The Green Grasshopper 



flower-pots that form a sort of lobby outside 

 my house. Each has his own note, always 

 the same, lower in one case, higher in an- 

 other, a short, clear note, melodious and of 

 exquisite purity. 



With their slow, rhythmical cadence, they 

 seem to be intoning litanies. Cluck, says 

 one ; click, responds another, on a finer note ; 

 clock, adds a third, the tenor of the band. 

 And this is repeated indefinitely, like the 

 bells of the village pealing on a holiday: 

 chick, click, clock; cluck, click, clock/ 



The batrachian choristers remind me of 

 a certain harmonica which I used to covet 

 when my six-year-old ear began to awaken 

 to the magic of sounds. It consisted of a 

 series of strips of glass of unequal length, 

 hung on two stretched tapes. A cork fixed 

 to a wire served as a hammer. Imagine an 

 unskilled hand striking at random on this 

 key-board, with a sudden clash of octaves, 

 dissonances and topsy-turvy chords; and 

 you will have a pretty clear idea of the 

 Toads' litany. 



As a song, this litany has neither head nor 



tail to it; as a collection of pure sounds, it 



is delicious. This is the case with all the 



music in nature's concerts. Our ear dis- 



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