What If?

Seven Retellings of the Tortoise and the Hare

The timeless fable of The Tortoise and the Hare offers not only a moral lesson in perseverance and humility, but also a unique opportunity to explore the power of voice in storytelling. By examining how this simple tale transforms when retold in the distinct styles of literary and cultural figures, we gain insight into how tone, structure, rhythm, and diction shape meaning and emotional impact. An engaging study in authorial voice, these vastly different versions demonstrate how the same narrative can be molded to reflect satire, gravity, humor, or inspiration—depending on the storyteller. It’s a creative and educational way to deepen students’ understanding of literary style and to appreciate the diverse ways stories can be told.

Aesop's Fable...

The Original Version

One day, a hare was boasting about how fast he could run.

“No one is as quick as I am,” he bragged to the other animals. “I could beat anyone in a race. Even you, slowpoke,” he said, pointing at the tortoise.

“I may be slow,” said the tortoise calmly, “but I’d be willing to race you.”

The hare laughed. “A race? With you? This will be over in seconds!”

So the forest animals gathered to watch the race. The fox marked the course and shouted, “On your marks, get set, go!”

The hare took off like lightning and soon left the tortoise far behind. Confident he would win, he decided to stop and rest under a shady tree.

“I have plenty of time,” the hare thought as he yawned and closed his eyes.

Meanwhile, the tortoise kept moving—slowly but steadily. He plodded along without stopping, one step at a time.

Eventually, the hare woke up. He stretched and looked down the path—only to see the tortoise almost at the finish line!

The hare ran as fast as he could, but it was too late. The tortoise had already crossed the line.

All the animals cheered.

The tortoise turned to the hare and said gently,
 “Slow and steady wins the race.”

As Ernest HemingwayMight Have Written It…

in his sparse, direct, and emotionally restrained style.

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As Related by Mark Twain...

told in his warm, dry-witted, slyly satirical voice, full of plainspoken charm, wry observation, and just a whiff of human folly wrapped up in animal clothing.

Read Here

As Rendered in the Style of the King James Bible...

retold in majestic, solemn cadence, with elevated language, parablesque rhythm, and moral weight.
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As Told by Forrest Gump...

in that plainspoken, earnest, and heartfelt voice — with a touch of Southern wisdom and his trademark blend of innocence and insight.

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As William FaulknerMight Have Written It...

with a winding, introspective, layered style rich in internal dialogue, Southern cadence, and shifting perspective.

Read Here

As Written By Dr. Seuss...

fresh and playful, full of rhyme, rhythm, and whimsical flair.
Read Here

As Scripted'd by William Shakespeare...

The Tragickal and Right Worthy Tale delivered in an elevated, poetic, dramatic style — filled with iambic pentameter, Elizabethan diction, and moral weight befitting the Bard of Avon.
Read Here

Discussion Questions:

1) Which version surprised you the most—and why? Was it the style, the voice, or how the tone shifted the meaning of the original fable?

2) How does the storyteller’s voice (tone, rhythm, word choice) affect the message of the story? Pick two versions that felt especially different and compare how they made you feel—or what they made you think about.

3) If you had to retell this fable in your own voice, what would it sound like? Would it be funny, dramatic, poetic, serious, modern, or something else? What would your version emphasize?

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As Ernest HemingwayMight Have Written It…

in his sparse, direct, and emotionally restrained style.

The hare was fast. He knew it. Everyone knew it.

The tortoise was not fast. He was slow and old and his legs moved like cold molasses. But he said he would race the hare. Said it like it meant something. The others laughed.

The course was flat and dry. Dust rose when the hare started. He kicked hard, like something wild, and was gone before the tortoise had taken two steps.

The hare ran far, then stopped. He looked back and saw no one. Not even dust. The sun was warm. The grass was soft. He lay down. He slept.

The tortoise kept going. He did not stop. His legs moved slow and steady. He breathed deep and did not look back. There was nothing behind him worth seeing.

The hare woke up. The sun was lower. He ran fast again, but the tortoise was already close to the finish. Too close.

The hare ran harder, but it did not matter.

The tortoise crossed the line. He didn’t raise his arms or cheer. He just stopped and looked at the sky.

The hare stood there, breathing hard. The tortoise didn’t say much. Just this:

“I kept going. You didn’t.”

That was all. It was enough.

As Related by Mark Twain…

told in his warm, dry-witted, slyly satirical voice, full of plainspoken charm, wry observation, and just a whiff of human folly wrapped up in animal clothing.

Now, it happened one fine morning in a little backwoods corner of creation, where the animals talked more sense than most men, that a hare got to running his mouth—something he was mighty good at, on account of having more mouth than patience.

He told the world and anyone that’d listen, “I’m the fastest there ever was. I’m quicker than thunder and slicker than a politician at a ribbon-cutting.”

Well, there was an old tortoise sittin’ nearby, chewin’ on a blade of grass like it was the only thing that’d ever made him hurry. He says, real slow-like, “I reckon I could beat you in a race.”

Now, the hare laughed so hard he near kicked over his own ego. “You? Why, you couldn’t beat a fence post in a footrace!”

But the other animals were already excited. They liked a good spectacle, especially one with a fool in it. So they lined up a course from the huckleberry patch to the big stump by the river—about a half-mile, give or take a rabbit’s pride.

When the race started, that hare took off like a greased rumor. Left nothing but dust and self-satisfaction behind. The tortoise, he just moseyed. I don’t even think he blinked.

Now the hare, seeing no danger in the rearview, figures he’s got time to take a little siesta under an oak. Says to himself, “No use beating the old coot too bad.”

Meanwhile, the tortoise keeps on—a step here, a step there. Not in any rush. Just the kind of steady going that makes folks mad because they can’t explain it.

By the time the hare wakes up and rubs the sleep outta his fool eyes, that tortoise is just about to cross the line. The hare takes off again, sure he can still win—but he don’t. The tortoise finishes without so much as a sweat.

Now, if there’s a moral to this tale—and I’ve been told people prefer a story with one—it's this:
 Pride is fast, but steady is faster in the long run.
 And never trust a nap when your reputation’s on the line.

As Rendered in the Style of the King James Bible...

retold in majestic, solemn cadence, with elevated language, parablesque rhythm, and moral weight.

1. And it came to pass in those days, that a certain hare was lifted up in his heart, and did boast mightily of his swiftness before all the beasts of the field.

2. And the hare spake, saying, Behold, I am as the whirlwind upon the earth; there is none among you that can stand before me in a race.

3. But lo, there was in the midst of them a tortoise, slow of foot and heavy upon the ground, who lifted up his voice and answered, saying, Though thou art swift, yet will I run with thee, and let the end be judged.

4. And when the day was appointed, the beasts were gathered together in a great multitude to witness the race.

5. And the fox, being wise among them, lifted up his paw and gave the signal, and the hare departed swiftly, and his feet were as flashes of lightning.

6. But the tortoise moved not with haste, neither did he tarry; he pressed forward with steadfastness of heart, and he turned not to the right hand nor to the left.

7. Now the hare, being confident in his strength, said in his heart, Surely I have already prevailed; I shall lay me down beneath this tree and slumber awhile.

8. And he laid himself down, and his eyes grew heavy, and he slept.

9. Yet the tortoise ceased not from his labor, but journeyed onward, step by step, and the earth did bear witness to his diligence.

10. And it came to pass, when the hare awoke from his sleep, he beheld that the tortoise was nigh unto the finish, and he was sore afraid, and he did leap and run with all his might.

11. But the tortoise crossed the line before him, and the beasts lifted up their voices with astonishment.

12. And the hare was confounded, and hung his head, for pride had brought him low.

13. Then the tortoise turned and said unto him, Verily, verily, I say unto thee: The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but unto him that endureth unto the end.

As Told by Forrest Gump...

in that plainspoken, earnest, and heartfelt voice — with a touch of Southern wisdom and his trademark blend of innocence and insight.

My mama always said, “Don’t ever go around braggin’ on yourself, ‘cause somebody out there’s probably better, and if they ain’t, they’re still tryin’.”

Now there once was this hare. He was real fast. I mean, he could run like the wind blows. Folks say I can run pretty good, but this hare? Shoot, he was showin’ off, bouncin’ all over the place sayin’ stuff like, “Ain’t nobody faster’n me!”

Well, this old tortoise—he was slow. Real slow. Slower than a Sunday afternoon nap. But he said, “I’ll race ya.”

Everybody laughed, just like that time I showed up to school with my new leg braces.

Anyway, they lined up to race, and when that fox said “Go,” the hare took off like he was shot outta Mama’s frying pan. The tortoise? He just took a step. And another. And another. Just kept goin’.

Now the hare, he got so far ahead, he figured he had time for a little nap. That’s when trouble usually shows up—right when you think nothin’ can go wrong.

But that tortoise just kept pluggin’ along, like Lieutenant Dan with a mission. He didn’t talk. He didn’t stop. He just kept goin’.

By the time the hare woke up, that ol’ tortoise was almost at the finish line. The hare ran as hard as he could, but it was too late. The tortoise had already won.

And do you know what that tortoise said?

He just looked over and said,
 “Slow and steady wins the race.”

That’s all he said.

Now, I don’t know much about speed or racin’ or animals wearin’ shoes, but I do know this: Sometimes, you don’t gotta be the fastest. You just gotta keep goin’, even when nobody’s cheerin’ and even when you’re all by yourself.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

As William FaulknerMight Have Written It…

with a winding, introspective, layered style rich in internal dialogue, Southern cadence, and shifting perspective.

And the hare—swift and silver and sure of himself, bounding across the sun-thick field like pride dressed in sinew—he laughed, not with malice, but with that brand of arrogance that blooms in youth and dies in sweat. “Old slowback,” he called him, the tortoise, who stood not so much at the line but within it, as though carved there by time and patience, not moving so much as being.

“Race me,” the hare said, not as a challenge but a dismissal, the way a man says he could outdrink the preacher but never bothers because he’s seen the bottom of his own glass and knows what’s there.

And the tortoise—who never blinked—said nothing, not really. Just nodded the way old men nod at weather, knowing the storm always comes and always passes.

They started.

The hare ran first, fast, in flashes, as though trying to outrun not the tortoise, but the stillness inside him. His feet tore at the earth like he was ashamed of it, as if every step declared war on the waiting. And then, somewhere beyond the cedar grove and the rusting fenceposts, he stopped. Not because he was tired, but because the waiting had caught up with him. He sat beneath a tree and closed his eyes, and in that moment the air was still, and he believed the race was already won.

But the tortoise kept going.

Not because he was strong, or fast, or destined—God no, there was no destiny here—but because he had been moving before the race began and would be moving after it ended. There was no line for him, only distance. And he passed the grove, and the fenceposts, and the tree where pride lay curled in sleep, and he moved on.

By the time the hare awoke, it was too late—not by seconds, but by decisions. The kind of lateness a man feels in his bones when he realizes the moment he laughed was the moment he lost.

The tortoise crossed the finish without ceremony.

He did not boast. He did not cheer.

He simply stood.

And the hare, all twitch and regret and dust, watched him, saying nothing, knowing the truth in the silence:

That sometimes, the slowest thing in the field is the only one still moving when it matters.

As Written By Dr. Seuss...

fresh and playful, full of rhyme, rhythm, and whimsical flair.

In a field near a tree by a hill in the air,
 Lived a snippity-snappity, speedity hare.
 He bounced and he boasted, “I’m faster than fast!
 No critter can match me. I’m built to outlast!”

Then up came a tortoise, so calm and so round,
 He barely made noise as he crept on the ground.
 “I’ll race you,” he said, with a smile on his face.
 The hare nearly giggled. “You? Win the race?”

The critters all gathered. The race line was drawn.
 The birds held their breath and the bugs stifled yawns.
 “On your mark! Get set! GO!” said a goose with a sneeze,
 And the hare took off flying like wind through the trees.

He zipped past the treetops, he zoomed down the lane,
 He whooshed by a chipmunk, twice over a train.
 He turned to the crowd with a smirk and a scoff,
 Then said, “I’ll just nap while the turtle plods off.”

So he curled in the clover and counted some sheep,
 And quicker than quick, he was snoring in sleep.
 But the tortoise? He plodded. He wobbled. He moved.
 And he hummed to himself with his rhythm well-grooved.

He passed by the flowers. He passed by the bees.
 He passed by the hare, fast asleep in the breeze.
 No dancing, no skipping, no sprinting, no flair—
 Just steady ol’ turtle feet stomping somewhere.

When the hare finally woke with a snort and a twitch,
 He sprang from the grass and he dashed through a ditch!
 But just up ahead near the end of the track,
 Was the tortoise, still moving, not even looking back.

The hare screamed, “I’M COMING!” He ran with a bound…
 But the tortoise had quietly won with no sound.

The crowd gave a cheer! “Three cheers for the shell!”
 And the tortoise just grinned, ‘cause he knew he did well.

The hare learned a lesson he never forgot:
 It’s not always speed that decides what you’ve got.
 So if you’re the slow one, don’t worry or stew—
 Just keep plodding forward, and see what you do!

As Scripted'd by William Shakespeare...

The Tragickal and Right Worthy Tale delivered in an elevated, poetic, dramatic style — filled with iambic pentameter, Elizabethan diction, and moral weight befitting the Bard of Avon.

Enter HARE and TORTOISE, amid a gathering of woodland creatures.

HARE:
 Attend, good beasts, and mark mine agile grace;
 No foot in all the forest fleet as mine!
 I am the wind that whispers through the trees,
 The lightning’s streak, the thunder’s racing twin.
 Is there among thee one who dares to race?

TORTOISE:
 Though I be shaped for pace of slower kind,
 And Time himself seems swifter than my tread,
 Yet do I dare, with purpose firm and true,
 To take this challenge up and prove my worth.

HARE:
 Ho ho! A jest! The shelled one would contend?
 Then let the fox cry “Go!” and we shall see
 If stubborn plod doth ever rival speed!

FOX (aside):
 O pride, how oft thy tail becometh snare.

(A trumpet sounds. They race.)

Narration:
 Anon the hare, like Mercury in flight,
 Did vanish o’er the hill and out of sight.
 Whilst tortoise slow, yet constant in his path,
 Did place each foot with care upon the earth.

But lo! The hare, secure in victory’s hand,
 Reclineth ‘neath an elm to take his rest.
 “A moment’s nap,” quoth he, “shall not betray
 Mine easy triumph o’er this creeping beast.”

Yet Fortune, fickle maid, did favor shift—
 For tortoise, patient soul, passed on apace.
 He gazed not left nor right, nor dallied once,
 But like a monk upon his solemn vow,
 He pressed toward the mark with even heart.

HARE (waking):
 What’s this? The sun hath danced across the sky!
 What cruel deceit hath stolen hours away?

Narration:
 He leapt and flew as one by furies chased,
 But when he spied the line—behold! too late!
 For tortoise slow had won the laurel wreath.
 The crowd did cheer; the woods did ring with praise.
 And hare, downcast, did hang his haughty head.

TORTOISE:
 Let none make boast of speed till race be run.
 For steady steps, though burdened, oft prevail.
 The swift may sleep; the slow, awake, endure.
 Thus ends this tale. Go, ponder what is sure.

[Exeunt all. Flourish of trumpets.]