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on a towing-path along the Rhone. On one 

 side is the mighty stream, with its roaring 

 waters; on the other is a thick hedge of 

 osiers, willows and reeds; between the two 

 runs a narrow walk, with a carpet of fine 

 sand. A Yellow-winged Sphex appears, 

 hopping along, dragging her prey. What do 

 I see ! The prey is not a Cricket, but a com- 

 mon Acridian, a Locust ! And yet the Wasp 

 is really the Sphex with whom I am so 

 familiar, the Yellow-winged Sphex, the keen 

 Cricket-huntress. I can hardly believe the 

 evidence of my own eyes. 



The burrow is not far off : the insect enters 

 it and stores away the booty. I sit down, de- 

 termined to wait for a new expedition, to wait 

 hours if necessary, so that I may see if the 

 extraordinary capture is repeated. My sit- 

 ting attitude makes me take up the whole 

 width of the path. Two raw conscripts 

 heave in sight, their hair newly cut, wearing 

 that inimitable automaton look which the 

 first days of barrack-life bestow. They are 

 chatting together, talking no doubt of home 

 and the girl they left behind them; and each 

 is innocently whittling a willow-switch with 

 his knife. I am seized with a sudden ap- 

 prehension. Ah, it is no easy matter to ex- 

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