Our musical instruments have their dampers; that of the _OEcanthus pellucens_ rivals and surpasses them in simplicity of means and perfection of results.
The Field-Cricket and its relatives also vary the volume of their song by raising or lowering the elytra so as to enclose the abdomen in a varying degree, but none of them can obtain by this method results so deceptive as those produced by the Italian Cricket.
To this illusion of distance, which is a source of perpetually renewed surprise, evoked by the slightest sound of our footsteps, we must add the purity of the sound, and its soft tremolo.

I know of no insect voice more gracious, more limpid, in the profound peace of the nights of August.

How many times, _per amica silentia lunae_, have I lain upon the ground, in the shelter of a clump of rosemary, to listen to the delicious concert! The nocturnal Cricket sings continually in the gardens.

Each tuft of the red-flowered cistus has its band of musicians, and each bush of fragrant lavender.

The shrubs and the terebinth-trees contain their orchestras.
With its clear, sweet voice, all this tiny world is questioning, replying, from bush to bush, from tree to tree; or rather, indifferent to the songs of others, each little being is singing his joys to himself alone.
Above my head the constellation of Cygnus stretches its great cross along the Milky Way; below, all around me, palpitates the insect symphony.