“And I have also read, in works of travel, that the French eat frogs,” continued the owl. “Aha, my friend Crapaud! are you there? That was a very pretty concert we sang together last night!” “If the French devour my brethren, the English eat beef,” croaked out the frog,—“great, big, brutal, bellowing oxen.” “Ho, whoo!” says the owl, “I have heard that the English are toad-eaters too!” “But who ever heard of them eating an owl or a fox, madam?” says Reynard, “or their sitting down and taking a crow to pick?” adds the polite rogue, with a bow to the old crow who was perched above them with the cheese in his mouth. “We are privileged animals, all of us; at least, we never furnish dishes for the odious orgies of man.” “I am the bird of wisdom,” says the owl; “I was the companion of Pallas Minerva: I am frequently represented in the Egyptian monuments.” “I have seen you over the British barn-doors,” said the fox, with a grin. “You have a deal of scholarship, Mrs. Owl. I know a thing or two myself; but am, I confess it, no scholar—a mere man of the world—a fellow that lives by his wits—a mere country gentleman.” “You sneer at scholarship,” continues the owl, with a sneer on her venerable face. “I read a good deal of a night.” “When I am engaged deciphering the cocks and hens at roost,” says the fox. “It’s a pity for all that you can’t read; that board nailed over my head would give you some information.” “What does it say?” says the fox. “I can’t spell in the daylight,” answered the owl; and, giving a yawn, went back to sleep till evening in the hollow of her tree. “A fig for her hieroglyphics!” said the fox, looking up at the crow in the tree. “What airs our slow neighbour gives herself! She pretends to all the wisdom; whereas, your reverences, the crows, are endowed with gifts far superior to these benighted old big-wigs of owls, who blink in the darkness, and call their hooting singing. How noble it is to hear a chorus of crows! There are twenty-four brethren of the Order of St. Corvinus, who have builded themselves a convent near a wood which I frequent; what a droning and a chanting they keep up! I protest their reverences’ singing is nothing to yours! You sing so deliciously in parts, do for the love of harmony favour me with a solo!” While this conversation was going on, the ox was thumping the grass; the frog was eyeing him in such a rage at his superior proportions, that he would have spurted venom at him if he could, and that he would have burst, only that is impossible, from sheer envy; the little lambkin was lying unsuspiciously at the side of the wolf in fleecy hosiery, who did not as yet molest her, being replenished with the mutton her mamma. But now the wolf’s eyes began to glare, and his sharp white teeth to show, and he rose up with a growl, and began to think he should like lamb for supper. “What large eyes you have got!” bleated out the lamb, with rather a timid look. “The better to see you with, my dear.”