The Original Fables of La Fontaine | Page 7

from her
little dairy-farm with a pail of milk which she cleverly balanced upon
her head over a pad or cushion. She hurried with sprightly steps to the
market town, and so that she might be the less encumbered, wore a
kirtle that was short and light--in truth a simple petticoat--and shoes
low and easy. As she went, her thoughts ran upon the price to be gained
for her milk, and she schemed a way to lay out the sum in the purchase
of one hundred eggs. She was sure that with care and diligence these
would yield three broods. "It would be quite easy to me," she said, "to
raise the chicks near the house. The fox would be clever who would not
leave me enough to buy one pig. A pig would fatten at the cost of a
little bran, and when he had grown a fair size I should make a bargain
of him for a good round sum. And then, considering the price he will
fetch, what is to prevent my putting into our stable a cow and a calf? I
can fancy how the calf will frisk about among the sheep!" Thereupon
Perrette herself frisked for joy, transported with the picture of her
affluence. Over toppled the milk! Adieu to calf and cow and pig and
broods! This lady of wealth had to leave, with tearful eyes, her
dissipated fortunes, and go straight to her husband framing excuses to
avoid a beating.
[Illustration: Overtoppled the milk.]
The farce became known to the whole countryside, and people called
Perrette by the name of "Milkpail" ever after.
Who has never talked wildly? Who has never built castles in Spain?
Wise men as well as milkmaids; sages and fools, all have waking
dreams and find them sweet! Our senses are carried away by some
flattering falsehood, and then wealth, honours, and beauty seem ours to
command.
Alone with my thoughts I challenge the bravest. I dethrone monarchs
and the people rejoicing crown me instead, showering diadems upon
my head. Then lo! a little accident happens to bring me back to my
senses, and I am Poor Jack as before.

XI
THE PRIEST AND THE CORPSE
(BOOK VII.--No. 11)

There was a funeral. The dead body was progressing sadly towards its
last resting place; and following rather gladly, was the priest who
meant to bury it as soon as possible.
The dead man, in a leaden coffin, was borne in a coach, and was
properly shrouded in that robe the dead always wear be it summer or
winter. As for the priest, he sat near it, intoning as hard as he could all
sorts of orisons, psalms, lessons, verses, and responses, in the hope that
the more he gave the more would be paid for. "Leave it to me, Mr.
Deadman," his actions seemed to say. "I'll give you a nice selection; a
little of everything. It's only a matter of fees, you know." And the Rev.
John Crow kept his eye on his silent charge as if he expected some one
would make off with it. "Mr. Deadman," his looks proclaimed, "by you
I shall receive so and so much in money, so and so much in wax
candles, and, possibly, a little more in incidental profits.
On the strength of these calculations he promised himself a
quarter-cask of the best wine the neighbourhood could offer. Beyond
that he settled that a certain very attractive niece of his, as well as his
housekeeper Paquette, should both have new dresses.
Whilst these pleasant and generous thoughts were running in his mind
there came a terrific shock. The car overturned. The Rev. John Crow's
head was broken by the coffin which fell upon him. Alas for the poor
priest! he went to heaven with the parishioner he thought only to bury.
In reality, life over and over again is nothing but the fate of the Rev.
John Crow who counted on his dead, and of Perrette who counted on
her chickens.

XII
THE MAN WHO RAN AFTER FORTUNE AND THE MAN WHO
WAITED FOR HER IN HIS BED
(BOOK VII.--No. 12)
Who does not run after Fortune?
I would I were in some spot whence I could watch the eager crowds
rushing from kingdom to kingdom in their vain chase after the daughter
of Chance!
They are indeed but faithful followers of a phantom; for when they
think they have her, lo! she is gone! Poor wretches! One must pity
rather than blame their foolishness. "That man," they say with sanguine

voice, "raised cabbages; and now he is Pope! Are we not as good as
he?" Ah! yes! a hundred times as good perhaps; but what of that?
Fortune has no eyes for all your merit. Besides, is Papacy, after