Once upon a time, there was a little weasel. His name was Horace. Unlike all the other weasels he knew, Horace was very bookish.

He had a copy of The Little Prince that he had found out behind a chicken coop when he was out sucking eggs one day. It was missing the third chapter and the back cover, which was a less than ideal state of affairs, but it was the only book he had, and he loved it.

While all the other weasels spent their time practicing their skulking and backbiting, Horace would read instead. This struck the other weasels as bizarre, but they let it go by.

Then, one day, the Earth was invaded by space aliens.

These aliens were a race of giant librarians who happened to look a great deal like weasels (but larger). Because they were librarians, they had of course done their research before they began their invasion. The invasion was thus over very quickly, and mankind was set to work in the vast alien book mines.

Meanwhile, the librarians went out to make contact with the species with whom they felt the most affinity. They had hoped that there was simply a gap in the record that had interfered with their being able to find the great corpus of weasel literature, but of course they found that this was not so.

The giant weasel librarian aliens were tragically disappointed. Desperate, they went from weasel to weasel asking "Is there no weasel at all who loves books as we do?"

(Naturally, they had learned to speak weasel.)

"No," said the weasels.

At last, they came to the town where Horace lived. Here the weasels said "yes"! (They were tempted not to, given their weaselly natures, but they decided they were just as happy to see Horace go.)

The librarians were delighted. They swept Horace up and installed him in his very own wing of the alien book mines, where at last he obtained a complete edition of The Little Prince. He read it every day for the rest of his life.

The End.