18 FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



the grub leave the ground through a round hole of its own 

 making, fasten itself to a twig, split its own back, take off its 

 skin, and turn into a Cicada. 



The fable is a slander. The Cicada is no beggar, though 

 it is true that he demands a good deal of attention from his 

 neighbours. Every summer he comes and settles in his 

 hundreds outside my door, amid the greenery of two tall 

 plane-trees ; and here, from sunrise to sunset, he tortures 

 my head with the rasping of his harsh music. This deafen- 

 ing concert, this incessant rattling and drumming, makes all 

 thought impossible. 



It is true, too, that there are sometimes dealings between 

 the Cicada and the Ant ; but they are exactly the opposite 

 of those described in the fable. The Cicada is never dependent 

 on others for his living. At no time does he go crying famine 

 at the doors of the Ant-hills. On the contrary, it is the Ant 

 who, driven by hunger, begs and entreats the singer. Entreats, 

 did I say ? It is not the right word. She brazenly robs him. 



In July, when most of the insects in my sunny country are 

 parched with thirst, and vainly wander round the withered 

 flowers in search of refreshment, the Cicada remains perfectly 

 cheerful. With his rostrum the delicate sucker, sharp as a 

 gimlet, that he carries on his chest he broaches a cask in his 

 inexhaustible cellar. Sitting, always singing, on the branch 

 of a shrub, he bores through the firm, smooth bark, which 

 is swollen with sap. Driving his sucker through the bung- 

 hole, he drinks his fill. 



If I watch him for a little while I may perhaps see him 

 in unexpected trouble. There are many thirsty insects in 

 the neighbourhood, who soon discover the sap that oozes 

 from the Cicada's well. They hasten up, at first quietly and 

 discreetly, to lick the fluid as it comes out. I see Wasps, 

 Flies, Earwigs, Rose-chafers, and above all, Ants. 



The smallest, in order to reach the well, slip under the 

 body of the Cicada, who good-naturedly raises himself on his 

 legs to let them pass. The larger insects snatch a sip, retreat, 



