THE CRICKET 



It is at the close of October, when the first cold weather 

 threatens, that the burrow is taken in hand. The work 

 is very simple, if I may judge by my observation of the 

 caged insect. The digging is never done at a bare point 

 in the pan, but always under the shelter of some withered 

 lettuce-leaf, a remnant of the food provided. This 

 takes the place of the grass tuft that seems indispensable 

 to the secrecy of the home. 



The miner scrapes with his fore-legs, and uses the 

 pincers of his mandibles to pull out the larger bits of 

 gravel. I see him stamping with his powerful hind- 

 legs, furnished with a double row of spikes; I see him 

 raking the rubbish, sweeping it backwards and spreading 

 it slantwise. There you have the whole process. 



The work proceeds pretty quickly at first. In the 

 yielding soil of my cages the digger disappears under- 

 ground after a spell that lasts a couple of hours. He 

 returns to the entrance at intervals, always backwards 

 and always sweeping. Should he be overcome with 

 fatigue he takes a rest on the threshold of his half- 

 finished home, with his head outside and his antennae 

 waving feebly. He goes in again, and resumes work 

 with pinchers and rakes. Soon the periods of rest be- 

 come longer, and wear out my patience. 



The most urgent part of the work is done. Once 

 the hole is a couple of inches deep, it suffices for the needs 

 of the moment. The rest will be a long affair, carried 



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