Moral stone

A moralist and his son walk along the lakefront. The son, Max, holds a rock in one hand and then tosses it and catches it in his other.

The moralist looks down at the rock nervously and says to his son, “Max, you cannot throw that rock.”

At once, as if to silently say, “Well of course I can, just watch me,” Max shifts the rock from his left to his dominant right, skips toward the water and catapults the rock into the center of the lake.

“Maximilian! I just told you that you cannot.”

Max smiling even wider at the game says, “But of course I can, papa. Just look at the ripples in the water from where it splashed. Would you like to see me do it again?”

Realizing he had misspoken, the moralist struggles to explain, ” What I meant to say was that you should not.”

“But what does that mean, papa? That word, should.” Max had been meaning to ask his teachers at school this same question; they too seemed confused about when to say cannot and should not.

The moralist thought for a long time, and then shook his head—it was better not to say what he was thinking. And he only said this to his son, “What I meant, son, is that I would prefer it if you didn’t throw rocks.”

At once the boy smiled and jumped into his dad’s arms, “Well then of course I won’t, papa! Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”