Chapter XXXVIII: Section V: Fables and Symbolic Stories (2)

Alnaschar, my fifth brother, was very lazy, and of course wretchedly poor. On the death of our father we divided his property, and each of us received a hundred drachms of silver for his share. Alnaschar, who hated labor, laid out his money in fine glasses, and having displayed his stock to the best advantage in a large basket, he took his stand in the market-place, with his back against the wall, waiting for customers. In this posture he indulged in a reverie, talking aloud to himself as follows:

"This glass cost me a hundred drachms of silver, which is all I have in the world. I shall make two hundred by retailing it, and of these very shortly four hundred. It will not be long before these produce four thousand. Money, they say, begets money. I shall soon therefore be possessed of eight thousand, and when these become ten thousand I will no longer be a glass-seller. I will trade in pearls and diamonds; and as I shall become rich apace, I will have a splendid palace, a great estate, slaves, and horses; I will not, however, leave traffic till I have acquired a hundred thousand drachms. Then I shall be as great as a prince, and will assume manners accordingly.

"I will demand the daughter of the grand vizier in marriage, who, no doubt, will be glad of an alliance with a man of my consequence. The marriage ceremony shall be performed with the utmost splendor and magnificence. I will have my horse clothed with the richest housings, ornamented with diamonds and pearls, and will be attended by a number of slaves, all richly dressed, when I go to the vizier's palace to conduct my wife thence to my own. The vizier shall receive me with great pomp, and shall give me the right hand and place me above himself, to do me the more honor. On my return I will appoint two of my handsomest slaves to throw money among the populace, that every one may speak well of my generosity.

"When we arrive at my own palace, I will take great state upon me, and hardly speak to my wife. She shall dress herself in all her ornaments, and stand before me as beautiful as the full moon, but I will not look at her. Her slaves shall draw near and entreat me to cast my eyes upon her; which, after much supplication, I will deign to do, though with great indifference. I will not suffer her to come out of her apartment without my leave; and when I have a mind to visit her there, it shall be in a manner that will make her respect me. Thus will I begin early to teach her what she is to expect the rest of her life.

"When her mother comes to visit her she will intercede with me for her. 'Sir,' she will say (for she will not dare to call me son, for fear of offending me by so much familiarity), 'do not, I beseech, treat my daughter with scorn; she is as beautiful as an Houri, and entirely devoted to you.' But my mother-in-law may as well hold her peace, for I will take no notice of what she says. She will then pour out some wine into a goblet, and give it to my wife, saying, 'Present it to your lord and husband; he will not surely be so cruel as to refuse it from so fair a hand.' My wife will then come with the glass, and stand trembling before me; and when she finds that I do not look on her, but continue to disdain her, she will kneel and entreat me to accept it; but I will continue inflexible. At last, redoubling her tears, she will rise and put the goblet to my lips, when, tired with her importunities, I will dart a terrible look at her and give her such a push with my foot as will spurn her from me." Alnaschar was so interested in this imaginary grandeur that he thrust forth his foot to kick the lady, and by that means overturned his glasses and broke them into a thousand pieces.

236

"The Camel and the Pig" is from P. V. Ramaswami
Raju's _Indian Folk Stories and Fables_, an
excellent book of adaptations for young
readers. The idea that every situation in life
has its advantages as well as its disadvantages
is one of those common but often overlooked
truths which serve so well as the themes of
fable. Emerson's "Fable," the story of the
quarrel between the mountain and the squirrel,
is a most excellent presentation of the same
idea (see No. 363). "The Little Elf," by John
Kendrick Bangs, makes the same point for
smaller folks.

THE CAMEL AND THE PIG

ADAPTED BY P. V. RAMASWAMI RAJU

A camel said, "Nothing like being tall! See how tall I am!"

A Pig who heard these words said, "Nothing like being short; see how short I am!"

The Camel said, "Well, if I fail to prove the truth of what I said, I will give up my hump."

The Pig said, "If I fail to prove the truth of what I have said, I will give up my snout."

"Agreed!" said the Camel.

"Just so!" said the Pig.

They came to a garden inclosed by a low wall without any opening. The Camel stood on this side the wall, and, reaching the plants within by means of his long neck, made a breakfast on them. Then he turned jeeringly to the Pig, who had been standing at the bottom of the wall, without even having a look at the good things in the garden, and said, "Now, would you be tall or short?"

Next they came to a garden inclosed by a high wall, with a wicket gate at one end. The Pig entered by the gate and, after having eaten his fill of the vegetables within, came out, laughing at the poor Camel, who had to stay outside, because he was too tall to enter the garden by the gate, and said, "Now, would you be tall or short?"

Then they thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the Camel should keep his hump and the Pig his snout, observing,--

"Tall is good, where tall would do;
Of short, again, 'tis also true!"

237

Many scholars have believed that all fables
originated in India. The great Indian
collection of symbolic stories known as Jataka
Tales, or Buddhist Birth Stories, has been
called "the oldest, most complete, and most
important collection of folklore extant." They
are called Birth Stories because each one gives
an account of something that happened in
connection with the teaching of Buddha in some
previous "birth" or incarnation. There are
about 550 of these Jatakas, including some 2000
stories. They have now been made accessible in
a translation by a group of English scholars
and published in six volumes under the general
editorship of Professor Cowell. Many of them
have long been familiar in eastern collections
and have been adapted in recent times for use
in schools. Each Jataka is made up of three
parts. There is a "story of the present" giving
an account of an incident in Buddha's life
which calls to his mind a "story of the past"
in which he had played a part during a former
incarnation. Then, there is a conclusion
marking the results. Nos. 237 and 238 are
literal translations of Jatakas by T. W.
Rhys-Davids in his _Buddhist Birth Stories_. In
adapting for children, the stories of the
present may be omitted. In fact, everything
except the direct story should be eliminated.
The "gathas," or verses, were very important in
connection with the original purpose of
religious teaching, but are only incumbrances
in telling the story either for its own sake or
for its moral.

THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN

At the same time when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the future Buddha was born one of a peasant family; and when he grew up he gained his living by tilling the ground.

At that time a hawker used to go from place to place, trafficking in goods carried by an ass. Now at each place he came to, when he took the pack down from the ass's back, he used to clothe him in a lion's skin and turn him loose in the rice and barley fields. And when the watchmen in the fields saw the ass they dared not go near him, taking him for a lion.

So one day the hawker stopped in a village; and while he was getting his own breakfast cooked, he dressed the ass in a lion's skin and turned him loose in a barley field. The watchmen in the field dared not go up to him; but going home, they published the news. Then all the villagers came out with weapons in their hands; and blowing chanks, and beating drums, they went near the field and shouted. Terrified with the fear of death, the ass uttered a cry--the bray of an ass!

And when he knew him then to be an ass, the future Buddha pronounced the first verse:

"This is not a lion's roaring,
Nor a tiger's nor a panther's;
Dressed in a lion's skin,
'Tis a wretched ass that roars!"

But when the villagers knew the creature to be an ass, they beat him till his bones broke; and, carrying off the lion's skin, went away. Then the hawker came; and seeing the ass fallen into so bad a plight, pronounced the second verse:

"Long might the ass,
Clad in a lion's skin,
Have fed on the barley green;
But he brayed
And that moment he came to ruin."

And even while he was yet speaking the ass died on the spot.

238

THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE

The future Buddha was once born in a minister's family, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares; and when he grew up he became the king's adviser in things temporal and spiritual.

Now this king was very talkative; while he was speaking others had no opportunity for a word. And the future Buddha, wanting to cure this talkativeness of his, was constantly seeking for some means of doing so.

At that time there was living, in a pond in the Himalaya mountains, a tortoise. Two young hamsas, or wild ducks, who came to feed there, made friends with him, and one day, when they had become very intimate with him, they said to the tortoise:

"Friend tortoise! the place where we live, at the Golden Cave on Mount Beautiful in the Himalaya country, is a delightful spot. Will you come there with us?"

"But how can I get there?"

"We can take you if you can only hold your tongue, and will say nothing to anybody."

"Oh! that I can do. Take me with you."

"That's right," said they. And making the tortoise bite hold of a stick, they themselves took the two ends in their teeth, and flew up into the air.

Seeing him thus carried by the hamsas, some villagers called out, "Two wild ducks are carrying a tortoise along on a stick!" Whereupon the tortoise wanted to say, "If my friends choose to carry me, what is that to you, you wretched slaves!" So just as the swift flight of the wild ducks had brought him over the king's palace in the city of Benares, he let go of the stick he was biting, and falling in the open courtyard, split in two! And there arose a universal cry, "A tortoise has fallen in the open courtyard, and has split in two!"

The king, taking the future Buddha, went to the place, surrounded by his courtiers; and looking at the tortoise, he asked the Bodisat, "Teacher! how comes he to be fallen here?"

The future Buddha thought to himself, "Long expecting, wishing to admonish the king, have I sought for some means of doing so. This tortoise must have made friends with the wild ducks; and they must have made him bite hold of the stick, and have flown up into the air to take him to the hills. But he, being unable to hold his tongue when he hears any one else talk, must have wanted to say something, and let go the stick; and so must have fallen down from the sky, and thus lost his life." And saying, "Truly, O king! those who are called chatter-boxes--people whose words have no end--come to grief like this," he uttered these verses:

"Verily the tortoise killed himself
While uttering his voice;
Though he was holding tight the stick,
By a word himself he slew.

"Behold him then, O excellent by strength!
And speak wise words, not out of season.
You see how, by his talking overmuch,
The tortoise fell into this wretched plight!"

The king saw that he was himself referred to, and said, "O Teacher! are you speaking of us?"

And the Bodisat spake openly, and said, "O great king! be it thou, or be it any other, whoever talks beyond measure meets with some mishap like this."

And the king henceforth refrained himself, and became a man of few words.

239

The following is, also, an oriental story. It
is taken from the _Hitopadesa_ (Book of Good
Counsel), a collection of Sanskrit fables. This
collection was compiled from older sources,
probably in the main from the _Panchatantra_
(Five Books), which belonged to about the fifth
century. Observe the emphasis placed upon the
teaching of the fable by putting the statement
of it at the beginning and recurring to it at
the close.

A LION TRICKED BY A RABBIT

_He who hath sense hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment? See how a lion, when intoxicated with anger, was overcome by a rabbit._

Upon the mountain Mandara there lived a lion, whose name was Durganta (hard to go near), who was very exact in complying with the ordinance for animal sacrifices. So at length all the different species assembled, and in a body represented that, as by his present mode of proceeding the forest would be cleared all at once, if it pleased his Highness, they would each of them in his turn provide him an animal for his daily food. And the lion gave his consent accordingly. Thus every beast delivered his stipulated provision, till at length, it coming to the rabbit's turn, he began to meditate in this manner: "Policy should be practiced by him who would save his life; and I myself shall lose mine if I do not take care. Suppose I lead him after another lion? Who knows how that may turn out for me? I will approach him slowly, as if fatigued."

The lion by this time began to be very hungry; so, seeing the rabbit coming toward him, he called out in a great passion, "What is the reason thou comest so late?"

"Please your Highness," said the rabbit, "as I was coming along I was forcibly detained by another of your species; but having given him my word that I would return immediately, I came here to represent it to your Highness."

"Go quickly," said the lion in a rage, "and show me where this vile wretch may be found!"

Accordingly, the rabbit conducted the lion to the brink of a deep well, where being arrived, "There," said the rabbit, "look down and behold him." At the same time he pointed to the reflected image of the lion in the water, who, swelling with pride and resentment, leaped into the well, as he thought, upon his adversary; and thus put an end to his life.

I repeat, therefore:

_He who hath sense hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment?_

240

Marie de France lived probably in the latter
part of the twelfth century and was one of the
most striking figures in Middle English
literature. She seems to have been born in
France, lived much in England, translated from
the Anglo-Norman dialect into French, and is
spoken of as the first French poet. One of her
three works, and the most extensive, is a
collection of 103 fables, which she says she
translated from the English of King Alfred. Her
original, whatever it may have been, is lost.
One of her fables, in a translation by
Professor W. W. Skeat, is given below. It
contains the germ of Chaucer's "Nun's Priest's
Tale," in _The Canterbury Tales_.

THE COCK AND THE FOX

MARIE DE FRANCE

A Cock our story tells of, who
High on a trash hill stood and crew.
A Fox, attracted, straight drew nigh,
And spake soft words of flattery.
"Dear Sir!" said he, "your look's divine;
I never saw a bird so fine!
I never heard a voice so clear
Except your father's--ah! poor dear!
His voice rang clearly, loudly--but
Most clearly when his eyes were shut!"
"The same with me!" the Cock replies,
And flaps his wings, and shuts his eyes.
Each note rings clearer than the last--
The Fox starts up and holds him fast;
Toward the wood he hies apace.
But as he crossed an open space,
The shepherds spy him; off they fly;
The dogs give chase with hue and cry.
The Fox still holds the Cock, though fear
Suggests his case is growing queer.
"Tush!" cries the Cock, "cry out, to grieve 'em,
'The cock is mine! I'll never leave him!'"
The Fox attempts, in scorn, to shout,
And opes his mouth; the Cock slips out,
And in a trice has gained a tree.
Too late the Fox begins to see
How well the Cock his game has played;
For once his tricks have been repaid.
In angry language, uncontrolled,
He 'gins to curse the mouth that's bold
To speak, when it should silent be.
"Well," says the Cock, "the same with me;
I curse the eyes that go to sleep
Just when they ought sharp watch to keep
Lest evil to their lord befall."
Thus fools contrariously do all;
They chatter when they should be dumb,
And, when they _ought_ to speak, are mum.

241

The following is Wright's translation of the
first fable in La Fontaine's collection.
Rousseau, objecting to fables in general,
singled out this particular one as an example
of their bad effects on children, and echoes of
his voice are still in evidence. It would, he
said, give children a lesson in inhumanity.
"You believe you are making an example of the
grasshopper, but they will choose the ant . . .
they will take the more pleasant part, which is
a very natural thing." Another observer said:
"As for me, I love neither grasshopper nor ant,
neither avarice nor prodigality, neither the
miserly people who lend nor the spendthrifts
who borrow." These statements represent
complex, analytic points of view which are
probably outside the range of most children.
They will see the grasshopper simply as a type
of thorough shiftlessness and the ant as a type
of forethought, although La Fontaine does
suggest that the ant might on general
principles be a little less "tight-fisted." The
lesson that idleness is the mother of want, the
necessity of looking ahead, of providing for
the future, of laying up for a rainy day--these
are certainly common-sense conclusions and the
only ones the story itself will suggest to the
child.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT

LA FONTAINE

A grasshopper gay
Sang the summer away,
And found herself poor
By the winter's first roar.
Of meat or of bread,
Not a morsel she had!
So a begging she went,
To her neighbor the ant,
For the loan of some wheat,
Which would serve her to eat,
Till the season came round.
"I will pay you," she saith,
"On an animal's faith,
Double weight in the pound
Ere the harvest be bound."
The ant is a friend
(And here she might mend)
Little given to lend.
"How spent you the summer?"
Quoth she, looking shame
At the borrowing dame.
"Night and day to each comer
I sang, if you please."
"You sang! I'm at ease;
For 'tis plain at a glance,
Now, ma'am, you must dance."

242

The translation of the following fable is that
of W. Lucas Collins, in his _La Fontaine and
Other French Fabulists_. This fable has always
been a great favorite among the French, and the
translator has caught much of the sprightly
tone of his original.

THE COCK, THE CAT, AND THE YOUNG MOUSE

LA FONTAINE

A pert young Mouse, to whom the world was new,
Had once a near escape, if all be true.
He told his mother, as I now tell you:
"I crossed the mountains that beyond us rise,
And, journeying onwards, bore me
As one who had a great career before me,
When lo! two creatures met my wondering eyes,--
The one of gracious mien, benign and mild;
The other fierce and wild,
With high-pitched voice that filled me with alarm;
A lump of sanguine flesh grew on his head,
And with a kind of arm
He raised himself in air,
As if to hover there;
His tail was like a horseman's plume outspread."
(It was a farmyard Cock, you understand,
That our young friend described in terms so grand,
As 'twere some marvel come from foreign land.)
"With arms raised high
He beat his sides, and made such hideous cry,
That even I,
Brave as I am, thank heaven! had well-nigh fainted:
Straightway I took to flight,
And cursed him left and right.
Ah! but for him, I might have got acquainted
With that sweet creature,
Who bore attractiveness in every feature:
A velvet skin he had, like yours and mine,
A tail so long and fine,
A sweet, meek countenance, a modest air--
Yet, what an eye was there!
I feel that, on the whole,
He must have strong affinities of soul
With our great race--our ears are shaped the same.
I should have made my bow, and asked his name,
But at the fearful cry
Raised by that monster, I was forced to fly."
"My child," replied his mother, "you have seen
That demure hypocrite we call a Cat:
Under that sleek and inoffensive mien
He bears a deadly hate of Mouse and Rat.
The other, whom you feared, is harmless--quite;
Nay, perhaps may serve us for a meal some night.
As for your friend, for all his innocent air,
We form the staple of his bill of fare."

_Take, while you live, this warning as your guide--_
_Don't judge by the outside._

243

John Gay (1685-1732) was an English poet and
dramatist. His work as a whole has been pretty
well forgotten, but he has been recently
brought back to the mind of the public by the
revival of his satirical _Beggar's Opera_, the
ancestor of the modern comic opera. Gay
published a collection of fables in verse in
1727, "prepared for the edification of the
young Duke of Cumberland." A second group,
making sixty-six in all, was published after
his death. Since these fables are probably the
best of their kind in English, a few of them
are frequently met with in collections. "The
Hare with Many Friends" has been the favorite,
and rightly so, as it has something of the
humor and point that belong to the real fable.
Perhaps the fact that it has a personal
application enabled Gay to write with more
vigor and sincerity than elsewhere.

THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS

JOHN GAY

Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care.
'Tis thus in friendship; who depend
On many rarely find a friend.
A Hare, who, in a civil way,
Complied with everything, like Gay,
Was known by all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain.
Her care was, never to offend,
And every creature was her friend.
As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies.
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles, to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round:
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay.
What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the Horse appeared in view!
"Let me," says she, "your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight;
To friendship every burden's light."
The Horse replied: "Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus;
Be comforted; relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear."
She next the stately Bull implored;
And thus replied the mighty lord,
"Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend,
To take the freedom of a friend;
Love calls me hence; a favorite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And when a lady's in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see, the Goat is just behind."
The Goat remarked her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
"My back," says he, "may do you harm;
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."
The Sheep was feeble, and complained
His sides a load of wool sustained:
Said he was slow, confessed his fears,
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.
She now the trotting Calf addressed,
To save from death a friend distressed.
"Shall I," says he, "of tender age,
In this important care, engage?
Older and abler passed you by;
How strong are those, how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.
Excuse me, then. You know my heart.
But dearest friends, alas, must part!
How shall we all lament! Adieu!
For see, the hounds are just in view."

244

Tomas de Yriarte (1750-1791) was a Spanish poet
of some note, remembered now mainly as the
author of _Literary Fables_, the first attempt
at literary fable-writing in Spanish. As the
name is meant to imply, they concern themselves
with the follies and weaknesses of authors.
There are about eighty fables in the complete
collection, and they are full of ingenuity and
cleverness. One of the simplest and best of
these is given here in the translation by R.
Rockliffe, which first appeared in _Blackwood's
Magazine_ in 1839. It laughs at the lucky
chance by which even stupidity sometimes "makes
a hit" and then stupidly proceeds to pat itself
on the back.

THE MUSICAL ASS

TOMAS YRIARTE

The fable which I now present
Occurred to me by accident;
And whether bad or excellent,
Is merely so by accident.
A stupid ass one morning went
Into a field by accident
And cropp'd his food and was content,
Until he spied by accident
A flute, which some oblivious gent
Had left behind by accident;
When, sniffing it with eager scent,
He breathed on it by accident,
And made the hollow instrument
Emit a sound by accident.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" exclaimed the brute,
"How cleverly I play the flute!"

_A fool, in spite of nature's bent._
_May shine for once--by accident._

245

Ivan Andreevitch Krylov (1768-1844) was a
Russian author whose fame rests almost entirely
upon his popular verse fables (200 in number)
which have been used extensively as textbooks
in Russian schools. They have "joyousness,
simplicity, wit, and good humor." The following
specimen is from I. H. Harrison's translation
of Krylov's _Original Fables_. It gives a good
illustration of the necessity of "teamwork."

THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB

IVAN KRYLOV

When partners with each other don't agree,
Each project must a failure be,
And out of it no profit come, but sheer vexation.

A Swan, a Pike, and Crab once took their station
In harness, and would drag a loaded cart;
But, when the moment came for them to start,

They sweat, they strain, and yet the cart stands still; what's lacking?
The load must, as it seemed, have been but light;
The Swan, though, to the clouds takes flight,
The Pike into the water pulls, the Crab keeps backing.

Now which of them was right, which wrong, concerns us not;
The cart is still upon the selfsame spot.

246

This fable from the Old Testament is one of the
very oldest on record in which a story is
practically applied to a human problem. The
causes of political corruption apparently have
not changed much in three thousand years.
American citizens gather together at certain
times to choose mayors and other officers to
rule over them, and when they say to the
fruitful olive tree, or fig tree, or vine,
"Come thou and reign over us," he replies,
"Should I forsake my productive factory, or
mine, or profession, to be mayor?" But when
they say to the bramble, "Come thou and reign
over us," he replies, "Put your trust in me,
and let those suffer who object to my
management of public affairs." Jotham's lesson
of political duty is one greatly needed in the
present-day attempt to raise our standard of
citizenship.

THE BRAMBLE IS MADE KING

_Judges ix: 6-16_

And all the men of Shechem gathered together, and all the house of Millo, and went, and made Abimelech king, by the plain of the pillar that was in Shechem. And when they told it to Jotham, he went and stood in the top of Mount Gerizim, and lifted up his voice, and cried, and said unto them:--

"Hearken unto me, ye men of Shechem, that God may hearken unto you. The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive tree, 'Reign thou over us.' But the olive tree said unto them, 'Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'

"And the trees said to the fig tree, 'Come thou and reign over us.' But the fig tree said unto them, 'Should I forsake my sweetness and my good fruit, and go to be promoted over the trees?'

"Then said the trees unto the vine, 'Come thou and reign over us.' And the vine said unto them, 'Should I leave my wine, which cheereth God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'

"Then said all the trees unto the bramble, 'Come thou and reign over us.' And the bramble said unto the trees, 'If in truth ye anoint me king over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow: and if not, let fire come out of the bramble and devour the cedars of Lebanon.'"

247

The concrete illustrations by means of which
Jesus constantly taught are called parables.
"Without a parable spake he not unto them." The
parable differs from the fable proper in
dealing with more fundamental or ideal truth.
The fable moves on the plane of the prudential
virtues, the parable on the plane of the higher
self-forgetting virtues. Because of that
difference there is in the parable "no jesting
nor raillery at the weakness, the follies, or
the crimes of men." All is deeply earnest,
befitting its high spiritual point of view. As
a rule the parables use for illustration
stories of what might actually happen. Two of
the most familiar of the parables follow. What
true neighborliness means is the message of
"The Good Samaritan."

THE GOOD SAMARITAN

_Luke x:25-37_

And behold, a certain lawyer stood up and tempted him, saying, "Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?" He said unto him, "What is written in the law? how readest thou?" And he answering said, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbor as thyself." And He said unto him, "Thou hast answered right; this do, and thou shalt live." But he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"

And Jesus answering said, "A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. And by chance there came down a certain priest that way; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was; and when he saw him, he had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow, when he departed, he took out two pence and gave them to the host and said unto him, 'Take care of him: and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again I will repay thee.'

"Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbor unto him that fell among the thieves?"

And he said, "He that showed mercy on him."

Then said Jesus unto him, "Go and do thou likewise."

248

THE PRODIGAL SON

_Luke xv:10-32_

"Likewise I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth."

And he said, "A certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.' And he divided unto them his living.

"And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him.

"And when he came to himself, he said, 'How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants."'

"And he arose and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' But the father said to his servants, 'Bring forth the best robe and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it; and let us eat and be merry; for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' And they began to be merry.

"Now his elder son was in the field; and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants and asked what these things meant. And he said unto him, 'Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound.' And he was angry and would not go in; therefore came his father out and entreated him. And he answering, said to his father, 'Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou never gavest me a kid that I might make merry with my friends. But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.' And he said unto him, 'Son, thou art ever with me; and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.'"

249

This little apologue is taken from _Norwood_
(1867), a novel written by Henry Ward Beecher
for the New York _Ledger_ in the days when that
periodical, under the direction of Robert
Bonner, was the great family weekly of America.
In the course of the fiction Mr. Beecher
emphasizes the value of stories for children.
"Story-hunger in children," he says, "is even
more urgent than bread-hunger." And after the
story has been told: "How charming it is to
narrate fables for children. . . . Children are
unconscious philosophers. They refuse to pull
to pieces their enjoyments to see what they are
made of. Rose knew as well as her father that
leaves never talked. Yet, Rose never saw a leaf
without feeling that there was life and meaning
in it."

THE ANXIOUS LEAF

HENRY WARD BEECHER

Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves often do when a gentle wind is about.

And the twig said, "What is the matter, little leaf?"

And the leaf said, "The wind just told me that one day it would pull me off and throw me down to die on the ground!"

The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word to the leaf, "Do not be afraid; hold on tightly, and you shall not go till you want to." And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on nestling and singing.

Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it off.

And so it grew all summer long till October. And when the bright days of autumn came, the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very beautiful. Some were yellow, and some scarlet, and some striped with both colors.

Then it asked the tree what it meant. And the tree said, "All these leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on these beautiful colors, because of joy."

Then the little leaf began to want to go, and grew very beautiful in thinking of it, and when it was very gay in color, it saw that the branches of the tree had no color in them, and so the leaf said, "Oh, branches! why are you lead color and we golden?"

"We must keep on our work clothes, for our life is not done; but your clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over."

Just then, a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go without thinking of it, and the wind took it up, and turned it over and over, and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air and then it fell gently down under the edge of the fence among hundreds of leaves, and fell into a dream and never waked up to tell what it dreamed about!

250

Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790), more than any
other American, has emphasized for us the value
of proverbial sayings and the significance of
the symbolic story. This account of how one may
pay too much for a whistle was written in 1779
while Franklin was representing the colonies at
Paris, and addressed to his friend Madame
Brillon. The making of apologues seemed to be a
favorite sort of game in the circle in which
Franklin moved, and his plain common sense is
always uppermost in whatever he produces. The
lesson of the whistle is always needed; we are
prone to put aside the essential thing for the
temporary and showy. More than a century ago
Noah Webster put this story in his
school-reader, and most school-readers since
have contained it. The selection is here
reprinted complete. Teachers usually omit some
of the opening and closing paragraphs.

THE WHISTLE

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and with your plan of living there; and I approve much of your conclusion, that, in the mean time, we should draw all the good we can from this world. In my opinion, we might all draw more good than we do, and suffer less evil, if we would take care not to give too much for _whistles_. For to me it seems that most of the unhappy people we meet with are become so by neglect of that caution.

You ask what I mean? You love stories, and will excuse my telling one of myself.

When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pockets with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and being charmed with the sound of a _whistle_, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my _whistle_, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the _whistle_ gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, _Don't give too much for the whistle_; and I saved my money.

As I grew up I thought I met with many, very many, who _gave too much for the whistle_.

When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, _This man gives too much for his whistle._

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, _He pays, indeed_, said I, _too much for his whistle._

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, _Poor man_, said I, _you pay too much for your whistle._

When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, _Mistaken man_, said I, _you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle._

If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, _Alas!_ say I, _he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle._

When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, _What a pity_, say I, _that she should pay so much for a whistle!_

In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their _giving too much for their whistles_.

Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the _whistle_.

251

"The Ephemera" was also addressed to Madame
Brillon, the "amiable Brillante" of the final
sentence. It is an allegorical story
emphasizing the relative shortness of human
life. Franklin's "Alas! art is long and life is
short!" anticipates Longfellow's "Art is long
and time is fleeting." But hundreds of writers
had preceded both of them in calling attention
to this at the same time commonplace and
significant fact. At the end, Franklin's quiet
acceptance of the rather gloomy outlook
suggested by the ephemeral nature of life is
noteworthy, and is characteristic of his
general temper.

THE EPHEMERA

_An Emblem of Human Life_

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

You may remember, my dear friend, that when we lately spent that happy day in the delightful garden and sweet society of the Moulin Joly, I stopped a little in one of our walks, and stayed some time behind the company. We had been shown numberless skeletons of a kind of little fly, called an ephemera, whose successive generations, we were told, were bred and expired within the day. I happened to see a living company of them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged in conversation. You know I understand all the inferior animal tongues. My too great application to the study of them is the best excuse I can give for the little progress I have made in your charming language. I listened through curiosity to the discourse of these little creatures; but as they, in their national vivacity, spoke three or four together, I could make but little of their conversation. I found, however, by some broken expressions that I heard now and then, they were disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign musicians, one a _cousin_, the other a _moscheto_; in which dispute they spent their time, seemingly as regardless of the shortness of life as if they had been sure of living a month. Happy people! thought I; you live certainly under a wise, just, and mild government, since you have no public grievances to complain of, nor any subject of contention but the perfections and imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from them to an old grey-headed one, who was single on another leaf, and talking to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I put it down in writing, in hopes it will likewise amuse her to whom I am so much indebted for the most pleasing of all amusements, her delicious company and heavenly harmony.

"It was," said he, "the opinion of learned philosophers of our race, who lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast world, the Moulin Joly, could not itself subsist more than eighteen hours; and I think there was some foundation for that opinion, since, by the apparent motion of the great luminary that gives life to all nature, and which in my time has evidently declined considerably towards the ocean at the end of our earth, it must then finish its course, be extinguished in the waters that surround us, and leave the world in cold and darkness, necessarily producing universal death and destruction. I have lived seven of those hours, a great age, being no less than four hundred and twenty minutes of time. How very few of us continue so long! I have seen generations born, flourish, and expire. My present friends are the children and grandchildren of the friends of my youth, who are now, also, no more! And I must soon follow them; for, by the course of nature, though still in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or eight minutes longer. What now avails all my toil and labor in amassing honey-dew on this leaf, which I cannot live to enjoy! What the political struggles I have been engaged in, for the good of my compatriot inhabitants of this bush, or my philosophical studies for the benefit of our race in general! for, in politics, what can laws do without morals? Our present race of ephemerae will in a course of minutes become corrupt, like those of other and older bushes, and consequently as wretched. And in philosophy how small is our progress! Alas! art is long, and life is short! My friends would comfort me with the idea of a name, they say, I shall leave behind me; and they tell me I have lived long enough to nature and to glory. But what will fame be to an ephemera who no longer exists? And what will become of all history in the eighteenth hour, when the world itself, even the whole Moulin Joly, shall come to its end, and be buried in universal ruin?"

To me, after all my eager pursuits, no solid pleasures now remain, but the reflection of a long life spent in meaning well, the sensible conversation of a few good lady ephemerae, and now and then a kind smile and a tune from the ever amiable _Brillante_.

252

The brief allegory that follows is very
generally regarded as the finest and noblest
specimen of its type. It is here reprinted
approximately in the form of its first
appearance, now more than two hundred years
ago, as more in keeping with its spirit than a
modern dress would be. The world of recent
times is not so much given to this kind of
writing as the eighteenth century was. Like
Franklin's "Ephemera," Addison's vision grows
out of "profound contemplation on the vanity of
human life." The key to the symbolism is found
in the "threescore and ten arches" of the
bridge, representing the scriptural limit of
physical existence, with some broken arches for
any excess of that limit. The fact that "the
bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches"
is a reference to the great number of years
assigned to some of the patriarchs. The
splendid concluding vision in which Mirzah sees
the compensations for the ills of this life
suggests a very different type of mind from
that of the "this-worldly" closing paragraph in
Franklin's apologue. "The Vision of Mirzah" is
No. 159 of the _Spectator_ (September 1, 1711).

THE VISION OF MIRZAH

JOSEPH ADDISON

When I was at Grand Cairo I picked up several oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled The Visions of Mirzah, which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment for them; and I shall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word for word as follows:

On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the custom of my forefathers I always kept holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, surely, said I, man is but a shadow and life a dream. Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in paradise to wear out the impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius; and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasure of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature: and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirzah, said he, I have heard thee in thy soliloquies: follow me.