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  Juzzy and the Giant Pumpkins

  Once upon a yesterday or tomorrow, a boy named Justin lived with his widowed mother in a run-down cottage. His mother was so poor that she could not afford to buy food from a shop. ‘Juzzy,’ his mother would say, for that was her pet name for her son, ‘we would be in a real pickle without our dear cow, Clarissa.’

  One day Juzzy’s mother caught the ’flu and had to go to bed. She was too sick to milk Clarissa, so she asked Juzzy to do it.

  Juzzy promised he would, for he was a good-hearted lad, although lazy to the bone.

  But Juzzy could not be bothered milking Clarissa that afternoon, even though she mooed and mooed. ‘I’ll milk her tomorrow morning,’ he thought. But at sunrise the next morning he turned over and went back to sleep.

  He could not be bothered milking Clarissa that afternoon either.

  Or the next morning.

  When his mother was well enough to get out of bed, she was furious to discover that Clarissa’s milk had dried up. ‘Oh, Juzzy, you foolish boy! Now we’ll have no milk or cream. And I won’t be able to make cheese or yoghurt. What are we going to do now?’

  Juzzy shrugged his lazy shoulders. ‘We could buy milk at the store like everyone else in the village.’

  ‘Buy milk? With what?’ raged his mother. ‘How are we going to survive? We have no money, Juzzy!’

  Juzzy suggested taking Clarissa to the markets and selling her. ‘You’re always saying she’s the best cow in the district. I could get a pile of money for her.’

  His mother sighed. ‘You’ll have to sell her, I suppose, or we’ll starve. It’s a long walk to the markets, Juzzy, and it will be hot tomorrow. You should leave early, before the sun gets too high in the sky. ’

  At nine o’clock the next morning, Juzzy’s mother dragged him out of bed and told him to get ready for the markets.

  He took his time to dress. Sitting down to eat his breakfast he found there was no milk for his porridge. So he decided this was it, he really would have to take Clarissa to the markets. But still, he took his time to leave the house.

  The sun was high in the sky before he put a rope around Clarissa’s neck and led her through the gate.

  ‘MAKE SURE YOU GET A GOOD PRICE,’ his mother called as he set off down the road.

  But the markets were a long way off, the sun was scorching and the road was dusty. Juzzy had not gone far when he tied Clarissa to the trunk of an oak tree and sat down to rest in its shade.

  Before long a boy, not much older than Juzzy, came strolling down the road from the markets. The boy patted Clarissa and sat down in the shade beside Juzzy. ‘My name’s Jack,’ said the boy.

  ‘Call me Juzzy,’ said Juzzy.

  ‘Nice cow, Juzzy.’

  ‘Clarissa is the best cow in the district.’

  ‘I used to have a cow just like Clarissa,’ said Jack. ‘My mother and I were so poor that I had to take her to the markets and sell her. But I became rich overnight, so I’m looking for another cow to milk.’

  Juzzy raised his eyebrows. ‘You became rich overnight, Jack? How did you do that?’

  Jack dipped his hand in the pocket of his trousers, pulled out six beans and held them in the palm of his hand. ‘I traded my cow for some magic beans. Give me Clarissa, Juzzy, and I’ll give you six beans which will make you rich overnight.’

  ‘Beans?’ asked Juzzy, astounded. ‘You think Clarissa is only worth six beans?’

  ‘I said magic beans, Juzzy. Within twenty-four hours they will make your fortune, just as they made mine.’

  Jack told Juzzy to take the beans home and throw them in the soil. ‘And tomorrow morning, when you wake up … well, I won’t spoil the surprise. But believe me, by sunset tomorrow, you will be as rich as me.’

  Juzzy took the beans, untied Clarissa from the oak tree and handed the rope to Jack.

  When he arrived home he found his mother waiting anxiously at the gate to their cottage. ‘Juzzy, you’re back so soon. How much money did you get for Clarissa?’

  Juzzy slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling for the beans. ‘Six beans, Ma.’ He grinned uneasily.

  ‘JUZZY, YOU FOOLISH BOY, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?’

  ‘But they’re not ordinary beans, Ma, they’re magic beans.’

  ‘JUZZY, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A MAGIC BEAN!’

  Juzzy tried to reassure his screaming mother. ‘But there is, Ma. I’ll prove it to you. By tomorrow evening we will be rich.’

  His mother grabbed the beans from his hand, threw them in the dirt and stormed inside their cottage.

  When Juzzy awoke the next morning, he looked out his bedroom window and saw a beanstalk reaching to the clouds. He punched the air in triumph. ‘So Jack’s beans were magic after all! Well, I’ll climb up this beanstalk and bring back all the treasures I can carry. Then Ma will be sorry she ever called me a foolish boy.’

  Juzzy began to climb the beanstalk. As he climbed higher and higher, his head began to spin. Whenever he looked down he felt sick, so he kept looking upwards at the clouds. Soon he found himself surrounded by a whirling grey mist. But as he kept climbing the beanstalk the mist began to clear. When he reached the top of the beanstalk he stepped onto solid ground.

  The first thing he noticed was a pyramid of giant pumpkins. He had never come across such enormous pumpkins before. Behind the pumpkins he saw the most amazing garden, with rows of giant corn, giant spinach, giant rhubarb, giant turnips and giant tomatoes. ‘This must be a land of giants,’ he decided. Then he began to panic. ‘Oh, Juzzy, you foolish boy, with all these giant vegies, there must be a giant gardener around somewhere. He could grind my bones to make his bread! I had better get out of here before he sees me.’

  Juzzy ran back towards the beanstalk, but before he got there he tripped over a goose. Not a giant goose, but a normal-sized goose. And since he did not want to go home empty-handed, he tucked the goose under his arm and climbed down the beanstalk as fast as he could with a goose honking and flapping under one of his arms.

  Juzzy’s mother was waiting at the bottom of the beanstalk. ‘Oh, Juzzy,’ groaned his mother, ‘you promised we would be rich but all you have brought me is a silly goose. But I suppose a goose is better than nothing.’ She took the goose from her son and set it on the ground. Then she picked a giant green bean from the beanstalk and returned to their cottage.

  The goose waddled under a bush and began to honk excitedly. When she waddled out again, Juzzy saw that she had laid a bright white egg. He picked up the egg and took it inside to his mother.

  She cooked a golden omelette and served it up with a side dish of fried bean. And Juzzy and his mother agreed that this was the best meal they had ever tasted.

  The next day the goose laid another egg, and that night they dined on scrambled eggs, with a bean salad.

  The next day, they ate quiche, with steamed green beans.

  Juzzy’s mum was so impressed with the goose for laying such wonderful eggs that she called her the goose that lays the golden eggs.

  But Juzzy soon tired of a diet of goose eggs and beans and began to wish for a feast of roast goose instead. By the end of the week he could bear it no longer. He found an axe and chased the goose around the yard. He cornered her in the woodshed, grabbed her long neck with one hand and raised the axe.

  The goose honked, squawked and flapped, but Juzzy knew that if he wanted roast goose tonight, he would have to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs.

  Fee fi fo foy, a voice thundered behind him.

  I smell the blood of a thieving boy.

  Be he fair or be he dark,

  I’ll tan his hide with wattle bark.

  Juzzy turned around to see – well, not exactly a giant, but a very tall man indeed, climbing down the beanstalk. The tall man grabbed the axe from Juzzy, then he stuffed the goose under a brawny arm.

  ‘You boys think you can climb a beanstalk and steal whatever you like from me,’ the man yelled. ‘It’s not so long since a young
ruffian by the name of Jack broke into my house and stole my life savings. And then he had the gall to climb up the beanstalk the next day and steal my golden harp. And then you turned up last week. Well, young man, you’re coming back up the beanstalk to work for me for the next three years. Now get climbing!’

  ‘I can’t leave,’ Juzzy pleaded. ‘My mother’s a poor widow. Who will look after her if I have to work for you?’

  ‘Your mother can climb up the beanstalk and visit you any time she likes,’ said the very tall man.

  For the next three years Juzzy worked in the tall man’s garden. Every morning he rose with the sun. He rarely slept in, because whenever he did, a very angry rooster named Eric would perch on the end of his bed and crow. And if Juzzy still did not get up, then Eric would peck at his toes until he went to work in the garden.

  At first Juzzy hated working for Gordon (for that was the tall man’s name). But by the time he had harvested his first crop of giant pumpkins, he had changed his mind about gardening. For by now Juzzy had discovered that he loved being outside in the rain and wind and shine, growing organic vegetables, milking Gordon’s cow and feeding his chooks and geese.

  At the end of three years, Gordon thanked Juzzy for his hard work and told him he was free to climb down the beanstalk.

  Juzzy shook Gordon’s hand and thanked him for teaching him how to grow giant vegetables. Next he kissed his mum, who by now was married to Gordon and living happily ever after. Then he climbed down the beanstalk, his pockets bulging with giant pumpkin seeds.

  Prince Pobblebonk

  Once upon an ornamental frog pond, an enchanted frog-prince climbed onto a lily pad. His name was Prince Pobblebonk and his favourite occupation was singing with all his froggy friends,

  pobblebonk pobblebonk

  pobble pobble pobblebonk.

  A lonely princess lived in a castle not far from the frog pond. Her name was Priscilla, and her favourite occupation was playing with her golden ball. Whenever Princess Priscilla came near the pond, Prince Pobblebonk and his froggy friends would hop up on their lily pads and try to impress her by singing in twelve-part harmony. The princess never took much notice of the frogs, but this only made the frog-prince and his friends even more determined to impress her.

  One day, when the frogs were in full-throated chorus, Priscilla set down her ball and shouted to the royal gardener, ‘RUPERT!’

  Rupert stopped clipping a hedge. ‘Yes, Princess?’

  ‘There are some ugly weeds at the edge of this pond.’

  The gardener squinted in the direction of the pond. ‘I can’t see any weeds, Princess.’

  She pointed to some bulrushes. ‘Right in front of your eyes, Rupert. They’re the ugliest weeds I’ve seen in my life.’

  Rupert tried to explain that there was nothing wrong with having bulrushes in a pond.

  ‘Bulrushes!’ sneered the princess. ‘I don’t like bulrushes. They’re spoiling my ornamental pond. I want you to get rid of them at once.’

  He tried to explain that it would be tough work for him to pull out the bulrushes by hand.

  Priscilla’s face turned pink as a radish. ‘I’m not asking you to pull them up by hand, Rupert. I’m telling you to spray them with poison. The strongest poison you can find.’

  One of Rupert’s greatest joys was listening to the pobblebonk chorus as he worked in the royal garden. Not wanting to harm the frogs, he tried to persuade the princess that poisoning the pond was a bad idea.

  Priscilla’s face turned the colour of a purple cabbage. She threatened that if he wanted to keep his job, he had better poison the bulrushes without delay.

  Now Rupert had a wife, two parents, three grandparents and four children to support, and he did not know where he could get another gardening job in a hurry. So, against his better judgement, he stepped into the royal potting shed and prepared the poison.

  When Prince Pobblebonk and his froggy friends heard the word poison, they went into a croaking frenzy at the thought of what the poison might do to them. ‘If I could turn back into a man-prince,’ thought Prince Pobblebonk, ‘perhaps I could talk some sense into the princess.’ But he was under an enchantment, and he knew that he had no chance of becoming a man-prince again before the next full moon. And the next full moon was a fortnight away.

  Rupert sprayed the bulrushes with poison, and over the next two weeks he sadly watched them shrivelling.

  Prince Pobblebonk and his friends began to feel ill. The poisoned water stung their eyes and they began to grow warts on their delicate skin. They did not have the energy to climb up on a lily pad and sing any more. All they could do was croak out a few sickly pobbles.

  One day, Princess Priscilla was standing at the edge of the pond. She was holding her golden ball and gloating over the dead bulrushes. ‘RUPERT!’ she called.

  The gardener was on the other side of the pond and did not hear her, because he was a little deaf.

  Priscilla tried to attract his attention by throwing her ball across the pond. But it landed PLOP in the middle of the pond.

  Distraught, she raced around the pond shrieking, ‘I’ve dropped my golden ball. You must wade into the pond and retrieve it, Rupert!’

  His tanned face blanched at the thought of wading into the pond. ‘But you ordered me to poison the water, Princess.’

  The Princess crossed her arms and gave the gardener a withering glare. ‘Rupert, I command you to bring back my golden ball!’

  He untied his apron and dropped it at her feet. ‘You’ll have to command your next royal gardener to do that. I’m not working here anymore, Princess. I’m going home to grow vegetables for my family.’

  Priscilla screamed at him to come back and retrieve her ball. When he did not return she lay down and threw a royal hissy fit, thumping the grass and kicking her legs. ‘SOMEBODY GET ME MY GOLDEN BALL! SOMEBODY! ANYBODY!’

  When nobody came to her aid she sat up on the grass and cried, ‘WHOEVER BRINGS BACK MY GOLDEN BALL CAN BE MY BESTIE AND LIVE WITH ME IN THE CASTLE FOREVER!’

  The frog-prince heard her promise and grinned a wide froggy grin. And even though his skin was burning, his eyes were stinging and his warts were itching, he dived to the bottom of the pond. And with the help of his froggy friends he rolled the golden ball through the dead bulrushes and out onto the grass.

  ‘Oh, thank you, frog,’ said the princess. Then, careful not to get any poisoned water on her hands, she kicked her golden ball back to the castle.

  That night, as the princess was dining with her father, King Walter, she heard a hip hop, plip plop, plip plop plip on the marble floor. Looking down, she saw the frog-prince advancing towards her. ‘YAH, GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU SLIMY BEAST!’

  ‘Pobble,’ croaked the frog-prince, his throat burning from the poison.

  ‘Oh look, it’s a pobblebonk frog,’ said the King, bending down to pick up the frog-prince. ‘The poor little chappie doesn’t look too tickety-boo to me, Priscilla. I do hope he’s not feeling poorly.’

  The frog-prince plipped off the King’s hand and plopped along the table. When he reached Priscilla’s plate he hopped onto it and began to nibble at her salad.

  The princess pulled a disgusted face and picked up the frog-prince by a leg. She opened a window and threw him outside. Then she washed her hands in a bowl of rose water and returned to eating her meal.

  But by the time dessert had been served, Prince Pobblebonk had hip hopped back to the banquet hall.

  The King reached down and picked up the frog-prince again. ‘Priscilla, my darling,’ he said, ‘I do believe our amphibious little companion is trying to tell us something.’

  ‘Pobble,’ croaked the frog-prince, the skin of his throat blowing in and out feebly. ‘Pobblebonk.’ Then he plipped out of the king’s hand and plopped along the table until he came to Princess Priscilla’s pudding.

  ‘STAY AWAY FROM ME, SLIME BALL!’ she screeched.

  ‘Priscilla,’ said the King, ‘this is no way for a princes
s to behave. Especially when your diminutive admirer is obviously trying to tell us something.’

  The princess burst into tears and confessed that she had promised that anyone who would retrieve her golden ball could be her bestie and live with her in the castle forever. ‘But Papa,’ she sobbed, ‘I don’t want to be besties with a frog!’

  ‘But you promised the little chappie,’ King Walter reminded her.

  ‘But how could I know I was promising a frog?’

  ‘You must keep your promise, dear,’ replied the king.

  ‘Alright, Papa,’ Priscilla sniffled. ‘The beast can have what’s left of my plum pudding. And he can live here in the castle, but only in the basement. But he cannot, under any circumstances, expect to be my bestie.’

  She called for the royal butler to take the frog away and lock him in the basement. But when she climbed the stairs to her bedroom that night, she found the frog-prince on her pillow. ‘SOMEBODY. ANYBODY. HELP!’ she howled.

  When nobody came, the princess cried, ‘Oh why did I make such a rash promise? Now I’ll have to spend the rest of my life with a warty little frog!’

  But then she remembered an old fairy tale she had once heard – a story about a princess who had kissed a frog and the frog had turned into a handsome prince. ‘Excuse me, frog,’ she said.

  ‘Pobble?’ the frog-prince croaked hopefully.

  ‘You wouldn’t, by any chance, be an enchanted frog-prince, would you?’

  ‘Pobblebonk,’ cried the frog-prince, jumping up and trying to kiss her nose.

  Moonlight always made Priscilla feel a bit weird, and the light of the full moon was spilling through the window. She didn’t mind the frog so much now that she was seeing him in a different light. Everything the moonlight touched seemed to be silken and soothing, and, well, there was no other word for it – enchanted.