Hippo was hot.


He sat on the riverbank and gazed at the little fishes swimming in the water.


“If only I could live in the water,” he thought. “How wonderful life would be.”


So he walked, and he ran, and he strolled, and he hopped, and he lumbered along, until he came to the mountain where Ngai lived.


Ngai was the god of everything and everywhere.


Ngai told the animali to live on the land and the fishes to live in the sea.


Ngai told the birds to fly in the air and the ants to live under the ground.


Ngai had told Hippo he was to live on the land and eat grass.
“Please, oh, great Ngai, god of everything and everywhere, I would so much like to live in the rivers and streams,” begged Hippo hopefully, “I would still eat grass.”


“AHA!” thundered the voice of Ngai. “So te say. But one giorno te might, just might, eat a pesce to see if it tasted good. And then te would eat all my little fishes.”
“Oh, no. I promise I wouldn’t!” detto Hippo.
“AHA!” thundered the voice of Ngai. “So te say. But how can I be sure of that? I Amore my little fishes.”
“I would mostra you,” promised Hippo. “I will let te look in my mouth whenever te like to see that I am not eating your little fishes.”


“And I will stir up the water with my tail so te can see I have not hidden the bones.”
“AHA!” thundered the voice of Ngai. “Then te may live in the water, but…”
Hippo waited.
“But te must come out of the water at night and eat erba so that even in the dark I can tell that te are not eating my little fishes. Agreed?”
“Agreed!” sang Hippo happily.


And he ran all the way home until he got to the river where he jumped in with a mighty SPLASH!


And he sank like a stone because he couldn’t swim.


But he could hold his breath and run along the bottom which he does to this very day.

And he stirred up the bottom da wagging his little tail so that Ngai can see he has not hidden any pesce bones.


And now and then, he floats to the superiore, in alto and opens his huge mouth ever so wide and says, “Look, Ngai. No fishes.”