“One winter’s day while traipsing home, a woodsman stumbled across a black serpent lying on the snow, seemingly dead. Picking it up, he clasped the serpent inside his coat to warm it while he hastened home. There, he placed it near the fire. As the creature slowly revived, his son stooped to stroke it. In response, the serpent nefariously extended his fangs. With the serpent poised to strike, the alarmed woodsman seized his ax and cut it in twain, thus saving the child’s life. ‘Alas,’ he lamented, ‘there is no gratitude from the wicked.’” Dorinda squirmed as she read the story that was so germane to her situation. “I was, like, wanting something lighter to read you know,” she hinted hopefully.
“Sure enough,” Arthur complied. “Read the next one—it’s more upbeat.”
“Phew! Dorinda exclaimed. “Ok. It’s titled The Dove and the Ant.”
“Early one morning,” she read, “a tiny ant strove to allay its thirst in a stream. Dislodged by the rush of the stream, it struggled to stay above water. Noticing the struggle, a dove plucked a leaf from a proximate tree, and let it fall near the ant, which was able to climb aboard and float to shore.
Soon after, a fowler noticed the dove and stealthily sought to grab it in his net. Aware of the fowler’s plan, he got bitten in the foot by the ant, not stopping until the man dropped his net in pain. The noise alerted the dove, which flew to safety.
Implying Arthur’s intended message, Dorinda could only mumble the closing aphorism: “one good turn deserves another.”
She slammed the book shut and ignobly fled to the palace grounds.
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