Now comes a tale that no one should believe. In other times, the ancients say, The winter came, and hunger made thee grieve. Thou didst in secret see one day The ant below the ground her treasure store away. The wealthy ant was drying in the sun Her corn the dew had wet by night, Ere storing it again; and one by one She filled her sacks as it dried aright. Thou camest then, and tears bedimmed thy sight, Saying: "'Tis very cold; the bitter bise Blows me this way and that to-day. I die of hunger. Of your riches please Fill me my bag, and I'll repay, When summer and its melons come this way. "Lend me a little corn." Go to, go to! Think you the ant will lend an ear? You are deceived. Great sacks, but nought for you! "Be off, and scrape some barrel clear! You sing of summer: starve, for winter's here!" 'Tis thus the ancient fable sings To teach us all the prudence ripe Of farthing-snatchers, glad to knot the string That tie their purses. May the gripe Of colic twist the guts of all such tripe! He angers me, this fable-teller does, Saying in winter thou dost seek Flies, grubs, corn--thou dost never eat like us! --Corn! Couldst thou eat it, with thy beak? Thou hast thy fountain with its honey'd reek. To thee what matters winter? Underground Slumber thy children, sheltered; thou The sleep that knows no waking sleepest sound. Thy body, fallen from the bough, Crumbles; the questing ant has found thee now. The wicked ant of thy poor withered hide A banquet makes; in little bits She cuts thee up, and empties thine inside, And stores thee where in wealth she sits: Choice diet when the winter numbs the wits. III. Here is the tale related duly, And little resembling the fable, truly! Hoarders of farthings, I know, deuce take it. It isn't the story as you would make it! Crook-fingers, big-bellies, what do you say, Who govern the world with the cash-box--hey? You have spread the story, with shrug and smirk, That the artist ne'er does a stroke of work; And so let him suffer, the imbecile! Be you silent! 'Tis you, I think, When the Cigale pierces the vine to drink, Drive her away, her drink to steal; And when she is dead--you make your meal! CHAPTER II THE CIGALE LEAVES ITS BURROW