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Posy Ring: A Book of Verse for Children

<h2>III</h2> <h2>HIAWATHA'S CHICKENS</h2> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/3acorns.png" width-obs="100" height-obs="67" alt="decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='poem'> Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." </div> <div class='signature'>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.</div> [52] <hr style="width: 65%;" />[53] <h2>HIAWATHA'S CHICKENS</h2> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/3acorns.png" width-obs="100" height-obs="67" alt="decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Swallows </div> <div class='poem'> Gallant and gay in their doublets gray, All at a flash like the darting of flame, Chattering Arabic, African, Indian— Certain of springtime, the swallows came! Doublets of gray silk and surcoats of purple, And ruffs of russet round each little throat, Wearing such garb they had crossed the waters, Mariners sailing with never a boat. </div> <div class='signature'>Edwin Arnold.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Swallow's Nest </div> <div class='poem'> Day after day her nest she moulded, Building with magic, love and mud, A gray cup made by a thousand journeys, And the tiny beak was trowel and hod. </div> <div class='signature'>Edwin Arnold.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [54] <div class='center'> The Birds in Spring </div> <div class='poem2'> Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then Maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing— Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The Palm and May make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the Shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay— Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! The Fields breathe sweet, the Daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every Street these Tunes our ears do greet— Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring, the sweet Spring! </div> <div class='signature'>Thomas Nashe.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Robin Redbreast</div> <div class='center'>(A Child's Song) </div> <div class='poem'> Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, [55]Cool breezes in the sun; Our Thrushes now are silent, Our Swallows flown away,— But Robin's here, in coat of brown, With ruddy breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough, It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And welaway! my Robin, For pinching times are near. The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house; The frosty ways like iron, [56]The branches plumed with snow,— Alas! in Winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. </div> <div class='signature'>William Allingham.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Lark and the Rook </div> <div class='poem2'> "Good-night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark. "The daylight fades; it will soon be dark; I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray; I've sung my hymn to the parting day; So now I haste to my quiet nook In yon dewy meadow—good-night, Sir Rook!" "Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend With a haughty toss and a distant bend; "I also go to my rest profound, But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground. The fittest place for a bird like me Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine-tree. "I opened my eyes at peep of day And saw you taking your upward way, Dreaming your fond romantic dreams, [57]An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams; Soaring too high to be seen or heard; And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!' "I trod the park with a princely air, I filled my crop with the richest fare; I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew, And I made more noise in the world than you! The sun shone forth on my ebon wing; I looked and wondered—good-night, poor thing!" "Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice. "I see no cause to repent my choice; You build your nest in the lofty pine, But is your slumber more sweet than mine? You make more noise in the world than I, But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?" </div> <div class='signature'>Unknown.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Snowbird </div> <div class='poem'> In the rosy light trills the gay swallow, The thrush, in the roses below; The meadow-lark sings in the meadow, But the snowbird sings in the snow. Ah me! Chickadee! [58]The snowbird sings in the snow! The blue martin trills in the gable, The wren, in the gourd below; In the elm flutes the golden robin, But the snowbird sings in the snow. Ah me! Chickadee! The snowbird sings in the snow! High wheels the gray wing of the osprey, The wing of the sparrow drops low; In the mist dips the wing of the robin, And the snowbird's wing in the snow. Ah me! Chickadee! The snowbird sings in the snow. I love the high heart of the osprey, The meek heart of the thrush below, The heart of the lark in the meadow, And the snowbird's heart in the snow. But dearest to me, Chickadee! Chickadee! Is that true little heart in the snow. </div> <div class='signature'>Hezekiah Butterworth.</div> [59] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Who Stole the Bird's Nest? </div> <div class='poem'> "To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?" "Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do. I gave you a wisp of hay, But didn't take your nest away. Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do." "To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?" "Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?" "Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow! I gave hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take. Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! [60]I'm not so mean, anyhow." "To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?" "Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?" "Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Let me speak a word, too! Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?" "Not I," said the sheep; "Oh, no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. I gave wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa! Baa!" said the sheep, "Oh, no I wouldn't treat a poor bird so." "To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?" "Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away [61]From the plum-tree, to-day?" "Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Let me speak a word, too! Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?" "Caw! Caw!" cried the crow; "I should like to know What thief took away A bird's nest, to-day?" "Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen; "Don't ask me again, Why I haven't a chick Would do such a trick. We all gave her a feather, And she wove them together. I'd scorn to intrude On her and her brood. Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen, "Don't ask me again." "Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr! All the birds make a stir! Let us find out his name, And all cry 'For shame!'" "I would not rob a bird," Said little Mary Green; "I think I never heard [62]Of anything so mean." "It is very cruel, too," Said little Alice Neal; "I wonder if he knew How sad the bird would feel?" A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed, For he stole that pretty nest From poor little yellow-breast; And he felt so full of shame, He didn't like to tell his name. </div> <div class='signature'>Lydia Maria Child.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Answer to a Child's Question </div> <div class='poem2'> Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving, all come back together; Then the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, [63]The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, "I love my Love, and my Love loves me." </div> <div class='signature'>Samuel Taylor Coleridge.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Burial of the Linnet </div> <div class='poem'> Found in the garden dead in his beauty— Oh that a linnet should die in the spring! Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring. Bury him kindly, up in the corner; Bird, beast, and goldfish are sepulchred there Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner, Waving her tail like a plume in the air. Bury him nobly—next to the donkey; Fetch the old banner, and wave it about; Bury him deeply—think of the monkey, Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out. Bury him softly—white wool around him, Kiss his poor feathers—the first kiss and last; Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him: Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast. Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty, Silent through summer, though other birds sing, Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring. </div> <div class='signature'>Juliana Horatia Ewing.</div> [64] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Titmouse </div> <div class='poem'> . . . . Piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, Chic-chicadeedee! saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, "Good-day, good sir! Fine afternoon, old passenger! Happy to meet you in these places, Where January brings few faces." This poet, though he live apart, Moved by his hospitable heart, Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, To do the honors of his court, As fits a feathered lord of land; Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand; Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, Prints his small impress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play, Head downward, clinging to the spray, .        .        .        .        .        .        .        . Here was this atom in full breath, Hurling defiance at vast death. This scrap of valor, just for play, Fronts the north wind in waistcoat gray. .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .</div> <div class='signature'>Ralph Waldo Emerson.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [65] <div class='center'> Birds in Summer </div> <div class='poem'> How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in each leafy tree; In the leafy trees so broad and tall, Like a green and beautiful palace hall, With its airy chambers, light and boon, That open to sun, and stars, and moon; That open unto the bright blue sky, And the frolicsome winds as they wander by! They have left their nests in the forest bough; Those homes of delight they need not now; And the young and old they wander out, And traverse the green world round about; And hark at the top of this leafy hall, How, one to another, they lovingly call! "Come up, come up!" they seem to say, "Where the topmost twigs in the breezes play!" "Come up, come up, for the world is fair, Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air!" And the birds below give back the cry, "We come, we come to the branches high!" How pleasant the life of the birds must be, Living above in a leafy tree! And away through the air what joy to go, [66]And to look on the green, bright earth below! How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Skimming about on the breezy sea, Cresting the billows like silvery foam, Then wheeling away to its cliff-built home! What joy it must be to sail, upborne, By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn, To meet the young sun, face to face, And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space! To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud; To sing in the thunder halls aloud: To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight With the upper cloud-winds,—oh, what delight! Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go, Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow, And see how the water-drops are kissed Into green and yellow and amethyst. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Wherever it listeth, there to flee; To go, when a joyful fancy calls, Dashing down 'mong the waterfalls; Then wheeling about, with its mate at play, Above and below, and among the spray, Hither and thither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child. What joy it must be, like a living breeze, [67]To flutter about 'mid the flowering trees; Lightly to soar and to see beneath, The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, That gladden some fairy region old! On mountain-tops, on the billowy sea, On the leafy stems of the forest-tree, How pleasant the life of a bird must be! </div> <div class='signature'>Mary Howitt.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> An Epitaph on a Robin Redbreast </div> <div class='poem'> Tread lightly here; for here, 'tis said, When piping winds are hush'd around, A small note wakes from underground, Where now his tiny bones are laid. No more in lone or leafless groves, With ruffled wing and faded breast, His friendless, homeless spirit roves; Gone to the world where birds are blest! Where never cat glides o'er the green, Or school-boy's giant form is seen; But love, and joy, and smiling Spring Inspire their little souls to sing! </div> <div class='signature'>Samuel Rogers.</div> [68] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Bluebird </div> <div class='poem'> I know the song that the bluebird is singing, Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging. Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary, Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery. Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat! Hark! was there ever so merry a note? Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying, Up in the apple-tree, swinging and swaying: "Dear little blossoms, down under the snow, You must be weary of winter, I know; Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer, Summer is coming and spring-time is here! "Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes; Sweet little violets hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold; Daffodils, daffodils! say, do you hear? Summer is coming, and spring-time is here!" </div> <div class='signature'>Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> [69] <div class='center'> Song </div> <div class='poem2'> I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving; Sweet little red feet! why should you die— Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why? You lived alone in the forest-tree, Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees? </div> <div class='signature'>John Keats.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> What Does Little Birdie Say? </div> <div class='poem'> What does little birdie say, In her nest at peep of day? "Let me fly," says little birdie, "Mother, let me fly away." Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger So she rests a little longer, [70]Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, "Let me rise and fly away." Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby, too, shall fly away. </div> <div class='signature'>Alfred, Lord Tennyson.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Owl </div> <div class='poem'> When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round; And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. </div> <div class='signature'>Alfred, Lord Tennyson.</div> [71] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Wild Geese </div> <div class='poem2'> The wild wind blows, the sun shines, the birds sing loud, The blue, blue sky is flecked with fleecy dappled cloud, Over earth's rejoicing fields the children dance and sing, And the frogs pipe in chorus, "It is spring! It is spring!" The grass comes, the flower laughs where lately lay the snow, O'er the breezy hill-top hoarsely calls the crow, By the flowing river the alder catkins swing, And the sweet song-sparrow cries, "Spring! It is spring!" Hark, what a clamor goes winging through the sky! Look, children! Listen to the sound so wild and high! Like a peal of broken bells,—kling, klang, kling,— Far and high the wild geese cry, "Spring! It is spring!" Bear the winter off with you, O wild geese dear! [72]Carry all the cold away, far away from here; Chase the snow into the north, O strong of heart and wing, While we share the robin's rapture, crying "Spring! It is spring!" </div> <div class='signature'>Celia Thaxter.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Chanticleer </div> <div class='poem'> I wake! I feel the day is near; I hear the red cock crowing! He cries "'Tis dawn!" How sweet and clear His cheerful call comes to my ear, While light is slowly growing. The white snow gathers flake on flake; I hear the red cock crowing! Is anybody else awake To see the winter morning break, While thick and fast 'tis snowing? I think the world is all asleep; I hear the red cock crowing! Out of the frosty pane I peep; The drifts are piled so wide and deep, And wild the wind is blowing! Nothing I see has shape or form; [73]I hear the red cock crowing! But that dear voice comes through the storm To greet me in my nest so warm, As if the sky were glowing! A happy little child, I lie And hear the red cock crowing. The day is dark. I wonder why His voice rings out so brave and high, With gladness overflowing. </div> <div class='signature'>Celia Thaxter.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Singer </div> <div class='poem'> O Lark! sweet lark! Where learn you all your minstrelsy? What realms are those to which you fly? While robins feed their young from dawn till dark, You soar on high— Forever in the sky. O child! dear child! Above the clouds I lift my wing To hear the bells of Heaven ring; Some of their music, though my flights be wild, To Earth I bring; Then let me soar and sing! </div> <div class='signature'>Edmund Clarence Stedman.</div> [74] <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Blue Jay </div> <div class='poem'> O Blue Jay up in the maple-tree, Shaking your throat with such bursts of glee, How did you happen to be so blue? Did you steal a bit of the lake for your crest, And fasten blue violets into your vest? Tell me, I pray you,—tell me true! Did you dip your wings in azure dye, When April began to paint the sky, That was pale with the winter's stay? Or were you hatched from a bluebell bright, 'Neath the warm, gold breast of a sunbeam light, By the river one blue spring day? O Blue Jay up in the maple-tree, A-tossing your saucy head at me, With ne'er a word for my questioning, Pray, cease for a moment your "ting-a-link," And hear when I tell you what I think,— You bonniest bit of the spring. I think when the fairies made the flowers, To grow in these mossy fields of ours, Periwinkles and violets rare, There was left of the spring's own color, blue, Plenty to fashion a flower whose hue [75]Would be richer than all and as fair. So, putting their wits together, they Made one great blossom so bright and gay, The lily beside it seemed blurred; And then they said, "We will toss it in air; So many blue blossoms grow everywhere, Let this pretty one be a bird!" </div> <div class='signature'>Susan Hartley Swett.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> Robert of Lincoln[F] </div> <div class='poem'> Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Snug and safe is this nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers, Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call, in his merry note, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, [76]Spink, spank, spink, Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine! Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here, Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can, Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, [77]Spink, spank, spink, Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about, Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me, Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie, Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows, Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, [78]Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again, Chee, chee, chee. </div> <div class='signature'>William Cullen Bryant.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> White Butterflies </div> <div class='poem'> Fly, white butterflies, out to sea, Frail, pale wings for the wind to try, Small white wings that we scarce can see, Fly! Some fly light as a laugh of glee, Some fly soft as a long, low sigh; All to the haven where each would be, Fly! </div> <div class='signature'>Algernon Charles Swinburne.</div> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/1acorn.png" width-obs="19" height-obs="30" alt="Decoration" title="" /></div> <div class='center'> The Ant and the Cricket </div> <div class='poem2'> 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 [79]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? [80]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. </div> <div class='signature'>Unknown.</div> <hr style="width: 65%;" />[81] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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