366 THE CKICKET'S SONG. 



sit all day by the fire, with nothing to do but sing, and never 

 have to go to school." 



" You ! you, Lucy ! wish to be a cricket ?" answered I. 

 " You, who love so dearly the fields and the flowers, and the 

 sunshine, and the bright sky, and the beautiful butterflies ; 

 you wanting to be shut up the live-long day summer, perhaps, 

 as well as winter with nothing to look at but the red fire, 

 the black chimney, the kettle, and the saucepan ; with no sweet 

 song of birds or hum of bees to listen to, only the * wind in 

 the chimney, or the clatter of tongs and poker, or the tic-tack 

 of the jack !" " Poor thing ! I never thought of summer," 

 exclaimed Lucy, her envy converted all at once into compas- 

 sion ; " poor cricket ! how I pity you !" 



"Nay, now, Lucy," returned I, assuming, as I often did 

 with my little cousin, the air of an instructor, " nay, Lucy, 

 you need not pity him, for, like all the creatures of the good 

 God, he is very happy in his way. He at this moment says 

 or sings so; only listen to his chirping no, his speaking 

 song: 



Say not the cricket's life is dull ! 

 My life of endless changes full. 

 Dry wood crackling, green wood hissing ; 

 Eampant flames that scold while kissing. 

 Bubbling saucepan, singing kettle, 

 Cheery ring of clashing metal ; 

 Sounds noteless in dull ears like thine, 

 Make music, music sweet in mine. 

 Say not the cricket's life is dull ! 

 My life of endless changes full. 



