plane-trees, among the insects which carry
gimlets, some friends of silence like myself, who would devote
themselves to such a task! But no: a note would be lacking in the
majestic symphony of harvest-tide.
We are now familiar with the structure of the musical organ of the
Cigale. Now the question arises: What is the object of these musical
orgies? The reply seems obvious: they are the call of the males inviting
their mates; they constitute a lovers' cantata.
I am going to consider this reply, which is certainly a very natural
one. For thirty years the common Cigale and his unmusical friend the
_Cacan_ have thrust their society upon me. For two months every summer I
have them under my eyes, and their voice in my ears. If I do not listen
to them very willingly I observe them with considerable zeal. I see
them ranged in rows on the smooth rind of the plane-trees, all with
their heads uppermost, the two sexes mingled, and only a few inches
apart.
The proboscis thrust into the bark, they drink, motionless. As the sun
moves, and with it the shadow, they also move round the branch with slow
lateral steps, so as to keep upon that side which is most brilliantly
illuminated, most fiercely heated. Whether the proboscis is at work or
not the song is never interrupted.
Now are we to take their interminable chant for a passionate love-song?
I hesitate. In this gathering the two sexes are side by side. One does
not spend months in calling a person who is at one's elbow. Moreover, I
have never seen a female rush into the midst of even the most deafening
orchestra. Sight is a sufficient prelude to marriage, for their sight is
excellent. There is no need for the lover to make an everlasting
declaration, for his mistress is his next-door neighbour.
Is the song a means of charming, of touching the hard of heart? I doubt
it. I observe no sign of satisfaction in the females; I have never seen
them tremble or sway upon their feet, though their lovers have clashed
their cymbals with the most deafening vigour.
My neighbours the peasants say that at harvest-time the Cigale sings to
them: _Sego, sego, sego!_ (Reap, reap, reap!) to encourage them in their
work. Harvesters of ideas and of ears of grain, we follow the same
calling; the latter produce food for the stomach, the former food for
the mind. Thus I understand their explanation and welcome it as an
example of gracious simplicity.
Science asks for a better explanation, but f
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