As soon as he is deprived of his delicate tunic, the young Cricket, pale all over, almost white, begins to battle with the soil overhead. He hits out with his mandibles; he sweeps aside and kicks behind him the powdery obstruction, which offers no resistance. Behold him on the surface, amidst the joys of the sunlight and the perils of conflict with the living, poor, feeble creature that he is, hardly larger than a Flea. In twenty-four hours he colours and turns into a magnificent blackamoor, whose ebon hue vies with that of the adult insect. All that remains of his original pallor is a white sash that girds his chest and reminds us of a baby’s leading-string. Very nimble and alert, he sounds the surrounding space with his long, quivering antennæ, runs about and jumps with an impetuosity in which his future obesity will forbid him to indulge. This is also the age when the stomach is still delicate. What sort of food does he need? I do not know. I offer him the adult’s treat, tender lettuce-leaves. He scorns to touch them, or perhaps he takes mouthfuls so exceedingly small that they escape me. In a few days, with my ten households, I find myself overwhelmed with family cares. What am I to do with my five or six thousand Crickets, a pretty flock, no doubt, but impossible to rear in my ignorance of the treatment required? I will set you at liberty, my little dears; I will entrust you to nature, the sovran nurse. Thus it comes to pass. I release my legions in the enclosure, here, there and everywhere, in the best places. What a concert I shall have outside my door next year, if they all turn out well! But no, the symphony will probably be one of silence, for the savage pruning due to the mother’s fertility is bound to come. All that I can hope for is that a few couples may survive extermination. As in the case of the young Praying Mantes, the first that hasten to this manna and the most eager for the slaughter are the little Grey Lizard and the Ant. The latter, loathsome freebooter that she is, will, I fear, not leave me a single Cricket in the garden. She snaps up the poor little creatures, eviscerates them and gobbles them down at frantic speed. Oh, the execrable wretch! And to think that we place the Ant in the front rank of insects! Books are written in her honour and the stream of eulogy never ceases; the naturalists hold her in the greatest esteem and add daily to her reputation, so true is it, among animals as among men, that of the various ways of making history, the surest way is to do harm to others. [68]