A pair of black wings and a darksome claw, Which pierced through his face where 'twas peeled and raw. "O joyful," he thought, "if this crow devours The tormentors of these distracted hours! Once rid of these plagues I could rot with ease; They tickle far worse than a thousand fleas!" But the carrion crows preferred hot meat To such reptile food, and began to eat, And piece after piece from his cheek they tore,-- Such torture he felt he could scarce endure; So he said, "Good crow, if you'll raise your claw, No fish I'll entice from the cool stream more. The worms in their holes shall be safe, I'm sure; While the dryest of crusts with pleasure I'll gnaw, And won't dream of a trout though I'm hungry sore." "We'll grant your request," said the crow; "but mind, If ever you fishing we chance to find, If ever maltreating the smallest worm, Or to the least item prove aught but firm, We'll soon all come back, and will with us bring The adder to bite with his poisoned sting; The earwig on those dull brains to prey Which scattered within your pate may stray; While your eyes I shall pick out as dainty food, As a bit of a snack for my unfledged brood." Yes, he now has enough of experience bought To teach him to give o'er such cruel sport. As thus spake the crow, Her wings to and fro She waved, and told the worms to go. "He's our lawful prey, Now he's dead," said they: "He'll get so tough by a future day." But without a word more She uplifted her claw And swept them all off from his face and breast. While the breath from her wings Such happiness brings That, gaping and snoring, he sank to rest. But 'twas short, though sweet, like a donkey's trot-- He woke, not refreshed, but dreadfully hot, When he found why such visions his fancies fill,-- He had fallen asleep near an old ant hill. And the ants while he slept Had over him crept, Into his shoes, And down his neck; Wherever they chose-- For little they reck What mischief they do: Now the master's out, They run each room through, And frolic about.