shooflies

 A Native American Indian Story
by Storie-Jean Agapith

Illustrated by Thomas Mitton

Sti'Tumma had always wanted to have beautiful beaded "shooflies" attached to her saddle, on the breastplate and under the horse's tummy on the cinch. She had already made a couple for her favorite bridle! The shooflies were made from a small amount of horsehair being folded in half, wrapped with buckskin, and beadwork put over the buckskin. The shoofly would then be clipped onto the favorite spot selected by each rider. So when the horses had their tails cleaned, the hair was saved for Sti'Tumma who then went to work to make herself some beautiful and colorful shooflies. Sometimes Gilly, Sti'Tumma's sister, would do the beadwork on a dozen shooflies at a time for the trail guides. The shooflies would move with the horse and keep some of the flies from settling on the horse!

     It was a beautiful Saturday morning and time to get ready to meet the scheduled trail riders at the lake for the 20-mile ride through the beautiful countryside. Her nephew and youngest brother saddled her horse while she went to select the shooflies to attach to her saddle today. Across the breastplate she clipped six, on the cinch she clipped two, and on the rear of the saddle she clipped two. She stood back to take a good look, and said to herself, "Today both Zoomer and I will look good!"

     At the lake she stayed on horseback due to the pain she was feeling in her back and neck; getting off and on would only make it worse. Today she wanted to be able to complete the ride to show off all her hard work on the beautiful and colorful shooflies. By wearing her new ribbon shirt, she looked elegant upon that gorgeous horse with all the beadwork showing on the shooflies. She met the riders, gathered the riding fees, which were placed in the beaded bag tied tight to her saddle, and even had some pictures taken of her and Zoomer!

     Today Sti'Tumma would begin the trail ride by trailing the riders. She took her time, although Zoomer wanted to be in the lead of the pack. What a lovely day, open views for nice photos, and she noticed that the riders were taking some lovely shots. Zoomer was becoming impatient, so Sti'Tumma let him walk a bit faster to get to the head of the riders. She was almost to the beginning of the riders when a pair of riders, an elder cowboy and his wife, moved up to talk to her. The lady asked, "We were wondering if you are a medicine lady, you have all the scalps with beadwork on them displayed on your saddle. And we wanted to know how you got anyone to actually touch the scalps to put the beadwork on them."

     Sti'Tumma started chuckling, and then broke out in laughter! Her younger brother, the lead trail guide for today, stopped the group to check on his sister. Sti'Tumma decided this was a good spot to take a break and talk about the shooflies she was so proud of. By the time the riders started off again on the ride, the whole Country Trail Ride crew were amazed at how many of these city cowboys and cowgirls didn't understand the Native Americans at all, they still believed there was scalping and raiding going on within the reservation! Scalps, what a joke, now every trail guide would want to be decorated with the "scalps" displayed on their horse to show their "honor within the Tribe"!

     Since that ride, and all the jokes and laughter about the medicine lady and her scalps, Gilly has been able to have a dozen "imitation scalps" beaded and ready for sale at each trail ride during the lunch break at the wonderful and remodeled old campsite.

Sliver Pete

by Carol Moore
I've never told this story before, but just the same I'm telling you now.

I was a boy of 8 in 1885 and I lived in a small town out west with my baby sister and my folks who ran the local delivery stable. It might not have been such a bad place except for one man.

His name was Sliver Pete and we thought him the meanest, ugliest, most cussed hombre that ever packed a gun and it was well known he carried a Colt 45. He didn't much like to work, was a cowpoke a few months out of the year and the rest of the time he played and cheated at cards and killed anybody who called him on it. Then for recreation or just pure spite he killed every sheriff that ever tried to arrest him. There wasn't a soul that didn't fear Sliver Pete, even my Father.

The townspeople ended up offering a reward of $20,000 to anyone who could either run Sliver Pete out of town or put him in his grave. Mind you, that was a fortune in those days but when Sliver Pete heard there was a price on his head he just laughed and shot up the saloon and then the bakery. He said he was worth much more money than that. And when stranger after stranger came to collect the reward they came to stay because Sliver Pete put them in the town cemetery.



One very windy day the stagecoach arrived in town with an unusual passenger. I was there to witness it because it was my duty to water the stagecoach horses. The stagecoach door swung open and a single man, tall and gaunt and dressed in a brown/black coat and hat, with a white collar, stepped out. I had seen pictures of Abraham Lincoln and that is who this man reminded me of, although I knew Abraham Lincoln would not have been wearing a preacher's clothes. He waved the coachman away as he reached for his own trunk off the roof of the coach. The trunk was wrapped in a blue cloth that flapped in the wind although partially tied with a rope. Just as he got it to the ground a gust tore at the material and I clearly saw the writing on its side. He grabbed the cloth and stuffed it back into place, glancing straight at me. Then he smiled a slow smile, winked, and put his index finger to his mouth as if to say we shared a secret. That's the only incident I saw myself and all the rest I heard secondhand through either my folks or my friends.

The man called himself Preacher Dan. He said he hadn't come to stay but he was in our town on the Lord's business to get money to build a church. He'd already acquired most of it, but people were surprised when he said he planned on making the remainder by playing cards and that God had told him he would win the rest that he needed in just one night. Although such behavior was improper for a preacher nobody questioned it. He had a quiet manner and quick smile and, anyway, strangers never stayed too long.



That afternoon the card game started early. Among the four players around the table was Sliver Pete. Sliver Pete was his mean self, slouched in his chair with a whisky at his elbow. I was told Preacher Dan didn't say a word the first hour although he smiled readily enough if anyone caught his eye.

The first two games were won by Mike McGrew and Tom Eider, town regulars. The purse was small. There was static in the air like just before an electric storm. The third game the purse grew bigger and Sliver Pete won this round. He smiled for the first time and Preacher Dan smiled back.

"Nice going." the Preacher said. "I see the Lord's in need of help tonight."

Sliver Pete smirked.

But Preacher Dan wasn't finished. "I been eyeing that gun of yours. May I see it?"

The room grew suddenly quiet as Sliver Pete's smile vanished as quick as a Bluetail fly beneath a horse's tail swat. "No man touches my gun but me."

"Oh. I didn't mean anything by it," the Preacher grinned. "You know I'm not a man. Just a messenger of God. Don't usually cotton to guns either, but I hear you're right handy with one and I sure wanted to see the smoker that's done the damage."

Perhaps it was the hint of admiration in his voice, or maybe God intervened to soften Sliver's mood, but to everyone's surprise, Sliver Pete unholstered his Colt 45 and put it on the table. His eyes glowered about the room as if daring anybody to disapprove.

Preacher Dan calmly retrieved the gun and examined it thoroughly, looking up the barrel and bouncing it gently in his hand to weigh it. Suddenly, unaccountably it slipped from his fingers onto the floor. Kerplunk...

Sliver Pete jumped to his feet, sliding his chair back with a squeal. But just as quick the Preacher leaned over and retrieved the gun, wiping it with his jacket hem and sleeve. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, handing it back.

"Better sorry than dead," growled Sliver Pete. But there was a noticeable sigh of relief from the room as he holstered the 45 and sat back down.

After that things seemed to pick up speed as the bets got bigger. Mike McGrew pushed away from the table. "Too rich for my blood," he said. Now there were three left at the table, including Sliver and the Preacher, and Sliver Pete was winning big time. He had a small mountain of bills and coins and, recklessly, was playing for bigger and bigger stakes.

If Preacher Dan felt pressure he didn't show it although all his Church money was fast going to Sliver Pete. At last, just before dusk, the last call of cards came and Sliver had won it all. He wrapped his burly arms about the pot and began drawing it to him.

"Just a moment." The voice was soft and deadly and a startled Sliver didn't at first realize it came from the Preacher who added, "You been cheating all night and if you take that money now you can add thievery to the deed."

Sliver's hand went to his gun, but knowing the Preacher didn't carry a gun he held it there like a threat. "I don't cheat and I don't let no one call me one neither. Not even a preacher."

"Is that so? Let the Lord decide. That is, if you care to take your fight to the street where it's right and proper and you're not afraid to meet your maker," said the Preacher.

"Why, you don't even own a gun," sneered Sliver, "And you wouldn't know to shoot one anyhow." He literally spit out the words.

"I'm no match, that fact's assured. But God said I'd have that money tonight and you won't make him a liar." The Preacher's eyes narrowed with serious intent. "So long as someone here sees fit to loan me his gun, whomever remains standing will have spoke the truth."

Because Sliver Pete had never turned down a gunfight in his life and the Preacher was handed a gunbelt with two guns by the bartender, they ended up outside at opposite ends of the street. A small crowd gathered, not so much to witness Sliver Pete kill another man, but in sympathetic support of a foolish preacher who was about to die for the sake of his church.



The two men stood there a seeming eternity, each with their gun hand poised and ready. Then gun fire rang out and the look and smell of gun smoke filled the air. Sliver Pete blew away the smoke at end of his gun barrel as he saw the tall figure of Preacher Dan hit the dirt. Cries of anguish came from womenfolk in the crowd.

But Sliver Pete was unconcerned and made it a point to look bored. He had holstered his gun and started his walk back to the saloon when he noticed the body of the Preacher begin to move. Now Sliver Pete had never failed to kill with his first shot and he watched, fascinated, as the Preacher stood up and again pointed his borrowed gun. So Sliver Pete had to shoot him again, actually two shots just to be sure. The Preacher fell like a cut tree, straight down with his face in the dirt.

Sliver wiped his forehead with his gun hand still holding the gun and his eyes steady on the body of the Preacher. But what he hadn't expected to happen happened yet again. The crowd gasped as they saw the Preacher struggle once more to his feet.

This time Sliver Pete didn't even give the Preacher a chance to aim. For the first time in his life there was fear in his expression. Two gun shots rang out and the Preacher pitched over.

The crowd edged back from the street. There was something decidedly unnerving and otherworldly about this gunfight when a man wouldn't stay dead. It occurred to them maybe the Preacher had spoke the truth about his conversation with God. The same thing had occurred to Sliver Pete, because with a pale face he very slowly approached the body. He was 20 feet away when the Preacher again struggled to his knees and then his feet, this time holding out his hand palm up as if to say, "You owe me that money". The Preacher's black eyes bored into and through Sliver Pete and understandably Sliver responded with panic, this time aiming at the Preacher's head. It was his last bullet.

As the shot rang out Preacher Dan's hand slapped his forehead and his body swung a complete circle before falling face down into the dirt. Nobody and nothing moved except a corner of the Preacher's black jacket caught by a gust of wind. Sliver Pete was shaking so bad he simply couldn't tear his gaze off that body and the crowd looked from him to it and didn't know which was more incredible. They'd never seen Sliver Pete so afraid nor witnessed a dead man come back to life before.



Then there was a small movement just at the waist. A bird, a white dove, struggled free from beneath the body and with a gentle "coo, coo," flapped its wings and flew up into a cloudy sky and disappeared from sight.

Now I don't know what you would make of that, but the townsfolk and Sliver Pete both saw it as a sign from God. Truly this had been God's messenger and Sliver Pete had just killed the messenger. Unnerved he began backing away and had gotten 10 steps when the Preacher's body twitched and slowly pulled itself upwards to a standing position.

"Where are you going?" it boomed in a deep, sepulcher voice from the grave. "You owe me the Lord's money."

Sliver Pete simply fell apart. He gave a strangled squeak of terror, dropped his gun, whirled on his heels and ran up the street until he was out of sight. The stunned crowd watched him go before setting their fearful gaze back on the Preacher. Standing straight he flashed them a wide, friendly smile and suddenly didn't look so dead. True, there was blood on his forehead but with one sweep of his sleeve it mysteriously disappeared.

"That's one problem you won't see again," he said in a voice again friendly. "And don't worry yourselves 'bout me. Except, that is, unless you don't want to make good on your promise of a reward for getting rid of that snake Sliver Pete." He winked.

The townsfolk were happy to give Preacher Dan the reward. He didn't even collect all of it, only half, leaving the rest for the town church. Nobody ever heard from Sliver Pete again, although it was rumored he hadn't stopped running 'til he'd got to New Mexico, married and become a farmer, never to touch a gun again. People couldn't stop talking about how a man could be shot six times and rise up as if he hadn't been shot at all. But no one dared ask Preacher Dan to explain it and he left town so it remained a mystery to everyone except me.

You see, I remembered the day I saw the writing on the side of his trunk revealed by a pesky wind. It had said, "Dan the Magnificent. Magician's Illusions Great and Small." So Preacher Dan was not a preacher, but a gifted magician. I figure when he dropped Sliver Pete's gun at the card table he switched it for one with blanks. The white dove had just been for effect. Here was a man schooled in the ways of human nature and he had done us a great favor while being paid for his services. I thought at that time far be it for me to give away his secrets.

Some say it wasn't a preacher or even a dead man that got up off that dusty road, but an angel of the Lord himself, and in a manner of speaking that might be so.

But only God, Dan the Magnificent, and me -- and now you -- really knows the truth of what happened on that windy day in 1885.
                                 THE END

Wind Song

It was a day like the day before and the day after. The wind wrapped itself around the sod cabin in gusting moans as the pioneer family within carried out their tasks pretending not to hear. They heard the wind, however. It had been their constant companion on the open plains since their journey from Philadelphia two years before in the spring of 1865. Following the covered wagon train of ten, the wind had lifted the drab landscape into billows of dust falling on everyone and everything until there seemed but one color and one sound. 

Now Rachel sat on the bed hand-stitching a quilt while her mother hunched over a sewing machine across the room rocking her feet backwards and forwards on a foot treadle that turned the shaft that moved the needle. The thumping counter pointed the wind outside. Laughter and giggling erupted from Rachel's younger brother and sister playing jacks on the floor and it brought a smile to their sister's face, but when she glanced back at their mother she stopped smiling.
Rachel felt that her parents worked too hard. They rarely had fun or relaxation like they had enjoyed in Philadelphia. Now her father was always in the fields. Her mother prepared meals on a wood-stoked stove, did the laundry on a washboard, baked flatbread and sewed clothes to trade for goods in town. Rachel remembered her mother singing and telling stories at one time but that was before she had begun complaining about the wind and the dirt and the mud. Eventually she had stopped complaining, but she had stopped singing, too.

The door swung open and it was Rachel's father. Entering in a puff of dust, he coughed and wiped his forehead. "Mighty hot day out there."

"Well, I've got ale for you and flatbread too," replied his wife. She rose from the sewing machine and began setting the table as her husband eased himself into a chair.

"I know. I could smell it from outside. Smelled so good I came in early. What else have you all been up to while I was clearing rows with Molly and Bell?"

"Rachel's done with her quilt."

"Oh?" Rachel's father turned to look as his older daughter proudly showed off her masterpiece. It was a cheerful blooming of color with stitches outlining the squares.

"That's a mighty fine piece of work." He nodded. "How 'bout us going into town this Saturday. You can show off your quilt, your mother can take her flatbread, and I've got a bushel of onions ready."

The young children whooped excitedly and Michael, the boy, began dancing around the room, lifting his knees and clapping. There was reason for jubilation. The 20-mile trip to town in the buckboard was a once-a-month affair to which everyone in the family looked forward.

The town of Wausa, Nebraska was not unlike other little towns that had sprung up to welcome the pioneers. It was a mix of old and new buildings with wood plank sidewalks and a wide main street of dirt to accommodate trains of oxen. In one of the newer buildings was the general store. Guarding the door was a wooden Indian and next to it hung a bird cage. The family stopped for a moment to look at the yellow bird inside.

When they stepped into the store it was a universe all its own. There was the scent of wood and soap and spice. The walls were lined with racks of crates and mason jars, and along the aisles were bushel barrels of potatoes and apples. In the back neatly propped against the wall were bolts of fabric. While her brother and sister explored the store and her parents spoke with the grocer about their bread and onions, Rachel wandered back outside to look at the bird.

So bright a yellow it was a miniature piece of the sun in that dusty place. It hopped from perch to perch rarely standing still and as it hopped it kept its eyes on Rachel. Suddenly a shadow passed over the girl and startled, she looked up to see a Sioux Indian brave. Her heart beat faster. Indians sometimes came to town to barter although it was discouraged by the shopkeepers. Such a history of warfare existed between Indians and white settlers that no one felt safe. But this Indian was as fascinated by the bird as Rachel. He stared intently and then said something she couldn't understand. Seeing her puzzled face he repeated in English, "It listens to the wind." 

Before Rachel could think about what he had said, the Indian turned and walked away. Her parents appeared a moment later, having seen him through the window.

"Are you all right?" asked her father.

Rachel nodded. "He was just looking at the canary."

At that moment the little bird lifted its head, swelled its chest, and sang out a joyous trill. Rachel saw her mother's face light up with delight.

Rachel traded her quilt for the canary and never regretted it because the little bird entertained them endlessly. Sir Gallant, they called him because he did battle with the wind. The louder the wind the more loudly he sang, competition so fierce that sometimes everyone burst out laughing. Sir Gallant lifted their spirits turning dust days back into sunshine days.

Rachel thought about what the Indian had said. She'd heard the wind but unlike the canary she'd never listened to it. Now when she tried she could hear music in the moaning. Of course the music was faint and hidden in the background and she needed her imagination, but it was there if she truly listened. She began humming the sounds she heard. "That's a pretty tune" her mother commented one day, "what song is that?" Rachel didn't reply, unsure how to explain, and her mother didn't press the question. Soon she, too, began humming.

Occasionally bachelor cowpokes stopped by the cabin to buy flatbread or to have their clothes mended. They were always welcomed, not for the money in their pocket but for their company. With no neighbors for twenty miles, it was lonely on the plains. The family and guests traded news, shared a meal, and were serenaded by Sir Gallant who was often the center of conversation.

One afternoon the younger daughter Mary noticed the canary sitting motionless on his perch. "Is Sir Gallant sick?" she asked in alarm.

"No. It's just a dark day outside," her mother reassured her. "It'll be raining soon and he probably doesn't feel like singing."

The younger children accepted this explanation but not Rachel. She knew that while Sir Gallant stopped singing from time to time, he had always hopped about his cage. She went to the door and looked outside. It was deathly quiet, no wind or sounds of birds or prairie dogs. She saw the outline of her father with the two oxen in the north field and at the same time she saw black thunderclouds stacked high into the sky. There was a heaviness to the air and a prickly feeling.

The Indian's words echoed in her mind. "It listens to the wind."

Rachel thought about Sir Gallant's odd behavior and the angry thunderclouds and how strange it felt. Straining to hear, she caught a faint rumbling and it was the sound of thunder.

Suddenly Rachel knew. She absolutely knew they were in danger. "Mom," she shouted. "It's a tornado!"

Immediately Mary and Michael began screaming as their mother gathered them up and, along with Sir Gallant, rushed outside. The safest place was the root cellar at the side of the house. Throwing open the cellar doors, the mother yelled to Rachel to warn her father.

Rachel took off running across the field shouting and waving her arms, but not until she was halfway across did she get his attention.

"What's wrong?" he yelled.

It was another moment before she reached him. "Tornado."

His eyes searched the horizon. "I don't see anything, but I can bring in Molly and Bell anyway. I'll come back to the house."

 "No! There's no time. Listen!" Rachel was close to hysterical and because she never lied or played tricks, he did as she asked. Finally able to hear the rumbling he jumped to action. Releasing the yoke from the harnesses on the oxen he turned them free and then grabbed Rachel's arm and they began to run. By the time they reached the sod cabin, the tornado was visible, rain drenched their bodies and a thunderous roaring pounded the air. 

The tornado lasted only minutes although it felt like hours. When the family emerged from their shelter they were relieved to find their sod cabin intact. Fortunately the oxen, too, had escaped although the scarred earth proved the north field had been in the center of the tornado's path. The loss of crops would make things more difficult, but they felt blessed to be alive. They also felt divine intervention had come in the form of a little yellow bird.

The woman stood in the door of the attic and sighed. Gray and dusty in the half light, the room was filled with old furniture, boxes and a thousand forgotten memories. She had inherited its contents from her grandmother and now faced the chore of deciding the fate of each piece. Attracted to an old sewing machine, so old that it had a foot treadle, she opened the top drawer. Amidst the buttons and needles and scissors was a tiny bundle of lace neatly tied with ribbon. Curious she picked it up and unwrapped it. To her surprise she found she was unfolding the burial cloth of a canary, its body long ago dried up but carefully preserved. Holding it in her right hand she stared, perplexed, and quite unconsciously put her left hand over her heart. 

Epilog

This story was inspired by an article I read in a magazine years ago. Inheriting her grandmother's sewing machine (who had been a pioneer in one of the plains states), the author of that article found the wrapped body of a canary in one of its drawers. Intrigued she had done research, discovering just how much the pioneers had loved these little birds. The article included the photograph of a prairie cabin with three cages of canaries hanging from its eaves.

Ollie's Jar

Ollie is an eel.
He likes his home in a jar.



When he comes out he swims over his jar.



He swims under his jar.



He swims through his jar.



He swims around his jar.



When he is done, he swims back into his jar.



Now there are two eels, Ollie and Izzy.

When Ollie and Izzy come out they can swim over, under, through, around, and back into their jar together.

THE END

Wolstencroft The Bear

 Not long ago and not far away there was a beautiful, big teddy bear who sat on a shelf in a drug store waiting for someone to buy him and give him a home.

     His name was Wolstencroft. And he was no ordinary bear.

 His fur was a lovely shade of light grey, and he had honey colored ears, nose and feet. His eyes were warm and kind and he had a wonderfully wise look on his face.

     Wolstencroft looked very smart in a brown plaid waistcoat with a gold satin bow tie at his neck.

     Attached to the tie was a tag with his name written in bold, black letters: Wolstencroft.


He had arrived in the store just before Christmas when there had been a lovely big tree in the window, all decorated with fairy lights. Yards and yards of sparkling tinsel had been draped over everything, and holiday music had been playing all the time. Wolstencroft was especially fond of Jingle Bells. He liked its light, tinkling sounds. It always made him feel merry.

At that time there had been lots of other bears to keep him company. In fact, there had been so many teddy bears crowded onto that one narrow shelf that he had scarcely had room to move.

     But, one by one they had all gone. Gleefully waving goodbye as they were carried off to their new homes. Until finally, he was the only teddy bear left in the entire store.

     He had hoped that Santa Claus would drop by on Christmas Eve and deliver him to a good home. But he hadn't. Santa had been too busy that year, delivering even more presents than usual.

     Wolstencroft felt sad and lonely sitting there all by himself on the shelf that was high above the Christmas cards. He longed to have a child take him home and love him and play with him. But, most of all, to hug him. For no hug is ever too big for a teddy bear.

     He was trying hard not to cry because he knew that tears would make his eyes all puffy and red and then he would have even less chance of finding a home.

     But why oh why didn't someone choose him?

     Why, he wondered, was he passed over so many times for other less beautiful bears?

Then one day, shortly before Easter, three bunny rabbits were placed on the shelf beside him.
     They all had very big ears and feet and long legs. All three were wearing woolen sweaters.

     Rita Rabbit wore a pink sweater. Roger Rabbit a green one. And Ronnie wore blue.

     Roger and Ronnie were twins, and Rita was their sister.

     "My you are a handsome bear," Rita told Wolstencroft after the store had closed for the night. "I'm surprised that no one has bought you and taken you home."

     "So am I," replied Wolstencroft and, although he tried very hard to stop it, a tear rolled down his furry cheek.

     Ronnie and Roger had jumped down off the shelf and were playing tag up and down the aisles.

 "Be careful and don't knock anything over," Rita called to them.

     Rita looked closely at Wolstencroft from every angle. She peered into his face and circled around him, her nose twitching. He had noticed that bunnies' noses twitch a lot. Then she sat down and remained deep in thought for a very long time.

     "Well," he asked her, unable to stand the suspense any longer. "What do you think is wrong with me? Why doesn't anyone want to buy me?"

     "It must be your name," Rita answered.

     "My name!" exclaimed Wolstencroft. "Why, what's wrong with my name?"

     "Oh, there's nothing wrong with your name," Rita replied. "Wolstencroft is a wonderful name, but it's too long for some people to say. Not everyone can pronounce it properly."

     Now Wolstencroft had always been able to say his name correctly. But then, it was his very own name and everyone can say his or her own name. At least he thought that they could. Not when they are very little, of course. He couldn't say his name when he was a tiny baby bear. But after he had started going to school he knew it very well.

     "Wolstencroft," the teacher would call out. "Will you recite the alphabet for us today?"

     And he would name all the letters from A to Z. All 26 of them. He was a very smart bear.

     On Easter Sunday, very early just after the store had opened, a Mommy and Daddy bought Roger and Ronnie for their twin boys.

 "They look nice," Rita said. She was happy that her brothers had found a good home but felt sad, too, because she was beginning to miss them already.

     At the front of the store a table had been set up with chocolate Easter eggs. And as it was now Easter Sunday, they had been marked down to half price.

     After everyone had gone home for the day, Wolstencroft picked the nicest egg he could find and gave it to Rita, to cheer her up.

     They shared the egg, sucking on the sweet creamy chocolate and making sure it didn't get onto their clothes.

     Then they started to talk about the name Wolstencroft again.

     "I wouldn't want to change it," Wolstencroft declared. " I mean it's me. I've had it all my life.

     "But if it's stopping you from getting a home," Rita insisted. "You may have to."

     She hopped over to the book department and returned with a book called What to Name Baby.

 Then she began reading out the names she thought might suit Wolstencroft.

     "What about Adrian?" she suggested. "It's a lovely name, very dignified."

     But Wolstencroft shook his head.

     "Well, what do you think of Bernard? It actually means brave as a bear."

     But Wolstencroft was not impressed.

     So Rita left the B's and began flipping through the pages of the book, reading out a name for each letter of the alphabet starting with C.

 "Clive, David, Edwin, Francis, Graham, Howard, Ivan, Jeremy, Keith, Leonard, Miles, Nathan, Oliver, Percy, Quentin, Rodney, Selwyn, Timothy, Ulysses, Vincent, Winston."

     And here she stopped because the names beginning with X, Y and Z: Xavier, Yves and Zachary, were too difficult to pronounce. There was no sense in taking a name that was even harder to say than the one he already had.

     But Wolstencroft didn't like any of the names she suggested. At least not for himself.

     "They're all fine names," he said, popping a piece of chocolate into his mouth then dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "But, they're just not me."

     Rita stayed lost in thought for a very long time, tapping her cheek with her finger. And it wasn't until the big clock behind the pharmacy counter struck ten that she finally spoke.

     "I think I have the answer," she said. "You could have a name that's easy to say and keep your name at the same time."

     Wolstencroft looked puzzled. "That doesn't make sense," he replied.

     "Oh, but it does," Rita insisted. "You only have to shorten the name you have."

     Wolstencroft began to look interested. "You mean I would still be Wolstencroft, but I'd have a shorter, easier to pronounce name for those who preferred it."

     "That's right," she cried excitedly. "And you have such a long name that there are several choices." And she began ticking them off on her fingers.

     "Woolly, Wolsten, Sten or Croft. Which one do you like best?"

     Wolstencroft thought very carefully, mulling over each name in his mind.

     "I like Croft," he decided at last. It's very dignified.

     Rita looked disappointed. "I like Woolly best," she said. "It's so cuddly and friendly. And you are woolly, you have a lovely thick coat."

     Wolstencroft looked uncertain.

     "You would still be Wolstencroft," Rita reminded him. "And that's a very dignified name indeed. Woolly would be a nice contrast."

     They talked it over for well into the night as this was a very important decision. There are very few things as important as one's name.

But finally, just before the dawn rose in the eastern sky, Rita had convinced him that Woolly was the best choice.

     "You're right," Wolstencroft said as he closed his eyes and prepared to sleep. "It's nice to be dignified, but not to be stuffy."

     And so it was that Wolstencroft became known as Woolly for short.

     "I bet someone will come along and buy you tomorrow," Rita predicted as she fetched a black felt pen from the stationery department and underneath Wolstencroft, wrote Woolly for short.

     But Rita was wrong. It was she, and not Wolstencroft, who went to a new home the next day.

     Nobody bought Wolstencroft that day. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

     In fact, all through that entire year, which felt very long indeed to Wolstencroft, nobody took him home to love and to hug him. And by this time he longed to be hugged so badly that sometimes he thought he just couldn't stand it any longer. Because, of course, no hug is too big for a teddy bear.

     Soon it was almost Christmas time again. And the tinsel and the holly were decorating the drug store. And the shoppers were all very merry and wearing gaily colored scarves and mittens. But still no one bought Wolstencroft, who was feeling extra sad and lonely sitting there all by himself high above the Christmas cards and wrapping paper.

 It's my name he decided sadly, as a tear rolled down his furry cheek. I hate it. And so does everyone else. I wish I were called anything but Wolstencroft. Even though it's now Woolly for short.

  Then one frosty evening when the stars were sparkling in the night sky and snowflakes were dancing past the windows, a little boy and his daddy came into the store.

     "Hey look at this," said the daddy when he noticed Wolstencroft's name tag. "This teddy bear has the same name as you! Only you're called Sten for short and he's called Woolly."

     "What?" The boy called out in surprise. "I didn't think anyone else in the whole great big world was called Wolstencroft."

     And just like Wolstencroft the bear, he was beginning to hate his name.

     "Why don't you two get to know each other?" the daddy suggested as he lifted Wolstencroft down from the shelf.

     And the little boy wrapped his arms around his namesake, which means someone who has the same name as yourself, and stroked his soft fur. And they both loved each other from that moment on.

     "I love him daddy, can I have him for Christmas?" he asked hopefully. And when his daddy said yes, danced around the store with Wolstencroft, almost colliding with other shoppers as he did so.

Wolstencroft really wasn't such a bad name after all they both decided as they whirled around the Christmas tree at the front of the store. In fact, it was starting to sound better all the time now that they had found each other in this wonderful way.

     Wolstencroft the bear had never remembered feeling this happy before. Indeed, he felt so chock-full of joy that he thought he just might burst. He was going to a new home at last. And he knew that this little boy, who was called Sten, would be his very best friend forever.

     Then Sten gave him a hug so big that his tummy was squished. But, of course, Wolstencroft didn't care. Because no hug is too big for a teddy bear.

Pirate's Treasure

"Ten steps from the porch and twenty steps from the rose bushes," growled Bluebeard in Jimmy's dream one night. "There be treasure there! Aawrgh."

So the next day Jimmy began to dig. He dug until the hole was deep and the dirt pile was high.

He kept digging. The hole got deeper and the dirt pile got higher.

He dug until the hole was deepest and the dirt pile was at its highest. He sighed. "I'm too tired. I can't dig anymore." Then he spied something...

...but it was only one of Woofy's bones. Instead of treasure, all Jimmy had was a dog bone, a hole, and a big pile of dirt to fill it in with. He thought "That pirate lied to me!"

But when Jimmy's mother saw what he had done, she clasped her hands and smiled a smile from here to Sunday. "Oh, thank you, Jimmy. I always wanted a rhododendron bush planted just there. Here's $5.00 for digging that hole."

~  ~  The End  ~  ~   

The Little Gingerbread Man

Once upon a time there was an old woman who loved baking gingerbread. She would bake gingerbread cookies, cakes, houses and gingerbread people, all decorated with chocolate and peppermint, caramel candies and colored frosting.

She lived with her husband on a farm at the edge of town. The sweet spicy smell of gingerbread brought children skipping and running to see what would be offered that day.

Unfortunately the children gobbled up the treats so fast that the old woman had a hard time keeping her supply of flour and spices to continue making the batches of gingerbread. Sometimes she suspected little hands of having reached through her kitchen window because gingerbread pieces and cookies would disappear. One time a whole gingerbread house vanished mysteriously. She told her husband, "Those naughty children are at it again. They don't understand all they have to do is knock on the door and I'll give them my gingerbread treats."

 


One day she made a special batch of gingerbread men because they were extra big. Unfortunately for the last gingerbread man she ran out of batter and he was half the size of the others.

She decorated the gingerbread men with care, each having socks, shirt and pants of different colors. When it came to the little gingerbread man she felt sorry for him and gave him more color than the others. "It doesn't matter he's small," she thought, "He'll still be tasty."
Putting the rack on the kitchen windowsill she left it there to cool and went to finish her laundry. The gingerbread men lay quietly, their frosted eyes gazing at the sky with its puffy clouds.

At that moment a voice came from nowhere. "Get up. Get up. Come with me."

 


Everyone looked to see who was speaking.

It was a butterfly flying just outside the window. Butterflies are naturally beautiful, but her wings were an exceptionally pretty marbled blue.

"Come with me," she urged again.

The gingerbread men didn't react except to keep staring. All but the smallest gingerbread man who jumped up from the tray and leaped off the kitchen windowsill onto the grass below faster than you could say "hurry."
"Where are we going?" he asked breathlessly.

"Away." And before the butterfly had finished speaking children appeared in the yard. Spying the little gingerbread man they started shrieking with delight and began chasing him.




"Stop, stop," they shouted. "We want to eat you."

But with his little legs churning the gingerbread man only ran faster. He yelled,

"I won't stop.
Run, run as fast as you can.
You can't catch me.
I'm the gingerbread man."
And truly those children could not catch him. Once out of their sight he continued running until he had reached a pasture where two horses were grazing. He sat down on a rock near the fence.

"Don't stop," said the butterfly fluttering nearby.

"I want to rest," he argued.
That was a mistake as one of the horses trotted over to the fence and whinnied. "Oh you smell so good little gingerbread man. Come over here so I can smell you better."

The little gingerbread man shook his head, but suddenly that horse jumped the fence and began galloping after him, so he had to run even faster. He called out,

"I outran children and I'll outrun you.
Run, run as fast as you can.
You can't catch me.
I'm the gingerbread man."
And truly, that horse could not catch him.

The next time he rested the little gingerbread man took care to lie amongst the grass well off the road where no one would see him.

"Everybody wants to eat me," he complained to the butterfly. "Do you want to eat me, too?"

Laughing she answered. "I love the smell of gingerbread. It's better than my favorite flowers. But I sip nectar, not gingerbread. Besides, you're my friend and friends don't eat friends."
Pleased to hear that he had a friend the little gingerbread man was about to reply when again they were interrupted. A farmer's dog with a keen nose had come to investigate. Licking his muzzle at the sight of the gingerbread man, the dog said.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but little gingerbread man you look so good. I mean tired. Please stay awhile and rest if you like."

As the dog talked, he stepped closer and closer. The closer he stepped, the more nervous became the little gingerbread man. When the butterfly flitted from her grass perch in alarm, the little gingerbread man took off running with the dog nipping at his tiny heels. He shouted,

"I outran children. I outran a horse,
      and I'll outrun you, too.
Run, run as fast as you can.
You can't catch me.
I'm the gingerbread man."
And truly that dog could not catch him.

At last the little gingerbread man and the butterfly reached a stream.

It wasn't a very big stream unless you are a tiny gingerbread man. To him it was a river. From out behind a bush sauntered a red fox stopping to stretch because he had just awakened from a nap. Looking at the gingerbread man he said nonchalantly, "May I help you?"

The butterfly was quick to respond. "No thank you. We're going to fly across this stream. We don't need your help."
Smiling, the wily fox glanced at the butterfly before turning to the little gingerbread man, "You're going to carry him? I've no doubt Ms. Butterfly that you have good intentions, but you're only a bug. You couldn't carry anything anywhere, let alone this gingerbread man across the stream. You'll drop him. I guarantee it!"

The little gingerbread man was confused. He knew that his butterfly friend had good intentions but could she really carry him? He doubted it. Her wings were so thin and delicate. The thought of him falling into the cold water and crumbling to damp bits was frightening. He said to the fox, "I outran children. I outran a horse, and I outran a dog. Will you keep me safe and not eat me?"

"Of course!" the wily fox quickly assured him before the butterfly could object. "I eat only meat and I had a full meal just before my nap. Here, ride on my bushy tail. Let's go before I change my mind."

So the little gingerbread man climbed onto the fox's tail and they entered the water.

Unfortunately the fox's tail began dipping into the water. "You're too heavy for my tail, he said. Climb onto my back."

The little gingerbread man did as he was asked.

But the water began creeping up the fox's back forcing the little gingerbread man to climb higher to the fox's neck. "That's not good enough, I'm afraid," said the wily fox. "Climb to my head."

Now the little gingerbread man was terrified, but what could he do? He climbed to the fox's ears.
"Oh, little gingerbread man, you have to climb onto my nose," insisted the wily fox, "otherwise I can't help you. Don't you see the water is getting even deeper?"

So the little gingerbread man reluctantly climbed onto the fox's nose. The moment he did, that wily fox tossed him into the air, opening his jaws wide with anticipation. The little gingerbread man's eyes rounded with fear because he knew he was going to be eaten. It didn't matter now how fast he could run.

But the little gingerbread man and the wily fox had forgotten about the butterfly. She swooped into that fox's jaws, grabbing her friend by one leg and rescuing him from an awful fate. She flew higher and higher until the stream and the fox were but spots on the landscape.
"You can carry me," cried the little gingerbread man.

"Yes," she answered. "I'm stronger than you could imagine. Now I'll take you somewhere safe."

She flew with him over farm fields and forests and even mountains. It felt like they had been in the sky forever when they reached a lake, its waters calm like pale glass. There was an island in the middle of the lake lined with forest trees. And among the trees was where the butterfly took the little gingerbread man. She flew down, down, and down until they came to the foot of a pine tree.
The little gingerbread man could not believe his eyes. Beneath that pine tree was the most beautiful gingerbread house.

Through the front door of the gingerbread house came a gingerbread man and a gingerbread woman. Seeing the butterfly and her companion they smiled excitedly waving their gingerbread hands.

"Oh, what have you brought us?" cried the gingerbread woman. Evidently she knew the butterfly very well.

"I think that's obvious, dear" said the gingerbread man. "She's brought us a gingerbread boy. Do you realize that now we can be the family we always wanted?"

It was true. The butterfly had intended all along to bring these three together. The little gingerbread man had not known that he was, in reality, a gingerbread boy. It was all so sudden, but wonderful. When both his gingerbread parents each gave him a loving hug he knew he was home.
The gingerbread family went inside their gingerbread house to celebrate with the butterfly remaining outside on the roof. She was content just smelling the gingerbread and sitting there quietly, whether it was day or night.

They all lived happily ever after.

Mom KI GURIYA

Umro Ki Kahaniyaan

Ayyar Tarzan

Umro Aur Churail Malika

Ikhlaqi Kahaniyaan