The Tiger and the Turnip

Once upon a most particular time (which could have been yesterday or a thousand years ago, for time works rather strangely in stories), there lived a tiger named Hodori. Now, this was not just any ordinary tiger. Oh no, no, no. Hodori was the most magnificent, most splendiferous, most absolutely extraordinary tiger that had ever stalked through the Korean mountains.

At least, that’s what Hodori thought.

His stripes were the blackest black and the orangest orange. His teeth were white as moonlight on snow. His roar could shake acorns from trees three valleys away. And his tail! Oh, his glorious tail was as thick as a temple drum and twice as impressive.

Hodori spent most of his days admiring himself in streams and ponds and puddles and any other reflective surface he could find. “Magnificent!” he would declare to his reflection. “Simply magnificent! Is there any creature in all of Korea more splendid than me? I think not! I think decidedly, absolutely, categorically not!”

The other animals of the mountain found Hodori rather tiresome.

“Here he comes again,” the magpies would whisper to each other, rustling their black-and-white feathers. “Hide the shiny things, or he’ll admire himself in them for hours.”

“There goes Hodori,” the deer would sigh as the tiger strutted past. “Did you hear him yesterday? He told the wind that it should feel honored to ruffle his fur.”

“Insufferable,” muttered the old mountain spirits, who had seen countless tigers come and go. “Pride like his always leads to trouble. Mark my words. Mark them!”

One crisp autumn morning, Hodori was strolling through the forest, composing poetry about his own wonderfulness (which is a rather peculiar thing to do, but then Hodori was a rather peculiar tiger), when he encountered a rabbit.

Not just any rabbit, mind you. This was the cleverest rabbit in all the land, with fur gray as morning mist and eyes that sparkled with mischief and wisdom in equal measure.

“Good morning, Oh Magnificent One,” the rabbit said with a bow that might have been respectful or might have been slightly sarcastic. With rabbits, it’s sometimes hard to tell.

Hodori puffed out his chest. “Good morning, Small Rabbit. Have you come to admire my splendidness? Many creatures do, you know. Can’t blame them, really. I am rather extraordinary.”

“Indeed,” said the rabbit thoughtfully. “So extraordinary that I suppose you’re the strongest creature in all the mountains?”

“Naturally!” Hodori declared. “There is nothing I cannot defeat, no challenge I cannot overcome, no feat I cannot accomplish!”

“Fascinating,” said the rabbit. “Then perhaps you could help me with a small problem?”

Now, Hodori should have been suspicious. Rabbits, especially clever ones, are not to be underestimated. But Hodori was so full of his own importance that he didn’t notice the twinkle in the rabbit’s eye.

“Of course!” he proclaimed. “I, the magnificent Hodori, will solve any problem you have! Lead on!”

The rabbit hopped through the forest, with Hodori swaggering along behind, his tail swishing importantly. They hopped and walked (respectively) until they came to a small farm at the edge of the forest.

In the middle of the farm was a garden. And in the middle of the garden grew the most enormous turnip Hodori had ever seen. It was tremendous, colossal, absolutely gigantic—roughly the size of a small house, with leafy green tops that waved in the breeze like flags.

“There,” said the rabbit, pointing with one paw. “That turnip. The farmer has been trying to pull it up for three days, but it won’t budge. I told him that the magnificent Hodori could surely pull it up with ease.”

Hodori laughed, a great booming laugh that sent chickens scattering. “A turnip? You want me to pull up a turnip? Oh, Small Rabbit, is that all? Why, I could pull up ten turnips! Twenty! A hundred! This will take no effort at all!”

He marched up to the giant turnip, grabbed the leafy tops in his massive jaws, and pulled.

Nothing happened.

Hodori blinked. He pulled again, harder this time.

The turnip didn’t budge.

“Hmm,” said Hodori, trying to sound casual. “It seems to be… slightly more stuck than I anticipated. But no matter! I simply wasn’t using my full strength!”

He braced his powerful back legs, dug his claws into the earth, and pulled with all his might. His muscles bulged. His stripes seemed to stretch. He pulled and pulled and pulled until his face turned red beneath his orange fur.

The turnip remained exactly where it was.

The rabbit watched with interest. “Perhaps,” the rabbit suggested delicately, “you might need some help?”

“Help?” Hodori sputtered, releasing the turnip tops. “Help? I am the magnificent Hodori! I don’t need help! I don’t need anyone! I am the strongest, most powerful, most capable creature in all of Korea!”

“Of course, of course,” said the rabbit soothingly. “But even the sun needs the moon, and the mountain needs the valley, and the river needs the rain. Perhaps even magnificent tigers sometimes need a little assistance?”

“Never!” Hodori declared. “I will pull up this turnip if it takes all day! All week! All month!”

And so he tried again. And again. And again.

He tried pulling straight up. He tried pulling at an angle. He tried running and jumping and pulling. He tried digging around the sides (which only made him dirty and didn’t help at all). He tried threatening the turnip (which was silly because turnips don’t care about threats).

By noon, Hodori was exhausted, filthy, and the turnip was still firmly in the ground.

The rabbit had been joined by other animals—the magpies, the deer, even a badger and a fox—all watching with great interest.

“Ahem,” said the badger. “We could help, you know.”

“We’re quite good at pulling and digging,” added the fox.

“Many paws make light work,” chirped the magpies wisely.

But Hodori’s pride was wounded, and wounded pride is a stubborn thing. “I don’t need help from the likes of you! I am magnificent! I am powerful! I am—”

“Stuck?” suggested the rabbit mildly.

Hodori glared at the rabbit. Then at the turnip. Then at all the watching animals. His magnificent tail drooped. His splendid stripes seemed somehow less bright.

“I…” he began, and found the words very difficult to say. “I… might… possibly… perhaps… benefit from… some assistance.”

It was the hardest sentence he’d ever spoken.

The rabbit’s eyes sparkled. “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

Hodori took a deep breath. “I need help,” he said more clearly. And then, even more quietly: “Please.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” said the rabbit cheerfully. “Come on, everyone! Let’s help Hodori with this troublesome turnip!”

The rabbit grabbed onto Hodori’s tail. The badger grabbed onto the rabbit. The fox grabbed onto the badger. The deer grabbed onto the fox. The magpies grabbed onto the deer. And all together, they pulled.

And pulled.

And pulled.

And with a tremendous WHOOOOOOSH and a SCHLOOOOOP and a sound like a cork popping from a bottle, the enormous turnip came free from the earth!

They all tumbled backward in a heap—tiger, rabbit, badger, fox, deer, and magpies all tangled together in a rather undignified pile.

For a moment, there was silence. Then the rabbit began to laugh. And the badger laughed. And the fox laughed. And soon everyone was laughing, even Hodori, though his laugh was a bit sheepish and embarrassed.

“I suppose,” Hodori said slowly, untangling himself from the pile, “that I couldn’t have done it alone after all.”

“No one can do everything alone,” the rabbit said gently. “Not even magnificent tigers. Especially not magnificent tigers, perhaps, because when you think you can do everything by yourself, you miss out on the magic of working together.”

Hodori sat down beside the giant turnip and looked at it thoughtfully. “I’ve been rather foolish, haven’t I?”

“Rather,” agreed the magpies.

“Quite foolish,” added the deer.

“Extraordinarily foolish,” said the badger.

“But,” the rabbit said, and his voice was kind, “recognizing one’s foolishness is the first step toward wisdom. And asking for help when you need it—that’s not weakness. That’s actually a kind of strength.”

Hodori thought about this. It was a new idea, and new ideas sometimes take a while to settle into one’s mind, like snow settling on a mountain.

“My stripes,” he said slowly, “are quite nice. But perhaps they’re not the most important thing about me.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed the rabbit.

“And my roar is impressive. But perhaps roaring about how impressive I am is rather tiresome for everyone else.”

“Perhaps very tiresome,” said the fox diplomatically.

“And perhaps,” Hodori continued, “being truly magnificent means being kind and humble and willing to work with others, not just having fine stripes and a loud roar.”

“Now you’re understanding!” said the rabbit, hopping up and down with excitement. “Now you’re truly learning!”

The farmer, who had been watching all of this from his house, came out with a huge feast—rice cakes and honey, roasted chestnuts and sweet persimmons, and a special dish made from (you guessed it) turnips.

They all shared the meal together, and Hodori found that food tastes better when eaten with friends, and stories are funnier when told in company, and even the sunset looks more beautiful when you have others to watch it with.

From that day forward, Hodori was still a magnificent tiger. He still had the blackest stripes and the whitest teeth and the most impressive tail. But now he used his strength to help others, not just to show off. He asked for help when he needed it. And he discovered that being humble and kind made him feel more truly magnificent than all his pride ever had.

“The tiger learned his lesson,” the mountain spirits nodded approvingly.

“About time,” said the wind.

“Better late than never,” agreed the streams.

And the rabbit? The rabbit just smiled his clever, knowing smile and hopped away into the forest, looking for the next proud creature who needed to learn about humility.

For that’s the way of the world, you see. Pride makes us big in our own eyes but small in truth. Humility makes us small in our own eyes but large in truth. And the largest, strongest, most magnificent thing of all is not how impressive you are by yourself, but how wonderful you can be when you work together with others.

Even if you’re a tiger.

Especially if you’re a tiger.

Particularly if you’re a tiger who once thought he could pull up a giant turnip all by himself.

Which, as we now know, is quite impossible.

Unless, of course, you have friends to help you.

And that makes all the difference.