Tale of the Cat, the Possum, and the Rooster

 

                                                    By H. L. Dowless

Once there was a cat, a possum, and a rooster.  One afternoon this black and white barnyard cat said, “Well Hoss, I sure wish I had a fish.”

 

The possum said with a toothy grin, “Yes, well that would be nice, but this fresh plum will suffice, for now least wise.”

 The rooster said, “Well, cock-a-doodle-dew all day!”

 

Come morning time, the three went for a walk by a field side. The field had recently been plowed. The dirt was cool and slightly damp, feeling really good to walk through with bare feet early in the morning. The cat turned to the possum and said; “My oh my, a cup of thick, rich, jet black coffee would be just great, right about now.”

   

The possum replied, “Yeah for sure, but much better with a square of freshly made cornbread, and maybe a bit of cheese and a fried egg.”

  

 Both of them then turned to glare at the rooster wearing slobbering sly grins, who said, “Cock-a-doodle-dew, now it‘s morning time!”

   

So the three continued to walk in the freshly plowed field early in the morning. The cat eased up on a quail, who carelessly walked out to scratch around for grubs in the freshly turned soil of the field. On the very moment the cat leaped into the tangled thorny cover beside the field, the quail flew. On the instant his feet touched the earth, an entire covey of quail thundered up from all around the three, slightly startling them for an instant. The cat eased out of the brier patch empty handed, still grinning by force, and slobbering mightily.

  

“Shame on you, Cat, for missing that huge bunch of birds. We both were counting on you,” said the possum in chastising sarcasm.

“Yeah, and shame on you, ole Possum, for not helping out a bit there with the catch,” replied the cat carrying an edge on his voice.

  

“Well then, I'll take the blame for your miss. I figured I would eat whether I helped out, or simply allowed you to make the catch,” replied the possum. “Your scraps are fine by me.”

   

Both then turned to the rooster with the same slobbering grin, who yelled, “Cock-a-doodle-dew all day!”

   

Soon they walked up to a yaupon bush laying by the field side, snapped off by the wind two or three days earlier. The bush had lain there until the spring leaves dried.

“Well at least we shall soon have coffee,” grinned the possum.

“Yeah, if you'll just kindly find the turtle shells and rub the sticks, please,” snarled the cat.

  

“The rooster cried, “Cock-a-doodle-dew all day!”

 The possum turned and said as he slowly walked away, “We'll do, ole Tom Cat, just don't walk away anywhere.”

“Well, all we have right now is time,” replied the cat.

 The rooster cried, “Cock-a-doodle-dew!”

In an hour the possum returned, carrying two clean, rather large turtle shells, two forks, and a set of flints, complete with a steel striker.

   

“Where just tell me, ole Possum thar, where on earth did you manage to find that? I did not know I could count on you so,” grinned the cat to the possum, with newly found cheer in his voice and on his face.

“Well, ole Cat thar, I saw a column of smoke rising up in the distance above the trees the other day. I was searching for an excuse to have a look-see. All I found besides smoldering ashes, were these two forks, the flints, and the steel. The two large turtle shells were from a meal I had taken a couple of days ago. I figured they would make nice coffee cups and even better bowls, just as soon as we can find our meal for the day. What do you think about it there, ole Tom Cat,” asked the possum still wearing a slobbering grin.

   

“It all sounds splendid to me,” replied the cat as the possum gathered fresh kindling splinters and dried broom straw, patiently squatting as he struck the steel and the flint. Soon he was feeding larger dried wood sections into the small fire, making it grow.

   

After a while he was feeding much larger branches into the flames that had fallen to the forest floor and dried over the course of time. The flames burned the branches in two, and then the cat could slide the sections into the growing flames.

   

The possum stepped off to the side, then returned holding the two turtle shells filled with tea colored creek water. He placed the shells down by the glowing coals. In no time the water was boiling. The cat pulled the shells from beside the coals, and then crumbled up the crispy browning yaupon leaves, dropping them into the boiling water, pausing to allow them to steep.

 

Tom Cat turned to the Possum, smiling with a slobbering grin, saying; “Well here it is, ole Possum thar, the very best coffee this side of the Big Muddy. I call it God's coffee, since it grows all around us. When times are tight, there sweet cassina sits, just like a gift from the good Lord himself.”

 

“Yeah? It sure got the boys through during the time of the big fight. The Fed overlooked all of our collard greens, beets, carrots, and black eyed peas, assuming they were animal feed or just weeds, since they were grown at random and stored in feed barns all around for the hogs and chickens,” grinned the possum to the old tom cat, as he glanced backward toward the rooster.

  

 “You're so right,” grinned Tom Cat back to the Possum. “Then there was the Yankee starving time of the Great Depression. We made it through just fine, however. We had a spell of outstanding wealth from the end of the Second World War, until might near eighty two. Then the Fed started closing down all of the work places, and laying ever-body off by eighty three. No work means no food, and now everybody must go back to eating black eyed peas again.”

 

“And good ole Aunt Sadie Bizzel’s fried chicken,” grinned the Possum to the Tom Cat, with a slobbering grin.

 “And good ole fried chicken,” replied the Tom Cat to the Possum, with the same slobbering grin. “Aye sir, we could never leave that one out of our beautiful little picture here.”

“So do tell us,” snarled the cat with a slobbering grin toward the rooster, “what da you think about all of this talk here?”

   

The rooster replied, “Cock a doodle-dew! Cock-a-doodle-dew! Cock-a-doodle-dew to you! Cock-a-doodle-dew! The good Lord will provide! Cock-a-doodle-dew all day!”

  

High overhead the darkening clouds began to gather as the wind suddenly picked up, increasing the pleasant feeling inside the three. The possum and the Tom cat huddled around the fire, stirring the coals with cane sticks and talking quietly among themselves.

 

Thunder from the darkening sky above suddenly cut through the pleasant rustle of the leaves in the spring breeze of the day. A bolt of lightning flashed, instantly striking a large live oak limb high above the possum and the Tom cat; causing it to suddenly crash to the ground, striking the cat and the possum both in the head, knocking them both directly into the flames, as it settled upon the earth beside the fire and the two now roasting bodies.

 

The rooster flapped his wings excitedly for seven minutes or so, as if exercising himself. He casually walked over to the two bodies lying inside the flames, gently rolling them over with his beak when the moment was appropriate. He then raised his head, flapping his wings excitedly once more again.

 

“Cock-a-doodle-dew! Cock-a-doodle-dew!  The good Lord provides! The good Lord provides! Fried Tom cat and possum are not bad with the collard greens and black eyed peas! The boys found that out as well! Cock-a-doodle-dew!  The good Lord surely provides!”

About the author:

The author is an international ESL instructor. More details about him can be found here: 

A Wintry Wind

 

                                                By Sarah Das Gupta

A wintry wind whispers among bare branches

In upland fields, a gale howls through frozen hawthorn

A mad east wind storms and screams in frenzied fury

Over abandoned graves and broken crosses

 

Sleet sweeps across Alpine pastures

In the fold the sheep bleat pitifully

Icy rain incessantly rattles a broken window

Snow falls lightly on a transformed landscape

 

Moonlight is filtered through a sea mist

Throwing dappled light on dark waters

Waves dribble up cold, wet sand

Sea ice roars and sullenly grumbles

 

Horses’ hoofs ring out on icy lanes

A solitary fox barks from snowy woods

The owl hoots through frozen wastes

A wintry wind whispers among bare branches.

About the Author:

Sarah Das Gupta is an English Teacher from Cambridge, UK who has lived and taught in India, Tanzania and UK. Her work has been published in US, UK, Canada, Australia, India, Germany, Romania, Croatia, among other countries.

If You Just Loved Me Once…(A Lyric)

 

If you just loved me once, 

If you just loved me, dear...

If for the drop of a moment,

If for once in a lunar year,

I would weave all my pain

Into the dreams of a summer rain

In an ocean blue layer…

 

If you just loved me once

If you just loved me, dear,

If for once in a lunar year,

I would bloom an autumn flute

From the ice on the air,

I would dare the flaming hell,

I would win my lonely war…

 

If you could just let me feel

The touches of your flying hair,

If it's just for a moment...

For once in an evening zephyr,

I would weave all my pain

Into the dreams of a summer rain

With the flow of a poetic flair…

 

If you could just let me lost

Into the shades of your eyes

Even for a little while

With nothing on earth to care,

I would weave all my pain

Into the dreams of summer rain

With all the love a soul can bear..

 

If you just loved me once

If you just loved me, dear,

If for once in a lunar year,

I would bloom an autumn flute

From the ice on the air,

I would dare the flaming hell,

I would win my lonely war…

 

If I could just see my dreams

Into the blue of your eyes,

If it's for a moment, dear

In the flow of your smiles,

I would weave all my pain

Into the dreams of a summer rain

With all my frozen prayers…

 

If you could just hold my hands

With no one else to care;

If it’s just for a moment

Even in a careless leisure,

I would weave all my pain

Into the dreams of summer rain

With all my hidden tears…

 

If you just loved me once

If you just loved me, dear,

If for once in a lunar year,

I would bloom an autumn flute

From the ice on the air,

I would dare the flaming hell,

I would win my lonely war…

 

If you could just let me by you

For a walk by a lonely lagoon

Just for a few moments

Under the drops of a flowing Moon,

I would weave all my pain

Into the dreams of a summer rain

To walk alone for ever and ever…

© Atique R. 

Theme and Variations

 

                                                    By Matias Travieso-Diaz

1782

Rudolf Von Flüstervogel (“Rudi”) played the viola well but lacked stage presence: he caught nobody’s attention with his shy looks and his gray fishhook of a body. People kept meeting and forgetting Rudi time after time.

Rudi barely scratched a living teaching the viola to the children of the aristocracy. He had married Elise, a peasant woman who had given him two average children, a girl named Hanna and a sickly boy, Kurt. Elise complemented Rudi perfectly, for she was lively and resourceful, and her hard work kept the household together.

Rudi’s life centered on a passion for composing, and there lay his worst disappointment. Rudi had penned a few soporific works, all featuring the viola as a solo instrument or in a chamber ensemble. None had ever been performed.

In late 1781, Rudi made an effort to break into the Mannheim Orchestra’s ranks. He started a new composition: a duo for violin and viola. The idea for such a work came from his friendship with Carl Toeschi, the former concertmaster of the Orchestra, who had moved to Munich to join the service of the Duke of Bavaria. Rudi was hoping to convince Toeschi to play the duo with him and parlay the success of the premiere into an invitation to join the Mannheim Orchestra.

 

Early 1783

As months passed, Rudi composed a traditional first movement, an Allegro in which he strove to provide interesting dialogues between the two instruments. A forgettable Andante Cantabile followed.

And then his meager inspiration hit a wall. He did not know how to end the piece. He started losing sleep and became distracted.

“I worry about you” commented Elise.

“I’ll never rest until I get this piece completed,” he bemoaned.

“Let’s hope something can be done about it,” replied Elise with concern.

One afternoon Rudi was on his knees, seeking divine inspiration, when he felt faint. The ground melted away and he fell into a cavity filled with a warm, viscous liquid that enveloped him. He wished he could stay there forever, and never come out.

Then a deep voice resounded, seemingly coming from far away: “You are a coward and deserve your miserable life. If your meager talent fails you, you must comb the world for a source to complete your music!  Get up and find help!!”

Rudi came to and found himself lying on the floor of the room, aching and stiff. His mind had cleared up, and a new idea nested within. He would compose a theme and variations to end his duo; the variations would allow him and the violinist to perform virtuoso passages to entrance the audience. All he needed to do was write it.

 

Late 1783

By October he had a movement comprising a theme and six variations, each with a different character, plus a coda that brought the theme back transformed into a lively dance. He hoped the work would be well received.

He transcribed a copy of the duo and sent it by post to Toeschi in Munich. The response was enthusiastic. Toeschi undertook to send the draft to Christian Cannabich, his successor as concertmaster at the Mannheim Orchestra and now its director; he recommended that Rudi meet with Cannabich and secure a date for the premiere of the work.

It was November before Rudi was able to see Cannabich, who had studied the manuscript of the duo and liked the work. Nevertheless, he was not encouraging:

“Dear Herr Von Flüstervogel, your composition is good, in some parts wonderful, and I would be happy to perform it with you myself.” He paused for a moment, embarrassed. “But the Elector, our patron, has cut back on the orchestra's budget. We have a serious financial crisis in our hands.”

Rudi did not capture the significance of the news. “What … what does that mean in terms of performing my duo?”

Cannabich explained: “We have been told that we can only perform new works if the concert in which they are presented is fully funded. Someone would have to sponsor the evening through a donation to the orchestra, equivalent to the salaries of the musicians.”

Rudi swallowed hard. “And how much would that be?”

“To fully fund one of our concerts a donation of about 1,000 florins would be necessary.”

One thousand florins!  That was more than he possessed or ever expect to make in years. Cannabich wondered aloud: “Yet, the members of the orchestra are going hungry. Perhaps I could bring the question up to them and see if they would settle for half – maybe 500 florins would suffice.”

Rudi got up, defeated. “Let me get back to you” he said hoarsely, fighting back tears.

Later that day, Rudi wrote Toeschi apprising him of the situation. Toeschi’s response was: “I spoke to Duke Carl Theodore and he is willing to loan you 500 florins. You must repay it with interest and agree to come to Munich and perform the work with me, at his court. I enclose a bank note for that amount.”

 

January 1784

The winter of 1783-84 was severe. Heavy snowfall and frigid temperatures swept through Europe. Both of Rudi’s children got sick; by New Year, Kurt was feverish. The doctor concluded: “This boys’ lungs are weak; he has little strength left. I recommend you take him to some place warm, to wait out the winter. Perhaps in the spring he’ll be better.”

 

Elise’s mother had family in Sicily, and Elise contacted her to find out about those relatives. Within a week, she reported to Rudi: “I have a second cousin in Taormina. I’ll write her asking for her hospitality. In the meantime, we have to make preparations for the journey.”

“Preparations?”

“Our travel to Sicily will be expensive. We’ll need to provide for lodging, meals, transportation, plus other expenses.”

“What are we talking about?” asked Rudi in alarm.

“My sister here has agreed to take Hanna in so she does not need to come. My guess is that for the three of us, traveling to Sicily and returning in May will cost us 600 florins, if we are frugal.”

“And where are we going to find that money?”

“You just got 500 florins from the Duke of Bavaria. That plus about 100 florins I have saved should see us through the trip.”

“That’s not possible!  That money is a loan to finance the debut of my duo. I can’t spend it on travel!”

“You’ll have to find a way!” replied Elise, for once raising her voice to confront her husband. “The life of our son is at stake!”

Rudi blinked: “I’ll see what I can do.”

He went back to Cannabich and begged: “Is there any other way that funding could be secured for that concert?”

Cannabich furrowed his brow. Then his face lit up:

“I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“I have been in correspondence with Father Gregor Hauer. He obtained permission from the great Joseph Haydn to perform Haydn’s new cello concerto and is trying to find an appropriate venue to launch the work. Hauer just wrote inquiring about a potential concert with the Mannheim Orchestra. I have not replied yet.”

“And how does that help me?”

“I could write Hauer and request that he sponsor, at least in part, the concert where he would play Haydn’s new work. I am not sure if he has patrons who could subsidize his appearance. I would need to ask.”

“Would you please?” 

“I will write him today inviting him to perform at Mannheim under financial conditions, but who knows how he will react.”

At first, Hauer rejected efforts to make him pay to play, but Cannabich played up the financial straits his ensemble faced, appealed to the artist’s generosity, and hinted that some other musician might be willing to split the cost of the concert. Hauer finally agreed to obtain 250 florins from his benefactors.

Cannabich showed the letter to Rudi: “I fear this is the best we will be able to do. Can you take your son to Italy on half of the Duke’s loan?”

“It will have to suffice.”

February 1784

Rudi had a difficult time trying to persuade Elise to travel to Italy on 350 florins. “Do you want us to starve?” she protested.

“That’s the best I can do” he replied.

“Fine!” she screamed. “You stay. I’ll take Kurt myself, alone!”

It was already early February and Kurt seemed worse with each passing day. Rudi relented: “Please be very careful.”

They departed by coach on the second week of February. Kurt was wrapped in blankets and was deathly pale. Rudi feared his son might not survive the trip; tears streamed from his eyes as he waved farewell. Elise, her face set in an angry mask, did not wave back.

 

April 19-24, 1784

The concert in which Rudi and Gregor Hauer would perform would occur on Sunday, April 25. Hauer arrived in Mannheim on Monday evening, with time for a couple of rehearsals before the concert. Next day, he played the Haydn piece with the orchestra, and then sat in on the rehearsal of Rudi’s duo.

 

Hauer was half asleep for most of the piece. When the last movement began, however, he perked up. At the end, Hauer approached Cannabich: “Herr Direktor, may I have a private word with you?”  Cannabich escorted Hauer to his office and closed the door.

“How can I help you, maestro?” he asked.

“That duo you were rehearsing, who is the composer?”

“It was written by Rudolf Von Flüstervogel, whom you met today. Rudi is a local artist.”

“It is the strangest thing. As you know, I am in residence in Salzburg, working for Prince-Archbishop Colloredo. Another employee of the Archbishop is Michael Haydn, the youngest brother of Franz Joseph Haydn. Well, last year Michael composed six duos for violin and viola at the Archbishop’s request. You see, the Archbishop plays the violin and he wanted some pieces to play with his steward Count Arco, who is an amateur violist. Anyhow, I suffered through Michael Haydn’s duos several times – and the finale of the last of the six is in the form of a theme and variations, identical to the music I heard today performed by you and Flüstervogel.”

Cannabich blanched. “What are you saying?  That Rudi stole the music from Michael Haydn?”

“I do not quite remember the first two movements, but the theme and variations I recall very well.”

“What you are saying, Father Hauer, is very serious. We must get to the bottom of it right away.”

Cannabich had a copy of the duo made and dispatched it post haste to Munich, where Michael Haydn was staying, with a brief, blunt inquiry: “Dear Michael, someone claims to have written this duo. Are you in fact the author?”

 Michael Haydn’s response, sent back by the same courier, stated: “There are many differences throughout the work, but the Theme and Variations in this composition is the same as in the one that bears my name. However, the work was written by Mozart, who allowed me to pass it as my own as a favor. Mozart’s duos are vastly superior to anything I could ever write and I have no right to claim their authorship.”

An exhausted courier returned late Saturday night, just in time to hand Haydn’s response to Cannabich before the concertmaster retired for the evening.

 

 April 25, 1784

At dawn, someone knocked on Rudi’s door summoning him to the orchestra’s offices at the Mannheim Palace. He rushed there, and was greeted by Cannabich, who laid down the accusations levelled against him. “Father Hauer is sure that the work you call yours is someone else’s.” 

Rudi found the courage to respond energetically, though falsely: “Every note in that duo is mine. I spent almost a year writing it and I do not care what anyone says, this is my music, which cost me much sweat and tears. I will defend myself against these accusations until the day I die.” 

 

Cannabich responded coolly:

“Herr Von Flüstervogel, a lot of ill can occur if we pursue this matter in public. I shall just cancel the performance. I do not ever want to see your face again.”

Rudi thought of arguing further, but turned around and slunk out of the palace.

 

Late 1784

Rudi used the remainder of the Duke’s loan to take passage to Taormina to meet his family. He found Kurt in somewhat better health and his wife in a more amenable disposition. He refused to answer questions about what had transpired in Mannheim other than vowing never to return to the city. Elise interpreted his reticence as indication that his duo had been poorly received and did not press the point.

The family moved to Naples in July. Rudi auditioned for a position in the household of King Ferdinand. He was hired and became music tutor to the King’s children. He taught them viola and violin, and threw in German as a bonus. He was well liked by all.

 

1793

Rudi was well settled in Naples when the news reached them of Mozart’s death two years before. He was seized by melancholy, which he tried to disguise but Elise knew him too well and persisted in her questioning until he confessed.

“You may recall that, in 1783, I had been working in the composition of a duo for violin and viola, which I hoped would make me famous. I had written two movements but didn’t know how to end the work. I was desperate.”

“Yes, I remember the incident very well,” replied Elise.

“Then, I had a vision,” continued Rudi. “I heard a strong voice that directed me to look for models from which to draw inspiration to complete the duo. It was a message from Heaven and could not resist its command. I began looking, and in the library at the Mannheim Palace I found a manuscript that contained an unidentified duo for violin and viola. The entire duo was wonderful, but it was the third movement, a Theme and Variations, that drew my attention, for it was just what I needed. I copied the movement and used as the finale of my duo.”

“I never knew who the work’s true author was until last year, when I bought in Florence the score of a duo in B flat by Mozart. In reviewing the score, I realized that Mozart was the composer of the work that I’ve been passing off as mine.”

 “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” rebuked Elise.

“I’m ashamed, but not sorry for what I did. I was following directions from some power greater than I. I had to find a way to complete the work by whatever means possible. So, I stole. But at least, I stole from the very best.”

Elise looked at her husband for a long time. “And you really don’t know the source of the voice you heard?”

“It’s a mystery,” concluded Rudi. “Perhaps it was Mozart himself.”

Elise turned her head away from her husband so he would not see her smile.

About the author: Born in Cuba, Matias Travieso-Diaz migrated to the United States as a young man where he became an engineer and lawyer and practiced for nearly fifty years. Over one hundred of his short stories have been published or accepted for publication in paying anthologies, magazines, blogs, audio books and podcasts. A first collection of his stories, “The Satchel and Other Terrors” has recently been released and is available on Amazon and other book outlets. More details about him can be found here: 

13.8 Billion Years Ago

 

                                                            By Fabrice Poussin

The moment I was born

in the mind of a giant at

the onset of the universe

I recall

 

not a glimpse into the light

nor a sound of the cataclysm

or the colors of the flash

I perceived

 

a hint of tingling in that which

would ultimately become me

without shape in solid or fluid

something sought

 

a way to another form

13.8 billion years to the day

that I may write this testimony

to the hours

 

to come and run astray

to another time, another galaxy

yet to exist in the distance

a future

 

unknown, billions of years again

what will I be then

a whole world perhaps if only I could remember

this moment.

About the author: Fabrice Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life were published in 2021, 2022, and 2023 by Silver Bow Publishing.

House-Hunting in the New Year

 

                                                        By James Croal Jackson

We walked to look at houses– wouldn’t you like to live

in Morningside? I guess– reticent to change. Creepy Baby

Jesus dolls in yard nativities. I asked what does it take for

Santa to get some rest around here? – his inflated face

on the ground. Ah. These shared walls of our town

-house, I’ll miss it. The helium in this balloon

filling. A rapid ascent somewhere. We’ve

watched many meteor movies recently,

a handshake awaiting. What good is a down

payment? The time we’ve spent is worth it.

About the author: James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks are A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023) and Count Seeds with Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022). Recent poems are in Beltway Poetry Quarterly, The Lakeshore Review, and The Round. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Bobby Bunny and the Great Big Garden

 

                                                    By H.L. Dowless

One warm day in mid-May, Bobby Bunny went hippity hop, right down the bunny trail, until he arrived at this great big garden plot. This handsome plot was very nicely tucked away behind some sweet smelling pink azalea hedges, so Bobby Bunny decided that nobody would ever see.

So.., he raced right along, hippity hop, hop, and he stole ONE carrot, TWO carrots, THREE carrots for free! FIVE beets and SIX leeks before it was anywhere near late. Why, fellow that’s more than THREE times THREE!

Now Bobby Bunny made a habit out of all this stealing and eating, and as we all know, habits that form easily are usually harmful ones. But poor Bobby simply could not stop it. Why raiding gardens was SO much fun, and besides, if there was ever any danger, he could just RUN RUN RUN!

So every morning bright and early, he hopped along. Hippity-hop, Hippity-hop, hippity-hop-hop-hop! He was moving, grooving, singing a tune, like he would never stop; no, not from morning until late afternoon. Hippity-hop, hippity-hop, went-he-down that well worn bunny trail. Hippity-hop, hippity-hop, nobody will ever see or tell. In through those hedges he went, right fast, like lightning, and ZIPPITY-ZAP by the gardener he went, right PAST!

So, he hopped right along until he came to the cabbage, and he stole ONE head, TWO heads, and THREE heads of cabbage he snatched up for free! FOUR turnips, FIVE turnips, SIX turnips, now remember that’s THREE turnips and THREE!

Now the gardener never did like this much, and he vowed aloud to stop Bobby Bunny. So, he swung down his hoe with a great big CHOP! He chopped ONE time, TWO times, even THREE times and THREE! Yes, that gardener chopped so much that day I feared he might chop up even you and me!

But nobody could catch Bobby Bunny that day, like a cool mountain stream he ran very smoothly and FAST! Do all of you hear me now? I do mean that nobody could catch him that day! No not me, not even you, not even the falcon on the breeze, let alone the gardener he ran past. In between the gardener’s feet did Bobby run, dodging the blows of his razor sharp hoe. Out the garden Bobby did go, making the gardener’s head fill with woe!

At the same moment Bobby’s mother eased down that well worn bunny trail, and when she made it to the garden, what did she see? Nothing but that cottontail of Bobby going ZIPPITY ZAP, ZIPPITY ZAP, and she heard Bobby’s voice shouting with glee. She saw Bobby snatch ONE yellow squash, TWO green cucumbers, even THREE times THREE! Yes, and that’s more than enough for anybody. Yes, even some for him. Yes, even some for you. Yes, even some for me!

Around that gardener he raced, ZIPPITY ZAP, through the azalea hedges, laughing so loudly with glee. Well, he raced down that trail with his crop in his hands. So if he was not stealing vegetables, then where would be his profit?, thought he. Right down that trail he went, racing like rushing water, his feet thumping like rolling thunder, just whistling a merry song. Until he arrived at a briar filled thicket, full with lush purple berries and cat-claw thorns which scratched to the pure bone! Inside that thicket soft yellow straw was nice, and warm, and very cozy. You see, this was the place Bobby Bunny called home.

But his mother was very wise and fast herself, and deeply into the thicket zipped she, until she appeared behind Bobby Bunny scolding, causing him to tremble with fear and shake at the knee!

“Don’t you dare go back into that garden,” she screamed. “Do not ever go back again. I fear that you shall be stew before this is all over, and the number of my children shall be reduced from TWENTY to only NINETEEN!

But Bobby Bunny just smiled and said;

“Oh, dear mother, don’t you worry-any about me, for I am just too fast and sly for that old farmer, so let my last word here be said. He shall die of old age himself, before it is me who is dead!”

His dear mother hung her head as she listened to those foolish words that young Bobby sat on the root stump and said. When he finished speaking she glared at him and replied;

“Do not ever say that you have not been warned, and please do whate’er you insist! Just remember Bobby boy, that when you are dead, by all of your family you will be sorely missed. I have tried, and I have tried to raise you right, but you always insist on going wrong. So go on if you must, just please pause and think on my words, think hard before much more time has flown!”

So Bobby paused, and he THOUGHT, and then he THOUGHT some more! Oh soon he thought without some new excitement from somewhere, that his life would be such a bore! He struggled hard to shake those visions of garden vegetables from his head, and those visions of garden mud from his feet, and the thrill of being chased from his yearning heart, as he lay awake in his bed and fought with himself to sleep. So, up and out into the dark of night, he raced. He simply could not stand it any more! More than those visions of the vegetables, it was simply the thrill of the chase.., and the fear of his life becoming such a dreadful bore.

So, he dashed down that bunny trail, ZIPPITY ZAP, right into that garden yaupon hedge. SNIPPITY SNAP went the dry twigs, and against some loose border bricks his feet went BIPPITY BAP! SNAP went ONE carrot, SNIP went TWO radishes, SNIP SNAP went THREE times THREE! SNIP SNAP SNAP SNIP throughout the garden went all of those vegetables, you see. But then suddenly he heard a noise, and his feet suddenly sank with fear. Right beside him he heard the hollow thud of booted feet, and in the air he smelled the breath of soured beer.

“Surely I have you now, bunny boy!,” thundered a voice from the darkness. “Your time on this night has indeed come due! For you should have listened to your dear mother, bunny boy, and all of those who love you true.”

So. Bobby ran, ZIPPITY ZAP, and he dashed to and fro, YIPPITY YAP, but on that night he could simply not run fast enough, nor avoid the gardener’s box trap.

So, thus ends the tale of Bobby Bunny, please learn his lessons very well. Be wise and avoid all traps, and always pay heed to wise advice well. For the dead can never do any good, and fine stories of adventure have they never to tell. These all lie in the realm of the living, who walk where the dead once stood.

About the author: The author is an international ESL instructor. More details about him can be found here: