Enough of the instrument; let us listen to the music. The Cricket sings on the threshold of his house, in the cheerful sunshine, never indoors. The wing-cases, lifted in a double inclined plane and now only partly covering each other, utter their stridulant cri-cri in a soft tremolo. It is full, sonorous, nicely cadenced and lasts indefinitely. Thus are the leisures of solitude beguiled all through the spring. The anchorite at first sings for his own pleasure. Glad to be alive, he chants the praises of the sun that shines upon him, the grass that feeds him, the peaceful retreat that harbours him. The first object of his bow is to hymn the blessings of life. The hermit also sings for the benefit of his fair neighbours. The Cricket’s nuptials would, I warrant, present a curious scene, if it were possible to follow their details far from the commotions of captivity. To seek an opportunity would be labour lost, for the insect is very shy. I must await one. Shall I ever find it? I do not despair, in spite of the extraordinary difficulty. For the moment, let us be satisfied with what we can learn from probability and the vivarium. The two sexes dwell apart. Both are extremely domestic in their habits. Whose business is it to make a move? Does the caller go in search of the called? Does the serenaded one come to the serenader? If, at pairing-time, sound were the sole guide where homes are far apart, it would be necessary for the silent partner to go to the noisy one’s trysting-place. But I imagine that, in order to save appearances—and this accords with what I learn from my prisoners—the Cricket has special faculties that guide him towards his mute lady-love. When and how is the meeting effected? I suspect that things take place in the friendly gloaming and upon the very threshold of the bride’s home, upon that sanded esplanade, that state courtyard, which lies just outside the entrance. A nocturnal journey like this, at some twenty paces’ distance, is a serious undertaking for the Cricket. When he has accomplished his pilgrimage, how will he, the stay-at-home, with his imperfect knowledge of topography, find his own house again? To return to his Penates must be impossible. He roams, I fear, at random, with no place to lay his head. He has neither the time nor the heart to dig himself the new burrow which would be his salvation; and he dies a wretched death, forming a savoury mouthful for the Toad on his night rounds. His visit to the lady Cricket has cost him his home and his life. What does he care! He has done his duty as a Cricket. This is how I picture events when I combine the probabilities of the open country with the realities of the vivarium. I have several couples in one cage. As a rule, my captives refrain from digging themselves a dwelling. The hour has passed for any long waiting or long wooing. They wander about the enclosed space, without troubling about a fixed home, or else lie low under the shelter of a lettuce-leaf.