The Life of the Grasshopper 



the Horned Owl. His song, which is rich 

 enough to fill by itself the still night air, is 

 of a nerve-shattering monotony. With im- 

 perturbable and measured regularity, for 

 hours on end, kew, kew, the bird spits out 

 its cantata to the moon. 



One of them has arrived at this moment, 

 driven from the plane-trees in the square by 

 the din of the rejoicings, to demand my hos- 

 pitality. I can hear him in the top of a 

 cypress near by. From up there, dominating 

 the lyrical assembly, at regular intervals he 

 cuts into the vague orchestration of the 

 Grasshoppers and the Toads. 



His soft note is contrasted, intermittently, 

 with a sort of Cat's mew, coming from an- 

 other spot. This is the call of the Common 

 Owl, the meditative bird of Minerva. After 

 hiding all day in the seclusion of a hollow 

 olive-tree, he started on his wanderings when 

 the shades of evening began to fall. Swing- 

 ing along with a sinuous flight, he came from 

 somewhere in the neighbourhood to the 

 pines in my enclosure, whence he mingles his 

 harsh mewing, slightly softened by distance, 

 with the general concert. 



The Green Grasshopper's clicking is too 

 faint to be clearly perceived amidst these 



