Fox and Grapes
On a dry summer day, a fox roamed through a vineyard.
His tongue hung out; his paws dragged through the dust.
Above him, clusters of purple grapes shimmered in the sun.
“Oh fortune!” he cried, “At last, a gift from the gods.”
He poised himself, tail straight, muscles coiled.
With a burst, he leapt—only to fall flat.
He tried again, this time with a run-up. Still nothing.
Again, and again, until his legs ached and pride bruised.
“Pah!” he barked, “Only fools desire grapes not yet ripe.”
A squirrel peeking from the vine snorted, “Funny, you wanted them just a moment ago.”
The fox snapped, “You wouldn’t understand. I have standards.”
The squirrel shrugged. “Sometimes, it’s okay to admit we failed.”
The fox paused, ears twitching. But pride won over truth.
With a final huff, he strutted away, his stomach still empty.
Behind him, the grapes hung, just as sweet and high.
The wind rustled them gently, like laughter overhead.
In the shadows, the squirrel munched one and smiled.
“Poor fellow,” he muttered, “so clever, yet fooled by his own pride.”
✨Moral: Pride often blinds us to the sweetness still within reach.