Fables of La Fontaine — Fables LVII and LVIII
THE MISER WHO LOST HIS TREASURE.
It's use that constitutes possession wholely;
I ask those people who've a passion For heaping gold on gold, and saving solely, How they excel the poorest man in any fashion?
Diogenes is quite as rich as they.
True Misers live like beggars, people say;
The man with hidden treasure Æsop drew Is an example of the thing I mean.
In the next life he might be happy, true;
But very little joy in this he knew;
[Illustration: THE MISER WHO LOST HIS TREASURE.
] By gold the Miser was so little blessed.
Not its possessor, but by it possessed;
He buried it a fathom underground;
His heart was with it; his delight To ruminate upon it day and night;
A victim to the altar ever bound.
He seemed so poor, yet not one hour forgot The golden grave, the consecrated spot: Whether he goes or comes, or eats or drinks, Of gold, and gold alone, the Miser thinks.
At last a ditcher marks his frequent walks, And muttering talks, Scents out the place, and clears the whole, Unseen by any spies.
On one fine day the Miser came, his soul Glowing with joy; he found the empty nest;
Bursts into tears, and sobs, and cries, He frets, and tears his thin grey hair;
He's lost what he had loved the best.
A startled peasant passing there Inquires the reason of his sighs.
"My gold!
my gold!
they've stolen all."
"Your treasure!
what was it, and where?"
"Why, buried underneath this stone."
(A moan!
) "Why, man, is this a time of war?
Why should you bring your gold so far?
Had you not better much have let The wealth lie in a cabinet, Where you could find it any hour In your own power?"
"What!
every hour?
a wise man knows Gold comes but slowly, quickly goes;
I never touched it."
"Gracious me!"
Replied the other, "why, then, be So wretched?
for if you say true, You never touched it, plain the case;
Put back that stone upon the place, 'Twill be the very same to you."
FABLE LVIII.
THE GOUT AND THE SPIDER.
When Mischief made the Spider and the Gout, "My daughters," said she, "you may clearly vaunt That nowhere in a human haunt Are there two plagues more staunch and stout;
Come, choose your dwellings where you would abide: Here are the hovels--narrow, dark, and poor, And there the palaces all gilt with pride, You have your choice--now, what can I say more?
Here is the lottery prescribed by law, Come, daughters, draw."
"The hovel's not my place," the Spider says;
Her sister hates the palace, for the Gout Sees men called doctors creeping in and out, They would not leave her half an hour at ease: She crawls and rests upon a poor man's toe, Just so, And says, "I shall now do whate'er I please.
No struggles longer with Hippocrates!
No call to pack and march, no one can displace me."
The Spider camps upon a ceiling high, As if she had a life-long lease, you see, And spins her web continually, Ready for any fly.
A servant soon, to clean the room, Sweeps down the product of her loom.
With each tissue the girl's at issue: Spiders, busy maids will swish you!
The wretched creature every day Was driven from her home away;
At last, quite wearied, she gave out, And went to seek her sister Gout, Who in the country mourned her wretched fate: A thousand times more hopeless her estate;
Even more miseries betide her Than the misfortunes of the Spider.
Her host has made her dig and hoe, And rake and chop, and plough and mow, Until he's all but well.
"I can't resist him.
Ah!
<i>ma belle</i>: Let us change places."
Gladly heard.
The Spider took her at her word.
In the dark hovel she can spin: No broom comes there with bustling din.
The Gout, on her part, pleased to trudge, Goes straightway--wise as any judge-- Unto a bishop, and with whims So fetters his tormented limbs, That he from bed can never budge.
Spasms!
Cataplasms!
Heaven knows, the doctors make the curse Steal steadily from bad to worse.
Both sisters gloried in the change, And never after wished to range.
FABLE LIX.
