Dandelions, proud of
  The gold of their hair;
Innocents,—­children
  Guileless and frail,
Meek little faces
  Upturned and pale;
Wild-wood geraniums,
  All in their best,
Languidly leaning
  In purple gauze dressed:—­
All are assembled
  This sweet Sabbath-day
To hear what the priest
  In his pulpit will say.

Look! white Indian pipes
  On the green mosses lie! 
Who has been smoking
  Profanely so nigh? 
Rebuked by the preacher
  The mischief is stopped,
But the sinners, in haste,
  Have their little pipes dropped. 
Let the wind, with the fragrance
  Of fern and black birch,
Blow the smell of the smoking
  Clean out of the church! 
So much for the preacher: 
  The sermon comes next,—­
Shall we tell how he preached it,
  And where was his text? 
Alas! like too many
  Grown-up folks who play
At worship in churches
  Man-builded to-day,—­
We heard not the preacher
  Expound or discuss;

But we looked at the people,
 And they looked at us. 
We saw all their dresses,
 Their colors and shapes;
The trim of their bonnets,
 The cut of their capes. 
We heard the wind-organ,
 The bee, and the bird,
But of Jack in the pulpit
 We heard not a word!
                  Clara Smith.

THE ANT AND THE CRICKET

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing
Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring,
Began to complain, when he found that at home
His cupboard was empty and winter was come. 
        Not a crumb to be found
        On the snow-covered ground;
        Not a flower could he see,
        Not a leaf on a tree.

“Oh, what will become,” says the cricket, “of me?”
At last by starvation and famine made bold,
All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold,
Away he set off to a miserly ant
To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant
        Him shelter from rain. 
        A mouthful of grain
        He wished only to borrow,
        He’d repay it to-morrow;
If not helped, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

Says the ant to the cricket:  “I’m your servant and friend,
But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend. 
Pray tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by
When the weather was warm?” Said the cricket, “Not I.
       My heart was so light
       That I sang day and night,
       For all nature looked gay.” 
       “You sang, sir, you say? 
Go then,” said the ant, “and sing winter away.”

Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket
And out of the door turned the poor little cricket. 
Though this is a fable, the moral is good—­
If you live without work, you must live without
       food.
          
                          Anonymous.