Literary Fables of Yriarte Part 11

While this was going on within the inn, A certain stranger, newly come to court,-- A clown, that would a modish life begin,-- Did to a cutler for a sword resort.

The cutler saw that, for the case in hand, The sword was but an idle ornament; And, if the hilt could but inspection stand, No matter what the blade might be--so sent His b.o.o.by customer, for the time, away;-- "A sword should ready be another day."

The rogue, then, takes an old and battered spit, Which, in his kitchen, service long had done; He cleans, and polishes, and sharpens it; And sells it to the unsuspecting clown,-- In such transactions miserably raw,-- For the good sword of Thomas d'Ayala.

An arrant knave, as gallows e'er did cure,-- The innkeeper as great a blockhead,--sure.

With equal knavery and stupidity, May not we charge these vile translators Who, with their works, in wretched rivalry, We see infesting all the world of Letters?

One, with bad versions, famous writers fits-- Thus turning n.o.ble swords to vulgar spits.

Another clothes vile works in sounding words; Then, seeks to sell his spits for trusty swords.

FABLE XLV.

THE UNFORTUNATES.

A man who, from his birth, was dumb And deafer than a mole, Some trifle to arrange was set With a blind man, cheek by jowl.

The blind man spoke by signs Which the mute did plainly mark; When, in like way, he said his say, His friend was in the dark.

In this odd predicament, They, for friendly aid, accost A pa.s.sing comrade of them both, Who his right arm had lost.

The gestures of the mute He explained in language good; And the blind man, from his mouth, The whole matter understood.

To close this curious scene And conference singular, A contract it behoved Of the bargain to prepare.

"Friends,"--said the one-armed man--, "I must here give up the task; But the schoolmaster will come And write it, if you ask."

"How can a cripple lame,"-- Said the blind man,--"hither come?

Why, he can hardly stir.

We must go to him at home."

The cripple then the compact To paper did transfer; The blind and maimed man dictate; The mute was messenger.

For this purpose any two Were enough,--and even more.

But, of such a hapless crew, It took no less than four.

Were it not that in Alcarria, A little while ago.

This very matter happened,-- As a thousand gossips know,-- It might have been surmised That, some one contrived the story, To hit off the plan devised By weak aspirants for glory, Who club their pens and brains Some wondrous work to try, By their united pains, Which would each alone defy.

FABLE XLVI.

THE c.o.c.kS.

A c.o.c.k, that was well known As a champion brave and stout, And a Chicken but half grown Squabbled something about,-- But what, to me's unknown,-- And, after furious din, At last got up a very pretty battle; In which the chick such fight did show, And the old one around so sharply rattle, That, with a loud, exultant crow, He claimed the honors of the field to win.

Then the seraglio's vanquished lord,-- His rival out of hearing of his tongue,-- Said, "Ah! in time he'll make a pretty bird, But, now, poor fellow, he is very young."

No more he dared himself to match With the young hero; but again With an old c.o.c.k he had a scratch,-- Of many fights, a veteran,-- Who hardly left him plume or crest.

Whereon he muttered to the rest, "The fine old fellow!--surely it would be Unfair to thrash so old a chap as he."

Let him that will in strife engage On any question literary, Pay less attention to the age Than talents of his adversary.

FABLE XLVII.

THE MONKEY AND THE MAGPIE.

To her friend, the crafty Monkey, Said a Magpie,--"If you'll go With me unto my dwelling, I've some pretty things to show.

For, sure you know, I've skill A thousand things to steal.

You shall see them, if you will, Where I my h.o.a.rd conceal In my chest." Replied her friend: "I'll wait on you with pleasure."

So their course forthwith they bend To see the Magpie's treasure.

And there, my lady Magpie Proceeded to produce, First, an old colored garter, Then a hoop that ladies use,-- Two petty coins, a buckle, Of a knife a shabby handle, A blade of broken scissors, And a little bit of candle, The battered tip of scabbard Worn out in ancient war, A sc.r.a.p of gauze and half a comb, Three pegs of a guitar,-- With an endless lot of knick-knacks, That good for nothing were.

"What think you now, friend Monkey?

Don't you envy me my pelf?

Upon my word, no other bird Is so wealthy as myself."

A shrewd grimace the Monkey made, And to Magpie answered she: "This is all an idle story, And your wealth mere trumpery.

In your faithful chest you bury Every petty, straggling waif; Not that they all are worth a groat, But because it keeps them safe.

Look at my jaws, dear gossip; You see, beneath them here, I have two nice snug magazines, Or chops, if you prefer.

These I contract at pleasure, Or expand them, when I please.

What I like, I eat at leisure,-- And the residue in these I stow, there safely to remain Till I shall hungry be again.

Old rags and wretched rubbish You, foolish bird, lay by; Sweet nuts and tender filberts, And racy sweetmeats--I,-- Meat, and whatever else is good, In time of need, to serve as food."

Shall the Monkey's lecture shrewd To the Magpie only go?

The advice, I think, is good For those who make a show Of a medley incoherent, Where no meaning is apparent.

FABLE XLVIII.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE SPARROW.