One of the great joys of the Sérignan hermit is, after supper, to isolate himself in the restful quietude of the harmas, and there to lend an attentive ear to the least vibrations of sound from that little living world which he can no longer see but can still hear. Nothing will succeed in distracting him from this entomological concert, which is one of his delights. It makes him forget even the rejoicings of the national festival which is being celebrated close at hand, and the splendours of the starry sky that glitters above his head. This evening in the village they are celebrating the National Festival. [112] While the little boys and girls are hopping around a bonfire whose gleams are reflected upon the church-steeple, while the drum is banged to mark the ascent of each rocket, I am sitting alone in a dark corner, in the comparative coolness that prevails at nine o’clock, harking to the concert of the festival of the fields, the festival of the harvest, grander by far than that which, at this moment, is being celebrated in the village square with gunpowder, lighted torches, Chinese lanterns, and, above all, strong drink. It has the simplicity of beauty and the repose of strength. It is late; and the Cicadæ are silent. Glutted with light and heat, they have indulged in symphonies all the livelong day. It is now the time of the nocturnal performers. Hard by the place of slaughter, in the green bushes, a delicate ear perceives the hum of the Grasshoppers. It is the sort of noise that a spinning-wheel makes, a very unobtrusive sound, a vague rustle of dry membranes rubbed together. Above this dull bass there rises, at intervals, a hurried, very shrill, almost metallic clicking. There you have the air and the recitative, interspersed with pauses. The rest is the accompaniment. Despite the assistance of a bass, it is a poor concert, very poor indeed, though there are about ten executants in my immediate vicinity. The tone lacks intensity. My old tympanum is not always capable of perceiving these subtleties of sound. The little that reaches me is extremely sweet and most appropriate to the calm of twilight. Just a little more breadth in your bow-stroke, my dear Green Grasshopper, and your technique would be better than the hoarse Cicada’s, whose name and reputation you have been made to usurp in the countries of the north. Still, you will never equal your neighbour, the little bell-ringing Toad, who goes tinkling all around, at the foot of the plane-trees, while you click up above. He is the smallest of my batrachian folk and the most venturesome in his expeditions.