Not based on true events

Centipedes must be quite coordinated to be able to move those many legs at those many times in those numerous circumstances. They would have to be able to know which of their multiple limbs must first be moved, and then which one after that and so on. Add to this the fact that they must know upon which side the limb must be utilized to create the even, nearly hypnotic wave of motion that is so pleasing to the eye. But Cecily, poor Cecily the centipede, could never move her limbs like the surface of the sea. Cecily, poor Cecily the centipede, could not decipher which leg should introduce the walk, and which could not conclude it. Finally, Cecily, poor Cecily, could not hunt, for she could not move. As soon as she came into the wide and wondrous world, she could not budge an inch, and a depressing future of starvation lay before her. She gazed ruefully on as her siblings scampered eagerly away to the great adventure of life while she was condemned to perish in a few days. Cecily twitched her antennae at the terrible thought, and after a moment, musing, she moved one leg. But it was the wrong one and she could not proceed and lay sprawling and waiting. More than once, her prey of ants and other smaller invertebrates scuttling temptingly near, and yet she was unable to capture them. “ Oh!” thought she despairingly, “ If I can not coordinate the fourteen limbs I have now, what will I do when I am grown and have even more? That is, if I ever do grow.” That, Cecily thought, was unlikely, but even that doubt spurred her on to desperation. There had to be some way to dodge her fate! She could not forever remain immobile! There must be some way of escape from this spider’s web! Again and again, she moved limb and limb, but in vain. Again and again, she crept near a hundredth of an inch, but never more, until she caught sight of something which strangely fascinated her. Somehow, in that gloomy basement, a caterpillar had found its way, and there it was before her, inching along most contentedly. For a time, Cecily watched in mere interest. But when the caterpillar had disappeared around a corner, a bright illumination of the mind struck her, and there was hope! In imitation, she raised her last legs which were stiff and immobile as those of most centipedes are, and then, arching her back, she made a leap forward with her forelegs. Afterwards, she dragged her hindlegs up behind, and to her immense joy and jubilation, she saw that she had shifted herself more than even a hundredth of an inch! Indeed, she had! It was a stiff, unnatural movement at first, but the more Cecily stretched and scrunched herself, the easier it became, and the swifter she went. This first day, she was able to overtake and overpower a slow snail, and then the next morning, she devoured a slightly swifter slug, and in a week’s time she could run a race with any ant, big or small. And that there is the hopeful tale of Cecily the centipede.

Not based on true events

Larry the leech was very weary of human toes and a dog’s nose for his breakfasts, lunches and dinners. And, for desert, he was quite tired of the scaly fishes which were served. But this yearning for a novel food was not simply a whim, but a need. For, in a very short time, the weedy lake in which he dwelt was abandoned by his first courses, namely, toses and noses, for the sole reason that he and his companions were within it. The people now would not venture even near the shore, but would have elegant tea parties upon the sward of grass abreast it. There, ladies with silky hats and ruffled summer gowns would discourse most primly with men in penguin suits and curled moustaches while the children laughed and ran about; all were out of Larry’s reach. Even the dogs were now haltered and though they might be panting for water, their masters and mistresses denied them any access to the lake. In recompense, their owners would bend down and pour lemonade in their pets’ drinking bowls, and if that pet was desperate enough, it lapped it up with relish. But they endured with less relish the illness that that beverage caused them afterwards. So, there Larry clung among the weeds, taking small fish snacks if he could, but one can not live on desert alone. Therefore, he began to test other substances as well. First, he commenced chewing and slurping at the vegetation upon which he stuck himself, but the taste was so repulsive that the experiment did not last long. After that, he grabbed a whisp of plastic which drifted past him, and finding it inedible and indigestible, let it free to settle to the murky bottom, to remain there for decades without change. At length, he caught sight of something more appealing. It was floating upon the surface, unmoving, yet bore all the appearances of a living, furry being. It neared closer and closer to Larry, who eyed it greedily and prepared himself for lunch. Finally, it was come and clip! Larry fastened himself tightly upon it. But to his disgust, it was far from being a living creature. In fact, the hair in which he was now embedded was not even real. He would have let go, that is, if he had the chance. But Larry did not have the chance, for in a moment, the hat which was the object upon which he was stuck, was plucked from the water by its unfortunate possessor, and poor Larry went with it! It was even worse than being caught by a Ring-billed Gull! This situation, though, afforded Larry a chance of survival, and he took that chance, and let go of his furry rocket. Unfortunately, his move was ill-timed, and, instead of soaring to the waters and falling within them, Larry found himself catapulting towards the sward, and with a thump, he landed. That upon which he had landed was immediately dropped like a hot potato, an action accompanied by a woman’s scream followed by the scattering of feet of both men and women and children. With that, Larry found himself alone, but he was quite contented, for the ham of the sandwich upon which he clung was very much to his taste, even better, in his opinion, than either human toes or a dog’s noes.

Not based on true events

With that, before any fear could overpower his resolve, Fishwing darted forth, carried swiftly by the current like a rocket in the air, and with a last shiver of terror, he shot from the dam, and into the air. And, believe me if you will, it was then that  he sprouted wings. Yes, it was then that he lived up to his name of “ Fishwing”, for during the mere moment of his bursting forth over the dam’s height, an imprudent and impudent juvenile Osprey snatched him from the air and  bore him far, far into the clouds. This was about the greatest outrage against any fish as large and heavy as Fishwing. He was willing to perish by an eagle, he was willing to perish by a hawk, and  yes, he was willing to perish by an Osprey- but not a juvenile! With a ferocious wriggle and slap, he  struggled against his captor’s grip which loosened every second. The poor Osprey had not the faintest idea what to do, and was rocking to and fro upon unsteady wings like a drunken sailor, while the powerful fish swayed in his talons. Suddenely, the Osprey could bear no more, and even with a safe perch in view, released his prey. Down, down, down tumbled Fishwing, spinning around and around, first speeding head foremost through the air, then plunging tail first. At times he found himself falling sideways, at times upside down, and all this terrible time, he awaited his end, which was to come when he hit the earth. But the awful demise did not terrify him. After all, had he not flown? And had he not seen those marvellous places which he had longed to visit, even if it was from the air? No, that was enough for him, and with the sun at his back, the Osprey above him, and the air below, his tumultuous trek came to an end. And it was the most unexpected, chilly, andredeeming end to be sure! For,  by some sheer luck, it was not in a field, or a plain, or on the roof of a house that he fell. No, indeed, it was within a cold deep lake that he made his final splash, and Fishwing found himself bubbling happily beneath its surface. He had now fully received his wish, did Fishwing, for now he had a whole strange and novel world to explore, with plenty of Brown Trout, and Slimy Sculpins to eat. Even Perca, the Yellow Perch, was there, and how she came to be present Fishwing could only surmise that she, like himself, had grown wings and flew.

Not based on true events

How Fishwing, the Burbot, wished he truly had a pair of wings. How many falls did he tumble down, flopping painfully from rock to rock? How many times had Perca, the Yellow Perch, who had been accidentally dropped by a Double-crested Cormorant, told him of the wonderful ponds she had seen? How many times did he long to visit them, and even took the peril of poking his head out from the river’s flowing coolness to gaze upon swamps beyond; lakes which he could never visit. Yes, Fishwing was sure that he could never explore those waters, and so  he was forced to content himself in the coolness of his own river. There, he found food a-plenty, and enjoyed gobbling up Slimy Sculpins and dining upon Brown Trout. In fact, he had no reason for leaving his home and there remained. A  few months past with good harvest for Fishwing, but at the end of those months, he noticed a rather mysterious change. The aquatic caves in which the sculpins previously laid their eggs were empty, and no adult sculpins would approach them. The Brown Trout, who were before flourishing in both the purified and polluted areas of the river were diminishing rapidly until not one could Fishwing discover in several days. This disappearance of his prey, though, did not cause any apprehension in him, but, when the waterbirds one morning disappeared, he became quite alarmed. Never had such a vanishment occurred before and never had he thought that it would grieve him that his main predators were gone! But not only had they fled, but so had the sculpins! Even Perca had abandoned those waters. He scarcely knew what to do in his panic, for he was now the sole finned fellow remaining, and a very hungry fellow he would eventually become if he could not find more hospitable waters. Finally, Fishwing determined that he had to do something, and he did it. Upon the second day of this desolation, he could be seen swimming downstream in search of more fertile home. And though he journeyed for miles, without anything to sustain him but a few bony minnows, he did not find those waters. What he did find, though, was a deadly obstacle in his passage. He had before heard from underwater gossip of great cemented waterfalls known as dams, but never did he expect to find one blockading his precious river. It took all his strength to fight back against the current to avoid being tossed over the edge of the dangerous fall before him, but, with perseverance, he finally attained an area of relatively still water. Here, Fishwing rested, and deliberated upon what he should do. Was he to battle upstream once more, back to his home, and there starve by inches and perish? Or was he going to brave the treacherous dam, and risk being battered to bits while plunging over it? Both the possibilities which netted him were grim. How was he to choose between them? But, thought he, since there was no safer road to travel, he would take one: he would swim the dam.

Based on true events

I assure you that most, if not all, fish do not have a taste or appetite for hooks, and neither would we if we were the victims, but there is one remarkable being which does. At least, it appears so. Mr. Bramble had had many encounters with it while fishing at Serpent River which was just abreast of his rural home. During these encounters, his blood would fume, and it was most likely that the being which had a ruthless taste for fishing hooks felt the same. After all, who would like to be violently extracted from the security of the murky river bottom, sent flying through the air, and left in the end dangling at the end of a line? No one, I am sure. But during these meetings, though the ire and indignation of both parties rose high, there were no blows dealt, and Mr. Bramble would be left to fumble and force the hook from his tormentor and send it headlong back into the water. It was a very dramatic ending for a rather pettish occurrence, and Mr. Bramble would think no more of it. He had long past the state of worrying over such a trifling affair, but on the 20th of July, his worries returned at full force. For, on that day, it was his son’s seventh birthday, and the boy had received his very first fishing rod. Bimpy Bramble was his name, and he insisted upon putting it to use immediately. In that moment, Mr. Bramble’s apprehensions leapt to the skies with thoughts such as “ What if, instead of his first fish, he catches that annoying little mite which lives at the bottom of the murky depths?” and “What if, when caught, that being swallows the only hook Bimpy has in retaliation?” Despite, though, all of his concerns, Mr. Bramble  soon found himself sitting alongside his son in a sunny patch on the bank of Serpent River. The birds were calling, and the frogs were croaking, and the clouds were glowing and racing a never-ending race. All seemed perfection when Bimpy’s hook vanished beneath the turquoise surface of the water, which glittered in the sunlight. All the troubles of the world were put at rest, all but one: was the being of the river bottom going to be naughty that day? “Evidently not,” thought Mr. Bramble when Bimpy called out that something had taken his hook, and that the line was jerking to and fro. “ That dweller of mud can’t do that!” cried out Mr. Bramble unwittingly as he ecstatically snatched the rod and aided his son to pull in his catch. But, as it happens so often, he had spoken too soon, for when the hook had been reeled in, there hung upon it, the round smooth, brown features of a Fatmucket. The joyful face of the boy immediately fell at the sight of it dripping and swinging above water, and Mr. Bramble seemed equally disappointed. “ Well,” said he in a spiritless tone as he gazed at the offending bivalve, “All we can do is throw it back in.” And he took hold of it to dislodge the hook from its shell, but the boy stopped him with his small hand upon his father’s outstretched arm. “ Wait,” said he, “What is this?” And with that, he took from the clam’s lips a slip of paper which was soaked, limp and dripping. Holding it between both of his hands, Bimpy read this phenomenal epitaph: “ I am protecting the fish.” How a clam could come to write such a thing without hands or pen, I do not know. Perhaps it was some complex joke by some water sprite, but that is equally unlikely. All I know is that Mr. Bramble took the paper from his son’s hand into his own which shook like a mountain, and blew his top. With a roar of rage and frustration, he flung it to the ground and stomped and leapt and danced upon it, tearing up the bank with his ireful antics. Meanwhile, seven-year-old Bimpy took no notice, but only thoughtfully unhooked the Fatmucket and tossed it into the water. Ever afterwards, the only fishes he took were the ones he ate.