“There is a little bird,” says he, “called a lark; it lives and builds its nest amongst the corn, and its young are generally fledged about the time of the approach of harvest. A lark happened to build among some early corn, which therefore was growing ripe when the young ones were yet unable to fly. When the mother went abroad to seek food for her young, she charged them to take notice if any unusual thing should happen or be said, and to inform her when she returned. The master of the corn calls his son, a youth, and says, ‘You see that this corn has grown ripe, and requires our labour; tomorrow therefore, as soon as it shall be light, go to our friends, desire them to come and assist us in getting in our harvest.’ When he had said this, he departed. When the lark returned, the trembling young ones began to make a noise round their mother, and to entreat her to hasten away, and remove them to some other place; ‘for the master,’ say they, ‘has sent to ask his friends to come to-morrow morning and reap.’ The mother desires them to be at ease; ‘for if the master,’ says she, ‘refers the reaping to his friends, it will not take place to-morrow, nor is it necessary for me to remove you to-day.’ The next day, the mother flies away for food: the master waits for his friends; the sun rages, and nothing is done; no friends came. Then he says a second time to his son: ‘These friends,’ says he, ‘are very tardy indeed. Let us rather go and invite our relations and neighbours, and desire them to come early to-morrow and reap.’ The affrighted young tell this to their mother: she again desires them not to be at all anxious or alarmed. ‘There are no relations so obsequious as to comply instantly with such requests, and undertake labour without hesitation. But do you observe if any thing shall be said again.’—The next morning comes, and the bird goes to seek food. The relations and neighbours omit to give the assistance required of them. At length the master says to his son, ‘Farewell to our friends and relations; bring two sickles at the dawn of day; I will take one, and you the other, and to-morrow we will reap the corn with our own hands.’—When the mother heard from her young ones, that the master had said this: The time is now come,’ says she, ‘for us to go away; now what he says will undoubtedly be done; for he rests upon himself, whose business it is, and not on another, who is requested to do it.’ The lark then removed her nest; the corn was cut down by the master.”—This is the fable of Aesop concerning confidence in friends and relations, generally vain and deceitful. But what else do the more sententious books of philosophers recommend, than that we should make exertions for ourselves, nor consider as ours, nor at all belonging to us, what is external with respect to ourselves and our minds? Ennius has given this apologue of Aesop in his Satires, with great skill and beauty, in tetrameters. The two last, I think, it is well worth while to have impressed on the heart and memory.