Rits Ruts fillijong

Elf-Times’ journalists nearly all were on summer vacation. Right now is a great time for vacation as local news are not standing in line, just because so many are on vacation, and then it bites its own tail. Most have traveled to warm countries, so there is ‘where it snows.’ But Elf-Times sticks to the local stuff.

Locally, there have been thunderstorms and torrential rain. The three forest lakes had gone over their banks and forest paths were changed into babbling brooks. People in the village had one and all lost their pot lids and ladles and keenly discussed why and how this had happened.

The elves had been on necessary thief-expeditions in the dead of night.

They used the newly acquired reversed pot lids as boats, and used the ladles as paddles. Then they could go back and forth, so the logistics would work. The babbling brooks were, for them, raging rivers and not to be trifled with.

Elfred and Cupid had assembled a pot full of eggs from some mallard nests by forest lakes’ shores. They only took a couple from each nest, for they knew that it would not bother the ducks at the least, and now they had enough for a nice big omelet.

Kirsten Matchmaker who lived in a fern-shelter two squirrel jumps from Elfred and one from Cupid, was eminently to make omelets, and Elfred and Cupid hardly had transferred the eggs to her before she started to knock them out.

“You can soon put teeth into the omelet,” she sang as she swung water lily-bowls, pots and pans, “and then I’ll play up to a dance.”

Elfred and Cupid thought it was alright, Kirsten had already put her little accordion up, and they thought she played quite well. She could at least get one’s feet move, so they would invite the two lovely nymphs who lived in the abandoned woodpecker-whole which never stood under water.

“Anything new in Elf-Times today?” said Amor.

“Don’t know” answered Kirsten. “The journalists have traveled south, and all that south stuff is nothing to write home about for a local newspaper, but after a three weeks when holidays are over, polishes I my glasses again. Well, now we’ll see if we can remember the lyrics to our dance. When I play and sing while you dance the sun comes again, if I remember the right words. It’ll evaporate much of all the water we’ve got and we can provide pot lids and ladles back to the kitchens where they guaranteed are missed.”

The omelet was on the pan, and while Kirsten concentrated on this, she hummed a trial of the song they were supposed dancing to after the omelet. Gradually the words appeared, and now she sang in an undertone, perhaps to be sure also to sing quite right, while she played. She claimed namely, she could multitask, and multitasking was an incarnate woman virtue, her great grandmother had taught her.

Elfred and Cupid were looking forward to the omelet and to dance with the nymphs afterwards, and they both smiled expectantly while Kirsten cooked and rehearsed:

“Rits Ruts fillijong, gong, gong, will you be my elf, then come, come, come!
Rits Ruts fillijong, gong, gong, will you be my sun, then come!
And all the nymphs lift up their skirt so high that you could spot a glimpse of raunchy underwear.
Tralalala, Tralalala, Tralalala, Tralalala, Tralalala, Tralalala, Tralalala, trala.”