MR. ROBIN TELLS HOW A FOX LEARNED A GOOD LESSON BY TAKING A LONG JOURNEY
Once upon a time there was a Fox who lived at the foot of a hill and had a nice garden. One morning when he began to hoe in it he got tired, and the sun was very hot. Then the Fox didn't like to hoe any more, and made up his mind that it wasn't very pleasant to have a garden, anyway.
So then he started out to travel and find pleasant things. He put on his best clothes, and the first house he came to belonged to a Rabbit who kept bees. And the Rabbit showed the Fox his bees and how to take out the honey. And the Fox said, "What pleasant work!" and wanted to take out honey too. But when he did there was a bee on the honey, and it stung the Fox on the nose. And that hurt the Fox, and his nose began to swell up, and he said:
"This is not pleasant work at all!" and of course it wasn't—not for him—though the Rabbit seemed to enjoy it more than ever.
So the Fox travelled on, and the next house he came to belonged to a Crow who made pies. And the Fox looked at him awhile and said, "What pleasant work!" And the Crow let the Fox help him, and when the Fox went to take a pie out of the oven he burnt his fingers quite badly. Then he said, "No, it is not pleasant work—not for me!" and that was true, though the Crow seemed to enjoy it more than ever.
So the Fox went on again, and the next house he came to belonged to a 'Coon who milked cows. And the Fox watched him milk, and pretty soon he said: "What pleasant work that is! Let me milk." So the 'Coon let the Fox milk, and the Cow put her foot in the milk-pail and upset it all over the Fox's nice new clothes. And the Fox was mad, and said: "This work is not in the least pleasant!" and he hurried away, though the 'Coon seemed to enjoy it more than ever.
And the next house the Fox came to belonged to a Cat who played the fiddle. And the Fox listened awhile and said: "What pleasant work that must be!" and he borrowed the Cat's fiddle. But when he started down the road playing, a Man ran around the corner and shot a loud gun at him, and that was not pleasant, either, though the Cat seemed to enjoy it more than ever.
So the Fox kept on travelling and doing things that he thought would be pleasant, but that did not turn out to be pleasant—not for him—until by-and-by he had travelled clear around the world and had come up on the other side, back to his own garden again. And his garden was just the same as he had left it, only the things had grown bigger, and there were some weeds.
And the Fox jumped over the fence and commenced to hoe the weeds, and pretty soon he said, "Why, this is pleasant!" Then he hoed some more, and said, "Why, what pleasant work this is!"
So he kept on hoeing and finding it pleasant until by-and-by the weeds were all gone, and the Rabbit and the Crow and the Cat and the 'Coon came and traded him honey and pies and milk and music for vegetables, because he had the best garden in the world. And he has yet!
When Mr. Robin got through and sat down, Mr. Squirrel spoke up and said it was a good story because it had a moral lesson in it and taught folks to like the things they knew best how to do, and Mr. 'Possum said yes, that might be so, but that the story couldn't be true, because none of those animals would have enjoyed seeing that Fox leave them, but would have persuaded him to stay and help them, and would have taught him to do most of the work.
Then Mr. Robin spoke up and said that Mr. 'Possum thought everybody was like himself, and that anyway Mr. 'Possum didn't need the lesson in that story, for he already liked to do the things he could do best, which were to eat and sleep and let other people do the work, though of course he had been very good about getting the wood, lately, which certainly was unusual.
Then Mr. 'Possum said he didn't see why Mr. Robin should speak in that cross way when he had only meant to be kind and show him the mistake in his story, so he could fix it right. And Mr. Rabbit said that as Mr. 'Possum seemed to know so much how stories and poems ought to be written, perhaps he'd show now what he could do in that line himself.
Mr. 'Possum said he hadn't written anything because it was too much trouble, but that he would tell them a story if they would like to hear it—something that had really happened, because he had been there, and was old enough to remember.
But before he began Mr. Robin said that as they had not cared much about his story he would like to recite a few lines he had thought of, which would perhaps explain how he felt, and all the animals said, "Of course, go right on," and Mr. Robin bowed and recited a little poem he had made, called
ONLY ME
By C. Robin
How came a little bird like me
A place in this fine group to win?
My mind is small—it has to be—
The little place I keep it in.
How came a little bird like me
To be here in the Hollow Tree?
When all the others know so much,
And are so strong and gifted too,
How can I dare to speak of such
As I can know, and think, and do?
How can a little bird like me
Belong here in the Hollow Tree?
MR. POSSUM SAID HE HADN'T MEANT ANYTHING AT ALL BY WHAT HE HAD SAID ABOUT THE STORY
Well, when Mr. Robin finished that, all the others spoke right up and said that Mr. Robin must never write anything so sad as that again. They said his story was just as good as it could be, and that Mr. Robin was one of the smartest ones there; and Mr. 'Possum burst into tears, and said that he hadn't meant anything at all by what he had said about the story, and that some time, when they were all alone, Mr. Robin must tell it to him again, and he would try to have sense enough to understand it.
Then he ran over to Mr. Robin, and was going to embrace him and weep on his shoulder, and would very likely have mashed him if Mr. Turtle hadn't dragged him back to his seat and told him that he had done damage enough to people's feelings without killing anybody, and the best thing he could do now would be to go on with a story of his own if he had any.
But Mr. 'Possum said he was too sleepy now, so Mr. Dog sang the poem which he had promised the evening before because, he said, singing would be a nice thing to go to sleep on. Mr. Dog's song was called
THE CAT WHO WOULD BE KING
There was cat who kept a store,
With other cats for customers.
His milk and mice
All packed in ice
His catnip all in canisters.
AND SO THIS CAT GREW RICH AND FAT
Fresh milk he furnished every day—
Two times a day and sometimes three—
And so this cat
Grew rich and fat
And proud as any cat could be.
But though so fat and rich he grew
He was not satisfied at all—
At last quoth he,
"A king I'll be
Of other cats both great and small."
Then hied he to the tinner cat,
Who made for him a tinsel crown,
And on the street,
A king complete,
He soon went marching up and down.
Now, many cats came out to see,
And some were filled with awe at him;
While some, alack,
Behind his back
Did laugh and point a paw at him.
Mice, milk, and catnip did he scorn;
He went to business less and less—
And everywhere
He wore an air
Of arrogance and haughtiness.
HIS CLERKS
His clerks ate catnip all day long—
They spent much time in idle play;
They left the mice
From off the ice—
They trusted cats who could not pay.
While happy in his tin-shop crown
Each day the king went marching out,
Elate because
He thought he was
The kind of king you read about.
A SOLEMN LOOK WAS IN HIS FACE
But lo, one day, he strolled too far,
And in a dim and dismal place
A cat he met,
Quite small, and yet
A solemn look was in his face.
One fiery eye this feline wore—
A waif he was of low degrees—
No gaudy dress
Did he possess,
Nor yet a handsome cat was he.
But lo, he smote that spurious king
And stripped him of his tinsel crown,
Then like the wind
Full close behind
He chased His Highness into town.
With cheers his subjects saw him come.
He did not pause—he did not stop,
But straight ahead
He wildly fled
Till he was safe within his shop.
He caught his breath and gazed about—
A sorry sight did he behold:
No catnip there
Or watchful care—
No mice and milk and joy of old.
QUOTH HE, "MY PRIDE IS SATISFIED; THIS KINGDOM BUSINESS DOES NOT PAY"
He heaved a sigh and dropped a tear—
He sent those idle clerks away—
Quoth he, "My pride
Is satisfied;
This kingdom business does not pay."
With care once more he runs his store,
His catnip all in canisters—
His milk and mice
All packed in ice,
And humbly serves his customers.