Ruth had listened in open-eyed astonishment. Surely this was a very wise grasshopper.
“You know a great deal,” she managed to say at last.
“Yes, I do,” was the answer. “I heard two men say the things I’ve just told you. They were walking across this meadow, and I listened and remembered. You see, I believe in learning even from men. But do listen to the concert—we are right in the middle of it.”
THE WISE GRASSHOPPER
They certainly were in the middle of it. The zip, zip, zip, zee-e-ee-e of the meadow grasshoppers seemed to come from every part of the sunny field, while the shorthorns, or flying locusts, were gently fiddling under the grass blades, their wing covers serving for strings, and their thighs as fiddle bows, and the field crickets, not to be outdone, were scraping away with the finely notched veins of the fore wings upon their hind wings.
The longhorns were also there, some in green, others in brown or gray, all drumming away on the drum heads set in their fore wings.
“You would hear katydid too,” said Mr. Grasshopper, “only he refuses to sing in the day. He hides under the leaves of the trees while it is light, and comes out at night. If you think me wise, I don’t know what you would say of him. He is such a solemn-looking chap, always dressed in green, and his wing covers are like leaves. You might think him afraid if you saw him wave his long antennæ, but he isn’t. He is curious, that’s all. It is a high sort of curiosity, too, like mine—a wish to learn. I suppose you know we don’t make our music with our mouths?” he asked suddenly. “Well, that is something,” he added, as Ruth nodded “Yes.”
“I sing with the upper part of my wing covers, but my cousins, the shorthorns, sing with their hind legs. Why do you laugh? Aren’t legs as good to sing with as anything else?”
“I—I suppose so,” said Ruth. “It sounds funny, because I am not used to that kind of singing.”