Part 27 (2/2)
Says the Peasant: ”On such and such a day, I missed two of my fowls early in the morning. Nothing was left of them but bones and leathers; and no one had been in the yard but the Sheep.”
Then the Sheep depones that it was fast asleep all the night in question, and it calls all its neighbours to testify that they had never known it guilty either of theft or any roguery; and besides this, it states that it never touches flesh-meat.
Here is the Fox's decision, word for word:
”The explanation of the Sheep cannot, under any circ.u.mstances, be accepted, for all rogues are notoriously clever at concealing their real designs; and it appears manifest, on due inquiry, that, on the aforesaid night, the Sheep was not separated from the fowls. Fowls are exceedingly savoury, and opportunity favoured. Therefore I decide, according to my conscience, that it is impossible that the Sheep should have forborne to eat the fowls. The Sheep shall accordingly be put to death. Its carca.s.s shall be given to the court, and its fleece be taken by the Plaintiff.”
The Elephant in Favour
Once upon a time the Elephant stood high in the good graces of the Lion. The forest immediately began to talk of the matter, and, as usual, many guesses were made as to the means by which the Elephant had gained such favour.
”It is no beauty,” say the beasts to each other, ”and it is not amusing; and what habits it has! what manners!”
Says the Fox, whisking about his brush, ”If it had possessed such a bushy tail as mine, I should not have wondered.”
”Or, sister,” says the Bear, ”if it had gotten into favour on account of its claws, no one would have found the matter at all extraordinary; but it has no claws at all, as we all know well.”
”Isn't it its tusks that have gotten it into favour?” thus the Ox broke in upon their conversation. ”Haven't they, perhaps, been mistaken for horns.”
”Is it possible,” said the a.s.s, shaking its ears, ”that you don't know how it has succeeded in making itself liked, and in becoming distinguished? Why, I have guessed the reason! If it hadn't been remarkable for its long ears, it would never in the world have gotten into favour.”
The Sword-blade
The keen blade of a Sword, made of Damascus steel, which had been thrown aside on a heap of old iron, was sent to market with the other pieces of metal, and sold for a trifle to a Moujik. Now, a Moujik's ideas move in a narrow circle. He immediately set to work to turn the blade to account. Our Moujik fitted a handle to the blade, and began to strip lime-trees in the forest with it, of the bark he wanted for shoes, while at home he unceremoniously splintered fir chips with it.
Sometimes, also, he would lop off twigs with it, or small branches for mending his wattled fences, or would shape stakes with it for his garden paling. And the result was that, before the year was out, our blade was notched and rusted from one end to the other, and the children used to ride astride of it. So one day a Hedgehog, which was lying under a bench in the cottage, close by the spot where the blade had been flung, said to it:
”Tell me, what do you think of this life of yours? If there is any truth in all the fine things that are said about Damascus steel, you surely must be ashamed of having to splinter fir chips, and square stakes, and of being turned, at last, into a plaything for children.”
But the Sword-blade replied:
”In the hands of a warrior, I should have been a terror to the foe; but here my special faculties are of no avail. So in this house I am turned to base uses only. But am I free to choose my employment? No, not I, but he, ought to be ashamed who could not see for what I was fit to be employed.”
The Cuckoo and the Turtle-dove
A Cuckoo sat on a bough, bitterly complaining.
”Why art thou so sad, dear friend?” sympathizingly cooed the Turtle-dove to her, from a neighbouring twig. ”Is it because spring has pa.s.sed away from us, and love with it; that the sun has sunk lower, and that we are nearer to the winter?”
”How can I help grieving, unhappy one that I am?” replied the Cuckoo: ”thou shalt thyself be the judge. This spring my love was a happy one, and, after a while, I became a mother. But my offspring utterly refused even to recognize me. Was it such a return that I expected from them? And how can I help being envious when I see how ducklings crowd around their mother--how chickens hasten to the hen when she calls to them. Just like an orphan I sit here, utterly alone, and know not what filial affection means.”
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