Florian, the other French writer of fables, gives us a story of a Cricket, but it lacks the simplicity of truth and the saving salt of humour. Besides, it represents the Cricket as discontented, bewailing his condition! This is a preposterous idea, for all who have studied him know, on the contrary, that he is very well pleased with his own talent and his own burrow. And indeed, at the end of the story, Florian makes him admit: “My snug little home is a place of delight; If you want to live happy, live hidden from sight!” I find more force and truth in some verses by a friend of mine, of which these are a translation: Among the beasts a tale is told How a poor Cricket ventured nigh His door to catch the sun’s warm gold And saw a radiant Butterfly. 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, “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 fireside, calm and still, At least will grant you tearless hours! [2] There I recognise my Cricket. I see him curling his antennæ 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. To me, as a naturalist, the important point in the two fables is the burrow on which the moral is founded. Florian speaks of the snug retreat; the other praises his lowly home. It is the dwelling, therefore, that above all compels attention, even that of the poet, who as a rule cares little for realities.