Page 5 - Fables volume 3

The Gamblers

Gemini cricket rubbed his forelimbs together in front of Sarg’s
cheery little fireplace. The ant, in his bed and covered in blankets,
waved at him feebly.
“Thanks for coming. I’m dying, don’t have long. You know both
of us: I’ve been investing with your outfit for most of my life, and
you are a distant cousin of Starry Wits. So you are going to handle my
estate. Is that clear?”
“Sure. Say, are you going to finish that bowl of ferment? I skipped
lunch to get over here.”
“No, go ahead. Now listen: I want everything to go to that foolish
grasshopper. But you are the executor; consider your fee anything he
doesn’t want—maybe some of the heavier pieces of furniture.”
“Right,” mumbled the orthopteran, messily masticating Sarg’s last
bowl of mush. “Starry Wits the beneficiary. Got it. Say, I thought you
two were at odds.’
“Yes.” Sarg sighed, his antennae sagging. “I suppose it looks to an
outsider as if we maintain totally incompatible points of view. And,
given the weight popularly assigned to my personal habits of thrift
and moderation, I have borne the burden of seeming at once a
paragon of virtue and an exemplar of cruelty and greed.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” Gemini shrugged
hexapodically. “It’s only when characters like Starry Wits come
begging at your door that you make a bad impression. You—and
every other solid citizen—have warned him repeatedly that
irresponsibility cannot end well.”
“Perhaps,” replied the ant, his voice becoming fainter. “But his
very existence has caused me to examine my own beliefs and
behavior. He is living life to the fullest according to his nature, a
vagabond musician and wandering minstrel. For him the future is not
merely unknown but uncertain, and perhaps he has calculated—albeit
unconsciously—that he will deal with what comes when it comes.”
“Making him a charity case when times are lean—as they are now,
in the dead of winter,” interjected the cricket, casting a glance at the
blizzard raging outside Sarg’s window.
“Of course,” groaned the ailing arthropod. “But the converse is
self-denial, living for the future; and to do that, one must believe that
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