"Why, it's white and green tinted," called Jimmie. "That isn't a cricket."
"Isn't it? Well, it's a first cousin which lives in the trees and loves its tree home so much, like the sensible little fellow it is, that it sings 'Tr-e-e-e, tr-e-e-e,' as fast as it can trill all summer long. But it is very harmful to the tree, because when egg-laying time comes it cuts a long slit in the trees in which to lay its eggs. Just a minute!" The old man shifted the position of the baker, and out came such a good odor of cookies that all the children sniffed with delight. "Here, Jack," he said, to a brown little fellow in ragged clothes and bare feet, "you have a singer in your box."
"I didn't catch but one," said the lad.
"Briers aren't good for bare legs, are they? Never mind, your crickets won't eat one another."
"Eat one another?" cried the children.
"Yes, crickets are cannibals, like some other insects, and they frequently eat a near relation or a friend, as the people in the Fiji Islands used to do. This is a nice brown little chap, Jack. Do you know how he makes his music?"
A. File on wing of cricket.
B. Scraper on wing of cricket.
C. Mrs. Cricket.
"Why, I suppose," said the boy, "he opens his mouth the way Mr. Tucker does in the church choir, and—"