ENCHANTED LOG STORIES
A Series Within The Series
by Pinkerton Little
Not too far from where we are now lies a forest. Deep within it long ago, a mighty oak tree fell. It left a clearing where sunlight penetrates the dense wood. In the center of the clearing lies the trunk of the great tree, hollowed with age. Forest animals know the place, for this log, they say, is enchanted. From within comes a voice of wisdom...
In the Enchanted Log Stories each tale poses a question that sets the stage for an awakening.
Squirrel Baby's Gift What can a poor little squirrel give? The greatest gift of all! (Here the log borrows Mother Teresa's words: "It's not how much you give. It's how much love you put into giving.”)
Tickle the Chipmunk A little chipmunk can't stop chattering. Realize here the perils of noise and the wisdom of silence.
The Stoat and the Silver and Gold A stoat blind to beauty, awakened by the voice of wisdom, learns to see.
Father Possum's Lesson The wisdom in withholding judgement is Father Possum's lesson - not a lesson "taught" but truth realized here. The story borrows words from martial tradition Karate Do (The Way of the Empty Hand), as taught by Vito Dominic Cataldo (Master Deac), the tradition’s Sixth Master.
Brother Beaver and Father Otter A busy beaver learns the liberating truth: "work is play."
Squirrel Baby's Gift
An Enchanted Log Story
by Pinkerton Little
Not too far from where we are now lies a forest. Deep within it long ago, a mighty oak tree fell. It left a clearing where sunlight penetrates the dense wood. In the center of the clearing lies the trunk of the great tree, hollowed with age. Forest animals know the place, for this log, they say, is enchanted. From within comes a voice of wisdom. No question goes unanswered; no creature is turned away. Sunshine the squirrel once went to the log. Let me tell you her story.
Sunshine was a happy little squirrel. She scurried and skipped and chattered and spun and chased her tail all day, and there
was sunshine in her smile, that is, until a sad day came.
One night a thunderstorm shook the forest. Lightening struck a tree, and not all squirrels escaped. Squirrel baby was left alone.
Little Sunshine was eager to help. From her nest high in a maple she could see squirrel baby in a nearby tree. The baby had nothing, not even a name. "Tomorrow I'll give her a gift," thought Sunshine, and with a lighter heart, drifted to sleep.
Next morning she searched the forest for something to give. She found a little water and collected it in a walnut shell, but it seemed too little to give.
Then she remembered the log and its wisdom. She scurried to the clearing, approached the hollow log and spoke into the darkness: “Please help me. I want to give to squirrel baby a gift, but a little water is all I have.”
From the emptiness came a gentle voice. “It’s not how much you give. Its how much love you put into giving.”
“Thank you,” said Sunshine politely, but though the voice had been kind, her problem was not solved. Again that night gazing down on the baby, she longed to help.
Next day she searched but found only a bit of straw. “Straw could soften the baby’s nest, but this tiny bit is too little to give.” Downhearted, she returned to the log.
“I want to help the baby, but this bit of straw is all I can give,” she said.
“It is not how much you give,” echoed the voice. “It’s how much love you put into giving.”
Sunshine said “thank you” but was troubled still. She left empty handed.
Winter’s first chill came that night. Through branches by moonlight, Sunshine saw the baby shiver. She felt the same chill and snuggled under her bushy soft tail.
Then suddenly she darted up. She knew what to give squirrel baby! She scurried down, across the cold ground and straight up to the baby’s nest. She curled up close, wrapped her bushy tail around the little one and smiled. When the baby smiled back that same sweet smile, Sunshine knew her name. She hugged squirrel baby and whispered low: “You will be Sunshine too.”
o - o - o
Tickle the Chipmunk
An Enchanted Log Story
by Pinkerton Little
Not too far from where we are now lies a forest. Deep within it long ago, a mighty oak tree fell. It left a clearing where sunlight penetrates the dense wood. In the center of the clearing lies the trunk of the great tree, hollowed with age. Forest animals know the place for this log they say, is enchanted. From within comes a voice of wisdom. No question is unanswered; no creature turned away. Not long ago a chipmunk visited. Let me tell you the story.
Now chipmunks chatter as you well know. Tickle chattered and he never stopped. He chattered so he missed his mother’s call. He even missed his call to dinner. “Please don’t chatter so,” said Tickle’s mother. He wanted to please her, but though he tried, he could not stop.
Tickle lived near the clearing and knew of the magical log. If I go there, maybe the voice will help me, thought Tickle. “Can I Mama? Can I go? May I? May I? May I? Can I?” he chattered. “Yes,” sighed his mother, “you may go.”
Off went Tickle chattering all the way. At the clearing he scrambled to the edge of the log and spoke into the hollow darkness. “I chatter, chatter, chatter all day,” he complained. “Can’t stop; can’t stop; can’t stop chattering.”
“You can,” came a soft voice.
“How…” whispered the chipmunk?
“Simply listen,” said the voice. “Simply listen…”
“What should I listen to,” puzzled Tickle?
“To the stars,” came the gentle voice. “Listen to the stars.”
The words echoed in the log but Tickle heard nothing. He was already chattering and he chattered all the way home. He told his mother what the voice had said, but that night when the stars came out, Tickle did not listen.
Next day busily chattering, he did not see a circling hawk. He did not hear the swoosh of wings when it swooped low and snatched him up. Tickle went on chattering so that soon the hawk could no longer bear it. He let go and Tickle fell and landed in a tree.
It was growing dark now. Alone and frightened, Tickle remembered the log’s wisdom. Cradling his tiny chin he gazed upward, and for the first time, for the very first time, Tickle listened.
At first he heard nothing, but he listened again. Then he listened some more and heard it. First small and faint, then strong and clear: the sound of the stars was silence itself, clear as glass and pure as air. Tickle listened until his sleepy eyes closed.
Then “buzz, buzz, buzz," woke Tickle. Sweet "tweet, tweet's," made him smile, and then from afar, a chatter! Tickle's ears shot up. Off he flew, branch to branch listening to his mother’s call all the way home.
That night, cozy by his mother’s side, Tickle was a wide-eyed listener. He listened to his bedtime story. He listened to the stars, and then he heard the softest sound you'll ever hear in the whole wide world: his mother's goodnight kiss.
o - o - o
The Stoat And The Silver And Gold
An Enchanted Log Story
by Pinkerton Little
Not too far from where we are now lies a forest. Deep within it long ago, a mighty oak tree fell. It left a clearing where sunlight penetrates the dense wood. In the center of the clearing lies the trunk of the great tree, hollowed with age. Forest animals know the place for this log they say, is enchanted. From within comes a voice of wisdom. No question is unanswered; no creature turned away. A stoat once visited the log. Let me tell you his story.
The stoat had a keen eye for hunting, but there was much he did not see. He missed the sheen of his silky brown coat. He missed the forest’s beauty. This stoat thought of only one thing: silver and gold.
Now he knew of the log and that all who visit are helped. Boldly he went and made his demand.
“I want silver and gold,” snapped the stoat. “You satisfy all. You must satisfy me.”
“Silver and gold is yours,” said a gentle voice.
“Mine? You’re mistaken,” puzzled the stoat.
“Yours,” repeated the voice.
“Where is it?” argued the stoat.
“You’ll find it by the shore at dusk,” came the answer.
Off like a shot through the woods ran the stoat, over dunes and down to the shore. At dusk he searched the length of the bay but found no trace of silver or gold.
Next morning the angry stoat returned to the log and demanded his fortune. The answer like an echo came: “Silver and gold is already yours.”
“I searched the shore at dusk and found nothing,” he argued.
“You need only eyes to see,” said the voice.
Restless with want, the stoat fretted. “Buried treasure perhaps,” wondered he. He sped to the shore at dusk and dug holes the length of the bay but found nothing.
Next day discouraged, he returned to the log. “I want my fortune,” he whined. The voice said: “Stop wanting and the fortune is yours.”
“Stop wanting,” he cried?
“Only stop wanting,” repeated the voice, “and you’ll find your fortune by the shore at dusk.”
At dusk the stoat returned to the shore and sat feeling hopeless. Then a movement in the sand caught his eye. A creature no bigger than a pea, emerged from a hole. It had tiny crab legs but no shell. It seemed blinded by the setting sun’s light and zigzagged about frantically seeking shelter.
Watching the creature, the stoat’s heart went out. Instead of looking for gold, he ran off in search of a shell. He found one, rushed it back, and the hermit crab disappeared into its safety.
Then peace came to the stoat, as if he himself had just found shelter, and looking up, what did he see but silver! Silver it was
in the sun's sheen on a mirror smooth sea, and looking down he was dazzled by gold - gold dust glittering grains of sand stretching the whole length of the bay. He gazed with wondering eyes until the last light left the sky.
Then darting up, the stoat scrambled in search of a rock. Not just any rock would do. He wanted a boulder, and find one he
did, and rolled it to the very spot he’d found his fortune. There the stoat is known to sit at dusk – a King of Life amidst riches
far as the eye can see.
o - o - o
Father Possum's Lesson
An Enchanted Log Story
by Pinkerton Little
Not too far from where we are now lies a forest. Deep within it long ago, a mighty oak tree fell. It left a clearing where sunlight penetrates the dense wood. In the center of the clearing lies the trunk of the great tree, hollowed with age. Forest animals know the place for this log, they say, is enchanted. From within comes a voice of wisdom. No question is unanswered. No creature is turned away. Not long ago a possum went to the log. Let me tell you the story.
Father and Mother Possum lived high atop a maple with their seven young. They’d wintered there, but when spring came, bees built a hive by their door, forcing the possums out of their home.
Father Possum took his family to an abandoned gopher hole at the edge of the clearing where the hollow log lies. He approached the log. “I lost my home,” he said. “What can I do?”
“Give thanks,” said the voice.
“Give thanks? What do you mean?” puzzled the possum, but silence came from the log and he returned to his family.
That night a thunderstorm boomed. Lightening struck the very tree that had been the possums’ home. Father Possum stayed in the gopher hole and remained content - at least for a time.
Then one day visitors came - Mother Muskrat and her little ones - ten in all, and all were very hungry.
The possums shared their food. Father Possum made pancakes. Mother Possum served, but neither knew how very hungry little muskrats get. They ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate. Each of the ten ate a dozen cakes, and you know how many that is. Muskrat baby bellies bulged, but the possums’ cupboard was bare.
Father Possum returned to the log. “My cupboard is bare,” he complained. “What can I do?”
“Give thanks,” said the gentle voice. No further words were spoken, and again the possum left dissatisfied.
Summer brought drought. The possums thirsted, but who should appear with help but Mother Muskrat and her young. They led the possums to a hidden spring where they drank and stayed and played all day, and Father Possum was content - at least for a time.
Winter came early and snow blanketed his garden. He had no harvest, and he went again to the log.
“The snow buried my garden. What ever will I do?”
“Give thanks,” spoke the voice.
“Give thanks!” snapped the Possum. “Are you mocking me?”
Again he stomped home, and there found his family in distress. “The baby has run away,” cried Mother Possum. “He’s outside and will surely freeze!”
Hurrying out to search, they soon found tiny paw prints in the snow. Following the prints they found the baby curled up by a tree. Mother Possum carried him home, cold but unharmed.
That night while his family slept, Father Possum sat wakeful, truth dawning.
“Bees drove me from my tree-top home, but we survived the lightening and I am thankful.”
“My cupboard was bare,” he recalled, “but the muskrats saved us from drought and I am thankful.”
“Snow buried my garden, but saved my baby’s life!” His heart swelled and he gave thanks.
Next morning he gathered his family. “I have something to say,” he announced. “What is, is.” He said. “What is must be. What is should be. We must all give thanks.”
And so they did, even the little ones, and from that day on whatever came his way, Father Possum was content. He knew that all is somehow for the good. And his young had no need for the enchanted log. Father Possum now spoke in a voice of wisdom.
o - o - o
Brother Beaver And Father Otter
An Enchanted Log Story
by Pinkerton Little
Not too far from where we are now lies a forest. Deep within it long ago, a mighty oak tree fell. It left a clearing where sunlight penetrates the dense wood. In the center of the clearing lies the trunk of the great tree, hollowed with age. Forest animals know the place for this log they say, is enchanted. From within comes a voice of wisdom. A beaver once visited. Let me tell you his story.
Father Otter and his seven young lived on the river bank. Nearby, Brother Beaver worked busily on his dam. All day long the otters spun and splashed in the water. All this play irritated Brother Beaver.
“Why do I do all the work?” he complained to Father Otter, but his words weren’t heard. Father Otter was splashing as loud as he could.
One morning the beaver went to the woods for a log. On return he found the otters using his dam as a diving platform. This upset him so he went to the clearing, approached the magical log and spoke: “I work all day while the otters play…” he began, but was interrupted.
“Work is play,” came the voice from the log.
“What,” asked the beaver, confused?
He waited for an answer but none came. “Nonsense” he thought, and left unsatisfied.
On return home he saw a large log from the dam floating free. On it lay the otters, heads on bellies, legs crossed, floating down the river, whistling a cheery tune.
The angry beaver stormed back to the log. “The otters are mocking my work!” he shouted. “Surely you can help me.”
“Work is play,” repeated a calm voice.
“That nonsense again!” snapped the beaver. Again he left unsatisfied.
This time on return home, he was surprised to find another beaver at work on his dam. This beaver was a cyclone of busyness: fixing leaks; setting piles; enlarging the base.
Brother Beaver brightened. “Now I can play,” thought he. Straight off he dove into the water. He splashed a while but soon tired of it.
He sat downhearted on the bank wondering what was wrong. Then suddenly his eyes widened. He understood the log’s words.
He thanked his visitor for help, but said he’d rather work alone. Then he repaired his dam better than ever. The bust beaver had learned to play!
The otter young, swimming nearby, felt his joy, swam straight up and smiled on the beaver, warming his heart.
From then on, Brother Beaver and Father Otter were best of friends. Every day they played together, each in his own way.
One night when the otter young were snug in bed, Brother Beaver had Father Otter over for tea. Brother Beaver showed Father Otter a blueprint he’d drawn for a water-park. Side by side they sat at twilight, both with the same broad smiles. The water-park would have a fountain and a wave pool too!
o - o - o