Cricket on the Hearth by Clara Doty Bates Insect poem

Old Granny Cricket's rocking-chair,
Creakety-creak, creakety-creak!—
Back and forth, and here and there,
Squeakety-squeak, squeakety-squeak!—
On the hearth-stone, every night,
Rocks and rocks in the cheery light.
Little old woman, dressed in black,
With spindling arms and a crooked back,
She sits with a cap on her wise old head,
And her eyes are fixed on the embers red;
She does not sing, she does not speak,
But the rocking-chair goes creakety-creak!
Cheerily sounds the rocking-chair,
Creakety-creak, creakety-creak!—
While it swings in the firelight there,
Squeakety-squeak, squeakety-squeak!
Old Granny Cricket, rocking, rocking,
Knits and knits on a long black stocking.
No matter how swiftly her fingers fly,
She never can keep her family,
With their legs so long from foot to knee,
Stockinged as well as they ought to be;
That's why, at night, week after week,
Her rocking-chair goes squeakety-squeak!