The morning sun had barely risen over Philadelphia when Benjamin Franklin found himself struck by one of those peculiar ideas that often visit great minds or so he liked to tell himself. On this particular day, the thought occurred to him: What if i brought my donkey up to the roof? it was not a practical notion by any means, but Franklin, ever the experimenter, was curious to see how the beast would reach to an elevated perspective. Perhaps, he mused, the donkey would gain some newfound wisdom from the vista.
With considerable effort and more that a few muttered curses Franklin managed to coax the reluctant animal up the narrow staircase to the flat rooftop of his home. The donkey, unimpressed by the view of the bustling city below, stood motionless, its ears twitching in annoyance. Franklin, please with his accomplishment, leaned against the chimney and chuckled. "There now, even a donkey can appreciate a higher vantage point," he declared to no one in particular.
But his satisfaction was short-lived. When the time came to descend, the donkey refused to move. Franklin tugged at the rope, clucked his tongue, even offered an apple but the beast stood firm, its hooves planted stubbornly against the wooden shingles. The great thinker, who had once tamed lightning with a kite, now found himself outwitted by a creature whose greatest intellectual feat was knowing when it was feeding time.
Hours passed. Franklin, his patience wearing thin, finally abandoned his efforts and retreated downstairs, hoping hunger would eventually drive the donkey back to ground. He busied himself with correspondence, occasionally glancing out the window to see if the donkey had come to its senses. But the donkey remained, a silent, four-legged statue against the skyline.
Then suddenly came the noise, a rhythmic, ominous thud, thud, thud from above. Franklin rushed outside just in time to see the donkey kicking violently at the roof, its hooves cracking the aged wooden beams. His stomach dropped. That roof had survived harsh winters and summer storms, yet now it was being demolished by an donkey that, until today, had shown no particular malice toward architecture.
Franklin scrambled back up the stairs, his heart pounding. "You blasted creature!" he shouted, grabbing the rope with both hands. But the donkey, as if possessed by some demon of defiance, only kicked harder. The roof groaned in protest. Desperate, Franklin gave one final heave—only for the donkey to lash out with a hind leg, striking him square in the chest. The impact sent Franklin tumbling backward, down the stairs, landing in a heap of bruised dignity at the bottom.
Above him, the destruction reached its climax. With a thunderous crack, the roof gave way, and the donkey—still kicking—plummeted through the wreckage, landing in a cloud of dust and splinters beside its owner.
Franklin lay there for a long moment, staring at the sky where his roof had once been. The donkey, miraculously unharmed, shook off the debris and trotted away as if nothing had happened. Slowly, Franklin sat up, wincing at his aching ribs. He looked at the ruined house, then at the donkey now contentedly nibbling grass in the yard, and finally at his own hands, scraped and trembling.
It was then that the lesson struck him with the force of that damned donkey’s kick.
"Never elevate a fool to a height they cannot comprehend," he muttered. "For they will not appreciate the view—they will only destroy what took you years to build."
He stood, brushing dust from his coat, and limped inside to fetch his quill and paper. If there was one thing Franklin knew, it was that folly must be recorded so others might avoid it. He penned the moral with deliberate strokes:
A donkey on a roof harms itself first. (It gains nothing from the height and risks its own neck in the fall.)
It ruins the roof second. (The position it was given is destroyed by its ignorance.)
And it crushes those below third. (Those who lifted the fool suffer most when the collapse comes.)
Franklin’s quill hovered over the page. He thought of the men he had known—those who had been granted power without wisdom, authority without ability. How many roofs had been kicked apart by donkeys who never should have been led up the stairs? How many good intentions had been trampled by hooves of arrogance?
He added one final line:
"Beware the man who appoints donkeys to high places, for he either shares their nature or hopes to profit from the coming ruin."
As the sun set over Philadelphia, Franklin nailed the lesson to what remained of his doorpost. Let others read it and take heed. And as for the donkey? Well, it would spend the rest of its days firmly on the ground—where it belonged.
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