by Jane Yolen
The child skipped up to him and knocked upon an imaginary door.
The wolf opened it. “Come in. Come in.”
“Oh, no,” said the child. “My grandmother never gets out of bed.”
“Never?” asked the wolf.
“Never,” said the child.
“All right,” said the thoroughly nice wolf, shaking his head. He lay down on the cool green grass, clasped his paws over his stomach, and made a very loud pretend snore.
The child walked over to his feet and knocked again.
“Who is it?” called out the wolf in a high, weak, scratchy voice.
“It is your granddaughter, Little Red Riding Hood,” the child said, giggling.
“Come in, come in. Just lift the latch. I’m in bed with aches and pains and a bad case of the rheumaticks,” said the wolf in the high, funny voice.
The child walked in through the pretend door.
“I have brought you a basket of goodies,” said the child, putting the basket by the wolf’s side. She placed her hands on her hips. “But you know, Grandmother, you look very different today.”
“How so?” asked the wolf, opening both his yellow eyes wide.
“Well, Grandmother, what big eyes you have,” said the child.
The wolf closed his eyes and opened them again quickly. “The better to see you with, my dear,” he said.
“Oh, you silly wolf. She never calls me dear. She calls me Sweetface. Or Punkins. Or her Airy Fairy Dee.”
“How awful,” said the wolf.
“I know,” said the child. “But that’s what she calls me.”
“Well, I can’t,” said the wolf, turning over on his side. “I’m a poet, after all, and no self-respecting poet could possibly use those words. If I have to call you that, there’s no more pretending.”
“I guess you can call me dear,” said the child in a very small voice. “But I didn’t know that poets were so particular.”
“About words we are,” said the wolf.
“And you have an awfully big nose,” said the child.
The wolf put his paw over his nose. “Now that is uncalled-for,” he said. “My nose isn’t all that big—for a wolf.”
“It’s part of the game,” said the child.
“Oh, yes, the game. I had forgotten. The better to smell the basket of goodies, my dear,” said the wolf.
“And Grandmother, what big teeth you have.”
The thoroughly nice wolf sat up. “The better to eat carrot cake with,” he said.
At that, the game was over. They shared the carrot cake evenly and licked their fingers, which was not very polite but certainly the best thing to do on a picnic in the woods. And the wolf sang an ode to carrot cake which he made up on the spot:
Carrot cake, O carrot cake
The best thing a baker ever could make,
Mushy or munchy
Gushy or crunchy
Eat it by a woodland lake.
“We are really by a stream,” said the child.
“That is what is known as poetic license,” said the wolf. “Calling a stream a lake.”
“Maybe you can use your license to drive me home.”
The wolf nodded. “I will if you tell me your name. I know it’s not really Little Red Riding Hood.”
The child stood up and brushed crumbs off her dress.
“It’s Elisabet Grimm,” she said.
“Of the Grimm family on Forest Lane?” asked the wolf.
“Of course,” she answered.
“Everyone knows where that is. I’ll take you home right now,” said the wolf. He stretched himself from tip to tail. “But what will you tell your mother about her cake?” He took her by the hand.
“Oh, I’m a storyteller,” said the child. “I’ll think of something.”
And she did.
“She did indeed,” said Nurse Lamb thoughtfully. She cleared away the now empty bowls and took them back to the kitchen. When she returned, she was carrying a tray full of steaming mugs of coffee.
“I told you I had bad press,” said Wolfgang.
“I should say you had,” Nurse Lamb replied, passing out the mugs.
“Me, too,” said the wolf with the cane.
“You, too, what?” asked Nurse Lamb.
“I had bad press, too, though my story is somewhat different. By the by, my name is Oliver,” said the wolf. “Would you like to hear my tale?”
Nurse Lamb sat down. “Oh, please, yes.”
Oliver Wolf’s Tale
Once upon a time there was a very clever young wolf. He had an especially broad, bushy tail and a white star under his chin.
In his playpen he had built tall buildings of blocks and straw.
In the schoolyard he had built forts of mud and sticks.
And once, after a trip with his father to the bricklayer’s, he had made a tower of bricks.
Oh, how that clever young wolf loved to build things.
“When I grow up,” he said to his mother and father not once but many times, “I want to be an architect.”
“That’s nice, dear,” they would answer, though they wondered about it. After all, no one in their family had ever been anything more than a wolf.
When the clever little wolf was old enough, his father sent him out into the world with a pack of tools and letters from his teachers.
“This is a very clever young wolf,” read one letter.
“Quite the cleverest I have ever met,” said another.
So the clever young wolf set out looking for work.
In a short while he came to a crossroads and who should be there but three punk pigs building themselves houses and making quite a mess of it.
The first little pig was trying to build a house of straw.
“Really,” said the clever wolf, “I tried that in the playpen. It won’t work. A breath of air will knock it over.”
“Well, if you’re so clever,” said the pig, pushing his sunglasses back up his snout, “why don’t you try and blow it down.”
The wolf set his pack by the side of the road, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and huffed and puffed. The house of straw collapsed in a twinkling.
“See,” said the clever wolf.
The little pig got a funny look on his face and ran one of his trotters up under his collar.
The wolf turned to the second little pig, who had just hammered a nail into the house he was trying to build. It was a makeshift affair of sticks and twigs.
“Yours is not much better, I’m afraid,” said the clever wolf.
“Oh, yeah?” replied the pig. “Clever is as clever does.” He thumbed his snout at the wolf. “Let’s see you blow this house down, dog-breath.”
The wolf sucked in a big gulp of air. Then he huffed and puffed a bit harder than before. The sticks tumbled down in a heap of dry kindling, just as he knew they would.
The second little pig picked up one of the larger pieces and turned it nervously in his trotters.
“Nyah, nyah nyah, nyah nyah!” said the third little pig, stretching his suspenders and letting them snap back with a loud twang. “Who do you think’s afraid of you, little wolf? Try your muzzle on this pile of bricks, hair-face.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said the clever wolf. “Every good builder knows bricks are excellent for houses.”
The third little pig sniffed and snapped his suspenders once again.
“However,” said the wolf, pointing at the roof, “since you have asked my opinion, I think you missed the point about chimneys. They are supposed to go straight up, not sideways.”
“Well, if you’re so clever . . .” began the first little pig.
“And have such strong breath . . .” added the second little pig.
“And are such a know-it-all and tell-it-ever . . .” put in the third little pig.
“Why don’t you go up there and fix it yourself!” all three said together.
“Well, thank you,” said the clever wolf, realizing he h
ad just been given his very first job. “I’ll get to it at once.” Finding a ladder resting against the side of the brick house, he hoisted his pack of tools onto his back and climbed up onto the roof.
He set the bricks properly, lining them up with his plumb line. He mixed the mortar with care. He was exacting in his measurements and careful in his calculations. The sun was beginning to set before he was done.
“There,” he said at last. “That should do it.” He expected, at the very least, a thank-you from the pigs. But instead all he got was a loud laugh from the third little pig, a snout-thumbing from the second, and a nasty wink from the first.
The clever wolf shrugged his shoulders. After all, pigs will be pigs and he couldn’t expect them to be wolves. But when he went to climb down he found they had removed the ladder.
“Clever your way out of this one, fuzz-ball,” shouted the third little pig. Then they ran inside the house, turned up the stereo, and phoned their friends for a party.
The only way down was the chimney. But the wolf had to wait until the bricks and mortar had set as hard as stone. That took half the night. When at last the chimney was ready, the wolf slowly made his way down the inside, his pack on his back.
The pigs and their friends heard him coming. And between one record and the next, they shoved a pot of boiling mush into the hearth. They laughed themselves silly when the wolf fell in.
“That’s how things end, fur-tail,” the pigs shouted.
“With a bowl of mush.”
Dripping and unhappy, the wolf ran out the door. He vowed never to associate with pigs again. And to this day—with the exception of the cook—he never has. And being a well-brought up wolf, as well as clever, he has never told his side of the story until today.
“Well, the pigs sure talked about it,” said Nurse Lamb, shaking her head. “The way they have told it, it is quite a different story.”
“Nobody listens to pigs,” said Oliver Wolf. He looked quickly at the kitchen door.
“I’m not so sure,” said a wolf who had a patch over his eye. “I’m not so sure.”
“So you’re not sure,” said Oliver. “Bet you think you’re pretty clever, Lone Wolf.”
“No,” said Lone Wolf. “I never said I was clever. You are the clever little wolf.”
Wolfgang laughed. “So clever he was outwitted by a pack of punk pigs.”
The other wolves laughed.
“You didn’t do so well with one human child,” answered Oliver.
“Now, now, now,” said the cook, poking her head in through the door. “As we say in the barnyard, ‘Words are wood, a handy weapon.’”
“No weapons. No fighting,” said Nurse Lamb, standing up and shaking her hoof at the wolves. “We are supposed to be telling stories, not getting into fights.”
Lone Wolf stared at her. “I never in my life ran from a fight. Not if it was for a good cause.”
Nurse Lamb got up her courage and put her hand on his shoulder. “I believe you,” she said. “Why not tell me about some of the good causes you fought for?”
Lone Wolf twitched his ears. “All right,” he said at last. “I’m not boasting, you understand. Just setting the record straight.”
Nurse Lamb looked over at the kitchen door. The old sow winked at her and went back to work.
Lone Wolf’s Tale
Once upon a time there was a kind, tender, and compassionate young wolf. He had a black patch over one eye and another black patch at the tip of his tail. He loved to help the under-dog, the under-wolf, the under-lamb, and even the under-pig.
His basement was full of the signs of his good fights. Signs like love a tree and have you kissed a flower today? and pigs are people, too! and honk if you love a weasel.
One day he was in the basement running off petitions on his mimeo machine when he heard a terrible noise.
KA-BLAAAAAAAM KA-BLOOOOOOOIE.
It was the sound a gun makes in the forest.
Checking his calendar, the kind and tender wolf saw with horror that it was opening day of duck-hunting season. Quickly he put on his red hat and red vest. Then he grabbed up the signs he had made for that occasion: some ducks can’t duck and eat corn not corn-eaters and ducks have mothers, too. Then he ran out of his door and down the path as fast as he could go.
KA-BLAAAAAAAM KA-BLOOOOOOOIE .
The kind and tender wolf knew just where to go. Deep in the forest was a wonderful pond where the ducks liked to stop on their way north. The food was good, the reeds comfortable, the prices reasonable, and the linens changed daily.
When the kind and tender wolf got to the pond, all he could see was one small and very frightened mallard duck in the middle and thirteen hunters around the edge.
“Stop!” he shouted as the hunters raised their guns.
This did not stop them.
The kind and tender wolf tried again, shouting anything he could think of. “We shall overcome,” he called. “No smoking. No nukes. Stay off the grass.”
Nothing worked. The hunters sighted down their guns. The wolf knew it was time to act.
He put one of the signs in the water and sat on it. He picked up another sign as a paddle. Using his tail as a rudder, he pushed off into the pond and rowed toward the duck.
“I will save you,” he cried. “We are brothers. Quack.”
The mallard looked confused. Then it turned and swam toward the wolf. When it reached him, it climbed into the sign and quacked back.
“Saved,” said the kind and tender wolf triumphantly, neglecting to notice that their combined weight was making the cardboard sign sink. But when the water was up to his chin, the wolf suddenly remembered he could not swim.
“Save yourself, friend,” he called out, splashing great waves and swallowing them.
The mallard was kind and tender, too. It pushed the drowning wolf to shore and then, hidden by a patch of reeds, gave the well-meaning wolf beak-to-muzzle resuscitation. Then the bird flew off behind the cover of trees. The hunters never saw it go.
But they found the wolf, his fur all soggy.
“Look!” said one who had his name, peter, stenciled on the pocket of his coat. “There are feathers on this wolf’s jaws and in his whiskers. He has eaten our duck.”
And so the hunters grabbed up the kind and tender wolf by his tail and slung him on top of the remaining sign. They marched him once around the town and threw him into jail for a week, where they gave him nothing to eat but mush.
“Now, wolf,” shouted the hunter Peter when they finally let him out of jail, “don’t you come back here again or it will be mush for you from now till the end of your life.”
The kind and tender wolf, nursing his hurt tail and his aching teeth, left town. The next day the newspaper ran a story that read: peter & the wolf fight/peter runs for mayor. vows to keep wolf from door. And to this day no one believes the kind and tender wolf’s side of the tale.
“I believe it,” said Nurse Lamb looking at Lone Wolf with tears in her eyes. “In fact, I believe all of you.” She stood up and collected the empty mugs.
“Hurray!” said the cook, peeking in the doorway. “Maybe this is one young nurse we’ll keep.”
“Keep?” Nurse Lamb suddenly looked around, all her fear coming back. Lone Wolf was cleaning his nails. Three old wolves had dozed off. Wolfgang was gazing at the ceiling. But Oliver grinned at her and licked his chops. “What do you mean, keep?”
“Do you want our side of the story?” asked Oliver, still grinning. “Or the nurses’?”
Nurse Lamb gulped.
Oliver winked.
Then Nurse Lamb knew they were teasing her. “Oh, you big bad wolf,” she said and patted him on the head. She walked back into the kitchen.
“You know,” she said to the cook, “I think I’m going to like it here. I think I can help make it a real happy happy den. I’ll get them to write down their stories. And maybe we’ll make a book of them. Life doesn’t have to end with a bowl of mush.”
&
nbsp; Stirring the pot, the cook nodded and smiled.
“In fact,” said Nurse Lamb loudly, “why don’t we try chicken soup for lunch?”
From the dining room came a great big cheer.
Granny Rumple
SHE WAS KNOWN AS Granny Rumple because her dress and face were masses of wrinkles, or at least that’s what my father’s father’s mother used to say. Of course, the Yolens being notorious liars, it might not have been so. It might simply have been a bad translation from the Yiddish. Or jealousy, Granny Rumple having been a great beauty in her day.
Like my great-grandmother, Granny Rumple was a moneylender, one of the few jobs a Jew could have in the Ukraine that brought them into daily contact with the goyim. She could have had one of the many traditional women’s roles—a matchmaker, perhaps, or an opshprekherin giving advice and remedies, or an herb vendor. But she was a moneylender because her husband had been one, and they had no children to take over his business. My great-grandmother, on the other hand, had learned her trade from her father, and when he died and she was a widow with a single son to raise, she followed in her father’s footsteps. A sakh melokhes un vynik brokhes: “Many trades and little profit.” It was a good choice for both of them.
If Granny Rumple’s story sounds a bit like another you have heard, I am not surprised. My father’s father used to entertain customers at his wife’s inn with a rendition of Romeo and Juliet in Yiddish, passing it off as a story of his own invention. And what is folklore, after all, but the recounting of old tales. We Yolens have always borrowed from the best.
Great-grandmother’s story of Granny Rumple was always told in an odd mixture of English and Yiddish, but I am of the generation of Jews who never learned the old tongue. Our parents were ashamed of it, the language of the ghetto. They used it sparingly, for punchlines of off-color jokes or to commiserate with one another at funerals. So my telling of Granny Rumple’s odd history is necessarily my own. If I have left anything out, it is due neither to the censorship of commerce nor art, but the inability to get the whole thing straight from my aging relatives. As a Yolen ages, he or she remembers less and invents more. It is lucky none of us is an historian.
