To measure the importance of things by the foot-rule of one’s own turnip-patch is a horrible method, which makes us forget the essential for the sake of a trivial detail. The short-sighted man would upset the order of the universe rather than sacrifice a dozen plums. If he thinks of the insect at all, it is only to speak of its extermination. Fortunately, this is not and never will be in his power. Look at the consequences, for instance, of the disappearance of the Locust, who is accused of stealing a few crumbs from earth’s rich table. In September and October, the Turkeys are driven into the stubble-fields, under the charge of a child armed with two long reeds. The expanse over which the gobbling flock slowly spreads is bare, dry and burnt by the sun. At the most, a few ragged thistles raise their belated heads. What do the birds do in a desert like this, simply reeking with famine? They cram themselves, in order to do honour to the Christmas table; they wax fat; their flesh becomes firm and appetizing. With what, pray? With Locusts, whom they snap up here and there, a delicious stuffing for their greedy crops. This autumnal manna, which costs nothing and is richly flavoured, contributes to the elaboration and the improvement of the succulent roast that will be so largely eaten on the festive evening. When the Guinea-fowl, that domesticated game-bird, roams around the farm, uttering her rasping note, what is it that she seeks? Seeds, no doubt, but, above all things, Locusts, who puff her out under the wings with a pad of fat and give greater flavour to her flesh. The Hen, much to our advantage, is just as fond of them. She well knows the virtues of that dainty dish, which acts as a tonic and increases her laying-capacity. When left at liberty, she hardly ever fails to lead her family to the stubble-fields, so that they may learn how to snap up the exquisite mouthful deftly. In fact, all the denizens of the poultry-yard, when free to wander about at will, owe to the Locust a valuable addition to their diet. It becomes a much more important matter outside our domestic fowls. If you are a sportsman, if you are able to appreciate the value of the Red-legged Partridge, the glory of our southern hills, open the crop of the bird which you have just brought down. You will see that it contains a splendid certificate to the services rendered by the much-maligned insect. You will find it, nine times out of ten, more or less crammed with Locusts. The Partridge dotes on them, prefers them to seed as long as he is able to catch them. This highly-flavoured, substantial, stimulating fare would almost make him forget the existence of seeds, if it were only there all the year round.