I have witnessed this exodus as often as I wished to, either out of doors, in my enclosure, where I had deposited in sunny places the nests gathered more or less everywhere during my winter leisure, or else in the seclusion of a greenhouse, where I thought, in my simplicity, that I should be better able to protect the budding family. I have witnessed the hatching twenty times if I have once; and I have always beheld a scene of unforgetable carnage. The round-bellied Mantis may procreate germs by the thousands: she will never have enough to cope with the devourers who are destined to decimate the breed from the moment that it leaves the egg. The Ants above all are zealous exterminators. Daily I surprise their ill-omened visits on my rows of nests. It is vain for me to intervene, however seriously; their assiduity never slackens. They seldom succeed in making a breach in the fortress: that is too difficult; but, greedy of the dainty flesh in course of formation inside, they await a favourable opportunity, they lie in wait for the exit. Despite my daily watchfulness, they are there the moment that the young Mantes appear. They grab them by the abdomen, pull them out of their sheaths, cut them up. You see a piteous fray between tender babes gesticulating as their only means of defence and ferocious brigands carrying their spolia opima at the end of their mandibles. In less than no time the massacre of the innocents is consummated; and all that remains of the flourishing family is a few scattered survivors who have escaped by accident. The future assassin, the scourge of the insect race, the terror of the Locust on the brushwood, the dread devourer of fresh meat, is herself devoured, from her birth, by one of the least of that race, the Ant. The ogress, prolific to excess, sees her family thinned by the dwarf. But the slaughter is not long continued. So soon as she has acquired a little firmness from the air and strengthened her legs, the Mantis ceases to be attacked. She trots about briskly among the Ants, who fall back as she passes, no longer daring to tackle her. With her grappling-legs brought close to her chest, like arms ready for self-defence, already she strikes awe into them by her proud bearing. A second connoisseur in tender meats pays no heed to these threats. This is the little Grey Lizard, the lover of sunny walls. Apprised I know not how of the quarry, here he comes, picking up one by one, with the tip of his slender tongue, the stray insects that have escaped the Ants. They make a small mouthful but an exquisite one, so it seems, to judge by the blinking of the reptile’s eye. For each little wretch gulped down, its lid half-closes, a sign of profound satisfaction. I drive away the bold Lizard who ventures to perpetrate his raid before my eyes. He comes back again and, this time, pays dearly for his rashness. If I let him have his way, I should have nothing left.