Robin and Son

In one particular robin flock there was a female who was truly loyal and faithful to the mate she had picked years before. It was a sort of scandal to be so male-bonded in a group that was utterly liberal and would never show the slightest disapproval of normal social strayers from the nest. Not that she showed off in any manner but was, simply, devoted and content. And it had been the same for him in a prior mating, where his partner never once went off, until she died.

What did he have that kept his females so devoted? Don’t say sex because robins don’t delude themselves with unique details of capacity, any startling disparities in coital competence. They know about the general parity of masculine performance. One male is as strong or as brave as another, no special fame inherent. Was it exceptional good-looks? No. He had no extraordinary orange in his broad expanse of chest, no luminous crimson more luminous than the next. No, something else was involved in this robin’s hold on his steadfast, immovable mates.

No one in that flock ever learned his secret except his breast-bespeckled son when the fledgling took his turn to fly to other skies and be gone.

           

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.