inds in the insect a world
which is closed to us. There is no possibility of foreseeing, or even
of suggesting the impression produced by this clashing of cymbals upon
those who inspire it. The most I can say is that their impassive
exterior seems to denote a complete indifference. I do not insist that
this is so; the intimate feelings of the insect are an insoluble
mystery.

Another reason for doubt is this: all creatures affected by song have
acute hearing, and this sense of hearing, a vigilant sentinel, should
give warning of danger at the slightest sound. The birds have an
exquisite delicacy of hearing. If a leaf stirs among the branches, if
two passers-by exchange a word, they are suddenly silent, anxious, and
on their guard. But the Cigale is far from sharing in such emotions. It
has excellent sight. Its great faceted eyes inform it of all that
happens to right and left; its three stemmata, like little ruby
telescopes, explore the sky above its head. If it sees us coming it is
silent at once, and flies away. But let us get behind the branch on
which it is singing; let us manoeuvre so as to avoid the five centres
of vision, and then let us speak, whistle, clap the hands, beat two
stones together. For far less a bird which could not see you would stop
its song and fly away terrified. The Cigale imperturbably continues to
sing as if nothing had occurred.

Of my experiences of this kind I will mention only one, the most
remarkable of many.

I borrowed the municipal artillery; that is, the iron boxes which are
charged with gunpowder on the day of the patron saint. The artilleryman
was delighted to load them for the benefit of the Cigales, and to fire
them off for me before my house. There were two of these boxes stuffed
full of powder as though for the most solemn rejoicing. Never was
politician making his electoral progress favoured with a bigger charge.
To prevent damage to my windows the sashes were all left open. The two
engines of detonation were placed at the foot of the plane-trees before
my door, no precautions being taken to mask them. The Cigales singing in
the branches above could not see what was happening below.

There were six of us, spectators and auditors. We waited for a moment of
relative quiet. The number of singers was counted by each of us, as well
as the volume and rhythm of the song. We stood ready, our ears attentive
to the aerial orchestra. The box exploded with a clap of thunder.

No dis