THE FUNERAL ORATION OF A SILKWORM.

THE sun, having done his day’s work of shin­ing right well, sud­den­ly and wear­i­ly re­tired to rest. The last notes of the birds’ song of praise were still lin­ger­ing in the echoes of the woods, and the earth, wrap­ping her­self in her dark man­tle, was pre­par­ing for re­pose. The death’s-head Moth giv­ing the sig­nal of de­par­ture, the lit­tle cor­tége set out on the march for the pur­ple heath. Field-spi­ders, whose work con­sis­ted in clear­ing the road, pre­ced­ed the corpse which was sur­round­ed by beet­les, in black, car­ry­ing the bier of mul­ber­ry leaf. These were fol­lowed by tail-bear­ing mutes, next came the Ants, and last­ly the Grubs. When at some lit­tle dis­tance from the sac­red mul­ber­ry tree, around which were assem­bled the rel­a­tives of the de­ceased, the Card­i­nal Pyrochre gave or­ders that the hymn of the dead should be in­toned by the choir of Scarabs, and after­wards sung by Bees and Crickets.

At intervals, when the harmony ceased, one could hear deep sighs and sobs, bearing evidence of the universal grief caused by the loss of the humble insect, whose remains were being borne to their last resting-place. The procession at length reached the cemetery on the heath, where the sextons were still bending over the new dug grave. Sighs and sobs were hushed in that profound silence which betokens the deepest sorrow. But when the bearers had laid the body in the tomb, and the yawning earth closed over it, the air was rent with a piteous wail, for the mourners had seen the last of a true friend.

An insect, robed in black, advanced to the grave-mound, saying: “Why this outburst of bitter grief? Why weep for one who has been delivered from the trial and burden of life. Yet,” he added, “weep on, for he who lies there can feel no pang of sorrow; no tears, no loving tones, can wake a responsive throb in his cold breast, nor bring him back to his earthly home!” They would not be comforted.

“Brothers,” said another, advancing in turn, “it is at the birth of a silkworm one ought rather to mourn. His life was one of ceaseless toil. By leaving this earth he has left his misery behind; neither joy nor sorrow can follow him beyond the grave. I tell you simple truth; this is no time for hypocrisy. Why should worms mourn this event? Death has no terrors for us!” They still wept.

One of the mourners said with faltering voice: “Brother, we know that there is a beginning, and alas! an end, to everything, and that all must die; we know, too, the sorrows of our life, the labour of gathering our food leaf by leaf; we know the toil that transforms a mulberry leaf into a shining silken robe; we know the dangers that beset our lives; and the doom of the silken shroud that at last imprisons and blights the dreams of our young lives; we know that to die is to cease to toil, death being the end of the silken thread which began with our birth—we know all this; but, oh, we know, too, that we loved our brother, and who can console us for so great a loss?”