Folk Tales for Bold Girls

  This book is for Sydney Archer,

  and all the other bold girls like her.

  First published 2019

  The History Press

  97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham

  Glos, GL50 3QB

  www.thehistorypress.co.uk

  © Fiona Collins, 2019

  The right of Fiona Collins to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 0 7509 9344 9

  Typesetting and origination by The History Press

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd.

  eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  1. The Girl Who Found the Stories

  From the First Nation People of America

  2. Tipingi

  From Haiti, in the Caribbean

  3. The Girl Who Wasn’t Afraid

  From Ireland

  4. Molly Whuppie

  From Scotland

  5. Seren

  From Wales

  6. The Three Sisters

  From Wales and England

  7. Mossycoat

  From the English Gypsy Tradition

  8. The Dauntless Girl

  From England

  9. The Girl Who Sang Herself to Safety

  From Spain

  10. Red Riding Hood

  From France

  11. The Little Girl Sold with the Pears

  From Italy

  12. Ibanang

  From Nigeria

  13. Clever Ildiko

  From Hungary

  14. Vasilisa

  From Russia

  Notes About the Stories and Where I Found Them

  Further Reading

  Ed and I would like to say thank you to all the bold girls who posed for the pictures in this book: Amber, Amy, Bella, Bronwen, Chloe, Dylan, Florence, Freya, Holly, Lois, Lucy, Mabel, Tiana and Tiahna.

  Diolch yn fawr / thank you to my friends in Mrs Mollison-White’s class at Ysgol Carrog, our village school, for reading the stories and telling me what they thought of them. Here are some of their comments:

  Bethan said, ‘I love the book: it is very adventurous.’

  Callum thought, ‘It’s a good way to tell stories that you might not find in other places.’

  Corey’s advice was: ‘It was really fun. I’d recommend buying it for people my age.’

  Florence thought it was easy to read, but not too easy, and Holly said, ‘It wasn’t too long.’

  Ben said, ‘It’s a really nice book’, and Dylan said, ‘It’s amazing!’

  Thank you to storytellers Mary Medlicott and Betty Rosen, two of my dearest storytelling teachers, who were kind enough to send me their thoughts about the stories, and to Nicola Guy at The History Press, who liked the idea of a book of Folk Tales for Bold Girls enough to say, ‘Go ahead and do it!’

  I also want to thank Sydney Archer, a real-life bold girl, who lives in England and is 7 years old in 2019. Her Aunt Jane won the chance to have this book dedicated to Sydney at a Promises Auction in support of Conwy Arts Trust, here in North Wales, where I live. Sydney, I hope you like your book.

  Finally, and most of all, thank you to all the storytellers who first told the stories I have chosen for this book. Some of them were told to me by people I know, and some I first found in other storytellers’ books, and worked out my own way to tell them. I would like to say thank you to them all, for sharing the stories, and keeping them alive and on the wind.

  And thank you, dear reader, for choosing to read them! I hope you like them, especially if you are a bold girl too.

  I have chosen some of my favourite bold girl stories for this book, but I couldn’t fit all of them into one collection. There are stories here about bold girls from many different countries, but, of course, these are only a few of the tales that are told all around the world. All the stories in this book come from countries that are north of the equator, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any bold girl stories in the southern hemisphere; we need a second bold girls book, full of southern stories.

  If you like the stories you find here, please tell them. Don’t worry about telling them in my words. Tell them in your own way! That’s how stories go all around the world.

  A TALE FROM THE FIRST NATION PEOPLE OF AMERICA

  In the long, long, long ago days, before there were shops, before there were farms, and before people had learned how to grow food, the only way to get food was by hunting. If you had a good hunter in your family, you would be sleek and healthy, and if you didn’t have a good hunter, you’d be weak, and you’d get sick easily, because it’s hard to keep healthy when you don’t have enough to eat.

  But this is the story of a family where there was a good hunter. It was a family of three people: a mother, a daughter and a son. I don’t know what had happened to the dad. Maybe he went hunting one day and something terrible happened, and he never came back …

  The son was only little, around four years old. He was too young to be a hunter. But the daughter was nine, and she was already a good hunter. She made herself a bow and arrows, and every day she would go hunting for birds to feed her family.

  On the day when the story begins, the girl was hunting. She shot six or seven birds; they fell from the sky and she tied them to her belt. As she went through the forest, she came to a clearing in the trees, where a stream sparkled in the sunlight. Next to the stream was a great flat stone. The girl looked at the stone and she thought, ‘I bet that stone is warm from the sun.’

  She put her hand on the stone and it was warm. She thought: ‘I could sit here for a while and rest. I’ve got plenty of birds: I can rest for a bit.’

  So she climbed up and sat on the great stone. She put down her bow and arrows. She untied the birds from her belt and put them beside her. She stretched out her legs on the warm stone. She turned up her face to the sun. It was warm too. It was so peaceful there that she almost fell asleep.

  Then, suddenly, she heard a voice.

  ‘Would you like me to tell you a story?’

  She snapped her eyes open and looked around, but she couldn’t see anyone. ‘Who’s talking to me?’

  ‘I’m talking to you.’ The voice was coming from underneath her.

  She looked down at the stone, and said, ‘Are you talking to me?’

  The stone said, ‘Yes, it’s me: I’m talking to you. Would you like me to tell you a story?’

  The girl said, ‘What’s a story?’

  Because this story comes from so long ago that stories had not even been invented.

  The stone said, ‘Stories are the things that people tell each other to remember the past, and to dream about the future, to teach people good ways to live and to explain why the world is the way it is. Would you like me to tell you a story?’

  The girl said, ‘Oh, yes please, I think I would like to have a story.’

  ‘Well,’ said the stone, ‘if I give you a story, what will you give me in return?’

  The girl thought about this. She didn’t have any presents with her. She looked at her bow and arrows, but she thought: ‘I can’t give the stone my weapons, I need them to get food for the family
.’

  She looked at her clothes, but she thought: ‘I can’t give the stone my clothes, they’re all much too scruffy.’

  Then she looked at the dead birds, and she thought: ‘I could give the stone these birds. I can hunt again to get more for the family.’

  So she said to the stone, ‘Would you like me to give you the birds?’

  The stone replied, ‘Thank you. That will do nicely.’

  And then it seemed as though the sunlight shimmered and shone more brightly. Those still birds stirred, their stiff feathers softened, their dull eyes brightened, their dead beaks opened, their chests began to rise and fall … until they spread their wings and, with a swooooosh … they flew away into the sky.

  When the birds had disappeared from sight, the stone began to tell the girl a story. She listened, and she listened. When that story was finished, the stone told another, and another. The day seemed to go past so quickly that, when the stone stopped for a moment, and the girl looked at the sky, she was surprised to see that the sun was low in the west.

  ‘Oh, it’s getting late!’ she said. ‘Soon it will be dark. I must go. I must get food for my family.’ She jumped down from the stone. ‘Thank you for the stories. Can I come again tomorrow for some more?’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ said the stone.

  She grabbed her bow and arrows and started to run home. As she ran she was looking for birds to hunt. But it was getting late. She was going home; the birds were going to their nests. She saw one bird and shot it, then one more, but when she got home she only had two small birds to give to her mother.

  Her mother was worried. ‘What’s happened to the hunting?’ she asked. ‘Where are all the birds?’

  The girl didn’t want to tell her mother about the stone. She wanted to keep it a secret. So she said, ‘Oh, there just weren’t many birds around today, mum.’

  The mother, the brother and the girl shared the two little birds. They were still hungry when they went to bed. It’s hard to sleep when you are hungry. The mum couldn’t sleep at all. She was thinking: ‘What’s happened to the hunting? Where are all the birds? How can I feed the family?’

  Next morning the girl went out hunting again. The mum called her son to her. He was only little. He was too young to be a hunter. But he was already a good tracker.

  She said to him, ‘Follow your sister. Watch where she goes. Keep her in your sight, but keep out of her sight. Find out what’s happened to the hunting. Find out, where are all the birds?’

  So, as the girl went through the forest, her brother followed her. He hid behind a tree and watched her. Then he ran to another tree and hid again, always keeping her in sight, always keeping out of her sight.

  He followed her through the forest. He watched her shooting birds and tying them to her belt. Soon she had seven or eight dead birds. He followed her to a clearing in the trees, where a stream sparkled in the sunlight. Next to the stream was a great flat stone.

  He watched her go across the clearing, but he couldn’t follow her, because there were no trees for him to hide behind. He had to stay at the edge and watch. He saw her go to the stone and sit on it. He could see that she was talking to someone, but there was no one else there. Then he saw the dead birds come to life and fly away! And then he could see that she was listening to something, but he was too far away to hear what she was listening to. So he went a bit nearer, and a bit nearer, and a bit nearer, till there were two of them sitting on the stone, listening to the stories.

  All that day, the sister and the brother sat on the stone listening to stories, until it was too late to do much hunting.

  When they came home with just one bird, their mother asked, ‘What’s happened to the hunting? Where are all the birds?’

  The girl and her brother looked at each other. They wanted to keep the stone a secret. They just said, ‘Oh, there weren’t many birds around today, mum.’

  So the next day, the mother sent their cousin to track them … and so there were three of them, sitting on the stone all day, listening to stories.

  The next day, there were more people there. The day after, even more, until everyone was there, children and grown-ups, day after day, listening to stories.

  Until one day, the stone finished a story and it stopped.

  The people said, ‘Tell us another one. It isn’t very late. There’s time for one more …’

  But the stone said: ‘No, I can’t. I’ve told you all my stories. Now you must be the ones to tell them.’

  And with a crack and a crunch and a rumble and a roll, the stone fell into a thousand pieces.

  The people stood and stared, and then, slowly, one by one, each of them came forward and picked up a piece of the stone. Some people chose a small stone, and some a big one. Some people chose a stone because they liked its shape, and some because they liked the colour. Each one chose a piece of the stone to keep, to remember the stone that had told the stories. And they remembered what the stone had told them, that now they had the stories and they must be the ones to tell them.

  Some people remembered all the stories they had heard, and they told them to everyone they met.

  Some people just remembered a few of the stories, but they told them to everyone they met.

  Some people only remembered one story, their favourite story, but they told it over and over again until they got really good at telling it.

  And some people couldn’t remember any of the stories at all, they only remembered they had been somewhere and listened to stories, so they made that into a story.

  And my friend June heard that story from our friend Tony.

  She told it to me.

  Now I’ve told it to you.

  If you tell the story to someone you know, it will never be forgotten.

  That’s how stories go all around the world.

  A TALE FROM HAITI, IN THE CARIBBEAN

  Once there was a little girl called Tipingi (you say it like this: tip-in-gee, as if you were going to say ‘geese’). Tipingi lived in a house that had belonged to her father. Her father was no longer there. I don’t know what had happened to him.

  Tipingi lived with a woman who treated her like a servant, even though the house belonged to Tipingi now. She wouldn’t let Tipingi invite friends round, and she made her do all the work when she came home from school.

  One day, when Tipingi was at school, the woman was cooking sweets to sell in the market. The fire under her cooking pot went out. Usually, she would have sent Tipingi to get firewood, but Tipingi wasn’t there, so she had to go herself.

  She walked into the forest and found some wood. Being greedy, she gathered a great big pile. But the pile was too heavy for her to carry. She tried this way and she tried that way, but she couldn’t lift it all up. At last, she shouted out, ‘My friends, I have a big pile of firewood, but it is too heavy for me to carry home. Will someone help me carry my wood?’

  An old man came through the trees. He said, ‘I will help you carry your wood. But how will you pay me?’

  The woman said, ‘I will find something in my house to give you.’

  So the old man carried the wood.

  When they got to the house he said, ‘I have carried your wood. Now, what will you give me?’

  And the woman replied, ‘There’s a girl who lives here, called Tipingi. I will give her to you, to be your servant.’

  Now Tipingi was just coming home from school, and when she heard her name she stepped out of sight and listened hard.

  The woman said, ‘Tomorrow, when I send the girl to school, I will make sure she is wearing a blue shirt. Wait for her at the end of the day. When you see the girl with the blue shirt, call her by her name, Tipingi, and she will come to you. Then you can take her.’

  Tipingi thought, ‘Oh no he can’t!’ She ran to the homes of the people in her class, and said to them, ‘Please help me. Come to school tomorrow wearing a blue shirt.’

  The next day at hometime, the old man was waiting outside the schoo
l. He saw a girl wearing a blue shirt. He saw a boy wearing a blue shirt. Then he saw another girl. Her shirt was blue too.

  ‘Which one of you is Tipingi?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Tipingi,’ said the first girl.

  ‘She’s Tipingi,’ said the boy.

  ‘We’re Tipingi too,’ said the second girl.

  Then they began to jump up and down and sing:

  I’m Tipingi

  She’s Tipingi

  We’re Tipingi too.

  The old man said ‘Bah!’

  He went back to the woman and said, ‘I waited by the school, but all the children were wearing blue and they all said they were Tipingi. You tricked me.’

  ‘No,’ said the woman. ‘It must be a mistake. Tomorrow I will send her to school with her red dress on. You will find her. The one with a red dress will be Tipingi.’

  But Tipingi heard what the woman said, and she ran to her friends’ houses and asked them to help her again.

  The next day the old man went back to the school. He saw a girl wearing a red dress. He saw a boy wearing a red dress. He saw another girl wearing a red dress. They were all wearing red dresses!

  ‘Which one of you is Tipingi?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Tipingi,’ said the first girl.

  ‘She’s Tipingi,’ said the boy.

  ‘We’re Tipingi too,’ said the second girl.

  Then they began to twirl round and round and sing:

  I’m Tipingi

  She’s Tipingi

  We’re Tipingi too.

  The old man said ‘Ugh!’

  He went back to the woman and said, ‘I waited by the school, but all the children were wearing red and they all said they were Tipingi. You tricked me.’

  ‘No,’ said the woman. ‘It must be a mistake. Tomorrow I will send her to school with her green shorts on. You will find her. The one wearing green shorts will be Tipingi.’

  But Tipingi heard what the woman said, and she ran to her friends’ houses and asked them for help again.

  The next day the old man was back at the school. He saw a boy wearing green shorts. He saw another boy wearing green shorts. He saw a girl wearing green shorts. They were all wearing green shorts!