The Scare Crow
by Anonymous
On a grassy knoll overlooking a vegatable garden, along a path between two
neighboring towns in the South, stands a bronze statue of an old man,
standing watch over the field and trail. Strange this statue--it stands
erect, emotionless -- yet, not a bird, never a crow is in sight. The
statue has stood there motionless, for as long as the local folk can
remember.
One day, little Johnny, walking on the path passing by the
statue, asked his grandpa, "Grandpa, why is there a statue there in the
field?" His grandpa said to him, "well, my boy, there's a story for that--I
don't know if it's true, but my papa told me so, so I believe it: that
that's a statue of an old man who lived on the hill, a retired coronel in
the confederate army. He was a war hero, taller than the pines, and as
stout and subborn as a beau d'arch tree ! Most of all, he was what ya call
a perfectist. You know, he'd get all flustered if he couldn't do something
better than the neighbor and if he couldn't do it better the next time.
Being a perfectionist, he found it hard to grow old, where his once almost
invincible body began to give up on him. You see, he was used to being the
best, the strongest, the brightest.
For a while he turned to his garden,
where he'd try to grow the tallest corn, the finest ocra, but then those
crows would come along ... He couldn't keep up with the crows. He tried
everything he knew, but those crows, they seemed to outsmart him everytime.
They'd fly away just as soon as he'd approach and then fly back when he'd
go. For a while, he gave up the garden, but then, people would see him
planting, watering and standing vigil over that garden once again . He
build an outhouse next to it so he'd never have to go far. Seems that the
people who would travel this path would always see him there, motionless,
starring across that field. It was a sort of comfort to everyone--something
you could count on like the sun rising in the morning.
One day, my Pa, he
was 10 years old at the time, brought that old man a jug of cold water on a
hot summer day. That old man sure did appreciate that and sat your
greatgrandpa down, and commenced to tell him his life's story. The crux of
the story is, that old man had realized that the only thing he'd be able to
do with perfection after he died, is not to move at all. He told my Pa:
"son, I decided I'd get some practice now, and try to keep completely still,
and eventually, one day, I'd have this down pat. Keeping still will be
something I'm sure I'll do better after I'm gone. Yeap, that's for darn
sure!".
This that man did do, for years after. The townfolk noticed though, that he
couldn't stand anymore and eventually, that man died. Before he died, he
asked to be buried next to his garden. This the town did, but those
crows--it seems they came from nowhere. The harvest for those two three
years afterward was poor--practically a total loss. Only thing the people
could think of was this man--his keeping vigil kept those birds away. So
they build that statue in his honor, with that pearcing, emotionless stare.
Since that statue was put up there, no crows been seen in these parts.
There he stands even today, keeping vigil over the path and field, keeping
back the crows. Funny, that man got exacly what he was looking for--he's
doing something and doing it better than ever before. All by keeping
perfectly still. Got to think he's happy about that, whereever he is now.
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