Let us consider this theft; a curious point of history as yet unknown.
In July, during the stifling hours of the afternoon, when the insect peoples, frantic with drought, wander hither and thither, vainly seeking to quench their thirst at the faded, exhausted flowers, the Cigale makes light of the general aridity.

With her rostrum, a delicate augur, she broaches a cask of her inexhaustible store.

Crouching, always singing, on the twig of a suitable shrub or bush, she perforates the firm, glossy rind, distended by the sap which the sun has matured.

Plunging her proboscis into the bung-hole, she drinks deliciously, motionless, and wrapt in meditation, abandoned to the charms of syrup and of song.
Let us watch her awhile.

Perhaps we shall witness unlooked-for wretchedness and want.