importunate ones to pass. The larger, stamping with impatience, quickly
snatch a mouthful, withdraw, take a turn on the neighbouring twigs, and
then return, this time more enterprising. Envy grows keener; those who
but now were cautious become turbulent and aggressive, and would
willingly drive from the spring the well-sinker who has caused it to
flow.

In this crowd of brigands the most aggressive are the ants. I have seen
them nibbling the ends of the Cigale's claws; I have caught them tugging
the ends of her wings, climbing on her back, tickling her antennae. One
audacious individual so far forgot himself under my eyes as to seize her
proboscis, endeavouring to extract it from the well!

Thus hustled by these dwarfs, and at the end of her patience, the
giantess finally abandons the well. She flies away, throwing a jet of
liquid excrement over her tormentors as she goes. But what cares the Ant
for this expression of sovereign contempt? She is left in possession of
the spring--only too soon exhausted when the pump is removed that made
it flow. There is little left, but that little is sweet. So much to the
good; she can wait for another drink, attained in the same manner, as
soon as the occasion presents itself.

[Illustration: DURING THE DROUGHTS OF SUMMER THIRSTING INSECTS, AND
NOTABLY THE ANT, FLOCK TO THE DRINKING-PLACES OF THE CIGALE.]

As we see, reality completely reverses the action described by the
fable. The shameless beggar, who does not hesitate at theft, is the Ant;
the industrious worker, willingly sharing her goods with the suffering,
is the Cigale. Yet another detail, and the reversal of the fable is
further emphasised. After five or six weeks of gaiety, the songstress
falls from the tree, exhausted by the fever of life. The sun shrivels
her body; the feet of the passers-by crush it. A bandit always in search
of booty, the Ant discovers the remains. She divides the rich find,
dissects it, and cuts it up into tiny fragments, which go to swell her
stock of provisions. It is not uncommon to see a dying Cigale, whose
wings are still trembling in the dust, drawn and quartered by a gang of
knackers. Her body is black with them. After this instance of
cannibalism the truth of the relations between the two insects is
obvious.

Antiquity held the Cigale in high esteem. The Greek Beranger, Anacreon,
devoted an ode to her, in which his praise of her is singularly
exaggerated. "Thou art almost like unto the God