from the tip till it passed into the hand; and so performs, every time he eats, the clown’s as yet ideal feat of jumping down his own throat. So much have we seen on one little shell. But there is more to see close to it. Those yellow plants which I likened to squirrels’ tails and lobsters’ horns, and what not, are zoophytes of different kinds. Here is Sertularia argentea (true squirrel’s tail); here S. filicula, as delicate as tangled threads of glass; here abietina; here rosacea. The lobsters’ horns are Antennaria antennina; and mingled with them are Plumulariæ, always to be distinguished from Sertulariæ by polypes growing on one side of the branch, and not on both. Here is falcata, with its roots twisted round a sea-weed. Here is cristata, on the same weed; and here is a piece of the beautiful myriophyllum, which has been battered in its long journey out of the deep water about the ore rock. Here are Flustræ, or sea-mats. This, which smells very like Verbena, is Flustra coriacea. That scurf on the frond of ore-weed is F. lineata. The glass bells twined about this Sertularia are Campanularia syringa; and here is a tiny plant of Cellularia ciliata. Look at it through the field-glass; for it is truly wonderful. Each polype cell is edged with whip-like spines, and on the back of some of them is--what is it but a live vulture’s head, snapping and snapping--what for? Next, what are the striped pears? They are sea-anemones, Sagartia viduata, the snake-locked anemone. They have been washed off the loose stones to which they usually adhere by the pitiless roll of the ground-swell; however, they are not so far gone but that if you take one of them home and put it in a jar of water, it will expand into a delicate compound flower, which can neither be described nor painted, of long pellucid tentacles, hanging like a thin, bluish cloud over a disk of mottled brown and gray. Here, adhering to this large whelk, is another, but far larger and coarser. It is Sagartia parasitica, one of our largest British species; and most singular in this, that it is almost always (in Torbay at least) found adhering to a whelk: but never to a live one; and for this reason. The live whelk (as you may see for yourself when the tide is out) burrows in the sand in chase of hapless bivalve shells, which he bores through with his sharp tongue (always, cunning fellow, close to the hinge where the fish is), and then sucks out their life. Now, if the anemone stuck to him, it would be carried under the sand daily, to its own disgust. It prefers, therefore, the dead whelk, inhabited by a soldier crab, Pagurus Bernhardi, of which you may find a dozen anywhere as the tide goes out; and travels about at the crab’s expense, sharing with him the offal which is his food. Note, moreover, that the soldier crab is the most hasty and blundering of marine animals, as active as a monkey, and as subject to panics as a horse; wherefore the poor anemone on his back must have a hard life