The Trellis

A man built a trellis for his garden — not for his three daughters, he informed them.

The man’s daughters were bold. One time, when they were supposed to be entertaining themselves, they’d caught and tamed a wolf. The man had been unenthusiastic about their new pet — he’d made them release the animal. But the girls hadn’t broken any rules, they’d protested. He’d never told them not to tame a wolf.

Had he told them not to climb the trellis?

No, he had not.

The eldest daughter was also the tallest. For that reason, the other two said, she couldn’t climb the highest. The trellis wouldn’t support her weight. The eldest daughter disagreed and started to climb. However, she hadn’t climbed very high when the trellis made a plaintive sound. She couldn’t go up and she couldn’t go down, so she called for her father.

The man went to the garden.

“Who can it be?” he mused. “Not one of my daughters. It must be a tomato plant that grew too high.”

“That’s right,” the eldest daughter said. “I’m just a tomato.”

“Then jump into my arms, little tomato, and I will catch you.”

The eldest daughter did as she’d been told. The man caught her, kissed her on the forehead, and made her promise not to climb again.

The middle daughter was the second tallest. For that reason, the other daughters said, she might climb higher than her older sister but she still couldn’t climb the highest. The middle daughter started to climb. It was true, she did climb higher than the eldest daughter. However, at a certain height the trellis made a familiar sound. She couldn’t go up and she couldn’t go down, so she called for her father.

The man returned to the garden.

“Who can it be this time?” he asked. “Not one of my daughters. It must be a cucumber vine that grew too high.”

“That’s right,” the eldest daughter said. “I’m just a cucumber.”

“Then jump into my arms, little cucumber, and I will catch you.”

The middle daughter did as she’d been told. The man caught her, kissed her on the forehead, and made her promise not to climb again.

The youngest daughter was the shortest of the three. For that reason, her sisters conceded, she might be able to climb the highest. However, she was the least bold. After all, had she put her hand in the wolf’s mouth? Had she agreed to marry the wolf on her eighteenth birthday? In order for her to climb the highest she’d have to be fearless. It wasn’t her fault she was the baby.

The youngest daughter scowled.

“I’m not a baby,” she said.

The youngest daughter started to climb. She climbed until she’d reached the height of a tomato plant, where she stopped to listen. The trellis supported her weight so she continued to climb. She climbed until she’d reached the height of a cucumber vine, where she stopped to listen. The trellis supported her weight so she kept climbing. The youngest daughter climbed higher than her sisters. She climbed higher than any plant. She wasn’t a baby, she thought. She was the boldest of all.

The youngest daughter climbed so high that no one saw her again.