A Tale of Old...|Someone who appreciates stories

[Fabel]

Fabel sat in the lush green grass, with four unsold papers next to her. There were many people, mostly children surrounding her, listening as she spun tale upon tale.

"...An Ant nimbly running about in the sunshine in search of food came
across a Chrysalis that was very near its time of change. The
Chrysalis moved its tail, and thus attracted the attention of the Ant,
who then saw for the first time that it was alive. "Poor, pitiable
animal!" cried the Ant disdainfully. "What a sad fate is yours!
While I can run hither and thither, at my pleasure, and, if I wish,
ascend the tallest tree, you lie imprisoned here in your shell, with
power only to move a joint or two of your scaly tail." The Chrysalis
heard all this, but did not try to make any reply. A few days after,
when the Ant passed that way again, nothing but the shell remained.
Wondering what had become of its contents, he felt himself suddenly
shaded and fanned by the gorgeous wings of a beautiful Butterfly.
"Behold in me," said the Butterfly, "your much-pitied friend! Boast
now of your powers to run and climb as long as you can get me to
listen." So saying, the Butterfly rose in the air, and, borne along
and aloft on the summer breeze, was soon lost to the sight of the
Ant forever..." she finished.

Throughout every story that she told, she always made wild gestures and fun facial expressions. She even did the voices of the characters she portrayed. She knew many tales, and figured the best way to make some extra money, would be to share these tales with others.

She was right, for as she concluded that story, a nickel was dropped into her cabbie hat, prodding her to continue..

[Foster]

Foster had finished selling and was just passing through harlem. He put his hands in his pockets as he walked, his head down cast. Foster was passing through morningside park when he overheard someone telling a story, his head lifted seeing a girl not too far away, reading.

He raised his brows, his interest piqued and he headed towards a nearby tree. She was so into the story, her hands moving in gestures as she continued on and when the story was over the listeners gave her money for it.

He'd never heard anyone be so good at that, and well he kind of liked hearing it. He had never heard stories other then the ones he read in the paper, or those told by friends, but those were real stories. The ones this girl read were from books.

Licking his lips he spoke up from where he leaned against the tree. He cleared his throat. "um.."He said rubbing the back of his neck. 'Will you be... "he shrugged, taking his hat off to fiddle with it. Turning it around in his hands. "are you gonna... do another?"he had looked down but at the end of his question he looked up at her. He felt silly, he wasnt a little boy and yet here he was asking for another story.

[Fabel]

"um.."He said rubbing the back of his neck. 'Will you be... "he shrugged, taking his hat off to fiddle with it. Turning it around in his hands. "are you gonna... do another?"

Fabel looked up, and smiled warmly. Instead of answering his question, she began once more;

"Now, there once was an old man whom all the people called
Kribble-Krabble, for that was his name. He always wanted the
best of everything, and when he could not manage it otherwise,
he did it by magic.

There he sat one day, and held his magnifying-glass to his
eye, and looked at a drop of water that had been taken out of
a puddle by the ditch. But what a kribbling and krabbling was
there! All the thousands of little creatures hopped and sprang
and tugged at one another, and ate each other up.

"That is horrible!" said old Kribble-Krabble. "Can one not
persuade them to live in peace and quietness, so that each one
may mind his own business?"

And he thought it over and over, but it would not do, and
so he had recourse to magic.

"I must give them color, that they may be seen more
plainly," said he; and he poured something like a little drop
of red wine into the drop of water, but it was witches' blood
from the lobes of the ear, the finest kind, at ninepence a
drop. And now the wonderful little creatures were pink all
over. It looked like a whole town of naked wild men.

"What have you there?" asked another old magician, who had
no name- and that was the best thing about him.

"Yes, if you can guess what it is," said Kribble-Krabble,
"I'll make you a present of it."

But it is not so easy to find out if one does not know.

And the magician who had no name looked through the
magnifying-glass.

It looked really like a great town reflected there, in
which all the people were running about without clothes. It
was terrible! But it was still more terrible to see how one
beat and pushed the other, and bit and hacked, and tugged and
mauled him. Those at the top were being pulled down, and those
at the bottom were struggling upwards.

"Look! look! his leg is longer than mine! Bah! Away with
it! There is one who has a little bruise. It hurts him, but it
shall hurt him still more."

And they hacked away at him, and they pulled at him, and
ate him up, because of the little bruise. And there was one
sitting as still as any little maiden, and wishing only for
peace and quietness. But now she had to come out, and they
tugged at her, and pulled her about, and ate her up.

"That's funny!" said the magician.

"Yes; but what do you think it is?" said Kribble-Krabble.
"Can you find that out?"

"Why, one can see that easily enough," said the other.
"That's Paris, or some other great city, for they're all
alike. It's a great city!"

"It's a drop of puddle water!" said Kribble-Krabble. And the magician with no name went away, saddened." She finished.

Her stories were not out of a book, but out of her own head. They were tales she had picked up and carried on with her as she had rogued her way through the South of the United States..