A Story from China: The Cracked Pot

Many of us who like vintage things have a cracked bowl, plate, cup, or other item that we continue to use despite its damage. This story from China illustrates why we continue to use something less than perfect. 

A man once owned two pots. Each day he carried the pots on a pole across his shoulders to a nearby river where he would fill the pots carefully, then carry them back to his home. Water dripped from the cracked pot as he walked and by the time he reached his house half of the water in that pot was gone, while the other was still full. 

A neighbor watched the man carrying the broken pot and dripping the water along the path for months until his curiosity got the best of him.

"Friend," he said, "You seem like an intelligent man. But why do you continue to carry that cracked pot to the river each day? I have watched you fill it many times, and always the water drips out along the path until by the time you reach your home it is only half full. Why do you not get the pot repaired, or buy a new one?"

The water bearer looked at his neighbor, and then pointed to the path along which he was walking. 

"I have always known about the flaw in this pot," he replied. "See the flowers on this side of the path? See how beautiful they are, how full of bloom? I planted them here. I have known about the crack in my pot and I have used it to water the flowers which I pick for my table. Without this old cracked pot, I would not have had such a bounty of blooms for my home. It serves its purpose well, just as it is."

This story could apply to any of us who are not perfect ourselves, couldn't it? All of us "cracked pots" can still spread beauty and love, and be useful, even with our flaws.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Welcome April! and the Second Storytellers Blog Hop

I am so happy to see April--and that's no joke. April is flowers, fruit trees in bloom, new green everywhere, birds and bees humming and busy, gardens being planted, and the whole world smiling. Even April showers are refreshing and a reminder of the need for rain to bring forth the goodness of summer.

So while my bread is rising in the kitchen, I am writing my blog and thinking about spring and stories. I am inviting the storytellers to once again add their links to this page for our second hop. The first one was fun, and I read blogs by my storytelling friends everywhere-many of them I didn't even know were bloggers so it was a happy discovery. So link up, friends!

We start this beautiful month of April with a day for fools! I think Mark Twain's reminder is very much to the point: "The first of April is the day we remember what we are the other 364 days of the year." Ah, yes. Mr. Twain keeps us humble, but who doesn't enjoy some foolishness once in a while? My sons were lovers of the practical joke so we had to be the lookout for things like salt in the sugar bowl, buckets of water perched over doors, saran wrap on the toilet seat and other tricks.  Fools and tricksters have always been held in high regard in stories. My favorites are the Hodja stories from the Middle East and of course the Jack tales of our Appalachian region (with their roots in Britain and Europe). Today I will share a story about the Hodja, and perhaps later this week one about Jack. The Hodja (also known as Nasruddin)  is what is known as a Wise Fool--one who seems foolish on the surface but whose wisdom is hidden by his seemingly foolish demeanor. One I enjoy telling is called Feeding His Clothes, or also The Hungry Coat (and probably many other titles). This maybe the most well-known of the tales, and the version below is my adaptation. I imagine this story taking place in spring, when the trees are budding and the creeks and rivers running full. The Hodja was invited by a wealthy family to a great feast which was to last for several day, and where he was to be one of the guests of honor. He dressed in his finest clothing and made his way to the river, where to his dismay he found the water was quite high. He stepped carefully on each of the stepping stones but his foot slipped off of one and into the river he fell. When he climbed out on the other side, his fine clothes were wet and filthy. "Well then, I must go as I am," he said to himself. "I am the guest of honor and to be late would be rude indeed." So wet and bedraggled he made his way to the feast. When he arrived, however, the guard at the door refused to let him in. "But I am one of the guests of honor," the Hodja protested. "See, here is my invitation." He pulled the wet, muddy paper from his pocket and showed it to the guard. "Very well," said the guard. "You may enter." The Hodja walked into the hall and sat down near the head of the great dining table. "No, no!" exclaimed one of the waiters. "You must not sit there. Those places are for the finest of our guests. You must sit here, at the foot of the table where you will not be seen as readily." The feast began, and all manner of food and drink was passed around to the guests. But when the platters and decanters reached the Hodja, only crumbs and drops remained of the rich contents. The next day, the Hodja bought new clothes. When he arrived at the feast, he was resplendent in rich fabrics and furs. "Welcome, fine sir, welcome!" cried the guard at the door. "Do you not want to see my invitation?" the Hodja asked. "It is not necessary for one so fine and important as you, sir, the guard responded. When the Hodja entered the dining hall, the waiter took him immediately to the head of the table, to be seated at the right hand of the host. When the feast commenced, the laden platters and full decanters were passed first to the Hodja. "Thank you," he murmured. He took food from the platters and stuffed it into his pockets and poured the drink all over his beautiful clothes. His host was astounded. "What are you doing, my man?" he shouted. "You are ruining your clothes!" "When I came yesterday in clothes wet and muddy from my fall in the river, I was put at the foot of the table, and the food and drink were gone when the containers reached me. Today I come dressed in fine clothing and am given the best of everything. Since I am the same person today as I was yesterday, it must be my clothing you are honoring, and so, I am feeding my clothes." This is just one of many delightful Hodja tales. You can read and learn more about Nasruddin at the following sites: Mulla Nasruddin FolktalesMy friend Priscilla Howe has translated many Nasruddin tales on her blog And another friend, Jackie Baldwin, offers links to many stories and more information about this lovable character on her Story Lovers website. A scholarly paper delivered at the first Wise Fools Conference (really!) is excellent reading with some deep background on the topic. Tales from the heart of the Hodja's homeland, on a website originally written in Turkish, so be aware of that should you find oddities of grammar.

I can't wait to read your submissions to the Second Storyteller's Blog Hop! Link up below.

Worry Bundles

My adaptation of a tale from Germany. So often our worries overwhelm us and we look with envy at those whose lives seem easier than our own. 

Once there was a woman who was overcome with troubles. No matter where she turned it seemed there was another problem waiting for her. She dreaded the sun's rising, knowing that yet another day of anxiety and stress was ahead of her.

One day she sat in her yard, moaning about her fate. "Ah me!" she cried. "Why is my burden in life so heavy, while those of my neighbors are so light? What have I done to deserve such a difficult load?"

A wise man was passing and happened to hear the woman. "What ails you, sister?" he asked. "You sound as if you had the cares of the world upon your shoulders.

"If you knew how much trouble I bear every day, you would cry with me," the woman said.

"Well, would you like to put down your heavy bundle of woe, and take up that of someone else?"

I would indeed!" The woman sprang from her bench. "How is this possible? I have neighbors who carry much lighter loads than I do, and I would happily trade mine for theirs."

The wise man instructed the woman to follow a certain path to a cave after dark. There she could light a candle and look about. "There will be many bundles in the cave, so choose carefully," he warned.

The woman was so excited she could hardly wait for it to be fully dark. She almost skipped down the path to the cave. When she arrived, she found the candles and quickly lit one. Then she made her way into the cave.

On the floor were many bundles, piled in heaps against the walls. The woman looked around and saw the smallest bundle. "That's the one for me!" she thought. She ran to the bundle and looked inside.

The bundle belonged to her next-door neighbor. Inside she saw a child in a casket, and a mother weeping. She saw an old woman who could not see, and a man bent from hard labor.

"That is the child my neighbor lost so many years ago, her only child. Still she grieves. And that is her old mother who lives far away. She cannot go to her mother, who must beg on the streets. It is breaking her heart. And her husband, poor man, works so hard every day and for very little money. My troubles are bad, but I would not want to carry my neighbor's burden."

She moved to another bundle, another small one. Inside she saw a man beating his wife and children. "I did not know that this man was so cruel! How horrible for his poor family. I would not want to have their problems. What a sad and difficult life they must live."

The woman moved from bundle to bundle, and inside each she found troubles far worse than her own: sickness, death, unhappy marriages, poverty, lost children and so many terrible things that she found it more and more difficult to look into the bundles. At last she saw a bundle in a corner that she had not looked into. She opened it and was surprised to find that this was own bundle. It felt surprisingly light and the worries inside seemed small indeed. As she made her way out of the cave, she saw the wise man waiting for her.

"I did not realize that my neighbors carried such heavy loads," she said. "My troubles are small in comparison. What is this place, anyway?"

This is where people's troubles go when they are sleeping," the wise man said. "For at least a little while, they can put their worries down and rest. The bundles are always here when they wake and start another day."

Tonight, let's lay our burdens down and sleep well. I hope that when you wake you will find your bundle lighter and your way brighter. 

Feathers-A Retelling of a European Folktale

This is one of my favorite stories; the message it carries is one we all need to remember from time to time.


There once was a woman who loved to talk about other people. It did not matter if what she said was kind or true; she loved to talk just for the fun of it, and to stir up excitement in her neighborhod with her stories. One day she told a friend that a certain neighbor was a thief. Of course, that story soon spread through the neighborhood and it was not long before people began looking at the man with distrust, unwilling to give him work or allow him to visit their homes.

The neighbor was so upset about the ruin of his good name that he went to see a judge, claiming that the woman had libeled him. The judge called the woman in front of him.

"Did you tell someone that his man is a thief?"

"I might have, I really can't remember. I say so many things, you see."

"Do you have any proof that he is a thief?"

"Oh no, I have no proof, I just thought perhaps he was. He lives well for his earnings."

The neighbor protested, "Your honor, I am frugal and spend carefully. That is why it seems I live well. I do not waste my money."

The judge thought for a moment. "So, you have no proof that this man ever stole anything?"

"No," the woman admitted. "I have no proof. It was just a good story to pass along."

"You have ruined this man's good name with your idle gossip. How do you plan to repair the damage you have caused?"

"Oh, well." The woman shrugged. "I will simply aopolgize to him, and I will tell my friends it is not true. That should fix it."

"Here is what you will do," the judge ordered. "You will get a feather pillow and take it into the market square. There you will rip the pillow open and scatter ALL of the feathers to the four winds. Then you will gather all the feathers, put them back in the pillow, and bring the pillow to me."

"How silly!" exclaimed the woman. "I will do as you say, if it makes everyone happy."

The woman did as the judge instructed. She carried her pillow out to the market square and ripped it open. Feather flew into the air as she grabbed handsful and scattered them into the wind. Some feathers landed in the river and floated away; others blew high into trees and lodged in the branches. Others drifted inside windows and doors, or were blown into fires where they were quickly burned.

Try as she might, the woman could not collect all of the feathers. She raced around the square, grabbing at the floating wisps of white. She waded into the river, climbed trees and knocked on doors. Feathers fluttered away from her grasp and at the end of many hours she had only a few feathers in the pillow to show for her work.

Wet, tired and bedraggled, she returned to the judge.

"I understand why you had me scatter the feathers. My words are like these feathers. Once spoken it is impossible to ever call our words back again. I am truly sorry for what I have done and from now on I will mind my tongue and speak only what I know to be true.

"My friend," she said to her neighbor, "I cannot repair the damage I have done to your name, but for the rest of my life I will say to my friends that you are a true and trustworthy man."

And so she did, speaking only good of her neighbor and of others, and refusing to listen to idle gossip for the rest of her days.

Giveaway--5 days and counting!

Don't forget to enter my giveaway for $125 to spend at CSNStores.com.

Comment on any post this week or from last Thursday, Friday or Saturday to enter. The more times you comment the more likely your chance at winning.

The winner will be announced on Satuday, May 29th.

Good luck!

And speaking of giveaways, here's a story about a man who had no luck at all giving something away:


WALI DAD THE SIMPLE-HEARTED
Based on the story from Andrew Lang's Brown Fairy Book

Once there lived a poor man whose name was Wali Dad Gunjay, or Wali Dad the Bald. He lived all by himself in a mud hut and made his living by cutting grass to sell as fodder for horses. He only earned five halfpence a day. But he needed little to live, so he was able to save one halfpenny daily. This was his life for many years.

Then one night he thought, "I should count all the money I have saved. I wonder how much it might be?" He had hidden his savings in an earthen pot under the floor. He pulled the pot out and looked at the pile of coins that poured out onto his floor.

"What riches! What can I do with all this money? I already have everything I need."

He put the money into a cloth bag and put it under his pillow. The next day he went to a jewellers shop and purchased a gold bracelet. He wrapped the bracelet in cloth and tied the cloth around his waist like a belt. Then he went off to visit a friend who was a rich merchant.

Wali Dad sat down to visit and after a while he asked the merchant who was the most virtuous and beautiful lady he knew.

'That is easy," said the merchant. "The princess of Khaistan is well known for both her beauty and her generosity."

" When you see her again, would you give her this little bracelet, and tell her it is from a man who admires virtue more than he desires wealth." Walie Dad pulled the bracelet from his belt and handed it to his friend.

"I will do this for you," said the merchant.

One day the merchant visited Khaistan. He sent the bracelet, with Wali Dad's message to the princess. The princes sent back a reply that the merchant must stop to visit her again before he left the city. As he was leaving town the merchant came back,and the princess presented him with a return gift-- a camel loaded with rich silks, and some money for himself.

The merchant took the princess's gift to Wali Dad.

"Oh my!" cried Wali Dad. "I have no use for such riches. Do you know of some young prince who might be in need of them?"

"Well," said the merchant, "I know many princes. But there is no one more worthy than the young prince of Nekabad."

"Please, take take the silks to him, with my blessing," said Wali Dad.

The merchant did as Wali Dad requested and the prince, as you might have guessed, sent back an even richer gift--twelve fine horses, and a gift of money for the merchant for his services.

The merchant took the twelve horses to Wali Dad.

"Goodness," said Wali Dad when he saw the horses coming, "a caravan is cominf! They will a lot of hay to feed that many horses!" Of course, the horses were for him.

When he learned this, Wali Dad thought for a moment and then told the merchant, "Keep two of the horses for yourself, and take the others to the princess of Khaistan."

The merchant agreed to follow Wali Dad's instructions. This time the princess sent for the merchant, and asked him, "Who is sending me these wonderful gifts?"

The merchant replied, "It is one who has heard of your goodness and beauty and wants to send to you the best he has to offer." How could he tell her that the gifts actually came from an old many whose only income was 5 half-pence a day? She would never believe that!

The princess went to her father and told him about the gifts she had received. "What shall I do, father?"

"Well," said the king, "You cannot refuse them. The best thing you can do is to send this unknown friend a present so magnificent that he is not likely to be able to send you anything better, and so will be ashamed to send anything at all!" The king ordered twenty mules laden with silver be sent back to the unknown giver of gifts.

Suddenly the merchant found himself in charge of a splendid caravan.

"Well, now," cried Wali Dad, when he saw the caravan at his door, "Please my friend, take six of these mules for your troubles, and the rest straight to Nekabad."

The prince was so embarrassed by this expensive gift that he questioned the merchant closely about the giver. The merchant did not think the prince would believe that Wali Dad was just a poor old man, so he made up a story about Wali Dad's riches. The prince made up a caravan on twenty horses dressed in gold embroidered cloths with fine leather saddles and silver bridles and stirrups. He added twenty of his best camels and twenty elephants, with magnificent silver howdahs and dressings of silk embroidered with pearls. The merchant hired many men to help him with these animals and people came out from everywhere to watch as the rich caravan passed by.

When Wali Dad saw the cloud of dust approaching he thought, "A great caravan is coming! They will buy much grass!"He hurried off to cut more grass, but when he got back he found the caravan had stopped at his door, and the merchant congratulated him on his new riches.

"Riches!' cried Wali Dad. "What has an old man like me with one foot in the grave need riches for? Please take for yourself two horses, two camels, and two elephants, with all their trappings, and take the rest to the princess."

"Wali Dad," said the merchant, "Thank you for your generosity to me. This is becoming embarrassing to me to be paid so richly for carrying your gifts to the princess and the prince. Please, I will go one last time but that is the end."

"Very well," said Wali Dad. So, after a few days' rest the caravan started off once more for Khaistan. As soon as the king of Khaistan saw the many animals and the men entering his palace courtyard, he hurried down in to see what it was all about. He was astounded to learn that these were a gift for his daughter from the great Wali Dad.

The king hurried to his daughter. "I can only think this means one thing--this man wants to marry you! We must go to visit him. Such a wealthy man surely would be a fine husband for you."

"Yes, father," said the princess. "I admit I am curious to know who he is and where he lives. We should go see him at once. The merchant can be our guide."

Can you imagine how the merchant felt? He would have gladly run away but there was no chance to do that. How could he explain to these people that Wali Dad was just an old man living in a hut? As the caravan traveled, the merchant tried desperately to find a way out of his situation. He laid awake at night, thinking he would surely be executed for his part.

When they were only one day's travel from Wali Dad's home, the merchant was sent to tell Wali Dad that the King and Princess of Khaistan were coming to visit. The merchant arrived and told Wali Dad all that had happened. "What shall we do?" the merchant wailed.

"My friend, I have put you in this position, and for that I am sorry. I must think of a some way to tell the king and his daughter what I have done. Please, go back and ask them for one more day that I might find some way out of my foolishness."

As soon as the merchant left Wali Dad decided that there was only one way out of the shame and distress he had created--to kill himself. So that night he went to a place where the river wound along at the base of steep rocky cliffs and determined to throw himself down and end to his life. When he got to the place he drew back a little and began to run toward the cliff, but at the very edge he stopped. He could not do it!

He sat with his hands over his face in the darkness, until a soft light made him pull his hands away. Was it already morning? But there before him he saw two lovely beings he knew immediately were not of earth. "These must be Peris from Paradise!" he thought.

"Why do you weep, old man?" said one.

"I weep for shame," said Wali Dad.

"What are you doing here?" asked the other.

"I came here to die," said Wali Dad. And he told them his story.

Then the first stepped forward and laid a hand upon Wali Dad's shoulder, and his old cotton rags changed to linen and embroidered cloth; on his hard, bare feet were warm, soft shoes, and on his head a great jewelled turban. Round his neck there lay a heavy golden chain, and the little old bent sickle, which he cut grass with, and which hung in his waistband, had turned into a gorgeous scimitar, whose ivory hilt gleamed in the pale light like snow in moonlight.

As he stood wondering, the other peri waved her hand; and, there before him a shining gateway stood open. The peris led him up a broad avenue and on the very spot where his hut had stood, a gorgeous palace appeared, ablaze with lights. There were hurrying servants and guards pacing to and fro who saluted him respectfully. There were grassy walks and lawns where fountains were playing and flowers bloomed. Wali Dad stood stunned and helpless.

"Fear not," said one of the peris. "Go to your house, and learn that God rewards the simple-hearted."

With these words the peris disappeared. Wali Dad was sure he was dreaming as he walked into a room more beautiful than any he had seen, and he soon went to sleep.

If Wali Dad was amazed, imagine the the merchant, who came to see him just after sunrise!

"I have not slept all night," the merchant said. "I did not know what we should do, and now I see this!"

Wali Dad told his friend about what happened during the night. "Invite the king and princess of Kaistan and all their train to come to my home--even the lowliest of their servants should come."

For three nights and days a great feast was held in honor of the royal guests. On the fourth day the king of Khaistan took Wali Dad aside, and asked him if he wished to marry his daughter.

"I thank you for the compliment," said Wali Dad, "but I am much too old and ugly for such a lady as your daughter; but stay a while, I will invite my friend the Prince of Nekabad to visit us. I am sure he will want to try to win your daughter's hand."

"Very well," said the king. "I would like to meet anyone who is your friend, Wali Dad."

You know how this story will end: the prince and princess were married, and Wali Dad lived to the end of his days continuing to help all who were in trouble. And he remained always the simple-hearted and generous man that he had been he was only Wali Dad Gunjay, the grass cutter.

You can find a retelling of this story for children in a picture book by storyteller and author Aaron Shepard.

I hope

Saturday Junking

I don't get much opportunity to go to yard sales, but this past Saturday we took a little time to stop at a few sales along our way. Bounty! Here is what we found:

Nice wood chair painted white with covered cushion, $5
6 hand-embroidered placemats, $5
Made in England blue and white pitcher and honey jar, $1
Doilies, .25 ea
I Love America hand-embroidered wall-hanging, $1
Hand-blown decanter, .75
Serving dish and small amber dish, .10 ea
Two oblong baking pans, .10 ea
Birdhouse, basket and wrought metal hanger, free

A good day at the sales! And probably adds to my reputation with my sons as a junk collector, which is probably mostly true--I dream of one day starting a junk shop :-)

Which leads to this story that is found in many cultures, about a man who roams afar to find that treasure is actually in his own back yard. Many storytellers know the story of the Peddler of Swaffham, but this version is Middle Eastern.

How the Junkman Traveled to Find Treasure in His Own Yard

from Turkey

In a tower overlooking the sea there lived an old junkman who earned his living by gathering bits and pieces of iron and selling them to smiths.

He often thought about the hard luck of his life. "To think," he said, "that the metal I collect will probably be used to make a shoe for a donkey or a horse. Surely I might at least be permitted to ride the donkey. But no, I cannot even afford such a luxury."

Often this poor man dreamed of wealth and luxury. But each morning he faced again the reality of his life. His longing increased for the things he could not have.

One night he dreamed that a voice said, "Go to Egypt, and it shall be so."
All day he thought about this dream, and each night he dreamed it again. "Go to Egypt, and it shall be so."

One day his wife met him at the door and said, "Have you brought home any bread?" He replied, "No, I have not gone; I will go tomorrow. " He thought, you see, that she had asked him, " Have you gone to Egypt?"

The next day his troubles and poverty seemed unbearable, and he left his house, saying, "I go! I go to the land of wealth!" He boarded a boat for Alexandria, telling the captain, "I have been called to this city, and you must take me." The captain thought this was obviously a holy man or a crazed one, and allowed him passage on the boat.

In Alexandria, the only bread he had to eat was that which was given him by those who felt pity for him. His crusts of bread grew few and far between. Finally, weary of his suffering, the man wandered out to the pyramids seeking death.

"Great stones, fall upon me and end my miserable life," he cried.

It happened that a Turk heard this prayer, and said to him, "Why are you so miserable, father? Has your soul been so strangled that you prefer its being dashed out of your body?"

"Yes," the man replied. "In my home town, I was a junkman and managed to feed my wife and myself. But here in Egypt, I am a stranger, alone and starving. My wife for all I know may have already starved to death. And all this because of a dream!"

"How sad that a man of your age should be tempted to wander so far from home and friends because of a dream. Why, were I to obey my dreams, I would at this present moment be in your home town, digging for a treasure that lies buried under a tree. I can even describe where it is, although I have never been there. I see a wall that must have been built many years ago, and supporting this wall are towers with many corners, towers that are round, towers that are square, and others that have smaller towers within them. In one of these towers, a square one, there live an old man and woman, and close by the tower is a large tree, and every night when I dream of the place, the old man tells me to dig and disclose the treasure. But I am not such a fool as to leave my family because of this dream. It is simply a dream and nothing more. to Only look what has happened to you by coming so far."

"Yes," said the man, "it is a dream and nothing more. I will return to my home." He certainly had wandered far and long to learn that the treasure was in his own garden.

When he returned home he looked as as if he had not been changed at all by his long journey. In fact, he was the cinder and iron gatherer of old.

To all who asked where he had been and what he had been doing, he answered, "A dream sent me away, and a dream brought me back."

And the neighbors would say, "Truly he must be blessed."

But one night the man went to the tree, and after digging a short time a he struck a heavy case. In the case he found gold, silver, and precious jewels of great value. He buried the case again and returned to bed, saying nothing to his wife who was known to all to be unable to keep a secret.

But he wanted to tell her, and so he devised a test of her trustworthiness. The man placed an egg in his bed and the following morning he told his wife, "See here! I am not as other men, for evidently last night I laid this egg in my bed. Wife, if anyone hears of this, I will be in deep trouble indeed with the neighbors."

And without another word he left with a sack on his shoulder to gather the cast-off shoes of horses and oxen. When he returned home in the evening, he heard rumors, ominous rumors, that a man who had been considered a holy man had done something that was unknown in the history of man, even in the history of hens: he had laid a dozen eggs.

Needless to say, he did not tell his wife of the buried treasure, but continued to gather iron and cinders. And somehow, although he never said how, he managed to find each day a gold piece, or a silver piece and now and then a precious stone. And so the junkman lived the rest of his days in comfort and eventually even bought a donkey to ride on his daily rounds.

Revised from the story in the book by Cyrus Adler and Allan Ramsay, Told in the Coffee House: Turkish Tales (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1898), pp. 35-42. Found online at www.pitt.edu/~dash/type1645.html

The Queen Bee: A Tale from the Brothers Grimm

When I was a child, I read and re-read the stories in my copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales so often that the book is now in tatters. I traveled to enchantment with each reading, even though when I read them now I am astounded at the level of violence in some of them. Children seem to take such things in stride--perhaps it is because we got toughened up on the playgrounds?

I do not remember ever reading this story. It seems a timely tale, with the bees beginning to fly again, and talk of starting more hives buzzing around my house. This is from an online etext, which credits the Household Tales collection, but also says the working is not identical and the exact source of this version is unknown.

I like this story for its non-violence, the discouragement of bullying, and the gentleness of the writing.

Two kings' sons once went out in search of adventures, and fell into a wild, disorderly way of living, so that they never came home again. The youngest, who was called simpleton, set out to seek his brothers, but when at length he found them they mocked him for thinking that he
with his simplicity could get through the world, when they two could not make their way, and yet were so much cleverer.

They all three traveled away together, and came to an ant-hill. The two elder wanted to destroy it, to see the little ants creeping about in their terror, and carrying their eggs away, but simpleton said, "Leave the creatures in peace, I will not allow you to disturb them."

Then they went onwards and came to a lake, on which a great number of ducks were swimming. The two brothers wanted to catch a couple and roast them, but simpleton would not permit it, and said, "Leave the creatures in peace, I will not suffer you to kill them."

At length they came to a bee's nest, in which there was so much honey that it ran out of the trunk of the tree where it was. The two wanted to make a fire beneath the tree, and suffocate the bees in order to take away the honey, but simpleton again stopped them and said, "Leave the creatures in peace, I will not allow you to burn them."

At length the three brothers arrived at a castle where stone horses were standing in the stables, and no human being was to be seen, and they went through all the halls until, quite at the end, they came to a door in which were three locks. In the middle of the door, however, there was a little pane, through which they could see into the room. There they saw a little grey man, who was sitting at a table. They called him, once, twice, but he did not hear, at last they called him for the third time, when he got up, opened the locks, and came out. He said nothing, however, but conducted them to a handsomely-spread table, and when they had eaten and drunk, he took
each of them to a bedroom.

Next morning the little grey man came to the eldest, beckoned to him, and conducted him to a stone table, on which were inscribed three tasks, by the performance of which the castle could be delivered from enchantment.

The first was that in the forest, beneath the moss, lay the princess's pearls, a thousand in number, which must be picked up, and if by sunset one single pearl was missing, he who had looked for them would be turned into stone. The eldest went thither, and sought the whole day, but when it came to an end, he had only found one hundred, and what was written on the table came true, and he was turned into stone.

Next day, the second brother undertook the adventure, but it did not fare much better with him than with the eldest, he did not find more than two hundred pearls, and was changed to stone. At last it was simpleton's turn to seek in the moss, but it was so difficult for him to find the pearls, and he got on so slowly, that he seated himself on a stone, and wept. And while he was thus sitting, the king of the ants whose life he had once saved, came with five thousand ants, and before long the little creatures had got all the pearls together, and laid them in a heap.

The second task, however, was to fetch out of the lake the key of the king's daughter's bed-chamber. When simpleton came to the lake, the ducks which he had saved, swam up to him, dived down, and brought the key out of the water.

But the third task was the most difficult, from amongst the three sleeping daughters of the king was the youngest and dearest to be sought out. They, however, resembled each other exactly, and were only to be distinguished by their having eaten different sweetmeats before they fell asleep, the eldest a bit of sugar, the second a little syrup, and the youngest a spoonful of honey.

Then the queen of the bees, whom simpleton had protected from the fire, came and tasted the lips of all three, and at last she remained sitting on the mouth which had eaten honey, and thus the king's son recognized the right princess. Then the enchantment was at an end, everything was delivered from sleep, and those who had been turned to stone received once more their natural forms.

Simpleton married the youngest and sweetest princess, and after her father's death became king, and his two brothers received the two other sisters.

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Sur La Lune seems to be the only online source for the detailed story notes from this collection, which is in the public domain.

Here are the notes for this story, from SurLaLune:

Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm. Household Tales. Margaret Hunt, translator. London: George Bell, 1884, 1892. 2 volumes.

Notes

From Hesse, where we have also heard another story differing in various ways. A poor soldier offers his services to the King and promises to win for him the most beautiful maiden. He is royally equipped, and on his way, when he passes by a great forest, he hears the song of many thousands of birds resounding delightfully through the blue air. "Halt, halt!" cries he. "The birds must not be disturbed; they are praising their Creator!" and he orders his coachman to turn round, and drives another way. After this he comes to a field where many thousands of ravens are crying loudly for food. He has a horse unharnessed, killed, and thrown for the ravens to eat. At length he comes to a marsh where a fish is lying pitifully lamenting that it cannot reach any flowing water. The soldier himself conveys it to the water, and the fish wags its tail with joy.

When he comes to the princess, three tasks are given him, which he must accomplish. In the first place he must gather together again a peck of poppy-seed which the King has had scattered. The soldier takes a measure, a sack, and some white sheets into the field, and spreads out the sheets there. Presently the birds whose singing he would not disturb, come, pick up the seeds, grain by grain, and carry them to the sheets, and the soldier sets before the King the peck which he has had scattered. In the second place he has to fetch a ring which the King's daughter has dropped into the sea. The fish which he had placed in flowing water brings him the ring from under the fin of a whale, where it had fallen. Thirdly, he is to kill a unicorn which has taken up its abode in a forest, and is doing great damage. The soldier goes into the forest, and there the ravens which he rescued from starvation are sitting, and say to him, "Have patience for a little longer, the unicorn has only one good eye, and now he is lying on it, and sleeping; but if he turns round, and sleeps on the bad eye, we will peck out the good one. He will then become furious, but, as he will be blind, he will run against the trees in his fury, and stick fast with his horn." Soon afterwards the animal turns in his sleep, and then he lies on the other side, on which the ravens fly to him, and peck out his good eye. He leaps up and runs against an oak-tree and sticks his horn firmly into it.

Then the soldier cuts off his head, carries it to the King, and receives in return for it his beautiful daughter, whom he takes to his master, by whom he is royally rewarded.

In Netherlandish, see The Grateful Animals, No 4. in Wolf's Wodana. In Hungarian, see Gaal, No 8.

In Persian, Touti Nameh, No 21 in Iken. A certain King dies and leaves behind him two sons.

The elder usurps the crown; the second leaves the country. He comes to a pond where a snake has caught a frog. He calls the snake, which leaves hold of the frog, and it hops back into the water. In order to compensate the snake, he cuts off a bit of his own flesh. To show their gratitude for these benefits, both the frog and the snake come to him in human form and serve him. The prince enters into the service of a King, whose ring falls into the water when he is fishing, and who orders the prince to get it out again for him. The frog-man reassumes the form of a frog, goes into the water, and brings out the ring. Soon afterwards the King's daughter is bitten by a snake, and no one can save her from death but the snake-man, who sucks out the poison from the wound. Thereupon the King gives the prince his daughter to wife. And now the two faithful servants take leave of him, and make themselves known to him respectively as the frog whose life he had saved, and the snake to whom he had given a piece of his own flesh to eat.

See the story of Livoret (3, 2) in Straparola. In the Jewish Maasähbuch (chap. 143 of Rabbi Chanina), the King first gets to know about the Princess with the Golden Hair, by a single hair which a bird one day (as in Tristan), lets fall on his shoulders, and which it has plucked from her head while she was bathing. On his way Chanina shows kindness to a raven, a dog, and a fish. The tasks set him are to procure water from Paradise and from hell, and the grateful raven brings a small pitcherful from both places. Then he has to get a ring out of the sea. The fish prevails upon Leviathan, who has swallowed it, to spit it out on land, but in the meantime a wild boar comes and swallows it. And now the dog attacks the wild boar and tears it in two pieces, and Chanina again finds the ring. The end is entirely different; for instance, when Chanina has brought the bride home to the King he is taken into high favour by him, and for that reason is murdered by the envious. But the young Queen, who is very much devoted to him, sprinkles him with the water from Paradise, by which be is immediately restored to life. The King wishes to make a trial of this likewise, and orders one of his men to kill him, but the Queen pours the water of hell over him, by which he is immediately burnt to ashes. She says to the people, "See, he was an impious man, or he would have been brought back to life again;" and marries Chanina.

There are some more details in Helwig. There is a certain amount of resemblance to Ferdinand the Faithful, No. 126. The story of the White Snake, No. 17, is like this, and so is Soldier Lawrence in Pröhle's Kindermärchen, No 7.

The Little Glass Slipper: A German Fairy Tale

A story from the German island of Rugen (also called Rugia), in the Baltic Sea north of Germany. Rugen is the largest of the German islands.

This story is from the book Fairy Mythology by Thomas Keightley. The book is available as e-text on the Sacred Texts website.

From the painting "The Chalk Cliffs on Rugen" by artist David Friedrich (1774-1840)
THE LITTLE GLASS SLIPPER
A PEASANT, named John Wilde, who lived in Rodenkirchen, found one time a glass shoe on one of the hills where the little people used to dance. He clapped it instantly into his pocket and ran away with it, keeping his hand as close on his pocket as if he had a dove in it; for he knew that he had found a treasure which the underground people must redeem at any price.

Others say that John Wilde lay in ambush one night for the underground people, and gained an opportunity of pulling off one of their shoes, by stretching himself there with a brandy-bottle beside him, and acting like one that was dead drunk; for he was a very cunning man, not over scrupulous in his morals, and had taken in many a one by his craftiness, and, on this account, his name was in no good repute among his neighbours, who, to say the truth, were willing to have as little to do with him as possible. Many hold, too, that he was acquainted with forbidden arts, and used to carry on an intercourse with the fiends and old women that raised storms, and such like.

However, be this as it may, when John had gotten the shoe, he lost no time in letting the folk that dwell under the ground know that he had it. So at midnight he went to the Nine-hills, and cried with all his might, "John Wilde, of Rodenkirchen, has got a beautiful glass shoe. Who will buy it? Who will buy it?" For he knew that the little one who had lost the shoe must go barefoot till he got it again, and that is no trifle, for the little people have generally to walk upon very hard and stony ground.

John's advertisement was speedily attended to. The little fellow who had lost the shoe made no delay in setting about redeeming it. The first free day he got, that he might come out into the daylight, he came as a respectable merchant, and knocked at John Wilde's door, and asked if John had not a glass shoe to sell? "For," says he, "they are an article now in great demand, and are sought for in every market." John replied that it was true he had a very little little, nice, pretty little glass shoe, but it was so small that even a Dwarf's foot would be squeezed in it; and that God Almighty must make people on purpose for it before it could be of any use; but that, for all that, it was an extraordinary shoe, and, a valuable shoe, and a dear shoe, and it was not every merchant that could afford to pay for it.

The merchant asked to see it, and when be had examined it, "Glass shoes," said he, "are not by any means such rare articles, my good friend, as you think here in Rodenkirchen, because you do not happen to go much into the world. However," said he, after hemming a little, "I will give you a good price for it, because I happen to have the very fellow of it." And he bid the countryman a thousand dollars for it.

"A thousand dollars are money, my father used to say when he drove fat oxen to market," replied John Wilde, in' a mocking tone; "but it will not leave my hands for that shabby price; and, for my own part, it may ornament the foot of my daughter's doll. Harkye, friend: I have heard a sort of little song sung about the glass shoe, and it is not for a parcel of dirt that it will go out of my hands. Tell me now, my good fellow, should you happen to know the knack of it, that in every furrow I make when I am ploughing I should find a ducat? If not, the shoe is still mine, and you may inquire for glass shoes at those other markets."

The merchant made still a great many attempts, and twisted and turned in every direction to get the shoe; but when he found the farmer inflexible, be agreed to what John desired, and swore to the performance of it. Cunning John believed him, and gave him up the glass shoe, for he knew right well with whom he had to do. So the business being ended, away went the merchant with his glass shoe.

Without a moment's delay, John repaired to his stable, got ready his horses and his plough, and drove out to the field. He selected a piece of ground where he would have the shortest turns possible, and began to plough. Hardly had the plough turned up the first sod, when up sprang a ducat out of the ground, and it was the same with every fresh furrow he made. There was now no end of his ploughing, and John Wilde soon bought eight new horses, and put them into the stable to the eight he already had--and their mangers were never without plenty of oats in them--that he might be every two hours to yoke two fresh horses, and so be enabled to drive them the faster.

John was now insatiable in ploughing; every morning he went out before sunrise, and many a time he ploughed on till after midnight. Summer and winter it was plough, plough with him evermore, except when the ground was frozen as hard as a stone. But he always ploughed by himself, and never suffered any one to go out with him, or to come to him when he was at work, for John understood too well the nature of his crop to let people see what it was he ploughed so constantly for.

But it fared worse with himself than his horses, who ate good oats and were regularly changed and relieved, while he grew pale and meagre by reason of his continual working and toiling. His wife and children had no longer any comfort of him; he never went to the alehouse or the club; he withdrew from every one, and scarcely ever spoke a single word, but went about silent and wrapped up in his own thoughts. All the day long he toiled for his ducats, and at night he had to count them and to plan and meditate how he might find out a still swifter kind of plough.

His wife and neighbours lamented over his strange conduct, his dullness and melancholy, and began to think that he was grown foolish. Everybody pitied his wife and children, for they imagined that the numerous horses he kept in his stable, and the preposterous mode of agriculture that he pursued, with his unnecessary and superfluous ploughing, must soon leave him without house or land.

But their anticipations were not fulfilled. True it is, the poor man never enjoyed a happy or contented hour since he began to plough the ducats up out of the ground. The old saying held good in his case, that he who gives himself up to the pursuit of gold is half way in the claws of the evil one. Flesh and blood cannot bear perpetual labour, and John Wilde did not long hold out against this running through the furrows day and night. He got through the first spring, but one day in the second, he dropped down at the tail of the plough like an exhausted November fly. Out of the pure thirst after gold he was wasted away and dried up to nothing; whereas he had been a very strong and hearty man the day the shoe of the little underground man fell into his hands.

His wife, however, found after him a considerable treasure, two great nailed up chests full of good new ducats, and his sons purchased large estates for themselves, and became lords and noblemen. But what good did all that do poor John Wilde?
http://sacred-texts.com/neu/celt/tfm/tfm067.htm

A Story for the Season: Silver Pine Cones

Here is an interesting story to tell during the holiday season, and an idea for a simple craft and gift--a pine cone painted silver. The story is said to be from the Hartz Mountains of Germany, according to this website. You can find many other versions of the tale online, although I found no print source of the story listed. If you know one, please share!)



Legend of the Silver Pine Cones

There once lived a poor family without enough food to eat or wood for their fire. The mother decided to go into the forest to search for pine cones; these would burn brightly, if only for a short time, and provide some warmth for her cold house and family. Perhaps, she thought, I might be able to sell a few of the pine cones and make a little money to buy food too.

In the forest, the woman kicked away the snow and began picking up the fallen cones. Her fingers were soon numb with cold, but she persisted in her task.


“Why are you stealing my pine cones?” She looked around and saw a tiny elf on a log beside her.


"My family is cold and hungry," the woman explained. "The pine cones will warm us in the fire, and I might be able to sell a few and then buy a bit of bread for my little children."


"Well," the elf said, “Go into the next forest. The pine cones there are much better.” the elf disappeared as quickly as it had come.


The woman was tired, but the elf had spoken so assuredly that she decided to see if the elf was right. She made her way to the next forest, which was quite a long walk. But the elf had not lied--there were pine cones all over the ground and the woman quickly filled her basket. How happy everyone will be at home tonight, she thought. The sun was setting as she made her way home.


As she opened the door, she glanced down at her basket. The pine cones had all turned to silver!


The woman was able to buy all the food her family needed for the winter, and even then she had many silver pine cones left for the coming years. And because of her saving, careful ways, her family was never hungry or poor again.


Some people still believe that a silver pine cone brings luck. Hang one on your tree, or paint some pine cones silver this holiday season and give them to friends and family, along with a copy of this story. It is a simple gift, but one that is sure to be cherished.

The Jar of Rosemary: A Christmas Story

From the book The Story-Teller by Maud Lindsay (1874-1941)

This book is no longer copyrighted and is available full-text online in several places. This particular story is a Christmas story, and may be useful for some of you who are looking for new stories to tell, or tales suitable for use with your Sunday school classes.

I found my copy of the book at a friend's antique shop in Weston, WV. How could I not buy it with a title like that! The stories are a bit on the "sweet" side, as many children's story books were during the time Lindsay was writing, but they are well written tales. Several copies are available for sale at Abebooks.

There was once a little prince whose mother the queen was sick. All summer she lay in bed, and everything was kept quiet in the palace. But when the autumn came, she grew better. Every day brought color to her cheeks and strength to her limbs, and by and by the little prince was allowed to go into her room and stand beside her bed to talk to her.
He was very glad of this, for he wanted to ask her what she would like for a Christmas present. As soon as he had kissed her and laid his cheek against hers, he whispered his question in her ear. 'What should I like for a Christmas present?' said the queen. 'A smile and a kiss and a hug around the neck. These are the dearest gifts I know.'

But the prince was not satisfied with this answer. 'Smiles and kisses and hugs you can have every day,' he said. 'But think, Mother, think. If you could choose the thing you wanted most in all the world, what would you take?' So the queen thought and thought.

At last she said, 'If I might take my choice of all the world, I believe a little jar of rosemary like that which bloomed in my mother's window when I was a little girl would please me better than anything else.' The little prince was delighted to hear this.

As soon as he had gone out of the queen's room, he sent a servant to his father's greenhouses to inquire for a rosemary plant. But the servant came back with disappointing news. There were carnation pinks in the king's greenhouses and roses with golden hearts and lovely lilies, but there was no rosemary.

Rosemary was a common herb and grew mostly in country gardens, so the king's gardener said. 'Then go into the country for it,' said the little prince. 'No matter where it grows, my mother must have it for a Christmas present.'

So the messengers went into the country here, there and everywhere to seek the plant. But each one came back with the same story to tell. There was rosemary enough and to spare in the spring, but the frost had been in the country. There was not a green sprig left to bring to the little prince for his mother's Christmas present.

Two days before Christmas, however, news was brought that rosemary had been found-a lovely, green plant growing in a jar right in the very city where the prince himself lived. 'But where is it?' said he. 'Why have you not brought it with you? Go and get it at once.'

'Well, as for that,' said the servant who had found the plant, 'there is a little difficulty. The old woman to whom the rosemary belongs did not want to sell it, even though I offered her a handful of silver for it.'

'Then give her a purse of gold,' said the little prince.

So a purse filled so full of gold that it could not hold another piece was taken to the old woman, but presently it was brought back. She would not sell her rosemary; no, not even for a purse of gold.

'Perhaps if your little highness would go yourself and ask her, she might change her mind,' said the prince's nurse.

So the royal carriage drawn by six white horses was brought and the little prince and his servants rode away to the old woman's house. When they got there, the first thing they spied was the little green plant in a jar standing in the old woman's window.

The old woman herself came to the door, and she was glad to see the little prince. She invited him in and bade him warm his hands by the fire and gave him a cookie from her cupboard to eat. She had a little grandson no older than the prince, but he was sick and could not run about and play like other children. He lay in a little white bed in the old woman's room. The little prince, after he had eaten the cookie, spoke to him, took out his favorite plaything, which he always carried in his pocket, and showed it to him.'

I wonder if you can guess what the prince's favorite plaything was?

"It was a ball, which was like no other ball that had ever been made. It was woven of magic stuff as bright as the sunlight, as sparkling as the starlight, and as golden as the moon at the harvest time. When the little prince threw it into the air or bounced it on the floor or turned it in his hands, it rang like a chime of silver bells.

The sick child laughed to hear it and held out his hands for it. The prince let him hold it, which pleased the grandmother as much as the child. But pleased though she was, she would not sell the rosemary. She had brought it from the home where she had lived when her little grandson's father was a boy, she said, and she hoped to keep it till she died. So the prince and his servants had to go home without it.

No sooner had they gone than the sick child began to talk of the wonderful ball. 'If I had such a ball to hold in my hand,' he said, 'I should be contented all the day.' 'You may as well wish for the moon and the sky,' said his grandmother.

But she thought of what he said, and in the evening when he was asleep she put her shawl around her. Taking the jar of rosemary with her, she hastened to the king's palace. When she got there, the servants asked her errand, but she would answer nothing till they had taken her to the little prince.

'Silver and gold would not buy the rosemary,' she said when she saw him. 'But if you will give me your golden ball for my little grandchild, you may have the plant.'

'But my ball is the most wonderful ball that was ever made!' cried the little prince. 'And it is my favorite plaything. I would not give it away for anything.' And so the old woman had to go home with her jar of rosemary under her shawl.

The next day was the day before Christmas, and there was a great stir and bustle in the palace. The queen's physician had said that she might sit up to see the Christmas tree that night and have her presents with the rest of the family. Everyone was running to and fro to get things in readiness for her.
The queen had so many presents, and very fine they were, too, but the Christmas tree could not hold them all. So they were put on a table before the throne and wreathed around with holly and with pine. The little prince went in with his nurse to see them and to put his gift, which was a jewel, among them.

'She wanted a jar of rosemary,' he said as he looked at the glittering heap. 'She will never think of it again when she sees these things, you may be sure of that,' said the nurse.

But the little prince was not sure. He thought of it himself many times that day. Once when he was playing with his ball, he said to the nurse, 'If I had a rosemary plant, I'd be willing to sell it for a purse full of gold, wouldn't you?' 'Indeed, yes,' said the nurse, 'and so would anyone else in his right senses. You may be sure of that.'

The little boy was not satisfied, though. Presently, when he had put his ball up and stood at the window watching the snow, which had come to whiten the earth for Christ's birthday, he said to the nurse, 'I wish it were spring. It's easy to get rosemary then, isn't it?' 'Your little highness is the king's parrot that knows but one word, with your rosemary, rosemary, rosemary,' said the nurse, who was a little out of patience by this time. 'Her majesty the queen only asked for it to please you, you may be sure of that.'
But the little prince was not sure. When the nurse had gone to her supper and he was left by chance for a moment alone, he put on his coat of fur. Taking the ball with him, he slipped away from the palace." And where do you think he was going? I think you've guessed.

"He hastened toward the old woman's house. He had never been out at night by himself before, and he might have felt a little afraid had it not been for the friendly stars that twinkled in the sky above him. 'We'll show you the way,' they seemed to say. He trudged on bravely in their light, till by and by he came to the house and knocked at the door.

Now the little sick child had been talking of the wonderful ball all evening. 'Did you see how it shone, Grandmother? Did you hear how the little bells rang?' he said. It was just then that he heard the little prince knocking at the door.

The old woman made haste to answer the knock, and when she saw the prince she was too astonished to speak. 'Here is the ball!' he cried, putting it into her hands. 'Please give me the rosemary for my mother.'

And so it happened that when the queen sat down before her great table of gifts, the first thing she spied was a jar of sweet rosemary, like that which had bloomed in her mother's window when she was a little girl.

'I should rather have it than all the other gifts in the world,' she said. And she took the little prince in her arms and kissed him."

Raw Head Bloody Bones

It's a story, not a description of what I look like this morning!

Recently Mary Jane over at Blind Pig mentioned Raw Head Bloody Bones in a blog post. In her family, it was used as a threat to make children behave (as in 'if you don't be good ol' Raw Head Bloody Bones will get you!"). I knew it as a story, and she and I discussed it via email. In the course of that conversation, I turned up the following information about the story:

For one thing, the story is very old.

The blog Ghost-A-Go-Go Toons credits the story to Celtic roots. (The images of Ol' Raw Head on this blog are interesting, too).

In the book Faiths and Folklore, (first published in 1905 and still in print) author William Carew Hazlitt notes that William Butler referenced the term "Raw Head" or "Bloody bones" twice in his book Hudibras, which was written between 1660 and 1680, another indication of the possible Celtic origin of the tale. And in Oral and Literate Culture in England 1500-1700 (published in 2001 by Oxford University Press) , Adam Fox notes that "another spectre which had been a particular terror of children at least since Reginald Scot's childhood in the 1540's was Raw-head and bloody-bone." He goes on to say that servants often used the term to frighten children, and that the creature was often said to inhabit ponds and to pull in children who got too close the water's edge.



Zora Neale Hurston collected the story in South Carolina, and credited it to African roots. You can read a fascinating interview with her here and read her version of the story. An African origin of the tale seems likely to me; the story could have traveled through African servants to the Bristish Isles. Or perhaps it was the other way around, and the servants or slaves learned the story from their British employers or owners? Another African-American version is included in Raw Head, Bloody Bones: African-American Tales of the Supernatural by Mary E. Lyons.

There is an online version of the story on the American Folklore site, attributed to Missouri, but the story is at home in the south as well, and may have been spread across the United States by early settlers.





Another version, from Alabama, is included in the collection Ghosts and Goosebumps: Ghost Stories, Tall Tales, and Superstitions from Alabama compiled by Jack Solomon and published by University of Georgia Press, 1994. In all versions, the tale is intended to frighten children into a certain behavior or action, and falls into the cautionary tale category.




The way I've heard the story (and this is a composite of several different versions from different books and storytellers) is that there is a little boy who is lazy and won't do his work. He sasses his mother, granny, etc, doesn't do what he is told, and they tell him that if he doesn't behave old raw head bloody bones will get him. Either he meets old rawhead and gets so scared that he's a changed boy, or he continues to be a brat and old rawhead carries him away.



Have you ever heard this story, or did someone say the name to you as a scare tactic? What child would not conjure up terrible images if told "old rawhead bloody bones is gonna get you!"

I think I'd be minding my manners, absolutely!

Storytelling!

A few shots from Monday and Tuesday:




A tale of tales!

Grace played the wood xylophone for a story.

Clayton helped with set-up.

Talking about Anansi and the time he stole all the wisdom in the world. The thumb piano adds a nice touch to the story and introduces children to a different instrument. This program included several Anansi stories; since the libraries' theme this summer is bugs, Anansi the spiderman is a natural. I tell the kids this guy is the original spiderman. He doesn't wear a red suit or climb tall buildings, but he's very tricky!

Another Anansi story about how spiders got their thin middles.

This has been a fun program, with so many story possibilities. I've only scratched the surface (with stories of mosquitoes, fleas and such, maybe I'm playing on words here!).

Good Ol' Aesop: The Peasant and the Apple Tree

I found this story by accident, and since we just started some hives, it caught my interest. Trust Aesop to cut to the truth of the matter.

A peasant had growing in his garden an apple tree which bore no fruit at all. It served only as a place for crickets, grasshoppers and sparrows to get out of the heat. The little creatures often sat chirping in the tree's branches.

Disappointed that the tree produced no fruit, the man decided to cut it down.

"Please don't destroy our tree," the grasshoppers said. "Where will we sit and chirp if there is no tree here?"

"Please don't cut this tree," begged the birds. "We sit in its branches and sing to you every day. Would you not miss our songs?"

"Please leave the tree alone," said the crickets. "We rest on its bark and make our music to lighten your work. Where will we go if you cut the tree?"

"No," said the man. "The tree gives me nothing. Why should I keep it in my garden? At least its wood will warm me in my fires this winter."

The man picked up his axe and gave a mighty swing. He quickly discovered that other creatures were living in the hollow center of the tree: honeybees! The large swarm buzzed angrily as it protected its large store of honey.

"Aha!" said the man. "This tree is worth keeping after all. Who knew that it contained such treasure?" He picked up his axe and left the tree standing, and its inhabitants continued to sing, chirp and buzz.

Befuddled by Buzzards

I thought I was seeing things. Were those buzzards on the fence posts? Or some kind of puppet or stuffed animal toy someone had placed there as a prank?

Or, even worse, had someone shot some buzzards and mounted them on the posts as a warning to...who? for what?

I was in Gilmer County. The rain had just stopped and a slight mist was rising, making the sight of the birds just a little surreal. I turned around and drove back for a closer look. Some things are worth taking the time to explore.

This is what I saw when I returned to the place where the buzzards were roosting.

They stayed in this position for some time, allowing me to focus my camera, find a good angle and just generally stare at them. It was as if they were posing for me. One would fly off and another would take its place, wings outspread.

I watched them for several minutes. Maybe they were trying to look like eagles. I hated to tell them, but they're a little too redneck for that!


I left no wiser than I had been when I arrived, but my mind had something new to mull over for several miles. I think the buzzards might have been either a) hot and trying to cool off by spreading their wings, or b) trying to dry out after the rain.

If you've ever seen buzzards doing this, I'd be interested in hearing your explanation for their behavior. All I have at the moment are the workings of my fertile (or feeble, depending) mind.

The buzzards reminded me of this folktale from Burma:

The King of the Birds

Long ago the vulture was just an ordinary bird. His feathers were neither splendid or ugly--just ordinary. I'm sorry to tell you that vulture was also of ordinary intelligence--not too smart and actually rather stupid.
One day as the buzzard sat on a fencepost he looked down at himself and saw a feather drop to the ground. Another fell. And another.

"Oh my!" cried the vulture. I'm losing my feathers! Friends, help me!"

The other birds gathered around and looked.

"That's nothing," the chicken assured the vulture. "You're just moulting. All birds lose their feathers so they can grow new ones. That is what is happening to you. It's nothing to worry about."

"Easy for you to say!" said the vulture. "I'm the one going bald. I'll look ugly." He looked worriedly as more feathers fell to the ground. "This is terrible, terrible."

The vulture worried so much that he forgot to eat or drink. soon he was very thin and looked ill.

"Good grief!" said the blue jay. "You're worrying yourself into an early grave." The birds talked together and felt so sorry for the vulture that they came up with a plan to help him.

"Look, vulture. You can have one of my feathers." The blue jay plucked out a blue feather and stuck it into vulture's thinning feathers. One by one the other birds each gave vulture a feather. The robin gave an orange one from his breast; the goldfinch a bright yellow one, the cardinal a beautiful red one and so on.

"Wow! Look at me! I'm beautiful!" Vulture was so excited about his fantastic new plumage that he began to brag to anyone who would listen.

"Am I not the most beautiful of all the birds? Only look at me. I'm more beautiful than a rainbow." Vulture soon forgot how he had gotten his bright-colored feathers and did nothing but strut around boasting of his own beauty all day.

"Since I am now so handsome, I think that I must be the King of the Birds! All of you must bow down to me and call me Your Majesty!"

The birds had had enough. Quickly they took back all of the feathers they had given to vulture. They were so angry they also pecked off all of the vulture's own feathers! He looked wrinkled, bald and ugly when the birds were finished.

Those birds did such a good job that to this day the feathers on the vulture's head have never grown back. His old bald head is exposed to the sun every day, and burns redder and redder.

Or perhaps that red color comes from his embarrassment at remembering how once he thought he was the King of the Birds.

You can find another version of this story at Pitt's etext site for public domain literature.

A Single Drop of Honey: A Folktale

(from Yiddish folklore and also from the Thousand and One Arabian Nights)

A hunter walked into a village marketplace with his dog, and saw a man selling honey.

The honey looked rich and golden, so the hunter bought some from the merchant. As the merchant was filling the hunter’s jar, a drop fell from his spoon to the ground.

The hunter saw it fall, but he thought, this is the merchant’s problem; he will clean it up. It’s not my job.
So he walked away.

The merchant saw the honey fall to the ground. What a mess, he thought, but, it’s not my job. The hunter owns that honey; he can clean it up. He walked away too.

The honey grew warm in the hot sun. Its scent attracted a honeybee.
As the bee settled down to eat the honey, a bird flying past saw the bee and dove down to eat it.

A cat saw the bird and jumped on it.

The hunter’s dog saw the cat and pounced on it with all four feet.

The cat and dog began to fight.

The hunter and the merchant rushed over and tried to separate the dog and the cat, and ended up fighting with each other.

The ruckus and noise attracted the attention of everyone in the marketplace. The cat squalled, the dog barked, the men shouted and knocked things over. The other people selling in the marketplace got angry when the men knocked over their things.

Now the hunter and the merchant were from two different villages. The other people in market were from those two villages, so when those people joined the fight they picked the side of the man who was from their village. Soon everyone in the market was fighting.

The king heard the fighting and called, “Guards, guards! Call out the soldiers!”

The soldiers rushed in, but since they were also from the two hostile villages, the soldiers joined different sides. Soon the fighting spread from the market into both villages, and finally the whole country was involved in a huge battle.

When everyone grew tired of fighting, the kings came together to try to figure out what had caused the fighting in the first place. Here is what they found out:

The villages joined because their soldiers were fighting the other village.
The soldiers were fighting because people from their villages were fighting each other.

The people from the villages were fighting because the hunter and the merchant were fighting.

The hunter and merchant were fighting because their dog and cat were fighting.

The dog and cat were fighting because the dog jumped on the cat because the cat jumped on the bird that tried to catch the bee that was eating the honey—the single drop of honey that had fallen from the merchant's spoon.

And it all happened because no one thought it was their responsibility to clean up one little drop of honey.

The Boastful Turtle

There was once a turtle who talked all the time. He talked mostly about himself. The other creatures of the earth avoided him as much as possible. Who wants to listen to a braggart?

One day the turtle saw a goose flying above him.

“How I would love to fly,” he said, “like the geese. It must be wonderful to be up so high and see the world from that height.”

He could think of nothing else but flying. At last he met a goose on the ground and he hurried (as fast as he could-he was a turtle, after all) over to her and said, "Teach me how to fly."

"You're a turtle! Anyway, I can’t right now," the goose answered. "My flock is migrating for the summer and I must join them."

"I want to fly!" the turtle cried. "I want to fly HIGH!"

"We’ll have to ask my flock," the gentle goose said.

You know what the flock said.

“Turtles can’t fly,” one goose said. "Whoever heard of a flying turtle!" another goose laughed.

"I want to fly!" the turtle cried. "I want to fly HIGH!"

“We can’t carry you. You have no wings, so how can you fly? asked the largest goose.

"I want to fly!" the turtle cried. "I want to fly HIGH!"

The geese got so tired of his pestering that they came up with a plan. The geese decided that if two of them would hold a stick in their bills, the turtle could bit onto the stick and they could carry him with them, up into the air.

"Remember, you must not open your mouth while we are flying!" they reminded the turtle. The geese flew up into the air their strong wings.

"I am flying!" the turtle thought to himself. "Down on the ground I can see everyone looking at me. How wonderful this is! How wonderful I am!"

He opened his mouth to tell the geese to fly higher still.

"I want to fly!" the turtle cried. " I want to fly HIGH!"

And so of course his mouth came off the stick, and he fell down, down, down to the earth. His beautiful shell cracked all over. He crawled away into the mud at the edge of a pond in embarrassment, and there he stayed until his poor shell healed. But to this day, turtle has a cracked shell, and he has never tried to fly again. And he has never tried to speak again either!

Attributed to several cultures, including East Indian and Tagalog. Versions in the Jataka Tales and the Panchatantra, along with many other story collections. Adapted by Granny Sue

Good Ol' Aesop: Mice in Council

My favorite collection of Aesop's fables are in an old, old book, so old there's no copyright date and the price written inside the cover in pencil is 12 1/2--is that cents? It's falling apart, I'm afraid, and I must handle it very carefully. But there is something special about reading the stories from old yellow pages, the spine stitching clearly visible on each page.

(Illustration from Joseph Jacob's collection of Aesop fables, illustrated by Richard Heighway, 1894)

This story is one of my favorites. I've edited to update the language, but the moral remains the same:

Once upon a time, the Mice were terribly persecuted by a Cat. A meeting was called to search for a resolution to the problem, and to decide on the best method of getting rid of the continuing annoyance.

Many plans were discussed and rejected. Finally a young Mouse stood up and spoke.

"I propose," he said, looking around to be sure he had everyone's attention, "I propose that a Bell be hung around the Cat's neck. A Bell would give us warning of the Cat's approach, and we will be able to escape." He sat down, feeling very pleased with himself for his wonderful idea.

The other Mice were impressed. To be so young and yet so wise! They agreed unanimously that this was the best solution to the problem.

An old Mouse had been sitting quietly, listening to the discussion. When the applause that followed the young Mouse's idea had died down, he stood up stiffly.

"It is a most excellent idea," he said slowly. "I am sure it will be very successful. We will always be able to hear the Cat's approach. I have only one question:

"Who will bell the Cat?"

No one had an answer to that.

(from the Jacob's book)

Some sources of Aesop Fables online:

Aesopica

Joseph Jacob's Aesop

Aesop's Fables from UMass

Apparently he also went to MIT

And the University of Virginia