The Ostrich and the Hippo

When the ostrich strode to the river bank, the hippo smirked and then sank almost out of sight. 

His ears were like a periscope turned in all directions, and he heard the ostrich, who said, “You, you enormous blubber, come out of there and stop your snickering.”

            

“What did you say?” tried the other.

           

“You heard me, your ears don’t lap over. And I can see both of them flickering; does it make you so nervous answering me?”

            

“I’m twitching off testy flies and fleas.”

            

“That’s tsetse flies, you illiterate hulk, you huge sniggering ignoramus. Now, tell me, exactly, what makes you laugh at the sight of me?”

            

“It’s seeing someone almost as ugly as I but far funnier.”

            

The ostrich said, “Oh, you admit you’re the ugliest creature alive?”

            

“I’ve got the disproportion, for a start. I’m so ungainly, all the way around. You can’t see my bulk so much in water where I move all right. But on land I’m ever so slow; if I went any slower, I’d go backwards. I don’t so much move as encumber wherever I am, like a piece of lax lumber.”

            

“Well,” said the ostrich, “I can sprint if not fly, and though I balloon at the waist, have a scrawny neck and a door-knob head, at least I can run, and I feel often spry. But you, I agree, have no redeeming traits, your head’s too square, your mouth opens as wide as a gaping lagoon, your tail’s all wrong, it stops too soon and, over-all, you should have stayed in bed.”

            

“Good!” said the hippo, “I accept all that and the fact that you didn’t dwell on my fat. Do you mind if I repeat the one thing about you that turns all your defects into a virtue? You’re a laughing stock—yes, with wings that don’t lift—and when you sprint, as you say, you whomp and you shift, careening and swaying side to side with a wobble and heave that make one feel you need a gyroscopic guide to keep you on course or you’ll tilt and keel head over heel, your neck stretched out, a glazed look on your face, as you jounce and leap in your ostrich pace, your feet over-long, your claws too splayed, sweat on your beak, even in the shade, your whole body careering, about to flop, when suddenly you come to a comical stop. I may be uglier, but you’re funnier.”

            

“Well,” said the ostrich, “all that makes me more special than you.”

           

Moral: Pride, on anybody’s part, will find its way.