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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
51
This
little
thorn-like
tree-hopper
and
all
of
its
queer
harlequin
tribe
are
near
relatives
to
the
buzzing
cicada,
or
harvest-fly,
whose
whizzing
din
in
the
dog-days
has
won
it
the
popular
misnomer
of
"locust."
To
the
average
listener
this
insect
is
a
mere
"wandering
voice
and
a
mystery,"
and
its
singular
form,
wide
prominent
eyes,
glassy
wings,
and
double
drums
are
always
a
surprise
to
the
tyro
who
first
identifies
the
grotesque
as
his
well-known
"locust."
Its
musical
accomplishments
during
this
brief
period
of
its
life
are
known
to
all,
but
few
have
cared
to
interest
themselves
in
the
early
history
of
the
singer,
ere
it
perfected
its
musical
resources
"for
the
delight
of
man."
But
the
naturalist,
and
especially
the
arboriculturist
and
fruit-grower,
know
to
their
cost
of
other
tricks
of
the
cicada,
or
rather
of
Mrs.
Cicada,
immortalized
by
Zenarchus
the
Rhodian
as
his
"noiseless
wife"--
"Happy
the
cicadas'
lives,
Since
they
all
have
noiseless
wives."
I
have
alluded
to
the
egg
of
the
cicada
"inserted
in
the
bark
of
a
twig."
This
act
is
accomplished
by
a
knife-like
ovipositor,
which
literally
gouges
a
deep
gash
into
the
tender
wood
of
various
twigs,
a
number
of
the
eggs
being
implanted
in
its
depths,
often
causing
the
death
of
the
branch.
Shortly
after
hatching,
the
young
cicadas
leap
for
the
ground,
and
burrowing
beneath
the
surface,
remain
for
a
period
varying
from
three
to
seventeen
years,
according
to
the
species,
to
complete
their
transformations.
Now
the
habits
of
my
little
tree-hopper
are
somewhat
modelled
after
its
big
cousin.
Knowing
that
the
little
insect
was
provided
with
a
keen-edged
ovipositor,
and
was
in
the
habit
of
thrusting
its
tiny
eggs
beneath
the
bark,
and
realizing,
too,
that
these
strange
tufts
were
of
course
in
some
way
connected
with
the
maternal
instinct,
I
was
led
to
investigate.
Selecting
a
branch
where
the
tufts
and
hoppers
seemed
most
prolific,
I
brought
my
magnifying-glass
to
bear
upon
them
at
a
respectful
distance.
Was
ever
actual
thorn
more
motionless
or
non-committal
than
most
of
these?--their
under
surfaces
hugging
close
against
the
bark,
their
telltale
feet
closely
withdrawn,
and
all
their
pointed
helmets
inclined
in
the
same
parallel
direction.
One
after
another
of
the
sly
little
family
was
examined
without
a
revelation.
Not
until
I
had
reached
the
upper
limit
of
the
group
did
I
get
any
encouragement.
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