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But though we speak of the chirp or pipe of the cricket and grasshopper, it is well to remember that neither these, nor any other insects, possess a true voice. It would be nearer the fact to call the cricket a fiddler than a piper. For it is by sitting and drawing the corrugated rib of his wing-case to and fro over the sharp edge of the wing beneath, that his shrill note is developed. And it is only the male cricket who can chirp. The female carries upon her no trace of any fiddling contrivance. When all things were made, and made in couples, on the females of at least one numerous species, it is pleasant to remark, a significant and commendable silence was imposed.

Solitude by a fireside in an old country dwelling, the murmurous night without, and, within, the steady clear glow of candles made by your own hands out of wax from your own hives, it would be strange if the evening’s work failed to get itself done cleverly and betimes. Pleasant as it is to all penmen to be achieving, there is no depth of satisfaction like that of leaving off. Then, not to return incontinently to the sober, colour-fast world of fact, but to stay in your dream-country, idling awhile by the roadside, is one of the great compensations of this most exacting of lives.