a squirrel, on his hind legs raised,

upon a noble charger gazed,

who docile to the spur and rein,

went through his menage on the plain;

now seeming like the wind to fly,

now gracefully curvetting by.

"good sir," the little tumbler said,

and with much coolness, scratched his head,

"in all your swiftness, skill and spirit,

i do not see there's much of merit,

for, all you seem so proud to do,

i can perform, and better too;

i'm light and nimble, brisk and sprightly,

i trot, and skip, and canter lightly,

backward and forward—here and there,

now on the earth—now in the air—

from bough to bough—from hill to hill,

and never for a moment still."

the courser tossed his head on high;

and made the squirrel this reply:

"my little nimble jealous friend,

those turns and tumbles without end—

that hither, thither, restless springing—

those ups and downs and leaps and swinging—

and other feats more wondrous far,

pray tell me, of what use they are?

but what i do, this praise may claim—

my master's service is my aim,

and laudably i use for him

my warmth of blood and strength of limb."