Despite the appearances that might make us think otherwise, the Crickets immolated by the Yellow-winged Sphex are no more dead than the Weevils pierced by the Cerceris’ dart. The flexibility of the victims’ integuments, faithfully revealing the slightest internal movement, enables us in this case to dispense with the artificial methods which I employed to demonstrate the presence of a remnant of life in the Cleoni of the Great Cerceris. In fact, if we assiduously observe a Cricket stretched on his back, a week, a fortnight even or more after the murder, we see the abdomen heaving deeply at long intervals. Pretty often we can still perceive a few quiverings in the palpi and exceedingly-pronounced movements on the part of both the antennæ and the abdominal threads, which diverge and separate and then suddenly come together. I have succeeded, by placing the sacrificed Crickets in glass tubes, in keeping them perfectly fresh for a month and a half. Consequently, the Sphex-grubs, which live for less than a fortnight before shrouding themselves in their cocoons, are certain of fresh meat until their banquet is finished. The chase is over; the three or four Crickets that are the allotted portion of each cell are stacked methodically, lying on their backs, with their heads at the far end of the cell and their feet at the entrance. An egg is laid on one of them. The burrow must now be closed. The sand resulting from the excavation, which is lying in a heap outside the front-door, is quickly swept backwards down the passage. From time to time some fair-sized bits of gravel are picked out singly, by scratching the heap of rubbish with the fore-feet, and carried with the mandibles to strengthen the crumbly mass. Should the Wasp find none within reach to suit her, she goes and searches for them in the neighbourhood, and seems to choose them as conscientiously as a mason would choose the chief stones for his building. Vegetable remains, tiny fragments of dead leaves, are also employed. In a few moments every outward trace of the underground dwelling has disappeared; and, if we have not been careful to mark the site of the abode, it becomes impossible for the most watchful eye to find it again. When this is finished, a new burrow is dug, provisioned and walled up as often as the teeming ovaries demand. Having completed the laying of her eggs, the Sphex resumes her careless, vagrant life, until the first cold snap puts an end to her well-filled existence.