[Illustration: THE FOWLER AND THE RING-DOVE.]
A fowler took his gun, and went into the woods a-shooting. He spied a
Ring-Dove among the branches of an oak, and intended to kill it. He
clapped the piece to his shoulder, and took his aim accordingly. But,
just as he was going to pull the trigger, an adder, which he had trod
upon under the grass, stung him so painfully in the leg, that he was
forced to quit his design, and threw his gun down in a passion. The
poison immediately infected his blood, and his whole body began to
mortify; which, when he perceived, he could not help owning it to be
just. 'Fate,' says he, 'has brought destruction upon me, while I was
contriving the death of another.'