That there are sometimes dealings between the Cigale and the Ant is perfectly correct; but these dealings are the reverse of those described in the fable.  They depend not upon the initiative of the former; for the Cigale never required the help of others in order to make her living:  on the contrary, they are due to the Ant, the greedy exploiter of others, who fills her granaries with every edible she can find.  At no time does the Cigale plead starvation at the doors of the ant-hills, faithfully promising a return of principal and interest; the Ant on the contrary, harassed by drought, begs of the songstress.  Begs, do I say!  Borrowing and repayment are no part of the manners of this land-pirate.  She exploits the Cigale; she impudently robs her.  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.  For there are many thirsty creatures wandering hither and thither; and at last they discover the Cigale’s private well, betrayed by the oozing sap upon the brink.  They gather round it, at first with a certain amount of constraint, confining themselves to lapping the extravasated liquor.  I have seen, crowding around the honeyed perforation, wasps, flies, earwigs, Sphinx-moths, Pompilidae, rose-chafers, and, above all, ants.

The smallest, in order to reach the well, slip under the belly of the Cigale, who kindly raises herself on her claws, leaving room for the importunate ones to pass.  The larger, stamping with impatience, quickly snatch a mouthful, withdraw, take a turn on the neighbouring twigs, and then return, this time more enterprising.  Envy grows keener; those who but now were cautious become turbulent and aggressive, and would willingly drive from the spring the well-sinker who has caused it to flow.

In this crowd of brigands the most aggressive are the ants.  I have seen them nibbling the ends of the Cigale’s claws; I have caught them tugging the ends of her wings, climbing on her back, tickling her antennae.  One audacious individual so far forgot himself under my eyes as to seize her proboscis, endeavouring to extract it from the well!

Thus hustled by these dwarfs, and at the end of her patience, the giantess finally abandons the well.  She flies away, throwing a jet of liquid excrement over her tormentors as she goes.  But what cares the Ant for this expression of sovereign contempt?  She is left in possession of the spring—­only too soon exhausted when the pump is removed that made it flow.  There is little left, but that little is sweet.  So much to the good; she can wait for another drink, attained in the same manner, as soon as the occasion presents itself.