There are in eight or nine counties in New York State places that may surely expect visitors on certain years. The connection between these guests and the hermits of Thibet may not seem very close at first sight; but wait and see.
The reason why these New York counties expect company is that they entertained a large number of similar guests in 1882, 1865, 1848, 1831, 1814, in 1797, and probably at intervals of seventeen years long before that; in 1797, however, was the first record made of the appearance of these visitors. Every time they came they probably outstayed their welcome; yet they had the good quality of allowing their hosts sixteen years of rest between visits.
In order that the Junior Naturalist may recognize these visitors I will describe their methods of arrival. Sometime in the latter part of May or in early June you may hear a great buzzing in some trees, as if there were a thousand lilliputian buzz saws going at once. If you examine the trees you will find on them many queer-looking insects, with black bodies about an inch long, covered with transparent wings folded like a roof. Naturally you will wonder how such great numbers of large insects could appear one day when they were nowhere to be seen the day before. But if you look at the ground beneath the trees you will find in it many small holes. You will also find clinging to the trees many whitish objects, which at first sight seem like pale, wingless insects, but which on closer examination prove to be merely the cast skins of insects ([Fig. 339]). These are the cowls and robes which our little American hermits cast off after they come out of their underground cells, and which they must shed before they can free their wings. Our little American hermits we call the seventeen-year locusts. However, this name is a most confusing one, since we also call our grasshoppers locusts, and to them the name truly belongs. These seventeen-year locusts are really cicadas, and they belong to a different order from the locusts. The real locusts have mouth-parts formed for biting, while the cicadas have mouth-parts grown together in the form of a tube, through which they suck juices of plants. So we hope the Junior Naturalists will call our little hermits by their right name, cicadas; and will not permit them to be spoken of as locusts.
In order that you may know the mysterious lives of these wonderful insects, I will tell you the story of one of them.
The Story of Little Hermit Brother, Cicada Septendecim.
Once a cicada mother made with her ovipositor a little slit or cavity in an oak twig, and in this slit placed in very neat order two rows of eggs. Six weeks later there hatched from one of these eggs a pale, lively little creature, that to the naked eye looked like a tiny white ant. If, however, we could have examined him through a lens we should have found him very different from an ant; for his two front legs were shaped somewhat like lobsters' big claws, and instead of jaws like an ant, he had simply a long beak that was hollow like a tube. After he came out of his egg he ran about the tree and seemed interested for a time in everything he saw. Then, suddenly, he went to the side of a limb and deliberately fell off. To his little eyes the ground below was invisible; so our small cicada showed great faith when he practically jumped off the edge of his world into space. He was such a speck of a creature that the breeze took him and lifted him gently down, as if he were the petal of a flower; and he alighted on the earth unhurt and probably much delighted with his sail through the air. At once he commenced hunting for some little crevice in the earth; and when he found it he went to the bottom of it and with his shovel-like fore-feet began digging downward. I wonder if he stopped to give a last look at sky, sunshine, and the beautiful green world before he bade them good-bye for seventeen long years! If so, he did it hurriedly, for he was intent upon reaching something to eat. This he finally found a short distance below the surface of the ground, in the shape of a juicy rootlet of the great tree above. Into this he inserted his beak and began to take the sap as we take lemonade through a straw. He made a little cell around himself and then he found existence quite blissful. He ate very little and grew very slowly, and there was no perceptible change in him for about a year; then he shed his skin for the first time, and thus, insect-wise, grew larger. After a time he dug another cell near another rootlet deeper in the ground; but he never exerted himself more than was necessary to obtain the little food that he needed. This idle life he found entirely satisfactory, and the days grew into months and the months into years. Only six times in the seventeen years did our hermit change his clothes, and this was each time a necessity, since they had become too small. Judging from what the Senior Naturalist told me, I think this is six times more than a Thibetan hermit changes his clothes in the same length of time.
What may be the meditations of a little hermit cicada during all these years we cannot even imagine. If any of the Junior Naturalists ever find out the secret they will be very popular indeed with the scientific men called psychologists. However, if we may judge by actions, the sixteenth summer after our hermit buried himself he began to feel stirring in his bosom aspirations toward a higher life. He surely had no memory of the beautiful world he had abandoned in his babyhood; but he became suddenly possessed with a desire to climb upward, and began digging his way toward the light. It might be a long journey through the hard earth; for during the many years he may have reached the depth of nearly two feet. He is now as industrious as he was shiftless before; and it takes him only a few weeks to climb out of the depths into which he had fallen through nearly seventeen years of inertia. If it should chance that he reaches the surface of the ground before he is ready to enjoy life, he hits upon a device for continuing his way upward without danger to himself. Sometimes his fellows have been known to crawl out of their burrows and seek safety under logs and sticks until the time came to gain their wings. But this is a very dangerous proceeding, since in forests there are many watchful eyes which belong to creatures who are very fond of bits of soft, white meat. So our cicada, still a hermit, may build him a tall cell out of mud above ground. How he builds this "hut," "cone," or "turret" as it is variously called, we do not know; but it is often two inches in height, and he keeps himself in the top of it. Under ordinary circumstances our cicada would not build a hut, but remain in his burrow.
Finally there comes a fateful evening when, as soon as the sun has set, he claws his way through the top of his mud turret or out of his burrow and looks about him for further means of gratifying his ambitions to climb. A bush, a tree, the highest thing within his range of vision, attracts his attention and he hurries toward it. It may be he finds himself in company with many of his kind hurrying toward the same goal, but they are of no interest to him as yet. Like the youth in the famous poem, "Excelsior" is his motto and he heeds no invitation to tarry. When he reaches the highest place within his ken he places himself, probably back downward, on some branch or twig, takes a firm hold with all his six pairs of claws, and keeps very still for a time. Then his skeleton nymph-skin breaks open at the back and there pushes out of it a strange creature long and white, except for two black spots upon its back; on he comes until only the tip of his body remains in the old nymph-skin; then he reaches forward and grasps the twig with his soft new legs and pulls himself entirely clear from the old hermit garb. At once his wings begin to grow; at first they are mere pads on his back, but they soon expand until they cover his body and are flat like those of a miller. The many veins in the wings are white and he keeps the wings fluttering in order that they may harden soon. If, in the moonlight of some June evening, a Junior Naturalist should see a tree covered with cicadas at this stage he would think it had suddenly blossomed into beautiful, white, fluttering flowers.
Fig. 339. The cicada is full grown at last, and his empty nymph skin is hanging to a branch.