I have strong reasons for believing that certain spiders possess this phase of memory; at least, a certain lycosid once evinced such unmistakable evidences of a recognition of my individual person, that more than one observer became convinced that she knew me from other people. At the time these observations were made, I was confined to the house by sickness. In my room and dwelling beneath my table was a large black spider, one of the most beautiful of her species. When I first made her acquaintance she was very timid, and would run to her den if I made the slightest motion. As time passed, however, she grew bolder and would come to the edge of the table which was close beside my bed, and regard me intently with her beady black eyes. Finally she became so tame that she would take flies and insects from my fingers. She learned to know me so well that she could easily tell the difference when others came into the room. When I would leave the room for a short outing, on my return I would find her waiting for me on the top of the table. When others entered the room, she would hide herself in her den, and remain there, very frequently, until they took their departure. It has been known for quite a while that in the nests of ants there are always to be found other insects, which appear to dwell in perfect harmony with the real builders and owners of the domiciles. Some of these creatures (the aphides, for instance) are brought into the nests by the ants themselves, which use them as we do cows, milking from their bodies a clear, sweet fluid, which they greedily lap up with their tongues. But there are other animals in the teeming formicary which seem to subserve no useful purpose other than that of ministering to the ants' love of pets or playmates. One notable little alien in certain ant communities is a minute claviger beetle (so called from its peculiar claviger, or club-shaped antennæ), which seems to be a well-beloved friend and companion, and which is always treated with great kindness.[39] These little beetles sometimes leave the nest, and may be observed sunning themselves at the entrance. The busy workers are never so busy but that they can spend a fraction of a second for the purpose of caressing their diminutive playmates. On one occasion, a swarm was about to take place in one of my formicaries. The young princes and princesses had emerged and had congregated about the entrance; they seemed loath to take wing and fly away on their honeymoon jaunt out into the unknown world. The workers were gently urging them to depart, sometimes even nipping them slightly with their mandibles. Several little clavigers could be seen running here and there and everywhere through the crowd of anxious workers and timid young males and females. They irresistibly reminded me of a lot of little dogs in a crowd of men around some centre of excitement or attraction. I have seen dogs, on more than one occasion, act in just such a manner. The ants,