erforations is the entrance to an oblique tunnel, which
is bored in the medullary sheath of the twig. The aperture is not
closed, except by the bunch of woody fibres, which, parted at the moment
when the eggs are laid, recover themselves when the double saw of the
oviduct is removed. Sometimes, but by no means always, you may see
between the fibres a tiny glistening patch like a touch of dried white
of egg. This is only an insignificant trace of some albuminous secretion
accompanying the egg or facilitating the work of the double saw of the
oviduct.

Immediately below the aperture of the perforation is the egg chamber: a
short, tunnel-shaped cavity which occupies almost the whole distance
between one opening and that lying below it. Sometimes the separating
partition is lacking, and the various chambers run into one another, so
that the eggs, although introduced by the various apertures, are
arranged in an uninterrupted row. This arrangement, however, is not the
most usual.

The contents of the chambers vary greatly. I find in each from six to
fifteen eggs. The average is ten. The total number of chambers varying
from thirty to forty, it follows that the Cigale lays from three to four
hundred eggs. Reaumur arrived at the same figures from an examination of
the ovaries.

This is truly a fine family, capable by sheer force of numbers of
surviving the most serious dangers. I do not see that the adult Cigale
is exposed to greater dangers than any other insect: its eye is
vigilant, its departure sudden, and its flight rapid; and it inhabits
heights at which the prowling brigands of the turf are not to be feared.
The sparrow, it is true, will greedily devour it. From time to time he
will deliberately and meditatively descend upon the plane-trees from the
neighbouring roof and snatch up the singer, who squeaks despairingly. A
few blows of the beak and the Cigale is cut into quarters, delicious
morsels for the nestlings. But how often does the bird return without
his prey! The Cigale, foreseeing his attack, empties its intestine in
the eyes of its assailant and flies away.

But the Cigale has a far more terrible enemy than the sparrow. This is
the green grasshopper. It is late, and the Cigales are silent. Drowsy
with light and heat, they have exhausted themselves in producing their
symphonies all day long. Night has come, and with it repose; but a
repose frequently troubled. In the thick foliage of the plane-trees
there is