The Life of the Grasshopper 



and, above all, strong drink. It has the sim- 

 plicity of beauty and the repose of strength. 



It is late; and the Cicadas are silent. 

 Glutted with light and heat, they have in- 

 dulged in symphonies all the livelong day. 

 The advent of the night means rest for them, 

 but a rest frequently disturbed. In the dense 

 branches of the plane-trees, a sudden sound 

 rings out like a cry of anguish, strident and 

 short. It is the desperate wail of the Cicada, 

 surprised in his quietude by the Green Grass- 

 hopper, that ardent nocturnal huntress, who 

 springs upon him, grips him in the side, 

 opens and ransacks his abdomen. An orgy 

 of music, followed by butchery. 



I have never seen and never shall see that 

 supreme expression of our national revelry, 

 the military reviev/ at Longchamp; nor 

 do I much regret it. The newspapers tell 

 me as much about it as I want to know. 

 They give me a sketch of the site. I see, 

 installed here and there amid the trees, the 

 ominous Red Cross, with the legend, " Mili- 

 tary Ambulance; Civil Ambulance." There 

 will be bones broken, apparently; cases of 

 sunstroke; regrettable deaths, perhaps. It 

 is all provided for and all in the programme. 



Even here, in my village, usually so peace- 



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