The work proceeds pretty quickly at first. In the yielding soil of my cages, the digger disappears underground after a spell that lasts a couple of hours. He returns to the entrance at intervals, always backwards and always sweeping. Should he be overcome with fatigue, he takes a rest on the threshold of his half-finished home, with his head outside and his antennæ waving feebly. He goes in again and resumes work with pincers and rakes. Soon the periods of repose become longer and wear out my patience. The most urgent part of the work is done. Once the hole is a couple of inches deep, it suffices for the needs of the moment. The rest will be a long-winded business, resumed in a leisurely fashion, a little one day and a little the next; the hole will be made deeper and wider as demanded by the inclemencies of the weather and the growth of the insect. Even in winter, if the temperature be mild and the sun playing over the entrance to the dwelling, it is not unusual to see the Cricket shooting out rubbish, a sign of repairs and fresh excavations. Amidst the joys of spring, the upkeep of the building still continues. It is constantly undergoing improvements and repairs until the owner’s decease. April comes to an end and the Cricket’s song begins, at first in rare and shy solos, soon developing into a general symphony in which each clod of turf boasts its performer. I am more than inclined to place the Cricket at the head of the spring choristers. In our waste lands, when the thyme and the lavender are gaily flowering, he has as his partner the Crested Lark, who rises like a lyrical rocket, his throat swelling with notes, and from the sky, invisible in the clouds, sheds his sweet music upon the fallows. Down below the Crickets chant the responses. Their song is monotonous and artless, but so well-suited, in its very crudity, to the rustic gladness of renascent life! It is the hosanna of the awakening, the sacred alleluia understood by swelling seed and sprouting blade. Who deserves the palm in this duet? I should award it to the Cricket. He surpasses them all, thanks to his numbers and his unceasing note. Were the Lark to fall silent, the fields blue-grey with lavender, swinging its fragrant censers before the sun, would still receive from this humble chorister a solemn celebration. CHAPTER XVI THE CRICKET: THE SONG; THE PAIRING In steps anatomy and says to the Cricket, bluntly: “Show us your musical-box.” Like all things of real value, it is very simple; it is based on the same principle as that of the Grasshoppers: a bow with a hook to it and a vibrating membrane. The right wing-case overlaps the left and covers it almost completely, except where it folds back sharply and encases the insect’s side. It is the converse of what we see in the Green Grasshopper, the Decticus, the Ephippiger and their kinsmen. The Cricket is right-handed, the others left-handed.