I see, installed here and there amid the trees, the ominous Red Cross, with the legend, "Military Ambulance; Civil Ambulance." There will be bones broken, apparently; cases of sunstroke; regrettable deaths, perhaps.

It is all provided for and all in the programme.
Even here, in my village, usually so peaceable, the festival will not end, I am ready to wager, without the exchange of a few blows, that compulsory seasoning of a day of merry-making.

No pleasure, it appears, can be fully relished without an added condiment of pain.
Let us listen and meditate far from the tumult.

While the disembowelled Cicada utters his protest, the festival up there in the plane-trees is continued with a change of orchestra.

It is now the time of the nocturnal performers.