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So today as I mowed the lawn, I saw a shrew scurrying around on my driveway. I stopped the lawnmower cuz it was directly in the path. As I watched to see what it would do, I came over and “hid” underneath the *shade* of my lawnmower. Well, needless to say, a shovel was later required to dispose of the dead rodent. But it kind of reminded me of one of my favorite short stories, that I wrote back in 10th grade.

The Coming of Tiller

Once upon an old time, in an old farm, there lived an old, old shrew, known by her neighbors as Beatrice. Now Beatrice was not particularly appreciated or even befriended by most of her neighbors, for she was known as the nosiest termagant throughout the Granger farm.

The Granger Farm was no small farm indeed, spanning one hundred and fifteen acres of the Old Spanish country – one of the biggest farms around in fact. Now the Granger family themselves, were a gentle kin: they lived simple lives, ate simple food, and did simple things. And every year, on the ides of March if I recall, these simple people would begin their summer planting season: time to prepare the seed, till the earth, sow the seed, and watch life grow.

This was all well and good, even for the community of rodents living at the farm. On the day prior to the fore-mentioned date, all the animals of the farm, the mice, rats, foxes, bees, ants, hares, and shrews, would temporarily vacate their homes to escape the deadly plow of the tiller.

This year was no different from the others: all the animals packed their belongings to hide in the hills for a few days. However, this year, there was something special. A short portly mouse, who called himself Mr. Custer, found residence at the farm a few days back. He had dark heavy fur, with a noble, hoary mustache. As the other animals scurried away from their homes, the old Mr. Custer would lazily lay on his old hammock, rocking lazily back and forth.

Now, little old Beatrice saw this, and took it upon herself to inform this ignorant fellow of his fault.

“Mr. Custer, I should advise you that you must leave this place immediately. Or else the Tiller will come and destroy your home, with you in it,” spoke Beatrice at the doorway of Mr. Custer.

“I don’t need your advice, old hag, I have it all planned out – I still have plenty of time,” Mr. Custer stubbornly replied.

Shocked by this outrage, Beatrice slammed the door resounding whump! “Humph! Oh he’ll be sorry if he is to wait at such a perilous moment. You never know when the Tiller will come,” thought Beatrice smugly to herself. A tiny smirk arose from her tiny face as she imagined Mr. Custer paying for his mistake.

Beatrice herself hurried her final preparations and scurried out of her home. She then found a spot on top of a tree-shaded hill where she could clearly see Mr. Custer’s home. From there she set out a picnic to eat as she began to watch the devastation of the Tiller fall on any unfortunate souls left on the farmland.

It was high noon. The sun beat down upon the earth relentlessly. Beatrice, coolly seated under a tree, was still watching. The Tiller was making It’s route around farmland. 12:15, It finally approached Mr. Custer’s still-pristine home; and the great powerful blades of the Tiller came upon the home of Mr. Custer, tearing and shredding it into oblivion.

Poor Mr. Custer was trapped inside, where he stays today, in his eternal crypt.

Beatrice let out a maniacal laugh. “Ha Ha! Well, I never did like that obstinate Mr. Custer. Now that will teach him for not knowing the foretold Coming of the Tiller.” After that, she finished her bottle of wine, a 1984 bottle of amontillado.

“Revenge is bittersweet,” she smiled as she sipped the last of the amontillado. “Well, now I must go to find a place to sojourn as the tilling continues.”

She headed down the hill, looking for any available hole to stay at.

As she traversed a small road-path, a second tiller came by – brutally mincing the small old frame of the poor Beatrice. She never saw it coming; nor did the tiller, which continued on its sluggardly path of destruction.

Moral: Delight not in other’s misfortunes; it might be your own.

And look both ways before you cross the street.