To me, as a naturalist, the outstanding feature in the two fables—a feature which I should find repeated elsewhere, beyond a doubt, if my library were not reduced to a small row of odd volumes on a deal shelf—is the burrow on which the moral is founded. Florian speaks of the snug retreat; the other praises his lowly home. It is the dwelling therefore that above all compels attention, even that of the poet, who cares little in general for realities. In this respect, indeed, the Cricket is extraordinary. Of all our insects, he alone, on attaining maturity, possesses a fixed abode, the monument of his industry. During the bad season of the year, most of the others burrow or skulk in some temporary refuge, a refuge obtained free of cost and abandoned without regret. Several create marvels, with a view to settling their family: cotton satchels, baskets made of leaves, towers of cement. Some carnivorous larvæ dwell in permanent ambuscades, where they lie in wait for their prey. The Tiger-beetle, among others, digs itself a perpendicular hole, which it closes with its flat, bronze head. Whoever ventures on the insidious foot-bridge vanishes down the gulf, whose trap-door at once tips up and disappears beneath the feet of the wayfarer. The Ant-lion makes a funnel in the sand. The Ant slides down its very loose slope and is bombarded with projectiles hurled from the bottom of the crater by the hunter, who turns his neck into a catapult. But these are all temporary refuges, nests or traps. The laboriously constructed residence, in which the insect settles down with no intention of moving, either in the happy spring or the woful winter season; the real manor, built for peace and comfort and not as a hunting-box or a nursery: this is known to the Cricket alone. On some sunny, grassy slope he is the owner of a hermitage. While all the others lead vagabond lives, sleeping in the open air or under the casual shelter of a dead leaf, a stone, or the peeling bark of an old tree, he is a privileged person with a permanent address. A serious problem is that of the home. It has been solved by the Cricket, by the Rabbit and, lastly, by man. In my neighbourhood, the Fox and the Badger have holes the best part of which is supplied by the irregularities of the rock. A few repairs; and the dug-out is completed. Cleverer than they, the Rabbit builds his house by burrowing wheresoever he pleases, when there is no natural passage that allows him to settle down free of any trouble. The Cricket surpasses all of them. Scorning chance refuges, he always chooses the site of his abode, in well-drained ground, with a pleasant sunny aspect. He refuses to make use of fortuitous cavities, which are incommodious and rough; he digs every bit of his villa, from the entrance-hall to the back-room.