insect, the larva, which his spade is perpetually discovering when he
banks up the olives at the approach of the cold weather, and he knows,
having seen it a thousand times by the edge of the country paths, how in
summer this larva issues from the earth from a little round well of its
own making; how it climbs a twig or a stem of grass, turns upon its
back, climbs out of its skin, drier now than parchment, and becomes the
Cigale; a creature of a fresh grass-green colour which is rapidly
replaced by brown.

We cannot suppose that the Greek peasant was so much less intelligent
than the Provençal that he can have failed to see what the least
observant must have noticed. He knew what my rustic neighbours know so
well. The scribe, whoever he may have been, who was responsible for the
fable was in the best possible circumstances for correct knowledge of
the subject. Whence, then, arose the errors of his tale?

Less excusably than La Fontaine, the Greek fabulist wrote of the Cigale
of the books, instead of interrogating the living Cigale, whose cymbals
were resounding on every side; careless of the real, he followed
tradition. He himself echoed a more ancient narrative; he repeated some
legend that had reached him from India, the venerable mother of
civilisations. We do not know precisely what story the reed-pen of the
Hindoo may have confided to writing, in order to show the perils of a
life without foresight; but it is probable that the little animal drama
was nearer the truth than the conversation between the Cigale and the
Ant. India, the friend of animals, was incapable of such a mistake.
Everything seems to suggest that the principal personage of the original
fable was not the Cigale of the Midi, but some other creature, an insect
if you will, whose manners corresponded to the adopted text.