A crow, having stolen a piece of flesh, perched in a tree to enjoy it at leisure. A fox saw her, and, being hungry, thought he would employ a little diplomacy to get the meat away from her.
"What a prima-donna the crow would be," he said, looking at her with mock admiration, "if she only had a voice proportional to her other attractions!"
The crow promptly dropped the piece of flesh on his head, completely blinding him, and before he could recover from his surprise, lit on his back and began to peck him viciously. "I'll have you to know," she cawed, "that I'm a proper lady, and the man that compares me to them shameless French singing hussies is going to get hurt."
Don't praise the soft whiteness of a labor delegate's hands.
Henry Wallace Phillips's Fable: The Fox and the Crow
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King Billy was given to strolling up and down the streets of Ballarat when that eviscerated city was merely in process of disembowelment, before alluvial mining gave way to quartz-crushing, when the individual had a chance, if a very vague one, of sudden and delightful fortune. The Ballarat blacks were a scaly lot, to talk of them like ill-fed hogs, as men were wont to do. They dwined and dwindled, as natives will before the resources of civilisation: the bloodthirsty ones got killed out; the rumthirsty ones died out; the wild corroboree was reduced to a poverty-stricken imitation of its former
The Pyrenees, her iron sides pressed low in the water by her cargo of wheat, rolled sluggishly, and made it easy for the man who was climbing aboard from out a tiny outrigger canoe. As his eyes came level with the rail, so that he could see inboard, it seemed to him that he saw a dim, almost indiscernible haze. It was more like an illusion, like a blurring film that had spread abruptly over his eyes. He felt an inclination to brush it away, and the same instant he thought that he was growing old and that it was time