THE CRICKET 



dispose him to it. He lives happily and whirrs without 

 ceasing in a cage no larger than a man's fist, provided 

 that he has his lettuce-leaf every day. Was it not he 

 whom the small boys of Athens reared in little wire cages 

 hanging on a window-frame? 



The small boys of Provence, and all the South, have 

 the same tastes. In the towns a Cricket becomes the 

 child's treasured possession. The insect, petted and 

 pampered, sings to him of the simple joys of the country. 

 Its death throws the whole household into a sort of 

 mourning. 



The three other Crickets of my neighbourhood all 

 carry the same musical instrument as the Field Cricket, 

 with slight variation of detail. Their song is much 

 alike in all cases, allowing for differences of size. The 

 smallest of the family, the Bordeaux Cricket, sometimes 

 ventures into the dark corners of my kitchen, but his 

 song is so faint that it takes a very attentive ear to hear 

 it. 



The Field Cricket sings during the sunniest hours of 

 the spring: during the still summer nights we have the 

 Italian Cricket. He is a slender, feeble insect, quite 

 pale, almost white, as beseems his nocturnal habits. 

 You are afraid of crushing him, if you so much as take 

 him in your fingers. He lives high in air, on shrubs of 

 every kind, or on the taller grasses; and he rarely de- 



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