The Cricket: the Burrow 



Staining her broken velvet form 

 And covering her wings with mud. 



The Cricket, sheltered from the rain, 



Chirped and looked on with tranquil eye; 



For him the thunder pealed in vain, 

 The gale and torrent passed him by. 



Then shun the world, nor take your fill 



Of any of its joys or flowers ; 

 A lowly fire-side, calm and still, 



At least will grant you tearless hours! 1 



There I recognize my Cricket. I see him 

 curling his antennas on the threshold of his 

 burrow, keeping his belly cool and his back 

 to the sun. He is not jealous of the But- 

 terfly; on the contrary, he pities her, with 

 that air of mocking commiseration familiar 

 in the ratepayer who owns a house of his 

 own and sees passing before his door some 

 wearer of a gaudy costume with no place to 

 lay her head. Far from complaining, he is 

 very well satisfied with both his house and 

 his violin. A true philosopher, he knows the 

 vanity of things and appreciates the charm 

 of a modest retreat away from the riot of 

 pleasure-seekers. 



1 For the translation of these and the other verses 

 in this chapter I am indebted to my friend Mr. Stephen 

 McKenna. — Translator's Note. 



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