_Peabody._ At last the ghost paused close beside a four-year-old Hereford steer. It had won the first prize and a silver medal. “How are you?” said Æsop, laying his hand upon the beast. “Choking; wellnigh gone,” answered the steer. “Did you ever see such a beast as I am in all your days? And this is what the stupidity and vaingloriousness of man have brought me to!” “Foolish wretch!” cried Æsop, “how was it you gorged so much? Couldn’t you restrain your appetite?” “Impossible!” said the steer. “I had taken no temperance pledge against oil-cake: I hadn’t vowed to keep to grass, with now and then a mouthful of turnips; no. And so when they put the cake, and the mangold-wurzel, and the Swedes, and the meal, and the cabbages before me, I did no more than what men do with port and sherry, and brandy and gin, upon the table: I took all I could swallow, though I felt I was making a greater beast of myself every minute.” “Poor wretch!” said Æsop again; “however, I’m glad you feel the degradation. Still, there’s one comfort for you--yes, one consolation; like a glutton and wine-drinker with gout in his stomach, you’ll die a prize beast.” “As for dying,” said the steer, in a small asthmatic voice--“As for dying--but I beg your pardon, great Æsop!--would you allow me to lie down in your presence? for I feel my legs are cracking under my fat.” Æsop, with his old benevolence, nodded assent; and the poor beast, after much wheezing and groaning laid itself down again, and resumed its talk. “As for dying, life’s a burden to me; and I’m sure of it, I shall smile at the butcher. You can’t think I’ve any comfort in the gluttony that’s been forced upon me. As for this stalling and over-feeding, what is it all to a sweet rational mouthful of summer grass, with now and then a cabbage or two, a gentle walk about the pastures, and at the heat of noon a foot-bath in the pond, away from the flies under the shade of a willow? That’s wholesome life; and makes good, honest beef--beef that’s a credit to the plum-pudding and horse-radish. And now I’ve a whole tallow-chandler’s stock upon my ribs and back, and the taste of unprofitable fat in my mouth. Look at me,” and the animal languidly flourished its tail--“Look at me, you who know what steers and oxen ought to be, and say if nature isn’t outraged and violated in my person. I’m at the best a filthy unnatural curiosity--a monster fattened by the conceit of man--and not a decent beast fit for a decent table. I’m a mountain, and not a comely animal.” _Tickle._ Well, upon my life! a very sensible beast indeed. _Peabody._ Don’t interrupt me. “Well,” says Æsop, shaking his head, “I’m not given to compliments; and I must say it, you are a fat, filthy, nasty-looking beast indeed. And then, again, how much respectable beef might have been bred and properly fattened with the food that has been thrown away--for it’s no better--upon you!” _Tickle._ And I should like to know what the brute had to answer to that.