Lipi and Lapra

Lipi and Lapra

Long ago, seven brothers lived in a large family. Their homes stood close together, and they worked the land side by side, helping one another when it was time to sow, harvest, or mend a roof before the rains. The youngest brother had the least. His plot lay at the edge of the village, where the soil was stony and rainwater rushed away downhill. But he did not complain. Every morning, before the heat rose, he went to his field. He cleared stones, carried water, planted young trees, and waited patiently. One year passed. Then another. At last, his small plot began to yield the finest harvest of all. Thick grain grew there, and his fruit trees bore so generously that their branches had to be propped up with poles. The brothers were glad for him—every one except the eldest. At first the eldest only fell silent when the others praised their young brother. Then he began to count the younger man’s baskets of grain. He noticed every new tree. Before long, envy had made a home in his heart. “Why does everything go better for him?” he thought. “I am the eldest. I should have the most.” The youngest brother knew nothing of these thoughts. He loved his family, and he dearly loved two dogs he had raised from puppies. One was called Lipi and the other Lapra. Lipi was swift as a gust of wind. He heard footsteps first and saw movement first in the tall grass. Lapra was calmer. He did not rush, but he understood people deeply. Whenever his master looked troubled, Lapra would sit beside him and rest his head on his master’s knee. The two dogs were inseparable. One day the eldest brother came to the youngest. “Come with me to the hill,” he said. “Strong grass grows there, good for making rope. We should gather its fibers.” “Let us go,” said the younger brother. Lipi and Lapra leapt up at once. “Why bring the dogs?” the eldest frowned. “They will only run underfoot.” “They are used to going with me.” “Very well. We can tie them in the shade by the spring while we work.” The youngest saw nothing strange in this. At the foot of the hill, a little spring bubbled beside a broad-crowned tree. The youngest tied Lipi and Lapra with long ropes, left water for them, scratched each behind the ears, and followed his brother up the slope. For a long time they gathered tough stems. Then the eldest said, “Now I will show you how to twist the fibers properly.” He made one rope, then another, then a third. “Stand here and hold the end,” he told the younger brother. The younger brother stood beside a tree. Suddenly the eldest wound a rope around his hands and tied him to the trunk. The young man stared at him. “What are you doing?” For a while the eldest said nothing. Then he answered, “I am tired of hearing everyone praise you. Tired of hearing about your harvest. I believed that, as the eldest brother, I should always be the most successful.” “So you tie me up because of my field?” “I wanted to frighten you,” the eldest muttered. “So that you would give me the best part of your land and stop showing everyone how clever you are.” “I never competed with you,” said the younger brother. “I only worked.” The eldest turned away. “Sit here and think about it.” Then he started down the hill. The younger brother was left alone. He tried to loosen the knots with his fingers. He rubbed the rope against the bark, but it only pulled tighter. The sun was already sliding toward the horizon. Then he remembered Lipi and Lapra. They were far below by the spring. An ordinary shout might not reach them. But whenever the dogs ran too far across the fields, he called them with a special song. He drew a breath and sang: “Lipi, Lapra, faithful friends, over the low hill run, up the high slope hurry, do not let my voice be lost.” The wind carried the song downward. By the spring, Lipi pricked up his ears. Lapra stood still. The call was faint, but it was their master’s. Lipi pulled at his rope once, twice, three times. The knot did not give. Then Lapra began to chew his own rope. Lipi understood and did the same. Fiber by fiber, the strands weakened. At last Lapra broke free, then bit through Lipi’s rope, and together they raced uphill. They crossed the grass, jumped a narrow stream, ran around a boulder, and heard the song again. “Lipi, Lapra, faithful friends...” Within minutes they reached their master. “Good dogs,” he breathed. “Now help me with this knot.” Lipi pulled one way with his teeth, Lapra pulled the other, and their master twisted his hands until the loop finally loosened. He was free. By then the eldest brother had almost reached the spring. He looked back and saw the two dogs standing beside the younger man. Lipi barked loudly. Lapra stepped in front of his master, but did not lunge at the man who had wronged him. The eldest stepped back. “Take your dogs away!” “They will not attack,” said the younger brother. “If you do not attack me.” The words were so calm that the eldest felt his shame all the more. That evening all three returned to the village. The youngest brother did not hide what had happened. When he told the family, a heavy silence fell. “You could have asked for help,” one brother said to the eldest. “You could have said that you were struggling,” said another. “You could have learned from him,” said a third. “Instead, you tried to take what his work had grown.” The eldest sat with his head bowed. “At last I let envy speak for me,” he said. “And I did what I am ashamed of.” He returned everything he had already taken from the younger brother’s field and offered to repair the harm. For the next several weeks, he came to the field before dawn. Together they carried water, propped up heavy branches, repaired the fence, and replanted young trees. At first they scarcely spoke. Then one morning the eldest asked, “How did you make this soil so fertile?” The younger brother smiled. “Do you truly want to know?” “I do.” “Then today we will not compete. We will work together.” From then on, the whole family prospered. The youngest shared what he had learned on his stony patch of ground, and the eldest no longer felt ashamed to ask for advice. Lipi and Lapra remained the most famous dogs in the village. Whenever they raced along the road, the children laughed and sang: “Lipi, Lapra, faithful friends, over the low hill run, up the high slope hurry, never leave a friend in need.” And the youngest brother would stroke the dogs and add, “A loyal friend comes when called. But it is better still when a family learns to speak to one another before anyone has to call for rescue.”

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨