John Rabbit's death was thus avenged anew. The second mourning for her murdered brood Was such that through the giant mountain wood, For six long months, the sleepless echo flew. The bird, once Ganymede, now made Her prayer to Jupiter for aid; And, laying them within his godship's lap, She thought her eggs now safe from all mishap; The god his own could not but make them-- No wretch would venture there to break them. And no one did. Their enemy, this time, Upsoaring to a place sublime, Let fall upon his royal robes some dirt, Which Jove just shaking, with a sudden flirt, Threw out the eggs, no one knows whither. When Jupiter informed her how th' event Occurred by purest accident, The Eagle raved; there was no reasoning with her; She gave out threats of leaving court, To make the desert her resort, And other brav'ries of this sort. Poor Jupiter in silence heard The uproar of his favourite bird. Before his throne the Beetle now appeared, And by a clear complaint the mystery cleared. The god pronounced the Eagle in the wrong. But still, their hatred was so old and strong, These enemies could not be reconciled; And, that the general peace might not be spoiled-- The best that he could do--the god arranged That thence the Eagle's pairing should be changed, To come when Beetle folks are only found Concealed and dormant under ground. FABLES FROM THE SPANISH OF CARLOS YRIARTE* "_As the impressions made upon a new vessel are not easily to be effaced, so here youth are taught prudence through the allurement of fable._" *Translated by Richard Andrew FABLES FROM THE SPANISH The Bee and the Cuckoo A Cuckoo, near a hive, one day, Was chaunting in his usual way, When to the door the Queen-bee ran, And, humming angrily, began: "Do cease that tuneless song I hear-- How can we work while thou art near? There is no other bird, I vow, Half so fantastical as thou, Since all that ugly voice can do, Is to sing on--'Cuckoo! cuckoo'!" "If my monotony of song Displeases you, shall I be wrong," The Cuckoo answered, "if I find Your comb has little to my mind? Look at the cells--through every one Does not unvaried sameness run? Then if in me there's nothing new, Dear knows, all's old enough in you." The Bee replied: "Hear me, my friend. In works that have a useful end It is not always worth the while To seek variety in style, But if those works whose only views Are to give pleasure and amuse, Want either fancy or invention, They fail of gaining their intention." The Rope Dancer and His Pupil