For this purpose, I go to the larva and watch for the moment of its metamorphosis, a sort of second birth. The future wings and wing-cases form four tiny flaps which, by their shape and their scantiness, as well as by the way in which they stick out in different directions, remind me of the short jackets worn by the Auvergne cheese-makers. I am most assiduous in my attendance, lest I should miss the propitious moment, and at last have a chance to witness the moulting. In the early part of May, at about eleven in the morning, a larva casts off its rustic garments before my eyes. The transformed Cricket is now a reddish brown, all but the wings and wing-cases, which are beautifully white. Both wings and wing-cases, which only issued from their sheaths quite recently, are no more than short, crinkly stumps. The former remain in this rudimentary state, or nearly so. The latter gradually develop bit by bit and open out; their inner edges, with a movement too slow to be perceived, meet one another, on the same plane and at the same level. There is no sign to tell us which of the two wing-cases will overlap the other. The two edges are now touching. A few moments longer and the right will be above the left. This is the time to intervene. With a straw I gently change the position, bringing the left edge over the right. The insect protests a little and disturbs my manœuvring. I insist, while taking every possible care not to endanger these tender organs, which look as though they were cut out of wet tissue-paper. And I am quite successful: the left wing-case pushes forward above the right, but only very little, barely a twenty-fifth of an inch. We will leave it alone: things will now go of themselves. They go as well as one could wish, in fact. Continuing to spread, the left wing-case ends by entirely covering the other. At three o’clock in the afternoon, the Cricket has changed from a reddish hue to black, but the wing-cases are still white. Two hours more and they also will possess the normal colouring. It is over. The wing-cases have come to maturity under the artificial arrangement; they have opened out and moulded themselves according to my plans; they have taken breadth and consistency and have been born, so to speak, in an inverted position. As things now are, the Cricket is left-handed. Will he definitely remain so? It seems to me that he will; and my hopes rise higher on the morrow and the day after, for the wing-cases continue, without any trouble, in their unusual arrangement. I expect soon to see the artist wield that particular fiddlestick which the members of his family never employ. I redouble my watchfulness, so as to witness his first attempt at playing the violin. On the third day, the novice makes a start. A few brief grating sounds are heard, the noise of a machine out of gear shifting its parts back into their proper order. Then the song begins, with its accustomed tone and rhythm.