The Richest Violinist

The Richest Violinist knew he was going to be a gift, and so, he felt special from the start. He knew even before I painted him onto his podium that the tree was designed for his leisure and every little critter below was devised by my brush so that they might listen with pleasure. 

I myself knew he was going to be a gift, and I painted him with this in mind. But it was not until I painted in his eyes that I knew this cat was not just a violinist, but the richest of violinists. 

 

He was so rich in fact that sometimes, when the night is clear and still, he would steal away across the hills from his mansion to the very tree I've pictured. There he would sit comfortably on the crook of the sturdy branch, its golden leaves whispering between the silver stars, and with a satisfied sigh, a bit like a purr but not quite, he would play. 

 

 

The rabbits of the countryside knew that this was when the Richest Violist did his best playing, there, unperceived by any but the company of nature that encompasses the clear soft evening. His music was lively and soothing all at once, and so, the eve being bright and song reassuring, the rabbits would play unafraid, even late into the night.  

 

The cat played for the love of it. He played like a dance, till it felt like the night was just a trance of his tune. He played where he perched, in a crook like the curve of the moon, paying no heed to the cows across the bow of the hill, which bounced happily, like the rabbits.

But then as chance had it, before the night had yet run its course into morning, I, the perceiver and the painter, had to come along walking, my brush in hand, and he saw me looking, as you can see by his smug certain eyes. 

And I knew at once by the look of his gaze that this creature before me was not just a cat violist. He was the richest violinist of them all. 

 

 

Bullfrog in Love

Their song rang through the meadow all night long that first night they played. It was the meadow's serenade. The strings sang sweetly. The guitar hummed neatly, and the trumpet stole the show completely. 

And all the while, their froggy legs were atapping. Their froggy hips swayed. And between each song they played you would hear the meadower's softly clapping, their shimmering wings flapping with glee.

Had you been there that night, I'm sure you'd agree, that so lovely was their music, it made the fireflies bob in their flight. It made the owl nod to the rhythm, and the dragon flies danced as they dipped over the water.

So sweet was their chorus, and so enthusiastic their tune, that, if you had looked up into the sky, you'd have seen a smile even on the face of the moon.