THE CICADA S LAST SONG 247 



carrying his " fiddle " on the edge of his folded 

 wing covers, against which he gently grinds out 

 faint, squeaky music, using his thigh -joint as a 

 fiddle-bow. His single efforts are barely audible, 

 but multiplied ten-thousandfold in his great field 

 orchestra, becomes a murmur which may be dis- 

 tinctly heard, and which no doubt all of us have 

 heard without a suspicion as to its source. It 

 is a part of the great musical symphony of the 

 harvest-fields, a roundel sustained and prolonged 

 by the hum of bees and the buzzing of innu- 

 merable flies, and the sprightly notes of crick- 

 ets, attuned to the soft murmur of breeze-blown 

 grass. This meadow music is perceptible to any 

 one who cares to listen for it, but it is rarely 

 noticed. What we call the " quiet " country life, 

 or " the quiet summer noon " of the poet, is a 

 misnomer. 



The contrast, to the observant ear, between the 

 meadow in a hot July noon and the same meadow 

 on a following cool and overcast day would be re- 

 markable could we but compare the two condi- 

 tions during the same moment of time. Even a 

 cloud shadow passing over a " quiet " meadow will 

 often suddenly reveal to us how noisy it really was 

 but a moment before. But the harsh timbrel of 

 the cicada is not a part of this " quiet " music. 

 He is no retiring fiddler hiding somewhere among 

 the grass-blades. His note rings out high above 



