The Life of the Grasshopper 



reaches me is extremely sweet and most ap- 

 propriate to the calm of twilight. Just a 

 little more breadth in your bow-stroke, my 

 dear Green Grasshopper, and your technique 

 would be better than the hoarse Cicada's, 

 whose name and reputation you have been 

 made to usurp in the countries of the north. 



Still, you will never equal your neighbour, 

 the little bell-ringing Toad, who goes tinkling 

 all round, at the foot of the plane-trees, while 

 you click up above. He is the smallest of 

 my batrachian folk and the most venture- 

 some in his expeditions. 



How often, at nightfall, by the last glim- 

 mers of daylight, have I not come upon him 

 as I wandered through my garden, hunting 

 for ideas! Something runs away, rolling 

 over and over in front of me. Is it a dead 

 leaf blown along by the wind? No, it is the 

 pretty little Toad disturbed in the midst of 

 his pilgrimage. He hurriedly takes shelter 

 under a stone, a clod of earth, a tuft of 

 grass, recovers from his excitement and 

 loses no time in picking up his liquid note. 



On this evening of national rejoicing, 



there are nearly a dozen of him tinkling 



against one another around me. Most of 



them are crouching among the rows of 



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