Volume I Part 29 (1/2)

THE ANT AND THE CRICKET

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring, Began to complain, when he found that at home His cupboard was empty and winter was come.

Not a crumb to be found On the snow-covered ground; Not a flower could he see, Not a leaf on a tree: ”Oh, what will become,” says the cricket, ”of me?”

At last by starvation and famine made bold, All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold, Away he set off to a miserly ant, To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant Him shelter from rain: A mouthful of grain He wished only to borrow, He'd repay it to-morrow: If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

Says the ant to the cricket, ”I'm your servant and friend, But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend; But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by When the weather was warm?” Said the cricket, ”Not I.

My heart was so light That I sang day and night, For all nature looked gay.”

”You sang, sir, you say?

Go then,” said the ant, ”and dance winter away.”

Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket And out of the door turned the poor little cricket.

Though this is a fable, the moral is good: If you live without work, you must live without food.

Unknown

AFTER WINGS

This was your b.u.t.terfly, you see,-- His fine wings made him vain: The caterpillars crawl, but he Pa.s.sed them in rich disdain.-- My pretty boy says, ”Let him be Only a worm again!”

O child, when things have learned to wear Wings once, they must be fain To keep them always high and fair: Think of the creeping pain Which even a b.u.t.terfly must bear To be a worm again!

Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836-1919]

DEEDS OF KINDNESS

Suppose the little Cowslip Should hang its golden cup And say, ”I'm such a little flower I'd better not grow up!”

How many a weary traveller Would miss its fragrant smell, How many a little child would grieve To lose it from the dell!

Suppose the glistening Dewdrop Upon the gra.s.s should say, ”What can a little dewdrop do?

I'd better roll away!”

The blade on which it rested, Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it, Would wither in the sun.

Suppose the little Breezes, Upon a summer's day, Should think themselves too small to cool The traveller on his way: Who would not miss the smallest And softest ones that blow, And think they made a great mistake If they were acting so?

How many deed of kindness A little child can do, Although it has but little strength And little wisdom too!

It wants a loving spirit Much more than strength, to prove How many things a child may do For others by its love.

Epes Sargent [1813-1880]

THE LION AND THE MOUSE

A lion with the heat oppressed, One day composed himself to rest: But while he dozed as he intended, A mouse, his royal back ascended; Nor thought of harm, as Aesop tells, Mistaking him for someone else; And travelled over him, and round him, And might have left him as she found him Had she not--tremble when you hear-- Tried to explore the monarch's ear!

Who straightway woke, with wrath immense, And shook his head to cast her thence.

”You rascal, what are you about?”

Said he, when he had turned her out, ”I'll teach you soon,” the lion said, ”To make a mouse-hole in my head!”