The Life of the Grasshopper 



What is it that they want? Food? I offer 

 them some little bulbs with bundles of sprout- 

 ing roots, a few bits of leaves and some fresh 

 blades of grass. Nothing tempts them nor 

 induces them to stand still. They appear to 

 be selecting a favourable spot before de- 

 scending underground. These hesitating ex- 

 plorations are superfluous on the soil which 

 I have industriously prepared for them: the 

 whole surface, so it seems to me, lends it- 

 self capitally to the work which I expect to 

 see them accomplish. Apparently it is not 

 enough. 



Under natural conditions, a preliminary 

 run round may well be indispensable. There, 

 sites as soft as my bed of heath-mould, 

 purged of all hard bodies and finely sifted, 

 are rare. There, on the other hand, coarse 

 soils, on which the microscopic mattock can 

 make no impression, are frequent. The grub 

 has to roam at random, to walk about for 

 some time before finding a suitable place. 

 No doubt many even die, exhausted by their 

 fruitless search. A journey of exploration, 

 in a country a few inches across, forms part, 

 therefore, of the young Cicada's curriculum. 

 In my glass jar, so sumptuously furnished, 

 the pilgrimage is uncalled for. No matter: 



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