The Italian Locust begins by enclosing her eggs in a keg and then, when on the point of sealing her receptacle, thinks better of it: something essential, the ascending-shaft, is lacking. At the upper end, at the point where it seems as if the barrel ought to finish and close, a sudden compression changes the course of the work, which is prolonged by the regulation foamy appendage. In this way, two storeys are obtained, clearly defined on the outside by a deep groove. The lower, which is oval in shape, contains the packet of eggs; the upper, tapering into the tail of a comma, consists of nothing but foam. The two communicate by an opening that remains more or less free. The Locust’s art is not confined to these specimens of architecture. She knows how to construct other strong-boxes for her eggs; she can protect them with all kinds of edifices, some simple, others more ingenious, but all worthy of our attention. Those with which we are familiar are very few compared with those of which we are ignorant. No matter: what the cages reveal to us is sufficient to enlighten us as to the general form. It remains for us to learn how the building—an egg-warehouse below, a foamy turret above—is constructed. Direct observation is impracticable here. If we took it into our heads to dig and to uncover the abdomen at work, the mother, worried by our importunity, would leap away without telling us anything. Fortunately, one Locust, the strangest of my district, reveals the secret to us. I speak of the Tryxalis, the largest member of the family, after the Grey Locust. Though inferior to the last-named in size, how far she exceeds her in slenderness of figure and, above all, in originality of shape! On our sun-scorched swards, none has a leaping-apparatus to compare with hers. What hind-legs, what extravagant thighs, what shanks! They are longer than the creature’s whole body. The result obtained hardly corresponds with this extraordinary length of limb. The insect shuffles awkwardly along the edges of the vines, on the sand sparsely covered with grass; it seems embarrassed by its shanks, which are slow to work. With this equipment, weakened by its excessive length, the leap is awkward, describing but a short parabola. The flight alone, once taken, is of a certain range, thanks to an excellent pair of wings. And then what a strange head! It is an elongated cone, a sugar-loaf, whose point, turned up in the air, has earned for the insect the quaint epithet of nasuta, long-nosed. At the top of this cranial promontory are two large, gleaming, oval eyes and two antennæ, flat and pointed, like dagger-blades. These rapiers are organs of information. The Tryxalis lowers them, with a sudden swoop, to explore with their points the object in which she is interested, the bit which she intends to nibble.