THE CRICKET 



burrow, are enough to show us our ignorance of the 

 origin of instinct. 



Who does not know the Cricket's house? Who has 

 not, as a child playing in the fields, stopped in front of 

 the hermit's cabin? However light your footfall, he 

 has heard you coming, and has abruptly withdrawn to 

 the very bottom of his hiding-place. When you arrive, 

 the threshold of the house is deserted. 



Every one knows the way to bring out the skulker. 

 You insert a straw and move it gently about the burrow. 

 Surprised at what is happening above, the tickled and 

 teased Cricket ascends from his back room; he stops in the 

 passage, hesitates, and waves his delicate antennae inquir- 

 ingly. He comes to the light, and, once outside, he is 

 easy to catch, since these events have puzzled his poor 

 head. Should he be missed at the first attempt he may be- 

 come suspicious and refuse to appear. In that case he can 

 be flooded out with a glass of water. 



Those were adorable times when we were children, and 

 hunted Crickets along the grassy paths, and put them in 

 cages, and fed them on a leaf of lettuce. They all come 

 back to me to-day, those times, as I search the burrows for 

 subjects to study. They seem like yesterday when my 

 companion, little Paul, an expert in the use of the straw, 

 springs up suddenly after a long trial of skill and 



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