gambolling with his fellows in and out among the sun-beams, dining
sumptuously each day on leaves and dew-drops, never troubling about the
morrow, singing ever his one peaceful, droning song.

But there came the cruel winter, and the grasshopper, looking around, saw
that his friends, the flowers, lay dead, and knew thereby that his own
little span was drawing near its close.

Then he felt glad that he had been so happy, and had not wasted his life.
"It has been very short," said he to himself; "but it has been very
pleasant, and I think I have made the best use of it. I have drunk in
the sunshine, I have lain on the soft, warm air, I have played merry
games in the waving grass, I have tasted the juice of the sweet green
leaves. I have done what I could. I have spread my wings, I have sung
my song. Now I will thank God for the sunny days that are passed, and
die."

Saying which, he crawled under a brown leaf, and met his fate in the way
that all brave grasshoppers should; and a little bird that was passing by
picked him up tenderly and buried him.

Now when the foolish ant saw this, she was greatly puffed up with
Pharisaical conceit. "How thankful I ought to be," said she, "that I am
industrious and prudent, and not like this poor grasshopper. While he
was flitting about from flower to flower, enjoying himself, I was hard at
work, putting by against the winter. Now he is dead, while I am about to
make myself cosy in my warm home, and eat all the good things that I have
been saving up."

But, as she spoke, the gardener came along with his spade, and levelled