for she dwells in the country of the olive-tree; but we all know of the
treatment she received at the hands of the Ant. On such trifles does
Fame depend! A legend of very dubious value, its moral as bad as its
natural history; a nurse's tale whose only merit is its brevity; such is
the basis of a reputation which will survive the wreck of centuries no
less surely than the tale of Puss-in-Boots and of Little Red
Riding-Hood.

The child is the best guardian of tradition, the great conservative.
Custom and tradition become indestructible when confided to the archives
of his memory. To the child we owe the celebrity of the Cigale, of whose
misfortunes he has babbled during his first lessons in recitation. It is
he who will preserve for future generations the absurd nonsense of which
the body of the fable is constructed; the Cigale will always be hungry
when the cold comes, although there were never Cigales in winter; she
will always beg alms in the shape of a few grains of wheat, a diet
absolutely incompatible with her delicate capillary "tongue"; and in
desperation she will hunt for flies and grubs, although she never eats.

Whom shall we hold responsible for these strange mistakes? La Fontaine,
who in most of his fables charms us with his exquisite fineness of
observation, has here been ill-inspired. His earlier subjects he knew
down to the ground: the Fox, the Wolf, the Cat, the Stag, the Crow, the
Rat, the Ferret, and so many others, whose actions and manners he
describes with a delightful precision of detail. These are inhabitants
of his own country; neighbours, fellow-parishioners. Their life, private
and public, is lived under his eyes; but the Cigale is a stranger to the
haunts of Jack Rabbit. La Fontaine had never seen nor heard her. For him
the celebrated songstress was certainly a grasshopper.