Near by--to a neighbor He met in the way-- He recounted the labor And spoils of the day.

"A long tramp,--my old lad, All day did I trudge; But the luck is not bad, If I am the judge.

Since the break of the day I 've been out in the sun; Hot enough, I should say,-- But fair business I've done.

Without too much bragging, I say and repeat it,-- No hunter in bagging The conies can beat it."

The Ferret's quick ear, In his box as he hung, His master did hear-- His own praise while he sung.

His sharp nose he poked Through its lattice of wire; "Now surely you joked,-- I should like to inquire,--

That I did the work, Can you truly deny?

These rabbits of yours, Who caught them but I?

So little desert, In my toils do you see, That you never can make Some slight mention of me?"

That this cogent remark The master might sting, A body might think; But it did no such thing.

He was cool as some writers, Who play the mean game-- To borrow from others, Yet breathe not their name.

FABLE LIII.

THE PIG, THE c.o.c.k, AND THE LAMB.

In a court-yard a poultry-house did lie, Where a brisk c.o.c.k around at pleasure ran; Behind the court, in a convenient sty, Lay a stout Pig--fat as an alderman.

In the same yard, a little Lamb there lived; And good companions, too, were all the three; As may be very easily believed, For such in farmers' yards we often see.

"Now, with your leave,"--the thrifty Pig, said he, To the meek Lamb,--"what a delightful lot!

And what a peaceful, happy destiny, The livelong day to slumber! Is it not?

Upon the honor of a Pig, I say, That, in this wretched world, there's no such pleasure, As to snore merrily the time away, Let the world wag, and stretch yourself at leisure."

But, in his turn, the c.o.c.k the Lamb addressed, Soon after Piggy did his dissertation end; "To be with health and active vigor blest, One must sleep sparingly, my little friend.

In hot July, or frosty winter day, With the bright stars to watch, is the true way.

Sleep numbs our senses with a stupid sloth; In fact unnerves the mind and body both."

The Lamb hears both, and knows not which to trust.

He never guesses--simple little elf-- That the fine rule, by each laid down, is just That others ought to do what suits himself.

So among authors,--some there are who never Think any doctrine sound, or maxim clever, Or rules as good for others' guidance own, Excepting such as they have hit upon.

FABLE LIV.

THE FLINT AND THE STEEL.

The Steel the Flint abused Most bitterly one day, For the unfeeling way, In which his sides he bruised, To chip out the brilliant sparks.

After some sharp remarks They parted company; And the Steel cries out, "Good-by!

Unless with me you 're used, Of little worth you'll be!"

"Not much," said Flint,--"and yet, beyond a doubt, Just what yourself are worth, the Flint without."

This little tale of ours, Let each writer bear in mind, Who deep study has not joined To native powers.

In the flint, no fire we find Without the help of steel; Nor does Genius aught avail Without the aid of Art.

Long as they work apart, They both are sure to fail.

FABLE LV.

THE JUDGE AND THE ROBBER.

A villain was by hands of justice caught, Just as of cash, and even of his life, At the sharp point of murderous knife, A luckless wayfarer to rob, he sought The Judge upbraids him with his crime-- He answered: "Sir, from earliest time I've been a rogue, practised in petty theft; When buckles, watches, trunks and cloaks, And swords, I stole from other folks.

Then, fairly launched upon my wild career, I houses sacked. Now--no compunction left-- On the highways I rob, without a fear.

Let not your worship, then, make such a stir, That I should rob and slay a traveller-- Nor of the matter make a charge so sore!

I've done such things these forty years, and more."

Do we the bandit's wretched plea allow?

Yet writers give no worthier excuse, Who justify, by argument of use, Errors of speech or of expression low-- Urging the long-lived blunders of the past Against the verdict by sound critics cast.

FABLE LVI.

THE HOUSEMAID AND THE BROOM.

A Housemaid once was sweeping out a room With a worn-out and very dirty Broom; "Now, hang you for a Broom!"--said she in wrath-- "For, with the filth and shreds you leave behind Where'er you go, you 're making, to my mind, More dirt than you clean up upon your path."

The botchers who, devoid of skill, pretend The faults of others' writings to amend, But leave them ten times fuller than before; Let not these blockheads fear that I shall score Their paltry backs--I leave their blundering trade To the apt censure of the serving-maid.