dewy grass, making it less than usually repulsive, I ran my tongue up its back only to find that it had no taste whatever. I was of course surprised, but I was not foolish enough to deny, as the result of one observation, the statement of a good scientist. The observation, moreover, was one which I naturally did not care to repeat with any frequency. Of one thing I was sure, toads do not always have an unpleasant taste. A year later I had a class down by the side of a neighboring pond. The pool was not an attractive one, and I had picked from it a more than commonly unappetizing looking toad, which proved to be a mother which had not yet laid her eggs. As I held her in my hands and exhibited her various points to my pupils, I told them of Prof. Cope's statement. I also told them of my unsuccessful attempt the previous year to verify the statement. I added, however, that I would not repeat this experiment on this unappetizing specimen. Hereupon the toad not only exuded, but squirted, from a gland over her left shoulder blade a fluid, milky-like in appearance, and forming a jet as thin as a needle, but ejected with force enough to strike my face, which was at least fifteen inches away. I moistened my finger on my tongue, lifted the fluid from my cheek, and tasted it. Cope was right. A toad can exude a most nauseous fluid. Horsechestnuts extracted and distilled might possibly provide something as bitter. Why did I not find this in the preceding case? I have too few observations on which to base a conclusion, but I have a suspicion as to the reason. In the case of the toad which spurted the fluid in my face, we had a creature with whose life were tied up the lives of her many offspring, to be produced from the eggs she was so soon to lay. Under conditions like these, nature is more than commonly careful of her children. Whether this be the reason or not, toads do not always have an unpleasant taste, but when they do it certainly is most unpleasant.