A Hundred Fables of La Fontaine Part 4

The Two Mules.

Two mules were bearing on their backs, One, oats; the other, silver of the tax.

The latter glorying in his load, March'd proudly forward on the road; And, from the jingle of his bell, 'Twas plain he liked his burden well.

But in a wild-wood glen A band of robber men Rush'd forth upon the twain.

Well with the silver pleased, They by the bridle seized The treasure mule so vain.

Poor mule! in struggling to repel His ruthless foes, he fell Stabb'd through; and with a bitter sighing, He cried, "Is this the lot they promised me?

My humble friend from danger free, While, weltering in my gore, I'm dying?"

"My friend," his fellow-mule replied, "It is not well to have one's work too high.

If thou hadst been a miller's drudge, as I, Thou wouldst not thus have died."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE TWO MULES.]

The Heifer, the Goat, and the Sheep.

The heifer, the goat, and their sister the sheep, Compacted their earnings in common to keep, 'Tis said, in time past, with a lion, who sway'd Full lordship o'er neighbours, of whatever grade.

The goat, as it happen'd, a stag having snared, Sent off to the rest, that the beast might be shared.

All gather'd; the lion first counts on his claws, And says, "We'll proceed to divide with our paws The stag into pieces, as fix'd by our laws."

This done, he announces part first as his own; "'Tis mine," he says, "truly, as lion alone."

To such a decision there's nought to be said, As he who has made it is doubtless the head.

"Well, also, the second to me should belong; 'Tis mine, be it known, by the right of the strong.

Again, as the bravest, the third must be mine.

To touch but the fourth whoso maketh a sign, I'll choke him to death In the s.p.a.ce of a breath!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HEIFER, THE GOAT, & THE SHEEP.]

The Two Rats, the Fox, and the Egg.

Two rats in foraging fell on an egg,-- For gentry such as they A genteel dinner every way; They needed not to find an ox's leg.

Brimful of joy and appet.i.te, They were about to sack the box, So tight without the aid of locks, When suddenly there came in sight A personage--Sir Pullet Fox.

Sure, luck was never more untoward Since Fortune was a vixen froward!

How should they save their egg--and bacon?

Their plunder couldn't then be bagg'd; Should it in forward paws be taken, Or roll'd along, or dragg'd?

Each method seem'd impossible, And each was then of danger full.

Necessity, ingenious mother, Brought forth what help'd them from their pother.

As still there was a chance to save their prey,-- The sponger yet some hundred yards away,-- One seized the egg, and turn'd upon his back, And then, in spite of many a thump and thwack, That would have torn, perhaps, a coat of mail, The other dragg'd him by the tail.

Who dares the inference to blink, That beasts possess wherewith to think?

_Were I commission'd to bestow_ _This power on creatures here below,_ _The beasts should have as much of mind_ _As infants of the human kind._

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE TWO RATS THE FOX AND THE EGG.]

The Man and his Image.

A man, who had no rivals in the love Which to himself he bore, Esteem'd his own dear beauty far above What earth had seen before.

More than contented in his error, He lived the foe of every mirror.

Officious fate, resolved our lover From such an illness should recover, Presented always to his eyes The mute advisers which the ladies prize;-- Mirrors in parlours, inns, and shops,-- Mirrors the pocket furniture of fops,-- Mirrors on every lady's zone, From which his face reflected shone.

What could our dear Narcissus do?

From haunts of men he now withdrew, On purpose that his precious shape From every mirror might escape.

But in his forest glen alone, Apart from human trace, A watercourse, Of purest source, While with unconscious gaze He pierced its waveless face, Reflected back his own.

Incensed with mingled rage and fright, He seeks to shun the odious sight; But yet that mirror sheet, so clear and still, He cannot leave, do what he will.

_Ere this, my story's drift you plainly see._ _From such mistake there is no mortal free._ _That obstinate self-lover_ _The human soul doth cover;_ _The mirrors' follies are of others,_ _In which, as all are genuine brothers,_ _Each soul may see to life depicted_ _Itself with just such faults afflicted;_ _And by that charming placid brook,_ _Needless to say, I mean your Maxim Book._

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE]

The Dragon with Many Heads.

An envoy of the Porte Sublime, As history says, once on a time, Before th' imperial German court Did rather boastfully report, The troops commanded by his master's firman, As being a stronger army than the German: To which replied a Dutch attendant, "Our prince has more than one dependant Who keeps an army at his own expense."

The Turk, a man of sense, Rejoin'd, "I am aware What power your emperor's servants share.

It brings to mind a tale both strange and true, A thing which once, myself, I chanced to view.

I saw come darting through a hedge, Which fortified a rocky ledge, A hydra's hundred heads; and in a trice My blood was turning into ice.

But less the harm than terror,-- The body came no nearer; Nor could, unless it had been sunder'd, To parts at least a hundred.

While musing deeply on this sight, Another dragon came to light, Whose single head avails To lead a hundred tails: And, seized with juster fright, I saw him pa.s.s the hedge,-- Head, body, tails,--a wedge Of living and resistless powers.-- The other was your emperor's force; this ours."

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DRAGON WITH MANY HEADS.]

Death and the Woodman

A poor wood-chopper, with his f.a.got load, Whom weight of years, as well as load, oppress'd, Sore groaning in his smoky hut to rest, Trudged wearily along his homeward road.

At last his wood upon the ground he throws, And sits him down to think o'er all his woes.

To joy a stranger, since his hapless birth, What poorer wretch upon this rolling earth?

No bread sometimes, and ne'er a moment's rest; Wife, children, soldiers, landlords, public tax, All wait the swinging of his old, worn axe, And paint the veriest picture of a man unblest.

On Death he calls. Forthwith that monarch grim Appears, and asks what he should do for him.

"Not much, indeed; a little help I lack-- To put these f.a.gots on my back."

_Death ready stands all ills to cure;_ _But let us not his cure invite._ _Than die, 'tis better to endure,--_ _Is both a manly maxim and a right._

[Ill.u.s.tration: DEATH AND THE WOODMAN.]