Fables of La Fontaine — Fables CCXI and CCXII

THE FARMER, THE DOG, AND THE FOX.

The Wolf and the Fox are neighbours strange, And within their reach I'd not build my grange.

One of the latter had long espied The fowls of a Farmer; but though he tried Each art of his cunning, the hens were still Safe from the jaws of the midnight ranger.

Perplex'd as he was 'twixt his hungry will And the wholesome dread of impending danger, "Alas!"

he cried, "it is fine, forsooth, That wretches like these should mock me.

I come and I go, and I whet my tooth, And with brilliant schemes I stock me;

And all this time that horrible lout, The Farmer, makes money, week in, week out, Of chicken and capon, or roasts or boils;

Whilst I, who surpass him in wit and sense, Would be glad if I could but carry from hence The toughest old hen, as reward for my toils.

By the gods above and the gods below, Omnipotent Jove!

I should like to know, And I will know, too, why you made me a Fox To suffer such troubles and impudent mocks."

So breathing his vengeance, Sir Sly Fox chose A night when the world was bathed in repose;

When the Farmer, his servants, and even his dogs, Cocks, chickens, and hens slept as sound as logs.

Now the Farmer himself, with a folly extreme, Had left the door open ere he went to dream;

And the consequence was, that the Fox entered in it, And its feathered inhabitants slew in a minute.

With the morrow's new-born sun, All the slaughter that was done Struck the eye with huge dismay, And almost made the sun avert his rising ray.

'Twas a parallel, in fact, With Apollo's direful act, When, with Atreus' son enraged, With the Greeks such war he waged, That great hillocks of the slain Lay heaped high upon the plain.

Not unlike the ghastly scene When great Ajax, filled with spleen, Flocks of sheep and herds of oxen madly slew, Dreaming that he smote the crew Who, with famed Ulysses wise, Had deprived him of his prize.

Then the Fox, whom none could parry, Having seized on what he might, Thought it quite unwise to tarry, And discreetly took to flight.

Now when the Master rose, be sure Against his men and dogs he swore, For 'tis a common trick of masters Others to blame for their disasters.

"Oh, wretched Dog!"

he shouted forth;

"O Dog!

for drowning only worth, Why barked you not to let us know?"

"Master," the Dog replied, "I trow, Master and Farmer, 'tis not fair That I your anger now should share.

The fowls are yours, and yours the gain;

Then why should I, sir, suffer pain, Because you leave your fowls exposed To any thief that way disposed?"

Such reasoning, we must all admit, For a mere Dog, was fraught with wit;

But, on the other hand, 'tis sure That masters can't such wit endure, As Carlo found, when soundly whipped For words of sense unwisely slipped.

Now, fathers all, whoe'er you be (I aim not at that high degree), When you would sleep, trust none of those Around you, but your own doors close.

He who would have a thing well done Should trust unto himself alone.

FABLE CCXII.

THE DREAM OF AN INHABITANT OF MOGUL.

Once on a time, in slumber wrapt, A certain peasant had a vision Of a great Vizier, calmly lapt In endless joys of fields Elysian;

Then straightway in a moment's space The dreamer sees another place, Wherein a Hermit bathed in fire Endures such torments as inspire Even those who share his fate With sympathy compassionate.

Unusual this; indeed, so curious, It seemed as though the dreams were spurious, And to the dreamer so surprising, That straight he woke, and fell surmising His dreams were ill, as some aver.

But soon a wise Interpreter, Consulted, said, "Be not perplexed, For if to me some skill is given To understand a secret text, These dreams are messages from heaven, And mean, On earth, whene'er he could, The Vizier sought sweet solitude;

Whereas the Hermit, day by day, To courts of viziers made his way."

Now, if to this I dare to add, I'd praise the pleasures to be had Deep in the bosom of retreat;

Pleasures heavenly, pure, and sweet.

O Solitude!

I know your charms!

O Night!

I ever in your breast, Far, far from all the world's alarms, By balmy air would still be blest;

Oh, who will bear me to your shades?

When shall the Nine, the heavenly maids, Far from cities, far from towns, Far from human smiles and frowns, Wholly employ my tranquil hours, And teach me how the mystic powers Aloft, unseen by human eyes, Mysterious, hold their mighty sway?

And how the planets, night and day, Fashion and rule our destinies?

But if for such pursuits as these I am not born, at least among The groves I'll wander, and in song Describe the woods, the streams, the trees.

No golden threads shall weave my fate;

'Neath no rich silk I'll lie in state;

And surely yet my eyes shall close In no less deep and sweet repose.

To Solitude fresh vows I'll pay;

And when, at length, the fatal day Shall place me in the arms of death, As calm I've lived, so calm I'll yield my breath.