"Group_Troll" <NP-d08@The.Fort.org> wrote in news:4d59601a$0$7449
$bb4e3ad8@newscene.com:
> Yes! A Troll can be beneficial to a group.
> But this time only.
>
>
It's always worth the reposting!
I first encountered this Arthur Godfrey audio a few years ago (5?) when
KidHacker posted it in the Fort. I Googled, and came up with the text,
which almost matches Godfrey's reading.
I've had this saved and available on my tripod webspace for several
years;
http://tomba9.tripod.com
My version (from KidHacker) is dated 1999, 1887 KB
Between the innocence of babyhood, and the dignity of manhood
we find a delightful creature called boy. Boys come in assorted
sizes, weights and colours, but all boys have the same creed:
To enjoy every second of every minute of every day, and to
protest with noise, (their only weapon), when their last minute
is finished, and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere. On top of, underneath, inside of,
climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to.
Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and
brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them and heaven protects
them.
A boy is truth, with dirt on its face, beauty with a cut on his
finger, wisdom with bubble-gum in his hair, and the hope of the
future, with a frog in his pocket. When you are busy, a boy is
an inconsiderate, bothersome intruding jangle of noise. When
you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to
jelly, or he becomes a savage sadistic jungle creature bent on
destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite. He has the appetite of a horse, the
digestion of a sword swallower. The energy of a pocket sized
atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat. The lungs of a dictator,
the imagination of a Walt Disney. The shyness of a violet, the
audacity of a steel trap. The enthusiasm of a fire-cracker and
when he makes something, he has five thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice-cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic-books, the
boy across the street. Woods, water, (in it's natural habitat),
large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings and fire-engines.
He is not much for Sunday- School, company, schools, books
without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls,
overcoats, adults, or bed-time. Nobody else is so early to
rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of
trees, dogs and breezes.
Nobody else can cram into one pocket: a rusty knife, a half
eaten apple, three feet of string, an empty Bull-Durham sack,
two gumdrops, six cents, a sling-shot, a chunk of unknown
substance, and a genuine supersonic code ring, with a secret
compartment.
A boy is a magical creature. You can lock him out of your
workshop, but you can't lock him out of your heart. You can get
him out of your study, but you can't get him out of your mind.
Might as well give up. He is your captor, your jailer, your
boss, your master. A freckle-faced, pint-sized bundle of noise.
But when you come home at night with only the shattered pieces
of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them all like new again,
with two magical words:
"Hi, Dad!"
---------------------------------------------------------------
I've been told this was written by Alan Beck and was published
in Reader's Digest in 1954.
Thanks for sharing!
--
TomBa NP-f36
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