Nature Note #179: Strange Clicks and Whirring Trills
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A high-pitched buzz, almost imperceptible shivers from the boughs of the spruce near my window. A small insect, barely a few inches long, sits on a branch. It cranks out a tune produced by it's wings rubbing against one another. This act is called stridulation and is being performed by a creature called a bush katydid.
Now whether it is a northern bush (Scudderia septentrionalis), or a treetop bush (S. fasciata), or even a Texas bush katydid (S. texensis), I can't be certain. The fact is that my ears, as dull and imperceptive (at least compared to other animals) as they are, picked up these small vibrations used to attract a female into the male's territory.
Those of us with access to trees, meadows, or even an open backyard can experience the variety of songs produced by this annual summer symphony. Their mixed signals and sounds delight us as we rest in our beds after a long day at the office or after having to entertain easily bored children who have several weeks until school begins again in September.
We lie and listen to the chatter wondering what all the noise could be about. Well, in the same way the robin whistles and chirrups in the early morning, these insects are trying to inform their nearest neighbors of two important messages. One is the all important: "Hey ladies. Looking for a good mate?" and the other is: "Hey man! This is my patch! Clear off and get your own!"
While this may sound like a series of strange clicks and whirring trills to us, they could mean the difference between passing on your genes and being left out and voted off the biological singing contest. To our ears, katydids and their relatives, the crickets and grasshoppers have a variety of chirruping trills and grating clicks that they use to attract their mates. But by far my favorite singing insects are the members of Homoptera: the cicadas.
After having moved to New York one year and two months ago, I've only had one summer to try and identify the local cicada species. When I worked in New Jersey and Pennsylvania in 2013 and 2014, the main species I heard was the swamp cicada (Neotibicen tibicen) with its rhythmic, static buzz. Personally, I think it sounds like a maraca being shaken consistently at the same rate for about ten seconds.
When I lived in Massachusetts, the most common species calling was the electrical whine of the dog-day cicada (N. canicularis). Its call is so electrical sounding that when my parents first visited this country to find a rental, they thought that there was something wrong with the telephone wires near the house. Even after being assured by the realtor that they were nothing more than lovesick summer insects, they still didn't quite believe it.
I should mention that the first house we lived in here in the states was on Whispering Pine Road and it lived up to its name with towering eastern white pines (Pinus strobus) and scaly red pines (P. resinosa) bordering the street. It was little surprise to me when I learned later that our dog-day neighbors loved them and are most frequently found on and around them.
For me, it simply isn't a summer without cicadas. Their whine through the trees fills my soul with glee and gives me something to cherish when the leaves start rattling on the trees and pumpkin-flavoured everything descends upon the coffee shops.
After consulting the sound files on the Songs of Insects webpage, I determined that the local species I had been hearing was likely Linne's cicada (N. linnei). These cicadas can be found over most of the Midwest, as well as parts of western and central New York, and in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and south along the eastern seaboard. Their preferred habitat is deciduous forests, but they can also be found in parks and gardens near those suitable habitats. Their song seems to be a combination of the rhythmic chatter of the swamp cicada and the persistent whine of the dog-day cicada. Wil Hershberger, the co-author of the book Songs of Insects, describes their song as "...a steady pulsating rattle sounding like a salt shaker, before ending abruptly."
Cicadas produce their songs using a structure on their bodies called "tymbals". These structures are paired on either side of the thorax (the midsection of insects sort of like the upper chest) and when vibrated help to produce the rattling calls we recognize. In addition to the tymbals, the trachae of the cicada are enlarged to increase the resonance of the sound.
According to an article on the subject I found on Science Daily, if we humans were capable of mimicking the way cicadas make sound, we would have to suck in our guts to the point where our ribcages were close to collapsing. Before reaching that breaking point, we would snap them back and begin the process again. While that seems extremely painful to us, we should keep something in mind; when cicadas do this, they are alternately contracting the left and right sides of their body up to 300-400 times per second. The article goes onto explain how this might be useful to scientists who want to come up with a better sonar system, but I was still astounded by the speed of cicada thorax contractions.
I can only imagine how quickly we would collapse into a heap with stomach cramps and cracked ribs if we humans tried it.
Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on which generation you belong to), our mating rituals seem to revolve around who can jiggle the most while dancing or how quickly can someone convince the other that a one night stand is a great idea. Maybe we can learn something from these insects after all and start wooing our mates with kazoos and vibraslaps while clinging to tree branches.
Maybe we'll start a dating renaissance! More likely it will prompt the fire department to start rescuing errant fringe musicians from trees, but damn it, a man can dream!
Until that time though, we should leave the clicking, trilling, buzzing, and whirring to the professionals and enjoy the rich summer symphony that nature provides in the heat of the day and in the pale spotlight of the moon.
A high-pitched buzz, almost imperceptible shivers from the boughs of the spruce near my window. A small insect, barely a few inches long, sits on a branch. It cranks out a tune produced by it's wings rubbing against one another. This act is called stridulation and is being performed by a creature called a bush katydid.
Now whether it is a northern bush (Scudderia septentrionalis), or a treetop bush (S. fasciata), or even a Texas bush katydid (S. texensis), I can't be certain. The fact is that my ears, as dull and imperceptive (at least compared to other animals) as they are, picked up these small vibrations used to attract a female into the male's territory.
Those of us with access to trees, meadows, or even an open backyard can experience the variety of songs produced by this annual summer symphony. Their mixed signals and sounds delight us as we rest in our beds after a long day at the office or after having to entertain easily bored children who have several weeks until school begins again in September.
We lie and listen to the chatter wondering what all the noise could be about. Well, in the same way the robin whistles and chirrups in the early morning, these insects are trying to inform their nearest neighbors of two important messages. One is the all important: "Hey ladies. Looking for a good mate?" and the other is: "Hey man! This is my patch! Clear off and get your own!"
While this may sound like a series of strange clicks and whirring trills to us, they could mean the difference between passing on your genes and being left out and voted off the biological singing contest. To our ears, katydids and their relatives, the crickets and grasshoppers have a variety of chirruping trills and grating clicks that they use to attract their mates. But by far my favorite singing insects are the members of Homoptera: the cicadas.
After having moved to New York one year and two months ago, I've only had one summer to try and identify the local cicada species. When I worked in New Jersey and Pennsylvania in 2013 and 2014, the main species I heard was the swamp cicada (Neotibicen tibicen) with its rhythmic, static buzz. Personally, I think it sounds like a maraca being shaken consistently at the same rate for about ten seconds.
When I lived in Massachusetts, the most common species calling was the electrical whine of the dog-day cicada (N. canicularis). Its call is so electrical sounding that when my parents first visited this country to find a rental, they thought that there was something wrong with the telephone wires near the house. Even after being assured by the realtor that they were nothing more than lovesick summer insects, they still didn't quite believe it.
I should mention that the first house we lived in here in the states was on Whispering Pine Road and it lived up to its name with towering eastern white pines (Pinus strobus) and scaly red pines (P. resinosa) bordering the street. It was little surprise to me when I learned later that our dog-day neighbors loved them and are most frequently found on and around them.
For me, it simply isn't a summer without cicadas. Their whine through the trees fills my soul with glee and gives me something to cherish when the leaves start rattling on the trees and pumpkin-flavoured everything descends upon the coffee shops.
After consulting the sound files on the Songs of Insects webpage, I determined that the local species I had been hearing was likely Linne's cicada (N. linnei). These cicadas can be found over most of the Midwest, as well as parts of western and central New York, and in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and south along the eastern seaboard. Their preferred habitat is deciduous forests, but they can also be found in parks and gardens near those suitable habitats. Their song seems to be a combination of the rhythmic chatter of the swamp cicada and the persistent whine of the dog-day cicada. Wil Hershberger, the co-author of the book Songs of Insects, describes their song as "...a steady pulsating rattle sounding like a salt shaker, before ending abruptly."
Cicadas produce their songs using a structure on their bodies called "tymbals". These structures are paired on either side of the thorax (the midsection of insects sort of like the upper chest) and when vibrated help to produce the rattling calls we recognize. In addition to the tymbals, the trachae of the cicada are enlarged to increase the resonance of the sound.
According to an article on the subject I found on Science Daily, if we humans were capable of mimicking the way cicadas make sound, we would have to suck in our guts to the point where our ribcages were close to collapsing. Before reaching that breaking point, we would snap them back and begin the process again. While that seems extremely painful to us, we should keep something in mind; when cicadas do this, they are alternately contracting the left and right sides of their body up to 300-400 times per second. The article goes onto explain how this might be useful to scientists who want to come up with a better sonar system, but I was still astounded by the speed of cicada thorax contractions.
I can only imagine how quickly we would collapse into a heap with stomach cramps and cracked ribs if we humans tried it.
Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on which generation you belong to), our mating rituals seem to revolve around who can jiggle the most while dancing or how quickly can someone convince the other that a one night stand is a great idea. Maybe we can learn something from these insects after all and start wooing our mates with kazoos and vibraslaps while clinging to tree branches.
Maybe we'll start a dating renaissance! More likely it will prompt the fire department to start rescuing errant fringe musicians from trees, but damn it, a man can dream!
Until that time though, we should leave the clicking, trilling, buzzing, and whirring to the professionals and enjoy the rich summer symphony that nature provides in the heat of the day and in the pale spotlight of the moon.
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