The point of these interesting relations has been, in my opinion, entirely missed. What we really see in them, or what, at least, is there for us to see, is the beginnings of order and social polity, evolving themselves out of lawlessness and the strong hand. Further, it has already gone some little way, for the fact that two Scarabæi do, as a matter of fact, assist each other very materially in rolling the ball, and that they do sit and eat it together in the same chamber, are not to be got over by any such amusing fancy picture as this brilliant writer, as well as keen observer, has given us. It is no use fixing our eyes upon that part of the conduct of the beetle which we are invited to call the thief, in contradistinction to the owner—I doubt myself if Fabre has always kept the two distinct from beginning to end—if we pass over the other and much more interesting parts of it. Why does this beetle help to get the ball up a hill, and why does he sit for some considerable time with it outside the cave that the other is making, before he begins to go off with it? Does he say to himself, in the first case, “If we don’t get it to the right place, to begin with, he’ll never dig a hole and leave me outside with it,” and, in the second, “I’ll wait till he has come out and found it all right, several times, so that his suspicions may be put to sleep”? This would be scheming with a vengeance; but _serviteur Monsieur Fabre_, I must refer you to your own incredulity in another matter. I will never accept such an explanation, and the view which I take of the whole affair is this. The beetle which Fabre calls the thief is under the sway probably of precisely the same feeling as the other one—the rightful owner. He has seized a piece of dung, and as he seizes it, whether another has it at the time or not, it appears to be his, that being the only idea of rightful ownership which is not too large for his comprehension. Finding, however, that another beetle has exactly the same idea as himself, he is forced, willy nilly—and the experience is being constantly repeated—to accommodate himself to this circumstance and make the best of it. The ball—this is the one great advantage—will continue to roll even if he does not push it. Therefore he can afford to be lazy sometimes, and be pushed along with it. The ball stops: in that case he must push it, and, even without this incentive, it would appear from Fabre’s account that the two often work together. Thus, from the very necessities of the case, it is evident that a sense of partnership—at least a feeling of doing work in combination with another—has begun to dawn in the mind of the Scarabæus. The fact that when the one beetle is left alone with the ball, whilst the other excavates, it does not immediately go off, but stays a little, as though waiting to be rejoined, suggests to my mind that this feeling, fostered by custom, has already gone some way, though it is not