There was once a storyteller whose yard was covered with a sad vine. The vine grew this way and that, with no real direction, and all but obscured the view of the single, sad flower with a drooping stem that grew in a patch of soil on the left side of his house. The neighbors all clambered for the poet to trim the vine, but he refused, saying that the vine and the flower needed time for their relationship to blossom.
The storyteller would look out of his window and see the sad vine, who looked quite unsure of himself. The vine, as the poet could tell you, was named Ernest, and was sure that everyone would find him ugly, so he kept close to the ground. The flower, meanwhile, was named Gloria, and she lamented her inability to see much of the world, what with her stem that would begin to droop whenever she grew more than a foot or two.
The storyteller was fond of the vine and the flower, and he wrote a tale in which Ernest and Gloria fell in love. They were married, and when Ernest confessed to Gloria that he kept close to the ground because he thought he was ugly, she set about giving him a makeover. Soon his leaves sparkled, and his tendrils glistened.
But Ernest was not one to get puffed up about his appearance, and he certainly was not one to forget his bride.
“Come along with me, Gloria,” he said, working his way to the wall of the storyteller’s house, “and I will show you the world.”
The two of them moved to a sunny villa at the top of the storyteller’s house, and they raised a large and happy family of little vines and little flowers.
And that was why, when the storyteller finished his story, his neighbors gasped. For his yard was now tidy and well-tended, while his house was covered in countless vines with leaves that reflected the sun like mirrors. And winding their way in and around was the vine’s wife and too many flowers to count, all of them gazing at the land spread out before them.
The storyteller would look out of his window and see the sad vine, who looked quite unsure of himself. The vine, as the poet could tell you, was named Ernest, and was sure that everyone would find him ugly, so he kept close to the ground. The flower, meanwhile, was named Gloria, and she lamented her inability to see much of the world, what with her stem that would begin to droop whenever she grew more than a foot or two.
The storyteller was fond of the vine and the flower, and he wrote a tale in which Ernest and Gloria fell in love. They were married, and when Ernest confessed to Gloria that he kept close to the ground because he thought he was ugly, she set about giving him a makeover. Soon his leaves sparkled, and his tendrils glistened.
But Ernest was not one to get puffed up about his appearance, and he certainly was not one to forget his bride.
“Come along with me, Gloria,” he said, working his way to the wall of the storyteller’s house, “and I will show you the world.”
The two of them moved to a sunny villa at the top of the storyteller’s house, and they raised a large and happy family of little vines and little flowers.
And that was why, when the storyteller finished his story, his neighbors gasped. For his yard was now tidy and well-tended, while his house was covered in countless vines with leaves that reflected the sun like mirrors. And winding their way in and around was the vine’s wife and too many flowers to count, all of them gazing at the land spread out before them.
