FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



fall, scrape lightly against the edge of the wing-cases. 

 This scraping produces a faint sound, similar to that 

 with which the insect placidly lulls itself to sleep in the 

 sun. 



The Hen salutes with a song of gladness the egg she 

 just laid; she announces her performance to the whole 

 neighbourhood. The Locust celebrates the same event 

 with her thin scraper. "I have buried underground," 

 she says, "the treasure of the future." 



Having made the nest safe she leaves the spot, 

 refreshes herself after her exertions with a few mouth- 

 fuls of green stuff, and prepares to begin again. 



The Grey Locust mother is armed at the tip of her 

 body and so are other female Locusts in varying 

 degrees with four short tools, arranged in pairs and 

 shaped like a hooked fingernail. On the upper pair, 

 which are larger than the others, these hooks are turned 

 upwards; on the lower and smaller pair they are turned 

 downwards. They form a sort of claw, and are scooped 

 out slightly, like a spoon. These are the pick-axes, the 

 boring-tools with which the Grey Locust works. With 

 these she bites into the soil, lifting the dry earth a little, 

 as quietly as if she were digging in soft mould. She 

 might be working in butter; and yet what the bore digs 

 into is hard, unyielding earth. 



The best site for laying the eggs is not always found 

 at the first attempt. I have seen the mother make five 



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