THE CRICKET: A FABLE.
Reading edition
A poor little cricket hidden in the flowery grass, regarded a butterfly, flying o’er the prairie. The insect shone with bright colors. Blue, purple and gold sparkled on his wings. Young, beautiful, little beau! He ran from flower to flower, taking and quitting all, even the most beautiful.
“Ah!” said the cricket, “how different is my life from his! Mother Nature has given him all and me nothing. I have no talent, still less figure. No one looks at me—I am ignored everywhere! As well not live at all!”
As he spoke, a troop of children arrived in the meadow. They all ran after the butterfly—they all wished to have it. Hats, handkerchiefs, bonnets, served to entrap him. The insect vainly sought to escape them. He soon became their conquest. One caught him by the wing, another by the body, a third by the head. It did not need so many efforts to pull the poor thing to pieces. “Oh! Oh!” said the cricket, “I am not so discontented as I was: it costs too much to shine in the world!”
Eleanor M. Winn.
f Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day. But rather, when aweary of your mirth, From full heart still unsatisfied ye sigh, And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, Grudge every minute as it passes by, Made the more mindful that the sweet days die— Remember me a little then, I pray, The idle singer of an empty day. The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear; So let me sing of names remembered, Because they, living not, can ne’er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an empty day. Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay, Lulled by the singer of an empty day. William Morris.
