With the insect-world we enter on a widely differing scene. There, in the highest insects, we discover what may well rouse a salutary discontent with ourselves. The life-current which finds its eddying termination in the wasps and bees and ants has one, and that its chief, character pointing to grave but happily not irremediable deficiency in most of us, if not to some extent in all. The wasp seems to know other creatures' life, to understand it sympathetically, to touch and feel it from within, in a manner that to us is marvellous. Life manifests through this little winged thing a power we call instinct, perfected for certain uses to a degree not attained outside the insect-world. There are wasps which sting caterpillars with admirable though not invariable precision in their nerve-centres, so that they go on living but cannot move, and thus are made to serve as living larders for the wasp-grubs. Observers have found that different wasps, seeking different kinds of prey, sting three times, nine times, in three or nine centres, according to the number in the body of their selected victim, and that the Scolia stings the larvae of the rose-beetle in one point only, just where the motor-ganglia are concentrated. Other observers have noticed some failures and occasional irregularities. But listen (it may be once more and after many times) to this well-known story, the story of the Sitaris, if you want to see what life can do in a fashion for which the intellectual work of man offers in his experience no parallel. This tiny beetle lays its eggs in the doorway of the underground passages dug by a certain bee, the Anthophora. When an egg is hatched the grub awaits an opportunity to spring upon the male bee as it comes out. You may deceive it with a substitute, and no doubt it often is deceived without your help. Nevertheless, if not thus deceived it clings to the bee until the nuptial flight occurs, when it seizes some chance of shifting from the male to the female. Now clinging to the female, it waits until the bee-eggs are as usual laid upon honey. Then it leaps again, this time upon an egg which serves it at first as a raft on the honey. By degrees it eats up the egg; then uses as its raft the empty shell. It changes, undergoes a metamorphosis, and becomes able both to float and feed on honey, where it remains until it changes for the last time into the perfect insect, a Sitaris ready in its turn to set going this amazing cycle of life. It is a life that seems to involve knowledge of things which, by any knowing such as our intellectual experience provides, could not be known. Untaught, unaided, without previous experiment, the creature displays what looks like, but cannot be, true forethought, as well as ingenuity and adaptive skill; what looks like, but cannot be, a continued adjustment of reflectively chosen means to reflectively recognized ends. There can be no question but that all this, under such