THE CICADA 23 



in rows on the smooth bark of the plane-trees, the maker of 

 music and his mate sitting side by side. With their suckers 

 driven into the tree they drink, motionless. As the sun 

 turns they also turn round the branch with slow, sidelong 

 steps, to find the hottest spot. Whether drinking or moving 

 they never cease singing. 



It seems unlikely, therefore, that they are calling their 

 mates. You do not spend months on end calling to some 

 one who is at your elbow. 



Indeed, I am inclined to think that the Cicada himself 

 cannot even hear the song he sings with so much apparent 

 delight. This might account for the relentless way in which 

 he forces his music upon others. 



He has very clear sight. His five eyes tell him what is 

 happening to right and to left and above his head ; and the 

 moment he sees any one coming he is silent and flies away. 

 Yet no noise disturbs him. Place yourself behind him, 

 and then talk, whistle, clap your hands, and knock two 

 stones together. For much less than this a bird, though 

 he would not see you, would fly away terrified. The im- 

 perturbable Cicada goes on rattling as though nothing were 

 there. 



On one occasion I borrowed the local artillery, that is to 

 say the guns that are fired on feast-days in the village. There 

 were two of them, and they were crammed with powder as 

 though for the most important rejoicings. They were placed 

 at the foot of the plane-trees in front of my door. We were 

 careful to leave the windows open, to prevent the panes from 

 breaking. The Cicadse in the branches overhead could not 

 see what was happening. 



Six of us waited below, eager to hear what would be the 

 effect on the orchestra above. 



Bang ! The gun went off with a noise like a thunder- 

 clap. 



Quite unconcerned, the Cicadse continued to sing. Not 

 one appeared in the least disturbed. There was no change 



