Large in size, curious in build and moreover plainly visible on its stone or its bit of brushwood, the Praying Mantis’ nest could not fail to attract the attention of the Provençal peasant. It is, in fact, very well-known in the country districts, where it bears the name of tigno; it even enjoys a great reputation. Yet nobody seems to be aware of its origin. It is always a matter for surprise to my rustic neighbours when I inform them that the famous tigno is the nest of the common Prègo-Diéu. Their ignorance might well be due to the Mantis’ habit of laying her eggs at night. The insect has never been caught working at her nest in the mysterious darkness; and the link between the worker and the work is missing, though both are known to every one in the village. No matter: the singular object exists; it attracts the eye, it captivates the attention. It must therefore be good for something, it must possess virtues. Thus, throughout the ages, have the ingenuous argued, hoping to find in the unfamiliar an alleviation of their pains. By general consent, the rural pharmacopœia, in Provence, extols the tigno as the best remedy against chilblains. The way to employ it is exceedingly simple. You cut the thing in two, squeeze it and rub the afflicted part with the streaming juice. The remedy, they say, works like a charm. Every one mad with the itching of blue and swollen fingers hastens to have recourse to the tigno, according to traditional custom. Does he really obtain relief? Notwithstanding the unanimous conviction, I venture to doubt it, after the fruitless experiments tried upon myself and other members of my household during the winter of 1895, when the long and severe frost produced any amount of epidermic discomfort. Not one of us, when smeared with the celebrated ointment, saw the chilblains on his fingers decrease nor felt the irritation relieved in the slightest degree by the albuminous varnish of the crushed tigno. It seems probable that others are no more successful and that the popular reputation of the specific nevertheless survives, probably because of a mere identity of name between the remedy and the disease: the Provençal for chilblain is tigno. Once that the nest of the Praying Mantis and the chilblain are known by the same name, do not the virtues of the former become obvious? That is how reputations are created. In my village and no doubt for some distance around, the tigno—I am now speaking of the Mantis’ nest—is also highly praised as a wonderful cure for toothache. As long as you have it on you, you need never fear that trouble. Our housewives gather it under a favourable moon; they preserve it religiously in a corner of the press; they sew it into their pocket, lest they should lose it when taking out their handkerchief; and neighbours borrow it when tortured by some molar. “Lend me your tigno: I am in agony,” says the sufferer with the swollen face. The other hastens to unstitch and to hand over the precious object: