Such riff-raff spread the vulgar view That “artists are a lazy crew,” That “fools must suffer.” Silent be! When the Cicada taps the tree, You steal his drink; when life has fled, You basely batten on the dead. CHAPTER II THE CICADA: LEAVING THE BURROW To come back to the Cicada after Réaumur [9] has told the insect’s story would be waste of time, save that the disciple enjoys an advantage unknown to the master. The great naturalist received the materials for his work from my part of the world; his subjects came by barge after being carefully preserved in spirits. I, on the other hand, live in the Cicada’s company. When July comes, he takes possession of the enclosure right up to the threshold of the house. The hermitage is our joint property. I remain master indoors; but out of doors he is the sovereign lord and an extremely noisy and abusive one. Our near neighbourhood and constant association have enabled me to enter into certain details of which Réaumur could not dream. The first Cicadæ appear at the time of the summer solstice. Along the much-trodden paths baked by the sun and hardened by the frequent passage of feet there open, level with the ground, round orifices about the size of a man’s thumb. These are the exit-holes of the Cicada-larvæ, who come up from the depths to undergo their transformation on the surface. They are more or less everywhere, except in soil turned over by the plough. Their usual position is in the driest spots, those most exposed to the sun, especially by the side of the roads. Equipped with powerful tools to pass, if necessary, through sandstone and dried clay, the larva, on leaving the earth, has a fancy for the hardest places. One of the garden-paths, converted into a little inferno by the glare from a wall facing south, abounds in such exit-holes. I proceed, in the last days of June, to examine these recently abandoned pits. The soil is so hard that I have to take my pickaxe to tackle it. The orifices are round and nearly an inch in diameter. There is absolutely no rubbish around them, no mound of earth thrown up outside. This is invariably the case: the Cicada’s hole is never surmounted with a mole-hill, as are the burrows of the Geotrupes, [10] or Dorbeetles, those other sturdy excavators. The manner of working accounts for this difference. The Dung-beetle progresses from the outside inwards; he commences his digging at the mouth of the well, which allows him to ascend and heap up on the surface the material which he has extracted. The larva of the Cicada, on the other hand, goes from the inside outwards; the last thing that it does is to open the exit-door, which, remaining closed until the very end of the work, cannot be used for getting rid of the rubbish. The former goes in and makes a mound on the threshold of the home; the latter comes out and cannot heap up anything on a threshold that does not yet exist.