Getting Pea'd Off

Who does that?

I mean, seriously, who?

Maybe I should explain…

Jared was a prince. A real, bonafide prince.

The ‘son of a real king and queen’ sort of prince.

I know it probably sounds awesome, and for many years, for Jared, it was.

Friends. Tutors. Travel.

But recently, it had become, well, a pain.

Stay with me, children, I shall tell all…

Jared had ‘come of age’, which, in normal you-and-me speak means he was old enough to get serious about finding The One.

*cue romantic music…

Now if it was us, we’d probably design a heart-stopping page in the ‘Swinging Singles’ or, depending on our age, maybe the ‘Sagging Singles’.

Or get a cute puppy and appear at the park.

Jared didn’t have those options.

I mean, there really isn’t a dating site for the ‘Stately Singles’ or ‘Stuffy Singles’ whatever it would be called.

Nope.

Jared was stuck with the girls his parents managed to find among their Rolodex (Google it) of royal friends.

Most of whom he’d known since childhood.

Can we just say none appealed and leave it at that?

He searched.

Oh, my yes, he searched. Austria, Italy, France and the many and varied countries of continental Africa elicited no one who even remotely appealed.

He even put on his galoshes and winter coat and huffed and puffed his way across Canada.

And we all know just how attractive those Canadian girls can be!

Ahem...

But still no one seemed to strike that spark. Or if they did, they couldn’t prove they were ‘royal’.

(Or at least ‘royal’ enough to suit his parents…)

Yep. Jared was in a pickle.

One evening, as he and his parents stood on one of the myriad balconies bedeck-ing their palace, enjoying the awesome lightning display accompanying a Hollywoodish rainstorm, there was a knock at their royal door.

Jared and his parents frowned.

“Maybe it’s a princess come to look for me for a change!” Jared said.

They all laughed.

Just then their Major Domo, Domo, came to the balcony entrance.

“A young lady has been caught in the storm,” he said. “She says she’s a princess and seeks shelter.”

“But of course!” the queen said quickly.

“Bring her in!” the king added as he ushered his family inside.

Domo disappeared.

“Wouldn’t it be amazing if she turned out to be…erm…amazing?” Jared asked.

“And a real bonafide princess,” his mother added.

“Yeah. That.”

Just then a young lady appeared in the doorway, with Domo behind her.

“Here she is, your majesties,” he said, bowing.

She was a rather sodden young lady, whose long, red hair hung in dripping hanks down what looked to be a formerly-pristine, decidedly expensive crystal-beaded dress.

She sank into a deep (and shivering) curtsey. “Your Majesties,” she said in a very polite, decidedly royal way.

No, I don’t know, either. It just sounds good.

Then she gave a massive sneeze.

“Oh, excuse me!” She dabbed delicately at her nose with the back of one dripping wrist.

“Oh, my dear, you must be frozen!” the queen declared, rushing forward. “Domo!” she waved a hand. “Prepare a bath in the Red Room and fetch some dry garments!”

The man bowed and left.

“Come, dear,” the queen went on. “Let us get you clean and warm!”

The girl stretched quivering, blue lips in a semblance of a smile. “I am so sorry to come here alone and unannounced. But my carriage shed a wheel at the bottom of your drive and my driver sent me on to keep me warm and safe.” She looked down and smiled a little half-smile. “It wasn’t raining then.”

“Well, never you mind,” the queen said. “Let’s get you warm and comfy!”

She put her arm about the shivering girl and steered her toward the doorway.

“Now, tell me, my dear,” the queen said as they stepped out into the hall. “Domo was saying something about you being a…”

Their voices faded.

“…princess?” the king finished the queen’s sentence. He looked at his son a moment. Then grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

Jared was staring at the doorway where the girl (and his mother) had disappeared.

“Son?” his father said.

Jared blinked. “Is there really a silly rule that says I have to marry a princess?” he asked.

The king laughed. “I’m afraid so. Why else would you have been charging all over the globe these past few months?”

“Why, indeed.”

I don’t know about you, but I think I’m seeing a whole love-at-first-sight sort of…thing.

Who’s with me?

Meanwhile, down in the Red Room’s dressing room… (The dressing room of the Red Room? The big room’s little room? Oh, never mind.) …the girl was happily (and modestly) soaking in a tub of hot, soapy water.

At the same time, the queen was directing a vast army of servants in the placement of 40 mattresses atop the Red Room’s bed. The bed in the Red Room? Belonging to the Red Room?

Why am I having so much trouble with this?

Did Twain have this kind of distress? Or Dr. Seuss? I think not.

Moving on...

Unbeknownst (Oooh! Good word!) to the pile-ers, the queen had first placed a small, ordinary pea under the bottom mattress before the ‘pile-ing’ began. A pea that was now covered by, not 1, but 41 mattresses!

I know. Weird, right.

I guess she had her reasons.

Maybe she wanted to pre-pea the bed? *snort*

Sorry about that.

I digress…

When the girl emerged from her bath all warm, glowing and with her hair newly cleaned and arranged, the queen gasped.

Even in borrowed nightclothes, she truly was beautiful.

Some people are like that.

“Daphne, your bed is ready,” the queen said, patting the pile of mattresses.

Oh, right. I forgot. The girl had told the queen her name.

Daphne.

Daphne blinked, but obligingly climbed the ladder to the top, then snuggled down into the soft blankets.

“Have a good sleep, Dear,” the queen whispered.

But Daphne was already there.

The next morning, a smiling (and totally rested and happy) young face appeared at the breakfast table.

“Good morning, everyone!” Daphne sang out cheerfully.

People do that…in stories.

The king, queen and Jared looked up and smiled. The king and Jared rose to their feet and Jared reached for her arm in a gentleman-ly ‘let-me-be-attentive’ fashion.

“Oh Daphne, my sweet girl, it’s so nice to see your bright smiling face at our breakfast table!” the queen said graciously. She patted the chair beside her. “Please, dear. Come and sit next to me!”

Jared led her over and released her arm.

Daphne sank into the proffered chair.

The queen smiled and pressed Daphne’s hand. “Now my dear, tell us how you slept. Every detail!”

Daphne smiled back. “Like a dream,” she said happily. “I can’t remember when I’ve slept so well.”

The queen blinked and frowned slightly. “Oh. Really? Well that is…wonderful.”

A sudden chill seemed to fill the room.

Ignoring it, Daphne chirped happily on. “Yes. I think I could happily sleep on a stack of mattresses for the rest of my life!” she said.

“Oh. Well, I’m not quite sure…” began the queen.

“How we’ve missed meeting you all this time,” Jared broke in. He smiled warmly at the girl. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship!”

Okay, yes you’ve heard something like that before.

Go with me on this…

Well what did you think? That placing a pea under 40+ mattresses was going to make a bit of difference? I mean, I’ve slept like a baby (or like a teenager because we all know babies don’t sleep) with a tree root under my camping mattress.

Jared and Daphne were soon an ‘item’.

Then quickly moved from there to ‘affianced’.

The queen confided to Jared the whole ‘41 mattresses and one pea’ story the evening before his wedding day.

When he asked her why she merely shrugged. “Mother always told me that a true princess should be as delicate—and bruise-able—as a rose petal.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Jared said. “How could she withstand the rigours of life?”

You’re probably wondering what rigours a princess/future queen would have to withstand?

All I have to say is: childbirth...

And you know what? It wasn’t important if she was a ‘real’ princess or not because to Jared, she was his princess.

And that’s all that mattered.

It's Fly on the Wall Day!!!

My favourite Friday of the Month, where my blogging sisters and I treat the rest of you to a glimpse into hearts, lives and minds.

You've visited mine.

Now go and visit theirs!

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking in a Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

 

Of Bread. And Patience

I have to say I totally understand her position.

I mean…she did the work, shouldn’t she get the paycheck?

Ahem…

Miss Betsy, heretofore known merely by her description, ‘Little Red Hen’ was a sturdy, dependable sort of being. Hard-working. Honest.

Creative.

Now our Miss Betsy was tired of her usual farm diet (ie. Bugs. Worms. And good grief, who can blame her?!) and decided what she’d really like was a nice, fresh loaf of bread—or something similar.

But, living in a farmyard as she did, the opportunities for the sale or procurement of such things as baking stuffs was pretty nigh impossible.

Privacy was also at a premium. Just FYI.

Moving on…

Then one day, our Miss Betsy found several grains of…grain that had fallen out of the farmer’s wagon.

And she was struck by an idea.

She could grind up this grain and make that lovely loaf of bread—or something similar—that she’d been dreaming of?

Between you and I, a truly lovely idea!

Sadly, she knew that the few grains she held would be woefully inadequate for such an undertaking. Taken to the mill and ground, they would produce…maybe a tablespoon, at best.

But what if she planted them?!

One grain of wheat, properly planted and nurtured could reproduce itself a hundred times over, right?

All one needed was a patch of ground.

Some water.

Sunlight.

100 to 130 days of frost-free weather.

And patience.

Okay, let’s face it—making a loaf of bread in this manner isn’t something one does in a hurry.

But there were no other options and Miss Betsy, not one to be easily discouraged, decided to go for it.

Being the happy little community member that she was, she decided to offer her idea to the…erm…community.

“I found some grains of wheat!” she said, as excited-ly as she could.

Let’s face it—with the indolent crew that ‘peopled’ the barn yard, she would need to sell the idea to get anyone up off their…indolence.

“Yay,” said the cat. Who then yawned.

“Yay,” said the duck. Who flapped his wings idly and settled in for another nap.

“Bring them here. I’ll take care of them,” said the pig. Who then rolled over.

Not one to be so quickly discouraged, Miss Betsy tried again. “I’m going to plant them and then they’ll grow and mature and produce enough grain that I’ll be able to grind them and make a lovely loaf of bread!” She paused, a big, hopeful grin on her face.

Okay, yes, she’s a bird…with a beak. Go with me on this…

The cat stared at her. “That sounds like a lot of work for a very little reward.”

“Trust me on this,” said Miss Betsy. “It’ll be totally worth it! Who wants to help plant it?”

The cat fluffed up his fur. “Not I,” he said. Then he began to lick his left leg.

“I have to agree with my feline friend,” said the duck. “Not I.” He tucked his head under his wing.

“Call me when you have real food and not this imaginary stuff,” said the pig. And slid happily back into his dream world.

“Huh. Well. I guess I’ll just have to plant it myself!” said Miss Betsy.

And she did.

A few days later, several little, green shoots appeared in the rows where Miss Betsy had planted her precious grains.

“Oooh!” she said excitedly. “Look! Everyone look! My little seed-lies are sprout-ling!”

“Uh-huh,” said the cat, duck and pig together.

“Who wants to help me water it and weed it?”

“Your joking, right?” said the cat.

“Nope. Who would like to help? It’ll be a lot of fun!”

Just a side note here. I’ve tried this with my grandkids. But it seems that infusing your words with a lot of enthusiasm only works if there is an obvious—and visible—reward.

Sigh.

Back to our story…

“Not I,” said the cat.

“Not I,” said the duck.

“Not I,” said the pig.

“Fine. Then I’ll do it myself!”

And she did.

The grain grew tall and healthy and multiplied ‘exceedingly’.

And in all that time, Miss Betsy tended it faithfully.

And, after 130 days, as spring turned to summer and then to fall, the tall, heavily-laden stalks were ready to harvest.

“Oh, yow! Look at those!” Miss Betsy said. “Did you ever see any wheat stalks as tall and straight and full?!”

“Can’t say that I have,” said the cat. “Of course, I have to admit I’ve never really taken notice before.”

“You’re doing good work, Bets,” said the duck. “Keep it up. You’ll have your loaf of bread in next to no time!”

“Zzzzz,” said the pig.

“So who wants to help me harvest it?” Miss Betsy (ever the optimist) asked.

“Not I,” said the cat, stretching out in the autumn sun.

“Not I,” said the duck, preening his feathers.

“Zzzzz,” said the pig.

So she did it herself.

You should have seen the yield! Yow-zas!

But then, the next step in the interminable (this is really taking a long time!) process.

“Who wants to help me haul this haul to the mill to be ground into flour?”

“Are you kidding me?” said the cat, duck and pig together. Translation: Not I!

‘Sigh,” said Miss Betsy. Translation: Sigh.

“Then I’ll do it myself.”

And she did.

Now she had a sack of flour, perfect for that perfect loaf of bread.

Things were starting to heat up at last.

“Who wants to help me make the loaf of bread?” Miss Betsy asked.

She was nothing if not eternally positive.

“Call me when it comes out of the oven,” yawned the cat.

“Ditto,” said the duck.

“Achoo!” said the pig. Translation: I say we just eat the flour like it is!

So Miss Betsy made it herself.

Finally, after the months and months of work and waiting, a big, golden loaf emerged from the oven, proudly carried by Miss Betsy in her brand new oven mitts. “Now, who will help me eat this bread?” she asked.

“I will!” said the cat.

“I will,” said the duck.

“I will!” said the pig.

“You won’t!” said Miss Betsy.

And they didn’t.

But she did.

Then she also went and got some better friends.

Moral: One-way friendships can work for a while, but eventually, they just grind you down to nothing.

The end. 

It's Fly on the Wall Day! The best day of the month!

When my sister-bloggers and I share what's been happening in our homes and minds and hearts for the past month.

You've read mine.

Now go and see what my sisters are up to!

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia of Menopausal Mother

Of Mice and...Frogs

First of all, I present here an abbreviated version of the poem.

Because…hey, I’m not getting paid by the word!

And because…good gravy this poem is repetitious! Yikes!

So for those of you who like repetition…you can add as many lines as you want.

Just please, not near the rest of us… Ahem…

Oh, and even abbreviated, there are a lot of uh-huh’s.

Sorry…

 

Froggy went a courtin’ and he did ride, uh-huh

With a sword and a pistol by his side, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

First thought out of the gate is…actually two thoughts. One, how is Mr. Froggy riding? And two, why does he feel the need to carry both sword and pistol when he’s going courting, hmmm?

Now I’ve seen a few frogs in my lifetime.

Kissed a few, too. If you catch my drift. (Snort!)

And none—not one—has ever been riding anything. Except maybe a lily pad. Or a water current.

True story.

And also, there has been a complete dearth of froggies carrying swords and/or pistols.

I think they would have no problem gripping said swords and/or pistols. But their ability to, say, pull a trigger remains highly doubtful.

And, most importantly, why would he feel the need to carry any weaponry at all when his

declared goal was courtship?

Perhaps we’re rightly sensing some sort of discord between the Frog and Mouse families?

Tragic…

He rode up to Miss Mousie’s door, uh-huh

A place where he had been before, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Not much to comment on  here.

Obviously, if he was intent on courting the aforementioned Miss Mouse, he would have been there

before.

Although I’ve heard that some do their courting quite successfully sight-unseen, not so in our story.

He said, “Miss Mouse, will you marry me? uh-huh

And oh so happy we will be, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Ahhh!

Spring is in the air!

Soft breezes!

Blossoms in the trees!

And a young man’s fancy turns to love…

Okay. It’s a frog and a mouse.

Go with me on this…

“Not without Uncle Rat’s consent”, uh-huh

“I wouldn’t marry the President,” uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Now I don’t think she’s saying that Mr. Froggie is the president.

Although, considering the world's choices in the last hundred years or so, he may be a strong contender.

What she’s meaning is it wouldn’t matter how important someone was (or thought they were) she still

wouldn’t accept him without consulting a person she loved and trusted.

Right?

Which brings us right to Uncle Rat.

I wonder if he appreciated the influence he had over the younger members of his family.

Let’s just say ‘yes’ and move on…

Because…

Uncle Rat, he went downtown, uh-huh

To buy his niece a wedding gown, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

I’d venture this denotes agreement, even support on Uncle Rat’s part.

What are your thoughts?

Oh...right.

Maybe we should withhold opinions until we see what he bought.

If it was something soft and filmy, okay. Support.

If it was made of cast iron or anything resembling armour, less likely.

Where shall the wedding supper be? uh-huh

Way down yonder in the hollow tree, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

I’m good with this.

A frog and a mouse party should be in a rotting tree—far from the usual mouse parties we seem to have

in our family’s larder.

Ugh.

Back to our story…

The first to come was a bumble bee, uh-huh

With a big bass fiddle on his knee, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Nice that the band showed up good and early.

There’s nothing like biting your nails in nervousness as the clock ticks around to zero-hour.

And you’re starting to wonder if you and your sweetheart are going to dance the first waltz to a bunch of fairly inebriated relatives singing the wrong words to ‘Lady in Red’.

Not that that’s ever happened to anyone I know…

Ahem…

Next to come was the big black snake, uh-huh

He gobbled down the wedding cake, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Okay, I know everyone has at least one of those relatives.

Because what wedding is complete without some relative hogging all the cake.

Or shrimp, as the case may be.

Little bit of biscuit on the shelf, uh-huh

If you want anymore you can make it yourself, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.

Do you know what this says to me?

All the food’s gone?

That’s it.

Party’s over.

Go home. 

Oh, and best wishes to the happy couple.

Kiss. Kiss.

Today is Fly on the Wall Day!

The best day of the month!

When my blog sisters and I get to share with you what's been happening in our homes and hearts this month.

You've read mine.

Go now to see what Karen and Marcia have done!

Karen At Baking in a Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother

Cinders to Crowns

Former Maid Hits the Jackpot!

Diane Stringam Tolley, Fiction Reporter

Beaumont —   It’s true. Occasionally, everything just works out!

Daughter of a late, well-respected local businessman, Cindy was raised with wealth but had fallen on hard times.

Though we couldn’t get an interview with the girl, herself, neighbours report that she was unfailingly sweet and cheerful.

She had to work hard, but she did so willingly, her positive attitude a positive inspiration to co-workers.

“She was always so kind to all of us!” said one of her co-workers, known only as ‘Jack’.

“Y-y-yes!” another co-worker, Gus-Gus, put in. “Even the new arrivals, like me. She treated us all real special!”

Her co-workers couldn’t comment on the exact order of events that led to her good fortune, saying only: “Everyone chipped in to make it possible. We were just so happy to help her. It was well-deserved!”

One co-worker, on condition of anonymity, hinted that Cindy’s life had not been very easy. Citing “Family troubles”.

“Apparently, she didn’t get along with immediate family members,” she said. “A surprise, because she was so sweet! We were all quite flabbergasted that she and the other female members of her family experienced such animosity. I guess it’s just a fact that not everyone, no matter how kind, gets along with everyone else!”

Apparently there had been a bit of consternation and some hair-pulling over an invitation to a much-anticipated party.

“But Cindy was made of tough stuff and determined to attend, despite hints of ‘unsuitability’ from her relatives.”

Those ‘female relatives’ appeared to have made Cindy’s attendance difficult—even conspiring to ruin a new party dress.

“She was quite distraught,” says our source. “Fortunately, I had the foresight to plan for such an event.

“I was able to provide our girl with something suitable—maybe even superior—as quick as a wink!”

And those efforts certainly paid off. Cindy made quite a remarkable—one could almost say a ‘royal’— impression.

“She had to leave before the party wound down, and in so doing, lost a personal item or two… “But still, when answering her co-workers' questions, she was glowing with praise for the party and the organizers.”

Praise that she continued to spout, even as her regular work-a-day world was once again thrust upon her. “I’ve got that in my pocket,” she is quoted as saying. Though some speculate she meant something else.

There was some mention of a dust-up over the return of her belongings by ensigns from party organizers, but with what she had pocketed, all this was soon sorted, and Cindy was quickly on her way.

Now a new life and a new home awaits her—along with a beautiful, budding romance (wink, wink)—and all this reporter can think to say is: Hooray, Miss Cindy! With your co-workers, I congratulate you!

From cinders to a crown! Surely the stuff of magical fairy tales! Every woman's dream. Well...mine, anyway.

Today is Fly on the Wall Day!

When, with my Blog Sisters, we post what's been going on in our minds, homes or hearts! Or maybe something...pithy.

You've read mine.

Now go and read my Sisters'.

You'll be glad you did!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother 

Trolling for Goats

It started with a bridge.

Okay, maybe not with a bridge, but with the troll that lived under it.

Or maybe with the three goats that simply wanted to get across.

Let me start again . . .

There were once three goats.

Better.

Brothers (or Billys) by the name of Gruff.

They lived in a meadow at the foot of Cold Mountain. Beside the Whispering Woods.

Near Clearwater Stream.

You know the spot.

It was lovely there. Plenty to eat.

Shelter from the occasional storms.

Really fresh, cold water.

Yep. Lovely.

All fall and winter, the three of them ate the lush grass and did goat stuff.

Finally, as summer was just starting peep out along the branches of the trees and creep up into the crevices of Cold Mountain, Big Billy Goat Gruff, hereinafter known as BB, made a momentous proposal.

“Hey, bros! Why don’t we go up the mountain and eat the new, green grass that is sure to be growing there!”

Now, you have to know that, for three goats who hardly—okay, never—went anywhere, this truly was an ‘out-there’ suggestion.

The other two thought about it for .68 seconds.

“I’m for it!” Little Billy (LB) said excitedly.

Middle Billy (MB) shrugged. “Why not? I probably won’t be getting any calls from my publisher any time soon, so what have I got to lose?”

“Let’s do it!” LB took off at a run.

Little brothers. Am I right?

The other two followed at a more sedate pace. Well, MB did.

I think it was BB’s turn to do the dishes, so he was a bit behind the other two.

It should come as no surprise that LB reached the stout, stone bridge crossing Clearwater Stream quite a bit ahead of the others. Without even pausing to consider the possible ramifications involved in crossing an unknown—albeit local—landmark, he started across.

Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Okay, that probably doesn’t accurately describe the sound made by four small goat hooves on the aged wooden decking of a local landmark.

Go with me on this...

LB had just reached the center of the bridge when something happened.

Something big and loud and scary.

And no, it wasn’t a broadcast of the most recent out-of-control political discussion.

Although that would be equally frightening...

No. It was a troll.

One who had taken up residence beneath that very bridge.

And we all know that, in a troll world, possession is 9/10s of the law.

Actually, more like 35/36s.

“Who’s trip-trapping on my bridge?!” the troll shouted, leaping onto the bridge.

Do you think this comment suggests another sound may have been acceptable?

What are your thoughts . . .

“Eek!” LB replied. Then, in a shaky ‘little-goat-brother’ voice, “It is I. Little Tinesy Billy Goat Gruff. The littlest, tiniest, not-much-meat-on-him goat in the Gruff family of fine goats.”

The troll blinked. “Umm . . .”

LB rolled his eyes and decided to simplify. “Don’t eat me!”

“But you’re on my bridge. And anyone caught trip-trapping over my bridge gets eaten!”

See? There’s that ‘trip-trapping’ again. Am I right in thinking LB would have done just fine if he’d—I don’t know—salsa danced across?

“Oh, but I’m just so wee,” LB said in his tiniest, squeakiest voice. “There’s not much to eat. You’d lose more calories than you gained. Like eating celery. All work. Small reward.”

The troll stared at him.

LB sighed. “My bigger, fatter, tastier brother is right behind me. Why don’t you wait for him? Much better meat-to-bone ratio.”

The troll thought about this for a moment, then finally shrugged. Why not? “Fine,” he said. “But stick around, just in case.”

LB didn’t wait for the troll to clarify, but trip-trapped the rest of the way across and out of sight.

The troll ducked back beneath the bridge.

A few minutes later, MB appeared. Seeing no one and nothing untoward, he started across. Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Notice how it’s a little louder? That’s called Bigger Font.

“Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?!” the troll shouted. He leaped onto the bridge in his finest ‘I’m-a-troll-and-I’m-awesomely-scary’ fashion.

MB and the troll regarded each other. “It is I, Middle Billy Goat Gruff,” MB said in his most polite voice. “Is there something I can do for you?” 

“You can bring me lunch!” The troll laughed his most troll-like laugh. Which, you have to admit is pretty rough and creaky and...okay, yes... scary.

“I’d be happy to,” said MB, still in his ‘I-don’t-know-you-but-why-can’t-we-be-friends?’ voice. What is it I can get you?”

“YOU!” The troll shouted gleefully and started forward.

“Oh, you don’t want to eat me!” MB put up a hoof to ward off the large, and decidedly over-eager troll.

“I don’t?”

“Oh, no! I’m much too small and puny.”

The troll frowned. “You look pretty good to me.”

“Well, trust me, I’m not. I’m in terrible shape and I never eat a proper diet. My BMI is through the roof! You can do much better.”

The troll looked around. “How?”

MB leaned closer. “Okay, I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he said conspiratorially, “but there is another goat right behind me who is MUCH bigger than I am. And he works out. Totally eats right. Low fat. Low sodium. If you eat him, not only will there be more, but it will be much better for you!”

The troll pursed his huge troll-lips thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said finally. “But stick around, just in case.”

MB nodded and, completely ignoring what the troll asked, skedaddled.

Once more, the troll took up his patented ‘troll’ position beneath the bridge.

This may be a good time to explore the whole ‘troll-beneath-the-bridge’ thing. I mean, why on earth would one choose to live beneath a bridge? Damp to wet conditions pretty much constantly. Noisy, as the whole ‘trip-trapping’ would suggest. Subject to the whims of the weather. Fishermen.

I mean, really?!

And another thing, what makes him think it is HIS bridge? Does he have title?

Did he, you know, pay someone for it?

These are questions that need explanation.

Back to our story . . .

BB arrived. Assuming his brothers were trip-trapping happily further ahead, he leaped onto the bridge and started across.

Trip-trap! Trip-trap! Trip-trap!

Yow! He certainly is a big fellow.

Once again, the troll shouted, “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge!” And made a truly spectacular appearance on the mountain side of the bridge.

I don’t know about you, but I’m scared . . .

“It is I! The Big Billy Goat Gruff. And what makes it your bridge?”

See? I’m not the only one who is wondering.

“Ummm . . .” said the troll.

“Never mind. What do you want?”

“Lunch!” the troll shouted, pouncing.

But BB was very large indeed. And had a fine, large pair of horns to go with his enormous size.

Quicker than you can blink, he had used those horns to toss that old troll right over the side.

Okay, you’re right, the chances of the old guy getting hurt were probably quite slim.

Truth to tell, it was his ego that took the brunt of everything. First of all, he’d been soundly defeated by a goat. And secondly, as he was going over, he screamed like a little girl.

I’m not lying. He did.

He hit the stream with an enormous splash, then waded to the bank and pulled himself out. He stood there for a moment, turned and looked up at BB, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, then sighed and started walking. Down the stream and out of sight.

BB nodded and finished crossing the bridge.

The three brothers spent a happy, lovely summer on the slopes of Cold Mountain. Growing fat on the rich grasses and just generally enjoying themselves.

As the weather began to cool, they once more made their way back down the mountain to their old meadows.

They did exhibit some caution when crossing the little bridge, but the troll hadn’t returned.

He was happily ensconced under another bridge further downstream. Finding new goats to annoy.

Some trolls never learn.

Once a month, my blog sisters, Karen and Marcia, join me in sharing what's been going on in our hearts and minds and homes.

I have to admit it--it's a lot of fun!

You've read mine, now go and see what they have been up to!

Karen at Baking In A Tornado

Marcia at Menopausal Mother