"It's growing late," said the honey-bee;
"Winter's no sort of weather for me;
I'll hurry away to the hive."
"It's growing cold," said the bustling fly;
"There's going to be plenty of snow by-and-by,
And how will a poor fly thrive?"
The cricket piped, "The season is old,
Leaves and grasses are turning to gold;
It's a queer world that changes so;
My chirp has lost its musical tones,
And the north wind bites to my very bones;
I think I had better go."
The squirrel said, "It is growing chill;
The windfalls have gone to the cider-mill;
But there's many a chestnut burr
Ready to burst at the frost's first touch.
If snow flies soon, I sha'n't mind much,
Wrapped in my thickening fur."
"The best of the year," trilled the lingering thrush,
"Has left us behind; there's a tender hush
Brooding o'er meadow and dell;
Our nests are all empty, our birdlings have flown;
There is nothing to keep us at home, I must own;
There's nothing to sing but 'Farewell.'"