Under the popular name of "locust," our cicada, or harvest-fly, has
long enjoyed the reputation as our chief insect musician, vying with
the katydid in the volume of its song. We all know its long, whizzing
crescendo in the sultry summer days. But let us call things by their
right names. This buzzing musician is _not_ a _locust_; it is a
_cicada_. The true locust is what we ordinarily call a grasshopper,
that "high-elbowed grig" of the meadows, so generous with his
"molasses," and with such a vigorous kick. He, too, is a musician in a
modest way--a fiddler, carrying his "fiddle" on the edge of his
folded wing covers, against which he gently grinds out faint, squeaky
music, using his thigh-joint as a fiddle-bow. His single efforts are
barely audible, but multiplied ten-thousandfold in his great field
orchestra, becomes a murmur which may be distinctly heard, and which
no doubt all of us have heard without a suspicion as to its source. It
is a part of the great musical symphony of the harvest-fields, a
roundel sustained and prolonged by the hum of bees and the buzzing of
innumerable flies, and the sprightly notes of crickets, attuned to the
soft murmur of breeze-blown grass. This meadow music is perceptible to
any one who cares to listen for it, but it is rarely noticed. What we
call the "quiet" country life, or "the quiet summer noon" of the poet,
is a misnomer.
The contrast, to the observant ear, between the meadow in a hot July
noon and the same meadow on a following cool and overcast day would be
remarkable could we but compare the two conditions during the same
moment of time. Even a cloud shadow passing over a "quiet" meadow will
often suddenly reveal to us how _noisy_ it really was but a moment
before. But the harsh timbrel of the cicada is not a part of this
"quiet" music. He is no retiring fiddler hiding somewhere among the
grass-blades. His note rings out high above the meadow chorus, and he
always gets the credit as the chief soloist, and we say, "Hark! there's
a 'locust,'" when we ought to know better. Let us try and straighten
out this confusion of terms, and let the younger generation at least
begin the reform that shall eventually set matters right and correct
this wide-spread popular error.
Our cicada belongs to quite another family of insects. Instead of jaws
for biting, as our fiddling "grasshopper," the cicada has only a long
"beak for sucking," and this feature alone connects him with the tribe
of "bugs." Moreover, his methods of music-making are very different
from those of the "grasshopper" tribe. It is the male only that makes
the music, and his instrument is a drum. He carries two of these
inclosed within his body, the opening of each being covered beneath by
a broad plate, which is easily seen on the under surface of the body.
Deep within lies the "drum," and the hard and hollow body of the
insect acts as a resonator or sounding-board. This drummer does not
use his legs as drum-sticks, as might be supposed, his drum being
vibrated by twitching muscles and cords.
The method by which the sound is produced may be illustrated by a
simple experiment. Take a small piece of stiff, sized writing-paper or
smooth Manilla paper, and by pressure with some rounded blunt
instrument produce a slight hollow or blister upon its surface. Upon
pressure from either side this blister will be found to "snap," and
could we but repeat the operation with great rapidity, a continuous
sound would result. The toy called the "telegraph ticker" is made on
this principle, the blister being made on a strip of steel, and the
click produced by pressure upon its top, the elasticity of the metal
bringing it back to its original position of rest, and each motion
accompanied by a snap as the blister changes sides. Indeed, we need
look no further than the bottom of almost any well-ordered tin pan for
a complete illustration of this principle. So our cicada is a drummer,
and his favorite tune is a "roll-call," the beats following each other
with such rapidity as to form a tone. All through the summer we hear
his strain. Even at this moment, as I write, a very long-winded
specimen is tuning up in the tree just outside my studio window, and I
am almost moved to give him some good advice. Have a care, my noisy
minstrel. If it were I alone who were within ear-shot of your noise
all might be well with you, but there are others near by to whom your
music hath charms. Have a care! Only a moment ago I heard an ominous
hum on my piazza, and upon investigation discovered a huge sand-hornet
prying about the premises. He knows what he is looking for, and so
ought you, if your parents have done their duty by you. Hereditary
instinct at least ought to teach you that your drum should play second
fiddle to that hornet's humming music. I remember once being the
witness of the sad fate of an ancestor of yours who drummed not wisely
but too well. He was monopolizing the neighborhood, just as you are
doing now, when I noticed his principal effort was suddenly cut short
in the middle in a most unusual manner. If he had been a singer I
would have supposed some rival had clapped a hand over his mouth, so
suddenly was the song abbreviated. In another moment there was a
rustling among the leaves, as something fell from the tree in his
immediate neighborhood. Down, down it dropped, its passage to the
ground accompanied by one or two short, sharp, spasmodic tattoos on
that same noisy drum. The object fell among some rocks, but before I
could reach the spot the humming sound of a sand-hornet greeted my
ears, and in a moment more the insect took flight directly across my
path, and, what was more, he was not alone. Would you know who
accompanied him? Look then on the picture on page 252, and have a
care, my noisy friend, for the lineal descendant of that sand-hornet
now hovers outside my doorway. He has a grudge against your tribe, and
he is even now on your scent. Perhaps you may be interested to know
what the hornet did with that rash ancestor of yours. Well, I will
tell you, for your own good. Guided by his noisy demonstration, the
hornet spied him on his twig, and in a second had pounced upon him
and, like a highwayman, stabbed him to the heart with a poisoned
javelin. This cut short his song, as you may well suppose, and he fell
in the grasp of his assailant. In another moment the hornet got a
fresh hold upon him, and though your ancestor, like yourself, was much
bigger than the hornet, those powerful, buzzing wings made an easy
burden of him for quite a distance across the meadow. Here our captor
took a rest, and after tugging that helpless cicada some distance up a
high fence-rail, started off on another flight, which was brought to
an end in the grass at the foot of a tree. In a moment more the hornet
was seen tugging its huge load up the trunk. When some ten feet in
height a third flight was made, this time gradually settling down on
the roof of a shed down-hill. Tugging his game to the edge of the shed
roof, a fourth trip was made, and this landed the two in the
neighborhood of a sand bank at the roadside in the valley below.
A sand bank of some sort is usually the terminus of this strange ride
of the cicada. Thus far many curious observers have followed the two,
and wondered what it was all about. If they had cared to follow the
matter to the end, they would doubtless have wondered still more at
the strange fate which awaited the unlucky harvest-fly, whose last
song had been his own requiem. The sand-hornet is also known as the
"digger-wasp," the largest of its kind, the most formidable of all our
hornets, and carrying within its black, yellow-spotted body a most
searching and terrible poisoned sting. It was a common belief in
ancient times that "seventeen pricks of a hornet" would "kill a man,"
to quote from Pliny; and there are many country people to-day who
would as quickly attack a rattlesnake as this big sand-hornet, and who
"absolutely know" of men who have been "knocked down" and even
"killed" by one stab of its sting. However this may be, it is well to
keep at a respectful distance. When we know what the little
yellow-jacket can do with its tiny dagger, and then reflect that this
sand-hornet's javelin is about a third of an inch long, we can draw
our own conclusions, and will readily understand why it was that our
cicada's song was cut short. "But why didn't the hornet eat him on the
spot? Why should it fly away with him and yank him about so
unmercifully?" This is a common question with those who have observed
the episode above described. A visit to the sand bank would have
explained the object of it all. The exposed surface is seen to be
perforated here and there with holes as large as one's little finger,
while from one of them an occasional tiny stream of sand pours out,
and we catch a glimpse of the horny, spiked legs of the digger-wasp
within. Even as we observe him closely a loud hum is heard, and a
filmy, buzzing object falls precipitately upon the bank, and in the
jumble of wings and black bodies we now distinguish our hornet and
cicada, which only a moment before had started from the edge of the
shed roof above. The cicada is apparently dead, and is now an easy
prey as the wasp lugs him to the mouth of one of the burrows, and
soon disappears in its depths.
Further than this few have followed the couple. But Professor C. V.
Riley, our government entomologist, has unearthed the entire mystery,
and eye-witnessed the fate of our cicada, and I am thus enabled to
picture the rest of the tragedy. What now follows is very similar to
what I described in a previous paper concerning the mud-wasp nest
packed with its dead spiders. Our cicada is not dead--more's the pity.
The thrust of the sting has only paralyzed the insect, in order that
the young of the hornet may be provided with _living_ food. From the
opening of the tunnel in the sand our harvest-fly was lugged a
distance of about six inches, when the tunnel branched in various
directions. Down a branch for about eight inches more, and his journey
terminated in a dungeon, where his career was doomed to end. Doubtless
each of the other branches held one or two similar prisoners, for the
cicada is the favorite prey of this particular wasp. Once arrived at
the dungeon, the hornet deposits an egg upon its victim, and leaves
him in its charge. In a few days it hatches into a larva with such a
voracious appetite that within a week it has devoured the contents of
the cicada's shell and reached its full growth. It now incloses itself
within a silky cocoon, and after abiding the winter emerges at the
brim in the spring a full-fledged hornet, with its mouth watering at
the thought of cicadas.
What a strange wonder-working medicine is this which the hornet
carries in its laboratory! In the guise of death it yet prolongs life
indefinitely. The ordinary existence of the cicada, for instance, is
but a few weeks at most, and yet it is claimed by Mr. Riley that if
for any reason the egg of the wasp should fail to hatch, the paralyzed
cicada will remain in its condition of suspended animation for a year,
and presumably longer.
Here is a suggestion for the materia medica which may open up
immortal fame to the chemist of the future. What is this mysterious
essence which the wasp carries in its poniard? As Professor Riley
suggestively remarks, "If man could do what these wasps have done from
time immemorial, viz., preserve for an indefinite period the animals
they feed on by the simple insertion of some toxic fluid in the
tissues, he would be able to revolutionize the present methods of
shipping cattle and sheep, and obviate much of the cruelty which now
attends the transportation of live-stock and much of the expense
involved in cold storage."