The Tortoise and the Hare

The hare could never pass the tortoise without a remark about his feet. One morning the tortoise stopped beside the meadow gate and suggested a race. The fox marked a finish beside the old oak. Every creature in the field came to watch.

At the signal, the hare flew down the path. By the first bend the tortoise was a small dark shape behind him. There was no pleasure in such an easy victory, the hare thought. He would wait until his opponent drew near, then make a splendid final dash.

A patch of shade lay beneath a hawthorn. The hare stretched out, meaning only to rest his legs. Warm air stirred the leaves. Before long his ears drooped and his eyes closed.

The tortoise kept moving. He did not stop to argue with the larks, who told him the race was hopeless. He did not turn aside for the sweet clover. When he passed the sleeping hare, he made no speech about it. He simply placed one foot ahead of another.

Late in the afternoon a cheer woke the hare. He sprang up and bounded toward the oak. His feet were wonderfully fast; his sleep had been wonderfully long.

The tortoise crossed the line while the hare was still a few leaps away.

The fox asked how he had managed it. The tortoise looked back along the ordinary path.

“I kept going,” he said.

The hare said nothing. For once, he had arrived too late to improve the story with a boast.