The Importance Of Stories

What is the importance of stories? Why do we need them and why are they so enchanting? Love them or hate them, they form our life and everyone has a story to tell whether knowingly or unknowingly. The following story you are about to read is an Irish legend about -

The Man Who Had No Story

There was a man one time, and his name was Rory O' Donoghue. His wife was a great woman for knitting stockings, and Rory's job was to go from town to town, selling them.  There was to be a fair in Macroom on a certain day, and Rory left home the evening before with his bag of stockings to sell them at the fair next day.  Night came on him before he reached the town.  He saw a light in a house at the roadside, and he went in. There was no one inside before him but a very old man.  "You're welcome, Rory O'Donoghue," said the old man.  Rory asked him for lodgings for the night and told him that he was on his way to the fair at Macroom.  The old man said he could stay and welcome. A chair that was at the bottom of the kitchen moved up toward the fire, and the old man told Rory to sit on it. "Now," said the old man,  "Rory O'Donoghue and myself would like to have our supper." A knife and fork jumped up from the dresser and cut down a piece of meat that was hanging from the rafters.  A pot came out of the dresser, and the meat hopped into it.  Up rose the tongs that were at the side of the hearth; they pulled out some sods of turf and made a fire. down jumped the hangers and hooked the pot over the fire. A bucket of water rose up, and water was poured over the meat. The cover jumped onto the pot. A wicker work sieve filled itself with potatoes, threw them into the bucket of water, and washed them. The potatoes then rose up and went into a second pot. The knife and fork went up to the first pot and the lid rose up.  Up came a plate from the dresser.  The knife and fork took out the meat from the pot and put it on the plate.  The hangers took the pot of the fire and hung the pot of potatoes on it.  When the potatoes were boiled, they strained off the water into the sieve. A tablecloth spread itself on the table.  Up raised the sieve and spread the potatoes out on the table. The plate of meat jumped onto the table and so did two other plates as well as two knives and forks. A knife and fork cut the meat into two portions and put some on each plate.  "Get up, Rory O'Donoghue," said the old man. "Let us start eating!"  When they had eaten their supper, the tablecloth rose up and cleared off what was left into a bucket.  Rory and the old man rose from the table and sat at either side of the fire.  Two slippers came up to Rory O'Donoghue and two others to the old man.  "Take off your shoes, Rory, and put on those slippers," said the old man.  "Do you know, Rory, how I spend my nights here?  I spend one-third of each night eating and drinking, one-third telling stories or singing songs, and the last third sleeping.  Sing a song for me now, Rory."  "I never sang a song in my life", said Rory.  "Tell a story, then." "I never told a story of any kind," said Rory. "Well, unless you tell a story or sing a song, you'll have to go off out the door," said the old man. "I can't do any of the two," said Rory.  "Of out the door with you, then Rory stood up and took hold of his bag of stockings.  No sooner had he gone out than the door struck him a blow on the back.  He went off along the road, and he hadn't gone very far when he saw the glow of a fire by the roadside.  Sitting by the fire was a man, who was roasting a piece of meat on a spit. "You're welcome, Rory O'Donoghue," said the man.  "Would you mind, Rory, taking hold of this spit and turning the meat over the fire? But don't let any burnt patch come on it. " No sooner had Rory taken hold of the spit than the man left him.  Then the piece of meat spoke.  "Don't let my whiskers burn," it shouted. Rory threw the spit and the meat from him, snatched up his bag of stockings, and ran off. The spit and the piece of meat followed him, striking Rory O'Donoghue as hard as they could on the back.  Soon Rory caught sight of a house at the side of the road.  He opened the door and ran in.  It was the same house he had visited earlier, and the old man was in bed.  "You're welcome, Rory O' Donoghue," said the old man.  "Come in here to bed with me." "Oh, I couldn't," said Rory. "I'm covered with blood!" "What happened to you since you left here?" asked the old man. "Oh, the abuse I got from a piece of meat that a man was roasting by the roadside," said Rory. "He asked me to turn the meat on the spit for a while, and 'it wasn't long till the meat screamed at me not to burn its whiskers.  I threw it from me, but it followed me, giving me every blow on the back, so that I'm all cut and bruised."  "Ah, Rory," said the old man.  "If you had a story like that to tell me, when I asked you, you wouldn't have been out until now”.  Lie in here on the bed now, and sleep the rest of the night."
Rory went into the bed and fell asleep.  When he awoke in the morning, he found himself on the roadside, with his bag of stockings under his head, and not a trace of a house or dwelling anywhere around him.

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