KATYDIDS AND CRICKETS.
COME, put on your hats, and we'll take a walk down this shady
lane to the old stone wall.
Did you wake up last night? If you did, per-haps you heard some musicians playing on their fiddles; and may be you heard these same players get into a quarrel about somebody named Katy. Like most people who get to quarreling, they talked very loud; some said "Katy didn't"
and some said "Katy did." I listened a long while, but I couldn't find out what Katy did do; could you?
Wouldn't you like to know how these musicians look? Hunt carefully among the leaves on this bush, and perhaps you will find one. Here, he's hopped out on my apron; nothing but a grasshopper after all! He's nearly an inch and a half long. When he lifts up his wings, you see that his body is pale green, much lighter than the wings. He has a fine, thin pair of wings, that, when he is not flying, he folds up under a pair of wing-covers. These wing-covers are so large that they cover not only the delicate wings, but the whole body, meeting together on the underside like the two leaves of a pea pod.
The lady katydids are real still; it is only the male katydids that make the noise. Look! This little fellow on my apron is going to give us some music.
Do you see how he does it? He rubs the upper edge of one wing-cover against the other. Katydids do not breathe through lungs, as you and, I do; but all through the body, the wings, and even the legs, are little tubes that carry air to every part of the insect. They live on grasses, grains, and flower buds. The Indians think they are good to eat, and gather a great many of them, which they roast, grind into flour, and make up into cakes. Do you think you would like to eat them?
Then, I heard another kind of singers, too, last night. We'll walk down to the stone wall, and see if we can find them. There one goes into that little hole under the wall! Let us poke a straw or blade of grass into the hole, and then pull it out. He will be sure to come out clinging to the end of the straw; for although he is such a good singer, he is a bad fellow; he fights with every-thing that comes in his way. He has a rusty, black coat, and we call him a cricket.
He has a cousin that lives in the trees, and has a much stronger voice. He has an ivory white coat, and his wife, who is larger, has a dress, nearly white, with a little: green on the wings.
They are shy, and very hard to catch, so I don't think we could find any if we tried.
Too many crickets are apt to hurt a garden, because they eat the newest parts of plants, the melon and squash-vines, and the like; though they do some good, by eating bugs.
They live in great numbers in the warm States of the South, and often hurt the tobacco plants by eating holes in the leaves. But I don't believe we would care if they ate up all the tobacco plants, do you?
W. E. L.