Much has been written about the disappearance of the corncrake from the fields and meadows of Ireland, but the humble cricket, once a resident of almost every rural hearth, has all but vanished from Irish country life, unnoticed and unsung. Accidently introduced into Ireland from the semi-tropical Mediterranean in the 17th century, they found comfort in the Emerald Isle only around the warm hearth and chimney corners. Hot sunny days enticed them out to the ditches and hedgerows, but they returned to the fireplace at harvest time with the onset of colder weather. Crickets evoked only two emotions in country homes long ago, a great affection or intense dislike, and both of these sentiments were firmly rooted in Irish country folklore which held that they brought either good or bad luck depending on which you believed. One woman was to recall that her husband would bang the tongs on the hob three times and say, "If you came for good luck, stay, but if ye came for bad luck, ! go." Rarely seen in the daytime, it was when night fell that they came to life, moving out from their secret hiding places by the fire to forage. Their musical chirping, produced by the male in an effort to attract a mate, could be heard in almost every country house in Ireland until the rapid modernization of housing that took placed in the early 1960s. The replacement of flagstone floors with concrete, sod-lined thatched roofs with slate and lime walls with cement left no comfort or place for the little creatures to hide. Long ago people believed that their departure foretold a death. Elderly Jimmy FLYNN of Laughty Barr, near Kiltyclogher, has been a gentle guardian and protector of a thriving brood of crickets. Living alone in a house where the warm hearth fire was the focus and heart of his cozy kitchen, he remarked, "They sit up on me shoulder there and sing to me at night. They never did a hate wrong to me, they make lovely music in the summer, all night long, like a French fiddle. Sometimes that's a sign of rain coming. If you bother them though the least they'll do is cut holes in yer socks, but if you lave them alone they'll lave you alone." It's almost too late now to save the humble cricket - that's even if anyone wanted to. There are no nature preserves left aside for them, their fate is sealed. Still, their passing will be mourned by some who fondly remember them, just as is yellow home-made butter, sweet country buttermilk or the lovelorn "kraak-kraak" call of the corncrake seeking a mate in the honeysweet, morning meadowfields of long ago. Excerpt, "Leitrim Guardian"