A visitor arrived at the royal court of Solomon, hoping for an audience with the wisest of kings. He was not admitted. Three days passed, and each day he was told to wait.
On the first day he asked the servants, "Why does the king not invite me into his presence?" The answer came back, "He has drunk too much, and the wine has overpowered him." The visitor said nothing. He walked to a pile of bricks near the gate, picked one up, and set it carefully on top of another. Then he went back to his lodgings.
The courtiers reported this strange gesture to Solomon. The king did not need anyone to explain. "He means," Solomon said, "give him more wine. Pour it on top of what he has already drunk. Make him drunker still."
On the second day the visitor asked again, "Why does the king not invite me in?" He was told, "He has eaten too much." The visitor returned to the bricks. This time he lifted the top brick off the stack and set it aside.
Solomon heard the report and again understood at once. "He means: take food away from me. Give me less." The king who could read the language of birds could also read a stranger who spoke only in bricks. The story is preserved in the Talmud's tractate Rosh Hashanah (26a) and elsewhere.
Solomon's wisdom was not a body of information. It was the habit of noticing what other people dismissed as meaningless.