I did finally get some helpful guidance on academic Websites. Fred is apparently a field cricket, rather than a house cricket. (Pardon me while I lay down some dry scientific cricket trivia here—but I can’t resist.) House crickets are brown and smaller than their black field cousins. Fred was very black. Field crickets come in at least two flavors: Gryllus veletis and Gryllus pennsylvanicus. Which one was Fred? Again I was able to hone in on Fred’s family tree, since G. veletis overwinters as a mid-sized juvenile nymph and matures in the spring. (G. pennsylvanicus overwinters as an egg, and Fred ain’t no egg.) Fred’s type like to overwinter in “moist, firm soil.” I guess that’s what he was seeking when he emerged from under the stereo. He was looking up at me and inquiring if I’d seen any moldy dirt lately—he’d found only dry dust balls under the stereo.
Here’s the neat exoskeleton part: Nymphs, according to the Ohio State University website, “… resemble adults, except are smaller and wingless, molt eight to nine times [!] and reach adulthood in about 90 days.” Ohio State gave me another sign to check out: at each molt, a cricket’s poop gets larger. I could measure the size of Fred’s poop and compare it to pre-molt! This was getting fun.
I learned even more about Fred’s habits at related sites. Crickets, one Website explained, “… eat plants, dead insects, seeds, leather, paper, and old cloth (especially if the cloth is stained by food or perspiration). They are particularly fond of wool and silk.” Hey, I could begin to vary Fred’s diet! I immediately tore off the corner of a soiled paper napkin I’d been using and dropped it in as a treat. Several days later Fred had not touched it. I guess the grass was greener.
Another Website said that crickets’ powerful legs allow them to leap as high as three feet. Hmmm… maybe Fred had grasped the properties of his glass-walled home but concluded it also had a glass roof. If he tried such a great leap, he might just hurt himself, banging up against his very own glass ceiling.
Another site said that cricket legs are so strong that cricket fighting was an ancient and popular form of entertainment in China. A prospective champion cricket owner would starve his tiny gladiator for several days before tossing him into the ring, to face another equally hungry and mean fighter. I assured Fred that I was horrified at such barbarity.
Yet another Website described how spiders have real respect for those fierce cricket legs. If a cricket happens to get caught in a spider web, “… the spider takes great care to wrap webbing around it before moving in for the paralyzing bite. If the spider gets impatient, a swift kick from those powerful jumping legs could gravely wound the spider.” Aha! That’s why the spider left the fish bowl after a few days! It understood that Fred could kick its butt. I like to think that I helped Fred resist the potential spider assaults by providing him a cozy home that had allowed him to store up enough sleep that he could stay awake nights—one eye cocked in the spider’s direction, just waiting for a threatening move. He did seem to sleep more, after the spider left.
Only male crickets chirp, and they do so by rubbing one serrated-edged wing against the other—ever faster as the temperature rises. So how do I know that Fred is a male, when he had exercised his right to remain silent? Because one of the Websites showed that the female had a long ovipositor (the tube that deposits her eggs) protruding from her hind end. Fred had just a cute, round little butt… no ovipositor. Before determining my cricket friend’s gender, I had not named it. When “it” became “Fred”, the bond deepened.
Finally, one fascinating piece of information I gathered from one Website is that crickets spend their days out of sight—under a stone or in a shallow burrow. That information told me that maybe Fred was a little uncomfortable being exposed all day long in a fish bowl (sort of a “fish bowl exposure,” one could say), so I built him a three-walled house with tiny roof from an old matchbox; a wee cricket-port. Five minutes after I placed it in the corner of his bowl, Fred had retreated inside.
When spring’s warmth returned I carried Fred’s fishbowl outside and tipped it over. I stood back as he finally discovered that his glass ceiling was, in fact, nonexistent. (Maybe he knew that, and simply preferred to be fed regularly?) Slowly he edged towards the opening, jumped daintily onto the greening grass, and scurried under cover. He didn’t pause to wave an antenna or even to bow in my direction, but I waved him on, hoping that he would now be strong enough to mate and carry on his family tradition.
Showing posts with label Crickets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Crickets. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
My Friend Fred—Part 2
One morning when I checked in on Fred, I noticed a spider inside the fish bowl. It had weaved a web, just off the bottom, and was waiting, immobile, off to one side. Was this Charlotte’s cousin—come to translate Fred’s message to me? Or was it looking to Fred as a very large meal—just waiting for an opportunity to pounce and wrap Fred up for storage? I watched the spider—about half the size of its bowl companion—over the next several days. The only time I saw it move was when I trickled a few drops of water into the bowl for Fred. When the drops hit the spider’s web, it charged out to the center, hoping it’d snared some prey.
I knew that the spider had no idea it had taken up its sentry duty inside a fish bowl—an unlikely location for any insect to be flying along and becoming ensnared. I wondered how many days a spider could fast, before starving. I watched to see if it was getting any more anxious to capture Fred, but the spider patiently remained frozen in place—enticed to move only when I dribbled a couple of water drops into its web. Then one morning the spider was gone. Fred remained sprightly behind—seemingly oblivious to the departure of his bowl mate. I detected neither relief at no longer being the object of digestive intentions, nor sad about once again being alone.
Cricket life in the fish bowl carried on. I began to wonder how long Fred might remain our guest. What is the life span of the average cricket? Can they overwinter? It was now January and Fred was fast approaching an overwintering feat. When protected in a fish bowl (but not having to duck marauding spiders, say), might they live longer than usual? Fred remained silent in the face of my many queries.
I have a few insect books. They give only the barest identifying details, however, so when I consulted them, they were of no help. I could have dug deeper and done some Internet surfing to learn more, but decided that I’d just as soon let it all unfold, with my ignorance getting partially lifted through observation. Fred was a guest, after all. It is not polite to probe too deeply into the lives of one’s company. Be discreet and simply observe.
Nearly two months after Fred had materialized from under the stereo, my spouse exclaimed one afternoon, “There’s another cricket in the bowl!” She could have said that Fred had disappeared or that he’d turned orange, and I’d have been less surprised. Another cricket!? I mean, having one cricket hang around in your fish bowl for some two months in the midst of winter is quite remarkable, but having it suddenly joined by a second one?
Despite his powerful jumping legs, Fred had never hinted at trying to leap out of the bowl. I’m positive he’s not been able to figure out the properties of the glass enclosure he’s in; I watch him, head against the glass, trying to move forward, but stymied by the invisible wall that contains him. It’s way beyond incredible that another cricket would be scouting the area in February, find a compatriot gazing out of a fish bowl, and figure a way to jump in! Far better to coach Fred on how to escape. On the other hand, it’s possible that Fred would tell any passing cricket that he had a cushy life—wallowing among the grass clippings. “Come on in and chill out! The big two-legged creature feeds us for free.”
I looked at the “new” cricket. Hmmm… it didn’t seem to be very vital. It made sedentary Fred look as if he had a severe case of ADHD. I put my glasses on for a closer look. Aha! The “new” cricket was just a shell of Fred’s former self! Fred had molted! That was his exoskeleton lying there. I peered at Fred. He looked healthy, refreshed, and quite unconcerned about my wonderings, in his new suit of clothes—munching away on a grass clipping.
This development raised too many questions in my mind, for me to continue passively observing, trying to learn cricket customs. I had to know more—so I turned to the Internet and searched on “cricket.” I found links on buying chocolate-covered crickets and on Buddy Holly’s old backup group, which were kind of interesting, but not relevant to my search. Then I located a few good Web sites on cricket habits. Unfortunately, too many of these viewed crickets as pests—worthy only of one’s learning enough about these critters to keep them away, or poison them if they got in your house.
The last of Fred’s bowl movements next time…
I knew that the spider had no idea it had taken up its sentry duty inside a fish bowl—an unlikely location for any insect to be flying along and becoming ensnared. I wondered how many days a spider could fast, before starving. I watched to see if it was getting any more anxious to capture Fred, but the spider patiently remained frozen in place—enticed to move only when I dribbled a couple of water drops into its web. Then one morning the spider was gone. Fred remained sprightly behind—seemingly oblivious to the departure of his bowl mate. I detected neither relief at no longer being the object of digestive intentions, nor sad about once again being alone.
Cricket life in the fish bowl carried on. I began to wonder how long Fred might remain our guest. What is the life span of the average cricket? Can they overwinter? It was now January and Fred was fast approaching an overwintering feat. When protected in a fish bowl (but not having to duck marauding spiders, say), might they live longer than usual? Fred remained silent in the face of my many queries.
I have a few insect books. They give only the barest identifying details, however, so when I consulted them, they were of no help. I could have dug deeper and done some Internet surfing to learn more, but decided that I’d just as soon let it all unfold, with my ignorance getting partially lifted through observation. Fred was a guest, after all. It is not polite to probe too deeply into the lives of one’s company. Be discreet and simply observe.
Nearly two months after Fred had materialized from under the stereo, my spouse exclaimed one afternoon, “There’s another cricket in the bowl!” She could have said that Fred had disappeared or that he’d turned orange, and I’d have been less surprised. Another cricket!? I mean, having one cricket hang around in your fish bowl for some two months in the midst of winter is quite remarkable, but having it suddenly joined by a second one?
Despite his powerful jumping legs, Fred had never hinted at trying to leap out of the bowl. I’m positive he’s not been able to figure out the properties of the glass enclosure he’s in; I watch him, head against the glass, trying to move forward, but stymied by the invisible wall that contains him. It’s way beyond incredible that another cricket would be scouting the area in February, find a compatriot gazing out of a fish bowl, and figure a way to jump in! Far better to coach Fred on how to escape. On the other hand, it’s possible that Fred would tell any passing cricket that he had a cushy life—wallowing among the grass clippings. “Come on in and chill out! The big two-legged creature feeds us for free.”
I looked at the “new” cricket. Hmmm… it didn’t seem to be very vital. It made sedentary Fred look as if he had a severe case of ADHD. I put my glasses on for a closer look. Aha! The “new” cricket was just a shell of Fred’s former self! Fred had molted! That was his exoskeleton lying there. I peered at Fred. He looked healthy, refreshed, and quite unconcerned about my wonderings, in his new suit of clothes—munching away on a grass clipping.
This development raised too many questions in my mind, for me to continue passively observing, trying to learn cricket customs. I had to know more—so I turned to the Internet and searched on “cricket.” I found links on buying chocolate-covered crickets and on Buddy Holly’s old backup group, which were kind of interesting, but not relevant to my search. Then I located a few good Web sites on cricket habits. Unfortunately, too many of these viewed crickets as pests—worthy only of one’s learning enough about these critters to keep them away, or poison them if they got in your house.
The last of Fred’s bowl movements next time…
Monday, November 8, 2010
My Friend Fred—Part 1
A few years ago I read a book that strongly impacted me—The Voice of the Infinite in the Small: Re-Visioning the Insect-Human Connection, by Joanne Elizabeth Lauck. Its message: we humans have long considered all animals as “other,” as well as being below us. This has been especially true for insects. We dislike them, regard them as pests, see them as useless, and have committed great harm to them. Lauck’s book is a celebration of the insect world, wherein she shows us the beauty, the wonder, and the wisdom of insects. It was a life-changing book for me.
After reading The Voice of the Infinite in the Small, I found my attitude changing. I felt regret for my buying into the cultural, anti-insect brainwashing that I’d absorbed during my life, and for my past harmful and even hateful actions towards insects—especially those species that I’d come to regard as pests and enemies. I’d been no friend of ants, mosquitoes, flies, termites, cockroaches, beetles, and any type of garden vegetation-munching bug or worm. I’d poisoned them, swatted them, despised them, and thought them unclean vermin. But Lauck helped me to see a better way. She showed me how suitable insects are to their environment, how valuable they are, and how I might learn to live peacefully with them.
A few months later Fred showed up, one cold December night. I was listening to music—sitting in my rocker, deeply absorbed, when I found myself peering toward the floor, and saw him squatting just under the edge of the stereo system. I was surprised to see a cricket still alive, so far into the winter. Where had he been hanging out? Why had I not heard his (sometimes irritating) chirping? (Crickets have a way of finding an entry into the house in the fall and proceeding to chirp away endlessly.) But this critter just silently squatted there. Was he cold? Hungry? Would he shortly begin his incessant singing—causing me to doubt my newly-felt warmth toward the insect world?
But Fred (I later discovered he is a male cricket) just sat there, unmoving—disinclined to answer my questions. Did he like my music? Did it offer him solace? Deciding that Fred’s continued vitality might be threatened by cold and starvation, I gently picked him up and placed him in a fish bowl. He remained immobile—only his antenna slightly moved. (In fact, imperfect Fred had but one whole antenna—the other was a mere stub.) “OK, Fred,” I thought as I looked down; “What do I do now; get you some food maybe—but what do you eat?”
I tried to intuit what a hungry cricket would most relish. Hmmm… vegetation of some sort, I guessed. I went outside, armed with scissors and flashlight, and located some frigid December grass—still green, although well hunkered down for the winter. I clipped a few blades, took them inside and dropped them in Fred’s fish bowl and climbed into my bed.
First thing in the morning, I checked on Fred. He seemed still alive, still not moving much—but feebly waved his good antenna towards me. It was not until the next day that I saw some cricket poop, and then a little later I caught Fred munching on a blade of grass. I began to feel confident he’d not starve.
Over the next week or so Fred settled in. More poop appeared, his grating song thankfully did not begin, and he seemed quiescently content—as far as I could tell, or at least I hoped. I wondered if Fred’s appearance might be an omen for me—he might have arrived to encourage me to continue my work on growing to understand and appreciate insects. I tried telepathically sharing some of my new thoughts with Fred. He’d occasionally wave that good antenna, as if encouraging me.
Days passed. I wondered if Fred was going to hang around for awhile or if one morning I’d find him upside down, dead feet projecting skyward, content to have passed on to insect heaven. He remained healthy looking. His poop continued to pile up in the corners of the bowl.
More on Fred next time…
After reading The Voice of the Infinite in the Small, I found my attitude changing. I felt regret for my buying into the cultural, anti-insect brainwashing that I’d absorbed during my life, and for my past harmful and even hateful actions towards insects—especially those species that I’d come to regard as pests and enemies. I’d been no friend of ants, mosquitoes, flies, termites, cockroaches, beetles, and any type of garden vegetation-munching bug or worm. I’d poisoned them, swatted them, despised them, and thought them unclean vermin. But Lauck helped me to see a better way. She showed me how suitable insects are to their environment, how valuable they are, and how I might learn to live peacefully with them.
A few months later Fred showed up, one cold December night. I was listening to music—sitting in my rocker, deeply absorbed, when I found myself peering toward the floor, and saw him squatting just under the edge of the stereo system. I was surprised to see a cricket still alive, so far into the winter. Where had he been hanging out? Why had I not heard his (sometimes irritating) chirping? (Crickets have a way of finding an entry into the house in the fall and proceeding to chirp away endlessly.) But this critter just silently squatted there. Was he cold? Hungry? Would he shortly begin his incessant singing—causing me to doubt my newly-felt warmth toward the insect world?
But Fred (I later discovered he is a male cricket) just sat there, unmoving—disinclined to answer my questions. Did he like my music? Did it offer him solace? Deciding that Fred’s continued vitality might be threatened by cold and starvation, I gently picked him up and placed him in a fish bowl. He remained immobile—only his antenna slightly moved. (In fact, imperfect Fred had but one whole antenna—the other was a mere stub.) “OK, Fred,” I thought as I looked down; “What do I do now; get you some food maybe—but what do you eat?”
I tried to intuit what a hungry cricket would most relish. Hmmm… vegetation of some sort, I guessed. I went outside, armed with scissors and flashlight, and located some frigid December grass—still green, although well hunkered down for the winter. I clipped a few blades, took them inside and dropped them in Fred’s fish bowl and climbed into my bed.
First thing in the morning, I checked on Fred. He seemed still alive, still not moving much—but feebly waved his good antenna towards me. It was not until the next day that I saw some cricket poop, and then a little later I caught Fred munching on a blade of grass. I began to feel confident he’d not starve.
Over the next week or so Fred settled in. More poop appeared, his grating song thankfully did not begin, and he seemed quiescently content—as far as I could tell, or at least I hoped. I wondered if Fred’s appearance might be an omen for me—he might have arrived to encourage me to continue my work on growing to understand and appreciate insects. I tried telepathically sharing some of my new thoughts with Fred. He’d occasionally wave that good antenna, as if encouraging me.
Days passed. I wondered if Fred was going to hang around for awhile or if one morning I’d find him upside down, dead feet projecting skyward, content to have passed on to insect heaven. He remained healthy looking. His poop continued to pile up in the corners of the bowl.
More on Fred next time…
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Leftover Crickets
Crickets are both extremely common critters and extremely accomplished songsters. There are hundreds of species found everywhere in North America. That’s the common part. Males are the singers. They have highly-specialized forewings that contain both a scraper and a file on each wing. This primitive “bow and string” instrument not only produces the song, but at the same time amplifies and broadcasts it. That’s the accomplished part.
The cricket’s song is seasonally heard well before—and long after—their musical cousins the grasshoppers, katydids, and cicadas. It is now late November, well after the other singers have fallen silent. But a couple rugged, dogged crickets persist. They seem to have found warm niches near the house that have allowed them to cozy down and extend their season. Surely by now their chances of reproduction via song is nil, yet they persevere.
Years ago a clever entomologist made note of the regular pulsations of the cricket’s song. On warm summer nights they pulse rapidly but slow down when cool fall nights arrive. In fact, an approximate “cricket thermometer” was discovered. If you count the number of pulses in 13 seconds and add 40, you come close to the Fahrenheit temperature. Thus on a 70-degree summer’s eve, you’d find yourself counting some 30 pulses in a 13-second period, or 2-3 pulses per second.
So how about these chilly November nights when I hear a dogged cricket singing? The other evening I found it easy to count the slow beats of a cricket’s song. He was sluggishly emitting a pulse every half-dozen seconds or so—telling me that the temperature was in the low 40s—pretty close to what my manmade thermometer read. I found myself musing about what he’d do when the temperature dropped below 40. Would he try to retract some of the chirps he’d produced, back in July?
Some folks consider the cricket’s song to be melodic and enchanting. Others view it as grating and tedious. One’s reaction seems to be in the ear of the observer. I see Mr. Cricket as some of both but mostly a resolute dude.
The cricket’s song is seasonally heard well before—and long after—their musical cousins the grasshoppers, katydids, and cicadas. It is now late November, well after the other singers have fallen silent. But a couple rugged, dogged crickets persist. They seem to have found warm niches near the house that have allowed them to cozy down and extend their season. Surely by now their chances of reproduction via song is nil, yet they persevere.
Years ago a clever entomologist made note of the regular pulsations of the cricket’s song. On warm summer nights they pulse rapidly but slow down when cool fall nights arrive. In fact, an approximate “cricket thermometer” was discovered. If you count the number of pulses in 13 seconds and add 40, you come close to the Fahrenheit temperature. Thus on a 70-degree summer’s eve, you’d find yourself counting some 30 pulses in a 13-second period, or 2-3 pulses per second.
So how about these chilly November nights when I hear a dogged cricket singing? The other evening I found it easy to count the slow beats of a cricket’s song. He was sluggishly emitting a pulse every half-dozen seconds or so—telling me that the temperature was in the low 40s—pretty close to what my manmade thermometer read. I found myself musing about what he’d do when the temperature dropped below 40. Would he try to retract some of the chirps he’d produced, back in July?
Some folks consider the cricket’s song to be melodic and enchanting. Others view it as grating and tedious. One’s reaction seems to be in the ear of the observer. I see Mr. Cricket as some of both but mostly a resolute dude.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Hark, Sweet Cricket
Through the late summer and early fall our woods resound with the relentless cacophony of raucous insects. Cicadas, crickets, and katydids maintain a constant racket—cicadas taking the day shift, katydids covering the night shift, while the crickets are freelancers who set off any time (most all the time) they please.
I’m amazed at the amount of acoustic power these tiny critters can generate. Some folks consider the sound of a cricket to be melodic. Not me. Occasionally one of these noisemakers decides to invade the house. Oh, joy! Legend has it that a cricket in the house at the end of the season brings good fortune. So our luck must be on the upswing, because we've had several fall cricket invasions the last couple of years. This gift of cricket luck seems to me to be a mixed blessing, however.
While I can't attest to any good luck brought us by our most recent singing resident, I can confirm that he can become extremely irritating. His favorite singing spot is in the kitchen, behind the freezer. He seems to know that the little echo space he’s found augments his calls, while the body of the freezer keeps me from getting at him. For much of the day—and far too much of the night—the cricket sends out his raucous call, oblivious to the fact that no eligible female can respond to him while he remains in the house.
On the third morning of his visit, as Mr. Cricket began to call, I noted with excitement that he had moved! His irritating noise now came from under the computer. Aha! Maybe this was my chance to get him. If I could manage to capture him, I could escort him back outdoors and invite him to sing in much closer proximity to his fellow (female) critters.
Getting down on my knees, I gazed into the tangled maze of computer wires. Of course, as soon as he sensed my presence, he fell silent. I retreated. He soon began his call. I advanced. He stopped. We engaged in this dance a few times, until he got a bit complacent and continued his calling even when my face was close by.
There he was, hiding under a glob of wires! I grabbed a plastic cup—hoping to plop it down over him and prevent his escaping back behind the freezer. I lifted the cup, aiming at him, but he ducked farther back. Soon we were doing another type of dance, as the cricket feinted in one direction and I followed with my cup at the ready.
Eventually, he hopped into the clear. With great precision, like a skilled Samurai warrior, I aimed my cup and trapped him! I grabbed a card, slid it under the cup, and carefully lifted the makeshift cricket cage. Walking outside, I headed towards some brush where another cricket was calling. I lifted the cup and Mr. Cricket took a mighty leap towards freedom. I smiled, waved goodbye, and retraced my steps to the once-again quiet house.
The culture that created the legend of receiving good luck from a house cricket would possibly frown on my deed. Did the capture and banishment outdoors of this cricket cancel his gift of good luck? Did my unkind thoughts about the cricket's racket even foster a little bad luck? I don’t know, but I choose to take solace in the possibility that the cricket would have slowly perished of starvation behind the freezer (despite the many popcorn pieces that have fallen back there, over the years). I choose to believe that I saved him from much anguish and suffering so that at least I might be free of any cricket curse.
I’m amazed at the amount of acoustic power these tiny critters can generate. Some folks consider the sound of a cricket to be melodic. Not me. Occasionally one of these noisemakers decides to invade the house. Oh, joy! Legend has it that a cricket in the house at the end of the season brings good fortune. So our luck must be on the upswing, because we've had several fall cricket invasions the last couple of years. This gift of cricket luck seems to me to be a mixed blessing, however.
While I can't attest to any good luck brought us by our most recent singing resident, I can confirm that he can become extremely irritating. His favorite singing spot is in the kitchen, behind the freezer. He seems to know that the little echo space he’s found augments his calls, while the body of the freezer keeps me from getting at him. For much of the day—and far too much of the night—the cricket sends out his raucous call, oblivious to the fact that no eligible female can respond to him while he remains in the house.
On the third morning of his visit, as Mr. Cricket began to call, I noted with excitement that he had moved! His irritating noise now came from under the computer. Aha! Maybe this was my chance to get him. If I could manage to capture him, I could escort him back outdoors and invite him to sing in much closer proximity to his fellow (female) critters.
Getting down on my knees, I gazed into the tangled maze of computer wires. Of course, as soon as he sensed my presence, he fell silent. I retreated. He soon began his call. I advanced. He stopped. We engaged in this dance a few times, until he got a bit complacent and continued his calling even when my face was close by.
There he was, hiding under a glob of wires! I grabbed a plastic cup—hoping to plop it down over him and prevent his escaping back behind the freezer. I lifted the cup, aiming at him, but he ducked farther back. Soon we were doing another type of dance, as the cricket feinted in one direction and I followed with my cup at the ready.
Eventually, he hopped into the clear. With great precision, like a skilled Samurai warrior, I aimed my cup and trapped him! I grabbed a card, slid it under the cup, and carefully lifted the makeshift cricket cage. Walking outside, I headed towards some brush where another cricket was calling. I lifted the cup and Mr. Cricket took a mighty leap towards freedom. I smiled, waved goodbye, and retraced my steps to the once-again quiet house.
The culture that created the legend of receiving good luck from a house cricket would possibly frown on my deed. Did the capture and banishment outdoors of this cricket cancel his gift of good luck? Did my unkind thoughts about the cricket's racket even foster a little bad luck? I don’t know, but I choose to take solace in the possibility that the cricket would have slowly perished of starvation behind the freezer (despite the many popcorn pieces that have fallen back there, over the years). I choose to believe that I saved him from much anguish and suffering so that at least I might be free of any cricket curse.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
