another comes flying, whence I know not, drops heavily, folds his smoky wings under their elytra, and with the back of his toothed feet oversets the proprietor, which, being hindside before, cannot defend itself. While the latter struggles to its feet the aggressor stations itself on the top of the ball, as a point of vantage whence to repel attack, folds its feet under its breast, ready for action, and awaits events. The bereaved owner moves round the ball, seeking a favourable point whence to attempt an assault; the thief revolves on the top of the citadel, constantly facing him. If the former raises itself for an escalade, the latter gives it a cuff which stretches it flat on its back. Secure on the top of the fortress, the besieged would bring to nought for all time the efforts of its adversary to recover its lost property if the besieger did not alter his tactics. Sapping threatens to bring down both citadel and garrison. The ball being undermined, staggers and rolls, carrying with it the robber, struggling his hardest to keep at the top, which he generally succeeds in doing, thanks to the hurried gymnastics that enable him to regain the altitude lost by the rotation of his standing place. If a false movement should bring him to the ground, the chances become equal, and the contest turns to a wrestling match. Robber and robbed grapple body to body, breast to breast. Their feet twist and untwist, their joints intertwine, their horny armour clashes and grinds with the harsh sound of filed metal. Then one will succeed in throwing its adversary on the back, and, freeing itself, hastily takes up a position on the top of the ball, and the siege is recommenced, now by the robber, now by the robbed, as the chances of the fight may have decided. The former, no doubt a hardy brigand and adventurer, often gets the best of it. After two or three defeats the ex-owner wearies of the contest and returns philosophically to the heap and makes a new ball. As for the other, when all fear of a surprise is over, he harnesses himself to the conquered ball and pushes it whither it seems good to him. I have occasionally seen a third thief rob the robber. And upon my word I was not sorry. Vainly do I ask myself what Prudhon introduced into Scarabæus-morality the audacious paradox that “Property spells theft,” or what diplomatist taught the dung-beetle that “they may take who have the power, and they may keep who can.” I have not the evidence required to lead me to the origin of these spoliations which have become a habit, or of this abuse of strength in order to seize a ball of dirt. All that I can affirm is that among beetles theft is universal. These dung rollers pillage one another with a cool effrontery really matchless. I leave it to future observers to elucidate this curious problem in the psychology of animals, and return to the couple rolling their balls in partnership.