In his nature of cleverness, there was perhaps a flaw in that he drew upon conclusions that came to his mind as immediately true with jest and merriment, with no tests or proof.
In his walks, past the sugarcane fields, the fox had noticed what he thought was a fruit and, following his fault in conclusions, drew it as a fact.
Fruit it was not quite far from that. It was a hornets’ nest, fiercely guarded by a swarm of brave hornets who never knew there was such cleverness as they were to witness that day.
Thinking on the conclusion that if there was a sweetness connection, the sugarcane fruit might be even sweeter. Best in all collections of fruits tasted. Mesmerized in delicacies, the clever fox grew increasingly eager.
Since he loved sugarcane, the temptation forced him to the field where the hive was.
In the way he practiced in his mind, the fox climbed the ledge from where he could reach it. Balancing on the hind and holding it with the fore, he prepared to take a bite. Time stopped, and there was a sweetness of anticipation, sweeter than the sweetest thoughts.
On biting it, all hell broke loose. The silence of sweet anticipation disappeared as the hornets attacked.
He fled, severely stung.
Later, in reconciliatory thoughts, he recovered the plan.
If it were just a matter of insects around ripe harvests, a stirring would be all that was sufficient, he reasoned. The clever fox mentally stirred up the hornets’ nest and felt the satisfaction of his genius. Overcome with joy, he decided on a revisit.
The stick strung with ropes and twigs he assembled was long and quite strong. As his memories of the pain ebbed with the swelling, his confidence grew.
He traveled to the sugarcane field again.
He had overseen his logic in his mind to be accurate. With no more ado, he hit the hornets’ nest with a swift hurl of his weapon.
That was a bad idea.
This time, the wasps rained their wrath in stings, and the clever fox didn’t have any part of his fur left unstung.
He yelped and fled, caroming blind with pain.
As far from the hive as he could run, he did.
And as all clever foxes knew, the world in its geometry of shape was like a plate—flat. With an edge at the end, that you must not run too far, lest you slip off the edge of all cleverness and fall into the deep unknown, foolishness even.
So the clever fox kept running in concentricities, chased to his end by the rabid hornets.
