His cage is exactly two Japanese inches high and one inch and a half wide: its tiny wooden door, turning upon a pivot, will scarcely admit the tip of my little finger. But he has plenty of room in that cage- room to walk, and jump, and fly, for he is so small that you must look very carefully through the brown-gauze sides of it in order to catch a glimpse of him. I have always to turn the cage round and round, several times, in a good light, before I can discover his whereabouts, and then I usually find him resting in one of the upper corners- clinging, upside down, to his ceiling of gauze.
Imagine a cricket about the size of an ordinary mosquito- with a pair of antennae much longer than his own body, and so fine that you can distinguish them only against the light. Kusa- Hibari, or "Grass- Lark" is the Japanese name of him; and he is worth in the market exactly twelve cents: that is to say, very much more than his weight in gold. Twelve cents for such a gnat-like thing!... By day he sleeps or meditates, except while occupied with the slice of fresh egg-plant. or cucumber which must be poked into his cage every morning... to keep him clean and well fed is somewhat troublesome: could you see him, you would think it absurd to take any pains for the sake of a creature so ridiculously small.
But always at sunset the infinitesimal soul of him awakens: then the room begins to fill with a delicate and ghostly music indescriable sweetness- a thin, silvery rippling and trilling as of tiniest electric bells. As the darkness deepens, the sound becomes sweeter- sometimes swelling till the whole house seems to vibrate with the elfish resonance- sometimes thinning down into the faintest imaginable thread of a voice. But loud or low, it keeps a penetrating quality that is weird... All night the atom thus sings: he ceases only when the temple bell proclaims the hour of dawn.
Now this tiny song is the song of love- vague love of the unseen and unknown. It is quite impossible that he should ever have seen or know, in this present existence of his. Not even his ancestors, for many generations back, could have known anything of the night-life of the fields, or the armourous value of song.
They were born of eggs hatched in a jar of clay, in the shop of some insect- marchant: and they dwelt thereafter only in cages. But he sings the song of his race as it was sung a myriad years ago, and as faultlessly as if he understood the exact significance of every note. Of course he did not learn the song. It is a song of organic memory- deep, dim memory of other quintillious of lives, when the ghost of him shrilled at night from the dewy grasses of the hill. Then that song brought him love- and death. He has forgotten all about death: but he remembers the love. And therefore he sings now- for the bride that will never come.
Imagine a cricket about the size of an ordinary mosquito- with a pair of antennae much longer than his own body, and so fine that you can distinguish them only against the light. Kusa- Hibari, or "Grass- Lark" is the Japanese name of him; and he is worth in the market exactly twelve cents: that is to say, very much more than his weight in gold. Twelve cents for such a gnat-like thing!... By day he sleeps or meditates, except while occupied with the slice of fresh egg-plant. or cucumber which must be poked into his cage every morning... to keep him clean and well fed is somewhat troublesome: could you see him, you would think it absurd to take any pains for the sake of a creature so ridiculously small.
But always at sunset the infinitesimal soul of him awakens: then the room begins to fill with a delicate and ghostly music indescriable sweetness- a thin, silvery rippling and trilling as of tiniest electric bells. As the darkness deepens, the sound becomes sweeter- sometimes swelling till the whole house seems to vibrate with the elfish resonance- sometimes thinning down into the faintest imaginable thread of a voice. But loud or low, it keeps a penetrating quality that is weird... All night the atom thus sings: he ceases only when the temple bell proclaims the hour of dawn.
Now this tiny song is the song of love- vague love of the unseen and unknown. It is quite impossible that he should ever have seen or know, in this present existence of his. Not even his ancestors, for many generations back, could have known anything of the night-life of the fields, or the armourous value of song.
They were born of eggs hatched in a jar of clay, in the shop of some insect- marchant: and they dwelt thereafter only in cages. But he sings the song of his race as it was sung a myriad years ago, and as faultlessly as if he understood the exact significance of every note. Of course he did not learn the song. It is a song of organic memory- deep, dim memory of other quintillious of lives, when the ghost of him shrilled at night from the dewy grasses of the hill. Then that song brought him love- and death. He has forgotten all about death: but he remembers the love. And therefore he sings now- for the bride that will never come.
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