DR. BOLI’S FABLES FOR CHILDREN WHO ARE TOO OLD TO BELIEVE IN FABLES.

The Boy Who Played with Matches.

ONCE THERE WAS a little Burmese boy who went into his bedroom, locked his door, and played with matches.

It didn’t take long before he set the curtains on fire.

When his parents smelled the smoke, they knocked on his door.

“Don’t come in,” said the little boy. “I’m not doing anything, and I’ll clean it up myself.”

“But we smell smoke,” his father said.

“Not a whole lot,” the little boy replied.

“So you mean there is smoke in there?” his mother demanded.

“Only a little bit. I can take care of it.”

This admission worried his parents.

“Let us in,” the boy’s mother demanded.

“I’d rather not,” the boy replied, because he didn’t want his parents to know he’d been playing with matches.

“Is something on fire?” the boy’s father asked.

“I wouldn’t say ‘fire.’ It’s a little smoky, that’s all.”

“But where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” his mother objected.

“It may technically be a ‘fire,’ but it’s nothing I can’t take care of.” He still didn’t want anyone to know what he’d been doing in his room.

“I’m getting the fire extinguisher,” his father said, and he dashed off to find the fire extinguisher in the kitchen.

“There’s no need for that,” the boy called out. “It’s spreading a little, but I can take care of it.”

“Open the door this instant,” his mother said in her sternest voice.

“I don’t need to,” the boy answered. “It’s hardly out of control at all.”

“Your bedroom is on fire,” his mother nearly screeched. “I want that door open right now!”

“I’d rather not open the door, although I do appreciate your concern.”

At this moment, the father came back with the fire extinguisher. “Open the door,” he demanded. “I have the fire extinguisher.”

“I don’t think I need the fire extinguisher,” the boy replied, still dreading the consequences of letting his parents know what he’d been doing. “As far as I can see, I have everything I need in this room.”

“Let me in now!” his father shouted. “You need a fire extinguisher!”

“I’ll tell you what,” the boy said. “I’ll open the door a little bit, and you can slip the fire extinguisher through to me.”

“Let me in now!” his father repeated.

“I know how to use a fire extinguisher. You can just hand it to me, and I’ll do the rest. Thanks very much for bringing it, by the way.”

“Dear, your father needs to get in now,” his mother said as gently as she could, hoping that would help.

“I don’t think so,” the boy replied, thinking of the lecture he’d got a few days before when he kicked the dog. “I’m not going to open this door until Dad promises that he won’t come in.”

“That’s ridiculous,” his father replied.

“That’s my deal,” the boy said firmly. “Take it or leave it.”

“But your room is on fire!” his mother pointed out one more time.

“I wouldn’t say the whole room was on fire,” the boy said. “There are definitely a few spots that still aren’t on fire yet.” And he refused to open the door.

So the little boy burned up in his bedroom, and his parents told each other that it served him right, and they hoped it taught him a good lesson.

THE CRANE WHO WAS BETTER THAN EVERYBODY ELSE.

From Dr. Boli’s Fables for Children Who Are Too Old to Believe in Fables.

ONCE THERE WAS a crane who thought he was better than everybody else.

He thought he was better than all the other birds, because he was a crane, and cranes are tall and majestic. He thought he was better than all the other cranes, too, because he was smarter and more handsome, and because he had a better name: he was called Franklin Pierce Jones, whereas all the other cranes had very ordinary names like Harriet or Ichabod.

And because Franklin Pierce Jones insisted that he was better than everybody else, the other cranes began to believe that he really was better. If you repeat something often enough and with enough conviction, you can usually make it true.

There was, however, one skeptical crane, by the name of Alexandra, who refused to admit that Franklin Pierce Jones was better than absolutely everybody. “You may be better than the other birds,” she said, “and you may even be better than I am. But you’re not as good as people, because they wear clothes and use pocket calculators.”

At this challenge the color rose in Franklin Pierce Jones’ cheeks, although no one but him knew it because his face was covered with feathers. “I most certainly am in every way equal to people, and I’ll prove it to you,” he declared in a voice so loud that all the other cranes stopped what they were doing and listened. “I’ll wear clothes like a person, walk into the town, and do all the things people do. They won’t even be able to tell the difference.”

So that was exactly what Franklin Pierce Jones did. From a clothesline nearby he procured a pair of shorts, a white shirt, a very smart necktie, and a dark blue jacket that fitted him admirably. For a hat he wore a tasteful baby’s bonnet. Then he walked into town.

When he passed near a school, he fell among a group of children who had just finished their classes for the day.

“Look at that pointy nose!” one impolite little boy shouted, and a small group of children soon gathered around the crane as he attempted to make his way through the town.

“And he’s got skinny legs like a bird!” a little girl added, much to the delight of the other children.

“Bird-legs! Bird-legs!” the children began to chant, and soon they were all doing it. “Bird-legs! Bird-legs!”

“Did your mommy make you wear that tie?” one little boy demanded, yanking the end of Franklin Pierce Jones’ tie so it untied and fell on the ground.

“And did she put this cute little bonnet on your head?” another asked, snapping the elastic that held the bonnet in place.

“Is that a nose or a hose?” a little girl asked, and all the children laughed in a mean and very impolite way.

By this time Franklin Pierce Jones had definitely had enough, so he slipped off his jacket with one shrug, spread his wings, and took off, leaving all the children on the ground astonished.

His friend Alexandra was waiting for him when he got back, and all the other cranes were not far away.

“So did you prove that you’re equal to people?” Alexandra asked with a triumphant smirk, seeing that Franklin Pierce Jones’ clothes were mostly missing.

“No, I did not,” said Franklin Pierce Jones, and Alexandra could not keep herself from smirking even more triumphantly.

“I proved that I’m far better than people,” Franklin Pierce Jones continued. “The miserable ill-mannered creatures may be bipeds like us, but they are utterly lacking in the finer sensibilities. My experiences during my expedition prove, if any proof were needed, that I am indeed a superior being.”

All the other cranes nodded sagely, and even Alexandra had to admit the justice of his claim. Franklin Pierce Jones’ reputation was now secure.

MORAL: Travel is broadening, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s pleasant.

THE CAT WHO SAID ‘OOP OOP SPICKETY WICKETY HIGGLE WIGGLE SPLOT.’

ONCE THERE WAS a puppy whose mother loved him very much. She taught him how to wag his tail and how to beg the people for food, which are the two best things a dog can know.

One day she decided to teach him about the other animals on the farm.

“You can tell what kind of animal it is by the sound it makes,” she told him.

The puppy tilted his head and lifted his ears. He loved sounds.

“A cow says ‘moo,’” his mother said. “Dogs are friends to cows, because they are very big and do not eat our food.”

“Moo,” the puppy repeated.

“A rooster says ‘cock-a-doodle-doo,’” his mother continued. “Dogs are friends to roosters, because roosters help guard the farm.”

The puppy tilted his head the other way to show he was still listening.

“A sheep says ‘baa,’” said the mother dog. “Sheep are a bit dim, but easy to get along with. Dogs are friends to sheep.”

“Baa,” the puppy repeated.

Now his mother’s face grew dark, and she spoke in grave tones. “A cat says ‘meow,’” she told him. “Dogs hate cats and chase them whenever we can, because cats are evil and manipulative, and they steal our food when we’re not looking. If you see a cat, you chase it.”

When the lesson was over, the puppy trotted off into the fields to play.

On the way, he met a cow.

“What kind of animal are you?” the puppy asked.

“Moo,” said the cow.

“You must be a cow,” the puppy said, “because you say ‘moo.’ My mother told me that dogs are friends to cows.” And he wagged his tail in a friendly way as he passed the cow.

Next he met a rooster. “What kind of animal are you?” the puppy asked.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo,” said the rooster.

“You must be a rooster,” the puppy said, “because you say ‘cock-a-doodle-doo.’ My mother told me that dogs are friends to roosters.” And he wagged his tail in a friendly way as he passed the rooster.

Next he met a sheep.

“What kind of animal are you?” the puppy asked.

“Baa,” said the sheep.

“You must be a sheep,” the puppy said, “because you say ‘baa.’ My mother told me that dogs are friends to sheep.” And he wagged his tail in a friendly way as he passed the sheep.

Next he met a cat.

“What kind of animal are you?” the puppy asked.

“Oop oop spickety wickety higgle wiggle splot,” said the cat.

“I’m sorry,” the puppy said. “I didn’t quite understand that.”

“Picka wacka quicka macka spuckle muckle fleep,” said the cat.

“This is very puzzling,” the puppy said. “You can’t be a cow, because cows say ‘moo.’”

“Ring rang vippity vop,” said the cat.

“And you can’t be a rooster, because roosters say ‘cock-a-doodle-doo,’” the puppy continued.

“Skee-beet zu-rack flack be dack wack vo vack,” said the cat.

“And you can’t be a sheep, because sheep say ‘baa.’”

“Blibber blap cobble snap,” said the cat.

“And you can’t be a cat, because cats say ‘meow.’”

“Bitterby batterby wittil drip,” said the cat.

“I’ll have to tell my mother that I’ve discovered a new kind of animal,” the puppy said. “Won’t she be proud of me!” And he wagged his tail in a friendly way as he passed the cat.

The cat watched the puppy romp off into the field. Then he turned and went back to his own mother, who had been watching from a patch of weeds.

“You see, it’s just as I told you,” said the mother cat. “Dogs are a bit dim, but easy to get along with.”

 

FOR YOUNG READERS.

THE SHOES THAT WENT FOR A WALK.

A Cautionary Tale for Young Readers.

BOBBY WAS PROUD to say he had a pair of good walking shoes.

But sometimes they were a little too good at walking. They would walk around the house all day, and Bobby had a hard time finding them when he needed them. They would walk around the house all night, going clomp, thump, whump and keeping Bobby and his mother and father awake.

“Maybe we should get you a new pair of shoes,” his mother would always say after a hard night of clomping, thumping, and whumping.

“But they are very good walking shoes,” Bobby would always reply, and they always left it at that.

One day when Bobby was at school, his feet started to itch. So he did the thing he should never have done: he took off his shoes to scratch the itch.

This was the chance the shoes had been waiting for. With a laugh, a jaunty tappa-tap, and a Bronx cheer, the shoes ran out of the room.

“Bobby has hammer-toes!” shouted little Mary, pointing at Bobby’s bare feet.

(Mary didn’t know what hammer-toes were, but she thought they sounded silly.)

In the mean time, the shoes had dashed out the front door and were merrily jogging up the road.

When they came to the old Simmons farm, they cut across the field. What fun to trot and scamper between the cornstalks! Soon the shoes were covered with mud, but they were having too much fun to care.

But all of a sudden a big orange cat leaped out from behind the corn. The cat pounced on the left shoe. It jumped and leaped and squiggled and squirmed and finally got away. But then the cat pounced on the right shoe. The right shoe was having a simply awful time until the left shoe hopped up from behind and kicked the cat. That startled the cat, and the shoes ran as fast as they could—right into a dog.

The dog looked down at them, and the shoes looked up at the dog. It was a very big dog, and the shoes were quaking in their boots, so to speak.

All at once the dog’s mouth came down and closed on the shoes. The dog lifted them up and ran—but where was he taking them? He ran through the fields and up to the farmhouse, where old Farmer Simmons was sitting on the porch whittling a ham radio.

“Good boy, Bismarck,” said Farmer Simmons to the dog. The dog dropped the shoes at his feet.

“But wait,” Farmer Simmons said. “These aren’t my shoes, you silly dog! They look like little Bobby’s from down the road.”

Now the shoes saw their chance. They ran down the porch steps and back across the field. Bismarck the dog chased after them, but they ran so fast that he lost them in the corn. When they got to the road, they ran even faster, and they kept running until they came right back to the school.

All the children stood up to watch as the shoes, covered with dirt and more than a little beaten up, walked back toward Bobby’s desk.

“Where have you two been?” Bobby asked them sternly.

But they said nothing, because the cat had got their tongues.

“Maybe you should get a new pair of shoes, Bobby,” said little Mary.

“But they are very good walking shoes,” Bobby said, and all the children had to agree that they were.

 

From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.

The Z is for the Zymurgist,
who always comes in last,
And always will, to judge by
what has happened in the past.
When jobs are called by alphabet,
she seldom gets her share–
Which doesn’t bother her, because
she drinks too much to care.

From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.

Y for the Yes-man, who longs to say “no”;
Alas and alack, in his job it’s prohibited.
Original thought
Is not what he’s here for,
So let’s give a cheer for
The Yes-man who really would like to say “no,” but does not.

The job is a hard one, as Yes-men all know:
His private opinions may not be exhibited.
His job is to say
What his bosses will pay for,
So let’s say hooray for
The Yes-man who’d rather say “no,” but says “yes” anyway.

From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.

X for the Xylotomist, whose specialized profession
Is cutting bits of wood to fit into a microscope.
It’s more than just a job, she worries—now it’s an obsession.
She thinks she has become, she tells us, holding back her tears,
A xylotomic addict—maybe even worse, she fears—
And now, she says, to go cold turkey is her only hope.
But then who’ll cut our bits of wood to fit our microscope?

From DR. BOLI’S ALPHABET OF OCCUPATIONS.

In Honor of the Letter W,
A Hymn to the Worker.

The Worker! How we love to sing his praises!
The Worker! How we hate to give him raises!
We praise him as the fount of every virtue,
And also ’cause his union pals can hurt you.

The Worker! He’s the hero of our story!
The Worker! His the fame and his the glory!
We gladly pay him tribute every Mayday,
As long as we don’t have to every payday.

It’s really best, although it may seem funny,
That he should work, and we should get the money:
For ’tis a truth that cannot be ignored
That Virtue ought to be its own reward.

THE BEAUTY AND THE SWANS.

From Dr. Boli’s Fables for Children Who Are Too Old to Believe in Fables.

A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG woman was taking a walk in the garden. She had just had a letter from her most ardent admirer, so she was more than usually conscious of her own beauty. It was very pleasant to stroll among the flowers, enjoying the soft breeze and turning over in her mind the many praises and endearments she had just read.

In a while she came down the steps to the pond, and there at the edge two graceful white swans floated, hardly rippling the water as they moved. She admired the beauty of the swans, but even more she admired her own beauty reflected in the still water.

“Indeed it is true,” she said to herself: “the comparison Montague made was a just one.” (Montague was the name of her most ardent admirer.) “For see, my complexion, how perfectly white it is! How like the plumage of the swan, the whitest of all birds! And the delicate grace of my carriage, how like the grace of these noble creatures!”

The swans looked back at her, almost as if they could understand what she was saying, and would add their praises to her own if they were but gifted with speech.

“And my neck,” she continued, touching her neck with her fingertips—“my neck, how slender like the swan’s, and how gracefully formed! Oh, Montague, what an artist you are, and what an accurate observer of nature!”

Still the swans gazed back at her; but the young woman had tired of this recreation and walked on toward the summer-house.

As she walked off, the male swan turned to the female.

“Did you ever see such a clumsy biped in your life?” he asked her.

“Indeed!” she agreed. “And that horrible mottled pink skin! It looks as though she’s been attacked by a fungus.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” the male concluded. “If I had a stumpy fat neck like that, I’d cut my own throat.”

 

MORAL: Comparisons are odious, at least to one side of the equation.