LA CIGALO E LA FOURNIGO.
I.
Jour de Dièu, queto caud! Bèu tèms pèr la Cigalo,
Que, trefoulido, se regalo
D'uno raisso de fio; bèu tèms per la meissoun.
Dins lis erso d'or, lou segaire,
Ren plega, pitre au vent, rustico e canto gaire;
Dins soun gousiè, la set estranglo la cansoun.
Tèms benesi pèr tu. Dounc, ardit! cigaleto,
Fai-lei brusi, ti chimbaleto,
E brandusso lou ventre à creba ti mirau.
L'Ome enterin mando le daio,
Que vai balin-balan de longo e que dardaio
L'ulau de soun acié sus li rous espigau.
Plèn d'aigo pèr la péiro e tampouna d'erbiho
Lou coufié sus l'anco pendiho.
Si la péiro es au frès dins soun estui de bos,
E se de longo es abèurado,
L'Ome barbelo au fio d'aqueli souleiado
Que fan bouli de fes la mesoulo dis os.
Tu, Cigalo, as un biais pèr la set: dins la rusco
Tendro e jutouso d'uno busco,
L'aguio de toun bè cabusso e cavo un pous.
Lou siro monto pèr la draio.
T'amourres à la fon melicouso que raio,
E dou sourgènt sucra bèves lou teta-dous.
Mai pas toujour en pas. Oh! que nàni; de laire,
Vesin, vesino o barrulaire,
T'an vist cava lou pous. An set; vènon, doulènt,
Te prène un degout pèr si tasso.
Mesfiso-te, ma bello: aqueli curo-biasso,
Umble d'abord, soun lèu de gusas insoulènt.
Quiston un chicouloun di rèn, pièi de ti resto
Soun plus countènt, ausson la testo
E volon tout: L'auran. Sis arpioun en rastèu
Te gatihoun lou bout de l'alo.
Sus tu larjo esquinasso es un mounto-davalo;
T'aganton pèr lou bè, li bano, lis artèu;
Tiron d'eici, d'eilà. L'impaciènci te gagno.
Pst! pst! d'un giscle de pissagno
Aspèrges l'assemblado e quites lou ramèu.
T'en vas bèn liuen de la racaio,
Que t'a rauba lou pous, e ris, e se gougaio,
E se lipo li brego enviscado de mèu.
Or d'aqueli boumian abèura sens fatigo,
Lou mai tihous es la fournigo.
Mousco, cabrian, guespo e tavan embana,
Espeloufi de touto meno,
Costo-en-long qu'à toun pous lou soulcias ameno,
N'an pas soun testardige à te faire enana.
Pèr l'esquicha l'artèu, te coutiga lou mourre,
Te pessuga lou nas, pèr courre
A l'oumbro du toun ventre, osco! degun la vau.
Lou marrit-pèu prend pèr escalo
Uno patto e te monto, ardido, sus lis alo,
E s'espasso, insoulènto, e vai d'amont, d'avau.
II.
Aro veici qu'es pas de crèire.
Ancian tèms, nous dison li rèire,
Un jour d'ivèr; la fam te prenguè. Lou front bas
E d'escoundoun anères vèire,
Dins si grand magasin, la fournigo, eilàbas.
L'endrudido au soulèu secavo,
Avans de lis escoundre en cavo,
Si blad qu'aviè mousi l'eigagno de la niue.
Quand èron lest lis ensacavo.
Tu survènes alor, emé de plour is iue.
Iè disés: "Fai bèn fre; l'aurasso
D'un caire à l'autre me tirasso
Avanido de fam. A toun riche mouloun
Leisso-me prène pèr ma biasso.
Te lou rendrai segur au bèu tèms di meloun.
"Presto-me un pan de gran." Mai, bouto,
Se cresès que l'autro t'escouto,
T'enganes. Di gros sa, rèn de rèn sara tièu.
"Vai-t'en plus liuen rascla de bouto;
Crebo de fam l'ivèr, tu que cantes l'estièu."
Ansin charro la fablo antico
Pèr nous counséia la pratico
Di sarro-piastro, urous de nousa li cordoun
De si bourso.—Que la coulico
Rousiguè la tripaio en aqueli coudoun!
Me fai susa, lou fabulisto,
Quand dis que l'ivèr vas en quisto
De mousco, verme, gran, tu que manges jamai.
De blad! Que n'en fariès, ma fisto!
As ta fon melicouso e demandes rèn mai.
Que t'enchau l'ivèr! Ta famiho
A la sousto en terro soumiho,
Et tu dormes la som que n'a ges de revèi;
Toun cadabre toumbo en douliho.
Un jour, en tafurant, la fournigo lou véi,
De tu magro péu dessecado
La marriasso fai becado;
Te curo lou perus, te chapouto à moucèu,
T'encafourno pèr car-salado,
Requisto prouvisioun, l'ivèr, en tèms de neu.
III.
Vaqui l'istori veritablo
Bèn liuen dôu conte de la fablo.
Que n'en pensas, canèu de sort!
—O rammaissaire de dardeno
Det croucu, boumbudo bedeno
Que gouvernas lou mounde emé lou coffre-fort,
Fasès courre lou bru, canaio,
Que l'artisto jamai travaio
E dèu pati, lou bedigas.
Teisas-vous dounc: quand di lambrusco
La Cigalo a cava la rusco,
Raubas soun bèure, e pièi, morto, la rousigas.
So speaks my friend in the expressive Provençal idiom, rehabilitating the creature so libelled by the fabulist.
Translated with a little necessary freedom, the English of it is as follows:—
I.
Fine weather for the Cigale! God, what heat!
Half drunken with her joy, she feasts
In a hail of fire. Pays for the harvest meet;
A golden sea the reaper breasts,
Loins bent, throat bare; silent, he labours long,
For thirst within his throat has stilled the song.
A blessed time for thee, little Cigale.
Thy little cymbals shake and sound,
Shake, shake thy stomach till thy mirrors fall!
Man meanwhile swings his scythe around;
Continually back and forth it veers,
Flashing its steel amidst the ruddy ears.
Grass-plugged, with water for the grinder full,
A flask is hung upon his hip;
The stone within its wooden trough is cool,
Free all the day to sip and sip;
But man is gasping in the fiery sun,
That makes his very marrow melt and run.
Thou, Cigale, hast a cure for thirst: the bark,
Tender and juicy, of the bough.
Thy beak, a very needle, stabs it. Mark
The narrow passage welling now;
The sugared stream is flowing, thee beside,
Who drinkest of the flood, the honeyed tide.
Not in peace always; nay, for thieves arrive,
Neighbours and wives, or wanderers vile;
They saw thee sink the well, and ill they thrive
Thirsting; they seek to drink awhile;
Beauty, beware! the wallet-snatcher's face,
Humble at first, grows insolent apace.
They seek the merest drop; thy leavings take;
Soon discontent, their heads they toss;
They crave for all, and all will have. They rake
Their claws thy folded wings across;
Thy back a mountain, up and down each goes;
They seize thee by the beak, the horns, the toes.
This way and that they pull. Impatient thou:
Pst! Pst! a jet of nauseous taste
O'er the assembly sprinklest. Leave the bough
And fly the rascals thus disgraced,
Who stole thy well, and with malicious pleasure
Now lick their honey'd lips, and feed at leisure.
See these Bohemians without labour fed!
The ant the worst of all the crew—
Fly, drone, wasp, beetle too with horned head,
All of them sharpers thro' and thro',
Idlers the sun drew to thy well apace—
None more than she was eager for thy place,
More apt thy face to tickle, toe to tread,
Or nose to pinch, and then to run
Under the shade thine ample belly spread;
Or climb thy leg for ladder; sun
Herself audacious on thy wings, and go
Most insolently o'er thee to and fro.
II.
Now comes a tale that no one should believe.
In other times, the ancients say,
The winter came, and hunger made thee grieve.
Thou didst in secret see one day
The ant below the ground her treasure store away.
The wealthy ant was drying in the sun
Her corn the dew had wet by night,
Ere storing it again; and one by one
She filled her sacks as it dried aright.
Thou camest then, and tears bedimmed thy sight,
Saying: "'Tis very cold; the bitter bise
Blows me this way and that to-day.
I die of hunger. Of your riches please
Fill me my bag, and I'll repay,
When summer and its melons come this way.
"Lend me a little corn." Go to, go to!
Think you the ant will lend an ear?
You are deceived. Great sacks, but nought for you!
"Be off, and scrape some barrel clear!
You sing of summer: starve, for winter's here!"
'Tis thus the ancient fable sings
To teach us all the prudence ripe
Of farthing-snatchers, glad to knot the string
That tie their purses. May the gripe
Of colic twist the guts of all such tripe!
He angers me, this fable-teller does,
Saying in winter thou dost seek
Flies, grubs, corn—thou dost never eat like us!
—Corn! Couldst thou eat it, with thy beak?
Thou hast thy fountain with its honey'd reek.
To thee what matters winter? Underground
Slumber thy children, sheltered; thou
The sleep that knows no waking sleepest sound.
Thy body, fallen from the bough,
Crumbles; the questing ant has found thee now.
The wicked ant of thy poor withered hide
A banquet makes; in little bits
She cuts thee up, and empties thine inside,
And stores thee where in wealth she sits:
Choice diet when the winter numbs the wits.
III.
Here is the tale related duly,
And little resembling the fable, truly!
Hoarders of farthings, I know, deuce take it.
It isn't the story as you would make it!
Crook-fingers, big-bellies, what do you say,
Who govern the world with the cash-box—hey?
You have spread the story, with shrug and smirk,
That the artist ne'er does a stroke of work;
And so let him suffer, the imbecile!
Be you silent! 'Tis you, I think,
When the Cigale pierces the vine to drink,
Drive her away, her drink to steal;
And when she is dead—you make your meal!
CHAPTER II
THE CIGALE LEAVES ITS BURROW
The first Cigales appear about the summer solstice. Along the beaten paths, calcined by the sun, hardened by the passage of frequent feet, we see little circular orifices almost large enough to admit the thumb. These are the holes by which the larvæ of the Cigale have come up from the depths to undergo metamorphosis. We see them more or less everywhere, except in fields where the soil has been disturbed by ploughing. Their usual position is in the driest and hottest situations, especially by the sides of roads or the borders of footpaths. Powerfully equipped for the purpose, able at need to pierce the turf or sun-dried clay, the larva, upon leaving the earth, seems to prefer the hardest spots.
A garden alley, converted into a little Arabia Petræa by reflection from a wall facing the south, abounds in such holes. During the last days of June I have made an examination of these recently abandoned pits. The soil is so compact that I needed a pick to tackle it.
The orifices are round, and close upon an inch in diameter. There is absolutely no debris round them; no earth thrown up from within. This is always the case; the holes of the Cigales are never surrounded by dumping-heaps, as are the burrows of the Geotrupes, another notable excavator. The way in which the work is done is responsible for this difference. The dung-beetle works from without inwards; she begins to dig at the mouth of the burrow, and afterwards re-ascends and accumulates the excavated material on the surface. The larva of the Cigale, on the contrary, works outward from within, upward from below; it opens the door of exit at the last moment, so that it is not free for the discharge of excavated material until the work is done. The first enters and raises a little rubbish-heap at the threshold of her burrow; the second emerges, and cannot, while working, pile up its rubbish on a threshold which as yet has no existence.