THE ROPE-DANCER.
As an unpractised urchin lessons took
In dancing, of a veteran of the ring,
On slack or tight rope,—it is all one thing,—
The youngster said,—"Good master, prithee, look;
How this great staff bothers and wearies me,
Which you call balance-pole or counterpoise!
In rope-dancing, what use one can devise
For such a clumsy load, I cannot see.
Why should you wish my motions so to fetter?
I lack not strength, nor yet activity.
For instance, now—this step and posture—see
If I, without the pole, can't do it better.
Look, master, there's not one whit of trouble in it."
As he says this, he throws the pole away—
"What's coming now? What are you doing, pray?"
He's flat upon his back in half a minute!
"At your best friend you grumble—silly wretch,"—
The master said,—"and if you choose to scout
The aid of art and method,—you'll find out
This is not the last tumble you will catch."
FABLE LXI.
THE OWL AND THE TOAD.
A red Owl was sitting quietly
Up in his hole, in a hollow tree,
Where he chanced to catch the curious eye
Of a great Toad that was hopping by.
"Holloa, up there, Sir Solitary!"—
Spoke out the Toad, with accent merry,—
"Poke out your head, and let us see,
Handsome or ugly, whether you be."
"I have never set up for an elegant beau,"—
Answered the Owl to the Toad below.
"To attempt by daylight to make a great show,
Will hardly do for me—well I know.
"And for you, my good sir,—displaying your grace
So jauntily now, in the day's broad face,—
Don't you think it would far better be,
If you hid in another hole, like me?"
Alas! how few of us authors live
By the good advice the Owl doth give!
All the nonsense we write, get printed we must;
Although, to the world, it be dry as the dust.
The lesson, my comrades, is good—let us learn it
It often would be much better to burn it.
But conspicuous toads we rather would be,
Than modest owls in our own hollow tree.
FABLE LXII.
THE OIL-MERCHANT'S ASS.
Once on a time, an Ass,—
An Oilman's hack,—
Bearing upon his back
A huge skin filled with oil,
With foot o'er-worn by toil,
Into his stable sought to pass;
But, stumbling, struck his nose
The cruellest of blows
Upon the door's projecting clamp.
"Now, is it not a shame,"—
Poor Donkey did exclaim,—
"That I, who every day
Carry tuns of oil, my way
Into my own stable cannot find,
More than if I were stone-blind,
For want of one poor lamp?"