SEVENTEEN-YEAR LOCUSTS. 63 



XV. 



June 5, '02. Tis June-time again, knee-deep 

 in Kentucky blue-grass June-time and the 

 ceaseless trill of the seventeen-year cicada sound- 

 ing in my ears June-time, warm and sultry 

 with a thunder-storm approaching from the 

 northwest, and with banks of heavy white clouds 

 scattered here and there in the blue vault of 

 heaven. 



The iterated and re-iterated phar-r-r-r-r-h of 

 the cicada is everywhere. For sixteen years 

 they have been silent, buried beneath the bosom 

 of our common mother. This one June, then, 

 let them resound their cymbals to their heart's 

 content. Let them call their loved ones to their 

 sides and enjoy to the utmost the few bright 

 days which fall to their lot in the time of their 

 perfect life. 



A great red-eyed, smoky-winged dragon 

 alights on my knee as I write and comes crawl- 

 ing slowly upward. It is a female cicada seek- 

 ing some mate whose clarion call-note is being 

 sounded in the branches of the oak above me. 

 I pick up the intruder and give her a flip into 



