Three little chirping crickets
Came, one night, to our door;
          Tried all their keys,
          Then tried their knees.
Till they could try no more.

The biggest of the crickets
Scratched hard his shiny head;
          And what to do,
          And what to do,
He didn't know, he said.


The door, it would not open
To comers so belated;
          Nobody heard,
          Nobody stirred,
As still the crickets waited.


And then, as on a sudden,
By some new impulse bent,
          Their voices three
          'Rose shrill and free,
To give their feelings vent!


Then high upon their tiny legs
They stretched, to peep and peer;
          While right behind
          The window-blind
I crouched, to see and hear.

Louder the crickets chirped and chirped,
And, as I heard it then,
          The tale they sung
          In crickets' tongue
I render with my pen.


The tallest one was Father Chirp;
Here was his early home;
          Here lived his mother
          And dearest brother,
And hither had he come;


And with him brought his two brave sons,
Both skipping at his side,
          To show to her,
          Their grandmother,
With true paternal pride.


"There used to be," sang Father Chirp,
"A little child about;
          And that door there
          Was free as air
For going in or out.


"But days have passed since I lived here,—
It's like the folks are dead!
          My children, oh!
          My children, oh!
I'm going to weep," he said.


And then into his handkerchief
His little head went bobbing,
          And his two heirs
          They pulled out theirs,
And all three fell to sobbing.

I lost no time in opening wide
The door that had been fast;
          And I could see
          Those crickets three
Like dusky ghosts flit past.


And when I, listening, heard a chirp,
Another, and another,
          I knew as well
          As words could tell
They'd found the old grandmother!