FABLE LXVIII.

The rain so soft had made the road, That, in a rut, a waggon-load, The poor man's harvest, (bitter luck!) Sank down a foot, and there it stuck. He whipped his horses, but in vain; They pulled and splashed, and pulled again, But vainly still; the slippery soil Defied their strength, and mocked their toil. Panting they stood, with legs outspread; The driver stood, and scratched his head: (A common custom, by-the-bye, When people know not what to try, Though not, it seems, a remedy). A Butterfly, in flower concealed, Had travelled with them from the field; Who in the waggon was thrown up, While feasting on a buttercup. The panting of each labouring beast Disturbed her at her fragrant feast; The sudden stop, the driver's sigh, Awoke her generous sympathy. And, seeing the distressing case She cried, while springing from her place, (Imagining her tiny freight A vast addition to the weight,) "I must have pity—and be gone, Now, master Waggoner, drive on."

Do not admire this Butterfly, Young reader; I will tell you why. At first, goodnature seems a cause, Why she should merit your applause; But 'twas conceit that filled her breast: Her self-importance made a jest Of what might otherwise have claimed Your praise,—but now she must be blamed. Should any case occur, when you May have some friendly act to do; Give all your feeble aid—as such, But estimate it not too much.