old and new,
All ready in my haversack."
The Cat replied, "I do not lack,
Though with but one provided;
And, truth to honour, for that matter,
I hold it than a thousand better."
In fresh dispute they sided;
And loudly were they at it, when
Approach'd a mob of dogs and men.
"Now," said the Cat, "your tricks ransack,
And put your cunning brains to rack,
One life to save; I'll show you mine--
A trick, you see, for saving nine."
With that, she climb'd a lofty pine.
The Fox his hundred ruses tried,
And yet no safety found.
A hundred times he falsified.
The nose of every hound
Was here, and there, and everywhere,
Above, and under ground;
But yet to stop he did not dare,
Pent in a hole, it was no joke,
To meet the terriers or the smoke.
So, leaping into upper air,
He met two dogs, that choked him there.

_Expedients may be too many,
Consuming time to choose and try.
On one, but that as good as any,
'Tis best in danger to rely._

The City Rat and the Country Rat

A city Rat, one night
Did with a civil stoop
A Country Rat invite
To end a turtle soup.

Upon a Turkey carpet
They found the table spread,
And sure I need not harp it
How well the fellows fed.

The entertainment was
A truly noble one;
But some unlucky cause
Disturbed it when begun

It was a slight rat-tat,
That put their Joys to rout;
Out ran the City Rat;
His guest, too, scampered out.

Our rats but fairly quit,
The fearful knocking ceased,
"Return we," said the cit,
"To finish there our feast."

"No," said the Rustic Rat;
"To-morrow dine with me.
I'm not offended at
Your feast so grand and free,

"For I've no fare resembling;
But then I eat at leisure,
And would not swap for pleasure
So mixed with fear and trembling."

The Ploughman and His Sons

A wealthy Ploughman drawing near his end
Call'd in his Sons apart from every friend,
And said, "When of your sire bereft,
The heritage our fathers left
Guard well, nor sell a single field.
A treasure in it is conceal'd:
The place, precisely, I don't know,
But industry will serve to show.
The harvest past. Time's forelock take,
And search with plough, and spade, and rake;
Turn over every inch of sod,
Nor leave unsearch'd a single clod."
The father died. The Sons in vain--
Turn'd o'er the