A WRITER of Fables¹ was passing through a lonely forest when he met
a Fortune.  Greatly alarmed, he tried to climb a tree, but the
Fortune pulled him down and bestowed² itself upon him with cruel
persistence³.

  "Why did you try to run away?" said the Fortune, when his struggles
had ceased and his screams were stilled.  "Why do you glare at me
so inhospitably?"

  "I don't know what you are," replied the Writer of Fables, deeply
disturbed.

  "I am wealth; I am respectability," the Fortune explained; "I am
elegant houses, a yacht, and a clean shirt every day.  I am
leisure, I am travel, wine, a shiny hat, and an unshiny coat.  I am
enough to eat."

  "All right," said the Writer of Fables, in a whisper; "but for
goodness' sake speak lower."

  "Why so?" the Fortune asked, in surprise.

  "So as not to wake me," replied the Writer of Fables, a holy calm
brooding upon his beautiful face.

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