THE JUNE-BUG
The merry, merry June-bug
Now butts at all in sight.
He butts the wall o' mornings,
He rams the ceil at night.
He caroms from the book-case
Off to the window-pane,
Then bounces from my table
Back to the case again.
He whacks against the door-jamb
And tumbles on the mat;
Then on the grand-piano
He strikes a strident flat;
Then to the oaken stair-case
He blindly flops and jumps,
And on the steps for hours
He blithely bumps the bumps.
They say that he is foolish,
And has no brains. No doubt
'Tis well for if he had 'em
He'd surely butt them out.
As I say, this is mere a trifle, but it is none the less beautifully descriptive of a creature that has always seemed to me to be worthy of more attention than he has ever received from the poets of our age. I have been unable to find in the literature of Greece, Egypt or the Orient, any reference to this wonderful insect who embodies in his frail physique so much of the truest philosophy of life, and who, despite the obstacles that seem so persistently to obstruct his path, buzzes blithely ever onward, singing his lovely song and uttering no complaints.
Noah brings disgrace upon the family.
In the line of what I may call calendar poetry, which has always been popular since the art of rhyming began, none of the months escaped my attention, but of all of my efforts in that direction I never wrote anything that excelled in descriptive beauty my