As in the case of the young Praying Mantes, the first that hasten to this manna and the most eager for the slaughter are the little Grey Lizard and the Ant. The latter, loathsome freebooter that she is, will, I fear, not leave me a single Cricket in the garden. She snaps up the poor little creatures, eviscerates them and gobbles them down at frantic speed.
Oh, the execrable wretch! And to think that we place the Ant in the front rank of insects! Books are written in her honour and the stream of eulogy never ceases; the naturalists hold her in the greatest esteem and add daily to her reputation, so true is it, among animals as among men, that of the [[322]]various ways of making history, the surest way is to do harm to others.[6]
Nobody asks after the Dung-beetle and the Necrophorus,[7] invaluable scavengers both, whereas everybody knows the Gnat, that drinker of men’s blood; the Wasp, that hot-tempered swashbuckler, with her poisoned dagger; and the Ant, that notorious evil-doer, who, in our southern villages, saps and imperils the rafters of a dwelling with the same zest with which she devours a fig. I need not trouble to say more: every one will discover in the records of mankind similar instances of usefulness ignored and frightfulness exalted.
The massacre instituted by the Ants and other exterminators is so great that my erstwhile populous colonies in the enclosure become too small to enable me to continue my observations; and I am driven to have recourse to information outside. In August, among the fallen leaves, in those little oases where the grass has not been wholly scorched by the sun, I find the young Cricket already rather big, black all over like the adult, [[323]]with not a vestige of the white girdle of his early days. He has no domicile. The shelter of a dead leaf, the cover of a flat stone are enough for him; they represent the tents of a nomad who cares not where he lays his head.
This vagabond life continues until the middle of autumn. It is then that the Yellow-winged Sphex[8] hunts down the wanderers, an easy prey, and stores her bag of Crickets underground. She decimates those who have survived the Ants’ devastating raids. A settled dwelling, dug a few weeks before the usual time, would save them from the spoilers. The sorely-tried victims do not think of it. The bitter experience of the centuries has taught them nothing. Though already strong enough to dig a protecting burrow, they remain invincibly faithful to their ancient customs and would go on roaming though the Sphex stabbed the last of their race.
It is at the close of October, when the first cold weather threatens, that the burrow is taken in hand. The work is very simple, judging by the little that my observation of [[324]]the caged insect has shown me. The digging is never done at a bare point in the pan, but always under the shelter of a withered lettuce-leaf, some remnant of the food provided. This takes the place of the grass screen that seems indispensable to the secrecy of the establishment.
The miner scrapes with his fore-legs and uses the pincers of his mandibles to extract the larger bits of gravel. I see him stamping with his powerful hind-legs, furnished with a double row of spikes; I see him raking the rubbish, sweeping it backwards and spreading it slantwise. There you have the method in its entirety.
The work proceeds pretty quickly at first. In the yielding soil of my cages, the digger disappears underground after a spell that lasts a couple of hours. He returns to the entrance at intervals, always backwards and always sweeping. Should he be overcome with fatigue, he takes a rest on the threshold of his half-finished home, with his head outside and his antennæ waving feebly. He goes in again and resumes work with pincers and rakes. Soon the periods of repose become longer and wear out my patience.
The most urgent part of the work is done. [[325]]Once the hole is a couple of inches deep, it suffices for the needs of the moment. The rest will be a long-winded business, resumed in a leisurely fashion, a little one day and a little the next; the hole will be made deeper and wider as demanded by the inclemencies of the weather and the growth of the insect. Even in winter, if the temperature be mild and the sun playing over the entrance to the dwelling, it is not unusual to see the Cricket shooting out rubbish, a sign of repairs and fresh excavations. Amidst the joys of spring, the upkeep of the building still continues. It is constantly undergoing improvements and repairs until the owner’s decease.
April comes to an end and the Cricket’s song begins, at first in rare and shy solos, soon developing into a general symphony in which each clod of turf boasts its performer. I am more than inclined to place the Cricket at the head of the spring choristers. In our waste lands, when the thyme and the lavender are gaily flowering, he has as his partner the Crested Lark, who rises like a lyrical rocket, his throat swelling with notes, and from the sky, invisible in the clouds, sheds his sweet music upon the fallows. Down below the Crickets chant the responses. Their [[326]]song is monotonous and artless, but so well-suited, in its very crudity, to the rustic gladness of renascent life! It is the hosanna of the awakening, the sacred alleluia understood by swelling seed and sprouting blade. Who deserves the palm in this duet? I should award it to the Cricket. He surpasses them all, thanks to his numbers and his unceasing note. Were the Lark to fall silent, the fields blue-grey with lavender, swinging its fragrant censers before the sun, would still receive from this humble chorister a solemn celebration. [[327]]