Their contents vary greatly. I count from six to fifteen eggs in each. The average is ten. As the number of cells of a complete laying is between thirty and forty, we see that the Cicada disposes of three to four hundred eggs. Réaumur arrived at the same figures from his examination of the ovaries. A fine family truly, capable by sheer numbers of coping with very grave risks of destruction. Yet I do not see that the adult Cicada is in greater danger than any other insect: he has a vigilant eye, can get started quickly, is a rapid flyer and inhabits heights at which the cut-throats of the meadows are not to be feared. The Sparrow, it is true, is very fond of him. From time to time, after careful strategy, the enemy swoops upon the plane-trees from the neighbouring roof and grabs the frenzied fiddler. A few pecks distributed right and left cut him up into quarters, which form delicious morsels for the nestlings. But how often does not the bird return with an empty bag! The wary Cicada sees the attack coming, empties his bladder into his assailant’s eyes and decamps. No, it is not the Sparrow that makes it necessary for the Cicada to give birth to so numerous a progeny. The danger lies elsewhere. We shall see how terrible it can be at hatching- and also at laying-time. Two or three weeks after the emergence from the ground, that is to say, about the middle of July, the Cicada busies herself with her eggs. In order to witness the laying without trusting too much to luck, I had taken certain precautions which seemed to me to assure success. The insect’s favourite support is the dry asphodel: I had learnt that from earlier observations. This plant is also the one that lends itself best to my plans, owing to its long, smooth stalk. Now, during the first years of my residence here, I replaced the thistles in my enclosure by other native plants, of a less forbidding character. The asphodel is among the new occupants and is just what I want to-day. I therefore leave last year’s dry stalks where they are; and, when the proper season comes, I inspect them daily. I have not long to wait. As early as the 15th of July, I find as many Cicadæ as I could wish installed on the asphodels, busily laying. The mother is always alone. Each has a stalk to herself, without fear of any competition that might disturb the delicate process of inoculation. When the first occupant is gone, another may come, followed by others yet. There is ample room for all; but each in succession wishes to be alone. For the rest, there is no quarrelling among them; things happen most peacefully. If some mother appears and finds the place already taken, she flies away so soon as she discovers her mistake and looks around elsewhere.