Here you see the way of the world and of those who follow it.  They use the benefit against the benefactors.  I weary of talking about it.  Yet who would not complain that sweet and shady spots should suffer such outrage.  Alas! it is useless to cry out and be thought a nuisance:  ingratitude and abuses will remain the fashion none the less.

XLIII

THE FOX AND THE YOUNG TURKEYS

(Book XII.—­No. 18)

Some young turkeys were lucky enough to find a tree which served them as a citadel against the assaults of a certain fox.  He, one night, having made the round of the rampart and seen each turkey watching like a sentinel, exclaimed, “What!  These people laugh at me, do they?  And do they think that they alone are exempt from the common rule?  No! by all the gods! no!”

He accomplished his design.

The moon shining brilliantly seemed to favour the turkey folk against the fox.  But he was no novice in the laying of sieges, and had recourse to his bag of rascally tricks.  He pretended to climb the tree; stood upon his hind legs; counterfeited death; then came to life again.  Harlequin himself could not have acted so many parts.  He reared his tail and made it gleam in the moonshine, and practised a hundred other pleasantries, during which no turkey could have dared to go to sleep.  The enemy tired them out at last by keeping their eyes fixed upon him.  The poor birds became dazed.  One lost its balance and fell.  Reynard put it by.  Then another fell and was caught and laid on one side.  Nearly half of them at length succumbed and were taken off to the fox’s larder.

To concentrate too much attention upon a danger may cause us to tumble into it.

XLIV

THE APE

(Book XII.—­No. 19)

There is an ape in Paris to whom a wife was once given; and he, imitating many another husband, beat the poor creature to such an extent that she sighed all the breath out of her body and died.

Their son uttered the most doleful howls as a protest to this terrible business.

The father laughs now.  His wife is dead and he already has found other lady companions, whom, no doubt, he beats in the same way; for he haunts the taverns and is frequently tipsy.

Never expect anything good from people who imitate, whether they be apes or authors.  Of the two the worst kind is the imitating author.

XLV

THE SCYTHIAN PHILOSOPHER

(Book XII.—­No. 20)

A certain austere philosopher of Scythia, wishing to follow a pleasant life, travelled through the land of the Greeks, and there he found in a quiet spot a sage, one such as Virgil has written of; a man the equal of kings, the peer almost of the gods, and like them content and tranquil.