Page:Florian - The Fables, 1888.djvu/72

66  Pull'd hair and tore their ragged clothes, And black'd each other's eyes.

He who at last the object gain'd, Lost his few locks that still remain'd; And when his prize he look'd upon, Lo! 'twas a broken comb he'd won!  

"Bill!" said Luke one cloudy day, In a sad foreboding tone, "Just look at yonder cloud, I pray!      How very black 'tis grown! Such threat'ning clouds as that portend       Some awful end." "Why?" answer'd Bill, "why think you so? 'Twill only be a common blow." "Why!" replied Luke in a great pet; "It is a hail storm, and I'll bet 'Twill ruin vineyards, barley, wheat, And ev'ry thing we raise to eat. Nothing to live on will remain: Famine will follow, and in train The pest will come, and we shall fall, Village, people, crops and all!" "The pest seize on your storm!" Said Bill, getting rather warm; "Don't take alarm! For rest assur'd, the world, my friend, 