The Boastful Scribe and the Humble Farmer

Once upon a time (and what a time it was!), in the great city of Ur where the ziggurats touched the sky and the Euphrates River whispered ancient secrets, there lived a scribe named Enlil-nasir. Now, Enlil-nasir was quite possibly the cleverest scribe in all of Mesopotamia—or so he believed. And he made absolutely certain that everyone else believed it too.

“Watch how perfectly I form my cuneiform!” he would announce to anyone passing by his position at the temple. “See how straight my lines! How precise my wedges! Why, even the great god Nabu himself would admire my writing!”

The other scribes would roll their eyes and return to their clay tablets, but Enlil-nasir never noticed. He was far too busy admiring his own work.

Enlil-nasir walked with his nose pointed so high in the air that he bumped into things quite regularly. Once, he walked straight into a reed basket full of dates. Another time, he tripped over a perfectly obvious step and landed in a rather undignified heap. But did this humble him? Not one bit!

“The step was in the wrong place!” he declared, dusting off his fine linen robe. “And that basket had no business being there. Really, the standards in this city are falling terribly.”

He lived in a lovely house near the temple (his father was an important priest), and he wore the finest clothes, and he ate the best foods. And he never, ever missed an opportunity to remind people how terribly important and clever he was.

Now, it happened that in a small village outside the city walls, there lived a farmer named Shubad. Shubad was not clever in the way Enlil-nasir was clever. He could not read or write cuneiform. He could not quote from the Epic of Gilgamesh. He could not calculate the movement of stars.

But Shubad knew other things. He knew when to plant barley and when to harvest it. He knew which goats gave the sweetest milk. He knew how to dig irrigation ditches so the precious river water reached every corner of his fields. He knew how to help a ewe deliver a difficult lamb, and how to predict rain by watching the behavior of ants.

Shubad was quiet and kind, and he never boasted about anything, because it simply never occurred to him that his knowledge was worth boasting about.

One particularly hot day (the kind where even the lizards looked tired), the King of Ur announced a grand competition. A proclamation was read in every square:

“HEAR YE! HEAR YE! (Or ‘Hear thee,’ if you prefer—grammar is flexible in proclamations.)

Our Most Excellent King requires a Royal Advisor! The wisest person in all the land shall be chosen through Three Great Trials! All may compete, whether noble or common, scribe or shepherd!

The winner shall live in the palace and advise the King on all matters of importance! (Plus, you get a rather nice turban.)”

Enlil-nasir read this announcement and practically vibrated with excitement. “Royal Advisor! Why, that position was made for someone exactly like me! Which is to say: brilliant, accomplished, and humble. Oh yes, very humble. Humble is one of my best qualities, actually. I’m probably the most humble person in Ur!”

(If you’re thinking that someone who claims to be the most humble person might not understand what ‘humble’ means, you would be quite right.)

Shubad also heard about the competition. He had come to the city to trade some of his barley for tools. His neighbors encouraged him. “You should enter, Shubad! You know so many useful things!”

But Shubad shook his head. “Me? Advise the King? No, no. I’m just a simple farmer. What would I know about such important matters?”

Still, something made him stay in the city for the competition. Perhaps just curiosity to see who would win.

The day of the First Trial arrived with great fanfare. Hundreds of people gathered in the great courtyard before the ziggurat. Enlil-nasir arrived wearing his finest robe, so white it practically glowed, and a new necklace that clinked impressively.

Shubad stood quietly at the back in his simple farming tunic, looking rather dusty and out of place.

The King’s herald announced the First Trial: “You must demonstrate your wisdom through knowledge! Answer three questions about the world!”

One by one, contestants came forward and answered questions about mathematics, astronomy, and history. Many failed. Some succeeded. Enlil-nasir, naturally, answered perfectly, adding flourishes and extra information that nobody had asked for.

“As you can see,” he announced loudly, “my understanding of lunar calculations is quite extraordinary. I’ve memorized seventeen different astronomical texts, and—”

“Yes, yes, very good,” said the herald, trying to move things along. “Next contestant!”

Shubad almost didn’t go up at all, but his neighbors pushed him forward. The herald looked at the dusty farmer with some surprise but asked his questions.

To everyone’s amazement, Shubad answered them all correctly—in his own simple way. When asked about mathematics, he explained how he calculated field areas for planting. When asked about astronomy, he described how he used stars to know when to harvest. When asked about history, he shared stories passed down from his grandfather about the old ways of farming.

Both Enlil-nasir and Shubad passed the First Trial, along with twenty others.

The Second Trial was announced: “You must demonstrate practical wisdom! Solve a problem facing our city!”

The problem was presented: the irrigation canals were silting up, and water wasn’t reaching all the fields. What should be done?

Enlil-nasir went first. He gave a long, complicated speech about hiring teams of workers, implementing a sophisticated scheduling system, creating new administrative oversight, and so forth. It was very impressive-sounding and used many big words.

“Brilliant!” Enlil-nasir concluded. “As you can see, my solution demonstrates advanced administrative planning and—”

“Yes, thank you,” said the herald wearily.

When Shubad’s turn came, he simply said, “Clear the canals from top to bottom, starting at the river. Use the mud you dig out to strengthen the banks. Plant reeds along the sides to prevent future silting. It’s what we do every year in my village.”

It was a simple answer. But the King’s engineers, listening carefully, nodded approvingly. “That would work very well,” they whispered.

Both passed to the Final Trial, along with just five others.

The Third Trial was the strangest of all. Each contestant was given a beautiful sealed jar and told: “Inside this jar is either a great treasure or a worthless pebble. You may not open it until the King tells you to. Tomorrow, you must return and tell us whether you have a treasure or a pebble—without opening the jar. Then, when everyone has answered, we shall open all the jars and see who was correct.”

Enlil-nasir took his jar home, absolutely confident. “Obviously, mine contains treasure!” he announced. “The King would surely give treasure to the most qualified candidate, which is clearly me. I am brilliant, accomplished, and very, very humble—did I mention humble? I shall tell the King I have treasure, and I shall be proven correct!”

Shubad took his jar home too, turning it over thoughtfully in his calloused hands. He couldn’t tell what was inside. He held it to his ear and shook it gently—it made a slight sound, but that could be treasure or pebble. He tried to judge its weight, but he simply couldn’t tell.

That night, Shubad couldn’t sleep. He thought and thought. Finally, he realized something: “I don’t know what’s in this jar. And… that’s alright. It’s better to admit I don’t know than to guess wrongly. Tomorrow, I shall tell the truth—that I cannot tell what is inside.”

The next day, the contestants assembled. One by one, they made their claims.

“Treasure!” announced the first contestant confidently. His jar was opened. It contained a pebble.

“Treasure!” announced the second. Pebble.

“Pebble,” guessed the third, trying to be contrary. But his jar held treasure.

Finally, it was Enlil-nasir’s turn. He stood tall and proud. “Obviously, mine contains treasure! I am clearly the most qualified candidate, and therefore—”

“Yes or no, please,” sighed the herald.

“Treasure!”

They opened his jar. Out rolled a single, ordinary pebble.

Enlil-nasir’s face turned bright red. “There must be some mistake! Someone switched the jars! This is—”

“Next contestant,” said the herald firmly.

Shubad stepped forward quietly. His hands trembled slightly. “Your Majesty,” he said simply, “I do not know what is in my jar. I tried to determine it, but I could not. So I can only speak the truth: I don’t know.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. What kind of answer was that?

But the King leaned forward with interest. “Open his jar,” he commanded.

Inside was a magnificent golden bracelet set with lapis lazuli—clearly a treasure.

The King smiled. “Young farmer, you had treasure but claimed you didn’t know. Why not say you had treasure? You would have been correct and won great honor.”

Shubad looked confused. “But Your Majesty, I didn’t know. So I couldn’t honestly say I did. How could I claim certainty about something I was uncertain of?”

The King rose from his throne, and everyone held their breath.

“This,” the King announced, “is the wisdom I sought. True wisdom knows its own limits. Every other contestant was so confident in their own cleverness that they guessed—and most guessed wrongly. But this humble farmer admitted what he didn’t know. He showed true humility. And humility is not weakness—it is strength. It is the strength to admit mistakes, to acknowledge limits, to learn from others.

The scribe Enlil-nasir has great knowledge, but he is so full of his own importance that he cannot see his own limitations. He would advise me based on pride rather than truth. But Shubad the farmer, precisely because he does not think too highly of himself, can see clearly and speak honestly. That is what a King needs in an advisor.”

And so Shubad became the Royal Advisor, moving to a room in the palace, wearing the rather nice turban, and counseling the King with practical wisdom and honest humility.

As for Enlil-nasir, he learned a difficult but valuable lesson that day. Pride comes before a fall—and he had fallen quite spectacularly. Slowly, over time, he learned to be less boastful, more listening, more genuinely humble. He never became the Royal Advisor, but he became something better: a person others actually liked to be around.

And if you ever visit ancient Ur (which is tricky, since it’s quite buried in sand now), you might hear the wind whistling through the ruins of the great ziggurat, carrying an old Mesopotamian saying: “The wheat that grows tallest bends soonest in the wind. But the humble wheat, rooted deep, stands firm through every storm.”

Which is a poetic way of saying: humility is strength, pride is weakness, and it’s always better to be honest about what you don’t know than to pretend you know everything.

Even if you do write very nice cuneiform.

THE END

(Or as they said in ancient Mesopotamia: “SHA-KISH-TIGI,” which means “The speaking is finished,” which is a much more dramatic way to end a story, don’t you think?)