THE BOY AND THE SCHOOLMASTER

By: Jean de La Fontaine

Reported by: Edith Alintano

All critics, pedants, men of endless prose,--

Three sorts, so richly bless'd with progeny,

The house is bless'd that doth not lodge any,--

Wise counsel is not always wise, May in it see themselves from head to toes.

As this my tale exemplifies. No matter what the task,

A boy, that frolick'd on the banks of Seine, Their precious tongues must teach;

Fell in, and would have found a watery grave, Their help in need you ask,

Had not that hand that planteth ne'er in vain You first must hear them preach.

A willow planted there, his life to save.

While hanging by its branches as he might,

A certain sage preceptor came in sight;

To whom the urchin cried, 'Save, or I'm

drown'd!'

The master, turning gravely at the sound,

Thought proper for a while to stand aloof,

And give the boy some seasonable reproof.

'You little wretch! this comes of foolish playing,

Commands and precepts disobeying.

A naughty rogue, no doubt, you are,

Who thus requite your parents' care.

Alas! their lot I pity much,

Whom fate condemns to watch o'er such.'

This having coolly said, and more,

He pull'd the drowning lad ashore.

This story hits more marks than you suppose.