134 FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



I know no prettier or more limpid insect-song than his, 

 heard in the deep stillness of an August evening. How often 

 have I lain down on the ground among the rosemary-bushes 

 of my harmas, to listen to the delightful concert ! 



The Italian Cricket swarms in my enclosure. Every tuft 

 of red-flowering rock-rose has its chorister ; so has every 

 clump of lavender. The bushy arbutus-shrubs, the turpen- 

 tine-trees, all become orchestras. And in its clear voice, so 

 full of charm, the whole of this little world, from every shrub 

 and every branch, sings of the gladness of life. 



High up above my head the Swan stretches its great cross 

 along the Milky Way : below, all round me, the insect's 

 symphony rises and falls. Infinitesimal life telling its joys 

 makes me forget the pageant of the stars. Those celestial 

 eyes look down upon me, placid and cold, but do not stir a 

 fibre within me. Why ? They lack the great secret life. 

 Our reason tells us, it is true, that those suns warm worlds 

 like ours ; but when all is said, this belief is no more than a 

 guess, it is not a certainty. 



In your company, on the contrary, O my Cricket, I feel 

 the throbbing of life, which is the soul of our lump of clay ; 

 and that is why, under my rosemary-hedge, I give but an 

 absent glance at the constellation of the Swan and devote 

 all my attention to your serenade ! A living speck the 

 merest dab of life capable of pleasure and pain, is far more 

 interesting to me than all the immensities of mere matter. 



