Watch him for a little while. We shall perhaps witness unexpected tribulation. There are many thirsty ones prowling around, in fact; they discover the well betrayed by the sap that oozes from the margin. They hasten up, at first with some discretion, confining themselves to licking the fluid as it exudes. I see gathering around the mellifluous puncture Wasps, Flies, Earwigs, Sphex-wasps, [5] Pompili, [6] Rose-chafers [7] and, above all, Ants. The smallest, in order to reach the well, slip under the abdomen of the Cicada, who good-naturedly raises himself on his legs and leaves a free passage for the intruders; the larger ones, unable to stand still for impatience, quickly snatch a sip, retreat, take a walk on the neighbouring branches and then return and show greater enterprise. The coveting becomes more eager; the discreet ones of a moment ago develop into turbulent aggressors, ready to chase away from the spring the well-sinker who caused it to gush forth. In this brigandage, the worst offenders are the Ants. I have seen them nibbling at the ends of the Cicada’s legs; I have caught them tugging at the tips of his wings, climbing on his back, tickling his antennæ. One, greatly daring, went to the length, before my eyes, of catching hold of his sucker and trying to pull it out. Thus worried by these pigmies and losing all patience, the giant ends by abandoning the well. He flees, spraying the robbers with his urine as he goes. What cares the Ant for this expression of supreme contempt! Her object is attained. She is now the mistress of the spring, which dries up only too soon when the pump that made it flow ceases to work. There is little of it, but that little is exquisite. It is so much to the good, enabling her to wait for another draught, acquired in the same fashion, as soon as the occasion presents itself. You see, the actual facts entirely reverse the parts assigned in the fable. The hardened beggar, who does not shrink from theft, is the Ant; the industrious artisan, gladly sharing his possessions with the sufferer, is the Cicada. I will mention one more detail; and the reversal of characters will stand out even more clearly. After five or six weeks of wassail, which is a long space of time, the singer, exhausted by the strain of life, drops from the tree. The sun dries up the body; the feet of the passers-by crush it. The Ant, always a highway-robber in search of spoil, comes upon it. She cuts up the rich dish, dissects it, carves it and reduces it to morsels which go to swell her hoard of provisions. It is not unusual to see a dying Cicada, with his wing still quivering in the dust, drawn and quartered by a gang of knackers. He is quite black with them. After this cannibalistic proceeding, there is no question as to the true relations between the two insects. The ancients held the Cicada in high favour. Anacreon, the Greek Béranger, [8] devoted an ode to singing his praises in curiously exaggerated language: