134 



THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



water-bugs. The tanks are drying up, and in the dense 

 weeds which crowd the stagnating water a skilful fisher 

 with an old butterfly-net may make a good bag of 

 villainous-looking water-scorpions and silvery "boatmen," 

 with perhaps an occasional specimen of the Goliath of 

 the race, three inches in length, and one at least in breadth 

 of chest, with four vigorous oars to send it swiftly through 

 the waters, and two muscular arms to hug the frogs and 

 fish on which it feeds. It is not an inviting object to look 

 at, any more than the rest of its kin ; but, nevertheless, 

 water-bugs are not to be classed with land-bugs, for there 

 are two things they never do they do not exhale vexa- 

 tious odours, and they do not mistake the light of your eye 



for a candle 

 twilight, and 

 like a hail- 

 their v e x a- 

 squirt of acrid 

 drop out 

 youtofindyour 

 again with the 



in the dim 

 darting into it 

 stone, express 

 tion with a 

 poison, and 

 again, leaving 

 way home 

 other eye. 



