And after supper they all sat around the fire again and smoked a little before anybody said anything, until by-and-by Mr. Rabbit said that they would go on now with the literary club, and that Mr. Robin might read the story he had mentioned the night before.
So Mr. Robin got up, and stood on a chair, and made a nice bow. He said it was not really his own story he had written, but one that his grandmother used to tell him sometimes, though he didn't think it had ever been put into a book.
Then Mr. Rabbit spoke up and said that that didn't matter, that of course everybody couldn't be original, and that the story itself was the main thing and the way you told it. He said if Mr. Robin would go right on with the story now it would save time. So then they all knocked the ashes out of their pipes—all except Mr. Robin, who began right off to read his story:
THE DISCONTENTED FOX
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.