The Wishing Ring

Last week, as you may recall, I told you all about my novel 'Dragonfly.' Well, it is now available for purchase on the Amazon Kindle store. If you don't own a Kindle, that's all right, because the free Kindle app is available for iPad, iPod Touch, iPhone, Android, Windows Phone 7, Blackberry, PC and Mac. If you still don't have any of those...then how are you reading this blog? In any case, I hope you will buy my book and enjoy it as much as I continue to hope you enjoy my fairy tales.


This story was originally put down by Germany’s Richard Leander. I think it says a lot about the value we put in objects and how arbitrary it seems at times.

You ever know someone who couldn’t stop complaining about how rotten his life was? The kind of guy who played the martyr and thought the whole world was against him and, rather than take steps to change things, just kept feeling sorry for himself and talking the ears off anybody who would listen about what a victim he was? Well, if you happened to know a farmer calld Johan, then the answer to my questions would be yes because that was Johan to a tee. He worked all his life but never had much success and his response was simply to whine about it.

One day, a withered old crone came to Johan’s home and begged food and shelter for the night. This Johan and his wife, Hilda, were only too happy to give and the old woman slept comfortably in a warm bed with her belly full of Hilda’s fine cooking. As she prepared to depart after breakfast the following morning she said, “Because you have been so kind to me, I will repay you as best I can. If you walk due west for two days, you will come to a great, tall fir tree, taller than all the others that surround. Chop that tree down and you will have your reward.” With that, she made her way.

So Johan set out on his journey, making sure to keep moving due west. For two whole days he walked until, at last, he came to the tree the old woman had mentioned. He struck it once with his axe, and the whole tree shook. Then, from the tallest branches, Johan saw two large, brightly colored eggs fall to the ground. They broke, of course, and Johan saw that one contained a small, brass ring and the other an eagle who, once free of the eggshell, grew to an enormous height.

“You have set me free!” said the eagle. “Thank you, sir. You may keep the ring that came from the other egg. It is a magic wishing ring and is sure to bring you and yours wealth and happiness. Wear it and make any wish you like and it will instantly be granted. But, be warned, it is good for one wish only.” So saying, the eagle flapped its wings and took off.

Johan took the ring and slipped it on. At last, he thought, my life of hard work will finally pay off. If I make the right wish, me and Hilda will be set for life! In very high spirits, he started on the long journey home. After nearly two days, he stopped at a tavern to rest for the night. He was the only customer, so he ate with the tavern keeper, and told him of his amazing adventure. He even showed him the magic ring and explained how it would grant any wish. Envious, the tavern keeper resolved to steal the ring for himself.

Johan went to sleep and the tavern keeper snuck into his room and removed the magic ring, repalcing it with an ordinary brass ring. Then he left his tavern and ran to the forest, to a cave which he sealed up behind him so that nobody would see him. Alone in the cave, he slipped the ring onto his finger and said, “I wish I had a hundred thousand gold coins!” The wish was granted and it began to rain gold coins inside the cave…unfortunately, it wouldn’t stop raining and the tavern keeper couldn’t open the entrance in time. Soon the entire cave filled with coins and the greedy tavern keeper was crushed to death by a hundred thousand gold coins which, for all I know, are still sealed up in that cave along with what remains of the greedy tavern keeper.

The next morning, Johan awoke but couldn’t find the tavern keeper. Assuming he was busy with something else, Johan left his payment on the front desk and went home where he showed Hilda the ring on his finger—which we know to be an ordinary brass ring but which, to Johan’s knowledge, was the magic wishing ring the eagle had given him—and told her that they could have any wish they so desired.

“Oh, darling!” cried Hilda. “Wish for more land!”

“No, Hilda. With this ring we can have anything. Something big and valuable. We shouldn’t waste it on something we can get through normal means. If I work a little harder, we can make more money and buy more land. That way we’ll have the land and still have a wish!”

So Johan went back to work and worked harder than he ever had in his life. And, more astonishing than that, he did so without complaint. In fact, he was happy at the thought of his future prosperity, all thanks to the magic ring. And, in less than a year, he had earned enough to add several acres to his farm.

“Now we can make the wish,” said Hilda. “What if we wish for more cattle?”

“No, that’s a waste of a wish. I can get us more cattle easily.” So Johan worked hard, whistling merrily as he did so, and within a few months, he had the largest herd of cattle in the country. His farm was growing, his profits booming and his fame spreading. The king himself was among his customers and he was paid handsomely for providing his royal highness with his wheat and cattle.

“So are we going to make the wish now?” asked Hilda.

“Don’t be so impatient,” said Johan. “We’re young, healthy and rich. We don’t need the wish right now. Better that we save it and use it only when we really need it.”

It was agreed. Johan and Hilda lived very happily for the rest of their lives. And, many, many years later, when they both did finally pass away, they still had not used the “magic” ring. Johan was buried with the ring on his finger. And never once in his long life did he suspect that the ring had no magic in it whatsoever…although, it did bring he and his wife wealth and happiness...in a way.

THE END

NEXT WEEK: "The Three Pixies in the Well"

King Thrushbeard

I took a couple of passes at this story before I found one I liked. Versions of this story exist all throughout Europe, including one version by the Brothers Grimm. Though the title of the story, the cruel name given to the king and the exact nature of the trick played on the princess are different, they generally end with the princess learning her lesson and living happily ever after. As the story does fall into the "Taming of the Shrew" category of story, however, I am forced to cross my fingers and hope that my readers understand that the deception played upon our princess is due to her being a genuinely unpleasant and mean person, and not just because "a woman needs to know her place" or some other such sexist nonsense.

Let’s face it, kids n’ people: Times have changed. We have cars instead of horses, horses instead of bicycles, bicycles instead of unicycles, polar bears instead of—

(NOTE: This introduction has been abandoned as it was clearly nonsense)

Times have changed. Especially for you lady-types who may or probably not be reading this. Today, you can do whatever you want. Do any job, use any last name, live anywhere, marry whoever you want, marry no one, have babies, don’t have babies. The world is your oyster…unless you don’t like oysters, in which case the world can be, like, your linguini or something. Maybe with some shrimp in there. Or is it shellfish you don’t like?

(This is your last warning!)

Okay, sorry. What I’m trying to say is that being a woman has changed a lot since this story took place. Back then, a young girl had only one job in life: Marry well and bear many sons. This was true of all girls, be they poor or really quite wealthy. Common or ever-so-royal. So whether you were Gwen, the nice girl whose dad was the village smithy, or Princess Caroline, when you reached that certain age (18, in this case) it was time to get engaged.

So Princess Caroline knew that she would have to marry and be beholden to her husband and do what he said and keep his house and raise his children. But Princess Caroline wasn’t just a rich, beautiful princess…she was also selfish, haughty, vain and good-old-fashioned spoiled rotten! She thought she was the most wonderful and important person in all the world, and she refused to marry anybody who wasn’t good enough for her. Suitors came from miles around to seek her hand in marriage, but she invariably found something wrong with each and every one.

“I’m not marrying you! You look like you’re already in love…with pastries!” she said to a slightly overweight prince.

“That nose of yours would put out my eye if I tried to kiss you!” she chortled to a very nice nobleman who had a slightly big nose.

“And you…” she started to say to another suitor, but stopped once she got a look at him. This man, a king from a neighboring country, was actually very handsome. But still not quite perfect in Caroline’s eyes. “Is that your beard,” she asked pointing at the king’s chin, “or did a thrush fly into your face and get stuck there?”

This was too much for her father. Insulting another king to his face like that! He scolded her most violently and vowed then and there that, whether she liked it or not, she would be married to the next poor beggar who came to the castle.

As it turned out, the king didn’t have to wait very long to make good on his promise. The very next day a poor beggar man with a dirty face and a long, slightly frightening beard came knocking at the back door asking for something to eat. “He’ll get more than that!” declared the king, and within an hour, the deed was done: Caroline and the beggar were married!

Now, I know that, ordinarily, the part of the story right after the wedding is the part where I say “And they all lived happily ever after,” but that’s not really how it went down this time. Caroline was horrified at being forcibly married to this beggar man with a dirty face and a long, slightly frightening beard (sometimes it looked like something might be living in it). She begged her father to relent, but he was immovable. He told her it was her own fault for being so haughty and cruel and that it would teach her a much needed lesson in humility. But all Caroline felt was sorry for herself as she rode with her new husband to his shack.

On the long trip away from her home in the castle to the home of this weird little beggar man, they passed through a rich, beautiful forest. “This is a rich, beautiful forest,” said Caroline. “I wonder who owns this land?”

“This is the forest of King Thrushbeard,” said the beggar man, referring to the suitor Caroline had slighted the night before. “And it might have been yours.”

Caroline thought about this and fell into silent despair. After they left the forest, they came to a quaint, fertile stretch of prosperous farmland. “What beautiful farms,” said Caroline. “I wonder whose they are?”

“This is the farmland of King Thrushbeard,” said the beggar man. “And it might have been yours.”

Again, the realization of all her vanity had cost her struck Caroline mute. Until they came to a village which sat next to a beautiful castle, perhaps even more extravagant than her own. “What a beautiful place this is,” she said. “I wonder whose—”

“King Thrushbeard!” said the irritated beggar man. “Might’ve been yours. Well, here we are! Home sweet home!”

The look of horror and disgust on Caroline’s face would be pointless attempting to describe, so I’ll just describe the shack she was looking at…actually “shack” might be a little too generous. Maybe hovel…or cave…actually, it could’ve passed for a large mouse hole it was so shabby and rundown. But, Caroline knew it was her home now and there was nothing she could do about it.

The first days of Caroline’s new life were curious and more than a little depressing. Her husband woke her with the sun so she could start on the housework and the chores while he was out all day doing who knows what (well, I do, but I can’t tell you yet). You wouldn’t think a house so small would have kept Caroline as busy as it did, but being unaccustomed to labor of any kind, it did take her most of the day to get the place clean. Then her husband returned and they shared a meager meal of bread and stale cheese with a small bottle of really bad wine (or really good vinegar, neither was quite sure). After dinner, they were both so tired that they went straight to bed--or rather, straight to cot--and before they fell asleep, Caroline’s poor, oddly-bearded husband whispered in her ear: “I love you.” She didn’t say it back.

So it was from then on. Up in the morning, husband gone, lots of housework, terrible dinner, bedtime, “I love you,” and she still never said it back. As the days wore on and Caroline grew more accustomed to the housework, it took her less time and she had a chance to go out into the village. She didn’t have as much money as she was used to, but she was able to buy a few little tinkets to make her life slightly more bearable. A few new things to wear, some good wine, sofa pillows, candles, and other things which pass for "necessities" if you're a girl.

Don't deny it, you know it's true.

Her husband was, of course, quick to notice the improvements and complimented her on what a good homemaker she had become. She found she felt good when her husband complimented her. And that’s when it struck her. People had been complimenting her all her life. For her grace and beauty and other princessly attributes. Before she had just said something like “Yes, I know,” and ignored the person who had said it. But when her husband complimented her, she actually liked it. She said thank you. It took her a while before she realized that it was because he really meant it. What she did really mattered to him. What she was doing was actually for him. And she got tremendous satisfaction doing something for someone else, which she had little-to-no experience with before her marriage.

That night, they went to bed, and before faling asleep, our beggar man whispered into Caroline’s ear, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” said Caroline and fell into a peaceful sleep.

The next morning Caroline awoke to a shock. She was not lying on the straw mat she had been when she went to sleep. She was not wearing the cheap nightgown she had put on after dinner. She was, in short, not in the shack. She was lying on a big, soft (but not too soft) bed with satin sheets, exquisite curtains, goosedown pillows and it was all in a big, lavish bedroom, even grander than the one she had known in her father’s palace.

“Good morning, darling,” said a voice. Caroline looked up and just imagine her surprise when she saw…King Thrushbeard? “I hope you slept well. In fact, I’m sure you did or you would’ve woken up when I was carrying you here from our shack.”

“Our…shack?” was all Caroline could manage to say.

The King laughed. Then, in answer to her question, reached into his coat pocket and removed the long, frightening beard which he'd been wearing as a disguise. “I’m sorry to say that I’ve been deceiving you. Your father and I felt that you should be taught a lesson after that comment you made about my beard, so we hatched this little plan. I dressed up as a beggar with a really scary beard and took you away to that awful, rundown hovel where we’ve lived for the past several weeks.”

“You mean, all this time…you’ve been the king?”

“That’s where I was all day. Running the country. My advisors probably thought I’d gone mad when they saw me putting on this awful beard and sneaking down to that shack every evening for dinner.”

“You could’ve been in the castle, having banquets with the finest food in the—”

“I promise you, I was much happier having bread and wine with you,” said the King. “Or vinegar, I guess. We never did figure that one out.” He took Caroline’s hand, a sorrowful expression crossing his face. “I am sorry to play such a trick on you. It hurt me every day to lie to you. But I knew the day would come when you would answer me when I said ‘I love you,’ and it did. So now, the choice is yours.”

“What choice?”

“The truth is, we were never really married. Not legally. Which means now you have a choice. You can go back to your father’s castle and marry some other suitor…or you can stay with me. Marry me all over again.”

Now, you might think that Caroline would be furious at the King for playing this insanely elaborate, beard-related hoax on her. And maybe, somewhere inside, she was a little mad. But more than that, she was grateful. She looked back at the person she was when this whole thing started and she felt sick. How could she have thought so highly of herself that she didn’t think anyone would ever be good enough for her? How could she have been so cruel to such nice people? But living with King Thrushbeard all this time had taught her a lesson she would not soon forget.

And, so, there was a royal wedding. And this time I do get to say that they lived happily ever after…you know, cuz, before I didn’t get to say that and this time I do. Cuz they did, this time. I mean, they didn’t really get married last time, but this time they did and they wed and wedded and welded and were as happy as a penguin on a pogo stick on his way to the—

(Okay, you were warned!)

THE END






Next Week: Shelly Hobbes returns!

Leroy's Great Escape

Being sort of small and mostly black, Leroy is often overlooked when he ventures out into the world. For all you know, you may have passed him on the street of your own home town and not seen him. This comes in handy, as you can imagine, but it also gets my friend into a lot of trouble. A while back, he told me this story which should illustrate that point quite nicely.

Leroy is different from some other penguins you might know. For one thing, he doesn’t care for fish. For another, he’s not a strong swimmer. He also doesn’t like the cold. So, when the weather started to change, he decided he needed to buy some nice warm socks. Thus resulved, he strapped on his fannypack-backpack and went to the mall. Not surprisingly, none of the clothing stores he visited carried socks that would fit over his webbed penguin feet.

He was on his way out of the mall, wondering if he could order penguin socks on-line, when he passed a toy store. He thought checking out the toys would be a great way to cheer himself up after his sadly blunderous attempt to acquire socks so in he went. He walked down the aisles of Transformers, Barbie dolls, board games, drawing toys, Play-Doh, those things with the plastic rings that get bigger and bigger and little babies put them on a stick into a kind of a cone shape…what the heck are those things called? Oh, sorry, I’m digressing.

At length, he came upon a Tickle-Me Elmo doll. Having been in Antarctica when the last craze for this toy swept America, he missed out and wanted to give it a try. Unfortunately, once he had turned the doll on, it wouldn’t turn off. He tried shoving it back on the shelf and hoping no one would notice. This might’ve worked except the doll shook the entire shelving structure and an Elefun game, carelessly tossed in the overstock section by an employee, fell and hit Leroy right on the head, knocking him unconscious…

When he came to, several hours later, he found, to his horror, that he was on a shelf, surrounded by plush toys in a closed and locked toy store in an even more closed and locked mall! It took him no time to figure out what had happened: In his unconscious state, he must’ve looked like a toy and was shelved by a well meaning worker and left there when the store closed for business. At first, he was grateful that he hadn’t been sold…then he was annoyed by that fact and wondered why he hadn’t been sold. Then he came to his senses and started thinking of a way out. The iron shutters were down, the lights were out and for all he knew he was the only living creature in the mall.

“How do I get out of here?” he said out loud. He had no idea why he said it out loud, knowing that there was no one around to hear him.

“You get sold or stolen,” said a voice from behind him. “That’s about it.” Leroy spun around and saw that he was being addressed by a teddy bear with a red muffler. This didn’t surprise Leroy as much as you might think because, being an avid movie buff (which, come to think of it, might be a redundant phrase), he was well aware of the scientific fact that toys come to life when there are no people around. “You don’t look familiar,” the bear continued. “Are you part of a new shipment? Cuz we got some Disney merch just this morning that—”

“No, I’m not a toy! I’m a real penguin!” said Leroy.

“Oh, great!” said the bear, with an exasperated sigh. “Another Buzz Lightyear wannabe!”

“No, really. I’m a real live, honest-to-gosh penguin. See? I have a heartbeat and everything.”

“So you do!” said the bear, after listening to Leroy’s heart. “Well, welcome to **************!” (Yeah, Leroy and I have been asked to withhold the name of the store for legal reasons. Sufficed to say, it’s not the one you’re thinking of.) “I’m Colin.”

“Leroy. Look, I don’t belong here. How do I get out?”

“Nobody gets out,” said another voice and a remote control car rolled into view. “Not after that gate’s been lowered.”

“I can’t stay here all night! I’m alive. I need food and water and warm milk and my dehumidifier and my Comfy-Cozy-Quilt!” (Yeah, don’t tell him I put that part in. He doesn’t like people to know about his Comfy-Cozy-Quilt…I don’t know why, he’s just sensitive like that.)

“Okay, Leroy, calm down!” said Colin. “Would you like to give me a hug? I’ve been told I’m very snuggly.”

“Yes, that would help.” So Leroy gave Colin a hug and he was, indeed, snuggly. Then, so as not to appear rude, he tried to hug the R/C car, but it didn’t work so well…ya know, cuz he’s a car. After the subsequent Fergusonesque awkward pause (I'm trying to get that to catch on; spread the word), the problem of getting Leroy out of the store was addressed in earnest.

“We should burn the place to the ground!!!”

“Okay,” said Colin in a firm voice. “Bad guy toys are not allowed to suggest ideas!” Voldemort, The Joker and a few Decepticons grumbled angrily amongst themselves, but said no more on the subject.

“I have a ridiculously elaborate plan involving multiple operatives working a complex series of—”

“Also none of the good guys from Toy Story 3! That’s not what this is!”

After the stupid ideas had been filtered out, a real plan was settled on. Stretch Armstrong squeezed through the holes in the gate, then Colin handed him a bag of marbles. Stretch ran out into the middle of the floor and dropped the marbles. The plan was that the security guard would see the movement on his monitors and run down to investigate, at which point Leroy could get his attention and get out. The plan was executed perfectly…unfortunately, there was no security guard on duty, just security cameras and motion sensors on the doors of the high end stores which, sadly, didn’t include the toy store.

The next plan was suggested by Barbie Dressed As Lucille Ball For Some Reason. It involved using suction cup toys to climb up the gate and Erector set tools to deactivate the locking mechanism…it should be pretty obvious why this plan failed.

There were a few more misfires. A pirate action figure tried to pick the lock with his sword. G.I. Joe wanted to use artillery. Winnie the Pooh got all zen and suggested they try to not help Leroy, see if that might work. Hours passed and it was looking increasingly like Leroy would spend the night in the toy store. Until...

“I got out!”

Well, yeah, I know you did. But how?

“I…escaped…cleverly.”

Leroy, c’mon, we’re telling a story here. You gotta give me more than that.

“It was a triumph of…imagination and…innovation and…intervention and—”

Leroy!

“Okay fine! I remembered that I had a cell phone in my fannypack-backpack, but I’d turned it off while I was talking to the sales help at Penneys, so I turned it back on, called my friend Carla and she came and got me. Happy?”

Very. Because you told the truth.

“Shut up!”

So, yeah, it turns out this wasn’t a very exciting story after all and, honestly, I don’t think we learned much of a lesson from this one. Except maybe to keep your cellphone turned on in case of emergencies, don’t listen to plans suggested by plastic persons and if you’re working retail, be careful with the inventory so that penguins don’t get knocked out and mistaken for plush toys…so, no, not much of a payoff on this one. But, we got some good toy jokes and Leroy made friends with a teddy bear. And, after all this, Carla knitted Leroy a pair of warm socks, so he’s all set…that plus his Comfy-Cozy-Quilt should be—

“Hey!”

Sorry.

THE END

Next Week: "The Wit and Wisdom of Nasreddin Hodja"

The Prince Frog

This is another one from ‘Fractured Fairy Tales.’ They ran it under the title “The Frog Prince,” but I think my title is more fitting. I think the reason this story has stayed with me for so many years is that under the jokes and the funny voices (courtesy of Daws Butler, who also voiced Yogi Bear and Huckleberry Hound) there is a genuine love story here. Falling in love means you’re willing to do anything to be with someone. Being in love means you’re willing to do anything for someone. As you’ll see:

There was once upon a time a country that was entirely overrun with witches. They were everywhere, you couldn’t move for witches back then. It finally got so bad that there were more witches than there were people to bewitch. It was perfectly common to see two witches literally fighting over a peasant saying:

“Let go! I want to put him to sleep for a thousand years!”

“No, you let go! I want to turn him into a chair!”

“Well I want…a chair? That’s a weird thing to turn somebody into.”

“I’m running out of ideas! So sue me!”

One day a little witch was walking through the woods, desperate to cast a spell on someone when she came upon a little pond where she saw a frog sitting on a lily pad.

“Good morning!” said the frog, with the customary friendliness for which frogs are known.

“Not so good for you, dearie,” said the witch. “Because I’m going to cast a spell on you.”

But the frog just laughed. “I’m already a frog! What are you gonna do? Turn me into a handsome prince?”

“Say! That’s an idea!” With that the witch waved her wand and the frog became a handsome young prince…a human prince, in case that wasn’t clear…not that frogs have monarchies so…never mind.

“What?” cried the frog…I mean prince. “No! I don’t want to be a prince! Change me back into a frog!”

“Never! You are doomed to be a handsome prince forever!” And with a wicked cackle, she was gone.

The poor frog…that is the poor prince…well, he was really a frog but…looked, let’s just call him Filbert, okay? So, poor Filbert was very depressed and even though he tried to adjust to being a prince, he found his life just wasn’t the same. He couldn’t croak, he couldn’t catch flies, he couldn’t sit on lily pads (he almost drowned three times before he gave that up). In the end he realized he was just going to have to find a witch to turn him back into a frog and he set forth.

But he didn’t meet any witches on his travels (which was sort of surprising, come to think of it). Instead he met a beautiful princess who, despite his insistence that he was a frog, fell in love with Filbert. Feeling it would be impolite to refuse a princess, Filbert agreed to marry Princess Sylvia and they moved into a beautiful home together. Knowing that her eccentric husband was fond of nature, the princess had a beautiful back garden added to the house and Prince Filbert would walk through it for hours every day, dreaming of the days when he was a frog.

One day while he was out walking, a witch passed by. Imagine her surprise at seeing a genuine, honest-to-goodness prince! And not even under a spell! So, without any further ado, she announced that she was going to turn the prince into…a chair!

“No, a frog!”

“Good idea! A frog’s much better!” And Filbert was a frog once again.

Princess Sylvia tried to understand, but it wasn’t easy being married to a prince in the morning and a frog in the evening. Nevertheless she had come to love her husband very much and so she had a big, beautiful pond added to the garden where she could go visit her frog-prince-husband-guy whenever she wanted.

Well, as fate would have it, that same witch who started this whole silly business came by one day and recognized Filbert from the first spell. That’s funny, she thought. Normally my spells last longer than that. Oh well, we’ll just have to try something else. And with a wave of her wand, Filbert became…a chicken?

“Okay! That does it!” said Filbert and he marched…or whatever chickens do that’s most like marching…straight into the forest where he found the SHCOW meeting place: That’s Secret High Council of Witches. They were the group that sort of oversaw all witchcraft in the area. Sort of a Witches’ Union, you might say. Filbert went straight to the Head Witch, Griselda, and said, “Now look: First I was a frog, and I was happy. Then I was a prince, then I was almost a chair, then I was a frog again, and now I’m a chicken! I’m getting tired of this. Tell your witches to leave me alone!”

“Sorry, sir,” said Griselda. “We normally make it a point not to persecute any one person like this, but times are hard for us witches. Anyway, I’ll put you on the official ‘no-curse’ list, if you like and I’ll even change you back to your preferred form right now. So, what’ll it be?”

Of course, Filbert’s first thought was that he wanted to be a frog again. But then he thought about Sylvia. How she had humored him in his belief that he was a frog, how she had been so patient with his long walks in the garden, how she had let him live in the pond because she thought it would make him happy. She had done so much to make him happy; now, it was his turn. He knew what he had to do:

“I wanna be a prince!”

“Sure thing,” said Griselda and with a wave of her wand, the chicken was gone, and in its place was…a big, shaggy sheepdog? “Here, Prince. Good boy, Prince.”

“Not this kind of prince!”

“Oh, sorry.” So, Griselda waved her magic wand again and this time Filbert was a cat. Then a parakeet. Then a garden snail. Then a buffalo. Then a chair. And, finally, the frog he was at the start of all this nonsense. “Sorry, sir,” said the exhausted witch. “All that bewitching has rewritten your internal biology. It’s hard to explain, but I’ll never be able to make you a prince again.”

Filbert was confused and very unhappy as he thanked Griselda for trying and hopped on home. He didn’t know what he was going to say to his wife. But when he got back home, he found the house was empty. Sylvia was nowhere to be seen. Then he thought perhaps she was looking for him back in the pond so he hopped to the garden and when he reached the pond…there, sitting on his favorite lily pad, was the most beautiful girl-frog Filbert had ever seen. And, somehow, though he didn’t know how, he knew exactly who she was.

“Sylvia?”

Yes, it was! It turns out that while Filbert had been thinking of becoming a prince to make her happy, she had decided that the only way she could be happy was to be with Filbert. And if Filbert needed to be a frog to be happy, then a frog is just what she’d be, too. She marched straight out into the woods and ordered the first witch she met to turn her into a frog. The confused witch obliged and Sylvia hopped back to the pond to wait for Filbert.

No one ever knew what happened to the prince and princess. Their house soon feel into disrepair and another couple moved in and rebuilt it about two years later. By now the witch crisis was over and they felt it was once again safe to bring up children in the neighborhood and, before long, two beautiful little kids joined the family. And every day after their lessons, they would come straight home and run right out to the back where there was a little lilly pond which was very cozy and inviting and, in residence, two friendly frogs and a whole lot of little pollywogs living very happily ever after.

THE END

NEXT WEEK: Something short, I promise!

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"