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 Béranger, Anacreon,
devoted an ode to her, in which his praise of her is singularly
exaggerated. "Thou art almost like unto the Gods," he says. The reasons
which he has given for this apotheosis are none of the best. They
consist in these three privileges: [Greek: gêgenês, apathês,
hanaimosarke]; born of the earth, insensible to pain, bloodless. We will
not reproach the poet for these mistakes; they were then generally
believed, and were perpetuated long afterwards, until the exploring eye
of scientific observation was directed upon them. And in minor poetry,
whose principal merit lies in rhythm and harmony, we must not look at
things too closely.

Even in our days, the Provençal poets, who know the Cigale as Anacreon