surrounded the same ball, it meant battle. My humble opinion is that several Scarabæi gathered round a pellet with intent to thieve was what gave rise to these stories of comrades called in to give a helping hand. Incomplete observations have turned an audacious robber into a serviceable companion who put his own work aside to do a friendly turn. It is no slight thing to admit that an insect has a truly surprising grasp of the situation and a facility of communication between individuals more surprising still; therefore I insist on this point, Are we to suppose that a Scarabæus in distress conceives the idea of begging for help?—flies off, explores the country round to find comrades at work on a dropping, and having found them, by some pantomime, especially by movements of the antennæ, addresses them more or less thus: “Hullo, you there! My load is upset in a hole yonder; come and help me to get it out. I will do as much for you another time.” And are we to suppose too that his colleagues understand him? And, more wonderful still, that they leave their work, their ball newly begun, their beloved ball, exposed to the greed of others, and certain to be filched during their absence, in order to help the supplicant! I am profoundly incredulous of so much self-sacrifice, and my incredulity is borne out by all which I have seen during many long years, not in collection boxes, but on the spots where the Scarabæi work. Outside of the cares of maternity—cares in which it almost always shows itself admirable, the Insect—unless, indeed, it lives in society like bees and ants and some others—thinks and cares for nothing but itself.