THE GREEN GRASSHOPPER 19 



Most of them are crouching among the rows of flower- 

 pots that form a sort of lobby outside my house. Each 

 has his own note, always the same, lower in one case, 

 higher in another, a short, clear note, melodious and of 

 exquisite purity. 



With their slow, rhythmical cadence, they seem to be 

 intoning litanies. Cluck, says one; click, responds an- 

 other, on a finer note; clock, adds a third, the tenor of 

 the band. And this is repeated indefinitely, like the bells 

 of the village pealing on a holiday: cluck, click, clock; 

 cluck, click, clock ! 



The batrachian choristers remind me of a certain har- 

 monica which I used to covet when my six-year-old ear 

 began to awaken to the magic of sounds. It consisted 

 of a series of strips of glass of unequal length, hung on 

 two stretched tapes. A cork fixed to a wire served as a 

 hammer. Imagine an unskilled hand striking at random 

 on this key-board, with a sudden clash of octaves, dis- 

 sonances and topsy-turvy chords; and you will have a 

 pretty clear idea of the Toads' litany. 



As a song, this litany has neither head nor tail to it; 

 as a collection of pure sounds, it is delicious. This is 

 the case with all the music in nature's concerts. Our ear 

 discovers superb notes in it and then becomes refined 

 and acquires, outside the realities of sound, that sense of 

 order which is the first condition of beauty. 



Now this sweet ringing of bells between hiding-place 

 and hiding-place is the matrimonial oratorio, the discreet 

 summons which every Jack issues to his Jill. The sequel 

 to the concert may be guessed without further enquiry; 



