The
Lonesome Froom
& Other Strange Tales
By
Stella Wulf
Stella
Wulf’s Website
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © Stella Wulf 2011
Cover
illustrations copyright © Stella Wulf 2011
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1st
Edition 2011
When you are describing
A shape, or sound,
or tint;
Don’t state the matter plainly,
But put it in a
hint;
And learn to look at all things,
With a sort of mental
squint.
Lewis Carroll
Table of Contents
The
Lonesome Froom
The
Tale of the Nettled Vole
The
Night of the Ish
The
Tale of the Albatross
Ringers
Pedallers
Reading
the Meter
The
Lost Unicorn
I
Don’t Give a Figgle For Birthdays
They
Dance The Light Fantastic
In
the gloaming loom of a broad star night
when the fillips flick and
the brick bats bite
on the hairy legs of the nettled vole;
by
the shivering stream from a darkling hole
pokes the velvet snout
of the lonesome Froom
as he whiskers the air from his lonesome
room.
And the Froom bears a sadness profound as the sea
and a
hole deep inside where his self
ought to be.
But
the Froom was once a gladulous creature
with kindly airs and a
jolling feature.
He gleaned from his mother the virtues to
treasure,
“be proud of your self
in just the right measure.”
Though his self
was timorous, roundly
and wee
it joined with the other selfs
gleebold and free,
until in a chance and hapless fate
the
gladulous Froom became the bait
of the bull frog bullies, tough
and callous
who taunted him in a green-eyed malice.
They
ganged in a cowardly, swaggering sway
and jeered at the Froom for
his gentle way.
He trembled with fear at the toady wreak
and
shuddered with shame for his nature meek.
He told not a soul of
the bullying hail
and his gleebold self
began to quail;
then on that hateful, fated day
by the
Bouncing Spring on the Chancing Way,
the bull frogs sprang with a
bulge-eye lust
and knocked the Froom to the sputtering dust.
Then
the Ranid frogs in their numbers brave
all set on the Froom in a
leapish prave.
They twiskered his whiskers and hunkered his
snout
and leaped on him peevish and spat on his coat,
then
flicking their tongues in a venomous gest
they croaked their way
back to their villainous nest.
As the Froom lay trembling in
shamed appall
at the fearful might of the bull frog’s gall,
he
became aware, to his utter dismay
that his timorous self
had been stolen away.
Now
he shrugs in his hole all the drearlong day
while the bull frogs
croak from their danky lay,
but at night in the velvet dark he
calls
for his self
that was lost in the toady mauls
and he whispers his song so
sweetly and soft,
the curious moon peeps from his jewely
loft.
Then one night as the Froom hummed his whispery tune
he
chanced to glance at the rising moon
who smiled at his frain with
its tinkly tone
and the lonesome Froom knew he wasn’t alone.
As
the wax moon beamed, his voice grew stronger
and nightly by night
his song grew longer.
The moon rode high on the haunting notes
as
proud as stars at the silvery motes
of the swirling tune from the
swelling Froom
who sang for his self
and the kindly moon
whose grin grew and grew with his looney
pride
to the zenith high with the rising tide.
Then
the Froom sang a note so pure and clear
that it pierced the sky
like a crystal tear.
In a sparkling hail to earth it fell
and
the precious note cast its magic spell
on the villainous frogs in
their danky nest
and filled their hearts with a troubled
unrest.
There burgeoned a rueful and growing shame
and the
burdensome weight of guilty blame.
As the lilting melody swelled
and soared
the spellbound frogs in repentant accord
croaked out
their humbled and sorry pleads
in a choral regret for their
villainous deeds.
Then
the Froom forgave the remorseful toads
for their bullying ways and
their taunting goads
and the froggy choir croaked its song
contrite,
as the Froom raised his snout to the parting night.
The
dawning glimmer of a daylight thread
beckoned the moon to his
lofty bed
and the Froom felt the emptiness deep inside
beginning
to fill with a burning pride.
The waning moon winked his knowing
eye
as the Froom sang out to the reddening sky,
and his self
flew back to his healing heart
as the new day dawned on a brave
new start.
The
Nettled Vole is a creature rare
with an unruly coat of mottled
hair
that tufts and sprouts, from her whiskered nose
to her
furry tail and fluffy toes,
but all of her friends are sleek and
cute
and she is ashamed to be hirsute
so she mopes and sulks
and sheds her tears
for being so different from all her peers.
She
thinks herself ugly but truth to quote
the Nettled Vole needs her
hairy coat
for she lives in a cold dark nettley lair
and feeds
on the stingy, stalky tare.
Her brows shield her eyes from falling
turf
as she burrows down, deep into the earth;
her fluffy toes
tread the nettles down
and her whiskered nose is for rooting
around.
But
she mopes in her burrow all the day
and won’t go out with her
friends to play
and her mother scolds her for vanity,
says she
ought to be proud of her rarity!
Instead she dreams to be smooth
and sleek
like the silken peeble so glossy and chic
or the
flaxen flox with her silky socks
‘or even’, she thinks, ‘a
velvety mole,
is better than being a Nettled Vole.’
One
night in the listening dark she reflects
that her life is filled
with wishful regrets,
‘If only, if only I had silky hair,
my
life would be wonderfully, free from care!’
Then a glimmering
thought crept into her mind
and with hope in her heart she set
out to find
the answer to all that she yearned to be,
on the
shore, in the shells left behind by the sea.
Down
on the rippled and salty beach,
the sea shells wait for the oceans
reach.
The hermits are crabbily tapping their claws,
and the
crayfish are cranky and snapping their jaws.
The razors are sharp
and as prickly as pins
for they’ve waited all night for the tide
to come in.
Then onto the shore in the moons full glare
comes a
mottled and spiky ball of hair.
How
the razors snap their blades with glee
at the shear delight of a
shaving spree
and quick as a flash, they set on the ball
and
the mottled hair begins to fall
to the sand all around in a
growing mound
as every last hair is razed to the ground.
As
the sea swishes in on a foaming wave
the razors surf on the
swirling shave
and there on the shore in the shivery night
the
Nettled Vole trembles in naked fright.
As her razed hopes ebb with
the eddying tide
the bald truth mocks at her foolish pride.
Blushing
with shame at her deed so rash
she runs for home in a fevered
dash
but she can't return to her cozy lair
for her burrow lies
deep in the stingy tares.
She’s forced to sleep in the cold
night's chill
where she swallows her pride like a bitter pill
and
she dreams of her lovely, mottled coat
that went with the tide
like a hairy boat.
She chastises herself for her vanity
for she
finds that she likes what she used to be.
She
has time to reflect on the hair-razing deed
and the reckless close
shave of a fanciful need
‘til a mottled grey stubble begins to
show
as daily by day her hair starts to grow.
Now she no longer
dreams to be sleek and cute
but impatiently bristles to be
hirsute
and to go back home to her nettley lair
for a Nettled
Vole is a creature rare
and she’s learned to be proud of her
unruly hair.