The Fox and the Grapes

At the edge of a vineyard, a fox found a bunch of purple grapes hanging over a wall. The afternoon was hot, and the dust of the road clung to his tongue. He could almost taste the cool juice.

He gathered his legs beneath him and jumped. His jaws closed on empty air. The grapes swung gently above his nose.

The fox stepped back. He had merely begun too close to the wall, he decided. With a short run he leaped again. This time he brushed a leaf, but the fruit remained beyond his reach.

He tried from the left, where the ground rose a little. He tried from the right, where a root gave his paws a purchase. Once he sprang so high that he was certain he had succeeded, until he landed with a dry twig between his teeth.

A sparrow on the trellis watched him shake the twig loose. The fox disliked having an audience, especially for a performance that seemed to be getting worse.

He smoothed his whiskers and turned toward the road.

“Those grapes are probably sour,” he announced. “A sensible creature would leave them alone.”

The sparrow made no reply. The bunch was still purple; the afternoon was still hot. Nothing about the grapes had changed.

Only the fox's story had changed. He carried it away with him like a meal, though his stomach remained quite empty.