The Hen With The Golden Eggs.

To this lesson in greed,
Pray, little ones, heed:

Each day, we are told,
A most wonderful Hen
Laid an egg made of gold
For this meanest of men.

So greedy was he,
He was not satisfied.
"What is one egg to me?
I want all that' inside!"

He cut off her head,
And began to explore.
But the poor hen was dead.
And could lay eggs no more.

Jean de La Fontaine

Jean de La Fontaine was a renowned French fabulist and poet. Born on July 8, 1621, he is best known for his 'Fables,' which have been admired for their witty and insightful depiction of human nature and society. La Fontaine's fables are considered classics of French literature and have had a long-lasting impact on both the literary world and popular culture. He passed away on April 13, 1695.

Jean de La Fontaine

The Wolves And The Sheep.

Jean de La Fontaine, Simple Poetry

The Fly And The Game.

Jean de La Fontaine, Simple Poetry

The Monks Of Catalonia

Jean de La Fontaine, Simple Poetry

The Horoscope.

Jean de La Fontaine, Simple Poetry

English

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The Hen With The Golden Eggs.

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How avarice loseth all,
By striving all to gain,
I need no witness call
But him whose thrifty hen,
As by the fable we are told,
Laid every day an egg of gold.
'She hath a treasure in her body,'
Bethinks the avaricious noddy.
He kills and opens - vexed to find
All things like hens of common kind.
Thus spoil'd the source of all his riches,
To misers he a lesson teaches.
In these last changes of the moon,
How often doth one see
Men made as poor as he
By force of getting rich too soon!

Jean de La Fontaine

The Golden Eggs

A golden Egg, one every day,
That simpleton's Goose used to lay;
So he killed the poor thing,
Swifter fortune to bring,
And dined off his fortune that day.

Greed Overeaches Itself

Walter Crane

Golden Egg.

        In ancient times we have been told
        A goose did lay an egg of gold,
        She did produce one every day,
        So regular this goose did lay.

        But her stupid foolish master
        Wanted her to lay them faster,
        And he at last the goose did kill,
        Gold grist no more came to his mill.

        But a strange tale we now unfold,
        In California's mines of gold,
        There they keep both hens and chickens,
        'Mong the gravel scratching pickings.

        But hens do find the golden shiner,
        Is too heavy for their dinner,
        For it they cannot well digest,
        As it lies solid in their breast.

        Then they are slain and you behold
        In their craw the shinin...

James McIntyre

The Unusual Goose And The Imbecilic Woodcutter

A woodcutter bought him a gander,
Or at least that was what he supposed,
As a matter of fact, 'twas a slander
As a later occurrence disclosed;
For they locked the bird up in the garret
To fatten, the while it grew old,
And it laid there a twenty-two carat
Fine egg of the purest of gold!

There was much unaffected rejoicing
In the home of the woodcutter then,
And his wife, her exuberance voicing,
Proclaimed him most lucky of men.
"'Tis an omen of fortune, this gold egg,"
She said, "and of practical use,
For this fowl doesn't lay any old egg,
She's a highly superior goose."

Twas this creature's habitual custom,
This laying of superfine eggs,
And they made it their practice to dust 'em
And pack them by dozens in kegs:
But the woodcu...

Guy Wetmore Carryl

The Hare And The Partridge.

Beware how you deride
The exiles from life's sunny side:
To you is little known
How soon their case may be your own.
On this, sage Aesop gives a tale or two,
As in my verses I propose to do.
A field in common share
A partridge and a hare,
And live in peaceful state,
Till, woeful to relate!
The hunters' mingled cry
Compels the hare to fly.
He hurries to his fort,
And spoils almost the sport
By faulting every hound
That yelps upon the ground.
At last his reeking heat
Betrays his snug retreat.
Old Tray, with philosophic nose,
Snuffs carefully, and grows
So certain, that he cries,
'The hare is here; bow wow!'
And veteran Ranger now, -
The dog that never lies, -
'The hare is gone,' replies.
Alas! poor, wretched hare,

Jean de La Fontaine

The Women And The Secret.

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There's nothing like a secret weighs;
Too heavy 'tis for women tender;
And, for this matter, in my days,
I've seen some men of female gender.

To prove his wife, a husband cried,
(The night he knew the truth would hide,)
'O Heavens! What's this? O dear - I beg -
I'm torn - O! O! I've laid an egg!'
'An egg?' 'Why, yes, it's gospel-true.
Look here - see - feel it, fresh and new;
But, wife, don't mention it, lest men
Should laugh at me, and call me hen:
Indeed, don't say a word about it.'
On this, as other matters, green and young,
The wife, all wonder, did not doubt it,
And pledged herself by Heaven to hold her tongue.
Her oath, however, fled the light
As quick as did the shades of night.
Before Dan Phoebus waked to labou...

Jean de La Fontaine