FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



duce no more sound than a dry membrane will emit when 

 you rub it yourself. And for the sake of this small result 

 the insect lifts and lowers its thigh in sharp jerks, and 

 appears perfectly satisfied. It rubs its sides very much 

 as we rub our hands together in sign of contentment, 

 with no intention of making a sound. That is its own 

 particular way of expressing its joy in life. 



Observe the Locust when the sky is partly covered with 

 clouds, and the sun shines only at times. There comes a 

 rift in the clouds. At once the thighs begin to scrape, be- 

 coming more and more active as the sun grows hotter. 

 The strains are brief, but they are repeated as long as the 

 sunshine continues. The sky becomes overcast. Then 

 and there the song ceases ; but is renewed with the next 

 gleam of sunlight, always in brief outburst. There is no 

 mistaking it: here, in these fond lovers of the light, we 

 have a mere expression of happiness. The Locust has his 

 moments of gaiety when his crop is full and the sun is 

 kind. 



Not all the Locusts indulge in this joyous rubbing. 



The Tryxalis, who has a pair of immensely long hind- 

 legs, keeps up a gloomy silence when even the sunshine is 

 brightest. I have never seen him move his shanks like 

 a bow ; he seems unable to use them so long are they 

 for anything but hopping. 



The big Grey Locust, who often visits me in the en- 

 closure, even in the depth of winter, is also dumb in 



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