As one old comrade would another. "A frugal mouse upon the whole, But loved his friend, and had a soul," And could be free and open-handed, When hospitality demanded. In brief, he did not spare his hoard Of corn and pease, long coyly stored; Raisins he brought, and scraps, to boot, Half-gnawed, of bacon, which he put With his own mouth before his guest, In hopes, by offering his best In such variety, he might Persuade him to an appetite. But still the cit, with languid eye, Just picked a bit, then put it by; Which with dismay the rustic saw, As, stretched upon some stubbly straw, He munched at bran and common grits, Not venturing on the dainty bits. At length the town mouse; "What," says he, "My good friend, can the pleasure be, Of grubbing here, on the backbone Of a great crag with trees o'ergrown? Who'd not to these wild woods prefer The city, with its crowds and stir? Then come with me to town; you'll ne'er Regret the hour that took you there. All earthly things draw mortal breath; Nor great nor little can from death Escape, and therefore, friend, be gay, Enjoy life's good things while you may, Remembering how brief the space Allowed to you in any case." His words strike home; and, light of heart, Behold with him our rustic start, Timing their journey so, they might Reach town beneath the cloud of night, Which was at its high noon, when they To a rich mansion found their way, Where shining ivory couches vied With coverlets in purple dyed, And where in baskets were amassed The wrecks of a superb repast, Which some few hours before had closed. There, having first his friend disposed Upon a purple tissue, straight The city mouse begins to wait With scraps upon his country brother, Each scrap more dainty than another, And all a servant's duty proffers, First tasting everything he offers. The guest, reclining there in state, Rejoices in his altered fate, O'er each fresh tidbit smacks his lips, And breaks into the merriest quips, When suddenly a banging door Shakes host and guest into the floor. Prom room to room they rush aghast, And almost drop down dead at last, When loud through all the house resounds The deep bay of Molossian hounds. "Ho!" cries the country mouse, "this kind Of life is not for me, I find. Give me my woods and cavern! There At least I'm safe! And though both spare And poor my food may be, rebel I never will; so, fare ye well!"'" [1] Many have imitated this passage--none better than Cowley. "Oh fountains! when in you shall I Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy? Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade? Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood, Where all the riches be, that she Has coined and stamped for good." How like is this to Tennyson's--