“Yes,” said Maya, with a faint chill of apprehension, “that’s so; Cassandra told me about him; she heard of him from the sentinels. He comes when twilight falls and snouts in the grass looking for dead bodies.—But do you associate with the hedgehog? Why, he’s an awful brute.”
“I don’t think so. We tree-crickets get along with him splendidly. We call him Uncle. Of course he always tries to catch us, but he never succeeds, so we have great fun teasing him. Everybody has to live, doesn’t he? Just so he doesn’t live off me, what do I care?”
Maya shook her head. She didn’t agree. But not caring to insult the cricket by contradicting, she changed the subject.
“So you’re a tree-cricket?”
“Yes, a snowy tree-cricket.—But I must play, so please don’t keep me any longer. It’s full moon, a wonderful night. I must play.”
“Oh, do make an exception this once. You play all the time.—Tell me about the night.”
“A midsummer night is the loveliest in the world,” answered the cricket. “It fills the heart with rapture.—But what my music doesn’t tell you I shan’t be able to explain. Why need everything be explained? Why know everything? We poor creatures can find out only the tiniest bit about existence. Yet we can feel the glory of the whole wide world.” And the cricket set up its happy silvery strumming. Heard from close by, where Maya sat, the music was overpowering in its loudness.
The little bee sat quite still in the blue summer night listening and musing deeply about life and creation.
Silence fell. There was a faint whirr, and Maya saw the cricket fly out into the moonlight.
“The night makes one feel sad,” she reflected.