378 THE ZOOLOGIST. 
dirl and a whistle that resembled the din of a grinder’s wheel or 
of a watch running down—that commenced briskly, and in a 
quarter of a minute subsided. So contentious were they that one 
I captured continued to vociferate in my hand, raising its abdo- 
men as it did so, and quivering, twitching, and dimpling its 
kettledrums, whose beautiful shell-like structure is exposed to 
view. Soon afterwards I noticed another Cicada whistling an 
air on a young and graceful poplar, and vibrating its wings with 
new delight. ‘‘ Volete farmi descendere questo insetto,”’ said I 
to a fisherman who was passing by with a rod. ‘La cicala,” 
he replied, aiming a blow with good intentions, and ejaculating, 
as it darted off with a piteous cry, ‘‘securo.’”’ Proceeding further 
I beheld another, and now I ventured to shake the tree to dis- 
lodge it, but it only clung on the faster and screamed the louder ; 
a third that I caused to take flight was unexpectedly seized by a 
bird as it flew, and disappeared down its throat with a mournful 
ery of ‘‘whee-whee!’’ Searching among the acacias I dis- 
covered what looked like shot-holes in the ground, and near at 
hand were the masks, the skins of the grubs, or nympha, from 
which the Cicadas had emerged, still clinging by their empty 
legs. Later on, in July, the frogs were awake and croaking at 
six, at seven the birds were in song, the Cicadas were screeching 
at half-past nine, and then it was pleasant to sit in the shade 
and listen to the males sing in chorus to the ‘‘click-click!” of 
the water-wheel, where their dizzy din of ‘‘ derde-derde!’’ inter- 
rupted with a monitory ‘‘ tip-tip!”’ resounded, until the heat of 
noon enforced silence. At five in the afternoon, when the per- 
formance was over and silence had resumed its reign in the 
alcove, I saw a female ornt wing swiftly to the vines that draped 
a sunny knoll that had lately been the scene of uproar. When 
placed in a box covered with gauze the Cicadas snarled like dogs, 
clung together as if sparring, and startled the gloom of night 
with snatches of song. ‘‘ Happy the Cicada lives,” says a Greek 
epigram, “‘ for they all have voiceless wives.” In July I became 
aware of the presence of the somewhat larger Cicada plebeja, 
whose kettledrums are covered, and sound as in a musical box. 
Hearing a noise resembling the sound of escaping steam among 
the pattering leaves of the aspens, I saw it lift its body for 
twenty seconds, and there came a ghostly refrain of ‘‘ whee- 
