Fables of La Fontaine — Fables CXCII and CXCIII
FABLE CXCVII.
THE WOLF AND THE PEASANTS.
A Conscientious Wolf one day (If conscientious Wolves there be), Lamenting he was beast of prey, Though such but by necessity, Exclaimed--"I'm dreaded far and near, To all a thing of hate and fear;
Dogs, hunters, and peasants combine to pursue me, And weary out Jove with their prayers to undo me: In England long since a price paid for my head, Has caused the whole race to be utterly dead.
I'm an object of wrath to each ignorant squire, Who orders his people to hunt me and kill;
And if a child cries, all that mothers require Is to mention my name to make it be still.
And why this universal spite, In all the country round, Which never leaves the Wolf at rest?
Because, perchance, by hunger prest, To satisfy my appetite, I've eaten scurvy sheep, or ass, or mangy hound.
Ah!
well, henceforth I'll eat no living thing, But feed on herbs, and water from the spring;
Or starve and die--a cruel, cruel fate-- Sooner than be a thing of universal hate."
Saying these words, a pleasant savour drew Our wolf's attention to some shepherds near, Feasting on what his wolfish instinct knew Had once been lambkin, to some mother dear.
"Ah, ah!"
he exclaimed, "this is strange, by my troth;
I'm reproaching myself for each lamb that I've slain, Whilst the shepherds and sheep-dogs themselves are not loth To regale on roast lamb is abundantly plain;
And shall I, then, a Wolf, feed on nothing but grass?
No, not if I know it!
The day shall not pass Till a lambkin has gone down my cavernous jaws, Without waiting for any of cookery's laws.
A lamb, did I say?
I should just think so, rather;
Aye, the mother that bore him, and also his father."
Well, the Wolf was right; for as long as we feed On animals' flesh, it is surely unjust That we should endeavour to make them recede To the primitive food of a root or a crust.
And beasts of prey, we should always remember, Know not the use of spit or ember.
Shepherds, shepherds!
trust to me;
The Wolf a hermit ne'er can be.
And sure the Wolf is only wrong When he is weak and you are strong.
[Illustration: THE RABBITS.
] FABLE CXCVIII.
THE RABBITS.
TO THE DUKE DE ROCHEFOUCAULD.
I Have often said, on seeing How men like animals seem to act, That the lord of the earth, a poor frail being, Is not much better, in fact, Than the beasts whom he rules; and that Nature Has given to each living creature A sense of morality's force, That its origin owes to the one same source.
At that witching hour when day In the brown of the eve melts away, Or at that when the long-brooding night Has just lifted its pinions for flight, I climb up some tree, at the edge of a wood, And there, like a Jove, so wise and so good, I startle with fear Some young Rabbits gambolling near.
Then the nation of Rabbits, Which, in tune with its habits, With eyes and ears both open wide, Played and browsed on the woodland side, Perfuming its banquets with odours of thyme, With a hurry and scurry, Tails turned in a hurry, Seeks its earth-sheltered burrows (thieves flying from crime.
) But five minutes, or so, Have not vanished, when, lo!
More gay than before, On the fragrant green floor, A rollicking band, The Rabbits are there, again, under my hand!
Ah!
do we not in this perceive A picture of the race of men Who, shipwrecked once, will still again The safety of the harbour leave, Risking fresh shipwreck from the selfsame wind?
True Rabbits!
They, to fortune blind, Entrust their wealth, and all their store!
And of this truth take one example more.
When stranger dogs pass through some place Where they do not of wont reside, The native dogs at once give chase, With hungry jaws, all opening wide (Fearing that the intruders may Snatch the true owner's food away), And never weary till th' intruders Are safely driven from their borders.
Just so with those whom gracious fates Have made the governors of states;
And those whom many artful plans Have made much-favoured courtesans;
And merchants; men of any kind;
In all you'll find this jealous mind.
Each one, in his several place, To the intruder grants no grace.
Your fine coquettes and authors are Precisely of this character.
Woe to the unknown writer who Dares publish something bright and new!
Poets forgive you any crime, If you'll not rival them in rhyme.
A thousand instances of this I might recite; but well I wish That works should never be too long.
Moreover, you should always show You think your readers wise, you know;
So now I'll close this song.
Ah!
you, to whom I owe so much;
Whose greatness, and whose modesty Are in exact equality;
Who cannot bear that men should touch With praiseful tongues your well-earned fame, Who still will blush with needless shame: You, who scarcely have allowed That I should make my verses proud, And from critics and from time Protect my insufficient rhyme, By heading them with one of those Great names which make our nation's pride, Our France, whose annals long disclose More famous names than all the world beside;
Oh, let me tell the universe That you gave me this subject for my verse.
