“See? The trees are green. The flowers are bright. The birds sing. All welcoming you back. There is no need to cry. You are well loved.” I stopped crying.
Michigan area psychic specializing in Past Life, Stone (sorta like 'lumpy tarot'), and Photo Readings. She is also a Healer. Mr. Bumbles, The Crone, and The Yum-Yum Tree
©2011 By Violet Eastwood-Curley
Once upon a time, just outside a neat little village of tidy little homes with perfectly manicured lawns, there lived a crone.
The crone was quite ugly, even as crones go, with a long, hooked nose and scraggly gray hair and snaggly yellow teeth. Her little patch of yard could hardly be called a lawn; the grass grew in brown little patches here and there, and her little thatch-roofed cottage was anything but tidy. But the crone was happy, for she had everything she needed.
Along the front of her little cottage she had planted a pepper-patch, and it was her pride and joy. There she grew jalapeno peppers, and cayenne peppers, and various other peppers of varying degrees of hotness. All summer long the crone lovingly cared for her plants, and they responded by happily providing for her an abundance of peppers which she picked and made into lovely pots of chili and jars of salsa, spicy soups and stews enough to keep her heart in summer all through the fall and winter months ahead.
At the front of her little yard grew a single tree. It was a short, squat little tree, with branches as gnarled as the crone's spindly fingers that reached out wide from its twisted trunk and then branched gently toward the ground, forming a lovely canopy under which the crone loved to sit and watch her pepper-plants grow. To the crone, the tree felt magical, as even on the hottest of summer days, its canopy of yellow-green leaves caught every little breeze and created, all by itself, a cool, dark forest. Sometimes, as the crone sat beneath her beautiful little yum-yum tree (which she had named for the way it made her feel), she actually felt invisible; although , as she was not in the habit of carrying a mirror around with her in which to admire herself, she wasn't sure if she actually was.
Now, some children (and, sadly, some adults as well) are under the mistaken impression that just because a person is ugly it means that they must be mean and wicked as well. The children of the village felt this way toward the crone, though she never bothered anyone. They ran by her little cottage, shouting dreadful names that I dare not mention, and the boldest cruelly cut branches from her lovely little yum-yum tree and battered her innocent little pepper plants with them. If not for the aid of Mr. Bumbles, they might have destroyed the crone's labor of love.
Have I forgotten to mention Mr. Bumbles? Mr. Bumbles was the crone's oldest and dearest friend. He was a fuzzy black-and-yellow striped bumblebee. Every afternoon after the morning dew gently evaporated into the sky to form tomorrow's rain, Mr. Bumbles set about his work, diligently flitting from flower to flower in the pepper-patch, spreading the pollen that would turn each delicate white bloom into a luscious yellow, green or orange pepper. He was quite a gentle soul, Mr. Bumbles, and often the crone, as she sat under the yum-yum tree, would thank Mr. Bumbles for his faithful work, and sometimes sing a little song to aid him in his duties.
As a result of the crone's appreciation, Mr. Bumbles was quite loyal to the crone, and when the neighborhood children (who, as I hope you can see, were twice as mean and nasty as any name they ever called out about the crone) came by to thrash about in his dear friend's garden he set about defending her home and hearth. Some say he called in cousin-bees and uncle-bees and sister-bees and brother-bees to buzz about furiously. Others say he, Mr. Bumbles himself, whipped himself up into such a frenzy as to appear a whole hive and not a single bee. Either way, the swirling mass of buzzing bees invariably sent the children away shrieking, running home to tell tales to their parents of the massive swarm of evil bees that chased them home as they innocently walked by the crone's cottage.
Summer waned, as it always does, and the smiling sun yielded to the pensive moon a bit earlier, day by day. The crone spent quiet, successively cooler days feeling invisible under her yum-yum tree, singing songs of thanks to Mr. Bumbles. A big yellow bus came to the little village each morning, and carted her band of tormentors off to their education where they learned in the classroom their letters and numbers, and in the recess-yard, new ways to taunt and torment. The names they called out as they passed the crone's cottage each afternoon became more vicious and ugly, and by and by the crone's dear heart grew weary. Her songs became sad and full of woe, as she watched Mr. Bumbles grow older, and more tired, and she knew in her heart that the time was nigh for Mr. Bumbles to return to his hive and sleep for the long winter ahead.
The leaves began to drop from the branches of the yum-yum tree, creating a soft carpet upon which the crone would sit, and presently came the day that she had dreaded; the day for Mr. Bumbles to return to his home. "Dear friend," she sang, "I thank you. Bide thee well, and keep thee safe." And, with a sadness so deep she could barely abide it, she rose to pick the last of her lovely peppers.
"Fear thee not, Sister", a voice crooned in the old crone's ear, and she started in surprise, for she and Mr. Bumbles were alone in the wilting pepper-patch. "You've done me well, we've earned our rest, your pepper patch and you be blessed. Allow me one last little scheme, for 'morrow night comes Halloween". And with that, Mr. Bumbles rested himself upon the crone's shoulder, and whispered in her ear, and as his plan unfolded, the crone's heavy heart lightened, and she showed her snaggly teeth in a smile of appreciation.
The crone set about her work diligently, as had her dear friend Mr. Bumbles, all summer long. She gathered the last of her peppers and took them inside to her little kitchen . She strung them up above her stove and dried them, then rolled them to a fine powder. Strips of parchment paper she cut, and carefully sprinkled the lovely pepper powder upon them, and rolled them, crimping the ends tightly. Satisfied with her work, she chose her finest bowl, hand-carved from the root of an old oak tree, and laid them artfully inside.
The next evening she sat under the empty branches of the yum-yum tree feeling more invisible than she had ever felt.
Now, the children of the village yearly engaged themselves in a ritual on October 31 called trick-or-treat. They would dress themselves in costumes of witches and goblins and ghouls, taking on the visage of those they taunted and tormented for being ugly and evil. Then they would wander, house to house, demanding treats of their neighbors. Not one of them, rightly, could have considered the crone their neighbor, after the nasty way in which they had treated her. However, they thought, a treat was a treat, and the weather was too cold for the crone's hive of bees to chase them away, and wasn't that a lovely bowl of pixie stix sitting in her yard?
Here's a PDF version for you to download
Writes Violet: “Mr. Bumbles, The Crone, and The Yum-Yum Tree is a whimsical little tale that I wrote at the end of last summer as I was putting my pepper-patch to bed for the season and thanking all the faithful bees for their diligent work in keeping my plants pollenated and my harvest bountiful.”
Violet Eastwood-Curley is a happy crone with a deep appreciation for Mother Earth and all her bountiful blessings.
Her e-mail: peaceflower1962@aim.com
Why Blackie Wears Mourning
by Thornton Burgess
Grandfather Frog sat on his big green lily-pad in the Smiling Pool. Grandfather Frog felt very good that morning, very good indeed, because – why, because his white and yellow waistcoat was full of foolish green flies. It is doubtful, very, very doubtful if Grandfather Frog could have swallowed another foolish green fly to save his life. So he sat with his hands folded across his white and yellow waistcoat, and into his eyes, his great goggly eyes, there crept a far, far, far away look. Grandfather Frog was dreaming of the days when the world was young and the frogs ruled the world.
Pretty soon the Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind came over to the Smiling Pool to rock Mrs. Redwing’s babies to sleep in their cradle in the bulrushes. But when they saw Grandfather Frog they forgot all about Mrs. Redwing and her babies.
“Good morning, Grandfather Frog!” they shouted.
Grandfather Frog awoke from his dream with a funny little jump.
“Goodness, how you startled me!” said Grandfather Frog, smoothing down his white and yellow waistcoat.
The Merry Little Breezes giggled.
“We didn’t mean to, truly we didn’t,” said the merriest one of all. “We just wanted to know how you do this morning, and – and –“
“Chug-a-rum,” said Grandfather Frog, “you want me to tell you a story.”
The Merry Little Breezes giggled again. “How did you ever guess it?” they cried. “It must be because you are so very, very wise. Will you tell us a story, Grandfather Frog? Will you please?”
Grandfather Frog looked up and winked one big, goggly eye at jolly, round, red Mr. Sun, who was smiling down from the blue sky. Then he sat still so long that the Merry Little Breezes began to fear that Grandfather Frog was out of sorts and that there would be no story that morning. They fidgeted about among the bulrushes and danced back and forth across the lily-pads. They had even begun to think again of Mrs. Redwing’s babies.
“Chug-a-rum!” said Grandfather Frog suddenly. “What shall I tell you about?”
Just then a black shadow swept across the Smiling Pool. “Caw, caw, caw, caw!” shouted Blacky the Crow noisily, as he flew over toward Farmer Brown’s cornfield.
“Tell us why Blacky the Crow always wears a coat of black, as if he were in mourning,” shouted the Merry Little Breezes.
Grandfather Frog watched Blacky disappear behind the Lone Pine. Then, when the Merry Little Breezes had settled down, each in the golden heart of a white water-lily, he began:
“Once upon a time, when the world was young, old Mr. Crow, the grandfather a thousand times removed of Blacky, whom you all know, lived in the Green Forest on the edge of the Green Meadows, just as Blacky does now, and with him lived his brothers and sisters, his uncles and aunts, his cousins and all his poor relations.
Now Mr. Crow was very smart. Indeed, he was the smartest of all the birds. There wasn’t anything that old Mr. Crow couldn’t do or didn’t know. At least he thought there wasn’t. All the little meadow people and forest folks began to think so, too, and one after another they got in the habit of coming to him for advice, until pretty soon they were bringing all their affairs to Mr. Crow for settlement.
Now for a while Mr. Crow showed great wisdom, and this so pleased Old Mother Nature that she gave him a suit of pure, dazzling white, so that all seeing him might look up to him as a shining example of wisdom and virtue. Of course all his brothers and sisters, his uncles and aunts, his cousins and all his poor relations at once put on white, that all might know that they were of Mr. Crow’s family. And of course every one showed them the greatest attention out of respect to old Mr. Crow, so that presently they began to hold their heads very high and to think that because they were related to old Mr. Crow they were a little better than any of the other little meadow people and forest folks. When they met old Mr. Rabbit they would pretend not to see him, because he wore a white patch on the seat of his trousers. When old Mr. Woodchuck said ‘good morning,’ they would pretend not to hear, for you know Mr. Woodchuck wore a suit of dingy yellow and lived in a hole in the ground. Old Mr. Toad was ugly to look upon. Besides, he worked for his living in a garden. So when they happened to meet him on the road they always turned their backs.
For a long time old Mr. Crow himself continued to be a very fine gentleman and to hold the respect of all his neighbors. He was polite to everyone, and to all who came to him he freely gave of his advice as wisely as he knew how. Of course it wasn’t long before he knew all about his neighbors and their private affairs. Now it isn’t safe to know too much about your neighbors and what they are doing. It is dangerous knowledge, very dangerous knowledge indeed,” said Grandfather Frog solemnly.
“To be sure it would have been safe enough,” he continued, “if Mr. Crow had kept it to himself. But after a while Mr. Crow became vain. Yes, Sir, that is just what happened to old Mr. Crow – he became vain. He liked to feel that all the little meadow people and forest folks looked up to him with respect, and whenever he saw one of them coming he would brush his white coat, swell himself up and look very important. After a while he began to brag among his relatives of how much he knew about his neighbors. Of course they were very much interested, very interested indeed, and this flattered Mr. Crow so that almost before he knew it he was telling some of the private affairs which had been brought to him for his advice. Oh, dear me, Mr. Crow began to gossip.
Now, gossiping is one of the worst habits in all the world, one of the very worst. No good ever comes of it. It just makes trouble, trouble, trouble. It was so now. Mr. Crow’s relatives repeated the stories that they heard. But they took great care that no one should know where they came from. My, my, my, how trouble did spread on the Green Meadows and in the Green Forest! No one suspected old Mr. Crow, so he was more in demand than ever to straighten matters out. His neighbors came to him so much that they began to be ashamed to ask his advice for nothing, so they brought him presents so that no more need Mr. Crow hunt for things to eat. Instead, he lived on the fat of the land without working, and grew fat and lazy.
As I have told you, Mr. Crow was smart. Yes, indeed, he certainly was smart. It did not take him long to see that the more trouble there was among his neighbors the more they would need his advice, and the more presents he would receive. He grew very crafty. He would tell tales just to make trouble, and sometimes, when he saw a chance, he would give advice that he knew would make more trouble. The fact is, old Mr. Crow became a mischief-maker, the very worst kind of a mischief-maker. And all the time he appeared to be the fine gentleman that he used to be. He wore his fine white coat as proudly as ever.
Matters grew worse and worse. Never had there been so much trouble on the Green Meadows or so many quarrels in the Green Forest. Old Mr. Mink never met old Mr. Otter without picking a fight. Old Mrs. Skunk wouldn’t speak to old Mrs. Coon. Old Mr. Chipmunk turned his back on his cousin, old Mr. Red Squirrel, whenever their paths crossed. Even my grandfather a thousand times removed, old Mr. Frog, refused to see his nearest relative, old Mr. Toad. And all the time old Mr. Crow wore his beautiful suit of white and grew rich and fat, chuckling to himself over his ill-gotten wealth.
Then one day came Old Mother Nature to visit the Green Meadows. It didn’t take her long to find that something was wrong, very wrong indeed. Old Mr. Crow and all his relatives hastened to pay their respects and to tell her how much they appreciated their beautiful white suits. Old Mr. Crow made a full report of all the troubles that had been brought to him, but he took great care not to let her know that he had had any part in making trouble. He looked very innocent, oh, very, very innocent, but not once did he look her straight in the face.
Now the eyes of Old Mother Nature are wonderfully sharp and they seemed to bore right through old Mr. Crow. You can’t fool Old Mother Nature. No, Sir, you can’t fool Old Mother Nature, and it’s of no use to try. She listened to all that Mr. Crow had to say. Then she sent Mr. North Wind to blow his great trumpet and call together all the little people of the Green Meadows and all the little folks of the Green Forest.
When they had all come together she told them all that had happened. She told just how Mr. Crow had started the stories in order to make trouble so that they would seek his advice and bring him presents for it. When the neighbors of old Mr. Crow heard this they were very angry, and they demanded of Old Mother Nature that Mr. Crow be punished.
‘Look!’ said Old Mother Nature, pointing at old Mr. Crow. ‘He has been punished already.’
Everyone turned to look at Mr. Crow. At first they hardly knew him. Instead of his suit of spotless white his clothes were black, as black as the blackest night. So were the clothes of his uncles and aunts, his brothers and sisters, his cousins and all his poor relations.
And ever since that long-ago day, when the world was young, the Crows have been mischief-makers and have worn black, that all who look may know that they bring nothing but trouble,” concluded Grandfather Frog.
“Thank you! Thank you, Grandfather Frog,” shouted the Merry Little Breezes, jumping up to go rock the Redwing babies.
“Caw, caw, caw, caw!” shouted Blacky the Crow, flying over their heads with a mouthful of corn he had stolen from Farmer Brown’s cornfield.
When Mr. Bluebird Won His Beautiful Coat
By Thornton Burgess
Of all the joyous sounds of all the year there is none more loved by Peter Rabbit, and the rest of us for that matter, than the soft whistle of Winsome Bluebird in the spring. The first time Peter hears it he always jumps up in the air, kicks his heels together, and does a funny little dance of pure joy, for he knows that Winsome Bluebird is the herald of sweet Mistress Spring, and that she is not far behind him. It is the end of the shivery, sad time and the beginning of the happy, glad time, and Peter rejoices when he hears that sweet, soft voice which is sometimes so hard to locate, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere.
So Peter loves Winsome Bluebird and never tires of seeing him about. You know he wears a very, very beautiful coat of blue, the blue of the sky when it is softest, and you love to lie on your back and look up into it and dream and dream. It always has seemed to Peter that Winsome’s coat is one of the loveliest he has ever seen, as indeed it is, and that it is quite right and proper and just as it should be that one having such a beautiful voice and bringing such a beautiful message should himself be beautiful. He said as much one day when he had run over to the Smiling Pool to pay his respects to Grandfather Frog.
“Chug-a-rum! Certainly. Of course,” replied Grandfather Frog. “Winsome Bluebird has a beautiful nature and his beautiful coat is the reward which Old Mother Nature has given him. It has been in the family ever since his grandfather a thousand times removed was brave enough to become the herald of Mistress Spring.”
“Oh, Grandfather Frog, that sounds like a story,” cried Peter. “Please, please tell it to me, for I love Winsome Bluebird, and I know I shall love him more when I have learned more about him. His great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather must have done something very fine to have won such a lovely reward.”
“He did,” replied Grandfather Frog. “He became the herald of Mistress Spring when no one else would, and bravely carried his message of gladness and joy where it was sadly needed, in spite of cold and hardship which no one else was willing to face.”
“Please, please tell me all about it,” begged Peter.
Grandfather Frog appeared to consider for a few minutes, and Peter waited anxiously. Then Grandfather Frog cleared his voice. “I will,” said he, “because you ought to know it. Everybody ought to know it, and Winsome Bluebird certainly never will tell it himself. He is too modest for that. It happened a great while ago when the world was young. Mr. Bluebird was one of the quietest and most modest of all the birds. He wore just a modest gray coat, and no one took any particular notice of him. In fact, he didn’t even have a name. He never quarreled with his neighbors. He never was envious of those Mother Nature had given beautiful coats, or if he were, he never showed it. He just minded his own affairs and did his best to do his share of the work of the Great World, for even in the beginning of things there was something for each one to do.
Old Mother Nature was very busy those days making the Great World a fit place in which to live, and as soon as she had started a new family of birds or animals she had to leave them to take care of themselves and get along as best they could. Those who were too lazy or too stupid to take care of themselves disappeared, and others took their places. There was nothing lazy or stupid about Mr. Bluebird, and he quickly learned how to take care of himself and at the same time to keep on the best of terms with his neighbors.
When the place where the first birds lived became too crowded and old King Eagle led them out into the new land Old Mother Nature had been preparing for them, Mr. Bluebird was one of the first to follow him. The new land was very beautiful, and there was plenty of room and plenty to eat for all. Then came Jack Frost with snow and ice and drove all the birds back to the place they had come from. They made up their minds that they would stay there even if it were crowded. But after a while Old Mother Nature came to tell them that soon Jack Frost would be driven back from that wonderful new land, and sweet Mistress Spring would waken all the sleeping plants and all the sleeping insects up there so that it would be as beautiful as it was before, even more beautiful than the place where they were now. She said that she should expect them to go to the new land and make it joyous with their songs and build their homes there and help her to keep the insects and worms from eating all the green things.
‘But first I want a herald to go before Mistress Spring to tell those who have lived there all through the time of snow and ice that Mistress Spring is coming. Who will go as the herald of sweet Mistress Spring?’ asked Old Mother Nature.
All the birds looked at one another and shivered, and then one by one they tried to slip out of sight. Now Mr. Bluebird had modestly waited for some of his big, strong neighbors to offer to take the message of gladness up into that frozen land, but when he saw them slip away one by one, his heart grew hot with shame for them, and he flew out before Old Mother Nature. ‘I’ll go,’ said he, bobbing his head respectfully.
Old Mother Nature just had to smile, because compared with some of his neighbors Mr. Bluebird was so very small. ‘What can such a little fellow as you do?’ she asked. ‘You will freeze to death up there, for it is still very cold.’
‘If you please, I can at least try,’ replied Mr. Bluebird modestly. ‘If I find I can’t go on, I can come back.’
‘And what reward do you expect?’ asked Old Mother Nature.
‘The joy of spreading such good news as the coming of Mistress Spring will be is all the reward I want,’ replied Mr. Bluebird.
This reply so pleased Old Mother Nature that she then and there made Mr. Bluebird the herald of Mistress Spring and started him on his long journey. It was a long journey and a hard journey, harder, very much harder for Mr. Bluebird than the same journey is for Winsome these days. You see, everything was new to him. And then it was so cold! He couldn’t get used to the cold. It seemed sometimes as if he certainly would freeze to death. At these times, when he sat shivering and shaking, he would remember that sweet Mistress Spring was not very far behind and that he was her herald. This would give him courage, and he would bravely keep on. Whenever he stopped to rest, he would whistle the news that Mistress Spring was coming, and sometimes, just to keep up his own courage, he would whistle while he was flying, and he found it helped. To keep warm at night he crept into hollow trees, and it was thus he learned how snug and safe and comfortable such places were, and he made up his mind that in just such a place he would build his nest when the time came.
As he passed on he left behind him great joy, and Mistress Spring found as she journeyed north that all in the forests and on the meadows were eagerly awaiting her, for they had heard the message of her coming; and she was glad and told Old Mother Nature how well her herald had done his work. When he had completed his errand, Mr. Bluebird built a home and was as modest and retiring as ever. He didn’t seem to think that he had done anything out of the usual. He simply rejoiced in his heart that he had been able to do what Old Mother Nature had requested, and it never entered his head that he should have any other reward than the knowledge that he had done his best and that he had brought cheer and hope to many.
When Jack Frost moved down from the far North in the fall, all the birds journeyed south again, and of course Mr. Bluebird went with them. The next season when it was time for Mistress Spring to start north, Old Mother Nature assembled all the birds, and this time, instead of asking who would carry the message, she called Mr. Bluebird out before them and asked if he were willing to be the herald once more. Mr. Bluebird said that he would be glad to be the herald if she wished it. Then Old Mother Nature told all the birds how brave Mr. Bluebird was and how faithful and true, and she made all the other birds feel ashamed, especially those bigger and stronger than Mr. Bluebird. Then she said: ‘Winsome Bluebird, for that is to be your name from now on, I here and now appoint you the herald of Mistress Spring, and the honor shall descend to your children and your children’s children forever and ever, and you shall be one of the most loved of all the birds. And because you are a herald, you shall have a bright coat, as all heralds should have; and because you are true and faithful, your coat shall be blue, as blue as the blue of the sky.’
She reached out and touched Mr. Bluebird, and sure enough his sober gray coat turned the most wonderful blue. Then once more he started on his long journey and he whistled his message more joyously than before. And because his whistle brought joy and gladness, and because he was beautiful to see, it came about just as Old Mother Nature had said it would, that he was one of the most loved of all the birds, even as his great-great-ever-so-great-grandson is today.”
Peter drew a long breath. “Thank you, Grandfather Frog,” said he. “I have always loved Winsome Bluebird and now I shall love him more.”
