170 A FOREST MINSTREL. 
I had not yet caught sight of the singer, I knew 
that it must be a cicada. I soon pounced upon 
the singular little vocalist, and captured him in 
his native orchestra. He was a handsome little 
fellow, with large bright shining eyes, wings like 
the most delicate lace, coloured green, like the 
leaves it loves to sit on, its body clothed in scales 
like fairy armour. It turned out to be an en- 
tirely new species, and now figures in the British 
Museum as Cicada occidentalis. 
The genus Cicada is found in all the temperate 
and warm countries of the globe; some of them 
are nocturnal revellers, others, as our friend, sing- 
ing only in the daytime. They were celebrated 
among the Greeks, who often kept them in cages 
for the sake of their song. They believed the 
cicade lived on dew, and regarded them as al- 
most divine. It was the nightingale of the 
nymphs. Anacreon, hearing the cicada, says, 
‘The Muses love thee; Phcebus himself loves 
thee, and has given thee a shrill song; old age 
does not wear thee out; thou art wise, earthborn, 
musical, impassive, without blood; thou art al- 
most a god!’ 
The Athenian ladies wore golden cicade in 
their hair, and it was used as the head-piece of 
the ancient harp. The following fable will, per- 
