Fables for the Frivolous | Page 5

Javanese,
He might have been a Jap dog,
And
also neither one of these,
But just a common lapdog,
The kind that
people send, you know,
Done up in cotton, to the Show.
At all events, whate'er his race,
The pretty girl who owned him

Caressed his unattractive face
And petted and cologned him,
While,
watching her with mournful eye,
A patient ass stood silent by.
"If thus," he mused, "the feminine
And fascinating gender
Is led to
love, I, too, can win
Her protestations tender."
And then the poor,
misguided chap
Sat down upon the lady's lap.
Then, as her head with terror swam,
"This method seems to suit you,"

Observed the ass, "so here I am."
Said she, "Get up, you brute
you!"
And promptly screamed aloud for aid:
No ass was ever more
dismayed.
[Illustration: "SAID SHE, 'GET UP, YOU BRUTE YOU!'"]
They took the ass into the yard
And there, with whip and truncheon,

They beat him, and they beat him hard,
From breakfast-time till
luncheon.
He only gave a tearful gulp,
Though almost pounded to a
pulp.

THE MORAL is (or seems, at least,
To be): In etiquette you
Will
find that while enough's a feast
A surplus will upset you.
Toujours,
toujours la politesse, if
The quantity be not excessive.
THE VAINGLORIOUS OAK
AND
THE MODEST BULRUSH
A bulrush stood on a river's rim,
And an oak that grew near by

Looked down with cold hauteur on him,
And addressed him this way:
"Hi!"
The rush was a proud patrician, and
He retorted, "Don't you
know,
What the veriest boor should understand,
That 'Hi' is low?"
This cutting rebuke the oak ignored.
He returned, "My slender friend,

I will frankly state that I'm somewhat bored
With the way you bow
and bend."
"But you quite forget," the rush replied,
"It's an art these
bows to do,
An art I wouldn't attempt if I'd
Such boughs as you."
"Of course," said the oak, "in my sapling days
My habit it was to bow,

But the wildest storm that the winds could raise
Would never
disturb me now.
I challenge the breeze to make me bend,
And the
blast to make me sway."
The shrewd little bulrush answered, "Friend,
Don't get so gay."
And the words had barely left his mouth
When he saw the oak turn
pale,
For, racing along south-east-by-south,
Came ripping a raging
gale.
And the rush bent low as the storm went past,
But stiffly stood

the oak,
Though not for long, for he found the blast
No idle joke.

Imagine the lightning's gleaming bars,
Imagine the thunder's roar,

For that is exactly what eight stars
Are set in a row here for!
The
oak lay prone when the storm was done,
While the rush, still quite
erect,
Remarked aside, "What under the sun
Could one expect?"
And THE MORAL, I'd have you understand,
Would have made La
Fontaine blush,
For it's this: Some storms come early, and
Avoid the rush!
THE INHUMAN WOLF
AND
THE LAMB SANS GENE
A gaunt and relentless wolf, possessed
Of a quite insatiable thirst,

Once paused at a stream to drink and rest,
And found that, bound on a
similar quest,
A lamb had arrived there first.
The lamb was a lamb of a garrulous mind
And frivolity most extreme:

In the fashion common to all his kind,
He cantered in front and
galloped behind.
And troubled the limpid stream.
"My friend," said the wolf, with a winsome air,
"Your capers I can't
admire."
"Go to!" quoth the lamb. (Though he said not where,
He
showed what he meant by his brazen stare
And the way that he
gambolled higher.)

"My capers," he cried, "are the kind that are
Invariably served with
lamb.
Remember, this is a public bar,
And I'll do as I please. If your
drink I mar,
I don't give a tinker's ----."
He paused and glanced at the rivulet,
And that pause than speech was
worse,
For his roving eye a saw-mill met,
And, near it, the word
which should be set
At the end of the previous verse.
Said the wolf: "You are tough and may bring remorse,
But of such is
the world well rid.
I've swallowed your capers, I've swallowed your
sauce,
And it's plain to be seen that my only course
Is swallowing
you." He did.
THE MORAL: The wisest lambs they are
Who, when they're assailed
by thirst,
Keep well away from a public bar;
For of all black sheep,
or near, or far,
The public bar-lamb's worst!
THE SYCOPHANTIC FOX
AND
THE GULLIBLE RAVEN
A raven sat upon a tree,
And not a word he spoke, for
His beak
contained a piece of Brie,
Or, maybe, it was Roquefort:
We'll make
it any kind you please--
At all events, it was a cheese.
Beneath the tree's umbrageous limb
A hungry fox sat smiling;
He
saw the raven watching him,
And spoke in words beguiling.

"J'admire_," said he, "_ton beau plumage."
(The which was simply
persiflage.)
Two things there are, no doubt you know,
To which a fox is used:

A rooster that is bound to crow,
A crow that's bound to roost,
And
whichsoever he espies
He tells the most unblushing lies.

"Sweet fowl," he said, "I understand
You're more than merely natty,

I hear you sing to beat the band
And Adelina Patti.
Pray render
with your liquid tongue
A bit from 'Gotterdammerung.'"
This subtle speech was