WRFH/Radio Free Hillsdale 101.7 FM - The Poetry Fix: The Milk-Maid and the Milk-Pail

Episode Date: January 26, 2026

Today, Erika Kyba reads La Fontaine's "The Milk-Maid and the Milk-Pail," a witty and practical French fable about the danger of getting carried away in a daydream.

Welcome to the Poetry Fix on Radio Free Hillsdale 101.7 FM. I'm your host, Erica Kaiba, bringing you your weekly fix of poetry from across time. Today we're reading La Fontaine's poetic fable, The Milk Made, and the Milk Pail. Very much a practical fable, La Fontaine warns us in this poem not to get too ahead of ourselves, letting our wild daydreams spoil the good that we have directly ahead of us. Because the original poem is in French, we'll read the original, followed by a translation. With all that said, let's dive. The Milk Made and the Milk Pail by La Fontaine.

Perrette on her head, having a po-o-o-le, well-posed on a coccin, pretended to arrive without encumbrance to the life. Legerre and courvettu, she'll gore at a grand path, having made this jure-la, for being more agile,

cotion simple and sullier-plat. The other leti-tier, in its citrused, conted in his pens and, all the price of his lead, on employing the money, "'acheted in sand-off, "'f, making triple-couver.

"'The chuse all had been, "'a-bye, by his soan diligent. "'He may, dizzetel, "'facil, "'d, he'll evade the poulet "'athe'll "'their-reuxer "'in' "'theirn't

"'asn't enough "'to have a cro-chon. "'The pork has ingress "'Couture a few of sun. "'It was, when I luce, "'de grosser reasonable, "'I'll re-vendant "'to the money belle and boll,

"'and who'll "'empsherra' "'to make in our table. "'You'll "'w the price he is, a vach and his vaux, that I would have sauté to meet with the troupeau. Peret, there on the desue, sootersed, and from the tomb, had a deauveau-vaux-vach-cochon-cochoo-ve. The dame of his being, who tend to a Neh-Marie, his fortune, so rependue,

will be excused to his marie in great danger to be batted. The recit in farce, en fuffe. We'll call it the Paule. That the spirit no bat the campagne, who no fay chateau in Spain? Pichrochol, Pyrrhus, the letiare, infantus, Othong, the sages, that the foe. Chacon sange, enveying, It is nothing of more due.

A flatus error, emported, then, our nests, all the world is anew, Tew the honour, you're all the women. When I'm alone, I do you feel the more brave in defy. I'm acarte, I'm dethrone the sophie. On may the roy, my pop leaven, the dead em, the diadem go on my tep levant. Some accident, fete'y that I enter in me-me

And I'm cregent like devent. Translation by Walter Thornberry. Perrette, her milk-pail, balanced on her head, tripped gaily and without hindrance down the road. So slim and trim and gay she nimbly sped. For more agility with such a load, she donned her shortest curdle and light shoes. And as she went, she counted up her gains,

her future gains, with her twice-one, twice-toes. How long division racked her little brains. First buy a hundred eggs, then triple broods. With care like mine, the money soon will grow. No fox so clever in our neighbor's woods, but must leave me enough, as well I know, to buy a pig. It will fatten very soon. I buy him large, and for a good round sum I sell him.

Mark you that some afternoon a cow and calf into our stable cum. Who will prevent that? That's what I mean to say. I see the calf skipping among the herd. Then Perrette skipped for joy. Alack a day. Down came the milk, I give you my sworn word. Adieu, cow, calf, pig, chicken, all the rest.

She left with tearful eye her fortune lost, and ran to tell her husband, dreading lest he'd beat her when an anger tempest tossed. The neighbors, doubling up with laughter, called her the milk pail ever after. Who has not raised his tower in Spain, and in a cloudland longed to rain? Pickercles, Pyrrhus, have so done.

Sages are fools, just like this one. All dreams by turns. The dream is sweet. The world lies prostrate at our feet. Our souls yield blindly to the vision. Ours beauty, honor, fields Elysian. Tis I alone the bravest smite. The dethroned Sophie owns my might.

They choose me king, in crowds I'm led. Gold crowns come raining on my head. A fly soon wakes me up once more, and I am Big John as before. You've been listening to The Poetry Fix with Eric Kaiba. If you enjoyed this episode, consider following The Poetry Fix on Spotify, YouTube, or Apple Podcasts. And if you have any poems you want to see in a future episode, email your suggestions to the Poetry Fix at gmail.com.

Join me next week and we'll be reading an excerpt from Spencer's Fairy Queen, the opening to the legend of the Night of the Red Cross.