Can it be made necessary by the demands of an exceptionally delicate skin? No, among his near kinsmen, other skins, no less sensitive than his, do not dread the open air at all.
Can it be a propensity inherent in the anatomical structure, a talent prescribed by the secret promptings of the organism? No, my neighbourhood boasts three other Crickets (Gryllus bimaculatus, de Geer; G. desertus, Pallas.; G. burdigalensis, Latr.), who are so like the Field Cricket in appearance, colour and structure that, at the first glance, one would take them for him. The first is as large as he is, or even larger. The second represents him reduced to about half [[310]]his size. The third is smaller still. Well, of these faithful copies, these doubles of the Field Cricket, not one knows how to dig himself a burrow. The Double-spotted Cricket inhabits those heaps of grass left to rot in damp places; the Solitary Cricket roams about the crevices in the dry clods turned up by the gardener’s spade; the Bordeaux Cricket is not afraid to make his way into our houses, where he sings discreetly, during August and September, in some dark, cool spot.
There is no object in continuing our questions: each would meet with no for an answer. Instinct, which stands revealed here and disappears there despite organisms alike in all respects, will never tell us its causes. It depends so little on an insect’s stock of tools that no anatomical detail can explain it to us and still less make us foresee it. The four almost identical Crickets, of whom one alone understands the art of burrowing, add their evidence to the manifold proofs already supplied; they confirm in a striking fashion our profound ignorance of the origin of instinct.
Who does not know the Cricket’s abode! Who has not, as a child playing in [[311]]the fields, stopped in front of the hermit’s cabin! However light your footfall, he has heard you coming and has abruptly withdrawn to the very bottom of his hiding-place. When you arrive, the threshold of the house is deserted.
Everybody knows the way to bring the skulker out. You insert a straw and move it gently about the burrow. Surprised at what is happening above, tickled and teased, the Cricket ascends from his secret apartment; he stops in the passage, hesitates and enquires into things by waving his delicate antennæ; he comes to the light and, once outside, he is easy to catch, so greatly have events puzzled his poor head. Should he be missed at the first attempt, he may become more suspicious and obstinately resist the titillation of the straw. In that case, we can flood him out with a glass of water.
O those adorable times when we used to cage our Crickets and feed them on a leaf of lettuce, those childish hunting-trips along the grassy paths! They all come back to me to-day, as I explore the burrows in search of subjects for my studies; they appear to me almost in their pristine freshness when my companion, little Paul, already an expert in [[312]]the tactical use of the straw, springs up suddenly, after a long trial of skill and patience with the recalcitrant, and, brandishing his closed hand in the air, cries, excitedly:
“I’ve got him, I’ve got him!”
Quick, here’s a bag; in you go, my little Cricket! You shall be petted and pampered; but mind you teach us something and, first of all, show us your house.
It is a slanting gallery, situated in the grass, on some sunny bank which soon dries after a shower. It is nine inches long at most, hardly as thick as one’s finger and straight or bent according to the exigencies of the ground. As a rule, a tuft of grass, which is respected by the Cricket when he goes out to browse upon the surrounding turf, half-conceals the home, serving as a porch and throwing a discreet shade over the entrance. The gently-sloping threshold, scrupulously raked and swept, is carried for some distance. This is the belvedere on which, when everything is peaceful round about, the Cricket sits and scrapes his fiddle.
The inside of the house is devoid of luxury, with bare and yet not coarse walls. Ample leisure allows the inhabitant to do away with any unpleasant roughness. At the [[313]]end of the passage is the bedroom, the terminal alcove, a little more carefully smoothed than the rest and slightly wider. All said, it is a very simple abode, exceedingly clean, free from damp and conforming with the requirements of a well-considered system of hygiene. On the other hand, it is an enormous undertaking, a regular Cyclopean tunnel, when we consider the modest means of excavation. Let us try to be present at the work. Let us also enquire at what period the enterprise begins. This obliges us to go back to the egg.