The Cricket: the Burrow 



Once the hole is a couple of inches deep, it 

 suffices, for the needs of the moment. The 

 rest will be a long-winded business, resumed 

 in a leisurely fashion, a little one day and 

 a little the next; the hole will be made deeper 

 and wider as demanded by the inclemencies 

 of the weather and the growth of the insect. 

 Even in winter, if the temperature be mild 

 and the sun playing over the entrance to the 

 dwelling, it is not unusual to see the Cricket 

 shooting out rubbish, a sign of repairs and 

 fresh excavations. Amidst the joys of 

 spring, the upkeep of the building still con- 

 tinues. It is constantly undergoing improve- 

 ments and repairs until the owner's decease. 

 April comes to an end and the Cricket's 

 song begins, at first in rare and shy solos, 

 soon developing into a general symphony in 

 which each clod of turf boasts its performer. 

 I am more than inclined to place the Cricket 

 at the head of the spring choristers. In our 

 waste lands, when the thyme and the lavender 

 are gaily flowering, he has as his partner 

 the Crested Lark, who rises like a lyrical 

 rocket, his throat swelling with notes, and 

 from the sky, invisible in the clouds, sheds his 

 sweet music upon the fallows. Down below 

 the Crickets chant the responses. Their 



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