Æsop describes, as he's well able, A Peasant, wise and charitable, Who, walking on a winter day Around his farm, found by the way A snake extended on the snow, Frozen and numb--half dead, you know. He lifts the beast, with friendly care, And takes him home to warmer air-- Not thinking what reward would be Of such an unwise charity. Beside the hearth he stretches him, Warms and revives each frozen limb. The creature scarcely feels the glow, Before its rage begins to flow: First gently raised its head, and rolled Its swelling body, fold on fold; Then tried to leap, and spring, and bite Its benefactor;--was that right? "Ungrateful!" cried the man; "then I Will give you now your due--you die!" With righteous anger came the blow From the good axe. It struck, and, lo! Two strokes--three snakes--its body, tail, And head; and each, without avail, Trying to re-unite in vain, They only wriggle in long pain. It's good to lavish charity; But then on whom? Well, that's just it. As for ungrateful men, they die In misery, and as 'tis fit. FABLE CXIV. THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE. It's not enough that you run fleet; Start early,--that's the way to beat. The Tortoise said unto the Hare, "I'll bet you, free, and frank, and fair, You do not reach a certain place So soon as I, though quick your pace." "So soon?" the nimble creature cries; "Take physic for your brains;--be wise"-- "Fool or no fool, I make the bet." The bet is made, the stakes are set; But who the sporting judges were Is neither your nor my affair. Our Hare had but a bound to make, From him the swiftest hounds to shake. They run themselves almost to death, Yet he is scarcely out of breath; Plenty of time for him to browse, To sleep, and then again to rouse; Or boldly turn the while he's going, And mark which way the wind is blowing. Careless, he lets the Tortoise pace, Grave as a senator. To race With such a thing is but disgrace. She, in the meanwhile, strives and strains, And takes most meritorious pains; Slow, yet unceasing. Still the Hare Holds it a very mean affair To start too soon; but when, at last, The winning-post is almost past By his dull rival, then, 'tis true, He quicker than the arrow flew. Alas! his efforts failed to win, The Tortoise came the first one in. "Well," she said then, "now, was I right? What use was all your swiftness: light I held your speed, and won the prize; Where would you be, can you surmise, If with my house upon your shoulders, You tried to startle all beholders?" FABLE CXV. THE SICK LION AND THE FOX.