The Frogs were tired of governing themselves. Off he started on a run. Wait, cried the Cock. Now that I think of it, I have a wonderful wine here, sent me from Olympus, of which I am told Apollo drinks before he sings to the high gods. He had no chance to bite the watchful Countryman. Wolf!, But though the Villagers heard the cry, they did not run to help him as they had before. As they went along, picking up provisions on the way - a stray mouse here, a fat chicken there - they began an argument to while away the time between bites. Or is it his wrinkled hide? But when the deed was done, not a single golden egg did he find, and his precious Goose was dead.
We are often not so eager for what we seek, after we have found it.