The Butter Battle Book by Dr. Seuss (This story is about escalation of the arms race and how nobody really wins. Feel free to change the gender of the characters to suit your cabin group.) On the last day of summer, ten hours before fall, My grandfather took me out to the Wall. For a while he stood silent. Then finally he said, With a very sad shake of his very old head, As you know, on this side of the Wall we are Yooks. On the far other side of this Wall live the Zooks. Then my grandfather said, It’s high time that you Knew of the terribly horrible thing that Zooks do. In every Zook house and in every Zook town EVERY ZOOK EATS HIS BREAD WITH THE BUTTER SIDE DOWN! But we Yooks, as you know, when we breakfast or sup, Spread our bread, Grandpa said, with the butter side UP. That’s the right, honest way! Grandpa gritted his teeth. So you can’t trust a Zook who spreads bread underneath! Every Zook must be watched! He has kinks in his soul! That’s why, as a youth, I made watching my goal, Watching Zooks for the Zook-Watching Border Patrol! In those days, of course, the Wall wasn’t so high And I could look any Zook square in the eye. If he dared to come close I could give him a twitch With my tough-tufted prickely Snick-Berry Switch. For a while that worked fine. All the Zooks stayed away And our country was safe. Then one terrible day A very rude Zook by the name of Van Itch Snuck up and slingshotted by Snick-Berry Switch! With my broken-off switch, with my head hung in shame, To the Chief Yookeroo in great sorrow I came. But our leader just smiled. He said, You’re not to blame. And those Zooks will be sorry they started this game. We’ll dress you right up in a fancier suit!

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We’ll give you a fancier slingshot to shoot! And he ordered the Boys in the Back Room to figger How to build me some sort of a Triple-Sling-Jigger. With my Triple-Sling Jigger I sure felt much bigger. I marched to the Wall with great vim and great vigor, Right up to Van Itch with my hand on the trigger. I’ll have no more nonsense, I said with a frown, From Zooks who eat bread with the butter side down! Van Itch looked quite sickly. He ran off quite quickly. I’m unhappy to say He came back the next day In a spiffy new suit with a big new machine, And he snarled as he said, looking frightfully mean, You may fling those hard rocks with your Triple-Sling-Jigger. But I, also, now have MY hand on a trigger! My wonderful weapon, the Jigger-Rock-Snatchem, Will fling ’em right back just as quick as we catch ’em. We’ll have no more nonsense. We’ll take no more gupp From you Yooks who eat bread with the butter side up! I have failed, sir, I sobbed as I made my report To the Chief Yookeroo in the headquarter fort. He just laughed. “You’ve done nothing at all of the sort. Our slingshots have failed. That was old-fashioned stuff. Slingshots, dear boy, are not modern enough. All we need is some newfangled kind of gun. My Boys in the Back Room have already begun To think up a walloping whizz-zinger one! My Bright Boys are thinking. They’re on the right track They’ll think one up quick and we’ll send you right back! They thought up a great one! They certainly did. They thought up a gun called the Kick-a-Poo Kid Which they loaded with powerful Poo-a-Doo Powder And ants’ eggs and bees’ legs and dried-fried clam chowder. And they carefully trained a real smart dog named Daniel To serve as our country’s first gun-toting spaniel.

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Then Daniel, the Kick-a-Poo Spaniel, and I Marched back toward the Wall with our heads held up high While everyone cheered and their cheers filled the sky: Fight! Fight for the Butter Side Up! Do or die! Well... We didn’t do. And we didn’t quite die. But we sure did get worsted, poor Daniel and I. Van Itch was there too! And he said, the old pig, The Boys in MY Back Room invented THIS rig Called the Eight-Nozzled, Elephant-Toted Boom-Blitz. It shoots high-explosive sour cherry stone pits And will put your dumb Kick-a-Poo Kid on the fritz! Poor Daniel and I were scared out of our wits. Once more, by Van Itch I was bested and beat. Once again I limped home from the Wall in defeat. I dragged and I sagged and my spirits were low, As low as I thought they ever could go, When I heard a BOOM-BAH! And a DIDDLE-DEE-DILL! And our Butter-Up Band marched up over the hill! The Chief Yookeroo had sent them to meet me Along with the Right-Side-Up Song Girls to greet me. They sang: Oh, be faithful! Believe in thy butter? And they lifted my spirits right out of the gutter! My boy, smiled the Chief Yookeroo, we’ve just voted And made you a general! You’ve been promoted. Your pretty new uniform’s ready. Get in it! The Big War is coming. You’re going to begin it! And what’s more, THIS time you are certain to win it. My Boys in the Back Room have finally found how. Just wait till you see what they’ve puttered up now! In their great new machine you’ll fly over that Wall And clobber those Butter-Down Zooks one and all! Those Boys in the Back Room sure knew how to putter! They made me a thing call the Utterly Sputter

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And I jumped aboard with my heart all aflutter And steered toward the land of the Upside-Down Butter. This machine was SO modern, SO frightfully new, No one knew quite exactly just WHAT it would do! But it had several faucets that sprinkled Blue Goo Which, somehow, would sprinkle the Zooks as I flew And gum up that upside-down butter they chew. I was racing pell-mell When I heard a voice yell, If you sprinkle us Zooks, you’ll get sprinkled as well! Van Itch had a Sputter exactly like mine! And he yelled, my Blue-Gooer is working just fine! And I’m here to say that if Yooks can goo Zooks, You’d better forget it. Cause Zooks can goo Yooks! I flew right back home and, as you may have guessed, I was downright despondent, disturbed, and depressed. And I saw, just as soon as I stepped back on land, So were all of the girls of the Butter-Up Band. The Chief Drum Majorette, Miz Yookie-Ann Sue, Said, That was a pretty sour flight that you flew. And the Chief Yookeroo has been looking for you! I raced to his office. The place was a sight. Have no fears, said the Chief. Everything is all right. My Bright Back Room Boys have been brighter than bright. They’ve thought up a gadget that’s Newer than New. It is filled with mysterious Moo-Lacka-Moo And can blow all those Zooks clear to Sala-ma-goo. THEY’VE INVENTED THE BITSY BIG-BOY BOOMEROO1 You just run to the Wall like a nice little man. Drop this bomb on the Zooks just as fast as you an. I have ordered all Yooks to stay safe underground While the Bitsy Big-Boy Boomeroo is around. As I raced for that Wall, with the bomb in my hand, I noticed that every last Yook in our land Was obeying our Chief Yookeroo’s grim command.

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They were all bravely marching, with banners aflutter, Down a hole! For their country! And Right-Side-Up Butter! That’s when Grandfather found me! He grabbed me. He said, You should be down that hole! And you’re up here instead! But perhaps this is all for the better, somehow. You will see me make history! RIGHT HERE! AND RIGHT NOW! Grandpa leapt up that Wall with a lopulous leap And he cleared his hoarse throat with a bopulous beep. He screamed, Here’s the end of that terrible town Full of Zooks who eat bread with the butter side down! And at that very instant we heard a klupp-klupp of Feet on the Wall and old Van Itch klupped up! The Boys in HIS Back Room had made him one too! In his fist was another Big-Boy Boomeroo! I’ll blow you, he yelled, into pork and wee beans! I’ll butter-side-up you to small smithereens! Grandpa! I shouted. Be careful. Oh gee! Who’s going to drop it? Will YOU? Or will HE? Be patient, said Grandpa. We’ll see. We will see ...

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The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein (This is a story about selfless generosity. Feel free to change the gender of the characters to suit your cabin group. The boy could be a girl, and the tree could be male, or both characters could be the same gender.) Once there was a tree and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come and swing from her branches and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest. He would climb up her trunk and eat apples. And they would play hide-and-go-seek. And when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade. And the boy loved the tree very much. And the tree was happy. But time went by. And the boy grew older. And the tree was often alone. Then one day the boy came to the tree and the tree said, “Come, Boy, come and climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in my shade and be happy.” “I am too big to climb and play,” said the boy. “I want to buy things and have fun. I want some money. Can you give me some money?” “I’m sorry,” said the tree, “but I have no money. I have only leaves and apples. Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in the city. Then you will have money and you will be happy.” And so the boy climbed up the tree and gathered her apples and carried them away. And the tree was happy. But the boy stayed away for a long time... and the tree was sad. And then one day the boy came back and the tree shook with joy and she said, “Come, Boy, climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and be happy.” “I am too busy to climb trees,” said the boy. “I want a house to keep me warm,” he said. “I want a wife and I want children, and so I need a house. Can you give me a house?” “I have no house,” said the tree. “The forest is my house, but you may cut off my branches and build a house. Then you will be happy.” And so the boy cut off her branches and carried them away to build his house. And the tree was happy. But the boy stayed away for a long time. And when he came back, the tree was so happy she could hardly speak. “Come, Boy,” she whispered, “come and play” “I am too old and sad to play,” said the boy. “I want a boat that will take me far away from here. Can you give me a boat?” “Cut down my trunk and make a boat,” said the tree. “Then you can sail away... and be happy.” And so the boy cut down her trunk and made a boat and sailed away. And the tree was happy... but not really.

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And after a long time the boy came back again. “I am sorry, Boy,” said the tree, “but I have nothing left to give you—my apples are gone.” “My teeth are too weak for apples,” said the boy. “My branches are gone,” said the tree. “You cannot swing on them—” “I am too old to swing on branches,” said the boy. “My trunk is gone,” said the tree. “You cannot climb—” “I am too tired to climb,” said the boy. “I am sorry,” sighed the tree. “I wish that I could give you something... but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump. I am sorry.” “I don’t need very much now,” said the boy, “just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired.” “Well,” said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could, “well, an old stump IS good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.” And the boy did. And the tree was happy.

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Hawk, I am Your Brother by Byrd Baylor By Byrd Baylor (This is a powerful story about being connected to nature. Feel free to change the gender of the characters to suit your cabin group. Rudy can be Ruby and you could retitle the story, “Hawk, I am Your Sister.”) Rudy Soto dreams of flying ... wants to float on the wind, wants to soar over canyons. He doesn’t see himself some little light-winged bird that flaps and flutters when it flies. No cactus wren. No sparrow. He’d be more like a HAWK gliding smoother than anything else in the world. He sees himself a hawk wrapped up in wind, lifting, facing the sun. That’s how he wants to fly. That’s all he wants—the only wish he’s ever had. No matter what happens he won’t give it up. He won’t trade it for earlier wishes. There, playing alone on the mountainside, a dark skinny boy calling out to a hawk ... that’s Rudy Soto. People here say that the day he was born he looked at the sky and lifted his hands toward birds and seemed to smile at Santos Mountain. The first words he ever learned were the words FLYING and BIRD and UP THERE ... UP THERE. And later on they say that every day he asked his father, “When do I learn to fly?” (He was too young then to know he’d never get his wish.) His father said, “You run. You climb over rocks. You jump around like a crazy whirlwind. Why do you need to fly?” “I just do. I need to fly.” In those days he thought that SOMEBODY would give him the answer. He asked everybody ... everybody. And they always said, “People don’t fly.” “Never?” “Never.” But Rudy Soto told them this: “SOME live far away from here.” And when he met new people he would look at them carefully. “Can you fly?” They’d only laugh and shake their heads. Finally he learned to stop asking. Still, he thought that maybe flying is the secret old people keep to themselves. Maybe they go sailing quietly through the sky when children are asleep. Or maybe flying is for magic people. And he even thought that if no one else in the world could fly he’d be the one who would learn it. “Somebody ought to,” he said. “Somebody. Me! Rudy Soto.” There, barefoot on the mountainside, he’d ALMOST fly. He’d dream he knew the power of great wings and sing up to the sun. In his mind he always seemed to be a hawk, the way he flew. Of course a boy like that would know every nest this side of the mountain. He’d know the time in summer when the young hawks learn to fly. And he’d think a thousand times, “Hawk, I’m your brother. Why am I stuck down here?” You have to know all this to forgive the boy for what he did. And even then you may not think that he was right to steal the bird. It may seem cruel and selfish and mean—not worthy of one who says he’s brother to all birds. But anyway that’s what he did. He stole a hawk—a redtail hawk—out of the nest before the bird could fly. It was a nest that Rudy Soto must have seen all his life, high on the

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ledge of a steep rough canyon wall. He thought that nest might be the best home in the world, up there on Santos Mountain. Somehow he thought he’d share that magic and he’d FLY. They say it used to be that way when we knew how to talk to birds and how to call a bird’s wild spirit down into our own. He’d heard all these old stories and he’d seen hawks go flying over mountains and felt their power fill the sky. It seemed to him he’d FLY—if a hawk became his brother. That’s why he climbed the cliff at dawn singing ... to make the magic stronger. And that’s why he left an offering of food ... to show he was that brother. But the young hawk struggled and screamed, called to the birds circling overhead, called to its nest on Santos Mountain. “Listen, bird. don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid of ME.” Climbing down, he held that bird so close he felt its heartbeat and the bird felt his. “You’ll be all right. You’ll see. But even a hawk too young to fly knows he’s meant to fly. He knows he isn’t meant to live in a cage. Every day he screams. He pulls against the string. He beats his wings against the cage. “You’ll be happy with me, bird. You will.” But the bird looks out with fierce free eyes and calls to its brothers in the canyon. Every day it is the same. They see those other birds learning to fly, learning the touch and roll and lift of air, learning to dip and dive. They turn when the wind turns. But down below with his feet touching sand Rudy Soto’s hawk can only flap his wings and rise as high as a string will let him go. Not high enough. Not far enough. Rudy Soto tells his hawk: “Someday we’ll fly together.” He wants to please that hawk. He’s sure he will. He’s sure it’s going to be his brother. Each day when the melons are picked and the wood is chopped and the corn is hoed Rudy Soto gives a long soft call and he comes running. He always says: “I’m here now, bird. What do you want to do?” He takes the bird out of the cage and ties the string around its foot and the bird sits on his shoulder as they walk the desert hills.

They go down sandy washes and follow deer tracks into

canyons. Sometimes they sit looking off to Santos Mountain. And sometimes they even go on the other side of Santos Mountain to a place where water trickles over flat smooth rocks. The bird plays in that cold water ... dips his wings into the stream and jumps and flaps and the boy says, “See. You’re happy here with me.” But even when he says it he knows it isn’t true because the bird is tugging at the string and you see sky reflected in his eyes and his eyes flash and his wings move with the wind. You can tell he wants fly. You can tell that’s all he wants, the only dream he has. Rudy Soto knows what it is like to want to fly. He knows himself what it is like to have a dream. But even so he waits until the end of summer, hoping that the bird will be content. Every day it is the same. The bird still tugs and pulls and yearns against the string. Rudy Soto knows that the hawk will not give up. What else can a boy like Rudy Soto do? He has to say: “One of us might as well fly!” What else can he do if he really loves that bird? He has to take him back to Santos Mountain to the place where HE would like to fly.

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That’s where they go—up to those high red rocks. There is a wind and clouds move across the sky and from far away you can smell rain. Now he unties the string that has held his hawk so long. The hawk is on his shoulder. “Fly now, bird. Go on.” The hawk turns.

He moves his wings. “Bird,

you can fly.” The hawk takes his time. There on the rocks he jumps and flaps, rises and sinks. He has to learn the force of air and the pull of wind and feel of freedom. Maybe he jumps a hundred times before he seems to catch the wind, before he lifts himself into that summer sky. At last he soars. His wings shine in the sun and the way he flies is the way Rudy Soto always dreamed HE’D fly. The bird looks down. Then he calls a long hawk cry, the kind of cry he used to call to his brothers. Only this time he calls to Rudy Soto and the sound floats on the wind. Rudy Soto answers with the same hawk sound. Back and forth they call. Brother to brother they call all through the afternoon. High on the side of Santos Mountain Rudy Soto lifts his arms. His hair blows in the wind and in his mind he’s FLYING too. It doesn’t even matter that his feet are on the ground. It seems to him he has the whole sky to fly in when he hears that call. He knows he’ll keep it in his mind forever. Rudy Soto doesn’t tell anybody. He doesn’t say: “Lucky me. I know about flying. I know about wind.” He never says, “There is a hawk that is my brother so I have a special power.” But people here can tell such things. They notice that a hawk calls to him from Santos Mountain and they hear the way he answers. They see that Rudy Soto has a different look about him. His eyes flash like a young hawk’s eyes and there is SKY reflected in those eyes and it’s the sky high over Santos Mountain. People here are not surprised. They’re wise enough to understand such things.

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How the Crow Came to Be Black In days long past, when the Earth and the people on it were still young, all crows were white as snow. In those ancient times the people had neither horses nor firearms nor weapons of iron. Yet they depended upon the buffalo hunt to give them enough food to survive. Hunting the big buffalo on foot with stone-tipped weapons was hard, uncertain, and dangerous. The crows made things even more difficult for the hunters, because they were friends of the buffalo. Soaring high above the prairie, they could see everything that was going on. Whenever they spied hunters approaching a buffalo herd, they flew to their friends and, perching between their horns, warned them: “Caw caw caw, cousins—hunters are coming. They are creeping up through that gully over there. They are coming up behind that hill. Watch out! Caw caw caw.” Hearing this the buffalo would stampede, and the people starved. The people held a council to decide what to do. Now, among the crows was a huge one, twice as big as all the others. This crow was their leader. One wise old chief got up and made this suggestion: “We must capture the big white crow, ” he said, “and teach him a lesson. It’s either that or go hungry.” He brought out a large buffalo skin, with the head and horns still attached. He put it on the back of a young brave, saying: “Nephew, sneak among the buffalo. They will think you are one of them, and you can capture the big white crow.” Disguised as a buffalo, the young man crept among the herd as if he were grazing. The big, shaggy beasts paid him no attention. Then the hunters marched out from their camp after him, their bows at the ready. As they approached the herd, the crows came flying, as usual, warning the buffalo: “Caw caw caw, cousins—the hunters are coming to kill you. Watch out for the arrows. Caw caw caw!” And as usual, all the buffalo stampeded off and away—all, that is, except the young hunter in disguise under his shaggy skin, who pretended to go on grazing as before. Then the big white crow came gliding down and perched on the hunter’s shoulders. Flapping his wings, he said: “Caw caw caw, brother—are you deaf? The hunters are close by, just over the hill. Save yourself!” But the young brave reached out from under the buffalo skin and grabbed the crow by the legs. With a rawhide string he tied the big bird’s feet and fastened the other end to a stone. No matter how the crow struggled, he could not escape. Again the people sat in council. “What shall we do with this big, bad, crow who has made us hungry again and again?” “I’ll burn him up!” answered one angry hunter, and before anybody could stop him, he yanked the crow from the hands of his captor and thrust it into the council fire, string and all. “This will teach you,” he said. Of course, the string that held the stone burned through almost at once, and the big crow managed to fly out of the fire. But he was badly burned, and some of his feathers were charred. Though he was still big, he was no longer white. “Caw caw caw,” he cried, flying away as quickly as he could, “I’ll never do it again; I’ll stop warning the buffalo, and so will all the Crow nation. I promise! Caw caw caw.” Thus the crow escaped. But ever since, all crows have been black.

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The Paper Bag Princess by Robert N. Munsch (This is a clever story emphasizing that it’s who you are, not what you look like, that is important. Great twist on old stereotypes.) Elizabeth was a beautiful princess. She lived in a castle and had expensive princess clothes. She was going to marry a prince named Ronald. Unfortunately, a dragon smashed her castle, burned all her clothes with his fiery breath, and carried off Prince Ronald. Elizabeth decided to chase the dragon and get Ronald back. She looked everywhere for something to wear, but the only thing she could find that was not burnt was a paper bag. So she put on the paper bag and followed the dragon. He was easy to follow, because he left a trail of burnt forests and horses’ bones.

Finally,

Elizabeth came to a cave with a large door that had a huge knocker on it. She took hold of the knocker and banged on the door. The dragon stuck his nose out of the door and said, “Well, a princess! I love to eat princesses, but I have already eaten a whole castle today. I am a very busy dragon. Come back tomorrow.” He slammed the door so fast that Elizabeth almost got her nose caught. Elizabeth grabbed the knocker and banged on the door again. The dragon stuck his nose out of the door and said, “Go away. I love to eat princesses, but I have already eaten a whole castle today. I am a very busy dragon. Come back tomorrow.” “Wait,” shouted Elizabeth. “Is it true that you are the smartest and fiercest dragon in the whole world?” “Yes,” said the dragon. “Is it true,” said Elizabeth, “that you can burn up ten forests with your fiery breath?” “Oh, yes,” said the dragon, and he took a huge, deep breath and breathed out so much fire that he burnt up fifty forests. “Fantastic,” said Elizabeth, and the dragon took another huge breath and breathed out so much fire that he burnt up one hundred forests. “Magnificent,” said Elizabeth, and the dragon took another huge breath, but this time nothing came out. The dragon didn’t even have enough fire left to cook a meatball. Elizabeth said, “Dragon, is it true that you can fly around the world in just ten seconds?” “Why, yes,” said the dragon, and jumped up and flew all the way around the world in just ten seconds. He was very tired when he got back, but Elizabeth shouted, “Fantastic, do it again!” So the dragon jumped up and flew around the whole world in just twenty seconds. When he got back he was too tired to talk, and he lay down and went straight to sleep.

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Elizabeth whispered, very softly, “Hey, dragon.” The dragon didn’t move at all. She lifted up the dragon’s ear and put her head right inside. She shouted as loud as she could, “Hey, dragon!” The dragon was so tired he didn’t even move. Elizabeth walked right over the dragon and opened the door to the cave. There was Prince Ronald. He looked at her and said, “Elizabeth, you are a mess! You smell like ashes, your hair is all tangled and you are wearing a dirty old paper bag. Come back when you are dressed like a real princess.” “Ronald,” said Elizabeth, “your clothes are really pretty and your hair is very neat. You look like a real prince, but you do not act like one.” They didn’t get married after all.

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The Violin Story By Jack Riemer, Houston Chronicle On Nov. 18, 1995, Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City. If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches. To see him walk across the stage one step at a time, painfully and slowly, is a sight. He walks painfully, yet majestically, until he reaches his chair. Then he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, undoes the clasps on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot forward. Then he bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin, nods to the conductor and proceeds to play. By now, the audience is used to this ritual. They sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he undoes the clasps on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play. But this time, something went wrong. Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke. You could hear it snap – it went off like gunfire across the room. There was no mistaking what that sound meant. There was no mistaking what he had to do. People who were there that night thought to themselves: "We figured that he would have to get up, put on the clasps again, pick up the crutches and limp his way off stage - to either find another violin or else find another string for this one." But he didn't. Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signaled the conductor to begin again. The orchestra began, and he played from where he had left off. And he played with such passion and such power and such purity as they had never heard before. Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a symphonic work with just three strings. I know that, and you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that. You could see him modulating, changing, recomposing the piece in his head. At one point, it sounded like he was detuning the strings to get new sounds from them that they had never made before. When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room. And then people rose and cheered. There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium. We were all on our feet, screaming and cheering, doing everything we could to show how much we appreciated what he had done. He smiled, wiped the sweat from this brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and then he said, not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone, "You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left. "What a powerful line that is. It has stayed in my mind ever since I heard it. And who knows? Perhaps that is the way of life - not just for artists but for all of us. Here is a man who has prepared all his life to make music on a violin of four strings, who, all of a sudden, in the middle of a concert, finds himself with only three strings. So he makes music with three strings, and the music he made that night with just three strings was more beautiful, more sacred, more memorable, than any that he had ever made before, when he had four strings. So, perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing, bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all that we have, and then, when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left.

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Bird in the Hand (Someone may tell this story during a campfire, so you may want to check in with a staff member before reading it to your cabin group.)

There was a young girl who lived in a small village. Each month the village would gather for a council meeting. This was a time when all members could ask the wise elders any questions regarding their daily lives. One woman in particular was very old and was thought to be the wisest person in the community. Often she was asked many questions. There was one young girl who had a bit of a different opinion. She would ask, "So why is that woman the smartest in the village? She is too old! She is from another time and doesn't know what it is like to be young in this time. I think the youth are smarter. We know what the modern world is like. They should ask us what we think more often..." Her friends listened and agreed with her. "Someday, I'm going to prove my point..." she would say. A few more council meetings went by and the young girl got even more annoyed with the way things were running. At one meeting she called her best friend aside to inform her of a plan. "Listen and trust me," she told her friend. "I have the perfect plan to prove that the old woman doesn't know everything. I'll show everyone at the next meeting. Agreed?" Her friend agreed to trust and support her. A few hours before the next village meeting, the young girl and her friend gathered a few other young friends and explained the plan. "I have a baby bird that I took from a tree by my house, and it fits in the palm of my hand." She showed them all the bird (cup hands together for a visual aid - be dramatic). "I am going to ask the old woman if this bird is dead. If she answers 'yes,' I will merely open my hands to show it alive. If the old woman says that the bird is alive, I will slowly close my fingers, and when I reopen them, the bird will be dead. No matter what that old woman says, I will always be right and she will be wrong. Then everyone will know that the 'wise old woman' isn't as smart as she seems." Her friends liked the plan. The girls all sat in anticipation during the village council meeting until the time was right. When an elder asked if there were any more questions from the community, the girl sprang up and came forward. Everyone in the community stared at her. It wasn't often that a young person had questions, and all were curious. The young girl stood up straight and tall as she knew that she had a foolproof plan. "I have a question for you, old woman. I have something here in my hand... Is it alive or is it dead?" An eerie silence fell in the room. It was a very uneasy feeling, and the girl began to shift on her feet as she wondered why the old woman was taking so long to answer. All of a sudden, a tear began to well up and roll down the cheek of the old woman. She finally responded, "Young one, you have the answer in your hands right now. Whatever happens is up to you!” The young girl was speechless. How could the old woman have known the answer? Seized with feelings of guilt, the young girl ran out of the room.

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