Comic Insects

Yes! they talk in a language that all is their own, And here into English you'll find it has grown; Where pictures will shew, and the rhymes they will say, How Insects can work, talk, and laugh, and be gay.

COMIC INSECTS.

How queer a procession is passing this way, Of insects all talking; come, hear what they say! The sight is as strange as their words they are true, And you'll laugh as they offer their lessons to you.

THE CATERPILLAR.

I'M a Caterpillar green, Not the prettiest you have seen, And my Chrysalis I enter rather loth; Though I know that in the spring I shall rise on feathered wing In the costume of a fascinating Moth.

Little likeness you will spy, With the cleverest little eye, 'Twixt your green-coated friend of to-day And the airy form that sails When the golden sunlight pales, And the owl flies abroad for his prey.

Yet the same we are indeed, Though the riddle's hard to read, One, the Moth and the Caterpillar green; And still stranger things than this, Which no little one should miss, In the Picture Book of Nature can be seen.

So I think, my little friend, If you'll only deign to lend Your ear to these few words that I say, Ne'er again will you rely For convictions on the eye, As appearances have often led astray.

THE MOTH.

OH, what a beautiful Moth am I! Colours so gay, and sparkling each eye, Nobody ever would guess, I ween, I once was a Caterpillar all in green.

I've taken me feathers of brightest hue, With silver and gold I have decked me too: No, no! you never would guess, I ween, I once was a Caterpillar all in green.

With a tardy foot no longer I crawl 'Neath the shady leaves, or on ivied wall; But, joyously floating in airy height, I wander abroad in the pale moonlight;

Or join the Elves as they dance and sing In the circle green of the fairy ring, Or tease a poor Daisy that's trying to keep Its big yellow eye from my curious peep.

But sometimes I fly to a treacherous light, That mimics a star in a darkling night; And too late I learn, with my poor singed wings, The evil that want of discretion oft brings.

THE SNAIL.

POOR little Snail, How very pale, Your cheek is blanched with fear! What horrid dread Has made you shed So many a slimy tear?

Come! faster crawl Along the wall, Leave care behind,--all's well! That seeming pack Upon your back Is near an empty shell.

Come! smile again, And let the rain Of tears at once be dry; Faint-hearted quite, And far from right, Before you're hurt to cry.

No one will doubt Who thinks about This great world spinning round, That all have hours When sorrow's showers Make April all around.

"_That seeming pack Upon your back Is near an empty shell._"]

But May and June Follow full soon, And joy succeeds to sorrow; So dry the tear, And from the year Your cheering lesson borrow.

Ah, Snailey! see To you and me Our burdens oft appear Much heavier far Than what they are, When we give way to fear.

"_Buz! buz! buz! Over blossoms heavy laden._"]

THE BEE.

BUZ! buz! buz! Over blossoms heavy laden with their treasures; Hear its music as it rifles From the flowers their seeming trifles; We may watch it in the sunshine at our leisure.

See! their secrets it espying In their tinted depths while prying, As it works thro' the long summer day; "Be in earnest in your quest, Hearty toil brings well-earned rest," Seems the burden of its light-hearted lay.

Lessons here of self-reliance, And "defence but not defiance," As Volunteers are taught by the Bee. As it works on active wing, Self-protected with its sting, 'Tis a grand working model, good to see;

Pointing out how each is sharing In the common task, and bearing His just portion; where no idler is seen: All are busy in the hive Where these happy workmen thrive, And they're loyal, every one, to their Queen.

THE BLACK-BEETLE.

OH, dear! Oh, dear! I sadly fear This poor Black-Beetle's ill; And to him now No use, I trow, Is the cleverest doctor's skill.

"_No medical sage His pain can assuage._"]

No medical sage His pain can assuage. You can see at a glance how bad He's made himself, All thro' his pelf: Isn't it dreadfully sad?

For wandering wide On the floor he spied, Last night when the cook was asleep, And rejoiced to find Some cucumber rind, And now no more he will creep!

Yes! sad though it be, This little "B-B" Would follow his own appetite; He could never say "no," When it tempted him; so His epitaph is, "Serve him right!"

And thus tearfull-ee, He begs you and me His case as a warning to mind; Cucumber at night To regard with affright, And never to eat up the rind.

THE SPIDER.

SP . . . I . . . DERS,--heugh! Horrible forms that creep and crawl, And hang their webs from ceiling and wall!

From leaf and fern as they joy in the breeze, From moss-grown arch and ivy-clad trees, And catch the flies--the poor little things-- That carelessly use their gossamer wings.

It makes one shudder to think of the fate That giddy bluebottles and gnats may await. Yet wonder we must, as we watch them spread Their beautiful nets with their silken thread;

"_It makes me shudder to think of the fate That giddy blue-bottles and gnats may await._"]