Join us at the campfire for tales from around the world, told by storytellers of all backgrounds and creeds. From the heros and heroines of old, let us relearn and rediscover the wisdom of our ancestors. Shhh..the story begins..

Both physically and in a behavioral sense, the hare was once believed to be a natural ally of witches. Hares are fast and nimble, able to stand on their hind legs like a person, prone to gather in parliament-style groups, orgiastically mad in the Springtime, wantonly destructive of crops, and possessed of a most unbeastlike cry. It was a common belief that some witches travelled in the form of a hare and that others had hare familiars.

Given the association between hares and witches, it is not surprising that superstition surrounded this furry little creature. It was said, for example, that the sight of a hare running down a village street was an omen of fire and that the appearance of a white hare in a mine would almost certainly be followed by a fatal accident. If a hare crossed a person's path, that person would inevitably be heading for bad luck, and the very word "hare" could not be mentioned while at sea, so immense was the fear of the animal's power.

Curiously, however, to be in possession of a hare's foot brought good luck. A conception that came about not from the hare's alliance with witches, but from a much more ancient affiliation.

English folklore tells the tale of an occasion when a farmer met with such a hare. The story begins many centuries ago on one frosty Autumn evening.

Located at the edge of a certain English farming village, there was once a small, hedged-in area where a farmer stabled his four milk-cows at night, and it was there, on the night in question, that he crouched holding his scythe across his knees. He waited, steadfast in this position while all the rest of the people in the village slept in their warm beds. But, there was one who did not sleep, the farmer thought...the one who was a thief and who came every night to steal the farmer's milk, leaving his cows torn and wounded.

As the Moon rose higher and higher in the sky, the farmer waited. His cows slept, but there would be no sleep for the farmer. He would wait in the shadows to catch the villain who robbed his family of milk. For a time nothing stirred, and then the farmer saw a hare, its silvery-grey silk fur well-nigh invisible beneath the pale illumination of the Moon. It hopped gracefully into the close and, as soon as it reached open ground, sat up on its haunches and adopted a frozen pose. Its eyes were shining and its long ears were erect. It was motionless, except for its quivering nose and twitching whiskers.

The farmer was down-wind of the hare and, therefore, unnoticed. He looked at the animal. It was a pretty little creature and as long as it kept clear of his vegetable patch he was prepared to do it no harm and allow it to go about its business. The hare, satisfied that it was in no danger, dropped lightly to all-fours and hopped fearlessly between the hooves of the cattle, where it reared-up again, baring its long, glistening teeth as it reached greedily toward an udder.

The farmer, for one horrified moment, was unable to move but then he sprang, like an avenging angel, from his hiding-place brandishing his scythe. He brought down the blade in a murderous arc as the petrified hare streaked past him. At first, he thought his blow had missed but then he heard the creature let out a savage screech as it disappeared into the darkness beyond the hedge. On the ground of the close lay one of its forepaws, severed at the first joint.

The farmer set down his scythe and began to calm his petrified cows, brushing them soothingly with bundles of straw while he pondered on the event that had just taken place. By the time the cattle had been quieted, the cocks were crowing and dawn was creeping with a rose-pink glow over the horizon. The farmer retrieved the hare's paw and, wrapping it carefully inside his handkerchief, walked thoughtfully down the dusty lane back to the village.

The trail of blood he saw under the early morning light clearly showed that the hare had fled not into the sanctuary of the rye and barley fields surrounding the village, but into the village itself. The farmer followed this dismal track past the gardens and cottages of his neighbors, past the churchyard with its languishing yew trees, and past the well in the center of the village square. At the well, the small stains, now turning into a ruddy brown color in the dust, led down another lane to a house that the farmer knew very well...as did every other villager.

The hare had gone to ground, or so it seemed, at the very doorstep of a goodwife of the neighborhood--the widow of a freeman, like himself. The farmer stood in her tiny yard and looked around, but nothing appeared unusual. The house thatch steamed as the heat of the morning sun thawed the mantle of frost with which it was covered, and woodsmoke drifted in fragrant clouds from under the eaves, indicating that the goodwife was up and about, tending to her chores. In the yard, three beehives stood in a row on their wooden fence and ducks and geese pecked hungrily at the dirt around the farmer's feet. The hare was nowhere to be seen.

Resting his scythe against the wall of the goodwife's cottage, the farmer stepped through the door and called his neighbor's name. There was no answer, but nothing seemed to be amiss. There were sweet-smelling herbs drying on the wall, hams hanging from the ridgepole being cured in the woodsmoke, neatly-stacked sacks of grain, baskets of wool close to the distaff and spindle and, in the butter churn he could see cheese molds. It was much like his own cottage.

As his eyes grew more accustomed to the dim interior, the farmer saw the goodwife crouched in a far corner of the cottage with her back to him. She was whimpering and murmuring...it was a pitiful sight.

"Goodwife," began the farmer in a gentle tone.

The woman turned to confront him. Her face was ashen and, at her chest, she clutched a scarlet bundle. Suddenly, she bared her teeth, gibbering at the farmer, and stretched the arm that held the bundle toward him. The bandages fell away to expose the bloody stump of the goodwife's right arm, severed at the wrist. The farmer hastily took a step back and turned away from the sunken, glittering eyes. His hand came up and he made the sign that he knew would ward off evil.

"You are a witch then," he said edging warily toward the door of the cottage.

"Give back the hare's foot," said the woman.

"Oh no," responded the farmer as he fled for safety into the lane and back toward the village square. "I'll keep it for luck!"