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.

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

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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. This particular little story, rather sneakily, has become the most popular article Dr. Boli has ever published, largely by popping up in search engines when people are searching for another similar story and (apparently) failing to find it.

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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.

“MAMMA, I GAVE a penny to a poor man this morning. Was I a good boy for so doing?’

“It depends on the motive you had in view. Did you give it to him because you thought it would do him good?”

“Yes, mamma, I did; for I saw that he was miserable and unhappy, and when I passed him he held out his hat and begged for a penny so that he could buy a trifle to eat. So I thought of the penny I had in my pocket, and I said to myself, ‘Perhaps with my penny he can buy some food, and then he will not be so miserable.'”

“I am sorry to hear it, my dear boy. This is what you should have thought: ‘This man is poor and in dire need, and I possess the means whereby to sustain his life for another day. This possession gives me the power to place him forever in my debt, and to bind him by invisible chains to do my will in hopes of gaining the penny, which after all I may not give to him if I am not pleased with him. And with the profit I make from his servitude I may purchase the lives of multitudes of similar beggars, and gradually form myself an army of shuffling automatons whose very existence depends on my pleasure.'”

“Ah! mamma, I wish I had thought of that, but I am sure I did not intend to do wrong. You know, mamma, I love you so dearly, that I strive to please you in all things.”

“Yes, my dear, I know you love me, and that is because I hold your wretched little life in my hands, is it not? So think, dear child, when next you meet a beggar, what unimaginable power the single penny in your pocket gives you over the wretched lives of those less fortunate than yourself, and you will make me proud of you.”

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

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ONCE A LITTLE girl was walking along in the cheerful summer forest when she came across a man who was tied to a tree by every sort of chain and shackle.

“Oh, you poor prisoner!” the little girl exclaimed. “I’ll run and get help for you immediately!”

“No, no, you misunderstand,” said the man, who was bound but not gagged, so that at least he could say anything he liked. “I am a completely free man.”

“You don’t look free to me,” said the little girl. “For one thing, you’re chained to the tree by that thing around your waist.”

“Oh, I put that chain there,” the man explained. “I wanted to be safe from falling down, so I chained myself to this tree, which as you can see is quite sturdy. This way I’ll never fall down and bump my head. No price is too high for security, you know.”

“But your legs are shackled together,” the little girl remarked.

“You’re very observant,” the man answered. “If my legs could move freely, they might slide apart, and I would start to slip down the tree, which would be very uncomfortable. So you see, since I’ve chained myself to the tree, it’s much more comfortable to have my legs shackled.”

“But your right arm is chained to this big branch with a bronze chain,” the little girl said.

“It’s gold,” the man replied.

“It looks like bronze to me,” the little girl said.

“I was assured that it was gold,” the man told her. “A very rich man came along with this beautiful gold chain and told me that, if I would let him chain my right arm with it, then I could admire his gold chain all the time, and I would never have to stop looking at it.”

“But your left hand is tied to the chain behind your back,” the little girl said.

“Yes,” the man agreed. “You see, I’m right-handed, so it’s not much use to me to have my left hand flailing about, is it?”

“I see,” the little girl said. “And you’re sure you don’t want me to go find someone to untie you?”

“Oh, no,” said the man. “I have chosen every one of my chains and shackles with absolute freedom. There is not a man on earth who is freer than I.”

So the little girl told the man that it had been pleasant talking with him, and the man wished her a very good day, and the little girl went on her way into the lovely green forest, thinking about what she had seen and heard.

“Well,” the little girl said to herself as she walked, “I suppose he seems happy enough. But still, I’m glad I’m not free. I don’t think I’d like it at all.”

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

(Music: Theme, up  and under for…)

ANNOUNCER. The Adventures of Backstory Man and Angst Boy!

(Music: In full, then fade for…)

ANNOUNCER. As you recall, in our last episode, Backstory Man and Angst Boy had agreed to meet Doctor Lethargicus to discuss his demand for world domination beginning with a nationwide speed limit of fifteen miles per hour. But as they waited for Doctor Lethargicus to appear, suddenly a hidden panel swung open, and…

ANGST BOY. Now what are we going to do? We’re trapped in Doctor Lethargicus’ Web of Inactivity, and we can’t move our arms and legs! It’s like a metaphor for my adolescent life.

BACKSTORY MAN. This is all my fault. I was distracted by memories (which somehow appeared to me in sepia tones) of the time long ago when Doctor Lethargicus was just plain little Herbie, my long-lost younger brother.

ANGST BOY. But I should have known it was a trap! Oh, how can I call myself a sidekick when I can’t protect my mentor from even the most obvious nefarious plots?

BACKSTORY MAN. No, don’t blame yourself, Angst Boy. It is I who must shoulder the blame on this occasion. I have failed you, just as I failed young Herbie when he was your age. If only I had warned him about the dangers of reading Ayn Rand! But no, I thought it was merely a phase he would grow out of.

ANGST BOY. But sooner or later we have to fail, don’t we? I mean, is it even possible to go out heroing all the time without eventually meeting the villain you can’t defeat? And if it’s not possible, then why do we do it? Isn’t our whole body of work meaningless because of this one failure? Doesn’t the whole world know that eventually we have to fail? And is that why none of the cheerleaders at school will ever pay any attention to me?

BACKSTORY MAN. You remind me so much of Herbie when he was your age. He said just the same thing after he saved me from that speeding freight train when I was home from college and he was only sixteen. At least he said the part about the cheerleaders. I don’t remember the rest of what he said.

ANGST BOY. Then this is it. We might as well give up and admit that we’ll never live up to the standard that’s expected of us as heroes.

BACKSTORY MAN. No, Angst Boy. Never give up. That was the last thing my mother said to me before my parents mysteriously disappeared in the Bermuda Triangle, leaving me with no clue as to their whereabouts except monthly postcards with pictures of sand dollars and seagulls on them. And in honor of that last wish, I have taken a solemn oath never to give up on anything.

ANGST BOY. Aren’t you the one who doesn’t have a driver’s license because you said the test was too hard?

BACKSTORY MAN. Never give up on anything important. That’s my motto. It has to be important.

ANGST BOY. And here I am, sidekick to a hero who can’t drive. Is this what I was supposed to be by the time I was sixteen?

ANNOUNCER. Will Backstory Man and Angst Boy be stuck forever in Doctor Lethargicus’ Web of Inactivity? Will next week’s episode be stretched out with ultimately meaningless dialogue? Tune in next week at this same time to the Adventures of Backstory Man and Angst Boy!

(Music: Theme, up and under for…)

ANNOUNCER. Kids, have you had your Malt-O-Cod today? Your parents must be awfully negligent if they don’t make sure you’re well supplied with the rich, satisfying flavor of Malt-O-Cod every morning. Perhaps you ought to report them to the authorities. Visit the Malt-O-Cod Web site for the addresses of child protective services organizations in your area. And tell them Backstory Man and Angst Boy sent you!

(Music: In full, then out.)