"Harm Me Not"

"The Star" Johannesburg Tuesday August 11th 1959 "Readers' views"
"The highveld needs the right trees"

Excerpt of letter to the editor written by B Powrie - Florida

"In parks and open spaces in Portugal this inscription is displayed:

"Ye who would pass by and raise your hand against me,
hearken ere ye harm me.
"I am the heat of your hearths on the cold winter nights,
the friendly shade screening you from the summer sun;
and my fruits are refreshing draughts quenching your thirst as you journey on.
"I am the beam that holds your house,
the board of your table,
the bed on which you lie,
the timber that builds your boat.
"I am the handle of your hoe,
the door of your homestead,
the wood of your cradle
and the shell of your coffin.
"I am the gift of God and the friend of man.
"Ye who pass by listen to my prayer - harm me not."

Letters To The Editor

Mom enjoyed debate and she used to say to me "The Pen is Mightier than the Sword."

Some of the titles of her printed Letters to the Editor with her "Nom de Plume" when used:

Commercial Broadcasts "Present at Meeting"
The Paradox of the Easter celebrations remains a source of wonder
This time cuckoo made a mistake
Prefers half-clean milk to pasteurized milk "Not Don Quixote"
There is no excuse for drinking "Let's Face It"
("When I signed myself "Ex-smoker and Drinker" I find it strange the printed letter should be signed "Let's Face It"" she commented)
Fireworks on Union Day suggested "Pro Patria"
The Butcher Bird is an accomplished mimic
Keeping warm
Invitation to wholesome entertainment "Clean Fun"
The segregation of non-smokers in cinemas suggested "Also Non-Smoker"
("My face was rather red over the "Also Non-Smoker" one because they printed Florida, where we only have one cinema! I went and apologised to him, because I signed "West Rand" the pertinent paragraph "I asked if he (the local cinema manager) would not be the one to lead the way, but his reply was: "I'm no leader, ma'am." Why not one of the more courageous cinema managers try it out?"")
Spray early and save the lives of the polinators
The highveld needs the right trees
('This letter had very interesting results, a Headmaster of one of the Johannesburg (I did not catch the name) schools phoned to say he would use the poem in his remarks at a tree planting ceremony to be held at the school that afternoon. I wrote and told Mr Baker (Richard St Barbe Baker) about it and we have corresponded, on and off, ever since." - poem "Harm Me Not" in another entry)
Children taught that Bible is ridiculous
Feeling inferior? - climb a tree
A fat housewife's dream of how to lose 20lb "Plump"
The pigeon could not get a drink
Woodman, spare those trees "Disgruntled"
"Horrible" from passenger's point of view "Pro Right Hand"
A repulsive habit "Onlooker"
(About smoking in the cinema)
Anticipating Spring
Man was given dominion over the animal kingdom "Grateful"
Honouring the aged "Disgusted"
They Planted Trees and Down Came the Rain
Trees Benefit Us in a Hundred Ways
If the story of Adam is not true, why was there a need of a Christ? "Veritas"
The "freaks of nature" are not forerunners "Veritas"
Pushing Sahara Back also Our Responsibility

Some of her comments written aside cuttings and copies:
"The "Religion" Editor of the "Star" is very sticky and seems to deliberately block any effort to introduce any "Mormon" doctrine into my letters, he just cuts those bits out"
"I objected to the Editor's remark at the end of my letter, so wrote the second one... he phoned me about it and we agreed to leave things as they were."
"I must admit that it is probably just as well that the Editor does eliminate much of what I write or I would most likely have been lynched or sent int "90 days detention" many times!"
"Oh, well, we all make mistakes!"
"I wrote to Mr Wood of Evolution Protest Movement and received some very interesting literature from him - very close to Mormon Doctrine."
"I wonder now why I never rose to this bait?"
"Round about this time someone had written in complaining about the way in which the Editorial Staff cut letters to pieces, printed "This letter has been shortened" or just rejected them without any explanation, so I guess the Star decided to show people why their letters were rejected! (There is her letter with the pencilled editorial comments stuck in the scrapbook) I "got the message". Maybe someday I will make time to rewrite this and see if I can make it acceptable. What is extraordinary is... I thought I had sent (original copy) in to "The Star"! I must have posted rough copy by mistake - or what?"

Loyal and firm in her opinions and causes was my mother!

Another Prize for Her Letter To The Editor

Mom received a prize for her letter letter titled "Bridey Murphy" published 23rd August 1956.
"The prize for this letter was 10/6 (R1.05) but my letter was hopelessly cut and actually altered... this is why I now keep a carbon copy of original letters." she wrote.

"Abolish Homework"

Mom wrote a fiery Letter to the Editor of the Outspan endorsing the sentiments of an article called "Away with Homework". Her letter was one of the guinea letters published in August 1951.

Some quotes from "Abolish Homework":

"Any reasonably intellingent adult, knowing how exhausting a full day's work at the office is, will be able to appreciate that our older children are expected, not only to work for an almost equal number of hours, but to absorb and memorise new knowledge during these hours.

"The child's young brain, like a baby's young muscles, needs plenty of rest and relaxation between short periods of learning and effort...

"After all, how many adults can remember what they learned in school, other than those things which have remained in daily or, at any rate, fairly frequent usage?"

Of her winning letter she wrote "I received this very pleasant surprise when I was in the Nursing Home just after Jane was born. I promptly wrote a lettle poem "Jane Elizabeth" and sent it off to the Outspan but it was rejected...

"Unfortunately I did not win a second guinea with my second letter (which was also published) "School Chaff" (continuing the debate about abolishing homework.)"

The final paragraph of "School Chaff":

"With the present amount of drudgery it's hardly worth being young even once, is it? None regrets a care-free, healthy childhood."

"The Enchanted Poplars"

P Powrie - 1964

Foreword -
Many years ago, when I was nineteen, a 'boy-friend' (Peter) and I went for a lovely ramble up on the hills above Rondebosch, Cape Town, in a very old poplar plantation.

After arriving back at his home in Newlands and after supper, he threw himself down on his back on a large couch, closed his eyes, held out his hand to me and said "Tell me a story." So I sat down on the edge of the couch, held his hand and told him this story of the poplar wood and the ruins of the old house we had discovered somewhere in it. (This story was finally finished off in the 1970's and called "The Enchanted Poplars")

As I look back over the young years of my life I remember many occasions upon which friends would gather around me and say "Tell us a story" - I suppose in those days, there was no radio, TV and not as many books, or toys or places to go, so we had to amuse ourselves in other ways and "story-telling" was one of those ways. We sometimes told stories which were told by all present. One would start on a theme, talk for a few minutes and then say "now you carry on" and the next person would take over and continue the story until they decided to pass it on to the next person. This way nobody ever knew how the story was going to change or end and it was great fun. We should have one of these parties again sometime.

But many wonderful tales of secret passages, treasures and excitements would be told to a rapt audience! As a matter of fact, a fact that I had forgotten, I was always seeking and knocking on the walls of our fairly old house "Bronta" in Tamboerskloof, Cape Town, because I was sure that there must be a secret passage somewhere, as this is South Africa and not England, and our 'old' houses are many generations younger than the old English mansions!

Later, in the middle 'teen' years, a group of three to five of us girls used to get together and dress up in my marvellous collection of clothes, garnered from those thrown out by my three older sisters. Cast-off dance dresses. Arts Ball costumes and other clothes. We acted out story after story, from smugglers to four sisters, the youngest of which had been captured by some fabulous tribe who had made her a Priestess of their Temple. After many months of adventure and searching all over the world, just about, we finally located her - only to discover that she had come to so love her position as "Daughter of the Dragon" that she no longer wanted to come home with us!

These plays were always impromptu and no one ever knew how the story would come out in the end and in this case the other three of us were so completely stunned by her response to our rejoicing discovery of her and I remember that we all ended up in tears, begging her to come home with us and her resolutely refusing! Trying to explain to us why now, as a Priestess, she could no longer change her path in life. We were all in tears and a glorious time was had by all!
My wonderful Mother had had one of our cellars whitewashed and turned into a 'den' for us and this was, in turn, anything from a pirate's treasure trove or smuggler's cave to a beautiful 'stately home' just depending upon the present mood of its occupants. I remember another
time when we were all supposed to be in a row-boat and one girl walked forward guiding us, while the others, two or three, walked backwards, rowing for dear life. (Nowadays young ones just seem to flop and watch TV living off other people's imagination!)

I was always dreaming and living in my imagination until eventually my brother-in-law, Don Wessinger said "Why don't you write down all your dreams to share with others?" (because I was always telling them all about my latest experiences) so I started my book, which I couldn't decide whether to call "Jill's House of Dreams" or "Unfinished Castles" - because most of the dreams were unfinished because I was interrupted and had to go to meals, school or something! But over the many years, various odd episodes were written for inclusion in the book and I have a box full of poems, stories, articles in various degrees of completion! I wonder, will the total book ever be finished?

Towards the end of the war I married and the years since then have been so full of wife-hood and mother-hood to five children (who have never asked me to tell them a story) that I seldom got a chance to slip away into that trance-like state where dreams become reality, and have contented myself with odd "Letter to the Editor" on many subjects, so far having had about 35 to 40 letters printed, which are gathered, together with the carbon copies of their originals (which don't always agree with the letters printed, in some ways) and in some cases, with the rejection slips from the Editor, all this in several bulging scrap books!

Perhaps one day when my very demanding children are older and off my hands - the eldest is now 19 years old - I will have time to finish "Unfinished Castles" (Written 1964, typed 1979 retyped 1983 - and this retyping 1995 by Judy)


THE ENCHANTED POPLARS

Philippa Dymond (now Powrie) 1937

I went for a walk one day, up into the poplar wood on the mountains above Kenilworth, Cape, on one of those Cape days which can only be described in one way, a magic day. A soft feeling in the air and a myriad insect sounds, with just enough faint breeze every now and then to stir the poplar leaves into a rustle of whispered conversation.

There, somewhere in the heart of the woods - I had searched for it twice since then but have not found it again - I came across the ruins of a cottage. All around the poplars were curiously twisted and bent, as if they had been writhing when suddenly struck still by a magic spell.
I sat down on the carpet of leaves with my back against the trunk of a tree and a dream came to me... it was as if I lived again, as an unseen watcher in a time long passed. This is the dream conjured up from the ruins of an old cottage, which had at one time possibly been a slave dwelling in the copse of poplar trees.

In the old Cape days there lived, in the mountain cottage of a large estate on the slopes of the Wynberg mountains, a father, Sir Bertram and his daughter, the Lady Elizabeth.
Sir Bertram had plans for building a house more suitable to the size of his estate, the cottage having been intended as a temporary dwelling.

As time went by, he became more and more attached to the cottage where his daughter had grown from gawky child into lovely maiden of nineteen.

They had only come out from England a few years previously, to the small cottage, after Sir Bertrams' wife, Lady Julia, had died, to make their home in this new country.

There was, of course, the villain of the story, Sir Bertram's cousin, Charles, who had visited them and now coveted the estate and therefore wished to marry Elizabeth, but both she and her father hated the pompous scheming cousin and whenever he called, Elizabeth would order her horse, Fidelis, and ride away into the wood where, the slaves said, she talked to the trees, telling them her secrets and listening to theirs. For certain it was that she talked to the trees and sure it was that they rustled in answer and as later events seemed to prove, they understood each other.

The next Spring Sir Bertram fell ill, having caught a severe chill. For days he was delirious and then just before he died, he begged Lady Elizabeth never to marry Charles, who had evil blood in him. He begged her, his only child, to keep this lovely estate clear of the wicked influence that Charles would bring and this Lady Elizabeth promised to do.

For five weeks after Sir Bertram's death Charles accepted the old slave woman's statement that her mistress was too ill and distressed to see him but one day he struck the slave with his riding whip and ordered her to fetch her mistress immediately. When Lady Elizabeth entered the room she ordered him to leave at once and never to return again. He threatened her with unpleasant consequences if she did not accept his offer of marriage. Again she refused, repeating her wish that he should leave immediately and he stamped out in a fury.

When he had gone, Elizabeth called for Fidelis and rode away to her friends the trees. She followed her favourite path until she had gone some half-mile from the cottage when suddenly a bird fluttered up almost from under Fidelis' forefeet and he reared and twisted.

Lady Elizabeth, who had been lost in a dream of lonely despair and longing for her father, was taken unawares - and perhaps a little uncaring - for she was thrown. She fell with her back on a stone, breaking her spine and lay dazed for a while. Suddenly she realised what had happened and told Fidelis to go back to his stable, knowing that when he returned riderless, the slaves would come and find her.

As Fidelis turned homewards he must have heard her words of entreaty to the poplars "Oh dear friends, please help me. I can no longer save the estate from Charles because I am dying, but you, he wants to cut you down, to build a great house with courtyards and formal gardens to show how important he is. He wants to desecrate this lovely mountain with his gambling parties and drinking orgies. He will ill-treat his slaves and his animals. He is wicked. Wicked. Oh help me, please help me."

The poplars rustled a fervent promise that they would haunt this man until they drove him away from the estate - they would see that the house was left with not one stone upon another. The Lady Elizabeth thanked them, blessed them, and died.

When the slaves found her they knelt and wept beside her still, beautiful form, while the poplar leaves whispered a sad farewell. No sooner had the slaves lifted her and carried her away than the whispering became a rustling which became louder and louder. The boughs started to toss and writhe. They seemed to come alive, to move more than just their waving boughs.

The fearful slaves sent a messenger to fetch a doctor and the attorney who was Elizabeth's guardian until she became of age, at twenty one.

The following week, the formalities over, Charles arrived to take possession of the estate only to find that the slaves had fled in terror, for, all the week it seemed that the trees drew nearer and nearer, their branches reaching out to touch the very walls of the house.

Charles observed the nearness of the trees with disgust and ordered the slaves he had brought with him to start cutting them down, but in the morning it seemed that although ten trees had been felled there were more than ten in their places and the boughs now slapped against the windows. The slaves were ordered to work harder, their master himself moving amongst them, cracking his whip and threatening them with what would happen if they slacked off but always it seemed that the trees multiplied and grew closer and closer until he felt as if he was suffocating. The fourth day he awoke to find that his slaves had abandoned him and he was alone in this crazy, frenzied poplar wood. His apprehension increased as he noticed that two windows had broken where the boughs had crashed against them and thrust their way into the house and the rustling of the leaves had become so loud that with a touch of hysteria Charles covered his ears and cried out "Be still, be still. What do you want? What are you trying to do?" Suddenly it seemed that he heard their answer to him "Go away from here. Go away from here. You killed our Lady Elizabeth and we shall kill you, kill you."

Charles pulled himself together and shouted "This is nonsense. Utter nonsense, do you hear? Trees don't talk and I won't give up my heritage so easily. You can do your worst but I'll beat you yet. I'll fetch more slaves and workmen. I'll cut you down, every last one of you!"

Muttering to himself Charles hurried to the stables to find that there was but one horse left, Fidelis, whom he saddled and rode to the village where, he thought, he would arrange for workmen to come and clear away the trees the next day.

Meanwhile the story of the strange trees had spread, his slaves had vanished and there were no more available. All he could manage was for a small party of workmen to come the following week and he rode home, through the twilight, in a state of helpless rage.

That night he decided to stay and prove to himself that the trees were ordinary poplars after all, but he was overcome with weariness and slept the sleep of the dead. Next morning he found a great crack in the wall and, as he stared at it with sleep-dazed horror, it widened and the house began to shudder. He dashed outside and saw that where the steps had been, a poplar shoot had pushed its way through a pile of rubble. The sound of a crash made him turn back to the room to see a roof-beam hanging drunkenly where it had broken away from the wall. The house was collapsing right before his very eyes.

He gave a great shout of laughter in which there was more than a hint of madness and screamed "I'll build a new house, you'll see. A great new house - but I'll cut you all down first." Then he hurried to the stable to saddle Fidelis and galloped to the town to arrange storage for his furniture until his great new house was built. The removers came right away and that night Charles slept in the village.

Next day he returned to the house. He had not meant to but it seemed as if a great magnet, stronger than his will, was drawing him back to the scene that was now one of desolation. The roof had completely fallen, the walls were crumbling and he turned to stare at Fidelis, who had remained faithful - but faithful to whom? Could it be that Fidelis had been waiting patiently to avenge his mistress?

Charles gave a terrible cry and turned to run away from the ruins, the twisting trees, the horse and everything that now represented to him his fate at the hand of Lady Elizabeth's avengers, but a force stronger than himself caused him to mount Fidelis, where he sat as if under an hypnotic spell as the horse turned and galloped off along the path which Lady Elizabeth had taken.

Suddenly, as Fidelis reached the place where his mistress had fallen, a bird fluttered up from almost under his forefeet and he reared and twisted. Fidelis stood and gazed for a moment at the still figure on the ground, then turned and, with a drooping head made his tired and hungry way back to the empty stable, stooping now and then to crop the bits of grass along the way.

So the gang of workers found matters when they arrived a couple of days later. A cottage in ruins, a thin hungry horse, still saddled, standing disconsolately in his crumbling stable and then, upon searching and calling they came upon the body of the man who had hired them, lying amongst grotesquely twisted trees, which seemed to whisper softly to each other as the body was carried away.

I awoke from my reverie and, with a sigh, turned my steps homewards.

"What is Judith?"

P Powrie - before 1950

How can I tell you what Judith is? She is everything - anything and everything!

I remember things that she has done in the past - sometimes she was a mouse that ran up peoples legs and tickled their knees and made them scream. Sometimes she was a spider on a silver thread and she's slip down and down and almost into somebody's porridge, but only when that "Somebody" had their hands full and so couldn't do anything about it. By the time they had freed their hands Judith was gone again.

Sometimes Judith was a ripe red apple just out of reach, sometimes, when Ellen was very tired - and knew how to do the sums anyway - Judith was a "Good Fairy" who did Ellen's homework for her, in a lovely neat handwriting.

But what I was really going to tell you now is the story of what happened to Judith one day - or rather, what happened to other people because of Judith, but we don't know what happened to her in the end, because she just does not live here any more.

Ellen had Judith in her pocket, everyone knew that and even when she got out for a little while, got away from herself, if you see what I mean - because Ellen could even hold Judith in her hand in the bathroom and think that she had her safe but still Judith might be in the kitchen tickling Mrs Midge's forehead - and poor Mrs Midge trying to get on with her baking - but because she was in Ellen's pocket everyone felt that Judith wouldn't do anything really dreadful.

At anyrate, it was Sunday and Mrs Baker wandered around asking idly "I wonder who is coming to Church with me?" Ellen, who had her gaze fixed on something outside the window heard her mother's mumble, pulled her gaze in and hopped and skipped away into Sherry's bed and sat looking at her, head slightly to one side, one dark brow charcot.

"What?" asked Sherry "Mummets is asking herself who will be going to Church with her today." answered Ellen.

"Come on, Baby, lets." Sherry smiled up at Ellen and Ellen smiled back "Just what I was going to say." she nodded approvingly.

Ellen is ten. Long-legged, thin and pigtails, if you know what I mean, but with a quaint elf-like face. Sometimes the family called her "Elfin" or "Little Elf". Ellen's eyes are darkly blue and fringed with dark lashes. Large wide-set eyes. Her hair is dark too and her skin lily-fair. She'll be lovely when she grows up. She takes after Mummet's - that's Mrs Baker - but Sherry is like Daddy, red-blond, twinkling golden eyes, a freckled tip-tilted nose and wide smiling mouth. Sherry is already lovely. Ellen adores Sherry, but for that matter, so do many others, but Sherry is "grown-up" well, almost, she is seventeen.

Ellen said "I'll ask the boys." - in an important sort of whisper and all in one movement she was off the bed, out of the room and tapping on the boy's door. The tapping was in code - life meant mystery and adventure to Ellen - and Peter's quiet deep voice bade her enter.

"Peter" she said "Sherry and I want to know if you and Gordon are coming to Church with Mummets and us." He looked so serious as he sat there, in bed, his dark brown hair all rumpled and his attractive, ugly face quietly considering his baby sister. Ellen just loved him, with a sort of lump of love.

"What about Gordon? Shall I wake him?" "If you're brave enough and if you'll give me time to get to the bathroom first." answered Peter. He heaved his long slender length out of the bed and, grabbing his towel, disappeared.

"Oh Gordon, wake up." said Ellen shaking his shoulder. Gordon groaned and snuggled but the violent shaking continued "Come on, wake up." demanded his young sister's voice. He opened an enquiring eye, under a raised eyebrow and examined the cause of his discomfort. The eye closed and Gordon lay collecting his strength for an effort - suddenly it came. He writhed, sat up, grabbed Ellen by the shoulders and, twisting her and lifting her at the same time, landed her across his knee, all in one breath. Ellen looked at him over her shoulder with surprised and wary eyes. "Explain yourself" demanded Gordon. "Church." answered Ellen. They looked at each other in silence for a while and then Gordon said "On one condition: that we leave Judith at home." "Of course." said Ellen. "Of course." Gordon released her and she slithered back to the floor. Gorden's face cracked into a grin - Gordon had a very attractive, jumbled sort of face - and Ellen grinned back and dashed off to get suitably dressed.

Gordon, golden hair, blue eyes, full of fun. Somehow extremely good looking in spite of his 'jumbled' face, sat gazing at nothing (Or was it at the image of Peggy which was imprinted in his memory?) for a while and then, leaping out of bed in a sort of volcanic eruption, he went singing his way to oust Peter from the shower.

Now you have been introduced to the younger members of the family, Peter, 21, Gordon, 19, and the girls - all in bed except for Ellen who simply couldn't wait in the mornings for the others to rise, except Mummets who sometimes beat Ellen to it, it is time for you to meet Mr and Mrs Baker in a more appropriate place, at the breakfast table.

"Andrew are you coming to Church with us today or..." (Mrs Baker appeared to be fully absorbed in buttering her toast) "is one of the fowls ill?" "Now Margaret, you know I'm not like that..." he protested, "I love going to Church but those roses must be sprayed and the ground dug up a little before the sun gets too high."

Mrs Baker looked up in mock indignation and he tried to look back at her with an innocent and honest expression but his tell-tale eyes started to twinkle and then they both burst out laughing. "You humbug." said Mrs Baker and at that moment there was a sound of running feet and Sherry and Ellen happened into the room followed by Peter and Gordon - and where there had been quiet companionship there was suddenly chaos.

...It was during the sermon that it started. Mr Derry, the clergyman suddenly jerked sideways, as one does when one unexpectedly gets a dig in the ribs, but he bravely continued with his sermon. Then he jerked again with a sort of snort and giggle and looked around him in very evident confusion and discomfort.

Gordon turned and looked at Ellen at the very same moment that Ellen turned and looked at Gordon - but Gordon looked with a look of accusation whereas Ellen looked with a look of honest-to-goodness innocence mingled with slight horror and fervent pleading. Sherry "sneezed" into her handkerchief and poor Mrs Baker tried to pretend that she did not belong to the rest of the
party and hadn't noticed anything strange and Peter simply looked bland - and interested in the sermon.

Tremendous self-control on the part of Gordon and Ellen saved the situation on the Baker-Family-Front and even greater self-control - or perhaps, just perhaps, a twinge of conscience and thereafter compassion on the part of Judith! - saved the situation of the Derry-Front and the service ended without further mishap.

No sooner were the young people outside when Gordon grabbed Ellen by the shoulders and demanded "Where is Judith?" and Ellen firmly answered "In my blazer pocket at home." "Then what happened in Church?" 'I don't know. Honestly." Ellen's elfin face really looked comical with concern.

"I'm sure I shall never be able to look Mr Derry in the eye again. I shall always have a horrible guilty feeling." said Mrs Baker. Sherry chuckled and said "We'll give Judith a good spanking just as soon as we get home Mummets darling. I will leave her very chastened, I'm sure."

Peter and Gordon gave a sort of concerted snort but otherwise said nothing.

When they arrived home Ellen flew to fetch Judith and a moment later everyone flew after her as shrieks issued forth from her room. "Judith's gone." she cried "and left this in her place." She showed the family the hole in her blazer pocket by pushing her two fingers through the opening in the pocket.

There was a horrified silence while the clock on the dresser ticked out eight seconds and then Gordon reacted by throwing up his hands in despair. "Heaven help us. We won't be safe for one moment until she is found. Oh gosh, I'm supposed to be going out this afternoon." (Gordon had a very healthy respect for Judith's powers of prank-playing ever since he discovered, just in time, that the carefully wrapped bunch of flowers he was taking to Peggy Anderson, when she was forced to rest after a fall from her horse, had turned to thistles, which he had quickly hidden behind a bush just inside her garden and thus arrived at Peggy's home empty-handed. On his way he retrieved the bouquet in order to show this terrible thing to Ellen, only to find a bunch of rather faded larkspurs and carnations. Yes. Most certainly he respected Judith's powers of black magic!

Yet, sometimes she was sweet, like the time she put a clean handkerchief into Gordon's pocket when Peggy needed to dry her hands after dabbling them in that stream which laughed and chuckled its way through a near-by wood and another time when she had whispered comforting words into his ear when the family dog, Bunter, had been run over and killed by a run-away truck - "But" he thought "Just what is Judith?"

You know this is the whole point of this story. What is - or was - Judith?

Mr and Mrs Baker said that she just existed in Ellen's imagination - but then, why should she feel bad about Mr Derry? Who knows? I don't!

And we never will know because Judith never came home again! Judith simply does not live there anymore.

"The Haunting Hand"

P Powrie - before 1955

It is all very well to say "Never let your right hand know what your left hand is doing" but when it gets the other way around and your left hand simply doesn't know what your right hand is going to do next - and nor do you for that matter, and your right hand is haunting you - its a bit disconcerting, to say the least!

What actually happened was this - and I'll say right now that I don't expect you to believe me, nobody would, except those who saw and felt the things, that is, my mother, my future wife Jo, the maid Nora and myself. Well, as I was saying, what actually happened was this...

Through a very unfortunate motor car accident about eight years ago, when I was in my very youthful and irresponsible 'teens', I had to have my right hand amputated at the wrist. Yes, just a nice clean cut and an artificial hand in its place. And because it was made of plastic, and flesh-coloured and because I had developed the knack of using that hand only with some job for which it was very well fitted, and otherwise making it look somehow too busy to be useless, people often did not realise that it was artificial. A nice wide leather strap with a watch on it, thus also subtly implying that I was left-handed, helped neatly with the deception.

However, all this is almost 'by the way'. My real hand, over which, at the time, I had become very sentimental, I had decently buried in the place which later, I firmly believed, was to be the burial ground of my own ashes. Yes, I was to be cremated, but my hand, no, I couldn't bear even the thought of it, so it was interred to keep the final resting place for my ashes 'warm' for me, so to speak.

All went well - for my real hand that is, and so indirectly for me, until about eighteen months ago, then things seemed to get a bit out of hand, as you might say. For the first time I seriously contemplated going overseas. Now believe me, I had travelled all over the Country, Cape Town, Johannesburg, Durban and even to the "Falls", all these places had had the pleasure of my presence at some time or other, but never before had I left the shores of South Africa, except just to go up the coast to Durban and my hand - the real one that is - which by this time must have been feeling a bit neglected, as for quite long periods I forgot it had ever existed, took exception to my proposed travels and decided to do something about it. (At least, this is what I presume.)

So, as always happens when one has lived in the same home for many years, grows up there in fact, things accumulate - things like old toys, my half hearted collection of stamps, and old and slightly dilapidated pair of dark glasses (of which more later) a rubber snake (What fun I had with this at school.) and so on. As I was saying, things accumulate and these did - in an old cupboard, all jumbled up, the pair of dark glasses aslant on the teddy-bear's nose. Therefore, this cupboard along with the rest of the house, must be cleared up, as, owing to the acute housing shortage, which had persisted for some years and due to the fact that my Mother was coming with me and Jo, too, I firmly decided that the house must be let while we were away.

Well, the plans were laid and the clearing started, when the queer things began happening, 'though it wasn't until I had reached the old toy cupboard to be sure.

We were all there. Mother and Nora in the kitchen adjoining the lobby where the cupboard stood, Mother sorting and listing crockery and cutlery etc, Nora preparing the Sunday lunch, when Jo and I advanced upon the cupboard in question - I quite determined to be unsentimental and discard indifferently all those souvenirs of my happy childhood and foolish adolescence.

Jo sat on the lobby table, swinging her legs and I opened the cupboard and stared in slight dismay at the seemingly formidable task before me. Well, staring wouldn't get the job done, so I pulled the first object out, causing a slight collapse of the rest, and grinned at it.

"Mother," I said "look what's come to light, my old skates and there's still some blood on the one from the time I tripped over a stone and shot head-first into old Mrs Warren's fence and tore my leg on a rusty nail. There, you see Jo? I was so annoyed I allowed the blood to run down over my shoes and the skate while I stood and gazed at it swearingly - 'though silently as Mrs Warren had Rev Williams enjoying the beauty of her petunias or something just the other side of the fence.

"Good heavens! What's that!" I exclaimed as the rubber snake hurled itself out of the cupboard to Jo's feet, or at least onto the floor beneath them.

Jo screamed and Mother and Nora dashed to the interleading doorway the door of which, for convenience sake, had long since been removed from its frame and had, if I remember correctly, been used for firewood in the days when we had had a coal range instead of an electric one in the kitchen. It used to get horribly hot in Summer 'though in winter it was wonderful.

We all gazed at the snake in utter amazement and then it gave another wriggle.

Jo screamed once again and climbed right onto the table. Mother reached it and grabbled the big frying pan from its hook and I turned and grabbed my old and very worn cricket bat from the cupboard, thus causing another subsidence, while Nora clasped her hands, rolling her eyes and moaned to God to have mercy on us poor sinners.

Then of course I laughed and said "What nonsense, that's a rubber snake. Old Jack-in-the-box must have shot it out and there's probably a very natural explanation for that last wriggle - perhaps its been bent skew and the rubber just moved back to normal."

Jo sighed and relaxed, Mother lowered the pan, as I did the bat, and Nora turned shakily back to her lunch preparations.

Jo laughed, 'though she stayed up on the table, and said "Well, what's the next surprise you have for us?"

I turned to the cupboard and stood staring. The dark glasses lifted slowly and deliberately off Teddy's nose, floated gently through the air making a half-turn and then, while I stood transfixed, fastened themselves on my nose and hooked behind my ears. The feeling of it was familiar and I frowned, remembering of course, that those glasses were hooked on exactly the way they or any others had been hooked on by my real right hand when my left hand was too busy, as it usually was.

Haunting me - that's what it was - I was being haunted by my own right hand!

I returned to Jo and saw that she was as white as a sheet, staring at me with a mixed expression of stark terror and horror, then I pulled myself together and laughing said "My dear, don't be frightened, it's just that I have the use of my real right hand again. As you know, it is said that hands have an intelligence of their own or musicians, sculptors and artists could never do the things that they do."

Jo shook her head, tears coming into her dear eyes and said in a very trembling voice "I don't like it. It must be some conjuring trick of yours, but I'm scared. I'm going home."

She looked down in horror at the snake and seemed unable to move. I thought quickly.

Something must be done. It was my hand, therefore it must obey me I thought fiercely.

"Move back into the cupboard at once! Do it!" The snake promptly slithered across the floor in a very life-like manner - I had been clever at it I remember - and into the cupboard.

Mother stepped back in alarm and Jo, being given hidden strength, positively leapt off the table and dashed down the passage, thumped down the stairs, three at a time it sounded like, and then the front door banged.

I turned helplessly to Mother (Nora had vanished into the pantry, closed the door on herself and was saying all the prayers she could think of) and suddenly Mother and I burst out laughing and my ghost hand, insulted, started hurling everything out of the cupboard.

Out they came - Hornby train, teddy bear, stamp album, tops, a bag of marbles - which hit me on the shin. Everything. Mother and I were too overcome to do anything save laugh even louder.

The dark glasses were snatched off my nose and crashed onto the floor in a most positive fury.

There was only one thing to be done. I phoned the undertaker and told him to disinter the small box containing the hand and have it cremated as soon as possible.

The hand raved, jerked out my tie, pulled my hair, tried to ruin my artificial hand and, finding that beyond it's strength, vanished, metaphorically speaking.

The next day the remains of my poor hand were cremated and two weeks later we left for England, even Jo, as my new wife.

I pushed everything back into the cupboard, even the lensless glasses, put a stout padlock on it and told the Mulders (who were renting the house) to pretend it did not exist.

And so it stands today, 'though we are back from our trip and Jo and I are expecting our baby shortly. If it's a boy, I am determined that he shall have the key to the cupboard as soon as he is old enough to unlock the padlock.

"St George's First Dragon"

P Powrie - Feb 1974

Did you ever think that George, the great Patron Saint of England, was once a little boy? No, of course you didn't, nobody ever does, but its true all the same and this is the story of how he killed his first dragon.

(I'm sure you all know the story of how he slew the dragon that made him famous and was the reason why he was accepted as a Saint and chosen to represent England. Yes, everybody knows that and how gallant he was in rescuing his "Maiden in distress" - and a fair maiden she was at that!)

Well, at the time of this story, George was just a little boy of nine -just like most other little boys of nine - and he loved a game or two of 'make-believe'.

He liked best to play these games of make-believe when he was all by himself because then he could pretend anything and there would be no-one to argue or say "No. Let's rather play another game." or "All right, but I want to be king." etc

So, what he did when he was alone, was to invent a playmate to suit the game and it might be a boy or a girl, a horse, dog or bird - or even a dragon - and sometimes all at once.

Yes, he had a great imagination and was just like other little boys even although he was born less than three hundred years after Jesus Christ and that was a long time ago, nearly one thousand and seven hundred years ago! - and people lived a little differently in those days. No motor cars, aeroplanes, bombs or machine guns or TV but horses and swords instead.

Now, no great man or woman has ever become great unless they had the seeds of greatness in them when they were still children and these seeds often show in the kinds of games they play.

What kind of games do you play? Perhaps they will give you an idea of what kind of person you would like to be when you grow up and what kind of work you would like to do. Would you like to be a doctor, engineer, soldier or perhaps a sailor? Well, little George liked to play at being a sort of soldier, fighting and killing lots of wicked people and dreadful animals. You see, he already had this great goodness and fighting spirit in him and it showed in the games he played.

He liked to escape from the rest of his family, out into the country-side, where he could be alone - and in those days the 'country-side' was just near home because even the big cities were not as big and as closely built as they are today.

It was easy to find an empty glade or copse of trees or even just a place amongst the rocks where he couldn't be seen. There he used to fight his foes and win his battles and one day he slew a dragon. Of course there weren't really such things in those days but nevertheless he'd heard stories of dragons, horrible monsters, all scaly, with long arrow-tipped tails, funny wings, claws and long forked tongues and mouths which often breathed fire!

These dragons were sometimes supposed to be guardians of treasure or of beautiful maidens, but often they were just dreadful monsters to whom lovely young people were sacrificed because the dragon wanted food and if they didn't find it easily, they would get cross, rage in and break and destroy a village, killing and eating as many people as they could catch, but if they found food easily, they would eat it and, being satisfied, would quietly return to their lair and leave the village alone. Because of this, when the look-out cried out that a dragon was coming, some fair young woman would be tied to a stake out in the dragon's path and then everyone else would run away and leave her to be eaten by the hungry, fearsome beast. (They'd never get away with that sort of thing today, would they?)

When young George heard these stories he thought they were horrible. Why should a young girl be eaten? Why didn't a strong man go out and kill the dragon and save the girl and the village? When he grew up he would show them how to do it and right now he would practise just what he would do one day!

So you see, as a child he practised the kind of thing he would do when he grew up, and thought out just what he would do if the dragon did this or the dragon did that - don't we all in our different ways?

But this is the story of how he killed his first dragon, when he hadn't yet learned all the ways of dragons and how they could twist and turn and how, sometimes, when you cut off one head another might grow in its place. (And do you know that this happens all our lives when we fight the 'dragons' of naughtiness within us, all too often when we have overcome and killed one bad habit another seems to rear up its ugly head in the first one's place.)

This day George took his little wooden sword and climbed up onto his imaginary horse and rode away from home into a secluded place - and there he saw a poor, but very beautiful, young lady (she looked something like his favourite aunt) tied to a stake, right in the path of the monster who was, at this moment, just appearing around some boulders at the other side of the clearing. With a roar, the dragon came closer, scaly feet scraping the loose stones in its path and fire breathing out of its nostrils!

He cried "A dragon, a dragon! But don't be afraid, I'll save you. I'll kill that dragon and he'll never eat anyone ever again." and he galloped forward, brandishing his sword. The dragon, seeing him, roared even more fearfully and slapped its large tail on the ground in temper, making the very earth shake with the force of it - and of course the maiden screamed with terror, greater terror now because not only was her life at stake but also her sudden hope of rescue and the life of the fine-looking young man, who was the only person who had ever thought to save her from this dreadful fate.

Oh. What if he couldn't kill the dragon? It would kill him instead and perhaps his horse too, right before her very eyes and then, oh horror of horrors, it would come to her, with blood still dripping off its teeth and claws, to kill her too. At this horrible thought she screamed even louder and struggled with the ropes that bound her to the stake.

George, who had suddenly been feeling just a little afraid, heard her scream above the roaring and hissing of the dragon and felt his courage flow strongly back into his veins - just as many times in later days real young men would brandish their swords and cry "For England and St George." and gallop and gallop fearlessly into the battle, fighting for their Country and its Patron Saint and finding courage in the memory of his great deeds.

Now George galloped forward and gave a great roaring shout himself "You shall not kill the maiden or any other maidens. I am going to kill you, now, with the Grace of God to help me."

Immediately he said these words, he became, as it were, a greater person because he was now magnified by the Grace of God, that unseen power which fills us in our times of great need - but only if we ask for it nicely and only if we are doing something worthy of God's blessing.

The dragon, who had very sharp ears, heard George's shout and even though it did not understand the words he said, it felt the spirit in which they were uttered and do you know it suddenly felt a little afraid! A great big dragon afraid of a young man on a horse. Whoever heard of such a thing? But you see, it wasn't just the man and the horse but that the dragon felt the power of the spirit which sustained them - even as evil is afraid of the spirit of God to this day.

This was what gave George his chance. When the dragon hesitated, George received his opportunity to gallop in an wound the great beast in the neck - then he galloped away again out of reach of those claws. The wound in the dragon's neck began to bleed and you know, when we bleed a lot the strength quickly goes out of us. So now the dragon felt that its feet were a little heavier to lift off the ground in order to chase after George, or even to lift up to strike at him.

And of course its neck, being so painful, it did not feel quite so much like opening its mouth to bite him and George, realising this, felt even greater courage and strength rush into his heart and soul and he turned his horse into the best position to ride in and slash at the dragon again.

Now was the time, the last time, before the dragon had the chance to re-gather its strength and determination. So George, seeing his opening, galloped in again and slashed at the beast's great upraised leg - just avoiding, as if by miracle, the treacherous talons. But now a little voice seemed to whisper in his ear "That's enough. The dragon's beaten. Leave the poor beast, release the maiden and go on your way." Oh my goodness. How dreadful it would have been if he had listened to this voice and left the dragon to survive, get better and live to kill again. But no. He was a wise young man and he cried out "The only good dragon is a dead dragon " - just as the only way to get rid of anything evil in ourselves is to overcome it, and kill it by being and doing good. To replace evil with good.

So George rushed in again at this failing beast, encouraged and sustained by the lovely maiden and kept on at the dragon until it was dead!

Only then did he dismount from his weary horse, wipe a weary arm across his damp forehead. Wipe his sword upon the grassy bank and then, with a clean sword, he went and cut the ropes that bound the maiden.

So in our lives, we fight - or run away from - our dragons. We win - or loose - our battles with the evil that is within our very selves at times. We do evil - or replace evil with good - but whatever we do when we grow up, we will already have done, in our imagination, when we were children.

So prepare yourselves now, while you are yet children for the great and noble deeds and fine people you wish to do and be with when you are grown up.

Choose wisely your heroes and ideals now and you are likely to be, when you grow up, what you choose now. So, go out and kill your first - and second - dragon, just the way St George did.

"Fairies at the Bottom of our Garden"

Stories for my Grandchildren - Story 3

by P Powrie

You don't believe in fairies do you? No, of course not - neither did I when I was your age! I had discovered that they were just another thing - like Father Christmas - that grown-ups invented for the amusement of children, and to keep them quiet! So imagine how surprised I was to discover that there really were fairies "At the bottom of our garden!"

First let me tell you a little about our family of animals because it was because of them that I discovered the fairies.

We have a special-mixture kind of small hairy dog called "Tinkles" (short for Tinkerbell and don't ask me why - she was named before she came to live with us.) Tinkles' father was small and black and her mother was a brown Irish terrier type and although Tinkles is only about the height of a cat she honestly has the porky build of a pig, including short curly tail and the face of an American buffalo! She is fat, short-legged and a mixture of long black and brown fur. A really scruffy looking dog - but with several great virtues. First, she has a tracker's nose and whenever I disappear she follows my scent along the ground and soon locates me.

Secondly, perhaps her greatest virtue, is that she has acute hearing and often I just don't hear the front door bell so I always go at once to see why Tinkles is barking. (We call her our "Mobile burglar alarum" because she always warns us when anyone is about the house. Thirdly, she is a very sweet-natured loving little animal with the sweetest real smile and these virtues are far more important than her looks! (Virtues always are more important.)

Then there is Sheena, "Ah, another girl" you may say, but no, actually when Sheena was brought home by my daughter Jane he was just a very tiny four-week-old scrap of terrified, grey-striped fur. The people who gave him to Jane said that the kitten was a girl and so Jane called "her" Sheena. He couldn't even drink milk properly and I had to dip a piece of cotton wool in his milk and then let him suck the milk out from the wool. It was a while later, when we were used to the name Sheena that I discovered that Sheena was a boy. I tried to change his name to Shinka or something more masculine but it did not work and Sheena he still is!

Now he is a really savage grey beast and only shows love when he feels like doing so - and scratches us if he doesn't feel like being loved and petted and stroked - but this is probably because his tail has got caught in a slamming door a couple of times and was broken, right close up to his body and so is very tender. He is usually especially loving when he has just run in out of the rain! Then he likes to come and rub the water off on our legs or climb up and snuggle on my legs or jump up onto my bed at night, leaving muddy paw marks everywhere! That's Sheena. He also likes to fight with Minkie and this makes me cross!

Then there is our darling Minkie. Now she is an interesting looking cat! Perhaps the Lord took a handful of each of the colours of the cat-rainbow - black, grey, white, brown, ginger, and blond, just half mixed them and then threw them at Minkie - adding a pretty pink nose and really beautiful clear jade-green eyes an a deep Siamese "Meow" which seems so out of place from our Slinky Minkie. She starts purring when you speak to her, doesn't even wait for you to touch or stroke her!

But quite the nicest part about Minkie - apart from her exceptionally sweet and gently character - is that she has slightly bandy back legs and when she walks or runs along in front of me, with her tail hight, like a banner, I just delight in watching those speckled, all-colour, bandy back legs () sort of swaying from side to side, in front of me.

Minkie is a darling. The sweetest-natured, "purringest cat I have ever known, with sleepy, almost closed green eyes which only open wide and interested when she sees some interesting movement - of a bird, perhaps, or a grasshopper. She sits and sort of peeps at you out of almost closed eyes which open and stare intently when necessary.

She is also the "talkingest cat I ever knew and will carry on a long conversation of "Meows" in answer to being spoken to or when she wishes to call attention to herself - perhaps when I walk near her hiding place in the garden, not knowing that she is there, because her colouring makes her virtually invisible when she is curled up amongst the shrubs or plants in the garden - she just says "hello" but our cats never meow and meow for food, thank goodness. Perhaps that is because we do not eat meat and so there never is a smell of raw meat or fish in our kitchen.

As I said, when she lies down in the garden you simply cannot see her unless she moves and often I am startled, especially when I am watering the garden and she suddenly gets up and runs from the water.

I have told you all this because it was one day when I was taking a moment or two to wander around our garden that I saw Minkie sitting, still as a statue, gazing intently at something. I moved slowly nearer, following her line of vision to see what she could see - and do you know I saw a fairy!

Oh yes, Absolutely that traditional fairy! Tiny, only about three inches (about 7 1/2cm) tall. Slender, with a dress like a Fuschia flower, frilly pink skirt with darker pink bodice and over-skirt. A little green cap on her curly blond hair. Long slender legs in red stockings and wings as gauzy as those of any dragon-fly. She also had a tiny wee wand in her hand and was dancing, just like a ballerina! She spun on her little toes and swayed to and fro in the most fairy-like fashion!

I stood still, entranced and gradually my ears began to hear the music to which she was dancing. A sweet fairy-like tune, with violins and pipes and an occasional extra little accent from a drum. Minkie and I watched, not daring to move and I hardly dared breathe!

So there really are fairies, just like the stories say!

Suddenly the music changed to a livelier skipping sort of rhythm and out onto the moss-carpet skipped several more fairies, dressed in pale mauve skirts with purple bodices and they came from the two sides of the baby "moss-lawn" out of the shadow of the plants that grew there, and danced a beautiful pattern around her, weaving in and out of each other, twirling around, moving towards her and then out into a larger ring - a constantly changing pattern to lively music and movement.

Just then, Tinkles, seeing Minkie, came bounding up to play with her - they always show love for each other, Tinkles wagging her tail and sniffing and Minkie rubbing her head against Tinkles - and the fairies vanished! Yes, just vanished before my eyes. Oh, how cross I was with Tinkles!

Now you know there are fairies - who always seem to be girls - and elves - who always seem to be mischievous boys, but often are said to be helpful to people - gnomes, that are like very small men, supposed to live under the earth, and also sprites etc. and so I wondered what other fairy personages we have living in our garden?

I set out to see if I could find out so I decided to see if I could attract them by making tiny tables and chairs - oh, very tiny - and even a little swing for them to play on - one chair grander than the others in case there was a Fairy Queen! - these I placed around the moss-lawn, but I could not put any cups or glasses there because I did not know how to get ones small enough for them to use when they drank their nectar!

Now, I am a busy house-wife and mother, with very little time to sit and watch for fairies, but I tried, at first, several times a day, to creep up and see if the furniture had been used. I even took a magnifying glass to see if there were any crumbs left from their fairy cakes.

For a while nothing happened except that I found that the chairs and tables had been moved a bit and then one day I saw that the swing was still swinging by itself, so I expect that a fairy had just jumped off when she - or he - saw me coming, because there was no wind.

Then I thought of the idea of putting some fine brown face powder sprinkled on the smooth paved area around the swing to see if there would be any footprints left in it and sure enough, the next time I went I could see the marks of the shuffling of feet and a couple of clear fairy foot-prints. Now I was convinced against all reason!

Time passed and I still never caught a glimpse of them again and then I got ill. It was not a very serious illness, just something I should not have eaten, but I felt very weak and helpless the next day, so I decided to rest quietly and because it was a lovely mild to warm day, with very little wind, I took a book and my comfortable reading stretcher - a Christmas present from my husband - and went andd settled down very near and in good sight of the fairy carpet and swing.
For a while I sat quietly reading and then, feeling sleepy, I relaxed and closed my eyes, drifting off into a sort of half sleep.

Suddenly a burst of fairy laughter, added to the sound of tinkling music aroused me although I still lay with my eyes closed as if asleep, and I listened to every sound. Slowly, slowly I opened my eyes just a little bit so that they looked as if they were still closed and there, sure enough, was a happy fairy party! The Queen was sitting in the best chair and she looked so beautiful. There were her courtiers around her and they were all watching a game of fairy "Blind Man's Buff" and laughing at the antics of a couple of elves who seemed to be chasing each other around the place amongst those who were really playing the game properly.

What should I do? I lay there watching, scarcely daring to breathe! Then the "Blind man", a playful elf, managed to catch one of the two elves who had been playing "catch" amongst the others and all the company laughed and clapped their hands in applause - and this sound reached the ears of Tinkles, who lay sleeping quite near me (she is seldom far from me) and she woke with a start and gave a sharp little sort of warning pant.

Instantly the fairies vanished before my eyes, as they had done before and all that was left was my memory of the laughter, clapping and other happy sounds I had heard and witnessed.

Don't you believe in fairies? I do!

"A Visit to Insect Island"

"Stories for my Grandchildren" story 2

by P Powrie

Bobby sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily - and then opened his eyes a little wider! "Where am I?" he asked aloud, using those same, traditional words. A strange street and here he was sitting on a wagon of hay. Quickly he clambered down and, seeing no one in the street, he walked up to the nearest house and just as he was about to ring the door-bell his eyes caught a glint of sun on the brass plate at the side of the door. "Mr Mickey Mosquito Snr. A.B.X.Y.2. Nosebite Specialist."

"Oh." murmured Bobby, gently caressing his nose, "I guess this isn't the bell I should be ringing."

He turned away with a slight feeling of uneasiness and walked to the next house. Here he was amazed to see another brass plate, this time bearing the information "Jimmy Jigger-Flea. Jnr."

"I must be dreaming." said Bobby slowly. "Why?" asked a deep voice just behind him. Bobby whirled around and stood gazing in awe at a fat, merry tick, quite as large as himself and dressed in a navy-blue suit with a brown woven belt around his "rotunda" and a smart navy-blue top hat set rakishly on his head.

"B-but why are you so big?" stuttered poor Bobby. "Big?" queried Timothy Tick. "I'm not big, not much bigger than I was yesterday at any rate. Nor bigger than my father, and my son Tommy is nearly as big as I am." "Then I must have grown smaller." wailed Bobby "Oh, what am I going to do?" "Why nothing I expect, after all, what could you do?" asked Mr Tick in amazement. Bobby looked at him in growing horror "But I"m usually a million times bigger than you." he said "Oh well, then you must have shrunk, but come along to my house and have some tea - you're not too shrunk to eat and drink are you?" "I-I d-don't think so." said Bobby as he miserably allowed Mr Tick to lead the way down the street to a very pretentious looking house.

"Come in, come in." said Mr Tick. As he entered the house Bobby looked around at the furniture.
Deep comfortable chairs, shiny table and a thick carpet. "My goodness." he breathed. "You certainly live in comfort, Mr Tick." Mr Tick chuckled deep and full and rang the bell for tea. "Yes. Perhaps I do. Yes, you may say I live on the fat of the Land." "I'm sure you do." said Bobby with an inward smile - thinking of how Mr Tick lived in the world Bobby was used to living in! He sank into a large chair that almost swallowed his slim young boy's body.

The door opened and tea had arrived - with Mrs Tick following. "This is my wife, Theresa. Theresa, this is a little boy I found in the street feeling rather lonely, my dear, so we must do all we can to make him feel comfortable and welcome." "Yes certainly." said Mrs Tick "He can stay for the party this evening and make friends with all the young folk. He'll like that." "Thank you." said Bobby, gazing at Mrs Tick's resplendent gown of rose and yellow silk.

The party that evening was a great success and Bobby stood in the receiving line with his host and hostess so that he could then meet each person as they entered the room and this seemed to be a good idea except that of course he could only remember the names of the persons by their shapes, which he knew from having learned all about some of them at school. But as Bobby soon found out, they were not only 'persons' but also personalities, which was quite a new idea to Bobby.

In his past they had been good or bad, nice or nasty insects, harmful or harmless but now, all of a sudden, they also 'liked' certain foods or liquids and also perhaps preferred one chair rather than another. Bobby could not help smiling secretly at the thought that he had heard people say "Oh, mosquitoes never bite me, they don't seem to like the taste of my blood." and others that "If there is but one flea in a room it will make a bee-line for me!" (Surely that should be a flea-line - Flea-line?) Well, now he was learning that they had preferences as well, just like human people.

First to arrive were the Grasshopper Family, Mr Giddy and Mrs Limit Grasshopper and their three children, daughter Gleaner, 15, son Gasper, 13, and Gertrude, aged just nine. Bobby found their handshake a bit scratchy and was glad to get it over with.

The next arrival was the Bug Family. Basil and Betina with their son Bertram, Bertie to his friends. He quickly smiled at Bobby and said "Call me Bertie." so Bobby knew right away that they could be friends. They had driven up in an expensive looking Ford (1981 model) Basil, who did not approve of flash clothes on a man, wore a sombre brown suit with brown pin-stripes and a bowler hat. Betina dressed in the same strain, wore a necklace of blood-stones to add that extra bit of colour that a woman needs, while Bertie was dressed just as a little boy should be. Bobby found out that the Bug family inclined to long handshakes - in fact he had quite a job to shake them off!

Then came Jimmy Jigger-Flea Jnr and his wife Josephine and Bobby could not help but feel that there was an air of sort of unexpectedness about their arrival and when it came to shaking hands, his toes tingled with a queer feeling of 'pins and needles'.

On and on the guests came until Bobby felt dizzy with names and shapes. At last his host murmured gently in his ear "Only one more now and she is always late. Got a reputation for it." Bobby searched the street with his eyes wondering who "She" could be. At last a beautiful carriage, all brown, and oval, arrived and Miss Benita Butterfly emerged, looking all fresh and dewy-eyed. She fluttered up the strip of grass to the reception stand and, with a delightful little shiver that ruffled the gauzy folds of her exquisite dress, she smiled sweetly and dropped the minutest curtsey to Bobby, who suddenly felt his knees go slightly weak with the coming relaxation from the strain of the ordeal - or perhaps it was caused by the recollection and memory of the past days of butter-fly nets and green fields, or perhaps it was just the prettiness of her salute.

His host took his arm and guided him into the large reception room, gay with flowers, slightly intoxicating with their perfume. Here a merry party of pre-dinner drinks of honey, spice, dew and nectar was in progress and his host insisted that he had a glass of morning-dew wine and Bobby thought that he had never tasted anything nicer!

All of a sudden the mellow notes of the dinner-gong sounded, searching their way into every corner of the house - and even into the garden. The guests filed laughingly into the beautiful old dining hall and found their places by reading their names engraved neatly on boards which fastened onto the backs of the chairs.

Soon the dinner was in progress and Bobby, being a perfectly healthy youngster, paid more attention to his dinner than to the amusing "small-talk" that was tossed to and fro like a gay coloured ball, up and down the table.

Bobby ate until he sat back with a sigh of satisfaction and viewed the assembled company with a benevolent eye. Everyone else as just finishing off his or her desert and now the host rose to his feet, cowslip-wine glass in his hand and, smiling down at the upturned faces he said "Ladies and Gentlemen, this dinner tonight has been a welcome to our new friend Bobby. Where he comes from nobody, not even Bobby, knows. Where he goes when he leaves us is also a mystery, but, while he is here we will show him that the people of the Insect Island know how to welcome and to entertain a guest. Ladies and Gentlemen, I now propose a toast to Bobby. May his days here make happy and interesting memories. To Bobby." "To Bobby" muttered everybody, rising to their feet with glasses raised high. Bobby thrilled with pride and when the last guest had settled down again Bobby rose and said in the most important sounding voice that he could manage. "People of Insect Island, allow me to extend my most profound congratulations upon your ability to make a guest feel welcome. Believe me, I am most grateful." He sank thankfully back onto his chair again, amidst much applause.

His host arose again and said "It is the custom for the ladies to leave now but tonight perhaps they would like to stay and hear the over-the-table stories I am sure everyone is dying to tell." The suggestion was greeted with much enthusiasm.

"Well" said Mickey Mosquito "I shall start the ball rolling and tell of something that happened a while back. Cedric Centipede arrived in a handsome cab drawn by two beautiful white worker ants. He clambered down, not missing one step with any of his feet. It was a magnificent accomplishment. He was wearing a pastel shade jacket and striped trousers - one leg for each leg, if you see what I mean - and the socks his wife, Celia had painstakingly knitted for him. (It is not an easy job to knit socks for one hundred feet at a time!) When his turn came to shake hands with Mr Centipede, Bobby had a momentary attack of hesitation - I mean, when a centipede shakes hands which foot does he use? But Cedric must have thought of that because on one of his hundred feet he was wearing a mitten."

This story was greeted with much laughter and witty comments. Next came another Mickey Mosquito story.

"The concert was all over in Wild Town. The guests were all on tour from the city. I heard about them and thought it would be a good chance to find out what noses from the big city tasted like, so I went along. I arrived there early and had a look around, chose the quietest looking bedroom, and settled down to wait. When my victim was asleep I flew down and alighted gently on his rather long nose but what a shock I got. I bit and bit but could make no impression. Then I heard someone coming and quickly flew back to my resting place. Three people burst in and did they laugh. "Look" cried one "Felix got so tight at out party that he forgot to take his false nose off." The Island Insects laughed and Bobby laughed and laughed. Bobby could just see Mickey trying to bite the false nose with an expression of amazement on his face.

Mr Timothy Tick sat forward as Mickey Mosquito relaxed and sat back on his chair. This is Mr Tick's story. "My friend Thomas Tick and I were together when we heard someone say that a lady in Wild Town had bought a calf. We both wanted to have a taste of him and didn't know how to get there before each other, to stake our claim. Thomas thought more quickly than I and said "I've heard that the calf is fed with medicine that makes his blood poisonous to ticks so I'll not try him. I value my life." I thought it out and decided that my life was also too precious and so I went home and forgot the calf. Two days later Theresa came to me and said "Have you heard? Isn't it awful? Tabbitha came and told me that Thomas went after that new calf and the calf was sent away again because that woman found a tick on it and Thomas has never been heard of since."

After a silence that lasted a few minutes while the assembled Insect People thought their own thoughts Mr Jimmy Jigger-Flea cleared his throat and said "Well, I guess it's my turn now. I went adventuring up to the Wild Town three days ago and took a funny tasting bite out of Mr Samson's big toe - I specialise in big toes you know - but after a few mouthfuls I was very, very sick. I heard afterwards that Mr Samson is having his feet treated for corns and poor I had eaten corn plaster instead of toe!" After the laughter had died down each insect had his or her turn to tell their stories, to the enjoyment of everyone.

Last but not least came Miss Bonita Butterfly. She leant forward and said "I have been wondering just where I had seen Bobby before. I was on the village green. I was sipping nectar from a primrose when all of a sudden I found myself fluttering helplessly in a net. Three boys laughed gaily over my capture but then a fourth boy came up to them, saw my plight and said "No boys. Not that one. She's too pretty." The others laughed at him and then they started to fight over which one of them should have me for their collection. The boy who was holding the net threw it down after he had received a punch, so that he could use his arms to fight back. Now they all turned on the fourth boy, Bobby, and while he got quite a spanking I managed to wriggle free and flew off home. Bobby, I thank you from the tips of my wings."

Everyone clapped their hands and laughed while poor Bobby grew very red in the face. Then Mr Tick looked at his watch and said "Well folks, all good things must come to an end. Good night to you all." and everyone echoed "Good night." Bobby went off to bed in Mr and Mrs Tick's spare room saying over and over "I'll never catch butterflies ever again. They're too pretty."

When Bobby awoke again he started up with the sound of Mother's laughter. She said "Very well Bobby dear, you must have had a sweet dream - and butterflies are rather sweet but have you ever seen what funny babies they have? Funny little worms." The next thing Bobby found was two big tears running down his cheeks. "Not Bonnita." he said loyally. "She's too pretty."

"The Golden Coronet"

My mother compiled several stories she had written earlier into a book which she had photocopied and then gave to her grandchildren.

I think the grandchildren were too young to appreciate them at the time!

Here is the first of them again for you Douglas, Angela, Dianne and Gillian; Nicola, Jennifer, David, Jonathan and Susan; Michael; Shelly, Colleen, Andrew, Cindy and Richard; and Shawn - and all the spouses of these grandchildren:

By P Powrie - 1974

The Golden Coronet

Once upon a time there lived a pretty little princess named Gloriana -so named because of her beautiful golden hair - whom everyone called Princess Glory for short.

Gloriana's Mother died when she was but a small girl and her Father, the King, married again, a woman who had been sweet enough before the wedding, you may be sure, but afterwards showed her true colours of greediness, selfishness, pride and jealousy.

When the new Queen's first baby was born she was a funny wizened little person with dark hair and did not look at all beautiful, like Gloriana with her lovely face and long golden hair, and so the new Queen turned even more against poor Glory and sought to find every opportunity to rebuke and punish her.

Glory's Father, the King, was always so busy with his Kingly duties of State - and the other friends he had made to help him forget his new, shrewish Queen - that he very seldom even saw Glory and therefore did not know that she was so unhappy.

This sad state of affairs carried on for what seemed to Glory such a long, long time that she felt that she would never be happy ever again. Then one day, when her step-mother, the Queen, was in a particularly unpleasant mood and was walking in the garden, snapping off the heads of some beautiful flowers - just because they were beautiful and so she hated them for that - she, followed by her ladies-in-waiting, who were walking behind her, silent for fear they might say the wrong thing and get the sharp edge of the cross Queen's tongue, they rounded the curve in the tall hedge of the "Creeper Walk" - a long grassy path guarded by a trellis of every different kind of flowering or variegated creeper that the royal gardener had been able to find in his travels around the world in search of creepers for this walk, which was to be the first lovely Queen's delight and which she had so loved during her seven years as the Queen of Varieland.

The King and his first Queen had been married a year when Gloriana was born but when Glory was seven years old her poor Mother died, taking Gloriana's little brother with her.

The King had married his second Queen, Morena, when Glory was eight years old and now, after three years of sadness Glory was a slender, elfin beautiful child of eleven, with a lovely face, dark blue eyes and her long golden wavy hair which, when it was not braided, reached down almost to her waist.

Well, as I was saying, Queen Morena was walking along snapping off flowers as she and her ladies rounded a curve in the Creeper Walk, when they came upon the little Princess Glory, sitting sadly by herself (although her attendant lady-in-waiting sat, sewing, on a bench a little way along the path) upon the grassy floor of the Walk, talking quietly to herself as she plaited strands of long grass and creepers together and fastened a flower into the plait every now and then so that she had a very pretty green plait dangling in her lap. As she worked, she talked sadly but quietly to her own Mother, telling her how much she missed her and how much she wished that she had her own little brothers and sisters to play games and romp with her!

Well, the Queen and her ladies had been silent as they walked on the soft grass. The Princess and her maid-in-waiting had been silent too -or almost silent, because Glory spoke so very softly - and now the Queen stopped and looked down at Glory with hatred in her eyes and Glory, feeling the venom of this gaze, looked up, saw the Queen and scrambled hastily to her feet to make the curtsy her new Mama demanded of her.

The sun was shining, the birds were making their sweet noises but the palace peacock chose that moment to make one of his horrible screeches, away off on the front lawns of the palace.
Glory, whose legs might have been a little stiff from the way she had been sitting, made a rather clumsy curtsy, stumbling a little and, putting her hand out to steady herself, she caught hold of a strand of creeper, which promptly broke off under the strain.

This was enough cause for her step-mother to fly into a worse rage and rant at the child for her clumsiness, her lack of respect and the fact that she was destroying the palace property by breaking pieces off the hedge!

The new Queen always insisted that Glory make her the deepest of curtsies in order to show her deference for her new Mama and now she said that if Glory could not do better than that then she must be locked away in the bare tower room, with nothing else to occupy her time so that she would have time to practice her curtsy and think more upon her good manners.

Poor Glory. Her Father was away on a State visit and so there was nobody to help her - but even if her Father had been there it is doubtful that he would have known what befell the little Princess.

(Ah. How lucky are all children who have loving Fathers and Mothers!)

So, Glory was banished to the tower room and there she sat upon the floor and cried - even 'though princes and princesses are not supposed to cry - because she was so very lonely and sad.
After a little while she, having nothing else to do, carefully pulled out one and then another strand of her long golden hair until she had enough to make a plait as slender as her little finger. These she put with all the ends together, tied a knot in the one end, held the knot between her teeth, divided the hairs into three strands and proceeded to plait them together into a long slender gleaming gold braid. When this was finished she again knotted it and found that it was quite long enough to encircle her head and fasten the two knots together with some more strands. She placed them on her head like a golden crown and said aloud "Oh, if only I were Queen I would be so happy and sweet, I would never punish anyone with such loneliness and unkindness as this."

Immediately the room seemed to brighten and looking up little Glory saw a bright shaft of light shining through the little tower window and in the light she saw, first faintly and then clearly, her own loving, lovely Mother. Yet now, it wasn't her Mother as she had known her but the spirit form of her Mother, now made visible to her earthly eyes.

Her Mother spoke softly "My poor baby," she said "Just a little longer and your unhappiness will end and you will come and live with me in this new lovely country where all of us who were good kindly people on earth have gathered to make such happy homes for ourselves and just wait for our loved ones to come to us in their own due time. Now just so that you will remember my promise, and to be a constant reminder of it, I shall turn your coronet into pure gold so that you will know that you did not dream only that you saw me. So be of good cheer and keep a happy heart and soon you will be with us, in happiness."

So saying, her Mother stretched out her hand and touched the little circlet on her daughter's head and instantly the hair turned into real, fine, spun gold, heavier than hair, but not too heavy for the little Princess' head to bear.

The tower room was cold and damp as well as bare and as the hours passed little Glory began to shiver more and more and then to feel hot and then cold again. At last there were footsteps on the stone steps and a key turning in the lock. The door opened and a lady-in-waiting said kindly, waking the sleeping feverish child. "Come your Highness, your supper awaits you in your warm nursery." and little Princess Gloriana awoke and once more stumbled to her feet and, feeling dazed, was guided back down to her rooms by a very concerned lady-in-waiting.

She could eat but little and the next day the fever was worse and Glory constantly spoke of her Mother and the Land of Happiness to which she was soon to depart.

The ladies-in-waiting hovered anxiously over her, the doctor hummed and hawed and tried his best. Her Father was summoned hastily home and the wicked Queen smiled to herself. Now perhaps her little girl would be the next Queen instead of Glory!

Then, on the third day, Glory suddenly sat up and cried out "Mother, Darling, you have come for me at last. Oh how happy I am." and she stretched out her arms and then quietly fell back on her pillows, the smile still on her lovely peaceful face.

By the time the King reached home again, later that day, all that Princess Gloriana's lady-in-waiting had to give him was a slender circlet of pure shining gold strands with the words "This is a miracle Sire, but in the tower room her braid of hair turned into pure gold and her Royal Highness said Her Majesty her Mother had given it to her as a token of her visit. More than this we do not know."

When the whole story came out the King banished the wicked Queen to another Land and some years later he took another Queen and had three little princes and another little princess from her and she was almost as sweet as princess Gloriana's own Mother had been - and do you know that in a glass case in the beautiful palace with-drawing room, lies a slender coronet of pure golden hair as a reminder that Glory and her Mother had once been here but that now they were in the Land of Happiness where all good, kindly people go and where you and I may also go, one day, if we are sweet enough.

Garden Diary

1960:


"I have decided to try to keep a record of all work and events in the garden from now, 15th July 1960, to use for reference and interest in the years to come..."



Pages 272/3 - near the end

And the last entry 22nd June 1987 on page 285.

There are newspaper clippings, pressed leaves, diagrams and discourses.

16th July 1960: "Ronald is really trying to walk at last, though he first walked, unwillingly, at least a month ago!"

19 September 1971: "Jane had a very serious motor accident 23/6/71 and nearly lost her life, but she is better now."

12th November 1975: "I wonder if anyone will ever read this diary? I think, if you do, whoever you are, if you will sign your names in this margin as a matter of interest to those who come after you.

I have tried to make it interesting as well as, now what is the word I want? illustrative, factual, topical and a chronological record of family and historical events as well as reporting on progress in the garden."

I see I need to read this more carefully... I will do so an make more posts.

Delight

This morning I had a lovely phone call from my brother Tim.

He talked about how lovely it is to just stop and absorb the beauty of wherever he is. He talked of going to the Namib and being in the silence. "You don't know the meaning of "The Sound of Silence" until you have been in the desert and felt and heard the silence there. He spoke of sitting down and examining a Welwitchia plant, thousands of years old, and seeing the little bugs on it and the form, texture and colour.

I said "We are cut from the same cloth! We are so similar we must have learnt it from our parents."

"Mom" he promptly responded.

She taught her children well.

Quotes

My Mom loved quotes.

These are a few I find myself remembering often:

"In time, take time while time doth last;
For time is no time when time is past."

"There, but for the grace of God, go I"

"Helping, when you meet them, lame dogs over stiles."

"A job worth doing, is a worth doing well."

"The King is dead. Long live the King!"

"Remember who you are."

Philippa

This is the picture that Ken had constantly in his home after Philippa died. This was probably taken around the time Ronald was born - age about 40.

The Dancing Years

From Mom's scrapbook... Philippa is the middle lady in the top picture, and the right hand one in the bad second picture.

The middle couple:

Thanks Les for scanning and sharing the pictures.

Mom's Lamp

Remember this lamp?

Mom loved autumn colours especially.

Sister Anna had me take it a while before she left the flat.

Mom saw this lamp somewhere and was intrigued by it.

It is pieces slotted together like a puzzle.

Les, did you make the frame?

Unless someone wants it, it is going the way of the Charity Shop.

Photo of Philippa

A photo sent to me by my brother Les.

Second World War Medals

My mother received some medals for her service in the Second World War. I knew she did something during the war, but I realise I don't actually know what she did. I will add to this entry if I ever find out.

Mark Goodger (a foster child who lived with my parents after I left home) put this display together for one of his school projects.

Thanks Mark!

Ronald is the current keeper of these medals which are some hers and some my father's.

The Unlucky Number

Letter to the editor cut out and stuck into "Newspaper Cuttings"
My mother was a great writer of Letters to the Editor.

The Editor,

Sir, - Do you know your hospital telephone number? It is not the doubly unlucky number of double thirteen, but three one three one.

I hereby make a sweeping statement, whatever a good many people in Krugersdorp intend dialing, they usually end up with my doubly unlucky number.

Let me inform you that I answered my phone seven times the other morning, leaving my washing, to rinse and dry my hands hastily, and dash along the passage to the phone, or my diswashing, or gardening, or clothes hanging. Well, as I was saying, seven times I answered the phone at great inconvenience to myself. Four times the people wanted the hospital (three one three one), once someone wanted 1317 another time 1314, and the seventh time 1315.

Now, either there is something very wrong with the Krugersdorp exchange, or there is a very careless crowd of people living in Krugersdorp, and incidently a very rude crowd, because they seldom say "Oh, I am so sorry to have disturbed you unnecessarily." No this is a typical wrong number conversation "Hello, put me through to the male medical ward." (no please). I answer "I'm so sorry, I'm afraid you have the wrong number. Krugersdorp Hospital is double six three one three one." What? I repeat and the receiver is banged down at the other end of the line.

Oh yes, I am the unsung hero, the unpaid member of the hospital staff, nobody says I'm sorry or thank you, except three or four ladies who have apologised for troubling me. Thank you ladies, your courtesy and consideration lighten the day for me. Yours etc -
ONE THREE ONE THREE

Krugersdorp

Augustus 12th 1949 (Yes, that is how it is dated...)

Unfortunately no specific newspaper recorded - probably "Krugersdorp Times".

Poem - "Reflections"

My Mom wrote in a spiral bound scrapbook called "Newspaper Cuttings":

"I received10/6 (R1.05) for my poem "Reflections" - the first money ever earned from writing."

THE OUTSPAN

POETS' CORNER

(unfortunately not dated)

REFLECTIONS

by B.P. POWRIE

.

I found a path,

A path that leads across the sea into worlds unfathomed.

It is gold as the setting sun, and glorious.

The sea boils white amongst the rocks, but I step lightly over

To seek adventure in my Past, Future and in Dreams.

.

My Past lies like a mirror that has been breathed on,

A ghostly misted reflection,

My Future like an unopened book with captivating cover,

A kaleidoscope, sometimes gay, sometimes drear.

My Dreams? Castles in the Air.

In Time Take Time

I remember sayings of my mother. Here is one:

"In time, take time while time doth last;
For time is no time when time is past."

I find myself hearing this again and again when it is time for me to sieze the moment before it is past.

Recipe - Ginger Beer

I remember brown glass bottles with cork tops. They were set upon the windowsill in the passage (south facing - cool) as they matured for the two days.

Mix together in the evening - and note the time.
8 cups sugar
1/2 small cake yeast
4 tsp Moirs lemon essence
1 small packet cream of tartar
2 handsful washed raisins
1 1/2 tblspns ground ginger
16 pints cold water
(16 pints = 8 litres. 1 pint = 2 cups = 500ml.)

Mix well. Cover with towel and cushion - I use cake cooler to keep the towel out of ginger beer.

12 hours later (note time) syphon ginger beer off carefully. (I cover cheese grater with clean flour bag and put syphoning tube down slowly into large pot or bucket of ginger beer, being as careful as possible not to disturb settled ginger.)
Bottle tightly and keep in cool place - preferably fridge - until ready for use in two days' time.