The Diving Bell | Page 4

as useful; though I should be very sorry if it were not useful, as well as amusing.

[Illustration: THE SPIDER'S INVITATION.]

III.
THE SCHEMING SPIDER.
A FABLE FOR MANY IN GENERAL, AND A FEW IN PARTICULAR.
I.
A bee who had chased after pleasure all day, And homeward was lazily wending his way, Fell in with a Spider, who called to the Bee: "Good evening! I trust you are well," said he.
II.
The bee was quite happy to stop awhile there-- He always had leisure enough and to spare-- "Good day, Mr. Spider," he said, with a bow, "I thank you, I feel rather poorly, just now."
III.
"'Tis nothing but work, with all one's might-- 'Tis nothing but work, from morning till night. I wish I were dead, Mr. Spider; you know I might as well die as to drag along so."
IV.
The Spider pretended to pity the Bee-- For a cunning old hypocrite spider was he-- "I'm sorry to see you so poorly," he said; And he whispered his wife, "He will have to be bled."
V.
"'Tis true sir,"--the knave! every word is a lie-- "That rather than live so, 'twere better to die. 'Twere better to finish the thing, as you say, Than to live till you're old, and die every day.
VI.
"The life that you lead, it may do very well For the beaver's rude hut, or the honey bee's cell; But it never would suit a gay fellow like me. I love to be merry--I love to be free."
VII.
"In hoarding up riches you're wasting your time; And--pray, sir, excuse me--such waste is a crime. And then to be guilty of avarice, too! Alas! how I pity such sinners as you!"
VIII.
Strange, strange that the Bee was so stupid and blind; "Amen!" he exclaimed, "you have spoken my mind; I've been very wicked, I know it, I feel it; The bees have no right to their honey--they steal it.
IX.
"But how in the world shall I manage to live? Should I beg of my friends, not a mite would they give; 'Tis easy enough to be idle and sing, But living on air is a different thing."
X.
Our Spider was silent, and looked very grave-- 'Twas a habit he had, the cunning old knave! No Spider, pursuing his labor of love, Had more of the serpent, or less of the dove.
XI.
At length, "I believe I have hit it," said he; "Walk into my palace, and tarry with me. We spiders know nothing of labor and care; Come in; you are welcome our bounty to share.
XII.
"I live like a king, and my wife like a queen; We wander where flowers are blooming and green, And then on the breast of the lily we lie, And list to the stream running merrily by.
XIII.
"With us you shall mingle in scenes of delight, All summer, all winter, from morn until night, And when 'neath the hills sinks the sun in the west, Your head on a pillow of roses shall rest.
XIV.
"When miserly bees shall return from their toils"-- He winked as he said it--"we'll feast on the spoils; I'll lighten their loads"--said the Bee, "So will I." And the Spider said, "Well, if you live, you may try."
XV.
The Bee did not wait to be urged any more, But nodded his thanks, as he entered the door. "Aha!" said the Spider, "I have you at last!" And he seized the poor fellow, and tied him up fast.
XVI.
The Bee, when aware of his perilous state, Recovered his wit, though a moment too late. "O treacherous Spider! for shame!" said he. "Is it thus you betray a poor innocent Bee?"
XVII.
The cunning old rascal then laughed outright. "My friend!" he said, grinning, "you're in a sad plight. Ha! ha! what a dunce you must be to suppose That the heart of a Spider could pity your woes!
XVIII.
"I never could boast of much honor or shame, Though slightly acquainted with both by name; But I think if the Bees can a brother betray, We Spiders are quite as good people as they.
XIX.
"I guess you have lived long enough, little sinner, And, now, with your leave, I will eat you for dinner. You'll make a good morsel, it must be confessed; And the world, very likely, will pardon the rest."
[Illustration: THE SPIDER'S TRIUMPH.]
MORAL.
This lesson for every one, little and great, Is taught in that vagabond's tragical fate: Of him who is scheming your friend to ensnare, Unless you've a passion for bleeding, beware!

IV.
GENIUS IN THE BUD.
Genius, in its infancy, sometimes puts on a very funny face. The first efforts of a painter are generally rude enough. So are those of a poet, or any other artist. I have often wished I might see the first picture that such a man as Titian, or Rubens, or Reynolds, or West, ever drew. It would interest me much, and, I suspect, would provoke a