"Here, Annie," cried he, "is one of the fellows that make such a grating, knife-grinding sort of noise every night."
"I thought you said the little tree-toads made it, uncle."
"The tree-toads and the katydids too. This is a katydid, or, perhaps, a katydidn't; for people say they are divided in opinion, and that as soon as one party begins to cry 'katydid,' the other shrieks louder still 'katydidn't,' which accounts for the noise they make."
"Oh, uncle! do they really?" cried George.
"You must listen, Georgy," replied his uncle, laughing.
"When we first came here" remarked Tom, "mother could not sleep for the noise they and the tree-toads made."
"The voice of the tree-toad is very loud for so small a creature, but the katydid has really no voice at all."
"No voice, uncle?"
"No, Annie; the chirp of all kinds of grasshoppers is produced by their thighs rubbing against their wing-cases."
"How very curious!" exclaimed the children, and the katydid was examined with still greater interest before it was released to rejoin its companions on the sycamore.