214 OUT OF DOORiS. 



ject, blunt at one end, sharply pointed at the other, 

 and boldly ringed for half its length. This is the 

 pupa, or chrysalis, of some large moth, and while re- 

 moving it we lay our hands on one of the great mys- 

 teries of this world — a mystery, which, if rightly ex- 

 plained, would give the clue to many a bright truth 

 now hidden within labyrinthian doubts and hazy 

 theories. 



At the very outset we are met with a paradox. 

 The frost killed the beetle that came from precisely 

 the same locality, and, of course, we might argue that 

 this creature would also die from sudden exposure to 

 the cold atmosphere. Nothing of the kind. Provided 

 we do not handle it roughly, we may take it home, 

 put it in a box, and in due time be rewarded by seeing 

 a grand wide-winged moth emerge from the dull case 

 in which it had so long lain, having suffered no injury 

 from its unexpected change of residence. The more 

 we dig, the greater number of living insects and pupae 

 shall we find, the former soon dying from the sudden 

 cold, and the latter suffering no apparent inconveni- 

 ence. 



Here we have a totally different branch of the sub- 

 ject. What manner of state is this in which the 

 chrysalis apparently reposes ? It is not sleep, neither 

 is it hibernation, but something quite distinct from 

 both, and yet having a certain analogy to both. It is 

 not death, for the creature still lives, and yet it is a 

 kind of death to the caterpillar, which lately traversed 



