The winter came and the cicada found herself quite destitute, without a fly or little worm to eat. She went to plead her hunger to the ant, her neighbor.
“Can you spare a spot of grain?” she asked. “Enough to last the season out? I’ll pay you back before next harvest, and with interest, too.”
“I’m not a usurer,” the ant replied. “But tell me what you did all summer long?”
“I sang, of course, to all who’d listen, night and day—for free.”
The ant, no esthete, sneered. “If you can sing, go dance for room and board.”
Improvidence cannot expect reward.