In a branch of willow hid
  Sings the evening Catydid: 
  From the lofty locust bough
  Feeding on a drop of dew,
  In her suit of green arrayed
  Hear her singing in the shade—­
    Catydid, Catydid, Catydid!

  While upon a leaf you tread,
  Or repose your little head
  On your sheet of shadows laid,
  All the day you nothing said;
  Half the night your cheery tongue
  Revelled out its little song,—­
    Nothing else but Catydid.

* * * * *

  Tell me, what did Caty do? 
  Did she mean to trouble you? 
  Why was Caty not forbid
  To trouble little Catydid? 
  Wrong, indeed, at you to fling,
  Hurting no one while you sing,—­
    Catydid!  Catydid!  Catydid!

To Dr. Holmes the voice of the cicada seemed like the voice of an old obstinate woman, an old prude, accusing a young girl of some fault,—­but to Freneau the cry of the little creature seemed rather to be like the cry of a little child complaining—­a little girl, perhaps, complaining that somebody had been throwing stones at her, or had hurt her in some way.  And, of course, the unfinished character of the phrase allows equally well either supposition.

Before going back to more serious poetry, I want—­while we are speaking of American poets—­to make one reference to the ironical or satirical poetry which insects have inspired in some minds, taking for example the poem by Charlotte Perkins Stetson about a butterfly.  This author is rather a person of note, being a prominent figure in educational reforms and the author of a volume of poems of a remarkably strong kind in the didactic sense.  In other words, she is especially a moral poet; and unless moral poetry be really very well executed, it is scarcely worth while classing it as literature.  I think, however, that the symbolism in the following verses will interest you—­especially when we comment upon them.  The composition from which they are taken is entitled “A Conservative.”

The poet, walking in the garden one morning, sees a butterfly, very unhappy, and gifted with power to express the reason of its unhappiness.  The butterfly says, complaining of its wings,

  “My legs are thin and few
  Where once I had a swarm! 
  Soft fuzzy fur—­a joy to view—­
  Once kept my body warm,
  Before these flapping wing-things grew,
  To hamper and deform!”

  At that outrageous bug I shot
  The fury of mine eye;
  Said I, in scorn all burning hot,
  In rage and anger high,
  “You ignominious idiot! 
  Those wings are made to fly!”

  “I do not want to fly,” said he,
  “I only want to squirm!”
  And he drooped his wings dejectedly,
  But still his voice was firm: 
  “I do not want to be a fly! 
  I want to be a worm!”

  O yesterday of unknown lack! 
  To-day of unknown bliss! 
  I left my fool in red and black,
  The last I saw was this,—­
  The creature madly climbing back
  Into his chrysalis.