The White-faced Decticus: the Eggs 



the rudiments of the eyes. It is quite evi- 

 dent that the bursting of the shell is near at 

 hand. 



I spend a fortnight in keeping a tedious 

 watch at every hour of the day: I have to 

 surprise the young Decticus actually leaving 

 the egg, if I want to solve a question that 

 has long been vexing my mind. The quest- 

 ion is this: the Grasshopper's egg is buried 

 at a varying depth, according to the length 

 of the ovipositor or dibble. An inch is 

 about the most for the seeds of the best- 

 equipped insects in our parts. Now the new- 

 born Decticus, hopping awkwardly in the 

 grass at the approach of summer, is, like the 

 adult, endowed with a pair of very long 

 tentacles, vying with hairs for slenderness; 

 he carries behind him two extraordinary legs, 

 two enormous hinged levers, a pair of 

 jumping-stilts that would be very incon- 

 venient for ordinary walking. How does 

 the feeble little creature set to work, with 

 this cumbrous luggage, to emerge from the 

 earth? By what artifice does it manage 

 to clear a passage through the rough 

 soil? With its antennary plumes, which an 

 atom of sand can break, with its immense 

 shanks, which the least effort is enough to 

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