Mary Poppins in the Park

buzzed among its flowers.

'Go away, greedy fly!' cried Michael, as a small black shape settled on the chicken. 'Oh, dear! How hungry it makes me feel!'

Jane gazed with pride at her handiwork. 'Don't drop your crumbs on the lawn, Michael. They make it look untidy.'

'I don't see any litter-baskets. All I can see is an ant in the grass.' He swept his eyes round the tiny Park, so neat amid the wildweed.

'There is never any litter,' said Jane. 'Mr. Mo lights the fire with his paper. And he saves his orange peel for Christmas puddings. Oh, Michael, don't bend down so close, you're keeping the sun away!'

His shadow lay over the Park like a cloud.

'Sorry!' he said, as he bent sideways. And the sunlight glinted down again as Jane lifted Mr. Mo and his tool-bag and set them beside the table.

'Is it his dinner-time?' asked Michael.

'Well — no!' said a little scratchy voice. 'As a matter of fact, it's breakfast!'

'How clever Jane is!' thought Michael admiringly. 'She can not only make a little old man, she can talk like one as well.'

But her eyes, as he met them, were full of questions.

'Did you speak, Michael, in that squeaky way?'

'Of course he didn't,' said the voice again.

And, turning, they saw that Mr. Mo was waving his hat in greeting. His rosy face was wreathed in smiles and his turned-up nose had a cheerful look.

'It isn't what you call the meal. It's how it tastes that matters. Help yourself!' he cried to Michael. 'A growing lad is always hungry. Take a piece of pie!'

'I'm having a beautiful dream,' thought Michael, hurriedly helping himself.

'Don't eat it, Michael. It's plasticine!'

'It's not! It's apple!' he cried, with his mouth full.

'But I know! I made it myself!' Jane turned to Mr. Mo.

'You did?' Mr. Mo seemed very surprised. 'I suppose you mean you helped to make it. Well, I'm very glad you did, my girl. Too many cooks make delicious broth!'

'They spoil it, you mean,' corrected Jane.

'Oh, no, no! Not in my opinion. One puts one thing, one another — oatmeal, cucumber, pepper, tripe. The merrier the more, you know!'

'The more of what?' asked Michael, staring.

'Everything!' Mr. Mo replied. 'There's more of everything when one's merry. Take a peach!' He turned to Jane. 'It matches your complexion.'

From sheer politeness — for she could not disappoint that smiling face — Jane took the fruit and tasted. Refreshing juice ran over her chin, the peach-stone grated against her teeth.

'Delicious!' she cried in astonishment.

'Of course it is!' crowed Mr. Mo. 'As my dear wife always used to say—'You can't go by the look of a thing, it's what's inside that matters.''

'What happened to her?' asked Michael politely, as he helped himself to an orange. He had quite forgotten, in the joy of finding more to eat, that Jane had crumbled her up.

'I lost her,' murmured Mr. Mo. He gave his head a sorrowful shake as he popped the orange peel into his pocket.

Jane felt herself blushing.

'Well — her hat wouldn't sit on straight,' she faltered. But now it seemed to her that this was hardly a good enough reason for getting rid of the hat's owner.

'I know, I know! She was always rather an awkward shape. Nothing seemed to fit her. If it wasn't her hat it was her boots. Even so — I was fond of her.' Mr. Mo heaved a heavy sigh. 'However,' he went on gloomily, 'I've found another one!'

'Another wife?' cried Jane in surprise. She knew she had not made two Mrs. Mo's. 'But you haven't had time for that!'

'No time? Why, I've all the time in the world. Look at those dandelions!' He waved his chubby hand round the Park. 'And I had to have someone to care for the children. Can't do everything myself. So — I troubled trouble before it troubled me and got myself married just now. This feast here is our wedding-breakfast. But, alas—' He glanced around him nervously. 'Every silver lining has a cloud. I'm afraid I made a bad choice.'

'Coo-roo! Coo-roo!

We told you so!'

cried the plasticine doves from their branch.

'Children?' said Jane, with a puzzled frown. She was sure she had made no children.

'Three fine boys,' Mr. Mo said proudly. 'Surely you two have heard of them! Hi!' he shouted, cupping his hands. 'Eenie, Meenie, Mynie — where are you?'

Jane and Michael stared at each other and then at Mr. Mo.

'Oh, of course we've heard of them,' agreed Michael.

'Eenie, Meenie, Mynie, Mo,

Catch an Indian by the—

But I thought they were only words in a game.'

Mr. Mo smiled a teasing smile.

'Take my advice, my dear young friend, and don't do too much thinking. Bad for the appetite. Bad for the brain. The more you think, the less you know, as my dear — er — first wife used to say. But I can't spend all day chattering, much as I enjoy it!' He plucked a dandelion ball and blew the seeds on the air.

'Goodness, yes, it's four o'clock. And I've got a job to do.'

He took from his tool-bag a piece of wood and began to polish it with his apron.

'What kind of work do you do?' asked Michael.

'Can't you read?' cried the chubby man, waving towards the summer-house.

They turned to Jane's little shelter of twigs and saw to their surprise that it had grown larger. The sticks were solid logs of wood and instead of the airy space between them there were now white walls and curtained windows, Above them rose a new thatched roof, and a sturdy chimney puffed forth smoke. The entrance was closed by a red front door bearing a white placard.

S. MO (it said)

BUILDER

AND

CARPENTER

'But I didn't build the house like that! Who altered it?' Jane demanded.

'I did, of course.' Mr. Mo grinned. 'Couldn't live in it as it was — far too damp and draughty. What did you say—you built my house?' He chuckled at the mere idea. 'A little wisp of a lass like you, not as high as my elbow!'

This was really too much for Jane.

'It's you who are little,' she protested. 'I made you of straw and plasticine! You're not as big as my thumb!'

'Ha, ha! That's a good one. Made me of hay while the sun shone — is that what you're telling me? Straw, indeed!' laughed Mr. Mo. 'You're just like my children — always dreaming. And wonderful dreams they are!'

He gave her head a little pat. And as he did so she realised that she was not, indeed, as high as his elbow.