When I topple over the family with a slight stroke of the camel-hair pencil, it is amusing to see how quickly the unhorsed ones resume their seat in the saddle. The fringes of the housings are grasped, the tail is used as a lever and, with a bound, the rider is in his place. This curious carpet, a real boarding-net which makes climbing easy, lasts, without dislocations, for nearly a week, that is to say, until the emancipation. Then it falls off of its own accord, either as a whole or piecemeal, and nothing remains of it when the young are dispersed over the surrounding country. Meantime, signs of the colouring appear; the tail and belly are tinged with saffron, the claws assume the soft brilliancy of translucent amber. Youth beautifies all things. The little Languedocian Scorpions are really magnificent. If they remained thus, if they did not carry a poison-still, soon to become threatening, they would be pretty creatures which we should find a pleasure in rearing. Soon the wish for emancipation awakens in them. They gladly descend from the mother’s back to frolic merrily round about her. If they stray too far, the mother cautions them and brings them back again by sweeping the rake of her arms over the sand. At the time of the siesta, the sight furnished by the Scorpioness is almost as good as that of the Hen and her Chicks at rest. Most of the little ones are on the ground, pressed close against their mother: a few are stationed on the white saddle-cloth, a delightful cushion. There are some who clamber up the the mother’s tail, perch on the crest of the curve and seem to delight in looking down from this point of vantage upon the crowd. More acrobats arrive, who dislodge them and take their places. All want their share in the curiosities provided by the conning-tower. The bulk of the family is around the mother; there is a constant swarm of brats that crawl under the belly and there squat, leaving their forehead, with the gleaming black eye-points, outside. The more restless prefer the mother’s legs, which to them represent a gymnasium; they here swing as on a trapeze. Next, at their leisure, the whole troop climb up to her back again, resume their places and settle down; and nothing more stirs, neither mother nor little ones. This period, during which the Scorpion is matured and prepared for emancipation, lasts a week, exactly as long as the strange process that trebles the volume without food. The family remains upon the mother’s back for a fortnight, all told. The Lycosa carries her young for six or seven months, during which time they are always active and lively, although unfed. What do those of the Scorpion eat, at least after the excoriation that has given them agility and a new life? Does the mother invite them to her meals and reserve the tenderest morsels of her repasts for them? She invites nobody; she reserves nothing.