It's right windy up North right now.

The Old North Wind

Captain Frost was glad to have something warm that night as she raised the rum to her lips. A bitter wind had filled the sails of Scorched Juniper, pushing her southward. But the crafty captain had dug in her heels, tacking east and west looking for prey near the Portuguese colony of Brazil.

A shout rained from the crow’s nest. “Ship off the port bow!”

She pitched the rum and opened her spyglass: two masts, just over the horizon. “Christmas came early, boys!” she yelled.

As Juniper closed in, her prey suddenly came to life. Had they been spotted? Looking through the spyglass, Frost was dumbfounded by the red, green, and blue lanterns hung from stem to stern. It was no signal code she’d seen before—and the captain knew “Help, pirates!” in fourteen languages. No matter. She spoke the universal language of cannon fire.

Flames and thunder boomed from Juniper’s broadside for a moment, casting a volley into the night. Silence. Then, on the other ship, timber exploded. Their main mast splintered and fell into the sea.

“Prepare for boarding!” she shouted and the crew returned a throaty cheer.

Nothing looked right. No crew, no defenses. The bow had been festooned with long strands of holly. Instead of the usual odor of blood and smoke, the air smelled like nutmeg and cloves. And it might have been the excitement or the rum, but to Frost, the racks of cannonballs looked like glass.

One teetered out of its broken hold and rolled to her boot. “Snow globes?”

Her first mate shook another and stared at the glittery tableau inside with his one good eye. "Perchance they be rare? Made of gold and such?"

She looked closer. Inside the sphere was the figure of a girl in a dinghy full of banana bunches. A tiny sign read, All Hands on Deck. Worthless wordplay.

Behind her, something small and jingly jingled, just beyond the splintered mast and wrecked rigging. “Follow the bells,” she commanded.

When they reached the aft deck they discovered the mizzen mast had been decorated like a Christmas tree. Festive baubles and ribbons hung from odd bits of green palm fronds and twigs, lashed high into a conic shape. The only things missing were the presents. That and the crew.

“Come on out,” she yelled into the air. “Surrender and we’ll let you live.”

A hatch cracked open and tiny hands pushed it aside. One, two, then ten short wiry figures emerged.

Frost gritted her teeth. Nothing angered her more than child labor. “Where is your cap

Is this a reputable shop?

I see this story (http://read.gov/aesop/143.html) translated into a lot of conlangs, but I don't think there's a Pandunia version, so I thaut I would make one. there isn't currently a word for "forehead" in the dictionary, so I made up lalata as a placeholder. what do ye think?

> Norde Hava e Sol

> Norde Hava e Sol ha lona na tema ke da yemon si mas lika. dur yemon lona va poli palaba, un Safar Ja, jo be lifafa va mantol, ya pas na ging la dau.

> Sol loga, "haida sam rai, ki ye jo bil fa hin go Safar Ja su mantol si mas lika."

> Norde Hava grom "oke", e sun mise yo leng, ulul, dai hava do Safar Ja.

> na shuru, Safar Ja su mantol ya sismo e teste bega. a Safar Ja na go sata ya karibu di ten la mantol do se su badan. Norde Hava mas lika di hava, Safar Ja mas lika di ten ye. Norde Hava furi di agres la mantol, a ye su teste fa asar siro she.

> na pos, Sol shuru foto. na shuru, ye su radi si ligu. na la hushi garma ta, Safar Ja fa an bande se su mantol e fa pende ye ze se su kanta. Sol su radi si mas garma. Safar Ja an fuku se su tupi e gan se su lalata. Sol hata mas bari di foto. na fin, Safar Ja be poli garma e an fuku se su mantol, e do bega la hogo di sol foto, ye be kush na dau su late su moka su hushi saya.

> karim e ching ya seng na loka ki lika e palaba ya bai.