Social Life in the Insect World | Page 5

Jean-Henri Fabre
L'aguio de toun b�� cabusso e cavo un pous. Lou siro monto p��r la draio. T'amourres �� la fon melicouso que raio, E dou sourg��nt sucra b��ves lou teta-dous.
Mai pas toujour en pas. Oh! que n��ni; de laire, Vesin, vesino o barrulaire, T'an vist cava lou pous. An set; v��non, doul��nt, Te pr��ne un degout p��r si tasso. Mesfiso-te, ma bello: aqueli curo-biasso, Umble d'abord, soun l��u de gusas insoul��nt.
Quiston un chicouloun di r��n, pi��i de ti resto Soun plus count��nt, ausson la testo E volon tout: L'auran. Sis arpioun en rast��u Te gatihoun lou bout de l'alo. Sus tu larjo esquinasso es un mounto-davalo; T'aganton p��r lou b��, li bano, lis art��u;
Tiron d'eici, d'eil��. L'impaci��nci te gagno. Pst! pst! d'un giscle de pissagno Asp��rges l'assemblado e quites lou ram��u. T'en vas b��n liuen de la racaio, Que t'a rauba lou pous, e ris, e se gougaio, E se lipo li brego enviscado de m��u.
Or d'aqueli boumian ab��ura sens fatigo, Lou mai tihous es la fournigo. Mousco, cabrian, guespo e tavan embana, Espeloufi de touto meno, Costo-en-long qu'�� toun pous lou soulcias ameno, N'an pas soun testardige �� te faire enana.
P��r l'esquicha l'art��u, te coutiga lou mourre, Te pessuga lou nas, p��r courre A l'oumbro du toun ventre, osco! degun la vau. Lou marrit-p��u prend p��r escalo Uno patto e te monto, ardido, sus lis alo, E s'espasso, insoul��nto, e vai d'amont, d'avau.
II.
Aro veici qu'es pas de cr��ire. Ancian t��ms, nous dison li r��ire, Un jour d'iv��r; la fam te prengu��. Lou front bas E d'escoundoun an��res v��ire, Dins si grand magasin, la fournigo, eil��bas.
L'endrudido au soul��u secavo, Avans de lis escoundre en cavo, Si blad qu'avi�� mousi l'eigagno de la niue. Quand ��ron lest lis ensacavo. Tu surv��nes alor, em�� de plour is iue.
I�� dis��s: "Fai b��n fre; l'aurasso D'un caire �� l'autre me tirasso Avanido de fam. A toun riche mouloun Leisso-me pr��ne p��r ma biasso. Te lou rendrai segur au b��u t��ms di meloun.
"Presto-me un pan de gran." Mai, bouto, Se cres��s que l'autro t'escouto, T'enganes. Di gros sa, r��n de r��n sara ti��u. "Vai-t'en plus liuen rascla de bouto; Crebo de fam l'iv��r, tu que cantes l'esti��u."
Ansin charro la fablo antico P��r nous couns��ia la pratico Di sarro-piastro, urous de nousa li cordoun De si bourso.--Que la coulico Rousigu�� la tripaio en aqueli coudoun!
Me fai susa, lou fabulisto, Quand dis que l'iv��r vas en quisto De mousco, verme, gran, tu que manges jamai. De blad! Que n'en fari��s, ma fisto! As ta fon melicouso e demandes r��n mai.
Que t'enchau l'iv��r! Ta famiho A la sousto en terro soumiho, Et tu dormes la som que n'a ges de rev��i; Toun cadabre toumbo en douliho. Un jour, en tafurant, la fournigo lou v��i,
De tu magro p��u dessecado La marriasso fai becado; Te curo lou perus, te chapouto �� mouc��u, T'encafourno p��r car-salado, Requisto prouvisioun, l'iv��r, en t��ms de neu.
III.
Vaqui l'istori veritablo B��n liuen d?u conte de la fablo. Que n'en pensas, can��u de sort! --O rammaissaire de dardeno Det croucu, boumbudo bedeno Que gouvernas lou mounde em�� lou coffre-fort,
Fas��s courre lou bru, canaio, Que l'artisto jamai travaio E d��u pati, lou bedigas. Teisas-vous dounc: quand di lambrusco La Cigalo a cava la rusco, Raubas soun b��ure, e pi��i, morto, la rousigas.
So speaks my friend in the expressive Proven?al idiom, rehabilitating the creature so libelled by the fabulist.
Translated with a little necessary freedom, the English of it is as follows:--
I.
Fine weather for the Cigale! God, what heat! Half drunken with her joy, she feasts In a hail of fire. Pays for the harvest meet; A golden sea the reaper breasts, Loins bent, throat bare; silent, he labours long, For thirst within his throat has stilled the song.
A blessed time for thee, little Cigale. Thy little cymbals shake and sound, Shake, shake thy stomach till thy mirrors fall! Man meanwhile swings his scythe around; Continually back and forth it veers, Flashing its steel amidst the ruddy ears.
Grass-plugged, with water for the 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
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