Il disait vrai. Vient un orage Et le papillon est noyé Dans un bourbier; la fange outrage Le velours de son corps broyé. Mais la tourmente en rien n’étonne Le grillon, qui, dans son abri, Qu’il pleuve, qu’il vente, qu’il tonne, Vit tranquille et chante cri-cri. Ah! n’allons pas courir le monde Parmi les plaisirs et les fleurs; L’humble foyer, sa paix profonde Nous épargneront bien des pleurs. THE CRICKET 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 other in 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 fire-side, calm and still, At least will grant you tearless hours! [67] There I recognize my Cricket. I see him curling his antennæ on the threshold of his burrow, keeping his belly cool and his back to the sun. He is not jealous of the Butterfly; on the contrary, he pities her, with that air of mocking commiseration familiar in the ratepayer who owns a house of his own and sees passing before his door some wearer of a gaudy costume with no place to lay her head. Far from complaining, he is very well satisfied with both his house and his violin. A true philosopher, he knows the vanity of things and appreciates the charm of a modest retreat away from the riot of pleasure-seekers. Yes, the description is about right, though it remains very inadequate and does not bear the stamp of immortality. The Cricket is still waiting for the few lines needed to perpetuate his merits; and, since La Fontaine neglected him, he will have to go on waiting a long time.