n, and set in his own chamber,
that he might keep her memory always before his eyes.

The cat listened to these lavish professions; and before three days she
pretended to be dead, and stretched herself at full length in the
garden. When Pippo's wife saw her, she cried out, "Oh, husband, what a
sad misfortune! The cat is dead!" "Devil die with her!" said Pippo.
"Better her than we!" "What shall we do with her?" replied the wife.
"Take her by the leg," said he, "and fling her out of the window!"

Then the cat, who heard this fine reward when she least expected it,
began to say, "Is this the return you make for my taking you from
beggary? Are these the thanks I get for freeing you from rags that you
might have hung distaffs with? Is this my reward for having put good
clothes on your back when you were a poor, starved, miserable,
tatter-shod ragamuffin? But such is the fate of him who washes an ass's
head! Go! A curse upon all I have done for you! A fine gold coffin you
had prepared for me! A fine funeral you were going to give me! Go, now!
serve, labour, toil, sweat to get this fine reward! Unhappy is he who
does a good deed in hope of a return. Well was it said by the
philosopher, He who lies down an ass, an ass he finds himself.' But
let him who does most, expect least; smooth words and ill deeds deceive
alike both fools and wise!"

So saying, she drew her cloak about her and went her way. All that
Pippo, with the utmost humility, could do to soothe her was of no
avail. She would not return; but ran on and on without ever turning her
head about, saying--

"Heaven keep me from the rich grown poor,
And from the beggar who of wealth gains store."

XIV

THE SERPENT

It always happens that he who is over-curious in prying into the
affairs of other people, strikes his own foot with the axe; and the
King of Long-Furrow is a proof of this, who, by poking his nose into
secrets, brought his daughter into trouble and ruined his unhappy
son-in-law--who, in attempting to make a thrust with his head was left
with it broken.

There was once on a time a gardener's wife, who longed to have a son
more than a man in a fever for cold water, or the innkeeper for the
arrival of the mail-coach.

It chanced one day that the poor man went to the mountain to get a
faggot, and when he came home and opened it he found a pretty little
serpent among the twigs. At the sight of this, Sapatella (for that was
the name of the g