begins all over again, with tireless obstinacy. Ten times, twenty times, will it attempt that further ascent, until persistency vanquishes all obstacles, or until, better advised, it takes the level road. The scavenger does not always roll his ball single-handed, but frequently takes a partner, or rather, a partner takes him. The affair is usually managed thus: the ball being prepared, a beetle comes out of the throng, pushing it backwards. One of the newcomers, whose own work is hardly begun, leaves its task and runs to the ball, now in motion, to lend a hand to the lucky proprietor, who appears to accept the proffered aid in an amiable spirit. The two work as partners, each doing its best to convey the ball to a place of safety. Was a treaty made in the workshop, a tacit agreement to share the cake? While one kneaded and shaped, was the other tapping rich veins whence to extract choice material for their common use? I have never observed such collaboration, but have always seen every beetle exclusively occupied by his own affairs on the field of labour, so that the last comer has no acquired rights. Is it, then, an association of the two sexes, a couple about to set up house? For a time I thought so. The two scavengers pushing a ball, one before and one behind, with equal zeal, used to remind me of certain couplets once on a time popular on barrel-organs— Pour monter notre ménage, hélas comment ferons-nous? Toi devant, moi derrière, nous pousserons le tonneau. But the evidence of the scalpel forces me to give up this family idyll. There is no outward sign of sex in the Scarabæus, but on dissecting a couple employed on one and the same ball they often turned out to be of the same sex. In fact, there is neither community of family nor community of labour. What, then, is the reason of the apparent partnership? Merely an attempt at filching. The eager fellow-worker, under pretence of giving a helping hand, cherishes the project of carrying off the ball at the earliest opportunity. To make one for itself at the heap demands labour and patience; to abstract a ready-made one, or at least to foist one’s self in as a sharer of the feast, is much more convenient. If the owner’s watchfulness should slacken, one will flee with the treasure; if too closely looked after, one can at least sit down at table on the pretext of services rendered. With such tactics all turns to profit, so that pillage is carried on as one of the most lucrative of trades. Some, as I have just said, play an underhand game, hastening to the aid of some comrade who has not the least need of them, and under the cloak of charitable assistance conceal a highly indelicate greed. Others, bolder or more confident in their strength, go straight to the goal and rob by main force. Every moment some such scene as this will take place. A beetle departs alone, rolling his ball, his own property, acquired by conscientious labour;