The fidelity of memory shown here is striking. The insect, belated at its work, puts off completing it until the morrow. It passes neither evening nor night in the new-made abode, but departs after marking the entrance with a small stone. The spot is no more familiar to it than any other, for like Sphex occitanica the Ammophila lodges her family here and there as she may chance to wander. The creature came here by chance, like the soil, and dug the burrow, and now departs. Whither? Who knows? Perhaps to the flowers near, to lick up by the last gleam of day a drop of sugary liquid at the bottom of their cups, just as a miner after labouring in his dark gallery seeks the consolation of his bottle when evening comes. The Ammophila may be enticed farther and farther by the inviting blossoms. Evening, night, and morning pass, and now she must return to her burrow and complete her task,—return after all her windings and wanderings in the chase that morning, and the flight from flower to flower, and the libations of the previous evening. That a wasp should return to the nest and a bee to the hive does not surprise me; these are permanent abodes, and the ways back are known by long practice, but the Ammophila, who has to return after so long an absence, has no aid from acquaintance with the locality. Her shaft is in a place which she visited yesterday, perhaps for the first time, and must find again to-day when quite beyond her bearings, and, moreover, when she is encumbered by heavy prey. Yet this exploit of topographical memory is accomplished, and sometimes with a precision which left me amazed. The insect made straight for the burrow as if long used to every path in the neighbourhood; but at other times there would be long visitation and repeated searches. If the difficulty become serious, the prey, which is an embarrassing load in a hurried exploration, is laid in some obvious place, on a tuft of thyme or grass, where it can be easily seen when wanted. Freed from this burden the Ammophila resumes an active search. As she hunted about I have traced with a pencil the track made by her. The result was a labyrinth of lines, with curves and sudden angles, now returning inward and now branching outward—knots and meshes and repeated intersections—a maze, showing how perplexed and astray was the insect.