THE FROG AND THE HEN.
Once on a time, a noisy Frog
Heard a Hen cackling near his bog;
"Begone!" said he; "your clamor rude
Disturbs our quiet neighborhood.
What's all this shocking fuss about, I beg?"—
"Nothing, dear sir, but that I've laid an egg."
"A single egg! and therefore such a rout?"—
"Yes, neighbor Frog, a single egg, I say.
Are you so troubled, when I'm not put out
To hear your croaking all the night and day?
I boast that I have done some little good, though small;
Hold you your tongue! You do no good at all."
FABLE LXV.
THE BEETLE.
For a fable a subject I have,
Which would do very well,—but for rhymes
To-day my muse is too grave;
As she always will be at odd times—
And the topic for somebody stands,
Whose fancy more cheerily chimes.
For this writing of fables demands
That in verse our ideas should flow;
Which not always are matched to our hands,
A Beetle contemptible, now,
Of said fable the hero I choose;—
For I want one paltry and low.
Of this insect, every one knows
That—although from no filth he refrains—
He will ne'er eat the leaf of a rose.
Here the author should lavish his pains,
While, as well as his talents allow,
This astonishing taste he explains.
To wind up the whole, let him show,
By a sentence pithy and terse,
Just what he could have us to know.
And so let him trick out his verse,
With adornments according to taste;
But this moral conclusive rehearse;
That, as the flowers' beautiful queen
With no coarse, filthy beetle agrees;
So, some tasteless writers no keen
Or delicate fancy can please.
FABLE LXVI.
THE RICH MAN'S LIBRARY.
In Madrid, there was a rich man—and, they say,
That ten times as stupid, as rich, he was too;—
Whose magnificent mansion made ample display
Of furniture gorgeous and costly and new.
"It vexes me much, that a house so complete,"—
To this wealthy dolt, said a neighbor one day,—
"Should a Library lack,—an ornament great,—
So useful and elegant, too, by the way."
"To be sure," said the other, "how strange that the case
To me never occurred; I'll supply the want soon.
There is time enough yet; and, in the first place,
I devote to the purpose the northern saloon.
Send a cabinet-maker to put up some shelves,
Capacious, well finished,—no matter for cost,
Then, in buying some books, we will busy ourselves;—
To make it all perfect, no time shall be lost."
The cases are done; the owner he comes,
Inspects and approves: "And now,"—said the snob,—
"I must go out and look up some twelve thousand tomes.
'Pon my honor, 'twill be a pretty good job.
I am almost discouraged—of money a deal
It will take; and 'tis work for a century, too.
Will it not be much better the cases to fill,
With books made of pasteboard, as good to the view?
Just think now—why not? A painter I know,
For such little jobs precisely the man;
Can write titles out fair, and make pasteboard to show
Like leather or parchment, if any one can."
And now to the work,—books precious and rare,
Both modern and ancient, he caused to be painted;
And, besides printed volumes, he also takes care
To have manuscripts, too, in same guise represented.
The precious old fool then, each day, set apart
Some hours to wander his library round;
Till, learning the titles of many by heart,
He thought himself grown to a scholar profound.
Truly, what better needs the student,—contented
Of books, nothing more than their titles, to know
Than to own a collection right skilfully painted,
Of genuine volumes presenting the show?