A cat and fox went on a pilgrimage.
These wily hypocrites, to help defray the journey’s costs, relieved the farms they passed of cheese and fowls with wheedling blandishments.
Their way was long and consequently dull; to speed the hours, they argued. Argument! We’d sleep through life without sweet argument! Our pilgrims’ voices hoarsened from their shouting.
“You think you’re very clever,” sneered the fox. “I wonder if you know as much as I. I have a bag chock-full of tricks and feints and sleights and ruses.”
“I’ve but one,” the cat admitted. “But it’s worth a thousand.”
So the arguing continued, waxing hot and bitter, till a pack of hounds appeared; the quarrel was curtailed abruptly.
Said the cat, “You’d better rifle now that bag, my friend, and rack your cunning brains for some infallible maneuver. Here is mine.”
And nimbly up a nearby tree he climbed.
The fox dashed one way and another, dove inside a dozen holes, evaded and was found, was smoked or rousted from a score of hiding places, time and time again. At last, two dogs upon him pounced—and slew.
Too many stratagems may spoil a game: When rich in choice, we know not how to choose.
One good, all-purpose ploy will seldom lose.