Awards And Other Follies

Mark Kerstetter whose blog The Bricoleur I admire tremendously, gave me this very prestigious award a week or two ago. Mark received the award himself from  Linda at Leftbrainwave, a blog for 'proper writers'; I think if Linda knew that Mark has passed it on to me, she'd be sorely tempted to cashier him.

Mark's blog is a work of art, literally; not only does he write the most elegant prose, compose poetry that compares favourably to the best around the blogosphere, he is also a painter and sculptor. As if that weren't enough, I also consider him a philosopher, so how he came to think of me on this occasion is a mystery to me. Still,  I hereby accept the award publicly and noisily, just in case he changes his mind.

Thank you Mark.

These things do not come without strings attached. I am meant to 'do something creative' in return for the honour. Well, therein lies the rub . . . . 

However, Bonnie of Original Art Studio recently asked me, when it was that I first discovered poetry. It seems to me that poetry has been a part of my life forever, but Bonnie's prompt reminded me of a particular teacher at my Grammar School in Germany, who, perhaps more than anyone else, was responsible for awakening my interest in lyricism. Miss Baumgartner was a young woman teacher, not long out of university and training college, pretty raw and clumsy, a little abrasive and unnecessarily strict. 

Sadly, nobody liked her much, the other teachers considered her lazy and arrogant, an opinion which soon filtered down to the pupils.

Strangely, I did not share the general dislike. Miss Baumgartner was not at all attractive, in spite of her slim figure and soulful brown eyes, her dark shoulder-length hair and white skin. It must have been her clothes, which were drab and dowdy. and her dour manner, which made her appear unlikeable.

Miss Baumgartner taught German, my mother tongue, and she had a great liking for, and understanding of, German literature and poetry. She was neither inspired nor inspiring, but, somehow, she spoke to me directly. Perhaps she realised that I was not as hostile or dismissive  as almost everybody else in the class

was, perhaps I was someone to hold on to in her undoubted misery as a failing teacher; anyway, I did my essays diligently, learned the poems she set us and generally behaved well in her class.

Yet, without intending to do so, I succeeded in making her an object of ridicule on top of everything else.

I expect the same applies in all schools, wherever they may be, that pupils are called to the front of the class to recite a poem by heart. On one occasion, Miss Baumgartner  allowed several of us to recite a poem of our own choosing; I was very pleased, I had just been given an anthology of black poetry in translation, probably the first in German ever. I was very proud of this book, read the poems over and over and had started to memorise  some of them.

The poem I chose to recite was by Countée Cullen, called

For A Lady I Know

She even thinks that up in heaven

Her class lies late and snores

While poor black cherubs rise at seven

To do celestial chores. 

The second I finished, there was a stunned silence, then loud, raucous laughter erupted, lasting for an eternity. I stood there, hoping for the earth to swallow me up, while Miss Baumgartner's face turned bright red. When the class was finally wiping the tears of laughter from its hateful collective eye, she turned to me angrily, saying : "you will go home, learn every word of Schiller's Glocke (an interminably long ballad) and recite it here at the next lesson".

The mother of one of my class mates was a teacher at our school. The episode did the rounds of the whole school, the teachers' common room included, within hours. I was the hero of the school. Miss Baumgartner had been made a fool of, "serve her right", was the general opinion.

I was mortified. I duly learned 'Die Glocke' and recited it, or part of it, during the next lesson. Miss Baumgartner interrupted me after several verses and I returned to my seat. 

And then Miss Baumgartner did something unexpected: she pulled out from her bag a copy of 'Black Orpheus' , the very same anthology I so proudly owned. There were only two other pupils in the class, whose parents had a copy, but soon enough we were all reading and exploring black poetry from the Americas as well as Africa.

Miss Baumgartner mellowed, her dress sense improved by and by, she became less awkward in her manner and she won over a number of other pupils in her class. She forgave me almost immediately, no doubt she realised that I had committed an innocent blunder rather than a deliberate attempt to ridicule her.

She and I learned to recognise each other as kindred spirits and I enjoyed her lessons enormously.

Village Houses

After the strenuous work of answering Bonnie's very personal questions and reading your, frankly, very frank replies and comments, I need time off from raving and ranting; a gentle walk through the village streets is just what the doctor ordered. There is a very busy week ahead - I'll tell you about it later, whether you want to know it or not - isn't that what we bloggers do? - but for now I'll show you where I live.

This is an ancient village, to the 'real' locals, families who have lived in these hills for generations, not relative newcomers, or 'people from off' like us, it is a town, in spite of only boasting 900 souls, a number which includes people living in the surrounding hamlets; it is a town because it has a town hall. In the days before public transport and private cars, when farmers took their produce to market by horse drawn carriage, Valley's End was a flourishing market town. From miles around farm labourers, farmers, and their wives and children came to Valley's End, which had a school, the big church, many pubs, and a great variety of shops from drapers, tailors, shoe shops and cobblers, hardware stores, seed merchants, to grocers, butchers, and bakers and probably even a candlestick maker. People simply lived very simple lives centred on small communities.

Many houses are built from local stone. In fact, once the Lord of the Manor had left his Castle, the local population promptly helped themselves to the fallen masonry from the crumbling building. Half of the houses in Valley's End owe their picturesque exterior to building materials 'found lying around'. This was all centuries ago, of course, nowadays the reclaimers would get there first.

  

The other predominant building material is red brick, as seen here in these wonderful 17th century chimneys.

Farming was thirsty work. Farmers and their labourers. the craftsmen living in the town, the blacksmith and his helpers, the stallholders in the market, shopkeepers and civic dignitaries needed regular lubrication and on market days, special days and holidays, the pubs in Valley's End were busy. Now there are just three left; and one of them is closed 'for permanent refurbishment'.

This is one of he lucky survivors. It even has a few bedrooms for hire.

Tiny Valley's End did not only possess many pubs but also a number of churches. There was the big church, dating back nearly a thousand years, with a few anglo-saxon remnants still visible today. But there are two other chapels, the Methodist Chapel and this tiny chapel which is part of the almshouses built in 1614 to provide charitable accommodation for twelve old men of good character.

The last house is a relatively new house, hidden in its pretty garden and sheltered by some very ancient trees, which were planted long before this house was even thought of;  to this house I now turn my steps, because this is where I live.

Flight of Fancy

or Fame At Last!

After a hard day's work in the garden, my mac unloved, unused and silent all day, I popped into my study to check for messages, and this is what I found:

The delightful and delectable Bonnie of  Original Art Studio has gone and done it, namely published an interview with me, Bonnie asking leading questions and me answering them. She has even grabbed some of my photos to go with the interview - well, questionnaire really - , the whole thing is tastefully arranged, looks as handsome as everything always does on Bonnie's blog and although it doesn't quite come up to Bonnie's usual high standard of writing and is nowhere near as artistic as her own posts, it is bearable. Trust Bonnie to see to that.

Now you are all meant to go and read the thing; I promise you, I've kept the answers as short, if not sweet, as I can, so you won't be bored out of your mind. Not for long, anyway. Naturally, I also want to know what you think of the thing, so leave a comment here or there, or maybe even both places?

Sorry, I am fresh out of polite phrases, being knackered from the day's work and in a tearing hurry to grab a sandwich before I march off to the village hall, where they are showing Colin Firth in

"A Solitary Man"; otherwise I am sure I would have been able to do full justice to the occasion and

found a suitably refined introduction to the great honour of appearing on Bonnie's blog.

Thank you Bonnie, you are a dear.

And those of you who go and read have my undying gratitude. Well, maybe  . . . . ., depending on your comment, certainly.

Etiquette

Willow's Magpie 33

Elegant, sleek and light-footed, he walked into the room.
On entering the hall, he had removed his hat, placing it on the hat stand provided for the purpose.

The assembled company, as if drawn by invisible strings held in the hands of an invisible puppet master, turned towards the door. Momentarily, the hum of conversation lessened. With all eyes on him, he stood still, nonchalantly and supremely confident, framed by the doorway just behind him.

Mrs. Montgomery came towards him; stretching out her hand. Lightly, he took it, bowed his head, and left the merest suggestion of a kiss on it. She led him into the centre of the room, to the group assembled there. She smiled and the group opened up to admit the newcomer.

Miss Marjorie had coloured slightly when she had first seen him. Proximity to the man she secretly, if ill-advisedly, adored, always made her nervous. She hoped no one had noticed the slight tremor of the hand holding her glass; but all was well, nobody had noticed. Nobody ever noticed her. She sighed, raising her hand to her forehead, as if to wipe away the sad thought. As she did so, she spilled a small amount of wine, leaving a tiny red puddle on her arm.

Instantly, he withdrew the snowy white handkerchief from his top pocket to assist her, wiping the spill.

Col. Bottomley observed this; secretly, he was annoyed at the popinjay, as he called the latecomer.  “Not really our sort of chap”, he had said on more than one occasion, “don’t know why Old Montgomery has him in the house”.

“Bit heavy on the old Acqua di Parma, old chap”, he now said, as the fragrance emanating from the scrap of cloth hit his nostrils, allowing a faint hint of distaste into the words.

Misty Morning in September

Even the sun will have its work cut out

this morning.

Burning a hole through this murk

will be a hard task.

There is no world beyond the

garden hedge.

Inside the garden colours are muted,

all sounds are dimmed.

There is a chill in the air,

a warning sign of things to come.

But not just yet,

The first rays of the morning sun strike 

the beech tree, which lights up in gratitude.

So does my heart.

Another day's grace.

September: Old Wives' Summer

Photo

Robins Seite: Wiesendetails

Since the Julian calendar reform in 46 B.C. September has been masquerading under the wrong name, i.e. ‘The Seventh’; March was the first month in the year, and when the Romans changed the calendar they kept to the old name; force of habit, probably, they didn’t like major changes any more than we, ok then, I do.

The same is true for the three following months, of course.

September can be a lovely month; we bid good-bye to summer, the heat has gone, but the days are still mild and soft, in the fields the harvest is in, it is time for sowing the new crop. Radiant reds, yellows, and deep dark blues of ripening fruit glow in the branches and the vines hang heavy with grapes; September is the start of a busy time in the vineyards.

This stretch of warm days, marked by a meteorological period of stable high pressure known as Indian Summer in English is called ‘Old Wives’ Summer’ in Germany.  Such weather conditions allow for wonderful, clear views across the lowlands far into the distance and trees, woods, rivers, lakes and the skies above acquire a sheen rarely seen at other times of the year. Leaves colour up intensively at this time and the kaleidoscope of nature’s tints becomes a miracle to behold.

The name Old Wives’ Summer (Altweibersommer) derives from the activities of  young baldachin spiders; these spin long, silken threads which float in the air like the wispy white hair of an old women; the spiders use them to sail through the air in early autumn. These delicate strands are often no more than a glint of silver  caught unexpectedly, as they sway in the gentlest breath of a breeze, outside the window or between fence posts. They are at their very best when covered in a suspicion of dew in the light of a sunny early morning.

Folk wisdom calls these gossamer threads elves’ weave, or dwarves’ weave.

In the hedgerows everywhere berries are ripening. If the supply of haws and hips is particularly plentiful, it is said that a harsh winter must be expected. Green hazelnuts are ready for picking and after a hot summer walnut shells are hardening and turning pale brown.

Although nature is catching her breath before the onset of autumn proper and the first frosts of winter, kitchens are busy. In September Mother was in a race with time, bottling fruit, making jams and jellies. She kept earthenware crocks filled with green beans in brine and prepared her own Sauerkraut by shredding an endless supply of white cabbages and layering it with salt and juniper berries, the whole wrapped in vine leaves.

These crocks stood on shelves in the cellar; throughout winter, when green beans or Sauerkraut were part of the menu for the day, she’d go down and simply remove the wanted quantity from the crock. She also pickled vegetables, we had pickled gherkins, onions, and red cabbage. Pickled herring, plain and green herring, fried and pickled, were available for most of the year too, although she preserved the latter mainly in spring.

Apples for storing over winter were selected at this time. They too had shelf space in the cellar although the larger quantities were kept in the attic.

Father was busy ordering and storing potatoes, coal and firewood. It was his job to fill the designated bins and shovel the coal into the separate coal cellar from the pile which had come down the chute under the cellar window.

None of these jobs, with the exception of making jams and jellies, is relevant today. We buy fruit and vegetables at any time of the year, heating comes by virtue of the national grid and we certainly no longer value that wonderful feeling, the deep satisfaction, that come with providing for the family’s needs and safeguarding its existence during the leaner time of winter.

There is no need for any of that effort, that labour of love. Whether we are the richer or the poorer for our easy way of living I don’t know. That question needs more careful examination than I have time or space for here and now.

What we can do is go out, watch the leaves changing colour and the baldachin spider create its pathways of silver threads in the air. Nature’s autumn fireworks are about to begin.

Hourglass

MAGPIE TALES
Willow's Mag 32

She came round to the pungent odour of ammonia. Desperately she turned her head from side to side, but the smell followed her; somebody was holding a bottle of smelling salts to her nose.

Slowly she regained her faculties and remembered where she was; she opened her eyes to see several concerned faces bent over her.  Her sister was there,  as was Mrs. Brownlow, their chaperone, and her best friend Melanie. Raising her eyes,  she saw HIS face,  towering over the women. looking down on her with anxious eyes. She shivered a little, HE was here, looking down at her. Dimly, she wondered, why were they looking down on her? All she remembered was being whirled about the room by HIM in a sensuous waltz, getting giddier and giddier with the excitement of it all. So why was she lying on the chaiselongue now?

Her eyes found those of her sister.  Her sister came closer.
“What happened?”, she whispered.
“You fainted during the waltz”, her sister whispered back.
“How did I come to lie on the sofa, who carried me here?”
“HE did, he carried you in his arms. He carried you here, then he laid you on the sofa. I saw him put both his hands around your waist to adjust your skirts, but then Mrs. Brownlow stepped in and made him leave you”.

She shivered again. A delicious feeling came over her. It had all been worth it!
The time her sister and Melanie had spent pulling on her corset strings, pulling them tighter and tighter, until she could barely breathe, had been time and effort well spent. No matter that she had almost passed out on her way to the Ball, no matter that her ribcage hurt abominably, HE had noticed her tiny waist, HE had measured it with his hands,  HE had carried her perfect hourglass figure.

Who Says 'No Man Is An Island'

Having a separate site for the purpose, I no longer bore you, dear readers, by posting poems, other than the home made variety here, but I will indulge myself and make an exception of this one. If anyone finds it O.T.T., offensive, exaggerated, unrealistic, even indecent, you're welcome to complain. Welcome to look away now, too, of course.

Angelica and Bob On Line

by David Hart

Angelica has crept out of bed and left early before getting on line.

She has missed the clip-art of a heart in the e-mail from Bob.

When Bob wakes with her gone it is from a dream of a woman

smashing through barbed wire towards the blue horizon.

Angelica in town swerves off into Uranus Precinct

and sees herself on video in the window of Dixon's.

Back at the home screen Bob frets and cries,  God only knows!, 

and for a moment this seems to be the breakthrough

he's been mousing his way through the fine folds of fields for.

The Evening Echo's early edition is devoting half its front page

to a young woman covering her face caught on camera leaving

the Clearwater Centre but it isn't her. But this is her,

a photo from that happy summer scanned in on Bob's screen.

Enlarging it with zoom control he examines for intent

the edge of her smile. Elongating it a fraction

everything soon becomes clear. The screen doesn't lie

and he can read her lips. Her eyes, too, were somewhere else.

In her attic suite in the Delphi B & B seventy miles away

a TV news report tells Angelica the flood in the graveyard

where her mother is buried is carrying off bodies.

Back at the home screen Bob clicks open some curtains

and a woman appears with open lips, while on Angelica's screen

there's a chape offering bliss and she move through it

into an aureole of love dust. Bob click's off the woman's clothes

one by one and kisses in excelsis her screen body: Oh, Angelica!

Bob and the screen image groan in harmony towards ecstasy.

Angelica in her room, sipping Cola from the machine,

types BOB in bold caps and says in a whisper, Bob, you bastard!,

then sends out an e-mail to anyone who will listen

asking for pictures of chocolate. On the home screen Bob's search

continues with new vigour into the night's net

punctuated by news from Australia about the cricket.

The View From Black Hill

The path uphill is long and steep

for these parts.

Our Shropshire Hills are gentle hills,

softly undulating.

It is only across the border into Wales

that the walker faces a stiffer climb.

I am still climbing,

the views have opened up.

The Forestry Commission has recently felled large tracts

of conifers, an ugly crop of dark, depressing trees;

the newspaper you read this morning might have been printed

on paper produced with trees from these plantations.

These patchwork fields and hedgerows are centuries old. 

We are fortunate that the Marches 

remain a relatively backward, undeveloped area;

the major agrarian companies, who have been responsible

for grubbing up so many of the ancient hedgerows

and therefore destroying a valuable eco-system

would not find rich pickings

among the sheep pastures.

No doubt they are working on it.

  

The land itself is ancient too.

I have now reached the top of Black Hill.

Across the upland hay meadow I can see

three windblown Scots pines planted,

who knows when, by a small tumulus.

A tumulus is a mound of stone and earth built over 

a grave; they are also known as burial mounds or barrows.

There are many pre-historic monuments to be found in the Marches,

including this monster,

unlike the tumulus, which has long been robbed

of its contents,

clearly still in use.

The Briefcase

Long, long ago, in the days before computers,
My daughter gave me a briefcase.
A special briefcase,
An attaché case,
A large, black, square box,
With locks outside and divisions inside,
Big enough to hold files and dictionaries,  notebooks and pens.

For years this briefcase was my constant companion
On travels between home, work, libraries, meetings;
Underground and overground;
Getting scuffed and scratched, scraped and scarred
In my service.

It travelled in overhead lockers,
Under seats,
And, in comfort, on my lap.
Sometimes it became a suitcase,
holding a change of clothing,
A sponge bag,
A book
And a bar of chocolate for emergencies.

It has travelled in style, in chauffeur driven limousines,
And precariously balanced on the seat of a rickshaw
Propelled by a bicycle.
It has seen the world from the top of the highest towers
In London and Stockholm;
It has opened its jaws inside the Houses of Parliament,
And the Works Councils’ pre-fabricated sheds.
It has dined in the finest restaurants,
Road side cafés,
And factory canteens.
It has seen a bullfight in Madrid,
And the Taj Mahal by moonlight.

High days and holidays,
To my briefcase they were all the same,
All part of the service.
Nothing out of the ordinary.

But even a briefcase needs to feel special sometimes.

Once it came with me to a hospital,
Carrying neither files nor dictionaries,
But books and notepads,
Pens,  photographs,  music.
It stood on the floor by my bed,
Waiting patiently for the day when I would notice it,
Open it,
And extract from its capacious belly
All the things which would bring me back to life,
Books and notepads, pens, photographs and music.

On a quiet afternoon, with a million dust motes dancing in the slanting rays of the summer sun,
The briefcase opened its jaws on the bedside trolley.
And I sat, dangling my legs over the edge of the bed,
Headphones clamped over my ears,
Busily writing,
The other patients dozing,
When Matron called over from her desk
at the end of the ward.

“And I thought you were working”,

She had heard me humming along to the heavenly strains
Of Nadir the Fisherman remembering his lost love Leila,
The virgin protectress and Brahma’s  priestess
In the far off Ceylon of antiquity.

My briefcase had  come up trumps,
Giving me the means to escape from my bed of pain
In the dusty ward of a Victorian Hospital
To a world full of colour and beauty.

Je crois entendre . . . . .

Going Home

Willow's Magpie Tales

On such a night as this
I stand by the window,
Dreaming of a land I once knew.

Of a broad river glinting in the moonlight,
Serenely flowing towards the ocean,
The beginning and ending of all life.

I dream of fields rustling in the breath of night,
Of  trees whispering tales of old, singing
A lullaby to still the restless day.

All is silent,  all is calm,
The starlit sky gently leans to kiss earth’s rim
And my soul takes wing.

A Morning Like Any Other

This morning, at breakfast in the conservatory, eating my bowl of muesli and drinking my cup of fennel tea, sunshine falling on the table,  the clouds above, visible through the glass roof, pursuing their indifferent path, some higher up almost stationary, while those lower down in the atmosphere hurried along busily, imperturbably, gently ruffling the leaves at the top of the tall beech tree; the dahlias showing me their deep red faces, swaying in harmony with barely perceptible currents of air; late martins swooping and dipping and circling above, harvesting their last meal before setting off for the South, a flock of rooks cawing noisily, raucously, before taking off in formation across the blue of the sky, only to land again in the old horse chestnut tree across the field; the weather vane on the church tower glinting in the sunshine and the ducks on the river by the bridge complaining loudly at something only they knew  -  it all was exactly like any other morning in late summer, early autumn, when the sun caresses the valley with its rays and makes you happy to be alive.

Except it wasn't the same as any other morning, because this morning was the very first morning when one life was missing, one life had left the valley, never to return.

It's A Hard Life

But someone's got to do it.

How else do you keep cinemas, theatres, restaurants
and music theatres going, if it weren't for selfless
creatures like me forcing themselves to frequent them?

I've hardly had a minute for blogging.

It all started with a visit to the Art Cinema to see the 1951
Ealing Comedy "Lavender Hill Mob" with such greats as
Alec Guinness, Stanley Holloway and Sid James.
There was even a cameo role for a very youthful
Audrey Hepburn.

Beloved giggled, snorted and belly-laughed throughout,
as did most of the audience. The general consensus was
"they don't make 'em like that anymore".

I sat there wondering what all the fuss was about.
Being the only person in the whole of the cinema who
saw this film for the first time I thought it mildly funny,
but wholly predictable.

How tastes change! Or perhaps the Brits have a point when they say that nobody else in the world has their wonderful sense of humour. Or maybe they don't. Yes, well  . . . .

o-o-o-o


A day out in wonderful ancient Shrewsbury for some retail therapy and lunch. Shrewsbury is the Shropshire county town. The centre is well restored and preserved, with some
excellent and smart shops.

This is a postcard of Fish Street, formerly called
'Chepynstrete' (a market street) until the late
14th century, when the name was changed and
fishmongers and butchers traded here.

Neither fish, flesh nor fowl are to be had here now.






o-o-o-o

More culture to follow, a theatre play this time,
a comedy with serious undercurrents.

Four names famous in the UK: Michael Jayston, GwenTaylor, Timothy West and Susannah Yorke played retired opera singers living out their lives in a retirement home for ex-musicians.

All four actors are 'off the telly' which made the elderly audience titter even before the characters spoke their first lines.  Coach party audiences are so determined to enjoy themselves, they laugh and
cheer their favourites for no reason that I can see.

Luckily the audience calmed down after a bit.
I do so hate sitting in the midst of what could well be a canned laughter soundtrack for some brainless
TV half-hour sitcom.

Yes, I do know that I am a cranky old spoilsport and a mean cow. And yes, in spite of the titters and
thoughtless laughter I enjoyed the show.


o-o-o-o

Not done yet, not by a long chalk.

The annual visit to Mid-Wales Opera was also due
this week.

Verdi's Falstaff may not be everybody's singalonga
favourite, but there is some great music and the
company consisted of several excellent singers, some quite outstanding, who deserved a full house rather than
the half empty house they had.
The recession bites deeply.

I am always amazed that such a small company, working
without massive subsidies and certainly without the
patronage the famous opera houses receive, can keep going at such a high standard.

At least the audience was very appreciative.

If you like opera (and if not, I'd like to know why not)
and the National Tour comes anywhere near where
you live in England, GO SEE THEM.


o-o-o-o

As if all that in less than two weeks hadn't been enough excitement for my fragile state of mental
stability, I invited a few friends to what was billed as a supper party, but turned into a full-blown dinner which lasted well into the small hours of this morning. I kid you not.

We had much fun talking about all the subjects not meant for a polite dinner table, like religion and the churches' hierarchy,  politics and politicians, feminism and its decline, social workers' struggle to keep their sanity in a world horribly disposed to blame society's ills on them, books and music; when we had finally had our fill of such intellectual topics and permitted ourselves to get down to local gossip, the people round the table got their second wind; the party finally broke up around 2am, when I loaded the dishwasher and collapsed into bed. A stimulating evening like this keeps my brain in overdrive for hours, which means I have had little sleep.


I promise to get back to blog reading from tomorrow, in the meantime I need to recover.

It's been a hard slog, but it is all over now.

The Fateful Apple

Willow's Magpie Tale no. 30

Many many moons ago, in a far distant land, there lived an evil  tyrant called Gessler, who ruled over the people of the mountains with a rod of iron. In the name of the Emperor who had newly appointed him, he demanded absolute obedience from young and old. His word was law, he exacted cruel taxes and punished those who were unable to pay;  no matter how much the townsfolk begged and pleaded with him, he stayed deaf and blind to their suffering.

One day he had a large pole erected in the market place and hung his hat on it. Any woman passing it had to curtsey to the hat and any man had to bow to it. The townsfolk did as they were bid, punishment for noncompliance was severe, nobody was brave enough to risk being flogged or worse, lose their life.

It so happened that a famous marksman, by the name of William Tell came into the town, bringing his young son Walter with him. William was a proud man, used to the hard life of the mountains, where it was easy to risk life and limb almost daily in the pursuit of survival.

William, being headstrong and a rebel to boot, ignored the pole with its ridiculous hat on the top and passed by without bowing.

Gessler heard of it,  and immediately had William and Walter arrested. Gessler knew all about William's reputation as the finest marksman for miles around. He also knew that William was a troublemaker who could and probably would incite the townsfolk to rise up and rebel against his overlordship.

He therefore devised a cunning plan to stop William and, at the same time, appear as a fair arbiter of justice. He decreed that an apple be placed on Walter's head and that William should split the apple with an arrow from his crossbow. He would have one shot and one shot only. If he hit the apple they would both go free.

William and Walter were brought to the market place. The townspeople gathered, muttering darkly, until Gessler's soldiers roughly herded them into an enclosure formed by their lances and pikestaffs.

William stood, crossbow at the ready. There were two arrows in his quiver. Only William knew that the second arrow was meant for Gessler, should he be so unlucky as to hit his child with the first.

Gessler stepped up to little Walter, who was at a loss to understand the meaning of the drama unfolding.
He was too young to know about tyrants and the cruelty they inflicted. He quite liked being the centre of everyone's attention. His Dad had told him to stand absolutely still, which was a little unusual and Walter shuffled his feet a bit. When Gessler came closer, all Walter saw was the rosy-cheeked apple in his outstretched hand, red and round and juicy. Walter hadn't had anything to eat since early in the morning when they left their farm to come into the town. He was hungry. The apple looked very inviting.

Being a polite little boy, not yet given to rebelling, he thanked Gessler nicely, accepted the apple and took a big bite out of it.

A hundred voices gave a sharp cry.

Walter looked round the assembled townsfolk, soldiers, his father and the man with the funny hat, who had given him the apple.

"What ?", he said.