Are we to take the endless cantilena for a passionate call? I am not sure. In the assembly the two sexes are side by side; and you do not spend months on end in calling to some one who is at your elbow. Then again, I never see a female come rushing into the midst of the very noisiest orchestra. Sight is enough as a prelude to marriage here, for it is excellent; the wooer has no use for an everlasting declaration: the wooed is his next-door neighbour. Could it be a means then of charming, of touching the indifferent one? I still have my doubts. I notice no signs of satisfaction in the females; I do not see them give the least flutter nor sway from side to side, though the lovers clash their cymbals never so loudly. My neighbours the peasants say that, at harvest-time, the Cicada sings, “Sego, sego, sego! Reap, reap, reap!” to encourage them to work. Whether harvesters of wheat or harvesters of thought, we follow the same occupation, one for the bread of the stomach, the other for the bread of the mind. I can understand their explanation, therefore; and I accept it as an instance of charming simplicity. Science asks for something better; but she finds in the insect a world that is closed to us. There is no possibility of divining or even suspecting the impression produced by the clash of the cymbals upon those who inspire it. All that I can say is that their impassive exterior seems to denote complete indifference. Let us not insist too much: the private feelings of animals are an unfathomable mystery. Another reason for doubt is this: those who are sensitive to music always have delicate hearing; and this hearing, a watchful sentinel, should give warning of any danger at the least sound. The birds, those skilled songsters, have an exquisitely fine sense of hearing. Should a leaf stir in the branches, should two wayfarers exchange a word, they will be suddenly silent, anxious, on their guard. How far the Cicada is from such sensibility! He has very clear sight. His large faceted eyes inform him of what happens on the right and what happens on the left; his three stemmata, like little ruby telescopes, explore the expanse above his head. The moment he sees us coming, he is silent and flies away. But place yourself behind the branch on which he is singing, arrange so that you are not within reach of the five visual organs; and then talk, whistle, clap your hands, knock two stones together. For much less than this, a bird, though it would not see you, would interrupt its singing and fly away terrified. The imperturbable Cicada goes on rattling as though nothing were afoot.