Read Mr Gum and the Power Crystals Online
Authors: Andy Stanton
We bring stories to life
First published 2008 by Egmont UK Limited, 239 Kensington High Street London W8 6SA
Text copyright © 2008 Andy Stanton
Illustration copyright © 2008 David Tazzyman
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
First e-book edition 2011
ISBN 978 14052 2817 6
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
For
Toby, all the way in New Zealand
3
   Polly Goes to See Old Granny
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   Polly Goes to See Old Granny
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   Polly Goes to See Old Granny
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   Polly Goes to See Old Granny
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   Polly Goes to See Old Granny
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   Polly Goes to See Old Granny
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   Polly Goes to See Old Granny
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 Polly Goes to See Old Granny
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 Polly Goes to See Old Granny
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 What Happened at the Windmill
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 Attack of the Roo-de-lallies
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 Polly Goes Back to the Windmill
âW
hy do things happen?' That's the question on everyone's lips these days.
âWhy do things happen, Science?' everyone's lips ask Science. And luckily, Science usually has the answer. For example, if you ask Science why your little sister is crying,
the answer is plain â because you called her âStinky' and broke all her dolls with a hammer. Or if you ask Science why rain falls from the sky, the answer is simple â because it just does and stuff.
But every so often something happens which is so extraordinary that even Science does not hold the answers. For instance, take the horrifying events of last summer in the little town of Lamonic Bibber. âWhy did they happen, Science?' you may ask. But you will get no answer.
For some things are so strange that they cannot be explained away with Science. Or Maths. Or even P.E. But like Old Granny said as she rocked back and forth in her chair by the fireside:
âThe past has a way of repeating itself. The past has a way of repeating itself. The past has a way of repeating itself.'
And perhaps that is all that anyone can say of such things.
I
t all started one hot afternoon, down by the Lamonic River where the water rushes grow. A nine-year-old girl called Polly was skipping along by the water's edge and oh, what a happy little nibblehead she was! It was the height of summer and the world was her playground, sparkling with colour and excitement at every twist and turn.
A trout leapt from the clear water in a flash of silver scales.
A bumblebee did that thing where it goes really near your ear and makes you jump in astonishment.
A kingfisher soared gracefully into the side of a sycamore tree, plummeted to the ground and was stepped on by an otter.