Part 1

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FABLES

by

RONALD ROSS

OF WHICH COPIES TO THE NUMBER OF TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY ARE NOW PRIVATELY PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS OF LIVERPOOL, ANNO DOMINI MCMVII, AND ARE TO BE HAD OF THE AUTHOR AT THE UNIVERSITY AND OF HENRY YOUNG AND SONS OF SOUTH CASTLE STREET, LIVERPOOL, FOR TWO SHILLINGS AND SIX PENCE.

Entered at Stationers’ Hall

_For my Children_ . . . . . . . .

_These Fables were written in India between the years_ 1880 _and_ 1890

_CONTENTS_

_AN EXPOSTULATION WITH TRUTH_

_ARIEL AND THE HIPPOPOTAMUS_

_THE FROG, THE FAIRY, AND THE MOON_

_THE TROLL AND THE MOUNTAIN_

_THE TOAD AND THE FAYS_

_THE PARSON AND THE ANGEL_

_PUCK AND THE CROCODILE_

_THE VIRTUOUS GOAT_

_THE TRUTH OF TRUTH_

_THE MAN, THE LION, AND THE FLY_

_ORPHEUS AND THE BUSY ONES_

_THE POET AND THE PENMAN_

_THE PITEOUS EWE_

_THE CONTEST OF BIRDS_

_ALASTOR_

_OCEAN AND THE ROCK_

_DEATH AND LOVE_

_CALYPSO TO ULYSSES_

_THE STAR AND THE SUN_

_THE POET’S RETIREMENT_

_An Expostulation with Truth_

_Uttered by the Well Meaning Poet_

Altho’ you live aloft so far, Transcendent Goddess, in your star, Pray, try to see us as we are.

Consider—and be more forgiving— Life is not reasoning but believing, And we must work to get our living.

Expound with logic most exact And rightly marshal every fact— D’you think we thank you for your act?

D’you think we’ve nothing else to do But to distinguish false from true?— We’re lawyers, doctors, parsons too.

But for our little fond delusions We’d never come to our conclusions, And then—just think of the confusions!

You pain us when you contradict. Your presence would the less afflict If you were not so very strict.

Dear Lady, take this sober view, It matters little what is true— The world is not the place for you.

I rede you therefore, go away; Or, if you really mean to stay, Let’s hear your views another day.

_Ariel and the Hippopotamus_

_Dedicated to Rural Magnates_

Fine Ariel, serf to Prospero, Sped on the Great Meridian For jetty pearls from Andaman To make a chaplet to declare The beauty of Miranda’s hair, When at the desert African, Out of his master’s ken, and slow, Lag’d on his errand, loth to go: For sweltering Sol with leaden beam Made stagnant all the windy stream And suck’d from earth a stifling steam. There idling still, the lazy Sprite Beheld below, beneath his flight, The Lord of Rivers, blackly bright, Who, planted in a marshy bed, On mighty rushes munching fed And sigh’d for more the more he sped. ‘Good day, my lord; I hope you’re well,’ Quoth then the jocund Ariel. ‘Why, thank’ee, Sir, sound as a bell; Save I’d complain, did I but choose, My appetite’s so poor I lose Half this fine fodder. What’s the news?’ ‘Great Sir, the news I brought away Is not so good, I’m sad to say— Jove has the gout again to-day.’ ‘Why,’ said the Hippopotamus, ‘That ain’t no call to make a fuss; I’ve had the same and am no wuss.’ ‘’Tis said that Cytherea, queen Of beauty, weds to-day at e’en The sooty Vulcan hump’d and mean.’ ‘There,’ said the Hippopotamus, ‘That party I will not discuss. She might have me and do no wuss.’ ‘Apollo, lord of lay and lyre, Hath seated now his Heavenly Choir Upon Parnassus’ starry spire.’ ‘Foh!’ said the Hippopotamus, ‘For that I do not care a cuss, And they may sing until they bus’!’ ‘Jove, sad for Io, hath aver’d No sound of laughter shall be heard One year in Heav’n, nor witty word.’ ‘Ah!’ said the Hippopotamus, ‘That there don’t suit the likes of us. I vow I won’t be muzzled thus.’ ‘Farewell, Sir,’ quoth the lissom Sprite; ‘Behoves me tear me from your sight. I must about the world ere night.’ ‘Farewell, young friend,’ responded he; ‘The work I have to do you see. But if you hear the Thund’rer sigh For counsel, Mars for an ally, Dian for love, I think that I— I pray you say a word for me.’

_The Frog, the Fairy, and the Moon_

_Dedicated to Lovers_

The Frog that loved the Changing Star Was worship’d by a Fairy, Who made for him a waistcoat trim Of silk and satin, soft and airy, Button’d with eyes of fireflies In manner military. And more to move his languid love A crimson cap she made him, According to many, plumed with antennae Of moths that rob the flowers’ honey; And with her kisses, lovers’ money, For that she gave she paid him. She fed him too, till he was blue, With endearing terms on caddis worms; And caught for him the wriggling germs Of midges; and with tender pats She wiled and woo’d him while he chew’d ’em: Till he said, ‘Bother! I love another. I love the Star I see afar, That changeth oft her fires so soft From blue to red and red to blue; And that is why I love not you. Therefore I pray you take away Your tedious arm, which does me harm Because it makes me feel too warm. But give to me my new guitar That I may sing to yonder Star.’ With that he gaped and guggled so The Fairy into fits did go; And he bounded near and bounded far, Strumming the strings of his guitar, And tried to reach the Changing Star. And all the while with his splay feet Kept time unto the music meet. With hat and waistcoat on he sprang, And as he bounded still he sang. And this the Saga says is why The Frog he always jumps so high; For, though the Star is very far, To reach it he must ever try, Until it’s time for him to die.

As for the foolish Fay, ’tis wist, She wept herself into a mist, Which wanders where the Clouds are strewn About the deathbed of the Moon, When with wan lips, in sudden swoon (Because her unkind lord, the Sun, Will ever from her loveless run), She cries amid her Starry Maids: ‘Ah me, alas, my beauty fades!’— And so sinks down into the Shades.

_The Troll and the Mountain_

_Dedicated to the Great_

Said the Troll to the Mountain, ‘Old fellow, how goes it?’ The Mountain responded, ‘My answer—suppose it.’ Said the Troll, ‘Dear old friend, you are grumpy to-day.’ Said the Mountain, ‘I think you had best run away.’ The Troll said, ‘You suffer, old boss, from the blues.’ The Mountain retorted, ‘I may if I choose.’ ‘Ah, that,’ cried the Troll, ‘is effect of the liver.’ ‘Take care,’ quoth the Hill, ‘or I’ll give you the shiver.’ ‘By my cap and its feather,’ the Spirit replies, ‘You’ll be getting too portly without exercise.’ ‘You pert little fly,’ said the Rock in a rage, ‘I will teach you to chaff at a hill of my age.’ So he jump’d up to punish the impudent Fay, Who wisely retorted by running away; Until the old Mountain broke right down the middle, When back he came nimbly and played on the fiddle. My Advice to all Mountains that make such a stir, it’s ‘Don’t get in a passion with pert little spirits.’

_The Toad and the Fays_

_Dedicated to Philosophers_

There sat a Toad upon a lawn Lost in a dream of fancy; His right foot in a Rose was set, His left upon a Violet, His paunch upon a Pansy. Some merry Elfins passing by At sight of him were sore affrighted, And would have fled; until he said, ‘My little dears, if you knew why I look to heaven thus and sigh, I think that you would be delighted. The Stars rise up and fall, the Stars Do shine in pools and stilly places, The Lilies blink on sandy bars, The Midges move in flickering mazes; But I profoundly pore upon, And reason, think, and cogitate, And marvel, muse, and meditate, Why had the ancient Mastodon So few sad hairs upon his pate?’

_The Parson and the Angel_

Thus spake the Preacher. All aver’d A saintlier man was never heard. But no one knew that o’er his head An Angel wrote the things he said, And these not only, but as well The things he thought but did not tell; And thus the double discourse fell. ‘Beloved Brethren, never do What makes your (neighbour) censure you; That is, conceive yourself as good (And so impress the neighbourhood). Make you yourself a law to self And so you will (enjoy yourself). For the best way to ’scape the devil Is to (protest you are not evil). For virtue lies in this, I take it, To drink the physic (but not shake it); To gulp it dutifully down (But leave the bitter dregs alone). Desire not aught of any man (But take your due); so that you can (Quite safely unto others do As you wish they should unto you); And thus’—so summed the portly Priest— ‘Be chosen for the Wedding Feast (As City Councillor at least).’

_Puck and the Crocodile_

_Dedicated to the Godly_

Puck, wandering on the banks of Nile, Beheld one day a Crocodile, That with heart-wringing sighs and sobs, With groans and cries and throes and throbs, Made moan, until his rushing tears Ran down the wrinkles of the sand. ‘What ails thee, Monster?’ made demand The Sprite, ‘and why these million tears?’ ‘I weep, I shriek,’ the other cries, ‘To see the World’s iniquities.’ ‘And I with you,’ the Elf replies. ‘The World,’ resumed the Crocodile, ‘Is full of Cruelty and Guile.’ ‘Except for you,’ Puck said, ‘it’s vile.’ ‘Honour and Chivalry are dead; The Soul of Pity vanished.’ ‘Save in yourself, Sir,’ Robin said. ‘How are the Righteous much abhor’d, And silent still the Godly Word!’ ‘Not while you live,’ the Sprite aver’d. ‘My friend, I thank you,’ said the Beast; ‘I think you sympathise at least. The world is evil—pray beware— How fat you are, I do declare! God grant us all some day remission— I vow you’re in a fine condition. I think that all—I must say that For a fairy you are very fat. What unctuous food—excuse me, friend— You fays must find in fairy land. As I was saying, all is not— Fie, what a toothache I have got! See here, this molar. Pray look nearer, And you shall see the bad place clearer. Nay if you could but just creep in And say which tooth the mischief’s in—’ ‘No thank you, friend,’ our Puck replied; ‘I’ll keep upon the outer side. With many large soul’d folk I’ve met I’ve found the stomach’s larger yet; And when the Righteous talk of Sin Look to your pockets or your skin.’

_The Virtuous Goat_

_Dedicated to Teachers_

Upon a mountain lived of old (So says the Saga that is wise) An ancient Goat of portly size, Well known for virtues manifold, Who once to take the evening air Reposed upon a meadow there, With Wife and Children in a row; And thus endeavour’d to bestow On them (and all of us) advice To make our conduct more precise And lead at last to paradise. ‘My dears be Good. All else forgot Yours shall be still a happy lot. Enough the Rule. Do not enquire The How and Why of things—or higher. Be Virtuous, and neglect the Schools; For Wisdom was but made for fools. Scorn still the shallow Mind that pries In science, art, philosophies; Essays the future to forecast, Forsooth, by study of the past; Maintains the laws should be (what treason!) Compounded by the use of reason; And will advise e’en men of note To govern well by thinking o’t; Avers when honest people chatter That he knows best who knows the matter; And even go so far as state Goats can by thinking mend their fate. So hold this saw before your eyes, Be Good and let who will be wise.’

Alas, with his own virtue blind, He fail’d to mark the Wolf behind; Who, as he seized and bore him off, Distress’d him with this bitter scoff— ‘With your high views I sympathise; But better also to be Wise.’

_The truth of Truth_

Within a vast and gloomy Fane There hung a Curtain to the floor, Which fill’d with terror those who came To wonder there or to adore;

For, as the Priest had often said, Within the chamber dwelt in sooth A breathing Horror, half divine, Half demon, and whose name was Truth.

And none there were so doughty bold As durst to lift the tapestry; For it was death, he said, to peer Upon the awful Mystery;

Until one day—oh dreadful hour— Up jump’d a foolish hardy Youth, Who cried, ‘I care not if I die, But I will have the truth of Truth.’

There came a Crowd to see the deed— To hear him shriek within and fall; But they were much astonish’d when He found—why Nothing there at all;

Except indeed upon the floor (Ill fortune take the prying sinner!) A Pasty and a Pot of Beer Which the poor Priest had got for dinner.

_The Man, the Lion, and the Fly_

_Dedicated to Reformers_

There was a Man to wisdom dead Who took a mad thought in his head— ‘A second Hercles I,’ he said. ‘Behold,’ he cried, ‘I will go forth From east to west, from south to north, And with this knotted bludgeon bash The Things that Sting, and those that Gnash Blood-dripping teeth, and Giants glum So mighty that with finger and thumb They pick and eat chance passengers. And I will slay each thing that stirs To grief of man and dole of beast, Until the world from wrong released Pronounce me Emperor at least.’

But as he spoke, upon the way A casual Lion chanced to stray, Just as on any other day; And he, to measure of his thought In ready deed inferior nought, Sprang at him furious, and they fought.

Three hours they fought, until the sun Ymounted in the vault begun To make them wish that they had done. ‘Friend,’ quoth the Lion, ‘or why foe Upon my word I do not know— If we fight more we melt, I trow.’ ‘A little grace,’ the Man replied, Wiping his brow, ‘is not denied; You’ll have but little when you’ve died.’

So each beneath a tree disposed Took ease. The languid Lion dozed. The Man, who should have done likewise (So says the Saga that is wise), Was waked each time he sued repose By a great Fly upon his nose. First in the one ear then in t’other The winged monster buzz’d with bother; The twitching tender nostrils tried, The corners of the lips beside; From lip to eyelid leapt with fuss, Like old dame in an omnibus; Delighted vastly to have met So great a store of unctuous sweat. At last to desperation driven The Man accursed the Fly to Heaven, And with his bludgeon great assay’d To stay the small annoying raid. Wielding to right and left he smote; But still the nimble Fly, remote, Laughed at his anger and enjoy’d Fresh perspiration. Thus annoy’d, His bludgeon broken on the tree, A helpless, weary wight was he. The Lion rose, refresh’d, with glee; ‘I’m ready now,’ he said, ‘my man, To end the work the Fly began.’ And this (the Chronicler explains) Is why the Lion still remains.

_Orpheus and the Busy Ones_

_Dedicated to the Public_

Orpheus, the Stygian current cross’d, When Hell stood still to hear him sing, Torn from Eurydice twice lost (Almost by music saved e’er lost) Over the world went wandering. One day, sate on a mountain slope, Weary and sick for want of hope, (Or rather, shall we term it, dead, Since life is gone when hope is sped), He twang’d his lyre; till song sublime Out of the ashes of his prime And fire of grief like Phoenix sprang; And all the startled hillside rang. Aroused, the dew-engrossed Flowers Turn’d to him all their maiden eyes; And from the sweet forgotten bowers Flew forth a thousand Butterflies. The Trees forgot their roots. Beneath, The noisy Crickets of the heath Rub’d each his forehead with amaze To hear one sing such heavenly lays. Under her stone the lumpy Toad Peer’d forth; even the solid sod Grew peopled with emerging Worms— Such power hath Music on all forms. Above, the pinched Pard amort (She had three cublings in a den) Forgot her hunger, and in short Reposed herself to listen then, Upon her furry paws her chin; And from her vantage watch’d the Poet, Delighted, but enraged to know it, While all her spotted sleek of skin Heaved with the pleasure she took in. Not only this, but shall I say ’t, The very Hills began debate Whether, to hear the singing clearer, They should not move a little nearer.

Only, the Bard, to these strange ways Accustom’d, noted with amaze A herd of Hogs that near him fed, Which might for all he sang be dead. He ceased his song and tried the scale To find out where his voice might fail; His lyre divine descanted soon To see the strings were all in tune; Till satisfied that these were right, And at those Hogs astonish’d quite That they not to his conquering lyre, Which all things else did so admire, Gave heed, but routed in the rye As tho’ he had not been close by, He ask’d of them the reason why. ‘Good friend,’ a Bacon old replied, ‘We have too much to do beside; The roots are many, the field is wide. Should we neglect this plenteousness We should be wrong, you must confess— The gods some day might give us less. Our girth is great; the fodder free; This field of food must finished be. That time is short you’ll not deny. We eat but little ere we die.’

_The Poet and the Penman_

All night had browsed the Pinion’d Steed Upon that lush and level mead That swathes Parnassos’ feet; Till, when the pranksome Morning Star To van of Day’s slow-driven car Came piping past the eastern bar, A Poet him did greet.

‘Your back, my Pegasos,’ he cried, ‘Shall win me to the tiers espied Of yonder shelfed hill, Where all the Great are, I opine, And on the last proud peak divine Apollo and the Earnest Nine At songs symphonic still.’

Tomes had the Poet, rolls and wraps, Pens at his ears, and scribbled scraps, And so essay’d the mounting— ‘Stand still, O Steed, and I will climb, Tho’ weighted here with pounds of rhyme, If you will only give me time, Who’d been on stirrups counting.’

The Steed stood still; the thing was done; He slided, slip’d and shuffled on, And stay’d to pen his deeds: When now the Monster’s patience wears; He lowers his head, his haunches rears; And flying past the Stallion’s ears The Poet measures weeds.

Three times attempting, three times foil’d, The Bard beheld his breeches soil’d; And on his knees the mashed green Gave an arch proof of what had been; And winds like gamboling babes unseen Made all his errant sheets revolve. For now the Morning ’gan to solve The long-strewn sands of heav’nly cloud; And that fair Mountain noble brow’d, In snowy silv’ry laces dight Shone like a bride, against the night Unveil’d, with many-pointed light. And lo half seen thro’ level mist A Critic rode with saucy wrist, Plump, smug and smooth and portly, dress’d In corduroys and velvet vest; Who clip’d at ease an ambling cob With dappled nose and ears alob; While all around a barking brood Of puppies nuzzled in the rood. ‘He who to climb has climbing blood Must fear no fall in marish mud; And he who phantoms fain would ride May sometimes sit the ground,’ he cried.

At this his thighs the Poet slam’d And papers in his pocket ram’d; ‘Be off,’ he said, ‘or else be damn’d.’ ‘You lose your time,’ resumed the Man, Whose oozing eyes with mirth o’erran; ‘You waste your time about that Brute Whom, if ’twere mine, egad I’d shoot, So gaunt and gall’d a hack is he. But take example now from me, Who riding in this airy plight For breakfast get an appetite; And sitting here (I am so sly) With this my pocket-sextant I Take altitude of those on high.’ ‘Pedant avaunt!’ the Poet cries, And mounting shoots towards the skies An angry palm—‘Come not anear! I, as toward the marineer The welcome star from beacon’d brows Of headland, when the Northern blows His scurrilous spitting spray in air And lobbing billows blotch the Bear, Appears, so shall appear and shine Thro’ streaming rain and hissing brine To cheer the coming better blood; And shall be fire when thou art mud!’

‘Blind is the goose that play’d the geier And tried to see the white sun nigher!— He flapping lies; so shall you lie And grovel as you think to fly!’ The other cries; whose Nag amazed, Viewing the winged Stallion, gazed, Shook out her tail and with a snort, Approaching in plebeian sort, Paw’d archly at him. He with scorn And having too long mildly borne, Rear’d, spread his wings, and buck’d and neigh’d. She with the monstrous tone affray’d Shot forth her rider like a ball; Who in the mid-air, ere his fall, The like-projected Poet met.

As when two Suns in furious set Together dash with whirl and wind, Their shrieking planets drawn behind; Or two great Blacks with blinding rage, Each dragging his black wife, engage, And clash their pates upon the green (The fleas being heard to crack between), The Critic so and Bard pell mell Fighting concuss’d and fighting fell; And puppies tug’d their tatters. Bruises for breakfast got the one; Black eyes the other, and of Fame none. They fought it out, and when they’d done Went home as rough as ratters.

_The Piteous Ewe_

_Dedicated to Kings_

King Lion yawning at his gates On deep-empiled mosses, when The sunset gilt the underwood, Awaking claw’d in idle mood The frighten’d dead leaves of his den, Content; when lo (the Rune relates) A tiny piercing note was heard. It was the Mouse (the Rune aver’d) Who saved the Sov’reign’s honour when The hunters mesh’d him in the glen. For that admitted now to cheep Before the Audience half asleep, She introduced a weeping Sheep.

‘Sire,’ said the Mouse, ‘with much ado Thro’ wicked guards I bring to you This much wrong’d creature to implore Justice against the evil doer.’ At this, no rhetorician, The shiv’ring Mutton then began Of how three lovely Lambkins lost The Wolf had taken to his den, Deep-delved in a dreadful glen— And ah! to her the bitter cost! One from her side when day was dead The monster stole. Another took At gambol in the glassing brook. The third, the Mother’s last delight, When now the many-lamped Night No more, with mystic moon aloft, Gave shudd’ring shadows to the flowers And stars of wan irradiance soft To every dewdrop; but the hours Of Dawn and Daybreak, Sister Hours, Twin Lovelinesses, lit the world, And the confident buds unfurl’d, He seized with mangling tushes, till The innocent flower-eyes of the wood, That wont with early dew to fill, Grew piteous-wet with tears of blood; The mother helpless. So he rush’d With shaggy flanks, and snarling gnash’d The gripping teeth that gleam’d between His cruel red lips scarcely seen, While springing branches clash’d behind, And left her weeping to the wind.