ONCE upon a time there was a Fox who lived at the foot of a hill and had
a _nice garden_. One morning when he began to hoe in it he got tired,
and the sun was _very hot_. Then the Fox didn't like to hoe any more,
and made up his mind that it wasn't very pleasant to have a garden,
anyway.
So then he started out to travel and find _pleasant things_. He put on
his best clothes, and the first house he came to belonged to a Rabbit
who kept bees. And the Rabbit showed the Fox his bees and how to take
out the honey. And the Fox said, "What _pleasant work_!" and wanted to
take out honey too. But when he did there was a bee on the honey, and it
stung the Fox on the nose. And that hurt the Fox, and his nose began to
swell up, and he said: "This is not pleasant work _at all_!" and of
course it wasn't--not for _him_--though the Rabbit seemed to enjoy it
_more than ever_.
So the Fox travelled on, and the next house he came to belonged to a
Crow who made pies. And the Fox looked at him awhile and said, "What
_pleasant work_!" And the Crow let the Fox help him, and when the Fox
went to take a pie out of the oven he burnt his fingers _quite badly_.
Then he said, "No, it is _not_ pleasant work--not for _me_!" and that
was true, though the Crow seemed to enjoy it _more than ever_.
So the Fox went on again, and the next house he came to belonged to a
'Coon who milked cows. And the Fox watched him milk, and pretty soon he
said: "What pleasant work that _is_! Let _me_ milk." So the 'Coon let
the Fox milk, and the Cow put her foot in the milk-pail and upset it
_all over_ the Fox's nice _new clothes_. And the Fox was mad, and said:
"This work is not in the _least_ pleasant!" and he _hurried away_,
though the 'Coon seemed to enjoy it _more than ever_.
And the next house the Fox came to belonged to a Cat who played the
fiddle. And the Fox listened awhile and said: "What pleasant work that
_must be_!" and he borrowed the Cat's fiddle. But when he started down
the road playing, a Man ran around the corner and shot a loud gun at
him, and that was not pleasant, _either_, though the Cat seemed to enjoy
it _more than ever_.
So the Fox kept on travelling and _doing_ things that he thought would
be _pleasant_, but that did not turn out to _be_ pleasant--not for
_him_--until by-and-by he had travelled _clear around the world_ and had
come up on the other side, _back_ to his _own garden_ again. And his
garden was just the same as he had left it, only the things had grown
bigger, and there were _some weeds_.
And the Fox jumped over the fence and commenced to _hoe_ the _weeds_,
and pretty soon he said, "Why, this is _pleasant_!" Then he hoed some
more, and said, "Why, what pleasant work _this is_!"
So he kept on hoeing and finding it pleasant until by-and-by the weeds
were _all gone_, and the _Rabbit_ and the _Crow_ and the _Cat_ and the
_'Coon_ came and traded him honey and pies and milk and music for
vegetables, because he had the best garden in the world. And he _has
yet_!
* * * * *
When Mr. Robin got through and sat down, Mr. Squirrel spoke up and said
it was a good story because it had a moral lesson in it and taught folks
to like the things they knew best how to do, and Mr. 'Possum said yes,
that might be so, but that the story couldn't be true, because none of
those animals would have enjoyed seeing that Fox leave them, but would
have persuaded him to stay and help them, and would have taught him to
do most of the work.
Then Mr. Robin spoke up and said that Mr. 'Possum thought everybody was
like himself, and that anyway Mr. 'Possum didn't need the lesson in that
story, for he already liked to do the things he could do best, which
were to eat and sleep and let other people do the work, though of course
he had been very good about getting the wood, lately, which certainly
was unusual.
Then Mr. 'Possum said he didn't see why Mr. Robin should speak in that
cross way when he had only meant to be kind and show him the mistake in
his story, so he could fix it right. And Mr. Rabbit said that as Mr.
'Possum seemed to know so much how stories and poems ought to be
written, perhaps he'd show now what he could do in that line himself.
Mr. 'Possum said he hadn't written anything because it was too much
trouble, but that he would tell them a story if they would like to hear
it--something that had really happened, because he had been there, and
was old enough to remember.
But before he began Mr. Robin said that as they had not cared much about
his story he would like to recite a few lines he had thought of, which
would perhaps explain how he felt, and all the animals said, "Of course,
go right on," and Mr. Robin bowed and recited a little poem he had made,
called