On a cold winter’s day, a kind-hearted farmer comes across a snake stiff and half-dead with cold. Moved with pity, the farmer lifts the frozen serpent and places it in his bosom (or brings it home by the hearth) to warm it back to life. Revived by the warmth, the snake immediately bites the farmer with its poisonous fangs. As the man lies dying, he cries, “I showed you mercy, yet you killed me!” The snake hisses in reply (in some versions speaking these words): “You knew I was a snake when you took me in.” The moral: “Inherent nature cannot be changed—beware offering charity to the wicked, as it may be repaid with harm.”
This is a grim fable highlighting the dangers of naïve benevolence and the idea that ingratitude (especially from the wicked) is to be expected. The farmer’s compassionate impulse, ordinarily a virtue, here leads to his doom because it was bestowed upon a creature whose very nature is malice. Philosophically, it raises a thorny question: Should one practice unconditional charity, or are there limits when dealing with those known to be dangerous or unrepentantly evil? The fable’s dark conclusion implies the latter: one must use discernment in mercy.
This story can be unsettling to those who value ideals of altruism, yet it serves as a counterpoint reminding that evil often exists and may corrupt kindness. In the Christian medieval context, the fable was sometimes used to warn against consorting with the Devil or nurturing sin—i.e., “cherish not the serpent in your bosom” became a saying meaning do not harbor a treacherous individual or habit. In more secular terms, it’s a caution in politics and life: some individuals or entities will respond to kindness with treachery due to their nature, and one who ignores that reality might pay dearly.
Historically, versions of this fable appear in Aesop and also in Eastern collections (a similar tale is found in Indian folklore about a farmer and a frozen snake, with identical outcome, suggesting an independent emergence or ancient cross-pollination of the motif). The line about knowing it was a snake is so resonant it has been quoted in modern times in various contexts to underscore betrayal by those who simply act according to their ingrained character, no matter the kindness shown to them.
For moral philosophy students, this tale forces engagement with ethical realism: the world may contain entities (or people) whose nature is destructive, and pure idealism in dealing with them can be self-destructive. It also touches on the notion of reciprocity in ethics. Normally, fables like “Androcles and the Lion” or “The Mouse and the Lion” present a positive reciprocity—kindness begets kindness. Here we have the bleak inversion: kindness to the incorrigibly wicked begets harm. It’s almost a fable of moral caution rather than moral inspiration.
From a psychological angle, one might interpret the snake as symbolizing toxic individuals or relationships: no matter how much warmth and love you give, they may still strike. The farmer’s fatal mistake was ignoring the warnings (he should have known better, as the snake points out). Thus the fable suggests a lesson in prudence and boundary-setting. In modern application, it could be advice like: do not invite known criminals into your trust, do not assume your kindness will reform a venomous character.
Yet, one could debate the deterministic view of nature here. Is the snake purely symbolic of certain fixed natures (like “evil will always act evil”)? If so, is that always true in human terms? The fable might be critiqued from a humanistic perspective that no person is as immutable as a snake’s instinct. But as a metaphor, it probably was never meant to say all compassion is bad—only that misplaced compassion is dangerous. It pairs well with other fables like “The Scorpion and the Frog” (not originally Aesop’s but often associated in spirit) where the scorpion stings the frog midway across the river, dooming both, explaining, “It’s in my nature.” These tales deliver a hard-edged wisdom: recognize true nature and act accordingly.
For a balanced takeaway, one might say: practice generosity, but keep eyes open. The farmer could have done better to help in a safer way or not at all. The moral might then be framed as “Kindness must be tempered by wisdom.” A virtuous person should be neither cynically uncharitable nor blindly gullible. The Farmer and the Snake thus stands as a narrative extreme to underscore the point that virtue without prudence can be self-destructive. It adds nuance to the ideal of charity: do good, but not indiscriminately such that you empower what is vicious to injure the very good you stand for.
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