s house, saying to himself, no
doubt, 'I wish it may choke you, you great, grunting brute, that I do.
There go my poor acorns, a dozen at a mouthfull. Twelve long journeys I
had to take to the foot of the old oak, where I picked them up--such a
hard day's work, that I could hardly get a wink of sleep, my bones ached
so. And now that great glutton gobbles them all up at once, and makes
nothing of it! What I shall do in the winter, I'm sure I don't know.
There goes my corn, too, which I brought, a little at a time, all the
way from the field on the other side of the woods, and with which I was
often obliged to rest, two or three times before I reached home; and
then I sometimes had to lay my load down, while I had a battle with
another field mouse, who tried to take the corn away from me, under
pretence of helping me to carry it home, which I knew well enough meant
his own nest. And after all this fighting, and slaving, and carrying
heavy loads from sunrise to sunset, here comes a pair of great, grunting
pork chaps, and make a meal from my hard earnings. Well, never mind, Mr.
Pig. It's winter now; but perhaps by next harvest time, I shall creep
into some reaper's basket, and have a taste of you, when he brings a
part of you, nicely cured and cooked, and laid lovingly between two
slices of bread and butter. I'll be even with you then, old fellow--that
I will, if I am only spared!' And so he creeps out, scarcely knowing
whether he should make up his mind to beg, borrow, or steal, half
muttering to himself, as he hops across the way, to visit some neighbor
for a breakfast, 'I declare such infamous treatment is enough to make
one dishonest, and never be industrious and virtuous any more!'"

The Rabbit.

Friend reader, did you ever see the rabbit bounding along through the
bushes, when you have been walking in the woods? When a boy, I used
often to be amused at the gambols of the rabbits, in the woods near my
father's house. They do not run very gracefully or very fast, and a dog
easily overtakes them. It seems cruel to hunt them, and set snares for
them; and yet if they are wanted for food, doubtless there is no harm in
taking their life. The way in which I used to catch them, years ago,
when the sources of my enjoyment were widely different from what they
are at present, was by means of a box-trap with a lid to it, so adjusted
that the poor rabbit, when he undertook to nibble the apple, attached to
the spindle for a