Krilof was a journalist, and wrote a number of dramas, both in tragedy and comedy, before turning his attention to fables. It is on these latter that his claim to distinction rests. He rose to high eminence in his native country, where his name is a household word; he was patronized by royalty, and beloved by the common people, and at his death a monument to his memory was erected in the Summer Garden at St. Petersburg. The following translation of Krilof's beautiful fable of _The Leaves and the Roots_ is from a brilliant article in _Fraser's Magazine_ for February, 1839: ''Twas on a sunny summer day, Exulting in the flickering shade They cast athwart the greensward glade, The leaves, a fluttering host, Thus 'gan their worth to boast, And to each other say: "Is it not we That deck the tree-- Its stem and branches all array In verdant pomp and vigorous grace? Deprived of us, how altered were their case! Is it not we who form the grateful screen Of foliage and luxuriant green, Welcome to traveller and to swain? Yes! we may be deeméd vain, But we it is whose charms invite Youths and maidens to the grove; And we it is, too, who at night Shelter in her retired alcove The songstress of the woods, whose strain Wafts music over dale and plain! In us the zephyrs most rejoice: Our emerald beauty to caress, On silken wings they fondly press!" "Most true; but yet You ought not to forget We too exist," replied a voice That issued from the earth; "We sure possess some little worth." "And who are ye? where do ye grow?" "Buried are we here below, Deep in the ground. 'Tis we who nourish The stem and you, and make you flourish: For understand, we are the roots From whom the tree itself upshoots: 'Tis we by whom you thrive-- From whom your beauty ye derive; Unlike to you, we are not fair, Nor dwell we in the upper air; Yet do we not, like you, decay-- Winter tears us not away. Ye fall, yet still remains the tree; But should it chance that _we_ Once cease to live, adieu Both to the tree, fair leaves, and you!"' As an example of his ironical humour we give a prose translation, by Mr. Ralston, of his fable _The Geese_: 'A peasant, with a long rod in his hand, was driving some geese to a town where they were to be sold; and, to tell the truth, he did not treat them over-politely. In hopes of making a good bargain, he was hastening on so as not to lose the market-day (and when gain is concerned, geese and men alike are apt to suffer). I do not blame the peasant; but the geese talked about him in a different spirit, and, whenever they met any passers-by, abused him to them in such terms as these: