Literary Fables of Yriarte Part 15

As an unpractised urchin lessons took In dancing, of a veteran of the ring, On slack or tight rope,--it is all one thing,-- The youngster said,--"Good master, prithee, look; How this great staff bothers and wearies me, Which you call balance-pole or counterpoise!

In rope-dancing, what use one can devise For such a clumsy load, I cannot see.

Why should you wish my motions so to fetter?

I lack not strength, nor yet activity.

For instance, now--this step and posture--see If I, without the pole, can't do it better.

Look, master, there's not one whit of trouble in it."

As he says this, he throws the pole away-- "What's coming now? What are you doing, pray?"

He's flat upon his back in half a minute!

"At your best friend you grumble--silly wretch,"-- The master said,--"and if you choose to scout The aid of art and method,--you'll find out This is not the last tumble you will catch."

FABLE LXI.

THE OWL AND THE TOAD.

A red Owl was sitting quietly Up in his hole, in a hollow tree, Where he chanced to catch the curious eye Of a great Toad that was hopping by.

"Holloa, up there, Sir Solitary!"-- Spoke out the Toad, with accent merry,-- "Poke out your head, and let us see, Handsome or ugly, whether you be."

"I have never set up for an elegant beau,"-- Answered the Owl to the Toad below.

"To attempt by daylight to make a great show, Will hardly do for me--well I know.

"And for you, my good sir,--displaying your grace So jauntily now, in the day's broad face,-- Don't you think it would far better be, If you hid in another hole, like me?"

Alas! how few of us authors live By the good advice the Owl doth give!

All the nonsense we write, get printed we must; Although, to the world, it be dry as the dust.

The lesson, my comrades, is good--let us learn it It often would be much better to burn it.

But conspicuous toads we rather would be, Than modest owls in our own hollow tree.

FABLE LXII.

THE OIL-MERCHANT'S a.s.s.

Once on a time, an a.s.s,-- An Oilman's hack,-- Bearing upon his back A huge skin filled with oil, With foot o'er-worn by toil, Into his stable sought to pa.s.s; But, stumbling, struck his nose The cruellest of blows Upon the door's projecting clamp.

"Now, is it not a shame,"-- Poor Donkey did exclaim,-- "That I, who every day Carry tuns of oil, my way Into my own stable cannot find, More than if I were stone-blind, For want of one poor lamp?"

Much I fear, that those who glory In buying books they never read, Fare as ill,-- And deserve no more;--but, if they will Grow wiser, let them heed this story.

FABLE LXIII.

THE CONNOISSEURS.

A quarrel rose, both long and loud, A well-stocked wine-cellar within, Where wine-bibbers--a goodly crowd-- Tasted and argued, talked and sipped again.

The occasion was, that many tried Veterans their voices did combine, With obstinacy, rude and flagrant, That no such drinks our times supplied, No such delicious, luscious wine, As days gone by--so generous, fine, So ripe, so mellow and so fragrant.

In the opinion of the rest, The later wines were deemed the best.

Their opponents' theory they abuse; Their notion termed exaggeration,-- Mere trashy, idle declamation Picked up from interested Jews, Who glosing tales for cheatery use.

Of either side the rabid hum The cellar filled to overflowing; When an old toper chanced to come-- A famous connoisseur and knowing.

Said he then,--letting slip an oath,-- "By jolly Bacchus, the divine,"-- Among such worthies 'tis a strong one-- "Better than I, for choice of wine, No one is fitted, by my troth, To tell the right one from the wrong one.

So cease, good friends, your idle din.

You see that I am from Navarre.

In cask, or bottle, jug or skin, Hogshead or tub, or earthen jar, I've tasted of the juice of grape, Of every kind, in every shape.

To taste, distinguish and to judge, And surely to lay down the law, In any vintage, I'll not grudge, From Xeres' plains to Tudela.

From Malaga unto Peralta, From the Canary Isles to Malta, From Valdepenas to Oporto, Their wines I know--and many more, too.

I tell you now, 'tis folly great To think that every cask of wine, Which on its head bears ancient date, By age will mellow and refine.

Time cannot make the poor wine good; If mean it was, in its first hour, It will be washy still and crude, In nothing changed, but turning sour.

Worth no jot more this hour, you know, Than vinegar a century ago.

New wines, from time to time, there are,-- Though some despise for being new,-- Which very safely may compare With any wines that ever grew.

Those you despise--although surpa.s.sed, Occasionally, in times long past, By certain vintages--yet may Tickle the palates of a future day.

Enough--to settle the dispute-- Bad wine I hold in low repute, And ever do eschew.

But when 'tis good, I drain the flask; And never vex myself to ask, If it be old or new."

Many a learned bore Keeps up a constant bother; One praising ancient lore-- Modern alone, another.

By no such foolish question vexed, I take the jolly toper's text; The good, whate'er it is, I use; The bad, without a word, refuse.

FABLE LXIV.

THE FROG AND THE HEN.

Once on a time, a noisy Frog Heard a Hen cackling near his bog; "Begone!" said he; "your clamor rude Disturbs our quiet neighborhood.

What's all this shocking fuss about, I beg?"-- "Nothing, dear sir, but that I've laid an egg."

"A single egg! and therefore such a rout?"--

"Yes, neighbor Frog, a single egg, I say.

Are you so troubled, when I'm not put out To hear your croaking all the night and day?