text: Shit, ouch. Another sharp pain as your left leg meets the ground.. However, this is no ordinary left leg. Oh, no. No, good sir, it's the left leg. The left leg with the bad ankle. Which you've realized more and more, which is really just step-by-step, as you work your way back toward the cabin, re-tracing your steps through the forest. Though the footprints heading away from civilization are a little more evenly spaced, a little less staggered, than those headed back. Though, you would hesitate to really call it 'civilization'.
  
  Mike insisted you come with him, all the way to a place called Dripping Springs; Which just happens to not be on any map, anywhere, and has a population of less than two dozen crazed survivalists, tree-huggin' hippies, and your regular, run-of-the-mill, plain old rednecks. This place is nothing like the city, and you can't stand it. Mostly because you don't fit in, which is obvious considering that you couldn't go for a quick jog without rolling your ankle over a large tree root.
  
  And, about that rolled ankle.. Yeah, it rolled. A lot.. You were only a mile from the campers, and it's still hell to get back there.
  
  Mike.. Yeah, your buddy from work. The same buddy that said camping would be, you believe he said, "Good for the soul." and that it would, "Take away some of that big-city stress." Well, he was right; Work is the last thing on my mind. The first thing on my mind, of course, is the mosquito nibbling my scalp.. Ouch.. Actually, ankle just took first-place. Mosquitos are gonna have to be number two on the list.
  
  You can see the side of the camper through the trees, mostly tinted green and brown from years of sitting in the woods, but still showing enough white to remind you of it's original color. You're a hundred feet from the camp site, where you can finally sit down and g-
  
  *Wham*
  
  *Thud*
  
  "You son-of-a-bitch, fuck you!"
  
  That sounded like Mike.
  
  > climb a tree so you can get a good look before you rush into anything.
  Seriously? Dude, you're injured. You aren't climbing anything.
  
  > go check the camp.
  You work up to a slow jog, and cover fifty of the last ninety feet to Mike's. He's sitting on a log outside the camper, holding his arm. You can see another figure running, almost sprinting, in the opposite direction of you. This can't be good, you pick up your pace, quickly reaching your friend.. er.. work-friend?[Themes: family friendly, fantasy]
  
  Now, child, I suppose you'd be wanting to hear the story of the old Butter Bear. That's always been your favorite, hasn't it? Of course it is, and your mother's favorite, and your brother's too. It's everyone's favorite. Let's see if I can remember how it starts, now.
  
  On a crisp October morning little Charlotte sat swinging on her swing. She went up and she went down, and every time she fell through the air her pigtails streamed out behind her. "Whee," she shouted, "whee!" The leaves on the trees were all gold and crimson, and they shimmered in the morning sun. Soon little Charlotte grew bored of just swinging and shouting "whee," and so she decided to sing a little song. You know the song, I'm sure you do. It's a nonsense song, but Charlotte loved it. It goes like this.
  
  Look at all the funny fiddle floppers on the floor!
  
  And look at how the biffle bonks his nose against the door!
  
  Running very quickly comes the cuddly Butter Bear,
  
  Look at how he waddles with the butter in his hair!
  
  And Charlotte went on singing this little song over and over, and swinging and swinging, and the October breeze kept on rushing against her face. And then, in the distance, she heard another voice join in the singing with her. It was a deep voice, a bubbly voice, a voice that squeaked around the edges. It was such a happy voice that Charlotte stopped swinging and started looking around for whoever was singing. It was a few minutes before she saw him come bounding towards her. And do you know who he was? It was the Butter Bear himself, all brown and fat and wobbly with the butter in his hair!
  
  When he finally got to her he stopped, and, taking off his spectacles, peered into Charlotte's face. "I believe you were singing about me?" he asked in that burbling voice. Charlotte looked into his small dark eyes, and she said
  
  [Author's Note: The Butter Bear is friendly, he's adventurous, and he's got butter in his hair. You never know what will happen when you meet him, but it'll be an experience you'll never forget! Originally started for the children's contest but finished much later. This is very much a children's story, but I hope it's entertaining for adults.]
  
  > say "Yes I was, Mr. Bear!"
  A great big smile broke over his face, and the Bear stuck out his tongue and panted like a dog. Charlotte laughed, and the Butter Bear laughed too. "What's your name?" he asked.
  
  She answered, and soon they were chatting away like old friends about how pretty the autumn leaves were and how they'd both love a slice of apple pie right now. "Or a piece of warm bread," the Bear added. "I always have some butter!" And he wiped a little form his hairy head with one hairy finger, and stuck it right in his mouth! "Deee-licious!" he burbled.
  
  Charlotte was shocked. "But that's poor manners, Mr. Bear. Mother says we mustn't put our fingers in our mouths or lick the plates. And no running around the house like a monkey."
  
  "But I'm not a monkey, and neither are you," he answered, and laughed again. He pulled the spectacles off once more and polished them against the shaggy brown fur of his chest. "I can never get them clean. Suppose we walk to the stream? There's a friend of mine down there who might be able to help." He blinked those big dark eyes at the little girl.
  
  > say "Yes, Mr. Bear, let's go to the stream!"
  The two of them set off slowly for the stream, and Charlotte told the Bear about her family. "I have a mother, and a father," she said, "and someday I will have ten sisters and ten brothers and we'll all jump in the leaves together."
  
  The Butter Bear ran a fat paw through his buttery hair. "You don't want ten sisters and ten brothers, oh no. I have three of each myself, and things were never quiet around the den. My mother would try to get some knitting done, and there we'd be, always fighting and laughing and munching our toast. I'm the youngest, too, and that is always a trial. Of course, you'd be the oldest, and maybe that's better."
  
  By this time they had come to the water. It was not a very wide stream, and there were enough stones to make it easy to cross. But the Bear led Charlotte downstream, and soon she heard a new sound over the rush of the current. It was a strange clanking noise, and every so often a long word she did not understand in an unfamiliar voice. The voice was almost as funny as the Bear's own, with a singsong accent she could not place. When the saw the man who was making the noise, he turned out to be even stranger than his voice. He was very tall, and very stooped, and his white hair stuck out at every angle and made his head look lke some odd flower. A big thing sat beside him, made of shiny copper, and Charlotte realized it was making the clanking sounds as he fiddled with it.
  
  The stranger looked up at them and grinned. "Well, if it isn't my old acquaintance Butters!" Charlotte giggled at the nickname. "And his juvenile companion. Charmed!" And with that he bowed, and his white hair flopped in every direction.
  
  The Butter Bear cleared his throat. "Charlotte, this is my old friend Professor Widdershins."
  
  The Professor bowed again, and Charlotte said "Pleased to meet you, Professor."
  
  The Bear explained that he needed a rag to clean his spectacles, and Professor Widdershins produced one at once. He then asked if they would care for some tea, and they both said "yes, thank you," and a few moments later had sat down for a very pleasant tea-time. There were little biscuits and sandwiches, and Charlotte thought the hot tea on such a chilly afternoon was the best thing she had ever tasted. She noticed the Bear smear a little butter on his food, and she giggled.
  
  "Now, young lady, do you seek erudition?" asked the Professor. The Butter Bear snorted, but his friend ignored him. "I am always happy to speak to another practitioner of intellectual pursuits.
  
  > say "I don't know what you mean, Professor."
  "Science, girl, science! The ceaseless voyage after invention and new discoveries, the drive to learn all our universe has to offer! It is my calling!" Professor Widdershins thundered. "I am a scientist and an inventor. See here," he said, pointing to the strange clanking copper machine, "this is one of my creations. It has many functions, and I've even figured out what some of them are. But science can help us understand anything worth understanding."
  
  The Butter Bear rubbed his belly. "Can it find some more biscuits? We're all out."
  
  Professor Widdershins laughed. "Ah my friend, you should not joke. Those biscuits are composed of chemicals and molecules and carbohydrates, not to mention particles and proteins. The stuff of science! Here, take this," he said, and thrust a thick black book into Charlotte's hands.
  
  "Fundamentals of the Natural Sciences: A Comprehensive Study, Encompassing Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Ecology and Phrenology," Charlotte read. "That's a long title."
  
  "A marvelous book. Read it twice, then thrice more, and then come back and I'll give you some more introductory materials." The Professor beamed at her, his white hair looking more frizzled than ever. The Bear took the book and offered to carry it, and Widdershins made him promise not to get any butter on the pages.
  
  "I'm afraid we must be going, Professor," the Butter Bear said. "Many more adventures to be had, many more friends to meet. Thanks for the tea."
  
  "Farewell to you, Butters, and to you, my young scientist. When you return perhaps I will have uncovered all the secrets of this mysterious contraption." He bent down and began to fiddle with the machine, which started shooting out orange smoke and whistling.
  
  Charlotte looked up into the Bear's dark eyes. "Where are we going?" she asked.
  
  "That depends," he said, "on where you want to go. I have another friend who lives nearby, and we could visit him for a while. He's just as smart as the Professor, but he doesn't care much for science."
  
  > say "I'd like to meet your other friend!"
  They walked back upstream for a while and then hopped across. Charlotte went first, carrying the book, and skipped from stone to stone without any trouble. But the Butter Bear was not so lucky. Perhaps it was his paws, all slippery with the butter, but as soon as he got to the middle of the stream he slipped and fell right in the water! He clambered out, dripping and giggling. "What a lovely bath!" he exclaimed.
  
  In a few minutes they reached a huge tree, as wide as Charlotte's house. There was a fancy little red door set in the trunk, and the Bear rapped against it. It opened at once, and a tiny man with pointed ears welcomed them inside with an excited squeak.
  
  "My name is Frederick," he said, "and I am an elf! Have you ever met an elf before?"
  
  Charlotte shook her head. He smiled warmly. "So happy to have you here. And Butters, my old friend, how wonderful to see you again."
  
  "We were in the neighborhood," the Butter Bear said, "visiting the Professor."
  
  "That old rascal! I bet he told you a lot of nonsense about science, didn't he? Of course he did. Well, let me tell you what's more important than science. It's called history, and it's just about the most important thing that ever was. In fact, it is everything that ever was. Every person, every place, that's all history. And people like me write it all down so nobody forgets anything." He gestured about the cozy room, which was filled with loose papers and books.
  
  Charlotte nodded. "It sounds very important."
  
  "I've always told Frederick he should make cookies like the other elves, but he insists on history," said the Bear.
  
  Frederick laughed. "I eat them, but I can't make them. I'm working on a history of all the buttons in the world. Every button that's ever been sewed on a shirt, or on somebody's coat, from Ancient Times until today. I am making a list of all of them. It is my life's work," he added loudly.
  
  "I hope you finish it," said Charlotte. "But there must be so many buttons!"
  
  "Yes," said Frederick, and he puffed out his little chest. "I have been to many libraries and tailor's shops over the years, and I am still just beginning. But it is the task of the historian, and I am happy to do it. Perhaps you'd like to read what I have so far?"
  
  Charlotte began to mumble something about how she'd love to, but the Butter Bear interjected and saved her. "No, I'm afraid we can't stay. Charlotte must be home before it gets dark. But I'll be back tonight, and you can tell me all about the buttons you've uncovered since I saw you last."
  
  The elf bid them both goodbye, and they retraced their steps through the woods and across the stream. The Bear did not fall this time, and soon they had made it all the way back to Charlotte's house. "I hope I see you again," she said, "and your friends."
  
  "Just sing my song," said the Butter Bear. "I'm never far away when someone is singing my song. She gave him a hug, and then he waddled away, singing a made-up song about buttons. Charlotte went inside, and her parents asked her about her day. She told them everything about the Bear and Professor Widdershins and Frederick, and that night she read a little about science and thought a little about buttons. Most of all she was eager to wake up the next morning and sing the Butter Bear's song.
  
  And now, child, it's time for you to go to sleep, too. Maybe you'll sing the song tomorrow, and maybe the Bear will come to you, too. There's no telling what can happen when you sing the song, that's for sure. Here, have another blanket. Sweet dreams, and sleep tight.