that is _its_ night--after the long day which is
called spring, summer, and autumn.

Many a warm summer day had the ephemeron insect frolicked round the
oak tree's head--lived, moved about, and found itself happy; and when
the little creature reposed for a moment in calm enjoyment on one of
the great fresh oak leaves, the tree always said,--

"Poor little thing! one day alone is the span of thy whole life. Ah,
how short! It is very sad."

"Sad!" the ephemeron always replied. "What dost thou mean by that?
Everything is so charming, so warm and delightful, that I am quite
happy."

"But for only one day; then all is over."

"All is over!" exclaimed the insect. "What is the meaning of 'all is
over?' Is all over with thee also?"

"No; I may live, perhaps, thousands of thy days, and my lifetime is
for centuries. It is so long a period that thou couldst not calculate
it."

"No, for I do not understand thee. Thou hast thousands of my days, but
I have thousands of moments to be happy in. Is all the beauty in the
world at an end when thou diest?"

"Oh! by no means," replied the tree. "It will last longer--much, much
longer than I can conceive."

"Well, I think we are much on a par, only that we reckon differently."

And the ephemeron danced and floated about in the sunshine, and
enjoyed itself with its pretty little delicate wings, like the most
minute flower--enjoyed itself in the warm air, which was so fragrant
with the sweet perfumes of the clover-fields, of the wild roses in the
hedges, and of the elder-flower, not to speak of the woodbine, the
primrose, and the wild mint. The scent was so strong that the
ephemeron was almost intoxicated by it. The day was long and pleasant,
full of gladness and sweet perceptions; and when the sun set, the
little insect felt a sort of pleasing languor creeping over it after
all its enjoyments. Its wings would no longer carry it, and very
gently it glided down upon the soft blade of grass that was slightly
waving in the evening breeze; there it drooped its tiny head, and fell
into a calm sleep--the sleep of death.

"Poor little insect!" exclaimed the oak tree, "thy life was far too
short."

And every summer's day were repeated a similar dance, a similar
conversation, and a similar death. This went on with the whole
generation of ephemera, and all were equally happy, equally gay. The
oak tree remained awake during its spring morning, its summer day, and
its autumn evening; now