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Ralphs. Fresh for everyone. ♪ In all France, there was no happier, more contented mouse than Anatole. He lived in a small mouse village near Paris, with his dear wife Doucette, and their six charming children, Paul and Paulette, Claude and Claudette, Georges and Georgette. Every evening as the sky darkened, the husbands and fathers bicycled along the boulevard toward Paris to find food for their families.

Once arrived, they entered people's houses through secret passageways known only to themselves. Anatole's partner was usually Gaston. One night, while they were looking for leftovers in someone's kitchen, Anatole heard people in the next room talking about mice. Curious, he crept under the sofa and listened. "Oh, those terrible mice," complained a woman.

"They sneak into my kitchen, they rummage around in my garbage pail, or pull themselves up to the table and take what is there. Sometimes they even nibble at untasted food. This I must throw away. Heaven knows how dirty their paws are." "They are a disgrace to all France," said a man angrily.

"To be a mouse is to be a villain." Deeply shocked, Anatole ran back to the kitchen. "Gaston, we must leave at once." On the way home, Anatole, greatly upset, told his friend what had happened. "Bah, a mere trifle," scoffed Gaston. "People are people, and mice are mice. Our loved ones must eat, and our only hunting grounds are people's homes." "But I never dreamed they regarded us this way," cried the unhappy Anatole.

"It is horrible to feel scorned and unwanted. Where is my self-respect? My pride? My honor?" Gaston shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "Resign yourself, Anatole. C'est la vie." Doucet comforted him. "You are so right, Anatole," she said sadly. "If only we could give people something in return, but alas, that is impossible." Anatole jumped up and danced Doucet around the room.

"Impossible? Perhaps not, ma petite. You have given me a wonderful idea." He sat down at the typewriter and typed thirty or forty signs that said, "Extra specially good. Specially good. Good. Not so good. No good." Then he stuck a long pin through each sign and put them all away carefully in his briefcase.

Riding to Paris that evening, Anatole said, "Gaston, will you feel insulted if I go off alone after this? I have an idea that I must work on in secret." Gaston answered, "I am your friend, n'est-ce pas? A friend is never insulted. A friend has faith. Good luck." When they reached Paris, Anatole left the others and headed toward the business part of town.

He parked his bicycle in front of the Duval Cheese Factory. "Manufacture du fromage Duval." He squeezed his small mouse's body easily under the door, not forgetting his briefcase. How heavenly it smelled inside. His sensitive nose sniffed many delicious cheeses. "Camembert, Torte Salute, Bleu, Saint-Maslin, Roquefort, Brie. Well," thought Anatole, "I mustn't stand here sniffing all night.

There is work to be done." He hurried down one dark passageway after another until he found what he was looking for, the cheese-tasting room. It was dimly lit, filled with long wooden tables. On them stood great mounds of cheese of all shapes and sizes. Without further delay, Anatole climbed up on the nearest table.

First, he tasted a bit of Camembert. "Mmm, couldn't be better." He opened his briefcase, took out an "extra specially good" sign, and pinned it on the cheese. The next one tasted much too sharp. He used a "not so good" sign and wrote something on it in pencil. Up and down the long rows of cheeses went Anatole for hours and hours, sniffing and tasting and pinning on signs.

"Good. Not creamy enough." "Specially good, but another pinch of salt." "Not so good. Add more goat's milk." "No good. Throw it away." "Good, but less black pepper." "Not so good. Needs more grated onion." "No good." "Good, but add some more orange peel." "Specially good. Add a little vinegar." "Extra specially good." At last, his work was finished.

"Voilà, now the Duval factory will earn a thing or two. Mice are known everywhere as the world's best judges of cheese. And as for myself, I shall bring some home proudly, for I have honorably earned it." Next morning at the factory there was great excitement. Everyone wondered who had written the strange little signs.

In marched Monsieur Duval himself. "We'll see just how much this Anatole knows about cheese." He tasted some Roquefort. "Touche, Anatole is right. This does need more orange peel. Now listen all of you. Business has been none too good lately. We'll try making cheese Anatole's way and see what happens." Every night Anatole left more of his little signs, and every day the cheese workers made more changes.

Soon business began to boom. The people of France demanded "Duval cheese or no cheese at all." Orders poured in so fast that Monsieur Duval enlarged his factory and gave everybody a raise in salary. But he couldn't discover who was leaving the signs. "Why doesn't Anatole appear?" Monsieur Duval asked his secretary.

"He deserves to be rewarded. We owe all our good fortune to him." He wrote a little note, begging to meet Anatole. But Anatole wrote back that he preferred to remain unknown. Monsieur Duval even had every employee named Anatole come to his office for questioning, but each one denied that he had left the signs.

It was no use. The secret remained a secret. Then one afternoon, Monsieur Duval rang for his secretary and dictated a very long letter. That night, Anatole found the letter. "Duval, le meilleur fromage du monde. My dear Anatole, this letter comes to thank you for all you have done. Your success is due entirely to your wonderful work.

I am most anxious to meet you in person, but since you prefer to remain unknown, I shall respect your secret. Whoever you are, it is clear that you love cheese greatly. Please help yourself to all the cheese you like, as often as you like. Every night there will be some good French bread left here for you, and chocolate eclair, and other dainties.

Now I wish I could reward you more richly. Anatole, we salute you. From now on, we shall think of you fondly as First Vice President in charge of cheese tasting. Remember, you are always welcome here. With every good wish for your happiness, your friend, Henri Duval." When Doucette saw the letter, she said, "No more snooping around in strange people's houses for you.

That's finished forever. You are the smartest mouse in the world." Paul and Paulette, Claude and Claudette, and Georges and Georgette climbed up on his chair and hugged him. "We are so proud. Our beloved papa is now a respectable business mouse." The next day, Anatole invited Gaston to be his helper.

The older mouse made a very deep bow. "Gladly will I join you." Then he kissed his friend on both cheeks and cried, "Vive Anatole! Was he content to sit back and do nothing about our way of life? No, no. He is a mouse of action, a mouse of honor, a mouse magnifique." And so it came to pass.

Anatole and his partner worked at the factory side by side in perfect harmony. The secret stayed a secret always. So if you should ever meet a mouse looking for leftovers, you will know at once that it cannot possibly be Anatole, the happiest, most contented mouse in all France. The question for you today, my dear listeners, is, are you one who goes out and makes opportunities through service?

Or are you one who sits back and takes from others? We all have a choice. It's a daily choice. Are we going to be a maker or a taker? A producer or a consumer? Are we going to go out to the world looking for how we can serve or for how we can be served?

The rich rewards always come for those who serve.