The Democratic Press

The wisdom of man computeth them not.
They spread over the land.
And there is no place where they are not.
They devour the fragrant onion sprouts;
And the savory celery.
The wheat field is left desolate;
And no green thing remaineth where the hopper hath been.
His pathway is the abomination of desolation.
The ranchman mourneth for his green fields that were, but are not;
Mayhap he sweareth;
Possibly he saith audibly, and cryeth aloud-damneth.
What careth the hopper-grass?
It troubleth him not.
Ask the prophets of Kansas;
Ask the wise men of Nebraska:
And they will answer likewise:
But the relief committee agent lifteth up his voice and calleth the hopper Blessed.
The patriotic grasshopper cometh from the mythical western land, where the glorious orb of day sinketh in roseate splendor to his evening couch.
The realm of Brigham;
The land of Mormons;
Whence cometh many bad things and some that are good;
The hopper is one of them;
Several of them;
But he is not good,
He cometh in the latter summer days.
In sun-darkening myriads;
As the winds come when forests are rended.
As the waves come when navies are stranded;
Like unto a Democratic victory.
He alighteth on the potato-vines;
And on the fragrant tomato-tree;
And the succulent roasting-ear, whilst it is yet in the milk and toothsome;
And upon all other fruits of the field that cometh late into market;
And they all disappear and are seen after that evil day no more forever.
And the lady grasshopper maketh straightway her nest down in the cornfield;
And in the wheat stubbles;
And upon the hillside;
And all over the sandy plain;
And everywhere else under the sun.
And she filleth the nest with eggs, every day, until the winter days come and the ground freezeth hard when no grasshopper can make nests.
And the eggs, are they not ranch-eggs?
With double yolks?
And warranted to hatch?
Yea, verily, and the warranty is good.
And the lady grasshopper's mate, what of him?
Verily I say unto you, he sitteth upon the sweet potato vine and singeth all the gladsome Summer day;
He climbeth up the corn stalk and loppeth off the verdant branches;
He taketh no heed for the morrow;
Nor the groans and curses of the irate ranchman.
And in the hottest Autumn days he leadeth the fisherman beside the babbling waters;
And up the steep mountain side;
And over prickly pears;
And through soap-weeds;
And among thorny bushes;
And when at last the fisherman falls upon his knees and puts his hands upon Mr. Hopper, where is he?
Alas, he is not there.
But he soareth aloft;
And cracketh his heels together;
And laugheth out of his left optic at the fisherman, who is seated on the hillside,
Digging cactus thorns from his hands and knees,
And framing cuss words,
And he will never kneel any more.
And when, in the fullness of time wintry days have come;
And stilled his voice in death;
With Frost's icy mantle about him, he goeth hence to his fathers,
Content with the fitting close to a well spent life,
And happy in the reflection that he will live again in his children,
When gentle Spring shall come again,
And again,
And again, forever.
In the returning cycle of returning years.
Tis spring;
Winter hath loosed his icy fetters;
Robin Redbreasts carol in the cotton woods;
The Beecher-Tilton trial is well on;
Jenkins busyeth himself writing pardons.
And genial sunshine again bathes the earth.
Are those eggs spoiled?
Not by a jug full.
In the earliest warm sunny days;
Forth comes a few million of the juvenile hoppers;
Tiny, mitey, midgets;
The pickets, the scouts, the avant couriers of countless hosts that soon will follow;
Ye honest ranchman laughed in his sleeve, and sayeth:
The hoppers are hatching, spring frosts and snows will fix them.
Alas, the fallacy of man's faith;
The little hopper relies on Providence.
And his reliance is sublime;
It putteth the shoddy religion of man to shame.
Drown him in the floods that would have appalled Noah;
Bury him in Arctic snows;
Subject him to frosts that freezeth the ears of a brass monkey :
Encase him in the heart of an ice-berg;
Let old Boreas caress him with Chicago winds, or fondle him in his icy embrace, the little martyr calmly folds up his arms. draws up his nether limbs, and waiteth;
Waiteth for the next sunrise; when he cometh forth to breakfast gay as a school-girl and with an appetite that is always a positive luxury.