And to the Scorpion this represents the supremely beautiful! With his fore-legs, more delicate, more agile than the others, he pats the horrible mask, which in his eyes is an exquisite little face; voluptuously he gnaws and tickles with his lower jaws the equally hideous mouth opposite. It is all superb in its tenderness and simplicity. The Dove is said to have invented the kiss. But I know that he had a fore-runner in the Scorpion. Dulcinea lets her admirer have his way and remains passive, not without a secret longing to slip off. But how is she to set about it? It is quite easy. The Scorpioness makes a cudgel of her tail and brings it down with a bang upon the wrists of her too-ardent wooer, who there and then lets go. The match is broken off, for the time being. To-morrow, the sulking-fit will be over and things will resume their course. 25 May.—This blow of the cudgel teaches us that the docile companion revealed by the first observations is capable of whims, of obstinate refusals, of sudden divorces. Let us give an example. This evening, he and she, a seemly couple, are out for a stroll. A tile is found and appears to suit. Letting go with one claw, so as to have some freedom of action, the male works with his legs and tail to clear the entrance. He goes in. By degrees, as the dwelling is dug out, the female follows him, meekly and gently, so one would think. Soon, the place and time perhaps not suiting her, she reappears and half-emerges, backwards. She struggles against her abductor, who, on his side, pulls her to him, without, as yet, showing himself. A lively contest ensues, one making every effort outside the cabin, the other inside. They go backwards and forwards by turns; and success is undecided. At last, with a sudden exertion, the Scorpioness drags her companion out. The unbroken team is in the open; the walk is resumed. For a good hour, they veer to one side along the pane, veer back to the other and then return to the tile of just now, to the exact same tile. As the way is already open, the male enters without delay and pulls like mad. Outside, the Scorpioness resists. Stiffening her legs, which plough the soil, and buttressing her tail against the arch of the tile, she refuses to go in. I like this resistance. What would the pairing be without the playful toying of the preludes? Under the stone, however, the ravisher insists and contrives to such good purpose that the rebel obeys. She enters. It has just struck ten. If I have to sit up for the rest of the night, I will wait for the result; I shall turn the potsherd at the fitting moment to catch a glimpse of what is happening underneath. Good opportunities are rare: let us make the most of this one. What shall I see?