Cracking riddles was a popular pastime on nights here in these hills. It was a superfine exercise for stretching the mind and whetting a body’s wit. Like so many of the old traditions, cracking riddles has become a lost art. Riddles rank with myths, fables, folktales and proverbs as one of the earliest and most wide spread types of formulated thought.
Ones like…
There was a little green house,
And in the little green house,
There was a little brown house,
And in the little brown house,
There was a little yellow house,
And in the little yellow house,
There was a little white house
And in the little white house
There was a little heart
The answer is “a nut”
Or this one:
Round the house and round the house,
And there lies a white glove in the window
The answer is “snow
Or this one:
A hill full, a hole full, but you cannot catch a bowlful
The answer is “smoke”
And then there is this one:
From house to house he goes,
So sure and yet so slight,
And whether it rains or snows,
He sleeps outside all night.
Can you guess…it’s a path.
How about…
What flies forever
And never rests?
The answer: the wind.
It can run and can’t walk,
It has a tongue and can’t talk
Give up…a wagon.
Going back to a time when nights were spent around a fire with a riddle cracking session, it seems a shame that they have disappeared. For they were the times when cracking riddles stretched a body’s mind and whetted a body’s wit.