LOCUSTS
I
THEIR VALUE
“Mind you’re ready, children, to-morrow morning before the sun gets too
hot. We’re going Locust-hunting.”
This announcement throws the household into great excitement at
bed-time. What do my little helpers see in their dreams? Blue wings,
red wings, suddenly flung out like fans; long saw-toothed legs, pale
blue or pink, which kick out when we hold their owners in our fingers;
great shanks that act like springs, and make the insect leap forward as
though shot from a catapult.
If there be one peaceful and safe form of hunting, one in which both
old age and childhood can share, it is Locust-hunting. What delicious
mornings we owe to it! How delightful, when the mulberries are ripe, to
pick them from the bushes! What excursions we have had, on the slopes
covered with thin, tough grass, burnt yellow by the sun! I have vivid
memories of such mornings, and my children will have them too.
Little Paul has nimble legs, a ready hand, and a piercing eye. He
inspects the clumps of everlastings, and peers closely into the bushes.
Suddenly a big Grey Locust flies out like a little bird. The hunter
first makes off at full speed, then stops and gazes in wonder at this
mock Swallow flying far away. He will have better luck another time. We
shall not go home without a few of those magnificent prizes.
Marie Pauline, who is younger than her brother, watches patiently for
the Italian Locust, with his pink wings and carmine hind-legs; but she
really prefers another, the most ornamented of them all. Her favourite
wears a St. Andrew’s cross on the small of his back, which is marked by
four white, slanting stripes. He wears, too, patches of green, the
colour of verdigris on bronze. With her hand raised in the air, ready
to swoop down, she approaches very softly, stooping low. Whoosh! That’s
done it! The treasure is quickly thrust head-first into a paper funnel,
and plunges with one bound to the bottom of it.
One by one our boxes are filled. Before the heat becomes too great to
bear we are in possession of a number of specimens. Imprisoned in my
cages, perhaps they will teach us something. In any case the Locusts
have given pleasure to three people at a small cost.
Locusts have a bad reputation, I know. The textbooks describe them as
noxious. I take the liberty of doubting whether they deserve this
reproach, except, of course, in the case of the terrible ravagers who
are the scourge of Africa and the East. Their ill repute has been
fastened on all Locusts, though they are, I consider, more useful than
harmful. As far as I know, our peasants have never complained of them.
What damage do they do?
They nibble the tops of the tough grasses which the Sheep refuses to
touch; they prefer the thin, poor grass to the fat pastures; they
browse on barren land that can support none but them; they live on food
that no stomach but theirs could use.
Besides, by the time they frequent the fields the green wheat—the only
thing that might tempt them—has long ago yielded its grain and
disappeared. If they happen to get into the kitchen-gardens and take a
few bites, it is not a crime. A man can console himself for a piece
bitten out of a leaf or two of salad.
To measure the importance of things by one’s own turnip-patch is a
horrible method. The short-sighted man would upset the order of the
universe rather than sacrifice a dozen plums. If he thinks of the
insect at all, it is only to kill it.
And yet, think what the consequences would be if all the Locusts were
killed. In September and October the Turkeys are driven into the
stubble, under charge of a child armed with two long reeds. The expanse
over which the gobbling flock slowly spreads is bare, dry, and burnt by
the sun. At the most, a few ragged thistles raise their heads. What do
the birds do in this famine-stricken desert? They cram themselves, that
they may do honour to the Christmas table; they wax fat; their flesh
becomes firm and good to eat. And pray, what do they cram themselves
with? With Locusts. They snap them up, one here one there, till their
greedy crops are filled with the delicious stuffing, which costs
nothing, though its rich flavour will greatly improve the Christmas
Turkey.
When the Guinea-fowl roams about the farm, uttering her rasping cry,
what is it she seeks? Seeds, no doubt; but above all Locusts, which
puff her out under the wings with a pad of fat, and give a better
flavour to her flesh. The Hen, too, much to our advantage, is just as
fond of them. She well knows the virtues of that dainty dish, which
acts as a tonic and makes her lay more eggs. When left at liberty she
rarely fails to lead her family to the stubble-fields, so that they may
learn to snap up the nice mouthful skilfully. In fact, every bird in
the poultry-yard finds the Locust a valuable addition to his bill of
fare.
It is still more important outside the poultry-yard. Any who is a
sportsman, and knows the value of the Red-legged Patridge, the glory of
our southern hills, should open the crop of the bird he has just shot.
He will find it, nine times out of ten, more or less crammed with
Locusts. The Partridge dotes on them, preferring them to seeds as long
as he can catch them. This highly-flavoured, nourishing fare would
almost make him forget the existence of seeds, if it were only there
all the year round.
The Wheat-ear, too, who is so good to eat, prefers the Locust to any
other food. And all the little birds of passage which, when autumn
comes, call a halt in Provence before their great pilgrimage, fatten
themselves with Locusts as a preparation for the journey.
Nor does man himself scorn them. An Arab author tells us:
“Grasshoppers”—(he means Locusts)—“are of good nourishment for men and
Camels. Their claws, wings, and head are taken away, and they are eaten
fresh or dried, either roast or boiled, and served with flesh, flour,
and herbs.
”... Camels eat them greedily, and are given them dried or roast,
heaped in a hollow between two layers of charcoal. Thus also do the
Nubians eat them....
“Once, when the Caliph Omar was asked if it were lawful to eat
Grasshoppers, he made answer:
”’Would that I had a basket of them to eat.’
“Wherefore, from this testimony, it is very sure that, by the Grace of
God, Grasshoppers were given to man for his nourishment.”
Without going as far as the Arab I feel prepared to say that the Locust
is a gift of God to a multitude of birds. Reptiles also hold him in
esteem. I have found him in the stomach of the Eyed Lizard, and have
often caught the little Grey Lizard of the walls in the act of carrying
him off.
Even the fish revel in him, when good fortune brings him to them. The
Locust leaps blindly, and without definite aim: he comes down wherever
he is shot by the springs in his legs. If the place where he falls
happens to be water, a fish gobbles him up at once. Anglers sometimes
bait their hooks with a specially attractive Locust.
As for his being fit nourishment for man, except in the form of
Partridge and young Turkey, I am a little doubtful. Omar, the mighty
Caliph who destroyed the library of Alexandria, wished for a basket of
Locusts, it is true, but his digestion was evidently better than his
brains. Long before his day St. John the Baptist lived in the desert on
Locusts and wild honey; but in his case they were not eaten because
they were good.
Wild honey from the pots of the Mason-bees is very agreeable food, I
know. Wishing to taste the Locust also I once caught some, and had them
cooked as the Arab author advised. We all of us, big and little, tried
the queer dish at dinner. It was much nicer than the Cicadæ praised by
Aristotle. I would go to the length of saying it is good—without,
however, feeling any desire for more.
II
THEIR MUSICAL TALENT
The Locust possesses musical powers wherewith to express his joys.
Consider him at rest, blissfully digesting his meal and enjoying the
sunshine. With sharp strokes of the bow, three or four times repeated
with a pause between, he plays his tune. He scrapes his sides with his
great hind-legs, using now one, now the other, and now both at a time.
The result is very poor, so slight indeed that I am obliged to make use
of little Paul’s sharp ear to make sure that there is a sound at all.
Such as it is, it is like the squeaking of a needle-point pushed across
a sheet of paper. There you have the whole song, which is very nearly
silence.
We can expect no more than this from the Locust’s very unfinished
instrument. There is nothing here like the Cricket’s toothed bow and
sounding-board. The lower edge of the wing-cases is rubbed by the
thighs, but though both wing-cases and thighs are powerful they have no
roughnesses to supply friction, and there is no sign of teeth.
This artless attempt at a musical instrument can produce no more sound
than a dry membrane will emit when you rub it yourself. And for the
sake of this small result the insect lifts and lowers its thigh in
sharp jerks, and appears perfectly satisfied. It rubs its sides very
much as we rub our hands together in sign of contentment, with no
intention of making a sound. That is its own particular way of
expressing its joy in life.
Observe the Locust when the sky is partly covered with clouds, and the
sun shines only at times. There comes a rift in the clouds. At once the
thighs begin to scrape, becoming more and more active as the sun grows
hotter. The strains are brief, but they are repeated as long as the
sunshine continues. The sky becomes overcast. Then and there the song
ceases; but is renewed with the next gleam of sunlight, always in brief
outburst. There is no mistaking it: here, in these fond lovers of the
light, we have a mere expression of happiness. The Locust has his
moments of gaiety when his crop is full and the sun is kind.
Not all the Locusts indulge in this joyous rubbing.
The Tryxalis, who has a pair of immensely long hind-legs, keeps up a
gloomy silence when even the sunshine is brightest. I have never seen
him move his shanks like a bow; he seems unable to use them—so long are
they—for anything but hopping.
The big Grey Locust, who often visits me in the enclosure, even in the
depth of winter, is also dumb in consequence of the excessive length of
his legs. But he has a peculiar way of diverting himself. In calm
weather, when the sun is hot, I surprise him in the rosemary bushes
with his wings unfurled and fluttering rapidly, as though for flight.
He keeps up this performance for a quarter of an hour at a time. His
fluttering is so gentle, in spite of its extreme speed, that it creates
hardly any rustling sound.
Others are still worse off. One of these is the Pedestrian Locust, who
strolls on foot on the ridges of the Ventoux amid sheets of Alpine
flowers, silvery, white, and rosy. His colouring is as fresh as that of
the flowers. The sunlight, which is clearer on those heights than it is
below, has made him a costume combining beauty with simplicity. His
body is pale brown above and yellow below, his big thighs are coral
red, his hind-legs a glorious azure-blue, with an ivory anklet in
front. But in spite of being such a dandy he wears too short a coat.
His wing-cases are merely wrinkled slips, and his wings no more than
stumps. He is hardly covered as far as the waist. Any one seeing him
for the first time takes him for a larva, but he is indeed the
full-grown insect, and he will wear this incomplete garment to the end.
With this skimpy jacket of course, music is impossible to him. The big
thighs are there; but there are no wing-cases, no grating edge for the
bow to rub upon. The other Locusts cannot be described as noisy, but
this one is absolutely dumb. In vain have the most delicate ears
listened with all their might. This silent one must have other means of
expressing his joys. What they are I do not know.
Nor do I know why the insect remains without wings, a plodding
wayfarer, when his near kinsmen on the same Alpine slopes have
excellent means of flying. He possesses the beginnings of wings and
wing-cases, gifts inherited by the larva; but he does not develop these
beginnings and make use of them. He persists in hopping, with no
further ambition: he is satisfied to go on foot, to remain a Pedestrian
Locust, when he might, one would think, acquire wings. To flit rapidly
from crest to crest, over valleys deep in snow, to fly from one pasture
to another, would certainly be great advantages to him. His
fellow-dwellers on the mountain-tops possess wings and are all the
better for them. It would be very profitable to extract from their
sheaths the sails he keeps packed away in useless stumps; and he does
not do it. Why?
No one knows why. Anatomy has these puzzles, these surprises, these
sudden leaps, which defy our curiosity. In the presence of such
profound problems the best thing is to bow in all humility, and pass
on.
III
THEIR EARLY DAYS
The Locust mother is not, in all cases, a model of affection. The
Italian Locust, having laboriously half-buried herself in the sand,
lays her eggs there and immediately bounds away. She gives not a look
at the eggs, nor makes the least attempt to cover the hole where they
lie. It closes of its own accord, as best it can, by the natural
falling-in of the sand. It is an extremely casual performance, marked
by an utter absence of maternal care.
Others do not forsake their eggs so recklessly. The ordinary Locust
with the blue-and-black wings, for instance, after leaving her eggs in
the sand, lifts her hind-legs high, sweeps some sand into the hole, and
presses it down by stamping it rapidly. It is a pretty sight to watch
the swift action of her slender legs, giving alternate kicks to the
opening they are plugging. With this lively trampling the entrance to
the home is closed and hidden away. The hole that contains the eggs
completely disappears, so that no ill-intentioned creature could find
it by sight alone.
Nor is this all. The power that works the two rammers lies in the
hinder thighs, which, as they rise and fall, scrape lightly against the
edge of the wing-cases. This scraping produces a faint sound, similar
to that with which the insect placidly lulls itself to sleep in the
sun.
The Hen salutes with a song of gladness the egg she just laid; she
announces her performance to the whole neighbourhood. The Locust
celebrates the same event with her thin scraper. “I have buried
underground,” she says, “the treasure of the future.”
Having made the nest safe she leaves the spot, refreshes herself after
her exertions with a few mouthfuls of green stuff, and prepares to
begin again.
The Grey Locust mother is armed at the tip of her body—and so are other
female Locusts in varying degrees—with four short tools, arranged in
pairs and shaped like a hooked fingernail. On the upper pair, which are
larger than the others, these hooks are turned upwards; on the lower
and smaller pair they are turned downwards. They form a sort of claw,
and are scooped out slightly, like a spoon. These are the pick-axes,
the boring-tools with which the Grey Locust works. With these she bites
into the soil, lifting the dry earth a little, as quietly as if she
were digging in soft mould. She might be working in butter; and yet
what the bore digs into is hard, unyielding earth.
The best site for laying the eggs is not always found at the first
attempt. I have seen the mother make five wells one after the other
before finding a suitable place. When at last the business is over, and
the insect begins to rise from the hole in which she is partly buried,
one can see that she is covering her eggs with milk-white foam, similar
to that of the Mantis.
This foamy matter often forms a button at the entrance to the well, a
knot which stands up and attracts the eye by its whiteness against the
grey background of the soil. It is soft and sticky, but hardens pretty
soon. When this closing button is finished the mother moves away and
troubles no more about her eggs, of which she lays a fresh batch
elsewhere after a few days.
Sometimes the foamy paste does not reach the surface; it stops some way
down, and before long is covered with the sand that slips from the
edge. But in the case of my Locusts in captivity I always know, even
when it is concealed, exactly where the barrel of eggs lies. Its
structure is always the same, though there are variations in detail. It
is always a sheath of solidified foam. Inside, there is nothing but
foam and eggs. The eggs all lie in the lower portion, packed one on top
of another; and the upper part consists only of soft, yielding foam.
This portion plays an important part when the young larvæ are hatched.
I will call it the ascending-shaft.
The wonderful egg-casket of the Mantis is not the result of any special
talent which the mother can exercise at will. It is due to mechanism.
It happens of itself. In the same way the Locusts have no industry of
their own, especially devised for laying eggs in a keg of froth. The
foam is produced with the eggs, and the arrangement of eggs at the
bottom and centre, and froth on the outside and the top, is purely
mechanical.
There are many Locusts whose egg-cases have to last through the winter,
since they do not open until the fine weather returns. Though the soil
is loose and dusty at first, it becomes caked together by the winter
rains. Supposing that the hatching takes place a couple of inches below
the surface, how is this crust, this hard ceiling, to be broken? How is
the larva to come up from below? The mother’s unconscious art has
arranged for that.
The young Locust finds above him, when he comes out of the egg, not
rough sand and hardened earth, but a straight tunnel, with solid walls
that keep all difficulties away. This ascending-shaft is full of foam,
which the larva can easily penetrate, and which will bring him quite
close to the surface. Here only a finger’s-breadth of serious work
remains to be done.
The greater part of the journey, therefore, is accomplished without
effort. Though the Locust’s building is done quite mechanically,
without the least intelligence, it is certainly singularly well
devised.
The little creature has now to complete his deliverance. On leaving his
shell he is of a whitish colour, clouded with light red. His progress
is made by worm-like movements; and, so that it may be as easy as
possible, he is hatched, like the young Grasshopper, in a temporary
jacket which keeps his antennæ and legs closely fixed to his body. Like
the White-faced Decticus he keeps his boring-tool at his neck. Here
there is a kind of tumour that swells and subsides alternately, and
strikes the obstacle before it as regularly as a piston. When I see
this soft bladder trying to overcome the hardness of the earth I come
to the unhappy creature’s aid, and damp the layer of soil.
Even then the work is terribly hard. How it must labour, the poor
little thing, how it must persevere with its throbbing head and
writhing loins, before it can clear a passage for itself! The wee
mite’s efforts show us plainly that the journey to the light of day is
an enormous undertaking, in which the greater number would die but for
the help of the exit-tunnel, the mother’s work.
When the tiny insect reaches the surface at last, it rests for a moment
to recover from all that fatigue. Then suddenly the blister swells and
throbs, and the temporary jacket splits. The rags are pushed back by
the hind-legs, which are the last to be stripped. The thing is done:
the creature is free, pale in colouring as yet, but possessing its
final form as a larva.
Immediately the hind-legs, hitherto stretched in a straight line, fall
into the correct position. The legs fold under the great thighs, and
the spring is ready to work. It works, Little Locust makes his entrance
into the world, and hops for the first time. I offer him a bit of
lettuce the size of my fingernail. He refuses it. Before taking
nourishment he must first mature and grow in the sun.
IV
THEIR FINAL CHANGE
I have just beheld a stirring sight: the last change of a Locust, the
full-grown insect emerging from his larval skin. It is magnificent. The
object of my enthusiasm is the Grey Locust, the giant who is so common
on the vines at vintage-time, in September. On account of his size—he
is as long as my finger—he is easier to observe than any other of his
tribe. The event took place in one of my cages.
The fat, ungraceful larva, a rough sketch of the perfect insect, is
usually pale green; but some are blue-green, dirty yellow, red-brown,
or even ashen-grey, like the grey of the full-grown Locust. The
hind-legs, which are as powerful as those of mature age, have a great
haunch striped with red and a long shank shaped like a two-edged saw.
The wing-cases are at present two skimpy, triangular pinions, of which
the free ends stand up like pointed gables. These two coat-tails, of
which the material seems to have been clipped short with ridiculous
meanness, just cover the creature’s nakedness at the small of the back,
and shelter two lean strips, the germs of the wings. In brief, the
sumptuous slender sails of the near future are at present sheer rags,
of such meagre size as to be grotesque. From these miserable envelopes
there will come a marvel of stately elegance.
The first thing to be done is to burst the old tunic. All along the
corselet of the insect there is a line that is weaker than the rest of
the skin. Waves of blood can be seen throbbing within, rising and
falling alternately, distending the skin until at last it splits at the
line of least resistance, and opens as though the two symmetrical
halves had been soldered. The split is continued some little way back,
and runs between the fastenings of the wings: it goes up the head as
far as the base of the antennæ, where it sends a short branch to right
and left.
Through this break the back is seen, quite soft, pale, hardly tinged
with grey. Slowly it swells into a larger and larger hunch. At last it
is wholly released. The head follows, pulled out of its mask, which
remains in its place, intact in the smallest particular, but looking
strange with its great eyes that do not see. The sheaths of the
antennæ, without a wrinkle, with nothing out of order, and with their
usual position unchanged, hang over this dead face, which is now half
transparent.
This means that the antennæ within, although fitted into narrow sheaths
that enclose them as precisely as gloves, are able to withdraw without
disturbing the covers in the smallest degree, or even wrinkling them.
The contents manage to slip out as easily as a smooth, straight object
could slip from a loose sheath. This mechanism is even more remarkable
in the case of the hind-legs.
Now it is the turn of the fore-legs and intermediary legs to shed their
armlets and gauntlets, always without the least rent, however small,
without a crease of rumpled material, or a trace of any change in the
natural position. The insect is now fixed to the top of the cage only
by the claws of the long hind-legs. It hangs perpendicularly by four
tiny hooks, head downwards, and it swings like a pendulum if I touch
the wire-gauze.
The wing-cases and wings now emerge. These are four narrow strips,
faintly grooved and looking like bits of paper ribbon. At this stage
they are scarcely a quarter of their final length. They are so limp
that they bend under their own weight and sprawl along the insect’s
sides in the wrong direction, with their points towards the head of the
Locust. Imagine four blades of thick grass, bent and battered by a
rain-storm, and you will have a fair picture of the pitiable bunch
formed by the future wings.
The hind-legs are next released. The great thighs appear, tinted on
their inner surface with pale pink, which will soon turn into a streak
of bright crimson. They come out of the sheath quite easily, for the
thick haunch makes way for the tapering knuckle.
The shank is a different matter. The shank of the full-grown insect
bristles throughout its length with a double row of hard, pointed
spikes. Moreover, the lower extremity ends in four large spurs. It is a
genuine saw, but with two parallel sets of teeth.
Now this awkwardly shaped skin is enclosed in a sheath that is formed
in exactly the same way. Each spur is fitted into a similar spur, each
tooth into the hollow of a similar tooth. And the sheath is as close
and as thin as a coat of varnish.
Nevertheless the saw-like skin slips out of its long narrow case
without catching in it at any point whatever. If I had not seen this
happen over and over again I could never have believed it. The saw does
no injury to the dainty scabbard which a puff of my breath is enough to
tear; the formidable rake slips through without leaving the least
scratch behind it.
One would expect that, because of the spiked armour, the envelope of
the leg would strip off in scales coming loose of themselves, or would
be rubbed off like dead skin. But the reality exceeds all possible
expectation. From the spurs and spikes of the infinitely thin envelope
there are drawn spurs and spikes so strong that they can cut soft wood.
This is done without violence, the discarded skin remains where it was,
hanging by the claws to the top of the cage, uncreased and untorn. The
magnifying-glass shows not a trace of rough usage.
If it were suggested that one should draw out a saw from some sort of
gold-beater’s skin sheath which had been exactly moulded on the steel,
and that one should perform the operation without making the least
tear, one would simply laugh. The thing would be impossible. Yet Nature
makes light of such impossibilities; she can realise the absurd, in
case of need.
The difficulty is overcome in this way. While the leg is being
liberated it is not rigid, as it will presently be. It is soft and
highly flexible. Where it is exposed to view I see it bending and
curving: it is as supple as elastic cord. And farther on, where it is
hidden, it is certainly still softer, it is almost fluid. The teeth of
the saw are there, but have none of their future sharpness. The spikes
lie backwards when the leg is about to be drawn back: as it emerges
they stand up and become solid. A few minutes later the leg has
attained the proper state of stiffness.
And now the fine tunic is wrinkled and rumpled, and pushed back along
the body towards the tip. Except at this point the Locust is bare.
After a rest of twenty minutes he makes a supreme effort; he raises
himself as he hangs, and grabs hold of his cast skin. Then he climbs
higher, and fixes himself to the wire of the cage with his four front
feet. He loosens the empty husk with one last shake, and it falls to
the ground. The Locust’s transformation is conducted in much the same
way as the Cicada’s.
The insect is now standing erect, and therefore the flexible wings are
in the right position. They are no longer curved backwards like the
petals of a flower, they are no longer upside down; but they still look
shabby and insignificant. All that we see is a few wrinkles, a few
winding furrows, which tell us that the stumps are bundles of cunningly
folded material, arranged so as to take up as little space as possible.
Very gradually they expand, so gradually that their unfolding cannot be
seen even under the microscope. The process continues for three hours.
Then the wings and wing-cases stand up on the Locust’s back like a huge
set of sails, sometimes colourless, sometimes pale-green, like the
Cicada’s wings at the beginning. One is amazed at their size when one
thinks of the paltry bundles that represented them at first. How could
so much stuff find room there?
The fairy tale tells us of a grain of hempseed that contained the
under-linen of a princess. Here is a grain that is even more
astonishing. The one in the story took years and years to sprout and
multiply, till at last it yielded the hemp required for the trousseau:
the Locust’s tiny bundle supplies a sumptuous set of sails in three
hours. They are formed of exquisitely fine gauze, a network of
innumerable tiny bars.
In the wing of the larva we can see only a few uncertain outlines of
the future lace-work. There is nothing to suggest the marvellous fabric
whose every mesh will have its form and place arranged for it, with
absolute exactness. Yet it is there, as the oak is inside the acorn.
There must be something to make the matter of the wing shape itself
into a sheet of gauze, into a labyrinth of meshes. There must be an
original plan, an ideal pattern which gives each atom its proper place.
The stones of our buildings are arranged in accordance with the
architect’s plan; they form an imaginary building before they exist as
a real one. In the same way a Locust’s wing, that sumptuous piece of
lace emerging from a miserable sheath, speaks to us of another
Architect, the Author of the plans which Nature must follow in her
labours.