FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



out in a leisurely way, a little one day and a little the 

 next: the hole will be made deeper and wider as the 

 weather grows colder and the insect larger. Even in 

 winter, if the temperature be mild and the sun shining 

 on the entrance to the dwelling, it is not unusual to see 

 the Cricket shooting out rubbish. Amid the joys of 

 spring the upkeep of the building still continues. It is 

 constantly undergoing improvements and repairs until 

 the owner's death. 



When April ends the Cricket's song begins; at first 

 in rare and shy solos, but soon in a general symphony in 

 which each clod of turf boasts its performer. I am more 

 than inclined to place the Cricket at the head of the 

 spring choristers. In our waste-lands, when the thyme 

 and lavender are gaily flowering, the Crested Lark rises 

 like a lyrical rocket, his throat swelling with notes, and 

 from the sky sheds his sweet music upon the fallows. 

 Down below the Crickets chant the responses. Their 

 song is monotonous and artless, but well suited in its 

 very lack of art to the simple gladness of reviving life. 

 It is the hosanna of the awakening, the sacred alleluia 

 understood by swelling seed and sprouting blade. In 

 this duet I should award the palm to the Cricket. His 

 numbers and his unceasing note deserve it. Were the 

 Lark to fall silent, the fields blue-grey with lavender, 

 swinging its fragrant censors before the sun, would still 



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