“Mo, what you doing with that gobbin and scratchin?” Ro had come to visit one of those times when Mo be writin on another cover from a big shiny round.
“I be writin our story, Ro,” explained MO. “Then they maybe be rememberin us forever.”
“Writin, Mo? How you know about sompin called writin?” quizzed Ro.
“It come down through my family, Ro. Somethin my grander-ones pass down through the family. The bigguns even read some of our stories only they don’t know we was the first writers. Bigguns who talk about writin mouses be called crazy by other bigguns so they don’t tell. They knows though. They be leavin us cheezes and other gooduns if they likes our writins.”
“How you know they be likin your writins? An how they know your writin anyways. You talk biggun?”
“It just sumpin in my family. Somewhere in the way back when we learn how and we pass it on. One a my grandermouse, he live in a house where there be scripes who be taught to write globbins and scratches others can read. My grandermouse watch and seeing bits of pieces laying around takes to trying the writin for heself. He taught his children. They taught their children and it comes down to me.”
“ But there be no mouse but you, Mo. How there be some teachin if there be only you?”
Mo’s face went dark. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. It make me too sad. I wanna tell you about my grander who helped write a bigguns story they puts in a book.”
Ro didn’t quite know what a book was but he knows he made his friend sad a minute so he listens with quiet.
“Way back my family not live here where I be now. We live far away over a great big water. Some of my granders sneaked aboard a floating place and travels far, far only having to watch for the prowlers and the stompers. Not all made the journey but my grander raced down the long side when it finally be placed to shore. Lots of movers and shakins until we get here.
“One day my grandmouse hears the bigguns reading from one of their books and tells me, “Our grander spired that story, way back in the way back in a place called iland. Cousin Gobbeller thought of nothing but his tummy and how to find one more nibbling. He didn’t think of danger or avenchurr just stopping the rumblins. He tails my grander all his scrappins and trubbles when he comes for a visit and my grander writes em all down on the crumple scraps dropped to the floor in the room wheres lots a bigguns in dark comes to eat together.
“One day, one biggun who likes ta sit at that table an writes spies the crinkle papers peekin out unner the bench where my grander stores um. The biggun pulls um out and looks close and closer. His nose it twitch like one of us and he grabs his round clear and holds it close to the gobbins. He puts his big eye right up to that there clear for a long time.
All a sudden he opens his mouth real wide and lets out a long loud sound kinda like “ah ah ah ah” that goes on for a long time. He takes them gobbins and layin them next to his paper he starts scribblin and stopping to look through that glass round and scribblin until it be almost too darks to see.
“When he’s done with the scribblin, he looks all around, smushes my granders hard work in his hands and holds em up high with some word like “tankerlod”. Than he throws them gobbins in the fire burning. My grander knows these things happen. The family tail tails of this so he just droop his whiskers and start looking for new crinklin’s to write on again.
“My grander was a bit of an avenchurrer himself so found a space in that biguuns foldum to takes the trip across the water to a place the biggun calls Inglan. He be near when that biggun Swiff hear that story be liked by many. So if you hear a story of a biggun who travels and gets tied up by littleuns, you knows it really Gobbeller that time he was sleepin off his eatin and the spidermites made webs all acrossed him. And when the biggun becomes a littlun and get ina cage of the bigguns, that was when gobbeller got himself kitched and put in a wire place by some shorter bigguns.
“They gotta get some way to unnerstand mouse or they gonna keep gettin our stories wrong.” Mo’s whiskers drooped so much they mopped the floor by the time he finished. “But whose gonna care? The bigguns don’t really care about us mouses and roachers. They just don’t have nuff imagination to know we be living things too with our own stories to tail.”
*Note: Jonathan Swift wrote his best selling Gulliver’s Travels while working with a congregation in St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, Ireland. He took the manuscript to London where friends helped him publish the work. This artifact gives reason to believe there may have been other inspirations to help him find the venue for writing of the political and personal events that had occurred in his recent past.