A CONVERSATION BETWEEN A BULLDOZER AND A MOUSE
A large bulldozer was tearing up a field in which a family of mice had made their nest. As the bulldozer carved its way nearer and nearer to their home, the mice could hear the groans of wounded bitterweeds and the gasps of slain beetles rising from all sides of the field. “What shall we do?” the miceling were crying, but their parents only stared and trembled as the terrible jaws gnashed the earth. At last the father mouse leaped forward and ran up to the machine, which he addressed as follows: “Lord Bulldozer, spare my little family; we are poor but honest mice who have lived in this useless lot for many years without disturbing the peace.”
“And what makes you think that I have come to disturb the peace?” replied the bulldozer.
“Well—” said the mouse.
“Nonsense,” the bulldozer retorted, “you are thoroughly mistaken. I am leveling the ground for an eighty-five-story apartment house as a special favor to you mice.” “As a special favor to us mice?”
“Yes, sir. You have been disgracefully happy in a sordid nest with an occasional dandelion in your gullet; but after I have finished my work, you will take your pick of five dozen rooms, each one overflowing with bread and cheese, potatoes, and lamb chops. The nation of mice will thrive; you will publish odes to me.”
“I am very glad that the nation of mice will thrive,” said the mouse, “but what about us?”
“Who is us?” “Us, me, my woman, and my two miceling!”
“I don’t know us, my and me,” said the bulldozer. “I deal in principles.”
The mouse ran back to his family, and said as cheerfully as he could, “The bulldozer brought me good news: he is growing an apartment house here especially for the nation of mice, and we are going to live in whipped cream to the end of time.” But before the mother could make a comment (and that was a pity, because she was a sensible beast), a ton of earth fell on top of them and the bulldozer churned on.
Let you and me be more careful than these mice, and when we see progress coming our way, jump aside in time.
A beggar was standing with his cap in his hand far from the road, all alone in a field of boulders and stubble. A cold wind crept from gray horizon to gray horizon. Puzzled by the sight, a crow landed among the weeds a few paces from the man. “Beggar,” said the crow, “no one will give you anything in this desert.”
“Crow,” replied the beggar, “no one will deny me anything in this desert.”
We harm those we hate; we also hate those we harm; otherwise our conscience would sting us, and who likes to be stung?
The dragon of Helgoland had vowed to exterminate all the unicorns of the realm. History does not record why, but we must hope that he had his reasons. One day, as he was prowling through the woods, he thought he saw a unicorn concealed in the undergrowth. He quickly belched out a jet of flames which burned out an acre of land in front of him. The wave gone, he heard a feeble lament almost under his enormous paw, and, looking down, he saw a litter of tiny badgers, all burnt to death except one, who was still alive enough to despond. “Why did you kill us?” wailed the last of the badgers. “What harm did we do you in our short small lives; why did you strike us down who are innocent?”
“Innocent devils!” bellowed the dragon, “I hate you weasels; all the world knows you’ve been plotting against me with the unicorns!”
“But we are not weasels; we are badgers,” said the little victim.
“Well, I hate badgers too,” grumbled the dragon. “They’re always standing in the way of my fire.” And from that time, he never thought of badgers without spitting a flame in disgust.
Five sportsmen were climbing a huge mountain which no human being had ever scaled. The gales blew and whistled between the crags, on all sides chasms opened, the air was thin, the men gasped and tottered in the hurls of snow, three were buried in an avalanche which tore the face of the mountain, a fourth lost hold of a ledge and fell headlong to his death, and at last the fifth stumbled to the top, where, under a cold sun, he planted the flag of his favorite nation. The top of the flagpole happened to be adorned with a large brass knob. An eagle, attracted by this shiny new object, descended and perched on the knob, even as the last sportsman was beginning his journey down. The brass ball made an elegant seat, he thought, and after taking a few nibbles from the flag he decided he liked it too; it had a colorful taste. Another eagle flew by. “What have you got there?” he called.
“Oh, nothing. Just a new perch and things,” replied the first eagle.
“How did you ever find them?” asked his friend, who was strongly impressed.
“I hate to boast,” said the eagle, “but do you see that biped lumbering downhill? He brought them up for me.” The other eagle could hardly deny the evidence. Word soon spread, and the lucky bird on the flagpole became the most considered eagle of the range.
An old gardener was shearing and trimming a privet hedge around one of the gardens of a famous duke, when, looking up from his work, he saw a dark figure standing beside him. “Who are you?” the gardener asked.
“I am your death,” replied the figure, “your time has come, gardener, and I must take you away.”
The gardener’s arms fell as he looked at Death. For a few moments he could not speak, but then he said: “My hedge is not yet done. Look, it is evened here as smooth as a baby’s cheek, but yonder it is as wrinkled and rough as my own. Let me finish my work, it will not take me long; I wish to leave the garden in order.”
Death answered him: “Why care about leaving the garden in order? Presently, when I extend my fingers into your old heart, the garden will not matter to you.”
“I have been the duke’s gardener for sixty years,” said the old man, “what will he think of me if I leave him with a rough privet hedge?”
“What will he think of you! Fool, I repeat that in another minute, you will have ceased to care about privets and trimmings and masters.”
“But I care now,” cried the gardener with his last tears in his eyes, “I care, I do, let me complete my work!”
“Death waits for nothing and no one.”
“Yes it does! We are debating, so you’ve delayed!”
“You are mistaken,” Death said, “the moment hadn’t come; but now it has.” And he extended his long fingers into the old man’s heart.