In the middle of the meadow, where the clover was cropped shortest, the animals stood in a wide circle. In the center, the hare was tapping the ground with his hind feet.

“Slowpoke, you really want to race me?”

The hare pricked up his ears and laughed. Across from him, the tortoise slowly stretched out his neck and nodded once.

“We’ll find out, once we go.”

The animals in the circle snickered. The fox, who was serving as judge, struck the ground twice with his tail to quiet them.

“There’s only one rule. See the red flag I planted up there at the top of the hill? Whoever pulls it out first wins.”

The fox raised a forepaw and brought it down, and the race began. The hare shot off like the wind. Dandelion seeds flew up all at once, and in the blink of an eye the hare’s white tail shrank toward the far edge of the meadow.

The tortoise took one step, drew one breath, and took another step.

Before long, the hare reached the zelkova tree halfway up the hill. When he looked back, there wasn’t so much as a shadow of the tortoise anywhere in the meadow. The sun beat down hot overhead, and the shade beneath the zelkova looked cool and soft.

“By the time that slowpoke gets here, the sun will have set.”

Yawning, the hare flopped onto his back in the zelkova’s shade. Just one quick nap, he thought, and he could still get up and run with time to spare. A breeze drifted through the leaves, and the hare’s long ears slowly drooped.

Meanwhile, the tortoise was crossing the meadow. He passed the dew beaded on the grass and crossed the stepping-stones over the brook one by one. When a frog asked, “You’ve already lost, so why keep going?” the tortoise didn’t answer. He only took one more step.

As the sun began to sink, the tortoise reached the spot halfway up the hill. Under the zelkova tree, the hare lay snoring. His white tail rose and fell with every breath.

The tortoise stopped and looked down at the sleeping hare for a long time.

He did not wake him. Instead, he muffled his footsteps and walked past the zelkova at the same pace as before. One step, one breath, another step.

The hill was steep. His shell was heavy, and his neck ached. Still, the tortoise didn’t stop. The wind was growing stronger, which meant the top of the hill was near.

Just then, under the zelkova tree, the hare’s eyes flew open. The shadows had stretched long, and the sky had turned red.

“It’s evening already?”

The hare lifted his head and looked up at the hilltop. Right beside the red flag he saw a round, mossy shell. The hare ran with all his might. He was faster than the wind, but this time he was too late.

The tortoise stretched out his wrinkled neck, took the red flag in his mouth, and pulled it out. The watching animals let out a great cheer. The fox raised his tail high.

“The tortoise wins.”

The hare arrived gasping for breath and couldn’t say a word. The tortoise set down the flag and spoke slowly.

“I just… didn’t stop, that’s all.”

Slow but steady wins the race in the end. From that day on, the animals of the meadow never again used the word “slow” as a taunt.