'FRUIT TO sell. Fruit to sell,' cried the woman at the door.

The Child came out of the house.

'Give me some fruit,' said he, putting a handful of rice in her basket.

The fruit-seller gazed at his face and her eyes swam with tears.

'Who is the fortunate mother,' she cried, 'that has clasped you in her arms and fed you at her breast, and whom your dear voice called "Mother"?'

'Offer your fruit to him,' says the poet, 'and with it your life.'