I don’t have any firm answers to offer for the questions I’m posing. I suspect the determining lines are somewhat blurry. What I do know is that when I tell this story to my audiences, I am passing along a version of a story I received from the young teenager of a family who had moved to the United States from India. The tale captured my attention because of the surprising twist at the end, so I tell it today because I enjoy the plot.
Umang enjoys the plot, too, but her connections to the story run deeper and are multifaceted in comparison to mine. When she tells the story, she is passing along family history—after all, this is a story told to her by her grandfather, who heard it from his father. Hearing stories from family members is an experience she treasures from her own childhood. By telling the story to her brother’s children, she also creates for them a childhood experience similar to her own.
The story also reflects Umang’s religion and culture: “the teaching of patience is continuous throughout the Hindu religion and Indian culture. The story includes the lesson that you cannot let an uncomfortable situation or something you don’t understand spur your actions.”7 In Umang’s version as she tells it now, the king yells at his gardener because he doesn’t understand why on the one day he comes out to smell his roses, he is pricked by a thorn. He has the gardener banished. When the priest tries to explain that everything happens for a reason, the king has the priest banished. After the hunting trip, when the king returns to the priest, it is as if the priest has understood the king had to have this experience to gain understanding. Umang explained that the priest has endured something uncomfortable without letting the incident affect his self-image. He waits, without hate, for the king to return. The king comes to understand that there is a reason and purpose for all of life’s events, both negative and positive. In Umang’s version the king also apologizes to the priest, who is beneath him. The story teaches that even a king, a powerful person who others look up to and come to for advice and leadership, has difficulty understanding the message that everything happens for a reason. That he apologizes to the priest also shows that he is humbled by his previous arrogance and anger, and now understands the priest is truly an enlightened man. Through the experience of the story, the king now also is enlightened.8
“The lesson in this story may also be reflective of ‘the times’ considering the history of India. My grandparents had to leave their home and begin a new life in a new place. Also, my grandfather was a young man during the time of Gandhi, who was a representation of patience at that time.”9
It would be a great falsehood for me to ever claim I am passing along “The King and His Advisor” with the same understanding Umang has of the story. Even though my family has many generations in Kentucky,10 I also cannot claim to have the same understanding of the folktales I’ve retold here as the Kentuckians who told their versions to other Kentuckians who placed them in archives. My family told stories, but did not pass along folktales. My love of folktales grew from reading and rereading the printed collections I borrowed from my elementary school library.
But what if my family had retold folktales? Would that make my understanding of such stories identical to that of other Kentuckians who grew up with the same folktales? Not likely. Marcia Lane observes, “Even if the teller and the listeners are of the same cultural group (so they start with the same understanding of implied meanings), the difference in personal experience guarantees that each listener will form particular—and sometimes radically dissimilar—images from the teller’s words.”11
What I do have in common with Umang Badhwar and with the Kentuckians who told their stories to students, folklorists, and other scholars who subsequently placed them in archival collections is that I know a story, and I’m willing to share it.
RABBIT AND THE ALLIGATORS
A long time ago, a long, long, long time ago, way back, when rabbits had long, pretty tails like foxes, there lived a rabbit. One day Rabbit had been gone from home since early, early in the morning. All day long Rabbit had been working, working, and working. By the end of the day, Rabbit was tired, so very tired. He headed for home. Hop hop, rest. Hop hop, rest. Hop hop, rest. Ooooh, Rabbit was tired. By the time Rabbit reached the edge of the swamp near his house, he was so tired he couldn’t even take one more hop.
Rabbit stood there looking out over the swamp. He could see his house. It stood on a little rise of dry land straight across the swamp. Rabbit thought, “I am too tired to hop all the way around this swamp to reach my house. I don’t know why this old swamp has to be between me and my house anyway. But I do know one thing: I cannot go hopping around this swamp today. I am way too tired. I could swim across. But those old alligators living in this swamp think anything swimming in the swamp is supposed to be their dinner. No, if I try to swim across, those alligators would just eat me up. What I need is a plan—a plan for moving myself from here straight across this swamp.”
Rabbit started thinking. He twitched his long ears, and he thought. He pulled on that long, pretty tail of his, and he thought. He twitched, and he thought. He pulled, and he thought. Pretty soon ideas started flying around in his head. Rabbit twitched his ears, and he thought. He pulled his long pretty tail, and he thought. After awhile, with all that twitching and thinking and pulling and thinking, those ideas started arranging themselves into a plan—a fine plan for moving himself from where he was straight across the swamp to his house.
Now, to work his plan Rabbit needed an alligator. Rabbit watched the swamp until he saw a big, old alligator swimming nearby, and then Rabbit began working his plan. He began singing a song—a song he was making up right on the spot:
Oh, there are many, many, many, many rabbits in this world,
and oh so very few alligators.
Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits, rabbits everywhere.
As for alligators, they just can’t compare
with the many, many, many, many rabbits in this world,
and oh so very few alligators.
That big old alligator heard Rabbit’s song and swam over to listen. Rabbit pretended he didn’t see him, and kept right on singing:
There are many, many, many, many rabbits in this world,
and oh so very few alligators.
Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits, everywhere under the sun.
As for alligators, you can hardly find a one
for the many, many, many, many rabbits in this world,
and oh so very few alligators.
Alligator swam closer, “Rabbit, hey Rabbit! What is that song you’re singing?”
Rabbit lied, “Oh, Alligator, I didn’t see you out there! That song? Why, that’s just a song all us rabbits know. We learn it when we’re just little bitty baby rabbits. Our mamas teach it to us so we learn how many rabbits there are in the world and how few of you alligators there are. I can sing it for you, Alligator.
There are many, many, many, many rabbits in this world
and oh so very few alligators.
Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits, rabbits everywhere—
“Rabbit,” Alligator interrupted, “Stop the singing, Rabbit. I already heard the song. What do you mean there are more rabbits in this world than there are alligators? Rabbit, do you actually believe that song is true?”
“Well, Alligator, I never really thought about whether or not the song is true. All rabbits sing it—we learn it when we’re just babies.” Rabbit pretended to consider Alligator’s question, and then he spoke. “I guess we do think it’s true. Don’t you think it’s true?”
“No, Rabbit, I believe that song is nothing but a lie. I live out here in the swamp, and I see alligators all the time. I hardly ever see a rabbit.” Alligator was upset. “Rabbit, that song your mama taught you is just one big lie, and you rabbits ought not be singing a big lie like that.”
“A lie? Do you really think so?” Rabbit pretended to be shocked. “Why, Alligator, when I was just a little bitty baby rabbit, I not only learned that song, I learned a rabbit is always suppose
d to tell the truth.” Rabbit crossed his heart, “Cross my heart. Hope to die. Never tell a lie.” And he solemnly nodded his head, “Honest.”
“Now Rabbit, I am glad you were taught to be honest, but that song. . . .” Alligator seemed a bit less upset. “Well, I guess Mama Rabbits just don’t know any better, ’cause that song is one big lie.”
“Oh, Alligator, I know there’s not a Mama Rabbit is this world who wants to teach her baby a lying song. So, Alligator, if you want me to I’ll go tell the other rabbits that song is a lie, and they’re not to sing it anymore.”
“Rabbit, you’d do that? You’d tell the other rabbits not to sing that song?”
“Oh, I would Alligator.” Rabbit hesitated, “Of course, I would have to prove to the rabbits the song is a lie. But if you’d like for me to I’d be willing to count the alligators, and if it turns out there really are more alligators than rabbits, I’ll go tell all the other rabbits we are not allowed to sing that song anymore.”
Alligator was excited. He called all the other alligators, and they all came swimming up. Alligator told them all about the song he’d heard Rabbit singing. Got the alligators real upset. Then Alligator calmed ’em all down by telling ’em about Rabbit’s offer to count the alligators. Now, all the alligators were excited. They all crowded around, eager to be counted.
“All right, Rabbit,” called Alligator, “we are all here. You can begin the count now.”
“Now Alligator, I really am willing to count you alligators, and I am willing to report the results to the rabbits, but we got to be sure this count is done fair. Right now, you alligators are swimming this way and that, just milling around. Why, I’m likely to count one of you over here, and you’re likely to swim under and come up over there, and I’d be counting you twice. Now that wouldn’t be right. No, if I’m going to count and report results to the rabbits, you alligators have got to line up, holding hands, side by side by side, all your heads pointing toward one end of the swamp and all your tails pointing toward the other. Then, you’ve got to hold still.”
Well, the alligators really wanted to be counted, so the first alligator put two feet on the shore near Rabbit. His head pointed toward one end of the swamp. His tail pointed toward the other. With his other two feet, he “held hands” with the next alligator. And so it went. Alligator after alligator after alligator lined up side by side by side until those alligators stretched all the way across that swamp.
Then Alligator called, “All right, Rabbit, we’re ready. You can begin the count now.”
Rabbit shouted, “Do you alligators all promise to be real good and hold real still so I can hop out on your backs and conduct this counting?”
“Oh, we’ll be good,” all the alligators shouted. “We’ll hold still.”
So Rabbit hopped from alligator to alligator, counting:
“One, two, buckle my shoe.
“Three, four, shut the door.
“Five, six, pick up sticks.
“Seven, eight, lay them straight.
“Nine, ten, a big fat hen.
“Eleven, eleven?
“All good alligators going straight to heaven.”
Now, those alligators had heard about heaven, and they really wanted to go. They were real good. They held hands, and they stayed still. Rabbit hopped and counted, “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. . . .”
By the time Rabbit reached the far side of the swamp, he was so pleased with himself for tricking those alligators, he started laughing. In fact, Rabbit was so busy laughing he forgot to call out a number when he landed on the last alligator’s back.
“Rabbit,” the last alligator called out, “Rabbit, I don’t believe I heard you call a number when you landed on my back. Rabbit! Why are you laughing, Rabbit?”
“Oh Alligator,” Rabbit laughed, “I don’t know how many rabbits there are in this world, and I don’t care how many alligators there are. I didn’t learn that song when I was a baby. I just stood over on the other side of the swamp and made that song up.” Rabbit laughed and laughed. “I just wanted to see if I could trick you alligators into being a bridge for me to cross the swamp to my house. My plan worked too. Oh, you alligators just lined up and you all held still. You were real good alligators too! Now I’m almost home.” Rabbit held his side and laughed and laughed. He just doubled over laughing.
Now that last alligator didn’t much like the idea of Rabbit tricking the alligators, so he came charging out of the swamp, his jaws wide open. Rabbit looked up just in time and made one hop. WHOMP! Alligator snapped his jaws shut.
Rabbit’s one hop was big, but not quite big enough. Remember that long, pretty tail I told you about? Alligator got Rabbit’s long, pretty tail. And from that day to this, all rabbits have been going around in this world carrying nothing but that little stub of a tail they wear today.
COMMENTARY
Motif K579.2.2* Hare Crosses to Mainland by Counting Crocodiles. Tail Bitten Off or Fur Pulled in Revenge.1
In 1985, I was added to the artist roster of the Grand Rapids Council of Performing Arts for Children in Grand Rapids, Michigan. On one of my first classroom visits, with the Arts Council director observing my work, a teacher turned to her second graders and introduced me with, “Children, this is Mary Hamilton. She is a storyteller. Because Easter is coming soon, she is going to tell you rabbit stories for the next hour.”
With that introduction I learned my program was one hour instead of forty-five minutes. Even more importantly, I learned I would be telling rabbit stories. Of course, I also learned the importance of controlling my own introduction, but I was completely unaware of that lesson in the panic of the moment. Wanting to make a good impression on the Arts Council director, the children, and their teacher, I didn’t dare openly contradict the introduction. So, I told rabbit stories.
I told the children a Brer Rabbit tale I remembered from reading folktales during my childhood. From there, I moved on to other animal stories in my sparse repertoire—stories with Rabbit for a main character that day, even if Rabbit had never been part of the story before.
I looked at my watch. I still had fifteen minutes to go. I also had a vague recollection of a story that included a rabbit and a crocodile or alligator bridge trick which resulted in rabbit losing his tail.2 I started in telling, my mind whirring like Brer Rabbit’s in a tight, but survivable, fix. By the time Rabbit reached the swamp, I decided to let him think a while to develop his plan. After all, the story as I was remembering it could be told in well under five minutes. All Rabbit needed to do was brag about rabbits outnumbering alligators. I had more time to fill than that.
Then, what I think of as the Brer Rabbit spirit of storytelling survival took over, and I knew Rabbit would be trickier than simply bragging. In that moment, Rabbit’s song was born, and Rabbit has attracted the attention of Alligator through song in every telling I’ve done of this story since.
When I tell the story today, I intentionally sing Rabbit’s song rather poorly, with a ragged, uneven, somewhat hesitant rhythm. After all, what song, while being made up, sounds as if it has been sung many times? So, for example, Rabbit drags out the sound of “everywhere,” holding the note on “-where” to allow himself time to think of a rhyme for his next line. Words and portions of words gain two and three syllables, while other phrases are sung hurriedly, just to make the rhyme scheme work out for the song. As a song, it’s something of a mess. As a funny and believable tricky tactic for fooling Alligator, it works.
When the alligators line up, my oral description of their arrangement usually includes few words beyond “side by side by side.” My gestures provide the information which lets the audience know how the alligators are lining up their bodies to create the line that becomes the swamp-crossing bridge. For very young audiences, I may literally walk straight through the audience as Rabbit counts alligators, to truly “make visual” Rabbit’s trick. I’ve found preschoolers and kindergartners picture Rabbit’s trick better the more visuall
y the crossing of the swamp is presented. Most first, second, and third graders catch on to Rabbit’s trick while he works his plan. I vary details and move as needed to be sure my audience catches on before the alligators.
Even during that very first telling, listeners joined in counting. And yes, Rabbit counted many more alligators in that first telling than he does today. After all, I still had time to fill! For the first few years I told the story, I was simply counting, not using the counting rhyme. Most audiences began counting along with me by the fourth or fifth alligator. One day, I used the “One, two, buckle my shoe” counting rhyme3 and the audience joined in as soon as they heard the familiar rhyme. I had learned this rhyme up through “Nine, ten, a big fat hen” during some no longer remembered part of my childhood. The rhyme of eleven and heaven in the story is my invention, developed over time and tellings to many different audiences. While I don’t recall exactly when the counting rhyme became part of the story, it was after I recorded the tale in 1988.4
While I remain grateful that I have never since listened to an introduction of my work that scared me as much as that one did back in 1985, I am delighted the unexpected intro eventually led to such a fun to tell tale.
FAMILY TALES
AND
PERSONAL NARRATIVES
Kentucky Folktales Page 17