icket: 



The Cricket: the Song 



ing. In the early part of May, at about 

 eleven in the morning, a larva casts off its 

 rustic garments before my eyes. The trans- 

 formed Cricket is now a reddish brown, all 

 but the wings and wing-cases, which are 

 beautifully white. 



Both wings and wing-cases, which only 

 issued from their sheaths quite recently, are 

 no more than short, crinkly stumps. The 

 former remain in this rudimentary state, or 

 nearly so. The latter gradually develop bit 

 by bit and open out; their inner edges, with 

 a movement too slow to be perceived, meet 

 one another, on the same plane and at the 

 same level. There is no sign to tell us which 

 of the two wing-cases will overlap the other. 

 The two edges are now touching. A few 

 moments longer and the right will be above 

 the left. This is the time to intervene. 



With a straw I gently change the position, 

 bringing the left edge over the right. The 

 insect protests a little and disturbs my 

 manoeuvring. I insist, while taking every 

 possible care not to endanger these tender 

 organs, which look as though they were cut 

 out of wet tissue-paper. And I am quite suc- 

 cessful: the left Wing-case pushes forward 

 above the right, but only very little, barely 



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