The Life of the Grasshopper 



powdery obstruction, which offers no resist 

 ance. Behold him on the surface, amidst 

 the joys of the sunlight and the perils of 

 conflict with the living, poor, feeble creature 

 that he is, hardly larger than a Flea. In 

 twenty-four hours he colours and turns into 

 a magnificent blackamoor, whose ebon hue 

 vies with that of the adult insect. All that 

 remains of his original pallor is a white sash 

 that girds his chest and reminds us of a baby's 

 leading-string. Very nimble and alert, he 

 sounds the surrounding space with his long, 

 quivering antennae, runs about and jumps 

 with an impetuosity in which his future 

 obesity will forbid him to indulge. 



This is also the age when the stomach is 

 still delicate. What sort of food does he 

 need? I do not know. I offer him the 

 adult's treat, tender lettuce-leaves. He 

 scorns to touch them, or perhaps he takes 

 mouthfuls so exceedingly small that they 

 escape me. 



In a few days, with my ten households, 

 I find myself overwhelmed with family 

 cares. What am I to do with my five 

 or six thousand Crickets, a pretty flock, 

 no doubt, but impossible to rear in my 

 ignorance of the treatment required? I will 

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