The Most Popular Fables in English Literature

Ever wondered what the most popular fables are? Well, we've done our research and determined that, insofar as English literature goes, these are most popular English fables. (We won't comment on other languages. But we might do a future post on that subject.)

1. "The Tortoise and the Hare": This classic fable teaches us the importance of perseverance and steady progress. It tells the story of a slow but determined tortoise who wins a race against a swift but overconfident hare.

2. "The Lion and the Mouse": In this fable, a tiny mouse demonstrates the power of kindness and gratitude. After being spared by a lion, the mouse later helps free the lion from a trap, showing that even small acts of kindness can have significant consequences.

3. "The Boy Who Cried Wolf": A cautionary tale about the consequences of lying, this fable follows a young shepherd boy who repeatedly tricks the villagers into thinking there's a wolf attacking his flock. When a real wolf appears and the boy cries for help, no one believes him, and the moral of the story emphasizes the importance of honesty.

4. "The Ant and the Grasshopper": This fable contrasts the industriousness of the ant with the laziness of the grasshopper. As the ant diligently prepares for winter, the grasshopper wastes time and faces hardship when food becomes scarce. The moral underscores the value of hard work and planning for the future.

5. "The Fox and the Grapes": A fox's desire for unreachable grapes leads to a display of sour grapes, as it convinces itself that the grapes were probably sour anyway. This fable cautions against making excuses when we are unable to attain something we desire, highlighting the danger of sour grapes attitudes.

6. "The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs": This fable revolves around a farmer who discovers a goose that lays golden eggs. In his greed for quick wealth, the farmer kills the goose, only to find that there are no more golden eggs. The moral of the story warns against sacrificing long-term benefits for short-term gains.

7. "The Boy and the Filberts": A young boy puts his hand into a jar filled with filberts (hazelnuts) but grabs too many to withdraw his hand. Instead of letting go of some to free his hand, he remains trapped until he learns the virtue of moderation. This fable teaches the importance of self-control and avoiding greed.

8. "The Wind and the Sun": In this fable, the wind and the sun compete to see who can remove a traveler's coat. The wind uses force, but the more gentle and warm sun succeeds by persuasion. The story emphasizes the power of kindness and gentleness over force and aggression.

9. "The Dog and Its Reflection": A dog carrying a bone across a bridge sees its reflection in the water below and assumes the other dog has a larger bone. In its greed to have both bones, it drops the bone it had, only to realize it was merely a reflection. This fable warns against being greedy and losing what one already has.

10. "The Boy Who Became a Star": A lesser-known fable, it tells the story of a young boy who wished to become a star. Through determination and hard work, he becomes a renowned astronomer, teaching us that dreams can be achieved with persistence and dedication.

Summary:

These popular fables in English literature impart valuable moral lessons through imaginative storytelling. Whether it's about perseverance, honesty, hard work, moderation, or kindness, these fables continue to resonate with readers of all ages, teaching timeless lessons that are still relevant in today's world.

Want to read more "modern fables"? Check out Charles Moffat's Fables set in the fictional kingdom of Korovia. After all, why should we just accept the fables of the past when we can continue making new fables?

The Fable of the Great Flood of the Popol Vuh

In the first attempts of creation, the gods shaped the world many times, trying to make beings who could speak their names and remember their makers.

But the early people were not as the gods had hoped. They forgot the sky. They forgot the earth. They did not give thanks, nor did they remember the balance of things.

And so the world began to change in warning.

The Changing Sun and the Broken Sky

First, the sun lost its steady gold. It turned a pale, watching white, as if it no longer approved of what it saw. Then it deepened into a burning red, and the sky itself began to tremble with strange fire—flashes that fell from above like burning messages the world could not read.

The earth answered with shaking. Mountains groaned. The ground shifted beneath cities of wood and stone. Rivers spilled from their banks as if they no longer recognized their paths.

And from the far oceans came great waves—tsunamis that rolled inland and erased whole stretches of land, carrying the memory of the old world back into the deep.

The gods said the creation was not yet right.

The First Great Flood

Then came the rain.

It did not stop.

It fell as if the sky had opened all at once, and the world beneath it could no longer hold its shape. The waters rose over forests and valleys, over homes and fields, until only the highest places remained.

Above the flood, the red sun faded into a dim, uncertain glow, and the skyfire flickered less often, as though even the heavens were growing quiet after their warning had been spoken.

The Failed People

The first humans tried to survive, but they were not rooted in wisdom. Some climbed, some fled, some called out to the gods—but they had forgotten how to remember the gods in return.

They were swept away by the rising waters or broken by the shaking earth beneath them.

The gods watched, and said only this:

“They were not made correctly. They did not see, nor speak, nor remember.”

And so the flood continued until nothing remained of them.

The Water and the Aftermath

When the rains finally ceased, the world was silent and changed.

The sun returned, no longer red or white, but pale like something newly born. The waters withdrew slowly, revealing a land washed clean of the earlier attempt at life.

No great cities remained. No false people remained.

Only earth, water, sky—and waiting.

The Lesson of the Fable

Then the gods tried again, shaping new beings who would understand what had been lost: memory, gratitude, and balance with the world.

And so the fable of the Popol Vuh teaches this:

When the sun changes colour, when fire falls from the sky, when the earth shakes and the seas rise beyond their limits, it is not random destruction—it is correction.

And from what is washed away, something more fitting may yet be made.

The Fable of Manu and the Fish's Warning

In the oldest telling of the world, before memory became story, the sun began to change.

At first it turned a pale, unsettling white—so bright it stripped colour from the land. Then it deepened into a burning red, and the sky itself grew restless. From that red sun came falling fire, streaks of light that struck the earth like burning arrows. Where they landed, mountains shook, and the ground split with earthquakes that rolled through the land like deep thunder.

The oceans answered with movement of their own. Great waves rose without warning—tsunamis that surged inland, pulling forests and fields back into the sea as if the world were being unstitched.

The wise said the age of balance was ending.

The Warning in the River

Among those who still listened was Manu, a thoughtful man who lived quietly and observed the changing world.

One morning, while performing his simple rites by the river, he noticed a small fish struggling in the shallow water. But this was no ordinary fish. Its eyes were bright and knowing, and it spoke in a calm voice:

“The world will soon be covered in water. Build a vessel, and gather what must be preserved.”

Manu was startled, but he did not laugh or dismiss the warning. He had seen the red sun. He had felt the trembling earth. He had heard the distant roar of rising seas.

So he listened.

The Building of the Ark

As skyfire continued to fall in the far distance and earthquakes shook the land, Manu built a great boat. He worked steadily while others argued or ignored the signs.

The rivers swelled even before the rain began. The oceans crept inland like living things. And still the sky burned faintly red, as if the sun itself was wounded and restless.

At last, Manu gathered seeds, animals, and the wisdom of what little life could be saved. Then the great fish returned—now vast as a mountain beneath the waves.

“This is Matsya,” it said, revealing itself as a divine form. “I will guide you through the flood.”

The Rising of the World

Then the flood came in fullness.

It was not only rain, but the collapse of a world unbalanced. The seas rose in vast waves, swallowing the trembling coasts. Earthquakes broke the foundations of mountains, and tsunamis rolled across the land like moving hills of water.

Above it all, the sky darkened strangely, as if the red sun had been veiled behind smoke and shadow.

Manu’s vessel was lifted upon the endless water, and Matsya, the great fish, pulled it through the roaring world as it changed shape beneath them.

The New Beginning

For many days, there was only water, wind, and the faint memory of fire falling from the sky.

Then the waters began to settle. The sun slowly returned, no longer red with fury, but pale and uncertain—like a world learning to breathe again.

Matsya spoke once more:

“The flood has ended. Bind your vessel to the new earth. Life must begin again, but wisely this time.”

The Lesson of the Fable

And so Manu became the keeper of renewal.

From what remained, life grew again—not as it had been, but as it needed to be.

The fable of Manu and Matsya teaches this:

When the sun changes its face, when fire falls from the heavens, and when the earth itself trembles and the oceans rise, it is not only destruction—it is warning.

And those who listen early may carry the seeds of the world into its next beginning.

The Fable of Deucalion, Pyrrha, and the Broken World

In the old age of the world, the sun began to change. At first it turned a pale white, as if it no longer warmed the earth as before. Then it deepened into a burning red, and strange fires fell from the sky like blazing tears. The ground shook with earthquakes, and the sea answered with rising walls of water that swallowed the coasts in roaring tsunamis.

The gods had grown weary of a world that had forgotten balance.

Only Deucalion and Pyrrha, a quiet husband and wife who still lived by respect and restraint, understood that something final was coming.

When the great flood began, it was not only rain, but the earth itself giving way. The seas rose over cities, and the trembling land split and sank beneath the waves. The last survivors fled until there was nowhere left but a small wooden chest that carried them across the endless water.

Above them, the sun darkened into a strange dimness, as if the sky itself were closing its eyes.

When at last the waters settled, the world was silent and empty. No cities remained, only shorelines and broken stone.

Then a voice, carried on the wind, spoke a riddle:

“Do not mourn what is gone. Walk the earth and cast behind you the bones of your mother.”

Confused but obedient, Deucalion and Pyrrha walked the bare land. They bent down and picked up stones from the ground.

As they threw the stones over their shoulders, the earth answered.

Where Deucalion cast stones, men rose. Where Pyrrha cast stones, women formed. At first they were rough and unfinished, but they learned quickly, as if the memory of life still lingered in the stones themselves.

The world was not restored as it had been.

It was begun again.

And the lesson of the fable was this:

When the heavens change colour, the earth shakes, and the waters rise, even the old world may end. But from what is hardest and most forgotten, new life can still be shaped—if there are hands willing to begin again.

The Oak and the Reed

By Jean de La Fontaine

The oak one day addressed the reed:
"To you ungenerous indeed
Has nature been, my humble friend,
With weakness aye obliged to bend.
The smallest bird that flits in air
Is quite too much for you to bear;
The slightest wind that wreathes the lake
Your ever-trembling head does shake.
The while, my towering form
Dares with the mountain top
The solar blaze to stop,
And wrestle with the storm.
What seems to you the blast of death,
To me is but a zephyr's breath.
Beneath my branches had you grown,
That spread far round their friendly bower,
Less suffering would your life have known,
Defended from the tempest's power.
Unhappily you oftenest show
In open air your slender form,
Along the marshes wet and low,
That fringe the kingdom of the storm.
To you, declare I must,
Dame Nature seems unjust."
Then modestly replied the reed:
"Your pity, sir, is kind indeed,
But wholly needless for my sake.
The wildest wind that ever blew
Is safe to me compared with you.
I bend, indeed, but never break.
Thus far, I own, the hurricane
Has beat your sturdy back in vain;
But wait the end." Just at the word,
The tempest's hollow voice was heard.
The North sent forth her fiercest child,
Dark, jagged, pitiless, and wild.
The oak, erect, endured the blow;
The reed bowed gracefully and low.
But, gathering up its strength once more,
In greater fury than before,
The savage blast
Overthrew, at last,
That proud, old, sky-encircled head,
Whose feet entwined the empire of the dead!