Once Madame Weasel, slender-waisted, thin, Into a granary, by a narrow chink, Crept, sick and hungry; quick she glided in, To eat her fill, and she was wise, I think. There at her ease, No fear of fees, She gnawed, and nibbled:--gracious, what a life! The bacon melted in the strife. Plump and rotund she grew, As fat as two. A week was over, Spent in clover. But one day, when she'd done--and that not badly-- A noise alarmed her sadly. She tried the hole she'd entered, wishing to retreat; 'Twas no such easy feat. Was she mistaken?--no, the selfsame door: She tried it, o'er and o'er. "Yes, yes," she said, "it is the place, I know; I passed here but a week ago." A Rat who saw her puzzled, slily spoke-- "Your pouch was emptier then, before your fast you broke. Empty you came, and empty you must quit: I tell you what I've told a dozen more. But don't perplex the matter, I implore; They differed from you in some ways, I do admit."
THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES WITH THE OWNER OF A FIELD.
"Depend upon yourself alone," Is a sound proverb worthy credit. In Æsop's time it was well known, And there (to tell the truth) I read it. The larks to build their nests began, When wheat was in the green blade still-- That is to say, when Nature's plan Had ordered Love, with conquering will, To rule the earth, the sea, and air, Tigers in woods, sea monsters in the deep; Nor yet refuse a share To larks that in the cornfields keep. One bird, however, of these last, Found that one half the spring was past, Yet brought no mate, such as the season sent To others. Then with firm intent Plighting her troth, and fairly matched, She built her nest and gravely hatched. All went on well, the corn waved red Above each little fledgling's head, Before they'd strength enough to fly, And mount into the April sky. A hundred cares the mother Lark compel To seek with patient care the daily food; But first she warns her restless brood To watch, and peep, and listen well, And keep a constant sentinel; "And if the owner comes his corn to see, His son, too, as 'twill likely be, Take heed, for when we're sure of it, And reapers come, why, we must flit." No sooner was the Lark away, Than came the owner with his son. "The wheat is ripe," he said, "so run, And bring our friends at peep of day, Each with his sickle sharp and ready." The Lark returns: alarm already