FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



scends to earth. His song, the sweet music of the still, 

 hot evenings from July to October,- begins at sunset and 

 continues for the best part of the night. 



This song is known to everybody here in Provence, for 

 the smallest clump of bushes has its orchestra. The 

 soft, slow gri-i-i gri-i-i is made more expressive by a 

 slight tremolo. If nothing happens to disturb the insect 

 the sound remains unaltered; but at the least noise the 

 musician becomes a ventriloquist. You hear him quite 

 close, in front of you; and then, all of a sudden, you hear 

 him fifteen yards away. You move towards the sound. 

 It is not there: it comes from the original place. No, 

 it doesn't after all. Is it over there on the left, or does 

 it come from behind? One is absolutely at a loss, quite 

 unable to tind the spot where the music is chirping. 



This illusion of varying distance is produced in two 

 ways. The sounds become loud or soft, open or muffled, 

 according to the exact part of the lower wing-case that 

 is pressed by the bow. And they are also modified by 

 the position of the wing-cases. For the loud sounds 

 these are raised to their full height: for the muffled 

 sounds they are lowered more or less. The pale Cricket 

 misleads those who hunt for him by pressing the edges of 

 his vibrating flaps against his soft body. 



I know no prettier or more limpid insect-song than 

 his, heard in the deep stillness of an August evening. 

 How often have I lain down on the ground among the 



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