by Bob Hartman
And so the years passed, the herd grew, and poor Farmer Idris became rich Farmer Idris. And then, sadly, greedy Farmer Idris.
‘The milk-white cow is growing old,’ he complained to his wife, one day. ‘Soon she will be no good for milking. I say we fatten her up and see how much money we can get from the butcher.’
‘But she has been such a good cow,’ his wife answered. ‘Why not let her wander the fields and graze her days away?’
‘A waste of good grass!’ Farmer Idris huffed. ‘No, we shall fatten her up. She’ll fetch good money – you’ll see.’
So that’s what Farmer Idris did. He fattened her up till she was bigger than any cow ever seen in those parts. Then he carted her off to the butcher’s – the townspeople oohing and aahing at the size and sight of her.
The butcher held her milk-white head steady. He raised his axe above her. But, just as he was about to let it fall, he heard a song echo through the valley where the little town lay. The crowd looked to the hills round about them, and there was the Fairy of the Lake standing on the highest crag, beautiful and tall in her lake-blue gown.
‘Follow me, milk-white cow,’ she sang. ‘Come away, milk-white cow. Come with me to your home in the deep-blue lake.’
Off ran the milk-white cow, galloping after the Fairy – up the hill and across the fields and towards the lake. And not only the cow, but her children and grandchildren as well – every milk-white cow in Farmer Idris’ herd!
Farmer Idris ran after the cows, ran as fast as he could. And he caught up with them, just as they were walking into the lake – milk-white lilies blooming at the spot where each cow disappeared beneath the water.
He called for them. He begged them to return. He promised that the milk-white cow could graze happily on his fields for ever. But there was no answer. And soon, without his herd of fairy cows, the greedy farmer became poor Farmer Idris all over again.
The Generous Bird
Once upon a time there was a bird. Not a bright and beautiful kind of bird that soared across the sky. Nor a sleek and graceful kind of bird that sailed across the water. But a plain and ordinary kind of bird that stretched out its scrawny neck and pecked at the ground as it scratched along.
And as for its song – well, this bird had no song at all. No chirp. No screech. No hoot. Nothing, not a peep!
‘Tell me,’ said the bird to the sun, one day. ‘What am I good for? I am not beautiful. I am not graceful. I can’t even sing.’
‘Ah,’ the sun beamed back. ‘There is much that you are good for. You have a gift, a special gift, that belongs to no other bird. And if you look, I am sure that you will find it.’
And so, the very next day, the bird set off across the wide world – knees jerking, head bobbing, droopy tail dragging behind – to find what he was good for.
At the end of the first day, he came to a village. Most of the people had gone in for the night, but there was someone still out in the street – a little, brown-haired girl who sobbed and sniffed and called out in a mournful voice, ‘Here Collie! Come back, Collie! Where are you, Collie?’
‘What’s the matter?’ the bird asked the little girl.
‘It’s my dog,’ she sobbed and sniffed again. ‘He’s run away, and I can’t find him.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the bird, sadly. ‘If I were like other birds, I could soar up into the sky and look for him. But I’m not very good at flying, you see.’
The little girl sobbed and sniffed once more. And then cried so hard that the bird thought his heart would break.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I walk with you, and keep you company while you look for him?’
So they walked together through the night. And the little girl called out, ‘Collie, Collie! Come back Collie!’ in her sad and mournful voice.
But Collie did not come, so they lay down, at last, behind an old fence, and the little girl grabbed the bird tight and held him for comfort the whole night long.
When the sun stuck his head over the rooftops and announced the return of morning, the little girl rubbed her eyes and then opened them. And there, standing before her, was Collie! She leaped up and hugged her dog, and then turned to thank the bird.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ he said.
‘Yes you did,’ the little girl smiled. ‘You stayed with me, and you helped me feel better.’
The bird left the little girl and her dog and walked for another day, knees jerking, head bobbing, droopy tail dragging behind. And he came, at last, to a town.
Everyone was asleep. Everyone, that is, but an old woman who sat alone on the ground.
‘What are you staring at?’ she growled at the bird.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You look so unhappy, that’s all. If I was like other birds, I could sing you a pretty song and cheer you up.’
‘I don’t need anybody cheering me up!’ she snarled. ‘I don’t need anybody at all!’ And then she started to cry. ‘Who am I fooling?’ she wept. ‘I’m all alone because I’ve been awful to people all my life. To my husband. To my children. To my friends.’ And before she could finish, the sky opened up and answered her tears with tears of its own.
‘You’re getting all wet,’ said the bird. ‘You’ll catch cold!’ So he hopped up onto a nearby wall and draped his droopy tail over her head and shoulders. And that’s how he spent the night, with the rain dripping down his droopy tail and the sad old woman huddled underneath.
The rain had stopped by the time the sun blinked the new day awake.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman to the bird. And she even managed a little smile. ‘It’s nice to know I have at least one friend in this world.’
The bird set off once again, knees jerking, head bobbing, soggy tail dragging and drooping behind.
It was dark by the time he arrived at the city. But there was still plenty of noise in the city streets. So he crept into an alley to find a quiet place to sleep. But just as he was nestling down, a little boy came tearing round the corner. He was puffing and panting, and a shaft of moonlight showed his face bruised, purple and black and blue.
‘What’s the matter?’ said the bird.
‘They’re after me,’ panted the boy. ‘Bullies. They’ve already beaten me up once and they want to do it again!’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed the bird. ‘If I was like other birds, I could pick you up in my strong claws and carry you safely away. But I’m not like other birds, am I? So here’s what we’ll do…’
The bird hurried the boy into the darkest corner. Then he spread his wings and tail as wide as he could and wrapped them around the boy, so the bullies saw nothing but a dark lump when they rushed into the alley.
‘There he is!’ they shouted, and they showered the bird with bricks and rocks and stones. But when they took a closer look, one of them said, ‘Hey, it’s not him. It’s nothing but an ugly, dead bird.’
The bird wasn’t dead, but when the sun finally yawned his morning ‘hello’, he was very bruised and sore. The little boy huddled beneath him, however, was safe and warm.
The boy went to say ‘thank you’, but when he saw the bird, all he could do was point and say, ‘Look! You’re different!’
And so he was. His back and tail were streaked purple and black and blue, and covered with delicate raindrop patterns. And when he opened his mouth to speak, out came a haunting ‘Col-Col-Collie’ song!
‘Don’t you see?’ beamed the sun. ‘Your gift was the kindness that springs from a loving heart. And now the marks of your love will be with you always – for all the world to see.’
And that is how the peacock came to be the most beautiful of all the birds!
Tiger Eats a Monkey
Tiger sat silently in the shade of the tamarind tree. He was waiting. Waiting for some careless creature to wander within reach of his terrible claws.
Rabbit stood still at the top of the tamarind tree. He was watching. Watching for Tiger, of course. But he hadn’t a clue that his enemy wa
s hiding below.
Suddenly, a jumble of monkeys came tumbling across the jungle floor, breaking the silence with their hooting and scratching and screeching.
They tumbled past the tamarind tree, one by one, but the last monkey, the littlest of them all, tumbled too close to Tiger.
‘Got you!’ Tiger growled, as he grabbed the monkey by the tail and went to gobble him up.
‘Wait just a minute!’ called Rabbit from the treetop. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Eating a monkey,’ said Tiger, matter-of-factly. ‘What business is it of yours?’
‘None at all,’ shrugged Rabbit. ‘As long as you don’t mind looking stupid.’
‘Stupid?’ said Tiger, puzzled. ‘How?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ sighed Rabbit. ‘You’re eating that monkey all wrong!’
Tiger looked at the monkey. The monkey looked at Tiger. They were both puzzled.
‘Listen,’ Rabbit continued. ‘It’s very simple. Monkeys are not meant to be shoved in the mouth and swallowed in one bite. No! Monkeys are meant to be enjoyed, bit by monkey bit. That’s why you always toss a monkey in the air and catch him with your teeth – like a nut or a piece of fruit. Everybody knows that.’
‘Everybody?’ said the Tiger, looking again at the monkey.
‘Everybody,’ the monkey stammered, nodding his head and hoping that Rabbit knew what he was doing.
‘Well, I don’t want to look stupid,’ Tiger said, at last. ‘So, here goes!’ And he tossed the little monkey high into the air.
‘Now open your mouth and shut your eyes,’ called Rabbit. ‘This is going to taste GRRREAT!’ Quickly, he grabbed the monkey and pulled him to safety, and dropped some bitter tamarind fruit in his place!
Tiger caught the fruit in his open mouth – it was a perfect catch! But instead of sweet monkey meat, his mouth was filled with the strongest, nastiest stuff he had ever tasted.
Tiger spat and hissed and howled, but the taste would not go away.
So he raced off to the river to wash the awful taste out of his mouth. And when he had gone, Rabbit and the monkey climbed down from the tree.
The monkey’s family screeched and hooted and cheered, and then tumbled away into the jungle. And Rabbit just smiled, happy that Tiger still hadn’t learned how to eat a monkey!
Lazy Tom
Tom, the farmer’s son, was lazy. Everybody knew it, and even he didn’t mind admitting it. He knew he should have been tending to the cows, or helping out in the fields. But it was much nicer just strolling along the hedge-lined paths, chewing on a piece of straw, wasting the day away.
And then Tom heard something – a click-clacking kind of noise coming from the other side of the hedge. He thought it was a squirrel at first. Or a bird, maybe. But when it went on and on, at a strong and steady beat, he grew curious. So he crept quietly round the edge of the hedge and peeked.
It was not a squirrel. Nor any kind of bird. No, it was a tiny little man, hammering together a wee pair of shoes.
‘A leprechaun!’ thought Tom. ‘Here’s my chance to find a fortune!’
Tom moved quietly towards the little fellow, not taking his eyes off him for a second. For Tom knew that to look away from a leprechaun was to give him the chance to escape. Closer and closer Tom crept. And, what with Tom fixing his eyes on the tiny man and the click-clacking of that hammer, the leprechaun did not move an inch until Tom grabbed him with both hands and hoisted him in the air.
‘Gotcha!’ Tom cried. And, struggle as he might, the leprechaun could not wriggle free.
‘What is it you want, then?’ the leprechaun sighed. ‘And be quick about it. There’s work to be done. Not that you’d know anything about that,’ he added. ‘For if I’m not mistaken, you’re Lazy Tom, the farmer’s son.’
‘So I am!’ Tom grinned. ‘But soon I shall be Rich Tom – and I won’t have to lift a finger to do it – for I want nothing more or nothing less than for you to take me to your famous pot of gold!’
The leprechaun sighed again. ‘Then I shall show you where it is,’ he said. ‘Take my hand and follow me.’
Tom set the leprechaun down, grabbed his hand and followed him through pasture and wood and stream. Finally, they came to a field covered with bright blue flowers. The leprechaun led Tom to a plant somewhere near the middle, and then he stopped.
‘Dig under here,’ the leprechaun said. ‘And you will find my pot of gold.’
‘Dig?’ cried Tom. ‘You said nothing about digging!’
‘Well,’ answered the leprechaun. ‘I only promised to show you where it was. And I have done so. Now you must keep your promise and let me go!’
‘All right,’ replied Tom. ‘But you must promise me one more thing.’ And he took a red handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it round the top of the plant. ‘I am going home to fetch a spade. You must promise to leave this handkerchief here until I return.’
The leprechaun looked at the handkerchief. The leprechaun looked at Tom. Then he grinned a little grin and nodded his little head.
‘That I promise, as well,’ he agreed. And then he disappeared.
Tom hurried back to his house, and after much asking (for he hadn’t a clue where the tools were), he found a shovel. Then he hurried even more quickly back to the field. Through pasture and wood and stream he raced. He had never worked so hard in his life! But when, at last, he reached the field of bright blue flowers, he stopped his running, dropped his shovel, and stared.
The leprechaun had kept his promise. Tom’s handkerchief was still tied to one of the blue flowers. But there were also handkerchiefs tied to all the other plants in that vast field – hundreds and hundreds of them, so that Tom had no idea which one belonged to him!
He could have dug them all up. But he was Lazy Tom, after all. So he shrugged his shoulders, and picked up his shovel. And, to the chirping of the birds and the chattering of the squirrels and the click-clacking of one sly little leprechaun shoemaker, he stumbled off towards home.
The Contented Priest
Once upon a time, there lived a fat and contented priest who served a skinny little king.
‘I am much richer than you!’ the king moaned to the priest, one day. ‘Yet, look at me. I am nothing more than a sad bag of skin and bones. How is it that you came to be so happy and hearty and round?’
‘It’s very simple,’ the priest chuckled. ‘You worry over many things: collecting your taxes and waging your wars. It’s the worry that makes you thin. As for me, I simply trust that God will take care of everything I need.’
‘It’s that simple, is it?’ the king sneered. ‘Then I shall give you something to worry about, and we’ll see how happy and hearty you remain. In three days’ time, you must return to my palace and give me the answers to the following three questions: What am I worth? Where is the middle of the earth? And what am I thinking? Answer correctly, and you shall have your weight in gold. Answer wrongly, and my dark dungeon will be your new home!’
The king smiled as a worried shadow fell across the fat priest’s face.
‘Now go!’ the king commanded. ‘And we shall see how happy you are when you return.’
All the way home, the priest worried over the king’s three questions: How much is the king worth? Where is the middle of the earth? What is the king thinking? ‘How can I possibly answer these questions?’ the priest wondered.
His head hurt. His stomach churned. And he was wet with sweat. But right then and there, he decided to worry no longer.
‘I will do what I always do,’ he said to himself. ‘I will pray, and trust God to take care of me.’
The priest prayed for one whole day. But no answers came.
He prayed for another day. And still no answers.
But on the third day, as he sat at his window with his head bowed, an answer came in a very strange way… There was a tapping on the glass. It was the priest’s gardener.
‘Excuse me, Father,’ the gardener said. ‘But I coul
dn’t help noticing. For the last two days you have done nothing but kneel at this window. Is something wrong?’
The priest invited the gardener inside and described his most unusual problem.
The old gardener shook his head. ‘Those are hard questions to be sure. But I think I can help you – if you will do one thing.’
‘Anything!’ the priest agreed.
‘Lend me your priest’s black robe.’ The priest scratched his bald head. ‘But my robe is far too big for you,’ he said. ‘Why, you’re even smaller and skinnier than the king himself!’
‘Exactly!’ the gardener grinned.
Later that day the gardener knocked on the door of the palace. He was wrapped from top to bottom in the priest’s bulky, black robe. And he wore a thick, black hood over his head.
The king was delighted when he saw him. ‘Look at him!’ the king said gleefully to one of his guards. ‘Just three days of worry has made him even skinnier than me!’
But when he spoke to the man in the robe, his skinny face was grim.
‘And now for the three questions,’ he said sternly. ‘Number One: How much am I worth?’
The gardener paused for a moment. And then, trying to sound as much like the priest as possible, he answered, ‘Twenty-nine pieces of silver – and not one penny more.’
‘Twenty-nine pieces of silver?’ the king scoffed. ‘I am worth far more than that! However did you come up with such a ridiculously small amount?’
‘Well, Your Majesty,’ the gardener replied. ‘Everyone knows that the Lord Jesus was sold for thirty pieces of silver. Surely you do not claim to be worth more than him?’
Now it was the king’s turn to pause. ‘No… no… of course not,’ he muttered. ‘Well answered.’
Then he looked straight at the man in the robe. ‘But what about the next question?’ he continued. ‘Where is the middle of the earth?’
The gardener tapped his foot on the palace floor. ‘Right under here,’ he said confidently ‘And I dare you to prove me wrong!’
