26 FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



a sun-bath, kicking about and trying its strength, or swinging 

 lazily at the end of its rope. 



Its antennae now are free, and wave about ; its legs work 

 their joints ; those in front open and shut their claws. I 

 know hardly any more curious sight than this tiny acrobat 

 hanging by the tip of its body, swinging at the least breath 

 of wind, and making ready in the air for its somersault into 

 the world. 



Sooner or later, without losing much time, it drops to the 

 ground. The little creature, no bigger than a Flea, has 

 saved its tender body from the rough earth by swinging on 

 its cord. It has hardened itself in the air, that luxurious 

 eiderdown. It now plunges into the stern realities of 

 life. 



I see a thousand dangers ahead of it. The merest breath 

 of wind could blow it on to the hard rock, or into the stag- 

 nant water in some deep cart-rut, or on the sand where 

 nothing grows, or else on a clay soil, too tough for it to 

 dig in. 



The feeble creature needs shelter at once, and must look 

 for an underground refuge. The days are growing cold, 

 and delays are fatal to it. It must wander about in search 

 of soft soil, and no doubt many die before they find it. 



When at last it discovers the right spot it attacks the 

 earth with the hooks on its fore-feet. Through the magnify- 

 ing-glass I watch it wielding its pickaxes, and raking an 

 atom of earth to the surface. In a few minutes a well has 

 been scooped out. The little creature goes down into it, 

 buries itself, and is henceforth invisible. 



The underground life of the undeveloped Cicada remains 

 a secret. But we know how long it remains in the earth 

 before it comes to the surface and becomes a full-grown 

 Cicada. For four years it lives below the soil. Then for 

 about five weeks it sings in the sunshine. 



Four years of hard work in the darkness, and a month of 

 delight in the sun such is the Cicada's life. We must not 



