Cicada
si-ka'da, a large insect distinguished by a locust-like trill or chirp. It is allied to the bugs. The periodical cicada, or seventeen-year "locust," as it is improperly called, has a remarkable life history. Some summers the trees are full of cheeping cicadas. The noise is made by the male who takes no food and soon dies. It proceeds from two membranes stretched over cavities like a drum, and set in vibration by muscles. The females live a few weeks and lay their eggs in slits in the twigs of trees. In the fall the young nymphs drop to the ground and burrow in the earth. They attach themselves to the roots of trees where they suck the juices and burrow for years. The seventeenth summer they emerge from the ground again and fill the trees with chirpings, lay their eggs and die. If there be but one brood in a locality, as is frequently the case, cicadas will be in evidence only every seventeenth year.
Inside of the limits indicated by southern Georgia, Kansas, and New England, over thirty broods have been located. One of these extends over a large area in southern New England. In some localities several broods are known to exist, dating from different years, thus appearing with seeming irregularity. South of the range of the seventeen-year cicada there are broods of a thirteen-year species. The large harvest fly of black and green, with its sharp midday trill, is a two-year cicada. There are two broods of this species, so that each summer has its adult brood.
Like the grasshopper and the cricket, to which it is not in any way related, the cicada has attracted the notice of the poet. The cicada of the Isles of Greece is thus addressed by the Greek Anacreon:
TO THE CICADA
Sweet insect! that delight'st to rest
Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,
To drink the dew that morning drops,
And chirp thy song with such a glee
That happiest kings may envy thee!
Whatever decks the velvet field,
Whate'er the circling seasons yield,
Whatever buds, whatever blows,
For thee it buds, for thee it grows.
Nor art thou yet the peasant's fear,
To him thy friendly notes are dear,
For thou art mild as matin dew,
And still, when Summer's flowery hue
Begins to paint the bloomy plain,
We hear thy sweet prophetic strain;
Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear,
And bless the notes and thee revere.
The Muses love thy shrilly tone;
Apollo calls thee for his own;
'T was he who gave that voice to thee;
'T is he that tunes thy minstrelsy.
Unworn by age's dim decline,
The fadeless blooms of youth are thine.
Melodious insect! child of earth!
In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth.
Exempt from every weak decay
That withers vulgar frames away,
With not a drop of blood to stain
The current of thy purer vein;
So blest an age is passed by thee,
Thou seem'st a little deity.
--Transl. of Moore.