There I recognize my Cricket. I see him curling his antennæ on the threshold of his burrow, keeping his belly cool and his back to the sun. He is not jealous of the Butterfly; on the contrary, he pities her, with that air of mocking commiseration familiar in the ratepayer who owns a house of his own and sees passing before his door some wearer of a gaudy costume with no place to lay her head. Far from complaining, he is very well satisfied with both his house and his violin. A true philosopher, he knows the vanity of things and appreciates the charm of a modest retreat away from the riot of pleasure-seekers. [[306]]
Yes, the description is about right, though it remains very inadequate and does not bear the stamp of immortality. The Cricket is still waiting for the few lines needed to perpetuate his merits; and, since La Fontaine neglected him, he will have to go on waiting a long time.
To me, as a naturalist, the outstanding feature in the two fables—a feature which I should find repeated elsewhere, beyond a doubt, if my library were not reduced to a small row of odd volumes on a deal shelf—is the burrow on which the moral is founded. Florian speaks of the snug retreat; the other praises his lowly home. It is the dwelling therefore that above all compels attention, even that of the poet, who cares little in general for realities.
In this respect, indeed, the Cricket is extraordinary. Of all our insects, he alone, on attaining maturity, possesses a fixed abode, the monument of his industry. During the bad season of the year, most of the others burrow or skulk in some temporary refuge, a refuge obtained free of cost and abandoned without regret. Several create marvels, with a view to settling their family: cotton satchels, baskets made of leaves, towers of [[307]]cement. Some carnivorous larvæ dwell in permanent ambuscades, where they lie in wait for their prey. The Tiger-beetle, among others, digs itself a perpendicular hole, which it closes with its flat, bronze head. Whoever ventures on the insidious foot-bridge vanishes down the gulf, whose trap-door at once tips up and disappears beneath the feet of the wayfarer. The Ant-lion makes a funnel in the sand. The Ant slides down its very loose slope and is bombarded with projectiles hurled from the bottom of the crater by the hunter, who turns his neck into a catapult. But these are all temporary refuges, nests or traps.
The laboriously constructed residence, in which the insect settles down with no intention of moving, either in the happy spring or the woful winter season; the real manor, built for peace and comfort and not as a hunting-box or a nursery: this is known to the Cricket alone. On some sunny, grassy slope he is the owner of a hermitage. While all the others lead vagabond lives, sleeping in the open air or under the casual shelter of a dead leaf, a stone, or the peeling bark of an old tree, he is a privileged person with a permanent address. [[308]]
A serious problem is that of the home. It has been solved by the Cricket, by the Rabbit and, lastly, by man. In my neighbourhood, the Fox and the Badger have holes the best part of which is supplied by the irregularities of the rock. A few repairs; and the dug-out is completed. Cleverer than they, the Rabbit builds his house by burrowing wheresoever he pleases, when there is no natural passage that allows him to settle down free of any trouble.
The Cricket surpasses all of them. Scorning chance refuges, he always chooses the site of his abode, in well-drained ground, with a pleasant sunny aspect. He refuses to make use of fortuitous cavities, which are incommodious and rough; he digs every bit of his villa, from the entrance-hall to the back-room.
I see no one above him, in the art of house-building, except man; and even man, before mixing mortar to hold stones together, before kneading clay to coat his hut of branches, fought with wild beasts for the possession of a refuge in the rocks or an underground cavern.
Then how are the privileges of instinct distributed? Here is one of the humblest, [[309]]able to lodge himself to perfection. He has a home, an advantage unknown to many civilized beings; he has a peaceful retreat, the first condition of comfort; and nobody around him is capable of settling down. He has no rivals until you come to ourselves.
Whence does he derive this gift? Is he favoured with special tools? No, the Cricket is not an incomparable excavator; in fact, one is rather surprised at the result when one considers the feebleness of his resources.