Frogs, toads, and that dang alligator
๐ธ Frogs, Toads, and That Dang Alligator
There’s a farmer downriver who took it upon himself to classify all the critters living on his land. He said it was for science, but mostly it was for bragging rights down at the feed store. He had two categories to work with: frogs and toads.
Now, you’d think this would be simple enough, but nothing in this world has ever been simple once a man with a pencil gets involved.
First, he marched out to the swamp and scooped up a whole bucket of hoppers. The little green ones that sing at night — “That’s frogs,” he declared with a flourish. The fat brown ones that look like they swallowed their own dignity — “That’s toads.” So far, so good.
But then he dragged home something that stretched the definition of “bucket.” Long snout, teeth like fence pickets, and a tail that cleared the cornrows when it swung. And the farmer says, “Well now, this here must be a very large toad. Or maybe a frog with ambition.”
He wrote it down in his notebook: Alligator — uncertain. Leans to frog.
His wife, God bless her, peeked over his shoulder and said, “You sure that’s wise?” And he said, “Course it is. Ain’t no third category. It’s frogs or toads, that’s the system.”
By the time the alligator ate half his ducks and chased him out of his own pond, the farmer was still insisting it was a misbehaving toad. “A rare breed,” he explained, “but still within classification.”
Moral:
When your categories are too small for the truth, don’t be surprised if the truth develops teeth. And it’ll be you who gets classified — straight into supper.
๐ Straight Lines of Suspicion
There were two neighbors lived side by side, and like all good neighbors they had nothing better to do than keep track of each other’s sins.
The first one leaned on the fence and said, “I been keeping an eye on how you mow your lawn.”
The second one, without so much as a blink, says, “Well I knew you was going to be keeping an eye on me, and that’s exactly why I mowed them lines so straight you couldn’t tell whether I done it to annoy you or just because I like straight lines.”
Now that set the first one back a spell. He scratched his chin and said, “So you’re saying you only pretended not to pretend to provoke me?”
“Exactly,” said the second, “and the beauty of it is you’ll never know if I was pretending or not, because your suspicion is part of the design. It’s like mowing with plausible deniability.”
“Well that ain’t fair,” says the first. “If I can’t tell whether you’re provoking me, how am I supposed to feel properly provoked?”
The second man leaned back, proud as a cat that just ate the Sunday chicken. “That’s the genius of it. You’re already provoked — just by not knowing. My lawnmower is running on your paranoia.”
Moral:
Some men mow their grass, and some men mow their neighbor’s peace of mind. But both end up with clippings all over their shoes.
๐ The Man Who Moved a Mountain (Sort Of)
There was once a man who decided that a mountain needed moving. Now, he was no fool, and he knew mountains are heavy, stubborn things, and he wasn’t about to blister his own hands over it.
So he fetched a group of neighbors and told them, “This mountain stands in your way. It’s blocking your sunshine, stealing your rain, and I reckon if you move it, your children will inherit valleys of milk and honey.”
Well, that was all it took. Out came the shovels. Men, women, and even the children dug from sunup to sundown, dirt in their hair, sweat down their backs. Every time they tired, the man clapped his hands and said, “Splendid progress! You’re almost there. Just a little further and the mountain will be no more.”
Years passed, and the mountain grew smaller. The neighbors grew thinner, poorer, and wearier. And the man? He never so much as bent his back. He stood in the shade sipping lemonade, nodding like a general inspecting his troops.
Finally, when the mountain was nearly gone, one of the neighbors paused, leaned on his shovel, and asked, “Say, who exactly wanted this mountain moved in the first place?”
The man smiled, raised his glass, and said, “Why, you did. I just had the good sense to let you discover it for yourselves.”
๐ The Story of the Crick That Could Use a Dam
Once upon a time, there was a crick that could use a dam. Folks in Lemon County figured if they built it right, they’d have better fishin’ than ever before.
Now, there was one fellow who everybody swore up and down was the only man alive who knew how to do it right. “If he don’t put them fish in,” they said, “they won’t multiply proper. And if that dam ain’t twenty foot wide, well, it might as well not be built at all.”
They begged him, they hollered at him, they near about sang hymns to him, just to get him to take up the work. And he obliged, at least on the surface. Rolled up his sleeves, squared his shoulders, and looked every inch the man who was about to set history in motion.
But just as he walked down to the crick bank, he saw a curious sight. All the townsfolk had gone racing ahead with shovels, logs, and rocks, determined to do the work themselves.
The man stopped, tilted his head, and smiled. Then he walked back up the hill, sat himself in his lawn chair, and leaned back just where he’d started — and where he always knew he’d end up.
Moral:
The cleverest man in town is the one who gets credited with building the dam, while the whole county sweats to prove him right.
๐จ The City Hall Paint Job
The folks of Lemon County were in a fix. City Hall was looking duller than a barn in February, and the governor was due for a visit. Somebody said the building needed to gleam so bright it would make the sun feel underdressed.
Now, there was a man who allowed as how he had the perfect idea: paint it with Zepler-Tastic Ultra-White Mega-Gleam, “the whitest white since Creation,” as he described it. The whole town agreed it was the greatest idea they had ever had.
Naturally, since it was their idea, he didn’t want to interfere. No sense spoiling such fine civic inspiration. Of course, he’d be right there to nod and say “splendid!” when they asked if the shade was pure enough.
So they humbled and they grumbled, scraped and tumbled, hauling up ladders, dripping in sweat, splattering themselves whiter than the building itself. The fellow in question sat by, hands folded, making sure not to mess up a thing.
By the time the governor arrived, City Hall gleamed so bright that pigeons flew into it mistaking it for the sky. The governor tipped his hat and said, “Fine job, sir.” And the man nodded graciously, as if to say, Well, I did tell them it was their idea.
Moral:
The brightest paint in the county isn’t on City Hall — it’s on the smile of the man who never lifted a brush.
๐ The Helicopter Idea
There was a commotion in Lemon County when the townsfolk insisted they were finally carrying out “his grand idea.” They said it with such pride you’d think they’d invented fire and bottled lightning in the same afternoon.
The man himself sat back and listened, nodding politely, until he couldn’t take it any longer.
“My idea?” he said. “Well now, that can’t be, because my idea involved me and a couple of helicopters. And unless I’ve gone blind, I don’t see myself or any helicopters in this arrangement. So whatever it is you’re doing out there, that must be your idea. Congratulations on doing it.”
They cheered just the same, hoisting shovels, paintbrushes, or whatever it was they had, convinced the whole business was a triumph of shared vision.
And he leaned back in his chair, thinking: If they want to sweat for their idea while calling it mine, who am I to argue?
Moral:
If your neighbors mistake their blisters for your brilliance, don’t correct them — just be sure to keep the helicopters in reserve. Since that is what my idea is.
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