“The crickets of Miss C----’s studio days were considered such a curiosity that she had letters from California and all over the country, asking about them and the care of them. Her end and aim was to raise crickets from the eggs, laid in glass globes in the studio, that would sing in the winter, when all the summer crickets were frozen up in the fields, beneath the snow; crickets to sing to her all through the long winter nights, when the wind would be howling down the chimney, and the sleet beating against the windows. “Years and years gave no success, beyond a few, that were sure to die before the end of January; but at last, just the winter before she married, there was one sweet singer which made music for her all winter long, and which she trained to sing in the ruffle of her neck. Better yet, it liked to sit and sing in the ruffle at her left wrist, while the hand kept very quiet, holding the mahl-stick at the easel. Meanwhile, Toodles, the immense maltese trained cat, would sing an accompaniment from the rug before the open grate fire.” Now is not that a picture of cheery cosiness and comfort! I trust the lady will pardon her separation from other artists and their pets, in consideration of the pleasant glow her open studio door lets shine upon the Odd Set. [Illustration: Helix Desertorum] Who would ever think of a snail becoming famous? Such is the case, however; and in the Museum of Natural History, at South Kensington, the very hero may be seen of whom we write. Also his portrait, together with his story, enlivens the pages of Dr. Woodward’s Manual of the Mollusca, under the heading of _Helix Desertorum_. He was brought with other specimens, in 1846, from Egypt; and having so withdrawn into his shelly house that it seemed empty, was gummed to a piece of cardboard, numbered, named, and placed in the museum. Here he lay for four years, in a kind of Rip Van Winkle slumber, his very existence unknown, until in 1850 he woke, and tried to walk off from the card. But to do this, he must have abandoned his well-gummed house, and such a sacrifice was not to be thought of. So he snoozed again, until an inquisitive scientist noticed his footprints, immersed him in warm water, and thus at length released him from “durance vile.” His picture was drawn, his history noted, and then--no higher distinction being possible for a snail--he was disposed of, let us say. He ceased to be, and only his shell remains.