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 finds in the insect a world
which is closed to us. There is no possibility of foreseeing, or even
of suggesting the impression produced by this clashing of cymbals upon
those who inspire it. The most I can say is that their impassive
exterior seems to denote a complete indifference. I do not insist that
this is so; the intimate feelings of the insect are an insoluble
mystery.

Another reason for doubt is this: all creatures affected by song have
acute hearing, and this sense of hearing, a vigilant sentinel, should
give warning of danger at the slightest sound. The birds have an