been broken off, then broken again, in all sorts of places, and, finally, crushed up, squeezed and crumpled together in the hand. Yet the insect which it really is, has a head, eyes, antennæ, thorax, abdomen, and all the internal organs like any other one, and it breathes, sleeps, eats, and digests upon just the same principles. There are thousands of these wonderful grass-insects, and almost as many different species of them. All about, wherever the grass springs up in patches, amidst the forests of equatorial Africa, they form, as it were, a sort of second animal crop, living amongst the vegetable one and indistinguishable from it. When they leap from one stem to another, then, all at once, they are seen; but the instant they alight they become invisible again, vanishing under one’s very eyes, whilst one looks at them, as if by magic. What is most wonderful is that as the tintings of the true grasses change with the season, so do those of the false ones that cling to them. From the bright, vivid green of the fresh spring crops, through the later darker greens, and the golds and reds of autumn, all is mimicked, the one change keeps pace with the other, but whether it is a sequence of different imitative creatures—like the rotation of crops—or whether it is not the species, but only their colours, which change, does not appear to be certain, though, probably, it is the latter. Other insects imitate mosses or lichens, whilst a still greater number, perhaps, are the counterparts of all kinds of leaves—from the fresh young green ones to those which are sere and yellow. To these belong the mantises which we have just been talking about, besides a whole host of locusts and grasshoppers. One of these latter was seen by Mr. Belt, in Nicaragua, standing perfectly still in the midst of an army of foraging ants, numbers of which kept passing over its body, and would at once have torn it to pieces, had they had the smallest idea that it was not what it pretended to be. This locust had wings, like others of its family, and could easily, by their aid, have got away from the ants. This, however, would not have saved its life, for the air and surrounding trees were full of birds that were busily engaged in catching such insects as the ants put up. Knowing, therefore, that it would only be flying from danger to certain death, it preferred, or, rather, its instinct taught it, to stay and brave the former, which it might do with a very fair chance, though not quite a certainty, of success. That there was no choice in the matter we may, I think, assume, because with all these creatures that imitate still life, there is a strong instinct to be still themselves whenever there is cause for alarm—and indeed generally, as long as moving can be dispensed with. This is, indeed, a part of the deception, since it is obvious to the meanest capacity of bird or predaceous insect, that a leaf, for instance, that walks about, cannot really be a leaf.