385: Aesop's Fables: On the Farm

This week on Myths and Legends, we're back in Aesop's Fables with a whole new batch of the sometimes problematic morality tales put down by Aesop, the legendary fabulous.

We'll see some oxen lead the revolution, what happens when your arms and legs go on strike, and how to tell if that predator wearing your friend's loose skin is suspicious.

The creature this week is a dragon who just wants to help you out with pest removal.

this is myths and legends episode 385 on the farm

this is a podcast where we tell stories from mythology and folklore some are incredibly popular stories you might think you know but with surprising origins others are tales that might be new to you but are definitely worth a listen we're once again telling the fables by the possibly legendary Greek fabulous Aesop.

As I mentioned the last time we talked about these, he was, according to stories, an enslaved man who, through his storytelling ability, gained freedom and served as an advisor to kings.

A fable is, of course, an often supernatural story, usually with a moral or a lesson.

We'll jump in with some sheep in the field and a new friend who has come over to ask for a little help.

Hello there, fellow sheep.

The sheep, who stood apart from the rest of the herd, said to the others.

Hey, one said back and then looked.

Um, what's going on with your face

and body?

Why is your wool so matted that wait, is that blood?

The sheep turned to his friend.

Hey, there was something wrong.

This guy needed help.

The other sheep turned and squinted.

Oh, yeah, that was the wolf.

The first sheep bleeded out in terror.

The wolf?

What?

Yeah, it's...

it's okay though.

He knows if he tries to approach, the hounds will completely eviscerate him.

It looks like he's trying to be tricky or something.

The sheep grimaced at the, well,

what could only be described as a two-day-old sheep pelt just draped over the wolf.

His eyes are still in there.

Ugh.

The sheep took another bite of grass.

I don't know what you're talking about.

I'm just a fellow sheep, the wolf said.

Bar

no, that's not it.

He get it though.

The first sheep, the one who noticed the wolf, said, Yeah, now that they mentioned it, it was sloppy.

Wow.

Gross.

You're gross, the wolf barked back.

The sheep said that they were livestock and they lived outside, so yeah, that made sense.

Look at those dogs.

They are the one reason our people can't have peace between one another, the wolf said.

They always bark before we can approach you, and then snap at us when we get close.

If not for them, we might be able to talk.

Just dismiss them, and maybe, finally, there can be peace among our people.

The wolf smiled.

Aw, he sounds so reasonable, the sheep said.

The others pointed out that yes, he did, and he had sounded very reasonable to the herd the next field over.

There's no herd in the next field over,

the first sheep noted, and the second said, Yes, exactly.

It worked on them.

That's probably where he got the skin.

The wolf stepped forward, but stumbled.

Oh no, now he was so, so hurt.

Look, I'll level with you.

I need help, the wolf winced and whined.

He had been set upon by dogs.

They knew how scary dogs were, right?

The first sheep nodded.

Yeah, dogs were always telling them what to do.

Jerks.

Yes, indeed, wise one.

The wolf, sifting with his words, had found his mark.

Well, now the wolf was dying.

He just needed to make it to water and he would survive.

Would any of them, any of the sheep, be able to bring him some water?

If they brought him some water, he would be able to get some meat and survive.

None?

None of them would show him any charity?

And with them being sheep

I'll go, the first sheep said.

He didn't have hands or a cup or anything, though, so the wolf would just have to like drink it from his open mouth.

Would that be okay?

Yes, I think that should work.

You're very generous, the wolf grinned again.

The second sheep stopped it before it went too far, saying that the wolf, though absolutely a liar, was strangely truthful just then.

He was right in saying that if you brought him water, you would also bring him the meat.

The first sheep said that he was a very bad hunter.

He was a sheep.

He didn't even know where to find meat.

You!

You are the meat.

You if you brought him water, he would eat you, the second sheep face hooved.

Bleeding, the sheep backed up as the shepherd approached with the dogs.

The shepherd, tired and bored from sitting out in the field all day, looked at the wolf sheep.

Not very hard.

He saw a creature with wool and four legs.

Good enough.

He hooked it around the neck and brought it back to the farmer.

The wolf grinned, and as the sheep trotted behind the farmer with the other shepherds drawing up the sides, the second sheep said he didn't know why the wolf was so happy.

Because he's going to go into the farmer's house.

The farmer's entire family's in danger.

The first said they had to tell them.

Um, since when are we house pets?

Buddy, that wolf is about to be mutton.

Second sheep laughed.

For harm seek, harm find.

The first sheep looked at the second as the tone played.

Um,

who was that for?

The sheep said, you don't think up pithy lessons about the things that happen to you and then recite them at an opportune moment to atone.

The first said that now that literally had never happened, huh?

You should try it sometime.

A herd of sheep, with the wolf at the front, walked the forest path as the afternoon settled into evening.

Not far off in the forest, a fawn and his mother were standing, watching the sheep and the shepherds go by.

Okay, Mom, I'm sorry, I do not understand, the fawn said.

But you're larger than a dog, and swifter, and more used to running, and deer have horns as defense, generally.

Why, then, O mother, do hounds frighten you so?

The fawn asked.

He didn't get it.

I know full well, all my son, that all you say is true.

I have the advantages you mention, but when I hear even a bark of a single dog, I feel ready to faint and fly away as fast as I can, she said, and then her ears pricked up.

Oh, there it was, a bark.

Bye!

She hopped off into the forest.

The fawn turned to follow when he heard, behind him, no arguments will give courage to the coward.

He turned to see a lion walking home and bolted off after his mother.

You are the worst.

I hate you almost as much as you should hate yourself, you worthless clump of thorns.

The fir tree laughed at the bramble bush.

The bramble bush sighed.

This guy.

It was every day day with this.

Yes, the brambles had sprouted from a nearby root and yes, it did keep the fir tree from dropping any seeds of its own.

Still, it didn't ask to be like this or even be close to the fir tree.

It was just trying to survive too.

And the brambles didn't feel like this was actually about survival, but about the fir tree wanting to feel superior.

Because I am superior, you are useful for nothing at all.

The fir tree continued his usual greeting to his neighbor.

Roofs, siding, walkways, even flooring.

My higher strength and longer grain make for an excellent choice for flooring.

I don't easily form knots.

What do you do?

Like, you have berries that, best case scenario, a bird will eat and then poop out, spreading you like the plague you are upon the natural world.

This continued for a few more minutes when the Brambles laughed.

You poor creature, the Brambles sighed.

Poor creature, what are you talking about?

Do you know who I am?

Do you know what you are?

How dare you pity me?

The fir tree said.

He was making a fir cone to drop on that bramble bush.

Next season, that bramble bush would be sorry.

Oh, I'll be here next season, the bramble laughed as the first axe hit the fir tree.

But you won't.

The fir tree begged the woodcutters to please stop, but they were so cold and evil, they acted like they couldn't even hear the fir tree at all, because it was a tree and they couldn't hear it at all.

As you fall down, dead, you'll wish you were born a bramble, not a fir tree.

The bramble crackled for

better poverty without care than riches with.

Poverty without care.

What is poverty without care?

The fox watched from the bushes, shaking his head.

He went on and a mouse.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, don't you dare, man.

I'll get the lion over here.

The mouse squeaked as he ran.

You don't know the lion, the fox laughed and followed the mouse toward the lion's cave.

we hang out.

We're cool, the mouse said, and ran into the lion's cave.

The fox heard a roaring shriek and looked around the edge of the cave to see the lion swatting at his own mane.

A fine lion you are to be frightened of a mouse, the fox laughed from the mouth of the cave.

No, the lion said, No, he wasn't frightened, that wasn't what it was.

I resent his familiarity and his ill-breeding, for when it comes to the powerful, little liberties are great offenses.

Oh, so the lesson is to not let anything go ever, because it might make you look bad and people might not fear or respect you as much?

I can eat you, you know.

Legally, I can do it, the lion said to the fox.

I think we both know that you won't.

That's more running than you usually do, which is no running, the fox said.

You look terrible, though.

A few bad hunts?

The fox asked.

How dare you speak to me like that?

Come here so I may kill and consume you, the lion snarled.

The fox shook his head.

What?

No, why would I do that?

I hope you are sick.

You take that back, the lion yelled, rising to his paws.

No, I hope you die.

The fox yipped before bounding off into the forest.

He did, actually, hope that the lion died.

He only went to the lion's cave to mess with him, with hopes that he could rattle the big cat enough that he would make a mistake on a hunt and fall off something or accidentally impale himself on a stick or get caught in a trap.

So far no good, though, except that maybe he finally had a change in luck.

Later on that day he heard that lion

was dying.

In fact, Hedgehog was going there now to pay his respects to the king.

Come sunrise the following morning, hearing more and more about how terribly the lion was doing, the fox decided that he would go and gloat.

Oh, fox, you finally got your wish.

The lion laughed and then coughed.

Oh no.

The fox crossed his arms.

Mm-hmm.

Fox, you're so far away.

Oh, my eyes are so dim.

With death so quickly approaching.

Oh,

why don't you, why don't you come and sit by me?

Even enemies can be friends in the end.

Nah, I'm good.

The fox shook his head.

Why?

Why not?

The lion asked, growing more and more bristly and indignant.

Look, lion, out here I see...

so many prints, so many tracks leading into your your cave, the fox said.

The lion smiled.

He had a lot of admirers.

He didn't let me finish.

I see many tracks entering, but none leaving, the fox said.

I'd say feel better, but it seems that with such a full stomach, you're probably feeling just fine.

The fox darted before the lion made it to the mouth of the cave.

The lion could see his problem, though.

He was fighting a losing battle.

The better he got, the more difficult it was to to catch the animals who remained, the smart, fast, and wary ones.

No,

he needed a better, more permanent solution.

He needed to get married.

We'll learn that free goats are the best goats, but only if you can keep them.

But that will be right after this.

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Oh yeah, free goats.

The farmer pumped his fist after washing the blood from when he finished slaughtering that weird sheep the shepherd brought in.

And yeah, overshadowed by that strange sheep with a weirdly loose wool were the free goats.

Apparently, out in the pasture, wild goats had mixed in with his sheep.

You're gonna love it here.

Absolutely love it.

The farmer grinned at the goats.

His sheep began to bleed out that, hey, they still needed to have their stalls shut up.

Can you not see that I'm with someone?

The farmer barked at the sheep.

I'm so sorry.

So rude.

The farmer turned back to the visiting goats.

He had a wonderful stall for them right this way, please, he said, and coaxed the goats to the nice stall in the back, the one with the best oats, nestled in the heart of the barn, where they would have the warmest beds.

And that turned out to be nice because that night, it snowed.

And not only was a warm stall appreciated, but no one could could go out to graze the following day.

In fact, everyone was stuck in the house.

Including, ah!

The cry went out from the room in the back.

The farmer looked to his wife.

Really?

He says...

He says his body is rebelling, she said.

It was his turn to deal with it.

Hi,

son, the farmer said, as he swept back the curtain and entered the room.

Father, father, thank goodness.

The boy rocked on his torso and his neck, but stayed stayed put on the bed.

You need to get up, son.

Even though it's snowy, there's still work that needs to be done.

I know, Dad, I know.

I would love nothing more, but my body, it doesn't work.

The young man searched the room in panic.

Really?

The father said, walking over to the bedside.

Yeah, I knew it.

I heard them.

I heard them plotting.

The son shook his head.

Your body.

My limbs, dad, my limbs.

They're angry.

And who are they angry with?

Me?

No, what?

Why?

The son was confused.

No, they were enraged with his belly.

They were in open rebellion now.

They refused to work.

Okay, let's say I believe you, and that's a pretty big stretch, the farmer said.

What are you talking about?

I was laying here, right?

Bright and early before even the rooster crowed.

Hey, where did that rooster get to, by the way?

Anyway, I woke up before the sun and I was excited to get that shoveling animal excrement in the barn, and I heard them.

My belly and my limbs.

They were talking, Dad.

And what were they saying?

The dad would indulge this very briefly.

They said,

Why should we be perpetually engaged in administering to your wants while you do nothing but take your rest and enjoy yourself in luxury and self-indulgence?

The son was practically in tears.

Practically, not actually.

Then they took a vote and they went on strike.

The farmer sighed.

All right, get up.

He went over and pulled his son's hand and got a slap on his arm.

What was that?

The dad asked.

Dad, look, I'm sorry.

Like I said, I have no control, the son said.

The farmer approached and the son's fist clenched and raised.

Dad, you better step back.

I don't know what he'll do, the son said, as his foot kicked free of the blanket, coming to back up the hand.

That's that's you, the dad snapped.

Also, if his limbs were on strike so as to not feed the belly and take it places, why were they slapping?

They're gonna defend themselves, dad.

They're not gonna be forced back to work before their demands are met, the son said.

Come on.

The farmer took another step forward, and now both of his sons' fists were in the air.

Dad, I am so sorry.

We you'd know how much I love that work.

Believe me, I can't control them.

Also, what's for breakfast?

I can't walk in the other room, but I'm kind of collateral damage here.

Kind of stuck in the middle of this protest between workers and management.

Could you or mom just bring me breakfast in here in bed while they sort everything out?

The dad winced.

Yeah, sorry.

Ooh, he couldn't do that.

What?

The son was serious, but why?

The father said he understood.

It was unfair for the limbs to do all the work, and he wasn't about to cross a picket line.

Whenever they figured it out, breakfast would be in the next room.

The farmer turned and left the pleas of his son.

I give him until noon at the latest, the farmer said to his wife.

Hey, also, did she hear the rooster this morning?

She thought about it.

No, actually, she didn't.

She called out to her sister, who emerged from the next room with her cane.

They took her in after the death of her husband a few years back, and the daughters waited on her.

She said the girls usually came in when the rooster crowed, right?

The sister thought about it.

Yeah,

they did.

But they didn't come in that morning because he didn't crow that morning.

Hmm.

The rooster is dead.

the ox said, and that gave him an idea.

The son hadn't put them to work yet, so they had a lot of time that morning to talk.

First, the rooster.

And then when he heard from the house that the son's limbs were in open rebellion, it was time.

When it came to the rooster, yeah,

he was dead.

It wasn't even his fault, but reminding the aunt that her nieces needed to get up and work for her, he had to go.

The young women planted some forged documents on him and killed him, the true reason being that he woke up their aunt and they hated working for their aunt.

When it came to the oxen, though, this was the first they were reckoning with violence as a solution.

But when they thought about it, their life was violence.

The young man whipped them out in the stall, drove them through the fields, and then whipped them back into it.

And worst of all, when they were too old to work, they didn't get to rest.

They were sent to the butcher, the worst of all the humans.

The butcher's hands were permanently stained red with the blood of their brothers.

That was why the butcher would die tonight.

It was pragmatism.

If the butcher died, it would all be over.

They might even be released to live out their final years in peace on the hillside, instead of being turned to beef.

We meet.

Tonight, the bull said, as the son of the farmer couple unhooked the fence.

Glad to see your limbs and belly worked it out, son, the father called out.

The son said yes, they realized they relied on the belly more than they thought, and before it was too late, they repented of their folly.

And you?

the farmer asked.

Would the son also repent of his folly?

I don't know what you're talking about.

I did nothing wrong.

I was caught in the crossfire, the son said.

The late spring snow had melted enough to plow the far field, and when he was done, he needed the kid to clean the barn and massage those goats back there.

Give them the whole like premium deluxe package.

They needed those goats to stay.

That night, long after dark, the oxen made their way through town.

It was the perfect night for vengeance.

It wasn't nearly vengeance, though.

Tonight they would secure the salvation of their kind, earned with blood.

They had to be quiet when they snuck out of the house, even though it was in the middle of the night.

The daughters were up, working for their aunt.

Turns out that when you break the alarm clock by killing the rooster, work starts whenever the boss says it starts.

They shuffled quietly into town.

Oh, thank goodness, water, they all heard from the sky above, as the pigeon careened headlong into a sign by the the tavern and dropped to the ground, its tiny neck broken.

What was that?

an ox asked another.

The elderly ox toward the back, silent all evening, observed that the pigeon was oppressed by excessive thirst.

She mistook the sign for a true goblet of water and flew right into it.

The sign killed her.

Zeal should not outrun discretion, the old ox grumbled.

Yeah, but like, what was her end game there, really?

She was going to hit a goblet that hard?

That might have killed her faster than the sign, the other ox noted, but he was interrupted.

They stood outside the butcher's shop.

It was time.

The other ones crowded the family into a separate room, while the lead oxen took the butcher into his workshop.

Um

what is going on?

The butcher's voice quavered.

You're not so strong, so proud and vicious when you are herded, terrified, into a room for the slaughter, the ox said.

The butcher only heard the bellowing of oxen with knives in their mouths.

It is time.

The lead oxen clomped forward.

First this butcher, then the next town.

They could have every butcher in the region dead on his own table by sunrise.

Then they'd spread the word to others.

But there was a sound at the back.

Wait.

He turned to see the oldest, wisest ox in the back, the only one without a knife in his mouth.

The ox sighed.

These butchers, it is true, slaughter us, but they do so with skilful hands, and no unnecessary pain.

If we get rid of them, we shall fall into the hands of unskilful operators, and thus suffer a double death, for you may be assured that though all butchers should perish, yet will men never want for beef.

He was twelve years old, so wise.

The ox cleared his throat.

Do not be in a hurry to change one evil for another.

The knives of the oxen toward the back, the farthest from the butcher, clanged on the floor as, like a wave out from the old ox, heads drooped and mouths opened.

Last, the ox who led the charge dropped the butcher's knife.

He bellowed.

He was scared, scared of death, scared of pain, but with the old ox's wise words, he could see that for what it was.

The butcher was not their enemy.

but instead an unlikely friend in a cruel world.

The ox turned to the butcher and lowed.

He would see the butcher, hopefully not soon, and when he did, he hoped the butcher would show him the kindness he showed the man today.

With that, he turned and left, following the others out of the butcher's shop.

The butcher shook his head as his wife and children emerged from the nearby room.

What was that?

Was he supposed to understand any of that?

Should they call somebody?

Was this something they all had to worry about now?

Roving bands of oxen with knives?

We'll meet the lions betrothed, but that will, once again, be read after this.

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What I'm really high-key obsessed with is Sinners.

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Pounce, the lion pounced, pinning the farmer to the ground.

I can say that with you humans, you're so slow.

Feeling no sticks to club the lion with, nor dirt to throw in the animal's eyes, the farmer resigned himself, asking that if the lion would eat him, would he do it quickly?

A bite on the throat.

At least that way he would be out in seconds.

Eat you?

Why would I eat you?

Dad?

The lion smiled.

Farmer cocked his head.

Dad, what did he mean by dad?

Unless...

I want to marry your daughter, the lion cut off the farmer before both ventured into disclaimer territory.

Dude, yes, the farmer said.

The lion backed off a bit.

What?

Yes, definitely?

A lion's son-in-law, his daughter married literally to a wild animal?

One of several mates in the pride, the others presumably only being female lions that might attack and kill her at any moment?

Every dad's dream come true, the farmer grinned.

Wow, I thought I'd have to threaten your life to make this deal, the lion stood.

The farmer said the lion kind of already did, but no.

No extra convincing needed.

He rose and brushed himself off.

Well, not for him.

Shaking his mane, the lion didn't understand.

Well, the way human relationships work, I can't just give our daughter away to a wild animal without at least talking it over with her and my wife.

It's totally standard practice.

They'll love you.

No worries.

The lion said, if, well, if it was standard practice, okay.

He wanted to live in human society and farm and eat his neighbors and stuff.

They would do this by the book.

Tomorrow.

Meet me here tomorrow, the farmer said.

The farmer hefted his spiked club.

Today was the day.

The goats, the free ones they had picked up, it was the time for them to graze and, hopefully, return with the herd of their own free will.

But first, the farmer had a show.

Well, watch this, watch this.

He threw the club over his shoulder and sauntered over to the lion, who was back.

In the intervening days, the farmer returned to the lion with the stipulations to marry his daughter.

They were rough.

The wife, it turned out, was totally cool cool with it, the farmer said.

But the daughter,

she was a little scared.

She was threatening to run away or worse if she was betrothed to an actual lion.

It was his claws and his teeth.

If the lion removed those, she would not only gladly come to join him, but he wouldn't even need his teeth or claws.

He would be part of the farmer's household and never need to hunt again.

So the lion agreed, and the farmer was unsure if the cat would even go through with it, but when he saw the lion's bloody, gummy smile on the edge of the fields, the farmer met it with a smile of his own.

The lion managed to gum out that it hurt a lot having all those removed, but the farmer should see it as part of the lion's commitment.

Oh, I bet it hurt, the farmer laughed.

Did the lion know what would hurt more?

He didn't, but he quickly found out when the farmer tore at the lion's muzzle with his spiked club, bringing laceration, stabbing, and blunt force trauma.

Spiked club, the complete package.

The lion raised his claws, but forgot his paws could no longer scratch.

He tried to fight a little while longer, but knew that he was beaten.

He jumped off into the trees at the edge of the field.

The farmer returned, grinning and wiping his club.

So, what do you think?

Think you'll stick around?

Did you love the amenities?

How could you not love the amenities, right?

So can I put you down for two stalls?

Three?

Thinking about breeding any time soon?

The farmer clasped his hands and smiled.

No Stalls.

The goat bleeded while his friends ran off.

They were leaving.

But why?

The farmer couldn't quite believe it.

They said they didn't owe him an explanation.

But you do.

During the snowstorm, I took better care of you all than I did my own herd.

I give you all the best food.

I Yes, you did, the goat said.

That is the very reason why we are so cautious, for if you yesterday treated us better than the animals you have had for so long, it is plain also that if others came after us, you would in the same manner prefer them to ourselves.

For old friends cannot with impunity be sacrificed for new ones.

The goat followed his friends off into the mountains.

Solidarity.

Love it, brother.

The sheep said as the goats trotted past.

Then they thought about actually as much as they had sympathy for the goat's plight, it they looked over to the goats not 200 meters away being torn apart by the wolves.

They actually probably did want to stick with the farmer and the hounds.

Fringe benefits.

Scratching at the ground with a stick, the farmer had, well, a win and a loss to day.

He didn't need to give his daughter to a lion, which was nice.

He did lose all those free goats, though, and

wait, what was that?

He sighed.

Aw, poor baby.

The serpent by his feet was having an even more difficult morning than any of them.

It had been caught outside in the bitter cold night.

It was now frozen stiff.

Led only by his kindness, the father scooped up the snake and tucked it inside his shirt.

He didn't know if he would be able to warm the creature up and save it from death, but he would sure try.

Yeah, your dad hugged a snake.

The mother rushed to get her adult children.

He's dying.

The sisters and, following behind after a confusing conversation with a local butcher about their oxen, the son, entered the farmhouse to see their father in bed, the two bloody marks in his chest turning blue and swelling.

I am rightly served for pitying a scoundrel, for the greatest kindness will not bind the ungrateful, the father shouted, saying that as soon as the snake recovered, it bit him.

He was dying.

And he was.

The doctors had nothing with which to save him, and any concoction they recommended would only add hours, not years.

The farmer had only the certain march down to death.

It was inevitable.

He spent the rest of his hours with his family, who were by his side until the end.

Almost, but not quite at, the moments of his last breaths, he had everyone leave.

He had something for his son, an heir,

a secret.

The son was saying that the mother should be here too, but his father said one word that got his attention.

Treasure.

The son looked to to his father.

What?

His father swallowed, and when his throat unstuck, he said yes, treasure.

When he was young, when he got back from the war, he arrived first at night.

He buried his plunder on his father's land.

The farm had grown, and the land had changed since then, but it was now under a field.

It was under

the father gasped, pointing toward the door.

Father, which field, father?

The son cried.

Then he called out to the doctor that his father his father needed help.

The family and the village physician all rushed in, and they spent the father's final moments together.

After that, he never spoke another word, and passed peacefully, surrounded by those who loved him.

The next day, the son woke up and started digging.

He knew it was under a field.

He just didn't know which one.

So he dug up all the fields, every last one of them that spring, digging deep, unearthing soil that hadn't seen the light of day in decades.

Come the end of spring, he didn't find the treasure, but seeing as they will be rich, just not yet, he agreed to let the servants plant the crops for the harvest.

He waited a year and come next spring, he got to work early, digging deeper and removing everything from the field so the soil was completely unburdened, black, and airy.

He let them plant crops again and by that time he was wondering if his father had been mistaken.

if it wasn't under a field, or if it was under a field they stopped using.

So he cleared out the old fields, removed weeds and rocks and stumps.

Whenever the servants saw the open fields, they didn't even ask.

They just got to planting.

The farmer doubled his production inside of three years, and doubled it again in five.

After their mother passed and his sisters moved out, the son went through what remained of his parents and found a letter.

He called in a friend from town to read it to him, and it had been dictated some years ago by his father to him, congratulating him on finding the treasure.

Finding it because there was no treasure.

Oh, no, no, no, come on, the son said, guessing at the reveal.

The treasure was, according to the letter, hard work all along.

The father had guessed his son's reaction perfectly, that he would move from tilling the fields to clearing the old ones.

He was sorry for the deception, but he wanted to teach his son how to carry on, even after him, and this was the only way.

He hoped his son could see how much he loved him.

The friend from town wiped his eyes.

That was beautiful.

He sat straight up, though, when the son grabbed the letter and tossed it into the fire.

The real treasure was hard work, really?

No, work was work, and treasure was treasure.

This was

disappointing.

He sighed and thanked the friend for coming over to read the letter, but

he had to cut the night short.

He had to be up early the next morning to work on the farm.

This was a nice one, with the character growing even with the loss of his father.

I hope you all enjoyed these and let me know if you want more.

I didn't even get to all the fables that I wanted to do this time, and we've only told a fraction of them overall, so there are still more if you want.

Next week we're back in Slavic folklore, where we learn that if you imprison a person for their entire childhood because you think they will hate you, well, that's what we call a self-fulfilling prophecy.

If you'd like to support the show, there's still a membership thing on the site.

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The creature this time is the Vio from Indonesia.

The Vio is something of a dragon.

Well, a dragon with a really long tongue.

Well, that depends, I guess.

For a dragon, the Vio is pretty small, just about 10 feet, so closer to Arthurian dragons than Game of Thrones or Monkey King.

Its scales are bulletproof, one source says.

It lives on the island of Rinca, where it loves to hunt.

Hunt ants and termites and shellfish that have washed up on the beach.

Yet the VO isn't really the murdery type of dragon, but rather the extremely helpful type of dragon that will aid you in cleaning up the beach and getting pests out of your house.

One day, a hunter and a policeman, no backstory there as to why they were hanging out, happened to arrive on a VO out on an early dinner, and they did what two armed men do when confronted by a dragon.

Threw themselves on the ground, froze, and waited until the VO, likely very confused, just walked away, slurping up more ants.

French hunter Pierre Pfeiffer apparently insisted that it was a dugong in the 1960s, after hearing about one secondhand.

The person who was telling him the story said it absolutely wasn't, but when you're doing the translating, you can write what you want, so it was a dugong for a while.

It has also been thought to be a Komodo dragon, but apparently the locals have different words for that and the VO.

Also, a Komodo dragon is extremely aggressive, and likely wouldn't pass on a prone and frozen human to lick up some more ants.

To me and many others, the video sounds exactly like a big pangolin, which is a real mammal that has armored scales, a long tongue, and eats ants.

The only real difference is that a pangolin only gets about four feet long and pangolins haven't grown to 10 feet long in a thousand years, maybe longer.

Basically, if you find yourself in Indonesia and see the video, Pangolins are extremely endangered, so please do not go all dragon hunter.

Just do what the other two witnesses have done and crouch down on the sand and wait for it to go slurp semants.

That's it for this time.

Myths and Legends is by Jason and Carissa Wiser.

Our theme song is by Broke for Free, and the Creature of the Week music is by Steve Colmes.

There are links to even more of the music we used in the show notes.

Thank you so much for listening, and we'll see you next time.

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