting, so they flew
at him and broke off all their stings against the tin, without hurting
the Woodman at all. And as bees cannot live when their stings are
broken that was the end of the black bees, and they lay scattered thick
about the Woodman, like little heaps of fine coal.

Then Dorothy and the Lion got up, and the girl helped the Tin Woodman
put the straw back into the Scarecrow again, until he was as good as
ever. So they started upon their journey once more.

The Wicked Witch was so angry when she saw her black bees in little
heaps like fine coal that she stamped her foot and tore her hair and
gnashed her teeth. And then she called a dozen of her slaves, who were
the Winkies, and gave them sharp spears, telling them to go to the
strangers and destroy them.

The Winkies were not a brave people, but they had to do as they were
told. So they marched away until they came near to Dorothy. Then the
Lion gave a great roar and sprang towards them, and the poor Winkies
were so frightened that they ran back as fast as they could.

When they returned to the castle the Wicked Witch beat them well with a
strap, and sent them back to their work, after which she sat down to
think what she should do next. She could not understand how all her
plans to destroy these strangers had failed; but she was a powerful
Witch, as well as a wicked one, and she soon made up her mind how to
act.

There was, in her cupboard, a Golden Cap, with a circle of diamonds and
rubies running round it. This Golden Cap had a charm. Whoever owned
it could call three times upon the Winged Monkeys, who would obey any
order they were given. But no person could command these strange
creatures more than three times. Twice already the Wicked Witch had
used the charm of the Cap. Once was when she had made the Winkies her
slaves, and set herself to rule over their country. The Winged Monkeys
had helped her do this. The second time was when she had fought
against the Great Oz himself, and driven him out of the land of the
West. The Winged Monkeys had also helped her in doing this. Only once
more could she use this Golden Cap, for which reason she did not like
to do so until all her other powers were exhausted. But now that her
fierce wolves and her wild crows and her stinging bees were gone, and
her slaves had been scared away by the Cowardly Lion, she saw there was
only one way left to destroy Dorothy and her friends.

So the Wicked Witch took the Golden Cap from her cupboard and placed it
upon her head. Then she stood upon her left foot and said slowly:

“Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!”

Next she stood upon her right foot and said:

“Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!”

After this she stood upon both feet and cried in a loud voice:

“Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!”

Now the charm began to work. The sky was darkened, and a low rumbling
sound was heard in the air. There was a rushing of many wings, a great
chattering and laughing, and the sun came out of the dark sky to show
the Wicked Witch surrounded by a crowd of monkeys, each with a pair of
immense and powerful wings on his shoulders.

One, much bigger than the others, seemed to be their leader. He flew
close to the Witch and said, “You have called us for the third and last
time. What do you command?”

“Go to the strangers who are within my land and destroy them all except
the Lion,” said the Wicked Witch. “Bring that beast to me, for I have
a mind to harness him like a horse, and make him work.”

“Your commands shall be obeyed,” said the leader. Then, with a great
deal of chattering and noise, the Winged Monkeys flew away to the place
where Dorothy and her friends were walking.

Some of the Monkeys seized the Tin Woodman and carried him through the
air until they were over a country thickly covered with sharp rocks.
Here they dropped the poor Woodman, who fell a great distance to the
rocks, where he lay so battered and dented that he could neither move
nor groan.

Others of the Monkeys caught the Scarecrow, and with their long fingers
pulled all of the straw out of his clothes and head. They made his hat
and boots and clothes into a small bundle and threw it into the top
branches of a tall tree.

The remaining Monkeys threw pieces of stout rope around the Lion and
wound many coils about his body and head and legs, until he was unable
to bite or scratch or struggle in any way. Then they lifted him up and
flew away with him to the Witch’s castle, where he was placed in a
small yard with a high iron fence around it, so that he could not
escape.

But Dorothy they did not harm at all. She stood, with Toto in her
arms, watching the sad fate of her comrades and thinking it would soon
be her turn. The leader of the Winged Monkeys flew up to her, his
long, hairy arms stretched out and his ugly face grinning terribly; but
he saw the mark of the Good Witch’s kiss upon her forehead and stopped
short, motioning the others not to touch her.

“We dare not harm this little girl,” he said to them, “for she is
protected by the Power of Good, and that is greater than the Power of
Evil. All we can do is to carry her to the castle of the Wicked Witch
and leave her there.”

So, carefully and gently, they lifted Dorothy in their arms and carried
her swiftly through the air until they came to the castle, where they
set her down upon the front doorstep. Then the leader said to the
Witch:

“We have obeyed you as far as we were able. The Tin Woodman and the
Scarecrow are destroyed, and the Lion is tied up in your yard. The
little girl we dare not harm, nor the dog she carries in her arms.
Your power over our band is now ended, and you will never see us again.”

Then all the Winged Monkeys, with much laughing and chattering and
noise, flew into the air and were soon out of sight.

The Wicked Witch was both surprised and worried when she saw the mark
on Dorothy’s forehead, for she knew well that neither the Winged
Monkeys nor she, herself, dare hurt the girl in any way. She looked
down at Dorothy’s feet, and seeing the Silver Shoes, began to tremble
with fear, for she knew what a powerful charm belonged to them. At
first the Witch was tempted to run away from Dorothy; but she happened
to look into the child’s eyes and saw how simple the soul behind them
was, and that the little girl did not know of the wonderful power the
Silver Shoes gave her. So the Wicked Witch laughed to herself, and
thought, “I can still make her my slave, for she does not know how to
use her power.” Then she said to Dorothy, harshly and severely:

“Come with me; and see that you mind everything I tell you, for if you
do not I will make an end of you, as I did of the Tin Woodman and the
Scarecrow.”

Dorothy followed her through many of the beautiful rooms in her castle
until they came to the kitchen, where the Witch bade her clean the pots
and kettles and sweep the floor and keep the fire fed with wood.

Dorothy went to work meekly, with her mind made up to work as hard as
she could; for she was glad the Wicked Witch had decided not to kill
her.

With Dorothy hard at work, the Witch thought she would go into the
courtyard and harness the Cowardly Lion like a horse; it would amuse
her, she was sure, to make him draw her chariot whenever she wished to
go to drive. But as she opened the gate the Lion gave a loud roar and
bounded at her so fiercely that the Witch was afraid, and ran out and
shut the gate again.

“If I cannot harness you,” said the Witch to the Lion, speaking through
the bars of the gate, “I can starve you. You shall have nothing to eat
until you do as I wish.”

So after that she took no food to the imprisoned Lion; but every day
she came to the gate at noon and asked, “Are you ready to be harnessed
like a horse?”

And the Lion would answer, “No. If you come in this yard, I will bite
you.”

The reason the Lion did not have to do as the Witch wished was that
every night, while the woman was asleep, Dorothy carried him food from
the cupboard. After he had eaten he would lie down on his bed of
straw, and Dorothy would lie beside him and put her head on his soft,
shaggy mane, while they talked of their troubles and tried to plan some
way to escape. But they could find no way to get out of the castle,
for it was constantly guarded by the yellow Winkies, who were the
slaves of the Wicked Witch and too afraid of her not to do as she told
them.

The girl had to work hard during the day, and often the Witch
threatened to beat her with the same old umbrella she always carried in
her hand. But, in truth, she did not dare to strike Dorothy, because
of the mark upon her forehead. The child did not know this, and was
full of fear for herself and Toto. Once the Witch struck Toto a blow
with her umbrella and the brave little dog flew at her and bit her leg
in return. The Witch did not bleed where she was bitten, for she was
so wicked that the blood in her had dried up many years before.

Dorothy’s life became very sad as she grew to understand that it would
be harder than ever to get back to Kansas and Aunt Em again. Sometimes
she would cry bitterly for hours, with Toto sitting at her feet and
looking into her face, whining dismally to show how sorry he was for
his little mistress. Toto did not really care whether he was in Kansas
or the Land of Oz so long as Dorothy was with him; but he knew the
little girl was unhappy, and that made him unhappy too.

Now the Wicked Witch had a great longing to have for her own the Silver
Shoes which the girl always wore. Her bees and her crows and her
wolves were lying in heaps and drying up, and she had used up all the
power of the Golden Cap; but if she could only get hold of the Silver
Shoes, they would give her more power than all the other things she had
lost. She watched Dorothy carefully, to see if she ever took off her
shoes, thinking she might steal them. But the child was so proud of
her pretty shoes that she never took them off except at night and when
she took her bath. The Witch was too much afraid of the dark to dare
go in Dorothy’s room at night to take the shoes, and her dread of water
was greater than her fear of the dark, so she never came near when
Dorothy was bathing. Indeed, the old Witch never touched water, nor
ever let water touch her in any way.

But the wicked creature was very cunning, and she finally thought of a
trick that would give her what she wanted. She placed a bar of iron in
the middle of the kitchen floor, and then by her magic arts made the
iron invisible to human eyes. So that when Dorothy walked across the
floor she stumbled over the bar, not being able to see it, and fell at
full length. She was not much hurt, but in her fall one of the Silver
Shoes came off; and before she could reach it, the Witch had snatched
it away and put it on her own skinny foot.

The wicked woman was greatly pleased with the success of her trick, for
as long as she had one of the shoes she owned half the power of their
charm, and Dorothy could not use it against her, even had she known how
to do so.

The little girl, seeing she had lost one of her pretty shoes, grew
angry, and said to the Witch, “Give me back my shoe!”

“I will not,” retorted the Witch, “for it is now my shoe, and not
yours.”

“You are a wicked creature!” cried Dorothy. “You have no right to take
my shoe from me.”

“I shall keep it, just the same,” said the Witch, laughing at her, “and
someday I shall get the other one from you, too.”

This made Dorothy so very angry that she picked up the bucket of water
that stood near and dashed it over the Witch, wetting her from head to
foot.

Instantly the wicked woman gave a loud cry of fear, and then, as
Dorothy looked at her in wonder, the Witch began to shrink and fall
away.

“See what you have done!” she screamed. “In a minute I shall melt
away.”

“I’m very sorry, indeed,” said Dorothy, who was truly frightened to see
the Witch actually melting away like brown sugar before her very eyes.

“Didn’t you know water would be the end of me?” asked the Witch, in a
wailing, despairing voice.

“Of course not,” answered Dorothy. “How should I?”

“Well, in a few minutes I shall be all melted, and you will have the
castle to yourself. I have been wicked in my day, but I never thought
a little girl like you would ever be able to melt me and end my wicked
deeds. Look out–here I go!”

With these words the Witch fell down in a brown, melted, shapeless mass
and began to spread over the clean boards of the kitchen floor. Seeing
that she had really melted away to nothing, Dorothy drew another bucket
of water and threw it over the mess. She then swept it all out the
door. After picking out the silver shoe, which was all that was left
of the old woman, she cleaned and dried it with a cloth, and put it on
her foot again. Then, being at last free to do as she chose, she ran
out to the courtyard to tell the Lion that the Wicked Witch of the West
had come to an end, and that they were no longer prisoners in a strange
land.

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Katie is helping her mother get her Magic Shop ready for Halloween – which as every kid knows is is on October 31 !!! (sorry we got that wrong in our song, ‘Don’t Be Scared of Halloween’) .

Katie’s Great Aunt Chloe is coming to stay for Halloween. Unfortunately her Great Aunt always makes Katie embarrassed by being just too “witchy”. She can’t resist flying on her broomstick and doing other tricks that draw attention to the fact that the family are witches.

This story features incidental music by Gabriella and Jay. And Natasha has made a Spooky Halloween Dance to go with the music and song (There are instructions in the story and you can read them in more detail on the song’s page).

Read by Natasha. Story by Bertie. Duration 20 minutes.

Katie’s Halloween Aunt

Hello, This is Natasha, and I’m dropping by with Halloween Story about our own Katie the Witch. I was just wondering, do you have any relatives that make you feel, well, just a bit embarrassed? You know, perhaps they dress in bad taste, or dance terribly at parties, or make awful jokes. Katie had a relative a bit like that. Her name was Great Aunt Chloe, and you can meet her in this story.

The trees were turning golden brown, the squirrels were busy burying conkers in the park, and the witches were getting ready for Halloween.

For Katie’s mum, this was the busiest time of the year in her shop called the Magic Lantern. If you
wanted to be a classy witch or a snazzy goblin, The Magic Lantern was the place to come and browse for a costume. Katie helped her mum cut out pumpkins, and at night, when the shop was closed, the door was guarded by ghoulish glowing faces. In the day, it was packed with mums and kids stocking up for Halloween. Many of them were from Katie’s School, which was holding a Halloween Ball.

Jennie’s mum came into the shop to buy some Halloween Lights, and as she was paying she said to Katie’s mum: “Of course your daughter doesn’t have to dress up for the Halloween Ball. She can just go as herself.”

And Katie’s mum fumed because she didn’t think that remark was meant as a compliment.

In fact, Halloween was far from Katie’s favourite time of year. It was the time when nobody would let her forget that she was a witch. Even her best friend Isis asked her:

“Katie, what do witches actually do for Halloween? I mean, they don’t really fly around on broomsticks, right?”

And Katie replied: “Don’t be silly. Of course they don’t.”

But actually, that wasn’t strictly true. Katie knew at least one witch who liked to take her broomstick for a spin on Halloween. And unfortunately, that person was her Great Aunt Chloe.

Great Aunt Chloe was the sister of Katie’s Grandma. But she was a very different sort of person. Grandma was extremely polite and proper. Aunt Chloe, as everyone in the family knew, had been a bit of a wild witch in her youth. She had been the first person to fly around the world on a broomstick. And she had been a member of The Red Sticks – a team of witches that did formation broom flying and death defying stunts, like loop the loop and vertical take-off.

And although these days she did not do so much flying, she still liked to keep up the tradition on Halloween.

People said that she had been extremely beautiful back in the old days, and she still was, in a witchy sort of way. And although it was good that she was proud of her magical heritage, it could also be a bit embarrassing for Katie and her mum who preferred to keep that sort of thing a bit hush hush.

Aunt Chloe had invited herself to come and stay. And the time she had picked for her visit was the Halloween weekend. Katie lay awake at night hoping that her Great Aunt would not do anything too embarrassing. But she knew that she probably would.

The school’s Halloween Ball went off just fine for Katie. One or two people – like Jennie and Jake – were nagging her to pull off a magic stunt or two, but most people just said how pretty she looked in her costume. She was wearing a blue and yellow caftan with lots of magical signs embroidered on the collar and cuffs. There was nothing too witchy about it all. And everyone loved the pumpkin dance that she performed with Isis.

This is how Katie and Isis did the pumpkin dance, to the song, Don’t Be Scared of Halloween. Firstly, they held their hands out to the side, holding pumpkins in their palms like weighing scales, and they swayed at the waist. They did a tap step from left to right, then they moved their shoulders up and down, they did a full turn and swivelled their pumpkin hands. For the verse beginning Witch’s Love to Fly on Sticks, they imagined they were flying on broom sticks, flinging sweets with flicking gestures of their hands.

Later on, when it was dark, the streets were full of excited kids going Trick or Treating. The little ones were all sugared up on sweets and shrieking like demons. The older ones tried to help their parents keep the smaller ones in check.

On the doorsteps of people’s houses, the kids screamed “Trick or Treat”, and if the people were nice, they gave them sweets.

But Katie and Isis collected the best haul of sweets because they charmed everyone with their pumpkin dance.

Great Aunt Chloe came along with Katie and her mum. She was wearing a black cloak and a pointed hat with red magical writing on it. Her eyes were covered with a mask, and she carried her broom stick in her hand. And although she blended into the general melee of weirdly dressed people, Katie could not help feeling anxious that she might do something just a bit embarrassing.

Two small kids ran past chanting : “Katie is a witch ! Katie is a witch ! ” and Aunt Chloe said, “I don’t think that’s very nice.”

“Oh I take no notice of little brats like them, ” said Katie. “They’re only small, and besides, they’ve scoffed too many sweets.”

Aunt Chloe dismissed them with a shrug.

But then one of the kids turned around and threw something at Katie. Isis shrieked. And Katie said, “Er what’s that.”

It was a Goo Bomb – a new kind of nasty toy that exploded with gooy green slime. Poor Katie was covered in it, and her hair was all sticky.

“HA HA ! Look at the ugly Slimy Witch ! ” shouted the kids.

But they weren’t so amused when Aunt Chloe raised her arm and pointed a lengthy index finger at them:

“No don’t, Aunt Chloe, Please !” pleaded Katie. But her Great Aunt was not listening. A green beam shot out of her finger and zapped first one and then the other kid. They both staggered backwards and sat down on a door step. When they tried to stand up, they couldn’t. They were stuck there.

“That will teach you to mess with a witch. You can stay on the Naughty Step until I release you …. which might be sometime next week if I am in a good mood. But on the other hand, I might just fly home and forget all about you.”

Both the children started to cry and their mothers rushed over and tried to help them to stand. But try as they might, they couldn’t. People were staring at Aunt Chloe, and Katie, and her mum, and accusations were starting to fly around.

“What have you done to our children?” demanded one of the mums.

And Aunt Chloe said, “I haven’t done anything. They are just naughty children. They threw goo all over my niece.”

Katie was so embarrassed, she wished that the road would open up and swallow her. Then she remembered that she shouldn’t wish too hard for anything like that because, after all, she was a witch, and it could actually happen

Katie’s mum pulled Chloe away from the crowd. “Please Aunt Chloe. Release them at once. ”

“In my day, children knew how to behave,” retorted Chloe.

“But if you don’t let them go them now, there will be a terrible scene and people will boycott my shop and bully Katie at school.”

“Oh all right then,” sighed Chloe. And she muttered the spell to unglue the two terrors from the step. The naughty kids were able to stand. There parents were hugging them. Nobody was quite sure what had happened. But a few people suspected.

Katie was fuming with her Aunt as they walked home with a bucket full of sweets. “It’s just awful,” she thought, “Now all the teasing and taunting about my family of witches is going to start all over again.”

She was glum when they got home, and went straight upstairs to sulk on on her bed. Her cat Solomon wasn’t there.

“I wish he hadn’t gone out tonight,” thought Katie, “There will be fireworks and they might scare the life out of him.”

Soon she heard some cracks and bangs in the sky.”Oh dear, poor Solomon,” she thought.

And then she heard a loud screech like a rocket going off – only it wasn’t quite like a rocket – it was more like a cat – “Oh NO !” exclaimed Katie, and she ran out into the garden.

The sound was coming from somewhere up on the roof. She looked up and saw not Solomon, but Great Aunt Chloe standing astride her broomstick on the tiles. A stream of red stars was pouring out of the back of her stick and she was waving her hat and screeching for all she was worth. Then she and her broomstick shot up into the sky, not quite vertically, but almost.

‘FZZZZZZZSHOOOOWOW ! ” went the broom stick, still pouring out stars like a firework. And she looped the loop, just like back in the old days.

“Wow, that’s cool flying,” thought Katie, “But I really really hope the neighbours don’t see, or if they do, that they think she’s a rocket.”

Chloe was writing twirly patterns of stars in the sky, and Katie was sure that lots of people must have noticed. She heard “oohs” and “ahs” from the next door garden – then she ran through the house and out the front and found that a small crowd of people were standing in the street gazing up at the magical display.

“That’s some firework,” said a bald man.

“Impressive”, said a woman. “Did it come from a back garden?”

But a little boy said something that Katie didn’t want to here “That’s not a firework. Fireworks don’t go on for a long time like that. Look it’s a witch!”

His mother ticked him off: “Don’t be silly, witches only exist in books,” but his sister shouted: “Yippee I’ve seen a real life witch!”

“Oh Yikes!” thought Katie. “I’ll never live this down.”

The bald man started taking pictures with his mobile phone: “I’ll put these on Facebook,” he said, “No better, I’ll take a movie and send it to the TV Station. ‘Witch Flies on Halloween !’ They’ll pay good money for pictures like these.”

But then the broom stick started to swoop back down from the moonlit sky – it was coming down really fast, and very steeply – and Katie wondered how her Great Aunt managed to hang on, especially at her age. But then, she wasn’t hanging on any more – she slid off the stick and was dangling by one arm:

Katie put her hands to her face: “I can’t bear to look anymore” she said. But through a chink in her fingers she saw her Great Aunt come tumbling off her stick and fall down somewhere into the park.

Kate screamed “AAAHH THAT’S MY Aunt!” and people stared at her. She was too alarmed to care. She was running down the road to the entrance to the park. The gate was locked, but she managed to vault over it with a quick little weight-defying spell that made her bound like she was on the moon.

She wasn’t quite sure where her Aunt had landed, but she thought that she must have broken every bone in her body. Then, as she got near the lake, she had another fright:

A weird creature was wading through the water. Katie froze. “Could it be,” she thought, “some kind of ghoul that wakes up on Halloween?” – but of course it wasn’t a ghoul – it was her Aunt who had landed in the pond.

“YEE-HA!” she called. “Did you see me fly Katie ? Just like the old days. Only I seem to have broken my broom. Pity. I’ve had that one since way back when. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

The next day, Isis sent Katie a link to a video on YouTube. It showed a Halloween Witch flying over the rooftops amid the fireworks and crashing. Only most of the comments were agreed on one thing: “NICE FAKE !”

Which was one of the good things about magic. If people don’t believe in it, they will think it’s just trickery when they see it.

When Katie got to school on Monday, nobody was teasing her. Emma even said: “I wish I had a Great Aunt like yours. She was really cool in her costume. All my relatives are so boring they are just embarrassing. ”

At first Katie thought, “If only my relatives were boring, I’d be so glad, ” And then she realised: “Yes, people are often a bit embarrassed about their family – but usually there is no need, because other people see them quite differently.”

But all the same, she was glad that Halloween was over, and that her Great Aunt Chloe had flown home safely on a new broom stick that couldn’t go nearly as fast as the old one.

And that was the story of Katie’s Halloween Aunt.

Before I go, I’d like to let you know that Storynory is now putting some books on Kindle, to see if people would like to read our stories that way. Check out the Kindle store on Amazon for our story Katie and the Witch’s Swap, as well as some others we’ve put up there. And just in case you don’t know – you can download the Kindle app for computers and mobile phones, as well as the Kindle device.

And Storynory has a new Katie song out. It’s all about Katie and it’s called, “Don’t be Scared of Halloween.” It’s sung by our very own Gabriella, so do got to Storynory.com where you can download the mp3 for free !

For now, from me, Natasha Bye Bye !

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At last we meet the Wonderful Wizard of Oz. But is he one or three wizards? He appears in different forms to Dorothy and his friends. And he insists that before he will help them, they must do him a favour first – a big favour.

Read by Natasha. Duration 28.55

11. The Wonderful City of Oz

Even with eyes protected by the green spectacles, Dorothy and her
friends were at first dazzled by the brilliancy of the wonderful City.
The streets were lined with beautiful houses all built of green marble
and studded everywhere with sparkling emeralds. They walked over a
pavement of the same green marble, and where the blocks were joined
together were rows of emeralds, set closely, and glittering in the
brightness of the sun. The window panes were of green glass; even the
sky above the City had a green tint, and the rays of the sun were green.

There were many people–men, women, and children–walking about, and
these were all dressed in green clothes and had greenish skins. They
looked at Dorothy and her strangely assorted company with wondering
eyes, and the children all ran away and hid behind their mothers when
they saw the Lion; but no one spoke to them. Many shops stood in the
street, and Dorothy saw that everything in them was green. Green candy
and green pop corn were offered for sale, as well as green shoes, green
hats, and green clothes of all sorts. At one place a man was selling
green lemonade, and when the children bought it Dorothy could see that
they paid for it with green pennies.

There seemed to be no horses nor animals of any kind; the men carried
things around in little green carts, which they pushed before them.
Everyone seemed happy and contented and prosperous.

The Guardian of the Gates led them through the streets until they came
to a big building, exactly in the middle of the City, which was the
Palace of Oz, the Great Wizard. There was a soldier before the door,
dressed in a green uniform and wearing a long green beard.

“Here are strangers,” said the Guardian of the Gates to him, “and they
demand to see the Great Oz.”

“Step inside,” answered the soldier, “and I will carry your message to
him.”

So they passed through the Palace Gates and were led into a big room
with a green carpet and lovely green furniture set with emeralds. The
soldier made them all wipe their feet upon a green mat before entering
this room, and when they were seated he said politely:

“Please make yourselves comfortable while I go to the door of the
Throne Room and tell Oz you are here.”

They had to wait a long time before the soldier returned. When, at
last, he came back, Dorothy asked:

“Have you seen Oz?”

“Oh, no,” returned the soldier; “I have never seen him. But I spoke to
him as he sat behind his screen and gave him your message. He said he
will grant you an audience, if you so desire; but each one of you must
enter his presence alone, and he will admit but one each day.
Therefore, as you must remain in the Palace for several days, I will
have you shown to rooms where you may rest in comfort after your
journey.”

“Thank you,” replied the girl; “that is very kind of Oz.”

The soldier now blew upon a green whistle, and at once a young girl,
dressed in a pretty green silk gown, entered the room. She had lovely
green hair and green eyes, and she bowed low before Dorothy as she
said, “Follow me and I will show you your room.”

So Dorothy said good-bye to all her friends except Toto, and taking the
dog in her arms followed the green girl through seven passages and up
three flights of stairs until they came to a room at the front of the
Palace. It was the sweetest little room in the world, with a soft
comfortable bed that had sheets of green silk and a green velvet
counterpane. There was a tiny fountain in the middle of the room, that
shot a spray of green perfume into the air, to fall back into a
beautifully carved green marble basin. Beautiful green flowers stood
in the windows, and there was a shelf with a row of little green books.
When Dorothy had time to open these books she found them full of queer
green pictures that made her laugh, they were so funny.

In a wardrobe were many green dresses, made of silk and satin and
velvet; and all of them fitted Dorothy exactly.

“Make yourself perfectly at home,” said the green girl, “and if you
wish for anything ring the bell. Oz will send for you tomorrow
morning.”

She left Dorothy alone and went back to the others. These she also led
to rooms, and each one of them found himself lodged in a very pleasant
part of the Palace. Of course this politeness was wasted on the
Scarecrow; for when he found himself alone in his room he stood
stupidly in one spot, just within the doorway, to wait till morning.
It would not rest him to lie down, and he could not close his eyes; so
he remained all night staring at a little spider which was weaving its
web in a corner of the room, just as if it were not one of the most
wonderful rooms in the world. The Tin Woodman lay down on his bed from
force of habit, for he remembered when he was made of flesh; but not
being able to sleep, he passed the night moving his joints up and down
to make sure they kept in good working order. The Lion would have
preferred a bed of dried leaves in the forest, and did not like being
shut up in a room; but he had too much sense to let this worry him, so
he sprang upon the bed and rolled himself up like a cat and purred
himself asleep in a minute.

The next morning, after breakfast, the green maiden came to fetch
Dorothy, and she dressed her in one of the prettiest gowns, made of
green brocaded satin. Dorothy put on a green silk apron and tied a
green ribbon around Toto’s neck, and they started for the Throne Room
of the Great Oz.

First they came to a great hall in which were many ladies and gentlemen
of the court, all dressed in rich costumes. These people had nothing
to do but talk to each other, but they always came to wait outside the
Throne Room every morning, although they were never permitted to see
Oz. As Dorothy entered they looked at her curiously, and one of them
whispered:

“Are you really going to look upon the face of Oz the Terrible?”

“Of course,” answered the girl, “if he will see me.”

“Oh, he will see you,” said the soldier who had taken her message to
the Wizard, “although he does not like to have people ask to see him.
Indeed, at first he was angry and said I should send you back where you
came from. Then he asked me what you looked like, and when I mentioned
your silver shoes he was very much interested. At last I told him
about the mark upon your forehead, and he decided he would admit you to
his presence.”

Just then a bell rang, and the green girl said to Dorothy, “That is the
signal. You must go into the Throne Room alone.”

She opened a little door and Dorothy walked boldly through and found
herself in a wonderful place. It was a big, round room with a high
arched roof, and the walls and ceiling and floor were covered with
large emeralds set closely together. In the center of the roof was a
great light, as bright as the sun, which made the emeralds sparkle in a
wonderful manner.

But what interested Dorothy most was the big throne of green marble
that stood in the middle of the room. It was shaped like a chair and
sparkled with gems, as did everything else. In the center of the chair
was an enormous Head, without a body to support it or any arms or legs
whatever. There was no hair upon this head, but it had eyes and a nose
and mouth, and was much bigger than the head of the biggest giant.

As Dorothy gazed upon this in wonder and fear, the eyes turned slowly
and looked at her sharply and steadily. Then the mouth moved, and
Dorothy heard a voice say:

“I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?”

It was not such an awful voice as she had expected to come from the big
Head; so she took courage and answered:

“I am Dorothy, the Small and Meek. I have come to you for help.”

The eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a full minute. Then said the
voice:

“Where did you get the silver shoes?”

“I got them from the Wicked Witch of the East, when my house fell on
her and killed her,” she replied.

“Where did you get the mark upon your forehead?” continued the voice.

“That is where the Good Witch of the North kissed me when she bade me
good-bye and sent me to you,” said the girl.

Again the eyes looked at her sharply, and they saw she was telling the
truth. Then Oz asked, “What do you wish me to do?”

“Send me back to Kansas, where my Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are,” she
answered earnestly. “I don’t like your country, although it is so
beautiful. And I am sure Aunt Em will be dreadfully worried over my
being away so long.”

The eyes winked three times, and then they turned up to the ceiling and
down to the floor and rolled around so queerly that they seemed to see
every part of the room. And at last they looked at Dorothy again.

“Why should I do this for you?” asked Oz.

“Because you are strong and I am weak; because you are a Great Wizard
and I am only a little girl.”

“But you were strong enough to kill the Wicked Witch of the East,” said
Oz.

“That just happened,” returned Dorothy simply; “I could not help it.”

“Well,” said the Head, “I will give you my answer. You have no right
to expect me to send you back to Kansas unless you do something for me
in return. In this country everyone must pay for everything he gets.
If you wish me to use my magic power to send you home again you must do
something for me first. Help me and I will help you.”

“What must I do?” asked the girl.

“Kill the Wicked Witch of the West,” answered Oz.

“But I cannot!” exclaimed Dorothy, greatly surprised.

“You killed the Witch of the East and you wear the silver shoes, which
bear a powerful charm. There is now but one Wicked Witch left in all
this land, and when you can tell me she is dead I will send you back to
Kansas–but not before.”

The little girl began to weep, she was so much disappointed; and the
eyes winked again and looked upon her anxiously, as if the Great Oz
felt that she could help him if she would.

“I never killed anything, willingly,” she sobbed. “Even if I wanted
to, how could I kill the Wicked Witch? If you, who are Great and
Terrible, cannot kill her yourself, how do you expect me to do it?”

“I do not know,” said the Head; “but that is my answer, and until the
Wicked Witch dies you will not see your uncle and aunt again. Remember
that the Witch is Wicked–tremendously Wicked–and ought to be killed.
Now go, and do not ask to see me again until you have done your task.”

Sorrowfully Dorothy left the Throne Room and went back where the Lion
and the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman were waiting to hear what Oz had
said to her. “There is no hope for me,” she said sadly, “for Oz will
not send me home until I have killed the Wicked Witch of the West; and
that I can never do.”

Her friends were sorry, but could do nothing to help her; so Dorothy
went to her own room and lay down on the bed and cried herself to sleep.

The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the
Scarecrow and said:

“Come with me, for Oz has sent for you.”

So the Scarecrow followed him and was admitted into the great Throne
Room, where he saw, sitting in the emerald throne, a most lovely Lady.
She was dressed in green silk gauze and wore upon her flowing green
locks a crown of jewels. Growing from her shoulders were wings,
gorgeous in color and so light that they fluttered if the slightest
breath of air reached them.

When the Scarecrow had bowed, as prettily as his straw stuffing would
let him, before this beautiful creature, she looked upon him sweetly,
and said:

“I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?”

Now the Scarecrow, who had expected to see the great Head Dorothy had
told him of, was much astonished; but he answered her bravely.

“I am only a Scarecrow, stuffed with straw. Therefore I have no
brains, and I come to you praying that you will put brains in my head
instead of straw, so that I may become as much a man as any other in
your dominions.”

“Why should I do this for you?” asked the Lady.

“Because you are wise and powerful, and no one else can help me,”
answered the Scarecrow.

“I never grant favors without some return,” said Oz; “but this much I
will promise. If you will kill for me the Wicked Witch of the West, I
will bestow upon you a great many brains, and such good brains that you
will be the wisest man in all the Land of Oz.”

“I thought you asked Dorothy to kill the Witch,” said the Scarecrow, in
surprise.

“So I did. I don’t care who kills her. But until she is dead I will
not grant your wish. Now go, and do not seek me again until you have
earned the brains you so greatly desire.”

The Scarecrow went sorrowfully back to his friends and told them what
Oz had said; and Dorothy was surprised to find that the Great Wizard
was not a Head, as she had seen him, but a lovely Lady.

“All the same,” said the Scarecrow, “she needs a heart as much as the
Tin Woodman.”

On the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the Tin
Woodman and said:

“Oz has sent for you. Follow me.”

So the Tin Woodman followed him and came to the great Throne Room. He
did not know whether he would find Oz a lovely Lady or a Head, but he
hoped it would be the lovely Lady. “For,” he said to himself, “if it
is the head, I am sure I shall not be given a heart, since a head has
no heart of its own and therefore cannot feel for me. But if it is the
lovely Lady I shall beg hard for a heart, for all ladies are themselves
said to be kindly hearted.”

But when the Woodman entered the great Throne Room he saw neither the
Head nor the Lady, for Oz had taken the shape of a most terrible Beast.
It was nearly as big as an elephant, and the green throne seemed hardly
strong enough to hold its weight. The Beast had a head like that of a
rhinoceros, only there were five eyes in its face. There were five
long arms growing out of its body, and it also had five long, slim
legs. Thick, woolly hair covered every part of it, and a more
dreadful-looking monster could not be imagined. It was fortunate the
Tin Woodman had no heart at that moment, for it would have beat loud
and fast from terror. But being only tin, the Woodman was not at all
afraid, although he was much disappointed.

“I am Oz, the Great and Terrible,” spoke the Beast, in a voice that was
one great roar. “Who are you, and why do you seek me?”

“I am a Woodman, and made of tin. Therefore I have no heart, and
cannot love. I pray you to give me a heart that I may be as other men
are.”

“Why should I do this?” demanded the Beast.

“Because I ask it, and you alone can grant my request,” answered the
Woodman.

Oz gave a low growl at this, but said, gruffly: “If you indeed desire a
heart, you must earn it.”

“How?” asked the Woodman.

“Help Dorothy to kill the Wicked Witch of the West,” replied the Beast.
“When the Witch is dead, come to me, and I will then give you the
biggest and kindest and most loving heart in all the Land of Oz.”

So the Tin Woodman was forced to return sorrowfully to his friends and
tell them of the terrible Beast he had seen. They all wondered greatly
at the many forms the Great Wizard could take upon himself, and the
Lion said:

“If he is a Beast when I go to see him, I shall roar my loudest, and so
frighten him that he will grant all I ask. And if he is the lovely
Lady, I shall pretend to spring upon her, and so compel her to do my
bidding. And if he is the great Head, he will be at my mercy; for I
will roll this head all about the room until he promises to give us
what we desire. So be of good cheer, my friends, for all will yet be
well.”

The next morning the soldier with the green whiskers led the Lion to
the great Throne Room and bade him enter the presence of Oz.

The Lion at once passed through the door, and glancing around saw, to
his surprise, that before the throne was a Ball of Fire, so fierce and
glowing he could scarcely bear to gaze upon it. His first thought was
that Oz had by accident caught on fire and was burning up; but when he
tried to go nearer, the heat was so intense that it singed his
whiskers, and he crept back tremblingly to a spot nearer the door.

Then a low, quiet voice came from the Ball of Fire, and these were the
words it spoke:

“I am Oz, the Great and Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?”

And the Lion answered, “I am a Cowardly Lion, afraid of everything. I
came to you to beg that you give me courage, so that in reality I may
become the King of Beasts, as men call me.”

“Why should I give you courage?” demanded Oz.

“Because of all Wizards you are the greatest, and alone have power to
grant my request,” answered the Lion.

The Ball of Fire burned fiercely for a time, and the voice said, “Bring
me proof that the Wicked Witch is dead, and that moment I will give you
courage. But as long as the Witch lives, you must remain a coward.”

The Lion was angry at this speech, but could say nothing in reply, and
while he stood silently gazing at the Ball of Fire it became so
furiously hot that he turned tail and rushed from the room. He was
glad to find his friends waiting for him, and told them of his terrible
interview with the Wizard.

“What shall we do now?” asked Dorothy sadly.

“There is only one thing we can do,” returned the Lion, “and that is to
go to the land of the Winkies, seek out the Wicked Witch, and destroy
her.”

“But suppose we cannot?” said the girl.

“Then I shall never have courage,” declared the Lion.

“And I shall never have brains,” added the Scarecrow.

“And I shall never have a heart,” spoke the Tin Woodman.

“And I shall never see Aunt Em and Uncle Henry,” said Dorothy,
beginning to cry.

“Be careful!” cried the green girl. “The tears will fall on your green
silk gown and spot it.”

So Dorothy dried her eyes and said, “I suppose we must try it; but I am
sure I do not want to kill anybody, even to see Aunt Em again.”

“I will go with you; but I’m too much of a coward to kill the Witch,”
said the Lion.

“I will go too,” declared the Scarecrow; “but I shall not be of much
help to you, I am such a fool.”

“I haven’t the heart to harm even a Witch,” remarked the Tin Woodman;
“but if you go I certainly shall go with you.”

Therefore it was decided to start upon their journey the next morning,
and the Woodman sharpened his axe on a green grindstone and had all his
joints properly oiled. The Scarecrow stuffed himself with fresh straw
and Dorothy put new paint on his eyes that he might see better. The
green girl, who was very kind to them, filled Dorothy’s basket with
good things to eat, and fastened a little bell around Toto’s neck with
a green ribbon.

They went to bed quite early and slept soundly until daylight, when
they were awakened by the crowing of a green cock that lived in the
back yard of the Palace, and the cackling of a hen that had laid a
green egg.

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This story is a song. Our spooky Halloween number is dedicated to Katie, the Ordinary Witch.

Poor Katie is scared of Halloween because it’s the time when the other kids tease her for being a witch. But you really shouldn’t be afraid of Halloween, especially if you are a witch.

Sung with great verve by Gabriella – you are really going to love this one.

Music composed and sung by Gabriella Burnel. Tabla and percussion by Jay Vadukal. Words by Bertie.

And here are Natasha’s Dance Moves to go with the song:

For the verse beginning:”Don’t be scared of Halloween”:
Hold two imaginary pumpkins in the palms of your hand.
Tap Step from left to right foot to find the four beat rhythm of the verse.
Move your shoulders up and down in opposite directions for ‘All the things that go unseen’.
Twirl to your right with a spinning action to show ‘no need to feel fear’.
Do a swivelling action of pumpkin hands to show the Pumpkins and ghouls are near by.

For the verse beginning “Witches love to Swoop on sticks”:
Move forward as if on an imaginary broomstick
Skip from left to right on your broomstick show you are in a witch broomstick formation
Twirl your hands in the air to show a looping movement and flinging sweets either side mime swinging hands from left to right with a flicking action

Don’t Be Scared of Halloween

People say the girl’s a witch
Kids are cruel and love to snitch
They say she’s got a funny squint
And sucks on garlic like a mint

Katie knows a spell or two
She can make a toad of you
So don’t go near or else you might
Crouch and croak throughout the night

October 30 is the time
They taunt her worst and it’s a crime
(chant)”Your family’s fiendish and a clutch
Of witches goblins ghouls and such.”

Chorus

Out on the streets there are sweets about
Katie, Katie – she’s at home and missing out
Out in the night the kids are tricking fun
Katie, Katie she’s at home and glum
Katie, Katie
She’s the Witch who’s scared of Halloween !

[back to verse]

Don’t be scared of Halloween
Or the things that go unseen
There’s no need to feed the fear
When the ghosts and ghouls are awfully near.

Witches love to swoop on sticks
Formation flying, stunting tricks
Loop the loop and scoop the earth
Flinging sweets for all they’re worth

Chorus

Out on the streets there are sweets about
Katie, Katie – she’s at home and missing out
Out in the night the kids are tricking fun
Katie Katie she’s at home and feeling glum
Katie, Katie
She’s the Witch who’s scared of Halloween !

[break out]
Baba Yaga, Whippety Stourie
Drac-ular and Frankenstein
Feel the fear
They’re frightfully near
creeping crawling, silently stalking
Inch by inch and bit by bit
Sweeping Slowly
Seething below thee
Nothing to do
Coming for you
Run for your Life! It’s Halloween !

Out on the streets there are sweets about
Katie, Katie – she’s at home and missing out
Out in the night the kids are tricking fun
Katie, Katie she’s at home and feeling glum
Katie, Katie
She’s the Witch who’s scared of Halloween !

There’s a moonlight mystery
It’s the goblin king you’ve got to see
He’s the guy, an ice cool dude
He drools and rules the witches’ brood.

The Goblin Dude now he’s the one,
Who calls on Katie to dance his song
Over the moonbeams and far away
Scattering stardust till the day

Katie, Katie
She’s the witch who’s loving Halloween !
[stop]

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Dorothy and her friends finally reach the Emerald City. It is a green city, full of green people, who wear green spectacles. They must persuade the Guardian of the Gates to let them pass.

Read by Natasha. Duration 16 Minutes.

10. The Guardian of the Gate

It was some time before the Cowardly Lion awakened, for he had lain
among the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance;
but when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck he was very glad
to find himself still alive.

“I ran as fast as I could,” he said, sitting down and yawning, “but the
flowers were too strong for me. How did you get me out?”

Then they told him of the field mice, and how they had generously saved
him from death; and the Cowardly Lion laughed, and said:

“I have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such little
things as flowers came near to killing me, and such small animals as
mice have saved my life. How strange it all is! But, comrades, what
shall we do now?”

“We must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again,” said
Dorothy, “and then we can keep on to the Emerald City.”

So, the Lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again,
they all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through
the soft, fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the road
of yellow brick and turned again toward the Emerald City where the
Great Oz dwelt.

The road was smooth and well paved, now, and the country about was
beautiful, so that the travelers rejoiced in leaving the forest far
behind, and with it the many dangers they had met in its gloomy shades.
Once more they could see fences built beside the road; but these were
painted green, and when they came to a small house, in which a farmer
evidently lived, that also was painted green. They passed by several
of these houses during the afternoon, and sometimes people came to the
doors and looked at them as if they would like to ask questions; but no
one came near them nor spoke to them because of the great Lion, of
which they were very much afraid. The people were all dressed in
clothing of a lovely emerald-green color and wore peaked hats like
those of the Munchkins.

“This must be the Land of Oz,” said Dorothy, “and we are surely getting
near the Emerald City.”

“Yes,” answered the Scarecrow. “Everything is green here, while in the
country of the Munchkins blue was the favorite color. But the people
do not seem to be as friendly as the Munchkins, and I’m afraid we shall
be unable to find a place to pass the night.”

“I should like something to eat besides fruit,” said the girl, “and I’m
sure Toto is nearly starved. Let us stop at the next house and talk to
the people.”

So, when they came to a good-sized farmhouse, Dorothy walked boldly up
to the door and knocked.

A woman opened it just far enough to look out, and said, “What do you
want, child, and why is that great Lion with you?”

“We wish to pass the night with you, if you will allow us,” answered
Dorothy; “and the Lion is my friend and comrade, and would not hurt you
for the world.”

“Is he tame?” asked the woman, opening the door a little wider.

“Oh, yes,” said the girl, “and he is a great coward, too. He will be
more afraid of you than you are of him.”

“Well,” said the woman, after thinking it over and taking another peep
at the Lion, “if that is the case you may come in, and I will give you
some supper and a place to sleep.”

So they all entered the house, where there were, besides the woman, two
children and a man. The man had hurt his leg, and was lying on the
couch in a corner. They seemed greatly surprised to see so strange a
company, and while the woman was busy laying the table the man asked:

“Where are you all going?”

“To the Emerald City,” said Dorothy, “to see the Great Oz.”

“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the man. “Are you sure that Oz will see you?”

“Why not?” she replied.

“Why, it is said that he never lets anyone come into his presence. I
have been to the Emerald City many times, and it is a beautiful and
wonderful place; but I have never been permitted to see the Great Oz,
nor do I know of any living person who has seen him.”

“Does he never go out?” asked the Scarecrow.

“Never. He sits day after day in the great Throne Room of his Palace,
and even those who wait upon him do not see him face to face.”

“What is he like?” asked the girl.

“That is hard to tell,” said the man thoughtfully. “You see, Oz is a
Great Wizard, and can take on any form he wishes. So that some say he
looks like a bird; and some say he looks like an elephant; and some say
he looks like a cat. To others he appears as a beautiful fairy, or a
brownie, or in any other form that pleases him. But who the real Oz
is, when he is in his own form, no living person can tell.”

“That is very strange,” said Dorothy, “but we must try, in some way, to
see him, or we shall have made our journey for nothing.”

“Why do you wish to see the terrible Oz?” asked the man.

“I want him to give me some brains,” said the Scarecrow eagerly.

“Oh, Oz could do that easily enough,” declared the man. “He has more
brains than he needs.”

“And I want him to give me a heart,” said the Tin Woodman.

“That will not trouble him,” continued the man, “for Oz has a large
collection of hearts, of all sizes and shapes.”

“And I want him to give me courage,” said the Cowardly Lion.

“Oz keeps a great pot of courage in his Throne Room,” said the man,
“which he has covered with a golden plate, to keep it from running
over. He will be glad to give you some.”

“And I want him to send me back to Kansas,” said Dorothy.

“Where is Kansas?” asked the man, with surprise.

“I don’t know,” replied Dorothy sorrowfully, “but it is my home, and
I’m sure it’s somewhere.”

“Very likely. Well, Oz can do anything; so I suppose he will find
Kansas for you. But first you must get to see him, and that will be a
hard task; for the Great Wizard does not like to see anyone, and he
usually has his own way. But what do YOU want?” he continued, speaking
to Toto. Toto only wagged his tail; for, strange to say, he could not
speak.

The woman now called to them that supper was ready, so they gathered
around the table and Dorothy ate some delicious porridge and a dish of
scrambled eggs and a plate of nice white bread, and enjoyed her meal.
The Lion ate some of the porridge, but did not care for it, saying it
was made from oats and oats were food for horses, not for lions. The
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman ate nothing at all. Toto ate a little of
everything, and was glad to get a good supper again.

The woman now gave Dorothy a bed to sleep in, and Toto lay down beside
her, while the Lion guarded the door of her room so she might not be
disturbed. The Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman stood up in a corner and
kept quiet all night, although of course they could not sleep.

The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, they started on their way,
and soon saw a beautiful green glow in the sky just before them.

“That must be the Emerald City,” said Dorothy.

As they walked on, the green glow became brighter and brighter, and it
seemed that at last they were nearing the end of their travels. Yet it
was afternoon before they came to the great wall that surrounded the
City. It was high and thick and of a bright green color.

In front of them, and at the end of the road of yellow brick, was a big
gate, all studded with emeralds that glittered so in the sun that even
the painted eyes of the Scarecrow were dazzled by their brilliancy.

There was a bell beside the gate, and Dorothy pushed the button and
heard a silvery tinkle sound within. Then the big gate swung slowly
open, and they all passed through and found themselves in a high arched
room, the walls of which glistened with countless emeralds.

Before them stood a little man about the same size as the Munchkins.
He was clothed all in green, from his head to his feet, and even his
skin was of a greenish tint. At his side was a large green box.

When he saw Dorothy and her companions the man asked, “What do you wish
in the Emerald City?”

“We came here to see the Great Oz,” said Dorothy.

The man was so surprised at this answer that he sat down to think it
over.

“It has been many years since anyone asked me to see Oz,” he said,
shaking his head in perplexity. “He is powerful and terrible, and if
you come on an idle or foolish errand to bother the wise reflections of
the Great Wizard, he might be angry and destroy you all in an instant.”

“But it is not a foolish errand, nor an idle one,” replied the
Scarecrow; “it is important. And we have been told that Oz is a good
Wizard.”

“So he is,” said the green man, “and he rules the Emerald City wisely
and well. But to those who are not honest, or who approach him from
curiosity, he is most terrible, and few have ever dared ask to see his
face. I am the Guardian of the Gates, and since you demand to see the
Great Oz I must take you to his Palace. But first you must put on the
spectacles.”

“Why?” asked Dorothy.

“Because if you did not wear spectacles the brightness and glory of the
Emerald City would blind you. Even those who live in the City must
wear spectacles night and day. They are all locked on, for Oz so
ordered it when the City was first built, and I have the only key that
will unlock them.”

He opened the big box, and Dorothy saw that it was filled with
spectacles of every size and shape. All of them had green glasses in
them. The Guardian of the Gates found a pair that would just fit
Dorothy and put them over her eyes. There were two golden bands
fastened to them that passed around the back of her head, where they
were locked together by a little key that was at the end of a chain the
Guardian of the Gates wore around his neck. When they were on, Dorothy
could not take them off had she wished, but of course she did not wish
to be blinded by the glare of the Emerald City, so she said nothing.

Then the green man fitted spectacles for the Scarecrow and the Tin
Woodman and the Lion, and even on little Toto; and all were locked fast
with the key.

Then the Guardian of the Gates put on his own glasses and told them he
was ready to show them to the Palace. Taking a big golden key from a
peg on the wall, he opened another gate, and they all followed him
through the portal into the streets of the Emerald City.

Download the audio

When we published The Adventure of the Six Napoleons we asked you if you would like us to do more Sherlock Holmes stories and you told us overwhelmingly YES. So here is another story – it’s one of the most intriguing tales about the great detective.

Mr. Jabez Wilson, an unremarkable man apart from his shock of red hair, has just lost his dream job. He was employed on a good salary to copy out the encyclopaedia. His only qualification was the colour of his hair. Just as suddenly as he won this wonderful job with the mysterious Red-Headed League, the league disappeared without trace. What could it all mean? Could there be a crime behind these events?

Read by Richard. Duration 59 Minutes. By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a
very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.
With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when
Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door
behind me.

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear
Watson,” he said cordially.

“I was afraid that you were engaged.”

“So I am. Very much so.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and
helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no
doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.

“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in
judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love
of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum
routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by
the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you
will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own
little adventures.”

“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I
observed.

“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we
went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary
Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary
combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more
daring than any effort of the imagination.”

“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”

“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my
view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you
until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to
be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call
upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to
be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some
time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique
things are very often connected not with the larger but with the
smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for
doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I
have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present
case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is
certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to
recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend
Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the
peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every
possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some
slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide
myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my
memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the
facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper
flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and
endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor
bore every mark of being an average commonplace British
tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey
shepherd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat,
unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy
Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as
an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a
wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether,
look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save
his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and
discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook
his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
“Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual
labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has
been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of
writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did
manual labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s
carpenter.”

“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger
than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
developed.”

“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you
use an arc-and-compass breastpin.”

“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”

“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for
five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the
elbow where you rest it upon the desk?”

“Well, but China?”

“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right
wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small
study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature
of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a
delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I
see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter
becomes even more simple.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I
thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see
that there was nothing in it, after all.”

“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake
in explaining. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and my
poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I
am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger
planted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began
it all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late
Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now
another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a
salary of 4 pounds a week for purely nominal services. All
red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age
of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at
eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7
Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”

“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice
read over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when
in high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?”
said he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us
all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this
advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note,
Doctor, of the paper and the date.”

“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months
ago.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”

“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small
pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a
very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than
just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants,
but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but
that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the
business.”

“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth,
either. It’s hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter
assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better
himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after
all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?”

“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employ?© who
comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience
among employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is
not as remarkable as your advertisement.”

“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a
fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought
to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar
like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his
main fault, but on the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice
in him.”

“He is still with you, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple
cooking and keeps the place clean–that’s all I have in the
house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very
quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads
and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.
Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight
weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

“‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’

“‘Why that?’ I asks.

“‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the
Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who
gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than
there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what
to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here’s
a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.’

“‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a
very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of
my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting
my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what
was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

“‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he
asked with his eyes open.

“‘Never.’

“‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one
of the vacancies.’

“‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight,
and it need not interfere very much with one’s other
occupations.’

“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears,
for the business has not been over-good for some years, and an
extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.

“‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.

“‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address
where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out,
the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah
Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself
red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men;
so when he died it was found that he had left his enormous
fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the
interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of
that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to
do.’

“‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who
would apply.’

“‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is
really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had
started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the
old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your
applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but
real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr.
Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be
worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a
few hundred pounds.’

“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves,
that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed
to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I
stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent
Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might
prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for
the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to
have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for
the address that was given us in the advertisement.

“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in
his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement.
Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court
looked like a coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought
there were so many in the whole country as were brought together
by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they
were–straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay;
but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real
vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I
would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear
of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and
pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up
to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream
upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back
dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found
ourselves in the office.”

“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked
Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge
pinch of snuff. “Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs
and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that
was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate
as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in
them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem
to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn
came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of
the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he
might have a private word with us.

“‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is
willing to fill a vacancy in the League.’

“‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has
every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so
fine.’ He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and
gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he
plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my
success.

“‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will,
however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’
With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I
yelled with the pain. ‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as
he released me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we
have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and
once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler’s wax which
would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped over to the
window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the
vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below,
and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there
was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the
manager.

“‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of
the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are
you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’

“I answered that I had not.

“His face fell immediately.

“‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am
sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the
propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their
maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a
bachelor.’

“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was
not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for
a few minutes he said that it would be all right.

“‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be
fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a
head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your
new duties?’

“‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’
said I.

“‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding.
‘I should be able to look after that for you.’

“‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.

“‘Ten to two.’

“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr.
Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just
before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in
the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man,
and that he would see to anything that turned up.

“‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’

“‘Is 4 pounds a week.’

“‘And the work?’

“‘Is purely nominal.’

“‘What do you call purely nominal?’

“‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the
building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole
position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You
don’t comply with the conditions if you budge from the office
during that time.’

“‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’
said I.

“‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness
nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose
your billet.’

“‘And the work?’

“‘Is to copy out the “Encyclopaedia Britannica.” There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be
ready to-morrow?’

“‘Certainly,’ I answered.

“‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you
once more on the important position which you have been fortunate
enough to gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with
my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased
at my own good fortune.

“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in
low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the
whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its
object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past
belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay
such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the
‘Encyclopaedia Britannica.’ Vincent Spaulding did what he could to
cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the
whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look
at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a
quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for
Pope’s Court.

“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross
was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off
upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from
time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o’clock he
bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had
written, and locked the door of the office after me.

“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the
manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my
week’s work. It was the same next week, and the same the week
after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I
left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only
once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at
all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an
instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet
was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk
the loss of it.

“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about
Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and
hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very
long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly
filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole
business came to an end.”

“To an end?”

“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as
usual at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a
little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the
panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.”

He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet
of note-paper. It read in this fashion:

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

IS

DISSOLVED.

October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the
rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so
completely overtopped every other consideration that we both
burst out into a roar of laughter.

“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our
client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can
do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from
which he had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for
the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you
will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it.
Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the
door?”

“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called
at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything
about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant
living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell me
what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had
never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan
Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’

“‘What, the red-headed man?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor
and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new
premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.’

“‘Where could I find him?’

“‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17
King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’

“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was
a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever
heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”

“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.

“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say
that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite
good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place
without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough
to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right
away to you.”

“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an
exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it.
From what you have told me I think that it is possible that
graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear.”

“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four
pound a week.”

“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do
not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary
league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some
30 pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have
gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have
lost nothing by them.”

“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are,
and what their object was in playing this prank–if it was a
prank–upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it
cost them two and thirty pounds.”

“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first,
one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who
first called your attention to the advertisement–how long had he
been with you?”

“About a month then.”

“How did he come?”

“In answer to an advertisement.”

“Was he the only applicant?”

“No, I had a dozen.”

“Why did you pick him?”

“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”

“At half-wages, in fact.”

“Yes.”

“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”

“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon
his forehead.”

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought
as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are
pierced for earrings?”

“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he
was a lad.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still
with you?”

“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”

“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”

“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a
morning.”

“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an
opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is
Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what
do you make of it all?”

“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most
mysterious business.”

“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless
crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is
the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this
matter.”

“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.

“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I
beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled
himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his
hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his
black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird.
I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and
indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his
chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put
his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he
remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare
you for a few hours?”

“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very
absorbing.”

“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City
first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that
there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is
rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is
introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!”

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short
walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular
story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky,
little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy
two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in
enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded
laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and
uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with
“JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced
the place where our red-headed client carried on his business.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side
and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down
again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally
he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously
upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up
to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a
bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step
in.

“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would
go from here to the Strand.”

“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly,
closing the door.

“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is,
in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring
I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known
something of him before.”

“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good
deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you
inquired your way merely in order that you might see him.”

“Not him.”

“What then?”

“The knees of his trousers.”

“And what did you see?”

“What I expected to see.”

“Why did you beat the pavement?”

“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We
are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg
Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the
corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a
contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was
one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City
to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense
stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward,
while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of
pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line
of fine shops and stately business premises that they really
abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square
which we had just quitted.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing
along the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the
houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of
London. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little
newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank,
the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building
depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now,
Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A
sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where
all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a
very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All
the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect
happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the
music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes
were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the
relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was
possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature
alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and
astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction
against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally
predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his
black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase
would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning
power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were
unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a
man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him
that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James’s Hall I
felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set
himself to hunt down.

“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we
emerged.

“Yes, it would be as well.”

“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious.”

“Why serious?”

“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being
Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help
to-night.”

“At what time?”

“Ten will be early enough.”

“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”

“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger,
so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his
hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the
crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was
always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings
with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had
seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that
he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to
happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and
grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought
over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed
copier of the “Encyclopaedia” down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg
Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me.
What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from
Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a
formidable man–a man who might play a deep game. I tried to
puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside
until night should bring an explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my
way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker
Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered
the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering
his room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men,
one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police
agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a
very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.

“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his
pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.
“Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me
introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in
to-night’s adventure.”

“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in
his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for
starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do
the running down.”

“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,”
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said
the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which
are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical
and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It
is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of
the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly
correct than the official force.”

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the
stranger with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.
It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I
have not had my rubber.”

“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will
play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and
that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather,
the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you, Jones, it will
be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands.”

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a
young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his
profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on
any criminal in London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John
Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been
to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and
though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to
find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one week,
and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him
yet.”

“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.
I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I
agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is
past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two
will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the
second.”

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive
and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in
the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit
streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.

“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow
Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the
matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is
not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession.
He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as
tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we
are, and they are waiting for us.”

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had
found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and,
following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a
narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us.
Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive
iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding
stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr.
Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us
down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a
third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all
round with crates and massive boxes.

“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he
held up the lantern and gazed about him.

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon
the flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite
hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.

“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes
severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit
down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a
very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his
knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens,
began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few
seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again
and put his glass in his pocket.

“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can
hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their
work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at
present, Doctor–as no doubt you have divined–in the cellar of
the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to
you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of
London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at
present.”

“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had
several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”

“Your French gold?”

“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources
and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of
France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to
unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The
crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between
layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at
present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the
directors have had misgivings upon the subject.”

“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is
time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an
hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr.
Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.”

“And sit in the dark?”

“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and
I thought that, as we were a partie carr?©e, you might have your
rubber after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have
gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And,
first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men,
and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us
some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate,
and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a
light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no
compunction about shooting them down.”

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case
behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front
of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness–such an absolute
darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot
metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready
to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with my nerves worked
up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and
subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the
vault.

“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back
through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have
done what I asked you, Jones?”

“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”

“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent
and wait.”

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but
an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must
have almost gone and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs
were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my
nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my
hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle
breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper,
heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note
of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case
in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint
of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then
it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then,
without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand
appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the
centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the
hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then
it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark
again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between
the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending,
tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon
its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed
the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut,
boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand
on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and
waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another
instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after
him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face
and a shock of very red hair.

“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the
bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the
collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of
rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed
upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came
down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone
floor.

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no
chance at all.”

“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy
that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his
coat-tails.”

“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.

“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I
must compliment you.”

“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new
and effective.”

“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker
at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the
derbies.”

“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,”
remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.
“You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have
the goodness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and
‘please.’”

“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would
you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry
your Highness to the police-station?”

“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow
to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the
detective.

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them
from the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or
repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated
in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts
at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.”

“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over
this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond
that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in
many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of
the Red-headed League.”

“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning
as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it
was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible
object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of
the League, and the copying of the ‘Encyclopaedia,’ must be to get
this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of
hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but,
really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was
no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the colour of his
accomplice’s hair. The 4 pounds a week was a lure which must draw
him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands?
They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary
office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and
together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the
week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for
half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive
for securing the situation.”

“But how could you guess what the motive was?”

“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a
mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The
man’s business was a small one, and there was nothing in his
house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and
such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something
out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s
fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the
cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then
I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I
had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in
London. He was doing something in the cellar–something which
took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once
more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel
to some other building.

“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had
never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his
face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have
remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of
those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they
were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and
Suburban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt that I
had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I
called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank
directors, with the result that you have seen.”

“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt
to-night?” I asked.

“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that
they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence–in other
words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential
that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than
any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.
For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night.”

“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned
admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings
true.”

“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already
feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort
to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little
problems help me to do so.”

“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of
some little use,” he remarked. “‘L’homme c’est rien–l’oeuvre
c’est tout,’ as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”

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In this chapter, the Tin Woodman saves a very small but important person who then returns the favour.

Read by Natasha. Duration 11.21.

9. The Queen of the Field Mice

“We cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now,” remarked the
Scarecrow, as he stood beside the girl, “for we have come nearly as far
as the river carried us away.”

The Tin Woodman was about to reply when he heard a low growl, and
turning his head (which worked beautifully on hinges) he saw a strange
beast come bounding over the grass toward them. It was, indeed, a
great yellow Wildcat, and the Woodman thought it must be chasing
something, for its ears were lying close to its head and its mouth was
wide open, showing two rows of ugly teeth, while its red eyes glowed
like balls of fire. As it came nearer the Tin Woodman saw that running
before the beast was a little gray field mouse, and although he had no
heart he knew it was wrong for the Wildcat to try to kill such a
pretty, harmless creature.

So the Woodman raised his axe, and as the Wildcat ran by he gave it a
quick blow that cut the beast’s head clean off from its body, and it
rolled over at his feet in two pieces.

The field mouse, now that it was freed from its enemy, stopped short;
and coming slowly up to the Woodman it said, in a squeaky little voice:

“Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much for saving my life.”

“Don’t speak of it, I beg of you,” replied the Woodman. “I have no
heart, you know, so I am careful to help all those who may need a
friend, even if it happens to be only a mouse.”

“Only a mouse!” cried the little animal, indignantly. “Why, I am a
Queen–the Queen of all the Field Mice!”

“Oh, indeed,” said the Woodman, making a bow.

“Therefore you have done a great deed, as well as a brave one, in
saving my life,” added the Queen.

At that moment several mice were seen running up as fast as their
little legs could carry them, and when they saw their Queen they
exclaimed:

“Oh, your Majesty, we thought you would be killed! How did you manage
to escape the great Wildcat?” They all bowed so low to the little
Queen that they almost stood upon their heads.

“This funny tin man,” she answered, “killed the Wildcat and saved my
life. So hereafter you must all serve him, and obey his slightest
wish.”

“We will!” cried all the mice, in a shrill chorus. And then they
scampered in all directions, for Toto had awakened from his sleep, and
seeing all these mice around him he gave one bark of delight and jumped
right into the middle of the group. Toto had always loved to chase
mice when he lived in Kansas, and he saw no harm in it.

But the Tin Woodman caught the dog in his arms and held him tight,
while he called to the mice, “Come back! Come back! Toto shall not
hurt you.”

At this the Queen of the Mice stuck her head out from underneath a
clump of grass and asked, in a timid voice, “Are you sure he will not
bite us?”

“I will not let him,” said the Woodman; “so do not be afraid.”

One by one the mice came creeping back, and Toto did not bark again,
although he tried to get out of the Woodman’s arms, and would have
bitten him had he not known very well he was made of tin. Finally one
of the biggest mice spoke.

“Is there anything we can do,” it asked, “to repay you for saving the
life of our Queen?”

“Nothing that I know of,” answered the Woodman; but the Scarecrow, who
had been trying to think, but could not because his head was stuffed
with straw, said, quickly, “Oh, yes; you can save our friend, the
Cowardly Lion, who is asleep in the poppy bed.”

“A Lion!” cried the little Queen. “Why, he would eat us all up.”

“Oh, no,” declared the Scarecrow; “this Lion is a coward.”

“Really?” asked the Mouse.

“He says so himself,” answered the Scarecrow, “and he would never hurt
anyone who is our friend. If you will help us to save him I promise
that he shall treat you all with kindness.”

“Very well,” said the Queen, “we trust you. But what shall we do?”

“Are there many of these mice which call you Queen and are willing to
obey you?”

“Oh, yes; there are thousands,” she replied.

“Then send for them all to come here as soon as possible, and let each
one bring a long piece of string.”

The Queen turned to the mice that attended her and told them to go at
once and get all her people. As soon as they heard her orders they ran
away in every direction as fast as possible.

“Now,” said the Scarecrow to the Tin Woodman, “you must go to those
trees by the riverside and make a truck that will carry the Lion.”

So the Woodman went at once to the trees and began to work; and he soon
made a truck out of the limbs of trees, from which he chopped away all
the leaves and branches. He fastened it together with wooden pegs and
made the four wheels out of short pieces of a big tree trunk. So fast
and so well did he work that by the time the mice began to arrive the
truck was all ready for them.

They came from all directions, and there were thousands of them: big
mice and little mice and middle-sized mice; and each one brought a
piece of string in his mouth. It was about this time that Dorothy woke
from her long sleep and opened her eyes. She was greatly astonished to
find herself lying upon the grass, with thousands of mice standing
around and looking at her timidly. But the Scarecrow told her about
everything, and turning to the dignified little Mouse, he said:

“Permit me to introduce to you her Majesty, the Queen.”

Dorothy nodded gravely and the Queen made a curtsy, after which she
became quite friendly with the little girl.

The Scarecrow and the Woodman now began to fasten the mice to the
truck, using the strings they had brought. One end of a string was
tied around the neck of each mouse and the other end to the truck. Of
course the truck was a thousand times bigger than any of the mice who
were to draw it; but when all the mice had been harnessed, they were
able to pull it quite easily. Even the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman
could sit on it, and were drawn swiftly by their queer little horses to
the place where the Lion lay asleep.

After a great deal of hard work, for the Lion was heavy, they managed
to get him up on the truck. Then the Queen hurriedly gave her people
the order to start, for she feared if the mice stayed among the poppies
too long they also would fall asleep.

At first the little creatures, many though they were, could hardly stir
the heavily loaded truck; but the Woodman and the Scarecrow both pushed
from behind, and they got along better. Soon they rolled the Lion out
of the poppy bed to the green fields, where he could breathe the sweet,
fresh air again, instead of the poisonous scent of the flowers.

Dorothy came to meet them and thanked the little mice warmly for saving
her companion from death. She had grown so fond of the big Lion she
was glad he had been rescued.

Then the mice were unharnessed from the truck and scampered away
through the grass to their homes. The Queen of the Mice was the last
to leave.

“If ever you need us again,” she said, “come out into the field and
call, and we shall hear you and come to your assistance. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!” they all answered, and away the Queen ran, while Dorothy
held Toto tightly lest he should run after her and frighten her.

After this they sat down beside the Lion until he should awaken; and
the Scarecrow brought Dorothy some fruit from a tree near by, which she
ate for her dinner.

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When we last saw Dorothy and her friends, they had reached a great river and the Tin Woodman was starting to make a boat.

In this episode the Scarecrow finds himself stuck up a pole once again, and the friends face a new danger, this time from a flower.

Read by Natasha. Duration 15.17

8. The Deadly Poppy Field

Our little party of travelers awakened the next morning refreshed and
full of hope, and Dorothy breakfasted like a princess off peaches and
plums from the trees beside the river. Behind them was the dark forest
they had passed safely through, although they had suffered many
discouragements; but before them was a lovely, sunny country that
seemed to beckon them on to the Emerald City.

To be sure, the broad river now cut them off from this beautiful land.
But the raft was nearly done, and after the Tin Woodman had cut a few
more logs and fastened them together with wooden pins, they were ready
to start. Dorothy sat down in the middle of the raft and held Toto in
her arms. When the Cowardly Lion stepped upon the raft it tipped
badly, for he was big and heavy; but the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman
stood upon the other end to steady it, and they had long poles in their
hands to push the raft through the water.

They got along quite well at first, but when they reached the middle of
the river the swift current swept the raft downstream, farther and
farther away from the road of yellow brick. And the water grew so deep
that the long poles would not touch the bottom.

“This is bad,” said the Tin Woodman, “for if we cannot get to the land
we shall be carried into the country of the Wicked Witch of the West,
and she will enchant us and make us her slaves.”

“And then I should get no brains,” said the Scarecrow.

“And I should get no courage,” said the Cowardly Lion.

“And I should get no heart,” said the Tin Woodman.

“And I should never get back to Kansas,” said Dorothy.

“We must certainly get to the Emerald City if we can,” the Scarecrow
continued, and he pushed so hard on his long pole that it stuck fast in
the mud at the bottom of the river. Then, before he could pull it out
again–or let go–the raft was swept away, and the poor Scarecrow left
clinging to the pole in the middle of the river.

“Good-bye!” he called after them, and they were very sorry to leave
him. Indeed, the Tin Woodman began to cry, but fortunately remembered
that he might rust, and so dried his tears on Dorothy’s apron.

Of course this was a bad thing for the Scarecrow.

“I am now worse off than when I first met Dorothy,” he thought. “Then,
I was stuck on a pole in a cornfield, where I could make-believe scare
the crows, at any rate. But surely there is no use for a Scarecrow
stuck on a pole in the middle of a river. I am afraid I shall never
have any brains, after all!”

Down the stream the raft floated, and the poor Scarecrow was left far
behind. Then the Lion said:

“Something must be done to save us. I think I can swim to the shore
and pull the raft after me, if you will only hold fast to the tip of my
tail.”

So he sprang into the water, and the Tin Woodman caught fast hold of
his tail. Then the Lion began to swim with all his might toward the
shore. It was hard work, although he was so big; but by and by they
were drawn out of the current, and then Dorothy took the Tin Woodman’s
long pole and helped push the raft to the land.

They were all tired out when they reached the shore at last and stepped
off upon the pretty green grass, and they also knew that the stream had
carried them a long way past the road of yellow brick that led to the
Emerald City.

“What shall we do now?” asked the Tin Woodman, as the Lion lay down on
the grass to let the sun dry him.

“We must get back to the road, in some way,” said Dorothy.

“The best plan will be to walk along the riverbank until we come to the
road again,” remarked the Lion.

So, when they were rested, Dorothy picked up her basket and they
started along the grassy bank, to the road from which the river had
carried them. It was a lovely country, with plenty of flowers and
fruit trees and sunshine to cheer them, and had they not felt so sorry
for the poor Scarecrow, they could have been very happy.

They walked along as fast as they could, Dorothy only stopping once to
pick a beautiful flower; and after a time the Tin Woodman cried out:
“Look!”

Then they all looked at the river and saw the Scarecrow perched upon
his pole in the middle of the water, looking very lonely and sad.

“What can we do to save him?” asked Dorothy.

The Lion and the Woodman both shook their heads, for they did not know.
So they sat down upon the bank and gazed wistfully at the Scarecrow
until a Stork flew by, who, upon seeing them, stopped to rest at the
water’s edge.

“Who are you and where are you going?” asked the Stork.

“I am Dorothy,” answered the girl, “and these are my friends, the Tin
Woodman and the Cowardly Lion; and we are going to the Emerald City.”

“This isn’t the road,” said the Stork, as she twisted her long neck and
looked sharply at the queer party.

“I know it,” returned Dorothy, “but we have lost the Scarecrow, and are
wondering how we shall get him again.”

“Where is he?” asked the Stork.

“Over there in the river,” answered the little girl.

“If he wasn’t so big and heavy I would get him for you,” remarked the
Stork.

“He isn’t heavy a bit,” said Dorothy eagerly, “for he is stuffed with
straw; and if you will bring him back to us, we shall thank you ever
and ever so much.”

“Well, I’ll try,” said the Stork, “but if I find he is too heavy to
carry I shall have to drop him in the river again.”

So the big bird flew into the air and over the water till she came to
where the Scarecrow was perched upon his pole. Then the Stork with her
great claws grabbed the Scarecrow by the arm and carried him up into
the air and back to the bank, where Dorothy and the Lion and the Tin
Woodman and Toto were sitting.

When the Scarecrow found himself among his friends again, he was so
happy that he hugged them all, even the Lion and Toto; and as they
walked along he sang “Tol-de-ri-de-oh!” at every step, he felt so gay.

“I was afraid I should have to stay in the river forever,” he said,
“but the kind Stork saved me, and if I ever get any brains I shall find
the Stork again and do her some kindness in return.”

“That’s all right,” said the Stork, who was flying along beside them.
“I always like to help anyone in trouble. But I must go now, for my
babies are waiting in the nest for me. I hope you will find the
Emerald City and that Oz will help you.”

“Thank you,” replied Dorothy, and then the kind Stork flew into the air
and was soon out of sight.

They walked along listening to the singing of the brightly colored
birds and looking at the lovely flowers which now became so thick that
the ground was carpeted with them. There were big yellow and white and
blue and purple blossoms, besides great clusters of scarlet poppies,
which were so brilliant in color they almost dazzled Dorothy’s eyes.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” the girl asked, as she breathed in the spicy
scent of the bright flowers.

“I suppose so,” answered the Scarecrow. “When I have brains, I shall
probably like them better.”

“If I only had a heart, I should love them,” added the Tin Woodman.

“I always did like flowers,” said the Lion. “They of seem so helpless
and frail. But there are none in the forest so bright as these.”

They now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies, and fewer
and fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found themselves in the
midst of a great meadow of poppies. Now it is well known that when
there are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that
anyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried
away from the scent of the flowers, he sleeps on and on forever. But
Dorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red
flowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy
and she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep.

But the Tin Woodman would not let her do this.

“We must hurry and get back to the road of yellow brick before dark,”
he said; and the Scarecrow agreed with him. So they kept walking until
Dorothy could stand no longer. Her eyes closed in spite of herself and
she forgot where she was and fell among the poppies, fast asleep.

“What shall we do?” asked the Tin Woodman.

“If we leave her here she will die,” said the Lion. “The smell of the
flowers is killing us all. I myself can scarcely keep my eyes open,
and the dog is asleep already.”

It was true; Toto had fallen down beside his little mistress. But the
Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, not being made of flesh, were not
troubled by the scent of the flowers.

“Run fast,” said the Scarecrow to the Lion, “and get out of this deadly
flower bed as soon as you can. We will bring the little girl with us,
but if you should fall asleep you are too big to be carried.”

So the Lion aroused himself and bounded forward as fast as he could go.
In a moment he was out of sight.

“Let us make a chair with our hands and carry her,” said the Scarecrow.
So they picked up Toto and put the dog in Dorothy’s lap, and then they
made a chair with their hands for the seat and their arms for the arms
and carried the sleeping girl between them through the flowers.

On and on they walked, and it seemed that the great carpet of deadly
flowers that surrounded them would never end. They followed the bend
of the river, and at last came upon their friend the Lion, lying fast
asleep among the poppies. The flowers had been too strong for the huge
beast and he had given up at last, and fallen only a short distance
from the end of the poppy bed, where the sweet grass spread in
beautiful green fields before them.

“We can do nothing for him,” said the Tin Woodman, sadly; “for he is
much too heavy to lift. We must leave him here to sleep on forever,
and perhaps he will dream that he has found courage at last.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Scarecrow. “The Lion was a very good comrade for
one so cowardly. But let us go on.”

They carried the sleeping girl to a pretty spot beside the river, far
enough from the poppy field to prevent her breathing any more of the
poison of the flowers, and here they laid her gently on the soft grass
and waited for the fresh breeze to waken her.

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The third and final part of Emelye’s Tale. Prince Theseus orders that the two knights Arcite and Palamon must fight to decide who will win the hand of Princess Emelye. She is left wondering if she will have any say in the matter. In this bitter struggle, can there be any room for true love let alone chivalry? The story comes to a moving conclusion.

Read and written by Elizabeth Donnelly. Duration 17.46

As we knelt before Duke Theseus, Hippolyta and I begged him not to execute the knights.

“They may have been foolish,” I pleaded, “but they don’t deserve to die for it!”

The other women in the hunting party joined us. Even my annoying nurse Korinna began to cry

We looked on to see the duke’s expression turn from anger to pity. Our tears, it seems, had softened his hard heart.

He spoke sternly to the knights:

“You have both risked your freedom for this princess. And what is more, it seems that you are both prepared to sacrifice your lives for such a cause. A love like this is not easy to find! And for this reason, I would struggle to name two better candidates for Emelye’s hand in marriage.”

This was not at all what I had expected.

It was one thing not to want somebody to be killed, but it was quite another to be offered in marriage to these men. But which one was to be my husband? Duke Theseus ordered that so great a prize as me could not be decided in any old fight or brawl. He ordered that Arcite and Palamon must each gather 100 knights and fight to decide who would win me as their bride. The knights on both sides would take it in turns to fight a series of duels in one to one combat. Nobody was allowed to kill his opponent. Each man would fight only once, and should either Palamon or Arcite be wounded, his rival would immediately be declared the winner.

I must admit that I found this overwhelming to say the least. It was incredible to think that so much importance had been placed on a dispute over me. But to tell you the truth, it just might have have been good manners, I thought, if somebody had asked me about it first. There may be some women who feel flattered by a war being fought over them – there was that Princess Helen for whom they fought the Trojan War but frankly I’m not like her !

From first light the streets of Athens began to stir with excitement and anticipation. After a year’s preparation the day of the contest had arrived. The clammer of metal could be heard from the blacksmiths’ workshops ,as they made the finishing touches to spears and horse shoes. Barrows of fresh fruit were wheeled down the lanes and little boys ran in and out of the townsfolk riding on imaginary chargers. And as the sun rose, carriages travelled down the cobbled roads towards the palace, inside which sat lords and ladies dressed in their finery.

As the people of Athens approached the palace, music played throughout the crowds on pipes and trumpets, and horns and drums. Chatter filled the warm, sunny air as everyone wondered which knight would win me as his bride.

At noon, Theseus appeared on the balcony of the palace and sat on his throne.

Great cheers rang through the crowd of Athenians. And shortly afterwards, they were parted by Theseus’ guards to make way for the royal procession. The duke rode in front, flanked by the two Theban knights. I rode behind with my sister Hippolyta and I received so many cheers that I felt like a conquering hero. Women threw flowers in front of us and children waved as music and drumming blasted through the air.

We were the first to enter the stadium and were seated at the royal podium overlooking the arena, from which hung purple and gold banners with the Athenian coat of arms.

Meanwhile the knights’ armies had gathered outside the opposing entrances. Arcite led his men through the western gate, his ruby red banner held high as they passed the temple of Mars. Palamon entered through the eastern gate, brandishing a white banner as they passed the shrine to Venus. Both armies were equally magnificent and it would have been an impossible task to judge which was superior.

The men set themselves in position, one hundred on each side. As the trumpet was blown I held my breath, unsure if I would be able to watch the fighting. Never in my life had I felt such a rush of excitement and fear.

As the first pair charged towards one another, blinding beams of sunlight reflected from their suits of armour. With a clean strike, Palamon’s man was thrown clear from his horse, which continued to run around the arena until its reins were seized by an attendant.

The challenges came thick and fast, and as quickly as a new pair of riders charged at one another, another defeated man was carried off to the post where his wounds were nursed.

The first of the royal knights to compete was Palamon who looked magnificent in his silver armour, mounted high on a white horse. He was challenged by Arcite’s man Emetreus, the King of India. The men passed one another several times, each attempting to strike the other with sufficient force to throw him from his horse. But every blow that was struck was met with a parry of equal strength. It was not a blow that decided the victor of this duel, but a tactical manoeuvre. While the men were passing after an unsuccessful strike from King Emetreus, the Indian king turned back to make a second cut and caught Palamon unawares, piercing his flesh. Although the wound was deep, Palamon found the strength to attack Emetreus with one final blow that threw him from his saddle.

In spite of this small victory, the rules stated that a man with serious injuries must be removed from the conflict and his opponent declared the victor. Devastation swept over Palamon as he realised that he had lost the competition and forfeited his right to marry me.

Theseus stood from his throne to declare the contest over, and that a winner had been found. The crowd roared so loudly that the stadium seemed to shake.

Palamon, however, was not the only person displeased with the outcome, for high up on Mount Olympus, the goddess Venus was looking on and was furious that her pledge of my love had been forsaken.

Saturn the father of the gods approached the raging beauty.

“Venus, my child, you have no need to lament, Mars has fulfilled his pledge, now that Arcite has been victorious in battle, but the day is not yet over and you too shall keep your word to your devotee.”

Down below in Athens, Arcite was riding a lap of victory around the arena and removed his helmet, tossing it high up into the air. The crowd cheered with delight as the knight’s face was revealed and his jet black curls were swept back as he rode.

What happened next is certainly the strangest and most terrible thing that I have ever witnessed. Suddenly a thick cloud passed in front of the sun, casting a shadow over the arena. And from this shadow that covered the dusty ground, rose up what can only be described as a spirit, transparent and yet seeming to have a face. There was no doubt that this ghostly being had made its way up from Hades.

So afraid was Arcite’s horse that it reared up, throwing the Theban knight to the ground. He fell badly and without a helmet to protect him, received a great blow to the head.

The atmosphere among the thousands of spectators switched in an instant from jubilation to horror, as the newly found victor now lay on the ground, struggling for his life. Arcite was carried back to the palace where he was laid on a bed, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Theseus in an attempt to raise the morale of his people, issued an announcement that Arcite was not mortally wounded and would recover. He then drew the Athenians’ attention towards those knights whose wounds were being attended at the side of the arena, telling them to rejoice in the fact that no man had lost his life that day and all would be well.

Theseus, assured everyone that there was no cause for jealousy or anger between the two sides. Praise and glory were owed to both equally, and every combatant would receive a prize from the Duke.

While these prizes were being handed out, Hippolyta and I rode back to the palace to see how my newly acquired fiance was fairing.

As we entered the corridor that led to the chamber where Arcite lay, I saw Palamon pacing outside the doorway, consumed with worry. He said that there was nothing that the doctor could do for him.

An attendant came out of the room and told us that Arcite wanted to see us both. Approaching his bed, he appeared so much smaller and meeker than the mighty warrior I had first seen. His face had turned yellow and his lips were pale. With great effort he reached for my hand and looking me in the eyes he spoke,

(slowly, struggling to breathe..)
“Emelye, whatever you see before you, this pain and suffering of a wounded heart is nothing in comparison to the heartache I endured thinking that I would never be able to talk to you and make you mine. Fate has decided otherwise for me, but I want you to know that there isn’t a man alive more deserving of your love than my noble cousin Palamon.”

I was surprised to hear these words. I assumed that they would remain rivals to the bitter end. But should I have been surprised? They were both knights, and their code of chivalry and honour meant more to them than life itself. Looking back with time, I can see now that I should not be proud that they fought over me. But I am rightly proud that they were reunited in my name.

Arcite clenched my hand tightly and then closing his eyes, with a deep sigh moaned my name, “Emelye”. And with that final breath the last ounce of life departed from his body. Overwhelmed with sadness, I began to cry and was led away by my sister.

Theseus found a fitting place for Arcite’s grave. He remembered the woodland grove, which Arcite would visit when he was serving as the duke’s loyal squire. There he sang and rejoiced in his love for me. And so Theseus decided that this would be the perfect place to lay his body to rest.

Several mighty oaks were felled to build Arcite’s funeral pyre. As a result of which, the women and children whispered that many nymphs and fairies had been seen in the woods dislodged from their homes after the cutting of the trees.

A cloth made of the finest gold covered the young knight’s body. No-one present could restrain their tears on such a sad occasion. I was given the torch to light the pyre. Once I had lighted the fire, I stood back from the burning mound, and overwhelmed by the heat I fainted into my sister’s arms.

For the next few days and weeks I could not rid my thoughts of the final image of the dying man. I had had no idea of how much suffering I had caused him. It was only when he had compared his heartache to the physical pain that I had seen him endure, that I began to see how sad his story was. I then became tormented by feelings of guilt and pity.

Palamon also sank into a great depression at the loss of his cousin and could be seen taking long, solitary walks around the palace grounds, his mind lost in thought.

Theseus and Hippolyta were sorry too when they saw us both in such a sad state, and so decided that perhaps we might be of comfort to one another.

Over the months that followed, Palamon was invited to join us on several occasions. He dined in Theseus’ quarters, went on the royal hunt and attended the theatre festivals and games. As time went on he became a great companion of mine, for his wit excelled anyone I had ever met. And with time, our tears were exchanged for smiles and laughter.

It was on the eve of my next birthday that Duke Theseus invited all his royal courtiers to dine and once they had all gathered, he began to address the court,

“My lords and ladies, it fills me with great pleasure that you join me on such a joyous occasion, the birthday of our beloved princess Emelye. All of you will know that the events of the past year have offered us little to celebrate, but cast a great shadow over the harmony of our city. But I say to you, the death of a young warrior bestows upon him the greatest honour imaginable, for he has left this life at the height of his fame. Never will his reputation fade with the arrival of old age. And so, let us drink to the memory of the Theban prince, Arcite.”

As he raised his glass, the hall of guests rose to their feet and raising theirs echoed, “to Arcite”.

“ But let us turn to happier thoughts.” he continued, “Over the past few months, I have seen a beautiful friendship blossom between two lost souls and I believe that now that they have found each other they wish never to part.”

At this, I felt my cheeks blush. Yes it is true that the more time I had spent with Palamon, the more I thought about him, to the point where he was always on my mind. And when we separated even for a day, nothing could beat that first moment when I saw him again and he would look up at me and I would feel butterflies in my stomach. And when we were together I felt complete, it was effortless talking to him and sometimes we would just sit in silence, which after a while he would break with a smile. But I had no idea that Theseus and Hippolyta had noticed this. Clearly my secret love, wasn’t so secret after all.

And I have to say it was a true love that grew by itself. It wasn’t love at first sight – I did not fall, like any old storybook princess, for the first knight who came along on his horse. I got to know him first. And let me tell all you girls out there that are dreaming of a handsome prince who will sweep you off your feet one day – don’t just fall for looks and charm, because true love is based on true friendship.

And, of course, it was so much better that the Duke ordered us to get married only AFTER we fell in love, instead of expecting it all to happen the other way round.

We were married the following month and now live in our own quarters. I know this may all come as a surprise to you, that I, Emelye, once an Amazonian princess, who had prayed to Diana that I never should marry, might actually enjoy married life, but never could I have wished for a better companion. And so I am now living happily ever after with my knight in shining armour. And that is the end of my tale. I have to leave you now as we are going out for a ride in the woods.

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Princess Emelye has no idea that two knights have fallen madly in love with her. How could she? She has never met either of them. And yet the two cousins, both prisoners in a tower, are both arguing about who saw her first, and who loved her first. One of them is released from prison – but banished from Athens where Emelye lives. The other can see her everyday, but only from the bars of his cell. Will either of them ever have the chance to meet her?

Read and written by Elizabeth Donnelly – based on Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale.

Emelye’s Tale, Part Two

Poor Prince Arcite. He was now a free man, but his heart was still a prisoner – a prisoner of mine, actually, though I did not know it at the time. He returned home to Thebes, consumed with grief, for he longed to see me again. Every time he pictured lovely little me walking in the rose garden, his heart broke anew. He ached to return to his jail where he could at least glimpse me from his window.

I do not want you to think that I am conceited, but I do feel that I should let you know how much he suffered over his love for me. You see, he took on pining as a full-time occupation and gave himself no relief in sleeping or eating, but instead would spend the day weeping and wailing. Then for a change, he would lie awake all night, moaning and groaning.

Enough to make any girl big-headed!

One morning, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, and for an instant he did not recognise the lank, pale, red-eyed man who shot a crazed glance back at him. It was this unsettling sight that inspired a plan. He would return to Athens even though a sentence of death hung over his head there. He would not need any great disguise, for he was unrecognisable as his former self. Even better, if he dressed down like a servant, he could find a job in the palace and see me every day.

And this is exactly what he did. Immediately he set off for the city of Athens where he went straight to the palace of Theseus and offered himself up for service. He said that his name was Philostrate, and no one had the slightest inkling who he really was.

All who met him were impressed by his skill and dedication, and claimed that they had never come across such a refined servant. Meanwhile, he was regularly in my company in Theseus’ court and at banquets, attending hunting parties and military drills. After two years of dutiful service, his diligence and charm had been noted by Theseus who offered Arcite the greatest privilege possible for a servant, to become the king’s squire.

You may be wondering what has happened to Palamon during all this time and so I shall fill you in. Fortune had not been so kind to this young knight. Although his cousin had been released, he remained imprisoned in the tower. Each day he waited for the morning hour where he might gaze upon me down in the rose garden. But when winter came, time passed slowly as there was no sight of me to cheer him from his gloomy existence and he missed the company of his cousin and sank into a deep depression.

Seven years in total had passed in this pitiful way when at last Palamon’s luck took a turn for the better. He had befriended the young serving boy who brought him his daily rations and the little boy had grown so fond of the wretched knight that he decided to help him escape.

One summer evening, when the air was close and the amber glow of sunset spilled through the barred window, the little boy climbed the spiral staircase of the tower with a tray of supper for the jailer and his captive. He knocked on the prison door as usual and the guard walked over to meet him.

He grunted at the little boy as he took the tray and let the iron door slam shut in his face. He had not noticed that the child’s hands were shaking with nerves. So much so that the wine almost spilled from the goblets.

The jailer slumped back in his chair and began to feast on roasted chicken legs which he washed down with a goblet of wine. Palamon watched him intently from the dark corner of the cell where he was chained, careful not to touch any food that had been brought to him.

Soon he noticed that the jailer was struggling to keep his eyes open. Thinking the drowsiness was brought on by the heat, the jailer took swig after swig of the thick red wine, but that only seemed to make him ever more drowsy and there was a reason for this.

The serving boy lived with his elderly aunt who was considered the wisest old woman in Athens. She practised medicine, and some people even believed she was a witch. From her, he stole a sleeping draught that was meant to be taken one drop at a time, and no more. He was not going to take any risks with his plan, and he mixed half a bottle of the sleeping medicine into the the jailer’s wine, which was why he was now passed out on the floor and snoring like a wild beast.

Palamon watched the guard intently to ensure that he really was sound asleep. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, and beads of sweat trickling down his brow. He tensed his hands and tried to slide them from their shackles. The knight was surprised to see how easily his wrists slid out of their bonds. During the seven years of captivity, his once brawny arms had wasted through poor food, lack of exercise, and pining (for me).

The boy returned and, careful not to make a sound, he reached down to the sleeping man to unhook the keys. As fast as he could, he unlocked the door to Palamon’s cell, and the knight swiftly thanked him for his freedom, and darted down the spiral staircase of the tower.

When he emerged from the tower, night had fallen and he had to make his way in the dark along the pathways to the palace gates. Luckily he had spent everyday of his captivity looking out across the gardens and so he knew the layout like the back of his hand.

When he reached the gate house, there was nothing for it but to walk briskly past the guards keeping his eyes down and not looking back. Fortune was on his side as the guards were so engrossed in an arm-wrestle that they did not even notice him walking past.

He walked on through the city streets, always afraid that someone was on his tail. But the Athenians he passed had no reason to suspect him and just smiled or greeted him as they went about at their leisure on this pleasant summer’s evening.

Before long he found himself on the road that led out of the city and nearing a forest. Weary from that evening’s adventure, he decided to spend the night in the forest and continue his journey back at dawn. He would return to Thebes, implore his comrades to wage war with him on Athens, and win me as his bride – how chivalrous!

It is now time to return to the second of our knights, Arcite. For, when dawn arrived, he had set out to stroll into the forest as was his custom. Here he would find the privacy to drop his guise and sing of his love for me.

But this young lover’s mood was rarely constant and once he had sung and danced, shouting his passion to the tops of the trees, he sank down against the trunk of an oak and let out a heavy sigh. He bemoaned the fact that he had given up his freedom and must serve Theseus to the end of his days; that he had lost his Theban birthright as a prince; that he would never be called by his own name again, (at which point he sounded it out on his lips several times); but, worst of all, he would never be considered a worthy candidate to be the husband of lovely me.

Fate would have it that the privacy he had sought was not as private as he believed. For resting nearby in the grove behind the large oak, was his cousin Palamon, who had been woken by Arcite’s joyful singing.

By listening to Arcite’s speech, he discovered that not only did he have a rival in the suit of his beloved (me), but that this rival was his cousin. He learned that Arcite had enjoyed his freedom in my company, while Palamon had suffered the hardship of imprisonment. In a fury, he burst out into the clearing grabbing Arcite by the throat.

“Of all the greatest betrayals imaginable” he brayed, “you would try to steal my love while I was rotting in a prison cell. I will see you dead before I see you marry Emelye! I am unarmed, but I shall fight you all the same!”

“You are a fool to believe that you alone have the right to love this girl. But let’s settle this properly. Tonight I shall return to the grove with weapons enough for two men, and a duel at the break of day shall decide who is worthy of her love” replied Arcite.

Not only were these two knights obsessed with me, but they were now ready to fight to the death over this obsession!

At twilight, the young man returned with weapons and food and drink, so that both men could prepare themselves for the match that lay ahead. The next morning as the first light of day crept in through the trees, they awoke and dressed each other in their armour, more like comrades in battle than opponents.

The fight was long and furious as thrust was met with parry and cut was cleared with block. All morning long they laboured in the struggle, until the sun had risen directly above the treetops. Now, it was customary for Duke Theseus to lead the royal hunting party on the last day of every week, for he believed that nothing tasted finer than meat killed by oneself. I detested such sport, but enjoyed riding along with my sister, Queen Hippolyta, not to mention that I had been made a green velvet hunting gown and matching hat, that did look rather fetching.

On this morning, we had not long entered the forest, mounted on our horses with a pack of dogs and the chief huntsman at the front with his horn, when we heard the clashing of swords and the heavy groaning of a fight to the death.

Entering the clearing we all gathered to see the two knights in the midst of a passionate duel. Theseus immediately rode up to the men:

“Stop Stop this brawling ! “ he cried out. “The next man who gives a blow shall be sentenced to death, I say! “

More out of sheer exhaustion than obedience, the knights halted their fight.

“What is the cause of this quarrel?” Theseus demanded to know.

Palamon spilled out the whole tale to the duke, including the love they both felt for me and Arcite’s true identity. You can imagine how I was taken aback. I had received attention from men before, but this was far more extreme than a compliment at a party!

On hearing Palamon’s confession, Theseus was furious that he should have been deceived in such a way. Driven with rage, he sentenced both men to death.

Now Hippolyta and I both knew that the duke at times had a quite a temper, but were surprised by his severity. I was overwhelmed by the fact that these two boys would lose their lives on account of loving me. It didn’t seem at all right. And so I dismounted my horse and joined by my sister, fell at the king’s feet, and begged him to lessen the knights’ sentence.

And if you would like to find out whether Emelye and Hippolyta’s pleas will soften the heart of Duke Theseus, or whether Arcite and Palamon will be executed, you will have to return for the next episode at storynory.com

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In this chapter, Dorothy and her friends have to cross a great canyon, and they also meet the scary Kalidahs. The Cowardly Lion is big and strong enough to overcome these problems – but is he brave enough? Natasha continues her very special narration.

Read by Natasha. Duration 15.39

7. The Journey to the Great Oz

They were obliged to camp out that night under a large tree in the
forest, for there were no houses near. The tree made a good, thick
covering to protect them from the dew, and the Tin Woodman chopped a
great pile of wood with his axe and Dorothy built a splendid fire that
warmed her and made her feel less lonely. She and Toto ate the last of
their bread, and now she did not know what they would do for breakfast.

“If you wish,” said the Lion, “I will go into the forest and kill a
deer for you. You can roast it by the fire, since your tastes are so
peculiar that you prefer cooked food, and then you will have a very
good breakfast.”

“Don’t! Please don’t,” begged the Tin Woodman. “I should certainly
weep if you killed a poor deer, and then my jaws would rust again.”

But the Lion went away into the forest and found his own supper, and no
one ever knew what it was, for he didn’t mention it. And the Scarecrow
found a tree full of nuts and filled Dorothy’s basket with them, so
that she would not be hungry for a long time. She thought this was
very kind and thoughtful of the Scarecrow, but she laughed heartily at
the awkward way in which the poor creature picked up the nuts. His
padded hands were so clumsy and the nuts were so small that he dropped
almost as many as he put in the basket. But the Scarecrow did not mind
how long it took him to fill the basket, for it enabled him to keep
away from the fire, as he feared a spark might get into his straw and
burn him up. So he kept a good distance away from the flames, and only
came near to cover Dorothy with dry leaves when she lay down to sleep.
These kept her very snug and warm, and she slept soundly until morning.

When it was daylight, the girl bathed her face in a little rippling
brook, and soon after they all started toward the Emerald City.

This was to be an eventful day for the travelers. They had hardly been
walking an hour when they saw before them a great ditch that crossed
the road and divided the forest as far as they could see on either
side. It was a very wide ditch, and when they crept up to the edge and
looked into it they could see it was also very deep, and there were
many big, jagged rocks at the bottom. The sides were so steep that
none of them could climb down, and for a moment it seemed that their
journey must end.

“What shall we do?” asked Dorothy despairingly.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said the Tin Woodman, and the Lion shook
his shaggy mane and looked thoughtful.

But the Scarecrow said, “We cannot fly, that is certain. Neither can
we climb down into this great ditch. Therefore, if we cannot jump over
it, we must stop where we are.”

“I think I could jump over it,” said the Cowardly Lion, after measuring
the distance carefully in his mind.

“Then we are all right,” answered the Scarecrow, “for you can carry us
all over on your back, one at a time.”

“Well, I’ll try it,” said the Lion. “Who will go first?”

“I will,” declared the Scarecrow, “for, if you found that you could not
jump over the gulf, Dorothy would be killed, or the Tin Woodman badly
dented on the rocks below. But if I am on your back it will not matter
so much, for the fall would not hurt me at all.”

“I am terribly afraid of falling, myself,” said the Cowardly Lion, “but
I suppose there is nothing to do but try it. So get on my back and we
will make the attempt.”

The Scarecrow sat upon the Lion’s back, and the big beast walked to the
edge of the gulf and crouched down.

“Why don’t you run and jump?” asked the Scarecrow.

“Because that isn’t the way we Lions do these things,” he replied.
Then giving a great spring, he shot through the air and landed safely
on the other side. They were all greatly pleased to see how easily he
did it, and after the Scarecrow had got down from his back the Lion
sprang across the ditch again.

Dorothy thought she would go next; so she took Toto in her arms and
climbed on the Lion’s back, holding tightly to his mane with one hand.
The next moment it seemed as if she were flying through the air; and
then, before she had time to think about it, she was safe on the other
side. The Lion went back a third time and got the Tin Woodman, and
then they all sat down for a few moments to give the beast a chance to
rest, for his great leaps had made his breath short, and he panted like
a big dog that has been running too long.

They found the forest very thick on this side, and it looked dark and
gloomy. After the Lion had rested they started along the road of
yellow brick, silently wondering, each in his own mind, if ever they
would come to the end of the woods and reach the bright sunshine again.
To add to their discomfort, they soon heard strange noises in the
depths of the forest, and the Lion whispered to them that it was in
this part of the country that the Kalidahs lived.

“What are the Kalidahs?” asked the girl.

“They are monstrous beasts with bodies like bears and heads like
tigers,” replied the Lion, “and with claws so long and sharp that they
could tear me in two as easily as I could kill Toto. I’m terribly
afraid of the Kalidahs.”

“I’m not surprised that you are,” returned Dorothy. “They must be
dreadful beasts.”

The Lion was about to reply when suddenly they came to another gulf
across the road. But this one was so broad and deep that the Lion knew
at once he could not leap across it.

So they sat down to consider what they should do, and after serious
thought the Scarecrow said:

“Here is a great tree, standing close to the ditch. If the Tin Woodman
can chop it down, so that it will fall to the other side, we can walk
across it easily.”

“That is a first-rate idea,” said the Lion. “One would almost suspect
you had brains in your head, instead of straw.”

The Woodman set to work at once, and so sharp was his axe that the tree
was soon chopped nearly through. Then the Lion put his strong front
legs against the tree and pushed with all his might, and slowly the big
tree tipped and fell with a crash across the ditch, with its top
branches on the other side.

They had just started to cross this queer bridge when a sharp growl
made them all look up, and to their horror they saw running toward them
two great beasts with bodies like bears and heads like tigers.

“They are the Kalidahs!” said the Cowardly Lion, beginning to tremble.

“Quick!” cried the Scarecrow. “Let us cross over.”

So Dorothy went first, holding Toto in her arms, the Tin Woodman
followed, and the Scarecrow came next. The Lion, although he was
certainly afraid, turned to face the Kalidahs, and then he gave so loud
and terrible a roar that Dorothy screamed and the Scarecrow fell over
backward, while even the fierce beasts stopped short and looked at him
in surprise.

But, seeing they were bigger than the Lion, and remembering that there
were two of them and only one of him, the Kalidahs again rushed
forward, and the Lion crossed over the tree and turned to see what they
would do next. Without stopping an instant the fierce beasts also
began to cross the tree. And the Lion said to Dorothy:

“We are lost, for they will surely tear us to pieces with their sharp
claws. But stand close behind me, and I will fight them as long as I
am alive.”

“Wait a minute!” called the Scarecrow. He had been thinking what was
best to be done, and now he asked the Woodman to chop away the end of
the tree that rested on their side of the ditch. The Tin Woodman began
to use his axe at once, and, just as the two Kalidahs were nearly
across, the tree fell with a crash into the gulf, carrying the ugly,
snarling brutes with it, and both were dashed to pieces on the sharp
rocks at the bottom.

“Well,” said the Cowardly Lion, drawing a long breath of relief, “I see
we are going to live a little while longer, and I am glad of it, for it
must be a very uncomfortable thing not to be alive. Those creatures
frightened me so badly that my heart is beating yet.”

“Ah,” said the Tin Woodman sadly, “I wish I had a heart to beat.”

This adventure made the travelers more anxious than ever to get out of
the forest, and they walked so fast that Dorothy became tired, and had
to ride on the Lion’s back. To their great joy the trees became
thinner the farther they advanced, and in the afternoon they suddenly
came upon a broad river, flowing swiftly just before them. On the
other side of the water they could see the road of yellow brick running
through a beautiful country, with green meadows dotted with bright
flowers and all the road bordered with trees hanging full of delicious
fruits. They were greatly pleased to see this delightful country
before them.

“How shall we cross the river?” asked Dorothy.

“That is easily done,” replied the Scarecrow. “The Tin Woodman must
build us a raft, so we can float to the other side.”

So the Woodman took his axe and began to chop down small trees to make
a raft, and while he was busy at this the Scarecrow found on the
riverbank a tree full of fine fruit. This pleased Dorothy, who had
eaten nothing but nuts all day, and she made a hearty meal of the ripe
fruit.

But it takes time to make a raft, even when one is as industrious and
untiring as the Tin Woodman, and when night came the work was not done.
So they found a cozy place under the trees where they slept well until
the morning; and Dorothy dreamed of the Emerald City, and of the good
Wizard Oz, who would soon send her back to her own home again.

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Stand by for Romance, Adventure, and perhaps a light touch of feminism. The Knight’s Tale by Chaucer is here retold by Princess Emelye. Two knights, both cousins, are taken prisoner by Theseus, King of Athens. From their prison-tower they sight Princess Emelye. They both fall in love with the princess, and at the same time they fall out with each other.

Our story is told from the point of view of Princess Emelye who both delighted and horrified to find to knights fighting over her. And the story is special for another reason – it’s our first story that has been written by Elizabeth, who also narrates her own words.

Read by Elizabeth Donnelly. Text by Elizabeth. Duration 14.09.

Emelye’s Tale, Part One

Hello, this is Elizabeth, and I am here to tell you the story
of two knights who were best friends and cousins, but who then quarrelled over the love of a princess.

It was first told over 700 years ago by the English poet, Geoffrey Chaucer, and it is the first story in his book known as The Canterbury Tales. In that version, it is known as the Knight’s Tale. But I am going to tell you this in the voice of the Princess, Emelye, and that’s why I’ve called this story Emelye’s tale. So now, let me hand you over to our heroine .

Before I tell you my story, you probably should know a little bit about who I am and where I come from. My name is Emelye, princess Emelye, and I grew up in the mountains of Greece, among the tribe of the Amazonian warriors. You may or may not know that there is one thing that makes us different from other people: our society is made up solely of women. This meant that when I was little I got to do all the things that normally only boys do, like sword fighting and shooting bows and arrows. And because we managed perfectly well without men, I never saw the point of them really. But this all changed one day when Duke Theseus arrived with his army of Athenian men. We fought the invaders with all our might, but in the end we made peace with them. To make sure that it was a lasting treaty, my sister, Queen Hippolyta, agreed to marry Theseus. Believe me, this was a big thing for an Amazonian Queen to agree to do, but it was all in a good cause. And this is where my tale begins…

We were approaching the gates of Athens, the city where Hippolyta and I would start our new life. But our way was blocked by a crowd of women from the City of Thebes.
They were in mourning, veiled in black, and they threw themselves down on the ground in front of the army. We soon heard that they had come to ask the help of Theseus, for their city of Thebes had been invaded by a monster of a man called Creon, who had treated them with cold hearted cruelty.

Theseus hated injustice, and he led his men straight to Thebes where he crushed the army of cruel king Creon.

But just before he set off to return to Athens and finally have a slice of wedding cake, one of his men spotted two Theban knights lying on the battlefield. They were wounded, but still breathing, and from their coats of arms, you could see that not only were they royal, but that they were cousins.

They lay there in their chain-mail, their olive skin turning pale as the blood drained from their faces. It was hard to tell them apart with their jet black curls and chiseled features. They could have been mistaken for brothers. If you did look closely, however, you might have noticed that Palamon, (he was the elder of the two by half a year), had hazel eyes whereas Arcite’s eyes were a deep green.

You may wonder how I could possibly know all this, given that I was not there, but we don’t have time for that right now…

The two Theban knights were carried to the tent of Theseus, who would decide their fate.

Now my brother-in-law, Duke Theseus could be very stubborn at times, like he was in the pursuit of my sister Hippolyta and in this instance he was particularly stubborn, refusing to release the two wounded knights back to their people.

Members of their families came in turn, offering the most elaborate gifts you could imagine, from horses, to gold and jewels, and in desperation they even offered other relatives, that perhaps they were less fond of, like Palamon’s dopey younger brother. But Theseus was not moved. He commanded that the two young men be taken back to Athens, where they would be imprisoned until the end of their days.

It was this decision that changed my life, although I didn’t know it at the time, for I was only 13 when I left the Amazons with my sister and moved to Athens, city of theatre, music, philosophy… and men who did not always treat us Amazonian Women with the respect that we were used to. I had to learn to be an Athenian lady, under the watchful eyes of my teacher. But even though I was a princess, I got into trouble sometimes for beating up the boys around the palace who were rude to me.

I knew nothing of Arcite and Palamon who passed their days chained to the wall in a dark prison cell. The only thing they had to look forward to were the times the jailer would take pity on them and unbolt their shackles. In these brief bursts of freedom they could walk out of the shadows to the barred window on the far side of the room, and gaze upon the world outside. Here, they would see the grounds of the palace, its beautiful gardens and beyond that the buildings of Athens with its temple and theatre, all enclosed by the city walls. And although the view remained the same, they saw it shift from season to season, as the years passed by in their cell.

Three years after they had first been imprisoned, I had my sixteenth birthday and a great party was thrown for me. There was feasting and dancing and the finest actors in all of Greece put on a hilarious comedy. After that, it was time for my birthday presents. Firstly my sister had ordered a beautiful gown for me, embroidered with flowers stitched in gold and silver thread and lined with a silk petticoat. Then it was Duke Theseus’ turn to give me my birthday gift. Now I was 16, he said that I could have free reign of the palace grounds, and gave me a key to his private rose garden. Now I could go exploring on my own.

One summer morning, as I was picking flowers in his majesty’s garden in order to make a garland to crown my golden hair, I was so happy that I began to skip along with my basket and sing to myself. I would never have done so had I known what would happen because of it, but at that point I was blissfully unaware.

You see, on this May morning, as the sun was shining and a brilliant blue sky blazed over Athens, the jailer felt particularly sorry for his pale and weary inmates. First of all, he unchained Palamon, so that he could walk over to the barred window to see the daylight and the world outside. The knight lowered his gaze to the rose garden below, trying to see if he could remember what roses smelt like and who should he see but lovely, royal me. I was skipping along with my blond tresses flowing behind me as I danced and sang in the sunshine. And, wearing my exquisite new gown, I must admit that I did look pretty splendid.

The effect this had on Palamon was quite peculiar. Unable to speak or move his gaze, his jaw dropped open and he felt his heart pounding in his chest. As his eyes filled with tears, he let out a long sigh which caused Arcite to look up out of the shadows.

“Cousin,” he said, “you do yourself no favours by sighing our captivity. It’s our fate to be Theseus’ prisoners. It was written in the stars the day we were born.”

To which Palamon replied, breaking from his momentary trance,

“Arcite, you have no idea what I have just experienced. My heart is aching because I have just seen the most beautiful woman on earth – in fact, I don’t think it was a woman, but Venus herself, the goddess of love.”

Which beats your average chat-up line! And then closing his eyes he prayed that Venus would take pity on them and release them from their chains.

While Palamon was making this prayer, Arcite pleaded with the jailer to unlock him from his chains so that he too could walk over to the window. I, all the while, was still picking flowers and had no idea that such an appreciative audience had gathered.

Now if the effect I had on Palamon sounded strange, you should have seen what happened to Arcite, (I wish I had!). He let out a heavy sigh and had to cling to the bars of the window to stop himself from collapsing, as his legs had given way. Some men really are made of no substance!

“I think I’m dying” he said, “I am so struck by her beauty, that if I cannot have her love and see her face everyday, I won’t be able to live.”

This enraged Palamon. He turned to Arcite and said: “ Let me remind you: we are knights. We are Cousins. We are sworn to be true to one another. How can you betray me this way, and threaten to steal my love from me?”

“Cousin, you know I would die for you in a battle,” said Arcite, “and would always remain true to you, but here I am the one who is injured. I have been shot through the heart with Cupid’s arrow.”

“If you don’t step down, as would a man with any decency, I’ll have to fight you.” retorted Palamon.

But Arcite was in no mood to give up the love of his life – yours truly, whom he had just seen for the first time two minutes earlier.

“I don’t see why I should step down. After all, it was I who loved her first. You thought you had seen Venus, but from the moment I saw this vision of loveliness, I knew it was a young woman whom I loved. Therefore she is rightfully mine. But let’s not make rules for how we should love, but just accept that in this battle there are no rules.”

While they continued to argue, neither of them noticed that I had skipped back inside the palace for my lunch. Here I met an honoured visitor, Prince Perotheus, who had been friends with Theseus since childhood. I was sitting on the other side of the table, but I heard him say how he had come to Athens to plead for the release of a prisoner in the tower. He had trained this prisoner as a knight when he was a boy, and he had treated him like a second son. And Theseus, in honour of his long friendship with Perotheus, promised to release the prisoner, whose name was Arcite.

But he gave the order for Arcite’s release on one condition: He must leave Athens immediately, never to set foot in the city again, on pain of death.

And was Arcite pleased by this news? I believe that he was not sure. The two cousins in the tower did not know who had the worst fate.

For both were now possessed by an insatiable love for me, (yes I know!) but Palamon although he could see me everyday from the window of his cell, did not have the freedom to leave the tower and approach me, whereas Arcite had the freedom to go anywhere in the world he chose, but knew that if he set foot in the city where I lived, he would forfeit his life and so would never see my face again, or would he?…

To find out what happens next to these two love-struck knights look out for the next installment of Emelye’s Tale at Storynory.com. There will be four parts in all, and we promise to release them in quick succession so you won’t have to wait until the next one.

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Nursery Rhymes are of course mainly for smaller children… and we know that lots of you are rather more grown up. But even if you are older, we think you can listen to these rhymes again and learn lots about rhythm and verse. These are very old rhymes and they have lasted for a reason – they are actually very good verses !

Natasha gives some actions that you can do while you are saying the rhymes and some of them have dances. Listen again to these familiar rhymes and be reminded just how charming they are.

For some educational activities that you can do with Nursery Rhymes, see Learning With Nursery Rhymes.

Read by Natasha. Duration 9 min.

Hello

This is Natasha, and I’m dropping by with some more English Nursery rhymes. They come with actions and dances,that you can do while you say them. They are fun to do and will help you learn about rhythm and verse.

Rub a dub dub.
This first one is perfect for bath times.

Rub a dub dub
Three men in a tub
And who do you think they were ?
The Butcher , the baker,
The candlestick -maker
Turn them out knaves all of three

You can pretend to be drying yourself with a towel by doing a shaking action up and down with two arms and your hands clasped in front of you..

Rub a dub dub
Three men in a tub
And who do you think they were ?
The Butcher , the baker,
The candlestick -maker
Turn them out knaves all of three

The action will help you find the rhythm in the verse.

Hickory Dickory Dock

This verse is particularly good for watching the Clock

Hickory Dickory Dock
The mouse ran up the clock
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down
Hickory Dickory dock

Why not try making a clock shape with two arms as you say it? Hold the right arm up to the sky and the other arm out to the side – like the hands of a clock. And you can bring one arm up in a tick-tock motion, 1,2,3,

Hickory Dickory Dock
The mouse ran up the clock
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down
Hickory Dickory dock

This Little Piggy Went to Market.
That is an extra fun verse and good for warming up your feet for the longer rhymes we have to come. Lots of mothers enjoy saying this verse to their young children but any one can do it too!

This little piggy went to Market
And this little piggy went home
And this little piggy had roast beef
And this little piggy had none..
And this little piggy went “wee wee, wee” all the way home

Pinch your own toes as you say the rhyme, imagining that each toe is a little pig

This little piggy went to Market
And this little piggy went home
And this little piggy had roast beef
And this little piggy had none..
And this little piggy went “wee wee, wee” all the way home

Little Jack Horner.

This is a Christmasy verse, but you can say it any time of year.

Little Jack Horner
Sat in a corner eating his Christmas pie
He put in his thumb
And pulled out a plumb
And said “what a good boy am I?”

Picture a big juicy plumb pie in front of you. And as you are saying the rhyme imagine that you are putting in your thumb and pulling out a plumb.

Little Jack Horner
Sat in a corner eating his Christmas pie
He put in his thumb
And pulled out a plumb
And said “what a good boy am I?”

Well actually, I don’t think everyone would agree with Jack that he had such good table manners.

And now here are some rhymes often sung in schools and they come with dances that you can do with them. Some of them are very old verses indeed, but they are timeless and children still play them to this day.

Here we go round the mulberry bush

This is a rhyme about a special tree called a mulberry bush.

Here we go round the mulberry bush
The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush
Here we go round the mulberry bush
On a cold and frosty morning

As you sing it, you all hold hands and gallop three times to the left and three times to the right.

Here we go round the mulberry bush
The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush
Here we go round the mulberry bush
On a cold and frosty morning

Ring a ring a roses
And here’s another verse with a simple circle dance. It’s from the 17th Century. I’m sure everyone knows it ! First you link hands, and you skip round and round in a circle, and when it says ‘a tissue’ you hold your nose and you all fall down.

Ring a ring a roses
A pocket full of poses
A tissue a tissue
We all fall down

Did you know that some people say the verse is about the plague that happened in the 17th Century. The poses – which were flowers like roses – were supposed to protect you from the plague which they thought was caught in the air.

Ring a ring a roses
A pocket full of poses
A tissue a tissue
We all fall down

Oranges and lemons,

This is a longer rhyme well known in English schools and has a game like a dance that is performed with it. Two children link their hands in the air to make an arch. The others dance under the arch – but at the end, their hands come down to make a “chopper” and catch who ever is going through just then, as you will hear.

Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of St. Clement’s.
You owe me five farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin’s.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.
When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.
I do not know,
Says the great bell of Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!

And all those bells, are bells of London churches.

And here is a very old rhyme from from The Mother Goose tales first written in 1765. Its called Two Little Dickie Birds

Two little Dickie birds
Sitting on a wall
Fly away peter, fly away Paul
Come back Peter, come back Paul!

For the actions, use your index finger on either hand to act out the birds sitting on the wall when they fly away bring each bird behind your back and then bring them back again for the last line.

Two little Dickie birds
Sitting on a wall
Fly away peter, fly away Paul
Come back Peter, come back Paul!

Well I hope you enjoyed those nursery rhymes. They can help you learn a lot about rhythm
and verse. Some of the verses are very old, and children have sung and played to them for 100s of yeas. So they give us a feel for history too. Bertie says they are really fun, for little children and even when you are grown up!

Ill be back with more stories from Storynory.com soon

For now,
From me Natasha
Bye Bye

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Chicken Little is one of those traditional fairy tales in which some cute animals are eaten – so don’t say we didn’t warn you !

Several parents on our Facebook Group. have been lobbying us to publish this fast-paced and popular story. We have based our version on Henny-Penny by Joseph Jacobs. One of the great attractions of the tale is in the amusing names like Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey- Loosey and Turkey-lurkey, and of course, the baddy, Foxy-Woxy. As the fast-paced story goes on, the names build up into a long string.

But just once again – this story does involve animals being eaten. Comments are welcome but please dont’ say we the ending came as a nasty surprise.

Read by Elizabeth. Duration 7.51.

Chicken Little

Hello, This is Elizabeth, and I am dropping by a story that has been requested by several our of listeners including two parents, Clare and Teresa, both on our Facebook group.

It’s a fun, fast-paced tale, but I have to warn you that if you really mind stories where sweet little animals get eaten up by bad foxes, then this really isn’t the story for you.

ONE day Chicken Little was picking up corn in the cornyard when–whack!– something hit her upon the head. “Goodness gracious me!” said Chicken Little; “the sky’s a-going to fall; I must go and tell the Big Boss.”

So she went along and she went along and she went along till she met Cocky-locky. “Where are you going, Chicken Little?” says Cocky-locky. “Oh! I’m going to tell the Big Boss the sky’s a-falling,” says Chicken Little. “May I come with you?” says Cocky-locky. “Certainly,” says Chicken Little. So Chicken Little and Cocky-Locky went to tell-the Big Boss the sky was falling.

They went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met Ducky-daddles. “Where are you going to, Chicken Little and Cocky- locky?” said Ducky-daddles. “Oh! we’re going to tell the Big Boss the sky’s a-falling,” said Chicken Little and Cocky-Locky. “May I come with you?” says Ducky-Daddles. “Certainly,” said Chicken Little and Cocky- Locky. So Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky and Ducky-Daddles went to tell the Big Boss the sky was a-falling.

So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met Goosey-Loosey, “Where are you going to, Chicken Little, Cocky- Locky and Ducky-Daddles?” said Goosey-Loosey. “Oh! we’re going to tell the Big Boss the sky’s a-falling,” said Chicken Little and Cocky-Locky and Ducky-Daddles. “May I come with you,” said Goosey-Loosey. “Certainly,” said Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky and Ducky-Daddles. So Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles and Goosey-Loosey went to tell the Big Boss the sky was a-falling.

So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met Turkey-Lurkey. “Where are you going, Chicken Little, Cocky- Locky, Ducky-Daddles, and Goosey-Loosey?” says Turkey-Lurkey. “Oh! we’re going to tell the Big Boss the sky’s a-falling,” said Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles and Goosey-Loosey. “May I come with you? Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles and Goosey-Loosey?” said Turkey-lurkey. “Why, certainly, Turkey-Lurkey,” said Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, and Goosey-Loosey. So Chicken Little, Cocky- Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey and Turkey-Lurkey all went to tell the Big Boss the sky was a-falling.

So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met Foxy-woxy, and Foxy-woxy said to Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey and Turkey-Lurkey: “Where are you going, Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey, and Turkey-Lurkey?” And Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey, and Turkey-Lurkey said to Foxy-Woxy: “We’re going to tell the Big Boss the sky’s a-falling.”

“Oh! but this is not the way to the Big Boss, Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey and Turkey-Lurkey,” says Foxy-Woxy; “I know the proper way; shall I show it you?” “Why certainly, Foxy-woxy,” said Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey, and Turkey-lurkey. So Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey, Turkey-Lurkey, and Foxy-Woxy all went to tell the Big Boss the sky was a-falling. So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they came to a narrow and dark hole. Now this was the door of Foxy-woxy’s cave. But Foxy-woxy said to Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey, and Turkey-Lurkey:

“This is the short way to the Big Boss’s palace you’ll soon get there if you follow me. I will go first and you come after, Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey, and Turkey-Lurkey.” “Why of course, certainly, without doubt, why not?” said Chicken Little, Cocky-Locky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey-Loosey, and Turkey-Lurkey.

So Foxy-woxy went into his cave, and he didn’t go very far but turned round to wait for Chicken Little, Cocky-lLocky, Ducky-Daddles, Goosey- Loosey and Turkey-Lurkey. First Turkey-Lurkey went through the dark hole into the cave. He hadn’t got far when “Hrumph,” Foxy-Woxy swallowed up Turkey-Lurkey.

Then Goosey-Loosey went in, and “Hrumph,” she was eaten too.

Then Ducky-Daddles waddled down, and “Hrumph,” snapped Foxy-Woxy, and Ducky-Daddles made the next course.

Then Cocky-Locky strutted down into the cave and he hadn’t gone far when “Snap, Hrumph!” went Foxy-Woxy.

But Foxy-Woxy had made two bites at Cocky-Locky, and when the first snap missed, he called out to Chicken Little. So she turned tail and ran back home. And she never told the Big Boss the sky was a-falling

And that was the story of Chicken Little. Don’t say I didn’t warn you about sweet little animals getting eaten. Bertie say Storynory listeners seem to fall into two sorts – those who are outraged that not all the animals get away and write in to complain – and those who like the traditional tales which are a little more true to life. These ones tells us not to coddle kids and to give them the real stuff straight from the storyteller’s mouth. You can always leave a comment and let us know where you stand on this great issue !

And I thought you might like to know that we based our version on the English Tale by Joseph Jacobs where Chicken Little is actually called Henny-Penny, but as this story seems to be best known in America we used used the American name, Chicken Little. In some versions even Chicken Little doesn’t get away. In the Disney film of a few years ago, of course nobody gets eaten, so you can safely watch that one.

Does the story have a moral? Bertie says it’s hard to find, but perhaps it shows how mad mass panic only creates danger. Keep your head, so to speak, and you will keep your head.

For now, from me Elizabeth, Bye.

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Older children, young adults and of course grown-ups will enjoy this classic Sherlock Holmes story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. When you have a spare hour, sit back and listen to the mystery unfold. At first it seems like a fairly trivial crime – an apparent lunatic is going around breaking busts of the Emperor Napoleon – but is there method in his madness? Soon there is a murder in the case, and the matter turns serious.

If you live in North America you will hear the sponsorship message from Audible. There is a special offer for two free movie tickets to the new film, The Help. If you live in the USA, follow this link to claim your free cinema tickets.

Sherlock Holmes is a slightly more grown-up story than we usually do. But we know lots of young people love his mysteries. Let us know if you would like to hear more.

Read by Richard Scott. Duration 52 minutes.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIX NAPOLEONS
It was no very unusual thing for Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, to look in upon us of an evening, and his visits were welcome to Sherlock Holmes, for they enabled him to keep in touch with all that was going on at the police headquarters. In return for the news which Lestrade would bring, Holmes was always ready to listen with attention to the details of any case upon which the detective was engaged, and was able occasionally, without any active interference, to give some hint or suggestion drawn from his own vast knowledge and experience.
On this particular evening, Lestrade had spoken of the weather and the newspapers. Then he had fallen silent, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar. Holmes looked keenly at him.
“Anything remarkable on hand?” he asked.
“Oh, no, Mr. Holmes—nothing very particular.”
“Then tell me about it.”
Lestrade laughed.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, there is no use denying that there IS something on my mind. And yet it is such an absurd business, that I hesitated to bother you about it. On the other hand, although it is trivial, it is undoubtedly queer, and I know that you have a taste for all that is out of the common. But, in my opinion, it comes more in Dr. Watson’s line than ours.”
“Disease?” said I.
“Madness, anyhow. And a queer madness, too. You wouldn’t think there was anyone living at this time of day who had such a hatred of Napoleon the First that he would break any image of him that he could see.”
Holmes sank back in his chair.
“That’s no business of mine,” said he.
“Exactly. That’s what I said. But then, when the man commits burglary in order to break images which are not his own, that brings it away from the doctor and on to the policeman.”
Holmes sat up again.
“Burglary! This is more interesting. Let me hear the details.”
Lestrade took out his official notebook and refreshed his memory from its pages.
“The first case reported was four days ago,” said he. “It was at the shop of Morse Hudson, who has a place for the sale of pictures and statues in the Kennington Road. The assistant had left the front shop for an instant, when he heard a crash, and hurrying in he found a plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood with several other works of art upon the counter, lying shivered into fragments. He rushed out into the road, but, although several passers-by declared that they had noticed a man run out of the shop, he could neither see anyone nor could he find any means of identifying the rascal. It seemed to be one of those senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported to the constable on the beat as such. The plaster cast was not worth more than a few shillings, and the whole affair appeared to be too childish for any particular investigation.
“The second case, however, was more serious, and also more singular. It occurred only last night.
“In Kennington Road, and within a few hundred yards of Morse Hudson’s shop, there lives a well-known medical practitioner, named Dr. Barnicot, who has one of the largest practices upon the south side of the Thames. His residence and principal consulting-room is at Kennington Road, but he has a branch surgery and dispensary at Lower Brixton Road, two miles away. This Dr. Barnicot is an enthusiastic admirer of Napoleon, and his house is full of books, pictures, and relics of the French Emperor. Some little time ago he purchased from Morse Hudson two duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of Napoleon by the French sculptor, Devine. One of these he placed in his hall in the house at Kennington Road, and the other on the mantelpiece of the surgery at Lower Brixton. Well, when Dr. Barnicot came down this morning he was astonished to find that his house had been burgled during the night, but that nothing had been taken save the plaster head from the hall. It had been carried out and had been dashed savagely against the garden wall, under which its splintered fragments were discovered.”
Holmes rubbed his hands.
“This is certainly very novel,” said he.
“I thought it would please you. But I have not got to the end yet. Dr. Barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve o’clock, and you can imagine his amazement when, on arriving there, he found that the window had been opened in the night and that the broken pieces of his second bust were strewn all over the room. It had been smashed to atoms where it stood. In neither case were there any signs which could give us a clue as to the criminal or lunatic who had done the mischief. Now, Mr. Holmes, you have got the facts.”
“They are singular, not to say grotesque,” said Holmes. “May I ask whether the two busts smashed in Dr. Barnicot’s rooms were the exact duplicates of the one which was destroyed in Morse Hudson’s shop?”
“They were taken from the same mould.”
“Such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who breaks them is influenced by any general hatred of Napoleon. Considering how many hundreds of statues of the great Emperor must exist in London, it is too much to suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust.”
“Well, I thought as you do,” said Lestrade. “On the other hand, this Morse Hudson is the purveyor of busts in that part of London, and these three were the only ones which had been in his shop for years. So, although, as you say, there are many hundreds of statues in London, it is very probable that these three were the only ones in that district. Therefore, a local fanatic would begin with them. What do you think, Dr. Watson?”
“There are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,” I answered. “There is the condition which the modern French psychologists have called the ‘IDEE FIXE,’ which may be trifling in character, and accompanied by complete sanity in every other way. A man who had read deeply about Napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary family injury through the great war, might conceivably form such an IDEE FIXE and under its influence be capable of any fantastic outrage.”
“That won’t do, my dear Watson,” said Holmes, shaking his head, “for no amount of IDEE FIXE would enable your interesting monomaniac to find out where these busts were situated.”
“Well, how do YOU explain it?”
“I don’t attempt to do so. I would only observe that there is a certain method in the gentleman’s eccentric proceedings. For example, in Dr. Barnicot’s hall, where a sound might arouse the family, the bust was taken outside before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood. The affair seems absurdly trifling, and yet I dare call nothing trivial when I reflect that some of my most classic cases have had the least promising commencement. You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day. I can’t afford, therefore, to smile at your three broken busts, Lestrade, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you will let me hear of any fresh development of so singular a chain of events.”
The development for which my friend had asked came in a quicker and an infinitely more tragic form than he could have imagined. I was still dressing in my bedroom next morning, when there was a tap at the door and Holmes entered, a telegram in his hand. He read it aloud:
“Come instantly, 131 Pitt Street, Kensington.
“LESTRADE.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“Don’t know—may be anything. But I suspect it is the sequel of the story of the statues. In that case our friend the image-breaker has begun operations in another quarter of London. There’s coffee on the table, Watson, and I have a cab at the door.”
In half an hour we had reached Pitt Street, a quiet little backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London life. No. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings. As we drove up, we found the railings in front of the house lined by a curious crowd. Holmes whistled.
“By George! It’s attempted murder at the least. Nothing less will hold the London message-boy. There’s a deed of violence indicated in that fellow’s round shoulders and outstretched neck. What’s this, Watson? The top steps swilled down and the other ones dry. Footsteps enough, anyhow! Well, well, there’s Lestrade at the front window, and we shall soon know all about it.”
The official received us with a very grave face and showed us into a sitting-room, where an exceedingly unkempt and agitated elderly man, clad in a flannel dressing-gown, was pacing up and down. He was introduced to us as the owner of the house—Mr. Horace Harker, of the Central Press Syndicate.
“It’s the Napoleon bust business again,” said Lestrade. “You seemed interested last night, Mr. Holmes, so I thought perhaps you would be glad to be present now that the affair has taken a very much graver turn.”
“What has it turned to, then?”
“To murder. Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has occurred?”
The man in the dressing-gown turned upon us with a most melancholy face.
“It’s an extraordinary thing,” said he, “that all my life I have been collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece of news has come my own way I am so confused and bothered that I can’t put two words together. If I had come in here as a journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had two columns in every evening paper. As it is, I am giving away valuable copy by telling my story over and over to a string of different people, and I can make no use of it myself. However, I’ve heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and if you’ll only explain this queer business, I shall be paid for my trouble in telling you the story.”
Holmes sat down and listened.
“It all seems to centre round that bust of Napoleon which I bought for this very room about four months ago. I picked it up cheap from Harding Brothers, two doors from the High Street Station. A great deal of my journalistic work is done at night, and I often write until the early morning. So it was to-day. I was sitting in my den, which is at the back of the top of the house, about three o’clock, when I was convinced that I heard some sounds downstairs. I listened, but they were not repeated, and I concluded that they came from outside. Then suddenly, about five minutes later, there came a most horrible yell—the most dreadful sound, Mr. Holmes, that ever I heard. It will ring in my ears as long as I live. I sat frozen with horror for a minute or two. Then I seized the poker and went downstairs. When I entered this room I found the window wide open, and I at once observed that the bust was gone from the mantelpiece. Why any burglar should take such a thing passes my understanding, for it was only a plaster cast and of no real value whatever.
“You can see for yourself that anyone going out through that open window could reach the front doorstep by taking a long stride. This was clearly what the burglar had done, so I went round and opened the door. Stepping out into the dark, I nearly fell over a dead man, who was lying there. I ran back for a light and there was the poor fellow, a great gash in his throat and the whole place swimming in blood. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up, and his mouth horribly open. (maybe we shall cut) I shall see him in my dreams. I had just time to blow on my police-whistle, and then I must have fainted, for I knew nothing more until I found the policeman standing over me in the hall.”
“Well, who was the murdered man?” asked Holmes.
“There’s nothing to show who he was,” said Lestrade. “You shall see the body at the mortuary, but we have made nothing of it up to now. He is a tall man, sunburned, very powerful, not more than thirty. He is poorly dressed, and yet does not appear to be a labourer. A horn-handled clasp knife was lying in a pool of blood beside him. Whether it was the weapon which did the deed, or whether it belonged to the dead man, I do not know. There was no name on his clothing, and nothing in his pockets save an apple, some string, a shilling map of London, and a photograph. Here it is.”
It was evidently taken by a snapshot from a small camera. It represented an alert, sharp-featured simian man, with thick eyebrows and a very peculiar projection of the lower part of the face, like the muzzle of a baboon.
“And what became of the bust?” asked Holmes, after a careful study of this picture.
“We had news of it just before you came. It has been found in the front garden of an empty house in Campden House Road. It was broken into fragments. I am going round now to see it. Will you come?”
“Certainly. I must just take one look round.” He examined the carpet and the window. “The fellow had either very long legs or was a most active man,” said he. “With an area beneath, it was no mean feat to reach that window ledge and open that window. Getting back was comparatively simple. Are you coming with us to see the remains of your bust, Mr. Harker?”
The disconsolate journalist had seated himself at a writing-table.
“I must try and make something of it,” said he, “though I have no doubt that the first editions of the evening papers are out already with full details. It’s like my luck! You remember when the stand fell at Doncaster? Well, I was the only journalist in the stand, and my journal the only one that had no account of it, for I was too shaken to write it. And now I’ll be too late with a murder done on my own doorstep.”
As we left the room, we heard his pen travelling shrilly over the foolscap.
The spat where the fragments of the bust had been found was only a few hundred yards away. For the first time our eyes rested upon this presentment of the great emperor, which seemed to raise such frantic and destructive hatred in the mind of the unknown. It lay scattered, in splintered shards, upon the grass. Holmes picked up several of them and examined them carefully. I was convinced, from his intent face and his purposeful manner, that at last he was upon a clue.
“Well?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“We have a long way to go yet,” said he. “And yet—and yet—well, we have some suggestive facts to act upon. The possession of this trifling bust was worth more, in the eyes of this strange criminal, than a human life. That is one point. Then there is the singular fact that he did not break it in the house, or immediately outside the house, if to break it was his sole object.”
“He was rattled and bustled by meeting this other fellow. He hardly knew what he was doing.”
“Well, that’s likely enough. But I wish to call your attention very particularly to the position of this house, in the garden of which the bust was destroyed.”
Lestrade looked about him.
“It was an empty house, and so he knew that he would not be disturbed in the garden.”
“Yes, but there is another empty house farther up the street which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it there, since it is evident that every yard that he carried it increased the risk of someone meeting him?”
“I give it up,” said Lestrade.
Holmes pointed to the street lamp above our heads.
“He could see what he was doing here, and he could not there. That was his reason.”
“By Jove! that’s true,” said the detective. “Now that I come to think of it, Dr. Barnicot’s bust was broken not far from his red lamp. Well, Mr. Holmes, what are we to do with that fact?”
“To remember it—to docket it. We may come on something later which will bear upon it. What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?”
“The most practical way of getting at it, in my opinion, is to identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty about that. When we have found who he is and who his associates are, we should have a good start in learning what he was doing in Pitt Street last night, and who it was who met him and killed him on the doorstep of Mr. Horace Harker. Don’t you think so?”
“No doubt; and yet it is not quite the way in which I should approach the case.”
“What would you do then?”
“Oh, you must not let me influence you in any way. I suggest that you go on your line and I on mine. We can compare notes afterwards, and each will supplement the other.”
“Very good,” said Lestrade.
“If you are going back to Pitt Street, you might see Mr. Horace Harker. Tell him for me that I have quite made up my mind, and that it is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with Napoleonic delusions, was in his house last night. It will be useful for his article.”
Lestrade stared.
“You don’t seriously believe that?”
Holmes smiled.
“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I don’t. But I am sure that it will interest Mr. Horace Harker and the subscribers of the Central Press Syndicate. Now, Watson, I think that we shall find that we have a long and rather complex day’s work before us. I should be glad, Lestrade, if you could make it convenient to meet us at Baker Street at six o’clock this evening. Until then I should like to keep this photograph, found in the dead man’s pocket. It is possible that I may have to ask your company and assistance upon a small expedition which will have be undertaken to-night, if my chain of reasoning should prove to be correct. Until then good-bye and good luck!”
Sherlock Holmes and I walked together to the High Street, where we stopped at the shop of Harding Brothers, whence the bust had been purchased. A young assistant informed us that Mr. Harding would be absent until afternoon, and that he was himself a newcomer, who could give us no information. Holmes’s face showed his disappointment and annoyance.
“Well, well, we can’t expect to have it all our own way, Watson,” he said, at last. “We must come back in the afternoon, if Mr. Harding will not be here until then. I am, as you have no doubt surmised, endeavouring to trace these busts to their source, in order to find if there is not something peculiar which may account for their remarkable fate. Let us make for Mr. Morse Hudson, of the Kennington Road, and see if he can throw any light upon the problem.”
A drive of an hour brought us to the picture-dealer’s establishment. He was a small, stout man with a red face and a peppery manner.
“Yes, sir. On my very counter, sir,” said he. “What we pay rates and taxes for I don’t know, when any ruffian can come in and break one’s goods. Yes, sir, it was I who sold Dr. Barnicot his two statues. Disgraceful, sir! A Nihilist plot—that’s what I make it. No one but an anarchist would go about breaking statues. Red republicans—that’s what I call ‘em. Who did I get the statues from? I don’t see what that has to do with it. Well, if you really want to know, I got them from Gelder & Co., in Church Street, Stepney. They are a well-known house in the trade, and have been this twenty years. How many had I? Three—two and one are three—two of Dr. Barnicot’s, and one smashed in broad daylight on my own counter. Do I know that photograph? No, I don’t. Yes, I do, though. Why, it’s Beppo. He was a kind of Italian piece-work man, who made himself useful in the shop. He could carve a bit, and gild and frame, and do odd jobs. The fellow left me last week, and I’ve heard nothing of him since. No, I don’t know where he came from nor where he went to. I had nothing against him while he was here. He was gone two days before the bust was smashed.”
“Well, that’s all we could reasonably expect from Morse Hudson,” said Holmes, as we emerged from the shop. “We have this Beppo as a common factor, both in Kennington and in Kensington, so that is worth a ten-mile drive. Now, Watson, let us make for Gelder & Co., of Stepney, the source and origin of the busts. I shall be surprised if we don’t get some help down there.”
In rapid succession we passed through the fringe of fashionable London, hotel London, theatrical London, literary London, commercial London, and, finally, maritime London, till we came to a riverside city of a hundred thousand souls, where the tenement houses swelter and reek with the outcasts of Europe. Here, in a broad thoroughfare, once the abode of wealthy City merchants, we found the sculpture works for which we searched. Outside was a considerable yard full of monumental masonry. Inside was a large room in which fifty workers were carving or moulding. The manager, a big blond German, received us civilly and gave a clear answer to all Holmes’s questions. A reference to his books showed that hundreds of casts had been taken from a marble copy of Devine’s head of Napoleon, but that the three which had been sent to Morse Hudson a year or so before had been half of a batch of six, the other three being sent to Harding Brothers, of Kensington. There was no reason why those six should be different from any of the other casts. He could suggest no possible cause why anyone should wish to destroy them—in fact, he laughed at the idea. Their wholesale price was six shillings, but the retailer would get twelve or more. The cast was taken in two moulds from each side of the face, and then these two profiles of plaster of Paris were joined together to make the complete bust. The work was usually done by Italians, in the room we were in. When finished, the busts were put on a table in the passage to dry, and afterwards stored. That was all he could tell us.
But the production of the photograph had a remarkable effect upon the manager. His face flushed with anger, and his brows knotted over his blue Teutonic eyes.
“Ah, the rascal!” he cried. “Yes, indeed, I know him very well. This has always been a respectable establishment, and the only time that we have ever had the police in it was over this very fellow. It was more than a year ago now. He knifed another Italian in the street, and then he came to the works with the police on his heels, and he was taken here. Beppo was his name—his second name I never knew. Serve me right for engaging a man with such a face. But he was a good workman—one of the best.”
“What did he get?”
“The man lived and he got off with a year. I have no doubt he is out now, but he has not dared to show his nose here. We have a cousin of his here, and I daresay he could tell you where he is.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, “not a word to the cousin—not a word, I beg of you. The matter is very important, and the farther I go with it, the more important it seems to grow. When you referred in your ledger to the sale of those casts I observed that the date was June 3rd of last year. Could you give me the date when Beppo was arrested?”
“I could tell you roughly by the pay-list,” the manager answered. “Yes,” he continued, after some turning over of pages, “he was paid last on May 20th.”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I don’t think that I need intrude upon your time and patience any more.” With a last word of caution that he should say nothing as to our researches, we turned our faces westward once more.
The afternoon was far advanced before we were able to snatch a hasty luncheon at a restaurant. A news-bill at the entrance announced “Kensington Outrage. Murder by a Madman,” and the contents of the paper showed that Mr. Horace Harker had got his account into print after all. Two columns were occupied with a highly sensational and flowery rendering of the whole incident. Holmes propped it against the cruet-stand and read it while he ate. Once or twice he chuckled.
“This is all right, Watson,” said he. “Listen to this:
“It is satisfactory to know that there can be no difference of opinion upon this case, since Mr. Lestrade, one of the most experienced members of the official force, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well known consulting expert, have each come to the conclusion that the grotesque series of incidents, which have ended in so tragic a fashion, arise from lunacy rather than from deliberate crime. No explanation save mental aberration can cover the facts.
“The Press, Watson, is a most valuable institution, if you only know how to use it. And now, if you have quite finished, we will hark back to Kensington and see what the manager of Harding Brothers has to say on the matter.”
The founder of that great emporium proved to be a brisk, crisp little person, very dapper and quick, with a clear head and a ready tongue.
“Yes, sir, I have already read the account in the evening papers. Mr. Horace Harker is a customer of ours. We supplied him with the bust some months ago. We ordered three busts of that sort from Gelder & Co., of Stepney. They are all sold now. To whom? Oh, I daresay by consulting our sales book we could very easily tell you. Yes, we have the entries here. One to Mr. Harker you see, and one to Mr. Josiah Brown, of Laburnum Lodge, Laburnum Vale, Chiswick, and one to Mr. Sandeford, of Lower Grove Road, Reading. No, I have never seen this face which you show me in the photograph. You would hardly forget it, would you, sir, for I’ve seldom seen an uglier. Have we any Italians on the staff? Yes, sir, we have several among our workpeople and cleaners. I daresay they might get a peep at that sales book if they wanted to. There is no particular reason for keeping a watch upon that book. Well, well, it’s a very strange business, and I hope that you will let me know if anything comes of your inquiries.”
Holmes had taken several notes during Mr. Harding’s evidence, and I could see that he was thoroughly satisfied by the turn which affairs were taking. He made no remark, however, save that, unless we hurried, we should be late for our appointment with Lestrade. Sure enough, when we reached Baker Street the detective was already there, and we found him pacing up and down in a fever of impatience. His look of importance showed that his day’s work had not been in vain.
“Well?” he asked. “What luck, Mr. Holmes?”
“We have had a very busy day, and not entirely a wasted one,” my friend explained. “We have seen both the retailers and also the wholesale manufacturers. I can trace each of the busts now from the beginning.”
“The busts,” cried Lestrade. “Well, well, you have your own methods, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and it is not for me to say a word against them, but I think I have done a better day’s work than you. I have identified the dead man.”
“You don’t say so?”
“And found a cause for the crime.”
“Splendid!”
“We have an inspector who makes a specialty of Saffron Hill and the Italian Quarter. Well, this dead man had some Catholic emblem round his neck, and that, along with his colour, made me think he was from the South. Inspector Hill knew him the moment he caught sight of him. His name is Pietro Venucci, from Naples, and he is one of the greatest cut-throats in London. He is connected with the Mafia, which, as you know, is a secret political society, enforcing its decrees by murder. Now, you see how the affair begins to clear up. The other fellow is probably an Italian also, and a member of the Mafia. He has broken the rules in some fashion. Pietro is set upon his track. Probably the photograph we found in his pocket is the man himself, so that he may not knife the wrong person. He dogs the fellow, he sees him enter a house, he waits outside for him, and in the scuffle he receives his own death-wound. How is that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
Holmes clapped his hands approvingly.
“Excellent, Lestrade, excellent!” he cried. “But I didn’t quite follow your explanation of the destruction of the busts.”
“The busts! You never can get those busts out of your head. After all, that is nothing; petty larceny, six months at the most. It is the murder that we are really investigating, and I tell you that I am gathering all the threads into my hands.”
“And the next stage?”
“Is a very simple one. I shall go down with Hill to the Italian Quarter, find the man whose photograph we have got, and arrest him on the charge of murder. Will you come with us?”
“I think not. I fancy we can attain our end in a simpler way. I can’t say for certain, because it all depends—well, it all depends upon a factor which is completely outside our control. But I have great hopes—in fact, the betting is exactly two to one—that if you will come with us to-night I shall be able to help you to lay him by the heels.”
“In the Italian Quarter?”
“No, I fancy Chiswick is an address which is more likely to find him. If you will come with me to Chiswick to-night, Lestrade, I’ll promise to go to the Italian Quarter with you to-morrow, and no harm will be done by the delay. And now I think that a few hours’ sleep would do us all good, for I do not propose to leave before eleven o’clock, and it is unlikely that we shall be back before morning. You’ll dine with us, Lestrade, and then you are welcome to the sofa until it is time for us to start. In the meantime, Watson, I should be glad if you would ring for an express messenger, for I have a letter to send and it is important that it should go at once.”
Holmes spent the evening in rummaging among the files of the old daily papers with which one of our lumber-rooms was packed. When at last he descended, it was with triumph in his eyes, but he said nothing to either of us as to the result of his researches. For my own part, I had followed step by step the methods by which he had traced the various windings of this complex case, and, though I could not yet perceive the goal which we would reach, I understood clearly that Holmes expected this grotesque criminal to make an attempt upon the two remaining busts, one of which, I remembered, was at Chiswick. No doubt the object of our journey was to catch him in the very act, and I could not but admire the cunning with which my friend had inserted a wrong clue in the evening paper, so as to give the fellow the idea that he could continue his scheme with impunity. I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that I should take my revolver with me. He had himself picked up the loaded hunting-crop, which was his favourite weapon.
A four-wheeler was at the door at eleven, and in it we drove to a spot at the other side of Hammersmith Bridge. Here the cabman was directed to wait. A short walk brought us to a secluded road fringed with pleasant houses, each standing in its own grounds. In the light of a street lamp we read “Laburnum Villa” upon the gate-post of one of them. The occupants had evidently retired to rest, for all was dark save for a fanlight over the hall door, which shed a single blurred circle on to the garden path. The wooden fence which separated the grounds from the road threw a dense black shadow upon the inner side, and here it was that we crouched.
“I fear that you’ll have a long wait,” Holmes whispered. “We may thank our stars that it is not raining. I don’t think we can even venture to smoke to pass the time. However, it’s a two to one chance that we get something to pay us for our trouble.”
It proved, however, that our vigil was not to be so long as Holmes had led us to fear, and it ended in a very sudden and singular fashion. In an instant, without the least sound to warn us of his coming, the garden gate swung open, and a lithe, dark figure, as swift and active as an ape, rushed up the garden path. We saw it whisk past the light thrown from over the door and disappear against the black shadow of the house. There was a long pause, during which we held our breath, and then a very gentle creaking sound came to our ears. The window was being opened. The noise ceased, and again there was a long silence. The fellow was making his way into the house. We saw the sudden flash of a dark lantern inside the room. What he sought was evidently not there, for again we saw the flash through another blind, and then through another.
“Let us get to the open window. We will nab him as he climbs out,” Lestrade whispered.
But before we could move, the man had emerged again. As he came out into the glimmering patch of light, we saw that he carried something white under his arm. He looked stealthily all round him. The silence of the deserted street reassured him. Turning his back upon us he laid down his burden, and the next instant there was the sound of a sharp tap, followed by a clatter and rattle. The man was so intent upon what he was doing that he never heard our steps as we stole across the grass plot. With the bound of a tiger Holmes was on his back, and an instant later Lestrade and I had him by either wrist, and the handcuffs had been fastened. As we turned him over I saw a hideous, sallow face, with writhing, furious features, glaring up at us, and I knew that it was indeed the man of the photograph whom we had secured.
But it was not our prisoner to whom Holmes was giving his attention. Squatted on the doorstep, he was engaged in most carefully examining that which the man had brought from the house. It was a bust of Napoleon, like the one which we had seen that morning, and it had been broken into similar fragments. Carefully Holmes held each separate shard to the light, but in no way did it differ from any other shattered piece of plaster. He had just completed his examination when the hall lights flew up, the door opened, and the owner of the house, a jovial, rotund figure in shirt and trousers, presented himself.
“Mr. Josiah Brown, I suppose?” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir; and you, no doubt, are Mr. Sherlock Holmes? I had the note which you sent by the express messenger, and I did exactly what you told me. We locked every door on the inside and awaited developments. Well, I’m very glad to see that you have got the rascal. I hope, gentlemen, that you will come in and have some refreshment.”
However, Lestrade was anxious to get his man into safe quarters, so within a few minutes our cab had been summoned and we were all four upon our way to London. Not a word would our captive say, but he glared at us from the shadow of his matted hair, and once, when my hand seemed within his reach, he snapped at it like a hungry wolf. We stayed long enough at the police-station to learn that a search of his clothing revealed nothing save a few shillings and a long sheath knife, the handle of which bore copious traces of recent blood.
“That’s all right,” said Lestrade, as we parted. “Hill knows all these gentry, and he will give a name to him. You’ll find that my theory of the Mafia will work out all right. But I’m sure I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Holmes, for the workmanlike way in which you laid hands upon him. I don’t quite understand it all yet.”
“I fear it is rather too late an hour for explanations,” said Holmes. “Besides, there are one or two details which are not finished off, and it is one of those cases which are worth working out to the very end. If you will come round once more to my rooms at six o’clock to-morrow, I think I shall be able to show you that even now you have not grasped the entire meaning of this business, which presents some features which make it absolutely original in the history of crime. If ever I permit you to chronicle any more of my little problems, Watson, I foresee that you will enliven your pages by an account of the singular adventure of the Napoleonic busts.”
When we met again next evening, Lestrade was furnished with much information concerning our prisoner. His name, it appeared, was Beppo, second name unknown. He was a well-known ne’er-do-well among the Italian colony. He had once been a skilful sculptor and had earned an honest living, but he had taken to evil courses and had twice already been in jail—once for a petty theft, and once, as we had already heard, for stabbing a fellow-countryman. He could talk English perfectly well. His reasons for destroying the busts were still unknown, and he refused to answer any questions upon the subject, but the police had discovered that these same busts might very well have been made by his own hands, since he was engaged in this class of work at the establishment of Gelder & Co. To all this information, much of which we already knew, Holmes listened with polite attention, but I, who knew him so well, could clearly see that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I detected a mixture of mingled uneasiness and expectation beneath that mask which he was wont to assume. At last he started in his chair, and his eyes brightened. There had been a ring at the bell. A minute later we heard steps upon the stairs, and an elderly red-faced man with grizzled side-whiskers was ushered in. In his right hand he carried an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which he placed upon the table.
“Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”
My friend bowed and smiled. “Mr. Sandeford, of Reading, I suppose?” said he.
“Yes, sir, I fear that I am a little late, but the trains were awkward. You wrote to me about a bust that is in my possession.”
“Exactly.”
“I have your letter here. You said, ‘I desire to possess a copy of Devine’s Napoleon, and am prepared to pay you ten pounds for the one which is in your possession.’ Is that right?”
“Certainly.”
“I was very much surprised at your letter, for I could not imagine how you knew that I owned such a thing.”
“Of course you must have been surprised, but the explanation is very simple. Mr. Harding, of Harding Brothers, said that they had sold you their last copy, and he gave me your address.”
“Oh, that was it, was it? Did he tell you what I paid for it?”
“No, he did not.”
“Well, I am an honest man, though not a very rich one. I only gave fifteen shillings for the bust, and I think you ought to know that before I take ten pounds from you.
“I am sure the scruple does you honour, Mr. Sandeford. But I have named that price, so I intend to stick to it.”
“Well, it is very handsome of you, Mr. Holmes. I brought the bust up with me, as you asked me to do. Here it is!” He opened his bag, and at last we saw placed upon our table a complete specimen of that bust which we had already seen more than once in fragments.
Holmes took a paper from his pocket and laid a ten-pound note upon the table.
“You will kindly sign that paper, Mr. Sandeford, in the presence of these witnesses. It is simply to say that you transfer every possible right that you ever had in the bust to me. I am a methodical man, you see, and you never know what turn events might take afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Sandeford; here is your money, and I wish you a very good evening.”
When our visitor had disappeared, Sherlock Holmes’s movements were such as to rivet our attention. He began by taking a clean white cloth from a drawer and laying it over the table. Then he placed his newly acquired bust in the centre of the cloth. Finally, he picked up his hunting-crop and struck Napoleon a sharp blow on the top of the head. The figure broke into fragments, and Holmes bent eagerly over the shattered remains. Next instant, with a loud shout of triumph he held up one splinter, in which a round, dark object was fixed like a plum in a pudding.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, “let me introduce you to the famous black pearl of the Borgias.”
Lestrade and I sat silent for a moment, and then, with a spontaneous impulse, we both broke at clapping, as at the well-wrought crisis of a play. A flush of colour sprang to Holmes’s pale cheeks, and he bowed to us like the master dramatist who receives the homage of his audience. It was at such moments that for an instant he ceased to be a reasoning machine, and betrayed his human love for admiration and applause. The same singularly proud and reserved nature which turned away with disdain from popular notoriety was capable of being moved to its depths by spontaneous wonder and praise from a friend.
“Yes, gentlemen,” said he, “it is the most famous pearl now existing in the world, and it has been my good fortune, by a connected chain of inductive reasoning, to trace it from the Prince of Colonna’s bedroom at the Dacre Hotel, where it was lost, to the interior of this, the last of the six busts of Napoleon which were manufactured by Gelder & Co., of Stepney. You will remember, Lestrade, the sensation caused by the disappearance of this valuable jewel and the vain efforts of the London police to recover it. I was myself consulted upon the case, but I was unable to throw any light upon it. Suspicion fell upon the maid of the Princess, who was an Italian, and it was proved that she had a brother in London, but we failed to trace any connection between them. The maid’s name was Lucretia Venucci, and there is no doubt in my mind that this Pietro who was murdered two nights ago was the brother. I have been looking up the dates in the old files of the paper, and I find that the disappearance of the pearl was exactly two days before the arrest of Beppo, for some crime of violence—an event which took place in the factory of Gelder & Co., at the very moment when these busts were being made. Now you clearly see the sequence of events, though you see them, of course, in the inverse order to the way in which they presented themselves to me. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro’s confederate, he may have been the go-between of Pietro and his sister. It is of no consequence to us which is the correct solution.
“The main fact is that he HAD the pearl, and at that moment, when it was on his person, he was pursued by the police. He made for the factory in which he worked, and he knew that he had only a few minutes in which to conceal this enormously valuable prize, which would otherwise be found on him when he was searched. Six plaster casts of Napoleon were drying in the passage. One of them was still soft. In an instant Beppo, a skilful workman, made a small hole in the wet plaster, dropped in the pearl, and with a few touches covered over the aperture once more. It was an admirable hiding-place. No one could possibly find it. But Beppo was condemned to a year’s imprisonment, and in the meanwhile his six busts were scattered over London. He could not tell which contained his treasure. Only by breaking them could he see. Even shaking would tell him nothing, for as the plaster was wet it was probable that the pearl would adhere to it—as, in fact, it has done. Beppo did not despair, and he conducted his search with considerable ingenuity and perseverance. Through a cousin who works with Gelder, he found out the retail firms who had bought the busts. He managed to find employment with Morse Hudson, and in that way tracked down three of them. The pearl was not there. Then, with the help of some Italian employee, he succeeded in finding out where the other three busts had gone. The first was at Harker’s. There he was dogged by his confederate, who held Beppo responsible for the loss of the pearl, and he stabbed him in the scuffle which followed.”
“If he was his confederate, why should he carry his photograph?” I asked.
“As a means of tracing him, if he wished to inquire about him from any third person. That was the obvious reason. Well, after the murder I calculated that Beppo would probably hurry rather than delay his movements. He would fear that the police would read his secret, and so he hastened on before they should get ahead of him. Of course, I could not say that he had not found the pearl in Harker’s bust. I had not even concluded for certain that it was the pearl, but it was evident to me that he was looking for something, since he carried the bust past the other houses in order to break it in the garden which had a lamp overlooking it. Since Harker’s bust was one in three, the chances were exactly as I told you—two to one against the pearl being inside it. There remained two busts, and it was obvious that he would go for the London one first. I warned the inmates of the house, so as to avoid a second tragedy, and we went down, with the happiest results. By that time, of course, I knew for certain that it was the Borgia pearl that we were after. The name of the murdered man linked the one event with the other. There only remained a single bust—the Reading one—and the pearl must be there. I bought it in your presence from the owner—and there it lies.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“Well,” said Lestrade, “I’ve seen you handle a good many cases, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than that. We’re not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down to-morrow, there’s not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn’t be glad to shake you by the hand.”
“Thank you!” said Holmes. “Thank you!” and as he turned away, it seemed to me that he was more nearly moved by the softer human emotions than I had ever seen him. A moment later he was the cold and practical thinker once more. “Put the pearl in the safe, Watson,” said he, “and get out the papers of the Conk-Singleton forgery case. Good-bye, Lestrade. If any little problem comes your way, I shall be happy, if I can, to give you a hint or two as to its solution.”

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Small children love nursery rhymes. But actually, even if you are a little older – perhaps even grown up – you will find the charm and the fun of these traditional verses hard to resist. Perhaps you heard them long ago? We bet you will remember them like you heard them only yesterday.

Nursery rhymes are really important for early speech development. They also seem to reflect the eternal aspects of childhood. Each rhyme might be several hundred years old – but the playground tunes and games never change. Bertie thinks that this is a very special reading of several of the best known rhymes. We hope that you will agree.

For some educational activities that you can do with Nursery Rhymes, see Learning With Nursery Rhymes.

Read by Natasha. Duration 7.10

Hello

This is Natasha,

And I am dropping by with some English nursery rhymes. I expect you might have heard some of them before, but they are always really nice to hear. Most of them are really short. The first is about a little insect that will bring you luck. Next time a ladybird lands on your hand, chant this rhyme as fast as you can and make a wish:

Ladybird, ladybird,
fly away home.
Your house is on fire;
Your children all roam.
Except little Nan
Who sits in her pan
Weaving her laces as fast as she can.

And remember, it’s meant to be really bad luck to kill a ladybird…so make sure that you never do that.

The next rhyme is also about a small creature, but this one is a creepy crawly…

Little Miss Muffet,
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey;
Along came a spider,
And sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Muffet away.

Ugh ! Poor little Miss Muffet. Spiders can be really creepy. I’m glad to say that the next rhyme is a little more happy:

Mary Mary Mary
Quite Contrary how does your garden grow?
With Silver Bells and Cockell shells
And pretty maids all in a row

Yes, I love that one. It’s really pretty. And This is a verse that I really like because, well, it’s kind of crazy.

Hey diddle diddle the Cat
And the fiddle
The Cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed to see such sport
And the dish ran away with the spoon

Oh, I’d just love to see a cow jump over the moon, and sometimes at night I look up into the sky and hope to see it happen….but I’m still looking, and I’m still hoping.

And this rhyme is about a slightly naughty boy:

Georgie Porgie pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry
When the boys came out to play,
Georgie Porgie ran away

And there was another naughty boy called Tom

Tom Tom, the Piper’s Son,
Stole a pig and away he ran
The pig was eat
And the boy was beat
And Tom went roaring down the street.

Now here is a little piece of a good advice:

A wise old owl lived in an oak
The more he saw the less he spoke
The less he spoke the more he heard.
Why can’t we all be like that wise old bird? ?

Yes, silence is golden. And those were a few short rhymes. I’d like to leave you with a longer one. There’s a game that goes with it.. Two people stand facing each other and hold up their arms to make the shape of an arch. Everyone else passes through the arch in turn. When the rhyme ends, the arch comes down and catches who ever is underneath just at that moment.

Well here’s the rhyme. I’m going to give you the slightly older version. And by the way, in old English gay means happy.

London Bridge
Is Broken down,
Dance over my Lady Lee.
London Bridge
Is Broken down
With a gay Lady.

How shall we build
It up again,
Dance over my Lady Lee, &c.

Build it up with
Gravel, and Stone,
Dance over my Lady Lee, &c.

Gravel, and Stone,
Will wash away,
Dance over my Lady Lee, &c.

Build it up with
Iron, and Steel,
Dance over my Lady Lee, &c.

Iron, and Steel,
Will bend, and Bow,
Dance over my Lady Lee, &c.

Build it up with
Silver, and Gold,
Dance over my Lady Lee, &c.

Silver, and Gold
Will be stolen away,
Dance over my Lady Lee, &c.

Then we’l set
A man to Watch,
Dance over my Lady Lee.
Then we’l set
A man to Watch,
With a gay Lady.

And that was London Bridge is Broken down. If you have enjoyed these nursery rhymes, remember you can leave a common on Storynory.com and if enough people like them, perhaps we will do some more.

For now, from me, Natasha

Bye Bye.

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We have reached the final episode in our Awaking beauty series about the mysterious Princess Talia, and her friends Basil and Sally. They have travelled back and forth in time and confronted their arch enemy. Now the sleeping city of Oxford is waking up. The three friends must return to the “real” world. But is there a future for Talia at Westerly College, Oxford?

Read by Elizabeth. Story by Bertie. Duration 11.45.

Sally’s mum noticed that the digital clock on the oven was reading 17.59. She liked to hear the evening news on the radio while she prepared dinner, and she reached over to switch it on. She heard the six time pips and the announcer, with smooth tones, read the headlines:

“Several thousand people in the City of Oxford have temporarily lost consciousness. Emergency services have been overwhelmed by numerous traffic accidents and outbreaks of fire. Officials say they are mystified by the occurrence and are yet to find any credible explanation.”

She could not make head or tail of what she had just heard, but immediately felt a sense of dread, of the sort that only parents can feel when they fear for their child.

“Oh my gosh… Something terrible has happened to Sally, I just know,” and she rushed to the phone to dial her daughter’s number:

“Hello Mum,” came the cheery reply.

“Oh Sally, you’re alive. Thank goodness.”

“Yes mum. I’m alive. In fact I’m just fine. A few people banged their heads when they fell asleep, but I’m glad to say I had a soft landing!”

Of course Sally could not begin to tell her mother what she had really experienced. For her the trip back through time with Basil had taken several days, but for most people in Oxford the sleeping sickness and the fog had lasted a minute or so at most. Many had woken up bemused and baffled, and quite a few with with bumps and bruises. Some had more serious injuries. The cause of the incident was unknown. Government officials were visiting a power plant near the Oxfordshire town of Didcot to see if any poisonous gasses could have leaked into the air. The head of the UFO Society had telephoned Channel 5 News to claim that a giant flying saucer had been sited flying over the city’s dreaming spires. But the truth would never been widely revealed, for who could have guessed that it was all a slick trick of time played by the famous witch Morgan Le Fay?

After the witch had been sucked through the window of the tower, Princess Talia had fallen into the arms of Basil. It was the way it was meant to be, and it was the fairytale ending, but Sally could not help feeling a little sharp pang of jealousy – after all, she had been at Basil’s side while he transformed himself from a lanky, head-in-the clouds classics student, into a knight. Part of her thought she ought to prefer the brainy, funny, peace-loving Basil, but there was another part of her that could not help shuddering with a certain awe at the steadfast, sword-in-hand, fight to the death Sir Basil that she had just witnessed.

But then Basil, still tangled up in Talia’s arms, turned his head and said:

“Sally, I want to thank you for all that you’ve done over the last few days. It’s so great that you came back in time with me. I mean, you were the one doing the thinking. I would have just been lost on my own.”

Then Talia, released Basil from her embrace, and came over to Sally to hug her. And Sally began to feel a little less left out of things.

The trio made their way down the dark, winding stairs of Draper’s Tower, and out into the bright sunlight of the quad. The scene was almost normal with undergraduates and dons milling around and trying to figure out what had happened. What made it just a little bit surreal was the fact that two horses draped in colourful silks were nibbling the grass. These days horses are a rare sight inside Oxford colleges, and of course nobody except Basil, Talia, and Sally understood why there were there. It was a day of strange happenings.

Sally could not help noticing that quite a few eyes were directed towards the three friends as they made their way along the path. She began to wonder if people now knew the role they had played. It was only when a third year student, Cynthia Smythe, said to her: “Are you going to a ball?” that she realised that everyone was looking at the way they were dressed. She was still in a medieval gown, and Basil was wearing metal armour and carrying a sword.

“Ay yes, I mean no, it’s a fancy dress party at Teddy Hall,” stuttered Sally.

And quite frankly, there are so many bizarre people wondering around Oxford at any time of day, that it wasn’t that strange to meet people in medieval costume among the sandstone walls and ancient gargoyles.

They went up to Basil’s room to help the poor boy out of his suit of armour. A tall thin classics student emerged out of his bulky shell. They set up the metal suit in the corner where it looked like an ancestral heirloom. Otherwise the room was pretty empty because, of course, Basil had packed his things and left college shortly before the momentous events. He had pledged to leave with Princess Talia. Basil wore a leather pouch around his neck which had been given to him while he was travelling through the past. He checked and found that it still contained his thin sliver of a bank card and his mobile phone. The phone unfortunately had taken a blow at some stage, and was dented and no longer working.

“Well,” said Basil, “This is goodbye Sally,”

“What do you mean? You can’t up and leave now.”

“I’m afraid we must,” said Talia. “There is no place for me in this college. The authorities sided with her…. I mean, the witch. I cannot remain here.”

An hour later, Basil and Princess Talia were seated on the bus for Victoria Station in London.

Sally came on board to kiss both her friends goodbye. While they waited for the driver to get on board, she said:

“What do you think would have happened if she had succeeded – I mean if Morgan Le Fay had destroyed all the University’s Knowledge?’

“The knowledge would not have mattered that much, “ said Basil. “Most of it’s wrong any way. Modern science has surpassed it all. But what we would have lost is that sense connection with the past… I mean, when you read about Rome or Ancient Athens, the people are as real as if they are alive today. You get that feeling that human life continues even if we don’t ourselves. The past is different, but it’s also the same. It’s all part of one big thing. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes,” said Sally. “I do because I’ve been there – in the past I mean.”

And Talia leaned her head against Basil’s shoulder and said: “Yes, that’s what I’ve learned. If you leap through time and miss out all the bits in between, you feel totally disjointed. You need a record of the past to connect it all up. We humans need the past as well as the present and the future.”

Sally stepped down from the bus. From the pavement, she waved goodbye to her friends. She looked around the Oxford bus station. It was such a drab and dreary scene straight out of Modern Britain. Nobody had really bothered to make it into anything special. It was no more than car park of diesel fumes. And yet it was the place where for so many, the Oxford fairytale began and ended.

Sally’s dress, given to her by Queen Guinevere, came in handy for the May Ball which took place, as is the custom in Oxford, in the month of June. She even had the pick of the college men to accompany her, in the form of Jonathan Miles, the English scholar, who was widely considered as totally cool, and she was the envy of many of the other college women who wondered what he saw in her.

But what made the night really special, was that Princess Talia and Basil came back for the ball. They were the most beautiful couple who danced the night away, obviously in love with each other. Although they were the same age, or younger than almost all the others there, because they had already left and moved onto a new life, they already seemed so much more mature and grown up. They were almost like film stars. Impossibly glamorous and beyond the reach of ordinary mortals, apart from Sally of course.

From then on, the many distractions of life at Oxford, including the parties, the romances, the student politics, the drama societies, the eight weeks and the balls, no longer seemed quite so important as before to Sally. She had experienced so much, so intensely, that Oxford life all seemed rather trivial. She found that the less she cared about who invited her to what event, the more that everybody wanted to invite her out to every happening. She concentrated on her studies, and at the end of four years she took a first in Classics, or Greats as traditionalists like to call it.

And that was the twentieth and final part of Awaking Beauty. The story was written by Bertie and read by me Elizabeth Donnelly for Storynory.com.

Perhaps, like me, you feel just a little bit sad that the series has come to and end. If you have got this far with it, you probably feel that you know Sally, Talia, and Basil quite well. As they say, parting is always such sweet sorrow. Oh well, excuse me while I wipe a little tear from my eye. But never mind. I’ll be back soon with some more stories, including one that I’ve written my self. That will be a first and I’m feeling rather excited about it.