Norwegian folktale

 Once on a time, but it was a long, long time ago, there were two brothers, one rich and one poor. Now, one Christmas Eve, the poor one hadn’t so much as a crumb in the house, either of meat or bread, so he went to his brother to ask him for something to keep Christmas with, in God’s name. It was not the first time his brother had been forced to help him, and you may fancy he wasn’t very glad to see his face, but he said —

“If you will do what I ask you to do, I’ll give you a whole flitch of bacon.”

So the poor brother said he would do anything, and was full of thanks.

“Well, here is the flitch,” said the rich brother, “and now go straight to Hell.”

“What I have given my word to do, I must stick to,” said the other; so he took the flitch and set off. He walked the whole day, and at dusk he came to a place where he saw a very bright light.

“Maybe this is the place,” said the man to himself. So he turned aside, and the first thing he saw was an old, old man, with a long white beard, who stood in a shed, hewing wood for the Christmas fire.

“Good even,” said the man with the flitch.

“The same to you; whither are you going so late?” said the man.

“Oh! I’m going to Hell, if I only knew the right way,” answered the poor man.

“Well, you’re not far wrong for this is Hell.” said the old man; “when you get inside they will be all for buying your flitch, for meat is scarce in Hell; but mind, you don’t sell it unless you get the hand-quern which stands behind the door for it. When you come out, I’ll teach you how to handle the quern, for it’s good to grind almost anything.”

So the man with the flitch thanked the other for his good advice, and gave a great knock at the Devi’s door.

When he got in, everything went just as the old man had said. All the devils, great and small, came swarming up to him like ants round an anthill, and each tried to outbid the other for the flitch.

“Well!” said the man, “by rights my old dame and I ought to have this flitch for our Christmas dinner; but since you have all set your hearts on it. I suppose I must give it up to you; but if I sell it at all, I’ll have for it that quern behind the door yonder.”

At first the Devil wouldn’t hear of such a bargain, and chaffered and haggled with the man: but he stuck to what he said, and at last the Devil had to part with his quern. When the man got out into the yard, he asked the old woodcutter how he was to handle the quern; and after he had learned how to use it, he thanked the old man and went off home as fast as he could, but still the clock had struck twelve on Christmas Eve before he reached his own door.

“Wherever in the world have you been?” said his old dame; “here have I sat hour after hour waiting and watching, without so much as two sticks to lay together under the Christmas brose*.”

“Oh!” said the old man. “I couldn’t get back before, for I had to go a long way first for one thing, and then for another; but now you shall see what you shall see.”

So he put the quern on the table, and bade it first of all grind lights, then a tablecloth, then meat, then ale, and so on till they had got everything that was nice for Christmas fare. He had only to speak the word, and the quern ground out what he wanted. The old dame stood by blessing her stars, and kept on asking where he had got this wonderful quern, but he wouldn’t tell her.

“It’s all one where I got it from; you see the quern is a good one, and the mill-stream never freezes, that’s enough.”

So he ground meat and drink and dainties enough to last out till Twelfth Day, and on the third day he asked all his friends and kin to his house, and gave a great feast. Now, when his rich brother saw all that was on the table, and all that was behind in the larder, he grew quite spiteful and wild, for he couldn’t bear that his brother should have anything.

‘“Twas only on Christmas Eve,” he said to the rest, “he was in such straits that he came and asked for a morsel of food in God’s name, and now he gives a feast as if he  were count or king”; and he turned to his brother and said —

“But whence, in Hell’s name, have you got all this wealth?”

“From behind the door,” answered the owner of the quern, for he didn’t care to let the cat out of the bag. But later on the evening, when he had got a drop too much, he could keep his secret no longer, and brought out the quern and said —

“There, you see what has gotten me all this wealth”; and so he made the quern grind all kinds of things. When his brother saw it, he set his heart on having the quern, and, after a deal of coaxing, he got it; but he had to pay three hundred dollars for it, and his brother bargained to keep it till hay harvest, for he thought, “If I keep it till then, I can make it grind meat and drink that will last for years.” So you may fancy the quern didn’t grow rusty for want of work, and when hay-harvest came, the rich brother got it, but the other took care not to teach him how to handle it.

It was evening when the rich brother got the quern home, and next morning he told his wife to go out into the hay field and toss, while the mowers cut the grass, and he would stay at home and get the dinner ready. So, when dinner-time drew near, he put the quern on the kitchen table and said, —

“Grind herrings and broth, and grind them good and fast.”

So the quern began to grind herrings and broth; first of all, all the dishes full, then all the tubs full, and so on till the kitchen floor was quite covered. Then the man twisted and twirled at the quern to get it to stop, but for all his twisting and fingering the quern went on grinding, and in a little while the broth rose so high that the man was like to drown. So he threw open the kitchen door and ran into the parlour, but it wasn’t long before the quern had ground the parlour full too, and it was only at the risk of his life that the man could get hold of the latch of the house door through the stream of broth. When he got the door open, he ran out and set off down the road, with the stream of herrings and broth at his heels, roaring like a waterfall over the whole farm.

Now, his old dame, who was in the field tossing hay, thought it a long time to dinner, and at last she said —

“Well! though the master doesn’t call us home, we may as well go. Maybe he finds it hard work to boil the broth, and will be glad of my help.”

The men were willing enough, so they sauntered homewards; but just as they had got a little way up the hill, what should they meet but herrings, and broth, and bread, all running and dashing, and splashing together in a stream, and the master himself running before them for his life, and as he passed them he bawled out, — “Would to heaven each of you had a hundred throats! But take care you’re not drowned in the broth.”

Away he went, as though the Evil One were at his heels, to his brother’s house, and begged him for God’s sake to take back the quern that instant; for, said he —

“If it grinds only one hour more, the whole parish will be swallowed up by herrings and broth.”

But his brother wouldn’t hear of taking it back till the other paid him down three hundred dollars more.

So the poor brother got both the money and the quern, and it wasn’t long before he set up a farmhouse far finer than the one in which his brother lived, and with the quern he ground so much gold that he covered it with plates of gold; and as the farm lay by the seaside, the golden house gleamed and glistened far away over the sea. All who sailed by put ashore to see the rich man in the golden house, and to see the wonderful quern, the fame of which spread far and wide, till there was nobody who hadn’t heard tell of it.

So one day there came a skipper who wanted to see the quern; and the first thing he asked was if it could grind salt.

“Grind salt!” said the owner; “I should just think it could. It can grind anything.”

When the skipper heard that, he said he must have the quern, cost what it would, for if he only had it, he thought he should be rid of his long voyages across stormy seas for a lading of salt. Well, at first the man wouldn’t hear of parting with the quern; but the skipper begged and prayed so hard, that at last he let him have it, but he had to pay many, many thousand dollars for it. Now, when the skipper had got the quern on his back, he soon made off with it, for he was afraid lest the man should change his mind; so he had no time to ask how to handle the quern, but got on board his ship as fast as he could, and set sail. When he had sailed a good way off, he brought the quern on deck and said—

“Grind salt, and grind both good and fast.”

Well, the quern began to grind salt so that it poured out like water; and when the skipper had got the ship full, he wished to stop the quern, but whichever way he turned it, and however much he tried, it was no good; the quern kept grinding on, and the heap of salt grew higher and higher, and at last down sunk the ship.

There lies the quern at the bottom of the sea, and grinds away at this very day, and that’s why the sea is salt. 

 

* brose = porridge

Christmas fairy tales

selected by Neil Philip

London: Little Brown, 1996

 

400 Bad request

Your browser sent an invalid request.
Automatically translated into Swedish thanks to WorldLingo

In order for the character of a human being to reveal truly exceptional qualities, we must have the good fortune to observe its action over a long period of years. If this action is devoid of all selfishness, if the idea that directs it is one of unqualified generosity, if it is absolutely certain that it has not sought recompense anywhere, and if moreover it has left visible marks on the world, then we are unquestionably dealing with an unforgettable character.

 

 About forty years ago I went on a long hike, through hills absolutely unknown to tourists, in that very old region where the Alps penetrate into Provence.

This region is bounded to the south-east and south by the middle course of the Durance, between Sisteron and Mirabeau; to the north by the upper course of the Drôme, from its source down to Die; to the west by the plains of Comtat Venaissin and the outskirts of Mont Ventoux. It includes all the northern part of the Département of Basses-Alpes, the south of Drôme and a little enclave of Vaucluse.

At the time I undertook my long walk through this deserted region, it consisted of barren and monotonous lands, at about 1200 to 1300 meters above sea level. Nothing grew there except wild lavender.

I was crossing this country at its widest part, and after walking for three days, I found myself in the most complete desolation. I was camped next to the skeleton of an abandoned village. I had used the last of my water the day before and I needed to find more. Even though they were in ruins, these houses all huddled together and looking like an old wasps' nest made me think that there must at one time have been a spring or a well there. There was indeed a spring, but it was dry. The five or six roofless houses, ravaged by sun and wind, and the small chapel with its tumble-down belfry, were arrayed like the houses and chapels of living villages, but all life had disappeared.

It was a beautiful June day with plenty of sun, but on these shelterless lands, high up in the sky, the wind whistled with an unendurable brutality. Its growling in the carcasses of the houses was like that of a wild beast disturbed during its meal.

I had to move my camp. After five hours of walking, I still hadn't found water, and nothing gave me hope of finding any. Everywhere there was the same dryness, the same stiff, woody plants. I thought I saw in the distance a small black silhouette. On a chance I headed towards it. It was a shepherd. Thirty lambs or so were resting near him on the scorching ground.

He gave me a drink from his gourd and a little later he led me to his shepherd's cottage, tucked down in an undulation of the plateau. He drew his water - excellent - from a natural hole, very deep, above which he had installed a rudimentary windlass.

This man spoke little. This is common among those who live alone, but he seemed sure of himself, and confident in this assurance, which seemed remarkable in this land shorn of everything. He lived not in a cabin but in a real house of stone, from the looks of which it was clear that his own labor had restored the ruins he had found on his arrival. His roof was solid and water-tight. The wind struck against the roof tiles with the sound of the sea crashing on the beach.

His household was in order, his dishes washed, his floor swept, his rifle greased; his soup boiled over the fire; I noticed then that he was also freshly shaven, that all his buttons were solidly sewn, and that his clothes were mended with such care as to make the patches invisible.

He shared his soup with me, and when afterwards I offered him my tobacco pouch, he told me that he didn't smoke. His dog, as silent as he, was friendly without being fawning.

It had been agreed immediately that I would pass the night there, the closest village being still more than a day and a half farther on. Furthermore, I understood perfectly well the character of the rare villages of that region. There are four or five of them dispersed far from one another on the flanks of the hills, in groves of white oaks at the very ends of roads passable by carriage. They are inhabited by woodcutters who make charcoal. They are places where the living is poor. The families, pressed together in close quarters by a climate that is exceedingly harsh in summer as well as in winter, struggle ever more selfishly against each other. Irrational contention grows beyond all bounds, fueled by a continuous struggle to escape from that place. The men carry their charcoal to the cities in their trucks, and then return. The most solid qualities crack under this perpetual Scottish shower. The women stir up bitterness. There is competition over everything, from the sale of charcoal to the benches at church. The virtues fight amongst themselves, the vices fight amongst themselves, and there is a ceaseless general combat between the vices and the virtues. On top of all that, the equally ceaseless wind irritates the nerves. There are epidemics of suicides and numerous cases of insanity, almost always murderous.

The shepherd, who did not smoke, took out a bag and poured a pile of acorns out onto the table. He began to examine them one after another with a great deal of attention, separating the good ones from the bad. I smoked my pipe. I offered to help him, but he told me it was his own business. Indeed, seeing the care that he devoted to this job, I did not insist. This was our whole conversation. When he had in the good pile a fair number of acorns, he counted them out into packets of ten. In doing this he eliminated some more of the acorns, discarding the smaller ones and those that that showed even the slightest crack, for he examined them very closely. When he had before him one hundred perfect acorns he stopped, and we went to bed.

The company of this man brought me a feeling of peace. I asked him the next morning if I might stay and rest the whole day with him. He found that perfectly natural. Or more exactly, he gave me the impression that nothing could disturb him. This rest was not absolutely necessary to me, but I was intrigued and I wanted to find out more about this man. He let out his flock and took them to the pasture. Before leaving, he soaked in a bucket of water the little sack containing the acorns that he had so carefully chosen and counted.

I noted that he carried as a sort of walking stick an iron rod as thick as his thumb and about one and a half meters long. I set off like someone out for a stroll, following a route parallel to his. His sheep pasture lay at the bottom of a small valley. He left his flock in the charge of his dog and climbed up towards the spot where I was standing. I was afraid that he was coming to reproach me for my indiscretion, but not at all: It was his own route and he invited me to come along with him if I had nothing better to do. He continued on another two hundred meters up the hill.

Having arrived at the place he had been heading for, he began to pound his iron rod into the ground. This made a hole in which he placed an acorn, whereupon he covered over the hole again. He was planting oak trees. I asked him if the land belonged to him. He answered no. Did he know whose land it was? He did not know. He supposed that it was communal land, or perhaps it belonged to someone who did not care about it. He himself did not care to know who the owners were. In this way he planted his one hundred acorns with great care.

After the noon meal, he began once more to pick over his acorns. I must have put enough insistence into my questions, because he answered them. For three years now he had been planting trees in this solitary way. He had planted one hundred thousand. Of these one hundred thousand, twenty thousand had come up. He counted on losing another half of them to rodents and to everything else that is unpredictable in the designs of Providence. That left ten thousand oaks that would grow in this place where before there was nothing.

It was at this moment that I began to wonder about his age. He was clearly more than fifty. Fifty-five, he told me. His name was Elzéard Bouffier. He had owned a farm in the plains, where he lived most of his life. He had lost his only son, and then his wife. He had retired into this solitude, where he took pleasure in living slowly, with his flock of sheep and his dog. He had concluded that this country was dying for lack of trees. He added that, having nothing more important to do, he had resolved to remedy the situation.

Leading as I did at the time a solitary life, despite my youth, I knew how to treat the souls of solitary people with delicacy. Still, I made a mistake. It was precisely my youth that forced me to imagine the future in my own terms, including a certain search for happiness. I told him that in thirty years these ten thousand trees would be magnificent. He replied very simply that, if God gave him life, in thirty years he would have planted so many other trees that these ten thousand would be like a drop of water in the ocean.

He had also begun to study the propagation of beeches and he had near his house a nursery filled with seedlings grown from beechnuts. His little wards, which he had protected from his sheep by a screen fence, were growing beautifully. He was also considering birches for the valley bottoms where, he told me, moisture lay slumbering just a few meters beneath the surface of the soil.

We parted the next day.

The next year the war of 14 came, in which I was engaged for five years. An infantryman could hardly think about trees. To tell the truth, the whole business hadn't made a very deep impression on me; I took it to be a hobby, like a stamp collection, and forgot about it.

With the war behind me, I found myself with a small demobilization bonus and a great desire to breathe a little pure air. Without any preconceived notion beyond that, I struck out again along the trail through that deserted country.

The land had not changed. Nonetheless, beyond that dead village I perceived in the distance a sort of gray fog that covered the hills like a carpet. Ever since the day before I had been thinking about the shepherd who planted trees. «Ten thousand oaks, I had said to myself, must really take up a lot of space. »

I had seen too many people die during those five years not to be able to imagine easily the death of Elzéard Bouffier, especially since when a man is twenty he thinks of a man of fifty as an old codger for whom nothing remains but to die. He was not dead. In fact, he was very spry. He had changed his job. He only had four sheep now, but to make up for this he had about a hundred beehives. He had gotten rid of the sheep because they threatened his crop of trees. He told me (as indeed I could see for myself) that the war had not disturbed him at all. He had continued imperturbably with his planting.

The oaks of 1910 were now ten years old and were taller than me and than him. The spectacle was impressive. I was literally speechless and, as he didn't speak himself, we passed the whole day in silence, walking through his forest. It was in three sections, eleven kilometers long overall and, at its widest point, three kilometers wide. When I considered that this had all sprung from the hands and from the soul of this one man - without technical aids - , it struck me that men could be as effective as God in domains other than destruction.

He had followed his idea, and the beeches that reached up to my shoulders and extending as far as the eye could see bore witness to it. The oaks were now good and thick, and had passed the age where they were at the mercy of rodents; as for the designs of Providence, to destroy the work that had been created would henceforth require a cyclone. He showed me admirable stands of birches that dated from five years ago, that is to say from 1915, when I had been fighting at Verdun. He had planted them in the valley bottoms where he had suspected, correctly, that there was water close to the surface. They were as tender as young girls, and very determined.

This creation had the air, moreover, of working by a chain reaction. He had not troubled about it; he went on obstinately with his simple task. But, in going back down to the village, I saw water running in streams that, within living memory, had always been dry. It was the most striking revival that he had shown me. These streams had borne water before, in ancient days. Certain of the sad villages that I spoke of at the beginning of my account had been built on the sites of ancient Gallo-Roman villages, of which there still remained traces; archeologists digging there had found fishhooks in places where in more recent times cisterns were required in order to have a little water.

The wind had also been at work, dispersing certain seeds. As the water reappeared, so too did willows, osiers, meadows, gardens, flowers, and a certain reason to live.

But the transformation had taken place so slowly that it had been taken for granted, without provoking surprise. The hunters who climbed the hills in search of hares or wild boars had noticed the spreading of the little trees, but they set it down to the natural spitefulness of the earth. That is why no one had touched the work of this man. If they had suspected him, they would have tried to thwart him. But he never came under suspicion: Who among the villagers or the administrators would ever have suspected that anyone could show such obstinacy in carrying out this magnificent act of generosity?

Beginning in 1920 I never let more than a year go by without paying a visit to Elzéard Bouffier. I never saw him waver or doubt, though God alone can tell when God's own hand is in a thing! I have said nothing of his disappointments, but you can easily imagine that, for such an accomplishment, it was necessary to conquer adversity; that, to assure the victory of such a passion, it was necessary to fight against despair. One year he had planted ten thousand maples. They all died. The next year, he gave up on maples and went back to beeches, which did even better than the oaks.

To get a true idea of this exceptional character, one must not forget that he worked in total solitude; so total that, toward the end of his life, he lost the habit of talking. Or maybe he just didn't see the need for it.

In 1933 he received the visit of an astonished forest ranger. This functionary ordered him to cease building fires outdoors, for fear of endangering this natural forest. It was the first time, this naive man told him, that a forest had been observed to grow up entirely on its own. At the time of this incident, he was thinking of planting beeches at a spot twelve kilometers from his house. To avoid the coming and going - because at the time he was seventy-five years old - he planned to build a cabin of stone out where he was doing his planting. This he did the next year.

In 1935, a veritable administrative delegation went to examine this « natural forest ». There was an important personage from Waters and Forests, a deputy, and some technicians. Many useless words were spoken. It was decided to do something, but luckily nothing was done, except for one truly useful thing: placing the forest under the protection of the State and forbidding anyone from coming there to make charcoal. For it was impossible not to be taken with the beauty of these young trees in full health. And the forest exercised its seductive powers even on the deputy himself.

I had a friend among the chief foresters who were with the delegation. I explained the mystery to him. One day the next week, we went off together to look for Elzéard Bouffier, We found him hard at work, twenty kilometers away from the place where the inspection had taken place.

This chief forester was not my friend for nothing. He understood the value of things. He knew how to remain silent. I offered up some eggs I had brought with me as a gift. We split our snack three ways, and then passed several hours in mute contemplation of the landscape.

The hillside whence we had come was covered with trees six or seven meters high. I remembered the look of the place in 1913: a desert... The peaceful and steady labor, the vibrant highland air, his frugality, and above all, the serenity of his soul had given the old man a kind of solemn good health. He was an athlete of God. I asked myself how many hectares he had yet to cover with trees.

Before leaving, my friend made a simple suggestion concerning certain species of trees to which the terrain seemed to be particularly well suited. He was not insistent. « For the very good reason, » he told me afterwards, « that this fellow knows a lot more about this sort of thing than I do. » After another hour of walking, this thought having travelled along with him, he added: « He knows a lot more about this sort of thing than anybody - and he has found a jolly good way of being happy! »

It was thanks to the efforts of this chief forester that the forest was protected, and with it, the happiness of this man. He designated three forest rangers for their protection, and terrorized them to such an extent that they remained indifferent to any jugs of wine that the woodcutters might offer as bribes.

The forest did not run any grave risks except during the war of 1939. Then automobiles were being run on wood alcohol, and there was never enough wood. They began to cut some of the stands of the oaks of 1910, but the trees stood so far from any useful road that the enterprise turned out to be bad from a financial point of view, and was soon abandoned. The shepherd never knew anything about it. He was thirty kilometers away, peacefully continuing his task, as untroubled by the war of 39 as he had been of the war of 14.

I saw Elzéard Bouffier for the last time in June of 1945. He was then eighty-seven years old. I had once more set off along my trail through the wilderness, only to find that now, in spite of the shambles in which the war had left the whole country, there was a motor coach running between the valley of the Durance and the mountain. I set down to this relatively rapid means of transportation the fact that I no longer recognized the landmarks I knew from my earlier visits. It also seemed that the route was taking me through entirely new places. I had to ask the name of a village to be sure that I was indeed passing through that same region, once so ruined and desolate. The coach set me down at Vergons. In 1913, this hamlet of ten or twelve houses had had three inhabitants. They were savages, hating each other, and earning their living by trapping: physically and morally, they resembled prehistoric men. The nettles devoured the abandoned houses that surrounded them. Their lives were without hope; it was only a matter of waiting for death to come: a situation that hardly predisposes one to virtue.

All that had changed, even to the air itself. In place of the dry, brutal gusts that had greeted me long ago, a gentle breeze whispered to me, bearing sweet odors. A sound like that of running water came from the heights above: it was the sound of the wind in the trees. And most astonishing of all, I heard the sound of real water running into a pool. I saw that they had built a fountain, that it was full of water, and what touched me most, that next to it they had planted a lime-tree that must be at least four years old, already grown thick, an incontestable symbol of resurrection.

Furthermore, Vergons showed the signs of labors for which hope is a requirement: Hope must therefore have returned. They had cleared out the ruins, knocked down the broken walls, and rebuilt five houses. The hamlet now counted twenty-eight inhabitants, including four young families. The new houses, freshly plastered, were surrounded by gardens that bore, mixed in with each other but still carefully laid out, vegetables and flowers, cabbages and rosebushes, leeks and gueules-de-loup, celery and anemones. It was now a place where anyone would be glad to live.

From there I continued on foot. The war from which we had just barely emerged had not permitted life to vanish completely, and now Lazarus was out of his tomb. On the lower flanks of the mountain, I saw small fields of barley and rye; in the bottoms of the narrow valleys, meadowlands were just turning green.

It has taken only the eight years that now separate us from that time for the whole country around there to blossom with splendor and ease. On the site of the ruins I had seen in 1913 there are now well-kept farms, the sign of a happy and comfortable life. The old springs, fed by rain and snow now that are now retained by the forests, have once again begun to flow. The brooks have been channelled. Beside each farm, amid groves of maples, the pools of fountains are bordered by carpets of fresh mint. Little by little, the villages have been rebuilt. Yuppies have come from the plains, where land is expensive, bringing with them youth, movement, and a spirit of adventure. Walking along the roads you will meet men and women in full health, and boys and girls who know how to laugh, and who have regained the taste for the traditional rustic festivals. Counting both the previous inhabitants of the area, now unrecognizable from living in plenty, and the new arrivals, more than ten thousand persons owe their happiness to Elzéard Bouffier.

When I consider that a single man, relying only on his own simple physical and moral resources, was able to transform a desert into this land of Canaan, I am convinced that despite everything, the human condition is truly admirable. But when I take into account the constancy, the greatness of soul, and the selfless dedication that was needed to bring about this transformation, I am filled with an immense respect for this old, uncultured peasant who knew how to bring about a work worthy of God.

Elzéard Bouffier died peacefully in 1947 at the hospice in Banon.

 

  

Jean Giono

Translation from french by Peter Doyle

in http://www.pinetum.org/man_tree.htm

 

 

 

Sunday morning 7.30

Dear Diary

Had a bad dream last night. I was running… and running. There was this huge tiger chasing me. I was running faster and faster but I couldn’t get away. It was getting closer and then ... I woke up.

I held Flo in my arms. She makes me feel safe – she knows what’s going on. I can tell her. Keep having bad dreams. Didn’t use to be like that. I used to have loads of friends – like Sara and Jenny. Sara asked me to go to the shops but...

School’s been HELL since SHE came. I hate hate HATE her!!! I hate hate HATE her!!!

 

Sunday evening 20.15

Dear Diary

Went to Grandad’s.

Lucy came and we climbed the big tree. We played pirates. School tomorrow. Don’t think I can face it. Go to school and see HER! SHE’LL be waiting. I KNOW she will. Even when she isn’t there I’m scared she’ll come round a corner. Or hide in the toilets like a bad smell. Teachers never check what’s going on in there! If ONLY I didn’t have to go. Flo thinks I’ll be ok.

 

Monday morning 7.05

I had that dream again. Only this time it was HER who was chasing me. I was trying to run away but she kept getting closer and her hand was just on my shoulder... then I woke up.

I feel sick but I made myself eat breakfast, so mum won’t think anything’s up. Can’t tell anyone. They will think I’m soft and I’m not. It’s just that girl and what SHE does to me.

 

Monday evening 20.30

Dear D

SHE was there. Waiting. Just routed the corner from school where nobody could see her. SHE grabbed my arm and it behind my back.

Said if I gave her money SHE wouldn’t hit me. I gave her what I had. I didn’t want to be hit. “I’ll get you tomorrow!” SHE said and pushed me over before she walked off.

It hurt like hell. SHE ripped my favorite trousers!

Told mum I fell over. She sewed them up. I feel like telling Sara or Jenny but they won’t understand!! Glad I’ve got you and Flo to talk to.

 

Tuesday morning 7.30

Couldn’t sleep last night. Just lay there. Too scared to go to sleep. Too scared I’d have that dream, again. SHE’ll be waiting for me. Why does SHE always pick on ME? I haven’t done anything to her. Must have dropped off, cos next thing mum was waking me. Couldn’t eat breakfast. Gave it to Sam so mum wouldn’t notice.

 

Tuesday evening 20.00

SHE followed me out of school – all big and tough.

SHE pulled my hair. Wanted to scream but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. “You got my money?” SHEspat at me. Shook my head. “I’ll have this,” SHE snarled, snatching my PE bag, “‘til you give it to me.” I’d love to give it to her! Feel like punching her fat face! What can I do? I can’t hit her cos she’s bigger than me.

I can’t ask mum or dad for the money cos they’ll want to know what it’s for.

 

Wednesday morning 5.30

Diary, I’ve done something bad. Really bad! If mum finds out I don’t know what she’ll do. But I’ll be in big trouble – for sure.Last night I saw mum’s purse on the table. I was on my own and so I took £5.I’ll put it back as soon as I can.I’ll save my pocket money.I’ll try and earn some money.Hope mum doesn’t miss it.She’ll go mad!

 

Wednesday evening 19.47

This has been the worst day of my life!!

1^st – got told off cos I didn’t have my PE things.

2^nd – hadn’t done my homework.

3^rd – SHE was by the side gate – waiting.

She twisted my arm and took the money. Threw my bag in the mud.

4^th – SHE wants more. I can’t get more.

I’ve already stolen from my mum. I don’t know what to do.

Wish I’d never been born!!

 

Thursday morning 8.15

I can’t believe it.

Mum’s found out!!

She wanted to know if anybody had seen her £5 note. We all said no. What else could I say? I feel bad, really bad. I hate lying. Mum said she’s taking me to school. At least I’ll be safe ‘til home time.

 

Thursday evening 18.30

On the way to school mum asked me if I took the money. She looked so sad. I had thought of lying but seeing her face l just couldn’t. I said yes and like a stupid idiot burst into tears. Mum asked why? And I told her about the girl and what she’d been doing to me. I told her how scared I was. I couldn’t stop crying.

Mum held me and hugged me. When I’d called down, she asked, if there was anyone at school l could talk to? I shook my head. She asked if l would like her to talk to my teacher.

 

Friday morning 6.35

Dearest Diary

Still woke up real early but I DIDN’T HAVE THAT DREAM!!I feel a bit strange. Know she won’t be in school – they suspended her for a week. What if she’s outside? My teacher said she did it to others – to Jess and Paul. I thought she’d only picked on me. But what happens if she’s there?

Friday evening 20.45

She really wasn’t there!!! I had a talk with a nice lady who said I could talk to her at any time. She said that if anyone is bullying you, you should try and tell somebody. I told Sara and Jenny. Sara said it had happened to her at her last school. Not the money bit but this boy kept picking on her.

We’re all going to look after each other at school so that nobody else will get bullied. Maybe it’ll be ok. When I got home mum made my favorite dinner.

 

Saturday morning 8.50

No school!!No bad dreams!!

Had a look on the net and there was loads about bullying. I didn’t think that it happened often but it happens all the time! Even to grown-ups and fishes. Did you know that fishes can die from the stress of being bullied?

There are all kinds of helplines and stuff like that – for people, not fishes!! I wish I’d known!

 

Saturday evening 21.05

Dad took me and Sam to see a film. It was really funny. We had such a laugh. Sam wanted to know why I never told him about what was going on. “I would have smashed her face!” he said. “That would just have made you a bully too!” I told him.

  ♦♦♦♦

 What Ellie found out about bullying:

 If you are bullied by anyone in any way IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT!

NOBODY DESERVES TO BE BULLIED!

NOBODY ASKS TO BE BULLIED!

 There are many ways in which somebody can be bullied. Can you name the ways in which Ellie was bullied?

 Here is a list of some of the ways children are bullied:

 ♦Being teased

♦Being called names

♦Getting abusive messages on your mobile phone

♦Getting hate mail either on email or by letter

♦Being ignored or left out

♦Having rumors or lies spread about you

♦Being pushed, kicked, shoved or pulled about

♦Being hit or punched or hurt physically in any way

♦Having your bag or other belongings taken and thrown about

♦Being forced to hand over money or your belongings

♦Being attacked because of your race, religion or the way you speak or dress

 ♦♦♦♦

 Ellie found that it helped to keep a diary of what was happening to her. It’s a way of keeping a record of dates and times when things occurred. It’s also a way of not bottling everything up. It is important that you try and tell somebody what is going on.

Maybe you could try talking to a friend who you trust.

Maybe you could try talking to your mum or dad, sister or brother.

Maybe there is a teacher at school who you feel comfortable talking to.

Most schools have an anti-bullying policy and may have somebody (like the kind lady Ellie mentions in her diary) to talk to.

  

Henriette Barkow

Ellie’s secret diary: don’t bully me

London, Mantra Lingua,2004

400 Bad request

Your browser sent an invalid request.
Automatically translated into German thanks to WorldLingo

Babu’s Song

 

Bernardi ran hard, kicking the ball toward the goal. His arms pumping and his heart racing, he didn’t care that he was the only boy on the field not wearing a school uniform. He loved soccer and his one concern was making a goal. With a final kick so powerful that it knocked him on his back, Bernardi sent the ball flying past the goalie and into the net.

Bernardi lay on the grassy field, catching his breath. A boy helped him up, then ran after the others going into the school. Bernardi wished he could go to school like the other children. He liked to learn, and thought he could be a good student. Besides, then he could play soccer every day, not just when the schoolboys needed an extra player. Bernardi lived with his grandfather, Babu, and they did not have enough money for school.

Slowly Bernardi walked home.

When Bernardi walked in, Babu gave him a hug. This was how he said hello, because an illness had taken his voice a long time ago.

“Hello, Babu,” Bernardi said. “I made a goal today.” Bernardi loved telling Babu his soccer stories.

Babu held up a figure made of wood. He pulled a string, and the figure’s jointed arms and legs popped up and down, making Bernardi laugh. Babu was a toy maker. He had only to look at an object and he knew what toy it would become, such as an airplane from a tin can or a whistle from a scrap of wood.

After Babu made his toys Bernardi would sell them. Together they made enough money to live on.

Babu made tea for Bernardi and himself. After they finished Bernardi took an old bag from beside the door, waved good-bye to Babu, and set off for the market. As he walked, Bernardi hummed a tune. It was a song that Babu had sung when he had his voice. Humming it made Bernardi wish Babu could still speak.

“Anything for Babu?” Bernardi asked the vendors when he reached the market.

The vendors gave Bernardi bits of string or paper, anything that Babu might be able to use to make his toys. Mama Valentina, who sold salt, called to Bernardi. She handed him a plastic gunnysack. Bernardi thanked her as he stuffed it into his bag, even though he didn’t think Babu could use it.

As Bernardi walked home, he passed a shop downtown and stopped to look in the window. There among the bright bolts of cloth and shiny pots was a new soccer ball. It was just what he had always wanted. Bernardi pressed his face against the window and looked at the price. It was more than it cost to go to school!

Slowly Bernardi backed away from the window. He did not hum as he walked home.

That evening Babu and Bernardi ate beans and rice by the light of the kerosene lamp. Babu put something by Bernardi’s plate. Bernardi picked it up and held it closer to the light. It looked like a tin of lard. He opened the lid and heard a small tinkling.

“A music box!” Bernardi exclaimed, and listened again. It was rough and tinny, but he recognized the tune. It was Babu’s song.

 Bernardi hugged Babu, and together they listened to the music. That night, for the first time in many nights, Bernardi fell asleep listening to Babu’s song.

The next Saturday was a busy one for Bernardi, as it was the day he sold toys to tourists. He set up shop on his favorite corner downtown, arranging the toys on the curb.

Bernardi cranked the music box and listened to Babu’s song tinkle out. He had sold a few things when a woman picked up the music box. She asked how much it was, but Bernardi said it wasn’t for sale.

The woman did not give up. She told Bernardi that she wanted the music box for her collection, but still Bernardi shook his head. The woman held out a handful of money. Bernardi’s eyes widened. It would be more than enough to buy the ball in the store window!

Bernardi picked up the music box. He thought about the brand-new ball and how it would feel when he kicked it. Surely Babu could make another music box.

Bernardi swallowed hard and took the money.

After Bernardi sold all the toys he did not go home. He took the money and headed for the shops down the street.

When Bernardi got home, Babu was cleaning. He looked up at Bernardi holding the empty bag.

“I sold everything, Babu!” Bernardi said, trying to sound cheerful, but then a tear rolled down his face. Babu went over to Bernardi. He wiped his grandson’s face and waited. He knew Bernardi would tell him what was wrong.

Bernardi sniffled. He told Babu about the music box and the soccer. Then he handed the money to Babu. “I couldn’t buy the ball, Babu. It’s your money.”

Babu patted Bernardi’s head. Then he placed the money in Bernardi’s hand and held it, to show him that the money belonged to both of them.

Bernardi hung his head. “I don’t want the ball anymore.” He held out the money. “Take it, Babu. You decide what to do with the money.”

Babu took the money and looked thoughtfully at Bernardi for a long time. Then he broke into a smile, signaled to Bernardi to wait, and walked out the door.

Bernardi sat quietly in the room as he waited for Babu. He wished he still had the music box. How could he have sold it?

Bernardi was sitting in the lamplight when Babu returned holding a paper bag. Babu pulled out a package and handed it to Bernardi.

Bernardi choked back a sob. He untied the string and pulled back the brown paper. His eyes opened wide when he saw what was inside. It was a school uniform!

Bernardi looked at Babu. “You paid for me to go to school?”

Babu nodded. Bernardi jumped up and hugged his grandfather.

While Bernardi held the new uniform to his chest, Babu went back outside. He returned holding something behind his back. With a flourish Babu held out a soccer ball made from string and Mama Valentina’s gunnysack.

Bernardi put down his uniform and held the ball. He bounced it on one knee and it felt like the real thing.

“Thank you, Babu. It’s wonderful!” Bernardi said to his grandfather and gave him a hug. Babu beamed. Bernardi decided that the ball was even better than the real thing.

Babu pulled one more surprise from the paper bag. It was an empty lard tin. As Babu began to make another music box, Bernardi put the water on the stove to boil. Then Bernardi hummed Babu’s song as they sat in the lamplight and waited for their tea.

 

Stephanie Stuve-Bodeen

Babu’s Song

New York, Lee & Low, 2008 

Tía Miseria, Aunt Misery 

 

Once there was an old woman known only to the people as Tía Miseria, Aunt Misery, who lived outside a small village. Tía Miseria was poor but happy. She had a garden with large vegetables, two big chickens, and most of all, she had her pear tree.

Oh, how she loved her pear tree! She would pick a pear and feel its smooth form. When she would bite into the pear, she’d sigh and say, “Ah, how delicious, how marvelous, how sweet!”

Tía Miseria was a proud woman who walked through the village with her back straight and her hair pulled back in a bun. Although she was very old, her skin was smooth except for a few wrinkles around her eyes.

But Tía Miseria had a problem with the children in the neighborhood. These children were the great-grandchildren of the ones who had named her Tía Miseria. Indeed, her life had been miserable for a long time. The children would run right through her garden, step on all of her vegetables, and taunt, “Tía, Tía, Tía Miseria.”

They would climb her tree, pick some pears, and bite into them. With the juice running down the sides of their mouths, they would say, “Tía, Tía, Tía Miseria.”

Poor Tía would get very upset. She would go under the tree and say to them, “Come down from my tree right now!”

But the children would just look down at her and laugh: “Tía, Tía, Tía Miseria!”

Only when the children were good and ready would they climb down the tree. Then they would run through the gar­den calling out, “Tía, Tía, Tía Miseria!”

Poor Tía! She had to replant her garden because the chil­dren had stepped on everything. Then she had to go look for the chickens in the bushes because the children frightened them so much. Worst of all, they were eating up her sweet, delicious pears.

One night as she was cooking supper, she heard a knock at the door. When she went to see who it was, there stood a short, thin man with friendly brown eyes. He wore a straw hat. “Can I please stay the night?” the man inquired. ‘‘It is so cold outside!”

“Of course,” said Tía Miseria. “Come in, come in.”

Tía served him a fine meal of rice, beans, and codfish.

In the morning the man said, “Tía, I am a magician, and because you have been so generous, I will give you a wish.”

“A wish—let’s see, what can I do? Maybe I will wish for silver; no, maybe I will wish for gold.” Then she stopped and smiled a very big smile. “I know what I want. Once someone is up my tree, they can’t come down until I say the magical words.”

“Fine,” said the magician. He said goodbye and went walking down the road.

That day the children came to the house. As usual, they ran through the garden taunting, “Tía, Tía, Tía Miseria!” They climbed the tree and picked some pears. They bit into the pears and then threw the uneaten portions at the cats and chickens. They threw the pears all over the garden.

But Tía did not react as she usually did. Instead of stand­ing under the tree and yelling at them, she went into the kitchen and brought out a cup of coffee. She stood on the porch and drank her coffee with a big smile on her face.

The children knew something was very wrong. She never acted like this. So they did the one thing they knew would make her mad. They said, “Tía, Tía, Tía Miseria!”

But she just smiled and sipped her coffee and said, “Children, come down from the tree.”

“No, we are not ready,” they replied.

Finally the children were ready to come down from the pear tree. But as they tried to climb down, they found they couldn’t. The magic spell was working.

“Tía, Tía, please, let us down,” the children cried out to her. “It is very late.”

Tía sipped her coffee, looked at the children, smiled, and said, “No!”

“Please!” they called out to her again. “Let us down! It is getting late!”

Tía was enjoying this very much. She looked at the chil­dren, took a sip of her coffee, smiled, and said, “No!”

Oh, the children cried, begged, and pleaded. Finally Tía went under the tree and said, “If I let you out of that tree, will you promise me never to come back?”

The children responded immediately, “Sí, yes.”

So she said her magic words, “Come down, come down, come down from my tree.”

The children came down the tree as fast as they could. They ran around the garden instead of through it, and they did not return.

Now Tía was very happy. Her garden was quiet, her chickens were safe, and now she had her precious pear tree to herself.

One afternoon, when she was cooking supper and think­ing about what had happened, she heard a knock at the door. She thought, Oh, my friend has returned.

She went to the door. A man stood there, but he was not her friend. He was a tall, thin man, and when he looked into her eyes, she felt as though she were falling into a deep, dark hole. She felt a shiver come over her body and she stepped back.

The man moved toward her. He looked her in the eyes and said, “I am Death, and I have come for you!”

Tía Miseria thought quickly. “Well,” she sighed, “I knew you were going to come. Before we go, though, can we pick some pears to take with us?”

“No, no,” said Death. “I have a long list of people I have to get tonight. I don’t have time!”

But Tía continued to talk about her pears, how wonderful and delicious they were to eat. Finally Death could see he wasn’t ever going to get out of there unless he yielded. “Go and pick some pears,” he said. “I want to leave.”

“Me?” Tía said. “I am a little old lady. Look at you. You are tall and young—and besides, you look like you could use a pear or two.”

Death was so exasperated that he said, “Fine. I will pick some pears.”

So he climbed the tree and picked some pears. He picked a few here and a few there, and then he was ready to climb down. But he could not go anywhere. He was caught in the magician’s spell!

Oh, he called her the most terrible things you have ever heard—and probably some other things you have never heard.

“Old lady, let me down now!” But she did not obey. She just said to him, “Throw me a pear, please.”

She left him in the tree for a day, a week, a month, a year! Finally the village priest came to her. “Please let him down,” he pled. “No one is coming to church because they know they are not going to die!”

Tía just shrugged her shoulders.

Then the undertaker came by. “Please let him down,” he said. “I have no work and my children are hungry.”

Tía looked at the undertaker and said, “Change your trade.”

Finally, her very oldest friend came and spoke in a slow, halting voice. “Please ... let him down. I am very tired and I want to go ... Everything hurts me. Please ... I want to die.”

Tía could not refuse the request of her oldest friend. She went under the tree and said to Death, “If I let you down, will you promise never to return for me?”

“Yes, yes,” Death replied. He was tired of being in that pear tree.

She said the magic words, “Come down, come down, come down from my tree.”

Death came down, leaned over her old friend, gently, swooped her up in his arms, and went running down the road.

Death did keep his promise. So Tía lives on and on. And that’s why some say that as long as Death keeps his promise, there will be misery in this world.

 

 

Olga Loya

Momentos Mágicos, Magic Moments

Arkansas, August House Publishers, Inc., I997