16 SOCIAL LIFE IN THE INSECT WORLD 



He angers me, this fable-teller does, 



Saying in winter thou dost seek 

 Flies, grubs, corn — thou dost never eat like us ! 



— Corn ! Couldst thou eat it, with thy beak ? 

 Thou hast thy fountain with its honey'd reek. 



To thee what matters winter ? Underground 

 Slumber thy children, sheltered ; thou 



The sleep that knows no waking sleepest sound. 

 Thy body, fallen from the bough, 



Crumbles ; the questing ant has found thee now. 



The wicked ant of thy poor withered hide 



A banquet makes ; in little bits 

 She cuts thee up, and empties thine inside, 



And stores thee where in wealth she sits : 

 Choice diet when the winter numbs the wits. 



III. 



Here is the tale related duly, 

 And little resembling the fable, truly ! 

 Hoarders of farthings, I know, deuce take it, 

 It isn't the story as you would make it ! 

 Crook-fingers, big-bellies, what do you say. 

 Who govern the world with the cash-box — hey? 



You have spread the story, with shrug and smirk. 



That the artist ne'er does a stroke of work; 



And so let him suffer, the imbecile ! 



Be you silent ! 'Tis you, I think. 



When the Cigale pierces the vine to drink, 



Drive her away, her drink to steal ; 



And when she is dead — you make your meal! 



