January 1 



you remember the story of the 

 cicada who took the place of 

 the broken note in the poet's lyre, 

 \\\1 \^& Its anc ^ " save d ^ le sm er from defeat, 



Vil -/4r III with her chirru P low and sweet? " 



^ jL>li mk& It's a pretty story but could 



not have been told of an Australian 

 cicada. He would never be satisfied 

 to be merely o<ne note of a song, nor 

 even the whole song. He is content 

 with nothing less than a full chorus, a 

 cantata, an oratorio, or whatever is 

 the singing that makes the most noise. 

 He will brook no interference ; he must 

 have the whole stage to himself, 



and anything else that dares to interrupt is sung loudly 

 down, while he goes through his summer performance. He 

 has been in fine fettle during the past month or perhaps I had 

 better say they, for there are millions of him. They, then, 

 have certainly taken possesion of the bush during the past 

 few weeks, and everything has had to give way before them. 

 The bush tracks, and even the side paths of the high roads, are 

 riddled with holes, out of which the creatures crept from their 



ERIOSTEMON 



