Tucked in a lush valley between two snowcapped mountains was the village of The Tales. Those who lived in the village were known as Weavers. Each person in The Tales could tell stories about anything at anytime and they often did. Prose, poetry, limericks or yarns; they told stories of all types and styles. Parents of young weavers didn’t measure their children’s progress by their first step or first word, they bragged about their first story.
“My little Emma wove her first story today!”
“How exciting! What did the precious little weaver say?”
“She said, ‘Swirling snow settles over the shanty, sheltering the shivering squirrel.'”
“Oh my, alliteration at such a young age, she will be a fine weaver, indeed.”
The most respected weaver in The Tales was, Abigail Wordsmith. Abigail’s lyrical fables entranced even those who told horror stories. When she wove a story everything around her stopped so that all could listen. During a recent trip to the grocer’s, an audience gathered as she weaved to the clerk. She said:
A simple woman paid for her groceries with money her husband had gained by humble means.
“Not enough!” barked the grocer.
“Yet, ’tis all I have,” replied the simple woman. “Will you accept my scarf? It is special to me because it was knitted by my dear, departed mother.”
“It is worth nothing to me!”
“Will you accept my donkey? I will carry my groceries on my own back.”
“I don’t like donkeys. I would accept your ring.”