the basket weaver - a fable

The diplomas were distributed, the tassels moved with great solemnity from one side of the caps to the other, and soon, as is inevitable in these cases, came the question. That question that requires great and heavy hours of pondering in order to give a satisfactory reply,

“So what is your major going to be?”

The young lads of the tiny kingdom of which our tale tells chose from many important majors, such as Dragon Slaying with a minor in Princess Rescuing, and Castle Architecture with an emphasis in high unreachable towers. The maidens chose wisely as well, veering off into fields including portraiture, weaving straw into gold, and fashion design.

Margo didn’t have to put much thought into her choice. When asked, she would give a quiet smile and reply simply “Basket weaving.” When the people of her village attempted to persuade her otherwise, she would nod and say “perhaps you are right. We shall see.” For Margo was wise. She knew that her skills were valuable and that basket weaving was a noble trade.

Three years passed. Margo and her classmates studied hard. Their heads were crammed full of knowledge and the tiny kingdom prospered. Margo’s baskets became unparalleled works of art, selling faster than she could weave them. But all was not well. The kingdom to the south gained a new king who had long wished to crush Margo’s homeland under his rule.

Before anyone knew what was happening, the city was under siege. Daily life ground to a halt. Classes were canceled. Would-be Dragonslayers were left without essential classes; architects knew they would be unable to design secure towers without further training. But Margo wove on.

She made a habit of sitting just outside the city gates while she wove and soon attracted the attention of one of the enemy guards. He admired her work and soon offered to buy several of her baskets. Margo agreed and soon she was selling them to him on a regular basis, knowing full well that he was re-selling them for far more than he paid her.

Her classmates were horrified. That she was a basket weaver was bad enough. But that Margo was selling her work to the enemy was far worse. But she would not stop; she wove on and sold on, a smile playing around her lips as she bent over her work.

A month, then two rolled by. The city’s resistance was beginning to crack. Margo picked up the odd habit of pacing along the tops of the city walls, peering off into the distance, looking for who knew what.

Then they came: the neighbors to the West who had heard the cry for help and had come as soon as they were able to muster their forces. After a fierce and terrible battle, the enemy was vanquished. During the subsequent feast of celebration the King asked how the army had come to know of their plight as they had been unable to send out any messages. The commanding general gave him a surprised look and held up one of Margo’s baskets. Woven in the design, in a way known to the Western kingdom, was a cry for aid.

Moral: When someone says they are majoring in basket weaving, don’t laugh.