Grillon solitaire,
  Voix qui sors de terre,
  Ah! reveille-toi
    Pour moi.

It is a young girl who thus addresses the cricket of the hearth, the house cricket.  It is very common in country houses in Europe.  This is what she says: 

“Little solitary cricket, all alone here just like myself, little voice that comes up out of the ground, ah, awake for my sake!  I am stirring up the fires, that is just to make you comfortable; but there lacks a presence by the hearth; a soul to keep me company.

“When I was a very little girl, as little as that cradle in the corner of the room, then, while Margaret our servant sat there spinning, and while the autumn wind made everything moan outside, your monotonous cry used to help me to fall asleep.

“Solitary cricket, voice that issues from the ground, awaken, for my sake.

“Now I am sixteen years of age and you are still nestling in the chimneys as of old.  I can hear you still in the cold season,—­like a sound—­memory,—­a sonorous memory of old houses.

“Solitary cricket, voice that issues from the ground, awaken, O awaken for my sake.”

I do not think this pretty little song needs any explanation; I would only call your attention to the natural truth of the fancy and the feeling.  Sitting alone by the fire in the night, the maiden wants to hear the cricket sing, because it makes her think of her childhood, and she finds happiness in remembering it.

So far as mere art goes, the poem of Gautier on the cricket is very much finer than the poem of Lamartine, though not so natural and pleasing.  But as Gautier was the greatest master of French verse in the nineteenth century, not excepting Victor Hugo, I think that one example of his poetry on insects may be of interest.  He was very poor, compared with Victor Hugo; and he had to make his living by writing for newspapers, so that he had no time to become the great poet that nature intended him to be.  However, he did find time to produce one volume of highly finished poetry, which is probably the most perfect verse of the nineteenth century, if not the most perfect verse ever made by a French poet; I mean the “Emaux et Camees.”  But the little poem which I am going to read to you is not from the “Emaux et Camees.”

  Souffle, bise!  Tombe a flots, pluie! 
  Dans mon palais tout noir de suie,
  Je ris de la pluie et du vent;
  En attendant que l’hiver fuie,
  Je reste au coin du feu, revant.

  C’est moi qui suis l’esprit de l’atre! 
  Le gaz, de sa langue bleuatre,
  Leche plus doucement le bois;
  La fumee en filet d’albatre,
  Monte et se contourne a ma voix.

  La bouilloire rit et babille;
  La flamme aux pieds d’argent sautille
  En accompagnant ma chanson;
  La buche de duvet s’habille;
  La seve bout dans le tison.

* * * * *

  Pendant la nuit et la journee
  Je chante sous la cheminee;
  Dans mon langage de grillon
  J’ai, des rebuts de son ainee,
  Souvent console Cendrillon.