Welcome to the third book of monsters.

Once again I have managed to find some unusual monsters; strange and wonderful creatures that I am certain you have never met before. Let us run very quickly through the eleven stories, so that you may have some idea of what to expect.

The Story of the Three Young Shepherds by Ruth Manning-Sanders. Three young shepherds set up house in a strange valley, which has a terrible monster living in a stone castle at the far end. A very nasty situation.

Next time you visit an old church or cathedral, look up at the roof and the chances are you will see The Gargoyle which will be very like the one depicted in the story by Roger Malisson. But what would you do if it suddenly became alive?

The Story of Giant Dumpling and how he became a Hero by John Cunliffe. Giant Dumpling was very fat�the result of being fed on honey�and very lazy and a terrible coward. You must read this story and find out how he became a hero.

I expect you have seen at least one giant crane on a building site, but have you ever thought what would happen if it suddenly acquired a life of its own and went on the rampage? That is exactly what does happen in The Machine Monster by Daphne Froome.

Nathaniel Hawthorne was clever in retelling stories from Greek mythology and The Three Golden Apples tells us of the exciting adventures of Hercules when he was sent by his cousin, the king, to the Garden of the Hesperides and ordered to bring back three golden apples that grew on a tree guarded by a dragon with a hundred heads.

The Serpent and the Cockatrice by Pamela Cleaver introduces us to yet another new monster. A cockatrice is a cross between a snake and a cockerel. Honestly.

Twelve Great Black Cats and the Red One by Sorche Nic Leodhas. Thirteen brand new monsters! Great cats no less, that terrify poor Murdo MacTaggart when he goes fishing on All Hallowmass Eve.

Sydney�J. Bounds describes The Valley of the Monsters, where you will find some of the most incredible creatures imaginable�.�.�. And if you want to know what a �Meaty� is�read Visitor in the Night by Rosemary Timperley. I wouldn�t care to have it looking through my bedroom window on a dark night.

Prince Prigio and the Firedrake by Andrew Lang. Here is an excellent opportunity for you to make the acquaintance of two little known monsters�the Firedrake and the Remora.

Last of all my own story The Harpy. Well, now�what can I say? It�s true of course. Every single word. You must believe that.

I do hope you enjoy this little book and if by chance you have missed the other two, make certain that this oversight is corrected at once.

There was a peasant who owned a great flock of sheep. And when this peasant grew old and ill, and knew that he must soon die, he called his three sons to his bedside, and said, �Sons, go into the forest, gather a big bundle of sticks, bind the bundle together with a strong rope, and bring it to me.�

Well, the sons did that: they gathered the sticks, bound them together with rope, and brought the bundle to their father.

�Now,� said the old peasant, �break these sticks into fragments.�

�But, Father,� said the eldest son, �in order to do that, we must first undo the rope that binds the sticks together.�

The peasant answered, �My son, you speak truly. And as it is with this bundle of sticks, so it shall be with you three lads. Together no man shall break you: but apart you are but brittle. Promise me now that when I am gone you will stay together, and never divide the flock of sheep.�

So the sons promised; and the old peasant died in peace.

Well, the lads kept their promise. Every morning, after they had milked the ewes, one lad drove the great flock of sheep to pasture on the grassy hills that surrounded their cottage, whilst the other two stayed at home, and saw to the making of butter and cheese. And these duties they took in turns. But when shearing time came, they all three worked together. When the shearing was done, two of them set off for market, drawing the piled up wool in a handcart, and sold the wool for a good price. But, remembering their father�s custom, they never slaughtered or sold either sheep or lamb. And their flock grew ever greater: and the three lads lived for a year or two in perfect harmony and happiness.

But then came a time of drought: month after month no rain fell, the grass on the hills wilted and turned brown, the sheep were half famished, and grew so thin and weak that they could scarce walk.

�Oh me, our poor sheep�what can we do?� cried the eldest lad, Konrad. And the second lad, Fabian wiped the tears from his eyes and said, �It seems we can do nothing but watch them die!�

But the youngest lad, Karl, said �No, no! We must not let them die! Let us seek new pastures on the other side of the great forest. I have heard that a river flows there, and where there is a river, the grass may yet be green. Come, let us set out at once, and drive the flock there, whilst yet the poor beasts can stand on their legs!�

So that�s what they did. They packed a few needful utensils�buckets, pannikins, shears, churn, and such like�into the handcart, locked up their cottage, and set off through the forest, driving their flock before them. For seven whole weeks they were driving their feeble flock through that great forest, but at last they came to the end of it. And where did they find themselves? In a broad fertile valley, where grass grew green and flowers grew bright, and a river flowed placidly among sheltering willows.

�Ah, why did we not come here before!� cried Konrad.

Then two of them set to work cutting down the willows and making a cabin, whilst the third watched over the flock, milked the ewes, and made the cheese and butter. And it wasn�t long before the sheep grew fat and strong again; and it seemed to the three lads that they had discovered a little paradise, inhabited only by their three selves.

But at the head of the valley was a great stone castle; though from where the lads kept their flocks this castle was hidden by the windings of the valley, and nothing of it could be seen but the tops of one or two huge stone chimneys standing up among the trees�chimneys that the lads took to be great grey rocks. For what with flock-tending and cabin-building they were yet too busy to explore that end of the valley.

But in the castle lived a monster called Jabor, who considered himself lord over the whole district. And one morning Jabor, thrusting his great head above the trees, thought he saw some tiny creatures moving about over the grass at the farther end of the valley.

Well, at first Jabor didn�t trouble his dull wits to think about what those tiny creatures might be; but when he had seen them again next morning, and again the morning after, he became curious. And that morning, Konrad, as he sat contentedly on the river bank, with the sheep grazing round him, was horrified to see what appeared to be a great mountain charging down upon him�and more horrified when he heard an enormous voice that roared out, �Ha! You miserable midget, what are you doing in my valley?�

Konrad fell on his knees. �Oh my gracious lord, we are three brothers who came here from behind the great forest, from a parched country where our sheep were perishing. We didn�t know that this land belonged to anyone!�

�Ha! So! Three brothers! What? Didn�t know, eh? Well, I will let it pass. Hum! Ha! We will strike up a friendship, and I will help myself to seven of your sheep!�

So saying, Jabor scooped up seven of the fattest ewes and stuffed them into his pocket. Then he roared out, �Hum! Ha! What�s your name?�

�K-Konrad, my lord.�

�And I am Monster Jabor, a lord as you say�lord of the universe! You see that stone castle up there at the head of the valley? What�what? Can�t see it? Eh? No matter, it�s there, and it�s where I live. Hum! I invite you to breakfast with me tomorrow. Ha! Bring seven more sheep. What, what, you make butter and cheese, do you? Bring seven cheeses then, and as much butter as you can carry. What, two brothers you say you have�and do you love your brothers? Hum! Ha! What�s to prevent my swallowing them down, and you on top of them? Hey? Only my kind heart! Ha! Ha! What! Up you come to breakfast, or down I come and make a breakfast of the three of you. Ha! Ha! Ha!�

And off strode Monster Jabor, making the valley clang with his shouts of laughter.

Konrad hurriedly collected his flock together and drove them home. �Brothers, brothers!� he cried. �We must hasten to leave this valley!�

And he told them what had happened.

�But where are we to go?� said Fabian. �We cannot run away and leave the flock behind us. And to pack up and drive them off will be a slow and lengthy business. And what is to prevent the monster from coming after us, and devouring the flock and us into the bargain? I think we must sacrifice seven more sheep, brother Konrad; and I think they must be driven up to this Monster Jabor�s castle, first thing tomorrow morning. But I�ll willingly go instead of you.�

�No, I am the youngest and least wanted,� said Karl. �Let me go!�

�You shall neither of you go,� said Konrad. �If one must go, it shall be myself.�

So next morning, very early, Konrad took seven cheeses and a pail full of butter, and set out for Monster Jabor�s castle, driving seven sheep before him.

In the castle courtyard a fire was smouldering, and over the fire a huge cauldron, filled with porridge, hung on a-crook. Jabor was still asleep, and the castle echoed with his snores. Konrad left the sheep in the courtyard, and carried the butter and the cheeses up into the bedroom, guided by Jabor�s snores. He stood by the bed, shaking with fear, and not knowing what to do next. But suddenly Jabor opened his eyes.

�Ha! So you�ve come! What? Here�s the butter I see, and here are the cheeses. Hum! Ha! Where are the sheep?�

�In the courtyard,� faltered Konrad.

�Ha! Ha! What? What? Afraid of me?� roared Jabor. �So you should be�what?� And he seized the pailful of butter and swallowed it down, pail and all. Then he crammed the seven cheeses into his mouth, and bellowed, �Where are the sheep, did you say?�

�In�in the courtyard, my lord.�

�Go and shut them up in the stable�you�ll find the other seven there. Ha! I didn�t eat a single sheep yesterday, and I�m not eating one today. Seven of my friends are coming on a visit the day after tomorrow, and we shall have a feast. Sheep in plenty, eh? And maybe some other juicy little fellows! What? What? Did you see a fire in a corner of the courtyard with a cauldron hanging over it?�

�Yes, my lord.�

�It�s my breakfast porridge cooking. Go and stir it. If you let it burn�ha! ha! you�ll burn with it! Do you want to go and burn in the cauldron? What? What?�

�N-no, my lord.�

�Well, be off and stir, be off and stir!� roared Jabor.

So, for half an hour or so, Konrad stood in the courtyard, stirring the porridge with a long iron spoon. �Perhaps it�s not going to be so bad, after all,� he thought. �Perhaps Jabor will let me go home when I�ve finished stirring.�

But there he was mistaken. When Jabor came out, wiping his mouth with his fist, he seized up Konrad by the heels and flung him into the stable on top of the sheep. �Ha! Ha!� he roared. �So you haven�t burned my porridge! What? What? Today you live, tomorrow you live, and the day after tomorrow we feast, my friends and I. We feast on sheep and little mannikins, sweet, tender little mannikins, whose bones go crick crack, crackle in a monster�s mouth!�

Then, having bolted the stable door, Jabor took the cauldron off the crook, swallowed the porridge at one gulp, smacked his lips, and strode off down into the valley, where he found Fabian tending the sheep.

�Ha! Ha!� roared Jabor. �I had a good breakfast this morning! And your brother is staying with me for the present. A nice tender little boy is your brother. What? What? But if you graze your sheep in my valley, you must pay rent�that�s only fair! What? So tomorrow, my chick, I invite you to breakfast. Hum! Ha! Bring seven more sheep, and seven more cheeses, and as much butter as you can carry. What? What? Do you hear me, hey? Mind you come! If you don�t come, it will be the worse for you! See my finger, see my thumb? They can pinch, little chicken, they can pinch! Ha! Ha! Ha!�

Then Jabor, having picked up seven more sheep and stuffed them into his pocket, strode off back to his castle, and put those seven sheep also into his stable. He brought fodder for the sheep, and food and wine for Konrad. �Eat up, eat up!� he roared. �Ha! Ha! Can�t have you pining away. What? What?�

The sheep were glad of the fodder, but Konrad, though he drank the wine, had no heart to eat.

Down in the valley Fabian and Karl spent an unhappy day; and early next morning, Fabian took seven cheeses and a pailful of butter and prepared to set out for the castle, with seven more sheep. �Goodbye, my brother,� he said to Karl, �may the Lord keep you! For I have a strong feeling that I shall never see you again.�

And Karl answered. �But I have a stronger feeling that you will see me again! If we have to die, we will die together, as brothers should. And if we are to live, we will live and rejoice together. So keep up your heart, my brother.�

Well, exactly the same thing happened to Fabian as had happened to Konrad. He found Jabor in bed, gave him the butter and the cheeses, and was sent out into the courtyard to stir the porridge. And when the porridge was cooked, he was shut in the stable, along with Konrad and the sheep.

And again Jabor brought fodder for the sheep and food and wine for the two lads. �No need to starve today, my chickens,� he roared. �You don�t go into the pot until tomorrow!�

Then he strode off down into the valley, where he found young Karl tending the sheep.

�Ah, good morning, good morning!� said Karl. �I was expecting you. How are my brothers?�

�Eating hearty and doing well,� roared Jabor. �And hoping you will join them for breakfast tomorrow morning. Hey? What?�

�I shall be happy to do so,� said Karl. �But keep your distance, if you please; for your breath is so powerful that I find it difficult to stand on my feet.�

Monster Jabor stared; he didn�t quite know what to make of this; but he picked up seven sheep, stuffed them into his pocket, and ordered Karl to bring him seven more sheep in the morning, together with seven cheeses and a pailful of butter.

�And mind you come!� he roared.

�Oh, I shall come,� said Karl. �I�m looking forward to it.�

�Ha! Ha! Ha! What? What? Are you indeed?� roared Jabor.

And he stamped away up the valley, which echoed to the tramp of his feet.

Next morning, there was young Karl going up to the castle with the seven sheep, and the seven cheeses, and the pailful of butter.

�Live together, or die together,� Karl was thinking. �That�s what I said, and that�s what I mean. But I would to heaven we were all three well out of this!�

As yesterday, so today. Up at the castle the cauldron full of porridge was steaming over a fire in a corner of the courtyard, and Jabor was still in bed. Karl left the sheep in the courtyard, carried the butter and the cheeses up into the bedroom, and was told by Jabor to go and stir the porridge. Karl had a thought to let his brothers out of the stable�but then, what use in that? Jabor would only catch them again, and then he would surely kill them. �I must kill him,� thought Karl. �But how�how?�

And as he stood and stirred, and wondered desperately what he should do, there came a starling flying round over the porridge pot.

�Good morning, good morning!� said the starling. �I could do with a beakful of that porridge, if it wasn�t so hot!�

Then Karl tipped a ladleful of porridge on to the ground. �It will soon cool, little bird,� he said. �May you live happy!�

�May you live happy also,� said the starling.

�I think there is not much chance of that,� said Karl.

�Oh, never say die!� chirruped the starling, and he swallowed down the spoonful of porridge, and flew swiftly away. In less than no time he came flying back. He had a brown pebble in his beak. He laid the pebble at Karl�s feet and said, �Pick it up�put it in the cauldron.�

�Well, to please you,� said Karl. And he dropped the pebble into the cauldron. �But what good will it do? You can�t choke a monster with a pebble!�

�You�ll see, you�ll see!� chirruped the starling. And he flew up on to the courtyard wall.

By and by Jabor came stamping out. �Is the porridge ready?� he roared.

�Yes,� said Karl.

�Not burned?� roared Jabor.

�No, not burned,� said Karl.

�We�ll soon see about that!� roared Jabor. And he snatched the ladle out of Karl�s hand, and crammed it dripping with porridge into his mouth. �Good,� he said, �good! We�ll have another mouthful.�

But he was not to have another mouthful: for no sooner had he gulped once, than he gave a faint roar, and the ladle dropped from his hand. �You�� he stuttered. �What��

And that was the last word ever he spoke; for his eyes glazed and his limbs stiffened, and there he stood, no longer living, but turned to stone.

�Oh, my bird, my bird,� shouted Karl, �you have saved our lives!�

And he ran to unbolt the stable door. �Come out, my brothers, come out!� he shouted.

But even as Konrad and Fabian were stumbling out of the stable, the starling came flying.

�Not saved yet!� cried the starling. �Don�t you know that Jabor invited seven more monsters to feast with him today? Even now, even now, those seven monsters are tramping into the valley. Hurry! Hurry! Go into the castle kitchen, you will find seven iron pots there. Bring them here, fill them with porridge, carry them out of the courtyard, and put them in a row, one beyond the other, along the road outside the castle gates. If you are to save your lives, the monsters must all have a taste of that porridge!�

So Karl ran, and Konrad ran, and Fabian ran; they fetched the iron pots, they filled them with porridge, they carried them out of the courtyard and set them in a row, one beyond the other, along the road that led up to the castle gates. And all the time the starling flew round and round them, crying out, �Hurry, lads, hurry!�

And scarcely had they set down the seven iron pots along the road, and gone back into the courtyard, when the earth shook and the hills echoed, and seven great monsters came stamping up out of the valley, one behind the other.

Stamp, stamp, stamp! Up came the seven monsters to where the seven pots of porridge stood by the roadside. And there they stopped and stared.

�Ha!� roared the leading monster. �A pretty thought! Our friend Jabor welcomes us with a foretaste of the feast! Come, stand in line, my lads, and let us wish him good health in a gulp of porridge.�

So each monster took up a pot, and having roared out, �Good health and good eating to our friend, Jabor!� they threw back their heads, opened their great mouths, set the pots to their lips, and gulped down the porridge.

What happened? The pots dropped from their hands, their eyes glazed, their limbs stiffened: there they stood in line along the road, turned to stone.

�We are saved, we are saved, brothers!� cried Karl.

�We are saved, we are saved!� cried Konrad and Fabian.

�Yes, you are saved,� chirped the starling. �Now the first thing to do is to make a bonfire and tip all the porridge into it, lest any of my friends should fancy a beakful�.�.�. And you�d better give the pebble back to me�it�s a dangerous plaything to leave lying about.�

So Karl took the pebble out of the cauldron and gave it to the starling, who flew off with it. And then the three lads gathered a great pile of wood and set fire to it. And when the fire was burning merrily, they tipped all the porridge from the cauldron and from the iron pots into the flames. And after that, they let the sheep out of the stable and drove them down into the valley.

But they didn�t stay long in their little cabin in the valley. Since there were now no monsters left in that part of the country, they took possession of Jabor�s great castle, and there they lived ever after in great happiness�and proudly too. For there are not many castles in the world that can boast a stone monster in the courtyard; nor yet a procession of stone monsters on the road leading up to it.

And in the spring the starling came with his mate and built a nest on stone Jabor�s head. There he brought up a brood of young ones, to whom he often told the story of the wonderful pebble. But in what secret place he kept the pebble�that he would never tell them. And to this day, no one but the starling knows where it is hidden.

Miss Harper, the science teacher, said it sounded like a herd of mad elephants; but Mr.�Groves, who took games, said it was more like a flock of parrots.

�It� was the noise made by Forms 1A and IB milling round the bus which was to take them on their annual history outing. Fifty-eight boys and girls were boarding it together, though as the driver kept roaring out, the doorway wouldn�t take them all at once.

�One at a time, you perishing little �, one at a time!� he appealed over and over again, and was ignored. Finally Mr.�Morris the history teacher appeared and quelled the riot with a thundering threat to send home instantly anyone who misbehaved.

�They can�t do that,� muttered Beverley Riley to her best friend Christine Lee. �My dad�s already paid. I�m not getting off even if they tell me to.�

She was huddled with Christine on the best seat at the very back of the bus. It had been only the work of a moment to persuade the previous occupant to leave, by the simple but effective method of threatening to strike him over the head with Christine�s vacuum flask.

�I�m glad we�re going on holiday,� said Christine, settling back.

�It�s only a rotten day trip to an old church!� said Beverley contemptuously. �Anybody�d think you were going to rotten Spain!�

Christine did not answer because just then the driver started the engine and a cheer went up that drowned everything, even Philip Smith�s frantic cry that he had left his packed lunch behind. Once through the school gates, the bus headed noisily and swiftly for the motorway. The history outing to Church Milton had begun.

�We might go past our house,� said Christine wistfully. �I might see Mum and Gran and Kevin.� She peered hopefully out of the window, a quiet, timid, short-sighted little girl with pale fluffy hair and a vaguely pretty face.

Beside her Beverley Riley gave a snort of disgust. She was bigger, tougher and cleverer than her friend. �Your house isn�t this way, silly! Anyway your Mum�s at work and Kevin�s in the nursery�here, have a crisp.� She thrust the bag under Christine�s nose, and when Christine took one, made her take a whole handful. Beverley Riley was rough, but very generous.

�Mum�s not at work,� said Christine plaintively. �She�s working nights, Beverley, Mum�s not��

�Oh, shut up!� snapped Beverley irritably. �I don�t care where your rotten Mum is do I?� There was a noisy minute or two while Christine objected to her mother being called �rotten�, and then for a while peace reigned as each girl swore never to speak to the other again.

�Anyway,� said Beverley finally, screwing up her crisp bag and throwing it under the seat, �Anyway I�m glad I�m not speaking to you, Christine Lee, because you�re soft, and when I do my magic charm you�d only run off and tell somebody.�

�What magic charm?� asked Christine at once, forgetting she had just vowed she would never have anything to do with Beverley in her life again, ever. �What magic charm, Bev?�

�I�m not telling you,� said Beverley stubbornly.

It took Christine almost ten minutes to make her change her mind.

�Well,� whispered Beverley at last, �I went to the library, see, and I found a book all about this church we�re going to.�

�A book!� muttered Christine, impressed. She was a very poor reader herself and never deliberately went looking for books.

�And it had a picture of the church and a gargoyle up on the roof��

�A gargle?� Christine broke in, mystified. �What gargle?�

Beverley went into fits of laughter and finally explained to her friend that a �gargoyle� was the name for an ugly kind of statue they sometimes had on the roofs of old churches.

�Anyway this church has got one as well, and it�s a really horrible one, and if you say the magic charm over it�it comes alive!�

�Ugh, no,� said Christine, shutting her eyes in delicious terror.

�Yes,� said Beverley, and suddenly hooked her fingers like claws and made a hideous face, moaning, �I�m coming, I�m coming, to get YOU!!�

Christine let out a scream that nearly made the driver run into the lorry in front. After that Mr.�Morris made them sit apart for the rest of the journey.

Church Milton was a village, very small compared to the big industrial town Beverley and Christine came from. Hundreds of years ago it had been quite an important place and a handsome church had been built there which still stood, on the sloping ground above the main street. A neat graveyard was spread around it, and a lych gate stood at the front of the path which led to the arched main door.

�Isn�t it lovely?� said Christine as she climbed out of the coach.

�Stop here a moment all of you,� said Mr.�Morris as the classes swarmed around him. Oddly enough the fact that they were in the country and away from the noisy traffic had calmed all of them down. They still larked about, but without yelling very much.

�Does anybody know why this is called a �lych gate�?� asked Mr.�Morris, staring at them all in turn.

�Yeah,� said Beverley loudly. �It�s because they used to put dead bodies under it before they were taken in to be buried, and �lych� means body, sir.� She basked in the silent admiration of the class.

�Quite right, Beverley,� said Mr.�Morris approvingly. �Does anyone know anything else about the church?�

�Please sir, it�s got a gargle on the roof!� Christine burst out, then yelped in pain as Beverley trod on her foot.

�That�s right, very good, Christine,� said Mr.�Morris in surprise. �Mind what you�re doing, Beverley. Now, look up on the roof all of you�� he pointed, and fifty-eight children stared upwards. �Can you see that dark, hunched shape up there? That is a gargoyle. Now a gargoyle,� he continued impressively, �is a grotesque statue sometimes carved over the waterspouts of medieval churches. �Grotesque� means misshapen and ugly�very similar to the face you�re pulling now, Smith.� Everyone laughed and Philip Smith stopped trying to amuse his friends by exaggerated squinting. �This gargoyle has a legend attached to it,� Mr.�Morris went on slowly. �According to the old story, a witch who lived here in the village hundreds of years ago had the power of casting a spell on it, which would make it come to life during the hours of darkness. Then it would do whatever the witch told it, including breaking into houses and carrying off her enemies. Nobody could stop it because it was tremendously strong, and arrows and swords just bounced off its stone skin. In the morning the witch�s enemies would be found dead at the bottom of the church tower, all their bones broken.�

When he had finished there was a satisfactory, fascinated silence.

�Of course it�s only a story. Right.� Mr.�Morris glanced at his watch. �All of you are to be back here for three o�clock. Don�t drop litter, don�t trespass in people�s gardens and don�t go outside the village. Clear? Off you go, then.�

They trooped away reasonably quietly. Beverley and Christine waited behind until the others had gone.

�Now then, where�s my charm.� Beverley began to rummage through her bag.

�Oh, don�t bother about it, Bev.� Christine dithered uncertainly. It wasn�t that she really believed Beverley�s charm would work, she just didn�t want to see it tried.

�Where�ve I put it? Where�s the rotten thing gone? I know I put it�ah!� Beverley waved a scrap of paper in triumph. �See, it�s here. Right then, come on!� She ran off impatiently through the lych gate and up the gravel path to the church, with Christine following reluctantly.

Inside the church it was cool and shady. Dust floated slowly in the broad sunbeams that shone through the plain glass windows. They tiptoed to the back of the church and through a door marked �PRIVATE�, which led to a narrow stone room with a flight of curving steps at the end. It was the entrance to the church tower.

�It�s up here,� whispered Beverley, and clutched Christine�s arm. �Come on!� Quickly the two girls began to climb.

Their legs were aching by the time they reached the top of the stairs. The day had clouded over and as they came up on to the tower roof, which was flat and encircled by a parapet a breeze sprang up that made Christine shiver. She refused to go near the wall to look at the dizzying view, but Beverley lived on the fourteenth floor of a block of flats and heights did not bother her. Suddenly she gave a little yelp of joy and beckoned her friend over.

�It�s here! Chris, come and look!�

Cautiously Christine crept forward and peeped over the edge of the parapet, while Beverley craned over, dangerously far.

The statue was crouched at one corner of the tower, squatting on a stone ledge. It was about four feet high and shaped something like a man, but a dwarfish, muscular man with bulging eyes and a protruding tongue. Two bat-like wings spread up from its heavy shoulders. Its chin was resting on its clawed hand as if it were deep in thought.

�It looks like my Dad when he�s doing the Pools,� giggled Beverley irreverently.

�Come away from the wall, Beverley,� said Christine in alarm. �You�ll fall.�

Beverley unfolded the paper with the charm written on it. She grinned, and began to chant in an eerie voice. Christine turned pale.

�It�s wicked to do magic in a church! I�m going!� fretted Christine. Beverley waved her arms, swaying from side to side for dramatic effect.

Christine gave a shriek and darted forward to catch her friend as Beverley stumbled on the uneven flagstones beneath their feet and knocked her chin on the parapet.

�I bit my rotten tongue,� said Beverley indistinctly. A trickle of blood ran down her chin. �Have you got a hanky?�

�It�s gone on your collar,� said Christine dolefully, dabbing the blood away.

�Never mind,� said Beverley, smearing her mouth with the back of her hand. �Did it work?�

They peered over the parapet. The gargoyle sat hunched up below them, as disappointingly stony as ever, staring out over the distant hills just as it had done for the past six hundred years.

�Mr.�Morris said it was only a story,� said Christine, heaving a sigh. �Oh well. Come on, let�s go.�

�Just a minute,� said Beverley. �See that?� she pointed to a dark splash that lay like a tear on the gargoyle�s gritty cheek. �That�s blood, look, my blood.� She smiled proudly, then stiffened with excitement as her eyes roamed past the statue to the road below. �Hey, there�s an ice cream van down there! Come on!�

The two girls ran like lightning for the door and within a moment the tower roof was empty and the gargoyle was left alone again to its silent vigil.

That night Christine�s mother asked Mrs.�Riley if Beverley could stay overnight at their home. Mrs.�Lee was working part of a night shift at the local factory until midnight. Christine�s grandmother, who lived with them, had been called away unexpectedly to visit a sick relative and her father was working in Scotland for a few weeks.

Beverley and Christine were delighted with the arrangement.

�Now don�t start fooling about just because you�re on your own tonight,� said Mrs.�Lee, tying on her headscarf. �You�ve got the phone number of the factory, so ring me if anything happens. If Kevin wakes up you can bring him downstairs with you to watch television. Keep the fireguard up. There�s tea in the flask so you won�t have to boil the kettle or touch the oven, and there�s orange juice in the fridge. Don�t eat all the biscuits. Put the chain on the door when I go out and don�t open up for anyone but me. Mrs.�Nelson next door is keeping an eye on you. If you aren�t both in bed by the time I get home there�ll be trouble. Give me a kiss now, there�s a good girl. And remember, Beverley, no messing about.�

The front door eventually closed behind Mrs.�Lee.

�Goodbye Mum!� shouted Christine as the footsteps faded down the path, waving as if her mother could see her through the door. Beverley was already in the kitchen, opening the fridge.

They brought a tray loaded with orange juice, biscuits and cheese and sat nibbling in front of the fire, watching TV. During the first hour they went upstairs at ten minute intervals to check that Kevin was still asleep in his cot. He was, though Christine suffered from fears that he had stopped breathing and kept creeping forward to listen. They went into Mrs.�Lee�s bedroom to try on some of her dresses, then got ready for bed and came back downstairs to bank up the fire. It was while Beverley was lifting the scuttle to hurl coal on the fire that they heard a kind of rumbling noise outside.

�What�s that?� Christine, terrified, clutched Beverley�s nightgown.

The noise came again, heavy crunching thuds as if someone were trying to climb the coal pile beneath the kitchen window outside.

�A burglar! Is the back door locked?� hissed Beverley.

�Yes. Oh Mum. I�m scared,� whimpered Christine, ready to cry. Beverley did not feel very brave herself but she wanted to be sure it wasn�t just boys fooling around before they phoned Mrs.�Lee. After all, it was only half past eight; it was barely dark.

�I�m going to peep out of the back window,� she said.

Together they crept into the kitchen, and Christine trembled while Beverley hauled herself up on to the draining board to peer cautiously into the dark back yard. At first she could see nothing, but as her eyes became used to the dusk she gradually made out the coal pile, the clothes line, Kevin�s little car, and two dustbins.

Two dustbins?

�Chris,� Beverley whispered, �how many dustbins have you got?�

�One,� answered her friend in surprise.

Suddenly, what Beverley had taken for a second dustbin stirred at the sound of voices and shuffled awkwardly towards the window.

�Oh no,� said Beverley in horror. �Oh no.�

�What is it? I�m fetching the police,� cried Christine, backing away.

�You can�t call the police,� said Beverley. She turned round, her eyes big as saucers. �Chris, it�s the gargoyle.�

They stared at each other in panic, each thinking the same thing; whoever they called to help them would want to know what the gargoyle was doing there in the first place, and who had brought it�.�.�.

�I don�t understand,� Beverley muttered. �It didn�t come alive at first. Why is it here now?�

Christine thought deeply for a moment and came up with the correct solution.

�It�s gone dark,� she said. �The spell only works while it�s dark. That�s why it didn�t wake up before now.�

Outside the kitchen window the gargoyle shuffled impatiently.

�But what does it want?� cried Beverley. �I didn�t tell it to come here!� On impulse, she tried a command. �Gargoyle! Go back!�

The gargoyle evidently took things literally. It began striding clumsily but firmly backwards, and if Beverley had not yelled �Stop!� it would undoubtedly have smashed clean through the wall and into the alley. One thing was obvious, however; it would do anything she said. She jumped down from the draining board and began to unbolt the back door.

�Don�t let it in!� yelped Christine. �Tell it to go home!�

�I just tried that, didn�t I?� snapped Beverley. �It nearly knocked the wall down!�

�Perhaps you didn�t say it right,� suggested Christine as Beverley opened the door. �Try saying, Gargoyle, go back to the church tower. In Church Milton. Cheshire,� she added as an afterthought.

�Gargoyle,� began Beverley in a quavering voice. Immediately the thing clumped forward and Beverley forgot to be brave and fled panic-stricken into the house with Christine almost trampling her down from behind. The stone monster followed them patiently, plodding across the kitchen lino and crushing the dog�s food bowl into a shapeless lump.

The two frightened girls backed into a corner of the living-room. There was a crash as the gargoyle knocked a geranium off the hall table, then it appeared in the doorway. As it entered the light the girls had their first good look at it.

The gargoyle was still stone-skinned and even had bird droppings in its carved hair, but the face had changed. The tongue was drawn back into its mouth, and although it was still amazingly hideous it had a more normal appearance. It was even grinning slightly, as if it was enjoying its trip down from the tower after all those centuries of stillness. Its bulging eyes rolled slyly round the room until it caught sight of the girls huddled in the corner, and then it lumbered across the carpet towards them.

�Stop!� yelled Beverley desperately. The gargoyle halted with one foot planted in the middle of the tray which had been lying in front of the fire. A puddle of orange juice, biscuit crumbs and broken glass slowly formed on the rug. �Oh, why don�t you go home?� said Beverley. �Can�t you speak?�

The gargoyle grinned a huge banana grin and shook its ugly head.

�Maybe we could send it home on a bus,� suggested Christine hesitatingly.

�Oh sure,� snarled Beverley, exasperated. �How would it get on a bus looking like that? The driver would have a fit!�

�If it went upstairs�.�.�.?� said Christine vaguely.

�.�.�.�And came straight down through the floor. It must weigh half a ton. Try not to be an idiot, Christine!�

�Well I�m not having it here when my Mum comes home!� gabbled Christine, beside herself. �What�ll she say when she sees it there on the carpet, you can�t hoover round it or anything and our Kevin will cry or he might get trodden on when he�s crawling about trying to play with it and�and�.�.�. it�ll have to go, Bev.�

�Well I can�t get rid of it, can I?� Beverley stamped her foot in rage.

The two girls glared at each other, flushed, then slowly calmed down. Beverley was struck by a horrifying thought. What if the gargoyle stayed till morning, then froze back? How would they get it out of the house then? Mrs.�Lee would be furious. Christine too was having worrying thoughts.

�Do you think they�ll miss it at the church?� she said doubtfully. �Will they notice it�s gone?�

�Of course they will!� shouted Beverley. �How could anybody possibly not notice a four foot high gargoyle when it�s not there?� The strain of it all was making her a trifle incoherent. �You�d notice that ugly rotten thing anywhere!� In her annoyance she grabbed a hairbrush off the mantelpiece and threw it at the gargoyle�s head. There was a snapping sound as the gargoyle suddenly shot out its long tongue and swallowed the hairbrush at a gulp like a frog catching a fly. Then it grinned appreciatively.

�That was nice, was it?� said Christine, astonished.

Beverley thought hard. Where could they put the thing? Where would a big ugly statue not be noticed. She snapped her fingers as an idea came.

�I know!� she cried. �We�ll take it to Hannock Park!�

Hannock Park was a few streets away. It already had some life-sized statues of local politicians in it, grim-faced men in top hats and old-fashioned clothes; maybe nobody would notice an extra one. Beverley did not care where the statue was found, as long as it was not in Mrs.�Lee�s front room.

�How will it get there?� asked Christine.

�It�ll have to walk,� answered Beverley, and instantly she realised that the gargoyle could not go through the streets dressed, or undressed, as it was, without attracting attention. �Chris�have you got any old clothes?�

They finally dressed the gargoyle in Christine�s granny�s old coat. It had a velvet collar and an ivory brooch but apart from these unsuitable features it served very well. On Beverley�s command the gargoyle stuck its hands enthusiastically into the armholes; there was a dreadful sound of lining tearing and Christine winced.

They eyed the gargoyle as it stood on the hearthrug, still grinning, its hideous head poking up from the velvet collar. The sleeves of the coat were so long that they hid its hands completely, and the hem was almost brushing the floor.

�We�d better see if it can walk in it,� muttered Beverley. �Walk about a bit, gargoyle.�

The gargoyle circled round the settee with a curious hump-backed shuffle, like an old tramp looking for dropped pennies.

�Stop. That�s good.� said Beverley. The gargoyle nodded and flicked its tongue in and out of its mouth like a snake.

�Don�t get carried away,� scolded Beverley.

�What about my Gran�s rainhat?� suggested Christine, in a burst of inspiration. They fetched it and tied it over the gargoyle�s carved curls. Christine was so pleased with the success of her idea that she brought an umbrella for it to hold.

Then they dashed upstairs and dressed hurriedly. Christine would not leave her little brother alone in the house so they wrapped him in blankets and put him in his pushchair, still sleeping. Making sure she had a key, Christine led the little procession out of the house and started up the street.

�Christine Lee! What do you think you�re doing, taking Kevin out at this time of night? Where are you going?� They all froze in horror at the sound of the shrill voice. It was Mrs.�Nelson, who had promised their mother to keep an eye on them while she was at work. Tears of defeat pricked Beverley�s eyes. When her Mum and Dad got to hear about this she would probably never be allowed to play out again till she got married.

Beverley, after wondering whether to shout to Mrs.�Nelson to mind her own rotten business and take to her heels with the gargoyle following, gave up the idea. The stupid thing would probably trip up on its coat and fall over, breaking every flagstone in the street.

Then they were saved. Mrs.�Nelson, peering shortsightedly from her doorstep, gave a gasp of surprise.

�Oh! I didn�t know you were with them, Mrs.�Lee! I am sorry. I thought they were on their own.� The street was dark, and without her glasses Mrs.�Nelson had mistaken the gargoyle for Christine�s granny.

�Is your relative better then, Mrs.�Lee?� asked Mrs.�Nelson flustered at her supposed mistake.

�Nod!� hissed Beverley.

The gargoyle ponderously nodded.

�Oh, I am glad. I suppose she wasn�t as ill as you thought, then?�

There was another hiss from Beverley and the gargoyle�s great heavy head swayed from side to side.

�No, well, I am glad.� Mrs.�Nelson repeated. She was still rather embarrassed and anxious to end the conversation. �Well�good night!�

She waved and popped hastily back indoors, shutting the door behind her. Luckily she did not see the gargoyle�s answering wave, with three inches of coat sleeve flapping over the end of its stubby hands.

�Come on,� Beverley whispered urgently, and the four of them went as fast as they could to the end of the road. They could not go too quickly. Whenever the gargoyle worked itself up to anything like a run, its feet made a noise like two small sledgehammers and the ground shook.

The only other incident which gave them any alarm on the way to the Park was when Kevin woke up and began to scream his surprise at finding himself out at night instead of in his cot at home.

�There, there,� said Christine kindly, bending down to comfort him. He yelled all the louder.

�The rotten little thing,� muttered Beverley, who couldn�t stand babies. She vaguely suspected that Kevin was misbehaving deliberately in order to get her into trouble. Then, behind Beverley, Kevin caught sight of the hideous stone monster. His face broke into a beaming smile.

�He likes the gargoyle,� said Beverley. �Put down the hood of the pushchair and let the gargoyle push him. That will shut him up.�

The gargoyle clamped its great stone hands on the handle of the pushchair and, while Beverley and Christine trailed alongside, it steadily wheeled Kevin, now chuckling and happy, to the gates of Hannock Park.

�Oh, no,� said Christine in dismay as they stopped outside. �The gates are padlocked!�

�Of course they are,� scowled Beverley. �What do you expect? It�s ten o�clock at night.� She shot a quick glance up and down the road. Nobody was about. �Gargoyle,� she ordered, �Break the chain.�

The gargoyle shuffled out from behind Kevin�s pushchair, grinning amiably.

�But that�s Council property, Beverley!� gasped Christine. �It can�t�� There was a sound like snapping cotton, and the chain and padlock lay broken on the ground at their feet.

�.�.�.�Can�t do that,� mumbled Christine, following the others into Hannock Park.

When they reached the middle of the park they made the gargoyle take off its coat and stand between the other statues.

�You can spot it a mile off,� Christine said unhelpfully, and it was true. Even in the darkness the squat and ugly figure stood out like a sore thumb.

Suddenly Christine was struck by something which had been nagging at the back of her mind all night. There was something odd about the monster, something lacking. It was different from how it had looked when they first saw it on the church tower. What was missing?

�Beverley,� she said suddenly. �Where are its wings?�

�I don�t know,� said Beverley uncertainly. She stood rooted to the spot, deep in thought. �Here, Christine,� she said with dawning excitement. �The gargoyle�it came to your house about twenty minutes after it went dark!�

�Did it?� said Christine, puzzled.

�Yes, so Christine�it couldn�t have walked! Not even the gargoyle could walk fifty miles in twenty minutes! Well don�t you see?� Beverley�s eyes were bright now, �It must have flown!�

�Oh,� said Christine.

�Well that�s it!� shouted Beverley. �You don�t tell it to go home, you say�Gargoyle! Fly home!�

There was a noise like the grinding of stones. Out of the gargoyle�s humped back spread the two black, jagged stone wings that had been folded there. It rolled its marble eyes. The wings beat the air once, twice, fanning a breeze that the two girls could feel where they stood.

The gargoyle nodded farewell to Beverley, flickering its tongue like lightning in and out of its mouth. Then it stretched up its arms, beat the air again with its huge wings and suddenly soared upwards, dwindled to a dot in the sky and finally vanished altogether among the black clouds.

�It�s gone,� said Beverley, with a curious note of sadness in her voice. �It�s gone back.�

Christine ran over the grass and picked up her grandmother�s coat and umbrella where the gargoyle had left them. �Yes, and it�s taken my Gran�s rainhat with it,� she said crossly. �Oh well, never mind. Come on Beverley, let�s get home before Mum finds out.�

When Mrs.�Lee came back, the house was tidy and everything appeared to be in order. Kevin was fast asleep in his cot and the girls were in bed. Only Beverley was awake, and she opened her eyes as Mrs.�Lee tiptoed into the bedroom.

�Everything all right?� she whispered to Beverley. �Do you want the light left on? No? That�s a sensible girl. There�s nothing to be afraid of in the dark, is there? Goodnight, Beverley.�

�Goodnight, Mrs.�Lee.� As Beverley dropped into a deep sleep she thought that if Mrs.�Lee knew what had happened that night, she might change her mind about that last remark, but naturally she didn�t tell her.

The girls never told anyone.

By the time Christine�s grandmother discovered the torn lining of her coat, she did not connect it with the night she had gone away to visit her relation. By the time Kevin grew old enough to talk, he thought the whole thing must have been a dream. By the time Mrs.�Lee noticed that the dog�s bowl and two glasses had vanished, Beverley Riley had replaced them.

When the Vicar of Church Milton realised that someone had decorated the ancient gargoyle on the tower with a lady�s rainhat, he blamed it on the students of a nearby university playing pranks.

Long afterwards, Beverley and Christine wondered why the spell had taken effect.

�It probably would have worked whoever said the charm,� Christine suggested, but Beverley was inclined to believe that accidentally letting a drop of her blood fall on the gargoyle at the crucial point in the charm had really done the trick.

�One thing�s for sure,� she said. �We�re never going to try it again, to find out!�

Decorating the ancient tower of a country church there squats a heavy, ugly statue, its chin resting on its hand and its great black wings spreading from its huge shoulders. It stares over the fields and the rolling hills with its marble eyes, as it has stared for ages past, as it will stare forever unless it is again awoken by a certain magic charm.

The remains of a lady�s hat flutter about its stone head, and perhaps its carved grin is a little wider now than when the craftsman fashioned it, all those centuries ago.

There was once a place called Honeytown. It was in a wide valley, full of sunshine and the scent of flowers and the drowsy hum of bees. All round the town, as far as you could see, the land was covered with orchards and gardens and rich farms. Hundreds of bee-hives stood under the fruit trees, and Honeytown was famous for its honey-market. You could not find a pleasanter spot in all the world. Visitors thought it strange to find a giant living in such a place, but there had been a giant in Honeytown as long as anyone could remember. Old Gaskin was a hundred years old, and he could remember the giant being there when he was a boy at school, and his grandfather knew the giant when he was a boy. No one could miss seeing the giant�s home; it was an enormous cavern on the edge of the town with a wide road leading to it. Everyone called him Giant Dumpling, because he was so fat and so round, and everyone was fond of him because he was a good and kind giant. He would do anything to help the people of Honeytown. He would stamp down the earth for new roads, move trees when they needed replanting, dig foundations for new houses; nothing was too much trouble. In return, the people gave him barrels of honey, which he loved more than anything else, and which made him so fat. Giant Dumpling even said that if the people of Honeytown ever had enemies, he would fight them and drive them away.

Honeytown lived in peace for many, many years, for, as Old Gaskin often said,

�Who would dare to attack a town with a giant living in it? Nobody in his senses would do such a thing. Giant Dumpling would soon scare them away.�

�What about those people the other side of Moss River?� his young grandson, Peter, would ask.

�The Mosslanders?� Old Gaskin would growl. �They�d never dare trouble us. Our honey-sellers visit Mossland, and they spread stories about how fierce Giant Dumpling is, to frighten the Mosslanders, strange folks that they are.�

�But Giant Dumpling isn�t fierce,� Peter would protest, �he�s good and gentle. He plays with the children, and gets fat eating honey. I believe he�s too fat to run, let alone fight.�

�Hush, boy! Hush, boy!� Old Gaskin would say then, and send Peter out to gather peaches.

The years went by; years of peace and good living for Honeytown; years of hardship and thin living for the Mosslanders. Giant Dumpling grew fatter and rounder with each year that passed, and Peter Gaskin worried still about their giant�s real usefulness for keeping enemies away if it should ever come to a real battle. Peter grew to be a man, to have his own fruit-farm and keep his own bees. One day in autumn, he was busy about the farm when a Mosslander came to buy honey. He was a dark-browed fellow, big and strong, though haggard and hungry looking, called Guntrop Gilliform. He stood in the farmyard with his two-horse waggon, frowning at Peter Gaskin. The barrels of honey were loaded on to the waggon, and tied down securely. Now Peter waited for Guntrop to pay him, but Guntrop did not get out his purse, he just stood glaring at Peter as though he hated him.

�We�ve had a terrible harvest in Mossland, terrible,� said Guntrop, looking as though he thought it was Peter�s fault. �We�re going to starve this winter, in Mossland.�

�I�m truly sorry to hear it,� said Peter. �There have been rumours�.�.�.�

�And here are you Honeytowners, living like princes,� growled Guntrop, looking about him. �Look at it all, the richest land I ever saw! So much food that you can even keep that great fool of a giant in honey!�

�How dare you talk of our giant like that,� said Peter angrily. �He�s a good giant; the best there is. He�s protected us from our enemies for hundreds of years, he�s�.�.�.�

�Enemies!� sneered Guntrop. �Protected you from your enemies? He�s too fat! He couldn�t knock the skin off a rice pudding. A hundred years ago, when he was younger and thinner�maybe he could fight then�fifty years ago, even, but not now, oh no, not now.�

�All this is nonsense; he happens to be our giant, and no concern of yours,� retorted Peter. �We�ll feed him as we want, and not ask you.�

�No concern of ours, isn�t he,� snarled Guntrop. �We�ll see about that, we will.�

�What do you mean by that?� demanded Peter.

�Never you mind,� said Guntrop darkly.

�Well, pay me for the honey, please, and go on your way,� said Peter. �I have work to do; I cannot afford to spend the day in idle gossip, even if you can.�

�Gossip? Pay?� shouted Guntrop. �You�ll see, you will. You�ve got a big shock coming to you. As for payment for the honey, you can take this!� He snatched up his big horse-whip and lashed Peter hard about the legs. Peter cried out with pain, and fell to the ground. Guntrop leaped upon his waggon, shouted wildly at the horses and whipped them into a mad gallop. The waggon shot out of the farmyard, gathering speed, and went swaying dangerously down the road, tilting round the corner with a desperate scrabbling of hooves, and was gone.

Slowly, Peter picked himself up out of the dust, and hobbled painfully into the house.

As soon as Peter felt well enough, he saddled his best horse and rode into town with all speed. He went straight to the Mayor and told him all that had happened. The Mayor looked grave at Peter�s news. He said,

�Your tale is bad enough, Peter Gaskin, but it is only, one of many. From every part of our land stories have been brought to me of Mosslanders attacking and robbing our innocent people.�

�Worst of all,� cried Peter, �they have no fear of Giant Dumpling any more.�

�We�ll see about that,� said the Mayor, �but you know what this means, don�t you? It means war. War with the Mosslanders, for they will come and take our land from us if we do nothing. I�m making a proclamation this very hour. Every able-bodied man is to have his sword and bow to hand, and be ready to march at eight o�clock tomorrow morning.�

�So soon?� said Peter.

�It cannot be soon enough. We must defend ourselves before the Mosslanders have a chance to cross Moss Bridge. Once they cross the river we�re lost. We wouldn�t stand a chance.�

�But Giant Dumpling would defend us,� said Peter.

�I fear that Guntrop was only too near the truth,� sighed the Mayor. �Poor old Dumpling is very fat, and he�s not a fierce giant, alas; never was, and never will be. You cannot keep that kind of thing a secret for ever, and the Mosslanders have found it out at last. Still, you never can be sure, he may be of some use, so we�ll take him along with us. If he isn�t fierce he is strong; after all he is a giant. Come, let�s go and see him.�

The Mayor called his Council and his General, and they all trooped off to see Giant Dumpling, followed by a growing crowd of Honeytowners.

Giant Dumpling was having a nap when the crowd arrived at his cave, and it took a great deal of knocking and shouting to waken him. He came at last to his door, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

�What�s all the noise?� he rumbled. �Can�t you let a fellow have his sleep in peace? Ooh, what a lot of people! Hello, Mr.�Mayor. Hello, General Gait, what are you doing in your uniform? And all you fellows with swords, what are you up to? You want to be careful�nasty things swords, I can�t abide them�you�ll be hurting somebody with those things if you�re not careful. Oooh, and bows too, worse and worse. Now you really shouldn�t play at soldiers�.�.�.�

�Giant Dumpling, we�re not playing�.�.�.� shouted General Gait.

�.�.�.�it really is much too dangerous,� pursued Giant Dumpling. �Eat honey and grow good fruit, that�s the best way to live. Now put these nasty things away, and let me have my sleep, and come back when you can be sensible.�

�Giant Dumpling,� shouted General Gait, louder still, �we�re not playing soldiers. All this is serious. The Mosslanders are about to attack. We must stop them crossing the river. Moss Bridge is our only hope of defence.�

�Oh, well, that�s different,� said Giant Dumpling. �Off you go and have your battle, and wake me up when it�s all over.�

�Oh no, we want you to help us,� protested the Mayor. �We haven�t kept you in honey for all these years for you to go off to bed at the first sign of a battle. What�s the use of having a real giant if you cannot fight for us!�

�Oh dear. I�m not really a warlike giant,� wailed Dumpling.

�Surely you can look fierce, even if you don�t do any fighting?� asked Peter.

�I don�t think I can even do that,� moaned Dumpling.

�There�s not another drop of honey for you if you don�t come to Moss Bridge with us in the morning,� said the Mayor sternly.

�Then I�ll have to come, I suppose,� wailed Dumpling, �though I�d much rather stay at home and read a good book, I really would. Oh, but I�ll come, if you insist, though what use I�ll be I cannot guess. I�ve never held a sword in my life, and I wouldn�t know how to fire an arrow.�

�You can stamp and make the ground shake, and roar like thunder and put such fear into the Mosslanders that they�ll not dare to cross that bridge,� General Gait suggested.

�I�ll do my best, but I don�t promise anything, mind you,� said Dumpling; and with that they let him go back to his bed, tut-tutting and shaking his head.

The scene at Moss Bridge early the next day was one that every Honeytowner would remember to the end of his days. Moss River was the boundary between the Honeytowners� lands and the bare acres of Mossland, and a swift and wide river it was. Moss Bridge was the only way of crossing the river. It was a wooden bridge that arched gracefully over the tumbling waters, and it was wide enough for two laden waggons to pass each other, with room to spare. The Honeytown army reached the bridge soon after nine o�clock, having made good speed along their excellent roads. They marched smartly along, with their helmets glittering in the sun. The foot-soldiers came first, then the cavalry, then the horse-drawn cannons, then the supply train of donkeys and mules and the field-kitchens. Last of all, behind the rearmost donkey-boy, came Giant Dumpling, lagging behind and trying to look as though he had nothing at all to do with the army. True, he did wear a sword, but it was so rusty that anyone could see that it would never come out of its scabbard. Twice, Giant Dumpling had tried to turn back, saying he�d forgotten something important, but each time General Gait had called him back into line. He trudged along now, looking out nervously for any sign of Mosslanders. Though he was far away at the back of the army, Giant Dumpling was so tall that he would see the enemy long before anyone else.

�Any sign of the Mosslanders?� shouted General Gait

�Not a single one, thank goodness,� said Giant Dumpling.

The army marched over the bridge. The cannons took up positions by the river, on the Honeytown side, and the men began to dig them in, ready to give covering fire over the heads of their own men. The cavalry trotted over the bridge in good order. The mules and donkeys ambled over the bridge, not hurrying for anyone. Last of all, and full of trembling fear, fat and shaking, Giant Dumpling crossed over the bridge.

The cooks lit their fires, and the smoke curled high into the still air, and there was a good smell of frying bacon. General Gait was just about to eat a boiled egg, when there was a great BOOOOOOM from a belt of trees some way off, and a dozen cannon-balls came swishing through the air towards the Honeytown camp. They all fell harmlessly into the river, raising great spouts of water. Giant Dumpling began hopping about near the water.

�Oh my stars!� he exclaimed. �Oh, bless me! Oh dear, dear, dear, we�ll all be killed, that�s for sure. Those dreadful Mosslanders, they�re shooting at us.�

�Well, it is a war!� exploded General Gait. �Do you expect them to throw flowers? For goodness� sake, Giant Dumpling, do try to look brave and fierce even if you cannot feel it.�

At that moment the Honeytown cannons opened fire. Being so near, they made an earth-shaking BANG. This gave Giant Dumpling such a fright that he fainted on the spot. His great body dropped like a falling tower, with a deafening SPLASH into the river. He was so big, and so fat, that he filled the river from bank to bank; and the tremendous splash he made, sent a wave as high as a house racing down the river. The great wave sped towards Moss Bridge. The wave hit the bridge, and there was a tearing and rending and splintering of wood, and the bridge disappeared under a seething mass of water. The great wave smashed onward. The water subsided. There was no bridge.

�The bridge�s down!� shouted General Gait. �We�re trapped! We cannot get back to Honeytown!�

�Oh yes we can,� said Peter Gaskin. �Look, sir, Giant Dumpling�s dammed the river, he�s so fat. We can retreat across the river bed�it�s almost dry�or we can use Giant Dumpling himself as a bridge.�

�BOOOOM. BOOOOM. BOOOOM.� The Mossland cannons were firing steadily now, and the balls fell uncomfortably close.

�Quick, sir, before Giant Dumpling gets up!� shouted Peter.

�Sound the retreat,� ordered General Gait, and all along the line the trumpets shrilly answered him, �Retreat! Retreat!� in their own tongue.

The cavalry galloped across the dry river-bed. The foot-soldiers climbed with all speed across Giant Dumpling�s gently breathing body. The mules and donkeys, struggling with heavy loads, were last across, scrambling over the stones of the dry river. Then the Mossland army appeared, galloping at full speed towards the river, waving their swords and shouting in triumph.

�We�ve downed their giant! Their giant�s dead! Charge! Kill the Honeytowners! Take all their land! Charge! Charge!�

Seeing that the river was now dry they galloped still faster, straight towards the dismayed Honeytowners, who stood ready to take the full force of their assault. The Mosslanders plunged into the river-bed. They were so near now that the Honeytowners could see the evil light of battle in their faces, the eagerness to kill, and a chill fear struck at the Honeytowners� hearts. Giant Dumpling chose this very moment to get up. With many a groan, he lumbered to his feet, climbing out of the deep river bed. The great river, which had been piling up behind him, was released, and it swept down upon the Mosslanders now with all its pent-up force. They began to turn back. Too late! The deep water was upon them. They were engulfed and swept away before they had time to draw breath to shout a warning. The swift river ran on, tossing a few wooden spears to its surface. The Mossland army was gone, without so much as a cry. The Honeytowners stood in stunned silence on the river bank.

�Poor fellows. Poor fellows,� said General Gait, sadly.

�They would have killed us, sir,� said Peter.

�I know it, I know it, my boy, but it�s a sad bad business,� General Gait answered.

Meanwhile Giant Dumpling was finding himself, feeling for the dreadful wound he was sure he had suffered, wailing and moaning on the river side.

�My poor head. My poor head. They�ve shot me, sure enough, and look at my poor clothes, all wet and muddy. If I�m not shot I�ll catch my death of cold, lying in that nasty cold river all this while. Oh, deary me.�

�You�re not wounded, Giant Dumpling,� said the Mayor.

�Not wounded?� said Giant Dumpling, staring in disbelief.

�No, you�.�.�. well you sort of fainted when our guns went off,� said the Mayor.

�Fainted? I fainted? Dear, oh dear. So now I�m in disgrace for being a coward,� moaned Giant Dumpling.

�No, no, no, not at all,� said the Mayor. �You�re the hero of the day.�

�The hero?�

�Yes, you�ve won the battle, and saved us all from a horrible death.�

�Won? Saved?� murmured Giant Dumpling, too bemused to put two words together, but beginning to smile.

�Yes, dear fellow,� said the Mayor. �You tell him. General, you�re better at battles than I am.�

So General Gait told Giant Dumpling the whole story, and made him a Field-Marshal on the spot. They dried his clothes over a big fire, and they all marched home joyfully, this time with Giant Dumpling leading, looking as pleased as could be. When they reached Honeytown the whole town sang and feasted far into the night and the people cheered Giant Dumpling until his head spun.

That was the happiest day of Giant Dumpling�s long life. The people gave him all the honey he wanted, and he certainly grew no thinner. As Peter said,

�If he hadn�t been so fat, he couldn�t have won the battle.�

Moss Bridge was never rebuilt, and the river was so feared that no one would venture on it in a boat, so the Honeytowners were safe from the Mosslanders, thanks to their unwarlike giant. They grew their fruit, and tended their bees, and never thought of war again.

Giant Dumpling lived to a ripe and contented old age: there was no happier giant in all the world. Years and years afterwards, he would tell the story of the great battle when he became a famous hero, just as it is written here.

Millions of years ago, when the world was full of monsters, there lived a Brontosaurus which was a very evil monster indeed. It was greedier, and very much larger, than any other Brontosaurus that had ever existed, and it was also more bad-tempered, and it turned the vast, shallow lake in which it spent most of its time into a place of terror by rampaging about, night and day. The sound of its great tail thrashing the surface of the water could be heard for miles around, and when it roamed out on to the shore the weight of its huge, scaly body shook the earth. Its head, on its long, twisting neck, suddenly appearing out of the clouds of mist that were drawn up by the heat of the sun, terrified the small animals who dwelt around the lake, and if they fled too late the massive, clawed feet would often crush them into the ground.

Being so large, so brutal, and so very vicious, it was feared even by the other Brontosaurus monsters, and when eventually it died (of overeating) they were very grateful to settle down once more to eat their water plants and weeds in peace; but the small animals that it had spent so much time terrifying, seeing now that the dreadful creature lay quite still and could do them no more harm, gathered round, mocking and jeering, and one, the smallest animal of all, climbed up on to the end of its great spiked tail and gave it a tweak.

When the monster�s evil spirit saw this it became so angry that it determined to roam the earth until it could reason out some way of finding a really horrible revenge. Now this was not easy, for it had become so proud of its gigantic body and long neck that, though it wandered ceaselessly, it could not anywhere find another body that it considered magnificent enough for the fiercest Brontosaurus of all time to occupy.

And so millions of years passed. The great monsters disappeared and gradually the world became as it is today; but still the Brontosaurus went on searching, its spirit ranging everywhere and watching everything.

And it was watching when, in the little seaside town of Marshdene, Mr.�Brown set up his building firm.

Mr.�Brown was a hardworking man, and Jimmy, his son, was a nice, ordinary kind of lad who went to help his father in the business as soon as he left school.

I don�t suppose that Mr.�Brown and Jimmy were really any better than the other builders around, but they were cheerful and helpful, and they pleased the people they worked for by always arriving at the exact time they said they would and working steadily on until the job was finished. Also, being built on marshy land, the homes of Marshdene had a habit of tilting and cracking so that there was always a great deal of extra work for builders to do, shoring them up and cementing them together again; but the people did not move away from Marshdene, because they liked the sea and the beach with its soft yellow sand, and the long wooden jetty where they could sit and watch the fish swimming in the clear water.

As his business grew more and more prosperous, Mr.�Brown began to buy all kinds of machinery to help with the work. He bought lorries, cement mixers, rollers, bulldozers. Mr.�Brown was very proud indeed of all these machines, and Jimmy liked them too, especially one of the diggers, which was painted red and had broad, newly-tyred wheels and a large shovel worked by an impressive array of levers in the comfortable cabin.

The more machines Mr.�Brown bought the more efficient he became, and nobody was surprised when he was given the contract to build a block of flats for the council. The Mayor of Marshdene had recently been on an official visit to New York, and people said it had given him delusions of grandeur because the first thing he did when he returned home was to talk about swapping the mayoral Rolls-Royce for a helicopter, and the second was to decide to build the tallest block of flats in the country.

This worried Mr.�Brown considerably, because the only spare land near Marshdene that was big enough was a very muddy, damp sort of place, not really suitable for building on at all.

It worried the surveyor, too, when he came to check over the site. After trying for many hours to persuade even one wooden stake to stand up straight in the mud, it worried him so much that he wandered round saying, �Can�t be done, can�t be done, can�t be done,� like a gramophone record stuck in the groove.

�Of course it can be done,� answered Jimmy. �Surely there must be solid earth or rock or something down there somewhere.�

�I doubt it,� said the surveyor, but Jimmy ignored him and went on. �We might manage it with a very large crane with a big grab on the end. If the crane was big enough it could reach right over and scoop the mud out. We�ll have to buy one�anyway, we can use it afterwards for building the flats.�

Mr.�Brown was feeling so desperate by now that he agreed to have a huge crane made to order specially for the job.

The crane was so large that it had to be brought along the road to Marshdene during the night to prevent a traffic hold-up, and it was accompanied by a police motorcycle escort. The two men from the manufacturers had great difficulty in controlling the transporter it had been loaded on to: they completely demolished the sign saying �Welcome to Marshdene-on-Sea�, and they twice drove up on the pavement, narrowly missing the great crowd of onlookers that had gathered.

And the evil spirit of the monster, which had been watching and waiting and growing more and more terrible for hundreds of millions of years, saw the crane with its great body and long, long neck; and the spirit swooped down, and settled itself inside, and waited.

The men parked it in the field where Mr.�Brown kept his building materials, and staggered from the cab. �Cor!� said one, mopping his brow. �I�ve never handled a crane as big as that before, I could do with a good strong cup of tea, I could really.�

So Mr.�Brown took the men home with him to make them some tea, and, as it was getting dark, the crowd gradually dispersed, leaving Jimmy alone with the crane. It really was massive, he thought; indeed, very much larger and somehow bulkier than he had imagined it would be. In the gathering dusk the cabin looked shadowy and the metal jib, towering above him, gleamed with a sinister silver lustre, and for one moment he thought he saw the great grab suspended from its tip open its steel jaws and snap them closed again.

�A trick of the light,� Jimmy said to himself, and he went across to the hut in which the night watchman was settling himself by his fire. Nearby were the building materials: iron girders, concrete blocks, long lengths of timber. �You might be kind enough to keep an eye on the crane as well,� he said, and then made his way home to bed.

He did not sleep very well, and in the morning he was awakened before dawn by the sound of shouting in the street outside and a hammering and banging on the front door. He made his way hastily downstairs and let in the night watchman, who had been running so fast and was trembling so much that he could scarcely stammer out, �Mr.�Jimmy, sir, it�s that crane, it�s gone berserk�it�s knocked over the piles of concrete blocks as though they were ninepins, the girders are all bent and the wood�s in splinters. I tried to stop it�shouted out�but it was no good, it just went rampaging up the hill to the High Street.�

�But someone must be driving it,� Jimmy said.

�I couldn�t see a driver at all�if it hadn�t been going up hill I�d have said the brakes had failed.�

�Well, standing here won�t stop it,� answered Jimmy. �I�d better get after it.�

�You won�t have any difficulty following it�� said the night watchman, looking drawn and anxious, �but you won�t be able to get along in a car because it�s torn great holes in the road.�

Jimmy, as he ran into the street, had to admit that the man was at least correct about tracking it down. The crane was clearly visible even above the tallest buildings in Marshdene, and as he watched he saw the great grab dip, come up full and then open again, dropping a pile of crushed rubble on to the roof of the town hall.

Jimmy ran along the lane and leaped into the small red digger which with its cross-country tyres was the best vehicle to negotiate the cratered road surface. His progress was slow, but the monster crane had been too preoccupied with destroying things to travel far. He passed a gaping hole from which a burst water main sent up a fountain fifty feet into the air, a street where all the telephone wires had been wrenched out and carried up over the rooftops, festooning the houses like untidy Christmas decorations, and another where all the parked cars were stamped right down into the tarmac.

Jimmy found it very difficult to make his way through all this but eventually, coughing in the dusty air and shaken by his lurching ride, he came out into the square around which the main shopping centre was built. The shopping centre had been new, the pride of Marshdene. Smart rows of shops, freshly-painted, with offices above, bounded the neat lawns with their wooden seats and pleasant flower-beds. There are a good many ways of destroying a shopping centre and it seemed to Jimmy that the crane had tried out every one. In some places the glass of the shopfronts was smashed into powder, in others the counters and cabinets had been lifted up and dropped through the roofs. Some buildings had been torn down by the huge grab, others just flattened completely as the great caterpillar tracks ground onwards. Desks, sometimes still with typewriters balanced precariously on their surfaces, hung from the broken floors of the offices, filing cabinets spilled their contents which floated down like large confetti to blow about amidst the ripped bags of flour, spilt sugar, tins, vegetables, fruit, crushed china, clothes and a mass of other debris.

People were running about everywhere, screaming and shouting. By now the crane had made its way into the goods yard, and after destroying a string of railway trucks drawn up in a siding it was busy with a length of twisted track that hung from its mouth like steel spaghetti.

Jimmy drove forward, narrowly missing a wall that suddenly collapsed, and caught up with the crane as it reached the promenade.

�Stop it, stop it, whoever you are!� he shouted. But the crane seemed to be concentrating on lifting up a motorcycle, the wheels revolving as the grab held it by the handlebars and shook it before depositing the pieces on to the remains of a small fishing boat.

Jimmy took advantage of this to dodge in underneath.

The cab was quite empty!

He dodged out again hurriedly, just in time to avoid the great jaws. He sat for a moment stupefied. He could not believe his eyes and he felt very frightened indeed.

�This won�t do, Jimmy my lad; you�ve got to be brave,� he said to himself, but he only felt more terrified than ever.

Suddenly catching sight of the funfair on the sea-front the monster made its way towards it and reared up above the roundabout. As it did so it let out a great roar. Jimmy, trying to convince himself that it was only the cable running out over the bearings, watched while it crushed in the top and then turned to the dodgem cars, gathering them up and depositing them, bent and broken, all around.

Jimmy took this opportunity to make a second attack, this time driving the digger into the side of the cabin with a force that flung him across his seat. The monster, by now chewing one of the swingboats, hardly appeared to notice.

Then the great grab swung over towards Jimmy. There seemed to be eyes in it, he thought, fixing him with a malevolent stare. As the huge jaws ran close to the ground in his direction, Jimmy raised the arm at the back of the digger, hooked it into the monster�s cable, and went into reverse. The cable retracted with a twang that made the monster shudder.

A great crowd of people had by now gathered at a safe distance. Most of them were silent, although one or two shouted �Let him have it, Jimmy!� or, �Go to it, Jim!� as he drove at the massive cab again and again.

Then suddenly Jimmy accelerated away and appeared to try to hide behind a row of beach huts built further along the promenade. The crane lumbered through them and then stopped for a moment to crumple up the corrugated iron roofs and throw them into the water. Jimmy drove back the way he had come, a punctured rear tyre drawing a wide black stripe on the concrete behind him, and raced down the long narrow jetty about fifty yards away, stationing himself at the very end where the sea was still deep enough for large waves to lap the base.

�He�s running away,� said someone.

�What�s to become of us now?� shouted someone else.

The monster finished with the beach huts, and then looked round again for the red digger. It soon caught sight of it, and Jimmy and the crane stayed for a long time quite still eyeing each other across the sea.

The sun rose and bathed everything in a red glow that changed to pink and eventually to gold, and still they waited, and still the crowd continued to watch, silently.

Suddenly Jimmy let out a loud jeering cry and at the same time sounded the horn of his digger over and over again. At this the monster seemed to gather all its evil strength, and it charged into the sea straight towards him.

At first it travelled quite smoothly, seeming as much at home in the water now as it had done as a Brontosaurus all those millions of years ago; but gradually as the water began to seep into the engine it slowed and, with the cab nearly submerged, came to a halt. The huge grab hung still for a moment, then fell with a loud whining of pulleys, sending a great wave to the shore. For a whole minute the terrible machine stayed motionless while the swell lapped gently round it; and then it tilted slightly sideways, lurched forward, and began to sink inexorably into the soft yellow sand. And so the spirit of the dreadful monster, trapped forever in the heavy steel body that it had taken for itself, disappeared helplessly beneath the pleasant waters of Marshdene Bay.

Did you ever hear of the golden apples that grew in the garden of the Hesperides? No?

Even in old, half-forgotten times, before the garden of the Hesperides was overrun by weeds, a great many people doubted whether there could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon their branches. But this did not stop adventurous young men, who desired to do a braver thing than any of their fellows, setting out in quest of the wonderful fruit. Many of them returned no more; none of them brought back the apples. It was said that there was a dragon beneath the tree, with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of which were always on the watch while the other fifty slept.

But at the time of which I am going to speak, a hero was wandering through the pleasant land of Italy who had a mighty club in his hand and a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders. He wore the skin of the biggest and fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he himself had killed. As he went on his way, he continually enquired whether he was on the right road to the famous garden. But none of the country people knew anything about the matter, and many looked as if they would have laughed at the question if the stranger had not carried so big a club.

So he journeyed on and on, still making the same enquiry, until, at last, he came to the brink of a river where several beautiful young women sat making wreaths of flowers.

�Can you tell me, pretty maidens,� asked the stranger, �if this is the right way to the garden of the Hesperides?�

�The garden of the Hesperides?� cried one young woman. �We thought mortals had grown weary of seeking it, after so many disappointments. What do you want there?�

�A certain king, who is my cousin, has ordered me to get him three of the golden apples.�

�Are you aware,� another young maiden asked, �that a terrible dragon with a hundred heads keeps watch under the golden apple-tree?�

�I am,� answered the stranger calmly. �But, from my cradle upwards, it has been my business, and almost my pastime, to deal with serpents and dragons.�

Then he carelessly lifted his mighty club, and let it fall upon a rock that lay half buried in the earth, near by. With the force of that idle blow, the great rock was shattered to pieces. It cost the stranger no more effort to achieve this feat of giant�s strength than for one of the young maidens to touch her sister�s cheek with a flower.

�Do you believe,� he asked with a smile, �that such a blow would have crushed one of the dragon�s heads?�

Then he sat down on the grass and told them the story of his life, or as much as he could remember, from the day he was first cradled in a warrior�s shield. While he had lain there, two immense serpents had come gliding over the floor and opened their hideous jaws to devour him; and he, a baby of a few months old, had gripped one of the fierce snakes in each of his little fists and strangled them to death. When he was but a stripling he had killed a huge lion, almost as big as the one whose vast and shaggy hide he now wore upon his shoulders. The next thing he had done was to fight a battle with an ugly monster, called a hydra, which had no less than nine heads and exceedingly sharp teeth in every one of them.

�But the dragon of the Hesperides,� observed one young maiden, �has a hundred heads.�

�Nevertheless,� replied the stranger, �I would rather fight two such dragons than a single hydra. For, as fast as I cut off one head, two others grew in its place; and besides, there was one head that could not possibly be killed, but kept biting as fiercely as ever, long after it was cut off. So I was forced to bury it under a stone, where it doubtless lives to this day.�

When he had finished the story of his adventures, the stranger looked around at the attentive faces of his audience.

�Perhaps you may have heard of me before,� he said modestly. �My name is Hercules.�

�We have already guessed it,� replied the nearest young woman, �for your wonderful deeds are known all ever the world. And we no longer think it strange that you should set out in quest of the golden apples. We will now give you the best directions we can. You must go to the seashore and find the Old One and compel him to inform you where the garden is to be found.�

�The Old One!� Hercules repeated, laughing at this odd name. �And who is the Old One?�

�Why, the Old Man of the Sea, to be sure!� answered another of the maidens. �He is a seafaring person, and knows all about the garden of the Hesperides, for it is situated on an island which he is often in the habit of visiting.�

Hercules then asked where the old man was most likely to be found, and when the damsels had informed him, thanked them for all their kindness and immediately set forth upon his journey. But before he was out of hearing, one of the maidens called after him.

�Keep fast hold of the Old One when you catch him. Do not be astonished at anything that may happen. Only hold him fast, and he will tell you what you wish to know.�

Hercules walked resolutely forward until he came to a seashore where the great surf-waves crashed upon the hard sand in a long line of snowy foam. At one end of the beach, however, there was a pleasant spot where some green shrubbery clambered up the cliff, making its rocky face look soft and beautiful. A carpet of verdant grass, largely intermixed with sweet-smelling clover, covered the narrow space between the bottom of the cliff and the sea. And what should Hercules see there but an old man, fast asleep!

But�was it an old man? Certainly, at first sight it looked like one; but, on closer inspection, it rather seemed to be some kind of creature that lived in the sea. For on his legs and arms were scales, such as fishes have; he was web-footed and web-fingered, after the fashion of a duck; and his long beard, which was a greenish colour, had more the appearance of a tuft of seaweed than of an ordinary beard. Hercules, the instant he set his eyes on this strange figure, was convinced that it could be no other than the Old One who was to direct him on his way. Thanking his stars for the lucky accident of finding the old fellow asleep, Hercules crept forward on tip-toe and caught him by the arm and leg.

�Tell me,� he cried, before the Old One was well awake, �which is the way to the garden of the Hesperides?�

As you may imagine the Old Man of the Sea awoke in a fright. But his astonishment could hardly have been greater than that of Hercules, for all of a sudden the Old Man seemed to disappear out of his grasp, and he found himself holding a stag by the fore and hindlegs! But still he held fast. Then the stag disappeared, and in its place there was a sea-bird, fluttering and screaming, while Hercules clutched it by wing and claw! But the bird could not get away. Immediately afterwards, there was an ugly three-headed dog, which growled and barked at Hercules, and snapped fiercely at the hands that held him. In another minute, instead of the three-headed dog, what should appear but Geryon the six-legged monster, kicking at Hercules with five of his legs in order to get the remaining one free. But Hercules held on. By and by no Geryon struggled in his grasp but a huge snake, like one of those which Hercules had strangled in his babyhood, only a hundred times as big; and it twisted and twined about the hero�s neck and body, and threw its tail high in the air, and opened its deadly jaws as if to devour him. But Hercules was in no way disheartened, and squeezed the great snake so tightly that it soon began to hiss with pain.

Presently the Old One grew tired and finally thought it best to reappear in his own figure. So there he was again, a fishy, web-footed sort of personage, with something like a tuft of seaweed on his chin.

�What do you want with me?� he demanded, as soon as he had regained his breath; for it was quite a tiresome affair to go through so many changes. �Why do you squeeze me so hard? Let me go this moment, or I shall begin to consider you an extremely unpleasant person!�

�My name is Hercules!� roared the mighty stranger. �And you will never get out of my clutch until you tell me the nearest way to the garden of the Hesperides!�

�Oh, I�ve heard all about you!� the Old Man of the Sea exclaimed. �Very well. Walk south by south east, then follow your nose until you see a very tall giant, who holds the sky on his shoulders. And the giant, if he happens to be in a good humour, will tell you exactly where the garden of the Hesperides lies.�

�And if the giant happens not to be in a good humour,� remarked Hercules, balancing his club on the tip of one finger, �perhaps I shall find the means of persuading him.�

Thanking the Old Man of the Sea and begging his pardon for having squeezed him so roughly, the hero resumed his journey, which was a very long one indeed, for he had to cross the land of Egypt and most of Africa, before he arrived on the shore of a great ocean. And here, unless he could walk on the crests of the waves, it seemed as if his journey must needs be at an end.

But, suddenly, as he looked towards the horizon, he saw something a great way off which he had not seen the moment before. It gleamed very brightly, almost as if it were another sun coming up over the rim of the world, then, as it drew nearer, was revealed as a vast gold or brass cup. How it had got afloat upon the sea is more than I can tell you. There it was, at all events, rolling on the tumultuous waves, which tossed it up and down, and heaved their foamy tops against its sides, but without even throwing their spray over the brim.

�I have seen many giants in my time,� Hercules thought, �but never one who would need to drink out of a cup like this!�

The waves tumbled the immense cup forward, until it grazed the shore within a short distance of the spot where Hercules was standing. As soon as this happened, he knew what was to be done; for he had not gone through so many remarkable adventures without learning how to conduct himself whenever anything out of the ordinary came to pass. It was as clear as daylight that this marvellous cup had been set adrift by some unseen power, and guided to this spot, in order to carry Hercules across the sea on his way to the garden of the Hesperides. Accordingly, without a moment�s delay, he clambered over the brim and slid down inside, where, spreading out his lion�s skin, he proceeded to take a little nap.

He must have slept for a good while before the cup chanced to graze against a rock, and as a result immediately gave a loud bell-like sound. The noise awoke Hercules, who instantly started up and gazed about him, wondering where he was. He was not long in discovering that the cup had floated across a great part of the sea, and was approaching the shore of what seemed to be an island. And on that island what do you think he saw?

A giant.

But what an intolerably big giant. A giant as tall as a mountain. So vast a giant that the clouds rested about his waist like a girdle, and hung like a white beard from his chin, and flitted before his huge eyes, so that he could not see Hercules or the golden cup. And, most wonderful of all, he appeared to be supporting the sky, which, so far as Hercules could see, was resting on his head.

Meanwhile the bright cup continued to float onward until it finally touched the shore. Just then a breeze blew the clouds from before the giant�s face, and Hercules saw the enormous features; eyes, each as large as a lake, a nose a mile long, and a mouth of the same width. Also, it became clear that the giant had been standing in that one position for a very long time. An ancient forest had been growing and decaying around his feet; and oak-trees, of six or seven centuries old, had forced themselves between his toes.

The giant looked down, and, perceiving Hercules, roared out in a voice that resembled thunder:

�Who are you, down there at my feet? And from where did you come in that little cup?�

�I am Hercules,� the hero shouted back, �and I am seeking the garden of the Hesperides.�

�Ho! Ho! Ho!� roared the giant, in a fit of immense laughter. �That is not a wise adventure!��

�And why not?� Hercules demanded, becoming a little angry at the giant�s mirth. �Do you think I am afraid of a dragon with a mere hundred heads?�

Just at this moment some black clouds gathered about the giant�s middle and burst into a tremendous thunderstorm, causing such a commotion Hercules found it impossible to distinguish a word the colossus was saying. At last the storm passed as quickly as it had come. And there against a background of sullen thunder-clouds, was the mighty giant holding up the sky, while he roared down at Hercules:

�I am Atlas, the mightiest man on earth! And I hold the sky on my head!�

�So I see,� answered Hercules. �But can you show me the way to the garden of the Hesperides?�

�What do you want to go there for?� asked the giant.

�I want three of the golden apples,� shouted Hercules, �for my cousin, the king.�

�There is no one but myself,� said Atlas, �that can go to the garden of the Hesperides and gather the golden apples. If it were not for this little business of holding up the sky, I would make half a dozen steps across the sea and get them for you.�

�You are very kind,� Hercules replied. �And cannot you rest the sky upon a mountain?�

�None of them are high enough. But, if you were to climb to the summit of the tallest one, your head would be pretty nearly on a level with mine. You seem to be a fellow of some strength. Why not take my burden on your shoulders, while I do your errand for you?�

Now Hercules was a man of extraordinary strength, but even so, he hesitated before assuming such a difficult undertaking.

�Is the sky very heavy?� he enquired.

�Not at first. But it becomes a little tiresome after a thousand years.�

�And how long will it take you to fetch the golden apples?�

�Only a few minutes,� Atlas replied, �I shall take ten or fifteen miles at a stride, and be at the garden and back before your shoulders begin to ache.�

�Very well,� Hercules agreed, �I will climb that mountain behind you and relieve you of your burden.�

The truth is, Hercules had a kind heart, and considered he would be doing the giant a favour by allowing him this opportunity for a ramble. And, besides, he thought that it would be more for his own glory, if he could boast of holding up the sky, than merely to do so ordinary a thing as to conquer a dragon with a hundred heads. So without further words; the sky was shifted from the shoulders of Atlas and placed upon those of Hercules.

When this was safely accomplished, the first thing that the giant did was to stretch himself; and you may imagine what a prodigious spectacle he was then. Next he slowly lifted one of his feet out of the forest that had grown up around it; then the other. Then, all at once, he began to caper, and leap, and dance for joy at his freedom; jumping high into the air, but being very careful not to bump his head against the sky. When his joy had subsided a little, he stepped into the sea; ten miles at the first stride, which brought him mid-leg deep; and ten miles at the second, when the water came just above his knees; and ten miles at the third, by which he was immersed to his waist. This was the greatest depth of the sea.

Hercules watched the giant, as he still went forward; for it was really a wonderful sight, this immense human form, more than thirty miles off, half hidden in the ocean, but with his upper half as tall and misty and blue as a distant mountain. At last the gigantic shape faded entirely out of view. And now Hercules began to consider what he should do, in case Atlas should be drowned in the sea, or if he were to be stung to death by the dragon with the hundred heads, which guarded the golden apples of the Hesperides. If any such misfortune were to happen, how would he get rid of the sky? And, by and by, its weight began to be a little irksome to his head and shoulders.

I know not how long it was before, to his unspeakable joy, he saw the huge shape of the giant, like a cloud, on the far-off edge of the sea. As he approached, Atlas held up his right hand, in which Hercules could see three magnificent golden apples, as big as pumpkins, all hanging from one branch.

�I am glad to see you again!� he shouted, when the giant was within hearing. �So you have got the golden apples?�

�Certainly,� Atlas answered, �and very fair apples they are. I took the finest that grew on the tree, I do assure you. Ah! it is a beautiful spot, that garden of Hesperides. Yes; and the dragon with a hundred heads is a sight worth any man seeing. You really should have gone for the apples yourself.�

�Never mind,� Hercules replied. �You have had a nice walk, and done the business quite as well as I could. Thank you very much. And now, as I have a long way to go, and am rather in a hurry�and as the king, my cousin, is anxious to receive the golden apples�will you be so kind to take the sky off my shoulders?�

The giant tossed the golden apples twenty miles into the air, then caught them as they came down.

�As to that�well�I do consider you to be a little unreasonable. I can carry the golden apples to the king, your cousin, much quicker than you could. And as his Majesty is in such a hurry to get them I promise to take my longest strides. Besides, I have no fancy for burdening myself with the sky just now.�

Here Hercules grew impatient, and gave a great shrug of his shoulders. It now being twilight, you might have seen two or three stars tumble out their places. Everybody on earth looked upwards with great alarm, thinking that the sky might be going to fall down.

�That will never do!� cried Giant Atlas, with a great roar of laughter. �I have not let fall so many stars within the last five centuries. By the time you have stood there as long as I did, you will begin to learn patience!�

�What!� Hercules shouted, �do you intend to make me bear this burden for ever?�

�We must think about that one of these days,� replied the giant. �At all events, you ought not to complain if you have to bear it for the next hundred years, or perhaps the next thousand. I bore it for a good while longer, in spite of an aching back. You are most certainly a very strong man and can never have a better, opportunity to prove it. Unborn generations will talk about you.�

�Pish! a fig for such talk!� Hercules said, with another hitch of his shoulders. �Just take the sky upon your head for an instant, will you? I want to make a cushion of my lion�s skin for the weight to rest upon. I might as well be comfortable, if I am to stand here for many centuries.�

�That�s a reasonable request,� said the giant. �But for only five minutes. I do not intend to spend the next thousand years as I spent the last.�

And without further words, he threw down the golden apples, and received back the sky, from the head and shoulders of Hercules, upon his own, where it rightfully belonged. And Hercules picked up the three golden apples that were as big or bigger than pumpkins, and straightway set out on his journey homeward, without paying the slightest attention to the thundering voice of Atlas, who bellowed after him to come back.

And there stands the giant to this day; or, at any rate, there stands a mountain as tall as he, and which bears his name; and when the thunder rumbles about its summit, we may imagine it to be the voice of giant Atlas bellowing after Hercules.

On the edge of the hot, sun-baked desert there was a beautiful oasis where a pool of cool, clear water was shaded by a green, leafy tree. In the branches of this tree, which bore clusters of succulent fruit as well as luxuriant foliage, lived an ancient serpent who spent most of her days coiled round a branch, waiting for travellers. She did not want to see travellers beneath the tree so that she could prey upon them�oh no, that was not her way; what she wanted was an audience, people to whom she could tell her tale.

As soon as weary travellers stopped beneath her tree she would slither down through the branches and engage them in conversation. Sometimes, of course, she frightened them, for a serpent is not the most comfortable of companions�but every so often she would find someone willing to listen to her and so she would begin.

�Lisssten,� she would say in her sibilant voice, �listen and I will tell you a doleful tale of how my sssorrow came upon me.

�Once, long ago, a hen laid an egg in thisss very oasis, but alas for her she did not have time to hatch it because the tribe of the Bedouin to whom she belonged moved on the next day, taking her with them. My mother, a handsome green and gold serpent like me, found the egg. She herself had just laid a clutch of four eggs and when she saw the hen�s egg lying in the sand she hissed a little, thinking it was one of her own eggs which had rolled away from the nest, for broody serpents are notoriously absent-minded and easily confused. Pushing the egg across the sand, guiding it with the tip of her sensitive tail, she rolled it to her nest and positioned it beside her own four eggs before settling down in coils to hatch them out.

�Now you would sssuppose, would you not,� the serpent would continue, fixing her gaze and staring into the eyes of her listener like a hypnotist, �that from a hen�s egg a chicken would emerge, however and by whomsoever it was hatched?�

Probably the listener would never have even thought about such a thing, but to humour the serpent he would agree.

�Ssss,� the serpent would hiss triumphantly, �then you would be wrong, it is not ssso. The hen�s egg, lovingly brooded by my mother, mysteriously absorbed some of her serpentine features through the shell and when the great day came upon which the shells cracked open, my mother found to her amazement that she had hatched three male serpents, one female (me), and a strange creature which was part chick and part worm.

�Her first instinct, as she told me in later years, was to destroy the monster she had hatched, but there was something about the little creature that appealed to her maternal instinct and she let him live and called him Cockatrice.

�As her family grew and flourished, my mother did not regret having let her foster child live, for he was truly handsome. His head was like that of a cockerel with a bright red comb and yellow beak; the dark, greeny-black feathers on his neck changed to iridescent green scales upon his breast which narrowed sharply into a sinuous, green and gold serpent�s body, ending in a barbed tail. His eyes were hooded and always half-closed�we thought at first it was because of the brightness of the sun, but there was another reason as you shall see.

�Every day my mother gave us lessons in sssurvival. She taught us how to catch our food, which things were good to eat and which would do us harm. She taught us how to move silently and to escape detection by skilful use of cover, she taught us how to defend ourselves if we were threatened, using our eyes to mesmerise and our venomous fangs to sting. �But you, my poor child,� she said to our foster brother the cockatrice, �I do not know how you will protect yourself for although you are serpentine in your hinder parts, you are fowl in your front parts and therefore have nothing more lethal than a peck to offer your enemies�.

�Upon hearing this, the cockatrice began to laugh. �Come, mother,� he said, �I will show you what I can do to protect myself,� and, still laughing, he slid along the night-cooled sand until he came upon a desert rat frolicking in the moon�s light. �Stay behind me,� he commanded softly, �and watch�.

�Sssslowly sliding forward, he advanced upon the rat, gave a soft crowing call to attract its attention and as it looked towards him, he opened his eyes wide and stared at the little rodent. An expression of astonishment showed on the animal�s face and then, quicker than lightning strikes, it became as still as a rock and turned to stone.

�The cockatrice hooded its eyes again and gave its eerie laugh. Our mother, hissing with surprise, slithered forward to examine the little statue. �Sssso,� she said, �this is your gift and your defence. Take care, my son, always to use it wisely and never look upon anything that you love with your full gaze�.

�As time passed and we were all fully grown, our mother decided that the family should split up because there was not room enough in the oasis for all of us. Her sons, she said, should go out into the world and find new hunting grounds and I, as the only daughter should remain with her at the oasis until I married. My three serpent brothers thought this a fine plan and were anxious to set out and see more of the world, and the cockatrice, too, was keen to go�not only to see more of the world, but to be seen more often, for I am sorry to say he was very vain and thought himself the most handsome creature that had ever lived.

�Alasss, I encouraged him in this for I had fallen in love with him and told him constantly how elegant he looked, how handsome and how brave. It was not until long afterwards that I realised that ours was a rather one-sided love affair, for he only occasionally said that he loved me and told me that my green and gold scales were attractive. At the time I supposed he did not mention my looks often because he always saw me through half closed eyes, never looking at me directly so that he should not turn me to stone, but later I realised that so great was his vanity and his love for himself that there was little room in his heart for love of another.

�As the time for his departure drew close, I grew daily sadder and sadder. Bitter tears I shed at the thought of being parted from my darling cockatrice. My mother noticed my feelings and finally took the cockatrice on one side and told him of my love for him and said that if he married me she would depart in his place, giving the oasis to him for my dowry. The cockatrice agreed, and to my great joy he proposed to me and upon the next day we were married and we had a great feast to celebrate my wedding and the departure of my mother and brothers.

�Although I was a little sad to see them all go, the fact that I was now wife to the marvellous cockatrice soon made me happy again and I devoted every moment of my time to caring for him and fulfilling his every wish. In the evenings we would lie coiled companionably along the branches of the great tree while I told him over and over again how much I loved him, how beautiful he looked, how his feathers and scales shone and many other such foolish things as lovers delight in saying. He would sit and listen, preening his feathers and smoothing his scales with his beak, but although he accepted every extravagant compliment as his due, as time passed, he became discontented only hearing about his good looks and longed to see his beauty for himself instead of seeing it through my eyes.

�It ssso happened, not long after we were married, that one day a caravan of traders passed through our oasis and halted here at the same time as a rich tribe of nomads. There was much feasting and bargaining going on beneath our tree and the cockatrice and I watched all that went on with interested eyes. We saw lengths of gorgeous fabric exchanged for little discs of gold and silver, we saw sacks of flour and coffee change hands in return for goats and kids. We saw curiously wrought knives in tooled leather sheaths bartered for hand-thrown pottery and we saw many other things whose purpose we did not know.

�The thing which intrigued the cockatrice most was something called a looking-glass which was bought by the chief of the Bedouin as a gift for his favourite wife. We heard the merchant extolling its properties; whoever should look upon this thing, he said, would be able to see in it exactly how he looked in every detail. The cockatrice immediately coveted that looking-glass, for he felt that he could never be content until he had seen himself in his true beauty. I told him it was a foolish dream which could never come true; but he wanted it so badly that I determined to try to get it for him.

�Early next morning, I sslid cautiously into the tent where, from my careful observations, I knew that the women slept. How a serpent could carry such a thing as a looking-glass I did not know, but to make my beloved cockatrice happy I was willing to try.

�Once inside the tent, I began my search. It was dark there but I slid over the ground, over the sleeping forms of the tent dwellers and in and out of the baggage without making a sound. At last I found the looking-glass. The woman had placed it beside her pillow so that it would be the first thing she saw when she awoke.

�It was shaped like an oval, made of polished steel and set into a jewelled frame with a narrow handle. I curled the tip of my tail twice around the handle and with great care, dragged it slowly across the tent and out through the doorway.

�My husband was waiting eagerly for me outside the tent and when he saw that I had secured the prize, he began to crow with joy. Quickly I hushed him and told him to beware or be would rouse the camp and we should be caught before we could slither away. But the cockatrice was beyond caring about such things; at last he was to see for himself how beautiful he was.

�As he slithered towards the looking-glass, I suddenly remembered the advice my mother had given him when we were young�never look upon anything you love with your full gaze, she had said, and, knowing that the cockatrice loved himself above all things, I tried to shout a warning.

�It was too late. The cockatrice had positioned himself above the mirror and looked down into it, his eyes wide open. He had one moment in which to enjoy his beauty�and then he turned to stone.

�Sssso,� the serpent would finish her tale, �I lost my beloved cockatrice. Often and often I have thought that had I not loved him so much that for him I accomplished the almost impossible task of stealing the looking-glass, he might still be here. It is a woeful tale, is it not, stranger?�

Usually the listener would agree. Sometimes one would say sympathetically that she should not blame herself, for had the cockatrice not been so vain he would not have come to harm. Sometimes a traveller would ask her what became of the stone cockatrice and she would tell sadly that while she mourned from the branches of the tree where she had taken refuge when morning brought the people from their tents, she had seen one of the merchants pick up the statue of her beloved and tuck it into his camel bag, and that was the last time she ever set eyes on him.

Folk will tell you that the days of signs and omens, witches, wizards, and warlocks and the like are past, and only to be found in old wives� tales told to frighten silly bairns. But there�s a man in Auchinogie who�ll stand up against all the doubting folk who call such things superstitious, and with good reason. For did he not once have an uncommonly queer experience himself?

Murdo MacTaggart his name was, and you�d look far before you�d find a more God-fearing, sober, and honest man. He had never been one to give up his mind to foolish fancies, so it surprised him a lot when things turned out the way they did. There he was, come day, go day, going about his affairs, taking his boat out at night with his nets and his fishing gear all in order, and coming in with his load of fish in the misty dawn. Each time was like the time before it, and nothing ever out of the way, until he met up with the great black cats.

It was upon an All Hallowmass Eve that it happened. The rest of the men told him he�d do better to stay at home and go to church, and not go out in his boat to fish that night, but Murdo only laughed and said, �The better the day, the better the deed!�

Down to the shore he went, but before he even got to his boat, all of a sudden a terrible storm blew up, with lightning flashing and thunder rolling, and the wind tearing by in a gale. There was a hut above the shore where the fisherman kept their nets and oars and fishing gear of one sort and another, and Murdo took shelter there while waiting for the storm to pass by.

While he waited he heard a queer sort of sound outside, and he looked out to see what made it. It was a very queer sight he saw, for there were twelve great black cats, and another, even bigger than the rest, with fur the colour of a red fox, who seemed to be their leader, and they were all coming towards the hut. Murdo looked them over and did not care at all for what he saw. He drew back into the hut and sat down upon a stool in the corner there.

The red one led the twelve great black cats up to the door of the hut. They all crowded into the small space within and the black ones sat themselves down in a circle about the red one.

Said the red one to the great black cats, �Why should we be sitting here in silence? Come now! Raise your voices in a coronach to Murdo MacTaggart.�

And every cat opened its mouth and yowled out the coronach, and a good long and loud one it was, too, fit to nearly split the walls of the hut. What with the din of the storm without and the caterwauling of the creatures within, Murdo was not sure that he�d be able to come through it alive.

When the great black cats came to the end of the coronach, they sat still in their places, but the eyes of every one of them were fixed expectantly on Murdo.

The red one, giving a pleasant purr, said to Murdo, �Come along now, Murdo! You must pay for the grand coronach the cats have sung to you.�

�Pay for it!� said Murdo. �What way would I be needing a coronach anyway, and me not being dead? What would I be paying them with, forbye?�

�That I cannot tell you,� said the red one. �But singing whets the appetite. You had better pay them soon, man, for I can see the light of their hunger in their eyes.�

Murdo looked at the glowing green eyes of the great black cats and shuddered. He looked to the left of him and he looked to the right of him, and saw nothing he could use to pay for the coronach, which he hadn�t wanted anyway. Then he looked in front of him, over the heads of the great black cats and their leader, the red one, and in the field above the shore he saw an old wether and a bony old cow, standing with their backs against the storm.

The beasts were not Murdo�s. They belonged to the laird, but Murdo was beyond caring who owned what. He pointed to the old sheep and cried out, �Take the old wether over there on the lea for your pay.�

Up the black cats sprang and all streaked through the door, and up the shore on to the lea. They fell upon the wether and it did not last them long, for in no time there was naught left of the laird�s wether but a neat heap of well-picked white bones.

Back they came in a trice before Murdo had time to think out a way to escape from them. Down they sat again in a ring with the red one in the middle as before.

�Why be silent?� said the red one to the great black cats. �Sing a coronach to Murdo MacTaggart.�

The cats began to yowl a coronach, and what with the crack of lightning and the roll of thunder and the rain pelting down on the roof and lashing the sides of the hut, the clamour, inside and out together, was terrible to hear.

They got to the end of the coronach at last and sat still, all glaring at Murdo with their green eyes opened wide.

�Come, Murdo,� the red one said. �Pay them now for singing the coronach to you.�

There were no two ways about it. Whether it was his or not, the laird�s cow would have to go to the cats. Murdo pointed a finger to the creature and told them, �There�s a cow up there on the lea. Take that for your pay.�

The cow was old and had but little flesh upon her, so the cats finished her faster than they had the sheep. Soon they were back at the hut again, and all that they left behind was a heap of shining bones on the lea beside those of the sheep.

Down, they sat in a ring again, and the red one bid them sing another coronach to Murdo MacTaggart. And once again the great black cats raised their voices and yowled out their song.

Murdo was in a desperate case, for the wether was gone and the cow was gone and he had naught to pay them for the coronach, which he hadn�t asked for and had never wanted. He had it in his mind that this time it was his own bones the great black cats would be leaving behind in a neat little heap.

Then just as he was giving up hope and saying his prayers for what he thought was the last time, he looked over the heads of the cats and out of the door. What did he see but the laird�s big deerhound, a big rangy long-legged creature who could outrun the swiftest stag. The hound was sniffing about the piles of bones as if perplexed to find them there, and at that moment the coronach came to an end.

Murdo did not wait for the red one to bring up the subject. He lifted a finger and pointed it at the laird�s dog, and cried out, �There�s your pay!�

The cats flew out of the hut in a body, but the deerhound saw them coming. He gathered his legs beneath him and took off with a mighty bound that carried him halfway across the lea. After that first leap the deerhound put his mind on getting away quickly from the place. He moved with such speed that he made a tunnel through the torrents of the rain, and it was a good long time before the hole he had made closed up after him again.

The great black cats flew over the lea and up the road after the deerhound, and the red one with them. As soon as Murdo found himself alone, he got himself out of the hut as fast as he could and ran into the wood that stood on the other side of the lea, hoping to make his escape undiscovered. He was going along the path as fast as his legs would carry him, making his way toward home, when he heard the cats coming back again, and in a great state of anger they were, because the deerhound had been too fleet and had got away. They began to search through the wood, looking for Murdo among the bushes and trees, and Murdo knew that there were too many of them for him to keep out of their way for long. One or the other of them would be sure to come across him soon.

There was a very tall tree beside him, with a trunk that was bare of branches almost three-fourths of the way up, and up the tree Murdo went, climbing it as a sailor climbs a mast. He settled himself on a good stout branch near the top and watched to see what went on below.

The big black cats were going about searching for him among the trees and bushes. Murdo grinned to himself to see them and thought himself safe up there, so high in the top. But his joy soon turned to dismay, for the red one came along and, looking up, spied him among the branches and called to his companions, �You can give up your search, for I�ve found Murdo MacTaggart for you. There he is in the treetop, and we�ll soon have him down.�

�That you�ll not!� said Murdo to himself.

But at that moment one of the great black cats began to climb the tree. When Murdo saw the creature coming, he drew his dirk from his belt and waited until the cat was almost up to his hiding place. The cat reached out with claws spread to grab him, but Murdo stabbed it to the heart with a quick thrust of his dirk. If the cat ever had nine lives it must have lost the other eight before Murdo finished it off, for its body hurtled to the ground and there it lay dead.

A second cat then came climbing up the tree, and then a third one, and Murdo killed both of them.

�Hold!� said the red one to his companions who were left. �We�ll not get him down that way! May ill luck befall him, he�ll kill us all before we�re through, if we continue to climb the tree.�

He gathered the great black cats about him to talk the matter over, and at last the red one said, �If we cannot climb up and fetch him down, we�ll bring the tree down with him in it, and catch him that way.�

So the black cats gathered about the tree and began to dig the earth away from it with their claws, and when they came to a root they chewed through it with their sharp white teeth. When they cut through the first big root, the tree gave a shiver and listed to one side, and Murdo began to shake with fear. He opened his mouth and gave a great cry for help.

There was a church on the other side of the wood and the priest was just coming out with the people around him. He heard Murdo�s shout and said to one of the men beside him, �That was the cry of one in great trouble. I may be needed. I must go.�

�Wait now, Father,� the man told him. ���Tis a bad night for you to be going out. Let it be until we hear if the shout is raised again.�

�Och, well, then,� said the priest. �So let it be.� But he went back into the church to fetch the things that might be needed, should the call come again.

At the tree the cats were digging with mad haste, and soon they had uncovered another root, and they bit it through. The tree began to lean heavily to the side, and Murdo gave a second wild shout for help.

�To be sure,� said the priest. �That is a man whose need is great. Let us go quickly!�

The man beside him made no further objection, but with a nod here and a beckoning finger there he drew a dozen men from among the crowd at the church, and all of them went with the priest towards the wood.

The cats had uncovered the last big root and were chewing at it wildly. The root parted and the tree fell down with a crash just as the priest and the men with him came into sight. Murdo gave one last loud shout and climbed into the branches as high as he could, with the cats springing up to catch him and drag him down, and he with his dirk in hand to defend himself to his last breath. The men rushed forward to rescue Murdo, but the priest was before them. He was a wise old man, that priest, and he knew at once what he had to deal with. He had his holy water bottle in hand, and he opened it as he ran. He sprinkled the blessed water over the big black cats, making sure that every one of them had his full share.

�Begone, Satan, and you demons from hell! Begone!� he cried. �I bid you leave the soul and body of this man alone!�

The red one leapt high into the air and off he flew and soon was seen no more, but he left a great stench of smoke and brimstone behind him. As for the great black cats, they lay about on the ground beside the tree they had cut down. It was a strange thing about those great black cats, for when men went up to them to examine them where they lay, they were not cats at all but only great black cat skins lying upon the ground with neither bones nor flesh within them!

So that was how Murdo MacTaggart was saved on that wild stormy night, not from a pack of great black cats with a red one for their leader, but from Auld Clootie, the de�il himself, with a pack of his demons he�d brought along with him from hell.

It taught Murdo a lesson, for never again did he go down to the shore to go fishing on an All Hallowmass Eve.

The great ship came from the stars. It had been travelling for an immense length of time and the powerful engines were no longer in perfect condition. It came whispering down through banks of cloud. Below rotated a virgin; planet a large and densely forested continent set between blue-green oceans.

The ship sank unevenly towards an emergency landing in a partial clearing in the forest. At the last moment, one of the atomic engines faltered�and then exploded, carving an enormous valley in the forest and drenching the land with radiation.

No man observed the crash of the alien spaceship; mankind had yet to evolve on planet Earth�.�.�.

Peter wakened from an unremembered dream. He had no idea what had roused him. All was quiet but for the ticking of his alarm clock. Then suddenly its ticking stopped.

There was no reason why that should be upsetting, except that he knew he�d wound it the night before, yet it seemed to him, during this strange waking in the small hours, that whatever had roused him had also stopped the clock.

He sat up, reached out, and pressed the electric light switch near his bed. No light came. He switched off and on again. Still no light. He left the switch turned on.

Trying to suppress panic, he groped for his little transistor radio. He turned it on. No sound. He twiddled the knob. No, the radio was dead, yet he�d been playing it before he went to sleep and the battery was almost new.

He told himself that these were three minor coincidences, yet he had an eerie feeling that some external power was at work, obliterating the lesser powers, of clock, light, radio.

Peering into the darkness of his bedroom, he could see the familiar shapes of the furniture. Why could he see them so clearly? Where was this increasing light coming from? A red-tinted light.

He looked towards the window and saw that the red light was coming from outside, penetrating the thick winter curtains. It must be very strong, and it was growing stronger.

He wanted to leap out of bed and run to the door, but by now he was paralysed with fear, as in a nightmare. He tried to call out, but his throat had gone dry. All he could do was sit statue-still and stare at the glowing window. The room was bathed in deep red light.

The next thing he noticed was that the light which penetrated the curtains was most intense in two places, as if two small red suns were drawing closer and growing larger�.�.�.

Suddenly there was a crash of glass, the curtains were thrust aside, and the two red �suns� revealed themselves as two blazing red eyes whose beams swept the room like searchlights.

The eyes were set in a massive, hairy head which filled the whole window-frame. Peter saw big, champing lips, and a strong smell, half-animal, half-metallic, filled the air.

As his room was right at the top of the house, level with the tree-tops, this creature with the red-eyed head must be giant tall. It had apparently walked up to the house and shoved its head through his window!

The boy�s fear-paralysis broke at last. He let out a louder scream than any he had screamed before. He kept it up too. He screamed and screamed and screamed�.�.�.

The visitor at the window did not like the noise. The red �searchlights� swooped away as it turned its back. The window-space turned black with the back of its head, then it retreated, and the night sky appeared. At the same moment, the electric light came on again.

His door burst open and his father rushed in. �What�s happening? Oh, my God!� For the father saw his young son sitting up in bed, yelling his lungs out; the glass from the window lying in pieces on the floor; and the curtains all a-tatter and a-tangle.

�Peter, are you hurt? Did any of that glass cut you?�

Peter, voiceless now from lack of breath, shook his head.

His mother came in. �What can it be?� she exclaimed. �A gas explosion? A bomb?�

�No,� gasped Peter. �A great big hairy monster with red eyes. It stopped the clock, put out the light, made my radio go dead and put its head through the window.� Then he noticed that the clock was ticking again and when he turned on his radio, cheerful music burst forth from a foreign station.

�You poor darling,� said his mother. �You must have been having a horrible nightmare when the explosion, or whatever it was, happened.�

�It wasn�t a nightmare. It was a real red-eyed monster. It put its great big hairy head through��

�All right, old man, all right,� said his father. �You�d better have a shakedown in the living-room until morning. Tomorrow will be time enough to find out what caused the window to break. A freak storm of some sort maybe.�

Next morning, when his parents saw the chaotic state of the garden, with ravaged flowerbeds and uprooted bushes, they were even more convinced that a freak storm had hit the house. Peter�s tale of the monster was paid no attention at all. His mother insisted that he had been dreaming.

�I saw what I saw,� he muttered. �I wouldn�t have yelled like that just for a dream. I�m accustomed to bad dreams.�

He set off nervously to school, glancing from side to side. Halfway there, he stopped. He was behaving like a baby and a coward. The way to cope with fear was to fight it, not scream and tremble. He wouldn�t go to school today. He would go and find the creature who had visited him last night.

But how? And where to start?

He sniffed the air. He caught a faint whiff of that animal-metallic smell�.�.�.

It was such a distinctive smell that, although it was faint as yet, he found that he could follow it. It was different from ordinary dog-smells, or unwashed-human-being-smells; different from the pong that came out of a restaurant�s back door, or the stench of a neglected and squalid dustbin; different from the hot-smell of the foundry and the rotting-vegetable smell of the open-air market. He followed it, sniffing as he went, through back streets and along alleys. He came out of the crowded, industrial area of the town into the near-countryside. And here the smell was stronger.

He walked along a lane that led to the woods. The last time he had come to this wood he�d been picnicking with friends, and they�d taken a bus to get this far. He�d walked miles without realising it because he was so intent on his purpose.

However, as he�d set out so early, he had all day to find whatever was to be found. He must be cautious, not to rush things.

Stepping softly-softly, he entered the deserted winter wood. Deserted? By lovers and picnickers, maybe�too cold for that�but the smell of the monster was strong. The place stank of it. And the trees, which once he had climbed so light-heartedly, seemed to tower over him like sinister sentinels. The monster, he recalled, would be as tall as most of the trees.

The smell grew stronger and stronger. He found himself examining the foot of the trunk of a tree�funny sort of tree-trunk�with claws�and hairy�

He let his gaze travel slowly up that �tree-trunk�, and was aware of two beams of red light shining down on him. Then, suddenly, he was seized round the waist by a giant hand and lifted high into the air. He struggled and squirmed in vain.

He was held, in that great hand, opposite the red eyes. The champing mouth was only a short distance away. The smell of the shaggy hair was almost overpowering.

�Put me down,� he said, in a tiny but brave voice.

The shaggy head shook vigorously, rushing and swishing like a leafy tree-top.

�What do you want?� Peter asked.

Another head-shake and a wave of smelly breeze.

�If you don�t know what you want, then�who are you?�

The monster bared its teeth and uttered a long �MEEEEEEE�.�.�.�

�We�re air Me,� said Peter. �I�m Me too.�

The monster tried again: �MEEEEEEEEEE-TEEEEEE.�

�You Tea?� Did it want a cuppa? Peter gasped for breath. The creature was holding him so tightly round the waist that he feared he might pass out if this went on much longer.

�Oh, please put me down,� he said. �I�ve done you no harm. I�ll�I�ll even go and make you a cup of tea if you�ll put me down. It was me you visited last night. I know I screamed horribly but you gave me such a shock. Please!�

Then, to his vast relief, a human voice spoke from somewhere below. �Put the little boy down, Meaty.�

Peter found himself descending as rapidly as if he were in a lift and a second later he felt his feet touch the ground. He turned to the man who had commanded the monster and been instantly obeyed.

�He hasn�t hurt you, has he?� the other asked anxiously. �He�s completely harmless when he�s normal, but when he gets big like this, he destroys without meaning to. We�ll soon cut him down to size. Meaty?� he called up. �Close your eyes.�

The monster obeyed. The red lights went out. For a second the great creature stood immense and still, almost like a tree that has turned into some sort of animal, and then it began to shrink in size.

It became smaller, smaller, smaller, until it was no bigger than a baby. It was still exactly the same shape, and had the same funny smell�only it was a funny little smell now and therefore less repulsive. Indeed Peter realised that it was because the creature had been so big that it was frightening. It wasn�t vicious. Now, reduced to this tiny scale, it just looked like a hairy little bundle of monkey-type life.

The man brought a black bandage from his pocket and bound it over the creature�s eyes. �It�s when he opens his eyes that he grows,� he said. �I keep him blindfolded always, but last night he got away when I was asleep, took off his blindfold�and heaven knows what damage he may have done.�

�He�s made a rotten mess of our garden, broken my bedroom window, and scared the pants off me when he turned up in the dark,� said Peter, �but I think that�s all. My screams scared him and I guess he came into this wood and hid for the rest of the time. His camouflage is pretty good. He merges with the tall trees.�

The man was nursing the small, blindfolded monster in his arms and stroking it. �All right, Meaty, all right. Oh, but you were naughty.�

�Why do you call him Meaty?� asked Peter, for the creature looked far from edible.

�He came out of a meteorite, that�s why. But don�t let on to anyone. I should have reported it instead of keeping him.�

�I�m not sure what a meteorite is.�

�A lump of stony, metallic material which falls to earth from outer space. This particular meteorite was no bigger than the average dustbin and landed harmlessly in a field not far from my house, so I was first on the spot. It split open and this little creature fell out. His eyes were tightly closed and he looked so pathetic that I took him home before the police arrived to make notes and take the meteorite away. I breed monkeys, so I thought I�d be able to look after him properly. Include him in the family, as it were. For the first couple of weeks he just lay peacefully with his eyes closed, then when he opened them I had a shock. Not only the glare of red light, but the fact that he began to grow. I brought him back to small size by making him close his eyes and I�ve kept his eyes bandaged ever since�or tried to.�

The little monster was weeping now, red tears falling over his cheeks from under the black blindfold.

�I feel dreadfully cruel, keeping him �blind�,� said the man, �but aside from the fact that he grows when he opens his eyes, the eyes themselves have disruptive power. They make mechanical things go wrong.�

�You�re telling me!� said Peter. �He stopped ray clock, messed up the electric light and deaded my radio battery. Then the things came right again after he�d gone.�

�He�s completely unaware of it, of course. He�s not to blame in any way. He�s in the wrong world, poor little Meaty.�

�I expect he�d be all right on the moon,� said Peter. �He could grow as big as he liked.�

�How right you are, but they�ve stopped moon trips for the time being��

�They�ve stopped sending men there, but they still send up scientific equipment and cameras. I don�t see why Meaty shouldn�t go with the next delivery. Why don�t you take him to the scientists in the United States who are interested in sending different things to the moon, to see how they get on? They sent a spider once, to see if it could still spin its web there. They might be very interested if you told them where Meaty came from and how he�s obviously in the wrong world here.�

As he spoke, he noticed that Meaty had stopped weeping and seemed to be listening intently. Now the little creature opened its mouth and said: �MEEEEE-MOOOOON.�

�There you are?� said Peter. �He wants to go! Maybe the meteorite was a chunk of moon and it�s his homeland.�

�HOOOOOMMME,� crooned Meaty.

�I do know an American scientist who works in connection with space probes,� the man murmured. �I wonder if it�d be possible.�

Brooding, he walked along with Meaty in his arms and Peter by his side. They had reached an unfamiliar part of the wood. Peter had never come as far as this before, and he knew he should be thinking of turning back, but he was too fascinated to leave his new friends�for he definitely thought of Meaty as a friend now.

At last they came out from the trees. A house stood in a clearing. Behind it was a garden with cages in which monkeys were climbing, chattering, eating bananas and playing with the skins.

�Where�s Meaty�s cage then?� Peter asked.

�That was it.� The man pointed to a heap of broken and tangled wire. �He literally burst out of it when he started growing. What I can�t understand is why he took off his blindfold.�

�Surely anyone would do that! I would if someone bandaged my eyes,� said Peter.

�But he�s intelligent. He knew what would happen and how dangerous it would be. He�s never disobeyed me in that way before.�

�SAAAAD. SAAAAD. SAAAANNNND,� said Meaty.

�Sad? Sand? What are you trying to tell me?� the man asked.

�SAAAANNNNDEEEE!�

�Oh! Oh, he did, did he?� The man thrust Meaty into Peter�s arms and said: �Hold him gently while I attend to the criminal.� He marched over to the cage next to the heap of broken wire. �Sandy? Sandy, what have you got there? No, that is not a banana skin. It�s a piece of material, isn�t it? All right, so you didn�t know what you were doing. I�ll forgive you this once, but you must not interfere with other monkeys and take their things.�

Sandy, a large, wistful-faced monkey looked at him gravely.

�He has a nice face,� said Peter. �What�s he done?�

�It�s obvious now. He put his arm out of his cage, through the bars of Meaty�s cage, and wrenched off the blindfold.�

In examining Sandy, Peter had drawn close to the cage. Now, quick as lightning, Sandy�s arm stretched out and strong, long fingers seized the bandage from Meaty�s eyes. Immediately the two red lights glowed, at first no more than pin-pricks. Then they grew larger, and so did Meaty. He became too large for Peter to hold.

�Meaty, close your eyes�close your eyes!� cried the man.

But Meaty, having tasted freedom, wasn�t going to give it up so easily again. He began to charge away from the garden, visibly growing as tall as the trees as he approached the wood. Peter and the man gave chase, but it was dark now and the monster merged into the tree-trunks and the leafy branches.

They ran through the wood, calling, and a little later clouds parted and the moon appeared. Everything was illumined with silver.

�We should be able to see him now,� the man said.

A second later, they did see Meaty.

He was standing quite still, his head uplifted, his red eyes glaring upwards at the moon. �MOOOON-HOOOOMMMMME-MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON�.�.�.�

Then he wheeled round and looked down on the man and the boy. His eyes flooded them with redness. �MEEEE TOOOO MOOOON,� said Meaty. He held out his great arms towards the man, and closed his eyes. Quickly he shrank until he was a baby monster again. The man picked him up. �All right, Meaty,� he said. �We�ll take this young fellow�s advice. We�ll go to a clever scientist in America who will try to get you on a rocket to the moon. You�ll be free. You�ll have a world of your own.�

Peter began to follow them back to the house, but somehow he missed them in the shadows. The moon had vanished behind the clouds again. �Wait!� he called. But there was no response.

Common sense returned. It was terribly late. His parents would be having fifty fits wondering where he was. He must go home. There was nothing more to be done for Meaty. The monster would be going to the moon, where he could let his strange eyes and his great body roam at will.

What an adventure it had been!

Peter began to run home.

When he got there, he was overheated and dizzy with fatigue.

�Where have you been?� demanded his parents, angry with anxiety. He was too exhausted to think up any convenient lies, so he told the truth:

�That monster that stuck its head through my window�it wasn�t a dream�I followed it�it was enormous�it went small when it closed its eyes�the man who�d found it called it �Meaty� because it came out of a meteorite and now he�s going to take it to America so that it can be sent to the moon, along with cameras and spiders spinning webs�it stood among the trees and held up its arms to the moon, then closed its eyes, good as gold, so it�d be small again and the man could carry it and�and I guess I�m fagged out.�

Then he fainted.

When he came to, their G.P. was by his bed.

�Touch of flu, old lad. There�s a lot of it about. I�ll give you some pills to make you feel better, then you�ll get yourself better, eh?�

�I�m not ill,� Peter protested. �I was only tired. I�d had quite a day, pursuing the monster and��

�Yes, yes, your mother told me all about it. Fever causes the oddest hallucinations. Know what a hallucination is? It�s a kind of dream-awake.�

�But I wasn�t dreaming. Meaty was there, in the wood, and��

The doctor was already dashing off to his next influenza patient. Peter slept.

When he woke he felt quite fit. �I haven�t got flu at all,� he protested, but his mother said she knew best and he mustn�t go to school, so he said no more. As he�d skipped a day�s school illicitly, the notion that he had flu was quite useful. His bedroom was gloomy as the window was temporarily boarded up, so he pottered about the house for a bit then asked if he might go for a walk. �The fresh air would do me good,� he said, thinking this would appeal to the adult mind. It did.

He caught a bus to the lane which led to the wood, then walked through the trees to find the house on the other side. But everything looked very different by daylight. He couldn�t even recognise the place where he�d met the monster, and he couldn�t find the house at all. Mystified, he began to walk back. A suspicion was coming into his mind that maybe the grown-ups were right�that the monster�s visit in the night had been a nightmare, and the events of yesterday afternoon and evening had been a hallucination, caused by fever, as the doctor had suggested. Had his grand adventure been no more than a spell of delirium? If so, what a rotten anti-climax. He felt depressed as he returned home.

Sounds of banging came from his bedroom and he went up there to find a glazier at work, replacing the glass in his window.

�Hello, young man. This must have given you a nasty shock when it happened,� said the glazier.

�It did,� said Peter. �Have there been any other broken windows around here?�

�Not shattered like this one, but one or two gardens seem to be in the same state as yours. There was some kind of a freak storm that night, quite localised. The weathermen didn�t forecast it, but they can�t win every time. Apparently machinery stopped working when it was on�some electronic effect�I don�t understand these things. No one heard thunder or saw lightning, so it�s quite a mystery.�

He went on working and Peter sat on the bed and watched him.

Suddenly the man said: �Did you have a dog in here when the window broke?�

�No. Why?�

�There was animal hair on some of the broken glass in the window-frame. Rough old hair. Dark and a bit smelly.� He glanced at Peter and grinned. �O.K., if you sneaked a dog in here against parental rules and managed to smuggle him out again, not to worry�I won�t tell on you, lad. I used to do that sort of thing myself.�

�Thank you,� said Peter, bugging himself with sudden delight. It had happened. Meaty had been real, had suffered cruelly through landing in the wrong world; but now there was hope for him and he, Peter, had had a share in it.

He didn�t mean to talk about this, but when bed-time came and his mother was saying good night to him, he couldn�t resist it. When you�ve been proved right, there�s an irresistible temptation to let people know. So he said:

�My monster was real. The glass man found his hairs.�

�Oh, Peter!� His mother burst out laughing. �You and your fantasies! First it�s a great big hairy monster, and now it�s a glass man. You could see through him, I presume?� Still laughing, she gave him a kiss and left him alone.

Oh, what was the use? He must learn to keep his big mouth shut!

A few months later, a newspaper paragraph caught his attention:

�The next Sky-lab, that �box of tricks� to be sent by rocket to the moon, will carry a strange passenger: a unique type of monkey which, apparently, came out of a meteorite. Scientists are reticent about the reasons why it cannot make its home on earth, but hope that it will settle down to a new life on the moon. It will be the first moon immigrant to take up permanent residence there�unless, of course, it came from there in the first place, in which case its journey will be a homecoming. Its name is Meaty.�

Peter cut out the paragraph and, without a word, set it on the breakfast table before his parents. They read it. They looked at him speechlessly.

He bestowed on them a kindly and forgiving smile.

Prince Prigio did not go to bed. It was now bright daylight, and he had promised to bring the horns and tail of a Firedrake as a present to a pretty lady. He said it was easy to do this; but now, as he sat and thought over it, he did not feel so victorious.

�First,� he said, �where is the Firedrake?�

He reflected for a little, and then ran upstairs to the garret.

�There should be a spy-glass here!� he cried tossing the fairies� gifts about; �and, by George, here it is!�

Indeed, he had found the spy-glass of carved ivory which Prince Ali, in the Arabian Nights, bought in the bazaar in Schiraz. Now this glass was made so that looking through it you could see anybody or anything you wished, however far away�.�.�.

The Prince clapped the glass to his eye, stared out of the window, and there, sure enough, he saw the Firedrake. He was floating about in a sea of molten lava on the top of a volcano. There he was, swimming and diving for pleasure, tossing up the flaming waves, and blowing fountains of fire out of his nostrils, like a wave spouting!

The Prince did not like the look of him.

�With all my cap of darkness, and my shoes of swiftness, and my sword of sharpness, I never could get near that beast,� he said; �and if I did stalk him, I could not hurt him�.�.�. And now, what am I to do?�

What was he to do indeed? And what would you have done? Bring the horns and tail he must, or perish in the adventure. Otherwise, how could he meet his lady?�why, she would think him a mere braggart.

The Prince sat down and thought and thought; and the day went on, and it was now high noon.

At last he jumped up and rushed into the library. There he turned the books upside down, in his haste, till he found an old one by a French gentleman, Monsieur Cyrano de Bergerac. It was an account of a voyage to the moon, in which there is a great deal of information about matters not generally known; for few travellers have been to the moon. In that book Prince Prigio fancied he would find something he half remembered, and that would be of use to him. And he did!�.�.�. For here the Prince learned that there is a very rare beast called a Remora, which is at least as cold as the Firedrake is hot!

�Now,� thought he, �if I can only make these two fight, why, the Remora may kill the Firedrake, or take the heat out of him at least, so that I may have a chance.�

Then he seized the ivory glass, clapped it to his eye, and looked for the Remora. Just the tip of his nose, as white as snow and as smooth as ice, was sticking out of a chink in a frozen mountain, not far from the burning mountain of the Firedrake.

�Hooray!� said the Prince softly to himself; and he jumped like mad into the winged shoes of swiftness, stuck on the cap of darkness, girdled himself with the sword of sharpness, and put a good slice of bread, with some cold tongue, in a wallet, which he slung on his back. Never you fight, if you can help it, except with plenty of food to keep you going and in good heart. Then off he flew, and soon he reached the volcano of the Firedrake.

It was dreadfully hot, even high up in the air, where the Prince hung invisible. Great burning stones were tossed up by the volcano, and nearly hit him several times. Moreover, the steam and smoke, and the flames which the Firedrake spouted like foam from his nostrils, would have daunted even the bravest man. The sides of the hill, too, were covered with the blackened ashes of his victims, whom he had roasted when they came out to kill him. But the Firedrake, as happy as a wild duck on a lonely loch, was rolling and diving in the liquid flame, all red-hot and full of frolic.

�Hi!� shouted the Prince.

The Firedrake rose to the surface, his horns as red as a red crescent moon, only bigger, and lashing the fire with his hoofs and his blazing tail.

�Who�s there?� he said in a hoarse, angry voice. �Just let me get at you!�

�It�s me,� answered the Prince. It was the first time he had forgotten his grammar, but he was terribly excited.

�What do you want?� grunted the beast. �I wish I could see you;� and, horrible to relate, he rose on a pair of wide, flaming wings, and came right at the Prince, guided by the sound of his voice.

Now the Prince had never heard that Firedrakes could fly�.�.�. For a moment he was numb with terror; then he flew down like a stone to the very bottom of the hill, and shouted:

�Hi!�

�Well,� grunted the Firedrake, �what�s the matter? Why can�t you give a civil answer to a civil question?�

�Will you go back to your hole and swear, on your honour as a Firedrake, to listen quietly?�

�On my sacred word of honour,� said the beast, casually scorching an eagle that flew by into ashes. The cinders fell, jingling and crackling, round the Prince in a little shower.

Then the Firedrake dived back, with an awful splash of flame, and the mountain roared round him.

The Prince now flew high above him, and cried:

�A message from the Remora. He says you are afraid to fight him.�

�Don�t know him,� grunted the Firedrake.

�He sends you his glove,� said Prince Prigio, �as a challenge to mortal combat, till death do you part!�

Then he dropped his own glove into the fiery lake.

�Does he?� yelled the Firedrake, �just let me get at him!� and he scrambled out, all red hot as he was.

�I�ll go and tell him you�re coming,� said the Prince; and with two strides he was over the frozen mountain of the Remora.

If he had been too warm before, the Prince was too cold now. The hill of the Remora was one solid mass of frozen steel, and the cold rushed out of it like the breath of some icy beast, which indeed it was. All around were things like marble statues of men in armour; they were the dead bodies of the knights, horses and all, who had gone out of old to fight the Remora, and who had been frosted up by him. The Prince felt his blood stand still, and he grew faint; but he took heart, for there was no time to waste. Yet he could nowhere see the Remora.

�Hi!� shouted the Prince.

Then, from a narrow chink at the bottom of the smooth black hill�a chink no deeper than that under a door, but a mile wide�stole out a hideous head!

It was as flat as the head of a skate-fish, it was deathly pale, and two chill blue eyes, dead-coloured like stones, looked out of it.

Then there came a whisper, like the breath of the bitter east wind on a wintry day:

�Where are you, and how can I come to you?�

�Here I am!� said the Prince from the top of the hill.

Then the flat, white head set itself against the edge of the chink from which it had peeped, and slowly, like the movement of a sheet of ice, it slipped upwards and curled upwards, and up and up! There seemed no end to it at all; and it moved horribly, without feet, holding on by its own frost to the slippery side of the frozen hill. Now all the lower part of the black hill was covered with the horrid white thing coiled about it in smooth, flat, shiny coils; and still the head was higher than the rest, and still the icy cold came nearer and nearer, like Death.

The Prince almost fainted; everything seemed to swim; and in one moment he would have fallen stiff on the mountain-top, and the white head would have crawled over him and turned him to stone. And still the thing slipped up from the chink under the mountain.

But the Prince made a great effort; he moved; and in two steps he was far away, down in the valley where it was not so very cold.

�Hi!� he shouted, as soon as his tongue could move within his chattering teeth.

There came a clear, hissing answer, like frozen words dropping round him:

�Wait till I come down. What do you want?�

Then the white folds began to slide, like melting ice, from the black hill.

Prince Prigio felt the air getting warmer behind him, and colder in front of him.

He looked round, and there were the trees beginning to blacken in the heat, and the grass looking like a sea of fire along the plains; for the Firedrake was coming!

The Prince just took time to shout: �The Firedrake is going to pay you a visit!� and then soared to the top of a neighbouring hill, and looked on at what followed.

It was an awful sight to behold! When the Remora heard the name of the Firedrake, his hated enemy, he slipped with wonderful speed from the cleft of the mountain into the valley. On and on he poured over rock and tree, as if a frozen river could slide downhill; on and on, till there were miles of him stretching along the valley�miles of the smooth-ribbed icy creature, crawling and slipping forward. The green trees dropped their leaves as he advanced, the birds fell down dead from the sky, slain by his frosty breath. But, fast as the Remora stole forward, the Firedrake came quicker yet, flying and clashing his fiery wings. At last they were within striking distance; and the Firedrake, stooping from the air, dashed with his burning horns and flaming feet slap into the body of the Remora.

Then there arose a steam so dreadful, such a white yet fiery vapour of heat, that no one who had not the Prince�s magic glass could have seen what happened. With horrible grunts and roars the Firedrake tried to burn his way right through the flat body of the Remora, and to chase him to his cleft in the rock. But the Remora, hissing horribly, and visibly melting away in places, yet held his ground; and the Prince could see his cold white folds climbing slowly up the hoofs of the Firedrake�up and up till they reached his knees, and the great burning beast roared like a hundred bulls with the pain. Then up the Firedrake leaped, and hovering on his fiery wings he lighted in the midst of the Remora�s back, and dashed into it with his horns. But the flat, cruel head writhed backwards, and, slowing bending over itself, the wounded Remora slid greedily to fasten again on the limbs of the Firedrake.

Meanwhile, the Prince, safe on his bill, was lunching on the loaf and the cold tongue he had brought with him.

�Go it, Remora! Go it, Firedrake! You�re gaining. Give it him, Remora!� he shouted in the wildest excitement.

Nobody had ever seen such a battle; he had it all to himself, and he never enjoyed anything more. He hated the Remora so much, that he almost wished the Firedrake could beat it; for the Firedrake was the more natural beast of the pair. Still, he was alarmed when he saw the vast flat body of the Remora was now slowly coiling backwards, backwards into the cleft below the hill; while a thick wet mist showed how cruelly it had suffered. But the Firedrake too was in an unhappy way; for his legs were now cold and black, his horns were black also, though his body, especially near the heart, glowed still like red-hot iron.

�Go it, Remora!� cried the Prince, �his legs are giving way; he�s groggy on his pins! One more effort, and he won�t be able to move!�

Encouraged by this advice, the white slippery Remora streamed out of his cavern again, more and more of him uncoiling as if the mountain were quite full of him. He had lost strength no doubt: for the steam and mist went up from him in clouds, and the hissing of his angry voice grew fainter; but so did the roars of the Firedrake. Presently they sounded more like groans; and at last the Remora slipped up his legs above the knees, and fastened on his very heart of fire. Then the Firedrake stood groaning like a black bull, knee-deep in snow; and still the Remora climbed and climbed.

�Go it now, Firedrake!� shouted the Prince; for he knew that if the Remora won, it would be too cold for him to draw near the place and cut off the Firedrake�s head and tail.

�Go it, Drake! he�s slackening!� cried the Prince again; and the brave Firedrake made one last furious effort, and rising on his wings, dropped just on the spine of his enemy.

The wounded Remora curled back his head again on himself, and again crawled, steaming terribly, towards his enemy. But the struggle was too much for the gallant Remora. The flat, cruel head moved slower; the steam from his thousand wounds grew fiercer, and he gently breathed his last, just as the Firedrake too fell over and lay exhausted.

With one final roar, like the breath of a thousand furnaces, the Firedrake expired.

The Prince, watching from the hill-top, could scarcely believe that these two awful scourges of Nature which had so long devastated his country, were actually dead. But when he had looked on for half an hour, and only a river ran where the Remora had been, while the body of the Firedrake lay stark and cold, he hurried to the spot.

Drawing the sword of sharpness, he hacked off, at two blows, the iron head and tail of the Firedrake. They were a weary weight to carry; but in a few strides of the shoes of swiftness he was at his castle, where he threw down his burden and nearly fainted with excitement and fatigue�.�.�.

Henry was not all that keen on picnics, but Joyce insisted that it would be a crime to stay indoors on such a fine day. So their mother packed a hamper and their father drove them out to a site near the old castle, and Henry had to admit that, once there, with all the good things laid out on a white tablecloth, perhaps it wasn�t such a bad idea.

But of course wasps had to commit hara-kiri in the jam; ants insisted on marching six abreast across the tablecloth, and a swarm of flies formed a buzzing halo round his head.

�We are providing food and entertainment for the entire insect kingdom,� he complained.

Joyce poured tea from a vacuum flask into blue plastic cups. �Nonsense. You shouldn�t let a few flies worry you. Ignore them and perhaps they�ll go away.�

Henry waved his hands frantically in an effort to disperse the irritating horde. �What a hope! Also, I�m not happy about wasp and jam sandwich.�

�There aren�t any wasps in the jam. I dug the last one out with a teaspoon.�

�Ugh!�

�Don�t be so silly.�

It was then that something happened that drove all thoughts of flies, ants and other flying or crawling small life out of Henry�s mind. From the direction of the ruined castle came a shriek, rather like that of a whistling kettle under full steam, and what at first appearance looked like some kind of large bird swooped down from the high walls and landed right in the centre of the tablecloth.

Joyce screamed and even Henry emitted a loud cry of horror when he was in a condition to examine the creature that had so abruptly descended upon them. It stood about four feet high, had the body of a very large bird and the head and shoulders of an ugly old woman. But possibly the most frightening aspect was the flapping wings and curved claws. Henry was certain they were made of brass. One claw reached out and grabbed a plate of sandwiches, and instantly the bread turned blue. Then the jam pot was overturned and two wasps flew away as the strawberry preserve assumed a green, mildewy appearance, then began to bubble in the most alarming fashion. Next, the sliced ham that dissolved into a heap of maggots, then the pink iced-cakes crumbled and became small heaps of grey dust, and finally the two cups of tea disappeared into puffs of foul-smelling steam.

Having completely destroyed a perfectly good meal, the creature emitted another ear-splitting shriek, then flapped its brass wings and flew back to the ruined castle.

�What shall we do?� Joyce whispered.

Henry answered without any hesitation at all.

�Run,� he said. �It might come back.�

Mr.�Harrington was extremely annoyed when the children arrived home and was in no mood to listen to stories about monsters with brass wings�not to mention the head and shoulders of an ugly old woman.

�Where on earth did you run off too?� he demanded. �You knew I was going to pick you up at five o�clock. And you left the vacuum flask, cups�plates�everything�for anyone to take. Why?�

�There was�.�.�.� Henry began, but was quickly interrupted.

�Another thing. What was the foul mess all over the tablecloth? I have never seen anything like it.�

�And how did you get home?� Mrs.�Harrington asked the question which had been causing her great anxiety. �If you had walked along the main road your father would have seen you.�

�We came across the moors.� Henry explained. �It was the shortest way. But�.�.�.�

�We were attacked by a horrible thing with brass wings and feet and it was half bird and half woman!� Joyce exclaimed, unable to restrain her excitement any longer. �And it made all the food go bad.�

Mr.�Harrington looked at his wife and sighed. �I told you they should not be allowed to watch so much television. Heaven above knows their imagination is vivid enough at the best of times. It�s that Star Trek�.�.�.�

�But we did see the dreadful thing,� Joyce insisted. �And it did turn all the food bad. Tell them, Henry.�

Henry nodded. �Yes, it was like a bird�a vulture, I guess�with the head and shoulders of an old woman. And I know it will sound mad�but the wings and feet did appear to be made of brass.�

Mr.�Harrington was quite unable to sustain his angry expression, for he suddenly sat down and began to laugh.

�I see nothing funny in the situation,� Mrs.�Harrington complained. �They run off and make me almost ill with worry, then tell us this�this outrageous story. It really is too much.�

Mr.�Harrington wiped his eyes. �Yes, I know. But you must admit that they are at least original. When you or I played truant we came up with the old worn out excuses�didn�t feel well�lost our way�didn�t know the time. But these kids have pulled something out of Greek mythology.�

�I�m sure I don�t know what you are talking about,� his wife said. �All I know is we�ve been told a silly story that has neither sense or reason. I think they should be both sent to bed without any supper.�

�Hey, just a minute!� Mr.�Harrington raised his hand. �They display a certain amount of educated imagination, and although I do not approve of lies, nevertheless someone has been doing his homework. Where did you learn about the harpy, Henry? At school? Or have you been rummaging around in my library?�

Fortunately for Henry his father did not wait for an answer, but got up and, walking over to a bookshelf, returned with a leather-bound book which he placed on the table.

�Now.� He began to turn pages over. �Let�s have a look. Gorgons�.�.�. Hamehs�.�.�. here we are�.�.�. Harpies. Listen to this:

���A combination of vulture and woman. The four harpies were sent by Zeus to torment the blind king of Thrace, whose meals they snatched before he had a chance to eat. Everything they touched turned to corruption, and they were noted for their brass wings and claws. They were afraid of only one thing�the sound of a brass instrument, which put them to immediate flight.���

Mr.�Harrington closed the book and grinned cheerfully at his irate wife. �There you are. These young fibbers have dreamed up a harpy. Only one, mark you. I don�t know what happened to her three sisters, but perhaps they�re being saved up for the next time ants and wasps become tiresome.�

�But we did�.�.�.� Joyce began, then Henry nudged her and whispered: �Shut up.�

�But�.�.�.�

�Shut up.�

Mr.�Harrington next turned his attention to the children and did his best to look very stern.

�Now listen to me, you two. I�m going to overlook the matter this time, but in future you will consider your mother�s feelings before running off and causing her�both of us�a great deal of anxiety. Is that clear?�

�Yes, Daddy,� Joyce said meekly.

Henry succeeded in looking contrite. �Right, Dad.�

�Very well, we will consider the matter closed. Now go upstairs and wash your hands.�

Several times during supper, Joyce appeared to be on the verge of rebellion, but a scowl from Henry was sufficient to smother words before they were spoken. However, once they were alone in the small room that was used as a communal study, she raised her voice in outraged protest.

�Why didn�t you insist on them believing us? That thing might be dangerous.�

Henry shrugged. �They never would have believed us, not in a month of Sundays. You know what adults are like. They can never see anything beyond the tips of their noses. Mind you, I can�t say I actually blame Mum and Dad for not believing we were attacked by a harpy. I mean to say�would you?�

Joyce shook her head. �No, I suppose not. But why hasn�t it been, seen before? Think what the newspapers would do with a story like that! Harpy in ruined castle! It would be even better than the Loch Ness monster.�

�I should imagine,� Henry said thoughtfully, �it only puts in an appearance when people are eating. From what father told us, making grub go rotten is its only occupation. And who would dream of picnicking near that old castle�except us?�

�But how did it get there? Surely it ought to be in Greece or somewhere.�

Henry shook his head. �I don�t know. The point is�it is there, and I think we should do something about getting rid of it. I mean to say�someone else just might decide to have a quick nosh there and be frightened to death when that horror with brass wings swoops down and snatches the lump of pork pie out of their mouths.�

Joyce shuddered. �I don�t think I could face it again. It was so horrible.�

�Don�t be so silly. After all it didn�t touch us�only the food�and we now know how to get rid of it. Somehow I must find a brass instrument.�

�Why?�

�You don�t listen, do you? Father read out the instructions. The sound of a brass instrument will put a harpy to immediate flight. So�we must look for some kind of brass instrument.�

Joyce thought deeply for a few moments then announced:

�There�s no brass instrument in this house.�

�I will find one somewhere,� Henry stated, with more conviction than he actually felt.

During the next few days Henry realised that there is an abundance of brass instruments for those who have the money to pay for them. An antique shop in the High Street, for example, had some excellent brass hunting horns, but as the asking price was thirty-five pounds, the children could only stare at them with wistful longing. Then there was the musical instrument shop, which had any number of trumpets, cornets, trombones, tenor-horns�all of which, the assistant informed them, were made of chromium-plated brass, but, again, not one could be purchased for one pound, three pence, which was the total sum Henry and Joyce shared between them.

�Maybe,� Joyce said after a fruitless morning�s hunt, �if we made a noise like a brass instrument, the harpy would fly away.�

After some consideration Henry shook his head. �No. It struck me as being a fairly bright harpy and would never fall for a trick like that. We really must think of something.�

The search ended when they found that even a toy trumpet cost five pounds, and that was made of some kind of brass-coloured alloy. It was a very dejected pair who returned to the house, then retreated to their study room for a conference.

�I thought,� Joyce remarked caustically, �you were go-to come up with some bright idea. So far we�re not even in smelling distance of getting any kind of brass instrument.�

Henry frowned. �Maybe the job is proving a little more difficult than I thought, but I�m not beaten yet�not by a long chalk. He thumped the arms of his chair with clenched fists. �The world is full of brass instruments. People are positively wallowing in them�and we can�t lay our hands on even one. It�s enough to make you spit.�

�If only we could get a brass band to stage a concert in the old ruins,� Joyce sighed.

Suddenly Henry clapped hands to his head and did a little dance around the room. �What an idiot I am! A brass band! That�s the answer.�

Joyce stared at him with some alarm. �I don�t know why you are so excited. We�ll never get any kind of band to go out there. It�s so isolated.�

�Of course not, stupid�but, don�t you see? We can tape a brass band on my cassette recorder�and take that out there.�

After some deliberation Joyce nodded.

�You have some brains after all.�

Henry ignored the insult and grabbed the Radio Times. Presently he read aloud: �Radio 4. 10 a.m. The Bradford Boiler-Maker�s Brass Band. There you are! All we have to do is stand the recorder next to the radio�and Bob�s your uncle. There won�t be just one brass instrument�but dozens. The old harpy will have a heart attack.�

�Um.� Joyce looked doubtful. �I suppose you�re right. But as soon as that dreadful thing puts in an appearance, I�m going to run. It might get very annoyed when a brass band starts blaring from a plastic box.�

�Rubbish,� Henry said scornfully. �It will be so scared you won�t see its brass for dust.�

�No more picnics unless your father and I are present,� Mrs.�Harrington said. �All that food wasted and you coming back with an outlandish story about harpies�or some such nonsense. You will eat your meals indoors like civilized beings.�

�What do we do now?� Joyce enquired.

Henry shrugged. �It doesn�t have to be a picnic�just food. We�ll buy a loaf of bread and maybe some margarine and pretend we�re going to scoff it.�

Joyce nodded. �And a little jar of strawberry jam just to make it all look right.�

So it was on Tuesday afternoon that the children, armed with a loaf of sliced bread, a plastic tub of margarine, a jar of strawberry jam, a butter knife and a cassette recorder, set out on their long journey across the moor. They had every reason to feel confident, because the Bradford Boiler-Maker�s Brass Band had broadcast a most satisfactory programme of ear-splitting music, calculated to put any number of harpies to instant flight. Henry had rewound the tape, but had not played it back, for, as he said, they did not want the batteries to fail at a crucial moment. When the ruined castle loomed up from behind a fringe of stunted trees, Joyce began to display signs of alarm and despondency.

�Look here, do you know what you�re doing. When I remember what that thing looked like and the way it snatched at the food�well�I�m all for turning back and heading for home.�

�You�re scared,� Henry stated with well-simulated scorn.

�Too true I am�and so are you.�

�No I�m not.�

�Then why did you almost jump out of your skin when that crow squawked and flew out of a tree?�

Henry blushed and pretended to be angry. �I was just startled, that�s all. Now this is what we must do. First spread some marge and jam over the bread, then start to eat it�.�.�.�

�I don�t like margarine,� Joyce protested.

�Then pretend to eat it, stupid. When the harpy puts in an appearance, I�ll turn on the cassette and we will retire��

�Run,� Joyce insisted. �Run very fast.�

�Retire in good order to that little hollow over there and wait for old harpy to disappear over the horizon. Dead simple.�

Joyce shuddered. �So long as it�s not simply dead. All right, let�s get on with it.�

They laid out a plastic mac on the ground, then unwrapped the sliced bread, which Joyce�after casting an anxious glance at the ruined castle�proceeded to cover with a generous coating of margarine. When Henry unscrewed the jampot lid, three wasps zoomed in and displayed a lively and unwelcomed interest.

�Pity they aren�t frightened of brass instruments,� Joyce said, waving the butter knife at the offending insects. �I bet the ants are rallying their forces, too.�

�Never mind the ants,� Henry said, �just bung on the jam and let�s get cracking. I thought I saw a movement from behind that far turret.�

Joyce spread jam with more haste than accuracy, and some red globules dropped on to the plastic mac, much to the satisfaction of an expectant blowfly. Then, when twelve margarine- and jam-coated slices of bread were laid out in a neat row, Henry made her crouch down beside him and asked:

�Ready?�

�Well�.�.�.�

�Right�take up a slice and make out you are going to eat it.�

�Gosh�I�m scared.�

�Do as I say�otherwise we�ll be here all day.�

They had scarcely raised bread to mouth when a scream of rage made Joyce drop her slice; and the harpy came gliding down from the castle walls, its brass wings glittering in the afternoon sun. Henry�who had inadvertently taken a generous bite of bread and jam�spoke with a full mouth.

�Quick�run for the hollow while I turn on the cassette.�

Joyce ran like a cat that has suddenly spotted an ill-tempered dog, and Henry, after he had pressed the play button on the recorder, was not slow to follow her example. Once they were lying face down in the hollow with only their heads peering through a low curtain of heather, he said:

�I say, that jam wasn�t half bad.�

�Never mind the jam�look at that thing!�

The harpy had landed on the plastic mac and was now busy turning the bread and jam into little heaps of blue and red powder, and did not seem to be in the least disturbed when a voice announced:

�This is Radio Four. For the next half hour there will be a recital of early military music performed by the Bradford Boiler-Maker�s Brass Band, conducted by Sydney Brassbottom�.�.�.�

�You idiot,�� Joyce whispered. �Why didn�t you rewind to the part where the trumpets and things start blowing? That harpy will have finished making a mess of our bread and jam before the racket begins. Honestly�you are the limit.�

�And you could have reminded me that they always rabbit on at the beginning of a musical programme,� Henry protested. �I can�t think of everything. I say�he�s finished. Wait for it.�

A veritable cascade of sound erupted from the recorder; a glorious thunder of blaring horns, raucous trumpets, shrieking bugles, wailing cornets and moaning trombones; all against a background of rumbling drums and clashing cymbals. The harpy temporarily suspended her food-corrupting operation and stared down at the cassette with almost polite interest. The deep sunken eyes�one green, the other red�blinked, the head nodded slowly, then one brass claw began to mark time on the plastic mac. Henry groaned.

�She likes it! As far as she is concerned, it�s Music While You Corrupt! What a pity they didn�t play a tango, then we would have seen a dancing harpy.�

Joyce watched the monster for a few minutes, then, when it began to beat time with a butter knife, assumed an expression of profound disgust.

�Clever dick! �Dead simple,� he says! �All we�ve got to do is wait for it to disappear over the horizon.� All you have done is make it a very happy harpy.�

�But the legend says the sound of a brass instrument will drive a harpy berserk�and I�ve provided an entire brass band.�

�No you haven�t.�

�What do you call that noise? An elephant calling to its young?�

Joyce shook her auburn hair. �Not a brass band. Just sounds on a length of tape. There�s not so much as a brass button in sight.�

After a while Henry nodded. �I see what you mean. A brass instrument has to be seen as well as heard. It�s the brass which is important. Old hag face has to see as well as hear.�

�In one word�yes. I had a feeling that a tape recorder wasn�t the answer.�

At that moment the Bradford Boiler-Maker�s Brass Band appeared to run out of blowing power, for the stirring march suddenly disintegrated into long-drawn-out moans, and one trumpet, which had been sending out a series of particularly well-performed blasts, acquired a sound that was not unlike that of a cat paying compliments to a lady friend on a tin roof. Then, with a final moan, all sound ceased.

�Oh, no!� Henry exclaimed. �The batteries have run down.�

The harpy dropped the butter knife and stared at the tape-recorder with an almost comical look of surprise on its wizened face. One brass claw reached out and gripped the cream plastic box, shook it, tapped it, then raised it to a shrivelled ear. For a while it appeared that the harpy could still hear some sound coming from the defunct machine, until, with a cry of rage, she flung it down upon the ground and crushed it under her right claw.

�That�s it, then,� Joyce remarked when the harpy had completed her task of turning bread and jam rotten and was once again airborne. �You will have to explain how your new tape recorder was smashed into smithereens, and we are no nearer driving that thing away than when we started.�

Henry watched the harpy until she disappeared behind the castle walls, then nodded his reluctant agreement. �Yep. I suppose we could bring Mother and Father out here and let them see it for themselves. Only�that�s sort of giving up. Also, adults will put her into a cage and charge the public twenty-five pence to have a look. And I don�t think that should happen to anything�not even a horror like that.�

�Absolutely not,� Joyce agreed. �After all, she only turns food bad and smashes up the odd tape recorder.�

Henry grimaced. �So says she who never owned one. Come on, we had better head for home. I dare say my really first class brain will think up a master plan sooner or later.�

Joyce made a rude noise.

Joyce was asleep when a hand shook her shoulder and a voice said in a loud whisper: �Wake up�I�ve got it�I�ve got it.�

She sat up and blinked owlishly, then stared indignantly at Henry, who was standing by her bed with a brass toasting fork in one hand and a tea tray in the other. She peered at the bedside clock.

�Why�why have you woken me up at three minutes past two? Really�.�.�.�

Henry waved the toasting fork. �I�ve got it.�

�I can see you have. Well�now you can push off and let me get back to sleep.�

�You are stupid,� Henry protested. �Now pay attention. What have I got in my right hand?�

Joyce yawned. �A toasting fork.�

�And what is it made of?�

�Brass.�

�So?�

Joyce scratched her head. �So�you have a brass toasting fork! Big deal.�

Henry sighed very deeply. �I have in my hand not just a brass toasting fork, but�a brass instrument.�

For the first time Joyce began to display an active interest.

�Are you sure? I thought an instrument was a thing you played.�

�There speaks a little mind that has yet to be lit by the lamp of imagination. Study your dictionary, girl. An instrument is any implement or tool by which something is done. Such as toasting bread.�

�But it doesn�t make a noise,� Joyce stated with some satisfaction. �So there.�

�It will when I bash it on this tray.�

�But it will be the tray which will make the noise�not the toasting fork.�

Henry�s smile was wonderful to behold. �And the tray is made of brass. And what is a tray but an instrument by which something is done. To wit�carrying grub into the dining-room. So there to you.�

Presently Joyce said: �It might work at that. I say, you are bright.�

�As polished brass,� Henry agreed. �I thought we might have a go tomorrow morning. Just after breakfast.�

�Thank goodness this is the summer break. Can I go back to sleep now?�

�If you must. For myself, I will sit up for a while and work out a plan of campaign. Nothing must go wrong this time.�

Joyce slid down between the sheets and smiled sleepily.

�Turn out the light and don�t make a noise. If you are still awake tomorrow morning you can bring me a cup of tea.�

Next morning, the baker said there had been an unexpected run on bread, but he had a nice stale seed cake that he was prepared to sell for fivepence. So it was that the second harpy disposal expedition set out armed with a seed cake, a brass toasting fork, a tea tray, a plastic mac, and a reasonable supply of optimism.

However, when they reached the old castle Joyce discovered Henry had forgotten to bring a knife, so it became necessary to cut the cake with the toasting fork, and the result was crumbling lumps that attracted the attention of a few hungry birds.

�It doesn�t look very appetizing,� Joyce complained. �No one is going to eat it,� Henry retorted. �Now, don�t mess about. You pick up the biggest lump and I�ll stand by with the fork and tray.�

�Why can�t I stand by with the fork and tray?�

�Because you�d probably be too frightened to do anything but run when old ugly comes swooping down.�

�You have a point,� Joyce agreed.

Scarcely had she raised a piece of stale seed cake to her mouth when the by now familiar shriek came from the and the harpy glided down towards the picnic site. Joyce dropped the seed cake and took refuge behind Henry. �Suppose�suppose the fork and tray doesn�t work?� �I can think of no reason why it shouldn�t work,� Henry replied, taking a firm grip of his brass instrument.

The harpy settled down on the plastic mac and had reduced half of the cake into green mould before the loud clanging sound rang out over the sun-drugged moor. A flock of birds that had been preparing to descend and feed on cake crumbs gave united cries of alarm and dispersed in a sudden explosion of fluttering wings. When fork and tray again made violent contact, the harpy became a grey and brass statue, her head to one side, eyes gleaming, one claw raised�the wrinkled face screwed up into an expression of extreme annoyance. Henry�who had assumed the creature would be frightened and take to instant flight�banged his tray with even greater vigour and shouted: �Shove off! On your way!� for good measure.

Suddenly the harpy spoke, and this was such an unexpected turn of events that Henry dropped the toasting fork and completely ignored Joyce, who was making whimpering noises in the region of his right ear.

�What-do-yer-wanna to make noises like dat?�

It was a man�s voice�rather like that of the foreign gentleman who ran the restaurant in the High Street�and had an undertone of intense displeasure. While Henry tried to think of a suitable answer, the harpy spoke again.

�I comma �ere to turn fooda into rubbish, which is �ard enough without you childer making da racket. Why for you banga da fork on da tray?�

Henry discovered he still had a voice, even though it refused to rise above a loud whisper. �We�that is to say�my sister and I�understood, er, that you were frightened of a brass instrument, and��

�Dat�s a loada nonsense,� the harpy interrupted. �Dat aw-ful man Jason he banga us over da head with brass trumpets, so we flies away. Not frightened�just �eadache.�

�Oh!� Henry found that a little of his normal self-confidence had returned. �Well�you shouldn�t go around turning food rotten. It�s�.�.�. it�s a rotten thing to do.�

The harpy crouched down on the plastic mac and looked rather like a grotesque broody hen. �Now �e tella me I shouldn�t do ma job. Ven the world was young. Zeus �e says to us: �Get down thar, gals, and turna da fooda rotten. Dat king of Thrace,� he says, ���e not been comma over with da tribute. Not a sacrifice �ave I had from �im in a month of Tuesdays.� Then along come dat Jason and �is wool thieves and banga da �eads da trumpets.�

Joyce spoke over Henry�s shoulder. �What happened to your three sisters?�

The harpy rolled her eyes. �You may well ask. Safe and well dey are. Varming da tail feathers on Olympus, while I da food rotten turn. I come down for a little flutter and a Inglisman over me threw da net and brought me �ere to da castle. Now it fall down, but I still �ere. No food rotten turn for �undreds of years. I fed up.�

And one large tear seeped out from the harpy�s red eye and trickled down her wrinkled cheek.

Joyce said: �Oh, what a shame! We�ll bring you lots of food. And you can turn it rotten as much as you like.�

�Hey, wait a minute,� Henry protested. �We�re supposed to drive her away, not encourage her. Look,� he addressed the despondent harpy, �why don�t you go home? Back to Olympus? I should imagine your sisters would be very pleased to see you again.�

The harpy yawned and three wasps flew into her open mouth. She gulped, then bared her teeth. �Tasty. Sisters never did I get on with. If I see them not again, da tears will not flow. Most times I sleep and wake ven smell of food call me to vork.�

�Well, you can�t stay here,� Henry said. �Not everyone is as brave as Joyce and me, and you might give somebody a heart attack.�

�I �ave to come when peoples eat,� the harpy insisted. �If drop dead�too bad. Now I go back and da eyes close.�

And without further words she spread wide her brass wings and soared up towards the castle walls, leaving the children to clear up a lot of rotten seed cake.

Now I would like to be able to record that Henry thought of a wonderful scheme that got rid of the harpy once and for all. I regret to say he did not, and, as the prospect of her being shut away in some zoo could not under any circumstances be entertained�well�she�s still there.

Sometimes the children take along some stale sausages that the butcher was going to throw away, or a few pork pies that no one wanted to buy, and the harpy has a wonderful time turning them rotten. They have grown quite fond of her and often clean her wings and feet with a well-known brand of brass polish, making them shine so brightly that one man maintained he had seen a flying saucer circling above the moor.

But take my advice: should you decide to have a picnic, for heaven�s sake do not lay out your goodies near a ruined castle that is not more than fifty miles from London. And if an obstinate�not to say stupid�adult insists, then get well back and watch the fun, which I do assure you will begin the moment the silly creature raises ham sandwich to mouth.

And don�t bother to take along any kind of brass instrument.

Whatever the old books may say, such things will only make the harpy extremely annoyed.