Gobble-Up Stories. Oscar Mandel
its readers. It does not lose substance because of its brevity; it does not forgo significance by inviting cows and baboons to take the podium. I do, however, admit to a touch of vexation toward the world for not quite believing in our severity. It is, of course, a forgiving vexation, for who is more temperately aggrieved than a fabulist?
A fox terrier and a spaniel were fighting over a steak bone. Merciful heavens, they went for each other with teeth, claws, shoves, barks, and kicks. “Get away from my bone!” “This bone belongs to me!” “Mongrel!” “Flotsam!” “I’ll throttle you with your own tail!” “I’ll throw you to the cats!” “Oaf!” “Fleaface!” “Lickspittle!” “Perpetrator!” It was a fearful spectacle, for both dogs were bleeding out of a dozen wounds.
Considering this opportunity, a young hawk, inexperienced in the sad ways of the world, came down from a tree in order to pick up the bone for himself.
The dogs stopped fighting at once. “Who’s this?” rasped the spaniel. “A foreigner!” the fox terrier howled. “Brother dogs, unite!” And both dogs flung themselves on the bird.
The hawk was lucky he escaped alive that day with a small loss of feathers. No doubt, had I reached out a hand for the bone, the three would have leagued together as Animals against Man. And if a Martian had landed at that moment, I would have roused them personally to battle as Earth dwellers against Mars. For there isn’t anybody with whom we couldn’t make a faction.
Meantime, the spaniel chewed one end of the bone and the fox terrier nibbled the other. They were still bleeding, but they were bleeding in peace.
Why are you nibbling me up?” said the leaf to the caterpillar. “It hurts; I am bleeding; I will die.”
“Believe me,” answered the caterpillar, “I have nothing against you personally.”
“Then why don’t you go elsewhere?” wept the leaf.
“I have nothing for you personally either,” answered the caterpillar, munching on.
THE COCK WHO MADE THE SUN RISE
Every day before dawn, the rooster Kukkurrik uttered a mighty volley of crows, watched the sun come up, and said to himself, “I’ve done it again.” For he believed that his crowing made the sun rise. Once, however, it happened that his chum, the chiffchaff, risen from his twigs before his usual time, overheard Kukkurrik and urged him to explain what he meant by “I’ve done it again.” At first Kukkurrik was reluctant, for he felt that getting the sun to rise was his own private affair. But as he was proud of his mission in life, his friend finally wormed the truth out of him. However, instead of being impressed, the chiffchaff went into gales of laughter.
“You superstitious henpecker, you arrogant eggnog—you bring out the sun? Ha, ha, ha, go on and prove it to me.”
“I don’t know why I should bother,” said Kukkurrik coldly, “but even a fool like you must have heard of logic.”
“Logic?”
“Yes, logic. Every morning I crow, and every morning as soon as I have finished crowing, the sun rises. Cause and effect. Logic. Ergum probatus est.”
“It so happens,” answered the chiffchaff, “that the sun comes out in the morning because a god, whose name if you please is Fibbus, takes it out for a ride. Did you say logic? I drank FACTS with my mother’s milk.” And there the quarrel ended, because the sweet voice of his favorite hen was calling Kukkurrik to business.
One winter night, however, Kukkurrik and that same hen (her name was Mistress Pertelote) had a falling out, and Kukkurrik left her roost in a huff. It was long past midnight and very frosty, and poor Kukkurrik caught a ferocious cold. He could feel the fever gripping his lungs, his head was in a whirl, he coughed grit and gravel, he cursed Mistress Pertelote, and, as the time to crow came on, he found that he couldn’t bring out so much as a semiquaver. “I don’t care, it’ll be dark for once,” he thought, and staggered up his loft, where he fell into a deep sleep.
Hours later, the chiffchaff woke him up. It was a bright day. “Friend Kukkurrik,” he sang, “wake up, it’s me, your best friend, you’ve been furiously sick, your wives tell me you couldn’t crow, and yet here’s the blissful sun blushing all over the world, and to add insult to infamy, there’s not a cloud to be seen from poop to stern.”
“What’s that?” mumbled Kukkurrik.
“You didn’t crow, and the sun is up,” the chiffchaff shouted into his ear. “Pray explicate.” He thought the hour of victory had struck and the Fibbus hypothesis was confirmed forever. But not at all!
“I guess,” Kukkurrik brought out in a hoarse whisper, “I crowed so long yesterday that it carried for two days.”
“I’ll be damned,” said the chiffchaff.
“In fact,” wheezed the rooster, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I lasted the sun a week.” And he left the chiffchaff agape at the compelling power of logic.
A fisherman had already caught three handsome trout—they were lying in a basket next to him—when he hooked a minnow. He was about to throw it back into the stream when the minnow, catching sight of his grimace, cried out, “And what’s the matter with me, if I may ask? Let me inform you that I’m as good as any trout that swims in these waters. I’m small, but I am good-looking, smart, and appetizing. In short, I resent your gesture of contempt and demand to be treated with the respect I deserve.”
“Oh well, if you insist,” said the fisherman, and he tossed the minnow into his basket.
I don’t know about people, but with minnows, once the ego breaks loose, there’s no telling where it will stop.
Two kings met to adjust a border dispute. One was clothed in gold and silver, the other was dressed in rags and his face was full of cuts. The king in gold and silver was so shocked when he saw his neighbor that he forgot all about borders. For even though kings like to make war against each other, they hate to see one of their own in real trouble. Even when one king kills another, he wants to be sure that behind the one he killed, there’s another ready to take his place. Anyway, the king in gold and silver grasped the other by the shoulders and cried, “What has happened to you, brother?”
“Don’t ask,” the king in rags replied, “I’ve been all but hacked to death. I’m a good king. I raised everybody’s wages and salaries and profits and interest and dividends and pensions and royalties, and the people got used to fingering money, so they asked for more; but the treasury was empty, I sold the queen’s jewels, the rich denounced me, the rabble besieged me, everybody threw stones at me, and if it hadn’t been for our blessed border dispute, they would have murdered me to pieces. While look at you, oh look at you. Gorgeous and merry, and looking twenty years younger than you are. Brother, brother, how do you do it?”
“Unlike