I was that one M&M that you have only one of, among a million others, trying to blend in The blue car rolled down the dusty road, coming to an abrupt stop in an empty lot. I jumped out and twirled around to face the camp. The sweet smell of pine trees circled around my head and I inhaled. The head counselor came out to meet me and showed me to my bunk. As I approached the wooden cabin, my feet slowed, and I closed my eyes ever so slightly, listening to the sound of gravel beneath my black Converse. Later in the month I would bound up the stairs and slam the screen door, but right now I was quiet, tiptoeing up the creaky steps and slipping through the door. “Hi,” one of the counselors said, smiling. There were about ten people sitting in a circle on the floor. “Hi…” “What’s your name?” “Nisha,” I muttered, looking at the ground. Starting with the counselor to my right, everyone said their name, everyone with the same expression, like dolls in a department store, staring at you with fake smiles and stating their name in a perfunctory manner. They asked me what I was most looking forward to. I told them that I was looking forward to wearing the new pajamas I had gotten (the words printed on the T-shirt read Ice cream for breakfast, cupcakes for lunch), and they laughed. As the new kid, I was worried about making friends, but I was feeling confident. Within the first few days, I noticed two girls whispering to each other. I ignored it; I didn’t really care if they had secrets between them. Throughout the day, I saw them talking to other girls in our bunk, laughing and flipping their high ponytails in the air like a fish on land. Later that night, they walked up to another girl and continued to whisper something in her ear. She smiled, and said the much expected, “Oh my God, really?” “What? What’s so funny?” I asked, curiously. “Um, it’s nothing. You, like, you wouldn’t get it,” one of them said, rolling her eyes, and they walked away. “But you told everyone else,” I murmured under my breath after the girls were too far away to hear. It started out small, but soon people didn’t want to sit next to me, and many of the girls didn’t talk to me when they passed by me during the day, or when we were sitting in the bunk at night. Walking to activities, the other girls would sprint until they were far away from me, and then they would slow down. If I got too close, they would sprint again. I got used to hearing the quiet crackling sound of pebbles flying in every direction as feet hit the ground. While rehearsing for the upper-camp play, I asked one of the girls (who was playing Le Fou, Gaston’s sidekick, in Beauty and the Beast) if her character died in the end. I couldn’t quite remember, and I knew in some versions, Gaston did. She replied, “You should die in the end.” I looked away, and lightly tapped on the broken piano’s keys. At night, I lay under my sheets, curled into a ball against the cold, and wondered, What was wrong with me? I fingered the boards protecting me from the floor, and waited for sleep to take a wrong turn and fall through my window. I began to notice more and more how excluded I was. All seven girls hung out together and ran away when I would try to join, like trying to catch your shadow, or dance with your reflection. I wondered if I was exaggerating; was I really being excluded, or was I just not making myself heard? Was I even being excluded? I wondered if maybe it was something I’d done… Was I too talkative? Too quiet? Too hyper? Too calm? I was that one M&M that you have only one of, among a million others, trying to blend in. Towards the end of the month, the girls began to act a little more friendly to me, including me in conversations, but all the conversations were about another girl in our bunk, whom everyone had turned on. While I wanted to be included and thought of as a friend, I didn’t want to participate in the awful things they said about her. Every time one of the girls said something bad about the girl, Carly, it seemed to hang in the air for a second, twirl in circles around each of our heads, mocking us, and run away into the forest, never to be found or taken back. I didn’t want to be searching for it with the other girls, trying to hide it so the object of their bullying never found out. I wanted to ask, Why do you suddenly like me, now that you hate someone else? But I also wanted them to continue to like me. One day, as I was heading to my next activity, I suddenly was overcome by a feeling of hopelessness. I slowly climbed up the small hill and picked up a bow. I shot the arrow, and it landed in the woods. Feeling like I could never do anything right, I went to retrieve it. I closed my eyes and tried to relax. I focused entirely on the bull’s-eye, and I raised my left arm. I straightened my right arm and pulled the string back as far as I could. This is it, I thought. I let the string go… and the arrow fell in front of the target. I picked it up. This is why no one likes you, I told myself. And I shot the arrow. It hit red. I smiled, for the first time that day. I realized that I was OK, that the world hadn’t ended. Once everyone forgave Carly, it was back to ignoring me. The last night
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About Winning
We could tell each other anything there The day I abandoned my best friend was the day I lost myself. With her I was everything, and without her I was nothing. It was a rainy day, and I was lying on a fluffy pink mat in Ashley’s room. There she was, standing, legs crossed, but not enough to hide the trembling. There she was, long dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail, unwashed and uncombed. There she was, biting her nails. Ashley never bit her nails. I had a hard time believing this creature was my best friend. And yet here she was, reduced to a nervous wreck, awaiting my reaction to her unbelievable announcement, “I’m moving away.” My reaction was stalking out of that room without a backward glance. She did not try to stop me. It turned out I never entered that room again while Ashley lived out her few remaining months there. The very next day during lunch I made a beeline straight for Jennifer and Tiffany’s table. I avoided catching Ashley’s eye. Instead I focused on laughing to Tiffany’s incredibly stupid jokes. Ashley was much funnier. I called my mom on my cell after school. “Hello, Mom.” “Hi, June.” “Mom, can you drive me home?” “Honey, don’t you want to walk home with Ashley?” “Well… I want you to drive me to Tiffany’s house. She invited me over.” “Homework?” “None. Mom, I always finish my math. It’s easy.” I could hear a sigh on the other end. “Coming.” Then she hung up. So that’s how my life became—going over to Tiffany’s house and watching horror movies with her and Jennifer, eating junk food, and making Tiffany’s mother angry. It wasn’t ideal, but I thought I handled it really well, until the day Ashley moved away. That day I spent sitting on my bed, clutching a bowl in my lap in case I threw up. It was a good excuse for staying home. After all, I had thrown up more than once as a result of eating too much junk food at Tiffany’s. Though that day I don’t think my nausea was caused from an upset stomach. * * * At dinner a month later Dad mentioned he’d be coaching cross-country at school. I had already signed up and when I told him he was delighted. “But Dad,” I said, “I’m short. I won’t be very fast.” “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re very athletic. I’m sure you’ll have a medal in no time.” That’s when I knew I had to get first place. Otherwise no one would ever treat me like a thirteen-year-old girl again. No girl my age was as short as I was, although Ashley had been pretty close. My mom broke into my thoughts. “Pass the potatoes, dear,” she said. “And oh, that reminds me, a new family is moving next door. The Reeds. And, June,” she turned to me triumphantly, “they have a daughter your age!” I sunk into my chair. Great, I thought. A new girl. I will have to walk her to school and be her friend and listen to her sniveling. “What’s her name?” “Melissa.” I hated Melissa Reed. * * * It was the day before cross-country was to begin and I decided to go for a run. I pulled on black running capris and a neon-green T-shirt. I used an athletic headband to keep my hair out of my face, then tied my black ponytail with a hairband. Bronze skin, shoulder-length black hair, short but strong. That was me. I ran out the front door into the crisp, fall air, heading down the sidewalk. Suddenly I stopped short. There was a moving truck in the driveway of Ashley’s house. A door opened and a tall, slender girl with a dark brown ponytail came out. She turned and looked at me. Her eyes. They were cold, cold blue eyes. Under her gaze I felt vulnerable. Turning, I sprinted up the street, rounded a corner, and slowed into a jog. Her eyes were still there, imprinted in my mind. I couldn’t shake them away. Without meaning to, I took the route to the park Ashley and I always used to go to if we had anything serious to talk about. I crept underneath the willow tree next to the lake where we used to conceal ourselves. We could tell each other anything there. Ashley. I got up and ran away from that place. Tears blurred my vision. I tripped and fell on the pavement, lay there, sobbing. Ashley. Ashley. Why don’t you come back? I heard footsteps behind me and turned, still crying. For one stupidly hopeful moment I thought it was Ashley, but then the cold blue eyes made themselves known and hatred consumed me. “Go away!” I shouted. “Go away, go away, go away!” She stared at me with wide eyes, then sprinted away. I watched her fade into the blurry background of birdsong and swaying trees. Then I laid my head down on the hard pavement and knew no more. My mom came to get me later. She said nothing, only looked at me anxiously and wiped my tears with an old handkerchief. It was already wet, perhaps from her own tears. I was too sleepy, my face raw from crying and my head aching, to care. My last thought before I fell asleep was, cross-country tomorrow. I woke up. Cross-country today. I walked Melissa to school, sat with her in the classroom and at lunch, navigated her to her classes and to the bathroom, listened and answered her questions and was her all-out friend for an entire day. It was exhausting. I couldn’t look forward more to cross-country. No Melissa there. How wrong I was. I suppose through my haze of tears the day before I hadn’t noticed she was wearing running capris and tennis shoes just like me. But there she was, and quickly she sidled up to me. Groan. My dad whistled piercingly.
Call of the Dolphins
INSPIRED BY A TRUE STORY It was just one of those foggy afternoons when, suddenly, my dad’s phone rang. Of course, his phone rings a lot considering he’s a marine biologist, and people call him about sea lions, seals, and whatnot. But this call was different. It came from a local fisherman, fourteen miles off the coast of Northern California. He said he had found a bottlenose dolphin trapped under fishnets and that he didn’t know how long it had been there or how it got there, but he was certain of one thing: without help it was going to die. My dad frowned, drummed his fingers along the countertop, crossed the room, made a few quick calls, got some equipment, and headed for the door. Right then and there, I decided to go with him. “Dad,” I began, “I was wondering if I could… go with you?” He shrugged and pushed out his lower lip. “Should be OK.” I smiled, and together we left the house. We met up with four of my dad’s friends at our boat, The Porpoise. I realized that all of them were dressed for the adventure, while I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Oh well, it was too late to go back, so I just stepped on board, and we started off. We live in Berkeley, so we had to cut across the San Francisco Bay in order to get into the open Pacific. The ride took us under the majestic Golden Gate Bridge, although we could barely see it; it was veiled in mist. As we continued out to sea, I kept hoping to see some sign of the perishing animal. I never like that feeling, when you know somebody or something is dying, and there is nothing you can do to help. I could feel a coldness in my stomach and perspiration running down my neck. I glanced up at my dad’s fellow biologists and saw them talking comfortably. I gotta say, I was envious. I mean, I’m sitting here all queasy and they are chatting away! Everybody looked up when my dad turned off the boat’s motor. I started staring out at the sea, which was as smooth as glass. I was about to ask where the dolphin was, when my dad seemed to read my thoughts. He said, “We are gonna go in silently. We don’t want to make the dolphin anxious.” I liked the way my dad was saying “we.” It made me think that I might be included. His next words confirmed my thoughts. “Your wetsuit is on the boat,” he said, “and I’ve got an extra pair of goggles you could use. Do you wanna come?” I nodded happily and crossed the boat to get changed. Our boat slowly drifted toward a tangled mass of fishnets and buoys. When we were about twenty yards away, my dad, two of his friends, and I slipped into the water. The only exposed part of my body was my face, but still, my whole body got chills when I dunked under. Getting to the fishnets was slow progress. I could have gotten there much faster if I didn’t have a life jacket on; it gave my arms a very limited amount of space, to say the least. It took a while to get to the nets, but let me tell you, it took a whole lot longer to find the dolphin. It was somewhere in what looked like a massive knot. Finally, we found it, and it was in pretty bad shape. The dolphin was almost in a vertical position in the water. Ropes ensnared its entire body. One of the traps was weighing down the animal’s tail fluke. We were all armed with knives, and both my dad and his colleagues had oxygen tanks, meaning they could dive under to free the dolphin’s tail. I had to free its mouth and head. When you’re freeing a dolphin, you’re going to want to be super careful. And when I say “super,” I mean it. If I were to miss any of the ropes and cut the dolphin, it could freak out, thrash around, and maybe hurt us and itself. So it was slow work. Now, I’m up at the surface sawing away at the ropes, and my dad and his friends are down at the tail. Do you think the dolphin was enjoying all this activity? No. It’s slashing its pectoral fin at me and flipping its tail. In fact, it was using all its remaining strength to get us away! And if it didn’t have any more strength left… That thought made me work faster. After half-an-hour’s work, many of the ropes were already loosened or cut away. But that wasn’t enough; I wanted every one of these horrible nets at the bottom of the ocean. The dolphin was free! In another fifteen minutes my wish was granted. The nets slipped down, down into the endless abyss. The dolphin was free! My dad, his two colleagues, and I, swam happily to the boat to celebrate. When we turned back, the dolphin was still there. We waited for ten minutes. Twenty minutes. The dolphin wouldn’t leave. Then I noticed a small gray object, in another set of nets, eight yards from where the dolphin was swimming. I pointed it out to my dad and his eyes widened. Then he smiled at me. “She has a calf!” he exclaimed. That got me and all four of my dad’s friends diving into the water. The mother dolphin reached her calf before us, but surprisingly she let us touch and untangle it. Once it was freed, she nuzzled it. We smiled and swam back to the boat. I climbed aboard and turned around. She’d followed us. She popped her head out of the water and gave a short whistle. It could have only meant one thing. “Thanks.” Kyle Trefny, 11San Francisco, California
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For Teachers and Educators
How to Use Stone Soup in the Classroom The Stone Soup website has ready-made curriculum materials to use with your students to supplement your writing program, or as self-directed projects for your more motivated students. Creative Prompts Weekly Prompts. Short prompts perfect for warmups, drawn from the Stone Soup Weekly Prompt Newsletter. Activities. Longer, more detailed projects that teach fundamental writing concepts. Each activity is linked to a story that has been published in Stone Soup Magazine; students read the story before working on the activity. Contests Stone Soup holds a monthly flash contest, an annual book contest, and from time to time, other contests. Contests offer motivation for writers to get their ideas down on paper. Check out our current contests. Please keep in mind that we receive a lot of entries, and the contests are highly competitive. Book Contest. The Annual Book Contest is posted around the beginning of Spring with the book manuscript due mid-August. The winner of the contest gets a book published. This is a big deal and a highly competitive prize. Through the Society for Young Inklings, we provide guidance for students in a weekend workshop to help them get started. Scholarships are available. Stone Soup also provides a free monthly check-in for students working on a book-length work of prose or poetry for this contest led by Stone Soup Founder, William Rubel. William has no contact with the judges of the contest. Students read from their works in progress and talk about how they are planning out their extended works. Book Reviews Reading and writing go together. Authors are readers. Stone Soup welcomes book reviews by young writers; writing reviews gives students the opportunity to engage with texts they are reading in the classroom in ways that are more creative and more personal than the more conventional English essay or response paper. Please note that our reviews are not book reports; we recommend reading samples with your class if you assign them to write a review for us! Writing Workshops Stone Soup offers writing workshops. The format for the workshop is a 30 minute PowerPoint followed by 30 minutes of writing—then readings and critique. The work is extraordinary! Every week we post work from that week that has been submitted to us by workshop students. All writing submitted is published. So, what you see in this section is what students ages 8 through 14 can do in a first draft in thirty minutes. As you will see, there is no way to tell who is 8 and who is 14 or somewhere in between. All of your students can become proficient writers. Started during the first Covid lockdown in April 2020, this program has been very successful and is growing! Students can register for these classes. To be notified of classes, go to our home page and scroll down to the bottom of the page and sign up for our Newsletter. To access recordings of the writing workshops, check out our YouTube channel. Stone Soup Young Author Interviews On the Stone Soup YouTube channel, we have a treasure trove of interviews with young writers and artists who have been published in the magazine and on the website. Intern Anya Geist spoke with all kinds of creative Contributors about their process, their inspirations, what it meant for them to be published, and so much more. You can also find these interviews individually on the Stone Soup blog. Used in the classroom, these interviews can help students see that writing isn’t just an “exercise” or “activity.” It is an art and a practice, and writing and publishing makes you an author no matter your age! Stories and Poetry Read Aloud To give students a break from screen time, have them listen to stories and poetry read aloud by authors on the Stone Soup Soundcloud. The stories on our Soundcloud entertain, inspire, and challenge students to find their own ways of expressing themselves. Mentor Texts and Examples for Students With a subscription, you have access to the stories, poems, personal narratives, and art published in the magazine, plus the more informal writing we publish on the blog. For the blog, you can explore our specific Covid-19 section, our broader Young Blogger category, and our multimedia section. Motivate your students by showing them exemplary poems, stories, and book reviews written by their peers. Please contact us if you’d like to blog for us and publish suggestions of your own for how to use Stone Soup with students, to engage them as readers and encourage them as writers. We’d love to hear from you and share your expertise with our community.
Stone Soup in Educational Texts
Stone Soup is the respected source for writing by children. Following is a partial bibliography of textbooks, books, and educational tests that have reprinted material from Stone Soup. This list is your guarantee that, when you subscribe to Stone Soup for your children or your students, you are buying for them a standard of excellence that is respected throughout the American and Canadian educational establishment. Works from Stone Soup are included in readers, creative writing textbooks, and, even more importantly, educational tests. English textbook (for primary school learners of English), Eduvation School Network: Beirut, Lebanon, 2015 “On Thin Ice,” Sean Fay, age 11 Explorer 2 Trainer (English language course for public junior high school), Lehrmittelverlag des Kantons Zurich/Switzerland, Zurich, Switzerland, 2007–2017 (CD-ROM) “Rosalino’s Dog,” Andrew Shannon, age 11 Elements of Literature, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Austin, Texas, 2007; page 453 “The Brother I Never Had,” Gim George, age 13 Literacy in Action: Grade 7, Pearson Education Canada, 2007 “Revenge is Bittersweet,” Molly O’Neill, age 13 “On Thin Ice,” Sean Fay, age 11 “My Great Adventure,” Isabelle Edwards, age 10 “Rebellion,” Abigail Goutal, age 13 Backpack Reader, Glencoe/McGraw-Hill: Columbus, Ohio, 2007; pages 266-267 “Happiness in the Johnson Family,” Colin Johnson, age 11 A Poem for Every Day! Scholastic: New York, 2006; page 65 “You… and Your Dad,” Katie Ferman, age 11 “Friday Night at Miss Farida’s Piano Lesson,” Tae Kathleen Keller, age 8 Glencoe Literature: Reading With Purpose, Course 2, New York Edition, Glencoe/McGraw-Hill: Woodland Hills, California book review of A Boy No More, Dylan Sun, age 10 Your Neighborhood News & Report: The Community Newspaper for Hugo and Centerville, Hugo, Minnesota: 2005 “September 11, 2001,” Rachel Weary, age 8 Tickle the Sun, Ginn: Canada, 1990, page 308 “A Walk on Rialto Beach,” Karin Lydersen, age 11 “Creek Waters,” Jason Watkins, age 10 Expediciones, Houghton Mifflin: Boston, 2003; pages 436-437 “El mercado artesanal de Maputo,” Rebecca Beatriz Chávez, age 11 HBJ Language, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich: Orlando, 1990; pages 10-11 “My First Assembly,” Jonathan Rosenbaum, age 12 Inspiring English, Kinseido: Tokyo, 2003; page 3 “Rosalino and His Dog,” Andrew Shannon, age 11 Writer’s Companion: Middle Grades, Prentice Hall: New Jersey, 1995; page 152 “Campfire,” Elisa Smith, age 11 Literature & Language Arts, Holt, Rinehart and Winston: Austin, 2003; page 271 “The Brother I Never Had,” Gim George, age 13 Sharing the Earth, Guideposts: Carmel, New York, 2000; page 79 “Loky’s Gift,” Colleen Flanagan, age 12 Reader’s Handbook: A Student Guide for Reading and Learning, Great Source: Wilmington, MA, 2002; pages 159-161 “The Bus Ride,” Christine Nichols, age 13 Academic 411, Duke University Talent Identification Program: Durham, North Carolina, 2004; page 11 “Picture This,” Joe Lobosco, age 13 F.A.T.H.E.R.S. Program Guide, California State Library Foundation: Sacramento, California, 1999; Lesson 11 “First Time Seeing My Dad,” Krishawnda Collier, age 12 Reading Strategies for Literature: Level 6, Curriculum Associates, Inc.: North Billerica, Massachusetts, 1997; page 8 “The Last Ride,” Michelle Gooch, age 12 Integrated Language Activity Book: Celebrate Reading! Grade Four, Scott, Foresman and Company: Glenview, Illinois, 1995; page 24 “The Seaman’s Bride,” Laura Vanderkam, age 13 “Dreamland,” Jedi Bethea, age 10 Integrated Language Activity Book: Celebrate Reading! Grade Five, Scott, Foresman and Company: Glenview, Illinois, 1995; page 23 “Quick Silver,” Brad Davies, age 13 Celebrate Reading! Book C—Many People, Many Voices: Stories of America, Scott, Foresman and Company: Glenview, Illinois, 1993; pages C-72-C-73 “Saigon of Vietnam,” Linh To Sinh My Bui, age 13 Celebrate Reading! Book E—Handle With Care: Making a Difference, Scott, Foresman and Company: Glenview, Illinois, 1993; page E-95 “The Pigeons at Embarcadero Center,” Danny Williams, age 9 Celebrate Reading! Book C—We’re All In This Together: How Families Matter, Scott, Foresman and Company: Glenview, Illinois, 1993; pages C-95-C-98 “My Adopted Grandpa,” Amie Whortman, age 12 Elements of Literature: First Course, Holt, Rhinehart and Winston: Austin, Texas, 1997 page 97, “Being Different,” Amy Yustein, age 13 page 130, “An Immigrant in the United States,” Ponn Pet, age 11 page 198, “The Pitch That Didn’t Work,” Michael Levitin, age 13 page 299, “The Day the Butterfly Came,” Kristin Sparks, age 12 page 489, “The Nature of Patam,” Benjamin Bethea, age 9 page 675, “A Typical Day in a Cambodian Village,” Lay Yan, age 13 Understanding Children and Adolescents: Third Edition, Allyn and Bacon: Mountain View, California, 1998; pages 630-631 “When the Easter Bunny Came,” Joanna Estrada, age 6 “Grandma & Grandpa’s House,” Mara Leichtman, age 13 Elements of Literature: Introductory Course, Holt, Rhinehart and Winston: Austin, Texas, 1997 page 89, “The Swim of My Life,” Lacy Clayton, age 13 page 114, “The Brother I Never Had,” Gim George, age 13 page 322, “Special Small World,” Casie Anne Smith, age 11 page 472, “Joey,” Jimmy Elder, age 11 page 483, from a review of A Whole New Ball Game, Merenda Garnett-Kranz, age 12 page 565, “Weasel,” Chris Brown, age 12 Elements of Literature: Second Course, Holt, Rhinehart and Winston: Austin, Texas, 1997 page 446, from a review of Along the Tracks, Tommy Chang, age 13 page 529, “Chinese New Year—Paying Respect,” Chris Hoe, age 13 In Focus: The Official Journal of the Indiana Middle Level Education Association, Volume XXXI, Fall 2002, inside back cover “Coming Into the Light (for Cameron),” Mark Roberts, age 11 Treasures 2: Stories & Art by Students in Oregon, Oregon Students Writing and Art Foundation: Portland, Oregon, 1988 pages 20–23, “A Surprising Change,” Cheri Sanford, age 13 page 123, “Spring,” Hang Nguyen, age 11 pages 135–137, “The Rocks,” Cap Poehner, age 12 pages 138–140, “Through the Eyes of Love,” Shari Prichard, age 13 The Language of Literature: Book 6, McDougal Littell: Evanston, Illinois, 2001 page 237, “Whistle,” Carolyn Nash, age 13 page 238, “Animal,” Cody Banks, age 12 2015–2018 Common Core Assessment Program (CCAP), Measured Progress: Dover, New Hampshire “Night Flight,” William Gwaltney, age 11 “Wild Ride,” Simon Gonzalez, age 11 2015–2018 Minnesota Comprehensive Assessment, Pearson: San Antonio, Texas “Halfback,” Andrea Bachmann, age 13 “A Sliver of Moonlight,” Aja Corliss, age 12 “Saturday Night at the Panaderia,” William Gwaltney, age 11 2015
History of the Stone Soup Folktale from 1720 to Now, by William Rubel
“Stone Soup,” engraving by Walter Melion for the cover of the first issue of Stone Soup Some Recipes for Stone Soup from 1732, 1808–and 2019! Boil stones in butter, and you may sip the broth. (Fuller 1732) ‘Give me a piece of paper’ (said the traveler) ‘and I’ll write it down for you,’ which he did as follows:—A receipt to-make Stone Soup. ‘ Take a large stone, put it into a sufficient quantity of boiling water; properly season it with pepper and salt; add three or four pounds of good beef, a handful of pot-herbs, some onions, a cabbage, and three or four carrots. When the soup is made the stone may be thrown away.’ Published in The American magazine of wit, 1808. The recipe published in 1808 is quite similar to the one in the version of the story made by the By Kids For Kids Story Time podcast in 2019. You can listen to their lively retelling of the tale on Megaphone here or at iTunes here! Origin of the Stone Soup Folktale Title page to the 1808 British magazine with the first English version of the Stone Soup story The Stone Soup story revolves around a clever man with a charismatic personality who can get people to help him when their first instinct is not to. This is the aspect of the story that folklorists have focused on. Folklorists place the Stone Soup story within the “clever man” category of the Aarne-Thompson-Uther folklore classification system that they use to organize the entire folkloric tradition. Stone Soup is an Aarne-Thompson-Uther type 1548 folktale. Where does the original Stone Soup story come from? Is it a genuine folk tale in the sense that it had a long life in an oral tradition before being published in print? Or is it a creation of authors writing for hire? Or a bit of both? I think it is probably a bit of both. The Stone Soup story does not appear in any of the major eighteenth- or nineteenth-century collections of folk tales. It wasn’t published by Charles Perrault or the Grimm brothers. The first version I have found, that of Madame de Noyer (1720), is the work of an internationally renowned writer. We will never know who “told her” the story, or whether she read it in a book that has not been identified, or whether she made the whole thing up! All of the early versions I have come across are already polished tales. None make the claim that they were collected from a peasant. If a strong oral tradition for the Stone Soup story existed in the 18th and 19th centuries it is probable that also referenced the fairly substantial body of published stories. The First Published Version: Madame de Noyer, France 1720 The first telling of the Stone Soup story that I have been able to locate is by a French woman, Madame de Noyer (1663–1719), a female journalist, a woman of letters and a dynamic personality who lived what can only be described as an interesting life. She seems to have been a woman who burned the candle at both ends. She lived in exile from France for the last part of her life, dying in Holland. Voltaire visited her in exile. Madame de Noyer’s version of the Stone Soup story, “Soupe au Caillou” (Madame du Noyer (1720), was published one year after she died, in a revised and expanded edition of collected letters that had been published a few years earlier. Madame de Noyer’s fame was so great that in French her version of the story is the most common version through the end of the nineteenth-century. You will find it in books that attribute it to other authors, but they rarely make the changes to her telling that are required to really claim authorship. Madame de Noyer begins her tale, as so many good storytellers do, with an element of mystery: “On me contoit l’autre jour que …” “Someone told me the other day that . . .” Her version of the story is set in Normandy, in northern France. Two Jesuits come to a farmhouse, but only the children are home. The Jesuits, who are hungry, convince the children that they are not begging for food, but in fact they are self-sufficient as they have a stone that makes soup. They tell the children that all they actually need is fire, a pot, and some water, and that their stone will do the rest. They remark that this is “curieux” and from that point the game is on. A fire is got ready, a pot put over, water is added, their stone is dropped in, and then, when the water is hot, this and that is asked for until, finally, a truly fabulous soup has been made. It is a story that always has a happy ending. Everyone always seems to have a good time making the soup, and the soup itself is always loved. In many versions the tramp (and it usually is a tramp) is asked for the recipe. In many other versions, like that of Madame de Noyer, all the neighbors and even all the other villagers are brought into the story. They attest to what a fabulous soup was made by a stone. Of course, nobody thinks that a stone can make soup. Nobody is tricked into feeding the stranger. The beggar is personable and is understood to be saying, “I’ll provide you some great entertainment in exchange for a meal.” As the banter surrounding the cooking was entertaining and by any standards the soup terrific, the making of stone soup always ends with smiles all around. Phillipe Barbe’s Version, France, 1771 Historic Stone Soup Story from 1771 in French by M. Barbe One characteristic of folktales is that they are contextualized by each teller. This is something the authors of the early Stone Soup stories clearly did. For example, the second version of the story was written by Phillipe Barbe (1723–1792) in his work Fables et
Words
This year, for a school project, Lilly was volunteering at a nursing home, or rather, she had been volunteered. It was not a pleasant prospect. From what she had heard from her older sister, Rose, it was basically just sitting around and listening to old people talk, talk, talk. Rose was the exaggeration queen, so you could never know if you could trust her, though. So that’s why, on a balmy Sunday morning, Lilly was standing on tiptoe at the reception desk and trying to read the very high up copy of the list of people, whens, wheres, hows… Lilly pulled out her notebook and her purple pen and started a new page. Mrs. Riley, she scrawled in her sloppy cursive, formidable, splendiferous. Lilly kept logs of everyone she met in that notebook, their eccentricities, faults, strengths, and wonderful adjectives galore. Mrs. Riley had the eyes of a warrior, with stories etched into every line and bravery stitched around the edges. Lilly liked her at once, from the moment she stepped into her room. She seemed impossible to defeat, Lilly thought, with the air of a general. She talked with an odd accent sweeping the edges of her words. Mrs. Riley had memories. Lilly could see them in the stories she told, of cool beaches, waves pawing the shore, wind whispering, and fresh, sweet mangoes. “Do you really remember these things?” Mrs. Riley laughed, not a creaky old person’s laugh, but one like bells that didn’t match her wrinkly outside. “Unfortunately, I have no children to pass it on to” “No, non, non, Lilly, I make it all up, pure imagination, but sometimes I feel like I was there.” I know what you mean, thought Lilly, as she exited the grove of mangoes and stories. Miss Ashley: loquacious, gregarious. Miss Ashley was more blunt about things than Mrs. Riley and chattered like a group of squirrels. Lilly tried her best to keep up with the constant stream but soon gave up and pretended to be listening. When she was leaving, Miss Ashley gave her a big hug and said, “Thank you, sweetie, nobody ever listens to me!” and Lilly felt a little ashamed that she hadn’t really, but smiled and hugged the old lady back. Mr. Joseph: __________ ? Mr. Joseph was so indescribable that it gave Lilly a shock. When she walked in, he asked with no hesitation, “What’s your favorite word?” Lilly’s words, her giant vocabulary, blanked. Then she said loudly, “Pulchritudinous!” He nodded, then calmly replied, “That means beautiful.” Lilly’s heart stopped, almost, and then she stuttered, “H-how d-do y-you know th-that?” Mr. Joseph smiled warmly and whispered, “The same way I think you do.” Lilly thought back to cold nights in front of the fire, flipping through the dictionary and pointing out interesting words to her family, Mama, Papa, Rose… She grinned back at Mr. Joseph, and he took out a worn book, the cover a rich red leather, and he held it up. Merriam-Webster’s English Dictionary, First Edition. Lilly gave a breath of awe. “Is that, like, one hundred years old?” He seemed pleased at her reaction. “Indeed.” Mr. Joseph stroked the cover gently and said, “It was my father’s, and his father’s, and so forth. Unfortunately, I have no children to pass it on to.” Lilly stared deep into his ocean-blue eyes. “You know,” he contemplated, “you are one of the only people I have met who I feel really understands me.” Lilly felt the praise swirl in her stomach and waved goodbye to Mr. Joseph. “Adieu.” “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lilly’s mom asked, helping Lilly pull off her jacket. Lilly shrugged. She didn’t want her mom to know how much she enjoyed it because… because it was her moment, and she wanted to hold onto it a little longer. * * * Next Sunday was cool and brisk. Wind whipped Lilly’s cheeks as she skipped along to the nursing home. She skidded to a stop in the warm reception room, shimmied out of her coat, popped off her hat, dashed up the stairs, and slid, breathless, into Mrs. Riley’s room. Mrs. Riley laughed. “You look like you have run a mile or two, Lilly!” She patted the side of the bed. “I’m glad you came. Come, have a seat.” Lilly sat, and breathed Mrs. Riley’s warm, clean smell, like soap and lavender. “Today, Lilly, I want you to tell me a story.” Lilly almost fell off the bed. “What?!” “I said, you tell me a story,” Mrs. Riley calmly replied, taking Lilly’s hands in hers. “B-but I don’t know any stories.” “Make one up. It doesn’t matter if it’s good.” Mrs. Riley tapped her temple with a long, pale finger. “Use your imagination!” So Lilly took a deep breath and began. “Once upon a time, there was a creek full of splashing, glittering water, babbling, stories flowing out from every drop.” She was surprised she was sounding like Mrs. Riley. “The creek was in a wood, light and green, the sun catching big, fanlike leaves, glimmering like emeralds. Through the wood, there was a house like a cottage, gardenias placed meticulously in the window boxes, and daisies, roses, and violets scattered around the yard in clumps.” Lilly paused. “I don’t know what comes next.” Mrs. Riley clapped her hands. “Superb, Lilly, don’t worry, I’ll tell you the rest next week.” Lilly was baffled. “You’ll tell me the rest?” Mrs. Riley smiled at her. “Yes. You started a story, I’ll finish it for you.” She then pulled Lilly into a strong embrace for someone of her age. Miss Ashley was having a talk with a friend from next door so Lilly’s company was unneeded, thus she skipped over to Mr. Joseph’s room. “Remuneration,” Mr. Joseph said as she walked in. “Reward, or payment. Her remuneration was a trophy and a medal.” Lilly replied automatically, sounding like she had swallowed the dictionary. He grinned. “Good!
Life Among the Whispers
By Mathilde Fox-Smith Illustrated by Anika Knudson No longer was the building a building, but a window He had decided earlier that he wouldn’t do it tonight. This nagging annoyed him profoundly. Though now that he was already plastered against a wall, inches from the swerving shaft of police-car headlights in the city, it might as well happen. As soon as the tires rolled over the crumbly pavement, he crept from the shadowed wall, slipping down the road. The streets were licked by shadows and mostly undisturbed by the din of passing cars. He could faintly picture a blank, ancient building in the back of the park a few roads over, one that he had seen before. To avoid being questioned or recognized by drivers, he kept his head down, his eyes burning into the sidewalk. A tall gate guarded the entrance to the quiet park, made up of thin black posts set close together. A barrier of thick bamboo crowded the borders between grass and street. He began to shove aside the flexible trunks, squeezing in between the stems. It enclosed him in a chamber of green as he pushed through to the park’s grassy edge. Pale moonbeams pooled over the dark ground. Barbed wire twisted between the park and the site of the old building. Gingerly taking the smoother bit of the wire in between his fingers, he jerked it up as far as he could to create an entrance for himself. Crumpled leaves and rust-colored pine needles concealed cans of spray paint, stashed there on his last encounter with the police. Lifting a random container, he scrubbed away a patch of the dirt and scanned the color: brown. Pictures fluttered back into his brain. Selecting a cream-white from the paints, he also chose a scene. And then, he began to paint. Lise woke abruptly. The cheerful chirping of a robin rang in her sleepy ears. Roused by it, she slipped out of bed. Her long hair was matted from sleep. Lise clomped into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “Morning!” she was greeted by her mother. Lise returned a smile and plopped down into a hard wooden chair. “Would you mind much if I go to the new art exhibit?” she requested. “Well, we have a party, and dinner out tonight… you know that your father’s running for office again,” she warned. “He might want you to help with pamphlets and flyers.” “I won’t be long.” “Yeah, I guess. But be sure to be back by two-fifteen,” she agreed. Lise smiled in thanks and finished her breakfast hastily. The brutal August sun cast its blinding rays over the city and the people that swarmed like ants in the streets. An art gallery was featuring a new exhibit, and Lise was eager to visit it. Though her intention was to stay for that exhibit only, she decided to wander about the old ones, too. Just as she exited, Lise was drawn into the cheerful green park. Her feet ached from her brisk walking in the gallery, so she swiveled around to where she thought was a bench. That ambition quickly vanished from her mind. She remembered the building quite clearly; that was why she didn’t recognize it at first. Its crumbly surface was completely slathered in paint. Lise blinked repeatedly, astonished. The only thing that remained of the eerie side of it was the floppy fencing of barbed wire. Otherwise, it was majestic. A painting of a sunset flourished over the bricks. The vibrant sky was streaked with crimson, magenta, vermillion, and turquoise. They blended beautifully above the magnificent, blazing sun, reflecting in the rippled ocean. Even the water nearly moved. The beach was a golden stretch of beige, shining in the sun’s rays. Just in the front of the piece, a single luscious palm tree leaf waved. No longer was the building a building, but a window. Lise was petrified with amazement at the artwork, her breath blown away. She stepped closer, examining every flawless stroke of the painting. “Wow,” she breathed. A tiny signature was traced with black spray paint: “Tobias Acosta.” She suddenly remembered the stern reporters on television who spoke of the so-called Tobias Acosta, a graffitist. Although his paintings were signed with that name, no recorded resident of the city was called by it. Of course, she knew this painting was outrageously wrong—it was graffiti, but her amazement defied her consciousness. Lise uttered, “I never thought I’d see one in person before they erased it.” She moved close enough that her fingers curled around the rusty barbed wire and took in every perfect detail. Unexpectedly, Lise’s eyes strayed to her digital watch and she gasped at the square letters. “Three o’clock! Oh, I’d better go.” She took one last examination of the picture and reluctantly turned to leave. Lise took a particularly long time returning home, the image glowing in her mind. By the time she approached her doorstep, the little watch ticked three-fifteen. Entering the apartment, she was first greeted by her mother, and her daze quickly dissolved. “Sorry. I… lost track of the time,” she stammered, because it wasn’t a total lie. What would her parents—her campaigning father, mostly—think if she marveled over the artwork of a criminal? Lise passed her mother and entered her own room, standing before the dresser and gazing at the girl in the mirror. “Will I ever be able to draw like that?” she wondered aloud. Lise’s favorite activity was art, and she was praised at school and home for her artwork. The girl repeated her question, but something in her aqua eyes made Lise know that her inquiry was foolish. * * * “Mom… I left my purse in the car.” “Lise, do you really need it?” She sighed, “I’ll get it.” Her mother’s forehead creased, but she tossed Lise the keys to their vehicle and called, “Be quick!” The warm August air was much more welcoming at
Five Simple Tips for Revising
Let’s face it. Writing is fun. It’s the revising we avoid. When we first write, our pen goes wherever our ideas lead; we create characters and situations, mold them and direct them at will. Then we sit back, marinating in the satisfaction of our finished work. Enter the dreaded voice of revision, whose sole purpose is to highlight all that stinks about our wonderful composition. Of course we don’t want to deal with it, and children are no different in this respect. But as Katherine Patterson says, revising is the process when spilled milk gets turned into ice cream. It’s necessary if our children are to become better writers. Even though the revision process isn’t always a child’s favorite part of writing, it doesn’t need to be a chore. With the following tips, it may even become an interesting, dare I say enjoyable, activity. 1.) Step back: After your child finishes a first draft, let her bask in her greatness. Don’t mention revising right away. Let her read the draft to you and talk about it. Then just have her put the draft aside for a few days before she takes it out again to revise. The extra time will allow her to wind down from all that energy she just spent writing it and will put the draft out of her mind. In turn, she will come back to her work with fresh eyes and a clear, less biased, perspective. She will not only be better able to identify weaknesses but she will also be more open to fixing them. 2.) Collaborate: A completely different set of eyes is always helpful in the revising process. If you don’t have other children in your home with which to workshop, get your child together with another homeschooler who is also working on a writing project. Teach them how to read and constructively comment on each other’s papers. Working with other children will help your child get feedback from a real audience and evaluate her own work through her readers’ eyes. 3.) Read aloud: Though often overlooked, it’s one of the most effective revising strategies. Reading a paper aloud helps the writer hear rhythm and voice. She will get a sense of where the piece flows and where it is stunted, where ideas are unclear or wordy, and where it goes off topic. When your child returns to her draft, have her read it aloud (alone if she is uncomfortable reading in front of others) and take notes when she finds something that needs to be changed, added to, or removed. 4.) Type it: If your child does not know how to type, it’s worth teaching her. It’s a skill that can be learned at a young age and will make revising and editing easier. Unless your child is a fluent typist, she should write the first draft, and then type it in a Microsoft Word document. The act of typing will itself highlight areas in need of change, but more than this, it will make revising and editing less tedious. If a sentence needs to be moved, she needs only to cut and paste to change it. If she needs to add a sentence or even a paragraph, she won’t need to rewrite the whole paper; she can just insert the new information. 5.) Work from paper: After your child types her draft, print a hard copy to work from when revising and editing. Often what gets overlooked on a computer screen will stand out on a hard copy; however, it will still be easier to change since the original is easy to access and manipulate on the computer.
