ANNOUNCER. And now Malt-O-Cod, the delicious and nutritious malt food drink flavored with real cod-liver oil, presents…

(Music: Stinger.)

ANNOUNCER. The Amazing Adventures of…The Chihuahua!

(Music: Theme, in and under for…)

ANNOUNCER. Ponsonberry Primrose was an ordinary angst-ridden young man until, one night in his job at the Pet Palace, he was bitten by an annoying and moderately radioactive small dog. The radioactive bite gave him the fabled powers of…The Chihuahua!

(Music: Theme, in full, then fade.)

ANNOUNCER. Today we find Ponsonberry Primrose sitting in his living room with his love interest and frequent damsel in distress Janey Lou…

PRIMROSE. Gee, this is swell, Janey Lou. Just you and me, an old movie on the television, some popcorn and a glass of Malt-O-Cod for each of us—what could be nicer?

JANEY LOU. Well, it could be nicer to have a boyfriend who wasn’t too cheap to take me out to the movies once in a while. But whatever.

(Sound: Doorbell.)

PRIMROSE. Someone’s at the door! Someone’s at the door! Someone’s standing on the porch right now, ringing the doorbell! The nerve of him! Just ringing the doorbell, like he owned the front porch! Why, I oughta go out there right now and show him a thing or two! I oughta go out there right now and tell him who’s the boss around here! He’s right there, right now, on the porch!

JANEY LOU. I’ll get it.

PRIMROSE. Ringing the doorbell! Right now! I’ll tear him limb from limb, that’s what I’ll do! Standing on the porch like he owns the place! He didn’t reckon with me, that’s for sure! I’ll rip his legs off and make kibble out of ’em! I’ll chase him from here to Montana! He won’t know what hit him! He’ll be sorry he ever messed with me, you can bet on it!

JANEY LOU. Calm down. It’s just the mailman.

PRIMROSE. The mailman! My arch-nemesis! Prancing around the neighborhood with his evil blue uniform and his bag of horrors! Well, he’s not going to get away with it! He didn’t reckon with me when he started stepping on people’s porches and pushing doorbell buttons willy-nilly!

JANEY LOU. Get a grip, Ponse. He’s like, six-four and three hundred pounds. You’re, what, five-six?

(Sound: Door opening.)

PRIMROSE. Let me at him! I’ll lay him low like you wouldn’t believe! He’ll need three undertakers when I’m done with him! He’ll have stitches up one side of his body and down the other! I’ll give him rabies! I’ll go out and get rabies, and I’ll give it to him! I’ll bite his head right off his fat neck! I’ll take all the junk mail and stuff it down his throat!

JANEY LOU. Sorry about all the noise.

MAILMAN. It’s okay. I’m used to it. Just sign for this package, and—

PRIMROSE. It’s a trap! That package is rigged! The pen is rigged! The receipt is rigged! Don’t do it! Emergency! Let me out there, and I’ll protect you from the wicked machinations of the postal service! Let ’em send a million mailmen! I’ll beat ’em all up with one hand tied behind my back! I’ll lay ’em out like department-store mannequins! I’ll rip their arms off and feed them to the starlings!

JANEY LOU. Here you go.

MAILMAN. Thanks. Have a nice day.

PRIMROSE. Yeah, you better run, you coward! You think your thin blue armor will protect you from me? Well, you’ve got another think coming, that’s what you’ve got! You better not come back here with your letters and packages and free local coupon booklets! You better think twice about setting foot in this neighborhood again! I’d move to another state if I were you, that’s what I’d do!

JANEY LOU. You know, my roommate turned down a date with Captain Pleonasm because she said he was too talky.

PRIMROSE. He thinks he can just waltz up on people’s porches and push their doorbell buttons like it’s nothing at all. But he didn’t reckon with me. No, sir. I chased him off. I chased him from here to sundown. He can’t come up on this porch and ring the doorbell. Not while I’m around he can’t.

JANEY LOU. “Talk, talk, talk—that’s all he does.” That’s what she said.

PRIMROSE. If he tries that again I’ll teach him a thing or two. I’ll break both his legs. I’ll tear his ankles off. He can’t come up on people’s porches like that, like he owned the place. He can’t go around wearing blue uniforms whenever he wants to. Someone’s got to tell him people won’t stand for that sort of thing, and that someone’s going to be me.

JANEY LOU. And I thought to myself, “Well, I can beat that.” But I didn’t say anything.

PRIMROSE. If he comes here again he’ll get a contusion, that’s what he’ll get. He’ll be so black and blue they’ll think he got hit by a subway train. He’s gonna go home aching, that’s for sure. I’ll make him regret the day he decided to set foot on this porch. Oh, look! Popcorn.

(Music: Theme, in and under for…)

ANNOUNCER. And so, once again, the Chihuahua saves Janey Lou from the powers of evil and makes the neighborhood safe for doorbells. Tune in next week for more of the same, I guess. In the meantime, kids, why not mix yourselves up a great big glass of Malt-O-Cod right now? Malt-O-Cod is the only malt food drink with the rich, satisfying taste of 100% real cod-liver oil. You know as well as I do, kids, that the artificial cod-liver-oil flavor in those other malt food drinks just doesn’t cut it. So remember to shame your parents into brand loyalty. Accept no substitutes for Malt-O-Cod—the malt food drink that’s brain food.

(Music: Theme, in full then out.)

ANNOUNCER. And now Malt-O-Cod, the only malt food drink flavored with real cod-liver oil, proudly presents…

(Music: Fanfare)

ANNOUNCER. The Adventures of Sir Montague Blastoff, Interplanetary Space Dragoon!

(Music: Theme, in and under for…)

ANNOUNCER. Tonight we find Sir Montague with Colonel Wilhelmina Darling in New York of 1836, with picturesque carriages and sumptuous costumes and other things that cost a lot less on radio than in the movies.

SIR MONTAGUE. Well, Colonel, here we are—thanks to our earlier perfection of time travel—in November of 1836, just in time to prevent the election of Martin Van Buren as President of the United States and assure a Whig victory.

COL. DARLING. But I still don’t see why we had to come all this way to interfere with a minor historical figure in one of those forgotten backwater countries that used to infest the earth before the Interplanetary High Commission sorted everything out.

SIR MONTAGUE. My dear Colonel, the misery wrought by the Panic of 1837 led to untold—

SIR MONTAGUE (distant). Oh, I say! There you are!

COL. DARLING (distant). Wilhelmina! Wait for us!

COL. DARLING. Look, Monty! It’s us!

SIR MONTAGUE. I say! Is this another hiccup with the machinery?

SIR MONTAGUE (approaching). Not at all. I came looking for you, actually. Jolly good thing I found you, too.  I’ve come to tell you to turn back before it’s too late. It turns out that the consequences of a Whig victory in 1836 were nothing short of appalling.

SIR MONTAGUE. Really?

SIR MONTAGUE. Indeed. The effect on contemporary interplanetary culture has been simply devastating.

COL. DARLING. Look at these uniforms we have to wear. Polyester velour!

COL. DARLING. Ew!

SIR MONTAGUE (distant). Just a moment there!

COL. DARLING. Look! It’s us again!

SIR MONTAGUE (approaching). Good thing we caught up with the four of you! It turns out that Martin Van Buren must be stopped after all. By a series of events too complicated to explain right now, his election led to a complete collapse of the Interplanetary Union shortly after the second pair of you left.

SIR MONTAGUE. My word! That’s awkward.

SIR MONTAGUE. It certainly is. So the mission is on again, eh?

SIR MONTAGUE (distant). Not quite, I’m afraid!

COL. DARLING. It’s two more of us!

SIR MONTAGUE (approaching). After a round of jolly complicated calculations by the boffins, we’ve discovered that it was actually the election of Richard M. Johnson as vice president in 1836 that led to all the troubles down the road, so to speak.

COL. DARLING. So we have to prevent Richard M. Johnson from being elected, but not Martin Van Buren?

COL. DARLING. Yes, to prevent polyester.

COL. DARLING. No, I’m afraid the polyester will happen anyway. The boffins couldn’t calculate a way around it.

COL. DARLING. But I hate polyester! It doesn’t breathe!

COL. DARLING. Actually, a few of us have taken to wearing a cotton-polyester blend. It’s against regulations, and who knows what would happen if we were caught, but—

SIR MONTAGUE (approaching). I say, do any of you fine ladies and gentlemen know which way it is to 1841?

COL. DARLING (approaching). Monty, I think you forgot to reset the temporal coordinates.

SIR MONTAGUE. Oh, that must be it. Sorry, everyone. Obviously Colonel Darling is correct; I simply forgot to reset the dial thingy after coming here to tell you all that it was John Tyler who had to be stopped, not Richard M. Johnson.

SIR MONTAGUE. But you haven’t told us anything of the sort.

SIR MONTAGUE. Really? Well, we should be along any moment now.

SIR MONTAGUE (distant). I say, everyone, wait just a minute! It’s not Johnson or Van Buren at all! It’s Tyler!

SIR MONTAGUE. Ah, there we are now.

SIR MONTAGUE (approaching). One pair of us has got to get to March of 1841 and slip President Harrison some penicillin.

COL. DARLING. We’ll go, won’t we, Monty?

COL. DARLING. No, don’t bother. We can take care of it.

COL. DARLING. Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.

COL. DARLING. If neither of you want to do it, I’m sure we could manage.

COL. DARLING. You actually look rather fetching in polyester velour.

COL. DARLING. Do you really think so? Don’t tell anyone, but it’s a cotton-polyester blend.

(Music: Theme, in and under for…)

NARRATOR. Will Sir Montague and Colonel Darling make it to 1841 in time to stop President Harrison from kicking the bucket? Don’t miss next week’s thrilling episode: Sir Montague Blastoff and Article 2, Section 1, Clause 6 of the United States Constitution! Until then, kids, remember to whine frequently until your parents bring home the Malt-O-Cod, the only malt food drink with the rich, satisfying flavor of real cod-liver oil. For a limited time only, you’ll find a little packet with more Malt-O-Cod in it inside each specially marked package of Malt-O-Cod. So remember that name, kids: Malt-O-Cod, the malt food drink that’s brain food.

(Music: In full, then out.)

Announcer. Malt-O-Cod, the only malt food drink flavored with real cod-liver oil, presents…

[Music: Laughing trombone.]

Announcer. The Adventures of Sarkastiko, the hero with the rapier wit!

[Music: Theme, in and under for…]

Announcer. Yes, Sarkastiko, armed only with his cutting repartee and an actual rapier, fights for justice and freedom on a daily basis, like that will help.

[Music: Theme fades.]

Announcer. As you recall, last week Sarkastiko had just found the secret lair of Professor Literal, when suddenly he was surrounded by henchmen, and…

Prof. Literal. Aha! Now you are in my power at last, Sarkastiko!

Sarkastiko. Yeah, it looks like I’ve got you right where I want you, doesn’t it?

Prof. Literal. I think you fail to understand the gravity of your situation. It is I who have you right where I want you. Your puny thin little sword is ineffectual against my henchmen armed with machine guns, hand grenades, and anti-tank weaponry.

Sarkastiko. I suppose you might have a tiny advantage in the weapons department.

Prof. Literal. I assure you, Sarkastiko, it is a very large advantage! You are completely helpless now, though I admit that your resistance was valiant.

Sarkastiko. Yeah, I really aced this one, didn’t I?

Prof. Literal. Not exactly. But you have fought bravely, and I respect that. I will therefore allow you to choose the manner of your own demise. How would you like to die?

Sarkastiko. Um…old age? Heh heh.

Prof. Literal. Oh! Very well, then. See you in seventy years or so. And no cheating and dying of cancer in the mean time.

Sarkastiko. Um…

Prof. Literal. Or getting hit by a streetcar. I hate that! I’ll be watching! And you should cut down on fatty foods. I want you to have your cholesterol checked.

Sarkastiko. Uh, okay.

Prof. Literal. Now bundle up. It’s chilly out there. The last thing we want is to have you catching pneumonia and depriving me of my ultimate victory when you’re a hundred and three or so. I shall very much enjoy watching your slow withering away into senility! Careful on the steps on the way out.

Sarkastiko. Um, right.

Announcer. And so once again Sarkastiko is saved by his razor-sharp wit, although at the cost of making this week’s episode a little shorter than we expected. Tune in next week for more of the Adventures of Sarkastiko, the hero with the rapier wit! And the actual rapier.

[Music: Theme, in and under for…]

Announcer. Kids, Sarkastiko knows that you’d never take advantage of your parents’ concern for your health. So it’s not like kids your age would ever try to get the Malt-O-Cod you crave by needling your moms and dads about the health benefits of your favorite malt food drink. But you should know that children who drink Malt-O-Cod have been shown to be 17% less likely to be attacked by killer bees. Not that you’d ever have any use for that information. So remember that name, kids: Malt-O-Cod, the malt food drink that’s brain food.

[Music: In full, then out.]

Announcer. Malt-O-Cod, the only malt food drink flavored with real cod-liver oil, presents…

[Music: Simple fanfare.]

Announcer. The Adventures of Common-Sense Man!

[Music: Theme, in and under for…]

Announcer. Common-Sense Man, standing up for all that is good, decent, and practical whenever it is threatened by dogmatism and theoreticism! In his strikingly comfortable khaki slacks and mid-blue polo shirt, Common-Sense Man drives his very practical Toyota Prius at the posted speed limit to arrive within a reasonable time whenever there is danger!

[Music: In full, then out.]

Announcer. As you recall, last week our hero was captured and taken to the underground lair of the Dragon, a fiendish villain bent on destroying the world by fire!

Dragon. So you see, Common-Sense Man, my plan is perfect. There is nothing you can do to stop me. With one press of this button, I shall set off a chain reaction in all the world’s nuclear arsenals, cleansing the earth in a storm of flame! Then the world shall know that I am [reverb] the Dragon.

Common-Sense Man. But how will you and your minions survive?

Dragon. Aha! I have thought of that! Here in this underground bunker, I shall be perfectly secure!

Common-Sense Man. But who’s going to generate your electricity?

Dragon. What?

Common-Sense Man. I mean, you use electricity for everything down here. Where will you get your power when everyone who works at Duquesne Light is dead?

Dragon. Well, I could—I could buy a generator.

Common-Sense Man. You mean the kind that runs on gasoline? Who’s going to refine your oil for you?

Dragon. Um, I.… Okay, smarty-pants,  I’ll go solar! Ha! Didn’t see that coming, did you? I’ll go solar, and then I won’t need Duquesne Light or a generator!

Common-Sense Man. But solar panels need to be replaced every so often. Can you make a solar cell? Did you remember to pick a photoelectric engineer as one of your minions? And batteries wear out even faster than solar cells. Can you make a rechargeable battery out of stuff you have lying around the lair?

Dragon. Well, gee, you kind of take the fun out of everything. I mean, if that’s the way it’s going to be, I might as well go back to managing the Burger Yurt.

Common-Sense Man. Well, now, that’s a very good idea. There are lots of opportunities for practical evil in the fast-food business.

Dragon. Yes. Yes! I could do something really evil with the Burger Yurt! I could… I could put a timer on drive-through transactions, but not on counter sales, and measure employee performance by the timer, so that the entire drive-through line will be cleared before a single walk-in customer is served! That’s evil, isn’t it?

Common-Sense Man. At least it’s not very nice. It’s a good first step. And it’s very practical.

Dragon. Hoho! I see it all now! Nuclear annihilation is for sissies! The real playground of evil is food service!

Announcer. And so once again Common-Sense Man saves the earth from destruction, although at the cost of a certain amount of inconvenience to the lunch crowd. Tune in again next time for more thrilling and edifying adventures of Common-Sense Man!

[Music: Theme, in and under for…]

Announcer. Kids, one thing Common-Sense Man knows is that you can’t start the day without a good breakfast. That’s why he always starts the morning with a great big glass of Malt-O-Cod, the only malt food drink with the delicious flavor of one hundred per cent real cod-liver oil. Then he eats some eggs, toast, and fruit, because the FDA wants us to tell you that. So remember, kids, tell your parents it’s just good common sense to stock up on Malt-O-Cod today!

[Music: In full, then out.]

Does that not sound like a splendid subject for a fable? But we are not going to hear it. Instead, we are going to hear the story of How the Leopard Got His Spots. This is a literary technique known as bait and switch.

In his youth, the Leopard was known for his wild and reckless behavior. It was a frequent subject of hand-wringing and head-shaking among the other animals of the jungle.

“He has no thought for the future,” said the wise old Elephant. “He never considers the consequences of his actions.”

“He drives like a maniac,” added the Okapi. “I mean, he would if we had cars.”

“Something ought to be done to teach him some responsibility,” said the Musk Ox, who had come south for the jungle climate on the advice of his doctor.

“I shall teach him responsibility,” the Lion declared. All eyes turned toward the wise and magnanimous king of the beasts. “I shall teach him by giving him a kind of responsibility which will engage his pride, his amour-propre as it were.” The animals were always particularly impressed when the Lion threw a little French into casual conversation, although in fact the only French words the Lion knew were “amour” and “propre.” “He will be given a responsibility essential to the well-being of all, and the consequences of failure will be shame and embarrassment.”

“A wise decision,” the animals all agreed, and there was scattered polite applause.

So the Lion summoned the Leopard into the royal presence.

“What’s cookin’, pops?” the Leopard asked with a jocularity that had all the other animals cringing.

“I have a very important mission for you,” the Lion told him with imperturbable good cheer.

“Solid!” replied the Leopard, who was always “hep” to the latest “jive.”

“You must carry this tray on your back to the Chimpanzee, who lives on the other side of the valley,” the Lion explained. “On it are six open bottles of ink, which the Chimpanzee will use to write his quarterly report. As I am sure you are aware, without quarterly reports the entire machinery of government grinds to a halt. Yours is therefore a mission of the utmost importance, and it requires extreme steadiness and careful concentration. One thoughtless step, and your splendid yellow coat will be ruined. Can you do it?”

“I won’t let you down, pops,” the Leopard assured him.

So the Elephant used her trunk to lower the tray carefully onto the Leopard’s back, and the Leopard set out for the other side of the valley, treading the well-worn jungle track as carefully as he could.

He had been walking only a few minutes when he met the Hyena, who was rolling on the ground laughing uncontrollably.

“Oh—oh—oh!” gasped the Hyena. “I just heard the funniest joke! I must tell it to you!”

“Oh, man, I love a good joke!—But no; no, I have an important responsibility now, and I must not fail. If I laughed too hard, the ink would surely spill all over me, and everyone would know that I had failed. You must excuse me; I will hear your joke when I am done.”

So the Leopard walked carefully onward, even though he really wanted to hear the Hyena’s joke.

It was not long before he met the Cheetah along the way.

“I just learned this solid new dance,” she told him, bouncing up and down with excitement. “Won’t you please dance it with me?”

“Oh, man, I love to dance with you!—But no; no, I have an important responsibility now, and I must not fail. If I danced with you, the ink would spill all over me, and everyone would know I had failed. You must excuse me; I will dance with you when I am done.”

So the Leopard walked carefully onward, even though he really wanted to dance with the Cheetah, who had a bit of a reputation as a wild girl.

It was not long before he met the Grey Parrot, who never had anything good to say.

“Aw, your mother sells inferior foreign-made footwear in a discount department store,” the Grey Parrot said with a beaky sneer.

“Oh, man, I’d love to chase that bird!” the Leopard said to himself. “But no; no, I have an important responsibility now, and I must not fail. If I chased him, the ink would spill all over me, and everyone would know I had failed. There will be time to chase the Parrot when I am done.”

At last the Leopard came to the Chimpanzee, who relieved him of the tray of ink, thanked him profusely, and wrote him a receipt to take back to the Lion. The Lion congratulated the Leopard on a job well done, and hoped he understood now how good it felt to take personal responsibility for something important.

“I sure do,” said the Leopard. “I’m going out to celebrate right now!”

So the Leopard ran around the corner to the tattoo parlor. “I feel like celebrating,” he said. “I want something really wild. Something like what the Cheetah’s got.” And the tattooist gave him what he wanted. And that is the story of how the Leopard got his spots, which made quite a change in his appearance. The next time he passed by, the Giraffe was so surprised that he stretched his neck way out to get a better look, and it stuck that way. So it seems we did hear the story of how the Giraffe got his neck after all.

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

In its first run, this was one of Dr. Boli’s most popular articles. It accumulated a long chain of comments, which are worth reading if you are a connoisseur of Internet comments.

ONCE TWO SCIENTISTS—it hardly matters what sort—were walking before dinner beside a pleasant pond with their friend, a reporter for the Dispatch, when they happened to notice a bird standing beside the water.

“I am a skeptic,” said the first scientist. “I demand convincing evidence before I make an assertion. But I believe I can identify that bird, beyond all reasonable doubt, as a duck.” The journalist nodded silently at this assertion.

“I also am a skeptic,” said the second, “but evidently of a more refined sort, for I demand a much higher standard of evidence than you do. I see no irrefutable evidence to back up your assertion that this object before us is even a bird, let alone positively identifying it as a duck.” The journalist raised his eyebrow sagely.

“But what of the feathers?” the first scientist demanded. “Surely you must have noticed the feathers, which are the veritable hallmark, so to speak, of a bird.”

“I have seen nearly identical feathers on a feather duster,” the second replied. “At present the evidence is not strong enough to say whether the object before us is a member of the avian genus Anas or a common household implement.” The journalist held his chin and pondered this revelation.

“But this object has two legs, and walks upon the ground,” the first scientist objected.

“So indeed do many members of the genus Homo, including our own species,” the second replied, and the journalist smiled a knowing smile.

“But this creature has webbed feet,” the first scientist pointed out, his voice rising slightly.

“My cousin Albrecht has webbed feet,” the second replied. “You are making my case for me by presenting not one but two compelling pieces of evidence that this object is in fact a member of the genus Homo, and very likely my cousin Albrecht.” The journalist looked up, as though he were carefully weighing the argument.

“But it has a broad and flat bill,” the first scientist said.

“The platypus has a broad and flat bill,” the second pointed out, “and so has a baseball cap. Since we have much evidence that suggests the object is a member of the genus Homo, and some that suggests it belongs to the genus Ornithorhynchus, it seems reasonable to suppose, as a provisional hypothesis, that the object is a mammal, and with somewhat less certainty we may identify it as my cousin Albrecht wearing a baseball cap.” The journalist, unable to suppress his instincts any longer, produced a long, narrow notebook and began to scribble furiously.

“But it has feathers!” the first scientist shouted. “It has feathers, and two legs, and webbed feet, and a broad flat bill, and it says ‘quack,’ and—look—it’s gone into the pond now, and it’s floating on the water. It’s a duck!”

“Each one of those observations is susceptible of a different explanation,” the second scientist responded calmly. “Where is your compelling evidence?”

The first scientist slapped his forehead. Then, calming himself, he turned to his friend the reporter. “Since we seem unable to reach a conclusion,” he said, “would you be kind enough to favor us with your opinion?”

“Reputable scientists disagree,” said the journalist. “There is a debate. The question is far from settled. The truth probably lies between the two extremes of duck and not-duck.”

So the two scientists both stomped away in dudgeon and hostility, and the journalist, unable by himself to decide where to eat dinner, starved to death.

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

In honor of the seventh anniversary of his Magazine’s appearance on the World-Wide Web, Dr. Boli is reprinting a few notable items from the past seven years.

—

Once there was a little Dutch boy who discovered a leak in the dike.

What should he do? From a single leak, a terrible breach might grow. The whole country could be flooded, and everyone he knew would drown.

So he did the only thing he could think of. He stuck his finger in the dike, and the leak stopped.

Of course, now he was stuck. He couldn’t move, because as soon as he did, the leak would start again.

So he stood there for quite some time. He was rather tired, and his finger felt a bit numb from the effort of holding back the North Sea, but he knew he was doing his duty.

At last the Burgomaster happened to pass by.

“Young man,” he said with a certain amount of sternness, “why are you poking your finger in the dike?”

“I am stopping a leak,” the boy explained. “I saw the dike leaking, so I stuck my finger in the hole.”

“Heroic boy!” the Burgomaster exclaimed. “You shall be rewarded! Meanwhile, keep your finger there while I call the Burghers together.”

So the Burgomaster called a meeting of the Burghers, and they agreed that the boy had heroically saved Holland.

“And now,” the Burgomaster asked, “what shall we do about the leak?”

“It seems to me,” one of the Burghers replied, “that private enterprise has already found an admirable solution to the problem. The boy has stuck his finger in the dike, and the leak has stopped. You might describe it as voluntary self-regulation. There is no need for expensive government action.”

So the Burghers voted to award the boy a Certificate of Good Citizenship, which the Burgomaster was delighted to be able to present to him the next day.

“Thank you,” the boy said politely, “but I still have my finger in this dike.”

“And we appreciate that,” the Burgomaster replied. “I may confidently speak for the whole Council of Burghers in saying that your heroic action is universally admired.”

So the boy stood there with his finger in the dike for a few more days.

It was not long, however, before another leak sprang in the dike, a little bit farther down the way.

“What shall we do?” the Burgomaster asked the Burghers. “There is another leak.”

“As private enterprise has so admirably solved the previous problem,” one of the Burghers responded, “the solution to this new leak is obvious. We need only persuade another heroic boy to stick his finger in it.”

So they went into the local school and found another boy who, after much persuasion, was willing to stick his finger in the dike.

It was, however, only a few days later that two more leaks appeared. This time it was much harder to persuade boys to stick their fingers in the holes; and when, a week later, half a dozen more leaks appeared, no volunteers were to be found.

“What shall we do?” the Burgomaster asked the Council. “Private enterprise seems no longer to be adequate. We may have to repair the dike itself this time.”

“Nonsense,” said one of the Burghers. “The solution that worked before will work again. We must simply force private enterprise into action.”

So the Council visited the school and dragged a number of young boys by the ears to the dike, where they were forced to plug the leaks with their fingers.

But the dike, which was old and poorly maintained, continued to spring new leaks here and there, so that it was all the Burghers could do to find more boys to plug up the leaks with their fingers. At last the Burghers compelled every little boy in the Low Countries to stick his finger in a hole. All economic activity came to a halt, as it is well known that young boys are the leading consumers of skates and cheese, on which the economy of Holland depended at that time.

“What shall we do?” the Burgomaster asked the Council. “We have run out of heroic little boys. At this rate, we may have to plug the leaks with our own fingers.”

“That would be moderately inconvenient,” one of the Burghers remarked.

So the Council voted to remove the North Sea by digging a new seabed somewhere in Germany; and they voted themselves a number of solid gold spades, befitting their dignity, for the purpose. And if you go to suburban Wilhelmshaven right now, and look into the field to your right as you drive westward on the Friedenstrasse, you will see a number of Dutch burghers very busy with their spades, trying to dig a new bed for the North Sea. It is lucky for them that the people of Wilhelmshaven have mistaken the burghers for a party of archaeologists looking for ancient Saxon remains, which has allowed them to continue the work uninterrupted.

 

Back in the old days, when hardy pioneers lived in log cabins built from logs they had hewn themselves from trees they had painstakingly assembled from toothpicks, people used to love to tell the story of How the Raccoon Got His Mask. They hated like anything to hear it, but they loved to tell it. And this is how it went:

The raccoon was the most elegant creature in the forest, and he used to strut along the bank of the creek all day, first one way and then the other, but never both at once, saying, “Look at me, I’m hardly elegant at all.” He said that because he was fishing for compliments. So one day the vole, who in those days was eight feet tall, came along and said, “I agree that you are hardly elegant at all. And do you know why that is?”

“No,” answered the raccoon, who was more than a little annoyed that the vole had agreed with him instead of paying him the compliment he had expected.

“It is because you are not wearing a tiara,” the vole explained. “Everyone who is truly elegant wears a tiara.”

“Wouldn’t I look a bit silly with a tiara?” asked the raccoon.

“Or cufflinks,” the vole added. “Cufflinks are very elegant, especially if you have cuffs.”

“I don’t have cuffs,” the raccoon said.

“You know what else is elegant?” the vole continued. “Proposition 47 in Book I of Euclid. That is a seriously elegant demonstration.”

“But can I wear it?” asked the raccoon.

“Well, I have seen the figure silkscreened on a T-shirt,” the vole responded. “But then one must admit that T-shirts with printed figures on them are not very elegant, and where does that leave us?”

“Where indeed?” the raccoon agreed.

“I think it leaves us back at the tiara,” said the vole; and, bidding the raccoon good day, he lumbered off into the forest, accidentally knocking over a few saplings as he went.

The raccoon still thought he would look perfectly ridiculous with a tiara. But later that day, he happened to pass the opossum’s annual spring-cleaning yard sale, and on the front table was a rather dashing black mask, and the opossum only wanted a quarter for it, so the raccoon figured, hey, why not? And that, dear, children, is the story of How the Raccoon Got His Mask.