|
|
|
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 had come. Not a crumb to be found On the snow-cover'd ground, Not a flower could he see, Not a leaf on a tree; "O! 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 cricket, did you lay nothing by When the weather was warm?" Quoth the cricket, "Not I! My heart was so light, That I sang day and night, For all nature look'd gay." "You sang, sir, you say?" "Go then," says the ant, "and dance winter away." Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket, And out of the door turn'd the poor little cricket. Folks call this a fable, I'll warrant it true; Some crickets have four legs and some have but two |