May 11, 2014


The creek was sick and tired of tumbling down the same old gully day after day after year after decade. Oh, it supposed it was pleasant enough to swell and rush during storms. It didn’t really mind so awfully very much when the bushes bloomed yellow in summer and grew fat red berries in the fall and were frosted white in winter. The trees, though, no doubt about it, were boring, ever green, ever standing there mute.

“Hey!” the creek called to creatures splashing through it or drinking from it. “Hey, what’s over the hill?”

The bobcat and the puma paid it no heed. The deer ignored it. Chipmunks laughed at it. Squirrels were too frantic to notice it. Was the creek discouraged? Not at all. It tumbled and babbled without letup, especially where it fell a bit over some rocks.

“Hey,” it burbled. “Hey, you!”

A bluejay drank and flew off.

“You! You with the antlers!”

A stag drank, waded, trotted up and over the hill.

And so it went, season on season, year on year, until one summer day, when the creek was trickling thinly along, a slinky thirsty weasel scrambled to its bank.

“Hey! You! Skinny! What’s over the hill?” bubbled the creek.

The weasel jumped with a writhing slither and stretched its triangle head with its black bead eyes to stare at the creek.

“Who said that?” whispered the weasel.

“Me. What’s on the other side of the hill?” fussed the impatient creek.

The weasel pondered. It sipped and thought. It sat. It sipped. Then it smiled and spun tales about the wonders of floating castles and flying snakes, of flower rainbows splashing in crystal blue lakes, of all the marvels and more that were to be seen on the other side of the hill. Having exhausted its imagination, the weasel announced that it had an appointment to swim in the purple amethyst river with magic clouds and that it mustn’t be late. It jumped jaunty up the hill, looked back down at the creek, waved and went over.

“That does it. I’m leaving!” said the determined creek.

And it did. It cut its way through and under the hill quickly in 400 years. And when it oozed and broke through on the other side, the first thing it said was, “Liar.”

Moral: Never trust a thirsty weasel or any other sort of weasel.

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