A FABLE.
A raven was once sitting upon a tree with a nice bit of cheese in his mouth. A fox near by, being hungry, approached the raven with the design of getting the bit of cheese, if he could. So he began to speak as follows:
“Good morning, Mr. Raven! How fine you look to-day! I never saw your coat so rich and glossy before. Pray give me a bit of that cheese; I am very fond of cheese.”
“Hem!” said the raven, taking care not to open his mouth, and seeming to think that he was not such a ninny as to be flattered out of his cheese by a fox. But reynard is a sort of natural lawyer, who knows the weak points of people, and has a faculty, as well as a disposition, to turn them to account. He thought to himself, “Now the raven has a hoarse, croaking voice; and the way to flatter any one is to praise that in which he is most deficient.” So he began:
“Well, my dear Raven, I told you I wanted the cheese—but, in point of fact, I care nothing about it. I hate cheese, for it spoils the breath; but I really wanted to hear you sing, and the cheese stops up your mouth. I beg of you to sing me a little French or Italian air; you execute those things so deliciously.”
The raven, like many other silly people who have odious voices, fancied that he sang divinely; so he dropped the cheese, and began; whereupon the fox picked up the cheese, and holding his bursting sides, ran away, saying to himself, “O, flattery, flattery; it is the key that unlocks all hearts. You have only to use the right kind, and you can make a fool of anybody. But as to these people with croaking throats, who pretend to sing French and Italian airs, bah! it is too much!”
I don’t see why.
I know a little girl who has a very pleasant home, and the very kindest of parents, and who is yet often discontented and unhappy. She pouts her lips, and throws her arms about, and sulks, and stamps with her feet, and makes a strange noise in her throat, between a growl and a cry. It is not because she has not enough to eat of good, wholesome food; nor because she has no time to play, and playthings in abundance, and brothers to play with her. She is not blind, nor lame, nor deformed in any way, but has health and strength, and everything which any little girl could wish, to make her happy in this world, but a good heart.
What was it, then, that made her fretful? Why, she had a kind mother, who told her what she must do, and what she must not do. I will tell you what I heard one day.
“Caroline, you must not take my scissors, my dear.”