The Cicada: the Eggs 



stroying them. The slightest wind soon 

 blows them away. 



Let us return to the larva. Sooner or 

 later, without losing much time, it drops to 

 the ground, either by accident or of its own 

 accord. The infinitesimal creature, no 

 bigger than a Flea, has saved its tender, bud- 

 ding flesh from the rough earth by swinging 

 on its cord. It has hardened itself in the 

 air, that luxurious eiderdown. It now 

 plunges into the stern realities of life. 



I see a thousand dangers ahead of it. 

 The merest breath of wind can blow the 

 atom here, on the impenetrable rock, or 

 there, on the ocean of a rut where a little 

 water stagnates, or elsewhere, on the sand, 

 the starvation region where nothing grows, 

 or again on a clay soil, too tough for dig- 

 ging. These fatal expanses are frequent; 

 and so are the gusts that blow one away in 

 this windy season which has already set in 

 unpleasantly by the end of October. 



The feeble creature needs very soft soil, 

 easily entered, so as to obtain shelter im- 

 mediately. The cold days are drawing nigh; 

 the frosts are coming. To wander about on 

 the surface of the ground for any length of 

 time would expose us to grave dangers. We 



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