42 
PLANTS AND INSECTS 
What didst thou, brown old grasshopper, 
When the summer days were long? 
“I danced on the fragrant clover-tops 
With many a merry song; 
Oh! we were a blithesome company 
And a joyous life we led; 
But with the flowers and summer hours 
My gay companions fled: 
Old age and poverty are come; 
The autumn wind is chill; 
It whistles through my tattered coat; 
And my voice is cracked and shrill. 
In a damp and gloomy cavern 
Beneath this cold, gray stone, 
I must lay me down and perish— 
I must perish all alone. 
Alas, that in life’s golden time 
I treasured up no store 
For now the sheaves are gathered in, 
And the harvest-days are o’er.” 
He ceased his melancholy wail, 
And a tear was in his eye 
As he slowly slid from' the cold gray stone 
And laid him down to die. 
And then I thought: ’Twere well if all 
In pleasure’s idle throng 
Had seen that old brown grasshopper 
And heard his dying song; 
For life’s bright, glowing summer 
Is hasting to its close, 
And winter ’s night is coming— 
The night of long repose. 
Oh, garner, then, in reaping-time 
A rich, unfailing store, 
Ere the summer hours are past and gone 
And the harvest-days are o’er! 
