Who can adequately tell of the marvel of stories? They are our lifeblood. How would we get on without them? Well, we just wouldn’t. We love hearing stories. We love retelling them and deep down inside every one of us we know there’s a story just dying to get out.

But did you ever stop to think that there are many different kinds of stories? Albert Einstein once said that if you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy-tales. Now there’s a thought to consider. But what other kinds of stories are there?

Well, one such one we might not even think about is the fantastic story. Alice In Wonderland by Lewis Carroll is a good example of the fantastic story. Fantastical is just as its name implies. But to use an old-fashioned word we might say it is ‘outlandish’!

And then other categories of writing come into play here such as poetry. Poems can tell stories too. We call these poems narrative poems. Narrative is a fancy word that means ‘story’. So narrative poems tell a story.

But on top of that, there is a kind of poem that not only tells a story but is fantastical as well. Here is a fantastical poem It is called, The Owl and the Pussy Cat by Edward Lear. Give a listen or better yet, read it right out loud.

THE OWL & THE PUSSY CAT

The owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat.
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The owl looked up to the stars above
And sang to a small guitar.
“Oh lovely Pussy! Oh, Pussy my love!
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”

Pussy said to the owl, “You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh, let us be married, too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away for a year and a day
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring? Said the Piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
The dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon,
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon!

So, stories can get a little complicated when you think on it.
But we can come back and share these many kinds of stories and it will be a ‘fantastical’ journey!

But there was something in this story poem that I would like to tell you. The word ‘runcible’ is such a nice sounding word, isn’t it? The only problem is that it isn’t a word at all. Mr. Lear simply made it up.

But that isn’t the strangest thing to me. What is stranger, or more unsettling, is the fact that for over one hundred and thirty-five years no one has given the word runcible a meaning. Perhaps someone reading this page will give the word ‘runcible’ its proper due. Might it be you?

No, no! It’s me. Its rightful name must be ‘neglected’,
Of course,
Of course,
A word so neglected is now resurrected
A runcible spoon, a runcible thought,
that runcible tune ______!

And talk to you soon?

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