"He never stirred late at night But in the morning early bright The cattle woke, when they heard his crow: Cockadoodledoo! "He spared no pains for his lady love, For her he scratched below, above, She heard with ecstasy his crow: Cockadoodledoo! "Of genius boasts my hero not, And poetry did not fall to his lot, Yet do I love indeed his crow: Cockadoodledoo!" "Well, what do you say, dear friend?" "What can I say," replied Oswald, "except that you have fully accomplished your purpose. The hearer imagines he is in the poultry-yard. The notes you strike are the very notes of nature; they come from the heart of things. The poem is a little gem of the realistic school of our day. But now, gifted lady, one more request: However much it may enhance the value of a poem to hear it from the eloquent lips of the poetess herself--I should not like the impression which the last stanzas have produced to be effaced by another poem; whatever else there may be in store for me, this is your highest triumph." "Only one more you must allow me to read. It forms, so to speak, a trilogy with the other two, a summary of all that I have learnt by close study of nature. May I begin?" "I pray you will." "To A Maybug lying on his Back." "Oh thou Bacchante of a merry night of May! Hast thou indulged in nectar of the flowers, Hast thou enjoyed the fragrance of the bowers, From evening until early break of day? Hast thou forgotten, ah! that life is short? That all below is destined for the silent grave, Where lies the beauty now and all the brave, The far renowned, the great of ev'ry sort? I read with awe thy sad and solemn mien, Where doubtful rhymes alone are written. Alas! thy life was but an idle, glist'ning sheen, By those thou lovedst thou art smitten, Thou bug of May, thou image of false love!" The fair reader ended. Oswald appeared to be plunged in silent delight; Primula sat expectant, when suddenly the rolling of a carriage was heard, which soon after stopped at the house. "Oh mistress, oh mistress!" cried the parlor-maid, in a tone of great anxiety. Oswald felt relieved. Here was a visitor, and the reading, he hoped, was brought to an end. Perhaps this even gave him an opportunity to end his visit. "It is the Pluggens family, dear Gustava," said the minister, who had reconnoitred the new arrival through the garden-hedge. "The lady herself, and her two daughters. Could you make a little haste." ... "Excuse me, my dearest friend," said the poetess, hurriedly closing the book; "but you know: as often as we attempt to take a bolder flight----"