An eagle perched on a high rock, watching for hares below. A man shot it, and the arrow buried itself in its flesh; turning, the eagle saw the shaft fletched with its own feathers before its eyes. "It is a double grief," it said, "to die by feathers that were once my own."
No wound stings more sharply than the one dealt with our own weapons.Moral
One fable, every Sunday, in your inbox.