Marmalade

Marmalade is a baked bean cat. I bet you've never met a baked bean cat before. If you have, it was probably Marmalade, because as far as I know, he's the only one in the whole wide World.

     As you can probably guess, a baked bean cat is a very fussy cat. All baked bean cats ever eat is ... baked beans. Baked beans for breakfast, baked beans for lunch, baked beans for supper and baked beans for brunch - in fact, I don't think that Marmalade the baked bean cat has even tasted anything else except for baked beans - ever! Sometimes, when Marmalade is feeling peckish and wants a snack, he will sit by the sunnyWINDOW , reading his newspaper (The Daily Purr, and yes, cats can read - it's a common myth that they don't). And, as well as all this, Marmalade is probably the laziest cat in the World too. He's so lazy that sometimes, he won't even get out of bed!

     I have a tale to tell you about Marmalade. It's not a very nice one, so if you are at all squeamish, then you had better not read any further.

     Ah! You are reading on! I take it that this means you are a very brave person - don't say I didn't warn you!

     Marmalade lives in a very grand house. It's all very proper in there - purrfect for a baked bean cat. There is baked bean wallpaper in every room in the house which goes very nicely with the carpet which has a lovely baked bean pattern on it. The lamp in his sitting room is the shape of a baked bean, and the table is too. His lovely, comfortable, soft and squidgy favourite chair is also the shape of a baked bean ... the biggest baked bean in the World, in fact. In Marmalade's bedroom he has baked beans on his quilt and his bed is the shape of a huge, massive, enormous ... baked bean can. No matter where you go in Marmalade's house - there are baked beans everywhere.

<  2  >

     One morning, at the end of autumn, Marmalade groggily got out of bed, yawned the biggest, loudest, widest yawn, put on his warm baked beans slippers and dragged himself towards theWINDOW . He drew back his baked bean curtains and smiled contentedly as he saw a light sprinkling of snow had landed in his garden overnight. "Good," he grumbled to himself "at least I won't have to cut the grass for a while". Marmalade mooched downstairs, still yawning and walked through to the kitchen. Guess what Marmalade was going to have for breakfast? Yes, baked beans of course!

     Marmalade opened up his cupboard to get himself some baked beans and ... there were NO baked beans left! "Rats!" Marmalade muttered under his breath. "I'll have to go out in that horrible, freezing, icy weather and get some more baked beans. Double rats!"

     Lucky for Marmalade, in his garden was a tree. This tree was a very special tree because on its long, thick, strong branches grew something very special. Can you guess? Baked beans of course! More beans than you could ever possibly imagine. There were enough baked beans for Marmalade to feed for a month. When the baked beans got picked, the tree would just grow some more.

     So, reluctantly, Marmalade put on his boots, scarf, hat and a very warm coat. He went outside and trudged slowly through the snow to his baked bean tree, or to where his baked bean tree normally stood. Marmalade stood and stared, for instead of the lovely big strong baked bean tree, was a hole. No tree and no baked beans. Marmalade rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things, but when he looked again, the tree still wasn't there.

     "Well! Where is my tree? I must have baked beans, and I won't go to the shops to get them. I want my baked beans and I want them now" he shouted and stomped around the garden like a little human boy.

<  3  >

     So, Marmalade decided to go for a walk to see if he could find his tree. He didn't like walking anywhere very much, but if he didn't have a tree, then he wouldn't have baked beans, because he was FAR too lazy to go to the shops for his beans, and besides, they just didn't taste the same if they were store bought. Marmalade was such a snob!

     Marmalade walked down his path, angry that his tree had disappeared like that. He walked to the end of his street where he met Dougbert. Dougbert was a friendly alley cat.

     "Hello, Marmalade. What's the matter? You look angry." Dougbert asked.

     "My baked bean tree is missing. Have you seen it?" Marmalade grunted in reply.

     "No, Marmalade, I haven't. Why has it gone? Have you been watering it properly?" Dougbert replied.

     "I never water my tree. That's far too much work." Marmalade said, and with that he gave a 'humph' and walked off, with his head high in the air, swishing his tail around like he didn't have a care in the World.

     As Marmalade walked around the corner, he came to the grocery shop. Now, they sold baked beans in there, but Marmalade never bought them from here - his own beans from his special tree were far better. Roger, the Tomcat was working in the shop.

     "Hello, Marmalade! Why do you look so sad?" Roger asked.

     "My baked bean tree has gone missing and I don't know why. Have you seen it anywhere?" Marmalade demanded.

     "Well, no, I haven't. Have you been looking after it properly, by weeding it regularly?"

     "Why should I bother weeding around my tree? I'm too busy. That's far too much work." Marmalade said angrily and with that he gave a 'humph' and walked off, with his head high in the air, swishing his tail around like he didn't have a care in the World.

<  4  >

     Marmalade continued walking, always looking for his tree. Soon he came to the bus stop where Terrance the tabby cat was standing waiting for the number 49 bus that goes into town.

     "Hello Marmalade. You don't look very happy. What ever is the matter with you?" Terrance asked very politely.

     "I'm looking for my baked bean tree. It seems to have gone missing and I don't know why. I don't suppose that you have seen it anywhere?" Marmalade asked, getting rather annoyed.

     "No, I haven't." replied Terrance, "Have you been feeding it plant food and fertiliser to keep it strong and healthy?"

     "Bah!" said Marmalade "Why should I bother doing things like that? It's only a tree, and besides, trees are strong enough too look after themselves. I don't have time to do that sort of thing. That's far too much work" and with that he gave a 'humph' and walked off, with his head high in the air, swishing his tail around like he didn't have a care in the World.

     By now Marmalade had almost decided to walk back home when he came to the park. The park was very big and there were lots of exciting things to do there.

     Leaning on the entrance to the gate was Bernard the boss cat. Bernard, as you can probably guess by his name was the boss of all the cats in the neighbourhood. Bernard always knew everything that was going on. Sometimes he even knew things were going to happen before they even happened!

     "Hello, Marmalade. You do look ever so miserable. I hear that you've lost your baked bean tree." Bernard stated matter-of-factly.

     "Yes, Bernard. Not that it is any of your business, but I have. I don't suppose you've seen it anywhere?" Marmalade asked.

<  5  >

     "Actually, I think I have. But before I tell you, I think I should tell you that your baked bean tree isn't very happy."

     "Humph!" Marmalade said. "Trees don't have feelings. Where is it?"

     And with that, Bernard directed Marmalade to the pond, where he thought he had seen a very unhappy looking tree sitting on the park bench.

     Marmalade didn't have to look for long, which was just as well seeing as he is the laziest cat in the Whole Wide World, and frankly, I don't think that he would have bothered looking for more than five minutes. Anyway, the baked bean tree was found by Marmalade sitting on an old park bench. He was hunched over, his head in his hands. He was crying. No, he was sobbing. His tears were huge, fat drops and they were pouring out of the tree's eyes. The tears fell into the pond, and as the minutes ticked by, the pond was getting deeper and deeper due to the fact that the tree simply WOULD NOT STOP CRYING! And can you really blame him?

     "Um, hello tree." Marmalade said, a little awkwardly. "I've been looking for you absolutely everywhere!"

     "Well, you've found me. You can go home now." Replied the tree.

     Marmalade looked around, as if to check that no one else was there. He coughed a light cough; the type grown-ups do when they are trying to get someone's attention. He took a deep, deep breath and began to speak.

     "I ... I ... I need you tree. You have the most wonderful beaked beans in the World. Come back. Please."

     "Ha!" scoffed the tree; "Why on Earth do you think I would ever come back home with you? You are a horrible, mean, nasty, selfish, heartless, thoughtless ... cat. You just want me come home so that you can eat my wonderful baked beans. Well, I can tell you something - I shan't! You never feed me, you never water me, you never weed me, you never talk to me, and I can tell you that being a baked bean tree is a very lonely business - no-one ever wants to talk to you because of our unique ... um ... aroma."

<  6  >

     Marmalade sighed. The tree was right. The other cats had been right. He had neglected it - his precious baked bean tree.

     Anyhow, after much persuasion, Marmalade managed to talk the tree into coming back home. I think the tree didn't want to leave in the first place, but his disappearance certainly had got Marmalade's attention. So off they walked, paw in trunk, back home. Out of the park "Hello Bernard!", past the bus stop "Hello Terrance!" (Still waiting for the never-on-time-number-49), past the grocers "Hello Roger!" (Won't have to eat your baked beans - thank goodness), down the alley "Hello Dougbert" (go find another alley you nosy cat) and finally back home.

     Now, months went by, and the tree was quite happy, living back in Marmalade's garden. And true to his word, Marmalade watered the tree, weeded the tree, fed the tree, and even went out sometimes just to talk to the tree. So, this is where the story ends ... or is it?

     You see, I did warn you that this was not a very pleasant story, so if you want to find out the real ending, then read on, otherwise, stop right here.

     Do you remember that Marmalade was a very lazy cat? Well, he was the World's laziest cat, and as you can well imagine, all this extra effort that he had to put into his tree was truly tiring. It was now the middle of winter and it was such hard work for Marmalade to go out and keep the tree happy. Besides that - it was very cold outside - far too cold for a lazy cat like Marmalade.

     One day, at tea time, Celia, Marmalade's nextDOOR  neighbour popped around to deliver a parcel that had been left at her house by mistake.

     "Oh great!" Marmalade exclaimed, "Do come in, it's ever so cold outside. Have a cup of tea. I'm glad you came, I'm ever so hungry."

<  7  >

Jodie's Daddy is a Garbageman

Funny how you can always tell when somebody's laughing behind your back. Jodie hadn't really heard anything, maybe a whisper, but when she turned around, the girls in the back row of the class were looking at her, trying to hide smiles and giggles. She looked back at her teacher. Mr Swales was talking about what people do all day. He also wanted to find out what his students wanted to be when they grew up. He called on Billy Mitzer first.

     "My daddy works in a bank," Billy Mitzer said. "I guess I want to work in a bank too. There's lots of money in the bank."

     "My parents have a grocery store," Emmy DiSalvo said. "Papa's behind the counter and Mama keeps the cash register. But I want to be an airline pilot."

     Jodie liked it when Mr Swales asked them questions like this. He was about to call on Jodie when the girls in the back row burst out laughing.

     Shirley Danes yelled, "Jodie's Daddy is a garbageman! Pee-yoo!"

     Everybody in the class laughed out loud. Everybody except Jodie, that is. She felt her face turn bright red. She looked around the whole classroom. Everyone was laughing. Some kids were even holding their noses.

     Jodie looked at Mr Swales. He was angry. He almost never raised his voice, but now he did.

     "Silence! I want everybody quiet this instant."

     The laughter stopped immediately. The sound of cars and people going by out on the street came through the windows. "You should be ashamed of yourselves," Mr Swales said. "Being a garbageman...I mean, er, uhm...a Sanitation Engineer, is a difficult and enormously useful job. We should all be grateful to Mr. Harris. Where would we be without him? Up to our ears in garbage, that's where. How would you like that?"

     "Pee-yoo!" somebody said. A few kids started laughing again.

     "It's not funny," Mr. Swales went on. "Garbage is a serious matter. I think you all owe Jodie an apology. And after that, you're all going to write Jodie's father, Mr Harris, a nice letter to tell him how much you appreciate what he does for all of us. In other words, keeping our city clean."

<  2  >

     Moans and groans. Everyone said "Sorry, Jodie" but Jodie could tell they didn't really mean it. She also knew nobody wanted to write her father a letter. She wished Mr Swales wouldn't make them do it. Her face was burning red and she felt like crying. Mr Swales came to her desk and patted her shoulder. "Let's go out in the hall while everyone's writing those letters so we can have a private talk."

     Jodie started crying out in the hall. She didn't want to cry in front of everybody, but she couldn't hold back any more. Mr Swales was tall. He knelt and gave her his handkerchief to blow her nose. "I'm sorry this happened," he said. "But remember, hard work done well is something to be proud of. There's nothing wrong with being a garb...a sanitation engineer, absolutely not."

     Jodie's father came to walk her home from school as usual. She didn't run up to him the way she always did. When they were up in their apartment, Jodie went to her little room and cried for a good long time before she did her homework. Her father must've heard her.

     He came into her room. "What happened, Jodie? Why are you so sad?"

     Jodie didn't want to tell him at first. She was embarrassed and didn't want to hurt her father's feelings. Her father sat on the bed, put his hand on her shoulder. "It's OK, sweetie. You can tell me. You can tell me everything, you know. But you don't have to tell me your secrets, if you don't want to. Is this a secret?"

     "It's not a secret. The other kids laughed at me because you're a garbageman. They said your job was dirty and you smelled bad. They said I smelled bad too."

     Jodie looked at her father. He didn't seem angry, hurt or sad. His big white teeth gleamed under his walrus moustache. "Well then," he said. "I guess those kids just don't know how much fun it is to be a garbageman."

<  3  >

     For some reason, that made Jodie start crying again. Her father hugged her tight. "Tell me honestly, Jodie…do I smell bad?"

     Jodie sniffed. "You smell good, like laundry soap."

     "Come on, Jodie. You can tell your old garbageman Daddy he stinks."

     Jodie smiled too. "I mean it. You smell nice. You always smell nice."

     "Your friends at school were right, though. Being a garbageman is a dirty job. Garbage is…filthy. Every day I see stuff so disgusting it'd make your head spin. And man, does it ever stink! But then me and the guys I work with come along, grab the slimy, stinking garbage and throw it in the truck. The truck's a big green monster who growls and gulps nasty garbage. Then everything's nice and clean, the way we like it. And when I get home, I take a long hot shower so I'm clean as the day I was born. I like my job, Jodie. And I like the people I work with, too."

     Jodie's mother yelled dinner was ready.

     "Tell you what, Jodie. Tomorrow's Saturday, but as you know, sometimes I work on Saturdays. Go to bed extra-early tonight and tomorrow you'll come to work with me. I want you to see what your garbageman daddy does."

     Jodie was of two minds as she fell asleep. She was excited her father was going to take her to work, but wasn't sure she wanted to see or touch disgusting, stinking garbage.

     Next thing she knew her father opened her window to let morning air into her room. It was still dark outside. Her father picked her up out of bed. "Look Jodie," he whispered. "Most people don't get to see this."

     Off in the dark distance, Jodie saw clouds slightly pink underneath. City lights shimmered. The horizon line beyond the river glowed blue and green. Jodie pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and was ready to go.

<  4  >

     "We'll get breakfast on the way to work," her father said.

     The garbage trucks depot wasn't far away. The place really didn't smell too good. Jodie wrinkled her nose.

     "Don't worry, kid. You'll get used to it. In five minutes you won't smell a thing. Your nose is smart enough to know when to turn itself off."

     Men and women were at work in the depot even though it was so early in the morning. Everybody was yelling and the truck engines were loud, but they seemed to be having a good time. Garbagemen and garbagewomen came over to say hello to Jodie. They said her father was a nice guy.

     Big Al was Jodie's daddy's partner. He drove the truck. Big Al, as his name implied, was big. He had an unlit cigar in the side of his mouth, didn't say much.

     Jodie's father handed her a thick pair of gloves.

     "We're going to ride in back today, Jodie. The thing to remember is…hold on tight. Big Al will go slow, but you have to hang on until he stops. If you're scared, tell me. Then I'll drive instead and you can ride up front with me."

     Jodie said, "I'm not scared," but she was, just a little.

     Jodie held on tight. She held on so tight she almost didn't notice the smell of sour, rotten oranges, lemons, banana peels and coffee grounds coming from the back of the garbage truck. They rode nearly twenty blocks before the first stop. Jodie watched cars, people and trees shoot by. She looked up at buildings and early morning blue sky.

     Big Al stopped the truck. Jodie and her Daddy jumped off. On the curb was a big pile of plastic bags full to bursting with foul, reeking garbage, metal garbage cans with the lids barely on. "I'll get the big stuff, Jodie. You get the little plastic bags and throw them in the truck hard as you can. I mean really throw them."

<  5  >

     Jodie's Daddy was strong. He picked up garbage bags that looked like they weighed 500 pounds and tossed them into the garbage truck like nothing. He hoisted garbage cans, shook and slammed them against the back of the truck until they were empty. She heard bottles crash, tin cans crunch. The garbage truck took and gobbled garbage. Pretty soon no more garbage was left. Jodie helped put the garbage cans back where they belonged, then she and her Daddy grabbed the iron rails on the back of the truck and they took off again.

     Big Al drove slowly, as promised, but as soon as Jodie and her Daddy hit the ground everything went fast.

     At one stop, Jodie's dad held up a sagging gray garbage bag. "Hey Jodie, feel this. It's totally gross."

     Jodie gave the bag a squeeze. Something inside was oh-so-squishy. "Ew! Feels like overcooked spaghetti! Lots and lots of overcooked spaghetti. What is it, Daddy?"

     "Ah…we'll never know, will we? All part of the mystery of garbage, honey." He threw the garbage bag into the truck and the truck snaffled it down, whatever it was.

     Picking up garbage and throwing it in the truck was fun, but also hard work. Jodie's arms got tired. That's when her Daddy said, "Time for lunch." Big Al honked the horn and headed for the diner.

     "Wash your hands extra carefully, Jodie," her Daddy said.

     Jodie had a cheeseburger and a vanilla milkshake. She thought it was fun to eat lunch at ten o' clock in the morning.

     Big Al and Jodie's Dad had coffee and then it was time to get back to work. Jodie couldn't believe how much dirty, filthy garbage fit in the truck. Finally it was full.

     "Time to hit the dump," Jodie's yelled.

     Big Al honked the horn again. Off they went. The dump was way out of town. Big Al drove faster. Jodie held on tight. She was excited to see the world race by, the road whizzing along under her feet.

<  6  >

     The garbage dump was huge. You could smell it from a mile away. They drove through a gate in a big chain-link fence. Jodie wondered why there was a fence. Who steals garbage?

     Seagulls flew all over the dump. They screamed, cawed and fought, in the air and on the ground. They found stuff to eat at the garbage dump. The fence couldn't keep them away.

     Jodie and her Daddy got off and watched Big Al d

Morg

Morg was cross. She was more than cross, she was furious. She had been chosen to mind her little brother, again. Normally she quite liked him, as he stumbled after her on his short legs, babbling in a way that made her laugh, but today there was something much more exciting happening. The men were preparing to go on a hunt. There hadn't been a hunt for months. First there was too much rain and then there was too much work with the harvest. But now the wheat was in and the grain was all stored in pits. The Druid was here, bringing blessings from the gods and medicines for the villagers. So the chief had decided that it was time. Outside the men were gathering and the Druid was chanting. Morg longed to be there.

     But Morg was not allowed to go. She wasn't even allowed to watch. Her brother was unwell. He had an evil spirit in his chest which was making him cough and cough. He had to stay warm, and to do that, he had to be in the hut. Therefore, while her mother was fetching water, Morg had to stay in the hut too.

     It was dark in the hut. A warm, rich, thick darkness, lit only by the glow from the fire which burnt in the middle of the room. Later, the fire would be built up so that flames would lick the round black cauldron and heat the stew for the evening meal, but for now turf had been laid on the logs. The fire would stay hot and alive, but would not need to be fed. Morg knew that fires were as ravenous as the wolves she heard howling in the woods at night.

     Morg could smell the fire and the smell was as familiar to her as the smell of her mother. She could sniff and tell in a moment whether the family were burning ash branches or hazel, hawthorn or coppiced elm. To Morg, it was the smell of home.

     The glow from the fire lit the face of the boy who lay next to it asleep on the blanket. Morg swept the floor around him savagely. Any crumbs or discarded meat would make food for the rats, and her mother hated rats. Morg decided that today she hated her mother. She knew her mother was anxious about the cough because her sister had coughed in the same way before she had died. That didn't stop Morg from muttering a curse against the unkindness that kept her inside the hut. As she said it, she wished she could swallow the words back, but it was too late. She looked around worriedly. Maybe nobody had heard. She chanted a good will incantation, and crossed her fingers.

<  2  >

     Outside, she heard a hunting horn, loud and sharp across the village. Morg sidled towards the doorway. She could see light through a gap in the planks, but that was not enough. She opened the door a crack. Maybe she could watch them from here? She might just be able to catch a glimpse of what was going on. But she couldn't see anything. The fence that kept in the pigs was blocking her view. She opened the door wider, and an icy blast of wind whipped it out of her hands. It banged crash against the side of the hut. Behind her the fire crackled into life and the baby opened his eyes. Morg did not notice. She fought for control of the door. She wedged it with a stone, so that it still looked closed at first glance. She slid out and across to the corner of the pig fence.

     Morg threw herself into the grass that lined the fence. It was crackly with the first frost of the season and Morg shivered. It was always cold and windy up here. The village was built on the flat top of a hill, a hill that looked as though someone had sliced the tip off with a sword. Morg knew that in a sense they had. One of her father's stories told of his grandfather's grandfather, who had come to this hill as a small child. He had been there when they had dug and burrowed and carved away the top, stone by stone, until it was flat and smooth and ready. The hill had been chosen because it was high and from it you could see for many miles across the forests and the river valleys. No-one could creep up to this hill without being seen. It was a good hill.

     From where she lay, Morg could see ten or twelve round huts with their pointy thatched roofs scattered roughly around a circular space of grass. Splodgy brown goats, tethered to thick posts, were grazing. A couple of fowl scratched beside her friend Olwig's hut. She could see the tall earth ramparts around the edge of the village which kept them all safe. Near the gate in the ramparts, the men were standing in a group. They were still and listening. Their long blond hair was blowing so hard in the wind Morg could hardly see their faces. Then a gust revealed her father, on the far side, standing between the horse and Arlen the hound, who he was holding by the scruff of his neck. Arlen's teeth were bared and he fought against her father's grasp. Arlen liked hunting, but he did not like waiting. There, beside her father, was Col, her brother. Morg gritted her teeth. This was the second time he had gone on the hunt, and he was only seven, one winter younger than her. He was shuffling his feet, bored by the Druid and his incantations, impatient to be off. She would not have been so insolent.

<  3  >

     Behind her was a shriek, and a high howling. Morg leapt to her feet and was in the hut and beside the child in a moment. His face was screwed up and tears were spurting down his cheeks. He was waving his arms and arching his back. He hit Morg hard in the face but she managed to pick him up. She tried to soothe him, but he would not quiet. Then Morg smelt burning. A log lay smouldering on the blanket. Quickly thrusting it back into the fire, she stamped out the embers and guessed what had happened. The fire had flared. The child had seen the pretty flames and crawled towards them. He'd grabbed at a log. She looked - one of his hands was tightly clenched. Hurriedly, she grabbed the leather water bottle and sloshed water into a bowl. She thrust his hand into it. The palm was red and blistered. She had caused this, she realised, with her curse. Slowly, slowly his howling gentled. She smoothed his face and hummed gently to him, rocking him backwards and forwards on her lap.

     Morg heard the door creak open. It was her mother. She had carried the heavy clay water pot all the way up the hill on her head. The youngest baby was strapped on to her back – the god of fertility had looked kindly on the family. Morg's mother looked exhausted. Morg stared at the floor.

     "Morg?"

     "Burnt," Morg muttered, as the howls started up again. Her mother strode across the hut.

     "Tell," said her mother as she picked up the child. Morg explained. Her mother aimed a swipe at her head. Morg ducked out of the way, but her mother was more weary than angry as she comforted the child.

     "Oh, useless Morg," she said. "Go. Spend the day with the sheep. I do not want to see your face."

     Morg turned away and left. It was the freedom she had wanted. But somehow she didn't want it any more.

<  4  >

*

Morg slouched out of the hut. She heard the horn blast again – the hunt was away. She saw the men leap astride their shaggy horses, controlling them with hands laced through long manes. All except for Col. His horse, Branrin, was wheeling, refusing to let Col mount. Morg clenched her fists. There is a knack to mounting Branrin, she thought. Even Col should know that. At last he was up, face burning red with shame.

     The horses stamped and tossed their heads, their breath like smoke in the cold air. The dogs barked impatiently. Her father, as the leader of the hunt, led the throng through the high walled passage that linked the village with the outer gate. The watchman waved as they passed. Morg stared as the long line disappeared. She scowled.

     "Morg!" She heard a shout. It was her friend Olwig. "We're late taking the sheep down to the lower field. Will you come?"

     Morg could not decide. To refuse to look after the sheep would make her mother angrier. On the other hand, she wanted to follow the hunt. However, the hunt was gone. Even the Druid had gone back into his hut.

     "All right," she said sulkily. "Where are they?" Olwig pointed and Morg saw Olwig's tiny brother Pridoc chasing three of the sheep with a hazel switch. For a moment, he had them cornered, until they turned as one and each jumped straight back over his head. He was so surprised he sat down in the midden. Morg was forced to laugh.

     "Come," she said to Olwig. They were the experts. They set off to round up the flock.

     This was a winter job. All the villagers' sheep stayed out in summer, but now the nights were darker and longer, and the sheep were easy prey. So each night the children took turns to drive them all in, and out again each morning to the fields for food. Today, the sheep were skittish and jumpy, perhaps sensing the excitement of the huntsmen and the dogs. It took all of Morg and Olwig's skill to calm and herd them through the narrow passage to the gate. As the final ram passed, Morg patted its thick, dense wool. In the spring, as the sheep started to moult, the wool hung off them in lank, brown strands. The children had to pluck the wool to be made into cloth – if they could catch the sheep first. Only the very fleet of foot could race the sheep and corner them. Morg remembered that she had cornered the most sheep, and plucked the largest bundle of wool. Her mother and father had been so proud of her.

<  5  >

     They will be proud again, she thought fiercely, and she aimed a kick at the ram, who jumped nimbly out of the way with a swift flick of his heels.

     "May the goddess Alos bless the hunt, eh?" shouted Olwig back to Morg.

     As Olwig said this, as she had said a hundred times, Morg had an idea. The goddess might bless the hunt. She might bless Morg too. She might lift the ill wishes Morg had so foolishly let loose. Morg herded the sheep through the heavy gate to the fort. She was deep in thought.

     The ground sloped steeply down from the gate and the way was treacherous. She had to watch where she stepped to avoid losing her footing. The tribe kept the path rough to deter any unwelcome visitors. The sheep skipped down lightly. They knew their way to the recently harvested field. They would find food for themselves, and fertilise the field for next season's planting at the same time.

     "Olwig?" wheedled Morg, when the sheep were grazing and settled. Olwig knew this voice and she was not happy.

     "What?"

     "I am your friend, am I not?"

     Olwig was wary, but she nodded.

     "Would you do something for me? For me, your friend. I would be forever in your debt." Morg bowed humbly to her. Olwig sighed.

     "What?"

     "I need to go. I need you to look after the sheep."

     "Alone?" Olwig was surprised.

     "I will come back soon."

     "Where are you going?"

     "I need to go to the grove." Olwig's eyes widened. To go to the sacred grove alone was a fearsome prospect.

     "What will you offer to the goddess?" she asked, at last.

<  6  >

     "This," Morg said simply and she fingered the brooch at her throat which was holding her thick brown cloak around her neck. It was a twist of beaten bronze, with curling patterns dancing on it. Her father had bought it for her when he had travelled away some moons ago. She remembered him leaning down from his horse, his hair tickling her face. "And this is for my little Morg," he'd laughed and he'd pinned the brooch on her tunic. She loved the brooch more than the world.

     Olwig gasped. She knew Morg was serious.

     "Go now," she said. "The gods be with you."

     Morg turned and walked away into the forest. Olwig stared into the trees long after she had disappeared.

*

Morg loved the forest, and she was afraid of it. Her people needed it to survive, but sometimes it swallowed them up. Morg knew the edges of the forest well. She was often sent out with Olwig to collect hazel or beech nuts in the autumn. The tribe would store them in pits, like the squirrels, and make them last through the barren winter months. Morg loved picking the blackberries that appeared in late summer. Her tunic was still stained purple with their juice. Her father had laughed and asked how many of the blackberries they'd picked had actually reached the village. Morg knew where to pick the leaves of the green melde the family liked to eat with meat, and where to find gold of pleasure, the plant they crushed to make oil.

     Indeed it was Morg who had once found mistletoe, the sacred all-healing plant. She had shown the Druid where it hung and he had been pleased with her. He had placed his pale hand on her head and looked deep into her eyes and told her that she had done well and that she would be blessed by the gods. Morg was so proud she thought she'd faint. The mistletoe had been gathered on the sixth day of the moon, and the Druid had sacrificed three fowl to the Mother Goddess to bring good fortune. He had taken the mistletoe into his hut, and Morg imagined that there he would make healing potions for the tribe.

<  7  >

     That was three seasons ago, in the spring. Now Morg did not feel blessed by the gods. Ever since the new baby had been born, in her mother's eyes she could do nothing right. Her mother was always tired and angry. She walked with a heavy step and Morg had twice seen her doubled up, clutching her stomach, weeping with pain. Morg wondered whether the mistletoe could drive out whatever possessed her.

     Morg thought about her mother as she tramped into the forest. It was a long way, and she would have to go into parts that she did not know. As she walked, the path became narrower, and less well used. The trees were closer together, and Morg could hardly see the grey sky through their bare, interlaced branches. She knew that as long as she kept to this path, she should get to the grove, but she was nervous. She reminded herself that the last time someone saw a wolf was when neighbour Daroc's near-grown lambs had been stolen and that was a full three moons ago. Wolves would not attack in daylight, she thought. A twig snapped behind her and she broke into a run. She ran and ran, until her breath was ragged and she felt as though a dagger was pressed into her side and she had to stop. She looked fearfully behind her. There was nothing there. Keep calm, she said to herself, keep calm and you will be safe. Still, she tried to walk soundlessly and kept her fingers crossed against the evil eye.

     The path started to climb upwards. Soon it was very steep. Even the trees leant into the hill to stop themselves sliding down. The path was treacherous, covered in loose rocks. Morg had to scrabble to keep her footing and used her hands to pull herself up. Then she heard tumbling water and she knew she was nearly there. A few minutes later she clambered over the last rocky ledge and came out of the trees. She had arrived. The grass in the clearing was fresh and green, greener than she had seen for moons. Facing her were two enormous rocks, crushed against each other. From the crack between them flowed a steady stream of cool, clear water. Where it ran, the grey rocks shone red and black. Overhanging the spring was an oak tree, so huge that even if Olwig and Morg had held hands and stretched as wide as they could, their arms would not have reached around its trunk. This was the sacred grove of Alos, the goddess of the forest.

<  8  >

     Morg hesitated. She was suddenly afraid. What if the goddess decided she had been insolent? That she, alone and a child, should dare to approach her without a priest or priestess? Morg sank to her knees, and then bowed her head to the ground, reaching her arms out to the spring.

     "O Goddess, protect me and bless me," she mumbled. "I'm sorry it is just me here. I mean, that I have not brought a Druid or anyone. There was no time you see." She looked up. She hoped that Alos would understand.

     "I've brought you this," she said and she unpinned her brooch. Her cloak slipped off her shoulders. She held the brooch tightly in her fist.

     "It is my favourite thing. I want to give it to you." She held the fist out under the spring water and slowly opened it. The water ran through the twists of bronze. It looked so beautiful, and her fingers clasped over it. Perhaps she could offer something else. A shiver of wind passed through the oak leaves. It was the answer. It had to be the brooch.

     "I'm sorry for my curse. Please, make my mother better. Drive out the spirits that inhabit her. Make her proud of me. Make her love me again."

     Then, she couldn't help it, it just slipped out, "I want to go on a hunt. Col can go, why can't I?"

     Morg let the brooch slide out of her hands and into the pool at the bottom of the waterfall.

     "Is that too many things to ask?" she said. She stepped back. As she did so, the grey clouds lightened, and a pale sun came out. It made the brooch glitter under the water and lights dance on the surface. The goddess had accepted her offering.

     Morg took a step back from the stream and looked around. The grove was silent and still. Morg felt cold. She didn't know what to do. Perhaps she should just go home now.

<  9  >

     As she tried to decide she heard a fearful crashing and clattering. Out of the trees on the other side of the stream burst a full grown boar. It squealed with surprise and skidded to a halt. It stood facing her, its tusks so sharp they could gore a man to death. Its mean little eyes stared at her.

     Morg stared back.

*

The boar was as tall as she was, but wider, heavier. The eyes were level but its snout was long and covered with short black bristles. Its ears were pricked in her direction. She could see the wetness of its nose, and how it could hardly close its mouth over the long sharp teeth. She could see its tusks, jutting out past its jaw. She could hear it taking short, ragged breaths and she could smell the rank smell of its sweat and its fear.

     The goddess had not protected her. She had put her in mortal danger.

     Morg's scalp prickled as the hairs on her head stood up. Her mouth was dry. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to run, but she heard her father's voice in her head, "Never run. Never show you are frightened."

     The boar lowered its head. It snorted. Morg realised that it was about to charge. She thought back to her father's words. "Pretend you are a boar." She screamed, a high-pitched, resonant scream. Morg raised her arms and flapped them threateningly at the boar. She screamed again. It was not a scream of fear, but of threat. The boar was startled. It hesitated, then turned and crashed back into the forest.

     Morg took a deep shuddering breath. She started to tremble and clasped her arms to stop them shaking. She felt cold, and turned to grab the cloak that had fallen off when she was praying

Mr. Sticky

No one knew how Mr. Sticky got in the fish tank.

     "He's very small," Mum said as she peered at the tiny water snail. "Just a black dot."

     "He'll grow," said Abby and pulled her pyjama bottoms up again before she got into bed. They were always falling down.

In the morning Abby jumped out of bed and switched on the light in her fish tank.

     Gerry, the fat orange goldfish, was dozing inside the stone archway. Jaws was already awake, swimming along the front of the tank with his white tail floating and twitching. It took Abby a while to find Mr. Sticky because he was clinging to the glass near the bottom, right next to the gravel.

     At school that day she wrote about the mysterious Mr. Sticky who was so small you could mistake him for a piece of gravel. Some of the girls in her class said he seemed an ideal pet for her and kept giggling about it.

     That night Abby turned on the light to find Mr. Sticky clinging to the very tiniest, waviest tip of the pond weed. It was near the water filter so he was bobbing about in the air bubbles.

     "That looks fun," Abby said. She tried to imagine what it must be like to have to hang on to things all day and decided it was probably very tiring. She fed the fish then lay on her bed and watched them chase each other round and round the archway. When they stopped Gerry began nibbling at the pond weed with his big pouty lips. He sucked Mr. Sticky into his mouth then blew him back out again in a stream of water. The snail floated down to the bottom of the tank among the coloured gravel.

"I think he's grown a bit," Abby told her Mum at breakfast the next day.

<  2  >

     "Just as well if he's going to be gobbled up like that," her Mum said, trying to put on her coat and eat toast at the same time.

     "But I don't want him to get too big or he won't be cute anymore. Small things are cute aren't they?"

     "Yes they are. But big things can be cute too. Now hurry up, I'm going to miss my train."

At school that day, Abby drew an elephant. She needed two pieces of expensive paper to do both ends but the teacher didn't mind because she was pleased with the drawing and wanted it on the wall. They sellotaped them together, right across the elephant's middle. In the corner of the picture, Abby wrote her full name, Abigail, and drew tiny snails for the dots on the 'i's The teacher said that was very creative.

     At the weekend they cleaned out the tank. "There's a lot of algae on the sides," Mum said. "I'm not sure Mr. Sticky's quite up to the job yet."

     They scooped the fish out and put them in a bowl while they emptied some of the water. Mr. Sticky stayed out of the way, clinging to the glass while Mum used the special 'vacuum cleaner' to clean the gravel. Abby trimmed the new pieces of pond weed down to size and scrubbed the archway and the filter tube. Mum poured new water into the tank.

     "Where's Mr. Sticky?" Abby asked.

     "On the side," Mum said. She was busy concentrating on the water. "Don't worry I was careful."

     Abby looked on all sides of the tank. There was no sign of the water snail.

     "He's probably in the gravel then," her mum said. "Come on let's get this finished. I've got work to do." She plopped the fish back in the clean water where they swam round and round, looking puzzled.

<  3  >

That evening Abby went up to her bedroom to check the tank. The water had settled and looked lovely and clear but there was no sign of Mr. Sticky. She lay on her bed and did some exercises, stretching out her legs and feet and pointing her toes. Stretching was good for your muscles and made you look tall a model had said on the t.v. and she looked enormous. When Abby had finished, she kneeled down to have another look in the tank but there was still no sign of Mr. Sticky. She went downstairs.

Her mum was in the study surrounded by papers. She had her glasses on and her hair was all over the place where she'd been running her hands through it. She looked impatient when she saw Abby in the doorway and even more impatient when she heard the bad news.

     "He'll turn up." was all she said. "Now off to bed Abby. I've got masses of work to catch up on."

     Abby felt her face go hot and red. It always happened when she was angry or upset.

     "You've hoovered him up haven't you," she said. You were in such a rush you hoovered him up."

     "I have not. I was very careful. But he is extremely small."

     "What's wrong with being small?"

     "Nothing at all. But it makes things hard to find."

     "Or notice," Abby said and ran from the room.

The door to the bedroom opened and Mum's face appeared around the crack. Abby tried to ignore her but it was hard when she walked over to the bed and sat next to her. She was holding her glasses in her hand. She waved them at Abby.

     "These are my new pair," she said. "Extra powerful, for snail hunting." She smiled at Abby. Abby tried not to smile back.

<  4  >

     "And I've got a magnifying glass," Abby suddenly remembered and rushed off to find it.

     They sat beside each other on the floor. On their knees they shuffled around the tank, peering into the corners among the big pebbles, at the gravel and the pondweed.

     "Ah ha!" Mum suddenly cried.

     "What?" Abby moved her magnifying glass to where her mum was pointing.

     There, tucked in the curve of the archway, perfectly hidden against the dark stone, sat Mr. Sticky. And right next to him was another water snail, even smaller than him.

     "Mrs Sticky!" Abby breathed. "But where did she come from?"

     "I'm beginning to suspect the pond weed don't you think?"

     They both laughed and climbed into Abby's bed together, cuddling down under the duvet. It was cozy but a bit of a squeeze.

     "Budge up," Mum said, giving Abby a push with her bottom.

     "I can't, I'm already on the edge."

     "My goodness you've grown then. When did that happen? You could have put an elephant in here last time we did this."

     Abby put her head on her mum's chest and smiled.

The Selfish Giant

English short story collection :

Note: Oscar Wilde intended this story to be read to children

Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden.

     It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. 'How happy we are here!' they cried to each other.

     One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.

     'What are you doing here?' he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.

     'My own garden is my own garden,' said the Giant; 'any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.' So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.

TRESPASSERS

WILL BE

PROSECUTED

     He was a very selfish Giant.

     The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.

     'How happy we were there,' they said to each other.

<  2  >

     Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it was still Winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. 'Spring has forgotten this garden,' they cried, 'so we will live here all the year round.' The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. 'This is a delightful spot,' he said, 'we must ask the Hail on a visit.' So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.

     'I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,' said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; 'I hope there will be a change in the weather.'

     But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. 'He is too selfish,' she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the trees.

     One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. 'I believe the Spring has come at last,' said the Giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.

<  3  >

     What did he see?

     He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still Winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. 'Climb up! little boy,' said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the little boy was too tiny.

     And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. 'How selfish I have been!' he said; 'now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever and ever.' He was really very sorry for what he had done.

     So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became Winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he died not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. 'It is your garden now, little children,' said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were gong to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

<  4  >

     All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him good-bye.

     'But where is your little companion?' he said: 'the boy I put into the tree.' The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.

     'We don't know,' answered the children; 'he has gone away.'

     'You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,' said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

     Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. 'How I would like to see him!' he used to say.

     Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. 'I have many beautiful flowers,' he said; 'but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.'

     One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the Winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

     Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked. It certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.

     Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, 'Who hath dared to wound thee?' For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

<  5  >

     'Who hath dared to wound thee?' cried the Giant; 'tell me, that I may take my big sword and slay him.'

     'Nay!' answered the child; 'but these are the wounds of Love.'

     'Who art thou?' said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.

     And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, 'You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.'

     And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.

The Golden Touch

Once there was a king named Midas. He loved gold very much.

He owned a beautiful garden. There were many flowers and trees in it. He loved them. But he loved gold more than flowers and trees.

Midas had a child, a lovely little girl. She is very smart and beautiful.  He loved her. But he loved gold more than his little daughter.

Every day, Midas went out for a walk. And in the garden, he always prayed the God to give him more gold. The God decided to punish the greedy king and said to him,

“Ok, Midas…from then on, everything that you touch will become gold. “Said the God

“Is it true?” the king was unbelievable, “is it true? Thank you, thank you my beloved God..” the king Midas was very happy. He picked one flower, and it turned to gold in his hand. He picked another and the same thing happened. Everything he touched, it will be turned to the Gold.

“Oh ho ho hooo…I’m the richest King in the world now… I’m the richest King in the world. There is nothing the Kingdom bear down of mine.. I’m the king of the world… hoooohhoooo…hoo” Midas touched everything that he found, and in a glance the entire thing that they touched turned in to gold, his kingdom was surrounded by the gold.