Once Madame Weasel, slender-waisted, thin,
Into a granary, by a narrow chink,
Crept, sick and hungry; quick she glided in,
To eat her fill, and she was wise, I think.
There at her ease,
No fear of fees,
She gnawed, and nibbled:—gracious, what a life!
The bacon melted in the strife.
Plump and rotund she grew,
As fat as two.
A week was over,
Spent in clover.
But one day, when she'd done—and that not badly—
A noise alarmed her sadly.
She tried the hole she'd entered, wishing to retreat;
'Twas no such easy feat.
Was she mistaken?—no, the selfsame door:
She tried it, o'er and o'er.
"Yes, yes," she said, "it is the place, I know;
I passed here but a week ago."
A Rat who saw her puzzled, slily spoke—
"Your pouch was emptier then, before your fast you broke.
Empty you came, and empty you must quit:
I tell you what I've told a dozen more.
But don't perplex the matter, I implore;
They differed from you in some ways, I do admit."