Indeed the mistake would certainly be made by any one who did not know that, by the time the very hot weather comes, the true Cricket, the chorister of spring, has disappeared.

His pleasant violin has been succeeded by another more pleasant still and worthy of special study.

We shall return to him at an opportune moment.
These then, limiting ourselves to select specimens, are the principal participants in this musical evening: the Scops-owl, with his languorous solos; the Toad, that tinkler of sonatas; the Italian Cricket, who scrapes the first string of a violin; and the Green Grasshopper, who seems to beat a tiny steel triangle.
We are celebrating to-day, with greater uproar than conviction, the new era, dating politically from the fall of the Bastille; they, with glorious indifference to human things, are celebrating the festival of the sun, singing the happiness of existence, sounding the loud hosanna of the July heats.
What care they for man and his fickle rejoicings! For whom or for what will our squibs be spluttering a few years hence?
Far-seeing indeed would he be who could answer the question.

Fashions change and bring us the unexpected.

The time-serving rocket spreads its sheaf of sparks for the public enemy of yesterday, who has become the idol of to-day.
Tomorrow it will go up for somebody else.
In a century or two, will any one, outside the historians, give a thought to the taking of the Bastille?
It is very doubtful.