All through the pleasant summer weather the grasshopper sported and played, 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.