page 54

The Magic Island
Chapter I.
The Crazy Cottage.

(By Nellie E. Donovan.)

“It does look funny, I wonder what we could call it?” said Barbara, a merry-eyed little girl of seven with a mop of fair curls, as they sat on the lawn underneath the tree in the garden of their large white two-storied house in a seaside town in New Zealand.

“I know!” exclaimed Michael, her brother of eight, jumping to his feet, his brown eyes alight with excitement, “Let's call it the Crazy Cottage!”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Barbara, clapping her hands excitedly,” that's exactly what it looks like!”

Barbara and Michael were talking about a queer little cottage which had recently been built on the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. It had four box-like rooms and one window which, instead of being in the side of the wall as in most houses, was right in the middle of the roof, very much like a skylight. The cottage was painted a bright yellow and the tiny door was painted green. There was a little twisted chimney and tied to it was a queer striped flag of many colours which fluttered in the breeze. At the back of the cottage on a long pole was a balloon shaped liked a sausage. Such balloons are often to be seen at aerodromes. They tell the pilots of aeroplanes which way the wind is blowing and so enable them to land safely.

This queer little cottage had been built in one night. One day the cliff had been bare and the next morning when the children had passed on their way to school, the cottage was there. The children had rubbed their eyes in amazement; it couldn't be true—but it was—the cottage was real. Throughout the day at school, the little boys and girls had chattered about the cottage, and so Barbara and Michael after school that day sat on the lawn and tried to think of a suitable name to give it.

“Let's go and tell June and Peter we've thought of a name,” said Michael.

June and Peter were twins of eight years of age who lived in the house next door, their father being the small township's only doctor.

There was a hole in the fence between the houses, made by the children by the simple method of pulling two palings out. And so through this hole, Barbara and Michael went into the garden next door. June and Peter were enjoying themselves on their swing.

“I say” shouted Michael, “I've thought of a name.”

“Poof!” said Peter standing on the seat of the swing behind his sister and soaring high into the sky. “So have we! A long time ago! We've thought of the Windowless Cottage. What's yours?”

“Ours is better'n that! The Crazy Cottage!” shouted Michael up to him.

Peter brought the swing gradually to a stop. “The Crazy Cottage!” he exclaimed scornfully, “Of course, it's crazy!” he laughed.

“That's why it should be called crazy,” said Michael.

“It shouldn't!” shouted Peter, jumping off the swing and coming over to Michael, the light of battle in his eyes. “We're going to call it the Windowless Cottage, see?”

“You can,” said Michael, “We're going to call it the Crazy Cottage. That's a better name!”

“'Tisn't!” exclaimed Peter.

“'Tis!” said Michael.

“I'll fight you,” said Peter rolling up the sleeves of his jersey.

“Come on,” jeered Michael, “I can lick you!”

But the fight did not take place for at that moment, Peter's mother, who had been watching the scene from a top window of the house, sang out, “Peter! Peter! Stop it at once! Come inside I want to talk to you.”

Reluctantly, Peter unclenched his fists he had ready for battle. “Ah, gee!” he exclaimed as he began to walk over to the house. Half-way across the lawn, he stopped, “I'll fight you at school to-morrow,'” he said.

“Peter! You'll do nothing of the kind,” called his mother.

“We're going to find out who lives in the cottage,” Michael sang out after him.

“Ya! You can!” was Peter's comment as he disappeared inside the house.

“Come on, Barbara, let's go to the cottage, now,” said Michael and he darted through the hole in the fence with Barbara following on his heels.

“We'd better hurry, before it gets too dark,” said Barbara.

It was not a very long walk to the cottage. When Barbara and Michael arrived, there was no sign of life.

“Let's knock,” whispered Barbara as they stood outside the door debating what to do.

“What shall we do, then?” asked Michael.

page 55

“To whoever opens the door, we'll say, ‘excuse me, but are you the person who built this funny cottage?'”

“Do you think we ought to say funny cottage?”

“Well, just say cottage, then.”

“All right, you knock,” said Michael.

But Barbara did not have a chance to knock for at that moment, the door opened and on the doorstep stood a funny little man. His head was shiny and bald, except for one piece of hair which stood up straight on top. He wore green spectacles perched on a long, crooked nose. A red handkerchief was tied round his neck in place of a necktie. His suit was green with age and his shoes, well, the children's eyes nearly popped out when they saw them. They were the largest they had ever seen, being fully four feet in length and pointed at the toes.

“Did I hear you whispering?” he asked in a queer, cracked voice.

The children were too frightened to answer. “Did I hear you whispering?” he repeated.

At last Barbara found her voice, “Yes,” she answered timidly.

“Well, no one's allowed to whisper outside my door; they must speak up. Understand”

Barbara nodded. “Excuse me,” she asked hesitatingly. “But are—are you the person who built this funn—I mean —this cottage?”

“I am, and what's that got to do with you?”

“Nothing,” answered Barbara.

“Then if it's got nothing to do with you, what do you want to know for?”

“Well—you—see—we thought” began Michael.

The little man looked hard at Michael through his green spectacles. “Well, what did you think?”

“We think it's queer that this cottage should be put up in a night,” Michael blurted out.

“Oh, do you!” exclaimed the little man angrily. “And that's my business and no one else's. And I'm in a hurry. Good-day.” The green door slammed. The little man had gone.

The children stared at the door. “Gee!” exclaimed Michael. “Isn't he funny! What whoppers he had for shoes!”

“I don't like him,” said Barbara, looking around and shivering. “We'd better go. The sun is going down and it will soon be dark.”

The setting sun cast a red glow over the silver sea and the cottage. “You know,” said Michael, thoughtfully, as they walked homewards, “there is something queer about that little man.”

“We'll be able to tell Peter who lives there, anyhow,” said Barbara.

“But we don't know his name,” said Michael.

“Oh, let's invent one. “Let's call him—” Barbara thought for a minute, “I know! Mr. William Wiggins. I never liked William or Wiggins for a name and that just about fits him.”

“Oh, that sounds great!” said Michael. “Mr. William Wiggins of the Crazy Cottage!”

(To be continued).

page 56