There is a familiar sound, approaching from the footsteps of the storyteller man, who spins tales, weaving his stories, making folklore come alive! He is walking down the street of my memories; of my childhood days, by-gone days; gone by. Here is a man who told a tale or two, dressed as a poor beggar wearing a pair of odd shoes, his work rewarded in cups of hot rosy-lee. I wonder what happened to the storyteller man, since that time when I heard the last story told. For he left me and many others both young and old alike delighting in those fables as with eyes that twinkled with such merriment; dancing with joy as he made those characters come alive , making us laugh, making us cry.
Who was he? We were really never quite sure; some say a veteran from some far off war. For under his lapel was a medal, shiny, bright which was a story he did not tell, or choose to enlighten upon. Did he save some lost soul from drowning on the seas; was he someone’s saviour for heroic gallantry? Maybe his life was a dream now gone by, no one really knew for certain, no one ever thought to ask or reason why. He wandered here and there with his wonderful tales, then moving along again, leaving memories in his wake. His sac in hand, his footsteps left no trail, of the storyteller man who told folklore’s legends of olde for a cup of rosy-lee.
Our storyteller man ah! He knew a thing or two, things of how queer folks are, and the hard times these folks lived through. He spoke as one educated and so eloquently of great adventures far beyond the sea, in lands so strange, and the tales he wove I am sure included me. As I sat, small and still, on the sawdust floor with my little fellow comrades, enthralled! We entered into his world for just so short a time; we too were heroes, valiant and brave as the story of the solider that walked one thousand miles. We were caught up in the world of his words, his heart song, as though lost words of a book tumbled out and catching them he voiced aloud to where they surely belonged in a listener’s ear.
Grown up’s were drawn, stopping by just to hear, and which stirred in them memories stretched now over time so long, weary, and dry of their own childhood days, hearing once more those tales that, were lives they once thought they too would live. Now far past that age, standing at the back of the silent, listening crowd they appear to be somewhat, sad. No adventures on high seas, no riches vast or finding the land of the free. Silently they listened as the tale is told, then back they wander wearily away back to their lives now old.
But as for the children eager-eyed they keenly watched, was there another tale to be told? Soon though all has been said and done; soon though to take his leave he’ll be gone, now he picks up his sac, and on walks the storyteller man watched by small eyes, hoping that soon he will return once more to tell another folklore tale from of olde.