Is this all? Not yet. Another ravager, the smallest of all but not the least formidable, has anticipated the Lizard and the Ant. This is a very tiny Hymenopteron armed with a probe, a Chalcis, who establishes her eggs in the newly-built nest. The Mantis’ brood shares the fate of the Cicada’s: parasitic vermin attack the eggs and empty the shells. Out of all that I have collected I often obtain nothing or hardly anything. The Chalcis has been that way. Let us gather up what the various exterminators, known or unknown, have left me. When newly hatched, the larva is of a pale hue, white faintly tinged with yellow. The swelling of its head soon diminishes and disappears. Its colour is not long in darkening and turns light-brown within twenty-four hours. The little Mantis very nimbly lifts up her grappling-legs, opens and closes them; she turns her head to right and left; she curls her abdomen. The fully-developed larva has no greater litheness and agility. For a few minutes the family stops where it is, swarming over the nest; then it scatters at random on the ground and the plants hard by. I instal a few dozen emigrants under bell-covers. On what shall I feed these future huntresses? On game, obviously. But what game? To these miniature creatures I can only offer atoms. I serve them up a rose-branch covered with Green Fly. The plump Aphis, a tender morsel suited to my feeble guests, is utterly scorned. Not one of the captives touches it. I try them with Midges, the smallest that chance flings into my net as it sweeps the grass, and meet with the same obstinate refusal. I offer them pieces of Fly, hung here and there on the gauze of the cover. None accepts my quarters of venison. Perhaps the Locust will tempt them, the Locust on whom the adult Mantis dotes? A prolonged and minute search places me in possession of what I want. This time the bill of fare will consist of a few recently hatched Acridians. Young as they are, they have already reached the size of my charges. Will the little Mantes fancy these? They do not fancy them: at the sight of their tiny prey they run away dismayed. Then what do you want? What other game do you find on your native brushwood? I can see nothing. Can you have some special infants’ food, vegetarian perhaps? Let us even try the improbable. The very tenderest bit of the heart of a lettuce is declined. So are the different sorts of grass which I tax my ingenuity in varying; so are the drops of honey which I place on spikes of lavender. All my endeavours come to nothing; and my captives die of inanition.