Social Life in the Insect World | Page 6

grinder full, A flask is hung upon his
hip; The stone within its wooden trough is cool, Free all the day to sip
and sip; But man is gasping in the fiery sun, That makes his very
marrow melt and run.
Thou, Cigale, hast a cure for thirst: the bark, Tender and juicy, of the
bough. Thy beak, a very needle, stabs it. Mark The narrow passage
welling now; The sugared stream is flowing, thee beside, Who drinkest
of the flood, the honeyed tide.
Not in peace always; nay, for thieves arrive, Neighbours and wives, or
wanderers vile; They saw thee sink the well, and ill they thrive
Thirsting; they seek to drink awhile; Beauty, beware! the
wallet-snatcher's face, Humble at first, grows insolent apace.
They seek the merest drop; thy leavings take; Soon discontent, their
heads they toss; They crave for all, and all will have. They rake Their
claws thy folded wings across; Thy back a mountain, up and down each
goes; They seize thee by the beak, the horns, the toes.
This way and that they pull. Impatient thou: Pst! Pst! a jet of nauseous
taste O'er the assembly sprinklest. Leave the bough And fly the rascals
thus disgraced, Who stole thy well, and with malicious pleasure Now

lick their honey'd lips, and feed at leisure.
See these Bohemians without labour fed! The ant the worst of all the
crew-- Fly, drone, wasp, beetle too with horned head, All of them
sharpers thro' and thro', Idlers the sun drew to thy well apace-- None
more than she was eager for thy place,
More apt thy face to tickle, toe to tread, Or nose to pinch, and then to
run Under the shade thine ample belly spread; Or climb thy leg for
ladder; sun Herself audacious on thy wings, and go Most insolently o'er
thee to and fro.
II.
Now comes a tale that no one should believe. In other times, the
ancients say, The winter came, and hunger made thee grieve. Thou
didst in secret see one day The ant below the ground her treasure store
away.
The wealthy ant was drying in the sun Her corn the dew had wet by
night, Ere storing it again; and one by one She filled her sacks as it
dried aright. Thou camest then, and tears bedimmed thy sight,
Saying: "'Tis very cold; the bitter bise Blows me this way and that
to-day. I die of hunger. Of your riches please Fill me my bag, and I'll
repay, When summer and its melons come this way.
"Lend me a little corn." Go to, go to! Think you the ant will lend an ear?
You are deceived. Great sacks, but nought for you! "Be off, and scrape
some barrel clear! You sing of summer: starve, for winter's here!"
'Tis thus the ancient fable sings To teach us all the prudence ripe Of
farthing-snatchers, glad to knot the string That tie their purses. May the
gripe Of colic twist the guts of all such tripe!
He angers me, this fable-teller does, Saying in winter thou dost seek
Flies, grubs, corn--thou dost never eat like us! --Corn! Couldst thou eat
it, with thy beak? Thou hast thy fountain with its honey'd reek.

To thee what matters winter? Underground Slumber thy children,
sheltered; thou The sleep that knows no waking sleepest sound. Thy
body, fallen from the bough, Crumbles; the questing ant has found thee
now.
The wicked ant of thy poor withered hide A banquet makes; in little
bits She cuts thee up, and empties thine inside, And stores thee where
in wealth she sits: Choice diet when the winter numbs the wits.
III.
Here is the tale related duly, And little resembling the fable, truly!
Hoarders of farthings, I know, deuce take it. It isn't the story as you
would make it! Crook-fingers, big-bellies, what do you say, Who
govern the world with the cash-box--hey?
You have spread the story, with shrug and smirk, That the artist ne'er
does a stroke of work; And so let him suffer, the imbecile! Be you
silent! 'Tis you, I think, When the Cigale pierces the vine to drink,
Drive her away, her drink to steal; And when she is dead--you make
your meal!
CHAPTER II
THE CIGALE LEAVES ITS BURROW
The first Cigales appear about the summer solstice. Along the beaten
paths, calcined by the sun, hardened by the passage of frequent feet, we
see little circular orifices almost large enough to admit the thumb.
These are the holes by which the larvæ of the Cigale have come up
from the depths to undergo metamorphosis. We see them more or less
everywhere, except in fields where the soil has been disturbed by
ploughing. Their usual position is in the driest and hottest situations,
especially by the