THE Greeks thought that the life of the cicadas was all joy, but modern research has been successful in removing the reproach of inconsistency from the general scheme of creation. All is in order, as it now appears: the cicada’s case has been considered, and a very handsome wasp provided for it. At least, I think it is handsome. It is large and strong, I know, as is necessary for the part it has to perform, but I cannot quite remember the colours it flies under; an expression which, though metaphorical, may be pardoned, since flags have much to do with such dramas as that now to be described. For as the joyous, sun-loving creature sits in its accustomed place, chirupping forth those shrill yet musical notes which I, at least, have never wearied of, the destroyer is at hand, and settling on its broad back, curves its abdomen beneath that of the poor blithe singer, and in a moment has done its work. As the sting enters, the happy note that has been sounding regularly for the last hour, perhaps, is changed to a discordant scream of pain, and with a spasmodic spring or flutter—the last, or near the last, that it will ever make—the cicada, with the wasp still clinging to it, falls to the ground. This is awkward for the wasp, who doubtless considers herself aggrieved in the matter, since the cicada is so bulky that, powerful as she is, she can neither lift it from the ground in flight, nor is she prepared to drag it all the way to her burrow. What, then, is she to do, or of what use to her is the prize she has obtained with such adroitness? But she has her plan, and though the captious behaviour of the cicada has, for the moment, a little deranged it, it is not permanently frustrated. Slowly, but with firm insistence, she drags her victim to the tree on which a moment before it was so happily seated, and then exerting all her force, begins to mount the trunk with it. Often she has to pause and rest, often it seems as though the task would be beyond her, but she continues the laborious ascent, sometimes for upwards of an hour, until at last a height has been reached at which it is possible for her to put her great project into execution. This is no other than to fly down obliquely, with her victim clasped in her arms, to the pleasant little sarcophagus which she has previously prepared for it, for though flight upwards, or in a straight line, with such a burden, is out of the question, her strength is equal to this. It is necessary, however, that she should balance the body nicely, and make a fair and uninterrupted start, in order not to be overweighted and again fall. Her enterprise is “full of poise and difficult weight,” and cannot be successfully carried out in face of the rude struggles of a tiresome obstructive not “in tune with the infinite.” These struggles, however, have now ceased; the cicada is in a comatose condition, and, having adjusted it properly, and assumed the requisite attitude and position,