I reproduce it from memory.
THE JUNE-BUG The merry, merry June-bug Now butts at all in sight.
He butts the wall o' mornings, He rams the ceil at night.
He caroms from the book-case Off to the window-pane, Then bounces from my table Back to the case again.
He whacks against the door-jamb And tumbles on the mat; Then on the grand-piano He strikes a strident flat; Then to the oaken stair-case He blindly flops and jumps, And on the steps for hours He blithely bumps the bumps.
They say that he is foolish, And has no brains.

No doubt 'Tis well for if he had 'em He'd surely butt them out.
As I say, this is mere a trifle, but it is none the less beautifully descriptive of a creature that has always seemed to me to be worthy of more attention than he has ever received from the poets of our age.

I have been unable to find in the literature of Greece, Egypt or the Orient, any reference to this wonderful insect who embodies in his frail physique so much of the truest philosophy of life, and who, despite the obstacles that seem so persistently to obstruct his path, buzzes blithely ever onward, singing his lovely song and uttering no complaints.
[Illustration: Noah brings disgrace upon the family.] In the line of what I may call calendar poetry, which has always been popular since the art of rhyming began, none of the months escaped my attention, but of all of my efforts in that direction I never wrote anything that excelled in descriptive beauty my ODE TO FEBRUARY Hail to thee, O Februeer! It is sweet to have you here, Lemon-time of all the year! Making all our noses gay With the influenziay; Flinging sneezes here and yon, Rich and poor alike upon; Clogging up the bronchial tubes Of the Urbans and the Roobs; Opening for all your grip With its lavish stores of pip; Scattering along your route Little gifts of Epizoot; Time of slush and time of thaw, Time of hours mild and raw; Blowing cold and blowing hot; Stable as a Hottentot; Coaxing flowers from the close Just to nip them on the nose; Calling birdies from their nests For to freeze their little chests; Springtime in the morning bright, With a blizzard on at night; Chills and fever through the day Like a sort of pousse cafe; Time of drift and time of slosh! Season of the ripe golosh; Running rivers in the street, Frozen toes, and soaking feet; Take this wreath of Poesie Dedicated unto thee, Undiluted stream of mush To the Merry Month of Slush! I preferred always, of course, to be original, not only in the matter of my thought, but in the manner of my expression as well, but like all the rest of the poetizing tribe, I sooner or later came under the Greek influence.

This is shown most notably in a little bit written one very warm day in midsummer, back in my 278th year.

It was entitled TO PAN IN AUGUST I don't wish to flout you, Pan.
Tried to write about you, Pan.
Tried to tell the story, Pan, Of your wondrous glory, Pan; But I can't begin it, Pan, For this very minute, Pan, All my thoughts are tumid, Pan, 'Tis so hot and humid, Pan, And for all my trying, Pan, There is no denying, Pan, I can't think, poor sighing Pan, Of you save as frying, Pan.
It was after reading the above, when it dropped out of my coat pocket during one of our visits to the wood-shed, that Adam expressed the profound conviction that I was born to be hanged, but as I have already intimated, neither his sense of justice, nor his sense of humor was notable.
Once in awhile I tried a bit of satire, and when my son Noah first began to show signs of mental aberration on the subject of a probable flood that would sweep everything before it, and put the whole world out of business save those who would take shares in his International Marine and Zoo Flotation Company, I endeavored to dissuade him in every possible way from so suspicious an enterprise.