rudely; 'let us get to the point, and the point is that I want to eat
you and not talk to you.'

'Have you no pity for a poor mother?' asked the fox, putting her tail
to her eyes, but peeping slily out of them all the same.

'I am dying of hunger,' answered the wolf, doggedly; 'and you know,' he
added with a grin, 'that charity begins at home.'

'Quite so,' replied the fox; 'it would be unreasonable of me to object
to your satisfying your appetite at my expense. But if the fox resigns
herself to the sacrifice, the mother offers you one last request.'

'Then be quick and don't waste my time, for I can't wait much longer.
What is it you want?'

'You must know,' said the fox, 'that in this village there is a rich
man who makes in the summer enough cheeses to last him for the whole
year, and keeps them in an old well, now dry, in his courtyard. By the
well hang two buckets on a pole that were used, in former days, to draw
up water. For many nights I have crept down to the palace, and have
lowered myself in the bucket, bringing home with me enough cheese to
feed the children. All I beg of you is to come with me, and, instead
of hunting chickens and such things, I will make a good meal off cheese
before I die.'

'But the cheeses may be all finished by now?'

'If you were only to see the quantities of them!' laughed the fox.
'And even if they were finished, there would always be ME to eat.'