37° Next to the Ground 



lumpy and damply clotted from very tight 

 packing. Another pair of legs follows the 

 wings, then the pointed tip of the body, and 

 last of all, the strong hind legs. 



The coming out is a marvel, but less mar- 

 vellous than the aftergrowth. Before it flies 

 the new-born insect grows visibly. Nymphs 

 may measure something over an inch in 

 length — the locust, full-fledged, is twice as 

 long and three times as broad as its abandoned 

 shell. As the insect dries, a fine iridescent 

 down shakes out all over its body — the 

 unfolding wings, stretched with infinite care, 

 quiver gently as air is forced into their veins 

 and ribs. Long before men invented pneu- 

 matic tires nature was putting the same sort 

 of thing into the stiffening of her myriad 

 gauzy summer wings. 



By and by the wings cease to quiver, and 

 wave gently back and forth. Eyes harden 

 to endure the light, antennae unfold. Before 

 midday there is a perfect locust ready to sail 

 away through the summer air, to sip dew 

 and honey and the spilled juices of ripe fruit, 

 sport through happy days in the sun, mate 

 and die, chanting to the last the stridulous 

 chant of midsummer. When one considers 

 its active life one ceases to wonder that the 

 Greeks, wise in all earth-wisdom, held it the 

 happiest of created things. 



