THE SCHOOL MAGAZINE

Summer 1961

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DESERTED LONDON by Linda Youell (1K)

No more traffic blocking the roads, no more people hurrying by. All is quiet until a dog barks or a cat miaows. This stillness is broken only by the noise of dogs or cats having a fight.

Now, no-one throws water over them to make them run away. The animals have been left to finish their fight in peace, for only animals roam the once inhabited roads and houses. No one hurries; all is slow and peaceful; the streets are covered with grass, and the things left in the houses are hardly recognisable for the clean, neat objects they were before London was deserted. All the great places are almost fairy-like, telling of an old race of people who used to live here, long ago. If you wandered down a road you might see wild animals stand where fashionable ladies and gentlemen once stood, admired by the less fashionable people of the old London.

All around are pools of mud, for the drains have been blocked. Occasionally you might see a pond with a few ducks upon it. Deer, wolves and foxes are almost as common as dogs and cats

SMELLS by K. Phipps (1K)

I like the smell of petrol in the car,
I like the smell of beer at the bar;
The smell of cakes is very good
And I always like the smell of plum pud.
The smell of cooked fish is very nice
And I've smelled tender turkey more than twice,
I like the smell of peaches very much
And I'd rather smell the paint than touch.
The smell of stew is far too great,
I like the smell of rabbit on my plate;
The smell I like best of the lot
Is chicken stewing in the pot.

OH! WAR by Barbara Moy (5T)

Oh war, how many victories have you won?
I count them none.
For though you raise your head in strife
When crisis, conflict, chaos fill our life,
These always cease
To end in peace.
But now you have this new device
And you hold the winning dice.
Next time there might not be
Time to wait and see.
Will this war cease
In time for peace?
You may have worked your spell too well
And man perhaps no more will dwell
On earth.

FOG by Anita Martin (3H)

As I toiled on up hill on my bicycle, the fog began to get thicker and thicker. It swirled all around me like a great sea of dirty dishwater. The usual sounds of the countryside seemed strange. The hoot of an owl made me shiver, and go faster. Over to my left I could hear the sea beating against the cliffs, like a great cat lapping up its milk. The cry of seagulls as they wheeled over my head sounded like the screeching of a naughty child.

I pedalled on, my headlamps dancing eerily on the road. The hawthorn hedges on each side of me seemed to be closing in, and once I went into the hedge. The telegraph wires were humming, and I remembered that when I was a child I had been told that the fairies made this noise.

As I passed the woods I could see the lights of the children's convalescent home shining through the trees. When I got to the crossroads there were lines of traffic, looking like a large caterpillar, all going into the town. I turned off the road to take a short cut across the field. The grass was very cold and damp, and by the time I had got home my shoes and stockings were soaking wet.

I knew the field very well, but if it hadn't been for the lights of the farmhouse I would have been stuck. I scrambled across the field, meeting a group of farm labourers going home. At last I reached the gate and I clattered across the yard, nearly colliding with a herd of cows. I put my bicycle away and went up to the house, where a bowl of hot soup was waiting for me.

THE ROGUE ELEPHANT by B. Clarke (1K)

A few days ago I heard a rumour that a rogue elephant was terrorising the native villages on the reserve. I straight away got my rifle, and my Landrover.

A few days later we spotted the elephant. We knew why he was mad. This elephant had a magnificent pair of tusks. Hunters must have shot him to get his tusks. They did not kill him but drove him mad. I let loose with both barrels of my elephant gun.

When the smoke had cleared, the elephant's huge carcass lay still on the dusty plain.

THE TRAIN JOURNEY by Janet Baxter (4N)

The mists shrouded the tops of the cliffs and hills as we set off on our return journey to London. We had been on holiday in Devon and now it had come to an end. The train came into the station and we climbed in, waving good-bye to those who were going by car and had come to see us off.

The train drew away from the station and the feeling was one of sadness.

As we passed through the countryside, the sun came out from behind the clouds, and it became very hot and sticky. We wondered if it would be like this in London. The train gained speed and we passed the trees and fields so quickly. As the train sped over the rails the noises it made seemed to say "You're going home; you're going home."

As we entered Somerset the clouds began to gather in the sky and soon we ran into drizzle, and as we reached Dorset it was raining really hard.

Nearing Salisbury, we saw the sky darken overhead, and in the distance we saw a flash of lightning. We felt slightly afraid, afraid that the lightning would strike the train or the line. A crack of thunder boomed across the plain, echoing on either side of us. A shiver went down my back. The rain poured against the windows, sounding like millions of ping-pong balls bouncing on wood. Another flash of lightning, another crack of thunder! and so it went on continually alternating, and still the rain fell. Would it never stop?

As we neared London the rain gradually ceased, although the clouds were still in the sky. Soon we saw the red 'buses and then the smokey chimneypots and the grimy streets and houses of London. The atmosphere was sticky and sultry, and we all wished that we could have had a cool shower. The train jerked to a stop and, collecting our luggage, we left the train that had brought us from so far and through so much.

"MY OPINION OF MEN" By "MANDY THE DONKEY"
by Anne Murden (1K)

"Men, what queer creatures they are! They are dressed in a pinkish-white coat all over and yet more clothes on top, while I have a coat of fur and hair. Their shoes are very strange, pointing like a blade of grass and they seem to have a different pair every week. I have the same pair every year and I'll probably have them when I go.

As I watch them walk along the beach or as I feel them on my back, I always think there is something missing. Ah! yes. They have no tail. Sometimes I wish I hadn't, for the naughty little humans pull it.

I like the little boys best because they love going fast. I trot along the sand without a care, until a screaming girl jumps on. "Mummy, Mummy!" that is a sound I'm used to. I'm glad when I get back to my stable, have my food, get ready for bed. Humans go to a lot of fuss. Pieces of material to cover themselves. I love my bed. I have a new one every day. My master brings it in on a fork. I wonder if humans bring in their beds on forks?"

FAIRS by Patrick Thornton (5T)

There is no artist credited for this lino-cut in the original magazine

There are few people who dislike fairs. A fair is a place where men become children, and children, men. Life can, for the moment, be forgotten, as you lose yourself in the maze of colour and sound.

The exciting jangling and burbling of fairground music quickens the pulse. The atmosphere of happy anticipation makes your limbs move faster. The large, red-faced men defiantly stand in front of their stalls, bellowing to the crowd who move as though in a dream, from one thing to another. Eyes wide and mouths open, they find even the dirt on which the fair stands is magic.

But for some this is boring. The man who runs the shooting gallery has a bright stall, brighter prizes and there are signs telling people not to miss this attraction. Yet he, who should be the soul of his hand-made paradise, stands like a zombie, face resigned, dejectedly handing out guns, automatically dodging and weaving out of the way of over-anxious Wyatt Earps.

If others see his face, they take no notice. They have been caught by the fairground. Like an octopus, it is wrapping itself around its victims. They cannot escape. They have been flung into a vertigo of fun. The coconut-shy is run by a large woman in a leather apron, who hands out the wooden balls to be flung into the gloom at stubborn coconuts.

A smell of delicious mystery hits you and you suddenly realise that you are hungry. You buy a savoury which makes you thirsty. Quick - a drink!

As the sun sinks, the noise does not diminish in respect for the night. The darkness, if anything, adds to the thrill. People's faces change from red and blue to green and yellow in the flashes of light. Weird shadows form and lights streak around you. Your face is cold but your eyes burn. Cables trip you, people jostle you, but you take no heed. You climb aboard a large roundabout which starts slowly. Music breaks in suddenly and people's faces are thrown at you. When you climb off, giddily happy, the lights are still circling in your head. Then the helter-skelter, where you take a mat and climb up the wooden stairs until you wish you had not started, but suddenly you emerge into the cold air, high above the fairground. A mad slither down and a look into your pockets tells you that you have no money left. The fairground fever had caught you and gently squeezed you, happy but poor.