The Unlucky Shepherdess — A Humorous Fairy Tale of Vanity, Magic, and Unexpected Consequences | TaleTreasury

Once, in a peaceful green valley fringed by sleepy hills, there lived a shepherdess unlike any other—not because she was skilled or clever, but because she was terribly lazy. She would often abandon her flock to their own devices, preferring naps under the wide-branched apple tree that stood watch over the pasture.

One warm afternoon, lulled by the hum of bees and the sweet scent of ripe apples, she dozed off again, dreaming of grand balls and feasts fit for royalty. In her dreams, she was not a lowly shepherdess, but a beloved Princess, robed in silks and jewels, courted by gallant princes, and serenaded by the finest musicians in the land.

When she awoke, the pleasant visions faded like morning mist. She gazed bitterly at her grazing sheep.

“Why must I be a mere shepherdess?” she pouted, kicking a fallen apple. “I deserve to wear crowns and dine on cherry creams and chocolate trifles—not tend these foolish creatures who can’t even sing a proper sonnet!”

Her flock, accustomed to her sour moods, simply continued munching grass. But her scorn did not stop there.

“If only a wolf would gobble you all up, perhaps then I’d be freed of this dull life and my path to princesshood would be clear!”

Unbeknownst to the shepherdess, sheep are not entirely without feeling. They heard her bitter wish and exchanged concerned bleats.

Among them stood their leader, an old ram named Bartholomew, wise by sheep standards. He raised his voice among the murmuring flock.

“Fellow sheep, if our own shepherdess wishes us dead, what protection have we against the wolves of the night? We must fend for ourselves! Better we find shelter than stay where we are unloved.”

And so, with a flurry of bells and bleating, the sheep trotted off toward the hills in search of a cave.

When the shepherdess noticed their absence, she leapt to her feet, too late.

“Stupid, stupid sheep! Come back here this instant!” she shrieked, grabbing her staff. She chased after them, but true to her nature, gave up before the hill’s crest, slumping breathless on a rock.

“Oh, woe is me! Surely I’ll be beaten for losing them. What cruel fate has beset me!”

At that very moment, a raven descended from the sky, perching on a nearby bough.

“Why do you weep so, luckiest of shepherdesses?” he cawed.

“Luckiest? I’ve lost my entire flock! How can I return without them?” she sobbed.

“Ah, but I know where they are. I also know of a trick to retrieve them,” the raven said slyly. “Just beyond those crags lies a wolf skin. If you wear it, your sheep will flee back home in terror.”

“Is that true, clever bird? I’ll be indebted to you. How may I repay your kindness?”

“Only a trifle: a lock of your golden hair, for my nest.”

Thinking little of the price, the shepherdess agreed. The raven snipped a lock of her hair and flew off gleefully, while she climbed to find the wolf skin.

Soon she unearthed it—glimmering silver fur with an uncanny realism. Without hesitation, she pulled it over herself, laughing.

“Now to frighten those woolly fools back home!”

But what she did not know was this: the wolf skin was enchanted. Once donned, it could not be removed—except by the true love of a Prince.

Disguised as a magnificent silver wolf, she found her sheep trembling in a cave. Growling playfully, she pounced, scattering them like autumn leaves. Down the hills they fled, bleating all the way back to the farm.

Unfortunately for the shepherdess, the farmhands saw only a ferocious wolf chasing their valuable flock. The farm manager hurled a stone, striking her side. A hail of rocks followed until, bruised and bleeding, she barely escaped into the woods.

Seeking relief, she tried to remove the wolf skin—but it clung to her like a second pelt.

“Why won’t it come off? What dreadful magic is this?” she sobbed.

Her cries attracted a young Prince passing by with his retinue. Curious, he followed the sound and found a majestic silver wolf weeping beneath a tree.

“Why do you weep, creature of the wild?” he asked kindly. “Speak, if speech is yours.”

To his shock, the wolf replied softly, “I am injured and lost, good Prince.”

Seeing the gashes along her sides, the Prince’s heart filled with pity.

“Fear not, gentle beast. I shall take you to my castle and see you healed.”

And so, he lifted the sorrowful wolf onto his horse and rode home, much to the astonishment of his guards.

At the castle, she was bathed, her wounds tended, her fur brushed until it shone like starlight. The Prince, ever gallant, invited her to dine at his table, draping her in pearls and silks more fitting for a lady than a beast.

She was introduced as “Mirabella, the enchanted princess,” a name she invented on the spot to disguise her true origin.

The Prince’s Banquet and the Breaking of the Spell

Soon, preparations began for the grand banquet where the Prince was to choose his bride. Many noble families arrived, eager to present their daughters, but none intrigued the court so much as Mirabella—the silver wolf who dined with nobility, sighed with the sorrow of lost royalty, and sang with a voice sweeter than nightingales.

The night of the feast arrived, and the Prince, having grown deeply fond of Mirabella, stood to make an announcement.

“Dear friends,” he declared, “you have gathered to witness me choose a bride. I have chosen already—not among the noble ladies here, but from among the enchanted.”

He turned to Mirabella.

“Dearest Mirabella, will you be my wife?”

The hall gasped. Mirabella, stunned, dropped her goblet in shock. But before she could answer, the enchantment broke—the wolf skin slipped away, revealing the shepherdess in her humble, peasant attire, golden hair shining in the candlelight.

All watched in awe. The Prince, undeterred by her plain clothes, embraced her.

“Mirabella, Princess or peasant, I love you truly.”

Thus, the lazy shepherdess became a Princess, her dream fulfilled. She lived in luxury, feasting on sweets, wearing silks, and bossing around maidservants—though she was never the most gracious of royals.

Yet, indulgence caught up with her. She grew fat on delicacies, and one day, while gorging on cherry truffles, she choked on a pit and died under the palace sun.

The Prince mourned her deeply and, to remember her, placed the silver wolf skin in a glass case in the castle’s west wing—a relic of enchantment, vanity, and the strange twists of fate.

Moral of the Story

Be careful what you wish for, and never despise the duties given to you. Dreams pursued with vanity and laziness may come true, but not always as you expect — and often at a heavy cost.