"The Crane and Fox" by Henry Livingston (1827)

Henry Livingston's poetic version of the old Aesop fable of the crane and the fox, read by Byron Nilsson and put to "Over the Water to Charlie" from Henry's Music Manuscript Book.

In long gone years a fox and crane
Were bound in friendship’s golden chain;
Whene’er they met, the fox would bow
And madame Crane would curtsie low:
-My lovely Crane how do you do?
-I’m very well - pray how are you?

Thus time passed on, both very civil
Till Reynard in an hour evil
Projected what he thought a stroke
The world would call a pretty joke.
A billet wrote on gilded paper
And sealed it with a perfumed wafer

Announced the day, if she saw fit
To take a tete-a-tete tit-bit:
The day arriv’d - She preen’d each feather
And summon’d ev’ry grace together;
At breakfast scarce a morsel eat
Intent to riot at the treat.

She came - Wide stood ‘th unfolded door
And roses deck’d the sanded floor.
- There hyacinths in festoons hung
- Here lillies their rich fragrance flung.

The table drawn - The damask spread
And soup prepared of bullock’s marrow
Pour’d in each plate profuse - But shallow:
The fox began to lap in haste
And made a plentiful repast,
Pressed his fair friend to do the same
And to encourage, lap’d again.

The Crane be sure with her long beak
Could not a single morsel pick:
She felt the bite — but little said
And very soon her exit made;
Just beg’d the fox would come next day
And sup with her in her plain way:

Her domicile was well prepar’d
No cost or labor had been spared:
- Roses and tulips on the floor
And daffodils the ceiling bore;
Nor was a band of music wanting
For whippoorwills and frogs were chanting.

The sun had set and given way
To sober evening’s mantle gray:
The fox arriv’d with stomach keen
- Hoped he saw in health his Queen
And added in his courtliest air
She ne’er before had look’d so fair.

The Crane replied in mildest mood
That all he said was very good,
She meekly meant to do her duty
And ne’er dream’d of praise or beauty.
- She spoke - The table soon was spread
And ev’rything in order laid:
Two narrow jars now grac’d the board
With nicely minced ven’son stored:

- Now let’s fall to sir if you will -
And in she pok’d her slender bill
And gulp’d of viands at her leisure
- To see you eat would give me pleasure
She cried - Eat neighbor eat
I fear you do not like my treat;
It suits my palate to a hair
Pray Chummy eat and do not spare.
- The fox looked on with rueful phys
Feeling in all its force the quiz.

The Crane enjoy’d his discontent
And thus address’d him as he went,
The truest adage ever spoke
Was “He that GIVES must TAKE a joke.”

H.L. to his beloved daughter Jane.
Feby. 19th 1827

******************

Now contrast this with Clement Moore’s version of the tale of the Rooster and Pig. A nasty little piece of work, consistent with Moore’s priggish writing. THIS is the poem that Moore advocates say shows that he wrote “Night Before Christmas” because it’s another anapest. Needless to say, they ignore the spirit behind the words.

On a warm sunny day, in the midst of July,
A lazy young pig lay stretched out in his sty,
Like some of his betters, most solemnly thinking
That the best things on earth are good eating and drinking.
At length, to get rid of the gnats and the flies,
He resolv’d, from his sweet meditations to rise;
And, to keep his skin pleasant, and pliant, and cool,
He plung’d him, forthwith, in the next muddy pool.
When, at last, he thought fit to arouse from his bath,
A conceited young rooster came just in his path:
A precious smart prig, full in vanity drest,
Who thought, of all creatures, himself far the best.
“Hey day! little grunter, why where in the world
Are you going so perfum’d, pomatum’d, and curl’d?
Such delicate odors my senses assail,
And I see such a sly looking twist in your tail,
That you, sure are intent on some elegant sporting;
Hurra! I believe, on my life, you are courting;
And that figure which moves with such exquisite grace,
Combin’d with the charms of that soft-smiling face,
In one who’s so neat and adorn’d with such art,
Cannot fail to secure the most obdurate heart.
And much joy do I wish you, both you and your wife,
For the prospect you have of a nice pleasant life.”

“Well, said, master Dunghill,” cried Pig in a rage,
“You’re doubtless, the prettiest beau of the age,
With those sweet modest eyes staring out of your head,
And those lumps of raw flesh, all so bloody and red.
Mighty graceful you look with those beautiful legs,
Like a squash or a pumpkin on two wooden pegs.
And you’ve special good reason your own life to vaunt,
And the pleasures of others with insult to taunt;
Among crackling fools, always clucking or crowing,
And looking up this way and that way, so knowing,
And strutting and swelling, or stretching a wing,
To make you admired by each silly thing;
and so full of your own precious self, all the time,
That you think common courtesy almost a crime;
As if all the world was on the look out
To see a young rooster go scratching about.”

Hereupon, a debate, like a whirlwind arose,
Which seem’d fast approaching to bitings and blows;
‘Mid squeaking and grunting, Pig’s arguments flowing;
And Chick venting fury ‘twixt screaming and crowing.
At length, to decide the affair, ‘twas agreed
That to counsellor Owl they should straightway proceed;
While each, in his conscience, no motive could show,
But the laudable wish to exult o’er his foe.

Other birds, of all feather, their vigils were keeping,
While Owl, in his nook, was most learnedly sleeping:
For, like a true sage, he preferred the dark night,
When engaged in his work, to the sun’s blessed light.
Each stated his plea, and the owl was required
To say whose condition should most be desired.
It seem’d to the judge a strange cause to be put on,
To tell which was better, a fop or a glutton;
Yet, like a good lawyer, he kept a calm face,
And proceeded, by rule, to examine the case;
With both his round eyes gave a deep-meaning wink,
And, extending one talon, he set him to think.

In fine, with a face much inclin’d for a joke,
And a mock solemn accent, the counsellor spoke —
“’Twixt Rooster and Roaster, this cause to decide,
Would afford me, my friends, much profesional pride.
Were each on the table serv’d up, and well dress’d,
I could easily tell which I fancied the best;
But while both here before me, so lively I see,
This cause is, in truth, too important for me;
Without trouble, however, among human kind,
Many dealers in questions like this you may find.
Yet, one sober truth, ere we part, I would teach —
That the life you each lead is best fitted for each.
‘Tis the joy of a cockerel to strut and look big,
And, to wallow in mire, is the bliss of a pig.
But, whose life is more pleasant, when viewed in itself,
Is a question had better be laid on the shelf,
Like many which puzzle deep reasoners’ brains,
And reward them with nothing but words for their pains.
So now, my good clients, I have been long awake,
And I pray you, in peace, your departure to take.
let each one enjoy, with content, his own pleasure,
Nor attempt, by himself, other people to measure.”

Thus ended the strife, as does many a fight;
Each thought his foe wrong, and his own notions right.
Pig turn’d, with a grunt, to his mire anew,
And He-biddy, laughing, cried — cock-a-doodle-doo.

I am. It’s all over the Henry Livingston website, and mentioned several times when I first discussed the attribution arguments here. 5th great granddaughter.

Actually, I adore Congressman Livingston, and was sorry for his disgrace.

I got into genealogy with the hope to discover a relative of my father’s who might have had one of his books of poetry. This is all over the website, too. Mother left father, a military poet and an alcoholic, when I was 6 weeks old and he died before I could search him out. I tried to find his books as a way to learning about him. Genealogy became my desperate attempt to discover his work. Instead, I found a mind numbing array of ancestors that left my jaw sitting on the pavement.

Great grandfather ran the Lincoln assassination investigation for Stanton, was one of the special judge advocates and put together the records for the Library of Congress, which are in his handwriting. He married the daughter of another General, who was the grandson of ... and it went on and on and on. 3rd great grandfather merged his railroad with others to form the New York Central. This one and that one entertained LaFayette and rode on the first Erie Canal boat. That one owned most of NY state and descended from the man who interviewed the king who wanted to land in Scotland. That one won an award for translating the bible.

When I found Henry and discovered that the Internet said he wrote NBC, it was one sort of a shock, but not an ultimate one. He was just one of a bunch of people who by now was beyond shocking me. But I’m a researcher and I needed to know if it was true. Took me WEEKS to find a book of Clement Moore’s, and only then because Brown University allowed me to print their microfilm. As it printed out, I realized that there was not the faintest possibility that the man who wrote that wondrous poem was the same man of small spirit I saw in these horrible poems. The poems no one else read because they WERE so horrible.

I was determined then to be part of the group that set about righting that wrong. And that’s what I’ve done for twenty years. As the former chair of computer programming languages, I had the research skills and was anal compulsive enough to do the research work involved. I pulled the first professor into the quest, and the second more famous one found me and asked for my help because he thought he had the approach that would settle the matter. I worked with him for three solid years to pull numbers out of poetry. If those numbers had proven Moore the author I would have been content because I follow research where it leads.

But it didn’t. It proved Moore statistically could not have written the poem and Livingston could have.

That made sense of all of the family stories of people who had HEARD Henry read the poem and those who had inherited the original manuscript of the poem from one another, until one son lost it in a fire.

So either all those family members lied to one another or one nasty man who, according to the Livingston stories, received a copy from an enraptured governess heading south to work for a Moore family and dropped a copy at Clement Moore’s on her way, lied to his family when he read them the poem as his own and told them not to tell it to anyone. One of the kids slipped, passed the poem onto a distant relative who got it published. Moore eventually published the poem 21 years later to the pressure of his children wanting him to get the credit. But first he wrote the editor of the newspaper and asked if when he published it he had known the author. When the editor said no, Moore published the massively edited version of the poem that the editor had written his letter on the back of, his family explaining in depositions later that there was no corrected original because he wrote it down perfectly and only changed a few words when he published it under his own name in 1844. Because Moore never knew that the massively edited one was NOT the originally published version. If he’d written it, he would have known.

Basically, I’m the world expert on the topic, and the one the researchers contact for information. I see this as something Henry wouldn’t have cared about because he never took credit for anything except the drawings he published. But I hate injustice, which is why I’m a conservative and adore Trump. And this, to me, is a great injustice that needs the truth being exposed.

I can’t do much for Trump, but I do have the skills to do something for Henry.

As for Congressman Livingston, I was stymied in my Livingston research. They all carry the same names, so I reached out to his legislative office. One day my phone rang and a deep voice said, “This is Bob Livingston. Welcome to the Livingston family.” Now I couldn’t vote for him. He did this because he was a good man who cared about people and was probably an excellent representative for his district. I’ve adored him ever since. And his name opened the research door for me at the Livingston estate and cleared the way that led from Henry’s daughter Catharine to Henry, himself.

Whew, that was a long YES.

Oh, and I did eventually discover my father’s book. His name was mispelled. And the poetry column in my old college newspaper where father courted my 16 year old mother in poetry and she answered him back in the same. And because of what I had learned in researching poetry, I was able to wend my way through a myriad of pseudonyms to trace their up and down relationship until the army sent him to New York from Chicago.

And I was able to get great grandfather’s grave cleared of debris, his great brass plate identified, and a military group to take over the grave and put up a historical plaque. A national park ranger even contacted me from Ford Theater who wanted to play great grandfather, based on the memories ggf had published of the Lincoln trial.

It’s been a quest and a half and a great deal of learning, which is the most fun possible.

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