Stories From The Old Attic - Robert Harris (ebook reader 8 inch .TXT) 📗

“they were all just what I was looking for—like the broken arm here. Quite a find, eh?”

At this point, the farmer, who had been standing generally in the background holding his hat in both hands, came forward and begged an audience with the constable. “I didn’t want to say this before,” he began in a low tone, “but now I think I must, in case it should be important. All the way into town that old fellow kept saying something to me about wanting to cook his brains by burning a horse biscuit under his cap.”

That was enough. And, needless to say, the Authorities from the Institution in the city were immediately summoned, and the old man was taken to a very pleasant place where he could rest among friends and nice people, have no worries, and be free to enjoy the “butterflies, blue skies, and happiness always.” It is reported by reliable sources that shortly after arriving the old man was heard to exclaim cheerfully, “Just what I was looking for! Mattresses on the walls!”

 

The Art of Truth

Once upon a time a famous art museum searched the world over for the best paintings it could find. After a long search, the museum found a beautiful Old Master painting depicting youths and maidens frolicking in a wood. The directors were only too glad to pay millions for this painting because they were captivated by its beauty and elegance. How delightfully the maidens’ hair and mouths were drawn, how perfectly the hands and arms of the youths, how life-like the bare feet on the forest floor. But the curator of the museum was the happiest one of all, for he had now become guardian and protector of a famous work by a famous painter. “Every time I look at that painting,” he would say, “I see new beauties and excellences. Just look at these leaves here, the sweep of the branches from this tree, capturing just the hint of a breeze and seeming to vibrate with the music from the dance of the youths and maidens in the clearing. My very soul resonates with the greatness of it all.”

Needless to say, this wonderful painting was the most popular exhibit at the museum, providing instruction and delight for thousands of visitors. Everyone, from the young child who could barely walk to the old man who could barely walk, enjoyed its beauty frankly and openly or profited from studying its color and arrangement. Children loved to see the happy figures kicking up their feet with joy; the young people marveled at the freshness and beauty of the figures; those of mature years stood astonished at the excellent technique that could present such a convincing vision; the old remarked upon the feeling of cozy intimacy produced by the scene of innocent pleasure.

“This painting is almost too good to be true,” remarked one visitor prophetically as he purchased a print of it.

One day a horrible discovery was made: the painting was not a genuine Old Master after all. It was a forgery. It had not been painted by the famous artist whose name was on it, and in fact it had been painted within the last ten years. The museum directors and the curator were horrified and consumed with shame. Immediately the painting was jerked from the walls of the museum and ignominiously relegated to a basement storeroom. “We regret such an unfortunate imposition,” the curator told the museum’s patrons. “This painting is not art; it is a tawdry fake. This painting is a lie.”

At first the public was saddened to lose sight of such a popular painting, and a few mild protests were raised, but eventually concern for the painting was pushed aside by other more pressing concerns, and it was forgotten (as are all things no longer directly in front of us in this busy world) and life continued.

Only the museum curator and an occasional junior staff member ever saw the painting now, hanging in the dim light of the basement well away from public view. All that was heard of it was the curator’s occasional disparaging comment. “Every day I see new defects and ugliness in this fraudulent outrage,” he would say. “Just look how false the sun on the leaves looks, how phony is the wisp of that girl’s hair, how ugly the clouds there, and how awkward that boy’s position in the dance. How we were ever taken in by this obvious cheat is beyond me.” And finally, shaking his head to show his regret, he concluded, “What we did was foolish and shameful.”

 

Matthew 18:3

“The door to this classroom is farther down the hall, sir,” said the student.

“How dare you try to tell me where the door is,” huffed the professor, as he turned around and walked abruptly into the wall. While he held his bleeding nose, he was heard to mutter, “Now why did they move the door?”

* A proud man never doubts, even when his nose bleeds.

 

The Boy and the Vulture

A young boy was playing in the desert with a bow and arrow he had made, when a vulture, always looking for a tender meal, saw him from afar. The bird flew over and, seeing that the arrow was only a barren stick, swooped down and pecked at the boy. “Why don’t you shoot me if you don’t like my pecking?” it taunted. The boy shot his arrow repeatedly, but the bird was too quick, and the arrow always missed.

Finally, exhausted from chasing the arrow and deflecting the bird, the boy sat down in the sparse shade of a dead tree. The vulture, lighting on one of the dry branches above the boy, sat triumphantly preening and smirking, and even plucked a few old feathers to drop on the boy’s head in contempt. “There’s for your pains, feeble one,” the bird said haughtily.

The boy, however, would not be defeated. Carefully he collected the feathers, fixed them to his stick, and with the resultantly accurate arrow, shot the surprised vulture through the heart.

* In our pride we often unwittingly give our enemies the means to destroy us.

* Perseverance and ingenuity, even in the face of humiliation and defeat, will at last succeed.

[Suggested by Aesop, “The Eagle and Arrow”]

 

Three Flat Tires

Once in the fullness and complexity of human existence three cars left the same party one rainy night and took three different roads on the way home. Oddly enough, at approximately the same time, each car suffered a flat tire, and the young couples inside suddenly found their evening and their lives somewhat different from what they had been expecting.

The young lady riding in the first car became instantly upset. “Well, this is just great,” she said to her escort with understandable disgust. “I knew I should have driven; then this never would have happened. How could you be so careless when we’re all dressed up like this, anyway?”

“I’m sorry,” the young man replied, getting out of the car. “I’ll fix it as fast as I can.” He quickly retrieved the jack and the spare tire and began to puzzle over the repair. In a minute the young lady was at his side.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” she asked.

“Well, not really, but I think I can figure it out,” he told her honestly.

“No you won’t. I want this done right,” the young lady answered, as she grabbed the jack handle with just enough suddenness that the young man lost his balance and fell over backward into a patiently waiting mud hole.

While these events came into being to form a permanent, though small, part of the history of the universe, the young driver of the second car was, not many miles away, even then climbing out of his vehicle into the rain and opening the trunk. His date, in a very ladylike manner, and with due concern for her precious gown, stayed in the car with her hands folded in her lap. She generously took care to look away from the young man’s labors in order not to cause him embarrassment, and, when he slipped down and bumped his head on the fender as he tried to loosen a particularly intransigent lug nut, she very kindly turned on the radio.

The third young man, though he encountered different raindrops on a different road on this night, realized similarly that he, too, was destined to be wet, and pushed open the door with resolve. However, as he climbed out of the car, the young lady he had been driving home got out also. “Get back in the car,” he told her, “or you’ll get wet.”

“I’ll help,” the young lady said.

“There’s nothing you can do,” replied the young man as he reached for the spare in the trunk. “It’s really a job for one person, and I’ve done it before.”

“Then I’ll watch,” replied the young lady. And watch she did. Oh, she held the lug nuts to keep them from getting lost, but to speak truly, she was not really of any help and she did get drenched. As he changed the tire, the young man looked at the young lady once or twice, only to see her gown melting and her hair dripping down her face, and no doubt he thought, “What a sight she is.”

Well, I’ve told you this story as evidence of the foolishness and irrationality of the human heart. For now observe the consequent:

The first young lady, naturally concerned for her safety and realizing that she possessed knowledge that her young man did not, quite reasonably chose to change the tire. However, the young man, fool that he was, was never seen escorting this capable and logical young lady again.

The second young lady, very sensibly concerned about preserving an expensive dress and realizing that she would be of little or no help to her young man, showed a similar wisdom in avoiding what she knew would be the consequences of leaving the car. But, even though her judgment was vindicated when she observed, in the form of the drenched, muddy, and bleeding young man, exactly those consequences she had predicted, the young man himself, blind and irrational as he was, was also never again seen escorting this thoughtful and discerning young lady.

Even stranger and more perverse as it must seem, however, the third young man, even after observing the silly and unreasonable behavior of his date, even after seeing her soaked to the skin, her gown ruined, her hair plastered against her neck, her mascara running down her cheeks in little inky rivulets—even after observing all this, not only was he seen escorting her frequently to other entertainments, but eventually he offered her a ring.

 

The History of Professor De Laix

The world had long been promised a fifty-volume definitive analysis on the meaning of life by the brilliant and internationally respected Professor de Laix. Admirers from all across the surface of the earth produced unremitting and enthusiastic requests—nay, demands—for the wise professor to bestow upon the world his penetrating insights into human nature. As the years passed, however, even though he had been begged repeatedly for the first part, or a first volume, or even a first chapter, he had always answered that he wanted to get the whole work clearly in his head before he put it down on paper.

“To rush precipitously forward without knowing precisely where one wants to go,” he would tell them, “will not of necessity produce a happy outcome because it might lead to a complicative erroneity or put one on a train to a destination he would not ultimately wish to visit. After all, the most beautiful part of a given day is known only after dark, and the best path up the mountain—which