Incorrigible

A GREAT honey-bee bustled over the lea,Then stopped in a field of white cloverTo load up his thigh, till he scarcely could flyThe wide sloping meadow-land over.

He sneered, as he flew, at the dragon-fly blue,At the swallow so airily winging.The clear, lazy brook, droning tunes in a nook,The bobolink, joyfully singing.

As she went on her way, Cloverhead heard him say,Like a Pharisee noisily praying,"How well it would be, if the creatures like meWorked always, and never were playing !

"Yon stream, with a will should be turning a mill;That dragon-fly, learn to make honey;That pert bobolink, I do really think,If he sings, should be singing for money."

So Busy Bee sped, till he bumped his wise headOn a cherry bough whitely in flower;Fresh, dainty, and fair, sat a butterfly there,Like a queen in a summer-laid bower.

"O Butterfly gay, have you aught laid away?Don't you know you're a terrible sinnerTo idle your time while yet in your prime,Having nothing laid up for your dinner?"

Fair Butterfly laughed, as a dewdrop she quaffedFrom a cherry-bloom softly unfolding:"Good-bye, Busy Bee; don't be worrying meWith your lectures and wearisome scolding.

"I fancy He knows that the fair ruddy roseFor a wheat-ear was never intended;The jewel that burns, as the humming-bird turns,His hand from the rainbow has blended.

"You work all the day—'tis a honey-bee's way;The Lord made you homely and busy;What use would it be for a creature like meTo be grumbling, and work myself dizzy?

"And then, don't you see, you insensible bee,How our world, made of fibre and feather,Would say I was queer, stepping out of my sphere,Strong-minded and wrong altogether?

"I wish you no ill. You work with a will;But I ll swing, if I like, on a thistle,Fan faint little flowers in odorous bowers,And wait for the quail's warning whistle.

"I'll sit in the sun till the summer is done;But long ere the cold sobbing weatherI'll pack up my clothes in the heart of a rose,And we'll perish like vagrants together."