He said: "The case is hard, I must allow;
Take you these hundred Crowns, and carefully
Keep them laid by against a time of dearth."
This glorious sum to the poor soul appears
The total treasure that the bounteous Earth
Has in a hundred years
Produced. The Man of Mirth
Goes home, and in his cellar buries deep
The Crowns,—and with them all his peace of mind.
No singing now; his one thought is to keep
Securely that which troubles so Mankind.
Instead of his light sleep,
Dark fancies fill his breast,
Fears, false alarms, the tortures of unrest.
All day his eye is on the watch; all night
His ear is on the strain;
Suspicions rack his brain.
To save himself from going mad outright.
He runs to him his singing wakes no more:
"Ah, Sir," he cries, "my sleep, my songs restore
And take your Crowns again!"
(La Fontaine, Fables, Vol. VI] I, No. 2. Translated by Paul Hookham.)
ONE day a Rat, the smallest of his race,
Observed a mighty Elephant pass by
With all his Equipage, at solemn pace.
Upon the Creature's back, three stories high.
