delicate mass of pink conserve, which she collects from thistles, and subsequently stops up each cell with thin pieces of leaf, as exactly round as if they had been cut out with a punch, or by means of some mathematical instrument. Réaumur says he often, in the month of May, on looking at his rose-trees, detected these insects at their work; all he had to do was, to stand and patiently watch by the side of a tree, the leaves of which exhibited the singular marks made by this insect. Many times have the same appearances arrested our attention, and without doubt that of the reader. The spectacle of insect ingenuity which it affords well promises to repay a little exertion in endeavouring to find out the nest to which the pieces are conveyed, and some neighbouring post or footpath will probably discover it to us after a sharp scrutiny. Sometimes the insect makes a bad choice of a leaf; it may be, perhaps, too tough for her; but she soon discovers her mistake, and leaves it, half cut, to seek a better on the same branch. [Illustration: _A Rose-branch cut by the Bee._] The nest formed by a species of moth for depositing her eggs in, is one equally interesting to describe. From the resemblance of her actions to the well-known account of those of the eider-duck, whose maternal love strips her breast of down for the purpose of protecting her eggs, we might almost venture to call this moth the eider-moth, were it not that it is known under another and far less appropriate name--the gipsy-moth. Indeed, in the care of the insect the mother's love is, as we might say, even more powerful than in the bird; for, while the latter has the pride and pleasure of seeing her little ones grow up around her, the poor insect, after stripping herself of her own soft, warm down, thus testifying her love to her offspring even to death, presently expires. The insect in forming her nest first plucks off, by means of a singular instrument, like a pair of tweezers, with which she is provided, a little portion of down from her body; seated upon a tree, she attaches this to its trunk, and then deposits an egg in it, which immediately adheres to the down, and becomes coated with it. The remainder of her operations, until she has deposited the entire number of eggs, are but repetitions of the same actions. When the process is at an end, she begins to form a regular tile or covering to her nest, and this she effects with a degree of skill not unworthy of the most consummate thatcher. She arranges the hairs of the down just as the thatcher does his stems of straw for the cottage roof, so that they all slope downwards, resembling much the smooth pile of a hat. By this arrangement of the down, it is next to impossible that in the most drenching shower the eggs, warmly wrapped up within, should be wetted or otherwise injured, and the down itself, being a material which, as we all know, is a non-conductor, preserves the eggs from the influence of the most severe frosts.