[Illustration: THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES.]
Had seized the covey. One commences-- "He said himself, at early morn, His friends he'd call to reap the corn." The old Lark said--"If that is all, My worthy children, keep your senses; No hurry till the first rows fall. We'll not go yet, dismiss all fear, To-morrow keep an open ear; Here's dinner ready, now be gay." They ate and slept the time away. The morn arrives to wake the sleepers, Aurora comes, but not the reapers. The Lark soars up: and on his round The farmer comes to view his ground. "This wheat," he said, "ought not to stand; Our friends are wrong no helping hand To give, and we are wrong to trust Such lazy fools for half a crust, Much less for labour. Sons," he cried, "Go, call our kinsmen on each side, We'll go to work." The little Lark Grew more afraid. "Now, mother, mark, The work within an hour's begun." The mother answered--"Sleep, my son; We will not leave our house to-night." Well, no one came; the bird was right. The third time came the master by: "Our error's great," he said, repentantly: "No friend is better than oneself; Remember that, my boy, it's worth some pelf. Now what to do? Why, I and you Must whet our sickles and begin; That is the shortest way, I see; I know at last the surest plan: We'll make our harvest as we can." No sooner had the Lark o'erheard-- "'Tis time to flit, my children; come," Cried out the very prudent bird. Little and big went fluttering, rising, Soaring in a way surprising, And left without a beat of drum.
The Fly and Ant once quarrelled seriously: "O Jupiter!" the first exclaimed, "how vanity Blinds the weak mind! This mean and crawling thing Actually ventures to compare With me, the daughter of the air. The palace I frequent, and on the board I taste the ox before our sovereign lord; While this poor paltry creature lives for days On the small straw she drags through devious ways. Come, Mignon, tell me plainly now, Do you camp ever on a monarch's brow, Or on a beauty's cheek? Well, I do so,-- And on her bosom, too, I'd have you know. I sport among her curls; I place Myself upon her blooming face. The ladies bound for conquest go To us for patches; their necks' snow With spots of blackness well contrast, Of all her toilette cares the last. Come, now, good fellow, rack your brain, And let us hear of sense some grain." "Well, have you done?" replied the Ant. "You haunt king's palaces, I grant; But then, by every one you're cursed. It's very likely you taste first The gods' own special sacred feast: Nor is it better, sir, for that. The fane you enter, with the train-- So do the godless and profane. On heads of kings or dogs, 'tis plain, You settle freely when not wanted, And you are punished often--granted. You talk of patches on a belle, I, too, should patch them just as well. The name your vanity delights, Frenchmen bestow on parasites; Cease, then, to be so grossly vain, Your aspirations, Miss, restrain; Your namesakes are exiled or hung, And you with famine will be clung. With cold and freezing misery, Will come your time of penury, When our King Phœbus goes to cheer And rule the other hemisphere: But I shall live upon my store, My labours for the summer o'er, Nor over mountains and seas go, Through storm and rain, and drifting snow; No sorrow near me will alloy The fulness of the present joy; Past trouble bars out future care, True not false glory is our share; And this I wish to show to you-- Time flies, and I must work. Adieu! This idle chattering will not fill My little granary and till."