Ye who, important Matters scorning, Toy with trifles, Take our warning.

FABLE XII.

THE EGGS.

Beyond the sunny Philippines An island lies, whose name I do not know; But that's of little consequence, if so You understand that there they had no hens; Till, by a happy chance, a traveller, After a while, carried some poultry there.

Fast they increased as any one could wish; Until fresh eggs became the common dish.

But all the natives ate them boiled,--they say,-- Because the stranger taught no other way.

At last the experiment by one was tried-- Sagacious man!--of having his eggs fried.

And, O! what boundless honors, for his pains, His fruitful and inventive fancy gains!

Another, now, to have them baked devised,-- Most happy thought!--and still another, spiced.

Who ever thought eggs were so delicate!

Next, some one gave his friends an omelette: "Ah!" all exclaimed, "what an ingenious feat!"

But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts, "I have it now,--ye 're all a pack of louts!-- With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed."

And the whole island thought the mode so good, That they would so have cooked them to this day, But that a stranger, wandering out that way, Another dish the gaping natives taught, And showed them eggs cooked _a la Huguenot_.

Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse; But how shall I be able to rehea.r.s.e All of the new, delicious condiments That luxury, from time to time, invents?

Soft, hard and dropped; and now with sugar sweet, And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat; In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle.

All had their day--the last was still the best.

But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed The epicures: "Boast, ninnies, if you will, These countless prodigies of gastric skill-- But blessings on the man who brought the hens!"

Beyond the sunny Philippines Our crowd of modern authors need not go New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.

FABLE XIII.

THE DUCK AND THE SNAKE.

On the borders of a pond Stood a Duck, discoursing thus: "Nature to me is generous All creatures else beyond.

For my life, it hath no bound Water, earth or air within; I can fly or I can swim, When a-weary of the ground."

A cunning Snake stood by.

And heard the vaunting strain; And hissing said, "How vain To hold yourself so high!

Not on land with the fleet Stag, Or swift Falcon in the air, Can you make good your brag: In the water, too, the Trout Will beat you out and out: You with neither can compare."

The wise man knoweth well, That it is not wisdom's end In all things to pretend,-- But in something to excel.

FABLE XIV.

THE m.u.f.f, THE FAN, AND THE UMBRELLA.

If some absurd presumption show-- In seeking everything to know, To serve but for a single use May also be without excuse.

Upon a table, once, together lay A m.u.f.f, Umbrella, and a Fan.

In dialect such as, in a former day, The Pot unto the Kettle spoke.

The Umbrella silence broke, And to his two companions thus began:

"Now pretty articles are not ye both!

You, m.u.f.f, in winter serve your purpose well; But, when spring comes about, in idle sloth In a dark corner must forgotten dwell.

You, Fan, an useless thing become, in turn, When heat declines in summer's glowing urn,

And cold winds take your office quite away.

Learn now, from me, a broader part to play.

To shield the head from rains of wintry skies, I, as Umbrella, serve the turn; Again, like praise I earn When summer's ardent rays the Parasol defies."

FABLE XV.

THE FROG AND THE TADPOLE.

On Tagus' banks, in artless wonder, A little Tadpole, on a canebrake gazing, Long with its mother chatted of the leaves, Of the huge stalks, and verdure so amazing; But now the air with the fierce tempest heaves, And the rough winds the canebrake rent asunder-- A broken cane into the stream fell over; "Come, look, my child," now said the thoughtful mother, "Without, so strong, luxuriant and smooth-- Within, all pith and emptiness, forsooth!"

If our good Frog some poets' works had read, Perchance, of them she might the same have said.

FABLE XVI.

THE BUSTARD.

The sluggish Bustard, in her foolish pate, Vexed with her young ones' awkward flight, Purposed to raise a brood more light, Even though 't were illegitimate.

For this end many an egg she stole From Partridge, Pigeon and the Kite, And sundry birds of easy flight; And in her nest mixed up the whole.