FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



which the gobbling flock slowly spreads is bare, dry, and 

 burnt by the sun. At the most, a few ragged thistles 

 raise their heads. What do the birds do in this famine- 

 stricken desert? They cram themselves, that they may 

 do honour to the Christmas table; they wax fat; their 

 flesh becomes firm and good to eat. And pray, what do 

 they cram themselves with? With Locusts. They 

 snap them up, one here one there, till their greedy crops 

 are filled with the delicious stuffing, which costs nothing, 

 though its rich flavour will greatly improve the Christ- 

 mas Turkey. 



When the Guinea-fowl roams about the farm, uttering 

 her rasping cry, what is it she seeks? Seeds, no doubt; 

 but above all Locusts, which puff her out under the wings 

 with a pad of fat, and give a better flavour to her flesh. 

 The Hen, too, much to our advantage, is just as fond of 

 them. She well knows the virtues of that dainty dish, 

 which acts as a tonic and makes her lay more eggs. 

 When left at liberty she rarely fails to lead her family 

 to the stubble-fields, so that they may learn to snap up 

 the nice mouthful skilfully. In fact, every bird in the 

 poultry-yard finds the Locust a valuable addition to his 

 bill of fare. 



It is still more important outside the poultry-yard. 

 Any who is a sportsman, and knows the value of the Red- 

 legged Patridge, the glory of our southern hills, should 

 open the crop of the bird he has just shot. He will find 



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