With a myriad of distractions this week drawing me in a many directions, I decided to reach into my dusty vault of past postings to fulfil my shared Inspiration commitment. I settled on this delightful children’s fable that has its roots in Germany and was first sent as my Friday installment in November 2013. It is a wonderful reminder to all of us, regardless of our age, that those who are constantly discontented with their current condition often find it surprisingly challenging to assuage their perceived lack of contentment in any other endeavor or circumstance.
Ever so long ago, in the time when there were fairies, and people and animals talked together, there lived a curly-tailed pig. He lived by himself in a house at the edge of the village, and every day he worked in his garden. Whether the sun shone or the rain fell he hoed and dug and weeded, turning the earth around his tomato vines and loosening the soil of the carrot plot, until word of his fine vegetables travelled through seven counties, and each year he won the royal prize at the fair.
But after a time the little pig grew tired of the endless toil.
“What matters it if I do have the finest vegetables in the kingdom,” he thought, “since I must work myself to death getting them to grow? I mean to go out and see the world and find an easier way of making a living.”
So he locked the door of his house and shut the gate of his garden and started down the road.
A good three miles he traveled, until he came across a cottage almost hidden in a grove of trees. Lovely music sounded around him and Little Pig smiled, for he had an ear for sweet sounds. “I will go look for the source of such lovely notes,” he said, following in the direction from which the melody seemed to be coming.
Now it happened that in a nearby house from whence the tunes were emanating dwelt Thomas, a cat, who made his living playing the violin. Little Pig saw him standing in the doorway pushing the bow up and down across the strings. It put a thought into his head. Surely this must be easier and far more pleasant than digging in a garden!
“Will you teach me to play the violin, friend cat?” he asked.
Thomas looked up from his bow and nodded his head. “To be sure,” he answered. “Just do as I’m doing.” And he handed him the bow and fiddle.
Little Pig grabbed the instrument and began sawing the bow over its strings. But, instead of sweet melodies, all the was heard for his effort were screeches and squawks which sounded more like the squealing of his baby brother pigs whenever a wolf came near them than it sounded like pleasant melodic notes.
“Oh,” he cried, “This isn’t music!”
Thomas, the cat, nodded his head.
“Of course not,” he replied, “You haven’t tried long enough. He who would play the violin must work long and diligently to master it.”
“Then I’ll look for something else,” Pig retorted, “because this requires just as hard an effort as tending my garden.” So he returned the violin to Thomas and started again down the road.
After walking for some time, Pig came upon a hut where a dog that made cheese lived. The dog was kneading and molding the curd into cakes, and, watching intently for a few minutes, Pig thought it looked quite easy. “I think I would like to go into the cheese business myself,” he said to himself. So he asked the dog it he would teach him. This the dog was quite willing to do, and a moment later Little Pig was working beside him, but soon thereafter, Pig grew hot and tired and stopped to rest and fan himself.
“No, no!” cried the dog, “You will spoil the cheese. There can be no rest time until all of the work is done.”
Little Pig opened his eyes in amazement. “Indeed!” he replied. “Then this is just as hard as growing vegetables or learning to play a violin. I mean to look for something easier to do.” And so, he bid dog farewell and headed down the road once more.
On the other side of the river, in a sweet green field, a man was taking honey out of beehives. Little Pig saw him as he crossed the bridge and thought that of all the trades he has seen, this one suited him best. It must be lovely working there in the meadow among all the lovely flowers. Honey was not heavy to lift, and once in a while he could have a mouthful of it. He ran as fast as he could to inquire if the man would consider taking him into his employ as an apprentice.
This plan pleased the bee man as much as it pleased the pig. “I’ve been looking for a helper for a year and a day,” he said. “You can begin work at once.”
He gave Little Pig a veil and a pair of gloves, telling him to fasten them on well. Then he told him to lift a honeycomb out of one of the hives.
Little Pig ran to do it, twisting his curly tail in the joy of having at last discovered a business that suited him perfectly. But buzz, buzz! The bees crept under his veil and inside his gloves. They stung him on his fingers, his mouth, his ears, and the end of his nose, and he squealed and dropped the honey and ran.
“Come back, come back!” the man shouted. “No, no!” Little Pig responded with an even bigger squeal. “No, no, the bees hurt me.”
The man nodded his head. “Of course they do,” he said. “They hurt me too! That is part of the work. You cannot be a beekeeper without getting stung.”
Little Pig blinked his beady eyes and began to think hard.
“It seems that every kind of work has something unpleasant about it. To play the violin you must practice until your arm aches. When you make cheese you dare not stop a minute until the work is done, and in taking honey from a hive the bees sting you until your head is on fire. Work in my garden is not so bad after all, and I’m going back to it.”
So Little Pig said goodbye to the bee man and was soon back in his carrot patch. He hoed and raked and weeded, singing as he worked, and there was no more contented pig in the kingdom. Every autumn he took his vegetables to the fair and brought home the royal prize, and sometimes, on holidays, the cat and the dog and the bee man came to call.
There are two kinds of discontented in this world, the discontented that works and the discontented that wrings its hands.
The first gets what it wants and the second loses what it has.
There is no cure for the first but success and there is no cure at all for the second.
The very worst of my vices and bad habits will abate of themselves if they are brought to an accounting every day. – Og Mandino, The Greatest Salesman in the World
Have an AWE-full Weekend!
William “Bill” Bacque