"What will become of that poor, idle one
When the light sports of the summer are done?
And, where is the covert to which he may run
To find a safe winter abode?
"Oh! if I only could tell him how sweet
Toil makes my rest and the morsel I eat,
While hope gives a spur to my little black feet,
He'd never pity my lot!
He'd never ask me my burden to drop,
To join in his folly--to spring, and to hop;
And thus make the ant and her labor to stop,
When time, I am certain, would not.
"When the cold frost all the herbage has nipped,
When the bare branches with ice-drops are tipped,
Where will the grasshopper then be, that skipped
So careless and lightly to-day?
Frozen to death! '_a sad picture_,' indeed,
Of reckless indulgence and what must succeed,
That all his gymnastics can't shelter or feed,
Or quicken his pulse into play!
"I must prepare for a winter to come,
I shall be glad of a home and a crumb,
When my frail form out of doors would be numb,
And I in the snow-storm should die.
Summer is lovely, but soon will be past.
Summer has plenty not always to last.
Summer's the time for the ant to make fast
Her stores for a future supply!"
=The Rose-Bud of Autumn=
Come out--pretty Rose-Bud,--my lone, timid one!
Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun!
For little he does, in these dull autumn hours,
At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.
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