The Fables of Florian. Jean Pierre Claris de Florian
FABLE VII.
THE TWO GARDENERS.
Two brother gardeners had the lot
To fall heirs to a garden spot.
They halved in peace the legacy,
Working together day by day,
Living in perfect amity,
Each managing in his own way.
One of the two, whose name was John,
A gift of speech much doted on.
He thought himself a man of wit,
That e'en for LL.D. was fit.
He had the knack
Of conning o'er the almanac.
Of books and charts he kept a stock,
And daily eyed the weather-cock.
Still to his genius giving wing,
He sought to know
How from one single pea could spring
The thousand peas that from it grow;—
Why from the linden's tiny seed
A tree so lofty should proceed,
While from the bean's far ampler size
A mere shrub comes that shortly dies;
And, above all, how beans should know
Their branches up from earth to throw,
Yet downwards thrust their roots below.
But while in search of truths like these,
He quite forgets his cabbages.
His wat'ring pot
Is too forgot.
He fails his fig-trees to protect,
Against the cold north winds that freeze,
While wilted drops his lettuces,
And all things suffer from neglect.
He has no fruit; and, what is worse,
There is no money in his purse;
So that our learned doctor lacks,
In spite of all his almanacs,
The means wherewith to live,
And fain must take what others give.
His brother, up at break of day,
Went to his work with right good will;
Sung with the birds a cheerful lay,
And never failed his lot to till.
Setting aside the things unknown,
And mindful of his crops alone,
In simple faith he sow'd his field,
And was rewarded by the yield.
He dug and water'd ev'rything,
From gooseberry to apricot;
And none to market e'er could bring
Of fruits and plants a finer lot.
Hence he had money and to spare,
And with his brother well could share.
"How is't," said John, "my brother dear,
That you know how to thrive so well?"
His brother answered: "'Tis quite clear;
We need not on the myst'ry dwell,
I go to work and till the ground, While you do naught but rack your brains; And while with me all things abound, You get but labor for your pains. The question, then, I leave to you, Which is the wiser of the two?"
The Gardener and the Aged Tree
FABLE VIII.
THE GARDENER AND THE AGED TREE.
A tree that in a garden stood,
Had grown too old for doing good:
Such is the fate of all.
It was a pear-tree that no more
Its former luscious fruitage bore;
And hence was doom'd to fall.
Scarce had th' ungrateful gardener sunk
His sharp-edged axe into its trunk,
When thus the old tree spoke:—
"Oh think of all the good I've done;
The fruit I've borne; the praise I've won,
And spare the murd'rous stroke!
Oh do not hasten to their end
The few last days of your old friend!"
The ingrate answer'd:—"Yea, indeed,
I'm truly loath to lay you low;
But still of wood I stand in need,
And cannot to the forest go."
The nightingales then intercede;
Gush out a long and loud refrain,
And of th' intended wrong complain.
They wake the gardener's memory—
His wife oft sitting 'neath that tree,
And list'ning to their song the while
Their dulcet notes her cares beguile.
But he, unheeding their appeal,
Resolv'd another blow to deal.
The aged trunk the stroke broke in,
Which rais'd around his ears a din.
For out there came a swarm of bees,
And gave th' intruder words like these:—
"What are you doing, wretched man?
Your int'rests inj'ring all you can!
Are you not able to perceive
That if this home to us you'd leave,
Our honey of more worth would be
Than all the wood of this old tree?
All tender memories apart,
Does not this reason reach your heart?"
"Ah, yes!" the gardener said at last,
"What happy days have here been past!
Much do I owe this good old tree
For all the fruit 't has given me.
How oft my wife has hither stray'd,
To sit beneath its soothing shade,
While 'midst its whisp'ring leaves above,
The nightingales recall'd our love!
Yes, let the old tree stand!
And for these bees whose honied store
Will make me richer than before,