The Life of the Grasshopper 



scrutinize it under the magnifying-glass. I 

 feel as if I were looking for a needle in a 

 haystack. At last I find my little Cicadae. 

 They are dead, perhaps of cold, notwith- 

 standing the bell-glass with which I had cov- 

 ered the pot; perhaps of starvation, if the 

 thyme did not suit them. The problem is 

 too difficult to solve ; I give it up. 



To succeed in this attempt at rearing one 

 would need a very wide and deep bed of 

 earth, providing a shelter from the rigours 

 of winter, and, because I do not know which 

 are the insect's favourite roots, there would 

 also have to be a varied vegetation, in which 

 the little larvae could choose according to 

 their tastes. These conditions are quite 

 practicable; but how is one afterwards to 

 find in that huge mass of earth, measuring a 

 cubic yard at least, the atom which I have 

 so much trouble in distinguishing in a handful 

 of black mould? And, besides, such consci- 

 entious digging would certainly detach the 

 tiny creature from the root that nourishes it. 



The underground life of the early Cicada 

 remains a secret. That of the well-developed 

 larva is no better-known. When digging in 

 the fields, if you turn up the soil to any 

 depth, you are constantly finding the fierce 



