 | Birds, Bees and Blossoms |  |
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BEES, AND OTHER INSECTS.
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BEES.
FIRST PART.
We wander through the summer bowersTo many a little town of flowers,
All ancient freeholds of our own,
And to us for long ages known.
When you think we're but murmuring,
'Tis of these places that we sing.
Unto some brother bee I say—
“Pray, whither are you going to-day?”
Then unto me he will reply—
“I to the Village of Roses fly.
Then to the Thorpe of May I go,
Near the grange where woodbines blow,
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Timed to the stream that rolls along,
And o'er the golden pebbles sings
There I join chorus with my wings.”
Ah! could you but know all I see,
You'd say how happy is a bee.
Up with the lark, out with the sun,
For at the dawn our work's begun.
Nor till the sun sinks in the west,
Do we from our sweet labour rest;
Merry companions every one,
And more industrious there are none.
The dragon-fly turns his large eye,
And shakes his wings as I pass by,
With a “How do, dear brother bee?
Cowslips are on yon upland lea,
A pleasant spot you will it find;
I've left my little ones behind.”
The great stag-beetle, when we meet,
Bows low his head and scrapes his feet;
No gentleman in all the land
Can more politely shake your hand.
The butterfly “hopes I am well,”
As she swings on some wild-flower bell.
The armëd gnats aside will fly,
Nor close their ranks till I've passed by.
The wasp, who knows I too can sting,
Leaves me a wide space for each wing,
And looks at me as if afraid—
He knows mine is an honest trade;
For out of every flower you see
I make my sweet confection'ry.
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Ages before its name was known.
Those early homes 'neath forest trees
Were ever “musical with bees.”
King Vortigern would sit for hours,
And watch us working at the flowers;
And when Rowena saw us feed
She'd think of brewing her next mead.
Old Britons without clothes or money
Were happy if they'd store of honey.
The cottager with rows of hives
Our habits copies and he thrives.
In the academies of old
Our names were written up in gold;
In blazing letters you might see,
“Be thou industrious like the bee.”
Even their knowledge bearded sages
Did learn from us in early ages;
'Tis written in their lasting pages.
SECOND PART.
Oft we go forth with merry marchTo towns which red-streaked woodbines arch;
Far into the flower-clad woods
To war amongst the velvet buds,
Which back with trumpet-sound we bring,
And then like cheerful masons sing
While building golden roofs—to store
The treasures we from summer bore.
And when we work, we work indeed.
Our labourers leave not off to feed,
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And in a second they are fed,
And busy at their combs again;
For the nurses that we train
Take care the workmen do not lag,
But each comes with her honey-bag,
So that they have no need to stop,
Opens it, and gives each a drop;
The next bee sees his turn has come,
Puts out his trunk and he gets some;
Quick to the next as speedy gone,
And feeds them all, nor misses one.
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Of those who will not work at all.
Instead of honey they get kicked,
Like idle boys who 're often licked.
When beaten still, to work they go,
Whether they it like or no,
And if they grumble they get more—
We whack 'em till their bones are sore.
Nurses see to the baby bees,
Give them their breakfasts and their teas;
For the little bees in bed
Are helpless all and must be fed.
This done, they smooth a comb or two,
When they've nothing else to do;
A comb the workers have left rough,
And thus we find them work enough.
Worst is, our owners take our store
Just at the time we can't make more;
Like the old Israelites, you know,
Who couldn't make bricks without straw,
Nor we make honey without flowers.
In autumn we may search for hours,
And in neither bud nor bell
Find one drop to enrich our cell.
Round dahlia and chrysanthemum
We may for a long hour hum;
But neither can for love nor money
Obtain a single drop of honey.
THIRD PART.
We have great trouble with our queens—Bless you, you never saw such scenes.
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Will go and knock the rest about,
Ill use them, bite them, nor refrain,
'Till every other queen she's slain.
But although she wears the crown,
We've force enough to keep her down.
To do this, we're compelled to fight her,
Hold fast her wings, scratch her, bite her;
Then she sulks and will not eat,
Though we get round her and entreat,
Give her a word or two in season,
Beg she will hear a little reason.
“The other queens are in their cells,”
We tell her, “and no one rebels.
You'd better far appoint a day
And take some thousand bees away.
It is high time that you did swarm,
The hive's become so very warm,
And so thick and close we lie,
There'll be no moving by-and-by.
Even now we tread on one another,
And the baby-bees we smother,
Although we take our golden belt in;
Even the very wax is melting,
And the honey runs like water.
Now be a real royal daughter,
As the mother was that bore you.
You know well she swarmed before you,
Led the way to empty hives,
And by doing so saved our lives.
Go, seek some other summer bowers,
Where there are lanes and miles of flowers;
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So, madam, you must emigrate,
And sooner you are off the better.”
She raves and goes on, and we let her,
For well we know words do no harm,
Make up our minds that she shall swarm.
She knowing this at last consents.
Thousands beside will pitch their tents
With her wherever she may go—
For ages this has been bee law.
We send her off in grand array,
With trumpeters to sound the way,
Heralds, whose numbers are untold,
And pursuivants in belted gold.
Thousands and thousands will attend her,
To swell her train, and show her splendour.
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THE ANT-LION.
By digging a hole in the sand
I live—and catch what comes to hand;
Hard work it is when there are stones,
And often tries my poor old bones.
I get a stone upon my back,
Just as a pedlar does his pack;
But mine is loose and his is fast.
Out of my pit I must it cast,
And many times I have to try
Before I get it up so high;
Many a heavy tug and strain,
I reach the top, it's down again.
Then I must descend my pit
And once more have a tug at it;
Neither cord nor strap to bind it,
And no one behind to mind it.
Hard work it is, and so you'd say
If you but tried it for a day.
If you can but spare the time,
Up a steep embankment climb,
On your back a large loose stone,
And what it is will then be known.
I have no doubt you would own,
If like me you earned your bread,
You'd need no rocking when in bed.
I live—and catch what comes to hand;
Hard work it is when there are stones,
And often tries my poor old bones.
I get a stone upon my back,
Just as a pedlar does his pack;
But mine is loose and his is fast.
Out of my pit I must it cast,
And many times I have to try
Before I get it up so high;
Many a heavy tug and strain,
I reach the top, it's down again.
Then I must descend my pit
And once more have a tug at it;
Neither cord nor strap to bind it,
And no one behind to mind it.
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If you but tried it for a day.
If you can but spare the time,
Up a steep embankment climb,
On your back a large loose stone,
And what it is will then be known.
I have no doubt you would own,
If like me you earned your bread,
You'd need no rocking when in bed.
Out of this hole a head you'll see,
And two crooked paws—that is me,
At least all I care to show;
My body's in the hole below.
An insect near the top now crawls;
The sand is loose, and down he falls.
Then into my hole I go,
And eat him up as you would do
If you had nothing else to eat,
Ah! and consider it a treat.
Sometimes he bigger is than I,
Then showers of sand I at him shy,
And happen hit him in the eye;
Then he can't see his way at all,
But hits his head against the wall;
And while he in his anger hums,
Another shower at him comes,
And then he says, “Well, hit or miss,
I must try and get out of this.”
We go at it hammer and tongs;
He tries to stab me with his prongs,
But tries in vain, he can't get out,
So quick I kick the sand about,
So thick it comes, he cannot see
Even the slightest bit of me,
But wonders who's his enemy;
And so at random makes a thrust,
While I keep kicking up a dust.
If he's a wasp and got a sting,
Then I lay fast hold of one wing,
And turn as he turns round for hours,
Still throwing up the sand in showers;
Nor ever all the time leave go—
A trick worth two, of that I know.
He bends, he twists, while round I dodge,
Lest he his sting should in me lodge,
For that I know would be my death.
We never once stop to take breath,
But still continue the fierce strife—
We know we fight for very life;
For he would not go away,
Till with his sting he did me slay,
Even if I would let him go,
(You ask him and he'll tell you so).
I knowing this, go in again—
I pull, I haul, I kick, I strain;
Then get into the sand his head,
Give it a bite, and he is dead:
And say, as I sit down to dine,
“What a hard life this is of mine!”
I only wish I could eat sand,
For that in plenty lies at hand;
But an ant-lion must lead a lion-like life,
And both of us live by slaughter and strife.
And two crooked paws—that is me,
At least all I care to show;
My body's in the hole below.
An insect near the top now crawls;
The sand is loose, and down he falls.
Then into my hole I go,
And eat him up as you would do
If you had nothing else to eat,
Ah! and consider it a treat.
Sometimes he bigger is than I,
Then showers of sand I at him shy,
And happen hit him in the eye;
Then he can't see his way at all,
But hits his head against the wall;
And while he in his anger hums,
Another shower at him comes,
And then he says, “Well, hit or miss,
I must try and get out of this.”
We go at it hammer and tongs;
He tries to stab me with his prongs,
But tries in vain, he can't get out,
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So thick it comes, he cannot see
Even the slightest bit of me,
But wonders who's his enemy;
And so at random makes a thrust,
While I keep kicking up a dust.
If he's a wasp and got a sting,
Then I lay fast hold of one wing,
And turn as he turns round for hours,
Still throwing up the sand in showers;
Nor ever all the time leave go—
A trick worth two, of that I know.
He bends, he twists, while round I dodge,
Lest he his sting should in me lodge,
For that I know would be my death.
We never once stop to take breath,
But still continue the fierce strife—
We know we fight for very life;
For he would not go away,
Till with his sting he did me slay,
Even if I would let him go,
(You ask him and he'll tell you so).
I knowing this, go in again—
I pull, I haul, I kick, I strain;
Then get into the sand his head,
Give it a bite, and he is dead:
And say, as I sit down to dine,
“What a hard life this is of mine!”
I only wish I could eat sand,
For that in plenty lies at hand;
But an ant-lion must lead a lion-like life,
And both of us live by slaughter and strife.
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THE CRICKET.
You've often heard me chirrup away,
And now I'll tell you what I say,
While on my instrument I play.
And now I'll tell you what I say,
While on my instrument I play.
I sing, “'Tis warm and cosy here,
And though I care not to appear,
You know that I am always near.”
And though I care not to appear,
You know that I am always near.”
I sing, “The frizzle of ham and eggs
Screws me up some hundred pegs,
And nearly carries me off my legs.”
Screws me up some hundred pegs,
And nearly carries me off my legs.”
With the kettle I love to sing—
Oh, how we make the whole house ring,
She calling and I answering.
Oh, how we make the whole house ring,
She calling and I answering.
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And we can play—what can't we play?—
“Over the coals and far away;”
And then we haven't a piper to pay.
“Over the coals and far away;”
And then we haven't a piper to pay.
She shakes her lid like a castanet,
While I cry out, “More rosin yet;”
And then in a nice mess we get.
While I cry out, “More rosin yet;”
And then in a nice mess we get.
She boils over and I run in;
We know the housemaid will begin,
And there will be a deafening din.
We know the housemaid will begin,
And there will be a deafening din.
“Burn the kettle and cricket too!”
She says—“I might have nought to do,
But be cleaning after you.”
She says—“I might have nought to do,
But be cleaning after you.”
Truth is, I neither chirp nor call,
Have not a note, however small—
In fact I haven't a voice at all.
Have not a note, however small—
In fact I haven't a voice at all.
Believe me, I was born as dumb
As the stone of a green plum,
Or the nail upon your thumb.
As the stone of a green plum,
Or the nail upon your thumb.
It is not my throat that sings,
The noise I make is with my wings—
It is all done by jerks and springs.
The noise I make is with my wings—
It is all done by jerks and springs.
My wings the bow I so oft twiddle,
My body is my only fiddle—
That's why my tune breaks in the middle.
My body is my only fiddle—
That's why my tune breaks in the middle.
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Up go my wings, and fiddle away;
“Rosin,” cries body, and don't we play,
Ofttimes until the dawn of day?
“Rosin,” cries body, and don't we play,
Ofttimes until the dawn of day?
I always cease when it gets light,
In fact I can't play well at sight,
That's why I strike up in the night.
In fact I can't play well at sight,
That's why I strike up in the night.
And though no beauty, as you know,
Nor ever cared to make a show,
I've still got two strings to my bow.
Nor ever cared to make a show,
I've still got two strings to my bow.
In the dark how happy am I,
If the place is warm and dry!
If it isn't, further I fly.
If the place is warm and dry!
If it isn't, further I fly.
The grasshopper's akin to me,
Belongs to the same family,
But somehow we could never agree.
Belongs to the same family,
But somehow we could never agree.
So, to put an end to strife,
He went and led a roving life,
And in the field camped with his wife.
He went and led a roving life,
And in the field camped with his wife.
He in the fields goes cricketing,
I within doors my music bring,
And to the cat and kettle sing.
I within doors my music bring,
And to the cat and kettle sing.
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SONG OF THE SMALL INSECTS.
Though you won't see us with the naked eye,
Yet take up a glass that will magnify,
And you'll say, though we are such tiny things,
We have the most beautiful bodies and wings
You ever beheld, or eye ever saw.
Yet take up a glass that will magnify,
And you'll say, though we are such tiny things,
We have the most beautiful bodies and wings
You ever beheld, or eye ever saw.
We live in the yellow pollen of flowers,
And a golden land is that of ours,
Where we among the stamens play
At hide and seek the live-long day,
And lift on high our speckled horns.
And a golden land is that of ours,
Where we among the stamens play
At hide and seek the live-long day,
And lift on high our speckled horns.
Behind the golden pillars we creep,
And there we hide and play bo-peep.
Into the yellow cells we run,
And through the petals in our fun;
You have got no such play-grounds as we.
And there we hide and play bo-peep.
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And through the petals in our fun;
You have got no such play-grounds as we.
Though you can't see us with the naked eye,
With the richest jewels and flowers we vie.
Examine my horns: saw ye ever before
A grander scroll above window or door?
And look at the feathers I shake when I play.
With the richest jewels and flowers we vie.
Examine my horns: saw ye ever before
A grander scroll above window or door?
And look at the feathers I shake when I play.
Look how the black and brown are blended,
Twisted and twined, then grandly ended
With tufts of such majestic plumes
As no lady e'er presumes
To place upon her titled brow.
Twisted and twined, then grandly ended
With tufts of such majestic plumes
As no lady e'er presumes
To place upon her titled brow.
None are so grandly clad as I.
The perfumed, flowers my garments dye,
And all the richest colours they bear
I on my wings and body wear—
The rainbow's dull compared with me.
The perfumed, flowers my garments dye,
And all the richest colours they bear
I on my wings and body wear—
The rainbow's dull compared with me.
Sometimes we sport in a great sunflower,
And in its cells we can hide by the hour.
Deep deep down where the sunbeams play,
In a golden cavern so still we lay,
Those who seek us cannot find us at all.
And in its cells we can hide by the hour.
Deep deep down where the sunbeams play,
In a golden cavern so still we lay,
Those who seek us cannot find us at all.
And oh! we ever find great delight
In climbing those golden pillars so bright,
Then reaching the top and pretending to fall,
Well knowing we cannot be hurt at all
When we tumble down in the yellow bloom.
In climbing those golden pillars so bright,
Then reaching the top and pretending to fall,
Well knowing we cannot be hurt at all
When we tumble down in the yellow bloom.
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Then what are your chariots rich and gay
To the golden worlds in which I play
With my jewelled sisters all the long day,
In a land where it is ever May,
In a world that's covered o'er with flowers?
To the golden worlds in which I play
With my jewelled sisters all the long day,
In a land where it is ever May,
In a world that's covered o'er with flowers?
And other insects I can see,
Which are many times smaller than me;
So much smaller, that in my sight
I'm an elephant beside a mite,
And like a mountain look by these!
Which are many times smaller than me;
So much smaller, that in my sight
I'm an elephant beside a mite,
And like a mountain look by these!
And He made us who made you all;
Nor is there anything so small
As to escape His watchful eye,
That fills the whole o'erhanging sky,
And neither day nor night is closed.
Nor is there anything so small
As to escape His watchful eye,
That fills the whole o'erhanging sky,
And neither day nor night is closed.
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THE FROG-HOPPER
I am a Frog-hopper of high renown,
And will jump you all for what you please,
And be the first to put my leg down,
For I know that I can beat you with ease.
I can leap a great many times my own length,
Without taking a run before making a spring.
For my size, neither lion nor tiger's my strength;
I am of all leapers and jumpers the king.
And will jump you all for what you please,
And be the first to put my leg down,
For I know that I can beat you with ease.
I can leap a great many times my own length,
Without taking a run before making a spring.
For my size, neither lion nor tiger's my strength;
I am of all leapers and jumpers the king.
When I come into the world I find a strange home;
You may see me lie on the leaves so green,
Buried all over in froth and foam,
And in a state hardly fit to be seen.
“Cuckoo-spit,” some do me call;
They might as well call me the foam of the sea:
The cuckoo's no more to do with it at all
Than I have with him, or he has with me.
You may see me lie on the leaves so green,
Buried all over in froth and foam,
And in a state hardly fit to be seen.
“Cuckoo-spit,” some do me call;
They might as well call me the foam of the sea:
The cuckoo's no more to do with it at all
Than I have with him, or he has with me.
To me it's a kind of a crystal grot,
And pleasant enough I find it too
To be hidden beneath when the weather is hot,
Though sometimes the sun comes and pierces it through,
Drinks it all up and leaves not a drop;
And then I can tell you I'm in a nice way;
Under a leaf I am forced to pop,
And there compelled a long while to stay.
And pleasant enough I find it too
To be hidden beneath when the weather is hot,
Though sometimes the sun comes and pierces it through,
Drinks it all up and leaves not a drop;
And then I can tell you I'm in a nice way;
Under a leaf I am forced to pop,
And there compelled a long while to stay.
The very next day I begin a new brewing,
For I can't live long out of my crystal bed;
So I set to hissing, and frothing, and stewing,
Until I find I've got it up to a nice head,
And hear it all round me gurgle and ripple,
And then who is there more happy than I?
I lie down and sleep in the midst of my tipple,
And have only to open my mouth when I'm dry.
For I can't live long out of my crystal bed;
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Until I find I've got it up to a nice head,
And hear it all round me gurgle and ripple,
And then who is there more happy than I?
I lie down and sleep in the midst of my tipple,
And have only to open my mouth when I'm dry.
When little I'm yellow, when bigger I'm green;
But when I am what I may call fully grown,
I'm black and I'm white, but oftener seen
In a fine speckled jacket of warm-coloured brown:
No longer I dwell in a grotto of foam,
But leap where I please unfettered and free,
For every flower affords me a home,
And what I live on is best known to me.
But when I am what I may call fully grown,
I'm black and I'm white, but oftener seen
In a fine speckled jacket of warm-coloured brown:
No longer I dwell in a grotto of foam,
But leap where I please unfettered and free,
For every flower affords me a home,
And what I live on is best known to me.
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THE CHEESE-HOPPER.
Now listen to me—the Frog-hopper's a bragger,And all he's told you is but empty swagger;
Why, love you, at leaping I beat him to fits,
And at the first spring jump him out of his wits.
Were my size but a match for the elephant tall,
I could clear at one bound the dome of St. Paul!
If you watch, you can see how I first make a spring:
I do it by coiling myself up in a ring;
With my mandibles I lay fast hold of my tail,
Give a jerk and leave loose, and then never fail
To leap at least fifty full times my own length.
There, Mr. Frog-hopper, that's what I call strength.
Just take up a glass and see how I am made,
And you'll own that I put the Frog-hopper in shade,
Will find that I have such an elegant shape,
That the very next time when your cheese-crust you scrape
You'll be very careful and do me no harm,
For once see me leap and your eye I shall charm.
And now when you see me alive in a cheese,
Let me beg that you won't eat me up, if you please,
But lay me aside, and you'll find by-and-by
I shall turn to a very beautiful fly.
Besides, if you eat me, I'm so very small,
To satisfy hunger I'm no use at all;
Spare me, pray do, then I'll give a leap,
If into the cheese you'll again let me creep.
It's no joke, I can tell you, to lie very long
In a cheese that is old, and rotten, and strong,
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Now dodging a scoop, and then cutting a knife;
Now wriggling away from a finger or thumb,
Then giving a wide berth to some tempting crumb,
Lest with it I should be sent down your red lane,
And never see cheese nor daylight again.
Then pray let me live, don't devour me, please,
But send me back, saying, “This isn't the cheese;”
But oh! let me live till I'm able to fly,
To feel the glad sunshine and soar in the sky.
And remember that if with your cheese you eat me,
I'm not to be blamed if it doesn't agree;
I'm not to be blamed if I wriggle about,
And leap up my highest, and try to get out;
For I am sure the same thing you would do,
Were I big and you little, if I swallowed you.
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THE BURYING BEETLE.
A very old grave-digger am I,
Though I use neither pick nor spade,
And for many thousands of years
I've followed the grave-digging trade,
And a great many graves I've made.
Though I use neither pick nor spade,
And for many thousands of years
I've followed the grave-digging trade,
And a great many graves I've made.
Though I but use my body and feet,
A neater grave you never saw
Than the one I scoop in the earth.
I'll tell you how to work I go,
When I bury a mole or so.
A neater grave you never saw
Than the one I scoop in the earth.
I'll tell you how to work I go,
When I bury a mole or so.
A mole is forty times my size—
To me he seems a mountain high.
First I go and measure the ground,
Then a circle by-and-by
I make, and let him in it lie.
To me he seems a mountain high.
First I go and measure the ground,
Then a circle by-and-by
I make, and let him in it lie.
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And when I've drawn my trench all round
I then sometimes climb up his side,
And say, “You'll take a good sized grave;
But though you are long, high, and wide,
And a big one for me to hide,
I then sometimes climb up his side,
And say, “You'll take a good sized grave;
But though you are long, high, and wide,
And a big one for me to hide,
I'll have you deep down in the earth,
And buried decent and out of sight,
Under three inches of black mould,
Long before to-morrow night;
And do my work without a light.”
And buried decent and out of sight,
Under three inches of black mould,
Long before to-morrow night;
And do my work without a light.”
Beneath him then a hole I make,
I go to work and scratch away,
Kick out the earth both right and left,
And never stop to rest or play,
But dig and dig without delay.
I go to work and scratch away,
Kick out the earth both right and left,
And never stop to rest or play,
But dig and dig without delay.
I feel him pressing on my back,
And then I know he's sinking lower;
His own weight helps to bring him down,
I throw the earth out hour by hour;
The worms stand wondering at my power.
And then I know he's sinking lower;
His own weight helps to bring him down,
I throw the earth out hour by hour;
The worms stand wondering at my power.
See what a lofty bank I've raised!
He lies within a spacious mound.
Upon his back I climb again,
And press him deeper in the ground—
With earth he is already bound.
He lies within a spacious mound.
Upon his back I climb again,
And press him deeper in the ground—
With earth he is already bound.
Into his grave I go once more,
And underneath him quickly pop.
If there's a stone, I sink a well,
And into it the stone I drop—
No obstacle my course can stop.
And underneath him quickly pop.
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And into it the stone I drop—
No obstacle my course can stop.
I feel him heavier on my back,
Deeper and deeper down I go;
I ask him not how he likes that,
For he must follow, whether or no—
I pull his nose, I pull his toe.
Deeper and deeper down I go;
I ask him not how he likes that,
For he must follow, whether or no—
I pull his nose, I pull his toe.
And so I work on at my trade:
I neither rest nor do I sleep
Until he lies beneath the earth
Which I on his huge body heap,
And bury him three inches deep.
I neither rest nor do I sleep
Until he lies beneath the earth
Which I on his huge body heap,
And bury him three inches deep.
For I am the great undertaker,
And bury all such like small game,
No matter whether bird or mouse,
For I just serve them all the same;—
Burying Beetle is my name.
And bury all such like small game,
No matter whether bird or mouse,
For I just serve them all the same;—
Burying Beetle is my name.
And when they are safe under ground,
My eggs I in their bodies lay;
And when my young ones come to life,
Food they find round them every way—
Eat what they like, and nought to pay.
My eggs I in their bodies lay;
And when my young ones come to life,
Food they find round them every way—
Eat what they like, and nought to pay.
Like you I have my troubles, too;
For oft a cat, or bird of prey,
Will come and carry off my prize
When through my work I've got half way—
And not a word I dare to say.
For oft a cat, or bird of prey,
Will come and carry off my prize
When through my work I've got half way—
And not a word I dare to say.
76
THE GARDEN SPIDER.
I'm not so ugly as I appear:
Get a glass and examine me near,
And see what bands of white and brown
Streak me across and up and down;
Look at my web, with dew-drops hung—
You never saw pearls more beautiful strung.
Get a glass and examine me near,
And see what bands of white and brown
Streak me across and up and down;
Look at my web, with dew-drops hung—
You never saw pearls more beautiful strung.
The old saw says, “Each one to his trade;”
Would you know how my web is made?
Listen and hear how I begin,
For I'm the first that learnt to spin,
And span among the early flowers
When Adam and Eve walked in Eden's bowers.
Would you know how my web is made?
Listen and hear how I begin,
For I'm the first that learnt to spin,
And span among the early flowers
When Adam and Eve walked in Eden's bowers.
I spin a thread, and let it float—
Where it adheres I take good note;
I watch it rise, and wave, and bend,
Keeping tight hold of my own end;
For where it touches there 't will stick,
As the glue that I make is strong and thick.
Where it adheres I take good note;
I watch it rise, and wave, and bend,
Keeping tight hold of my own end;
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As the glue that I make is strong and thick.
Should it not a right angle obtain,
I spin another and watch it again,
And keep repeating the old rhyme,
“I may have better luck next time.”
Once right, and then to cross I'm able,
And well do I try the strength of my cable.
I spin another and watch it again,
And keep repeating the old rhyme,
“I may have better luck next time.”
Once right, and then to cross I'm able,
And well do I try the strength of my cable.
You throw a rope up in the air,
Get up, then try if it will bear;
Suppose we say from tree to tree,
No one to fasten it like me.
Why, you would come down like a stone,
And in your body not leave a whole bone.
Get up, then try if it will bear;
Suppose we say from tree to tree,
No one to fasten it like me.
Why, you would come down like a stone,
And in your body not leave a whole bone.
Without either pulleys or pegs,
My rope I tighten with my legs;
From it with all my weight I drop,
Spinning a web until I stop;
Headlong, as if thrown from a wall,
I plunge, but the web that I spin breaks my fall.
My rope I tighten with my legs;
From it with all my weight I drop,
Spinning a web until I stop;
Headlong, as if thrown from a wall,
I plunge, but the web that I spin breaks my fall.
Like a pendulum there I swing,
My cable try with jerk and spring,
See it secured at both ends;
For on these cross-spun lines depends
The very safety of my web,
When I'm rocked as the wind-currents flow and ebb.
My cable try with jerk and spring,
See it secured at both ends;
For on these cross-spun lines depends
The very safety of my web,
When I'm rocked as the wind-currents flow and ebb.
If you watch, you now will see
Two lines I spin that form a V;
These two V's join, as you now know,
The line above and line below;
My web may rock, the winds may sing,
With such strong supports I in safety swing.
Two lines I spin that form a V;
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The line above and line below;
My web may rock, the winds may sing,
With such strong supports I in safety swing.
And now to work goes every joint—
I spin my lines from point to point;
From the middle with toe and heel,
I fix my spokes as in a wheel;
And the first wheel made for a car
Was designed from my web—but I copied a star.
I spin my lines from point to point;
From the middle with toe and heel,
I fix my spokes as in a wheel;
And the first wheel made for a car
Was designed from my web—but I copied a star.
My star-rays finished, I go round,
With cross lines every beam is bound;
Nor can you in the finest lace
A truer piece of net-work trace.
Man can't invent what I can do—
While I make my own silk I am weaving it too.
With cross lines every beam is bound;
Nor can you in the finest lace
A truer piece of net-work trace.
Man can't invent what I can do—
While I make my own silk I am weaving it too.
I'm sure you must confess I try
Most hard indeed to catch a fly;
But always I do not succeed,
And it seems very hard indeed,
When some great strong blue-bottle comes
With a dash through my web and breaks all the thrums.
Most hard indeed to catch a fly;
But always I do not succeed,
And it seems very hard indeed,
When some great strong blue-bottle comes
With a dash through my web and breaks all the thrums.
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THE CRANE FLY.
Old Daddy-long-legs is known to you all;
You have oft seen him scrambling up window and wall,
Or making a handle of his leg in the candle,
And not seeming to mind it the least bit at all.
You have oft seen him scrambling up window and wall,
Or making a handle of his leg in the candle,
And not seeming to mind it the least bit at all.
You have seen his large family out on the grass,
Drawing in their long legs to let each other pass.
Knock-kneed and in-kneed; oh! such a strange breed;
You would laugh if you saw them stuck in a morass.
Drawing in their long legs to let each other pass.
Knock-kneed and in-kneed; oh! such a strange breed;
You would laugh if you saw them stuck in a morass.
If his two straggling legs, that hang out behind,
Were half an inch shorter, I don't think he'd mind;
For so far out they lay, they always seem in his way,
And he runs foul of everything that he can find.
Were half an inch shorter, I don't think he'd mind;
For so far out they lay, they always seem in his way,
And he runs foul of everything that he can find.
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What a long way before him his horns do appear;
And as for his legs, they are far in the rear;
And you'll often find him looking behind him
To see if his legs are all right and still there.
And as for his legs, they are far in the rear;
And you'll often find him looking behind him
To see if his legs are all right and still there.
He thinks he was changed at a barber's one day,
Who stuck him hairs on for legs, and sent him away;
Says, he remembers before he walked well on the floor,
And a very good leg could at that time display.
Who stuck him hairs on for legs, and sent him away;
Says, he remembers before he walked well on the floor,
And a very good leg could at that time display.
He says he can't make any use of his horns;
Complains that he's terribly troubled with corns.
When he picks up his pins, he grazes his shins,
And he hasn't a leg but what round on him spins.
Complains that he's terribly troubled with corns.
When he picks up his pins, he grazes his shins,
And he hasn't a leg but what round on him spins.
Say to him, “Where are you?” he don't answer, “Here,”
But says, “Did you ask for my front or my rear?
My horns are out here, and my wings are out there,
And as for my legs, why, they've run off somewhere.”
But says, “Did you ask for my front or my rear?
My horns are out here, and my wings are out there,
And as for my legs, why, they've run off somewhere.”
When Daddy-long-legs near the candle you see,
Put him out of the window, and let him go free,
Or he'll burn his legs, sure as eggs are eggs,
Singe his wings, and scorch his sharp-pointed bodý.
Put him out of the window, and let him go free,
Or he'll burn his legs, sure as eggs are eggs,
Singe his wings, and scorch his sharp-pointed bodý.
81
THE WATER SPIDER.
Down in my diving bell I go.
Look and you'll see it glitter below:
A little globe, as silver bright;
A water star, a liquid light.
Who can make a silver bell
Save me, and live in it as well?
I take in air and down I drop—
There's always plenty at the top;
And there I go when I want more.
I've but to open my house door,
Let in the air, then down again;
My silver bell keeps off the rain.
And though in water stands my house,
I'm dry and warm as any mouse.
I spin in the water too,
A web the wet cannot get through;
And such a roof weave of my thread
As keeps me quite dry overhead;
Though it's a fathom deep or more—
Was such a roof e'er made before?
My own materials, too, I find;
My glittering skein I but unwind,
And of it make myself a home,
Whose roof is a round silver dome.
Look and you'll see it glitter below:
A little globe, as silver bright;
A water star, a liquid light.
Who can make a silver bell
Save me, and live in it as well?
I take in air and down I drop—
There's always plenty at the top;
And there I go when I want more.
I've but to open my house door,
Let in the air, then down again;
My silver bell keeps off the rain.
And though in water stands my house,
I'm dry and warm as any mouse.
I spin in the water too,
A web the wet cannot get through;
And such a roof weave of my thread
As keeps me quite dry overhead;
Though it's a fathom deep or more—
Was such a roof e'er made before?
My own materials, too, I find;
My glittering skein I but unwind,
And of it make myself a home,
Whose roof is a round silver dome.
Underneath the water deep,
All winter long I lie and sleep;
But if into my house you break,
I'm pretty quickly wide awake;
For when the wet comes in one's bed,
And rises high above one's head,
Runs in one's ears, and nose, and eyes,
I rather think it's time to rise.
When up, I feel a little “pickish,’
And, though the water's rather thickish,
Should any insect fall in my way,
I very quickly on him prey.
I form my nest in little cells,
Down where the water lily dwells,
And in it lay my yellow eggs;
And when my young ones feel their legs,
They find that in their watery home
There's ample space enough to roam;
Ample space to play and dive,
And all they eat they catch alive.
All winter long I lie and sleep;
But if into my house you break,
I'm pretty quickly wide awake;
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And rises high above one's head,
Runs in one's ears, and nose, and eyes,
I rather think it's time to rise.
When up, I feel a little “pickish,’
And, though the water's rather thickish,
Should any insect fall in my way,
I very quickly on him prey.
I form my nest in little cells,
Down where the water lily dwells,
And in it lay my yellow eggs;
And when my young ones feel their legs,
They find that in their watery home
There's ample space enough to roam;
Ample space to play and dive,
And all they eat they catch alive.
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THE SNAIL.
I carry as heavy a packAs ever pedlar bore on his back;
And no matter where I roam,
With me I must take my home:
Walk where I may, go where I will,
My house is ever with me still.
If a day I wish to spend
With some old respected friend,
I must take with me house and all,
No matter upon whom I call.
Neither can I step inside,
Whatever cheer he may provide;
Out of doors we're forced to dine,
For I can't ask him into mine.
No marvel that I travel slow,
When my house with me I draw.
And they would tell a different tale,
Who talk about a slow-paced snail,
And at my movements scoff and jeer,
If they had but their house to bear
Upon their backs, go where they might.
I find it handy though at night
To just draw in my horns and head,
Turn round, and be at once in bed;
Useful too when it does rain,
To pop out and pop in again.
If I travel for a week,
For lodgings I need never seek;
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Can turn in at what hour I please.
No one sits up to let me in,—
At my door there's no midnight din;
No words between my wife and me
About my having the latch-key;
She with my house has nought to do,
Nor I with hers—a good job too.
All the winter long I sleep,
Nor ever out of doors once peep,
Until I the warm sunshine feel;
Then out my horns I softly steal,
And if it look a likely day,
Begin to move my house away,
And search for something green and sweet;—
For months I have had nought to eat.
Oh, how I do hate a thrush!
For with his beak my house he'll crush,
Smash in both tiles, and roof, and rafter;
And when he's killed me, eat me after.
85
THE DEAD BUTTERFLY.
Survey it through this little glass,
Not high its magnifying power,
But surely nothing can surpass
This beauty of a summer hour,
That lives its little day, then dies.
Look at the border of each wing:
The peacock with its hundred eyes
Shows no such rich diapering;
No silk so fine from Indian looms.
And then the feathers on its head,—
All kinds of gaudy-coloured plumes
Are every way around it spread.
Not high its magnifying power,
But surely nothing can surpass
This beauty of a summer hour,
That lives its little day, then dies.
Look at the border of each wing:
The peacock with its hundred eyes
Shows no such rich diapering;
No silk so fine from Indian looms.
And then the feathers on its head,—
All kinds of gaudy-coloured plumes
Are every way around it spread.
Frosted with silver, washed with gold,
And striped with richest rainbow hues,
No diadem of monarch old
Did e'er more glorious rays diffuse.
What was it first?—a little thing,
That came to life on leaf or stalk,
Showing no signs of gaudy wing,
That had more of a crawl than walk;
Coming from small eggs glued together,
Cased hard to stand rough winter weather.
And striped with richest rainbow hues,
No diadem of monarch old
Did e'er more glorious rays diffuse.
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That came to life on leaf or stalk,
Showing no signs of gaudy wing,
That had more of a crawl than walk;
Coming from small eggs glued together,
Cased hard to stand rough winter weather.
Others, but grubs below the ground,
Working their way in the dark earth,
Yet in another summer found
Uprising from their grave-like birth,
To reach the beauty we now see;
To sport above the thick-leaved bowers,
In richer robes than bird or bee,
And rivalling the choicest flowers;
For such is Nature's mystery,
Worked in her chambers wondrously.
Working their way in the dark earth,
Yet in another summer found
Uprising from their grave-like birth,
To reach the beauty we now see;
To sport above the thick-leaved bowers,
In richer robes than bird or bee,
And rivalling the choicest flowers;
For such is Nature's mystery,
Worked in her chambers wondrously.
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THE BUTTERFLY.
What a long way
I go in a day,
When I set out to take my pleasure!
I fly a distance you could not measure,
Over flowery valleys and tree-clad hills,
And I hear the murmur of silver rills,
That sing at noon
In the month of June,
When summer roses are in full bloom,
And flowers light up the forest's deep gloom.
I go in a day,
When I set out to take my pleasure!
I fly a distance you could not measure,
Over flowery valleys and tree-clad hills,
And I hear the murmur of silver rills,
That sing at noon
In the month of June,
When summer roses are in full bloom,
And flowers light up the forest's deep gloom.
With folded wing
I stand and swing,
On the sweetest and daintiest buds that blow;
I look in the water that lies below,
And see my form in the mirror lie,
The trees upturned, and the deep blue sky.
A while I look
At myself in the brook,
Then to some companion I hurry away,
And for an hour we round each other play.
I stand and swing,
On the sweetest and daintiest buds that blow;
I look in the water that lies below,
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The trees upturned, and the deep blue sky.
A while I look
At myself in the brook,
Then to some companion I hurry away,
And for an hour we round each other play.
The dragon-fly,
With his large eye,
Gives me a nod as I hurry along;
Then the sweet peas I rush among;
And when they're in flower you cannot tell me,
As I shut up my wings, from the bloom of the pea
On the Painted Lady,
So cool and shady;
While she weds the pea-rods with many a ring,
I stand and look round me while I swing.
With his large eye,
Gives me a nod as I hurry along;
Then the sweet peas I rush among;
And when they're in flower you cannot tell me,
As I shut up my wings, from the bloom of the pea
On the Painted Lady,
So cool and shady;
While she weds the pea-rods with many a ring,
I stand and look round me while I swing.
Away I fly
Where the roses lie,
And on the choicest of blooms alight,
For the richest flowers are mine by right.
On the finest bouquet that's borne by a queen,
Before they graced her fair hand I have been;
Plunged into each bell,
Had the first sweet smell,
And flew with it hanging about me for hours,
Till I bathed in the perfume of fresher flowers.
Where the roses lie,
And on the choicest of blooms alight,
For the richest flowers are mine by right.
On the finest bouquet that's borne by a queen,
Before they graced her fair hand I have been;
Plunged into each bell,
Had the first sweet smell,
And flew with it hanging about me for hours,
Till I bathed in the perfume of fresher flowers.
You wonder why
In jerks I fly,
Why I take such a zig-zag flight;
From right to left, from left to right,
And back again so quick, I defy
You to catch the motion with a sharp eye:
'Tis the birds on the watch,
Who would me catch,
And be very happy to make me their prey,
If I didn't turn sharp and get out of their way.
In jerks I fly,
Why I take such a zig-zag flight;
From right to left, from left to right,
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You to catch the motion with a sharp eye:
'Tis the birds on the watch,
Who would me catch,
And be very happy to make me their prey,
If I didn't turn sharp and get out of their way.
They know my trick
Of turning quick,
So I pass them with a “How do you do?”
They snap their sharp beaks and say, “Oh, that's you.”
Sometimes they come near and make me quake,
But in vain they try the same angles to take.
They turn here,
And I'm off there;
They turn to the right, and I'm out of sight,
Make a dart to the left, I'm off to the right.
Of turning quick,
So I pass them with a “How do you do?”
They snap their sharp beaks and say, “Oh, that's you.”
Sometimes they come near and make me quake,
But in vain they try the same angles to take.
They turn here,
And I'm off there;
They turn to the right, and I'm out of sight,
Make a dart to the left, I'm off to the right.
Oh, what a way
I fly in a day!
Over miles and miles of outstretched flowers,
Where the fingers of Summer weave green bowers;
Where the winds come every way,
Bringing the sweet perfume of May.
My eggs, you know,
Are laid row by row,
And in regular order so neat and clean,
And so close that you can't get a pin's point between.
I fly in a day!
Over miles and miles of outstretched flowers,
Where the fingers of Summer weave green bowers;
Where the winds come every way,
Bringing the sweet perfume of May.
My eggs, you know,
Are laid row by row,
And in regular order so neat and clean,
And so close that you can't get a pin's point between.
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