side of the leaf to the other. They then pull them with their feet, and as the sides of the leaves approach, they fasten them together with shorter threads. Should a large fibre resist their efforts, they weaken it by repeated gnawings. This insect dwelling, which resembles a small roll, is very common in our hedge-rows. Another, still more curious, is conical, or horn-shaped, and composed of a long triangular portion, cut from the edge of a leaf, rolled together, and placed in nearly an upright position. The operator proceeds as with an inclined obelisk. She attaches threads, or cables, towards the point of the pyramid, and raises it by the weight of her small body. Nor are those little cones, or downy russet-coloured projections, about a quarter of an inch in height, and not much thicker than a pin, which are seen during the present month on the under surface of our pear-tree leaves, less deserving of attention. If you detatch one of them, and give it a gentle squeeze, a minute caterpillar, a tinea, with a yellowish body and black head, immediately appears. If you further examine the base, where the little cone was fixed, you will perceive a round excavation in the cuticle and parenchyma of the leaf, occasioned by the minute caterpillar's removing its little .tent from one part to another, and eating away the space immediately

beneath it. This tent is composed of silk, which the inmate spins, almost as soon as it is excluded from the egg, and enlarges by splitting it in two, and introducing a strip of new materials, It is retained in an erect position by attaching silken threads from a protuberance at the base, to the surrounding surface of the leaf, and further steadied by a vacuum, as effectually as if an airpump had been employed. This vacuum is caused by the little Arab's rapidly retreating, if alarmed, up his narrow case, which he completely fills, while the space below is free of air. Hence it happens, that the tent may be readily pulled up while the occupant is feeding on the leaf, for the fragile cords give way with the slightest force; but if, proceeding gently, you give the insect time to retreat, the case will adhere so firmly, that some effort is requisite. It seems, also, as if the creature knew, that should the air obtain admission, no vacuum could be formed, and the tent must fall. It therefore remains contented with the pasture afforded by the parenchyma above the lower epidermis; it never excavates a hole in the leaf; but when the produce fails, it breaks the slender cords, that held the tent erect, and pitches it elsewhere.

Numerous instances might be adduced of the dexterity with which different insects employ their

saws and files, augers, gimlets, knives, and forcipes, in the construction of various habitations. How one builds a house of stone, another of pasteboard; with what dexterity a third arranges, side by side, the spines of some species of mimosa, so as to form an elegant fluted cylinder to its dwelling; in what manner a fourth covers in the roof with blades of grass, fastened only at one end, and overlapping each other like the tiles on our cottages. All this, and much more, might be told: compact, convenient dwellings, harmonious families, commonwealths, and little communities, might be pointed out in our lanes and hedge-rows, but such descriptions would lead too far. I shall, therefore, mention only one instance more, in the neat dwelling, and social compact, of the humble bees, and then pass on.

The nest of this industrious insect is a beautiful and curious structure. It is not uncommon in pasture-lands and meadows, and in hedge-rows, where the soil is entangled with moss and roots. Looking narrowly, you may discover a little thickly-felted mossy dome; the lower half occupies a cavity in the soil, either accidentally found there, or excavated, with great labour, by the bees; with a gallery, or covered way, about a foot in length, and half an inch in diameter, leading to the interior. I have often admired the little citadel, and seen the unoffending inmates intent on their honest labours, but I could not gratify my curiosity by destroying the pile, which they had reared with so much toil. Yet the mode of its erection, and their economy, is too curious to be omitted; and therefore, reader, that you may not pass the little mossy pile without knowing something of its secret history, I shall endeavour to comprize, in a small space, much that I have observed and collected on the subject.

The interior of the dome is coated with a thin roof of coarse wax, for the purpose of keeping out the wet, and beneath, a few irregular horizontal combs, connected by small wax pillars, attest the industry of the occupants. Each comb contains a silken cocoon, spun by the young larvæ; some are closed at the upper extremity-others open.

The former contain the coming progeny, the latter are empty cases from which the young bees have escaped. Several waxen masses of flattened spheroidal shapes may be seen on the upper combs; when opened they are found to inclose a number of larvæ, and a supply of pollen, moistened with honey. These are chiefly the work of the females, which, after depositing six or seven eggs, carefully close the orifice, and the minutest interstices with wax. Here the labours of the mothers cease, and are succeeded by those of the workers. These know the precise hour, when the grubs have consumed their stock of honey, and from that time, till they are fully grown, they regularly feed them with either honey or pollen, through a small hole in the cover of the cell, which they open for the purpose, and afterwards carefully close up.

As the grubs increase in size, the cells are split by their exertion that they may be more at ease. The foster-parents then fill the breaches with wax, and thus the cells daily become larger. They also brood over them at night, and by day when the weather is cold, in order to impart the necessary warmth. We owe to M. P. Huber the following singularly curious anecdote connected with this part of their domestic economy.

In the course of his numerous experiments, he