Here is the tale related duly,
And little resembling the fable, truly!
Hoarders of farthings, I know, deuce take it.
It isn't the story as you would make it!
Crook-fingers, big-bellies, what do you say,
Who govern the world with the cash-box--hey?

You have spread the story, with shrug and smirk,
That the artist ne'er does a stroke of work;
And so let him suffer, the imbecile!
Be you silent! 'Tis you, I think,
When the Cigale pierces the vine to drink,
Drive her away, her drink to steal;
And when she is dead--you make your meal!




CHAPTER II

THE CIGALE LEAVES ITS BURROW


The first Cigales appear about the summer solstice. Along the beaten
paths, calcined by the sun, hardened by the passage of frequent feet, we
see little circular orifices almost large enough to admit the thumb.
These are the holes by which the larvæ of the Cigale have come up from
the depths to undergo metamorphosis. We see them more or less
everywhere, except in fields where the soil has been disturbed by