A story
The Prince Who Wanted to Be Thanked
There was once a young prince named Zayd who lived in a white palace beside a blue lake. Zayd was generous. He liked to give gifts. But he had one small problem. Every time he gave something, he waited, and waited, and waited to hear the words "Thank you, Prince Zayd! You are the kindest prince in the world!"
If he did not hear those words, he felt cross and sulky for the rest of the day.
One morning, Zayd rode out of the palace with a sack of sweet oranges. He gave one to a farmer in the field. "Thank you, Your Highness!" said the farmer, bowing. Zayd smiled.
He gave one to a washerwoman by the lake. "How kind you are, Prince Zayd!" she said. Zayd smiled even wider.
Then he gave one to an old fisherman mending his net. The fisherman nodded, put the orange in his basket, and went back to his work without a word.
Zayd's smile disappeared. "Did you not hear me?" he said. "I gave you an orange. A prince's orange!"
The fisherman looked up. "I heard you, young prince," he said calmly. "I am grateful. But tell me, did you give me the orange so that I would eat it, or so that I would praise you?"
Zayd opened his mouth and then shut it again. He did not know what to say. He turned his horse around and rode home, frowning all the way.
That night, Zayd could not sleep. The fisherman's question buzzed in his head like a fly. At last he went to see his teacher, an old woman named Sitt Huda, who had taught three kings before him and knew a great many things.
"Sitt Huda," he said, "is it wrong to want people to thank me?"
Sitt Huda put down her book. "It is good to say thank you," she said. "And it is pleasant to hear it. But a gift that waits for praise is like a bird with a string tied to its foot. It cannot fly far."
"I do not understand," said Zayd.
"Then I will give you a task," said Sitt Huda. "For seven days, you must do one kind thing each day. But no one may know it was you. Not one person. If anyone finds out, you must start again."
Zayd thought this sounded easy. It was not.
On the first day, he saw that the palace gardener's wheelbarrow had a broken wheel. Zayd crept out early, before sunrise, and fixed it with his own hands. It took a long time, and he bruised his thumb. When the gardener found it, he looked all around and scratched his head. "Who did this?" he asked. Zayd was hiding behind a rose bush, and it was very, very hard not to jump out and shout, "It was me!"
But he stayed quiet. And something strange happened. Watching the gardener whistle happily as he pushed his wheelbarrow, Zayd felt a warm glow in his chest, warmer than any thank-you had ever made him feel.
On the second day, he left a basket of bread on the doorstep of a poor family. On the third day, he swept the steps of the village school before the children arrived. On the fourth day, he secretly mended the torn sail of the old fisherman's boat. He had to row out to it at dawn, and he was very wet and very cold when he finished.
On the fifth day, it rained, and he could not think of anything to do. Then he noticed that the palace cat had been shut out in the storm. He opened the side door, carried her in, dried her with his own scarf, and set her by the kitchen fire. Nobody saw. The cat purred. That was enough.
On the sixth day, he copied out a story in his best handwriting and left it on the desk of a little girl in the village who loved to read but had no books.
On the seventh day, Zayd woke up and realized that he was not waiting for anything anymore. He did not wonder who had noticed. He was only thinking, "What can I do today?"
He went down to the lake. The old fisherman was sitting in his boat, looking up at his mended sail with a puzzled smile.
"Good morning," said Zayd.
"Good morning, young prince," said the fisherman. "A strange thing happened. Someone mended my sail in the night, and left no name. I would like to thank them, but I do not know who to thank."
Zayd's heart beat fast. Here was his chance. He could say, "It was me!" and hear the thanks he had wanted for so long.
But he only smiled and said, "Perhaps they did not need to be thanked. Perhaps they were happy just to see your boat sail."
The fisherman looked at Zayd for a long moment. He looked at the prince's bruised thumb and at the bits of sailcloth thread still stuck to his sleeve. Then his eyes twinkled.
"Perhaps," the fisherman said softly. "Perhaps that is the very best kind of gift."
Zayd went back to Sitt Huda. "I finished the seven days," he said. "And I think I understand now. When I gave to be thanked, I was really giving to myself. But when nobody knew, the gift could fly free."
Sitt Huda smiled the biggest smile Zayd had ever seen on her wrinkled face. "Now," she said, "you are ready to be a king."
Many years later, Zayd did become king. He built schools and wells and bridges, and he often did not put his name on them. When people asked why, he told them about the oranges, and the fisherman, and the seven secret days.
And the people of the kingdom loved him dearly. Not because he asked for their thanks, but because he never needed it.
The lesson: The kindest gifts are the ones we give without waiting for praise.
If he did not hear those words, he felt cross and sulky for the rest of the day.
One morning, Zayd rode out of the palace with a sack of sweet oranges. He gave one to a farmer in the field. "Thank you, Your Highness!" said the farmer, bowing. Zayd smiled.
He gave one to a washerwoman by the lake. "How kind you are, Prince Zayd!" she said. Zayd smiled even wider.
Then he gave one to an old fisherman mending his net. The fisherman nodded, put the orange in his basket, and went back to his work without a word.
Zayd's smile disappeared. "Did you not hear me?" he said. "I gave you an orange. A prince's orange!"
The fisherman looked up. "I heard you, young prince," he said calmly. "I am grateful. But tell me, did you give me the orange so that I would eat it, or so that I would praise you?"
Zayd opened his mouth and then shut it again. He did not know what to say. He turned his horse around and rode home, frowning all the way.
That night, Zayd could not sleep. The fisherman's question buzzed in his head like a fly. At last he went to see his teacher, an old woman named Sitt Huda, who had taught three kings before him and knew a great many things.
"Sitt Huda," he said, "is it wrong to want people to thank me?"
Sitt Huda put down her book. "It is good to say thank you," she said. "And it is pleasant to hear it. But a gift that waits for praise is like a bird with a string tied to its foot. It cannot fly far."
"I do not understand," said Zayd.
"Then I will give you a task," said Sitt Huda. "For seven days, you must do one kind thing each day. But no one may know it was you. Not one person. If anyone finds out, you must start again."
Zayd thought this sounded easy. It was not.
On the first day, he saw that the palace gardener's wheelbarrow had a broken wheel. Zayd crept out early, before sunrise, and fixed it with his own hands. It took a long time, and he bruised his thumb. When the gardener found it, he looked all around and scratched his head. "Who did this?" he asked. Zayd was hiding behind a rose bush, and it was very, very hard not to jump out and shout, "It was me!"
But he stayed quiet. And something strange happened. Watching the gardener whistle happily as he pushed his wheelbarrow, Zayd felt a warm glow in his chest, warmer than any thank-you had ever made him feel.
On the second day, he left a basket of bread on the doorstep of a poor family. On the third day, he swept the steps of the village school before the children arrived. On the fourth day, he secretly mended the torn sail of the old fisherman's boat. He had to row out to it at dawn, and he was very wet and very cold when he finished.
On the fifth day, it rained, and he could not think of anything to do. Then he noticed that the palace cat had been shut out in the storm. He opened the side door, carried her in, dried her with his own scarf, and set her by the kitchen fire. Nobody saw. The cat purred. That was enough.
On the sixth day, he copied out a story in his best handwriting and left it on the desk of a little girl in the village who loved to read but had no books.
On the seventh day, Zayd woke up and realized that he was not waiting for anything anymore. He did not wonder who had noticed. He was only thinking, "What can I do today?"
He went down to the lake. The old fisherman was sitting in his boat, looking up at his mended sail with a puzzled smile.
"Good morning," said Zayd.
"Good morning, young prince," said the fisherman. "A strange thing happened. Someone mended my sail in the night, and left no name. I would like to thank them, but I do not know who to thank."
Zayd's heart beat fast. Here was his chance. He could say, "It was me!" and hear the thanks he had wanted for so long.
But he only smiled and said, "Perhaps they did not need to be thanked. Perhaps they were happy just to see your boat sail."
The fisherman looked at Zayd for a long moment. He looked at the prince's bruised thumb and at the bits of sailcloth thread still stuck to his sleeve. Then his eyes twinkled.
"Perhaps," the fisherman said softly. "Perhaps that is the very best kind of gift."
Zayd went back to Sitt Huda. "I finished the seven days," he said. "And I think I understand now. When I gave to be thanked, I was really giving to myself. But when nobody knew, the gift could fly free."
Sitt Huda smiled the biggest smile Zayd had ever seen on her wrinkled face. "Now," she said, "you are ready to be a king."
Many years later, Zayd did become king. He built schools and wells and bridges, and he often did not put his name on them. When people asked why, he told them about the oranges, and the fisherman, and the seven secret days.
And the people of the kingdom loved him dearly. Not because he asked for their thanks, but because he never needed it.
The lesson: The kindest gifts are the ones we give without waiting for praise.
