The Story of Chanticleer

Today’s story is indeed old as it appears throughout English folklore in various forms. The original story of Chanticleer and the Fox is comparable to Aesop’s “The Fox and the Crow” and has been retold as a fable for years. Then there was the Nun’s Priest’s Tale from Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales” which retold the story in verse. French author Edmond Rostand (best remembered for “Cyrano de Bergerac”) wrote a play telling a new version of the story which was then translated by a Ms. Florence Yates Hann into a novella for children.

Tragically, the closest thing most people have to an understanding of this fable is the Don Bluth film Rock-A-Doodle which is, let’s face it, pretty much unwatchable and has about as much to do with the real Chanticleer story as the poop of a mouse who shook hands with another mouse who ate a nice piece of cheese in the home of a dentist has to do with dentistry…anyway, here’s how I think the story should go:

The rooster flapped his wings as he lit on the top of the fence. He gazed across at the horizon, waiting for just the right moment. Then, as though he could feel it in his bones, he knew his time had come. He filled his lungs with cool, early morning air and with all his strength he crowed. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” The tiniest glimmer of light danced on the edge of the world. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Faint rays of sunlight shone from the east. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!!!” And just as it had a million times before, and would a million times again, the sun came up. And Chanticleer’s duty was fulfilled for another day.

Yes, Chanticleer was the king of the farmyard. He made sure the hens stayed on their nests, he saw to it that the animals had everything they needed, he kept things running smoothly. Everyone treated him with great respect and reverence. The young cockrels wanted to grow up to be just like him, all the hens wanted him for their husband, even the barnyard dog, Patou, counted himself among the rooster’s loyal subjects. And why was Chanticleer so admired and famous? His voice. For, you see, everyone on the farm, from the dog and the cat all the way down to the chicks and the goslings knew that it was Chanticleer’s crow that told the sun when to come up every morning. Without him, everything would be shrouded in darkness all the time. So it’s no wonder that Chanticleer was the most important and beloved figure in the farmyard…

Though not to everyone.

Some of the animals in the forest just beyond the farm resented Chanticleer for singing his song and waking the sun every day. The bats hunted by night. The mole worked at night, but his eyes were too sensitive for the bright sunlight. Even the barnyard cat preferred to sneak about in the dark and tended to sleep most of the day. And the owls, of course, lived in the darkness, worshipped the darkness. The only thing they didn’t like about nighttime was the moon and the stars, but they preferred that to the bright, piercing, inescapable sunlight. For several nights in a row, these animals would hold meetings in an old hollow tree where they conceived a plan to get rid of Chanticleer and his song once and for all.

They were the ones who sent the fox.

One morning, as Chanticleer was preparing himself for his morning duty he heard a voice calling his name from beyond the fence. He looked down and saw a fox looking up at him.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the fox, “but my name is Reynard, and I am a great admirer of your singing.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Chanticleer. He was proud, as who wouldn’t be, but humble.

“But may I make one suggestion? The best singers always close their eyes before they begin.”

Willing to try anything once, Chanticleer shut his eyes. This proved to be a mistake as the fox leapt up the fence, grabbed Chanticleer in his jaws and ran into the woods. Luckily, Patou saw the whole thing and started barking, waking the farmer, who took his shotgun and, with Patou at his side, chased the fox. A gunshot went off a few feet from Reynard’s path.

“They can’t do that to you!” said Chanticleer to the fleeing fox. “Tell them they’ll regret shooting at you!” The proud fox did so, but when he opened his mouth to speak, Chanticleer slipped out and ran madly for home. The fox cursed himself for his stupidity, then ran into the woods never to be seen again, at least not by anybody in this story.

So, Chanticleer escpaed being eaten by the fox. But, as he returned to the farmyard, he realized something was wrong. He sensed light on the horizon, the first dancing rays of the sun. Chanticleer stared with wide, incredulous eyes as the sun rose…without his having sung a single note.

Poor Chanticleer. He had really believed that it was his singing which woke the sun every morning. Now he saw that it wasn’t true. And to make matters worse, all the other animals in the farmyard starting laughing and mocking him for thinking he made the sun rise (though they had all believed it, too) and began asking, rather loudly, what they even needed him for, anyway.

Defeated, dejected and despondent, Chanticleer hung his head in shame and did what he thought was the only thing he could do and left. He went to the forest, vowing never to return to the farmyard as long as he lived.

Without Chanticleer, things on the farm were going quite smoothly…for the first few days. But running a farmyard is not as easy as Chanticleer made it look. Patou tried running things, but being an old hound dog, he didn’t quite have the strength for command. The hens found the pressure overwhelming and none of the other birds felt up to the challenge, either. Things began to fall apart pretty quickly. But the worst part was the mornings. The sun came up without Chanticleer’s crowing, that much was true, but the sun wasn’t the only thing that needed to rise every morning. The farmer, his sons and the animals all needed waking. And without the encouraging, inspiring song of the rooster, they rose, but did so without any great enthusiasm. It’s like their bodies woke up, but their hearts never did. A general malaise settled over the farm as, one by one, every animal came to realize how much they missed—

“Chanticleer!”

Yes, the rooster had returned and he was welcomed as a hero. They asked him what had happened to him after he left. “I went into the woods,” he said, “where I stayed with a very nice pheasant. At first I wept when I saw the sun rise without my song, but then I came to accept it. I didn’t sing at all anymore. I thought, what was the point? Until I met a nightingale.

“The nightingale knew me and asked, ‘Aren’t you Chanticleer, the rooster with the famous voice?’

“‘Not anymore,’ I said.

“‘Yes, I heard about the incident with the fox. But you can’t let that stop you from singing. Look at me. I know that my singing doesn’t make the moon rise, nor does it make the stars shine. But without my song, the night would seem empty and incomplete. There is more to daybreak than light, just as there is more to nighttime than darkness.’

“And so, this very morning, I crowed with the sunrise. And even though I know I didn’t cause it to rise, I got the same feeling of joy and fulfilment that I always used to. From now on, I’ll sing for the joy of singing and I’ll praise the dawn with my song every morning.”

From that day on, Chanticleer returned to his job on the farm, and every morning he crowed, just as he always had, which is why he, and all the other animals on the farm, lived happily ever after.

THE END

If You Liked My Story, Then, For Pete's Sake, Do NOT Ever See:

• Rock-A-Doodle (1991) I really can't think of enough bad things to say about this movie. It's interesting to note that the Disney Company had worked on this story for years before it was suddenly shot down and abandoned. Don Bluth, the director of this awful movie, worked at Disney during that time. Sadly, the closest thing Disney ever made to an animated version of this story was the Silly Symphony Farmyard Symphony which Walt introduced on TV with a short history of Chanticleer.
• If, however, you are interested in the story as written by Rostand and Yates, it can be read for free right here

NEXT WEEK:

"Don Demonio"

Fables Three

Here are three short stories which have basically nothing in common. The first two are stories you probably remember from your youth, though I have rewritten both for laughs. The third has the unique distinction of being the story I have altered the least from its original version, as you will see:

THE GINGERBREAD MAN

This classic American story is a version of an older Norwegian tale called “The Pancake.” Since the original story is pointless and a little depressing, I’ve played it up for laughs. Sometimes people don’t look back because they can’t face the fact that no one’s chasing them.

Once upon a time and long ago there lived a little old woman who was very sad because she was all alone. Not wanting to wallow in self-pity, which seldom makes for an interesting fairy tale, she decided to keep her mind and her hands busy with some baking. In fact, she would make a gingerbread man. She mixed the flour and sugar and cinnamon and everything in a big bowl then lay the dough out on a tray in the shape of a little man, which she stuck in the oven to bake.

When it was out of the oven and had cooled slightly, she decorated it with icing, giving him an icing face and icing buttons on his icing shirt. Then she sprinkled shaved walnuts on his head for hair. Then she looked at him and thought he was a very fine looking gingerbread man.

“Ha ha!” said the gingerbread man, coming inexplicably to life and jumping up off the tray. “Run, run, as fast as you can! You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!” So rhyming, the Gingerbread Man jumped down off the counter and ran for the door. Of course, he didn’t have to run so fast, because the old lady had fainted by this time. Had she read her cookbook more carefully, she might have noticed the disclaimer at the bottom of the page: “WARNING: Using eggs that are not very, very fresh, adding too much ginger and cooking in a gas oven can cause the finished cookie to come to life.”

The moral of this part of the story is “always read warning labels.”

Meanwhile, the Gingerbread Man was running down the country lane toward the village where the first person he saw was a woodcutter. “Run, run as fast as you can! You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!”

“Er…what?” said the woodcutter.

“I ran away from a little old lady, and I can run away from you too, I can!” But, as before, the woodcutter showed little to no interest in chasing the Gingerbread Man. Indeed, he headed straight home, took a cold shower and after a few days was able to convince himself that he had imagined the whole thing.

The Gingerbread Man next met two small children on their way home from school. “Run, run, as fast as you can! You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man! I ran away from a little old lady and a woodcutter, and I can run away from you too, I can!”

Under the circumstances, the children reacted pretty well to the encounter: They stared at the Gingerbread Man…looked at each other…then both shouted “MOMMY!!” and ran straight home.

The Gingerbread Man ran into the woods where he came to the bank of a wide river, much too wide to cross. Especially for a cookie. So, for the first time since he came to life, he stopped running.

“Need a lift?” said a voice behind him. He turned around and there was a hungry fox, grinning at him.

“I gotta keep running!” said the delusional cookie. “I’m running away from an old lady and a woodcutter and two small children, but I can’t run away with this river here!”

“Why don’t you climb on my back while I swim across?”

“Okay, sure!” The Gingerbread Man hopped on the wiley fox’s back and they plunged into the water. Unfortunately, the fox’s back was too close to the water, and the Gingerbread Man was still getting pretty wet. “I’m gonna crumble away at this rate!”

“Here, climb up my neck and ride on my nose.”

“Okay,” said the Gingerbread Man and a  moment later he was sitting on the fox’s nose. Of course, this was the fox’s plan all along. Now all he had to do was toss the little man in the air, grab him in his teeth and gobble him down. But before he could do any of that, something happened that the fox hadn’t planned on. His throat suddenly felt very dry and he started to wheeze.

“Wait,” said the fox, sniffing his passenger. “Do you contain…nuts?”

“Well, yes. Just a few for my hair. Why do you ask?”

The answer to that question came quickly as the fox found himeslf unable to breathe. Luckily he was close enough to shore to avoid drowning. The Gingerbread Man hopped off the fox’s nose as soon as he could. “I guess I’d better go,” he said to the gasping fox. “Sorry.” And with that he took off. Of course, he didn’t get far before he met another animal without a nut allergy, and that was the end of the Gingerbread Man. But, then, that’s as it should be; after all, he was a cookie and what’s the point of a cookie that doesn’t get eaten?

The fox, however, once he had recovered from this attack, found he had learned a valuable lesson and changed his evil ways from that day on. He also learned to be careful with what he eats, which is good advice for anyone.

The little old lady from the beginning started buying her cookies premade at the store so that this wouldn’t happen again. And, getting out of the house more often (even if it was just to buy cookies) was enough to make her feel less lonely.

The woodcutter, certain the cookie had been a hallucination, cut back on his drinking and, as a result, lived a much longer healthier life than he would’ve done otherwise.

As for the two children, it was difficult for their parents to convince them that they hadn’t seen a walking, talking (indeed, running and rhyming) gingerbread man and he was the subject of many conversations with many, many therapists. They are both living perfectly healthy, happy lives now, but there is a nagging doubt in their minds whether they saw it or not. Neither has eaten a cookie of any kind since that day.

But, all things considered, everyone in the story who didn’t get eaten lived happily ever after.

THE END

THE LITTLE RED HEN

I didn’t do this story for a long time. I just thought it might be too simple (after all, most of us first heard this story in the form of a Golden Book when we were about five years old). But I kept circling around to it because of one of my all-time favorite movie stars: Donald Duck! His first appearance was in a Silly Symphony based on this story. 

The hen lived in a very nice home on the edge of the forest. She got along very well with her neighbors, the cat, the dog, the duck and the pig, and enjoyed her life very much. Well, one day, this hen I was just telling you about found something: A grain of wheat. Now, most of us wouldn’t be too terribly concerned about a grain of wheat, but, let’s face it: most of us aren’t chickens.

“I know what I’ll do,” said the Hen. “I’ll plant this grain of wheat! But it would be easier if I had some help.” So she went to see her neighbors and asked them if they would help.

“Not me,” said the Cat. “I’m going to lay in the sun and nap.”

“Not me,” said the Dog. “I’m going to play with the farmer’s son in the fields.”

“Not me,” said the Duck. “I’m going for a swim.”

“Not me,” said the Pig. “I’m reformatting my hard drive.”

So the little red hen…wait, reformatting your hard drive? What?

“Hey, these stories are too old-fashioned. I’m just trying to make them more relevant!”

Hmm. I usually don’t have this kind of trouble with characters in my stories. Well, never mind.

In any case, nobody would agree to help the little red hen, so she just did it herself. She dug a hole in her yard, dropped in the wheat, covered it with earth and poured some water over it. For a long time, the little hen took care of the wheat as it grew taller and taller until it was ready to be harvested. Once again, the Hen thought she’d need some help.

“Not me,” said the Cat. “I’m going to climb a tree and take a nap.”

“Not me,” said the Dog. “I’m going to chsae rabbits in the countryside.”

“Not me,” said the Duck. “I’m going for another swim.”

“Not me,” said the Pig. “I’m updating my firmware.”

Really? This again?

“Oh, what? You’d prefer it if I was wallowing in the mud or something?”

Well, to tell you the truth—

“Just tell your story, smart aleck!”

Is it too late to make the fourth neighbor a turkey or something?

Well, once again, the Hen had to do all the work herself. She cut down the wheat and took all the grain down to the mill, where it was ground into flour, which the Hen took back to her home. “Now that I have all this flour,” she said. “I can make bread. I wonder if…”

“Not me,” said the Cat. “I’m taking a nap.”

“Not me,” said the Dog. “I’m playing.”

“Not me,” said the Duck. “I’m swimming.”

“Not me,” said the Pig. “My guild is on an important quest and I’m the best warrior.”

Well, at least an RPG is fantasy-related.

“I thought you’d appreciate that.”

With no one to help her, the Hen used the flour from the wheat she had grown to bake a nice, hot, fresh loaf of bread. And when her neighbors smelled the umistakable smell of homemade bread they all rushed over to the Hen’s house and asked if they could help her eat it.

“Not you,” said the Hen to the Cat. “Don’t you have a nap to take?”

“Not you,” she said to the Dog. “Don’t you have to play today?”

“Not you,” she said to the Duck. “I know you’d rather be out swimming.”

“Not you,” she said to the Pig. “You…actually, I’m not really sure what it is you do.”

He’s an on-line gamer. He’s surprisingly computer savvy for a pig. Later on we can have a discussion about how he's able to type with hooves.

“Oh, okay," resumed the hen. "Anyway, I know how busy you all are with your own things, so I guess I’ll just have to eat this delicious bread all by myself!” And she did just that.

THE END

MASTER OF ALL MASTERS

By now you folks probably know that I like to take traditional stories and make them my own by retelling them in my own inimitable style (then again, maybe it is imitable. Someone try to imit it). This time, however, I present this old British story basically the same way it would appear if you looked it up in a proper book of fairy tales. I think you’ll see why there wasn’t much room for me to change anything. Ordinarily, in that case, I wouldn’t even bother, but this one is too silly not to be part of this collection

There was once a young girl who decided to get a job as a servant in a good home. Being clever and industrious, she had no trouble finding work in the home of a funny-looking old gentleman. Now, this gentleman was a little eccentric and told the girl that, in his house, he had his own names for things.

“For instance,” he said, “what would you call me?”

“Master or mister, or whatever you please, sir,” said the girl.

“No. You must call me ‘Master of All Masters.’ And what would you call this?” he said, pointing to his bed.

“Bed or cot, or whatever you please, sir.” said the girl.

“No, that’s my ‘Barnacle.’ And what about these?” he said, pointing to his pants.

“Trousers or pantaloons, or whatever you please, sir,” said the girl.

“You must call them ‘Squibs and Crackers.’ Now how about her?" he said, pointing to the cat.

“Cat or kitten, or whatever you please, sir.”

“She is ‘White-Faced Simminy.’ And this,” he said, pointing to the fire. “What would you call this?”

“Fire or flame, or whatever you please, sir.”

“You will call this ‘Hot Cockalorum.” And what’s this?” he said, pointing to a pail of water.

“Water, wet, or whatever you please, sir.”

“Pondalorum,” he said, then asked what she would call his entire house.

“House or corrage, or whatever you please, sir.”

“You must call it ‘High Topper Mountain.’”

Later that same night, the girl woke up her master and, in a terrible fright, said, “Master of All Masters! Get out of your Barnacle and put on your Squibs and Crackers, for White-Faced Simminy has got a spark of Hot Cockalorum on her tail, and unless you get some Pondalorum, High Topper Mountain will be all on Hot Cockalorum!”

And that's all!

THE END

If You Liked My Stories, You Might Enjoy:

• “The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales” by Jon Sciezscka and Lane Smith. The story the book is named for features a man made not out of gingerbread but of stinky cheese, which is why nobody wants to chase him and why the fox does, in fact, sink when the man gets close enough to his nose. The Little Red Hen also appears throughout the book, complaining, shouting, and interrupting other people's stories so she can get her own story told.
• The Wise Little Hen (1934) As I said before, this is the cartoon that introduced the world to Donald. Walt heard comic Clarence Nash reciting “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in this funny voice (which, says Nash, he got from a goat on his parents’ farm) and immediately decided to hire him as a voice actor. Donald was such a hit in this cartoon, that he was written into a Mickey Mouse cartoon reciting the same poem, and within a few short years had become the biggest cartoon star in the world (even surpassing Mickey).
• Shrek (2001) For the record, I actually hate the Shrek movie franchise. But, I guess it would be pretty irresponsible of me to talk about fairy tales without bringing up this enormously overhyped movie which was so not better than Monsters, Inc. which deserved to win the first ever Oscar for an animated feature, by the way. Anyway, the Gingerbread Man is actually pretty cute in this movie which, even though it had a good story, chose to ignore the fact in favor of making outdated pop culture references and thinly-veiled jabs at Disney in general and Michael “Farquad” Eisner in particular. Now you see why I haven’t mentioned Shrek before now.
• “Tiny Toon Adventures” (TV) An episode designed to encourage reading features the perpetually hungry Dizzy Devil becoming engrossed in this story because it’s about food.
• Danny Kaye Tells Six Stories From Faraway Lands. I have mentioned this record in the past, and likely will again in the future, but "Master of All Masters" is on this record, which is appropriate as it seems oddly tailored to Danny's peculiar talents.

NEXT WEEK:

"The Story of Chanticleer"

CHICKEN LITTLE & Other Animal Stories

I found that I had a lot of stories that were really too short to post on their own (then again, most of you may be looking back at my previous posts and asking “what the heck would he know about ‘too short?’”), so I decided to post them all together. A few of these stories, you will, doubtless, be familiar with. Others, probably not cuz I made ‘em up.

Our first story this week is one that I didn’t know the ending too, so I made one up. I could’ve done some research and found out what the ending was, but that would cut into my all too important Sitting-Around-Staring-Off-Into-Space time.

CHICKEN LITTLE

In a farmyard in a farm (as, where else would one find a farmyard?) there lived some birds. Ducks, geese, chickens, turkeys, that kind of thing. And all these birds lived quite safely behind a very high fence with a very strong lock on the only door. They were in no danger of being eaten by wild animals…or so they thought.

Because not far from where they lived was a cave, that was the home of Foxy-Loxy, a neighborhood fox. His dream was to catch a fat goose or a chicken from that farm and have it for supper. But he could never get in.

The community inside the fence was not that different from the community you live in. People lived with their families and had little houses (or coops) that they lived in. The Turkey-Lurkey family lived on one end of town, the Goosey-Poosey’s down the road and at the very center of town lived the Cocky-Locky’s.

Cocky-Locky was the Cock of the Walk, which meant he was in charge. He had a wife called Henny-Penny and a little son whose name was Cocky-Locky, Jr. But he was still very small and young, so most people called him “Chicken Little.”

One day Chicken Little was walking along, minding his own business when he felt a sharp pain on his head and said “ow!” Something had clearly fallen from the sky and landed on his head. Now, Chicken Little, was not the brightest of chickens, and he arrived at very much the wrong conclusion. A sensible chicken would’ve looked up, seen the chestnut tree that stood next to the fence, looked at all the chestnuts on the ground around him, and realized what had happened. Instead, Chicken Little screamed and started running around the farmyard as if he’d just had his head cut off.

“The sky is falling!” he yelled. “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”

Panic has a tendency to spread faster than anything in the world (even butter) so it wasn’t long before all the other birds believed Chicken Little and were running around screaming their heads off. And, let me tell you, if you’ve never seen an entire farmyard worth of ducks, chickens, geese and turkeys running around and screaming in a panic…well, actually, it sounds kind of funny, but for them it was scary.

Of course, the decision on what to do next fell to Cocky-Locky. “We must leave the farmhouse and find someplace safe. Like a cave or something.” So, they all got to work tearing down a section of the fence so that they could escape. Cocky-Locky led the way as this caravan of poultry made its way across the field toward the only cave they knew of. When Foxy-Loxy saw them coming, he licked his chops with glee and invited them all in. They told the fox about the sky falling and he humored them, though he knew it was impossible.

“Everyone inside!” he said. But as he was leading the birds inside his cave, he knew that as soon as he attacked one, the others would flee. “Let me make us more secure,” he said, after thinking of a plan. He ran outside and looked around for a rock. A rock big enough to cover the entrance to the cave. He found one and rolled it right up to the mouth of the cave. Then he went inside and pulled it until it totally blocked the one and only entrance.

But he pulled it in with such force and it hit so hard that the cave shook. The vibrations went all the way up to the top of the cave, where an apple tree was growing. As it shook, apples started falling from the branches of the tree and landing on top of the cave.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” screamed the fox. “The sky really is falling! We’ll all be trapped! I’m outta here!” And he slid through a tiny opening between the rock and the mouth of the cave and ran away, never to be heard from again.

Of course, it wasn’t long before the chickens and ducks and everyone figured out what had happened and how foolish they had been. They returned to the farm, fixed the hole in the fence and went on with their lives. In years to come they would tell the story of how the sky fell down on their heads and have a good laugh about it. The funniest part, though, was that the panic had spread so fast that nobody could even remember how it started…except Chicken Little who learned a very valuable lesson that day.

THE FORGETFUL ELEPHANT

This story was my losing entry in a contest held by a local second-hand book store. Actually, I entered thrice, but this story happens to be my favorite of the three because…well…elephant.

As we all know, elephants never forget. Yes, an elephant’s memory is something remarkable. Like a steel trap from which nothing can escape. It is for this reason that one should be very careful when borrowing money from an elephant. It doesn’t matter how many years go by, he’ll never forget so you might as well cough up right away cuz, let me tell you, that is NOT a visit you ever want to get, especially when you have some people over and…

I digress.

The point is that elephants have great memories…except for Peter. Peter, for whatever reason, had the worst memory of any elephant in history. He couldn’t remember anything. He couldn’t remember where he left his things, what he had said to his friends, whether it was Martin Sheen or Michael Douglas in that one movie (most elephants rock at the Kevin Bacon game, but not Peter). But worst of all is he forgot when he made plans with people. Anyone who knew Peter well had, on more than one occasion, known him to show up very late with some pathetic apology or excuse. Most elephants were annoyed by Peter’s chronic lateness (that’s if he remembered to show up at all), but they had come to accept it about him.

But not Sheila.

Sheila was Peter’s girlfriend and she was getting good and fed up with him standing her up all the time. He didn’t mean to, of course, he simply forgot things, but just the same, it was beginning to make Sheila feel like she didn’t matter to him at all, when nothing could be further from the truth. Finally, after he had missed three dinner dates in a row, she gave it to him straight.

“Tomorrow night is our anniversary. If you aren’t right on time for dinner…we’re through!”

Poor Peter didn’t want to forget this time, so before he went to bed, he tied a big red ribbon around his left tusk so that when he woke up the next morning, he would see it in the mirror and it would remind him of his date.

But Peter’s memory was so bad that when he woke up the next morning and looked at himself in the mirror, he saw the ribbon and knew that it was there to remind him of something…but he couldn’t remember what! Now Peter was panicking because he knew whatever it was he had forgotten this time must be something very important, if he had tied that ribbon on to remind him. So he spent the rest of his day going around to all the places he usually hung out and calling on all the friends he had ever made plans with and asked them if they knew what he was supposed to remember about today. But they all shook their heads and said they had no idea.

Well, the day passed quickly and Peter was beginning to panic. Then he had an idea. “Sheila!” he said. “She’s the smartest elephant I ever met. She’s bound to know what I was supposed to remember today.” So he ran straight to see Sheila and before he could ask her what he had forgotten, she turned to him and her face lit up.

“You remembered!” Sheila cried and she gave Peter the biggest kiss of his elephant life.

So Peter and Sheila had a lovely anniversary dinner…though Peter never did remember what that whole ribbon thing was about.

HENRY'S WISH

A long time ago, I wrote a screenplay about a writer of children’s stories. In it, he describes a book he wrote about a horse. The screenplay no longer exists in any reasonable form, but his story has survived. (ILLUSTRATOR'S NOTE: Horses are hard to draw! That's all)

Henry was a horse. This, in itself, was nothing so unusual, as being a horse is a frame of mind shared by many individuals on this planet of ours. In Henry’s case, it was nothing to be alarmed about because, in addition to being in the frame of mind of a horse, he actually was a horse.

Probably still is.

But Henry was no ordinary horse. He was a beautiful white stallion. His coat shone in the sun as though he were glowing. He was proud and majestic, the envy of all the other horses. You see, Henry lived on a horse farm with lots of other horses, all of whom were perfectly nice. The only problem was that the other horses were all brown or gray or spotted. They were ordinary-looking horses. Henry felt very self-conscious being the only white stallion on a farm full of ordinary-looking horses. So one day, he decided that he didn’t belong there. He gave his two week’s notice and quit the horse farm to find another home.

Henry wandered around for days, trying to find someplace he could live. He ended up deep in the forest (the kind of forest that always crops up in fairy tales) where he found something amazing: A unicorn farm!

Like most people (horses or otherwise), Henry had assumed that unicorns were extinct or imaginary. But he was proved wrong by the sight of a whole corral full of unicorns. Some were whiter even than Henry and some looked like there was starlight in their coats. Some were pink or green, some looked like rainbows. And every one had a beautiful golden horn on their heads.

So Henry asked if he could join their farm, and the unicorns were only too happy to have him. And, at first, things were going well for Henry. Until he became aware of something he hadn’t expected. Now he was no longer the nicest-looking horse in the farm, but the plainest. He no longer stood out in a crowd. Whereas before, he stood head and shoulders above the other horses, now he was thrust into the background.

After much deliberation, he decided it was time to go home. He returned to his horse farm (where they’d missed him terribly) and no longer worried about how he looked in comparison to anyone else. And that’s how Henry learned that a gold nugget is happier in a coal mine than a diamond mine.

THE THREE BILLY GOATS GRUFF

This is a story I’m sure you’re all familiar with. But, again, the ending elluded me, so I had to fiddle with it slightly.

There were once three brothers who, by a strange coincidence, all had the same last name. They were called Huff Gruff, Tuff Gruff and Nuff Gruff. In addition to having the same last name, they had many other eerie similarities. In the first place, they had the same mother. They also had the same father. They lived in the same home. And they were all the same species: Goats.

Seriously, how freaky is that?

Anyhoo, these Billy Goats Gruff used to graze in a meadow. This meadow was full of yummy grass and yummier flowers and a little brook ran alongside it. On the other side of the brook was another meadow with grass just as yummy and flowers just as yummier as their home meadow. This meadow was also easily reached by a small, stone footbridge which ran over the brook. So why is it, do you think, that these three Billy Goats Gruff (Say! That’d be a good name for a story!) never ventured into that other meadow?

“Because of what lives under the bridge.”

Oh? And what’s that?

“The troll, of course.”

Oh, of course. Silly me forgetting.

You see, kids and people, there are lots of different kinds of trolls. Some live under bridges, some live in mountain caves, some have crazy hair and little plastic jewels in their tummies and are available at toy stores and gift shops the world over. But bridge trolls are some of the most unpleasant in the world. And this particular troll, the one who dwelt under the bridge between the two meadows, would wait under the bridge until someone was foolish enough to cross, then he’d spring out and attack!

So, it was for the best, these goats staying on their side of the bridge.

Until, one day when, quite unintentionally, the goats found they had eaten all the grass and flowers and their meadow was quite barren and foodless. They had to figure out what to do next, so they put their heads together…which just got their horns tangled together so then they took a good five minutes trying to get their heads apart. Then they started to think.

So, a little while later, the youngest of the goats, young Huff Gruff, made his way nervously to the bridge. He stepped onto it carefully and when he was about halfway across, he heard a viscious-sounding voice wheezing, “Who’s that trip-trapping on my bridge?”

“Oh, that would be me,” said Huff. “I’m Huf Gruff…I’m a goat.”

“Do you know what the bridge troll does to goats who trip-trap across his bridge?”

“Er…a verbal warning?”

“No, I eat them!”

“What? Eat me? No, you don’t wanna eat me. I’m just a little goat. Small and scrawny. Really, I’d just get stuck in your teeth. My big brother, on the other hoof, is much bigger with lots of nice, tender meat on his bones. Do yourself a favor and eat him instead.”

Well, the troll considered this and ultimately decided that he would rather eat Huff Gruff’s brother. Huff Gruff crossed the bridge harmlessly and, a short while later, Tuff Gruff stepped onto the bridge.

“Who’s that trip-trapping on my bridge?” wheezed the troll a second time.

“Only me. Tuff Gruff the goat.”

“Do you know what the bridge troll does to goats who trip-trap across his bridge?”

“A small fine and a flag in my file?”

“No, I eat them!”

“What? You want to eat me? You must be crazy. I’m nothing but fat! Don’t you know goat fat is very bad for troll cholestorol…or ‘trollestorol?’”

“Huh?”

“Look, trust me on this, my big brother will be along in a minute. He’s much bigger and much leaner than me. You’ll enjoy him much more.”

Once again, the troll was persuaded to allow Tuff Gruff to pass in exchange for his big brother. Sure enough, not long after that, Nuff Gruff himself stepped onto the bridge.

“Who’s that trip-trapping on my bridge?”

“It’s me: Nuff Gruff the goat.”

“Do you know what the bridge troll does to goats who trip-trap across his bridge?”

“Depends: Am I the one millionth trip-trapper?”

“What? No, you idiot! I eat them!!”

“Eat me? You must be joking.”

“Oh, don’t you start with all that!”

“No, I’m serious. I’ve been sick lately. Haven’t been exercising, haven’t been eating right. I’d probably just make you feel lousy. Between you and me, I think I have a touch of Mad Goat Disease.”

“Ew!”

“I know, right? Tell you what though…if you want to wait a little while, my brother is on his way and—”

“Wait, your brothers already crossed this bridge.”

“Oh, no. Those were my younger brothers. I’m talking about my older brother. Er…Muff Gruff!”

“Muff Gruff?”

“Yeah. Why else do you think this story is called ‘The Four Billy Goats Gruff?’”

Wait, I thought this story was called the—

“SHHHH!”

Oh, sorry.

“Four Billy Goats Gruff?” said the troll. “Are you sure?”

“Trust me on this. Muff Gruff is a veritable goat delicacy. Fine quality meat, very nutritious, plus he’s just been to the supermarket so he’s carrying his own vegetables with him!”

“Ooh! That does sound good.”

“Yeah, so let me pass and you can eat my big brother. Honest.”

“Well…what kind of vegetables are we talking about here?”

“Carrots, potatoes…asparagus…ya like mushrooms?”

“I looooove mushrooms! Go, go! Make room for your big brother!”

“With pleasure. Bon apetit!” With that, Nuff Gruff joined his younger brothers in the other meadow where they grazed happily for many a year…

And, for all I know, that mean old troll is still hiding under that bridge, waiting for the fourth billy goat to trip-trap across…but I won’t tell him if you won’t!

THE ENDS

If You Liked These Stories, You Might Enjoy:

• Chicken Little (1940) The story was animated by the Walt Disney Company during World War 2 and was rewritten as an allegory for Hitler’s rise to power through spreading misinformation. Throughout the cartoon (which ends with the fox eating every bird in the story) the fox consults a book of “Psychology,” but the original idea was that he should be reading “Mein Kampf.”
• Chicken Little (2005) Disney once again tackled the story with the studio’s first entirely computer-animated feature (not counting Pixar). Though a charming comedy with a great voice cast including Zach Braff in the title role, it was more of a sequel to the fairy tale, as throughout, poor Chicken Little is trying to live down the embarrassment of his well-publicized mistake.
• The Three Billy Goats Gruff & The Three Little Pigs (album) The very talented (though, in my opinion, somewhat underrated) Holly Hunter recorded these two children’s stories some years ago. If you like fairy tales, browse the children’s music section of your favorite music store, because you’ll often find little known recordings like this one.

Next Week: "Something very special"