“Oh, I dare say,” was the answer. “More than you will learn from some people I could mention, but I really must leave you. My mate wants me.” And a flying leap carried him quite away.
“There, we are rid of the old grandfather,” said the cicada, “and now what can I do for you?”
“Tell me your real name if it is not locust,” answered Ruth.
“It certainly is not locust. I’ve been called a harvest fly, though I am not a fly either. I’m a cicada, and nothing else, and I belong to the order of bugs.”
“And what kind of tera is it?”
“Tera?” repeated the cicada, looking at her with his big eyes. “Oh, yes, yes, I understand. You mean our scientific name. It is Hemiptera, meaning half-wings. I know we have some objectionable members, but I don’t have to associate with them, and I rarely mention their names. I have a cousin who lives in the ground seventeen years. Think of it! Of course he is only a grub and doesn’t care for air and sun. I lived there two years myself, but I was a grub also then. You see my mother put her eggs in the twig of a tree, and when I came out of one of them I wanted to get to the ground more than I wanted anything else, so I just crawled out to the end of the branch and let go. Down I went, over and over, to the ground, where I soon bored my way in, and began to suck the juices of the roots about me. I liked it then, but I couldn’t stand it now. Of course the moles were trying. They were always hungry and we were one of the things they liked for dinner. One day something seemed to call me to the world of light, and I came out a changed being—in fact, the beautiful creature you see before you now. Perhaps you do not know how much attention we have attracted? In all ages poets have sung of us, even from the days of Homer. Maybe you will not believe me, but the early Greeks thought us almost divine, and when Homer wished to say the nicest things about his orators he compared them to cicadas. A while ago I told you we were sometimes called harvest flies. We have also been given the name Lyremen. Shall I tell you why?”
“A story!” cried Ruth, clapping her hands. “Oh, yes, please tell it!”
“Very well. Once upon a time, ages ago, a young Grecian player was competing for a prize, and so sweet was the music he drew from his lyre that all who heard it felt he must surely win. But alas! when he was nearly finished one of his strings snapped, and, with a sad heart, he thought that all his hope was gone. Not so, however, for a cicada, drawn from the woods by the sweet sounds, had perched upon the lyre and when the musician’s trembling fingers touched the broken string it gave forth a note that was clear and true. Thus again and again the cicada answered in tones that were sweet and full. When the happy player realized that the cicada had won the prize for him, he was so filled with gratitude that he caused a full figure of himself to be carved in marble, and in his hand a lyre with a cicada perched upon it. Now wouldn’t you be proud if your family had such a nice story about them?”
“I’m sure it is very nice,” agreed Ruth.
“Yet I’m not one to brag,” added the cicada, “and I am never ashamed to say I’m a bug. Now if you will come with me to the pond I will show you some of my cousins. They are very interesting.”