issues from the ground, awaken, for my sake.

"Now I am sixteen years of age and you are still nestling in the chimneys
as of old. I can hear you still in the cold season,--like a
sound--memory,--a sonorous memory of old houses.

"Solitary cricket, voice that issues from the ground, awaken, O awaken for
my sake."

I do not think this pretty little song needs any explanation; I would only
call your attention to the natural truth of the fancy and the feeling.
Sitting alone by the fire in the night, the maiden wants to hear the
cricket sing, because it makes her think of her childhood, and she finds
happiness in remembering it.

So far as mere art goes, the poem of Gautier on the cricket is very much
finer than the poem of Lamartine, though not so natural and pleasing. But
as Gautier was the greatest master of French verse in the nineteenth
century, not excepting Victor Hugo, I think that one example of his poetry
on insects may be of interest. He was very poor, compared with Victor
Hugo; and he had to make his living by writing for newspapers, so that he
had no time to become the great poet that nature intended him to be.
However, he did find time to produce one volume of highly finished poetry,
which is probably the most perfect verse of the nineteenth century, if not
the most perfect verse ever made by a French poet; I mean the "Emaux et
Camees." But the little poem which I am going to read to you is not from
the "Emaux et Camees."

Souffle, bise! Tombe a flots, pluie!
Dans mon palais tout noir de suie,
Je ris de la pluie et du vent;
En attendant que l'hiver fuie,
Je reste au coin du feu, revant.

C'est moi qui suis l'esprit de l'atre!
Le gaz, de sa langue bleuatre,
Leche plus doucement le bois;
La fumee en filet d'albatre,
Monte et se contourne a ma voix.

La bouilloire rit et babille;
La flamme aux pieds d'argent sautille
En accompagnant ma chanson;
La buche de duvet s'habille;
La seve bout dans le tison.

* * * * *

Pendant la nuit et la journee
Je chante sous la cheminee;
Dans mon langage de grillon
J'ai, des rebuts de son ainee,
Souvent console Cendrillon.

* * * * *

Quel plaisir? Prolonger sa veille,
Regarder la flamme vermeille
Prenant a deux bras le tison,
A tous les bruits preter l'oreille,
Entendre vivre la maison.

Tapi dans sa niche bien chaude,
Sentir l'hiver qui pl