Children short story

Children-Short Story



Once there was an elderly widow, Chen Ma, who lived with her only son inside a forest in the Shanxi Province. Her son was one of the tiger hunters licensed by the local magistrate, following the same profession of his father and grandfather before him. His share of the profits from the sale of tiger skins, meat and bones was sufficient to keep the small mud hut well provisioned for himself and his old mother.

All was well until a particularly bitter winter. During a snowstorm, Chen Ma's son was separated from his fellow hunters and became food for a hungry tigress.

After her initial shock and grief subsided, Chen Ma took stock of her own utterly desperate situation -- an old woman left all alone. She went and implored the magistrate to provide her with compensation for the loss of her son, who was her only source of support. The magistrate decreed that henceforth, she would have a small share of profits from the kill of each tiger by the hunters. Needless to say, his decision was not taken well by the hunters, who had plenty of mouths of their own to feed -- both old and young.

So, when the hunters succeeded in killing the tigress that ate Chen Ma's son, they decided not to give her a share of the profits. Instead, they brought her the tigress' newborn cub. He was a small quivery ball of golden fur with wobbly legs and toothless gums. The rope they tied around his neck was so tight that it was practically choking him. Instantly, Chen Ma's heart went out to this helpless creature, whose jade-green eyes were glistening with tears.
After the hunters left, the tiger cub wobbled to where Chen Ma sat and lay at her feet. She bent down to rub his ears and he licked her shoes with his soft tongue.

The elderly widow looked at the tiger baby and sighed. "They told me to butcher you, to salt and smoke your flesh for my meat supply. Your skin would make warm boots for my feet; your bones are good for making Tiger Bone Wine to ease the pain in my joints. But oh, how can I bear to kill you? You are so young and vital, while I am so old and frail."



And so, Chen Ma untied the rope from the little tiger's neck and fed him a paste of cooked roots with her fingers. Her son had a good supply of grains and roots in the attached shed and she planned to stretch the food out to last the winter.

When the store of the firewood was running low, Chen Ma was unable to keep her bedroll on top of the kang warm (a kang is a bed base built of bricks with space for a small fire). So she slept curling against the baby tiger, whose soft fur was cozy and warm.

Once ever so often, women from nearby villages would bring sewing for Chen Ma to do. She was very handy with a needle. They paid her for her labor with dried venison and small sacks of grain. At first they did not find the little tiger's presence alarming; he was no bigger than a piglet. However, when spring came, he had grown into the size of a calf, showing a full set of teeth and claws. The women told their hunter husbands and the men came to kill the young tiger.

Posted by SaiHappiness-AllAbout-Everything at 8:24 PM
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A Tale of Friendship




Years ago, even before the Indian had set foot in America, there lived a colony of beavers on the banks of a tributary of the Mattawamkeag River in upper Maine. Semi-mountainous, it was a beautiful place with willow, elm and pine trees and plants such as fern and duckweed. The banks of the tributary were dotted with meadows of wild grass created by the beavers in the cutting of trees to build their dam.


The beaver colony was neither large nor small, having three families and ten members, and like all beaver they worked very hard to dam the small river. Although the beavers took occasional breaks, usually for not more than half an hour, one beaver relished sitting at the water's edge deep in thought. He worked harder and faster just so he could sit still longer. If they kept busy with the who and what of things, he found value in the if and why of things -- for hours at a time.

One day in early spring while he was sitting on the bank deep in thought about why trees should shed their leaves in winter, he was distracted by a loud "quack-wack-wack" and "rab-rab-rab". He looked up to see four mallard ducks attacking a smaller one that limped, chasing her from the water onto the bank near him. She struggled to get a foothold, suffering numerous pecks, and he saw anguish in her eyes. It was too much for his sense of fairness. "Stop that," he blurted out.

The ducks ceased their pecking and fell back astonished. They were accustomed to being ignored by beavers so what was this? He glared at them but didn't say anything more, so all but the small one that limped jumped back in the water. She caught her breath before quacking, "Why did you do that?"

The beaver shrugged, "They're always picking on you. I got tired of it."

"Well," she said, "They didn't used to pick on me. But nobody else cares -- not ducks, and certainly not beavers. It's... very curious."

"Curious?"

"Why, yes." The duck began preening her feathers, pretending indifference. "I notice things. If I didn't I couldn't keep out of the way of those hooligans always chasing me. I notice you sit here far more than other beavers do, and...that makes me curious."

The beaver sighed. "Oh, I like that word "curious...curiosity, curiously, curiousness." He rolled the sounds over his tongue like the taste of a tender willow sprig. "I am myself curious about many things. For instance, what is your name?"

"Miena."

The beaver lowered his voice as if they were co-conspirators. "Miena, my name is Dooro. I have a question. I've often wondered about those objects that hang in the sky. Not the clouds, but the round things, that very big bright one during the day, and the dimmer one at night along with all the sparkles. Have you flown there? Can you touch them?"

"Oh, no!" she said. "It doesn't matter how high I fly, they're always farther. I suspect I could fly for ten summertimes and never reach them."

"Really."

Dooro was so impressed Miena flapped her wings momentarily. "Yes, when you fly you do notice a lot of things. Like, did you know there are not just other rivers and lakes like we have right here, but a lake so big it takes weeks, maybe months, to fly across? I've never actually crossed it, but we ducks hear stories from other birds. It tastes salty and strange animals swim in there, like a fish so big it could swallow this pond in one gulp."

The beaver was enchanted. He'd never heard such a thing. He listened in rapt wonder as the duck talked on about seals, dolphins, water spouts and hurricanes. She had an endless supply of information, so their conversation continued for hours punctuated only by the beaver's quick dips into the water. He apologized, explaining that he needed to wet his paws or they developed cracks in the warm spring air. The more Dooro listened the more Miena told until they had talked late into the afternoon and the trees' shadows had became fingers long and thin, and a cool breeze had sprung up.

"I have to go now," said Dooro.

"Me, too," Miena echoed and reluctantly slipped back into the pond.