At the edge of the bamboo grove lived Anansi the spider, and his little son. One morning a greedy light came into Anansi's eyes. "I shall collect every last bit of wisdom in the whole world — all of it, mine alone!" All eight of his legs danced with delight.
The very next day Anansi set off with a big clay pot. A scrap of wisdom from here, a scrap from there — plink, plink, into the pot it went. The fuller the pot grew, the more his chest swelled. But if one spider scoops it all up, what is left for anybody else?
The pot was full now, and heavy, and the wisdom glittered inside it. Anansi leaned close and whispered, "Not a word to anyone, son. I'll hide it right at the top of that tall tree." And he tied the pot tight against the front of his belly.
One leg up, two legs, three — bump! The heavy pot knocked against the trunk, and Anansi slid right back down. Up he climbed, and slipped. Up again, and slipped again! "Papa, why won't it work?" "It will work," Anansi gasped. "It will!"
His son tipped his head to one side and watched for a while. Then he said, plain as anything, "Papa — why not tie the pot on your back instead?" All eight of Anansi's legs froze at once. A whole pot of the world's wisdom — and only his little son had thought of that.
And in that one frozen moment, the knot slipped loose. Down came the pot — CRASH! It shattered into a hundred pieces, and all the wisdom whirled up glittering into the wind. A little settled on the deer, a little on the birds, a little even on the tiniest ant.
By evening the fireflies were winking on and off. Anansi looked at the broken pot and laughed out loud. "Oh, son — all the wisdom of the world was never in my pot. A little of it was with you all along." And he swung his little son up onto his back.