sway. That’s why we sway so much in the wind, because we don’t like it, because it upsets us so.”
“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can promise that you won’t dig us up…” a baby voice sobbed.
“Of course I won’t dig you up,” Alice promised. “I only said that because of the terrible way you were treating me.”
The plants stopped swaying, allowing Alice to see the child aspidistra tucked lovingly under its mother’s green leaves. Showing no fear for her safety, disappearing beneath the huge plants (she now trusted them unquestionably), Alice approached the baby plant and its doting mother.
“I am sorry,” she said, “if I upset you. Will you please forgive me?”
“Yes, I will,” said the baby plant, trying to hold back sob. “And we are sorry, so sorry that we frightened you. We are like this because we are so hungry… we are usually happy, with smiling beaks to welcome the weary traveller.”
Confused, Alice asked, “Hungry? How can you be hungry when your roots can find all the food that you need?”
“Fertilizer, all plants need fertilizer at some time in their lives,” the baby aspidistra explained. “None of us have had any fertilizer for ages. I have never had any – ever! I don’t even know what it looks like!”
“This is a most terrible state of affairs,” said Alice, scratching her head, trying to work out what could be done to remedy the unfortunate situation. Raising a finger, she asked, “Can I go fetch you some?”
If their beaks had been able to smile, every last beak skirting that path would have been smiling radiantly at Alice. They became so excited at the prospect of getting some fertilizer they began talking furiously amongst themselves. In fact, the plants’ conversation became so loud, so noisy Alice could hardly hear herself think. In the end she had to ask them to stop. “Stop, stop talking, please,” she said, “my ears are hurting from it all.”
It stopped; the excited talking stopped, except for one of the plants, the mother aspidistra, who said, “Do you know where you can find us some fertilizer?”
“I, I don’t know,” Alice replied uncertainly.
Smiling, Alice was sure she saw the beak smiling, when it said, “Go to the fertilizer mine, there you will find all the fertilizer we need.”
“Where is it, the mine?” Alice asked.
“I am sorry, I don’t know, none of us know where it is located,” the mother aspidistra confessed. “But we do know that it most surely exists.”
Seeing how sad the mother plant had become, Alice said, “I will find you some fertilizer, I will find enough fertilizer to feed you all – I promise.”
CONTD
Giggle My Boots
Giggle my boots, gaggle my hat,
Goggle my shirtsleeves and fraggle that cat.
I am friggled with laughter ‘cos I know that it’s true,
That you really do love me and not Johnny Lazoo.
You see, Johnny Lazoo, a man of some strength,
Wanted to court you, wanted to bend,
Your ear with his stories, your eye with his looks,
But you never gave him as much as one look.
The day that you said, I’ll marry you, I will,
Was the happiest day of my life; it was brill,
To think that you chose me over Johnny Lazoo,
Makes me friggle with laughter, knowing it’s true.
Before I heard off with my bride and my life,
I will give you this piece of excellent advice.
If you are planning to woo your beau, here’s the rub,
Friggle her with laughter and griggle her with love.
A Little Nut Tree
I had a little nut tree,
Nothing would it bear,
Despite the muck I spread around,
Its base with love and care.
Why don’t you grow just one nut?
If you’re okay, I pressed,
I can’t, the tree answered,
My roots are a stinking mess.
A Christmas Carol Betwixt
Scrooge could never be anything other than cold
of heart, burning his coal one piece at a time
Exiting the counting-house, two gentlemen walked dejectedly away from it. “Mr Fosdyke,” the first gentleman, a plump, red-haired individual, said, “I am deeply saddened that anyone could be so cold of heart, especially so at this time of the year.”
The second gentleman, sporting wispy grey hair and a ruddy-faced complexion, replied, “Indeed, Mr Hartwell. Imagine, wanting to put the poor and destitute into prisons, to punish them, so, just because of their bad luck. Mr Scrooge must surely be the coldest person in England, this Christmas.”
“His clerk was suffering mightily, so cold that it was in his office,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague. “Did you see the moribund fire they had set in the grate?”
Nodding, Mr Fosdyke replied, “I did. Mr Scrooge could never be anything other than cold of heart, burning his coal one piece at a time.”
“Come; we have others to call upon before this day has finished with us,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague.
“Yes,” Mr Fosdyke replied. “I am sure they will – all of them – offer us a better welcome than Mr Scrooge.” As the gentlemen made their way along the narrow, cobbled street, the sound of their footsteps echoed in the cold shadowy doorways and arches bordering it.
Rounding a bend in the street, Mr Hartwell gasped; shocked to see someone lying face down upon it. “Look,” he said, pointing to the unfortunate person, “someone is in need of our help.”
Approaching the person (it was a male) they tried to ascertain who it might be. “Who is it?” Mr Fosdyke asked his colleague
“I don’t know,” Mr Hartwell replied. “He is mightily thin, though.”
“And small,” Mr Fosdyke added.
“Help me to roll him over, so we can take a look at his face,” Mr Hartwell said to his colleague. They rolled him over, onto his back. “My God,” Mr Hartwell gasped, in surprise, “he is no more than a child!”
“Yes,” Mr Fosdyke concurred. “No more than ten or eleven years of age, I’d hazard a guess.”
“He’s wet to the bone,” Mr Hartwell said, concerned for the child.
“And as cold as the grave,” Mr Fosdyke added. “Come; we must get him indoors, before a warm fire, lest he expires from exposure this very night.”
Later, at the gentlemen’s base, the boy, seated in a chesterfield chair in front of a roaring log fire, offered his hands to the flames, warming them. “Begging your pardon, sirs,” he said, speaking timidly, shyly to his rescuers, “but how did I get here, wherever it is?”
Offering him a mug of piping hot tea, Mr Fosdyke said, “You are safe, here; it’s our base. We found you lying unconscious in the street.”
“And on so cold a night,” Mr Hartwell added. “We feared for your life, so we did.”
Accepting the tea, the boy said, “Thank you, sirs, for helping me.”
Sitting on a chair adjacent the boy, “Mr Fosdyke said, “Pray tell us your name, lad.”
“And why you were lying there, unconscious, in the street, at so late of the hour?” Mr Hartwell implored. “Your parents must be sick with worry.”
However, staring blankly into his mug, the boy offered no explanation as to why this was so.
“Has the cat got your tongue,” Mr Fosdyke asked, jesting, trying to lighten his mood.
Running a finger around the rim of his mug, the boy whispered, “My name is Tommy, Tommy Tilbert, sirs.”
“And?” Mr Hartwell asked, urging him to explain more.
“And...I had been playing.” he told them, uncomfortably recalling it.
“Playing outside, at past four of the o’clock – in the month of December?” Mr Hartwell asked, thinking he heard incorrectly.
“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied. “It’s true!”
“It’s alright,” said Mr Fosdyke,” we
believe you, don’t we Mr Hartwell?”
“Humph, yes,” he replied, “Of course we do! You must have had good reason to be there, on so cold an evening.”
“I did, I did!” Tommy insisted. Running his finger ever faster around the rim of his mug, he explained, “You see, sirs...I am homeless – and I was set upon.”
“Set upon?” Mr Hartwell asked, concerned for the boy.
“Yes, sir”” he answered forthrightly.
“Who attacked you?” Mr Fosdyke asked, worried for the child.
His finger stopping, Tommy looked up from his mug, and then said, “Street urchins.”
“Why did they attack you?” the gentlemen asked, concerned for his safety.
“Because I am homeless,” he insisted.
“But they are also homeless,” said Mr Hartwell, scratching his head, perplexed by the excuse.
“They attacked me because I am not one of them, in their gang,” Tommy replied. “I have not always been homeless, sirs.”
“Why are you homeless, then?” Mr Fosdyke curiously asked him.
His finger running around the ring of his mug once again, Tommy’s thoughts deepened, remembering how it had come about.
“Did you get lost?” Mr Hartwell enquired. “Because if you did, we shall do all that we can to reunite you with your parents.”
Bursting into tears, Tommy wailed, “My mum and dad – are dead!”
Stunned by this news, Mr Hartwell and Mr Fosdyke were at a loss as to what they might say in reply.
Continuing, Tommy sobbed, Mum and dad died last year, just before Christmas. They died of consumption, both of them – the same day.”
“I am so sorry to hear that,” Mr Hartwell said, in all honesty.
“Please accept my sincerest sympathies,” Mr Fosdyke said sympathetically to him.
“Thank you, sirs,” Tommy replied. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he said, “The landlord came to our