Fables of La Fontaine — Fables LXVII and LXVIII

THE WEASEL IN THE GRANARY.

Once Madame Weasel, slender-waisted, thin, Into a granary, by a narrow chink, Crept, sick and hungry; quick she glided in, To eat her fill, and she was wise, I think.

There at her ease, No fear of fees, She gnawed, and nibbled:--gracious, what a life!

The bacon melted in the strife.

Plump and rotund she grew, As fat as two.

A week was over, Spent in clover.

But one day, when she'd done--and that not badly-- A noise alarmed her sadly.

She tried the hole she'd entered, wishing to retreat;

'Twas no such easy feat.

Was she mistaken?

--no, the selfsame door: She tried it, o'er and o'er.

"Yes, yes," she said, "it is the place, I know;

I passed here but a week ago."

A Rat who saw her puzzled, slily spoke-- "Your pouch was emptier then, before your fast you broke.

Empty you came, and empty you must quit: I tell you what I've told a dozen more.

But don't perplex the matter, I implore;

They differed from you in some ways, I do admit."

FABLE LXVIII.

THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES WITH THE OWNER OF A FIELD.

"Depend upon yourself alone," Is a sound proverb worthy credit.

In Æsop's time it was well known, And there (to tell the truth) I read it.

The larks to build their nests began, When wheat was in the green blade still-- That is to say, when Nature's plan Had ordered Love, with conquering will, To rule the earth, the sea, and air, Tigers in woods, sea monsters in the deep;

Nor yet refuse a share To larks that in the cornfields keep.

One bird, however, of these last, Found that one half the spring was past, Yet brought no mate, such as the season sent To others.

Then with firm intent Plighting her troth, and fairly matched, She built her nest and gravely hatched.

All went on well, the corn waved red Above each little fledgling's head, Before they'd strength enough to fly, And mount into the April sky.

A hundred cares the mother Lark compel To seek with patient care the daily food;

But first she warns her restless brood To watch, and peep, and listen well, And keep a constant sentinel;

"And if the owner comes his corn to see, His son, too, as 'twill likely be, Take heed, for when we're sure of it, And reapers come, why, we must flit."

No sooner was the Lark away, Than came the owner with his son.

"The wheat is ripe," he said, "so run, And bring our friends at peep of day, Each with his sickle sharp and ready."

The Lark returns: alarm already [Illustration: THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES.

] Had seized the covey.

One commences-- "He said himself, at early morn, His friends he'd call to reap the corn."

The old Lark said--"If that is all, My worthy children, keep your senses;

No hurry till the first rows fall.

We'll not go yet, dismiss all fear, To-morrow keep an open ear;

Here's dinner ready, now be gay."

They ate and slept the time away.

The morn arrives to wake the sleepers, Aurora comes, but not the reapers.

The Lark soars up: and on his round The farmer comes to view his ground.

"This wheat," he said, "ought not to stand;

Our friends are wrong no helping hand To give, and we are wrong to trust Such lazy fools for half a crust, Much less for labour.

Sons," he cried, "Go, call our kinsmen on each side, We'll go to work."

The little Lark Grew more afraid.

"Now, mother, mark, The work within an hour's begun."

The mother answered--"Sleep, my son;

We will not leave our house to-night."

Well, no one came; the bird was right.

The third time came the master by: "Our error's great," he said, repentantly: "No friend is better than oneself;

Remember that, my boy, it's worth some pelf.

Now what to do?

Why, I and you Must whet our sickles and begin;

That is the shortest way, I see;

I know at last the surest plan: We'll make our harvest as we can."

No sooner had the Lark o'erheard-- "'Tis time to flit, my children; come," Cried out the very prudent bird.

Little and big went fluttering, rising, Soaring in a way surprising, And left without a beat of drum.

FABLE LXIX.