Chapter 15

Sly Bertrand and Ratto in company sat, (The one was a Monkey, the other a Cat,) Co-servants and lodgers: More mischievous codgers Ne'er mess'd from a platter, since platters were flat. Was anything wrong in the house or about it, The neighbours were blameless--no mortal could doubt it; For Bertrand was thievish, and Ratto so nice, More attentive to cheese than he was to the mice. One day the two plunderers sat by the fire, Where chestnuts were roasting, with looks of desire. To steal them would be a right noble affair. A double inducement our heroes drew there-- 'Twould benefit them, could they swallow their fill, And then 'twould occasion to somebody ill. Said Bertrand to Ratto, "My brother, to-day Exhibit your powers in a masterly way, And take me these chestnuts, I pray. Which were I but otherwise fitted (As I am ingeniously wilted) For pulling things out of the flame, Would stand but a pitiful game." "'Tis done," replied Ratto, all prompt to obey; And thrust out his paw in a delicate way. First giving the ashes a scratch, He open'd the coveted batch; Then lightly and quickly impinging, He drew out, in spite of the singeing, One after another, the chestnuts at last-- While Bertrand contrived to devour them as fast. A servant girl enters. Adieu to the fun. Our Ratto was hardly contented, says one.

_No more are the princes, by flattery paid For furnishing help in a different trade, And burning their fingers to bring More power to some mightier king._

The Lioness and the Bear

The Lioness had lost her young; A hunter stole it from the vale; The forests and the mountains rung Responsive to her hideous wail. Nor night, nor charms of sweet repose, Could still the loud lament that rose From that grim forest queen. No animal, as you might think, With such a noise could sleep a wink. A Bear presumed to intervene. "One word, sweet friend," quoth she, "And that is all, from me. The young that through your teeth have passed, In file unbroken by a fast, Had they nor dam nor sire?" "They had them both." "Then I desire, Since all their deaths caused no such grievous riot, While mothers died of grief beneath your fiat, To know why you yourself cannot be quiet?" "I quiet!--I!--a wretch bereaved! My only son!--such anguish be relieved! No, never! All for me below Is but a life of tears and woe!"-- "But say, why doom yourself to sorrow so?" "Alas! 'tis Destiny that is my foe."

_Such language, since the mortal fall, Has fallen from the lips of all. Ye human wretches, give your heed; For your complaints there's little need. Let him who thinks his own the hardest case, Some widowed, childless Hecuba behold, Herself to toil and shame of slavery sold, And he will own the wealth of heavenly grace._

The Cat and the Two Sparrows

Contemporary with a Sparrow tame There lived a Cat; from tenderest age, Of both, the basket and the cage Had household gods the same. The Bird's sharp beak full oft provoked the Cat, Who play'd in turn, but with a gentle pat, His wee friend sparing with a merry laugh, Not punishing his faults by half. In short, he scrupled much the harm, Should he with points his ferule arm. The Sparrow, less discreet than he, With dagger beak made very free. Sir Cat, a person wise and staid, Excused the warmth with which he play'd: For 'tis full half of friendship's art To take no joke in serious part. Familiar since they saw the light, Mere habit kept their friendship good; Fair play had never turn'd to fight, Till, of their neighbourhood, Another sparrow came to greet Old Ratto grave and Saucy Pete. Between the birds a quarrel rose, And Ratto took his side. "A pretty stranger, with such blows To beat our friend!" he cried. "A neighbour's sparrow eating ours! Not so, by all the feline powers." And quick the stranger he devours. "Now, truly," saith Sir Cat, "I know how sparrows taste by that. Exquisite, tender, delicate!" This thought soon seal'd the other's fate. But hence what moral can I bring? For, lacking that important thing, A fable lacks its finishing: I seem to see of one some trace, But still its shadow mocks my chase.

The Sick Stag

A Stag, where stags abounded, Fell sick and was surrounded Forthwith by comrades kind, All--pressing to assist, Or see, their friend, at least, And ease his anxious mind-- An irksome multitude. "Ah, sirs!" the sick was fain to cry, "Pray leave me here to die, As others do, in solitude. Pray, let your kind attentions cease, Till death my spirit shall release." But comforters are not so sent: On duty sad full long intent, When Heaven pleased, they went: But not without a friendly glass; That is to say, they cropp'd the grass And leaves which in that quarter grew, From which the sick his pittance drew. By kindness thus compell'd to fast, He died for want of food at last.

_The men take off no trifling dole Who heal the body, or the soul. Alas the times! do what we will, They have their payment, cure or kill._

The Wolf and the Fox

"Dear Wolf," complain'd a hungry Fox, "A lean chick's meat, or veteran cock's, Is all I get by toil or trick: Of such a living I am sick. With far less risk, you've better cheer; A house you need not venture near, But I must do it, spite of fear. Pray, make me master of your trade. And let me by that means be made The first of all my race that took Fat mutton to his larder's hook: Your kindness shall not be repented." The Wolf quite readily consented. "I have a brother, lately dead: Go fit his skin to yours," he said. 'Twas done; and then the wolf proceeded: "Now mark you well what must be done The dogs that guard the flock to shun." The Fox the lessons strictly heeded. At first he boggled in his dress; But awkwardness grew less and less, Till perseverance gave success. His education scarce complete, A flock, his scholarship to greet, Came rambling out that way. The new-made Wolf his work began, Amidst the heedless nibblers ran, And spread a sore dismay. The bleating host now surely thought That fifty wolves were on the spot: Dog, shepherd, sheep, all homeward fled, And left a single sheep in pawn, Which Reynard seized when they were gone. But, ere upon his prize he fed, There crow'd a cock near by, and down The scholar threw his prey and gown, That he might run that way the faster-- Forgetting lessons, prize and master.

_Reality, in every station, Will burst out on the first occasion._

The Woods and the Woodman

A certain Wood-chopper lost or broke From his axe's eye a bit of oak. The forest must needs be somewhat spared While such a loss was being repair'd. Came the man at last, and humbly pray'd That the Woods would kindly lend to him-- A moderate loan--a single limb, Whereof might another helve be made, And his axe should elsewhere drive its trade. Oh, the oaks and firs that then might stand, A pride and a joy throughout the land, For their ancientness and glorious charms! The innocent Forest lent him arms; But bitter indeed was her regret; For the wretch, his axe new-helved and whet, Did nought but his benefactress spoil Of the finest trees that graced her soil; And ceaselessly was she made to groan, Doing penance for that fatal loan.

_Behold the world-stage and its actors, Where benefits hurt benefactors! A weary theme, and full of pain; For where's the shade so cool and sweet, Protecting strangers from the heat, But might of such a wrong complain? Alas! I vex myself in vain; Ingratitude, do what I will, Is sure to be the fashion still._

The Shepherd and the Lion

The Fable Aesop tells is nearly this: A Shepherd from his flock began to miss, And long'd to catch the stealer of his sheep. Before a cavern, dark and deep, Where wolves retired by day to sleep, Which he suspected as the thieves, He set his trap among the leaves; And, ere he left the place, He thus invoked celestial grace: "O king of all the powers divine, Against the rogue but grant me this delight, That this my trap may catch him in my sight, And I, from twenty calves of mine, Will make the fattest thine." But while the words were on his tongue, Forth came a Lion great and strong. Down crouch'd the man of sheep, and said. With shivering fright half dead, "Alas! that man should never be aware Of what may be the meaning of his prayer! To catch the robber of my flocks, O king of gods, I pledged a calf to thee: If from his clutches thou wilt rescue me, I'll raise my offering to an ox."

The Animals Sick of the Plague

The sorest ill that Heaven hath Sent on this lower world in wrath-- The Plague (to call it by its name) One single day of which Would Pluto's ferryman enrich-- Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame. They died not all, but all were sick: No hunting now, by force or trick, To save what might so soon expire, No food excited their desire; Nor wolf nor fox now watch'd to slay The innocent and tender prey. The turtles fled; So love and therefore joy were dead. The Lion council held, and said: "My friends, I do believe This awful scourge, for which we grieve, Is for our sins a punishment Most righteously by Heaven sent. Let us our guiltiest beast resign, A sacrifice to wrath divine. Perhaps this offering, truly small, May gain me life and health of all. By history we find it noted That lives have been just so devoted. Then let us all turn eyes within, And ferret out the hidden sin. Himself let no one spare nor flatter, But make clean conscience in the matter. For me, my appetite has play'd the glutton Too much and often upon mutton. What harm had e'er my victims done? I answer, truly, None. Perhaps, sometimes, by hunger pressed, I've eat the shepherd with the rest. I yield myself, if need there be; And yet I think, in equity, Each should confess his sins with me; For laws of right and justice cry, The guiltiest alone should die." "Sire," said the Fox, "your majesty Is humbler than a king should be, And over-squeamish in the case. What! eating stupid sheep a crime? No, never, sire, at any time. It rather was an act of grace, A mark of honour to their race. And as to shepherds, one may swear, The fate your majesty describes Is recompense less full than fair For such usurpers o'er our tribes."

Thus Reynard glibly spoke, And loud applause from flatterers broke, Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear, Did any keen inquirer dare To ask for crimes of high degree; The fighters, biters, scratchers, all From every mortal sin were free; The very dogs, both great and small, Were saints, as far as dogs could be.

The Ass, confessing in his turn, Thus spoke in tones of deep concern: "I happen'd through a mead to pass; The monks, its owners, were at mass; Keen hunger, leisure, tender grass, And add to these the devil too, All tempted me the deed to do. I browsed the bigness of my tongue; Since truth must out, I own it wrong."

On this, a hue and cry arose, As if the beasts were all his foes: A Wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise, Denounced the Ass for sacrifice-- The bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout, By whom the plague had come, no doubt. His fault was judged a hanging crime. "What? eat another's grass? O shame! The noose of rope and death sublime, For that offence, were all too tame!" And soon poor Grizzle felt the same.

_Thus human courts acquit the strong, And doom the weak, as therefore wrong._

The Fowler, the Hawk, and the Lark

From wrongs of wicked men we draw Excuses for our own; Such is the universal law. Would you have mercy shown, Let yours be clearly known.

A Fowler's mirror served to snare The little tenants of the air. A Lark there saw her pretty face, And was approaching to the place. A Hawk, that sailed on high, Like vapour in the sky, Came down, as still as infant's breath, On her who sang so near her death. She thus escaped the Fowler's steel, The Hawk's malignant claws to feel. While in his cruel way, The pirate plucked his prey, Upon himself the net was sprung. "O Fowler," prayed he in the hawkish tongue, "Release me in thy clemency! I never did a wrong to thee." The man replied, "'Tis true; And did the Lark to you?"

Phoebus and Boreas

Old Boreas and the Sun, one day, Espied a traveller on his way, Whose dress did happily provide Against whatever might betide. The time was autumn, when, indeed, All prudent travellers take heed. The rains that then the sunshine dash, And Iris with her splendid sash, Warn one who does not like to soak To wear abroad a good thick coat. Our man was therefore well bedight With double mantle, strong and tight. "This fellow," said the Wind, "has meant To guard from every ill event; But little does he wot that I Can blow him such a blast That, not a button fast, His cloak shall cleave the sky. Come, here's a pleasant game. Sir Sun! Wilt play?" Said Phoebus, "Done! We'll bet between us here Which first will take the gear From off this cavalier. Begin, and shut away The brightness of my ray." "Enough." Our blower, on the bet, Swelled out his pursy form With all the stuff for storm-- The thunder, hail, and drenching wet, And all the fury he could muster; Then, with a very demon's bluster, He whistled, whirled, and splashed, And down the torrents dashed, Full many a roof uptearing He never did before, Full many a vessel bearing To wreck upon the shore-- And all to doff a single cloak. But vain the furious stroke; The traveller was stout, And kept the tempest out, Defied the hurricane, Defied the pelting rain; And as the fiercer roared the blast, His cloak the tighter held he fast. The Sun broke out, to win the bet; He caused the clouds to disappear, Refreshed and warmed the cavalier, And through his mantle made him sweat, Till off it came, of course, In less than half an hour; And yet the Sun saved half his power-- So much does mildness more than force.

The Stag and the Vine

A Stag, by favour of a Vine, Which grew where suns most genial shine, And formed a thick and matted bower Which might have turned a summer shower, Was saved by ruinous assault. The hunters thought their dogs at fault, And called them off. In danger now no more The Stag, a thankless wretch and vile, Began to browse his benefactress o'er. The hunters listening the while, The rustling heard, came back, With all their yelping pack, And seized him in that very place. "This is," said he, "but justice, in my case. Let every black ingrate Henceforward profit by my fate." The dogs fell to--'twere wasting breath To pray those hunters at the death. They left, and we will not revile 'em, A warning for profaners of asylum.

The Peacock Complaining to Juno

The Peacock to the Queen of heaven Complained in some such words: "Great goddess, you have given To me, the laughing stock of birds, A voice which fills, by taste quite just, All nature with disgust; Whereas that little paltry thing, The nightingale, pours from her throat So sweet and ravishing a note; She bears alone the honours of the spring." In anger Juno heard, And cried, "Shame on you, jealous bird! Grudge you the nightingale her voice, Who in the rainbow neck rejoice, Than costliest silks more richly tinted, In charms of grace and form unstinted-- Who strut in kingly pride, Your glorious tail spread wide With brilliants which in sheen do Outshine the jeweller's bow window? Is there a bird beneath the blue That has more charms than you? No animal in everything can shine. By just partition of our gifts divine, Each has its full and proper share. Among the birds that cleave the air The hawk's a swift, the eagle is a brave one, For omens serves the hoarse old raven, The rook's of coming ills the prophet; And if there's any discontent, I've heard not of it. Cease, then, your envious complaint; Or I, instead of making up your lack, Will take your boasted plumage from your back."

The Eagle and the Beetle

John Rabbit, by Dame Eagle chased, Was making for his hole in haste, When, on his way, he met a Beetle's burrow. I leave you all to think If such a little chink Could to a rabbit give protection thorough; But, since no better could be got, John Rabbit, there was fain to squat. Of course, in an asylum so absurd, John felt ere long the talons of the bird. But first the Beetle, interceding, cried, "Great queen of birds, it cannot be denied That, maugre my protection, you can bear My trembling guest, John Rabbit, through the air, But do not give me such affront, I pray; And since he craves your grace, In pity of his case, Grant him his life, or take us both away; For he's my gossip, friend and neighbour." In vain the Beetle's friendly labour; The Eagle clutched her prey without reply, And as she flapped her vasty wings to fly, Struck down our orator and stilled him-- The wonder is she hadn't killed him. The Beetle soon, of sweet revenge in quest Flew to the old, gnarled mountain oak, Which proudly bore that haughty Eagle's nest. And while the bird was gone, Her eggs, her cherished eggs, he broke, Not sparing one. Returning from her flight, the Eagle's cry Of rage and bitter anguish filled the sky, But, by excess of passion blind, Her enemy she failed to find. Her wrath in vain, that year it was her fate To live a mourning mother, desolate. The next, she built a loftier nest; 'twas vain; The Beetle found and dashed her eggs again.

John Rabbit's death was thus avenged anew. The second mourning for her murdered brood Was such that through the giant mountain wood, For six long months, the sleepless echo flew. The bird, once Ganymede, now made Her prayer to Jupiter for aid; And, laying them within his godship's lap, She thought her eggs now safe from all mishap; The god his own could not but make them-- No wretch would venture there to break them. And no one did. Their enemy, this time, Upsoaring to a place sublime, Let fall upon his royal robes some dirt, Which Jove just shaking, with a sudden flirt, Threw out the eggs, no one knows whither. When Jupiter informed her how th' event Occurred by purest accident, The Eagle raved; there was no reasoning with her; She gave out threats of leaving court, To make the desert her resort, And other brav'ries of this sort. Poor Jupiter in silence heard The uproar of his favourite bird. Before his throne the Beetle now appeared, And by a clear complaint the mystery cleared. The god pronounced the Eagle in the wrong. But still, their hatred was so old and strong, These enemies could not be reconciled; And, that the general peace might not be spoiled-- The best that he could do--the god arranged That thence the Eagle's pairing should be changed, To come when Beetle folks are only found Concealed and dormant under ground.

FABLES FROM THE SPANISH

OF

CARLOS YRIARTE*

"_As the impressions made upon a new vessel are not easily to be effaced, so here youth are taught prudence through the allurement of fable._"

*Translated by Richard Andrew

FABLES FROM THE SPANISH

The Bee and the Cuckoo

A Cuckoo, near a hive, one day, Was chaunting in his usual way, When to the door the Queen-bee ran, And, humming angrily, began:

"Do cease that tuneless song I hear-- How can we work while thou art near? There is no other bird, I vow, Half so fantastical as thou, Since all that ugly voice can do, Is to sing on--'Cuckoo! cuckoo'!"

"If my monotony of song Displeases you, shall I be wrong," The Cuckoo answered, "if I find Your comb has little to my mind? Look at the cells--through every one Does not unvaried sameness run? Then if in me there's nothing new, Dear knows, all's old enough in you." The Bee replied: "Hear me, my friend. In works that have a useful end It is not always worth the while To seek variety in style, But if those works whose only views Are to give pleasure and amuse, Want either fancy or invention, They fail of gaining their intention."

The Rope Dancer and His Pupil

A Tight-rope Dancer who, they say, Was a great master in his way, Was tutoring a Youth to spring Upon the slight and yielding string, Who, though a novice in the science, Had in his talents great reliance, And, as on high his steps he tried, Thus to his sage instructor cried: "This pole you call the counterpoise My every attitude annoys; I really cannot think it good To use this cumbrous piece of wood In such a business as ours, An art requiring all our powers. Why should I with this burden couple? Am I not active, strong and supple? So--see me try this step without it, I'll manage better, do not doubt it-- See, 'tis not difficult at all," He said, and let the balance fall, And, taking fearlessly a bound, He tumbled headlong on the ground, With compound fracture of the shin, And six or seven ribs crushed in.

"Unhappy youth!" the Master said, "What was your truest help and aid Impediment you thought to be-- For art and method if you flee, Believe me, ere your life is past, This tumble will not be your last."

The Squirrel and the Horse

A Squirrel, on his hind legs raised, Upon a noble Charger gazed, Who docile to the spur and rein, Went through his menage on the plain; Now seeming like the wind to fly, Now gracefully curvetting by. "Good Sir," the little Tumbler said, And with much coolness, scratched his head, "In all your swiftness, skill and spirit, I do not see there's much of merit, For, all you seem so proud to do, I can perform, and better too; I'm light and nimble, brisk and sprightly, I trot, and skip, and canter lightly, Backward and forward--here and there, Now on the earth--now in the air-- From bough to bough--from hill to hill, And never for a moment still." The Courser tossed his head on high; And made the Squirrel this reply: "My little nimble jealous friend, Those turns and tumbles without end-- That hither, thither, restless springing-- Those ups and downs and leaps and swinging-- And other feats more wondrous far, Pray tell me, of what use they are? But what I do, this praise may claim-- My master's service is my aim, And laudably I use for him My warmth of blood and strength of limb."

The Bear, the Monkey, and the Pig