Those hens deserve it and so do their families!”
And the story got into the papers and was printed, and it’s perfectly true: one little feather really can become five hens!
THE DUNG BEETLE
THE EMPEROR’S HORSE HAD gold horseshoes. A golden shoe on each foot.
Why did he have golden shoes?
He was the most beautiful animal. He had delicate legs, wise eyes, and a mane that hung like a silk ribbon around his neck. He had carried his master through the fog of battle and rain of bullets, and heard the shots sizzle and sing. He had bitten, kicked and fought along when the enemy pressed forward. With his emperor on his back, he had jumped over the charging enemy’s horse and saved his emperor’s crown of red gold, saved his emperor’s life, which was more than gold, and that’s why the emperor’s horse had gold shoes. A golden shoe on each foot.
And the dung beetle crept out.
“First the big ones, then the small,” he said. “Although it’s not size that matters.” And he stretched out his thin legs.
“What do you want?” asked the blacksmith.
“Gold shoes!” answered the dung beetle.
“You must be out of your mind,” said the smithy. “You want golden shoes too?”
“Gold shoes!” said the dung beetle. “Am I not just as good as the big beast that is waited on, curried, watched over, fed and watered? Don’t I also belong to the emperor’s stable?”
“But why did the horse get golden shoes?” asked the blacksmith. “Don’t you understand that?”
“Understand? I understand that it’s contempt for me,” said the dung beetle. “It’s an insult—and so now I will go out into the wide world.”
“Bug off!” said the smithy.
“Coarse fellow,” said the dung beetle, and then he went outside, flew a short distance, and came to a lovely little flower garden, where there was the smell of roses and lavender.
“Isn’t it nice here?” asked one of the little ladybugs, who flew about with black dots on its red armor-plated wings. “How sweet it smells, and how pretty it is here.”
“I am used to better!” said the dung beetle. “Do you call this pretty? There isn’t even a dunghill here!”
He went on a bit further, into the shadow of a big stock plant. There was a caterpillar crawling on it.
“How lovely the world is!” said the caterpillar. “The sun is so warm! Everything is so pleasant. And when I shall one day fall asleep and die, as it’s called, I’ll wake up and be a butterfly!”
“Who do you think you are?” said the dung beetle. “Flying around like butterflies! I come from the emperor’s stable, but no one there, not even the emperor’s favorite horse, who wears my castoff golden shoes, has such imaginings! Get wings! Fly! Yes, now we’re flying!” And the dung beetle flew. “I don’t like getting annoyed, but I am annoyed anyway.”
Then he plumped down on a large lawn where he lay for awhile and then fell asleep.
Gracious! What a cloud-burst! The dung beetle awoke from the splashing and wanted to crawl right into the ground, but he couldn’t. He flipped over and swam on his stomach and his back. Flying was out of the question. He was sure he would not escape the lawn alive. He lay where he was and remained lying there.
When it let up a little, and the dung beetle had blinked the water from his eyes, he glimpsed something white. It was linen laid out to bleach. He crept over to it and crawled into a fold of the wet cloth. It certainly wasn’t like lying in the warm dung in the stable, but there wasn’t anything better here, and so he remained there a whole day and night while the rain continued. He crawled out the next morning, very annoyed at the climate.
There were two frogs sitting on the linen. Their clear eyes shone with pure pleasure. “What wonderful weather!” said one. “How refreshing it is! And the linen retains the water so well! My hind legs are ticklingjust as when I’m going to swim.”
“I wonder,” said the other, “if the swallow who flies so widely around has found a better climate than ours on its many trips abroad? Such rough weather and such rain. It’s like lying in a wet ditch. If you don’t like this, then you really don’t love your country.”
“You haven’t ever been in the emperor’s stable, have you?” asked the dung beetle. “The wetness there is both warm and spicy! I’m used to that. It’s my climate, but you can’t take it with you when you travel. Isn’t there any hotbed here in the garden, where people of quality like me could go in and feel at home?”
But the frogs didn’t understand him, or didn’t want to understand him.
“I never ask a question more than once,” said the dung beetle when he had asked three times without being answered.
He walked on until he came to a piece of broken pottery. It shouldn’t have been there, but the way it was lying, it gave shelter. Several earwig families lived here. They don’t need a lot of space, just lots of company and parties. The females are especially maternal, and so each of them thought her own children to be the prettiest and smartest.
“Our son has gotten engaged,” said one mother. “The dear innocent! His greatest goal is to one day crawl into the ear of a minister. He’s so lovably childish, and the engagement keeps him from excesses. It’s such a joy for a mother!”
“Our son,” said another mother, “was no sooner hatched than he was having a good time. He’s so full of energy! He’s sowing his wild oats. That’s a great joy for a mother! Isn’t that right, Mr. Dung Beetle?” They recognized the stranger by his shape.
