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old woman.
questions.”
Lyn van der Veer. LOWER ACADEMIC PRIZE STORY
JOSEPHINE O’REILLY
ELEMENTARY PRIZE STORY
WHY GRASS IS GREEN
Once upon a time, there lived in a small clearing in the woods, a little girl and an
It was one day in July, and the flowers were out, the sky was blue, and the grass was pretty as grass can be.
The little girl (whose name was Violet) went up to her Granny and said, “Granny, why is the grass green?”
Granny said, “Listen and I will tell you.
today.“Once long ago when the world was first made, the grass was blue like the sky
“Now every evening beautiful maidens would divide the sun among themselves, meet on the other side of the world behind a big mountain, put the sun together again, and give it a little push so it would rise, slowly but surely.
“One time a little maiden g’ot more than her share of the sun and it was too heavy for her. All of a sudden another came along and bumped into her! The poor little maiden dropped her share of the sun, and when it hit the earth the yellow got mixed with the blue and made green, and the grass has been green ever since.”
“Oh, Granny ! That’s a lovely story—and what makes the sunset?”
“The maiden’s dresses flowing along the sky. Now run along; you ask too many
It is a bright morning at about a quarter of eight when I slide into my seat at the breakfast table. Being the only early riser in my family, I usually eat my breakfast alone.
“Is that you, Jeanie?” drones a foghorn voice from the kitchen.
“Yes,” I reply and continue to eat my grapefruit. A few unrelated mumbles flow through from the pantry. A scratch is heard at the door.
“What an animal! What an animal! In and out, in and out, all day long! Don’t you think I have anything else to do? Go to your chair, you divil, you!”
The disgraced dog wanders into the dining room, her tail between her legs until she is out of Josephine’s sight.
“That dog,” she continues, “nearly took the leg off the laundry man yesterday. Yes, she did.” She goes on, accepting mv silence for an answer. Then with much clatter­ ing and sighing she picks up a plate and a cup of cocoa and clumps into the dining room. I sit, eagerly hoping for a plate of fish perhaps, or fried apples, but the dreadful prospect of a' fried egg lingers in the back of my mind. Josephine removes the grapefruit, and plops in its place a wet-looking white slab. Fried egg, the same thing I’ve had every morning since September twenty-ninth. That’s when school began.
I wait for the usual question of the morning.
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