The grasshopper is very much like that class of boys who want to have a good time, play and frolic from day to day, but never go to school or work, but live for the play and pleasure to be enjoyed each day as it passes. The grasshopper jumps from place to place across the field, eating his food wherever he can find it, and then spends his days and weeks in idleness. He never stops to think that the summer will soon pass away, the fields will then be barren, the cold autumn will come, when the fields will be left desolate and covered with snow. So finally when the autumn comes, he has no food laid up for the winter, but dies of poverty and hunger. This little poem which I read in the schoolbooks, when I was a boy, will tell the whole story: SONG OF THE GRASSHOPPER. I saw a brown old grasshopper, And he sat upon a stone, While ever and anon he chirped In a sad and mournful tone: And many an anxious, troubled look He cast around the naked plain; Where now was but a stubble field, Once waved the golden grain. What ails thee, old brown grasshopper? His voice was low and faint, As in the language of his race He made this dire complaint: "O! in the long bright summer time I treasured up no store, Now the last full sheaf is garnered, And the harvest days are o'er." What didst thou, brown old grasshopper, When the summer days were long? "I danced on the fragrant clover tops, With many a merry song; O! we were a blithesome company, And a joyous life we led; But with the flowers and summer hours, My gay companions fled: Old age and poverty are come, The autumn wind is chill, It whistles through my tattered coat, And my voice is cracked and shrill. In a damp and gloomy cavern Beneath this cold, gray stone, I must lay me down and perish-- I must perish all alone. Alas! that in life's golden time I treasured up no store, For now the sheaves are gathered in, And the harvest days are o'er." He ceased his melancholy wail, And a tear was in his eye, As he slowly slid from the cold gray stone, And laid him down to die. And then I thought, t'were well if all In pleasure's idle throng, Had seen that old brown grasshopper And heard his dying song: For life's bright, glowing summer Is hasting to its close, And winter's night is coming-- The night of long repose. O! garner then in reaping time, A rich, unfailing store, Ere the summer hours are past and gone, And the harvest days are o'er!