Each month of the year from September till June, On a night barely lit by a very young moon, A man with a barrow came trudging along, While whistling, off-key, a traditional song. He came in due course to that land's very border, And customs guard Jack barked at him the same order: "Stop, peasant; declare what you have in that cart, Or else in my search, I'll near tear it apart." "Dear sir, you have stopped me now, many a night, Harrassment like this, sir, can never be right. I know you suspect there are goods, contraband, But this night, as e'er you'll find nothing but sand." The customs man searched through that grit, every spot, But found not a fragment, a speck or a jot Of cargo of value, of profit, of worth, But only a heap of that coarse yellow earth. For years this went on, till, his patience expired, The customs man, Jack from his duties retired, But on their last meeting, he said: "Will you please, Divulge what it is you've been smuggling for these... "Long years, for I know you've been up to no good." The trav'ler replied: "Jack, you're head's made of wood. Your brain is the size, Jack, of one of those sparrows, It's obvious,surely... I'm smuggling these barrows."
I first heard a tale along these lines long ago. It appears that tale was a variant of an ancient Arabic story about a fellow called Nasra Din.
Sunday, January 14, 2007