158 FABRE'S BOOK OF INSECTS 



was evidently better than his brains. Long before his day 

 St. John the Baptist lived in the desert on Locusts and wild 

 honey ; but in his case they were not eaten because they 

 were good. 



Wild honey from the pots of the Mason-bees is very agree- 

 able food, I know. Wishing to taste the Locust also I once 

 caught some, and had them cooked as the Arab author advised. 

 We all of us, big and little, tried the queer dish at dinner. It 

 was much nicer than the Cicadse praised by Aristotle. I would 

 go to the length of saying it is good without, however, feel- 

 ing any desire for more. 



The Locust possesses musical powers wherewith to express 

 his joys. Consider him at rest, blissfully digesting his meal and 

 enjoying the sunshine. With sharp strokes of the bow, three 

 or four times repeated with a pause between, he plays his tune. 

 He scrapes his sides with his great hind-legs, using now one, 

 now the other, and now both at a time. 



The result is very poor, so slight indeed that I am obliged 

 to make use of little Paul's sharp ear to make sure that there 

 is a sound at all. Such as it is, it is like the squeaking of a 

 needle-point pushed across a sheet of paper. There you have 

 the whole song, which is very nearly silence. 



We can expect no more than this from the Locust's very 

 unfinished instrument. There is nothing here like the Cricket's 

 toothed bow and sounding-board. The lower edge of the wing- 

 cases is rubbed by the thighs, but though both wing-cases and 

 thighs are powerful they have no roughnesses to supply fric- 

 tion, and there is no sign of teeth. 



This artless attempt at a musical instrument can produce 

 no more sound than a dry membrane will emit when you rub 

 it yourself. And for the sake of this small result the insect 

 lifts and lowers its thigh in sharp jerks, and appears perfectly 



