Prince Columbine

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Prince Columbine hung his head like the flower he was named for. His father, King Pine, wanted him to become a judge in the court, but Prince Columbine never had the right words. His sister, Princess Starflower, could talk rings around him.

“I would give anything to sit in the court like you do,” she said, failing to understand how he could be sad about it, her golden hair falling in petals around her glowing face. “If you had just told Farmer Wednesday that you would check the records and get back to her about the boundary marker, all would have gone well. Why did you have to tell her that a foot one way or the other doesn’t matter? Of course it matters to her.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I get it. She was so angry. It just didn’t seem that important.”

The princess huffed and gave up on him. “Ugh, if I see one more bleeding cut, I’m going to throw up!” she insisted.

“Why don’t we switch for a day?” Prince Columbine had always enjoyed assisting the healer when he had the chance. He knew his father would disapprove, but he did not think he would be angry. “Let’s tell the healers and ministers we have father’s approval, and then hope he’s busy all day. Then he won’t notice! He has plans to tour the castle walls with his architects.”

“I love the idea!” And so they switched.

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Fairy Princess Shinobu and the Samurai Rats

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Once upon a time, there was a very angry fairy princess. Her mother was Queen Red Leaf. Her court lived in a Japanese maple beside a small lantern in the Azalea Garden. Her mother was warring with the samurai rats living under the Bridge of Singing Water. She had allied with the Orange Blossom fairies. The fairies of both courts encircled the Wren Palace.

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The Oak Princess

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Cassandra looked out her window at the early morning sunshine dappled by her favorite oak tree. Before school, she asked permission from her dad and then ran outside quickly. She looked up at the face in the oak tree. The bark formed eyes, a smiling mouth, and curly hair. She smiled back at her friend in the tree. Some of the leaves were turning orange, and waved in the breeze like thousands of hands.

Yesterday, the rain fell in torrents, and the wind had blown down branches. Acorns had fallen like hail. She had gathered up the acorns to save them from car tires. Except for three, they were all gone from her basket, taken by the neighbors – squirrels and chipmunks. These last three she buried with her shovel in the grassy berm. A beautiful mother oak should be surrounded by her children; Cassandra felt strongly about certain things. When she finished, she waved at the face in the tree, and returned inside. She washed her hands carefully, and got ready for school. Another place to shine.

The next morning, she ran outside again to check on her acorns. As she skipped past her basket, waving at the face in the tree, she noticed something glint at the bottom. She stopped and picked up a golden ring.

“Where did this come from?” Cassandra wondered aloud.

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Hidden Island

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The Scottish village of Arisaig was huddled in close between the church and the harbor. Looking out past the ferry dock, islands appeared in and out of the mists that shrouded the Atlantic coastline.

The fairy queen lived lonely on Hidden Island, with only the seals, fish and seagulls for company. Lying on her bed of seaweed, she dreamed of olden days. She remembered when her people danced in the stone circles on the mainland, but long ago she had been exiled by the fairy king. Her heart yearned to see him again. Her husband and king had sent her away because of a terrible misunderstanding. Sometimes, the seals carried small boys to Hidden Island for her, but they always brought them back. This is the story of one of those boys.

Innis was visiting Scotland for the first time with his mother, whose people had left when the lairds ran sheep across their land.

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Hannah Saves Seaside

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“Shiny, shiny little flower,” sang a little child named Hannah, whose curly red ringlets shone in the sunshine. Her stomach rumbled. She had not had her porridge for breakfast. Her family was all out of food, as was most of Seaside Village. The villagers did not lock the doors of their houses, and instead all the villagers locked their gold in the village tower. Three nights before, a landslide had rumbled down the foothill, leaving a great mountain of earth blocking the villagers from getting to their gold.

The tower was made of smooth granite with seven foot-thick walls. The only way in now was one long, narrow window forty feet in the air. No one could climb the tower, although many young men and women of the village had tried all day. For three days and nights, all the villagers had worked to shift half the earth away from the door. Even Hannah had carried dirt in her pail. No one had had any time for fishing, and everyone in the village was exhausted and hungry. The tax collector was due the very next day.

The elders were meeting, and Hannah could hear a lot of shouting.

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Princess Celestine

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The old woman spun her silks in moonlight, and in the warp and weft, a story was written. Some believe a person’s story cannot be changed. But restless fingers can pick at the threads, and what was written becomes changed forever. That is what happened to the story the old woman was weaving of the Princess Celestine of Gothmidland, who was favored by the stars, and intended for Prince Elgar the Northman. A thief’s fingers picked at the threads, and her story was changed forever.

One day, the Princess Celestine boarded the ship, Starspun, headed for the shores of Northland. At that moment, the ship’s Captain was off buying barrels of oranges from sunny Spain. A thief cut his purse strings, but missed his money. Captain Ferdinand had cleverly hidden that under his waistband beneath a thick leather belt. Instead the thief made off with his gold astrolabe. The oranges were duly delivered, and the Captain returned to his ship without noticing his loss.

Meanwhile, the first mate had been so busy yelling at the ship’s boy, Leo, to carry the Princess’s bags, and bowing repeatedly to the beautiful princess that he failed to taste the water being siphoned into the tanks below the deck.

Princess Celestine admired the last view of Parvenue Harbor as the ship passed out of the narrow opening into open water, not knowing that she would never reach her destination.

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Dancing in the Fairy Circle

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Mrs. Padget lived down the street from Adelle, and always said hello when Adelle and her brother, Farr, rode by on their bicycles. Adelle and Farr were 7 and 8 years old, and Mrs. Padget was older than their grandmother. One day, Mrs. Padget was out planting begonias. She called: “Adelle!” Adelle stopped her bike. “Adelle, never fall asleep in a fairy circle!” Adelle was so surprised that at first she didn’t know what to say.

“What’s a fairy circle?” Adelle asked. Mrs. Padget just shook her head and repeated: “Never fall asleep by the Misty Lake hillside or you might find out.” Adelle’s brother rode by. She told him about the warning, but he said Mrs. Padget was just trying to scare her, and she shouldn’t worry about it. Misty Lake was just up the street from their house, and they often rode their bikes there to picnic or swim. Adelle looked many times that summer, but she never saw any fairies.

Adelle and Farr played with their friends during the long, hot days. One day, a group of them picnicked beside the hill and watched swallows flying over Misty Lake. The lake was mistier as the sun set. Adelle’s eyes felt heavy, and she nodded off on the picnic blanket, which was in the shade of a thick oak tree. She did not notice the red circle in the grass. Soon she was surrounded by fairies, their wings shining. Soft clothing floating as they danced. They were the most beautiful creatures Adelle had ever seen with sparking eyes and long, slender limbs. She got up and danced with them. She did not feel tired, she did not feel hungry, and she did not feel thirsty. She danced on and on.

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Donal Outwits the King

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Deep in the forest, someone was sleeping. Covered in leaves and moss, with a windbreak lashed snuggly in the bracken, he was dreaming of a king, a curse and a drumming in the dark.

In another part of the forest, a young boy was disguised as a fox. He heard the pounding of hooves behind him. He ducked under a tree root, but was soon surrounded by baying dogs. The horses approached, and their riders were holding bows and arrows. Their velvet cloaks were lined with fur, and one wore a silver crown. Donal stood up fast, and threw off his fox hood before an arrow could be nocked. His costume had a real fox tail dragging on the ground, and it must have drawn in the dogs.

“You’re no fox!” laughed the King with the silver crown. “Who are you to be on my land? Trespassers are made into slaves here.” The King’s face turned dark.

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Happy International Children’s Book Day!

Andie's avatarAge is just a page number

I didn’t know this was a thing until today, but apparently lovers of kids’ fiction get their own day to celebrate. It also marks the birthday of Hans Christian Andersen, Danish author of fairy tales galore (think Thumbelina, Ugly Duckling, Princess and the Pea, Little Mermaid, and more). Full disclosure – I don’t think I’ve actually read any of his stories firsthand. But it’s the mark of a great story teller that I’m familiar with so many of his tales nonetheless. Maybe with all this revisiting of childhood books I’ll be inspired to check out some new titles as well, like the original Little Mermaid. But from what I’ve heard it’s much more depressing than the Disney version…

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Brother-Wolf

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Fionna was so excited she was wiggling like the four-year old she was. Her parents stopped the car to look at a roadrunner. They were in Arizona near Sedona on their way to visit The White Deer Native American Museum. Reina White Deer had been a famous artist and activist for native Americans.

“The bird is smaller than I imagined,” her father said. “Now all we need is Wile E. Coyote.” Her mother laughed, and said, “What’s up, Doc?” The museum was in an old, rambling stone building. Fionna looked at beautiful weavings, paintings, baskets and jewelry with her parents. Her parents were in conversation with an older woman, who was sitting behind the jewelry counter. “My mother was Reina White Deer,” the woman said. “This museum holds my memories of her and of me; my name is Jill Prince.” She pointed at a painting on the wall of a beautiful young woman, holding a little boy in her arms. “My mother painted that of me and my son. Shortly afterwards, my son disappeared. This is all I have left of him.”

Fionna wandered into the vast back room, which was like a garden, full of desert plants and animals. The farther she walked, the sandier the floor became. A hawk flew low over her head, bells jingling on its talons. She was startled, and darted through two trees where she saw a door strangely high on the wall. She brushed away cobwebs; no one had passed this way in a long time.

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The Talking Fish and the Pirate Key

Photograph 2013 by K. Harsham entitled Rock and Water

Photograph 2013 by K. Harsham

One summer day, Collin went to stay with his cousin, Russell, who was thirteen. Colin was four years old (practically full-grown!). Together, they had an adventure involving a river, a key and a talking fish.

They bellied down on big rocks by the Bass River. They held their hands very still in the water, hoping a fish would swim into them. Collin’s hands got very cold, and he fidgeted. Russell was still as stone. A large fish swam into Russell’s hands. He moved like lightning, and he threw the fish onto the riverbank.

“Let me go! I can’t breathe!” the fish exclaimed, its mouth gasping and its brown speckled sides heaving.

Russell was startled and fell into the water, shouting: “It talks!” He stood up, hair dripping.

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The Lost Magical Power

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Jason had a secret, and he did not tell anyone. He knew how to keep a secret. He knew if he walked behind the bush in his backyard, he would be on his secret road. Every time he walked on this road, it took him to a new place.

One very windy day, he took a step on his secret road while his father was talking to the neighbor. The road carried him through hills, down valleys and over stone bridges. He followed it until he heard singing.

“I’m a sprite day and night, my feet are light, and my eyes are bright. The sky is blue, the wind smells new, but I don’t know who could be so true,” a pretty voice sang high and sweet. Jason saw the sprite, slender as a willow branch and dressed in all the colors of the valley. She had a red dress like one hundred roses, blue tights like river water, and green bracelets like rings of grass. She was dancing and twirling in a green meadow surrounded by purple flowers and Queen Anne’s Lace. She stopped singing and dancing when she noticed Jason, standing on the secret road. “Hello. Are you true?” The sprite asked Jason.

“I don’t know what you mean,” answered Jason, feeling a bit confused.

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