Fables
I — The Lions and the Oxen
Once upon a time a number of cattle came out of the desert to settle in the broad meadows by a river. They were poor and wretched, and they found it a pleasant exchange; except for a number of lions, who lived in the mountains near, and who claimed a right, in consideration of permitting the cattle to remain, to eat as many as they wanted among them. The cattle submitted, partly because they were too weak to help it, partly because the lions said it was the will of Jupiter; and the cattle believed them. And so they went on for many ages, till at last, from better feeding, the cattle grew larger and stronger, and multiplied into great numbers; and at the same time, from other causes, the lions had much diminished: they were fewer, smaller, and meaner-looking than they had been; and except in their own opinion of themselves, and in their appetites, which were more enormous than ever, there was nothing of the old lion left in them.
One day a large ox was quietly grazing, when one of these lions came up, and desired the ox to lie down, for he wanted to eat him. The ox raised his head, and gravely protested; the lion growled; the ox was mild, yet firm. The lion insisted upon his legal right, and they agreed to refer the matter to Minos.
When they came into court, the lion accused the ox of having broken the laws of the beasts. The lion was king, and the others were bound to obey. Prescriptive usage was clearly on the lion’s side. Minos called on the ox for his defence.
The Ox said that, without consent of his own being asked, he had been born into the meadow. He did not consider himself much of a beast, but, such as he was, he was very happy, and gave Jupiter thanks. Now, if the lion could show that the existence of lions was of more importance than that of oxen in the eyes of Jupiter, he had nothing more to say; he was ready to sacrifice himself. But this lion had already eaten a thousand oxen. Lions’ appetites were so insatiable that he was forced to ask whether they were really worth what was done for them,—whether the life of one lion was so noble that the lives of thousands of oxen were not equal to it? He was ready to own that lions had always eaten oxen, but lions when they first came to the meadow were a different sort of creature, and they themselves, too (and the ox looked complacently at himself), had improved since that time. Judging by appearances, though they might be fallacious, he himself was quite as good a beast as the lion. If the lions would lead lives more noble than oxen could live, once more he would not complain. As it was, he submitted that the cost was too great.
Then the Lion put on a grand face and tried to roar; but when he opened his mouth he disclosed a jaw so drearily furnished that Minos laughed, and told the ox it was his own fault if he let himself be eaten by such a beast as that. If he persisted in declining, he did not think the lion would force him.
II — The Farmer and the Fox
A farmer, whose poultry-yard had suffered severely from the foxes, succeeded at last in catching one in a trap. ‘Ah, you rascal!’ said he, as he saw him struggling, ‘I’ll teach you to steal my fat geese!—you shall hang on the tree yonder, and your brothers shall see what comes of thieving!’ The farmer was twisting a halter to do what he threatened, when the fox, whose tongue had helped him in hard pinches before, thought there could be no harm in trying whether it might not do him one more good turn.
‘You will hang me,’ he said, ‘to frighten my brother foxes. On the word of a fox they won’t care a rabbit-skin for it; they’ll come and look at me; but you may depend upon it, they will dine at your expense before they go home again!’
‘Then I shall hang you for yourself, as a rogue and a rascal,’ said the farmer.
‘I am only what Nature, or whatever you call the thing, chose to make me,’ the Fox answered. ‘I didn’t make myself.’
‘You stole my geese,’ said the man.
‘Why did Nature make me like geese, then?’ said the Fox. ‘Live and let live; give me my share, and I won’t touch yours; but you keep them all to yourself.’
‘I don’t understand your fine talk,’ answered the Farmer; ‘but I know that you are a thief, and that you deserve to be hanged.’
His head is too thick to let me catch him so, thought the Fox; I wonder if his heart is any softer! ‘You are taking away the life of a fellow-creature,’ he said; ‘that’s a responsibility—it is a curious thing that life, and who knows what comes after it? You say I am a rogue—I say I am not; but at any rate I ought not to be hanged—for if I am not, I don’t deserve it; and if I am, you should give me time to repent!’ I have him now, thought the Fox; let him get out if he can.
‘Why, what would you have me do with you?’ said the man.
‘My notion is that you should let me go, and give me a lamb, or goose or two, every month, and then I could live without stealing; but perhaps you know better than me, and I am a rogue; my education may have been neglected; you should shut me up, and take care of me, and teach me. Who knows but in the end I may turn into a dog?’
‘Very pretty,’ said the Farmer; ‘we have dogs enough, and more, too, than we can take care of, without you. No, no, Master Fox, I have caught you, and you shall swing, whatever is the logic of it. There will be one rogue less in the world, anyhow.’
‘It is mere hate and unchristian vengeance,’ said the Fox.
‘No, friend,’ the Farmer answered, ‘I don’t hate you, and I don’t want to revenge myself on you; but you and I can’t get on together, and I think I am of more importance than you. If nettles and thistles grow in my cabbage-garden, I don’t try to persuade them to grow into cabbages. I just dig them up. I don’t hate them; but I feel somehow that they mustn’t hinder me with my cabbages, and that I must put them away; and so, my poor friend, I am sorry for you, but I am afraid you must swing.’