The Ditmarsch Tale of Wonders

Come gather around, dear children, and let me tell you the most wondrous tale from the land of Dithmarschen, where the most extraordinary and impossible things have been known to happen. These are not ordinary wonders, mind you, but the kind that make you scratch your head and laugh with delight at their sheer impossibility.

I must tell you truly, with my own eyes I have seen the most remarkable sights in Dithmarschen. Would you believe that I once saw a hare flying through the sky with the horns of a mighty stag upon his head? He soared above the clouds like an eagle, his antlers gleaming in the sunlight, calling down to all the earthbound creatures below, “Look at me! Look how high I can fly!”

And on that very same day, I witnessed something even more extraordinary. Two crows were busy plowing a field together, each one pulling his share of the plow with golden chains. They worked in perfect harmony, turning the soil in neat, straight furrows while singing an ancient song in voices as sweet as nightingales.

But that was nothing compared to what I saw next. A dog and a cat had built themselves a magnificent house, and they were living together as the best of friends. The dog would fetch the morning milk while the cat prepared breakfast. In the evening, they would sit together on their front porch, the dog playing a tiny violin while the cat accompanied him on a miniature piano.

In the village square, I observed a most peculiar sight: a horse was sitting at a table, playing cards with a pig, a goose, and a sheep. The horse wore a fine top hat and spectacles, and he was clearly winning, for his pile of coins grew larger with each hand. The pig kept trying to peek at the other players’ cards, while the goose honked indignantly whenever she lost a round.

Near the miller’s pond, I watched in amazement as fish climbed out of the water and scampered up the oak trees like squirrels. They had grown tiny legs just for the occasion and chittered to each other in fishy voices as they gathered acorns for their underwater winter stores. Some of the bigger fish even built nests in the highest branches, where they laid square eggs that hatched into baby birds with fins.

The baker in the village had trained his loaves of bread to dance. Every morning, fresh from the oven, the bread rolls would hop out of their baskets and perform the most delightful jigs and waltzes around the bakery. The pretzels would link arms and dance in circles, while the long baguettes would bow gracefully to each other like courtly gentlemen.

I witnessed a cow that had learned to knit the most beautiful sweaters. She would sit in the pasture with her knitting needles clicking away, creating colorful garments for all the farm animals. The sheep provided the wool, of course, but they would stand in line patiently, waiting for their turn to be measured for their new coats.

In the forest, I came upon a clearing where the trees had decided to change places. The mighty oak had grown tired of its spot by the stream and had carefully uprooted itself to move to the hilltop. Meanwhile, the delicate birch tree had taken the oak’s place by the water, claiming it had always wanted to see its reflection in the flowing brook.

The most remarkable sight of all was the old church bell that had decided it was tired of ringing the same old tune. It had taught itself to play entire symphonies, complete with different movements and crescendos. On Sundays, instead of the traditional toll, the bell would perform concerts that drew audiences from neighboring villages.

I saw a weather vane that had become bored with simply showing the wind direction. It had learned to predict the weather a full week in advance, spinning and pointing to different corners of the sky while calling out its forecasts to anyone who would listen. “Rain on Tuesday!” it would shout. “Sunshine on Friday! Snow next month!”

In the town library, the books had organized themselves into reading groups. I observed volumes of poetry reciting verses to collections of fairy tales, while the history books debated important events with the geography texts. The dictionaries served as moderators, settling any disputes about the meaning of difficult words.

The local blacksmith’s hammer had grown quite independent and could shoe horses all by itself. It would hop around the forge, tapping horseshoes into perfect shape while the blacksmith sat in his chair, reading the newspaper and sipping tea. The hammer took great pride in its work and would polish each shoe until it gleamed like silver.

A flock of geese had learned to write letters with their beaks, dipping them in ink and scratching out messages on parchment. They had established a postal service with the local ravens, who would carry the letters to distant lands. The geese specialized in writing love poems, while the ravens preferred delivering important business correspondence.

I witnessed a garden where the vegetables had formed their own orchestra. The carrots played tiny flutes, the turnips beat drums made from mushroom caps, and the cabbages sang in harmony while keeping time with their leafy heads. Their concerts attracted insects from miles around, who would dance in the air to the rhythmic melodies.

The windmill on the hill had tired of grinding grain and had retrained itself as a dance instructor. Local couples would climb to the hilltop for lessons, and the windmill’s great arms would demonstrate the proper steps for waltzes and polkas. It was said that anyone who learned to dance from the windmill would never lack for partners at village celebrations.

A group of mice had established their own university, where they taught courses in cheese appreciation, hole-digging techniques, and advanced cat-avoiding strategies. The professor mice wore tiny spectacles and carried miniature books under their arms as they scurried between classrooms carved into the walls of old houses.

Near the harbor, I saw ships sailing backward into port, their sails billowing in reverse while their anchors floated like balloons above the masts. The captains stood at the stern, steering with compasses that pointed in all directions at once, yet somehow always found their way safely to dock.

The town’s water well had developed the ability to grant wishes, but only the most unusual ones. It would fulfill requests like “I wish my shadow could dance independently” or “I want my echo to sing different songs than the words I speak.” Ordinary wishes for gold or love were politely declined with a gentle bubbling sound.

A colony of ants had learned to paint portraits, using flower petals as brushes and berry juice as paint. They specialized in painting pictures of the clouds, working together to capture the ever-changing shapes and colors of the sky on canvas made from fallen leaves.

And perhaps most wonderful of all, I met an old storyteller whose tales were so vivid and magical that they would come to life as he spoke them. Characters would step out of his words and act out their parts before the amazed audience, then bow politely and disappear back into the story when the tale was finished.

Now, you might ask me, “Are these wonders really true?” And I must answer honestly: they are true in the way that all the best stories are true – not necessarily in fact, but certainly in the joy and wonder they bring to those who hear them.

The people of Dithmarschen, you see, understand something important about stories. They know that sometimes the most impossible tales carry the most possible truths: that imagination can make anything real, that wonder can be found in the most ordinary places, and that laughter is one of the greatest magics of all.

So whenever you see something that seems impossible – a cloud shaped like a dragon, a cat that seems to wink at you, or a flower that appears to dance in the breeze – remember the Ditmarsch tale of wonders. For in those moments, you might just be witnessing a little bit of that magical impossible-possible world where hares fly with antlers, fish climb trees, and the everyday becomes extraordinary.

And who knows? Perhaps if you look closely enough at your own world, you might discover that it’s full of wonders too – wonders that are waiting for someone with enough imagination to notice them and enough joy to share them with others.