MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



ming of the harvest-fly : the locust, as he is usually 

 miscalled. 



" I love he-e-e-e-e-e-e-eat ! I love he-e-e-e-e-e-e- 

 eat! " he huskily trills in his glee. The voice of 

 August par excellence is he. 



Do you see that muddy, empty, beetle-like case 

 clinging to the tree-trunk beside you ? Or rather 

 do you see the dozens of phantom-like shells, each 

 with a tell-tale opening in its back? In obedience 

 to the summons of the mysterious law of life, 

 these sluggish creatures recently made their way 

 up from the subterranean homes where they had 

 dwelt for three years or more. Through little 

 tunnels of their own excavating they emerged 

 into the light; then slowly toiled up the tree- 

 trunks, where they halted and awaited the great 

 transformation. 



I witnessed the marvel an evening or so ago. 

 First came the little split in the upper part of the 

 shell; then through this tiny door emerged grad- 

 ually a head, shoulders, folded-up wings, and 

 finally an entire body. The harvest-fly, mature, 

 complete, but needing still a few minutes in which 

 to face life, to get its bearings, and to let its com- 

 pressed members expand. One little instant 

 after the full-fledged fly had stepped out of its 

 [16] 



