Part 6

The Wolf, the Goat, and the Kid.

As went a goat of grass to take her fill, And browse the herbage of a distant hill, She latch'd her door, and bid, With matron care, her kid; "My daughter, as you live, This portal don't undo To any creature who This watchword does not give: 'Deuce take the wolf and all his race!'" The wolf was passing near the place By chance, and heard the words with pleasure, And laid them up as useful treasure; And hardly need we mention, Escaped the goat's attention. No sooner did he see The matron off, than he, With hypocritic tone and face, Cried out before the place, "Deuce take the wolf and all his race!" Not doubting thus to gain admission. The kid, not void of all suspicion, Peer'd through a crack, and cried, "Show me white paw before You ask me to undo the door." The wolf could not, if he had died, For wolves have no connection With pains of that complexion. So, much surprised, our gourmandiser Retired to fast till he was wiser.

How would the kid have been undone Had she but trusted to the word? The wolf by chance had overheard! Two sureties better are than one; And caution's worth its cost, Though sometimes seeming lost.

The Rat Retired from the World.

The sage Levantines have a tale About a rat that weary grew Of all the cares which life assail, And to a Holland cheese withdrew. His solitude was there profound, Extending through his world so round. Our hermit lived on that within; And soon his industry had been With claws and teeth so good, That in his novel hermitage, He had in store, for wants of age, Both house and livelihood. One day this personage devout, Whose kindness none might doubt, Was ask'd, by certain delegates That came from Rat-United-States, For some small aid, for they To foreign parts were on their way, For succour in the great cat-war. Ratopolis beleaguer'd sore, Their whole republic drain'd and poor, No morsel in their scrips they bore. Slight boon they craved, of succour sure In days at utmost three or four. "My friends," the hermit said, "To worldly things I'm dead. How can a poor recluse To such a mission be of use? What can he do but pray That God will aid it on its way? And so, my friends, it is my prayer That God will have you in his care." His well-fed saintship said no more, But in their faces shut the door.

What think you, reader, is the service For which I use this niggard rat? To paint a monk? No, but a dervise. A monk, I think, however fat, Must be more bountiful than that.

The Cunning Fox.

A fox once practised, 'tis believed, A stratagem right well conceived. The wretch, when in the utmost strait By dogs of nose so delicate, Approach'd a gallows, where, A lesson to like passengers, Or clothed in feathers or in furs, Some badgers, owls, and foxes, pendent were. Their comrade, in his pressing need, Arranged himself among the dead. I seem to see old Hannibal Outwit some Roman general, And sit securely in his tent, The legions on some other scent. But certain dogs, kept back To tell the errors of the pack, Arriving where the traitor hung, A fault in fullest chorus sung. Though by their bark the welkin rung, Their master made them hold the tongue. Suspecting not a trick so odd, Said he, "The rogue's beneath the sod. My dogs, that never saw such jokes, Won't bark beyond these honest folks."

The rogue would try the trick again. He did so to his cost and pain. Again with dogs the welkin rings; Again our fox from gallows swings; But though he hangs with greater faith This time, he does it to his death.

So uniformly is it true, A stratagem is best when new.

The Ape.

There is an ape in Paris, To which was given a wife: Like many a one that marries, This ape, in brutal strife, Soon beat her out of life. Their infant cries,--perhaps not fed,-- But cries, I ween, in vain; The father laughs: his wife is dead, And he has other loves again, Which he will also beat, I think,-- Return'd from tavern drown'd in drink.

For aught that's good, you need not look Among the imitative tribe; A monkey be it, or what makes a book-- The worse, I deem--the aping scribe.

The Fox, the Flies, and the Hedgehog.

A fox, old, subtle, vigilant, and sly,-- By hunters wounded, fallen in the mud,-- Attracted by the traces of his blood, That buzzing parasite, the fly. He blamed the gods, and wonder'd why The Fates so cruelly should wish To feast the fly on such a costly dish. "What! light on me! make me its food! Me, me, the nimblest of the wood! How long has fox-meat been so good? What serves my tail? Is it a useless weight? Go,--Heaven confound thee, greedy reprobate!-- And suck thy fill from some more vulgar veins!" A hedgehog, witnessing his pains, (This fretful personage Here graces first my page,) Desired to set him free From such cupidity. "My neighbour fox," said he, "My quills these rascals shall empale, And ease thy torments without fail." "Not for the world, my friend!" the fox replied. "Pray let them finish their repast. These flies are full. Should they be set aside, New hungrier swarms would finish me at last."

Consumers are too common here below, In court and camp, in church and state, we know. Old Aristotle's penetration Remark'd our fable's application; It might more clearly in our nation. The fuller certain men are fed, The less the public will be bled.

The Eagle and the Magpie.

The eagle, through the air a queen, And one far different, I ween, In temper, language, thought, and mien,-- The magpie,--once a prairie cross'd. The by-path where they met was drear, And Madge gave up herself for lost; But having dined on ample cheer, The eagle bade her, "Never fear; You're welcome to my company; For if the king of gods can be Full oft in need of recreation,-- Who rules the world,--right well may I, Who serve him in that high relation: Amuse me, then, before you fly." Our cackler, pleased, at quickest rate Of this and that began to prate. No fool, or babbler for that matter, Could more incontinently chatter. At last she offer'd to make known-- A better spy had never flown-- All things, whatever she might see, In travelling from tree to tree. But, with her offer little pleased-- Nay, gathering wrath at being teased,-- For such a purpose, never rove,-- Replied th' impatient bird of Jove. "Adieu, my cackling friend, adieu; My court is not the place for you: Heaven keep it free from such a bore!" Madge flapp'd her wings, and said no more.

'Tis far less easy than it seems An entrance to the great to gain. The honour oft hath cost extremes Of mortal pain. The craft of spies, the tattling art, And looks more gracious than the heart, Are odious there; But still, if one would meet success, Of different parishes the dress He, like the pie, must wear.

The Lion and the Hunter.

A braggart, lover of the chase, Had lost a dog of valued race, And thought him in a lion's maw. He ask'd a shepherd whom he saw, "Pray show me, man, the robber's place, And I'll have justice in the case." "'Tis on this mountain side," The shepherd man replied. "The tribute of a sheep I pay, Each month, and where I please I stray." Out leap'd the lion as he spake, And came that way with agile feet. The braggart, prompt his flight to take, Cried, "Jove, O grant a safe retreat!"

A danger close at hand Of courage is the test. It shows us who will stand-- Whose legs will run their best.

The Fox, the Monkey, and the Animals

Left kingless by the lion's death, The beasts once met, our story saith, Some fit successor to install. Forth from a dragon-guarded, moated place, The crown was brought, and, taken from its case, And being tried by turns on all, The heads of most were found too small; Some hornèd were, and some too big; Not one would fit the regal gear. For ever ripe for such a rig, The monkey, looking very queer, Approach'd with antics and grimaces, And, after scores of monkey faces, With what would seem a gracious stoop, Pass'd through the crown as through a hoop. The beasts, diverted with the thing, Did homage to him as their king. The fox alone the vote regretted, But yet in public never fretted. When he his compliments had paid To royalty, thus newly made, "Great sire, I know a place," said he, "Where lies conceal'd a treasure, Which, by the right of royalty, Should bide your royal pleasure." The king lack'd not an appetite For such financial pelf, And, not to lose his royal right, Ran straight to see it for himself. It was a trap, and he was caught. Said Renard, "Would you have it thought, You ape, that you can fill a throne, And guard the rights of all, alone, Not knowing how to guard your own?"

The beasts all gather'd from the farce, That stuff for kings is very scarce.

The Sun and the Frogs.

Rejoicing on their tyrant's wedding-day, The people drown'd their care in drink; While from the general joy did Æsop shrink, And show'd its folly in this way. "The sun," said he, "once took it in his head To have a partner: so he wed. From swamps, and ponds, and marshy bogs, Up rose the wailings of the frogs. "What shall we do, should he have progeny?" Said they to Destiny; 'One sun we scarcely can endure, And half-a-dozen, we are sure, Will dry the very sea. Adieu to marsh and fen! Our race will perish then, Or be obliged to fix Their dwelling in the Styx!' For such an humble animal, The frog, I take it, reason'd well."

The Countryman and the Serpent.