THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER
You know the story—it's centuries old—
How the Ant and the Grasshopper met, we're told,
On a blustering day, when the wind was cold
And the trees were bare and brown;
And the Grasshopper, being a careless blade,
Who all the summer had danced and played,
Now came to the rich old Ant for aid,
And the latter "turned him down."
It's only fancy, but I suppose
That the Grasshopper wore his summer clothes,
And stood there kicking his frozen toes
And shaking his bones apart;
And the Ant, with a sealskin coat and hat,
Commanded the Grasshopper, brusque and flat,
To "Dance through the winter," and things like that,
Which he thought were "cute" and "smart."
But, mind you, the Ant, all summer long,
Had heard the Grasshopper's merry song,
And had laughed with the rest of the happy throng
At the bubbling notes of glee;
And he said to himself, as his cash he lent,
Or started out to collect his rent,
"The shif'less fool do'n't charge a cent,—
I'm getting the whole show free."
I've never been told how the pair came out—
The Grasshopper starved to death, no doubt,
And the Ant grew richer, and had the gout,
As most of his brethren do;
I know that it's better to save one's pelf,
And the Ant is considered a wise old elf,
But I like the Grasshopper more myself,—
Though that is between we two.
THE CROAKER
Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool,
Under the bank, where 't was dark and cool,
Where bushes over the water hung,
And grasses nodded and rushes swung—
Just where the brook flowed out of the bog—
There lived a gouty and mean old Frog,
Who'd sit all day in the mud, and soak,
And do just nothing but croak and croak.
'Till a Blackbird whistled: "I say, you know,
What is the trouble down there below?
Are you in sorrow, or pain, or what?"
The Frog said: "Mine is a gruesome lot!
Nothing but mud, and dirt, and slime,
For me to look at the livelong time.
'Tis a dismal world!" so he sadly spoke,
And voiced his woes in a mournful croak.
"But you're looking down!" the Blackbird said.
"Look at the blossoms overhead;
Look at the lovely summer skies;
Look at the bees and butterflies—
Look up, old fellow! Why, bless your soul,
You're looking down in a muskrat's hole!"
But still, with his gurgling sob and choke,
The Frog continued to croak and croak.
And a wise old Turtle, who boarded near,
Said to the Blackbird: "Friend, see here:
Don't shed your tears over him, for he
Is wretched just 'cause he likes to be!
He's one of the kind who won't be glad;
It makes him happy to think he's sad.
I'll tell you something—and it's no joke—
Don't waste your pity on those who croak!"
THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN
Oh, those sweet old-fashioned posies, that were mother's pride and joy,
In the sunny little garden where I wandered when a boy!
Oh, the morning-glories twining 'mongst the shining sunflowers tall,
And the clematis a-tangle in the angle of the wall!
How the mignonette's sweet blooming was perfuming all the walks,
Where the hollyhocks stood proudly with their blossom-dotted stalks;
While the old-maids' pinks were nodding groups of gossips, here and there,
And the bluebells swung so lightly in the lazy, hazy air!
Then the sleepy poppies, stooping low their drooping, drowsy heads,
And the modest young sweet-williams hiding in their shady beds!
By the edges of the hedges, where the spiders' webs were spun,
How the marigolds lay, yellow as the mellow summer sun
That made all the grass a-dapple 'neath the leafy apple tree,
Whence you heard the locust drumming and the humming of the bee;
While the soft breeze in the trellis, where the roses used to grow,
Sent the silken petals flying like a scented shower of snow!
Oh, the quaint old-fashioned garden, and the pathways cool and sweet,
With the dewy branches splashing flashing jewels o'er my feet!
And the dear old-fashioned blossoms, and the old home where they grew,
And the mother-hands that plucked them, and the mother-love I knew!
Ah, of all earth's fragrant flowers in the bowers on her breast,
Sure the blooms which memory brings us are the brightest and the best;
And the fairest, rarest blossoms ne'er could win my love, I know,
Like the sweet old-fashioned posies mother tended long ago.