An Eagle was sitting on a branch with a Kite, in sorrowful mood. “Why,” {said} the Kite, “do I see you with such a melancholy air?” “I am looking out,” said she, “for a mate suited to myself, and cannot find one.” “Take me,” {said the Kite}, “who am so much stronger than you.” “Well, are you able to get a living by what you can carry away?” “Many’s the time that I have seized and carried off an ostrich in my talons.” Induced by his words, the Eagle took him as her mate. A short time having passed after the nuptials, the Eagle {said}: “Go and carry off for me the booty you promised me.” Soaring aloft, the Kite brings back a field-mouse, most filthy, and stinking from long-contracted mouldiness. “Is this,” said the Eagle, “the performance of your promise?” The Kite replied to her: “That I might contract a marriage with royalty, there is nothing I would not have pledged myself to do, although I knew that I was unable.” Those who seek anxiously for partners of higher rank, painfully lament a deception that has united them to the worthless. * * * * * * * * * THE FABLES OF PHÆDRUS, Translated Into English Verse By CHRISTOPHER SMART, A.M., Fellow Of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. BOOK I. PROLOGUE. What from the founder Esop fell, In neat familiar verse I tell: Twofold’s the genius of the page, To make you smile and make you sage. But if the critics we displease, By wrangling brutes and talking trees, Let them remember, ere they blame, We’re working neither sin nor shame; ’Tis but a play to form the youth By fiction, in the cause of truth. FABLE I. THE WOLF AND THE LAMB. By thirst incited; to the brook The Wolf and Lamb themselves betook. The Wolf high up the current drank, The Lamb far lower down the bank. Then, bent his rav’nous maw to cram, The Wolf took umbrage at the Lamb. “How dare you trouble all the flood, And mingle my good drink with mud?” “Sir,” says the Lambkin, sore afraid, “How should I act, as you upbraid? The thing you mention cannot be, The stream descends from you to me.” Abash’d by facts, says he, “I know ’Tis now exact six months ago You strove my honest fame to blot”-- “Six months ago, sir, I was not.” “Then ’twas th’ old ram thy sire,” he cried, And so he tore him, till he died. To those this fable I address Who are determined to oppress, And trump up any false pretence, But they will injure innocence. II. THE FROGS DESIRING A KING.