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 wa come.
Not a crumb to be found
On the snow-covered ground;
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,
And a mouthful of grain.
He wished only to borrow;
He'd repay it tomorrow;
If not, 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,
But tell me, dear cricket, did you lay nothing by
When the weather was warm?" Quoth the cricket, "Not II
My heart was so light 
That I sang day and night,
For all nature looked gay."
"You sang, sir, you say?
Go, then,"says the ant, "and dance winter away!"

Thus ending, he hastily lifte3d the wicket,
And out of the door turned the poor little cricket,
Folks call this a fable. I'll warrant it true.
Some cricket have four legs, and some have but two.