A blast you feel, I feel a breeze. Had you been born beneath my roof, Wide-spread, of leafage weather-proof, Less had you known your life to tease; I should have sheltered you from storm. But oftenest you rear your form On the moist limits of the realm of wind. Nature, methinks, against you sore has sinned." "Your pity," answers him the Heed, "Bespeaks you kind; but spare your pain; I more than you may winds disdain. I bend, and break not. You, indeed, Against their dreadful strokes till now Have stood, nor tamed your back to bow: But wait we for the end." Scarce had he spoke, When fiercely from the far horizon broke The wildest of the children, fullest fraught With terror, that till then the North had brought. The tree holds good; the reed it bends. The wind redoubled might expends, And so well works that from his bed Him it uproots who nigh to heaven his head Held, and whose feet reached to the kingdom of the dead. In the fable of the "Rat retired from the World," La Fontaine rallies the monks. "With French _finesse_, he hits his mark by expressly avoiding it. "What think you I mean by my disobliging rat? A monk? No, but a Mahometan devotee; I take it for granted that a monk is always ready with his help to the needy!" The sage Levantines have a tale About a rat that weary grew Of all the cares which life assail, And to a Holland cheese withdrew. His solitude was there profound, Extending through his world so round. Our hermit lived on that within; And soon his industry had been With claws and teeth so good, That in his novel heritage, He had in store for wants of age, Both house and livelihood. What more could any rat desire? He grew fat, fair, and round. God's blessings thus redound To those who in his vows retire. One day this personage devout, Whose kindness none might doubt, Was asked, by certain delegates That came from Rat United States, For some small aid, for they To foreign parts were on their way, For succor in the great cat-war: Ratopolis beleaguered sore, Their whole republic drained and poor, No morsel in their scrips they bore. Slight boon they craved, of succor sure In days at utmost three or four. "My friends," the hermit said, "To worldly things I'm dead. How can a poor recluse To such a mission be of use? What can he do but pray That God will aid it on its way? And so, my friends, it is my prayer That God will have you in his care." His well-fed saintship said no more, But in their faces shut the door. What think you, reader, is the service,