120 FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



She passed with tails thrown proudly back 



And long gay rows of crescents blue, 

 Brave yellow stars and bands of black, 



The lordliest Fly that ever flew. 



' Ah, fly away,' the hermit said, 



4 Daylong among your flowers to roam ; 

 Nor daisies white nor roses red 

 Will compensate my lowly home.' 



True, all too true ! There came a storm 



And caught the Fly within its flood, 

 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 ! * 



There I recognise my Cricket. I see him curling his 

 antennae on the threshold of his burrow, keeping himself 

 cool in front and warm at the back. He is not jealous of the 

 Butterfly; on the contrary, he pities her, with that air of 

 mocking commiseration we often see in those who have houses 

 of their own when they are talking to those who have none. 

 Far from complaining, he is very well satisfied both with his 

 house and his violin. He is a true philosopher : he knows 

 the vanity of things and feels the charm of a modest retreat 

 away from the riot of pleasure-seekers. 



Yes, the description is about right, as far as it goes. But 

 the Cricket is still waiting for the few lines needed to bring 

 his merits before the public ; and since La Fontaine neglected 

 him, he will have to go on waiting a long time. 



1 English translation by Mr. Stephen M'Keuna. 



