There once was a large, yellow rabbit named Arthur. He lived in a small duplex burrow in the lawn across from Central Park South and was very sophisticated. All the bunnies thought that Arthur was cute.
One day, Arthur was walking to the Lettuce National Bank to cash his coupons attached to his Carrotcorp bonds. He wore a black Homburg and red spats. Everyone knew he was wealthy by the way he twirled his cane. All the bunnies thought that Arthur was cute and rich.
Arthur passed a sign and looked at
it. He stopped. He was moved; for the first time since he was a child in a
Hartford, Connecticut garden he was truly moved. The sign read:
“Fight for Amboulian Literacy! Be of Service to Man and God.”
Arthur’s brow curled in determination. His eyes turned steel-cold in resolve behind his whiskers. Here at last was something worth doing – his idle dissolution was shown now in true perspective, a waste of talent in an age crying for action, measured until now against a posterity all-too-forgetful of its ancestors. Arthur looked proud and strong and determined. Any bunny looking at him thought immediately that Arthur was cute and rich and, his yellow fur notwithstanding, quite courageous.
Arthur tore up his bonds and shaved his head. He donated his cane to the American Legion, his spats to the Catholic War Orphans, and his purple double-breasted surcoat to the UJA. He resigned from eating the grasses in front of the Union Club and the Princeton Club, sent back his membership card in the Hartford Herbivore Society, and took a few memorabilia in a small box and boarded the first steamer to Amboulian. All the bunnies thought that Arthur was cute, rich, courageous and crazy, but since he was rich apologies were made for him.
There once was a large yellow rabbit who was born in the hills of Amboulian. He was smart and progressive and literate, and passed through life in a way to leave his mark by helping others such that none could scoff at the ground upon which he trod. All the bunnies thought that Ngomo was cute, smart, courageous and the image of his late grandfather, Arthur of the Lettuce, who had come to Amboulian long ago to be of service and to fulfill his churning intellect.
One day, rummaging through his ancestral burrow, Ngomo came across a small box with a brass ring on top. Gently lifting the cover, he found a book of photographs of his late grandfather. Here was Arthur in spats surrounded by seven beautiful bunnies in a mansion with palm trees. Here was Arthur doing the conga with a socialite lop-eared from someplace called Scarsdale. Here was Arthur addressing a gathering of the National Skeet-Shooting League.
For the first time in years, Ngomo was moved, truly moved. “My, is it not grand,” he exclaimed. “Here I thought life was so full, here I was doing great things, justifying my presence on earth, and yet there must be so much more to life than this!”
For weeks Ngomo brooded, troubled and alone. At last, he took a decision. Packing his few City clothes, he strode off down the road, midst tears and anguish from his people, and lay a course for the great metropolis.
Invitation received in the mail just the other day:
“The National Association of Bank
Directors Cordially Invites
To a Luncheon in honor of
President of the New York Central Park Bank
In recognition of his philanthropy in donating
A very large amount of lettuce
To construct a heated community swimming pool in the basement of
The Central Park Zoo.”
“Except the Lord keepeth the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.”