CICADA. 169 
a great height from the ground ; the eggs brought 
home were obtained at Colville. 
Striking in among the trees, and following on 
a trail for about a quarter of a mile from our log- 
house, I came suddenly on an open glade (or more 
aptly, perhaps, I may compare it to a meadow), 
such as one often stumbles on in Devonshire. 
The grass was green, and peeping out in all 
directions were wild flowers of various species. 
A tiny stream, clear as crystal, twisted its way 
in many a bend and turn through this fairy spot. 
No human voice had ever, perhaps, disturbed the 
silence of this unusually solitary glen; but the 
song and twitter of birds, and the buzz and hum 
of insect life, told at once that flower and tree 
were alike inhabited. | 
But there was one sound—song, perhaps, I may 
venture to call it—that was clearer, shriller, and 
more singularly tuneful than any other. It never 
appeared to cease, and it came from everywhere 
—from the tops of the trees, from the trembling 
leaves of the cottonwood, from the stunted 
underbrush, from the flowers, the grass, the 
rocks and boulders—nay, the very stream itself 
seemed vocal with hidden minstrels, all chaunt- 
ing the same refrain. It was the first time I 
had heard this song in these wilds; and although 
