To hide in reeds, or sneak in rushes; And from their swampy holes, poor little souls! For a long time they dared not peep At the great giant, still asleep. And yet the monarch of the bog Was but a LOG, Whose solemn gravity inspired with awe The first who venturing saw: He hobbled somewhat near, With trembling and with fear; Then others followed, and another yet, Until a crowd there met; At last the daring mob grew bolder, And leaped upon the royal shoulder; Good man, he did not take it ill, But as before kept still. Soon Jupiter is deafened with the din-- "Give us a king who'll move," they all begin. The monarch of the gods sends down a Crane, Who with a vengeance comes to reign. He gobbles and he munches, He sups and lunches; Till louder still the Frogs complain. "Why, see!" great Jupiter replied, "How foolishly you did decide. You'd better kept your first--the last is worst. You must allow, if you are fair, King Log was calm and <i>debonair</i>: With him, then, be ye now content, For fear a third, and worse, be sent." FABLE XL. THE DOG AND HER COMPANION. A Dog, proud of her new-born family, And needing shelter for her restless brood, Begged a snug kennel with such urgency, A generous friend at last was found who would Supply her pressing need--so it was lent. After a week or so the good soul went And asked it back.--"Only a fortnight more:" The little ones could hardly walk as yet; 'Twas kindly granted as before. The second term expired, again they met: The friend demands her house, her room, her bed. This time the graceless Dog showed teeth, and scowled; "I and my children are prepared to go," she growled, "If you can put us out and reign instead." By this time they were grown, And better left alone. Lend to bad men, and you'll regret it much; To draw from them the money right, You must plead, and you must fight, Or else your gold you'll never touch. Only the truth I mean to tell: Give them an inch, they'll take an ell. [Illustration: THE FOX AND THE GRAPES.] FABLE XLI. THE FOX AND THE GRAPES. A Certain hungry Fox, of Gascon breed (Or Norman--but the difference is small), Discovered, looking very ripe indeed, Some Grapes that hung upon an orchard-wall. Striving to clamber up and seize the prey, He found the fruit was not within his power; "Well, well," he muttered, as he walked away, "It's my conviction that those Grapes are sour." The Fox did wisely to accept his lot; 'Twas better than complaining, was it not? FABLE XLII. THE EAGLE AND THE BEETLE.