The Koala

Enough said about the koala bear, enough about his irresistible charm, that cuddly fluff that keeps people coming. Crowds are mad about him, but a koala never puts on a show, never actually tries to act so cute, stoop that low to gain salute, the way a lot of lap dogs do to captivate you.

No, hundreds may watch while he romps in his gym, but that doesn’t remotely concern him. He never calls attention to himself, he goes on being he or she, and that is the secret of koala success, his un-self-conscious celebrity.

Moral: Never actively seek a flattering press lest you forfeit natural happiness.

The Giraffe

The last one who said to an indulgent giraffe, “How’s the air up there?” soon found out. Seized by the throat and slung through the air, winding up on top of a baobab tree, he dangles there, for all to see.

Your stately giraffe moves slowly, aloof, munching the leaves on acacia tops. His gait is so fluid wherever he goes that he scarcely walks but grandly flows. He drifts unafraid across the plain not simply because of his daunting height but because he has the sharpest hoof of any animal anywhere. So he strides abroad in broad daylight from tree to tree and crown to crown, quite undisturbed by might and mane, serene, sedate, elegant, and kindly disposed, hardly ever perturbed, patient, polite, the most forgiving of beasts—except for that one unpardonable gaffe that no one should visit upon a giraffe.

He is one of the world’s mildest, least excitable critters, but he simply explodes at that unseemly old joke coming from unoriginal, wisecracking smart-alecs, who love to show off. They get what they deserve.

Moral: Do not crack wise at someone tall—better yet, not at all.

Incident at Glacier Park

Two summer tourists sat in their lone car at a Glacier National Park overlook, admiring the sunset splendor in the Montana peaks. Gazing far out and long down through the oncoming dark, each saw something—a shape—something approaching in rear and sideview mirrors: not a person but a looming staggering hulk, shaggy, lumbering, stupendous, wavering, clumsy but closing in, an enormous bulk.

“I’m shutting the windows,” he said, but she re-opened hers and aimed her camera straight at the massive hump-necked beast as he drew parallel, turning his head toward her just then, his whole form abreast when she clicked, a full gratifying action shot, as far as she could tell, and he—fell! collapsed in one imploded heap of fur and crumpled flesh, directly down, not three feet away from their car. 

“You just killed a bear,” her husband shouted, “with your instamatic flash! You must have scared him silly, with lightning in a box, given him one of those rare heart attacks an animal can get from sudden fear, even a giant grizzly bear, and you plain up-and-down killed him.”

“Maybe,” she tried weakly, “he just fainted.”