i8 THE WONDERS OF INSTINCT 



rises, at intervals, a hurried, very shrill, almost metallic 

 clicking. There you have the air and the recitative, in- 

 tersected 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 perceiving these 

 subtleties of sound. The little that reaches me is ex- 

 tremely sweet and most appropriate to the calm of twi- 

 light. 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 neighbor, 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 venturesome 

 in his expeditions. 



How often, at nightfall, by the last glimmers of day- 

 light, 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. 



