Dancing with Trees Page 3

  AIR

  1

  MAGPIE’S NEST

  (ENGLAND)

  Once upon a time, a long time ago, birds did not build nests. They simply sat around on branches or boulders or even on the ground. And when it was time to lay eggs, they just laid them on a branch or a boulder or on the ground. Not many eggs survived.

  Magpie began to think that there might be a better way of doing things.

  She gathered branches from the forest floor, flew up into a tree and started to weave them together to form a nice round platform. It looked very comfortable and it would stop eggs from rolling out of trees. Pleased with herself, she landed in the middle of it.

  The nest was not as comfortable as she’d imagined it would be. The knobbly sticks poked her ruthlessly.

  Magpie decided that this was not the nest for her.

  Crow, who had been watching what Magpie was doing, landed on the nest. She found it to be perfectly suited to her. To this day, Crow has been making her nest just the way Magpie did, weaving branches together into a shallow platform.

  Magpie thought and thought about what she could find to make a nest softer. ‘Aha!’ She said, flying down to the riverbank. ‘Mud is nice and soft, that’s what I’ll use to make my nest.’

  Back up in a tree, Magpie made a simple platform of sticks. Then she flew down and scooped up a beak-full of mud, which she plopped down on her platform of sticks. She did this over and over again until she had a nice cake of mud. It looked very comfortable. But when she landed on the nest, it wasn’t very comfortable at all. The mud was gloopy and it stuck to her feathers.

  Magpie decided that this was not the nest for her.

  Song Thrush, who had been watching what Magpie was doing, had an idea. She landed in the middle of the mud cake. Using her big belly, she began to shape that mud into a smooth, round bowl. To this day, Song Thrush has been making her nest out of sticks and mud.

  Magpie thought and thought about what she could use to make a more comfortable nest. ‘Aha!’ she said, flying down to a patch of dried up long grass. ‘I can weave my nest out of grass and straw and little tiny twigs.’

  So that’s what she did. When she was done, the nest looked nice and tidy ... and tiny. She tried to land in it, but it was just too small.

  Magpie decided that this was not the nest for her.

  Blackbird, who had been watching what Magpie was doing, thought the nest looked perfect for her small family. To this day, Blackbird makes her nest by weaving together long pieces of grass and thin twigs.

  Magpie thought that maybe she would be happier if she had a really big nest, with lots of room for herself and her eggs. She flew all about the forest picking up the longest sticks she could find. She wove them together into a huge platform. It looked wonderful, so spacious. She imagined how jealous the other birds would be now that she had such a humungous nest. She landed in the middle of it. One of the twigs on the far side of the nest popped out of place. She hopped over and fixed it. Immediately a stick on the other side came loose. She had to hop all the way across the huge nest to fix it.

  Magpie decided it was just too much work having such a big nest.

  Owl, who had been watching what Magpie was doing, thought the nest looked like a perfect place to raise owlets. To this day, this is how Owl makes her nest.

  As Magpie thought and thought about how to make a more comfortable nest, it began to rain. ‘I know what’s missing,’ she said. ‘None of the nests I’ve made so far have had a roof on them. If I had a roof, everything would be exactly right.’

  First she made a platform of sticks. Then, working very carefully, she built up the walls and wove together a roof. She left a hole in one wall, just big enough for her to slip through. Inside it was cosy and dry, but the bare sticks were still uncomfortable.

  Long-Tailed Tit, who had been watching, thought that a domed nest would be perfect for her and her little family. She wove together a tiny dome of twigs. Then she gathered lichen from the trees and rocks and covered every inch of her nest with it. It kept out the wind and rain beautifully. To this day Long-Tailed Tit makes her nest this way.

  Meanwhile, Magpie was busy finding things to make her nest more comfortable. She flew here and there collecting moss, grass, dried leaves, and sheep’s wool. To make it even more snug and warm for her eggs, she pulled out some of the soft feathers on her own breast.

  To this day, Magpie makes a domed nest out of sticks and lines it with all sorts of things, not just moss and feathers, but also scraps of cloth, yarn, and pieces of cardboard ... she’s still trying to make the perfect nest.

  NOTES: This old English tale is a useful one to have in your repertoire for a drop-in storytelling event. Bring photos of birds and their nests to flip through as you tell the story, which takes about five minutes to tell. You can add and subtract species of birds from this story to make it more relevant to the region where you are telling it. You can also have your audience suggest what Magpie would use to make her domed nest more comfortable.

  2

  ARCHIE’S BESOM

  (SCOTLAND, TRAVELLERS)

  Once there were two brothers, Archie and Alex, who lived in the Highlands of Scotland. They farmed their own wee croft, but it was not large enough to support them, and so they had to take other work when they could find it. Alex was the oldest and he had always been the boss. He told Archie what chores to do each day and he was the one who collected the money from the people they worked for. Very occasionally, if the jobs had been particularly hard, like repairing farm roads, or building stonewalls, Alex would pay Archie sixpence. Even back in those days sixpence wasn’t very much money, but Archie never complained.

  One fine autumn morning, when the rowan trees were ripe with red berries and the swallows were circling high in the sky, getting ready to migrate south, the brothers had a job fixing an old stone dyke in a field next to a road. Archie was working away, putting the big stones into the wall and Alex was taking a nap in the shade of a tree. As Archie worked, a man walking down the road called out, ‘Good day to you. Would it be all right if I picked some of that heather growing in your field over there?’ The Travelling man pointed to the heather flowering all over the hillside.

  ‘Aye, well the field is no’ ours you see,’ said Archie, ‘we’re just working here for the farmer who owns it. But I’m sure he would’ny mind you having a wee bit of the heather now. After all there’s plenty of it!’ Archie waved his hand across the sweep of the hillside, which was purple with heather blossoms.

  The Traveller thanked him, jumped over the wall and with his pocketknife began to cut long, tough strands of the flowering plant. Archie watched, fascinated by the man’s speed and skill with the sharp knife.

  ‘What are you going to do with all that heather?’ asked Archie.

  ‘I’m going to make brooms with it,’ said the man, ‘you know, besoms for sweeping floors and steps and paths. Folk are ay’ needing a good new besom at this time of year.’

  ‘How do you make a besom?’ Archie asked curiously.

  ‘Well,’ replied the Travelling man, ‘you take a straight piece of wood, like a hazel branch, for the handle. Then you place the heather around one end, tie it on good and tight with string or wire, and shape the ends of the heather nice and tidy with your knife. Then you have a fine new besom!’

  ‘How much do you sell one for?’ asked Archie, who was beginning to have an idea.

  ‘Och, sixpence a broom. But if you make one a wee bit bigger and smarter, why you can get a shilling for it!’

  ‘A shilling!’ gasped Archie, ‘I’ve never earned that much money in my whole life! I’m lucky if he,’ Archie pointed towards Alex, ‘gives me a measly sixpence for a full week’s hard work. And you can get that much for one wee besom! Do you mind telling me now, how long does it take to make one?’

  The Traveller smiled at Archie and said, ‘I can make a decent enough one in an hour or two.’

  Archie’s mouth fell open; t
his man could make more money for a couple of hours agreeable work than he made for a full week of backbreaking labour. Archie thanked the man for sharing his wisdom and watched as the Traveller bundled the heather under his arm and went on his way, off down the road.

  Archie marched over to Alex.

  ‘I quit!’ he yelled.

  His brother woke with a start.

  ‘I quit!’ yelled Archie again, to make sure his brother had heard him.

  ‘What d’you mean, you “quit”?’ asked Alex.

  ‘I mean, I’m finished working for you,’ said Archie. ‘I’m not taking orders from you any more. And I’m not working for sixpence a week ever again!’

  ‘What could you possibly do besides work for me?’ Alex asked, looking puzzled.

  ‘I’m going to make brooms just like the Tinker’s and I’m going to sell them for sixpence a piece, and when I’m good at making them, I’ll charge a shilling a broom!’

  Alex started laughing at his brother. ‘You can’t make besoms like a Tinker can. They’re skilled craftsmen. They started learning from their parents and grandparents when they were still wee bairns. Besides, what do you need money for? You live in the house with me and I buy all the food and pay for it.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I like with my money!’ Archie was so angry he turned away from his brother and strode off towards home.

  Along the way, he cut a great big bundle of bushy heather and found some good stout tree branches. He took these into the barn and set about making his very first besom. He tried to do it just as the Traveller had described, laying the fronds of heather tightly next to each other all around the pole. He bound the bundle on securely with good copper wire, and then sliced the pointy tips of the heather off with a sharp knife.

  When he had finished, he stood back to admire his besom. It was quite a thing to see. Archie had used almost twice as much heather as the Tinker had collected that day. But the thing was, the Travelling man was going to make at least three or four brooms out of what he’d collected, and Archie had made just one. But Archie was in too much of a hurry to think about how big his besom was. He set off immediately to see if he could sell it.

  He walked for many miles, knocking on every door he came to. But no one wanted to buy his besom. Some told him they’d bought one already from the Tinkers. Others just laughed in his face, saying it was far too heavy to sweep with.

  Carrying his enormous broom, Archie walked further than he had ever gone before, far beyond all the farms and houses he knew. He was almost ready to give up when he noticed a white cottage high on the hillside. His heart lifted. He doubted if the Travelling folk would have bothered going all the way up there to sell their goods.

  Archie climbed the hill and knocked on the door. A very big woman with rosy cheeks answered. When she saw Archie’s besom, her face lit up.

  ‘Well lad, that’s the biggest, finest besom I’ve ever seen! How much do you want for it?’

  Archie explained that since it was the first he had ever made, a sixpence would be plenty.

  The woman, whose name was Big Mags, took the broom from Archie and had a good look at it.

  ‘It’s excellent, I’ll buy it!’ She took a very shiny sixpence out of a little wooden box and handed it to Archie. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, ‘Now laddie, that’s a special sixpence. Every time you use it, you’ll find a new silver sixpence has appeared in your wallet to replace the one you just spent.’

  Archie couldn’t believe his luck, a magic sixpence! He gave Big Mags a careful look and thought he could see a special sparkle in her eyes. He thanked her and hurried back to the village to see if the coin she’d given him really worked. If it did, he’d be free from his brother for good.

  Big Mags was indeed special, just like the coin she’d given Archie. You see, Big Mags was a witch – the biggest witch that ever lived in Scotland. Some folk called her ‘stout’, or ‘big-boned’, and nasty ones called her ‘fat’, but most people got on with her just fine, because of her kind and friendly nature. The only people that didn’t like Big Mags were the other witches. They hated her. They said cruel things about her size, because they were jealous of her happy disposition and magical powers. She could out-spell and out-charm each and every one of them. Big Mags used her supernatural gifts only for good, and this made them even angrier and nastier to her.

  Mags decided it was time to teach them all a lesson. It was almost Hallowe’en and the local witches would be gathering in a clearing in Birch Tree Woods, for their special celebration. She hadn’t been to a Hallowe’en party for years, because she could never find a broom big enough to carry her. But now she had one, Archie’s besom!

  Mags conjured up a spectacular broomstick spell and just before midnight on Hallowe’en, off she flew, high up into the air, riding her magnificent new besom. She sailed through the sky, and then hovered over Birch Tree Woods. She could see all the other witches arriving; their brooms looked very small and skinny compared to hers. As she whizzed down through them, they fell and scattered to the left and right. When they saw who it was they looked very unhappy and started whispering:

  ‘Who invited that big lump?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s the Massive Maggot!’

  ‘Drat! Goody-fat shoes is here, hide!’

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ said Big Mags, ‘I’m just here to have some Hallowe’en fun.’

  She began to chant a strange little incantation in the Gaelic language. As she finished saying the spell, all of the broomsticks belonging to the other witches leaped into the air, bucking off their owners. The empty brooms circled once, twice, three times around the witches’ heads, then rocketed up into the air, landing high up in the branches of the birch trees. And that’s where they stayed. There was nothing the witches could do to get their brooms back, because Big Mag’s magic was so much stronger than theirs.

  Big Mags flew back to her cottage on her new super-broom, laughing all the way.

  Meanwhile, the miserable, mean witches had to walk miles and miles through bogs and mud to get home. Mags had taught them a lesson they would never forget.

  To this day, if you look up into the branches of birch trees, you can still see those witches’ brooms stuck there. They look a bit like twigs in a crow’s nest, but look closer and you will see that they really are witches’ besoms, and now you know how they got there!

  NOTES: Have you ever looked up into the branches of a birch tree and seen a tangle of twigs that resembles a crow’s nest? These strange growths are known as Witches’ Brooms and a mature birch tree can have up to a hundred of them. Witches’ Brooms are caused by the fungus Taphrina betulina, which penetrates the tree and causes it to grow a cluster of extra shoots. The growth is called a gall and it does not harm the tree in any significant way. In Britain these galls usually only happen in birches, but in other parts of the world they can appear on elms, pines and other species of tree. People used to believe that these growths appeared because witches had flown over the trees.

  This is a story which the famous Scottish storyteller and Traveller, Duncan Williamson liked to tell, especially around Hallowe’en. ‘Besom’ is the Scots word for broom.

  This is a great story to tell on a woodland walk, especially when you can see the Witches Brooms in the birch trees. Take your own home-made broom. You could even make an extra big one like Archie’s.

  3

  THE LADDIE WHO HERDED HARES

  (SCOTLAND AND ENGLAND, BORDER REGION)

  Once upon a time, there was a widow who lived in a little cottage with her two sons. Times were tough, it was hard to find work and often they had to go without a meal.

  One day, the eldest son came to her and said that it was time he left the valley to go and seek his fortune elsewhere. The widow sighed sadly, but she knew that children must grow up, so she gave him a sieve and an old cracked bowl and told him to go down to the stream and fill them with water. She would use whatever water he brought back to make a bannock bread
for his journey.

  The eldest son took the sieve and the old cracked bowl and went down to the stream. A little bird, perched on the end of a reed growing at the water’s edge, sang merrily to the bright blue sky. But as soon as he saw the young man carrying the sieve and the cracked bowl he changed his tune:

  Stop it with moss and clog it with clay,

  And then you’ll carry the water away.

  ‘Stupid creature. Telling me what to do! I’ll not get my hands covered in dirt and moss, just because you tell me to. Be gone,’ the eldest said, shooing him away, ‘Leave me to do things my own way.’

  He leaned down and dunked the sieve and the bowl in the water, filling them to the brim. But as soon as he took them out of the stream, the water flowed out again. He tried a couple more times. Finally, he dunked them in, took them out, and ran as fast as he could back to the cottage.

  The widow looked at the few drops still clinging to the bottom of the sieve and the bowl and sighed. But she set to work, baking her eldest son a tiny, wee bannock. He was in such a hurry to be off, that he left without thanking her or saying goodbye to his brother.

  He walked to the east; he walked to the west. He walked north; he walked south. He walked up hills and down, along roads and across fields, until he was too weary to go on. He sat down under a birch tree to eat his wee bannock. No sooner had he sat down, but the little bird landed on a branch above him.

  He glared at the bird, but the bird sang his cheerful song anyway. ‘Give me a bite of your bannock and I’ll let you pluck a feather from my wing so you can make yourself a pair of pipes,’ said the bird.