CHAPTER XX 



THE FOAMY CICADELLA 



IN April, when the Swallow and the 

 Cuckoo visit us, let us consider the fields 

 for a while, keeping our eyes on the ground, 

 as befits the eager observer of insect-life. 

 We shall not fail to see, here and there, on 

 the grass, little masses of white foam. It 

 might easily be taken for a spray of frothy 

 spittle from the lips of a passer-by; but there 

 is so much of it that we soon abandon this 

 first idea. Never would human saliva suffice 

 for so lavish an expenditure of foam, even 

 if some one with nothing better to do were 

 to devote all his disgusting and misdirected 

 zeal to the effort. 



While recognizing that man is blameless 

 in the matter, the northern peasant has not 

 relinquished the name suggested by the ap- 

 pearance: he calls those strange flakes 

 " Cuckoo-spit," after the bird whose note is 

 then proclaiming the awakening of spring. 

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