The Writing Tree

            On a blustery day a man sat beneath a tree. In one hand he held a feather pen and in the other he grasped a stack of paper. As he sat, pondering, he would laugh. A passerby, hearing the curious laugh, stopped to inquire; “Good sir, what are you doing beneath this tree with a feather pen, a stack of papers, and such a ridiculous laugh?”

            “I am writing a book, good man. This laugh though, it gives me endless trouble. You see, laughter makes hard things difficult to consider, oh, me! oh, my!”

            “May I humbly suggest a solution to your problem, good sir?”

            “By all means, yes,” answered the man beneath the tree.

            “Well, good sir, it seems that every time you do some thinking you are tickling yourself with your feather pen.” The stranger left.

            The man beneath the tree fashioned himself a pen from a twig and continued his work. He placed every page he wrote to his right. Another passerby stopped and watched the man labor for a while. Finally he asked, “Hullo, sir! What are you doing with that twig pen, a stack of paper, and no finished pages?”

            “I am writing a book, good man, but every time I finish a page the wind steals my work away and I must begin again.”

            “May I make a slight suggestion, sir?”

            “By all means, do so!”

            “It seems to me that if you were to place your finished pages beneath a rock the wind could not steal them away.”

            “Thank you, good man,” and the man continued his writing, placing his finished pages beneath a rock.

            Within a short while the sound of bagpipes filled the blustery air. The piper came marching along the trail and his song stopped abruptly when he saw the man beneath the tree. His march continued for a few thudding steps before he turned about and asked. “What are you doing?”

            “I am writing a book, good man, with this twig pen, stack of papers, and my finished work beneath this rock.” The man beneath the tree beamed with pride.

            The piper chuckled and adjusted his purple hat to sit more nobly upon his balding brow. He spoke, “I fear you are not.”

            The befuddled man inquired, “how so?”

            “You simply have no ink, daft sir.” 

By: Joshua A. Spotts