IN HONOR OF the fifth anniversary of his celebrated Magazine on the World-Wide Web, Dr. Boli is reprinting some favorite articles and advertisements from the past five years.

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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.”

IN HONOR OF the fifth anniversary of his celebrated Magazine on the World-Wide Web, Dr. Boli is reprinting some favorite articles and advertisements from the past five years.

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No. 1.—The Organ-Grinder.

“Mother,” said the clever little girl, “look at that funny man over there with the funny machine! Who is he?”

“That man is an organ-grinder, dear child, and if you knew how useful he was you would not think him funny at all.”

“Indeed? Oh, do tell me what he does, mother, for I love to hear you explain things. What is that machine that makes such funny noises, and why is he cranking it like that?”

“He is grinding organs, my dear. When old churches have no more need of their pipe organs, whether because they have replaced them with electrical imitations or because they prefer to sing anaemic folk songs backed by three chords on a guitar, they sell their old organs to this man, and he grinds them into compost.”

“But what are those loud tooting noises I hear from his machine?”

“Those, clever child, are the last agonies of a dying pipe organ. It is a cruel but necessary business, just as I told you when we went to see your uncle’s abattoir.”

“But, mother, what does he do with the compost when he has ground the organs?”

“He sells it to garden centers and farms, where it may even be used to grow new organs of the electrical sort.”

“How useful he is, then! I do not think him funny at all anymore. But one thing I have forgot to ask, dear mother, because I love hearing you talk so much. Why does he keep that funny little monkey with him? What does the monkey do?”

“That little monkey is the man’s administrative assistant, my dear. He sends the monkey around to pay people for bringing in organs to be ground. In a little while, you will see the monkey come around with a hat full of money. Then you should take a few coins from the hat, and the next time we find an organ for which no one has a use anymore, we shall bring it to the organ-grinder, and he will be very pleased to grind it.”

IN HONOR OF the fifth anniversary of his celebrated Magazine on the World-Wide Web, Dr. Boli is reprinting some favorite articles and advertisements from the past five years.

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No. 38.—A Simple Aeroplane.

IT WAS NOT long ago by geological measurements that my friend Ned and I found ourselves drawn to a small lake in the upper part of the state of West Virginia. The hither shore was easily approached through an open woodland terminating in a verdant and gentle slope to the water; but the far side was lined with sheer rock cliffs, at the top of which we could see delightful green forests, which, we persuaded ourselves, must be inhabited by nymphs, and unicorns, and all the other delightful creatures of classical mythology with which a diligent attention to our education had filled our youthful fancies.

We could see no safe ascent from the shore up the stony faces of the cliffs, so that even a small homemade boat, which we had learned to construct as early as Section No. 23 from a few discarded soup cans and the dental floss which Ned’s mother always insisted that he carry in the pocket of his jodhpurs, would be of no avail in conveying us to that enchanted forest at the top of the cliffs.

How we longed for an aeroplane! But there was, alas, no aeroplane to be found, as a quick but thorough search of the hither shore of the lake revealed to us. Nevertheless, we swore a solemn juvenile oath that we should not allow another day to pass without seeing what was at the top of those rocky eminences which seemed to taunt us with their inaccessibility.

The sun had scarcely risen on a new day when we were already hard at work with axe and hatchet, felling the saplings with which we proposed to construct our simple aeroplane. To build the “fuselage,” which was what the central body of an aeroplane was called in those days, we simply tied a number of the straighter saplings together with some sturdy vines, which grew in great profusion among the woodlands bordering the lake. The wings presented more of a challenge, as we deemed a more or less flat surface desirable; but we soon found that sycamore bark, which could easily be peeled off the trees that grew almost up to the shore of the lake, made an excellent covering for a wing constructed of half a dozen light saplings lashed side by side after the manner of a small river raft. More sycamore bark was used to make the ailerons, which were controlled from the front seat by vine ropes arranged as simple pulleys; and a rudder of the same material was added, controlled by another vine pulley from the rear seat.

All that remained to be supplied was some means of motive power. Fortunately there was a boat ramp with a small parking lot nearby, and it was a simple matter to remove the engine from one of the parked cars and put it to better use. A stout board from the fishing pier made an admirable propeller, and so our aeroplane was finished while the sun was yet fairly low in the sky.

We launched our aircraft with a recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance, and in no time we had ascended to the top of the cliffs beyond the lake and were seeing that mythical land beyond with our own eyes. The trees we had spied from the lower shore turned out to be the border of a scrap-metal dealer’s establishment; but, as the manager of the junkyard was a centaur, we did not feel disappointed in our adventure. Best of all, we knew now that we could build and fly an aeroplane, with no preparation and little expense, whenever the ordinary means of transportation were not sufficient for us.