5 Super Interesting Fables With Amazing Morals For Kids | Short Bedtime Moral Stories | Kidsbedtimestories



A peasant had a docile bear,

A bear of manners pleasant,

And all the love she had to spare

She lavished on the peasant:

She proved her deep affection plainly

(The method was a bit ungainly).

The peasant had to dig and delve,

And, as his class are apt to,

When all the whistles blew at twelve

He ate his lunch, and napped, too,

The bear a careful outlook keeping

The while her master lay asleeping.

As thus the peasant slept one day, 

The weather being torrid,

A gnat beheld him where he lay

And lit upon his forehead,

And thence, like all such winged creatures,

Proceeded over all his features.

The watchful bear, perceiving that

The gnat lit on her master,

Resolved to light upon the gnat

And plunge him in disaster;

She saw no sense in being lenient

When stones lay round her, most convenient.

And so a weighty rock she aimed

With much enthusiasm:

“Oh, lor’!” the startled gnat exclaimed,

And promptly had a spasm:

A natural proceeding this was,

Considering how close the miss was.

Now by his dumb companion’s pluck,

Which caused the gnat to squall so,

The sleeping man was greatly struck

(And by the bowlder, also).

In fact, his friends who idolized him

Remarked they hardly recognized him.

Of course the bear was greatly grieved,

But, being just a dumb thing,

She only thought: “I was deceived,

But still, I did hit something!”

Which showed this masculine achievement

Had somewhat soothed her deep bereavement.

THE MORAL: If you prize your bones

Beware of females throwing stones.


A raven sat upon a tree,

And not a word he spoke, for

His beak contained a piece of Brie,

Or, maybe, it was Roquefort:

We’ll make it any kind you please--

At all events, it was a cheese.

Beneath the tree’s umbrageous limb

A hungry fox sat smiling;

He saw the raven watching him,

And spoke in words beguiling.

“J’admire,” said he, “ton beau plumage.”

(The which was simply persiflage.)

Two things there are, no doubt you know,

To which a fox is used:

A rooster that is bound to crow,

A crow that’s bound to roost,

And which so ever he espies

He tells the most unblushing lies.

“Sweet fowl,” he said, “I understand

You’re more than merely natty,

I hear you sing to beat the band

And Adelina Patti.

Pray render with your liquid tongue

A bit from ‘Gotterdammerung.’”

This subtle speech was aimed to please

The crow, and it succeeded:

He thought no bird in all the trees

Could sing as well as he did.

In flattery completely doused,

He gave the “Jewel Song” from “Faust.”

But gravitation’s law, of course,

As Isaac Newton showed it,

Exerted on the cheese its force,

And elsewhere soon bestowed it.

In fact, there is no need to tell

What happened when to earth it fell.

I blush to add that when the bird

Took in the situation

He said one brief, emphatic word,

Unfit for publication.

The fox was greatly startled, but

He only sighed and answered “Tut.”

THE MORAL is: A fox is bound

To be a shameless sinner.

And also: When the cheese comes round

You know it’s after dinner.

But (what is only known to few)

The fox is after dinner, too.


A woolly little terrier pup

Gave vent to yelps distressing,

Whereat his mistress took him up

And soothed him with caressing,

And yet he was not in the least

What one would call a handsome beast.

He might have been a Javanese,

He might have been a Jap dog,

And also neither one of these,

But just a common lapdog,

The kind that people send, you know,

Done up in cotton, to the Show.

At all events, whate’er his race,

The pretty girl who owned him

Caressed his unattractive face

And petted and cologned him.

And petted and cologned him.

While, watching her with mournful eye,

A patient ass stood silent by.

“If thus,” he mused, “the feminine

And fascinating gender

Is led to love, I, too, can win

Her protestations tender.”

And then the poor, misguided chap

Sat down upon the lady’s lap.

Then, as her head with terror swam,

“This method seems to suit you,”

Observed the ass, “so here I am.”

Said she, “Get up, you brute you!”

And promptly screamed aloud for aid:

No ass was ever more dismayed.

They took the ass into the yard

And there, with whip and truncheon,

They beat him, and they beat him hard,

From breakfast-time till luncheon.

He only gave a tearful gulp,

Though almost pounded to a pulp.

THE MORAL is (or seems, at least,

To be): In etiquette you

Will find that while enough’s a feast

A surplus will upset you.

Toujours, toujours la politesse, if

The quantity be not excessive.


Once, on a time and in a place

Conducive to malaria,

There lived a member of the race

Of Rana Temporaria;

Or, more concisely still, a frog

Inhabited a certain bog.

A bull of Brobdingnagian size,

Too proud for condescension,

One morning chanced to cast his eyes

Upon the frog I mention;

And, being to the manner born,

Surveyed him with a lofty scorn.

Perceiving this, the Bactrian’s frame

With anger was inflated,

Till, growing larger, he became

Egregiously elated;

For inspiration’s sudden spell

Had pointed out a way to swell.

“Ha! ha!” he proudly cried, “a fig

For this, your mammoth torso!

Just watch me while I grow as big

As you--or even more so!”

To which magniloquential gush

His bullship simply answered “Tush!”

Alas! the frog’s success was slight,

Which really was a wonder,

In view of how with main and might

He strove to grow rotunder!

And, standing patiently the while,

The bull displayed a quiet smile.

But ah, the frog tried once too oft

And, doing so, he busted;

Whereat the bull discreetly coughed

And moved away, disgusted,

As well he might, considering

The wretched taste that marked the thing.

THE MORAL: Everybody knows

How ill a wind it is that blows.


A farmer built around his crop

A wall, and crowned his labors

By placing glass upon the top

To lacerate his neighbors,

Provided they at any time

Should feel disposed the wall to climb.

He also drove some iron pegs

Securely in the coping,

To tear the bare, defenseless legs

Of brats who, upward groping,

Might steal, despite the risk of fall,

The grapes that grew upon the wall.

One day a fox, on thieving bent,

A crafty and an old one,

Most shrewdly tracked the pungent scent

That eloquently told one

That grapes were ripe and grapes were good

And likewise in the neighborhood.

He threw some stones of divers shapes

The luscious fruit to jar off:

It made him ill to see the grapes

So near and yet so far off.

His throws were strong, his aim was fine,

But “Never touched me!” said the vine.

The farmer shouted, “Drat the boys!”

And, mounting on a ladder,

He sought the cause of all the noise;

No farmer could be madder,

Which was not hard to understand

Because the glass had cut his hand.

His passion he could not restrain,

But shouted out, “You’re thievish!”

The fox replied, with fine disdain,

“Come, country, don’t be peevish.”

(Now “country” is an epithet

One can’t forgive, nor yet forget.)

The farmer rudely answered back

With compliments unvarnished,

And downward hurled the bric-a-brac

With which the wall was garnished,

In view of which demeanor strange,

The fox retreated out of range.

“I will not try the grapes to-day,”

He said. “My appetite is

Fastidious, and, anyway,

I fear appendicitis.”

(The fox was one of the elite

Who call it site instead of seet.)

The moral is that if your host

Throws glass around his entry

You know it isn’t done by most

Who claim to be the gentry,

While if he hits you in the head

You may be sure he’s underbred.