Collected Fables

by James Thurber

  “And what is that, if I may be so bold as to ask?” inquired the cheetah mockingly.

  “The fact that we are all confined here in Central Park Zoo,” said the owl, “and can’t get out.”

  Nobody else had thought of that. There was a long silence. “It’s a catch all right,” said the cheetah grudgingly.

  “It’s a drawback,” admitted the elephant.

  “It places a considerable obstacle in the path of our undertaking,” agreed the monkey. “I’m glad I thought to bring it to your attention.” Before long everybody began believing that he was the one who had pointed out the flaw in the plan. The cheetah crawled back farther into his cell and lay down.

  When the night keeper of the zoo made his final rounds everybody was locked up safe and sound as usual. “Here it is midnight,” he said to himself, “and they’re all awake. I wonder why.” The keeper was wrong. They weren’t all awake. The owl was fast asleep, dreaming of catching mice caught in a trap in a cell in a jail.

  MORAL: Stone walls a pretty good prison make and iron bars a cage.

  A Farewell to Mandibles

  Illustrated by Seymour Chwast

  ONE MORNING AN old cockroach who lived in an old bureau in the attic of an old house woke up and felt different, as if something new had been added or something old had been taken away. Both changes, in fact, had occurred. He discovered to his dismay that his mandibles were gone, and he saw two tiny hands in front of him. They held a tiny necktie and they began to put it about his neck and tie it. Then he realized that he was standing before the old, dusty, cracked mirror of the old bureau, and as the hands knotted the tie and pulled it into place, he perceived that he was no longer a cockroach, but a miniature human being.

  “God have mercy on me,” he said, and he wondered what he meant by that, for he was still part bug. The bug in him cried to be released from the horror of humanization, but the man in him whispered of the fortune he could make on television. The bug in him didn’t know what television was, but the man in him hastily explained, and upped the probable size of the fortune he could make. The man in him told hurriedly of the booms, bonanzas, and blessings of manhood, but the bug in him cried, “No, no,” at the mention of each of them, wife, children, work, wine, and all the rest, up to and including the sweetness and dignity of dying for Patria, or Patricia, or somebody, and all the eternal life, which is the unique privilege of the human being.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” cried the tiny manbug, and, just then, he realized his metamorphosis was almost complete, so he ran across the bureau top, threw himself off the edge, fell to the floor, and was instantly killed.

  MORAL: There are worse things than dying.

  Many Pigeons

  Illustrated by Victoria Chess

  A BANDED HOMING PIGEON whose outfit was the Signal Corps had often observed a charming dovecote in the steeple of an old church, while flying his missions. He dreamed of settling down in the dovecote when all the wars were ended and all the guns were cold. When he realized this wasn’t going to happen during his lifetime, he decided to go WOLO, which means We Only Live Once, in Pigeon English. And so he came in for a landing on the threshold of the dovecote. Each pigeon living there figured out who he was while he was still a hundred yards away.

  “It’s Larkinvar, come out of the Nest!” cried Morna Dove.

  “It’s Lindbird!” cried her mother.

  “Nuts and gargoyles!” growled her father. “He’s a stool pigeon.”

  “He’s wearing one handcuff,” pointed out a male fantail.

  “He’s broken away from the cops.”

  “I think he’s a jailbird, escaped from the penitentiary,” said the fantail’s brother. “He has a serial number.” For the army pigeon was now so close that all the dovecoters could see his number clearly on the band about one leg.

  “He’s a passenger pigeon,” said a ground dove, who had not been around much but had read a great deal.

  “Then he’s extinct, or hiding,” said the ground dove’s uncle, who had not read anything but had been around a great deal.

  “He’s a fellow passenger pigeon, and they’re the worst of all,” piped up a cocky young male bird, who hung around cornices. And so only the females, who had mistaken the newcomer for Larkinvar and Lindbird, welcomed him. The others pushed him off the threshold, before he could take off his hat, or catch his breath, or tell his name. Number 137,968, homing pigeon, attached to the United States Signal Corps, turned his back sorrowfully upon his dreamcote and went back to work for the Department of the Army.

  MORAL: There comes an end of toil and fun, but idle guesswork’s never done. Or: This, alas, is sadly so; folks would rather believe than know.

  Ed. Note: Thurber wrote three versions of this fable.

  The Ordeal of No. 137,968

  Illustrated by Victoria Roberts

  A BANDED HOMING PIGEON whose outfit was the U.S. Signal Corps, and whose serial number was 137,968, had often observed a charming dovecote while flying a mission or returning from one. He decided to settle in the dovecote when all the wars were ended and all the guns were cold, but as time went on he realized that he was in the service for the duration of his life. So he decided to go AWOL, or, as he called it, WOLO (We Only Live Once) and spend the rest of his days among the cute female turtledoves, mourning doves, ground doves, and others he had caught sight of on his official trips. The ladies took to him at once and made him more than welcome. There was a great flutter and flurry as they tried to guess who he was, and there was so much conjecture and speculation that he didn’t have a chance to identify himself.

  “He’s Larkinvar,” said Melba Mourning, “or Admiral Bird.”

  “Nuts and popcorn,” said her mate skeptically. “He’s wearing one handcuff. Clearly, he has broken away from the law.”

  The other males fell in with this theory. “He’s a fugitive from a chain gang,” said one.

  “He killed Cock Robin,” cried another.

  “He shot the albatross,” screamed a third.

  But the ladies paid no attention to these dark accusations and went on with their own wishing and wondering.

  “He’s a war bird,” piped up Lorna Turtle. “I love him for the dangers he has known.”

  “He’s Lindbird,” tweeted Greta Ground. “He’s the great flyer that discovered France.”

  During all this fuss and feathers, Number 137,968 was not able to get in a word.

  “Why doesn’t he say something?” asked a suspicious male fantail.

  “All is not gold that is silent, you know. He is plainly a fake.”

  “He’s a passenger pigeon,” shouted George Mourning.

  “Passenger pigeons are extinct,” his mate reminded him.

  “You’re not extinct unless something was the matter,” said George darkly.

  “If he’s not a passenger, he’s a fellow passenger, and that’s worse,” cried a common young street pigeon. “I say unfeather and tar him!” And, in spite of the tears and pleadings of the lady doves, the males unfeathered and tarred the newcomer and pushed him out of the dovecote, and watched him flutter to the ground like a shoe.

  Number 137,968 had to walk all the way back to his Signal Corps unit, which took him forty-three days. Nobody believed his story of where he had been and what had happened. “He’s been living in sin,” said the wife of Captain Pigeon. “He got stiff and fell in a tar wagon,” decided Major Pigeon. “He got the worst of it in a street fight with common sparrows,” cried the wife of Colonel Pigeon. And so Number 137,968 was court-martialed and discharged from the service on a total of nineteen or twenty different counts involving hypothetical misconduct in ten or fifteen places, unnamed and unknown.

  MORAL: There comes an end of toil and fun, but human guesswork’s never done.

  The Pigeon Who Wouldn’t Go Home

  Illustrated by Victoria Roberts

  A HOMING PIGEON, returning from a mission, flew closer than he ever had before to a belfry that had
fascinated him on previous trips. It was the belfry of an old abandoned church and it was full of attractive female fantails and, of course, many proud, pompous, parading, preening, pirouetting, possessive males. The closer the homing pigeon flew to the fascinating belfry and its dovecote of desirable cuties, the more [fascinated? fearless?] he became. He decided all of a sudden, catching a captivating close-up of a flirtatious fantail, to [abandon? desert? quit?] the army Signal Corps—for he was a banded grommet flyer—and live in the belfry.

  Everything went well for about nine seconds. The females liked the debonair newcomer, but the males hated the sinister intruder.

  “He has a slave bracelet on his leg. Isn’t that sweet?” said a female.

  “It’s a handcuff,” said her mate.

  “He’s a jailbird. With a serial number,” said another male.

  “He has a police record as long as your leg.”

  By nightfall gossip and guesswork had made the new arrival a stool pigeon, an infiltrator, a decoy, a bird of prey, and a lark in dove’s feathers. Meantime the gentleman caller was having a wonderful time billing and cooing with the gals. “He’s a seducer,” said one of the males.

  “A bigamist,” said another.

  “A sex maniac,” said a third.

  “Wanted for murder,” said a fourth.

  “And robbery,” said a fifth. “That bracelet he wears has what was stolen.”

  And so the accusations mounted. “He killed Cock Robin.”

  “He shot an albatross.”

  “He’s wanted for the Sunday Pigeon Murders.”

  At this a wiser old carrier pigeon who had once worked for the post office woke up in a corner of the belfry. “He is a member in good flying of the U.S. Signal Corps,” he said. “The leg band is his credential.”

  But a fiery young pigeon broke in crying, “He’s a passenger pigeon, a fellow traveler.”

  “He can’t truly be a fellow traveler if he hasn’t any feathers,” said the wise old carrier, but they didn’t know what he meant and didn’t care. Under the leadership of the fiery young pigeon, the others set upon the sinister intruder, injuring one of his eyes, pulling out most of his feathers, spraining one of his wings, and dragging him from the belfry.

  “Tar and unfeather the rascal!” cried the fiery young pigeon as they tarred and unfeathered him.

  As the result of his [misjudgment? misconduct?] he was grounded for three weeks when he finally dragged himself back to his post.

  MORAL: Neighbor, stranger, friend, or foe, the world would rather believe than know.

  Ed. Note: In this recasting of the story, a few handwritten words remain uncertain; they are designated with likely guesses in brackets.

  The Possum Who Wasn’t Playing Dead

  Illustrated by Mark Ulriksen

  TWO POSSUMS, A female and her mate, quarreled one night so long and late that Inspector Mastiff and Sergeant Dachshund came out to investigate. They found the female possum smoothing her hair with an automatic, and putting a record on the gramophone. “My mate is playing like he was dead,” she said coolly.

  “He’s playing plenty good like he was dead, because he is,” said Mastiff, bending over the body behind the sofa.

  “If I could shoot like I used to could, I could of done it, but I can’t, and so I didn’t,” explained the possum’s widow.

  Sergeant Dachshund was writing in his notebook: “These kind of murders are getting more all the time. It’s got so a male can’t get up for a drink in the night without his mate shoots him down before he can climb back in bed.”

  Inspector Mastiff stepped quietly to the gramophone and turned off “Love is a Many-Splendored Thing.” He searched the record albums hastily, until he came upon “Kentucky Babe,” and he put it on the gramophone. The female possum was twenty feet away when the soloist came to “Possum for your breakfast, when your sleepin’ time is done,” but she shot the record off the turntable with the ease of an expert.

  “You can still shoot as good as you used to could,” growled Inspector Mastiff.

  “And that’s enough evidence for he and I,” piped up Sergeant Dachshund.

  “Whatta you gudda do?” quavered the guilty possum.

  “We gudda play house—station house,” grunted Inspector Mastiff, and he and the sergeant led her to their squad car.

  “Okay, I done it,” said the late possum’s widow on the way to the police station. “He come home once too often with bunny hairs on his lapel. You don’t get them hairs at no rat race, like where he always said he was.”

  As the car sped along, Sergeant Dachshund thought ruefully, “Everybody who wants to die with their boots on should go to bed fully clothed.”

  MORAL: Husbandslaughter is occasionally just, but why should the mother tongue bite the dust?

  The Starling and the Crow

  Illustrated by Eric Hanson

  A STARLING, one of a thousand that lived and bickered in a great elm, met a crow one morning and passed the time of day. They met frequently after that, since their daily paths crossed, as the crow flew to the cornfield and the starling to the rye. They didn’t say much, for the starling spoke only a little crow and the crow’s starling was far from fluent. But the word got around among the starlings that the familiarity of the starling and the crow was not good.

  “He’s selling us out to the crows,” cried an important starling who had started the story that starlings were starlings because they owned the stars. “He has given them the plans of our nests, he believes in their caws, his father was a crow on his mother’s side.”

  The innocent starling demanded a public hearing, but the starlings made so much noise accusing him, and one another, of unstarling activities and pro-crowism, that he couldn’t make himself heard.

  “Are you a crow or aren’t you?” shouted Senator Upstarling.

  The starling said, “No, I am not,” but he couldn’t be heard above the babble and bickering, threats, warnings, accusations, innuendoes, and the shouts of the photographers and newspapermen.

  “Guilty of whatever it is he’s guilty of,” declared the judge. “I can’t hear a goddamn thing and I’m late for a date with fly-catcher in the rye.”

  “Throw him to the butcher birds!” cried half of the starlings, and there was a great pecking and clawing and flying of feathers, during which the crows attacked the elm and took it over without any trouble to speak of.

  MORAL: Familiarity also breeds contempt proceedings.

  The Generalissimo of All the Field Mice in the World

  Illustrated by Edel Rodriguez

  THE GENERALISSIMO OF all the Field Mice in the World lived in a wild, secluded Nebraska field, which the Generalissimo believed was all the earth and the universe. If you burrow too far in any direction, he decreed, you will burrow your way out of the planet and plunge into everlasting space. “What happens to you then?” his wife asked him one night, after removing his army boots and his scarlet and gray uniform. “There is no Finality,” said the Generalissimo, with finality. “You just keep on falling forever.”

  All the other creatures that lived below the grass were in awe of the great field mouse who knew so much about everything. “I am a general and a philosopher,” he would say, drinking a liquor made of dandelion roots and oil of viper’s bugloss. “A general is no good unless he can justify his actions, and a philosopher is no good unless he can protect his inactivity by throwing a military guard around his seclusion.” The other field mice and the moles and chipmunks and gophers didn’t know what the Generalissimo was talking about, but they figured that if it was beyond their comprehension it might be worth believing in. They came to hate creatures like the crickets and grasshoppers, who were just as smart as their leaders.

  For a time the Generalissimo was satisfied with the title he had forced the field mice to confer on him by acclamation, but then he decided that they wanted him to be the Generalissimore, and, in the end, the Generalissimost. As soon as he had been given this magnifi
cent title, it became clear to him that the other creatures who lived underground needed to be protected from their own freedom. He called in his Chief Burrower and explained that his burrows must be connected up with the burrows of the moles, the chipmunks, and the gophers. When the Chief Burrower explained that this would be aggression he disappeared one night and was never seen again, and a new Chief Burrower took his place. “Aggression,” said the Generalissimost, “is anything that stands in the way of our protecting the other creatures from their freedom.” So the field mice began to extend their tunnels and corridors until they were all connected up with the tunnels and corridors of the neighboring moles, chipmunks, and gophers.

  Ed. Note: This is an unfinished fable. The manuscript ends here.

  The Bright Emperor

  Illustrated by R. O. Blechman

  THE PARTICULAR BEETLES whose vast empire was the small backyard of a house on Fifth Avenue were astonished one day in May when one of their members, known as a ne’er-do-well, returned after a long absence wearing a shining silver helmet on his head. Perched just above his eyes, it allowed his feelers full play, and was very becoming and impressive, although it seemed a trifle heavy for one unused to wearing anything on his head except an occasional drop of rain. The emperor of the beetles, a plain, unadorned beetle, lived in an overturned box that had once belonged to a dog. There was a damp rug in the box. This palace was looked upon by the beetles as the finest palace in the world.