Had seized the covey. One commences-- "He said himself, at early morn, His friends he'd call to reap the corn." The old Lark said--"If that is all, My worthy children, keep your senses; No hurry till the first rows fall. We'll not go yet, dismiss all fear, To-morrow keep an open ear; Here's dinner ready, now be gay." They ate and slept the time away. The morn arrives to wake the sleepers, Aurora comes, but not the reapers. The Lark soars up: and on his round The farmer comes to view his ground. "This wheat," he said, "ought not to stand; Our friends are wrong no helping hand To give, and we are wrong to trust Such lazy fools for half a crust, Much less for labour. Sons," he cried, "Go, call our kinsmen on each side, We'll go to work." The little Lark Grew more afraid. "Now, mother, mark, The work within an hour's begun." The mother answered--"Sleep, my son; We will not leave our house to-night." Well, no one came; the bird was right. The third time came the master by: "Our error's great," he said, repentantly: "No friend is better than oneself; Remember that, my boy, it's worth some pelf. Now what to do? Why, I and you Must whet our sickles and begin; That is the shortest way, I see; I know at last the surest plan: We'll make our harvest as we can." No sooner had the Lark o'erheard-- "'Tis time to flit, my children; come," Cried out the very prudent bird. Little and big went fluttering, rising, Soaring in a way surprising, And left without a beat of drum. FABLE LXIX. THE FLY AND THE ANT.