THE CICADA'S LAST SONG 247 
carrying his " fiddle " on the edge of his folded 
wing covers, against which he gently grinds out 
faint, squeaky music, using his thigh -joint as a 
fiddle-bow. His single efforts are barely audible, 
but multiplied ten-thousandfold in his great field 
orchestra, becomes a murmur which may be dis- 
tinctly heard, and which no doubt all of us have 
heard without a suspicion as to its source. It 
is a part of the great musical symphony of the 
harvest-fields, a roundel sustained and prolonged 
by the hum of bees and the buzzing of innu- 
merable flies, and the sprightly notes of crick- 
ets, attuned to the soft murmur of breeze-blown 
grass. This meadow music is perceptible to any 
one who cares to listen for it, but it is rarely 
noticed. What we call the " quiet " country life, 
or " the quiet summer noon " of the poet, is a 
misnomer. 
The contrast, to the observant ear, between the 
meadow in a hot July noon and the same meadow 
on a following cool and overcast day would be re- 
markable could we but compare the two condi- 
tions during the same moment of time. Even a 
cloud shadow passing over a " quiet " meadow will 
often suddenly reveal to us how noisy it really was 
but a moment before. But the harsh timbrel of 
the cicada is not a part of this " quiet " music. 
He is no retiring fiddler hiding somewhere among 
the grass-blades. His note rings out high above 
