Pudu peered upwards after the first drop landed on his snout.

“It’s going to storm like it hasn’t stormed since ought-two,” Mr. Alligator had told him. But Pudu, being the smallest deer in the world, had few cares. When he was hungry, he nibbled grass. When he was sleepy, he lied down in a bed of leaves. And now that it was raining, he simply trotted under the overhanging rock. The pitter-patter of rain was soothing, and though the intensity was increasing, Pudu drifted off to dreams of the Andes.

He awoke to a clap of thunder. Groggily he realized something was amiss. He stood up and stretched, and it came to him – he was hoof-deep in water! His enclosure was full of rain, and the water level was rising!

Pudu dashed about, splashed about, trying to figure out what to do. He couldn’t swim, couldn’t fly away, and at maybe a foot tall, if the rain kept up he’s soon be in deep Pudu.

He knew it was time to get to higher ground. In a not-so-smooth motion he hurdled over the glass and hit the pavement running. He was almost to the zoo’s exit when he stopped short.

“My friends!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Alligator can swim, and Mr. Parakeet can fly, but all the other animals need my help.”

Mustering up all the courage in his little body, he went to see his best friend Mr. Goat.

“Mr. Goat, Mr. Goat,” he cried over the sound of the storm, “it’s raining too hard, we have to get out of here!”

Mr. Goat shook his shaggy head. “No way, no how. This is where I live, and I’m not leaving.”

Mr. Goat was being stubborn, but that was no surprise. Mr. Goat was the stubbornest animal in the zoo.

“Please,” Pudu pleaded. “It’s not safe here!” And indeed the rain was calf-deep on Mr. Goat.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “I heard there’s no feed machines on the outside. Who will feed me, and who will pet me? I’d rather stay here and drown!”

Pudu wasn’t wise, but he knew the best way to argue with a stubborn goat was to be even stubborner.

“Mr. Goat, I’m going to stand here and sing at the top of my lungs until you agree to come with me!” And he sang, loudly and badly, for 10 minutes, until finally-

“Fine!” Mr. Goat said exasperatedly. “I’ll come with you, if you’ll just shut up!”

Pleased as punch, Pudu trotted off with Mr. Goat behind him.

“We have to get Mr. Coyote,” he said.

“You’ll never convince Mr. Coyote to come with us,” Mr. Goat said. “He’s the cleverest animal in the zoo!”

Pudu wasn’t wise, but he knew the best way to argue with a clever coyote was to be even cleverer.

“Mr. Coyote, you have to come with us! It’s raining too hard.”

“Not in ten-score fortnights, my diminutive quadrupedal friend,” he replied. Pudu and Mr. Goat just looked at each other and shrugged.

“Look how hard it’s raining,” Pudu said. “You’ll drown!” And indeed the rain was hip-deep on Mr. Coyote.

“I simply can’t,” he said. “My vast collection of periodicals will never stand up to this deluge. I cannot leave it behind.”

“You must!” Pudu cried.

“I can’t.”

“You can!”

“I can’t.”

“You can!”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t!”

“I can.”

“You can’t!”

“I can.”

“You can’t!”

“Listen, my dear boy,” Mr. Coyote said determinedly. “I can leave here, and I shall, despite your protests, moving though they may be. Now let’s away, posthaste!”

Pleased as punch, Pudu trotted off with Mr. Goat and Mr. Coyote behind him.

“We have to get Mr. Puma,” he said.

“You’ll never convince Mr. Puma,” the animals said. “He’s the meanest animal in the zoo!”

Pudu wasn’t wise, but he knew the best way to argue with a mean Puma was to be even meaner.

“Mr. Puma, you have to come with us! It’s raining too hard!”

“Back off, kid,” Mr. Puma growled, flashing his claws. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you must! You’ll surely drown!” And indeed the rain was chest-deep in Mr. Puma.

“I told you, I’m not leaving.”

“You’re coming with us,” a frustrated Pudu cried, “even if I have to-“

“If you have to what?” Mr. Puma said with a smile, if you can call it that when a cat bares its fangs. “If you have to, heh, make me?”

Pudu narrowed his eyes. He puffed himself up as big as he could, even if that was a foot high and ten pounds, soaking wet, which he was. He lowered his head, displaying his horns, which were little more than nubs on his forehead.

“If I have to make you,” he said through gritted teeth.

Mr. Puma eyed him coolly. His hackles were up and he was crouched as if to pounce on the pitiful Pudu. But then he relaxed.

“OK kid,” he said. “It’s not worth fighting over. Let’s go.”

Pleased as punch, Pudu trotted off with Mr. Goat and Mr. Coyote and Mr. Puma behind him.

“We have to get Mr. Eagle,” he said.

“You’ll never convince Mr. Eagle,” the animals said. “He’s the proudest animal in the zoo!”

Pudu wasn’t wise, but he knew the best way to argue with a proud Eagle was to be even prouder.

“Mr. Eagle, you have to come with us. It’s raining too hard!”

“Ah, Pudu, it’s good to see you before the end,” Mr. Eagle said. “I am glad to see you’re all safe. But I’m not leaving.”

“You have to! Or you’ll drown!” And indeed the rain was beak-deep on Mr. Eagle.

“I can’t,” he said sadly. “Once I would have flown away. But my wings have been clipped. And I won’t walk.”

“Please,” Pudu pleaded. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of!”

Mr. Eagle drew himself up to his full height. “I am the symbol of America,” he rumbled. “I would rather drown than be seen walking down Roosevelt Avenue.”

Pudu nodded slowly. “I understand you completely, though you may not believe it. You are a majestic eagle, and I just a little Pudu. But I am a proud Pudu.”

He drew himself up to his full height. Drenched by the downpour and sniffling, he was a sorry sight. But he did not look ashamed or even humbled.

“I am a proud Pudu,” he continued, “and a proud friend. I set out today to make sure my friends were OK, and that means every single one of my friends. Maybe I’m proud to a fault, Mr. Eagle, but I’m not leaving here without you.”

Then a tear came to Mr. Eagle’s eye, though to this day he insists it was a raindrop. “Let’s go,” he smiled.

Pleased as punch, Pudu trotted off with Mr. Goat and Mr. Coyote and Mr. Puma and Mr. Eagle and all the other animals behind him. Pudu led them out of the zoo and up the hill where they took shelter from the rain under the elevated subway tracks. They must have looked a strange bunch, but Pudu didn’t care. He was used to odd looks. After all, he was the smallest deer in the world.

Albert Papersworth lived at 510 Starry Hill Lane in a red-bricked house on top of a hill with his parents Mr. Papersworth an Mrs. Papersworth. He was eight years old. Albert didn’t know much in life, but he did know a few things. He did not like his name, and preferred to be called Albie. He did like his house for two main reasons: 1) He liked the number five quite a bit and smiled every time he saw address: 510 Starry Hill Lane. The second reason was that he liked the color red and even though the exposed brick of his house did not match the color of red from his box of crayons, he thought it was close enough and Albie was not a stickler for such things. Albie did not like his parents.

One day, Albie was standing outside of his house of top of the hill when he noticed an apple tree growing behind the fence that separated his house from his neighbor’s down the hill. Mrs. Papersworth had planted the tree there a week earlier hoping to have fresh apples in the summer so she could enter an apple pie backing contest that was held in town every year.

“Oh boy,” Albie thought. “I sure hope those apples are red and not green.”

To his glee, they were indeed red. Albie got down on his knees and prepared to get down on the hill the way he usually did: by rolling. This was far much more fun than a walking. Albie rolled down the hill and counted to five and when he opened them, he was under the apple tree.

Unfortunately, the apple tree was quite tall and Albie was only four feet, four inches tall (he hoped to be at least five feet, five inches tall one day) and looked around hoping to find something that would help him reach the nearest branch. He found a jumprope nearby and made a lasso. The previous summer, Mr. Papersworth had taken him to a rodeo and one of the rodeo clowns had taught him how to tie one when Mr. Papersworth had gone to check out a bull.

Albie was able to lasso onto the nearest bough and climb the rope up into the tree. He picked five red apples and before he climbed down the rope, Albie made a mental note to ask his parents, who he did not like, if he could build a tree house in it.

When it was 5 p.m., Mr. and Mrs. Papersworth arrived at the house at 510 Starry Hill Lane in a taxicab. Mr. Papersworth was in a bad mood because his car was in the shop and was still not ready to be picked up.

“Hello Mother, hello Father,” Albie greeted his parents.

His father grunted. His mother nodded and said, “Hello Albert,” and walked into the kitchen. This is why Albie did not like his parents. His father grunted too much and his mother called him Albert. They also left him home alone too often and never hugged him. Albie decided he would not ask his parents for a tree house and would not tell his mother that he had picked five apples from her tree because he decided she would be too angry with him. So five minutes before 9 p.m., he bid his parents goodnight, brushed his teeth with his red toothbrush, said goodnight to his five stuffed animals and went to sleep.

At 3 a.m., Albie woke up because he thought he heard a loud noise coming from downstairs. He rolled out of bed and tiptoed down into the living room. Two men wearing black masks were looking through some drawers. Albie remembered that men wearing black masks usually meant they were burglars so he gasped. The two men turned suddenly and looked at the little boy and laughed.

Albie did not like being laughed at so he picked up the nearest thing to him, which was the bag of apples he had picked earlier and threw them at the men. One hit one of the men’s shoulders, which caused him to drop the gun. The gun fired after dropping, hitting the other man in the leg, which caused him to drop his gun as well.

A few minutes later, the police arrived because the neighbor down the hill had heard the men break into the Papersworth house and was suspicious. After the men were taken away, Mrs. Papersworth hugged her son and said, “Thank you Albie, I love you.” Mr. Papersworth asked Albie if he wanted anything for saving the day and Albie nodded and said “a tree house.” The next week, Mr. Papersworth helped Albie build a treehouse in the apple tree and Mrs. Papersworth helped Albie paint it red.

After, that Albie no longer disliked his parents.

The End.

If you didn’t live through them, there’s really no way for me to explain to you what it was like in the heady days of the 20s. Drink was illegal, and yet somehow more prevalent than ever before. It seemed like money was everywhere if you were smart enough to look for it. With another man making his first million each day, the term New Money meant nothing anymore. Which was good, because each new millionaire found increasingly frivolous ways to spend their money. As for me, I bought a new motorcar with no intention of ever driving it. I should have bought a fruit stand.

I don’t feel I need to defend my purchase, but a little background is in order. I was born at the tail end of the Spanish-American War, my father having died in battle a few months before I came along. All I have left of him is a crude daguerreotype made upon his graduation from West Point. A career soldier, he left my mother no money save a bimonthly stipend from the government that was supposed to take care of her every need. Suffice to say, it did not. I had to work every day from when I turned 13, in addition to my mother’s income as a seamstress and housekeeper, just to pay for my first year of University.

It was at Princeton that first year that I met Turner. I had heard about him around campus, always as the butt of jokes. Born sometime just after midnight on January 1st, 1900, Turner’s father thought it would be hilarious to nickname his son “Turner the century.” You can see why Turner didn’t take it too hard when his father succumbed to malaria in Panama when he was a young boy.

We become fast friends because neither of us had a father, I suppose. Not that our financial situations were alike, mind you. Turner’s father had seized on the burgeoning stock market, and after his death, Turner became the beneficiary of some wise investments. While I was working as a shoeshine boy at age 13, he had been jumping rope without a care in the world. He often took me out for dinner or drinks, and always picked up the tab. It never seemed like charity, mind you. He was just someone who didn’t appreciate the value of money – he never cared if I didn’t have any, and he figured, why not treat his friends?

It was in a business class that we met. He was horrible at it; again, no concept of money as a finite commodity. The basic laws came easy to me, because I had been forced to learn them from an early age. When the toffees at the corner shop were a penny each, I would buy one every Friday. When they were raised to two cents apiece, I stopped buying them. It was that simple, and every hypothetical in that class came as simply to me.

I was more than happy to tutor Turner, and he was more than happy to be tutored. To this day I don’t know if he had anything to do with the college extending me a full scholarship after my first year. I had heard some rumors of his mother being a valued donor, but I never asked and he never offered. I was fine that way.

I suppose I envied his money situation to some extent, even though we gradually lost touch. Why else would I become a stockbroker after I graduated? It seemed easy money to me when I started at the firm’s midtown office, speculating on the London Stock Exchange. Again it came quickly to me, and as one of the firm’s rising stars, I was told I was heading down to Wall Street.

I almost dreaded my first day – I knew my suits were at least a year out of fashion, and my bowler tattered and worn. But every fear I had evaporated that first day even before I entered the stock exchange.

On the walk from the subway I encountered a humble fruit stand.

“Apple, Mister?” asked the vendor, in a knowing tone. “Better for your stamina than any tonic.”

I almost ignored him, but for a hint of familiarity. It was Turner, selling fruit on the street like a common urchin.

“What in blazes are you doing here?” I asked him. “Turner you old devil, I haven’t seen you in—“

I hesitated, adding in my head.

“—in six years! What are you doing selling fruit?”

“A most valuable and steady commodity,” he said, tossing me the largest, reddest apple from his cart. “Stocks go up and down, bonds appreciate and depreciate, but men will always eat apples.”

I gave him some vague promise to meet for drinks, but of course on Wall Street there was no time for socializing. I was there from 8 in the morning until 10 at night each day, and it was hard, honest work, but it paid off. I made my debts disappear, then my mother’s, then those of various relatives I had never met. But I had the money, why not treat those close to me?

I had my bad day, and my good days, though certainly more of the latter. But there was one constant. Every morning, I would hop out of the taxicab and buy an apple from Turner, who was always outside the Stock Exchange, rain or snow, sun or cloud. We’d exchange kind words, and I’d throw him three cents for the biggest apple he had.

I don’t even like apples. But clearly Turner had fallen on some hard times after graduation, perhaps his faulty business sense had failed him. I never pried, and all he would offer was his constant mantra of apples being a “steady commodity.” I bit my tongue the day I sold a Nipponese apple concern for $400,000. So if I hated apples, why did I buy one every day? It never felt like an act of charity – no, no sense in lying. It was charity, pure and simple. I was too mindful of custom, and thought him too proud, to offer anything more. So I bought his apples.

I bought them when the price went to 5 cents, then 7, then full dime each. What did I care? As I said, I made my first million. I did two things that day: I bought the new Ford Model A, with turnkey engine and closed body. Even though I still took a taxicab to work each day, I liked to tell my fellow brokers all about her. And the second thing – I bought apples for everyone on the exchange floor.

You, reading this now, must be laughing at my optimism. But I truly believed it would last forever. Now you read about the great crash in your schoolbooks, and it seems inevitable. Well, my great business sense failed me that October. But I don’t feel too bad, because it failed everyone else as well.

The companies I bought and sold for hundreds of thousands of dollars became worthless in a matter of days. My townhouse in Gramercy had to go, and of course, the Model A too. That one hurt. I had no wife, no kids, and my mother had passed on, so I loved nothing like that car. I moved into a workman’s house by the docks, with no job, no reserves, and only the occasional thought of suicide for a visitor.

In late December I went back to Wall Street to clean out my inbox, and hopefully find someone to call in a few favors. I was stunned to see Turner, still smiling, selling his fruit to the odd passersby.

“How are you doing?” he called cheerfully.

I explained my situation.

Then he explained his. He was still doing quite well, thank you. People didn’t need cars, didn’t need speculative bubbles, but they needed apples. They always had, and they always will. And he needed a partner.

So here I am, a fancy degree from the Ivy League, seven years experience on Wall Street, and selling fruit for a living. I do enjoy it, actually. I learn a new sell every day, and it’s gratifying to get to know a regular customer. And I’m even starting to enjoy the taste of apples.

Once again, Turner’s generosity saved me from an uncertain fate. Was it an act of charity? In all honestly, I don’t really care.

Madeline took a bite of her ruby apple. Times like this, during summer days at the park, Madeline was glad she eschewed creamy sugary treats and instead found delight in the simple pleasures of an apple. Sometimes, she would picture herself as the title character of Snow White, seconds away from meeting her fate when encountering an ominous apple. Other times, like this one, she remembered the old adage that an apple day kept the doctor away – something she wished her mother listened to three terrible summers ago. Maybe if she did, she would be there that day with Madeline in the park.

Madeline sighed and continued chewing. Just then, her burly brother smacked the delicious apple out of her hand. As usual, whenever he and Madeline had any type of sustained contact, he laughed and Madeline cried.

The amputated apple quickly started rolling down the hill gaining in acceleration until finally it crashed into a rock at the bottom of the hill. The apple’s journey was halted. The bruised apple rested. Suddenly a curious dog stumbled upon the apple. The dog was a bustling, messy, drooling Golden Retriever. He sniffed the broken apple with his cold nose and cautiously licked it. Suddenly, he had a bright idea. He decided to forego the stick he was commissioned to bring back and decided that the golden item to retrieve would be the apple. He clenched it in his jaw and brought it back with his tail wagging and presented it to his owner with all the pomp and circumstance he could muster.

His owner eyed him suspiciously and asked, “What do you have there, boy?”

“Eww!” he said as he pried the once ample apple from the retriever’s tight clench. “Let’s get rid of this.” He threw the apple a disgusted look and then threw it as hard and far as he could.

The apple went on yet another journey. This time it was flying, and found itself on a parallel journey with the birds that hovered not far from land. The apple then landed “kirplunk” in the river. The ducks in the lake ascended upon the apple and soon found themselves in a fight for its affections with the birds of flight that descended upon it. Soon, both parties realized that the apple was of no use to any of them. Between their insistence that the useless thing leave their territory and the assistance of the accompanying tide, the apple was pushed out to the muddy shore.

The apple could now rest. Just then, an ant noticed the resting apple, and precariously climbed it. He inspected it carefully. The ant then looked around and yelled “Charge!” An army of ants, hiding behind the thickets of grass, appeared. The helpless ruby colored apple shook to the core. The ant army ambushed the apple and feasted on it. Before the apple knew it, hundreds and then thousands of ants covered it and hid its true identity.

Just then, a chubby boy with glasses and a malicious chuckle waddled over to the battle scene. Wait, those weren’t glasses. It was a magnifying glass. With the sun at the 12 o’clock position, he positioned the magnifying glass and waged war against the militia of ants. The apple was relieved. The ants soon rushed off the apple, and the few that made it sought solace once again behind the thickets of grass. Once the ants were all either dead or out of sight, the maniacal boy got up and turned around. The apple could finally rest. Then, as if he had forgotten something, the boy turned around, looked squarely at the apple, pulled up his pants, sucked in his stomach, and… the apple winced… the boy kicked the apple as far as he could. The apple rolled and rolled and found itself in the middle of a double dutch game. The apple’s presence stymied the game and an angry girl shouted, “That doesn’t count! It wasn’t my fault!”

Another girl, with an ice cream cone in hand, said, “Yes it does. Now move, its my turn.” The unkempt girl’s ice cream was melting and sliding down her hands. The sticky cream then found itself landing on the now wet, bitten, slobbery, infested apple.

The girl whose turn was lost shouted, “Fine” and then kicked the apple out of frustration.

The apple then found itself on the big bad streets of the Big Apple. Could it now finally rest? Not quite, as just then, a yellow taxicab came rushing by, ran over the apple thereby smushing it, flattening it and breaking its core. The apple was done for.

Inside the cab, Madeline, sitting in between her burly brother and nagging nanny, clutched her stomach and thought, “I’m hungry. I wish I could have finished off my apple.”