The Green Grasshopper 



able, the festival will not end, I am ready to 

 wager, without the exchange of a few blows, 

 that compulsory seasoning of a day of merry- 

 making. No pleasure, it appears, can be 

 fully relished without an added condiment of 

 pain. 



Let us listen and meditate far from the 

 tumult. While the disembowelled Cicada 

 utters his protest, the festival up there in the 

 plane-trees is continued with a change of 

 orchestra. It is now the time of the noc- 

 turnal performers. Hard by the place of 

 slaughter, in the green bushes, a delicate ear 

 perceives the hum of the Grasshoppers. It 

 is the sort of noise that a spinning-wheel 

 makes, a very unobtrusive sound, a vague 

 rustle of dry membranes rubbed together. 

 Above this dull bass there rises, at intervals, 

 a hurried, very shrill, almost metallic click- 

 ing. There you have the air and the recita- 

 tive, intersected by pauses. The rest is the 

 accompaniment. 



Despite the assistance of a bass, it is a 

 poor concert, very poor indeed, though there 

 are about ten executants in my immediate 

 vicinity. The tone lacks intensity. My old 

 tympanum is not always capable of perceiv- 

 ing these subtleties of sound. The little that 

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