* * *

Oh tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than one?
I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.

* * * * *

Ah, no! The living oak shall crash,
That stood for ages still,
The rock shall rend its mossy base
And thunder down the hill,
Before the little Katydid
Shall add one word, to tell
The mystic story of the maid
Whose name she knows so well.

The word "testy" may be a little unfamiliar to some of you; it is a good
old-fashioned English term for "cross," "irritable." The reference to the
"old gentlefolks" implies the well-known fact that in argument old persons
are inclined to be much more obstinate than young people. And there is
also a hint in the poem of the tendency among old ladies to blame the
conduct of young girls even more severely than may be necessary. There is
nothing else to recommend the poem except its wit and the curiousness of
the subject. There are several other verses about the same creature, by
different American poets; but none of them is quite so good as the
composition of Holmes. However, I may cite a few verses from one of the
earlier American poets, Philip Freneau, who flourished in the eighteenth
century and the early part of the nineteenth. He long anticipated the
fancy of Holmes; but he spells the word Catydid.

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-