Supposing that concealment is the principal advantage accruing to the hermit-crab from its relations with the sea-anemone, it seems likely that this is more for the sake of securing prey than of avoiding enemies—though, indeed, both objects seem fairly attained by the shell. Another crab—the Hyas of Otaheite—arrives at similar results by means which are somewhat similar, but which, in this case, constitute a ruse which is all the creature’s own. It deliberately loads on to its back a cargo of seaweed mingled with the sand and débris of the coral, amongst which it lives, and having done so, remains motionless, awaiting the advent of anything that may serve as a meal. The tips of the ready claws lie just within the weedy thatch, whilst the eyes at the ends of their stalks are raised above it, so as to obtain a full view. They are, however, indiscernible, except in a fatally close proximity. Time passes, the sun shines brightly down through waters clear as the clearest crystal and bluer than the bluest sky. Fishes, rainbow-hued and flashing, sometimes, with the iridescent sparkles of the humming-bird—the jewels of the tropic seas—pass and repass often quite near to the unseen peril, but except by the motion of their own bodies, or the throb of the waves, the weeds which conceal it remain unstirred. Nothing happens: yet the eyes observe, the claws may, perhaps, itch; but their owner moves not. Such beings are not for him. They are beyond his sphere, too bright, too beautiful, above all, too quick. Medusæ, too, of substance translucent as the waters they move in, and washed with the colours of the sea itself, go by, sometimes in flocks, alternately expanding and contracting their smooth, bell-like bodies, whilst threads and filaments of varied form, and delicacy more exquisite than that of the finest lace, stream in beauty behind them. Sea-horses swim vertically like little mermaids, twining their tails together, or around the long fronds of many-tinted seaweeds, whilst strange and varied forms of mollusc and crustacean move upon the shell-strewn sand, or amidst the bright mazes of the coral—but still our crab makes no sign. At length a small creature of the shrimp or prawn kind—a crustacean like itself, and more active it would seem, for it swims, though backwards and in a curious jerky way—approaches the little heap; the crab’s eyes glisten—they would, at least, were they capable of doing so. Alternately shooting up and sinking down again, the unsuspecting creature continues to play about in the close neighbourhood of that deadly ambuscade, and at length, in one of the latter movements, comes well within reach. It is almost on the bottom, its tail stirs the weeds and is about to bend again, when with a rush the lurking enemy is upon it, seizes it between its fatal claws, and retiring backwards amidst the shelter which the violence of its sudden movement has partially removed, proceeds to devour it at its leisure. Such is the stratagem, and