The Enid Blyton Society

Enid Blyton in May

Enid Blyton in May

I have been very interested in certain letters from some of our readers this last month — letters of horror and rage when you read of cruelty to children or animals, such as I sometimes tell you about in our Famous Five or Busy Bee sections. Now, I welcome these letters, but ONLY if the writers tell me that they are so unhappy and angry that they feel they must DO something about it. It isn't enough just to feel angry and upset about things — we must always DO something. Sometimes the writers say things that please me — for instance: "I feel so upset about that poor little kitten Jennifer Crump rescued that I just MUST join the Busy Bees and help a bit" — or "I can't bear to think of the little baby in your Children's Home whose mother doesn't love him, I really can't. So Mummy and I are going to help." Splendid! If you can change your own unhappiness into happiness for others, then it hasn't been wasted... I'd always rather be a Do-er than a weeper who does nothing, wouldn't you? I am so very glad I have so many readers who are Do-ers.


Sing a song of bluebells, dreaming in the shade,
A thousand little amethysts up and down the glade,
Shimmering and glimmering, ruffled in the breeze.
Sing a song of bluebells, merry as you please!

Sing a song of hawthorn, country maiden's crown,
Lying pale as moonlight, up the hedge and down,
Scenting all the hillside and meadow once again.
Sing a song of hawthorn, shining in the lane!

Sing a song of little things, butterflies and bees,
Speckled eggs, and baby birds hidden in the trees,
Pansies in the garden, cowslips on the hill.
Sing a song of little things, sing it with a will!

Sing a song of Maytime, when all the hills are blue,
And all the world is laughing and calling out to you;
Dance among the buttercups, frolic with the breeze.
Sing a song of Maytime, as merry as you please!

I am sitting by the sea to write you this letter. The tide is just coming in, and there are dozens of little waves running in to shore one after the other, with little curled edges of white.

Overhead the great winged gulls soar and glide and swoop. If I were a bird I would like to be one of those gulls! It must be lovely to sweep through the air as they do, with strong slow wing-beats, or swoop down to the water, close their wings and bob up and down happily on the waves.

Away behind me are the Purbeck Hills, bright with gorse in the sunshine. I can't help feeling that this year the gorse is a much deeper and more brilliant yellow than usual — a glowing, fiery yellow. I wonder if it is the same in your district, if you have stretches of gorse?

As they came nearer to the first island, more and more birds were to be seen on and above the water. They glided gracefully on the wind, they dived down for fish, they bobbed along like toy ducks. There was a chorus of different cries, some shrill, some guttural, some mournful and forlorn. They gave the children a wild, exultant kind of feeling.

The boat went slipping along in waves that seemed made of golden light and blue shadows. It was worth coming out so early just to see the enchanting beauty of the rising sun.

"Heaps of people have never seen the sun rise," said Jill, as she leaned over the side of the boat to look at the gold-flecked waves. "Hardly any of the girls at my school have. They've missed something! I think there ought to be a law that says everyone must watch a sunrise, and everyone must see a bluebell wood, and a buttercup field..."

Pip thought. Then his eyes twinkled. "I know where there is a blue carpet," he said. "It's so beautiful that it takes my breath away whenever I see it. But it's not for sale, I'm afraid."

"Pooh!" said Mr. Big-Brownie. "I'm rich enough to buy things that are not even for sale! Show it to me."

So Pip led him to a wood—and there, stretching away in front of him, lay a shimmering carpet, as blue as amethyst. Mr. Big-Brownie caught his breath as he saw it.

"Magnificent! Truly lovely! Just what I want. I'll buy it."

"You can't," said Pip. "There's nobody to buy it from. It belongs to nobody—and yet it belongs to everybody! Don't you see what the blue carpet is, Mr. Big-Brownie? It's a sheet of bluebells!"