The Cricket and the Butterfly
by Jean Pierre Claris de Florian
A poor young cricket, small and shy,
Passing retir’d his summer hours,
Beheld one day a butterfly,
Flitting among the flowers.
Of ev’ry color, ev’ry hue,
The gaudy insect well might boast.
From flower to flower it gaily flew,
Alighting where it pleas’d him most.
“Alas!” the pining cricket sigh’d,
“What diff’rences us two divide!
While Nature does so much for him,
For me she nothing does at all.
I’m void of sense and coarse of limb,
With figure despicably small;
I’m heeded not, am lone and lorn,
And might as well have not been born.”
But while the cricket thus complain’d,
A sudden uproar round him reign’d;
A troop of children rushing by,
Came hunting for the butterfly.
With nets, and hats, and kerchiefs too,
The gaudy insect they pursue.
He struggles hard to get away,
But falls at last a helpless prey.
One seizes on his wings of gold;
Another at his body aims;
A third upon his head lays hold;
In short, each one the insect claims,
But leaves him mangled, dead, and cold.
“Ah, ha!” the cricket said, “I see
What ’tis a brilliant thing to be.
If such the cost to those who shine,
I ought no longer to repine;
But to live happy I must be
Contented with obscurity.”