Rattle-Rattle-Rattle and Chink-Chink-Chink

For the past six months, I have been revisiting fairy tales--rereading the ones I loved as a child and discovering some new ones. I recently read a book of Czech Fairy Tales, collected by Parker Fillmore. I think this may be one of my favorite collections so far.

There is a story called Rattle-Rattle-Rattle and Chink-Chink-Chink that particularly stood out. It's the ultimate Good Sister/Bad Sister story and it is extremely dark, even compared to some of the Russian fairy tales (which often end with the heart-warming declaration, "And so the prince caused the wicked woman to be burnt" just before the happily-ever-after). I was so taken with this story, it inspired me to write a poem, which is just a rhymed retelling of the original.

The Ballad of Lenka and Dorla

A sack full of ashes

A sack full of stones

And for your gold, a basket

To rattle daughter's bones

Lenka, Lenka, life is full of doom!

Stepmother has washed her hands clean, tis’ true

Go to sleep now in your little room

Only the old dog will wait for you

Father is resigned, leaves his mallet on a hook

Knock knock knocking against the tree

Nothing but stones and ashes to cook

surely little Lenka will die, from hunger or wild beast

Rattle rattle Lenka’s bones

Turned out with nothing but a sack of stones

The old bearded man gives her gold

For doing as she’s told

No longer will she have to roam

Her poor house has become a home

Chink chink, Lenka, make gold from ashes,

While darling Dorla bats her lashes

That wicked girl who stole a spindle

Lenka sees her bad luck dwindle

Changes straw for meat and stones for bread

Go to sleep now, Lenka, on your feather bed

Now Dorla's in a rage

When the old man knocks at her door

She scorns the beggar sage

She'll loaf and play no more

Grab hold of his long beard, darling Dorla

While the old man shakes you out of your skin

You were a wicked, spiteful girl, Dorla

Your lying was a shame and a sin

Now your skull sits grinning in the window

Now he piles your bones in a heap on the floor

Now he hangs your skin from a nail—oh!

Hear it flapping in the wind at the back of the door

Come back now father, come right in

To collect your sack full of gold

And see darling doomed Dorla's knowing grin

You will find she has grown quite withered and old

But see how happy she is!

Darling Dorla, oh how she’d bat her lashes

Now she lives here all alone

Come and sit by the fire, father, and poke at her ashes

And listen to the lovely rattle of a wicked girl’s bones