"Why have you caught me in my flight,Beautiful child? Oh, don't you knowI'm feeble and it hurts me so?Why do you squeeze my frame so tight? I am myself a child, like you,And just like you, I like to play.Have pity on my life this day,For I'm so frightened, crying, too. Why would you want to squash me dead?I, too, have parents just like yours –My Mom would cry with grief, of course…Think of the tears my sis' will shed. My Dad would cry his poor eyes sore –My days on earth have been but three.For pity's sake, child, let me free –Can't take the squeezing any more…" Thus did a wee beetle lament,While squeezed to death inside a hand.The child released him in the end,When the poor beetle's life was spent. He tried in vain then to restoreThe beetle back to life… At last,He dropped the carcass in the dust,Broken and stiff for evermore. Disgusted with your wanton deed,You're crying… You should go insteadBack home to tell your Mom and DadHow tough you are, and how you need, From now on to amend your waysBy following a higher call,Protecting all God's creatures – all,No matter how obscure and small,Throughout the whole rest of your days.
by Elena Farago (1878-1954)
