An author who had wrought a book of fables (the merit whereof
transcended expression) was peacefully sleeping atop of the modest
eminence to which he had attained, when he was rudely awakened by a
throng of critics, emitting adverse judgment upon the tales he had
builded.
[Illustration]
"Apparently," said he, "I have been guilty of some small grains of
unconsidered wisdom, and the same have proven a bitterness to these
excellent folk, the which they will not abide. Ah, well! those who
produce the Strasburg _pâté_ and the feather-pillow are prone to
regard _us_ as rival creators. I presume it is in course of nature for
him who grows the pen to censure the manner of its use."
So speaking, he executed a smile a hand's-breath in extent, and
resumed his airy dream of dropping ducats.