umped herself up over a green fiddle that she had under her
cloak, and nearly deafened them with its hoarse screechings.

There was no doubt that these two could make as much noise as a wood
full of birds; both were eager to take sole charge, and a bitter dispute
arose as to whose idea it was first.

But Mother Carey settled it by dividing the time. "You," she said to
Cicada, "can take charge of the music by day, and you," she said to the
Green one, "must take it up at sundown in place of the nightingale, and
keep it up, till the night breaks, and both of you continue till the
frost comes, or until the birds are back on the job."

That is how it all came about.

But there is considerable feeling yet among the Katies, that they should
get all the night work, and never be seen performing. They think that
their ancestor was the original inventor of this cheap substitute for
bird song. And it is made all the worse by a division among themselves.
Some say "she did" and some say "she didn't." If you notice in early
August, they are nearly all shouting, "Katy-did." Then by the end of the
month, "Katy-didn't" is stronger. In September it is still mixed. In
October their work is over, the chorus ended, but you hear an occasional
"Katy-did" and finally as late as Indian Summer, which is Hallowe'en, I
have heard the last of the fiddlers rasp out "she did"; and do it in
daytime, too, as though to flout the followers of Cicada. And, if the
last word be truth, as they say, we may consider it settled, that Katy
really and truly _did_. And yet I believe next year the same dispute
will arise, and we shall have the noisy argument all over again.

If you look at the portraits of Cicada, the Hotweather-bug or Locust,
and of the Katydid, you will not see their musical instruments very
plainly, but believe me they have them; and you can hear them any late
summer hot-weather time, in any part of the Eastern States and some
parts of southern Canada.

And now let me finish with a secret. Katy is not a lady at all, but a
he-one disguised in green silk stockings, and a green satin dress.

TALE 47

The Digger Wasp that Killed the Cicada

Strange things are done in the realm of Mother Carey; strange things and
cruel. At least so they seem to us, for we do not know the plan that is
behind them. We know only that sometimes love must be cruel. I am going
to tell you of a strange happening, that you may see any hot day in
August. And this i