A country distillery furnished me with the second subject of observation. It combined two excellent conditions for attracting Pelopæi: rural quiet and the heat of a furnace. The nests therefore were numerous, fixed more or less everywhere on anything that came to hand, even down to the pile of account-books in which the excisemen registered their troublesome inspections of the proof-spirit. One of these, situated quite close to the still, was tested with the thermometer. It measured 113° of heat. These few data prove that the larvæ of the Pelopæus are comfortable in a temperature of a hundred degrees or over, a temperature not accidental, like that produced by a fire blazing in a chimney, but constant, such as obtained by a boiler or a still. Tropical heat is favourable to the grub slumbering for ten months in its mud hole. Any seed, in order to sprout, needs a certain quantum of heat, greater or smaller according to its kind. The larva, a sort of animal seed out of which the perfect insect will come by a process of germination even more wonderful than that which turns an acorn into an oak, the larva also claims its quantum of heat. The larva of the Pelopæus can cheerfully endure a temperature that makes the baobab or the oily palm-tree sprout. What then is the origin of this chilly tribe? A good fire on the hearth, a boiler or a furnace shedding an artificial tropical climate around them are useful windfalls, which, however, cannot be relied upon; and the Pelopæus settles in any lodging where she finds warmth and not too garish a light. The corners of a conservatory; a kitchen-ceiling; the embrasure of a window with closed casement and shutters, provided that these furnish some exit-hole; the rafters of a loft, where the warmth of the daily quota of sunshine is preserved by the heaped-up hay and straw; the walls of a cottage bedroom: any of these suit her, so long as the larvæ find a snug shelter in winter. This climatological expert, the daughter of the dog-days, divines the coming peril for her family, that inclement season which she herself will never see. While she is scrupulous in her choice of a warm spot, on the other hand she is supremely indifferent to the nature of the foundation on which the nest is to be fastened. As a rule, she fixes her groups of cells to the stonework, whether rough-coated or not, and to the timber, whether bare or plastered; but she uses many other supports, some of which are very peculiar. Let us mention a few of these fantastic installations. My notes speak of a nest constructed inside a gourd standing on the mantelpiece of a farm-kitchen. In this narrow-mouthed receptacle the farmer used to keep his shot. As the orifice was always open and the utensil not employed at that time of year, a Pelopæus had found that the peaceful retreat suited her and had gone to the length of building on the layer of small-shot. The gourd had to be broken to extract the bulky edifice.