The Ant and the Grasshopper

The sound of a fiddle rose over the meadow, light as a breeze skimming the tips of the grass, bright and lilting as if the whole summer were singing along with every note. It was the fiddle of a green grasshopper, perched on the tip of a tall blade of grass, a tiny violin tucked under his wing. He played one tune after another, lost in the music, as if the whole world held nothing but sunshine, wind, and the sound of his own violin.

The ancient Greeks told this tale a very long time ago. It is the story of a grasshopper who loved to play and sing, and a colony of ants who never once stopped working.

Right beneath the grasshopper's feet, a line of tiny ants marched along, one close behind the other, crawling without rest across the carpet of grass. Each ant carried on its back a grain of rice almost as big as its own body. It walked with its head down, its six tiny legs gripping the ground. The sun beat down hard and the ants were soaked with sweat, yet the whole line kept moving steadily toward the nest. There they dropped their grain and turned back for another trip. The path from the rice field to the mound where the ants lived was worn smooth by their feet. Day after day it never changed direction, like a sturdy thread tying together the work of the whole summer.

The grasshopper stopped playing for a moment. He tilted his head to watch the ants pass by his feet and giggled to himself. Then he lifted the violin back to his shoulder and lost himself again in the tune he had left unfinished. The music rang out once more, blending with the shrill buzz of the cicadas in the green canopy of leaves.

In the middle of summer, wildflowers bloomed all over the hillsides, heavy with the scent of honey. The line of ants still came and went, one after another, and the grain slowly piled up inside the nest. The grasshopper, meanwhile, hopped from flower to flower, his wings dusted with yellow pollen. As he hopped he played a new tune, humming softly along with the bees that buzzed around him.

By the end of summer, the first few leaves had begun to turn yellow, and still the ants had not taken a single day of rest. Their nest was now packed with grain, stacked nearly to the roof. The mornings had begun to turn chilly, and dew sparkled on every leaf. The grasshopper was the same as ever, still playing, still singing. The only change was that the cicadas in the leaves had grown fewer and fewer, until at last they fell silent.

Then the wind began to change. Yellow leaves covered the paths, curling and tumbling in each cold gust of the new season. The ants carried home one dry leaf after another. They laid them in layer upon layer to seal every crack around the nest, leaving only a small opening just wide enough to go in and out. They were getting ready for a long, warm sleep. As for the grasshopper, the violin in his hands suddenly felt heavier than usual, and his toes had begun to go numb each time he drew out a note.

Winter had truly come. The meadow that had once rung with cicadas was now white with frost. The wind whistled through the bare stalks of grass, so cold that the grasshopper had to huddle up, his wings wrapped tightly around the violin to catch what little warmth was left. His thin wings could no longer keep out the bitter cold. All he had left was the memory of cicadas buzzing on summer days. Now there was only the wind, moaning across the dry grass. He searched the whole meadow, but there was not a single grain of rice, not one tender blade of grass left to eat. His stomach aching with hunger, the grasshopper dragged himself, step by step, toward the mound where the ants had their nest.

He knocked softly on the little door made of dry leaves, his voice hoarse from cold and hunger. He begged the ants, please, for a little something to eat. Even a single grain of rice would do.

The door opened a crack, and warm light spilled out from inside the nest. The ants looked at the grasshopper shivering on their doorstep. In surprise, they asked whether he had saved nothing at all for the winter, and what he had been doing all summer long.

The grasshopper bowed his head, and his voice grew very small. "I was so busy playing my violin and singing that I thought summer would last a long time. Before I knew it, summer was already over."

The ants looked at one another for a long while, and no one said a word. This tale is told in many ways, and in this gentle telling, the ants do not close the door. An older ant stepped forward and gently pushed the door wider. "Come in. It's very cold out there."

The whole colony gathered round, and each ant brought one small grain of rice. They made a little heap in front of the grasshopper, warm and snug. A few ants even carried in some soft dry leaves and laid them down as a cozy corner right beside the little fire, where the grasshopper could sit and rest. The grasshopper ate in silence. Tears welled up in his eyes, not because of the cold, but because of something warmer even than the little fire burning in the middle of the nest. He set his violin down beside him, and for the first time in his life he let it lie still without making a sound.

That night the wind still howled outside, lashing gust after gust against the walls of the nest and slipping through every gap between the dry leaves. But inside, the little fire kept burning, the heap of grain was still high, and its fresh smell filled the warm nest. The grasshopper sat quietly among the ants, listening to the wind.