THE CRICKET 



reasons it requires no overall, and leaves it behind in 

 the shell. 



As soon as he is rid of his swaddling-clothes the young 

 Cricket, pale all over, almost white, begins to battle with 

 the soil overhead. He hits out with his mandibles; he 

 sweeps aside and kicks behind him the powdery earth, 

 which offers no resistance. Very soon he is on the sur- 

 face, amidst the joys of the sunlight and the perils of 

 conflict with his fellow-creatures — poor feeble mite that 

 he is, hardly larger than a Flea. 



By the end of twenty-four hours he has turned into 

 a magnificent blackamoor, whose ebon hue vies with that 

 of the full-grown insect. All that remains of his origi- 

 nal pallor is a white sash that girds his chest. Very 

 nimble and alert, he sounds the surrounding air with his 

 long, quivering antennas, and runs and jumps about with 

 great impetuosity. Some day he will be too fat to in- 

 dulge is such antics. 



And now we see why the mother Cricket lays so many 

 eggs. It is because most of the young ones are doomed 

 to death. They are massacred in huge numbers by other 

 insects, and especially by the little Grey Lizard and the 

 Ant. The latter, loathsome freebooter that she is, 

 hardly leaves me a Cricket in my garden. She snaps 

 up the poor little creatures and gobbles them down at 

 frantic speed. 



Oh, the execrable wretch! And to think that we 



[185] 



