The cheetah came from behind the shrub at last. It sauntered, it seemed to the boy, like a king entering a throne room. When it reached the hill it hopped atop, with its long tail wagging and its thin legs lunging as though without effort. It stood on the hill with the left side of its body fully displayed to the boy and with its face watching him.
Long ago, the boy could not remember when, but long ago, when his pretty mother had been fond of playing children’s games with him, he had asked her why it was that the face of the cheetah was permanently etched with black tears. His mother had not known the true answer yet she had still given one to him. It was some old tale that spoke of the majesty of the lion and the humility of the elephant.
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