There once lived a little gudgeon. Both his father and his mother were sensible people: they lived quietly, without sticking out, for whole ages in the river, and never ended up in fish soup or in a pike's maw. They demanded the same of their son. “Mind you, son,” the old gudgeon instructed him before his death, “if you want to live merrily, keep both eyes open!”
And the young gudgeon really was clever. He set to thinking—and realized: wherever he went, trouble awaited him. Around him, in the water, there were fish bigger and stronger all the time, while he was the tiniest of all; any one of them could swallow him, and he was unable to swallow anyone. And he could not make sense of it either: why swallow at all? A crayfish could cut him in two with a claw, a water flea could latch onto his back and torment him to death. Even his own kind, another gudgeon—if it saw that he had caught a mosquito, it would descend on him in a whole swarm to snatch it away. They would take it, and then immediately start fighting over the catch, so that they would tear the mosquito to pieces for nothing…