THE CICADA
I
THE CICADA AND THE ANT
To most of us the Cicada’s song is unknown, for he lives in the land of
the olive-trees. But every one who has read La Fontaine’s “Fables” has
heard of the snub the Cicada received from the Ant, though La Fontaine
was not the first to tell the tale.
The Cicada, says the story, did nothing but sing all through the
summer, while the Ants were busy storing their provisions. When winter
came he was hungry, and hurried to his neighbour to borrow some food.
He met with a poor welcome.
“Why didn’t you gather your food in the summer?” asked the prudent Ant.
“I was busy singing all the summer,” said the Cicada.
“Singing, were you?” answered the Ant unkindly. “Well, then, now you
may dance!” And she turned her back on the beggar.
Now the insect in this fable could not possibly be a Cicada. La
Fontaine, it is plain, was thinking of the Grasshopper and as a matter
of fact the English translations usually substitute a Grasshopper for
the Cicada.
For my village does not contain a peasant so ignorant as to imagine the
Cicada ever exists in winter. Every tiller of the soil is familiar with
the grub of this insect, which he turns over with his spade whenever he
banks up the olive-trees at the approach of cold weather. A thousand
times he has seen the grub leave the ground through a round hole of its
own making, fasten itself to a twig, split its own back, take off its
skin, and turn into a Cicada.
The fable is a slander. The Cicada is no beggar, though it is true that
he demands a good deal of attention from his neighbours. Every summer
he comes and settles in his hundreds outside my door, amid the greenery
of two tall plane-trees; and here, from sunrise to sunset, he tortures
my head with the rasping of his harsh music. This deafening concert,
this incessant rattling and drumming, makes all thought impossible.
It is true, too, that there are sometimes dealings between the Cicada
and the Ant; but they are exactly the opposite of those described in
the fable. The Cicada is never dependent on others for his living. At
no time does he go crying famine at the doors of the Ant-hills. On the
contrary, it is the Ant who, driven by hunger, begs and entreats the
singer. Entreats, did I say? It is not the right word. She brazenly
robs him.
In July, when most of the insects in my sunny country are parched with
thirst, and vainly wander round the withered flowers in search of
refreshment, the Cicada remains perfectly cheerful. With his
rostrum—the delicate sucker, sharp as a gimlet, that he carries on his
chest—he broaches a cask in his inexhaustible cellar. Sitting, always
singing, on the branch of a shrub, he bores through the firm, smooth
bark, which is swollen with sap. Driving his sucker through the
bunghole, he drinks his fill.
If I watch him for a little while I may perhaps see him in unexpected
trouble. There are many thirsty insects in the neighbourhood, who soon
discover the sap that oozes from the Cicada’s well. They hasten up, at
first quietly and discreetly, to lick the fluid as it comes out. I see
Wasps, Flies, Earwigs, Rose-chafers, and above all, Ants.
The smallest, in order to reach the well, slip under the body of the
Cicada, who good-naturedly raises himself on his legs to let them pass.
The larger insects snatch a sip, retreat, take a walk on a neighbouring
branch, and then return more eager and enterprising than before. They
now become violent brigands, determined to chase the Cicada away from
his well.
The worst offenders are the Ants. I have seen them nibbling at the ends
of the Cicada’s legs, tugging at the tips of his wings, and climbing on
his back. Once a bold robber, before my very eyes, caught hold of a
Cicada’s sucker and tried to pull it out.
At last, worried beyond all patience, the singer deserts the well he
has made. The Ant has now attained her object: she is left in
possession of the spring. This dries up very soon, it is true; but,
having drunk all the sap that is there, she can wait for another drink
till she has a chance of stealing another well.
So you see that the actual facts are just the reverse of those in the
fable. The Ant is the hardened beggar: the industrious worker is the
Cicada.
II
THE CICADA’S BURROW
I am in an excellent position to study the habits of the Cicada, for I
live in his company. When July comes he takes possession of the
enclosures right up to the threshold of the house. I remain master
indoors, but out of doors he reigns supreme, and his reign is by no
means a peaceful one.
The first Cicada appear at midsummer. In the much-trodden, sun-baked
paths I see, level with the ground, round holes about the size of a
man’s thumb. Through these holes the Cicada-grubs come up from the
underground to be transformed into full-grown Cicadæ on the surface.
Their favourite places are the driest and sunniest; for these grubs are
provided with such powerful tools that they can bore through baked
earth or sandstone. When I examine their deserted burrows I have to use
my pickaxe.
The first thing one notices is that the holes, which measure nearly an
inch across, have absolutely no rubbish round them. There is no mound
of earth thrown up outside. Most of the digging insects, such as the
Dorbeetles for instance, make a mole-hill above their burrows. The
reason for this difference lies in their manner of working. The
Dorbeetle begins his work at the mouth of the hole, so he can heap up
on the surface the material he digs out: but the Cicada-grub comes up
from below. The last thing he does is to make the doorway, and he
cannot heap rubbish on a threshold that does not yet exist.
The Cicada’s tunnel runs to a depth of fifteen or sixteen inches. It is
quite open the whole way. It ends in a rather wider space, but is
completely closed at the bottom. What has become of the earth removed
to make this tunnel? And why do not the walls crumble? One would expect
that the grub, climbing up and down with his clawed legs, would make
landslips and block up his own house.
Well, he behaves like a miner or a railway-engineer. The miner holds up
his galleries with pit-props; the builder of railways strengthens his
tunnel with a casing of brickwork; the Cicada is as clever as either of
them, and covers the walls of his tunnel with cement. He carries a
store of sticky fluid hidden within him, with which to make this
plaster. His burrow is always built above some tiny rootlet containing
sap, and from this root he renews his supply of fluid.
It is very important for him to be able to run up and down his burrow
at his ease, because, when the time comes for him to find his way into
the sunshine, he wants to know what the weather is like outside. So he
works away for weeks, perhaps for months, to make a funnel with good
strong plastered walls, on which he can clamber. At the top he leaves a
layer as thick as one’s finger, to protect him from the outer air till
the last moment. At the least hint of fine weather he scrambles up,
and, through the thin lid at the top, inquires into the state of the
weather.
If he suspects a storm or rain on the surface—matter of great
importance to a delicate grub when he takes off his skin!—he slips
prudently back to the bottom of his snug funnel. But if the weather
seems warm he smashes his ceiling with a few strokes of his claws, and
climbs to the surface.
It is the fluid substance carried by the Cicada-grub in his swollen
body that enables him to get rid of the rubbish in his burrow. As he
digs he sprinkles the dusty earth and turns it into paste. The walls
then become soft and yielding. The mud squeezes into the chinks of the
rough soil, and the grub compresses it with his fat body. This is why,
when he appears at the top, he is always covered with wet stains.
For some time after the Cicada-grub’s first appearance above-ground he
wanders about the neighbourhood, looking for a suitable spot in which
to cast off his skin—a tiny bush, a tuft of thyme, a blade of grass, or
the twig of a shrub. When he finds it he climbs up, and clings to it
firmly with the claws of his fore-feet. His fore-legs stiffen into an
immovable grip.
Then his outer skin begins to split along the middle of the back,
showing the pale-green Cicada within. Presently the head is free; then
the sucker and front legs appear, and finally the hind-legs and the
rumpled wings. The whole insect is free now, except the extreme tip of
his body.
He next performs a wonderful gymnastic feat. High in the air as he is,
fixed to his old skin at one point only, he turns himself over till his
head is hanging downwards. His crumpled wings straighten out, unfurl,
and spread themselves. Then with an almost invisible movement he draws
himself up again by sheer strength, and hooks his fore-legs on to his
empty skin. This movement has released the tip of his body from its
sheath. The whole operation has taken about half an hour.
For a time the freed Cicada does not feel very strong. He must bathe in
air and sunshine before strength and colour come to his frail body.
Hanging to his cast skin by his fore-claws only, he sways at the least
breath of air, still feeble and still green. But at last the brown
tinge appears, and is soon general. Supposing him to have taken
possession of the twig at nine o’clock in the morning, the Cicada flies
away at half-past twelve, leaving his cast skin behind him. Sometimes
it hangs from the twigs for months.
III
THE CICADA’S MUSIC
The Cicada, it appears, loves singing for its own sake. Not content
with carrying an instrument called the cymbal in a cavity behind his
wings, he increases its power by means of sounding-boards under his
chest. Indeed, there is one kind of Cicada who sacrifices a great deal
in order to give full play to his musical tastes. He carries such an
enormous sounding-board that there is hardly any room left for his
vital organs, which are squeezed into a tiny corner. Assuredly one must
be passionately devoted to music thus to clear away one’s internal
organs in order to make room for a musical box!
Unfortunately the song he loves so much is extremely unattractive to
others. Nor have I yet discovered its object. It is usually suggested
that he is calling his mate; but the facts appear to contradict this
idea.
For fifteen years the Common Cicada has thrust his society upon me.
Every summer for two months I have these insects before my eyes, and
their song in my ears. I see them ranged in rows on the smooth bark of
the plane-trees, the maker of music and his mate sitting side by side.
With their suckers driven into the tree they drink, motionless. As the
sun turns they also turn round the branch with slow, sidelong steps, to
find the hottest spot. Whether drinking or moving they never cease
singing.
It seems unlikely, therefore, that they are calling their mates. You do
not spend months on end calling to some one who is at your elbow.
Indeed, I am inclined to think that the Cicada himself cannot even hear
the song he sings with so much apparent delight. This might account for
the relentless way in which he forces his music upon others.
He has very clear sight. His five eyes tell him what is happening to
right and to left and above his head; and the moment he sees any one
coming he is silent and flies away. Yet no noise disturbs him. Place
yourself behind him, and then talk, whistle, clap your hands, and knock
two stones together. For much less than this a bird, though he would
not see you, would fly away terrified. The imperturbable Cicada goes on
rattling as though nothing were there.
On one occasion I borrowed the local artillery, that is to say the guns
that are fired on feast-days in the village. There were two of them,
and they were crammed with powder as though for the most important
rejoicings. They were placed at the foot of the plane-trees in front of
my door. We were careful to leave the windows open, to prevent the
panes from breaking. The Cicadæ in the branches overhead could not see
what was happening.
Six of us waited below, eager to hear what would be the effect on the
orchestra above.
Bang! The gun went off with a noise like a thunderclap.
Quite unconcerned, the Cicadæ continued to sing. Not one appeared in
the least disturbed. There was no change whatever in the quality or the
quantity of the sound. The second gun had no more effect than the
first.
I think, after this experiment, we must admit that the Cicada is hard
of hearing, and like a very deaf man, is quite unconscious that he is
making a noise.
IV
THE CICADA’S EGGS
The Common Cicada likes to lay her eggs on small dry branches. She
chooses, as far as possible, tiny stalks, which may be of any size
between that of a straw and a lead-pencil. The sprig is never lying on
the ground, is usually nearly upright in position, and is almost always
dead.
Having found a twig to suit her, she makes a row of pricks with the
sharp instrument on her chest—such pricks as might be made with a pin
if it were driven downwards on a slant, so as to tear the fibres and
force them slightly upwards. If she is undisturbed she will make thirty
or forty of these pricks on the same twig.
In the tiny cells formed by these pricks she lays her eggs. The cells
are narrow passages, each one slanting down towards the one below it. I
generally find about ten eggs in each cell, so it is plain that the
Cicada lays between three and four hundred eggs altogether.
This is a fine family for one insect. The numbers point to some special
danger that threatens the Cicada, and makes it necessary to produce a
great quantity of grubs lest some should be destroyed. After many
observations I have discovered what this danger is. It is an extremely
tiny Gnat, compared with which the Cicada is a monster.
This Gnat, like the Cicada, carries a boring-tool. It is planted
beneath her body, near the middle, and sticks out at right angles. As
fast as the Cicada lays her eggs the Gnat tries to destroy them. It is
a real scourge to the Cicada family. It is amazing to watch her calm
and brazen audacity in the presence of the giant who could crush her by
simply stepping on her. I have seen as many as three preparing to
despoil one unhappy Cicada at the same time, standing close behind one
another.
The Cicada has just stocked a cell with eggs, and is climbing a little
higher to make another cell. One of the brigands runs to the spot she
has just left; and here, almost under the claws of the monster, as
calmly and fearlessly as though she were at home, the Gnat bores a
second hole above the Cicada’s eggs, and places among them an egg of
her own. By the time the Cicada flies away most of her cells have, in
this way, received a stranger’s egg, which will be the ruin of hers. A
small quick-hatching grub, one only to each cell, handsomely fed on a
dozen raw eggs, will take the place of the Cicada’s family.
This deplorable mother has learnt nothing from centuries of experience.
Her large and excellent eyes cannot fail to see the terrible felons
fluttering round her. She must know they are at her heels, and yet she
remains unmoved, and lets herself be victimised. She could easily crush
the wicked atoms, but she is incapable of altering her instincts, even
to save her family from destruction.
Through my magnifying-glass I have seen the hatching of the Cicada’s
eggs. When the grub first appears it has a marked likeness to an
extremely small fish, with large black eyes, and a curious sort of mock
fin under its body, formed of the two fore-legs joined together. This
fin has some power of movement, and helps the grub to work its way out
of the shell, and also—a much more difficult matter—out of the fibrous
stem in which it is imprisoned.
As soon as this fish-like object has made its way out of the cell it
sheds its skin. But the cast skin forms itself into a thread, by which
the grub remains fastened to the twig or stem. Here, before dropping to
the ground, it treats itself to a sun-bath, kicking about and trying
its strength, or swinging lazily at the end of its rope.
Its antennæ now are free, and wave about; its legs work their joints;
those in front open and shut their claws. I know hardly any more
curious sight than this tiny acrobat hanging by the tip of its body,
swinging at the least breath of wind, and making ready in the air for
its somersault into the world.
Sooner or later, without losing much time, it drops to the ground. The
little creature, no bigger than a Flea, has saved its tender body from
the rough earth by swinging on its cord. It has hardened itself in the
air, that luxurious eiderdown. It now plunges into the stern realities
of life.
I see a thousand dangers ahead of it. The merest breath of wind could
blow it on to the hard rock, or into the stagnant water in some deep
cart-rut, or on the sand where nothing grows, or else on a clay soil,
too tough for it to dig in.
The feeble creature needs shelter at once, and must look for an
underground refuge. The days are growing cold, and delays are fatal to
it. It must wander about in search of soft soil, and no doubt many die
before they find it.
When at last it discovers the right spot it attacks the earth with the
hooks on its fore-feet. Through the magnifying-glass I watch it
wielding its pickaxes, and raking an atom of earth to the surface. In a
few minutes a well has been scooped out. The little creature goes down
into it, buries itself, and is henceforth invisible.
The underground life of the undeveloped Cicada remains a secret. But we
know how long it remains in the earth before it comes to the surface
and becomes a full-grown Cicada. For four years it lives below the
soil. Then for about five weeks it sings in the sunshine.
Four years of hard work in the darkness, and a month of delight in the
sun—such is the Cicada’s life. We must not blame him for the noisy
triumph of his song. For four years he has dug the earth with his feet,
and then suddenly he is dressed in exquisite raiment, provided with
wings that rival the bird’s, and bathed in heat and light! What cymbals
can be loud enough to celebrate his happiness, so hardly earned, and so
very, very short?