M.G.S. Magazine - July 1957

As he sat on his throne twiddling the tassel on his cap, I noticed what a puzzled look was on his face. The king is the most fascinating person I have seen, and I've seen many a face come into Court, as I am the Court Jester.

He has a glare that looks right through you and makes you burn as he looks you up and down. He has a habit of staring you full in the face and then passing you on one side as if you didn't exist any more.

He has a long pointed nose that he keeps' dabbing with his handkercher and giving a sniff now and then. His hand is rough and thin. I cannot remember how many times that hand has contained a whip for striking any dumb animal that has crossed his path. On his other arm he has a hook which is always shining as he has it polished twice a day. His back is horrible as he has a huge hump that sticks out, more now because he has a skin-tight coat on. His legs are a queer sight as one is longer than the other, making him have a funny skip in his walk.

His voice is gruff, his shout ear-splitting; but now he lays back his head all is quiet and peaceful, only the noise of the courtiers pad, pad, padding softly across the hall. Methinks he is asleep. Yes, I can hear him slightly snoring.

It was on a beautiful sunny day, that the incident I am about to describe took place. I was on holiday at my uncle's and at his suggestion, I decided to look over the vast local park. The guide took us round but his droning descriptions of what we saw bored me. I decided to explore on my own. I left the party and wandered off through the trees. Suddenly I came to a clearing; there in front of me, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, stood a partially ruined castle, still noble in its age. The stone walls were mellowed here and there with patches of velvety moss, decaying ivy hung despondently down as if suppressed by some unseen force.

The grass around the ruins was not as thick and luscious as it was in the rest of the park and, as I walked round the castle, I saw in front of me a dilapidated archway which served as an entrance, where once a massive oak door had barred the way. I went in through the archway and found myself in what had once been a hall of magnificent proportions. The stone floor was green with moss and brown leaves made patches on it. Part of the lofty carved ceiling still remained festooned with dark thick cobwebs, dust rose in clouds from under my feet as I moved. To my right was a crumbling staircase, which was wide enough to allow six people to walk down it abreast, vague sunbeams filtered through the apertures, serving to show the melancholy neglect around me. I ascended the stairway, and as I did so a sense of foreboding overcame me. I persuaded myself I was being silly, and went on. I found myself in what had probably once been a picture-gallery. The roof was no longer there, and it was very much lighter than the hall below me. I wandered along and suddenly came to a small opening. I went through, stooping as I did SO', and discovered that here was a kind of tunnel. I could stand upright easily, and looked around me. The walls were more intact and were not as mossy as those in the hall, nor was the floor as dusty. Here and there were a few bones-probably of rats, I told my myself.

Along this tunnel were doorways, crumbled to dust, showing glimpses of long-forgotten rooms. At the far end was a door more intact than the rest. It was a stout, oak door, and the hinges protested loudly as I pushed it open. I entered a small room, which was entirely without windows, and which was set back in the wall. A puff of wind blew the old door shut, and the room became gloomier. I took a few steps further into the room, and as I did so, a breath of ice-cold air fanned my check, and I seemed to think I could hear a faint whisper. I stood still, but all I could hear was the loud thump of my own heart.

Suddenly there came upon me the most dreadful feeling of evil; it .emanated from the very walls and came near to choking me. I felt enveloped ill it and struggled to get my breath. I felt as though a million seeking fingers were clutching at my soul, and through it all I could hear the tiny malignant whispers around me. With an inarticulate cry, I made towards the door. 1 wrenched it open and flung myself into the tunnel. I raced madly down it looking to neither right nor left. I stumbled through the archway and into the gallery my one aim to get as far as possible from that dreaded room. I fled down the staircase, heedless of its decrepit state, as if all the devils in hell were pursuing me. I dashed across the hall and out, and as I burst into the sunshine I almost sobbed with inexpressible relief. I hope never to return there again.

A brook is the most romantic place any time, with its babbling, chattering water sliding over the shining stones on the bed. Year by year the brook widens as its singing waters swish away the banks little by little. Usually there is a gradual slope down to the brook with lush green grass swaying in the breeze and giving an effect of sea. In some places the brook widens out on flat land, making shallow, still pools, where fish and frogs rear their young and rushes bend gracefully over adding serenity to the scene.

In winter these very same pools attract youngsters to slide and play on the ice, heedless of danger.

Usually many small bushes grow along the banks of brooks and birds rest and sing to the world from these secluded spots. In winter they add their skeleton-like, shapes to the ghostliness of the scene. The babbling waters change to rushing torrents after overflowing their banks as they hurl filth and rubbish, old wood and dead leaves down their path. Then when these torrents subside the countryside is full of silt and the grass leans one way, the way that the boiling waters have swept it. It straightens out only to be washed that way again the next year.

Often dams are erected where the brook joins a river or rivulet, and the waters tumble and play over the top leaving their refuse behind them as they join forces with filthy masses of water. These dams are treacherous in winter as ice layers form on the top as the water boils over and feed the more destructive masses as they battle their way to the sea only to be evaporated and carried elsewhere to begin their journey again, frolicking and playing through the rushes and grassy banks.

"Come along, Jennifer, wake up, here's your tea."—I roused myself, to see the night nurse bending over me with a cup of tea. This she put down on my bed-table and then took my pulse and temperature, marking them down on my chart. This routine over, the nurse left me to myself. I drank my tea and then, the time being just after 6 a.m., my immediate problem was what to do until breakfast, at eight. Sleep was out of the question. Should I read?—No, that required too much effort at six-fifteen in the morning. Should 1 do a few cross-word puzzles?—That also, required too much effort. Eventually, after much thought, I decided to switch on the wireless. I became so interested in the programme that before I knew where I was breakfast had arrived.

After breakfast two nurses came bustling in to make my bed, wash me and to eat a few of my sweets, too. Since mine was an isolation ward they had to wear special coats over their uniforms whilst they were in my room. When I was clean and tidy the nurses removed their coats and washed their hands and once more left me alone.

I occupied my time by reading some of the huge pile of reading matter which various kind friends had sent me, and also all my mail. About halfway through the morning in came the house-doctor accompanied by Sister, to see how I was progressing. After she had commented on my lovely flowers I was again left alone.

Soon, however, it was time for lunch, after which I settled down for a short sleep. On awakening I re-read some of my magazines, listened to the wireless and wished it was tea-time. My patience was soon rewarded and in came my tea in the very capable hands of a nurse. She stayed and talked to me for a while and then, after helping herself to a few sweets, went on her way.

The next meal to look forward to was supper, which arrived at about 6 p.m. Then I finished reading my magazines—just for a change!!

Later, the night-sister came to make sure I was comfortable for the night and then set off to visit the rest of the wards.

I lay in my bed looking through the window from which I could see another ward, a new laboratory and the flag-pole on the clock-tower. This view is firmly impressed upon my mind, as it was my only out-look. Then I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew the night nurse was bending over me saying, "Come on, Jennifer, wake up, here's your tea."

So you see, to sum up, there's nothing more to it than eating, reading and sleeping in hospital.

For decades an examination of any kind has been a traditional bugbear. Ever since they were invented they have been one of the harshest events ever conceived by man. If you are going in for an examination, your friends and other members of society look down on you with words: "You poor thing!" or "My prayers will be with you," as if it were an examination for entrance through the Pearly Gates themselves.

You know, they are not as bad as all that. They are part of one's education, and preparing for them can be just as much fun as washing one's hands in preparation for a meal. From the start, one must think that this examination is going to be fun. Treat it as a sort of friendly competition with the examiners. The more you "swot", the more chance you have of beating them. Think of the joy you will have on examination day as you easily brush aside the hardest questions the examiner can set you. When the results come out and he has to admit defeat by giving you ninety per cent, a warm glow of satisfaction creeps over you, as the feeling of a job well done and a game well fought consumes your whole being.

So, when in your bed, poring over your books, tell yourself how much you enjoy revising and how jolly the examination is going to be. Of course you need concentration, but that, is quite easily come by. All you need to do is to think of the congratulations that will be showered on you when you have passed. Everyone will marvel at how you have come through such a trial of death by fire, with so few after effects. Think on these things and you will return to your work with renewed vigour and determination.

When you are preparing for this game of examinations, never be discouraged by the things people or teachers say. Yes, you may be surprised, but even your own teachers can discourage you and make you lose any hope you may have had. You are constantly reminded that: "The examinations are very near." or "There is no room for complacency at this stage of the game." These ominous warnings of the dreadful orgy of events to come can quite easily strike fear into the hearts of the most brave.

Better is the person who takes the class as a team. He, the teacher, is the captain. Our team is playing the examiners in two rounds: one at home, where we bat and do our best to build up a large score of good answers: in the away round, the examiners do their best to pull our score to pieces. But our team is strong, and our captain is a good leader. We cannot fail. On to the examinations!