On the effects of its sting I personally have nothing to say, having always avoided, by a little caution, the danger to which my relations with the formidable captives in my study might have exposed me. Knowing nothing of it myself, I get people to tell me of it, wood-cutters in particular, who from time to time fall victims to their imprudence. One of them tells me the following story: "After having my dinner, I was dozing for a moment among my faggots, when I was roused by a sharp pain. It was like the prick of a red-hot needle. I clapped my hand to the place. Sure enough, there was something moving! A Scorpion had crept under my trousers and stung me in the lower part of the calf. The ugly beast was full as long as my finger. Like that, sir, like that!" And, adding gesture to speech, the worthy man extended his great fore-finger. This size did not surprise me: while insect-hunting, I have seen Scorpions as large. "I wanted to go on with my work," he continued, "but I came out in a cold sweat; and my leg swelled up so you could see it swelling. It got as big as that, sir, as big as that." More mimicry. Our friend spreads his two hands round his leg, at a distance, so as to denote the girth of a small barrel: "Yes, like that, sir, like that; I had great trouble to get home, though it was only half a mile away. The swelling crept up and up. Next day it had got so high." A gesture indicates the height. "Yes, sir, for three days I couldn't stand up. I bore it as well as I could, with my leg stretched out on a chair. Soda-compresses did the trick; and there you are, sir, there you are." Another woodcutter, he adds, was also stung in the lower part of the leg. He was binding faggots together at some distance and had not the strength to regain his home. He collapsed by the side of the road. Some men passing by carried him on their shoulders: "_A la cabro morto, moussu, a la cabro morto!_" The story of the rustic narrator, more versed in mimicry than in speech, does not seem to me exaggerated. A White Scorpion's sting is a very serious accident for a human being. When stung by his own kind, the Scorpion himself quickly succumbs. Here I have something better than the evidence of strangers: I have my own observations. I take two healthy specimens from my menagerie and place them together at the bottom of a glass jar on a layer of sand. Excited with the tip of a straw which brings them face to face again whenever they draw back, the two harassed creatures decide on mortal combat. Each no doubt attributes to the other the annoyances of which I myself am the cause. The claws, those weapons of defence, are displayed in a semicircle and open to keep the adversary at a distance; the tails, in sudden jerks, are flung forward above the back; the poison-phials clash together; a tiny drop, limpid as water, beads the point of the sting.