The following story was written by a parent from a Creative Discipline course. It is published by permission of the author, Emily Stubbs, and important notes from the author follow the story. It was an empowering experience for this parent to discover that her burning issue (managing bath time with her three-and-a-half-year-old), shared on the first night of the course, could be resolved through her own creativity. The story was presented to the child as a simple puppet show, with the song simply chanted like a nursery rhyme.
Once, in a big linen cupboard deep within a much-loved house, amongst the well-worn, cosy towels, there nestled a newcomer. Not so long ago a pair of hands had opened the wooden cupboard filled with sheets, blankets and towels, and popped in a new blue towel. He was an excited young towel, eager to have adventures – and he wanted very much to be used.
The next day the cupboard doors opened and the mother of the house reached in and lifted out the fluffy old Grandfather towel who had been keeping the new young towel company.
The following morning, the Grandfather towel was placed back in the cupboard next to the new blue towel. The young towel eagerly asked his questions of the Grandfather: ‘What did you do?’
The Grandfather answered, ‘I dried a little boy from top to toe as he came out of his lovely bath. I dried his face, his arms, his fingers and toes, his back, under his chin …so many places, till he was all dry and ready to snuggle into his clothes.’
The blue towel squeezed with excitement, ‘It sounds wonderful, Grandfather. Such a lot for a towel to do. Do you ever forget what it is that a towel must do?’
‘Oh no,’ said Grandfather, ‘I sing a little song that has always helped me to remember. I could sing it for you. Would you like that?’
‘Oh, yes please,’ said the new blue towel. So the Grandfather towel began:
Humpty diddily impty I,
Wrap him up and start to dry, first the face and then the hair,
Have to pat dry everywhere; under the arms, front and behind,
Is there anywhere else to find?
Yes – the legs, the feet, the toes; and last of all, his little nose!
The new towel was delighted with the song and asked the Grandfather towel to help him learn it.
The next day the cupboard doors opened again, and once more Grandfather towel was lifted out of the cupboard. The new towel watched him leave with a mixture of excitement and disappointment. He wanted to be used!
The following morning Grandfather towel returned. The new towel jumped up to greet him. ‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘Delightful,’ chuckled old Grandfather.
‘I want a turn, I want a turn,’ pleaded the new towel. ‘But I’m worried that I’ll forget what to do!’
‘Oh no’, said Grandfather towel. ‘You’ll be fine. You’re a splendid towel, very soft. You won’t forget if you sing the rhyme. Let’s practise now.’ Together Grandfather towel and the new blue towel sang:
Humpty diddily impty I,
Wrap him up and start to dry, first the face and then the hair,
Have to pat dry everywhere; under the arms, front and behind,
Is there anywhere else to find?
Yes – the legs, the feet, the toes; and last of all, his little nose!
The next day came and a little boy stood by his mother as she opened the cupboard doors. ‘Mama,’ he said, ‘I haven’t seen that blue towel before. May I please use it after my bath?’
‘Of course,’ his mother said, ‘It’s a new towel just waiting to be used.’
The new blue towel squealed as it was lifted out of the cupboard! Then he waited patiently on the towel rack as the boy enjoyed his bath. As the boy stepped out the towel was brought to him. The towel began to sing:
Humpty diddily impty I,
Wrap him up and start to dry, first the face and then the hair,
Have to pat dry everywhere; under the arms, front and behind,
Is there anywhere else to find?
Yes – the legs, the feet, the toes; and last of all, his little nose!
After this, the blue towel wasn’t brand new any more. And he was so happy to be used. As he was so fluffy and snugly the little boy asked to use him the next night. The blue towel practised again and again the little towel song, and never forgot what a towel must do!
‘The Towel Story’ was written specifically to address my child’s aversion to being dried after showers or baths. The aversion seemed to stem from a deeper fear. My daughter had cried, even wailed, at being dried from only a few weeks old. The older and more mobile she got, she became more vocal and would scream as if murdered and run off and refuse to be dried. No amount of cajoling or reasoning seemed to remedy the situation – she always had to be restrained to be dried.
My daughter knew I’d been working on a story. The first time she heard it she was extremely attentive. She asked for it night after night for about a week, and asked for us to sing her the ‘drying’ song after her bath. She was so absorbed in the lyrics and locating the parts of her body that the resistance melted.
My daughter and my husband now know the song well. She loves the rhyme. The repetition of rhyming words has had a big effect on her. I found that as long as I sang or spoke in rhyme I could encourage her to cooperate with almost anything … eat her dinner, brush her hair, etc. The form and structure of language became an integral part of her ‘diet’. Now that she is four she is rhyming words as much as possible and she makes up other songs and games as she is dried / dries herself / does other things.
I think the story was a great support for my daughter, and it created a more positive focus for my husband and myself. It gave us something to work towards, rather than feeding each other’s own frustrations and fears for her.
A traditional Indian tale with the co-operative theme of ‘strength in numbers’. Suitable for age six and older, this story could be used in the primary grades as a springboard for discussion.
One morning a flock of doves was flying across the land in search of food. Suddenly the leader of the doves saw some white grains of rice scattered on the ground under a banyan tree. He flew down towards the rice, with his flock following behind. Overjoyed at their good luck, they alighted on the ground.
The hungry doves started picking the grains, but within minutes they found their feet trapped in a net spread by a hunter. The next moment, they looked up from their trap and saw the hunter coming towards them. He was carrying a big club in his hand. The doves were sure that their moments were numbered.
But the leader of the doves was very wise and very brave. He spoke to his flock. ‘Listen to me, my fellow doves. We are surely in serious trouble, but we need not lose hope. I have an idea. We can still get away unharmed if we all fly upwards together, carrying the net with us. We are small creatures and separately we can do little. But together we can easily lift the net and fly away with it.’
The doves were not sure about this idea but in fact they had no choice. So each one picked up a part of the net with their beak. Then they all flapped their wings and rose together away from the tree and high into the air. The hunter watched helplessly as the doves made their escape.
When they had flown a safe distance, the leader said to the rest of the doves, ‘Half our troubles are over. But we are still not out of danger. We cannot pull our feet out of the net. I have a friend, a little mouse, who lives in a hole at the foot of the next hill. Perhaps he can gnaw at the net with his sharp little teeth and set us free.’
The doves welcomed yet another good idea from their leader, and off they flew to the place where the mouse lived. They landed on the ground in front of the mouse’s home. ‘What is the matter, my friend? You look worried,’ the little mouse enquired of the doves’ leader. ‘Can I help you in any way?’
‘As you can see, we have been caught in this net,’ said the leader. ‘We have managed to fly together and bring it so far. Can you please help us now and set us free?’ ‘You are most welcome,’ said the mouse and soon got down to doing his work. With his sharp teeth he slowly chewed the cords of the net to pieces. One by one, all the doves were set free.
The doves thanked the mouse for his help. They also thanked their leader for saving them from an almost certain death. They were proud of such a wise dove who had taught them how to face problems by being united in strength. With a song of joy in their hearts, they flew up together across the open blue sky.
The idea for this story is taken from ‘Hugin and the Turnip’ in The Seven-Year-Old Wonder Book by Isabel Wyatt. It is re-written in a shorter and more simplified form by the author. It has a wonderful theme of cooperation and is suitable for age four and over.
Once upon a time there was a little boy called Benjie, and Benjie wanted more than anything else in the whole world to have a turnip lantern for midwinter festival time. So Benjie went into the garden and planted a turnip seed, and Benjie said to the turnip:
Turnip, turnip, grow for me, grow as big as big can be,
That I may make for midwinter time,
the finest lantern that ever did shine –
I want to put a candle in my turnip!
The sun shone down on the turnip seed and the rain watered the turnip seed, and the turnip started to grow. It GREW and it GREW and it GREW until it was the biggest, roundest, juiciest turnip that anyone had ever seen. Finally Benjie decided it was time to pull up his turnip. He went into the garden and took hold of the turnip top and started to pull... and he pulled and he pulled... but the turnip did not budge one inch!
Just then, into the garden came Mother. ‘What are you doing Benjie?’
I’m trying to pull up a turnip:
Mother, Mother, pull with me, pull as hard as hard can be!
So Mother took hold of Benjie, and Benjie took hold of the turnip... and they pulled and they pulled... but the turnip did not budge one inch! Just then, into the garden came Grandfather. ‘What are you doing Benjie?’
I’m trying to pull up a turnip:
Grandfather, Grandfather, pull with me, pull as hard as hard can be!
So Grandfather took hold of Mother, and Mother took hold of Benjie, and Benjie took hold of the turnip... and they pulled and they pulled... but the turnip did not budge one inch! Just then, into the garden came Rabbit. ‘What are you doing Benjie?’
I’m trying to pull up a turnip:
Rabbit, Rabbit, pull with me, pull as hard as hard can be!
So Rabbit took hold of Grandfather, and Grandfather took hold of Mother, and Mother took hold of Benjie, and Benjie took hold of the turnip… and they pulled and they pulled... but the turnip did not budge one inch! Just then, into the garden came Mouse. ‘What are you doing Benjie?’
I’m trying to pull up a turnip:
Mouse, Mouse, pull with me, pull as hard as hard can be!
So Mouse took hold of Rabbit, and Rabbit took hold of Grandfather, and Grandfather took hold of Mother, and Mother took hold of Benjie, and Benjie took hold of the turnip... and they pulled and they pulled... but the turnip did not budge one inch!
Just then, into the garden came Caterpillar. ‘What are you doing Benjie?’
‘I’m trying to pull up a turnip.’
‘But,’ said Caterpillar, ‘Don’t you know the right way to pull up a turnip! Have you first asked the Root Gnome if you may pull it up?’
Well, Benjie hadn’t thought of asking the Root Gnome. So he bent down to the ground and called out:
Gnome, Gnome, good Root Gnome,
May I take your turnip home,
That I may make for midwinter time
The finest lantern that ever did shine –
I want to put a candle in your turnip!
Then suddenly, from out of the ground next to the turnip, popped the tiniest little man.
‘Goodness gracious me Benjie’ said the Root Gnome, ‘why didn’t you say so in the first place. All this time I’ve been pulling and pulling and pulling the other way, when really there is nothing a Root Gnome likes better than to have a candle put in his turnip. Now that you have asked me, pull again.’ And he popped his little head back down into the ground and disappeared.
So Caterpillar took hold of Mouse, Mouse took hold of Rabbit, Rabbit took hold of Grandfather, Grandfather took hold of Mother, Mother took hold of Benjie, and Benjie took hold of the turnip – and they pulled, and they pulled, and they pulled! Then suddenly Mouse sat down with a ‘bang’ on top of Caterpillar, and Rabbit sat down with a ‘bang’ on top of Mouse, and Grandfather sat down with a ‘bang’ on top of Mother, and Benjie sat down with a ‘bang’ on top of Mother – and in Benjie’s hands was the biggest, roundest, juiciest turnip that anyone had ever seen!
Then Benjie stood up and said ‘Sorry’ to Mother, and Mother stood up and said ‘Sorry’ to Grandfather, and Grandfather stood up and said ‘Sorry’ to Rabbit, and Rabbit stood up and said ‘Sorry’ to Mouse, and Mouse stood up and said ‘Sorry’ to a rather squashed little Caterpillar! But really, no one was very hurt, and they all laughed a lot, and Benjie took his turnip home and ‘put a candle in it’!
(And Benjie helped his mother make turnip soup from the middle of the turnip.)
This story was written for a four-year-old boy who was exhibiting wild behaviour in the childcare environment. He would run around kicking and hitting other children and find it hard to keep still. The teaching staff felt he needed one-to-one supervision for the safety of the group.
This boy’s favourite thing was horses, and he really soaked up the story. The teacher used it many times and always finished it with a game that encouraged the children one by one to take their place in the centre of the circle to be stroked and brushed by all the others – just like the pony!
The story has a general use for parents and teachers of four- to six-year-olds who are boisterous and restless.
There was once a little red pony,
Galloping galloping galloping hey, galloping galloping galloping ho,
This little red pony loved to run wildly in the fields all the day,
Galloping galloping galloping ho, galloping galloping galloping hey.
Each morning in his stable he would jump and snort and kick his legs high. This little red pony didn’t like to be kept inside. The farmer would bring him some fresh hay for his breakfast, but even when he was eating he could not stop jumping and kicking. Finally the farmer would open the stable door and let him run outside.
Once out in the fields he could run wild all the day,
Galloping galloping galloping ho, galloping galloping galloping hey.
Most of the year the little red pony loved to be outside. But through the hot summer days the grass in the fields was brown and the dust made him itchy and uncomfortable. All through the hot summer nights he would find it hard to sleep as his coat was so hot and itchy. He would wriggle and roll and jump and kick and make such a lot of noise. The other ponies started to complain about what a disturbance he was. ‘If only the little red pony knew how to keep still, if only the little red pony knew how to sleep!’ they would say to each other.
Finally, help came from a most unusual friend – the grooming brush that lived on the stable shelf. This was the brush that the farmer used to groom his ponies in their stables at the end of each day. The brush knew that the farmer really wanted to brush and care for the little red pony, just like all the other ponies. But the farmer didn’t want to go near this little pony’s stable as he was always kicking and jumping much too wildly.
One night the brush decided to talk to the little red pony about this. He leaned out from the edge of the stable shelf and whispered:
Little red pony, listen well, I have a special secret to tell,
If you can stand still at the end of the day,
the farmer will brush your cares away.
At first the little red pony was making so much noise with his kicking and wriggling that he didn’t hear the secret. So the grooming brush called out louder:
Little red pony, listen well, I have a special secret to tell,
If you can stand still at the end of the day,
the farmer will brush your cares away.
This time the pony heard the secret, and was very excited to be told this news. He also wanted to get some sleep each night. At the end of the next day, he came in early from the fields and tried very hard to keep still in the stable. It was very difficult to keep all four legs from moving. They loved so much to jump and kick and run. Many times he had to say to his legs – ‘Please be still, please be still!’
Soon he could hear the farmer coming past his stable. What a surprise for the farmer when he found the little red pony standing so still. The farmer straight away set to work with the grooming brush – brushing the pony’s back and neck and legs. Brushing this way, brushing that way. Oh it felt so good – the little red pony loved every moment of it.
After the brushing had finished all the itching had gone from the little red pony’s coat. That night he was able to have the best night’s sleep that he had ever had. The other ponies in the stable were delighted that the little red pony was so quiet through the night. They thanked the grooming brush for sharing his secret.
From that time onwards the little red pony always came in early from his running in the fields. He waited quietly till the farmer came and brushed his coat till it felt so, so good. He was a much happier pony now, and every evening he was able to have the best night’s sleep. And he could still run wildly in the fields most of the day –
Galloping galloping galloping ho, galloping galloping galloping hey.
Of course the grooming brush was delighted as well, for there is nothing that a grooming brush likes better than to brush and care for all the ponies in the stable.
Using a little shell for a snail, and a pumpkin sitting in the middle of an earth-coloured cloth, this story is best performed as a puppet show. It has a therapeutic quality because it is slow and simple, and can create quite a soothing mood. I have told this to three- and four-year-olds, and have often observed children taking the careful movements of the snail into their creative playtime.
[Singing] Slowly, slowly, oh so slow, This is how a snail does go!
There was once a little snail,
Travelling down a grassy track
She moved oh so very slowly,
Because her house was on her back.
She came across a pumpkin
Of a size so grand
And thought, here’s the biggest mountain
In the whole of my land!
Moving oh so very slow,
She started up the side,
The hard work in climbing
She managed to hide.
For as she climbed she sang a song
To help the hours seem not so long
[Singing] Slowly, slowly, oh so slow, This is how a snail does go!
When she reached the top she stopped for a rest
Then moved across, singing her best
[Singing] Slowly, slowly, oh so slow, This is how a snail does go!
She started down the other side
If she was tired, this she did hide
She kept on singing as she went down
Until she was back on level ground
[Singing] Slowly, slowly, oh so slow, This is how a snail does go!
Back on the ground, she continued on her way –
Along the grassy track, with her house on her back,
Singing a song as she travelled along.
[Sing song several times at end]
This story is a light-hearted tale about restlessness and transformation. It was written for a time in Australia in the early summer when grass stars (tumbleweeds) are blown down from the sand dunes and along the beaches, sometimes hundreds of them together. The story, with its repetition and rhythmic patterns, can easily be used for ages three to five, and is also enjoyed by six- to eight-year-olds.
There was once a little old woman who was walking through the sand dunes where the grasses grew thick and tall. She saw in the middle of a clump of grass something that looked like a round grassy ball. When she reached down to pick it up, all of a sudden out popped a little grass head, some grass arms and some grass legs, and a little grass star man rolled out of her hands and along the beach.
‘Stop, little grass star man, I want to play with you,’ cried the little old woman. But the grass star man called back:
Play, play – no, not I, I’m on my way back up to the sky,
I’ve no time to play for fun, I belong back up with the sun –
Run, run, run as fast as you can,
You can’t catch me – I’m the grass star man!
And he continued rolling along the sand – roly-poly, tumble-bumble, over and over, with the little old woman running after him.
Soon he came to where a dog was chasing seagulls. When the dog saw the grass star man he called out:
‘Stop, little grass star man, I want to play with you.’ But the grass star man called back:
Play, play – no, not I, I’m on my way back up to the sky,
I’ve no time to play for fun, I belong back up with the sun –
I’ve run away from a little old woman,
and I can run away from you I can, I can
Run, run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me –
I’m the grass star man!
And he continued rolling along the sand – roly-poly, tumble-bumble, over and over, with the little old woman and the dog running after him.
Soon he came to where a crab was just coming out of his hole in the sand. When the crab saw the grass star man he called out:
‘Stop, little grass star man, I want to play with you’ But the grass star man called back:
Play, play – no, not I, I’m on my way back up to the sky,
I’ve no time to play for fun, I belong back up with the sun –
I’ve run away from a little old woman, and a dog,
and I can run away from you I can, I can
Run, run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me –
I’m the grass star man!
And he continued rolling along the sand – roly-poly, tumble-bumble, over and over, with the little old woman, the dog and the crab running after him.
Soon he came to where some fishermen were fishing by the shore. When the fishermen saw the grass star man they called out:
‘Stop, little grass star man, we want to play with you’
But the grass star man called back:
Play, play – no, not I, I’m on my way back up to the sky,
I’ve no time to play for fun, I belong back up with the sun –
I’ve run away from a little old woman, a dog and a crab,
and I can run away from you I can, I can
Run, run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me –
I’m the grass star man!
And he continued rolling along the sand – roly-poly, tumble-bumble, over and over, with the little old woman, the dog, the crab and the fishermen running after him.
Now just at that moment Father Sun poked his golden head through a window in the clouds and sent his golden sunbeams dancing down across the sky and along the sand. One golden sunbeam danced right over the top of the little grass star man and sprinkled golden sun glitter all over him.
The grass star man stopped rolling along and sat down to admire his beautiful new golden coat. ‘Why,’ he thought proudly, ‘I must be so important that I don’t have to visit the Sun – the Sun has come to visit me!’
As he sat, proudly admiring his golden coat, the little old woman caught up with him. ‘Would you like to come with me?’ said the little old woman. ‘I’d like to hang you in my house as a Christmas Light, on Christmas Night.’
‘Oh yes’, said the grass star man, ‘I’d like to come – With my new golden coat I’ll shine as brightly as the sun.’
The little old woman took a piece of string out of her pocket, tied one end around her finger and the other end around the grass star man’s golden coat, and carried him all the way back to her home. And because he now shone so golden bright, she hung him in her room as a Christmas light.
As for the dog – he went back to chasing seagulls. The crab crawled all the way back to his hole in the sand, climbed inside and fell fast asleep. And the fishermen... well, if you go down to the beach you might see them fishing there still, on the edge of the shore.
This story grew out of the Knocking-Door-Tree poem (see Chapter Three) that I used in my first year of teaching to calm a group of children who loved to shout and run wildly through the forest on our school nature walks. It soon became a ‘tradition’ for the children to gather round the Knocking-Door-Tree at the beginning of the forest path and knock politely to enter, and then tiptoe quietly into the forest, with all senses awake to what they might see or hear. Both the poem and story had a great impact on changing the mood of the children on our forest walks from wild and restless to calm and quiet.
Jaden lived in a little town at the end of a winding road. Next to his house was a park and at the edge of the park was a forest. The forest was his favourite playing place. He called it the Knocking-Door-Tree forest because, right by the edge of the forest path, was a Knocking-Door-Tree. ‘The forest gatekeeper must live here’ he thought, and he would always knock on the door, just to be polite, before he walked down the forest path.
There were lots of other doors on other trees in the forest, and that’s where all Jaden’s fairyfolk friends lived. Well, he had never actually seen them, but he knew they lived there, for he often heard them playing and laughing. Sometimes he was sure he caught a glimpse of someone dancing with the sunbeams that shone down through the leaves. And sometimes he found little fairy paths they had made, and little dancing rings in the grass under the trees. ‘And,’ thought Jaden, ‘why else would all those trees have doors in them?’
Now Jaden was very excited at this time, because Easter was coming soon. He remembered last year waking up on Easter Sunday and going outside to find a little basket on his back doorstep, full of shiny, coloured eggs.
‘I wonder what the fairyfolk children find on Easter morning’ he asked his mother one day. She smiled and said ‘You will only find that out if you get up earlier than they do and go and see for yourself.’
‘Well,’ thought Jaden, ‘that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’ So he began to think about getting up early to visit the Knocking-Door-Tree forest on Easter Sunday. In fact he was so absorbed with this idea he forgot to be excited about finding his own Easter eggs.
Easter Friday came and Jaden was busy cooking Hot-Cross buns. He carried a plate of them to share with the neighbours who lived on either side of his house. Cooking, sharing and eating buns took up most of the day.
Easter Saturday came, and what a long waiting day it was. Then it was Easter Saturday night, and Jaden went to bed very early. ‘How will I know what time the fairyfolk children get up?’ he asked his mother. ‘The sunbeams wake them up,’ she said. ‘You must be there before the sunbeams, at the first call of the kookaburras.’
Next morning, at the first call of the kookaburras, Jaden woke up and looked out of the window. It was still dark, but he quietly dressed and by the time he was crossing the park a pale morning light was filling the sky. The grass was wet with dew, and this helped him get close to the forest without making any noise. He certainly didn’t want to risk waking the fairy folk children with his big noisy feet.
When he reached the Knocking-Door-Tree he stopped still and looked. Apart from seeing a few little ants already busy at their work in the grass by the door, there was nothing else. He couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. ‘Maybe the fairyfolk children don’t get anything for Easter? Maybe I’ve come too late? Or… maybe the forest gatekeeper doesn’t have any children!’
This last thought encouraged him to look further. So he crept down the forest path to the tree with the next little door. There, to his surprise, was the tiniest basket he had ever seen. It was sitting right on the edge of the doorstep. He bent down and looked inside the basket and saw the tiniest eggs he had ever seen. They were even tinier than the carrot seeds he had helped his Mother plant in the garden that week.
Jaden kept walking, going from little door to little door, all along the path. Outside the next little door were three little baskets, outside the next – two, the next – none, the next – one, and so on, until he came to where the path led out of the forest on the other side. He turned and walked quietly back through – how he would have loved to have taken just one little basket to show his mother. But he knew that this could never do! Imagine how disappointed one of the fairy folk children would have been if they had woken up to find an empty front step.
And then he remembered that in his hurry to visit the Knocking-Door-Tree forest so early, he had completely forgotten to look on his own back step. He ran across the park as fast as he could, and in through his back gate. The sunbeams were shining across the grass and onto the step, and there, glistening in the morning light, was his Easter basket full of coloured eggs. He carried it inside and up onto the kitchen table, and started to unpack the eggs out of their straw nest.
When he lifted up the bottom egg, hiding in the straw was a tiny fairy basket – just like the ones he had seen in the Knocking-Door-Tree forest. And tucked into the basket, on top of the tiny eggs, was a little note:
Some fairy eggs filled with Easter light,
For a little boy so kind and bright.
In your autumn garden please do sow
And come the springtime, flowers will grow.
This section of the book touches on some of the difficult experiences that young children may meet in their growing years. From straightforward situations like moving house or school, to more complex ones like dealing with fear, illness and grieving, story examples are included here that may help a child cope with a new challenge. I don’t claim that stories alone can heal such situations, but they can certainly help children (and parents/carers) to face their anxieties and fears with courage and imaginative solutions.
A story about moving to a new home or new school – this can be adjusted to suit different kinds of ‘moving’. The story could be told to four-year-olds and up, and a different ‘pouch’ animal with a different name could be substituted for the wombat (e.g. a possum or a kangaroo).
If told to school-age children, they could get involved by illustrating and / or acting out the different scenes, and discussing how it felt for them to move to a new house or school. A creative writing exercise could follow on this theme.
Womby Woo was a little wombat who didn’t like anything new.
His home was inside his mother’s warm, furry pouch and this is where he wanted to stay. It was so comfortable here – why should he want to move anywhere else?
Sometimes Womby Woo would climb out to have a drink at the waterhole or nibble some sweet mossy grass, but he never stayed very long out in the world. If the wind blew around him and ruffled his fur, back into his mother’s pouch he would jump.
Womby Woo didn’t like anything new!
If raindrops started to fall on his head, back into his mother’s pouch he would jump.
Womby Woo didn’t like anything new!
If other wombats came too close to him, back into his mother’s pouch he would jump.
Womby Woo didn’t like anything new!
His mother’s pouch was his home, the only home he had ever had. But Womby Woo was growing and his mother’s pouch was staying the same size.
Early one morning, when Womby Woo had finished drinking an unusually large amount of water at the water hole and nibbled an unusually large amount of sweet, mossy grass, he tried to climb back inside his pouch home. But this time only his head seemed to fit into the pouch and his body stayed outside. He tried again, putting his tummy in first, but still his body stayed outside. He tried again, putting his feet in first, but still his body stayed outside.
What was Womby Woo to do? Suddenly he found himself out in the big wide world, where everything was new. And Womby Woo didn’t like anything new!
Looking around, Womby Woo saw a large bush. He crawled underneath and made a hole in the sand and curled up inside. It wasn’t the same as his mother’s pouch but it was all he had. He tried to sleep but everything was too new.
Suddenly, from somewhere in the bush, came the loudest, strangest sound Womby Woo had ever heard.
‘OO, OO, OO, OO, AH, AH, AH, AH, OO, OO, OO, OO, AH, AH, AH, AH’
Womby Woo looked up and on a branch right above his head was a large brown-and-white bird.
‘Who are you?’ said Womby Woo, ‘and why are you making such a loud noise?’
‘I am Mr Kookaburra and this is my laugh. And I am laughing at you, Womby Woo! OO, OO, OO, OO, AH, AH, AH, AH, OO, OO, OO, OO, AH, AH, AH, AH’
‘What is so funny?’ asked Womby Woo.
‘OO, OO, OO, OO, AH, AH, AH, AH, You are so funny, Womby Woo. It is so funny that you don’t like anything new. Don’t you know that ‘new’ can be FUN.’
Womby Woo was very surprised to hear this. ‘It is not fun lying here in a cold sandy hole’ he said.
‘Then follow me,’ said Mr Kookaburra, and he flew out of the bush and along the track, laughing as he went, ‘OO, OO, OO, OO, AH, AH, AH, AH, OO, OO, OO, OO, AH, AH, AH, AH’
Womby Woo stood up and cautiously followed Mr Kookaburra. The moon had just risen in the sky and was shining brightly over the distant hills. The wildflowers along the track were nodding their pretty heads towards him. It seemed as if they were saying ‘Welcome to the world.’ Dragonflies were flittering from bush to bush, and frogs were croaking all around. Womby Woo was surprised to find how beautiful the outside world could be.
The track led down to a waterhole, a new waterhole, a waterhole his mother had not yet taken him to. Around the edge, having dust baths and playing in the shallow water, were many other little wombats, just about his size. They looked up when they saw Womby Woo and called out to him – ‘Come and play with us, Womby Woo.’
So Womby Woo joined the other little wombats and played all night. The next morning the mother and father wombats arrived at the waterhole to meet up with their little ones. After digging holes together in the soft ground under the trees they slept there all the next day. It was a warm, cosy feeling for Womby Woo to be surrounded by his wombat family once again.
When he woke up he couldn’t wait to play with his friends. It was such FUN! And every night, Womby Woo’s friends helped him to do something new and to learn something new. To his surprise, Womby Woo began to like things that were new.
He would often hear Mr Kookaburra laughing at dusk and dawn from the tall treetops, OO, OO, OO, OO, AH, AH, AH, AH, OO, OO, OO, OO, AH, AH, AH, AH.
But Womby Woo knew he wasn’t laughing at him any more. Mr Kookaburra was just having FUN!
A mother at one of my parenting courses in Nairobi asked the group to workshop a story for her six-year-old boy who was having trouble with change and transition. The boy was finding it unusually disturbing to move from one activity to another – both at home and at school – e.g. from playtime to morning tea, from outside time to story time, from bath time to bedtime, etc.
Together we worked on some ideas using a chameleon as the central character. The mother had noticed her son’s fascination with the chameleons that he found from time to time in their garden. The story built an interesting connection with colour cards for different transition times.
Chameleons are unique creatures in their own right. Known for their ability to change colour, they can be seen in various shades including brown, green, blue, yellow, red, black or white. The story used these seven colours with seven chameleon-shaped colour cards for seven identified activities – playtime, tidy-up time, mealtime, jobs-time, bath-time, story-time, and bed-time. The idea of working with the cards after hearing the story made a significant difference for the boy’s acceptance of transition.
The story was a simple recounting of the day in the life of a little chameleon, using the same rhythms as a day in the life of the boy. The story started off like this (I have left it open ended for individual changes depending on different family rhythms and needs):
Once upon a time there was a little chameleon who lived with his family in a hollow log at the bottom of a garden. Every day he would wake up in the morning, put his brown coat on, and eat some brown worms for breakfast. Then with his green coat on he would go outside and play on the green mossy rocks. When it was time to tidy up he would wear his …coat [etc. etc.] until night-time came and it was time to wear a black coat the colour of the black night sky (with tiny silver stars on the back).
Note: A song or rhyme for each change can add extra strength to this little tale –
I change my colour to help me find my way,
I change my colour many times a day.
This story has been used by families of children aged four to seven to help give a sense of stability in times of transition. On the farm of Farmer ‘Just Right’ everything has its place and function. An extended version of the story was used by a mother as a humorous approach to talking her five-year-old through his habit of hiding in a cupboard and soiling his pants. On the farm of Farmer ‘Just Right’ the correct place for this activity was, of course, the toilet. There is also delicious mud play in this story, which could help a child who doesn’t like to get dirty to take a few more risks – the story encourages getting muddy but with the promise of being able to clean up afterwards.
There was once a little white duck who didn’t like being with all the other white ducks on the pond. Instead, this little white duck loved playing in the muddy puddles at the edge of the pond. So instead of looking white, more often than not she was muddy all over. All the other ducks used to call her ‘Puddy Muddles’ because she so loved to play in the muddy puddles. All through the day she played in the puddles on her own. Then, when she was hungry and tired, she washed off the mud in the pond water and swam back to be with her mother. She loved to fall asleep tucked up inside her mother’s soft downy feathers. The next day back she would go again, to splash and play in the muddy puddles.
The pond where all the ducks lived was on a farm belonging to Farmer Just Right. Farmer Just Right loved everything on her farm to be Just Right – ‘A place for everything and everything in its place’ she would sing as she went about her daily chores. It made her happy to look out of the farmhouse window and see the white ducks on the pond, the cows in the fields, the hens pecking in the yard and the pigs rolling in the mud in their pigpen.
One day when Farmer Just Right was walking by the side of the pond she looked down and saw something round and muddy playing in the muddy puddles. ‘Goodness me,’ said Farmer Just Right, ‘one of the piglets must have climbed out of their pig pen.’ Without further ado, she picked up the round muddy thing and carried it back to the pigpen. When she reached the pigpen she carefully dropped it in, singing to herself, ‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’ Feeling happy that she had been able to help, she continued going about her chores.
Now the round muddy thing was not a piglet at all. It was really the little white duck called ‘Puddy Muddles’. At first she was quite happy to be in the pigpen as there was so much lovely mud in there. She rolled about with the other piglets who didn’t seem to notice that she wasn’t like them because she was so covered in mud. She rolled and played most of the day. However, when the sun went down and it started to grow dark, she wasn’t so sure that this was where she wanted to be. All the other piglets had curled up around their big fat muddy mother and were going to sleep. But Puddy Muddles missed the soft feathers of her own mother and was not able to fall asleep like the others.
Puddy Muddles was also feeling very hungry as the scraps of food that the farmer had thrown into the pigpen weren’t as tasty as the slugs and worms her mother used to give her for tea. So Puddy Muddles decided it was time to somehow find her way back home. She waddled to the fence of the pigpen but when she tried to climb out, because she was so slippery with mud, she kept sliding back down. Then she had to try to find a way under the fence instead. This way out needed a great deal of digging, which she was able to do with her strong duck beak.
After a long time and much hard work she eventually made a tunnel through the mud and under the fence. She emerged on the other side looking even muddier than before. Now there was mud in her ears and eyes and mouth and up her nose. Even Puddy Muddles didn’t like to be covered in this much mud!
If Farmer Just Right had been looking out of her farmhouse window that evening she would have seen a round muddy thing waddling across from the pigpen and down to the pond. But Farmer Just Right was so tired from a hard day’s work keeping everything on her farm Just Right and she had already fallen asleep. Puddy Muddles made her way slowly back to her pond and dived right into the cool, cleansing water. It took a very long time for her to wash off all the mud – pigpen mud seemed to be much thicker and stickier than puddle mud – but eventually she was clean and white and ready to swim back to her mother.
Mother Duck was so happy to see her little lost duck swimming in the moonlight across the pond. She had saved some special slugs and worms, so fortunately Puddy Muddles had plenty to eat. Then, without saying a word, she tucked up amongst her mother’s soft feathers and fell fast asleep. And to this day Mother Duck never found out where her little duck had been, and Farmer Just Right never found out that it was not a piglet that she had returned to the pigpen.
To this day, Farmer Just Right has never found another round muddy thing in the muddy puddles on the edge of the pond. Puddy Muddles still enjoys playing in the mud but she always makes sure she stays out of the way of the farmer. And when Farmer Just Right looks out of her farmhouse window, she can always see the white ducks on the pond, the cows in the fields, the hens pecking in the yard and the pigs rolling in the mud in their pig pen. ‘A place for everything and everything in its place,’ she happily sings as she goes about her daily chores.
This story was written for three- to four-year-olds, and is best performed as a simple puppet show. It has been used with great success in playgroups to settle new children. As well as providing a warm, ‘homely’ theme, it has helped engage children in creative play with simple materials – for example, a basket of shells.
A little white shell was floating all alone on the blue, blue sea. It was wondering ‘Where can I go, what can I be?’
All of a sudden a wave took the little shell and rolled it
Roly-poly tumble-bumble over and over …
And it landed upside down in the water. Then another wave rolled it
Roly-poly tumble-bumble over and over …
Before the little shell had time to wonder whether it was upside-down or right-side-up a very big wave rolled it
Roly-poly tumble-bumble over and over …
And the wave dropped the little shell onto the dry sands of a long golden beach.
The little shell lay on the sand, pink and white and patterned bright, glistening in the morning sunlight. It wondered to itself ‘Where can I go, what can I be?’
Meanwhile an old woman had set out for an early morning walk along the beach. As she walked along the sands she saw the little shell, pink and white and patterned bright. She picked it up and looked at it. ‘I know a little girl who would like to play with you,’ she said, and she put the little shell in her pocket and walked back home.
When she reached the house she tiptoed into the bedroom where her granddaughter lay fast asleep. The old woman put the little shell, pink and white and patterned bright, on the table next to the bed. Then she went into the kitchen to make some porridge for breakfast. The shell sat on the table and wondered to itself ‘Where can I go, what can I be?’
When the granddaughter woke up she saw the beautiful shell on the table and picked it up and started to play with it. The shell made a wonderful dish for her dolls’ tea party. Then the shell was turned into a little telephone for her teddy bear.
Soon grandmother called the family for breakfast. The little shell sat on the table while the girl ate her porridge. After breakfast she took the shell out onto the sand in front of the house and played and played – digging in the sand, building castles and making patterns.
Grandmother sat in her chair on the veranda watching her granddaughter playing. The little girl called out ‘Thank you Grandmother – it is such a lovely toy.’
The little shell knew that at last it had found a friend and a home. It knew it was where it was meant to be, and doing what it was meant to be doing.
A story for children (and parents) that will help encourage the tidying of toys and bedrooms. Suitable for ages four to eight. Also suitable for turning into a picture book with the child/children involved in drawing the untidy room (with the toys all jumbled up, topsy-turvy, upside-down and inside out), Tidy Teddy, the Lamp Doll and the tidy room (with the toys sorted, neatly stacked and right-side-up).
Teddy lived in the toy box in the corner of the bedroom. Many other toys also lived there, and although the box was a very long and very wide home, there were always toys spilling out onto the floor – jumbled up, topsy-turvy, upside-down and inside out.
The bedroom belonged to a little girl called Amber. Amber was not interested in tidying up her toys. It was hard to call her lazy – usually her parents just did the work for her so she never had a chance to find out what fun it could be to put her toys away. Amber’s parents would come into the room almost every day and complain about the toys being jumbled up, topsy-turvy, upside-down and inside out. Then they would set to work to sort things out, so that for a little while the toys were all sorted and tidy again.
Teddy loved it when everything was sorted and tidy – it helped him feel calm and peaceful inside. But within a few hours of Amber playing in the room, things were back to their untidy state – all jumbled up, topsy-turvy, upside-down and inside out.
One day the room received an important addition that would change things forever. Amber was given a beautiful lamp for her birthday. It was not an ordinary lamp with an ordinary lamp-stand – this lamp-stand was a golden doll and the lampshade was a pink flower-patterned umbrella. The lamp was placed high up on Amber’s dressing table, and from here the Lamp Doll could see all over the room.
All the toys in the room could look up from their spots on the floor or in the toy-box and see the Lamp Doll. They agreed she was very beautiful, but Teddy couldn’t take his teddy-eyes off her! He had never seen such a lovely sight, especially in the evenings when the doll was all lit up, golden and bright.
However, after only a few nights of the Lamp Doll arriving in the bedroom, its light stopped working. No matter how many times Amber tried to switch it on, it just didn’t work. Amber’s parents checked the globe, they even called in the neighbour who knew about electrical things, but nobody could find any reason why the lamp wouldn’t light up.
Teddy felt very sad, but there was nothing he could do about it. After all, he was just a toy. He looked around at the untidy mess in the room and this made him feel even worse. Amber’s parents were so busy trying to work out why the lamp wasn’t working, they had now stopped bothering to tidy the room.
Teddy realised he was feeling annoyed as well as sad. Why didn’t Amber tidy up? Couldn’t she see that a tidy room could help everyone feel a little better, calmer, happier? Then he had an interesting idea – perhaps this was the reason why the Lamp Doll had stopped working. Why would such a beautiful doll want to shine her light out over a messy room?
Teddy decided to do something about the mess. He might be just a toy, but he could try to be a tidy toy! He set to work sorting and sifting – picking up puzzle pieces, stacking books back on their shelf above the toy box, placing dolls and cars carefully into their homes and garages – generally putting things back where they belonged.
At last all the toys that had been jumbled up, topsy-turvy, upside-down and inside out were sorted, neatly stacked and right-side-up. Teddy stood back to admire his work. Just at this moment, the Lamp Doll switched herself on and shone golden light across the room. At the same time as the light came on, Teddy was sure he could hear a small whisper coming from the dressing table – ‘Thank-you Tidy Teddy!’ The golden doll was speaking to him!
Teddy was so happy he almost burst with joy and pride. He settled back into the toy box, lay there for a long time watching the beautiful Lamp Doll, then finally fell fast asleep. His teddy-dreams that night were the best dreams he had ever had.
Amber was also happy now that her lamp was working again, and Amber’s parents were even happier to see that their daughter’s room had been tidied without their help.
From this time on, Teddy took on the role of tidying up the toys. He didn’t mind the extra work if it meant that the beautiful Lamp Doll would shine golden light each night across the room. As he worked he sang to himself:
I’m a tidy teddy and I love to do my best,
Picking up the toys and cleaning up the mess.
Soon Teddy noticed that Amber was taking a bit more care with her toys – perhaps she could hear his song? Soon, without even planning it, they were sharing the tidy-up tasks together.
Of course, Teddy had to be careful not to let his new role get out of hand – there were times when Amber was playing and needed her toys out of their box and off the shelf. It was not always time for tidying up. Teddy had to learn to be patient with this and soon grew to be content with a ‘once-a-day’ tidy-up time. As long as the toys were all sorted, neatly stacked and right-side-up each evening, the Lamp Doll continued to shine her golden light over the room.
This story/poem was written to enthuse ‘little helpers’. It has been used with all ages of children and adults – it seems to defy categorisation for just one age group. It is often told as a puppet show using three little dolls with felt hats (blue, red and yellow) to symbolise the three men. A tiny straw broom can be made from pine needles, and a house can be built from logs and/or tree roots. It has also worked effectively as a play, with felt hats for the actors, and a small broom.
Little-Man Blue Hat and Little-Man Red Hat lived together under the roots of the flame and thorn tree. But do you know that their home was the messiest home that you ever did see!
There were crumbs, crumbs, everywhere.
There were crumbs under the table,
There were crumbs under the chairs.
There were crumbs all over the mat,
There were crumbs under the beds,
There were even crumbs under the pillows
where the little men rested their heads.
They had a little straw broom – it lived in the corner of the room. But Blue Hat and Red Hat didn’t know how to use the broom properly.
The little straw broom would look out over the room and sigh – ‘If only someone could use me properly, I could clean up this mess in the wink of an eye.’
Now Blue Hat and Red Hat were meant to sweep the room. But whenever it was Blue Hat’s turn, Blue Hat simply couldn’t be bothered. He would take hold of the little straw broom and slowly drag it round the room, singing his ‘Couldn’t be bothered’ song:
I couldn’t be bothered, I couldn’t be bothered,
I couldn’t be bothered to work;
All through the day, I just want to play –
the sweeping is something I shirk.
So when Blue Hat had finished, the crumbs were just as they were before.
[Repeat ‘Crumbs’ poem]
Whenever it was Red Hat’s turn, Red Hat was always in too much of a hurry. He would take hold of the little straw broom and quickly sweep the room, singing his ‘swisherty-swat’ song:
Swisherty swat, swasherty swit,
the little straw broom goes that way and this,
Swasherty swit, swisherty swat,
the little straw broom goes this way and that.
And when Red Hat had finished, the crumbs were even worse than before!
[Repeat ‘Crumbs’ poem]
Then, one day, Little-Man Gold Hat came to stay. He walked in the door and saw the crumbs all over the floor. ‘Goodness gracious me,’ said Gold Hat, ‘Where is the broom? I must sweep this room.’
Gold Hat went straight to the corner of the room, took hold of the little straw broom, and started to sweep, singing his ‘Sweep-it-all-up’ song:
Sweep it all up, sweep it all up,
Little Gold Hat can sweep it all up,
Crumbs in a pile will make him smile,
Little Gold Hat can sweep it all up.
Gold Hat swept everywhere. He swept under the tables, he swept under the chairs. He swept all over the mat, he swept under the beds. He even swept under the pillows where the little men rested their heads.
When Gold Hat had finished, the crumbs were in a pile in the middle of the room. Gold Hat put back the little straw broom, and the little straw broom was so tired it fell fast asleep.
And Gold Hat, Red Hat and Blue Hat sat down at the table and shared currant buns and tea.
Three little men had three little hats,
Three little men together –
Blue Hat, Red Hat, Golden Hat too,
Sharing a home together,
Caring for a home together.
I used to tell this story to my boys at times of troubled sleep and nightmares (from ages four to eight). It helped soothe them and lull them back to sleep. It uses the classic theme of the stork that brings the baby, and gives images that can help lead a frightened child back into ‘the land of sweet dreams’.
Do you ever wonder where God lives? Try to picture his home, not in a house like you live in, but in a beautiful garden, a garden that God calls ‘heaven’. Here the plants have leaves made of silver, silver like the moonlight on the dark sea, and their flower petals are gold, as golden as the sun. There are many different flower gardens in heaven, each on different white cloud islands, with rainbow bridges stretching their bright colours from one island to the next. There are so many beautiful things in God’s garden it would be impossible to describe them all to you tonight.
But there is one thing I want to tell you about. In between the gardens of silver and golden plants runs a lively little stream, a stream not filled with drops of water like the rivers and streams down in our world. This heavenly stream is filled with thousands of tiny star-lights, bouncing and jostling and tumbling along together. The stream weaves its way into God’s garden after travelling from the far corners of the night sky, collecting new little star-lights on its way. Once it reaches the centre of the garden, the centre of heaven, it tumbles over a great waterfall. All the little star-lights end up in a light pool that is already so full of sparkling star-lights that it shines as brightly as the sun – one is almost blinded by its radiant brilliance!
Now, as you can imagine, all the little star-lights that have tumbled over the waterfall feel very excited and privileged to be part of this wonderful pool of light. They remember the stories their mother stars have told them many times, about the long journey they had to take to reach this very important place, and about the great white angel birds that encircle the pool with their loving embrace. The little star-lights can see them now – standing around the edge of the pool of light, with their shining white wings spread out to touch each other, arrayed in majestic splendour. Can you picture this beautiful sight?
Not only are the little star-lights excited to be here, but they are excited at the new journey and task that lies ahead of each one of them. They know that the white angel birds are God’s special messengers. The angel birds wait by the pool’s edge till news is heard from far below on earth that a new baby boy or girl is to be born into the world. On hearing such news, one of the birds flies down into the pool of light and chooses a little star-light. Holding it in a silken cradle, it then sets off, up and over God’s garden and across the night sky – flying on the long journey down to the earth below.
This star-light is a present from heaven that God gives to each new baby born on earth. The white angel bird, on reaching the world after its long journey from the heavenly garden, gives this wonderful present to the new baby. It places the star-light deep inside the baby’s heart, and there it stays forever, warm and bright.
Here is a little prayer for the star-light given to the new born child:
Little star, come from far, Guide my path, be my staff,
Warm and bright, like a candle light,
Little star, in the darkness, be my light.
I wonder which little star-light was chosen for you when you were born?
I think perhaps God has given us each a star-light from his pool of light in heaven because he wants to share his own garden, his own home, with all of us. So if you wonder where God lives, his home is never too far away: we all have a little part of his home right here inside us, right here on earth.
A Kikuyu Story from East Africa, included here by permission of the author, Lucy Njuguna. This is a wonderful example of a traditional African story told to children to help them face their fears of the dark and the unknown. Suitable for age five and older.
Once upon a time there lived an antelope who was always roaming in the forest. All the other animals were against him and chased him all the time. One day he decided it would be good for him to build a large house, one bigger than all the trees in the forest. When he had finished building it he divided the house into many little rooms, so that when any other animal came by he would be able to hide deep inside.
During the day, the antelope used to go and look for food and water. He also liked visiting his friends and telling them about his house. But one day, when he left his house, he forgot to close the door. Sometime later, when a butterfly was fluttering around the flowers, it found that the door was not closed. So it fluttered inside and flew to the darkest corner to rest.
When the antelope came back and found that the door was wide open he was too frightened to go inside. He asked in a loud voice, ‘Who is in the house of the antelope?’ and the butterfly answered:
Ninii Kibutabuti na Iguru, ninii Kiminja muinge
(I am the one who flutters up and down)
When the antelope heard this, he ran towards the forest to look for help. On the way he met an elephant. The elephant asked him, ‘What have you seen Mr. Antelope? Why are you running so fast?’ The antelope replied, ‘There is somebody in my house and I am frightened to go inside.’
‘Let’s go,’ said the elephant, ‘I will help remove him.’
When they arrived at the antelope’s house, the elephant asked in a loud voice, ‘Who is in the house of the antelope?’ The butterfly again answered:
Ninii Kibutabuti na Iguru, ninii Kiminja muinge
When the elephant heard this he ran away, back to the forest.
So the antelope went quickly to look for other animals to help. One by one they came to his house but, like the elephant, they were all too afraid to go inside and remove the butterfly.
When the antelope was sitting by his door, thinking what to do, he remembered that there was one more animal he had not asked. This was the chameleon. So he ran to find the chameleon in the forest.
The chameleon asked him, ‘What have you seen, Mr. Antelope? Why are you running so fast?’ The antelope replied, ‘There is somebody in my house and I am frightened to go inside.’
‘Let’s go,’ said the chameleon, ‘I will help remove him’.
When they arrived at the antelope’s house the chameleon asked in a loud voice, ‘Who is in the house of the antelope?’ The butterfly again answered:
Ninii Kibutabuti na Iguru, ninii Kiminja muinge
When the chameleon heard these words, he started to walk in. All the other animals were gathered around the door and they saw this and were frightened. But they waited and watched to see what would happen.
As the chameleon entered each room he kept asking the same question, ‘Who is in the house of the antelope?’
Ninii Kibutabuti na Iguru, ninii Kiminja muinge, answered the butterfly many times.
Finally the chameleon reached the dark corner where the butterfly was hiding. He quickly caught it and took it back outside to show the other animals. When they saw how tiny it was, they all went back to the forest very ashamed of themselves.
From that day onwards the antelope and the chameleon were close friends.
A well-loved fairytale, rewritten by the author. This is a story to induce hope in the ‘impossible’ and a trust in help from unimaginable sources. A lovely bedtime tale for age five and older.
There was once a shoemaker who lived with his wife in a little cottage at the edge of town. It happened that this shoemaker, through no fault of his own, had become so poor that he only had enough money left to buy leather to make one more pair of shoes.
That evening he went into his workshop, spread out the leather on his workbench, and cut out the pieces – ready for work the next morning. Then he and his wife went to bed.
While they were sleeping, something happened!
Pull the thread and stitch the shoe,
Pull it tight and that will do.
Fairy fingers nimble light,
First the left and then the right.
The next morning when the shoemaker awoke he went into his workshop ready to start work. There, to his surprise, sitting on his workbench, was a beautifully-made pair of shoes. He picked them up and looked at them, inside and out – what beautiful stitching, what fine work – he had never seen such perfect shoes! He put them in the window, and very soon a customer came in, paid more than the usual amount for the shoes, and took the shoes away.
Now the shoemaker had enough money to buy leather to make two more pairs of shoes. That evening he went into his workshop, spread out the leather on his workbench, and cut out the pieces – ready for work the next morning. Then he and his wife went to bed.
While they were sleeping, something happened!
Pull the thread and stitch the shoe,
Pull it tight and that will do.
Fairy fingers nimble light,
First the left and then the right.
The next morning when the shoemaker awoke he went into his workshop ready to start work. There, to his surprise, sitting on his workbench, were two beautifully-made pairs of shoes. He picked them up and looked at them, inside and out – what beautiful stitching, what fine work! He put them in the window, and very soon two customers came in, paid more than the usual amount for the shoes, and took the shoes away.
Now the shoemaker had enough money to buy leather to make four more pairs of shoes.
And so it went on – every evening the shoemaker would spread his leather out on his workbench and cut out the pieces ready for work in the morning. And every morning the shoes would be beautifully finished, waiting for him in his workshop.
One evening, when the shoemaker was busy in his workshop, his wife came to him and said: ‘For a long time now someone has been visiting us in the night and doing this special work – why don’t we stay up tonight and hide behind the curtains and see who it could be?’
The shoemaker thought this a very good idea. Leaving the lamp burning, the shoemaker and his wife hid behind the curtains. They watched and they waited, and they waited and they watched, and they watched and they waited, and they waited and they watched … then, at the stroke of midnight, they saw come dancing into the room two tiny little men. Not a stitch of clothing did they have on! They jumped up onto the workbench and with their tiny fairy hammers and fairy needles they set to work – hammering and stitching, stitching and hammering – all the while singing their working song.
Pull the thread and stitch the shoe,
Pull it tight and that will do.
Fairy fingers nimble light,
First the left and then the right.
All through the night the tiny men worked, until the shoes were beautifully finished, and sitting on the workbench. Then the little men jumped down and danced out of the room.
The shoemaker’s wife said to her husband – ‘I think we should give some gifts to these little folk who have been so kind to us – why don’t we make them some clothes?’
The shoemaker thought this a very good idea. He spread out two tiny pieces of leather on his workbench, cut out the pieces and set to work, hammering and stitching, stitching and hammering, until he had finished two tiny pairs of shoes.
Meanwhile the shoemaker’s wife had taken out her sewing basket and with her needle and cloth had stitched and sewed two tiny shirts and two tiny pairs of trousers. Then with her wool and knitting needles she knitted two tiny hats. When she had finished she laid out the clothes on the work-bench next to the shoes. Then, leaving the lamp burning, she and her husband hid behind the curtains. They watched and they waited, and they waited and they watched … then, at the stroke of midnight, they saw come dancing into the room the two tiny men who jumped up onto the table, ready to start work. But there was no leather waiting for them. What could these things be they wondered?
They started to try them on. They tried on the tiny shirts, and they fitted perfectly. They tried on the tiny trousers, and they fitted perfectly. They tried on the tiny shoes, and they fitted perfectly. They tried on the tiny hats, and they fitted perfectly.
Happy little men are we,
Gaily dressed as you can see,
No more shoemakers to be!
With their new clothes on the little men sang and danced around the room. Then they danced out the door – never to be seen again. And the shoemaker and his wife, who had been kind to those who had been good to them, lived happily for the rest of their lives.
Given as a 6th birthday gift (handwritten on the back of a beautiful sky-blue painting) this story was written for one of my boys to help with his fear of the dark. It is reprinted here by permission of the writer, Susan Haris. Though drawing on a Christian theme, the story has a beautiful message that transcends all religions.
A very long time ago, in the middle of a freezing cold night, Baby Jesus was born in a far away land in a little town called Bethlehem. Mother Mary was dressed in a beautiful red gown and over her head and shoulders she wore a deep blue mantle. She wrapped her baby in the folds of her cloak, and held him safe and warm in her arms.
It was a clear night, with many twinkling silver stars. Above the place where the Christ Child was born, the sky was lit by a wonderful, bright golden star. From that night onwards, whenever her baby was frightened or upset, Mother Mary would take him in her arms, wrap her deep blue cloak around him, and carry him out to look up at the beautiful stars shining in the dark night sky.
The weeks and months passed, and one day, when the little Christ Child was playing in the garden with a friend, suddenly a loud storm broke the sky. There was clapping of thunder and flashing of lightning, and the two boys were terrified. Trembling with fear, they ran inside to find Mother Mary, who gently enfolded them both in her deep blue cloak. The boys stopped trembling and felt once more safe and warm and snug.
The years passed, and one day the Christ Child was playing further away from home. He had gone to the forest with many other boys and girls. They were having a marvellous time, singing and laughing and skipping and dancing. Suddenly they heard a terrible howling. It came closer and closer and grew louder and louder. What was it, they wondered. A wolf? Or maybe a lion? They did not know, but they grew cold with fear. One of the children picked up a stick, another one climbed up into the nearest tree. Another child, shaking with fear, tried to hide behind a bush. But the Christ Child said: ‘Come on, all of you, let’s run as fast as we can to find Mother Mary. She will spread her deep blue mantle around us and then we won’t have to fear anything in the whole wide world.’
‘But how will Mother Mary’s cloak be big enough for so many of us?’ asked one of the girls.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said the Christ Child, ‘Mother Mary’s deep blue cloak can spread and spread and spread all over the world to hold every little child snug and cosy in its blueness.’
So the children ran out of the forest to find Mother Mary, and like the first night when the Christ Child was born, Mother Mary spread her blue cloak around all the boys and girls, keeping them warm, cosy and safe.
This story is an example of the effect of an imaginative versus rational explanation for a four-year-old child who had been frightened by an experience of fire. See Chapter Three for the background to this story.
There was once a Mother Rabbit who lived in a hole in the ground in the middle of a green grassy field. This mother had many babies and every day the baby rabbits would enjoy playing, running and jumping in and out of the long grass around the edge of their home.
One day Mother Rabbit had to go away on a short journey. She left her babies sleeping, safe and snug in their rabbit hole, and set out across the field and along the dusty track. While she was away, a bushfire started up in a nearby gully, was given an extra push by the hot summer wind, and swept across the green grassy fields.
Later that day when Mother Rabbit was travelling back home, she saw to her horror that a fire had travelled before her. The green grassy field was now blackened stubble, and the ground was too hot for Mother Rabbit to walk on. ‘Are my babies still safely asleep in their home?’ she wondered.
Mother Rabbit had to wait till the cool of the evening before the ground was ready to step across. In the light of the twinkling stars, she made her way carefully to the edge of her rabbit hole, and peered down. What a relief to find that her babies were still sound asleep, safe and snug in their home. Mother Rabbit was so happy. She joined her babies down in the rabbit hole and they all slept till the next morning.
Every day the little rabbits watched their green grassy playground slowly grow back. It started first with little green shoots peeping out of the blackened ground. Taller and taller the little shoots grew, until the field was full of tall green grass once again. And once again, as before, the baby rabbits would enjoy playing, running and jumping in and out of the long grass around the edge of their home.
A story written for a six-year-old African boy (who was sexually abused at the age of three) to help heal his fear of going to the toilet. See Chapter One for more details of the background to this story.
There was once a child who was born to be King. When he was a little boy everyone called him the ‘Little Prince’, and he was given a golden crown to wear on his head.
Like all boys the Little Prince always liked exploring and climbing, running, jumping and having adventures. All day he would play in the gardens and forests of the palace with his friends. His crown sparkled in the sunlight and his friends loved to play close to its golden light.
However, it happened that one day, when he was playing with his friends near the palace wall, an older boy started to be rough in his playing. Suddenly he pushed the Little Prince so hard that he fell off the edge and landed far below on some rocks. Many bones in his body were broken – in both his legs and his arms.
The Little Prince was rescued by the palace workers and carried back to his bedroom deep inside the palace. There the doctors wrapped his arms and legs in strong bandages and for a long time he had to lie in his bed waiting for his bones to mend. In fact the Little Prince was in bed for so long that even when his bones were mended he had forgotten how to walk again. He just wanted to keep lying in his bed and no matter how much his father and mother pleaded with him to get up, he didn’t even want to try to move.
One day his grandmother had an idea. She took her large hand mirror and went to the Little Prince’s room and sat on his bed. Then she held the mirror up to him. ‘You were born to be King’ she said, ‘and you have a golden crown on your head that likes to sparkle in the sunlight. But look at it now!’
The Little Prince looked in the mirror and was shocked to see that his golden crown, in the dark light of his bedroom, looked dull and grey. ‘I must be carried outside,’ he cried, ‘so that my crown can sparkle in the sunlight once again.’
‘No, you do not need to be carried,’ replied his Grandmother, ‘you must walk outside yourself … but if you reach out your hand I will help you walk.’
The Little Prince reached out his hand and Grandmother helped him to slowly move his legs from the bed to the floor. Together they slowly walked out of the dark room, along the palace hallways and outside, into the garden and the sunshine.
It took many weeks before the Little Prince could run and jump and climb and have adventures as before, but every day all his friends came to hold his hands and help him walk. The more he moved around in the garden the more his golden crown would sparkle in the sunlight. Soon he was playing every day as before. His Grandmother would sit in a corner of the palace garden and watch him with his friends. She was so proud of her grandson, the Little Prince, who knew he was born to be King!
Follow up email from the boy’s mother: ‘My son is thrilled by his story, especially because he’s a prince! (At my suggestion the mother had finger-knitted her son a crown from golden threads – see notes on the use of props in the section on Writing Therapeutic Stories.) He has been listening to it at bedtime, since that’s the only time I have after my late night university class. He now goes to the toilet without my assistance. All I hear from time to time is the water flushing down the toilet. I am so excited to observe him overcome his phobia gradually. My worry about his toilet movements has soon passed. I hope and pray he’ll have a smooth transition from daycare to school. The story has been of great help in my work, especially through experiencing the effect on the child of imaginative ideas that promote his emotional development.’
A story for young children to explain terminal illness, or the death of a family member or close friend, in an imaginative way. Published by permission of the author, Susan Haris.
Once upon a time there was a village amongst the hills. In this village there was a white house. In the white house there lived a little girl who loved to look after silk worms. She kept them in a big open box, which she called Silk Worm Palace.
Very early every morning, when the sun came up from behind the hills, the little girl would run down to the creek where the Mulberry Tree grew.
‘Dear Mulberry Tree, could I pick some of your shiny green leaves for my Silk Worms?’
‘Of course,’ the old Mulberry Tree would reply, ‘I would be very happy to help your Silk Worms grow big and fat.’
Every day the little girl would thank the tree and pick some leaves and put them in her box. The tiny silk worms would gobble up the big leaves, one after another, and the worms grew bigger and bigger each day. They were wriggling and creeping and crawling around happily in their Palace, and growing bigger and fatter and fatter and bigger. The little girl laughed when she looked at them – she loved to watch them eat and grow and wriggle around day after day after day.
The little girl had one favourite silkworm. She called it Silky Wriggly. She would take it out of the box each day and let it crawl on her hands and arms, and talk to it and laugh with delight.
But one day when the little girl looked into the box she noticed that Silky Wriggly had stopped wriggling! ‘What has happened?’ the little girl wondered to herself, ‘Has Silky Wriggly died?’
But the silk worm had not died, it had started to spin a very long golden thread to make a little golden cocoon. The other silk worms were also starting to do the same. All day long they spun and spun, and slowly all the silk worms changed into very quiet, golden cocoons, lying there very still in the bottom of the box.
The little girl was sad. She missed Silky Wriggly and all the other silkworms. It had been such fun to watch the lively silk worms creep and crawl, wriggle and grow. Now it was so very quiet.
One day the little girl was looking into the box and she said out loud: ‘Silky Wriggly, I am missing you and your friends. It was so much fun watching you creep and crawl and wriggle and grow, but now it is very quiet and still. It makes me feel so sad.’
Just as she said this the golden cocoon that Silky Wriggly had spun around herself suddenly burst open and a moth flew out of it and landed on the edge of the box. The little girl could not believe her eyes. The moth’s wings were so delicate and they glistened with many colours and patterns.
The moth flew around the little girl three times then settled on her hand and spoke to her in a clear voice. ‘You know, I started to feel so uncomfortable in the cocoon. It was becoming too tight, I felt I was locked inside. But now that I’ve burst out of it I can leave it behind. Now I feel happy and free. I can fly up high in the sky, up to the golden sun. It is much more fun than the wriggling and creeping and crawling around that I used to enjoy when I was a silkworm. Goodbye little girl, and thank you for feeding me those delicious mulberry leaves. Now I don’t need them anymore. Now I am free!’
And the beautiful moth flew out through the open window, high up in the sky, towards the golden sun.
Note: When telling stories such as this about death, the tale will gain in power if the teller really has a relationship to the idea that death is not the final end, but a radical transformation. Otherwise children, being extremely intuitive, may sense the doubt in the teller’s mind and absorb this at the same time as the story.
When I was working in South Africa in the late 1990s I listened to a radio interview with the Bishop of Table Bay (Cape Town). He described the following story that he told his eight-year-old daughter who was dying of cancer. It was taken from a folktale from Ghana with a ‘resurrection theme’, and the Bishop felt it had really helped the daughter and the whole family cope better with the reality of her coming death.
There was once an eagle chick that was born in a nest of chickens. A farmer had been walking in the mountains and had found the egg lying on the ground and had taken it home to his hen to help hatch it.
The eagle chick grew up with all the other chickens but always had a feeling it could fly high, but there was no one who could show it what to do ….
The farmer’s boy took it and tried to help it – first from the top of a ladder, then from the roof of the house. But these two were not high enough for the eagle to really feel its wings.
Then the boy and the farmer took the eagle back to the mountains where it had come from and placed it on the edge of a high cliff. This time the eagle chick took off from the edge of the cliff and felt the air beneath its wings and the sun on its feathers and soared higher and higher.
Soon the eagle was back high up in the sky where it belonged and it flew up to the sun.
A beautiful story about change and transformation. This little tale is an anonymous gem re-written by the author. It could be used with age eight and older (and adults), accompanied by painting or drawing scenes from the stream’s journey.
Like ‘Fly Eagle Fly’ and ‘Silky Wriggly’, this is another story of death and transformation. Something dies and is then reborn in a different way.
A stream was born high on a mountain. It rushed around stones, over waterfalls, across fields, and through forests and valleys. Finally it reached a great desert and pushed its water against the sand. Then the water disappeared. The stream, that was feeling so confident with its life up to this point, could not believe what was happening. ‘My water is disappearing – how can I cross this desert?’
Then the stream heard a whispering. It seemed to be coming from the sand itself, ‘Ask the wind – it knows a way to cross the desert.’
’The Wind can fly,’ thought the stream. ‘All I can do is disappear into the sand. I can’t cross this desert.’
‘Allow the wind to carry you,’ the voice whispered.‘But then I will have to change. I don’t want to change, I want to stay as I am.’
‘If you continue to flow into the desert, you are changing – you are either going to disappear altogether or you will become a swamp.’
‘But I want to stay myself,’ said the stream. ‘How can I get to the other side and still be myself?’
‘If you remember your true self you will know this can never change,’ whispered the voice.
The stream then remembered a long forgotten dream about being carried in the arms of the wind. It let go of the earth below and allowed itself to rise up in a vapour. The wind flew with it far across the desert, all the way to the mountains on the other side. Finally it was released as soft rain high on the top of a mountain.
With this the stream was born anew. It rushed around stones, over waterfalls, across fields, and through forests and valleys. And as it rushed along, it had watery memories of its true and essential self.
A Russian tale, retold by the author, to encourage strength and determination. Suitable for children and adults.
There was once a frog that jumped into a pail of cream. He swam round and round, kicking and splashing, trying to find a way out. Every so often he stopped to rest. He wondered if he would ever find a way out of his predicament.
Then he started to sing as he swam. He found the singing made him stronger.
I’m a little frog, and if I stay strong, I’ll find a way out before too long!
The frog refused to give up.
He swam and swam, and sang and sang, until, without even realising it, his little feet had churned the cream into butter.
Finally he was able to climb up on the butter and hop out – just before the milkmaid came back for her pail!
A Tanzanian fairytale about death and transformation – re-written by the author. Suitable for age six and older.
There was once a man and his wife who lived together in a little house by a river on the edge of a forest. The man spent his days making wonderful things from the clay that he dug out of the banks of the river – pots and plates and cups and bowls. His wife worked all week growing vegetables in their garden – corn and cabbage and pumpkin and beans. On Saturdays they would load up their basket with the clay pieces and vegetables and carry them to market where they would sell their wares.
The couple were very happy with their life, except for one thing. They longed to have a child, but their house was empty of the laughter and dancing of little children.
One day the man was working with his clay, and singing as he worked:
Play and work, work and play, how I love to make things from clay!
The sun was shining brightly and the birds were singing as he worked, and he was feeling so happy that he had a most special thought:
I will make a little child from my clay today!
His clever hands set to work and in very little time he had made a beautiful little clay girl, with a shiny brown face and curly brown hair. When he was finished, he wrapped the little girl in a cloth dress, and lifted her up to carry her to the garden to show his wife. As he arrived at the garden where his wife was working, all of a sudden the little clay girl jumped down out of his hands and started to dance around.
His wife heard the lively noise and came running, and when she saw the little clay girl she bent down and hugged her dearly – ‘At last we have a child to bring laughter and dancing into our home,’ she cried.
From that day onwards the little clay girl lived with the man and his wife, and helped them with their work – sometimes with the man making clay pots and plates and cups and bowls, and sometimes with his wife in their garden, growing corn and cabbage and pumpkin and beans. The man and his wife were so happy to have a child in their home at last.
On Saturdays, when they travelled to market to sell their wares, they would leave the little clay girl at home to mind the house. They were worried that if it rained on the way, the rain would turn their new child back into a ball of clay.
‘Stay close to the house, little clay girl,’ they would say as they left for market, ‘and if it starts to rain, make sure you wait inside for us until we return.’
The little clay girl always did as they said, and each week the man and his wife would return from market to find her waiting safely inside the house for them.
One Saturday however, while the clay girl was home by herself, she heard the laughter and dancing of a group of children as they passed by the house. The children were on their way to the forest to pick fresh berries, and the little clay girl couldn’t help but follow their laughter and song. All the way to the forest she went, and joined in with the dancing and berry picking. When the children’s baskets were full to overflowing with ripe juicy berries, they set out to return home, with the little clay girl dancing along beside them. But just before she reached her house, some storm clouds passed overhead and the rain poured down from the sky as if God himself was tipping buckets from the clouds.
When the man and his wife returned from market, the house was empty and they couldn’t find the little clay girl anywhere. The rain had stopped but there were puddles everywhere up and down the road. They looked towards the forest, and there they saw a ball of clay lying in the grass at the edge of the trees. Straight away they knew what had happened to their little clay child!
The man carefully picked up the ball of clay and carried it home to his workshop and put it in his most special clay pot.
His wife placed the pot by their front door, and everyday they would water a few drops into the pot and remember the little girl that they missed so much.
Then one day they noticed a little green shoot pushing up out of the clay, and day by day they watched it grow. It grew and grew, sprouting little leaves and then a rich red bud, and one day it blossomed into a most beautiful red rose.
From this time onwards, the rose bush continued to flower with a new rose every day, and the man went back to making pots and plates and cups and bowls, and singing as he worked:
Play and work, work and play, how I love to make things from clay!
And the wife went back to growing corn and cabbage and pumpkin and beans, and singing as she dug in the garden:
Play and work, work and play, how I love to make things from clay!
And from this time on, every Saturday they would load up their basket with the clay pieces and the vegetables and a bunch of beautiful fresh roses, and carry it to market where they would sell their wares.
Sylvia was orphaned at the age of five after her whole family was killed in a raid on her village – she has now been adopted by the SOS Children’s Village in Nairobi where she will live until the age of eighteen. Sylvia’s story was told to her by her class teacher and was followed up with Sylvia finding a special doll, dressed in clothes embroidered with silver and gold threads, waiting in her bed the next morning. In her new house, the family ‘mother’ noticed a great change in her play and general interaction with others after this story. See Chapter Five for more background to this story.
Sylvia’s mother and father were safe in heaven. All their children were with them except for little Sylvia who had stayed behind on earth.
At night in the light of the twinkling stars they could see their little daughter asleep in her bed. They were so happy that she had a safe new home and a new mother to take care of her. But they could see that their daughter was sad and lonely sometimes and they wanted to send down a gift from heaven – the gift of a little friend for Sylvia to play with and to sleep with at night.
With the help of heaven’s angels they gathered golden threads from the sun and silver threads from the moon, and on the heavenly weaving loom they wove a special cloth to use to make a little doll.
When the doll was ready one of heaven’s angels cradled it in her arms and travelled with it across the sky of twinkling stars and down to earth. When she arrived at Sylvia’s new house she reached in through the window and tucked the doll into the bed next to Sylvia’s sleeping head.
The next morning when Sylvia woke up her new gift was waiting to greet her. The doll’s dress sparkled gold and silver in the morning light and Sylvia was so happy to see her. She knew it was a heavenly gift . She named it … and the doll became her special friend.
Shimmer Wing is a story that was written to tell at the ceremony of a young girl, Shalem, who had passed away a few months before her fourth birthday after being bitten by a snake.
For more background on the writing of this story, see Chapter 32, page 274.
First the setting (as described by Sandra): We gathered, at 4 p.m. on Sunday 18 February 2007, on the sandy edge of a wide tidal creek where Shalem loved to play and swim.
As the tide moved out, at the first point of sand in the middle of the creek that showed itself above the water line, a wooden totem pole was carried out and ceremoniously raised. The totem pole had been made by Shalem’s father, mother, and family friends. The totem pole was carved with angel wings at its three-quarter mark, with an owl, some dolphins, a whale, a turtle and a serpent exquisitely adorning its length. In the centre was a picture of Shalem set in a carved heart.
Near the base was an altar upon which there was a vessel containing Shalem’s ashes. People placed gifts to Shalem there. All around the totem, in the sand, curved a spiral where people placed colourful blossoms and stones and shells. A fire was lit in a brazier, burning sacred herbs and resins.
Children played in the sand, mounding and dripping the wet sand into castles. The family thanked people for coming to celebrate Shalem’s wonderful life. I was introduced as her daycare teacher and proceeded to tell my story.
After the story, people shared memories of Shalem, sang songs and played music inspired by and dedicated to Shalem. People placed individual prayer ties in the fire. Shalem’s parents offered Shalem’s ashes to the incoming tidal water of the Pacific Ocean. The totem was carried like a cross out of the creek. The colourful blossoms and stones on the spiral tossed about as the tide filled up the creek. Votive candles floated out to sea.
Families were given a birdwing vine to take home to plant in their own gardens (in the story, the yellow bellflower from the ‘birdwing’ vine is Shimmer Wing’s best friend).
Once upon a time in a very wet rainforest there lived so many friends that you could never count them all. These friends talked to each other and played with each other and they worked together and they even fought sometimes like good friends do!
One of these friends was a brilliant blue butterfly called ‘Shimmer Wing’. Shimmer Wing’ butterfly loved to play ‘peek-a-boo’. You would see her flying about as blue as blue could be and then, whit, she was gone. But if you looked carefully you would see that she had hidden the blue side of her wings and now she looked like a brown leaf on a tree branch. Very tricky she was. This was her song:
I’m flash of blue. How do you do?
Can you see me? Peek-a–boo. I see you!
(Sandra waved a blue scarf through the
air and then hid it behind her)
Shimmer Wing’s best friend was Yellow Bell-Flower. Shimmer Wing knew that she was in for a tasty treat of Yellow Bell’s nectar when she saw her yellow flower. She tickled Yellow Bell with her butterfly tootsies when she landed on Yellow Bell’s petals. Yum yum mmm, she sipped Yellow Bell’s nectar with her long butterfly tongue (and the teeny butterfly eggs inside her grew a little bit bigger).
In the wet rainforest Yellow Bell lived next to a bush. Under this bush lived Satin Bower Bird. In Satin Bower Bird’s nest lay many blue things – a blue pin, a piece of blue string, a shiny blue lolly wrap and even some of his own blue feathers. Having lots of blue things in his home was a good way to make friends! Shimmer Wing liked to tease him by flying past his bower and dazzling him with her own brilliant blue wings as she looked at his collection.
What a perfect place to lay her butterfly eggs above Satin Bower Bird’s blue treasures! Lots of leaves for her greedy larvae babies to eat when they hatched! So close to her best friend Yellow Bell (whom her babies could visit when they grew their wings).
One night Shimmer Wing saw a light in the sky that was different to her friends the stars. This light was like a starry ball with a magnificent tail behind it. It had an even bigger tail than that noisy Lyre-Bird neighbour who always made such a racket mimicking this bird and that animal.
Shimmer Wing flew up to Grandpa Koala who was sitting in a top branch of Grandfather Gum Tree. ‘What is that light up there in the sky, Grandfather Koala?’
Grandpa Koala chewed on his gum leaves and didn’t answer for a while. He shifted his big bottom on the Grandfather Gum Tree branch where he was sitting and he cleared his throat as grandfathers do.
‘It is like a giant broom sweeping the heavens and collecting good things. It showers presents onto Mother Earth too,’ he said.
‘What kind of presents?’ asked Shimmer Wing.
Grandfather Koala answered, ‘Presents like colours, and brightness, and goodness.’ Grandfather Koala cleared his throat again – ‘We eat the presents and we climb them and we breathe them and we walk on them. And’, he added, ‘it collects presents from Mother Earth too.’
‘Oh,’ said Shimmer Wing. Then she flew down and laid her eggs underneath a big leaf inside the leafy bush of Satin Bower Bird’s bower. When she finished she heard a ‘neighghgh’. It was her friend, Frangipani Unicorn.
‘Frangipani Unicorn, will you take me up to visit the light?’ Shimmer Wing fluttered by Frangipani’s tall white ear. Frangipani Unicorn could leap over rainbows when she wanted to. Frangipani was kind and she was gentle and she was very strong.
Frangipani Unicorn closed her eyes and imagined herself leaping up, up, up, into the sky to the bright light.
‘I can try,’ she neighed softly. Frangipani Unicorn trotted and cantered and galloped so fast that she rose up in to the sky with Shimmer Wing hiding inside her tall white ear. Up, up, up, they flew to where fluff and puff clouds played peek-a-boo with the bright light of the comet’s magnificent tail.
‘I love you,’ Shimmer Wing fluttered, waving her wings to Frangipani Unicorn. Frangipani Unicorn galloped back through the cloudy and starry sky to her home on Mother Earth.
In the morning the forest was calm. The Bangalow Palms were waving their fronds graciously. The dew fairies sparkled on the rocks and trees. The light of the Mighty Sun and the pitter-patter raindrop fairies made colourful rainbows everywhere. Frangipani Unicorn was practising jumping over them and under them and even through them all.
Grandpa Koala felt wiser as he sat in his Gum Tree chewing on his gum leaves and pondering on the brightness of the comet and its magnificent tail of light.
Satin Bower Bird found pretty blue angel wings in front of his bower! Yellow Bell’s petals shimmered and smelt more beautiful than ever.
All of Shimmer Wing’s friends were brighter and more beautiful than ever before. All of Shimmer Wing’s friends were filled with her ‘shimmer’ for ever and ever.
A story for a five-year-old girl who was soon to have a new baby brother. Her parents were concerned that their first and only daughter might be jealous of the new baby and not accept him. The story helped greatly to motivate her acceptance and involvement. It was strengthened by the mother helping her daughter make a magic stick with coloured pieces of wool, feathers and shells.
There was once a little girl who was feeling bored with her play and toys. She was sitting under a spreading tree at the bottom of her garden, when all of a sudden a small stick broke off the tree and fell to the ground. It landed right next to her, and strangely enough it started to sing to her:
Wrap me up in colours bright; keep me safe both day and night –
And when there’s magic in the air, I’ll lead you to a treasure fair!
The girl was very excited to hear the stick singing. ‘This must be a magic stick,’ she thought, and she picked it up and carried it home. When she reached her house she went straight to the basket in the lounge room where her mother kept balls of coloured wool. One by one she started to wrap the stick in bright colours. Then she took it to her room and found a safe place for it to live on the table next to her bed.
When she woke the next morning she could hear the magic stick singing to her.
Today there’s magic in the air – I’ll lead you to a treasure fair!
Picking up the stick, she felt it start to shake and it seemed to say ‘Follow me’. She let the stick show her where to go and it led her out into the garden, right down to where some beautiful birds’ feathers had been left on the grass. ‘This must be the treasure fair,’ thought the little girl, and she decided to tie the feathers to her magic stick to make it more beautiful than before.
The next morning when she woke up the magic stick was singing to her again.
Today there’s magic in the air – I’ll lead you to a treasure fair!
She followed the magic stick out of her house and across to the beach, and there on the golden sands lay some pretty shells, all pink and white and patterned bright. ‘This must be the treasure fair,’ thought the little girl, and she decided to tie the shells to her magic stick to make it more beautiful than before.
The next morning when she woke up the magic stick was singing to her again.
Today there’s magic in the air – I’ll lead you to a treasure fair!
But this time the magic stick did not lead her out of the house. Instead it sang all the way up the hall and into her mother’s and father’s room. There on the bed were her parents with a tiny new baby lying between them. The baby was wrapped up in a warm blanket. ‘This is indeed a treasure fair,’ thought the little girl, and she held her magic stick with its bright colours and beautiful feathers and shells up for the little baby to see. The baby smiled and the little girl felt so happy inside that she thought she would burst!
From that day to this, the magic stick has helped this little girl have many adventures and find many treasures. But her most favourite ‘treasure fair’ was finding a new baby all wrapped up in a warm blanket on her parents’ bed.
A story for a four-year-old boy to help introduce the news of a baby sister joining the family. The watery theme was chosen to link with the water birth that the mother had planned to have at home.
Once upon a time there was a little boy who had a very special friend. This friend was not like all his other friends. This friend lived far away, up in Cloud Heaven, high in the sky.
The little boy could sometimes hear his friend whispering down to him when he was out in the garden. And sometimes in his dreams at night the boy would visit Cloud Heaven and the two children would play happily together, rolling and tumbling in the soft whiteness, and jumping from cloud to cloud.
One day his special friend decided it was time to leave her cloud home and come down and live on the earth with the little boy’s family.
The special friend said goodbye to everyone in Cloud Heaven. Then the Lady of the Rain wrapped her in a violet cloak and carried her down with her next shower of raindrops. She placed her softly into the world below, in a big pool of cooling water.
The boy’s mother and father were waiting for her. They lifted her up and out of the water pool and showed her to the little boy. ‘This is your new baby sister’ they said, ‘and she is called Laila.’ She has come to live with us. She needs a little time to grow and get used to being in the world, but soon she will be ready to play with you.’
It was a most beautiful day and the boy’s family was so happy to have a new child come to live in their home. The little boy made some pictures for the walls of the baby’s room and collected brightly coloured leaves and flowers for a mobile to hang over the baby’s bed. Sometimes he would hold his new little sister in his arms and hug her and sing lullabies to her.
Soon Laila had grown big enough to crawl around, and then walk and then run.
In no time at all it was Laila’s first birthday and the little boy was helping her open her first birthday present.
It was a beautiful golden ball!
The little boy rolled it across the floor and his sister rolled it back to him. The little boy laughed and his sister laughed too. Together they played with the golden ball, laughing and having such fun, just as they had once played together in heaven.
‘The Monkey Tree’ was written by a family daycare worker, Jilly Norris, for a four-year-old girl whose parents had separated. The child was finding it difficult adapting to the new shared-custody arrangements. She had 3 teenage siblings and her home life was often noisy and a little ‘chaotic’ (which is why Jilly chose the monkey theme). This story could be adapted to suit a variety of ages and predicaments relating to separation and separation anxiety. (See Chapter 32 for a more detailed account of the effect of this story).
Once upon a time, in the middle of a jungle, there was a family of cheeky monkeys who all lived together in their monkey tree.
They were as busy, cheeky and noisy as could be,
They chattered and laughed in their monkey tree,
They swung from their tails and scratched their fleas,
and played together happily.
One small monkey whose name was Mali was learning from her big brothers and sisters how to make a night-time nest in the monkey tree, by bending and tucking the soft branches and leaves together to make a cosy bed. It was not easy and sometimes Mali would fall through the bottom of the nest. But after much practice she learned to make her bed properly, so that she could sleep in it as cosy as cosy can be.
Mali slept in her night-time nest as cosy as can be,
Surrounded by the nests of her monkey family.
One morning Mali was playing with her cousins when there was a rumbling sound in the sky. Mali took no notice, but her older brothers and sisters and cousins began to chatter more loudly than ever and climbed to the top of the monkey tree to see what they could see.
Dark rain clouds began to gather in the sky, the thunder rumbled and lightning crashed. Rain began to fall and the wind began to blow. The monkeys all huddled together in the middle of the tree to wait for the storm to pass. They were very quiet… Suddenly there was a loud cracking and creaking noise and a big branch broke away from their monkey tree and tumbled down to the ground far below.
Eventually, the rain stopped falling and the wind stopped blowing and the dark clouds moved away so that the monkeys could see and feel the warm sun again.
Because one big branch was gone from their tree, some of the monkeys had to go and make their night-time nests in a neighbouring tree. So now the monkeys were very busy.
Mali thought it was rather exciting to go and visit some of her family in another tree and she made a nest there too, just in case she decided to sleep over.
Now the family of monkeys lived in two monkey trees, and once again…
They were as busy, cheeky and noisy as could be,
They chattered and laughed in their monkey trees,
They swung from their tails and scratched their fleas,
and played together happily.
And Mali now had nests in two monkey trees, so that…
Mali slept in her night-time nests as cosy as can be,
Surrounded by the nests of her monkey family.
This story was written for a five-year-old whose mother suddenly left home, leaving the boy with relatives (the mother returned 5 months later). The story not only helped the child feel stronger, but it helped his relatives too. It is included here by permission of the author, Alison Brooking.
Once upon a time there was a Child Star who was happy playing in the sky with the other stars. He was always shining, and in the night time when his Mother the Moon was there, all the children on earth could see him even when it was dark. In the daytime he was still shining but no one could see him because Father Sun was so big and bright that he outshone all the stars.
As Father Sun went to sleep, the Moon would rise and come and remind her star children to shine brightly on the earth all through the night, to help the children there. She would polish them and look after them, and together they would shine silver beams down onto earth, so that all the little night animals could see their food and so that all the plants could grow. The Child Star liked to be near Mother Moon and he could feel her soft moonbeams touching him too.
One evening, as the last of the sun’s rays were shining on the earth, Child Star was waiting for Mother Moon to come along on her nightly visit to all the stars. He waited a long time with his friends in the sky, but she did not come. All the stars waited and it became very dark and cold, and Child Star began to feel sad. Then he thought to himself – it will be very dark down on the earth for the possums and owls and children, if Mother Moon isn’t shining down her moonbeams. He decided that Mother Moon would like it if he polished himself and made himself so bright that it wouldn’t be so dark on earth. So he was very brave and he rubbed and polished himself until he was shining so brightly, and then he told his brother and sister star children to do the same.
Down on the earth, a little girl was sitting looking out of her bedroom window into the dark, dark night, waiting for the moon to rise. She felt cold, sitting there for so long, but she wanted to see the stars twinkling and feel the moonbeams on her face. This was her favourite part of the evening – after her mother had sung her a goodnight song she would tiptoe out of bed and sit at her window looking up at the sky. But on this evening she started to yawn and yawn and rub her eyes because it was pitch dark around her. Just as she was nodding off to sleep she saw one little star begin to twinkle all on its own. The star grew brighter and brighter and it felt as though it was shining down just on her. It was Child Star! Then another star and another started to shine, until at last the sky was filled with bright twinkling stars that seemed to be so happy, even as if they were talking to each other. This made the little girl so happy and at last she went to sleep.
The next morning, when Father Sun spread his warm sunbeams out across the sea and the hills, Child Star was fast asleep, tired after his long night’s work. He had never had to shine so brightly on his own before. He dreamt that his dear Mother Moon was talking to him and she was saying ‘I am very proud of what a wonderful brave and shining star you have become, Child Star. Soon I will come back and shine in the sky again, but until then you will have to play with your friends and polish each other at night, so you can still shine light down onto the earth. To help you with the shining, you can catch some of Father Sun’s warm sunbeams as he goes down at the end of the day, and if you are very careful with them, he will help you to use them properly. I love you, Child Star, and I think of you all the time. Goodnight, Child Star.’
That night Child Star awoke and heard his mother’s words inside him and he knew that he wasn’t alone and he didn’t have to feel so sad. He remembered what she said. The next evening, instead of trying to shine so brightly all by himself, he asked Father Sun if he could catch some of his last golden rays to store up, and in this way he became the brightest star in the sky.
A therapeutic story for ‘separation anxiety’, written for a four-year-old boy who was having difficulty parting from his mother at pre-school. See Chapter Four for the unpredictable consequence of this story.
Mother Bear Koala and her baby lived high up in the tallest gum tree in the forest. All day long Mother Bear climbed from branch to branch, picking juicy gum leaves to feed her hungry baby. When all the best leaves on one branch were finished, up to the next branch she would go, with Baby Bear Koala holding tightly onto her back.
Mother Bear Koala sitting in a tree
Baby Bear Koala crying ‘I’m hun-gry’!
Picking juicy leaves for breakfast and for lunch,
Eating juicy leaves, munchety-crunch.
Picking juicy leaves for lunch and for tea,
Eating juicy leaves, munchety-dee.
When all the best leaves on this branch were finished, down to another branch Mother Bear would go, with her baby holding tightly onto her back.
Mother Bear Koala sitting in a tree
Baby Bear Koala crying ‘I’m hun-gry’!
Picking juicy leaves for breakfast and for lunch,
Eating juicy leaves, munchety-crunch.
Picking juicy leaves for lunch and for tea,
Eating juicy leaves, munchety-dee.
There were so many branches on the gum tree. Every day Mother Bear Koala would move to a new branch to find fresh juicy gum leaves for her baby. Every day, up or down she would climb, with Baby Bear Koala on her back. He was always so hungry!
And every day Baby Bear Koala was growing bigger and bigger, eating juicy gum leaves for breakfast, lunch and tea – and growing bigger and bigger and bigger! As he grew bigger and bigger he grew heavier and heavier, until he was so heavy that it was difficult for Mother Bear to lift him onto her back – and even more difficult for her to climb up and down the tree with him.
Mother Bear Koala was growing very tired from all this hard work. Then one day, while she was sitting in the fork of the tree and Baby Bear Koala was crying – I’m hun-gry! – Mother Bear Koala was so, so tired that she fell asleep right there! And she was so fast asleep that Baby Bear could not wake her, no matter how loud he cried.
Eventually Baby Bear Koala climbed off his mother’s back and sat on the branch next to his sleeping mother. Up above him he could see some yummy leaves to eat – he was so hungry! How he would love to pick those juicy leaves for his lunch. How he would love to eat those juicy leaves, munchety-crunch!
Then Baby Bear Koala thought – maybe I am big enough to climb up and pick those juicy leaves by myself. He sat for a while – those leaves looked so juicy.
Then he started to climb up the trunk – he was a little bit scared but it was easier to do than he thought. His baby claws had grown long and sharp and strong. They dug into the tree trunk and stopped him from sliding down.
Up and up he went, higher and higher, until finally he reached the next branch. He crawled along a little way, slowly and carefully. Looking down he could see his mother asleep in the fork of the tree below. He was so high and he felt so brave. Right in front of him were some juicy leaves, so he picked some for his lunch, and he sat high up in the tree all by himself, eating juicy leaves, munchety-crunch.
Later that day Mother Koala Bear woke up and looked around. Where was her baby? She looked down – had he fallen off her back and out of the tree? Baby Bear Koala was nowhere to be seen! Then she heard a munchety-crunch noise and looked up. There was her baby, on a higher branch – not a baby anymore, but a little koala bear, all by himself, having his lunch.
Mother Koala Bear smiled a very big smile. Then she climbed up the tree and sat next to little koala bear. Together they picked juicy leaves for lunch and for tea, and together they ate juicy leaves, munchety-dee.
Stories need to be told to really come alive! So far the emphasis in this book has been on story content – with little mention of story delivery.
In this section some attention will be given to storytelling techniques and a variety of presentation ideas. Please accept this as a ‘taster’ only, not a comprehensive guide. The subject of storytelling, one of the oldest known art forms, is very extensive and culturally rich. The Storytelling unit that I developed for Southern Cross University is a course lasting 150 hours, and even this is not long enough to fully explore the topic.
Two books that provide excellent and detailed guidance for the keen storyteller are Storytelling and the Art of Imagination and Storytelling with Children, both by Nancy Mellon. These and many other references, including storytelling websites are listed at the back of the book.
What is the difference between telling or reading a story? I was once working in a holiday daycare centre, and taking the most of the opportunity to include a storytelling session every day of the week. One seven-year-old boy, who was obviously enjoying the experience, said to me, ‘You know Susan, I think ‘person’ stories are much better than ‘book’ stories.’
I have also been asked, ‘Do you come from a different land?’ by a child in my audience who had just heard stories ‘told’ for the first time in his life. Children notice the difference between telling and reading, even if they are not old enough to articulate or fully understand what it is. Storytelling is very different to story reading. In storytelling the sharing of the story is more personal – the storyteller connects more directly with the audience through eyes, gesture, voice and proximity. Not bound by the words in the book, the teller is also free to use his own words within the framework of the story. This freedom of language and movement add to the personal nature of storytelling.
Storytelling allows much more room for the child’s imagination. Rather than the pictures in a picture book providing the images, the storyteller’s words stimulate the listener to create mental pictures of the story. The storyteller’s face, voice, body and personality also help to convey mood and meaning. One of the most common remarks from my storytelling classes is that the best thing about listening to a ‘told’ story is that there is no book getting in the way of the story experience.
Maureen Watson, an indigenous Australian storyteller, says told stories ‘touch’ the audience. I have experienced this many times – through eyes, voice and gestures the storyteller spins out invisible threads from her body that ‘touch’ the listeners, and can thus ‘hold’ them in her grasp from start to finish. In fact, this is often a way for the storyteller to quieten a restless child. With a quick flash of eye contact, or a change in voice or hand gesture, the child receives a direct message without the storyteller needing to move from her place or deviate from the story. Usually ‘homeopathic’ messages are suitable for the little ones, increasing to stronger doses for older children!
The ‘holding’ power of storytelling can help develop and strengthen concentration. This ability is much lacking in many ‘TV’ children today, who are used to sitting passively in front of a screen and being entertained. During a one-year storytelling programme in my kindergarten I have many times observed remarkable changes in the children’s concentration. Five-year-old children who can hardly sit still for two minutes in Term One, can concentrate deeply for at least fifteen to twenty minutes at story time by the end of the year. This concentration is carried into other activities, and is one of the most important preparations and skills necessary for formal learning.
For the above educational reasons, storytelling is very valuable at school. For the pre-school and kindergarten ages, repetition of the same story is an important part of the programme for young children (as discussed in previous chapters, they thrive on the repetition); for primary ages, as the stories grow in length, the teacher can experiment with telling a part of a story each day, having the children recount it the following day, then continuing on with the next section or chapter of the story. This exercise also strengthens concentration and memory
Although the ‘told’ experience is undoubtedly a more lively and personal way of sharing a story, both telling and reading are important ways of delivering or presenting stories. There is a place for both in our role as carers of young children. Especially with the dominance of ‘screen’ media in children’s lives today, having stories told and/or read by adults is a wonderful blessing. Sometimes, especially in one-to-one situations, the ‘book’ can be a bridge that brings a closeness through sitting side by side, or, for a young child, on the adult’s lap.
During story reading with picture books, the child or children use the illustrations to help understand and appreciate the story. There is often occasional eye contact between reader and listeners, and this helps to build the connection between them. If the reader knows the story quite well, he can improvise with the wording in some places and use the sequence of pictures like a ‘prop’ for storytelling. If reading the exact words, then the reader should experiment with ways to make sure the audience has a clear view of the pictures, either holding the picture up at the end of each page of words, or holding the book permanently within view so the pictures are accessible to all the children in the audience. For a teacher, it helps to be well prepared by reading the story beforehand.
There are many beautiful picture books on the market that are a delight for both adult and child to share. For help in choosing these, the age-appropriate indications given earlier in this book apply. A golden rule is to avoid anything that has strong or scary images for the younger ones. This follows the same logic as the importance of ‘happy and hope-filled endings’ to feed the growing child.
For older children, who have outgrown most picture books, and who can usually read by themselves, it is wonderful for teachers and parents to still continue a ritual of shared reading, from both classic poetry collections and favourite novels. These experiences will be remembered for a lifetime. I still enjoy being read to by my husband sometimes, before falling into a deep and very relaxed sleep.
Storytelling is born out of the oral tradition.
Story reading depends on the written text.
Both are important ways of sharing stories
Most important is for you to have your own experience of the difference between telling and reading. If there is a storytelling group, or a teacher/storyteller near you, go along to the local school or library and listen. Or experiment with your friends – see if they will read to you and then tell a story to you. They could even use the daily news or ‘gossip’ as their stories – both read and told. After all, we tell stories in an informal way to each other all the time.
The best way to become a storyteller is to tell stories! Through the practice of storytelling you will learn surprising lessons. The art of storytelling is personal and individual. Every storyteller and every audience is different. Every time a story is told it is a new and different experience.
However, despite the personal nature of the art of storytelling, there are some helpful tips and techniques worth reading about and trying out. I have tried to summarise these in the following pages.
The best advice I can offer to you when starting to tell stories is to continually remind yourself that the experience of storytelling is ‘sharing’ rather than ‘performance’. This sense can minimise the tension you may feel about sharing a story for the first time … the experience should be enjoyable for both you and your listeners. In fact they will enjoy it most if you do!
Another tip is to imagine yourself as part of the ‘world-wide-story-web’, keeping alive the special stories that you find through telling them to others. This imaginative vision can help remind you that you are not alone in your telling, but one of millions of people around the world who are sharing stories with each other.
Being well-prepared will also help you feel relaxed. Unless you have the rare quality of being a natural storyteller, this preparation may be hard work and laborious. But once you really ‘know’ a story well, it lives in your resource kit forever.
There are different ways of preparing and learning stories:
| • | Memorising word by word |
| • | Memorising through sequencing or framing the images – i.e. visualising in your imagination the scenes in the story journey in correct sequence. If it helps, you can summarise or sketch these on paper. |
| • | Improvising – having a basic sequence, possibly with the story beginning and ending well rehearsed, then improvising the rest. |
Whichever way you find easiest, it is important to actually use your voice in your practise sessions, and not just ‘think’ the story through. The process of bringing the story ‘down’ (from your head into your voice) is an important one for a storyteller’s preparation.
Creating simple rituals for storytelling helps to build the mood and encourage the audience to listen from the first moment. A story ritual helps the teller and the audience to cross the bridge from the busy everyday world into the realm of story. This can be as simple as the storyteller playing some music before the story. In many cultures the main ritual or tradition for stories was that they were told at night around the fire, creating a connection between time and place.
In the home environment, the ritual may be as simple as lighting a candle at bedtime and singing a lullaby at the end of the story. Or telling a short story or funny story at the end of the evening meal. Or establishing a tradition of shared storytelling on long walks or car journeys.
In the professional environment, a therapist or counsellor could have a story bag or box (with props and puppets inside), or a sand tray with animals and figurines. Stories could arise from these each time the child comes to visit.
In my teaching work my rituals have varied depending on my venue and audience, but have been known to include any or all of the following:
| • | Playing music (before and after the story) |
| • | Lighting a candle or lantern |
| • | Sitting on a special ‘story’ chair or stool |
| • | Arranging a story corner or table for props and puppets |
| • | Having a set time in the rhythm of the day for ‘story’ |
| • | Helping bring children into a ‘listening mood’ by using some finger games before the story |
| • | Leading the children into the room with a ‘story’ song |
(used in East Africa to lead the kindergarten children inside for story time – in English and Kiswahili)
Come with me to a fairytale land
To a land where stories unfold,
Follow the rainbow over the bridge
Into the garden of gold.
Fungua mlango kwa hadithi za kale
Hapo mahala kwenye shamba la hadithi
Fuata mwenge kwenye shamba la dhahabu.
For older primary children the situation is usually more direct and less ritualistic. The teacher/storyteller often needs to stand, not sit, in front of the class to tell the story.
When telling stories to older children, a standing position may be necessary to allow a more dramatic telling style – the age group and the contents of the myths, legends and other story genres will probably demand this. However, there will also be times when, to soothe or quieten an excited class, or to suit the mood of the particular story, the teacher may choose to sit and tell it, adopting the simpler, less dramatic storytelling style that is most suited to younger children (see also Chapter 31).
No matter what age the audience, though, playing an instrument (guitar, small harp, drum) works well to mark the beginning of the story and ‘bring in’ the listeners.
At fairs and festivals I have danced through a crowd playing a recorder like a Pied Piper to gather up the audience. I once set up a storytelling tipi with a magic stepping stone pathway leading to the entrance – this proved to be a wonderful house for storytelling. I have also sat under a tree blowing enormous bubbles to attract the attention of the children, then started my session with a bubble story.
Being sensitive to other cultures is something one needs to consider when telling and writing stories. I first learnt about this when working with Xhosa teachers in Cape Town. I was suggesting ideas for a healing story that included a monkey. The group went quiet then a teacher spoke up. ‘It is considered bad luck to have a monkey in a story,’ she said. She didn’t want to elaborate, so I didn’t push for an explanation. The monkey was taken out of the story and, after checking for suggestions and approval, a rabbit leapt into its place!
This experience taught me to do more thorough research when working in other countries and with other cultures. Sometimes this can be as simple as having a chat with one of my indigenous colleagues at breaktime, or going online or to a library. For a teacher of a multi-cultural group, a child’s parents would be a good first source of information.
Folk- and fairytales contain something of the unique quality of the culture from which they are drawn. By telling folktales from diverse cultures we can help to strengthen our children’s global rather than just national consciousness. An American Indian storyteller once told me she believed the ‘timbre’ of a people’s stories conveyed their heart qualities.
Any classroom dedicated to promoting multiculturalism should have an abundance of folktales available. Such stories are a healing balm for our modern times. As well as enriching all children, experience has shown that minority children, in particular, ‘light up’ when they hear a story drawn from their own culture. This acknowledgement of a child’s cultural background can be both reassuring and strengthening.
When telling indigenous stories, it is respectful to research the history and meaning behind the tales (see website references at back of book). Before telling such stories, it is also respectful to question how appropriate it is for a non-indigenous person to do this. I have found most cultural communities quite open and enthusiastic here – our common interest in storytelling seems to build bridges. Also, asking permission to tell a story is very different from requesting to print it.
In Groome’s book on Teaching Aboriginal Studies Effectively, the chapter on ‘Stories of the Dreaming’ is a help to storytellers who wish to share stories from indigenous Australian culture. Groome suggests that any teller of the Dreaming Stories needs to understand the history and the range of purposes of such stories – from teaching spiritual realities to teaching behaviour and values. They are stories of ‘beginnings’, and, according to Maureen Watson, a well-known indigenous Australian storyteller, they are just as relevant today as they were in the past. Although I have respectfully told Aboriginal Dreamtime stories, I have not included any in print form in this book. Their ownership lies with groups of indigenous elders, not just one person, and it is considered inappropriate for a non-indigenous person to seek permission for their written use.
As you investigate ways of storytelling in different cultures, you will find many different rituals for starting and finishing stories. There are many more ways to begin a story than Once upon a time …
| • | A story, a story, let it come, let it go! … (West African) |
| • | Hadithi Hadithi, Maziwa ya watoto wote! – A story, a story, milk for all the children! – (East African) |
| • | Mother had a treasure, a treasure for her children – what do you think the treasure was? The treasure was a story! … (South African) |
| • | Phela, phela ntsomi – traditional Xhosa ritual meaning ‘end of story’ |
| • | And now you can have your supper, say your prayers and go to bed … Morning is wiser than evening. (Russian) |
I encourage you to experiment with some of the above, or even make up your own. This particularly applies to any that relate to your own culture, and/or the culture of the story you are telling and of the children in your class or audience (after checking with the parents of a child from the relevant culture, of course). However, be careful and sensitive – some of these ideas may not suit who you are, your personal background, and where you live. They may just not feel right to you.
In planning your storytelling for different audiences and occasions, it helps to be aware of the many different kinds of stories there are. Most stories occupy a position somewhere on several of the following continuums:
| • | short to long |
| • | funny to serious |
| • | local to global/universal |
| • | simple to complex |
| • | general to specific |
| • | real to imaginary |
The list could go on – stories that are strong and dramatic to stories that are light and frivolous; stories with or without audience participation; stories that are full of rhyme and/or song …
The environmental fairytale, ‘Garden of Light’ (see page 127), is imaginary, medium to long, serious, quite complex and with universal relevance. ‘The Antelope, The Butterfly and The Chameleon’ (see page 224) is a folktale that is imaginary but with real elements. It is also funny, but with a serious lesson to be learnt about facing fears.
If you are getting confused, don’t be alarmed. It is probably because the very nature of stories doesn’t allow them to be neatly boxed and sorted. However, one good reason to be aware of the possible continuums is to help you plan an appropriate mix in your weekly and yearly programme (if you are a teacher); within your session (if you are a ‘storyteller’); and in your family life for parents/carers.
If you find yourself always telling or reading the same type of story (e.g. always humorous, or always real, or always sad) then I suggest you try to stretch your tastes a little and look further for some new and different ‘polarities’, as your personality may be dominating your selection. With my love of Africa and African tales, I have to constantly remind myself to research and tell stories from other cultures!
As a storyteller you will find yourself sifting through many stories until you find the ones that appeal – fortunately the story-well is bottomless! I strongly recommend that you love or at least like, or feel a connection to, the stories you choose to tell. However, it is equally important to take the audience into account when choosing a story or stories. Is the audience mono-cultural or multi-cultural, all boys or all girls, or mixed? Have the audience been involved already in hours of concentrated activity, or have they just arrived at school? Has your audience previously experienced ‘told’ stories (rather than read)?
If you are telling a story at a fair or festival, how much background noise and action may distract your listeners? For a noisy venue, you would be wise to plan stories with audience participation and lots of change and activity, rather than long and serious stories that require a high degree of concentration.
The age of the children, as discussed in a previous section, is also a significant factor, and your decisions here can be guided by common sense. I once read about an eminent actor sharing passages of ‘Hamlet’ with infant children and being surprised that the class quickly grew bored. Perhaps if he wanted to share Shakespeare, some light passages from Puck in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ might have been a better choice for young ones, and even then it would be difficult to hold their concentration for long. Equally inappropriate would be telling ‘The Gingerbread Man’ to eleven-year-olds, unless you were preparing them to script a pantomime for little children.
Sometimes a storyteller who is not connected as a teacher to a particular class is expected to tell stories to a mixed group, aged say between 4 and 9, at the library, or in a small school where the entire infants’ department gathers to listen.
The best way to prepare for this is to choose some universal stories that are suited to a range of ages – a really good story, more often than not, is a good story for everyone. Such stories would need a ‘happy ending’ to ensure that the young ones’ needs are considered, but could also be longer or more complex, or with humour, to appeal to the older ones. I have found that younger children seem to be able to concentrate for longer if the older children around them are absorbed in the story. The younger ones seem to imitate the ‘concentration’ level.
A tip for the times when you may have only a few older ones and mostly young ones is to tell stories for the younger audience but say to the older children before you begin: ‘Here is a chance for you to learn a story to use when you are next babysitting younger children.’ This will relieve the tension of older children feeling like ‘babies’. If possible involve the older ones as helpers – holding the felt-board or playing the drum, etc.
Storytelling is not always such a planned experience. You will find that the more you enjoy sharing stories, the more occasions seem to pop up for you to do this, from babysitting a friend’s child to being at a local restaurant with a group of friends.
As a teacher you may need to fill in ten minutes on an excursion while your class waits in a bus shelter for the bus; or you may have been asked to take a younger class while their teacher makes a phone call – the only way to be prepared for such impromptu events is to have a varied range of stories to draw on.
As a parent, there are unlimited possibilities for impromptu storytelling. In the car, at bedtime, on long walks, at the table while drawing a picture or doodling, in the kitchen while rolling the pastry or kneading dough (perhaps the Gingerbread Man can be replaced by a pastry or dough-ball man?). There are also rich possibilities in shared story banter, incorporating ideas from the children as you go along. In so many ways, families have the most fertile ground for planting and nurturing storytelling seeds.
In the professional environment, with a therapist or counsellor, opportunities for impromptu stories will arise with every new child. Stories or story ideas can be semi-prepared based on items in a story bag or box (with props and puppets inside), or items in a sand tray with animals and figurines. However, you may find it necessary to tell stories that take the needs of the individual child into account. Improvisation will be called for here.
Especially for young children, storytelling sessions can be enriched and extended by the use of props or presentation aids. The possibilities are endless, but it can help to keep your planning simple, for two main reasons:
| 1. | The simpler the props the more the children’s imaginations are left free to do the ‘work’ |
| 2. | The simpler the props the less preparation for the teller (an important consideration for a busy teacher, therapist or parent) |
Children’s imaginations can easily accept an open seedpod as a boat in the ‘Magic Fish’; three gum-nuts or acorns as the three pigs and a pine cone as the wolf or hyena in the ‘Three Little Pigs’; a large smooth stone for the hippo in the story of ‘Hot Hippo’; or some knotted handkerchief dolls for a prince and princess.
I encourage you to experiment with simple ideas – you will be surprised how easy and effective they can be. Investigating storytelling in other cultures will provide inspiration here, for example:
| • | the use of ‘picture cloths’ in India |
| • | the use of ‘picture scrolls’ in parts of Europe |
| • | using storyboards in Papua New Guinea |
| • | using folded paper figures in Japan |
| • | working with string figures in parts of Asia, Africa and the Pacific |
| • | sand drawings used in storytelling by indigenous Australian peoples |
| • | working with song, dance and instruments (many cultures) |
Many years ago at the local playgroup, when I first ‘put down the book’ and attempted to tell ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’, I was a nervous wreck of a human being! Having props was essential for me to get through the ordeal. I had arranged on the floor a little table with 3 bowls, 3 chairs (made from toy blocks), and 3 beds (made from little boxes). In my hand I clutched, at different times during the story, one doll and 3 different-sized bears, all found in the playgroup toy box. The props were set out in front of me so that by the time I had worked my way across the scenes, I would get through the story and the sequence would be correct. Eventually I reached the end. The children in front of me, oblivious to my nervous state, were sitting wide-eyed and asking for another story!
Many years later, I no longer need presentation aids to boost my confidence, but I still choose to use them sometimes (on a rare occasion even when telling stories to teenagers or adults) for the following reasons. Props can help …
| • | arouse curiosity |
| • | the children to listen and concentrate |
| • | the teller to remember the sequence of the story |
| • | develop the confidence of a new storyteller |
| • | add an artistic dimension to the story |
| • | provide a variety of story presentations |
Some stories lend themselves to the use of props – especially many of the short sequential and repetitive stories for young children, e.g. ‘The Enormous Turnip and The Magic Fish’. Other stories are made more wondrous and magical with just one simple prop, e.g. cutting an apple across the middle to reveal the star inside adds a vital dimension to ‘The Star Apple’ story (see page 104). Playing a small drum throughout ‘The Invisible Hunter’ (see page 181), an American Indian fairytale, helps give strength to the repetitive song. Also, because it is quite a long story, the ‘prop’ of the song combined with the drumming can help keep audience concentration.
Even though props are more suited for use with storytelling for the younger age groups, don’t discount their value for any age audience. I recently used a broom from the corner of the stage as a prop at an adult storytelling evening – it helped inject some necessary humour into the occasion!
Stories that are longer, with a more involved plot, are usually too complicated for props. A major production would be required, and this crosses into the realms of puppetry or theatre. It is usually simpler to let these stories unfold in the listener’s imagination. Props could spoil this, and interrupt the concentration that develops during the storytelling process.
You also need to weigh up how much time you are prepared to spend on this. Whatever props you choose to make or use, they must be ‘workable’, i.e. not fall over, or not so many that you can’t move them with two hands. You also need to practise with them several times before the ‘performance’. A certain amount of ‘choreography’ and ‘stage-sense’ is needed here – e.g. not having the puppet or doll with its back to the audience, how to move it out of its house and across the scene, how (if the figure represents a person) to walk it like a human being and not ‘hop it’ like a kangaroo (and vice versa).
Over time you will develop a sense, through trial and error, of when a story needs props and when it works fine, or is stronger, without any help. Also you will know when you need props as a teller, and when you can do without.
My suggestion, especially if you are lacking confidence, is to start with props.
Some stories are not only well suited to the use of presentation aids, but can be ‘propped’ in many different ways (not all at once of course). In presenting the Norwegian tale of ‘The Three Billy Goats’, I have sat in a chair with a log on my lap (for the bridge) and a blue cloth flowing down to the floor (for the water). For the goats I have used stuffed knitted animals, or more simply, some teased white fleece or folded leaves. The troll can be represented by a knotted mess of dark-brown fleece, or a pinecone.
Alternatively, a puppet show can be set up on a table or in a sand tray, with some natural materials to create the scene, and some small knitted or clay animals for the characters. The story can also be told using a felt board, with felt pieces as props, or with finger puppets on one hand, and the other hand used as the bridge.
I have sometimes dressed children as the characters, using headbands with different-sized feathers for the billy-goat horns, and a large hooded cloak for the troll (who usually sits inside a basket next to me, and pops out at the right moments in the story). The ‘goats’ cross a bridge made from a long bench or a large log.
Another approach has been to ‘prop’ the story with musical instruments. For this I give all the children in the audience a range of different instruments for the characters – e.g. triangles or bells for the little goat; tambourines for the middle goat; drums for the large goat. Of course they have to learn to follow the storyteller/conductor, watching for when my hands lift up (to play) and go down (to stop).
All the above suggestions, and more (the possibilities are endless), can be experimented with and applied to many stories. Using props can be creative, enjoyable and fun for both the storyteller and the children!
The chart overleaf (see pages 270–271) has been used in formal storytelling courses to assess the skills of the teller. You may find it useful to print out and use as a way to evaluate yourself or others. Please don’t be overwhelmed by this. Storytelling is personal and individual. Many natural storytellers have never submitted themselves to such an exercise.
The chart is included to help identify and clarify various ‘elements of competence’ in storytelling. It is probably more useful for teachers than parents.
However, a caution to all storytellers: when telling stories to young children, be careful not to exaggerate characters or use an over-dramatic telling style, especially for folk- or fairytales. This is a common mistake. Our aim should not be to scare or over-excite our young listeners but to nourish and strengthen them through the story’s content. Trust in the power of the images to convey the story. Our main role as tellers to young children is simply to pass the story on to them. Their vivid imaginations will do the work all the better if our own personality does not overwhelm them.
A story a day keeps the doctor away
If this book has achieved its aim then you will already be experiencing the medicinal qualities of ‘a story a day’. After three decades of story experiences, I am still regularly surprised by their healing powers. Old stories continually come alive in different ways, while new stories bring fresh light into my life and work.
I was recently on a car journey with my eldest son and his little boy. The child was extremely upset as his mother had gone to work and he wanted to go with her. He was crying and squirming in his car seat, seemingly inconsolable. My son was upset because his child was upset, and I was sitting in the front seat wondering what I could say or do that could help. Then we turned a corner in the road, and Kieren’s pile of surfboards in the back of the car slid across each other and made several loud squeaky noises. It reminded me of the ‘squeaky bed’ story, so I decided to tell it. My decision was a gamble, as little Tosh was quite young (he had only turned three that week) and he was making so much noise that at first my words could hardly be heard. Then suddenly, and magically, there was complete silence. Five minutes later I finished the story and a little voice said, ‘Can we have ’nother one?’ By the time we reached our destination, the three of us were singing songs and laughing and the mood had completely changed.
A difficult situation had, in the most simple and unplanned way, been healed by the power of ‘story’.
*
A new story that has recently touched my life was from a Canadian colleague, Sandra, now living and working in Australia. A few weeks after attending one of my workshops, she contacted me to discuss her sudden and humbling task of helping plan a ceremony for a young child, a girl from her kindergarten who – a few months before her fourth birthday – had died from a snake-bite while camping in the rainforest with her family (see story on page 240).
Taking ideas from the parents, images from the rainforest and the child’s other favourite things, and images from current natural phenomena (a comet passed overhead the day the child died), Sandra combined these with her own personal knowledge of the little girl, Shalem, and created a very moving ritual and story to share at the ceremony.
Shalem was described by many who knew her as ‘a most ethereal little girl – a butterfly who fluttered here and there, a child with a lively imagination and an exuberant nature’. Shalem was close to her grandfather whom she thought was like a big Koala Bear. Some of Shalem’s favourite things were playing ‘peek-a-boo’, being in nature, the colour blue, butterflies, insects, and bowerbirds (Australian birds that build bowers in the forest and love to decorate them with all things ‘blue’). The morning after Shalem’s death a bowerbird dropped a pair of blue plastic angel wings outside Shalem’s family tent.
Sandra, on suggestion from the mother, chose the blue Ulysses butterfly as the metaphor in her story to represent the child and her journey. Called ‘Shimmer Wing’, it is about nature and life cycles, and builds a connection from the earth to the heavens. At the ceremony, Sandra invited all the children and adults gathered in front of her to help make the sounds of the rainforest at special times through the story, giving the story ritual a lighter quality. At the end, families were given a birdwing vine to take home and plant in their own gardens – in the story the yellow-bell flower from the ‘birdwing’ vine is Shimmer Wing’s best friend.
Sandra’s story is a beautiful example of how story making and storytelling worked together to help commemorate the tragic end of a young child’s life. After Shalem’s death her parents reported that her big brother seemed to be filled with a strength of character, a bravery that he had not had previously, as though his sister’s courageous spirit had entered him. Shalem’s best friend, Bethanni, was particularly attached to a toy unicorn after her death. Bethanni’s mother commented how intently her daughter listened to the story at the ceremony.
There were other stories of individual growth following Shalem’s death and the ceremony. Shalem’s parents were very grateful for Sandra’s contribution and commented that ‘no wonder Shalem thought of Sandra as her ‘fairy godmother’ and loved coming to her kindergarten’. Apparently Shalem would not settle at any other daycare centre, and her mother had to keep searching until Shalem and Sandra found each other.
*
One of the most satisfying outcomes of my work with healing stories has been the growing network of workshop participants who send their thoughts, questions and story ideas to me. Most of these come via email, but some, particularly from many African colleagues, come across the ocean in text messages from their mobile phones.
Susan, need help with story for boy – 6 years – always pushing – too rough for others in group – any ideas?
Text messages pose an interesting problem for me if I want to write several ‘paragraphs’ in reply:
How about a story with a warthog that has to learn to use his tusks to do constructive things – like dig for food, dig holes to live in – perhaps start with warthog losing friends because of hurting them all the time with his strong tusks – then warthog comes across someone/something in need – perhaps stuck in mud – warthog helps him out and gains a friend – what do you think?
Fortunately I have recently mastered the art of using ‘predictive text’. Even better news is that some of my African colleagues now have computers and we can send long emails back and forth. Occasionally I call and attempt to chat over a crackling line.
The other night I opened my ‘inbox’ and found the following email from an Australian childcare worker.
I have attended a few of your workshops, the most recent in April this year. You mentioned it would be OK to write to you. I run a Steiner-influenced family daycare service and look after 3- to 5-year-olds.
Attached is a story – ‘The Monkey Tree’. I wrote it for a four-year-old child in my care whose parents separated last year. The child was finding it difficult adapting to new, shared custody arrangements. She has 3 teenage siblings and her home life is often noisy and a little ‘chaotic’, which is why I chose the monkey theme.
I would very much welcome your comments and feedback. Hoping I am on the right track. I have gained such a lot from your workshops and even write healing stories for myself!
I then opened the attachment and had the privilege of reading a beautifully written story – simple, with great repetition and rhyme suitable for a four-year-old, and excellent use of the framework of ‘metaphor, journey and resolution’ to meet the challenging situation.
In my reply I gushed positive feedback, then asked the following questions, which are vital for evaluating any therapeutic story:
Since telling the story have you observed any change in the behaviour of the child and family?
How many times have you told it at your daycare centre?
Have you given the story to the parents/grandparents/other carers to share with the child? If so, do you have any feedback from this?
A day later, her reply comprehensively answered the above questions:
‘Z’ has been in my care since February 2006. ‘Z’ was clearly quite upset and lacking confidence during the initial separation of her parents last year, but she eventually settled, although I could see her confidence was still low with the other children. When the new custody arrangements were made this year, she started to regress and become anxious and would cry and get upset when her parents left, and on occasion became very distressed.
That was when I decided to write the story. I gave the story to her mother to read at home and noticed an improvement at daycare almost immediately. I understand she often goes home to mum during her time with dad, but she has settled completely again with us here in daycare and is more confident and happier than at any time over the past year-and-a-half. I have spoken to her mum who says she read the story a few times and that ‘Z’ occasionally mentions the ‘Monkey Tree’, so seems to remember it. Mum also notes that she has become far less clingy and demanding and in fact is now the least emotionally demanding of the four children. I recently sent mum a photo, as her smile was more natural and real than I have seen for a long time.
With Jilly’s permission, I felt honoured to include ‘The Monkey Tree’ in this book (see page 246).
More recently, my email network seems to be magically growing to include people I have never met, from lands I have not yet visited. This morning, I opened a ‘gem’ from Whitehorse near the Alaskan border.
I have purchased some of your healing story collections presented to me by a kindergarten teacher from New Zealand. I now tell some of your stories regularly in my early childhood programs here in the Yukon in Canada, close to Alaska. For me they are my most valuable stories and the children are always touched by them in a special way.
I would love to attend one of your workshops and would like to know when and where you will have workshops in North America.
From this, plans are developing to visit the Yukon next year, with an open invitation for my husband and me to stay with this new ‘online’ friend. The arrangement is to exchange stories and story workshops for accommodation and meals. I have since been informed that her husband’s business is an organic bakery. ‘A story a day’ could mean that we will probably eat too much and need ‘a long walk a day’!
And a long walk a day may help bring new ideas for stories. While walking through the valleys and listening to the winds blow across the Yukon mountains, who knows what stories I may hear.
*
As this book comes full circle, I want to end it with a story.
Entitled ‘Lindelwe’s Song’, it is one I wrote many years ago about a ‘magic pumpkin’. I presented it as a gift to the women who were attending my training courses in South Africa in 1997. Its metaphors, journey and resolution were inspired by the following comment once made to me by an African friend, Nomangesi Mzamo.
Without our singing we would never have found our way through the thorns of apartheid.
It has since found its way into many Educare Centres and schools in the Cape Town townships. A friend, Nombulelo Majesi, once described it as a healing story for the new South Africa.
I always thought that this story had its main place and purpose in Africa. When I visit both Cape Town and Kenya, children and adults whom I meet and work with ask for it again and again – some of the children have given me the nickname ‘The pumpkin lady’.
However, I should have known better than to think that a story could be restricted to one ‘place’ and ‘purpose’. This year, to my surprise, it was presented as a puppet show at the recent ‘Vital Years’, an Australian biennial national early childhood conference. A friend called me about it, and then told me she was planning to return home (to the sub-tropical coast of north-eastern Australia) and present a similar puppet show for her school’s open day. These were her comments emailed to me after the event:
Hi Susan,
Just to let you know ‘Lindelwe’ was appreciated on many levels, from grandparents to toddlers. The atmosphere was spell-binding and magical. The metaphors you used are relevant to everyone, regardless of which country we live in. We will do a repeat performance this Thursday for the year 12 students followed by one for the teachers.. Thanks again. Regards,
Carol G – 4.8.07
Once upon a time, in the middle of a field next to a village, a tiny pumpkin seed started to grow. It grew and it grew and it grew – until its green vines covered the ground, and in the middle of the pumpkin patch was the biggest and most beautiful golden pumpkin that the villagers had ever seen.
But this was no ordinary pumpkin, and this was no ordinary field. As the pumpkin was growing, a circle hedge of thorn bushes grew up around the pumpkin patch. These bushes were so close and thick with thorns that by the time the pumpkin was ripe and ready to be picked, no one could get through the hedge to get to it.
The villagers had a meeting to decide what could be done. At the meeting an old grandfather said: ‘I have a sharp axe – I will try to chop down the hedge of thorns.’ So he took his sharp axe and started to chop through the hedge, but every time he chopped through a branch, another grew quickly in its place, and by the end of the day he had given up.
Then one of the mothers of the village said: ‘I have a strong spade – I will try to dig under the hedge of thorns.’ So she took her spade and started to dig down, but the roots of the thorn bushes were so strong and close together that by the end of the day she too had given up.
Then one of the young boys of the village said: ‘I am such a good tree climber – I will try to climb over the hedge of thorns.’ So he started to climb up the branches, but the thorns were as long and sharp as needles and they tore his clothes and pricked his skin, and by the end of the day he too had given up.
The next day Lindelwe, a young girl known to have the most beautiful voice in all the land, walked through the village. When she heard the problem she walked past the villagers, sat down on a rock next to the hedge of thorns, and started to sing:
Ithanga elikulu, Ithanga elikulu; lishleli ebobeni, lishleli ebobeni
Lindelwe’s singing was so beautiful that all the animals in the surrounding fields came closer to listen. [Repeat song]
Lindelwe’s singing was so beautiful that the birds in the sky flew down to sit in the trees to listen. [Repeat song]
Lindelwe’s singing was so beautiful that the worms and caterpillars crawled out of the ground to sit at her feet to listen. [Repeat song]
Lindelwe’s singing was so beautiful that even the clouds in the sky came down low to listen. [Repeat song]
One little cloud came so low that it landed right in front of her. Lindelwe stopped singing and smiled at the watching villagers as she stepped onto the middle of the little cloud. And the cloud lifted her up and over the hedge of thorns and right into the middle of the pumpkin patch.
And there, Lindelwe was able to pick the beautiful pumpkin and carry it back onto the little cloud. And the little cloud then lifted her up and over the hedge of thorns and all the way back to the centre of the village.
The villagers cooked the pumpkin for an enormous feast that evening. At the feast they celebrated the day that Lindelwe, with her beautiful singing, was able to find a way over the magic hedge of thorns to pick the most wonderful, most golden pumpkin in the land.