The May-fly, of which there are several varieties, lives at the
longest but three or four days; some varieties but a few hours
of one day. Yet they are delicately organized, and possess all
the functions of insect lives.
Man’s few years of mortal existence may seem as brief compared with
eternity.
(286)
* * * * *
The life of a perfect butterfly or moth is short. A few days
after emergence from the chrysalis case, the female deposits
her eggs on the leaves or stems of the plant that is to sustain
the larvæ. Her work is now accomplished, and the few days more
allowed her are spent in frolicking among the flowers, and
sucking the sweet juices they provide. They soon show symptoms
of a fast approaching end. Their colors begin to fade, and the
beauty-making scales of the wings gradually disappear through
friction against the petals of hundreds of flowers visited and
the merry dances with scores and scores of playful companions.
At last, one bright afternoon, while the sun is still high in
the heavens, a butterfly, more weary than usual, with heavy and
laborious flight, seeks a place of rest for the approaching
night. Here, on a waving stalk, it is soon lulled to sleep by a
gentle breeze.
Next morning, a few hours before noon, the blazing sun calls
it out for its usual frolics. But its body now seems too heavy
to be supported by the feeble and ragged wings, and, after one
or two weak attempts at play, it settles down in its final
resting-place. On the following morning a dead butterfly is
seen, still clinging by its claws to a swinging stem.--W.
FURNEAUX, “Butterflies and Moths.”
(287)
Life is too short for any vain regretting;
Let dead delight bury its dead, I say,
And let us go upon our way forgetting
The joys and sorrows of each yesterday.
Between the swift sun’s rising and its setting
We have no time for useless tears or fretting.
Life is too short.
Life is too short for any bitter feeling;
Time is the best avenger, if we wait.
The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing--
We have no room for anything like hate.
This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealing
That thick and fast about our feet are stealing.
Life is too short.
Life is too short for aught but high endeavor--
Too short for spite, but long enough for love.
And love lives on forever and forever,
It links the worlds that circle on above;
’Tis God’s first law, the universe’s lever,
In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never.
Life is too short. (Text.)
(288)
=Bride-racing=--See MARRIAGE-RACING.