Miss Grasshopper having sung
All through summer,
Found herself in sorry plight
When the wind began to bite;
Not a bit of grub or fly
Met the little wanton's eye;
So she wept for hunger sore
At the Ant, her neighbor's door,
Begging her just once to bend,
And a little grain to lend
Till warm weather came again.
"I will pay you," cried she, then,
"Ere next harvest, on my soul,
Interest and principal."
Now the Ant is not a lender.
From that charge who needs defend her?
"Tell me what you did last summer?"
Said she to the beggar maid.

"Day and night to every comer
I was singing, I'm afraid."
"Sing! Do tell! How entrancing!
Well then, vagrant, off! be dancing!"

Exercise 143.—See if you can complete The Hare and the Tortoise from the beginning and the skeleton given below.

How everybody laughed to hear
The hare had planned a race
Against the tortoise, patient, dull,
And very slow of ——.

The hare assured them one and all,
"It's but that I may show
That I can sleep till near the dusk
And beat the —u —

— u — ran like the wind
And almost reached the goal,
u — u — amid the hay
And slept, the lazy ——!

u — u — the hare still slept
u — u passed him by,
u — u — u — again
It was too late to try

To reach the goal, or win u —
The tortoise by my troth
u — u — u steadiness
u — u — u sloth.

Exercise 144.—Try to put into verse, on this model, The Fox and the Grapes, The City Mouse and the Country Mouse, The Wolf and the Lamb, The Frog and the Stork, The Woodchopper and Death, The Goose that laid the Golden Eggs,—or any other fable you have known in prose.

Sometimes it may be interesting to you to try to write a letter or to send an invitation in verse. Some of the greatest writers have amused themselves by making such playful use of verse in letters. Here is part of a letter written from India by Bishop Phillips Brooks to his little niece.

Little Mistress Josephine,
Tell me, have you ever seen
Children half as queer as these
Babies from across the seas?
See their funny little fists,
See the rings upon their wrists.
One has very little clothes,
One has jewels in her nose;
And they all have silver bangles
On their little heathen ankles.
In their ears are curious things,
Round their necks are beads and strings,
And they jingle as they walk,
And they talk outlandish talk:
Do you want to know their names?
One is called Jee Fingee Hames;
One Buddhanda Arrich Bas,
One Teehundee Hanki Sas.
Aren't you glad then, little Queen,
That your name is Josephine?
That you live in Springfield, or
Not at least in old Jeypore?
That your Christian parents are
John and Hattie, Pa and Ma?
That you've an entire nose
And no rings upon your toes?
In a word, that Hat and you
Do not have to be Hindu?

Exercise 145.—1. Try writing a rhymed letter, describing an expedition in which you have taken part,—a railway journey, a picnic, a ride. Or write an invitation, from your class to the class below, to a spelling match, or entertainment you are giving.

2. Read The One-Hoss Shay, John Gilpin's Ride, Lochinvar, The Legend of Bishop Hatto, The Falcon—or any poem you know which tells a story, and try your own hand at turning into verse one of the stories you wrote in your study of narration.

The uses of verse which have been pointed out as possible to you are not out of the question for any one who can write at all. This is verse making and not poetry. But there may be times when you find that you can say what you mean better in a few words of verse than in many of ordinary prose, that you can express some aspect of out of doors, or some sensation, more vividly in verse than in any other way. You will notice that words seem often to have a greater force and life in poetry than in prose, and if you make use of this quality, you will be writing real poetry.

For instance, one day a third-grade class was asked to write a description of the conditions that morning in the woods near the school. It had rained and snowed the night before and everything was coated in ice. The wind was high and, shaking the branches violently, sent down a continuous shower of tiny pieces of ice, glistening in the sun and tinkling on the ice-covered snow. Many long compositions were written in the attempt to describe the effect such a day made on the observer; every one agreed that a little boy, eight years old, who wrote the following lines, had best expressed the singular spirit of the morning:—