Penguin Rolling Downhill

How many of these paper cones do we need? asks Gaius.

About fifty, says Sweezus.

How many is fifty? asks Terence.

Five lots of ten, says Kierkegaard. Use your fingers.

And how many seeds in each cone? asks Gaius.

Divide them up, says Sweezus. Terence can do it.

Terence sits down in front of the heap of black seeds.

What can I do? asks Baby Pierre.

Supervise him, says Sweezus. I know you can count.

That's not fair, says Terence. I can count better than he can.

Go on then, says Baby Pierre.

Terence divides the heap of seeds into nine, using his fingers.

Ha ha, laughs Baby Pierre. He's only got nine fingers.

That's not my fault, says Terence.

Add one, says Baby Pierre. Take one seed from each pile and make a new one.

YOU do it, says Terence. I'll make the cones.

He takes a sheet of paper, and rolls it into a telescope.

That's not a CONE, says Baby Pierre.

Copy me, says Sweezus.

He takes a sheet of paper and rolls it, starting from the corner.

He picks up one of Terence's small heaps of seeds and drops them in it.

Then he folds in the top, so the seeds won't fall out.

Da-dah! says Sweezus. That's how you do it.

A production line is started.

Gaius finds an old cardboard box.

Kierkegaard takes the filled paper cones from Sweezus and Terence.

Before placing them in the box, he shows them to Gaius.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, no, says Gaius. Take that one out.

What is it? asks Sweezus.

Penguin jokes, says Gaius.

Yay! says Terence. Which ones are they?

What's black and white and black and white and black and white? asks Sweezus.

Baby Bin Penguin! says Terence. My friend!

A penguin rolling downhill, says Sweezus.

But it was his joke, says Terence.

So it was, says Gaius. For some reason I've written it down. It's from years ago, when we went to Tasmania.

Ha ha, laughs Kierkegaard, belatedly, having just got it. Rolling down hill!

However, says Gaius, if people are going to connect these old notes to me, I don't want them linking me to such frivolity.

No, says Sweezus. I get that.

The penguin joke cone is therefore emptied of seeds, and discarded, even though the joke itself is amusing.

Kierkegaard, who particularly liked it, picks it up surreptitiously.