BRITISH BUTTERFLIES 



The chirrup, chirrup, of the grasshoppers in the light 

 is to-day almost as incessant as when the hot sun 

 scorched the dry fields in July. In one spot, where a 

 long, shaft-like shadow is thrown from a ruined wall, 

 the insects are strangely silent, and seem to be endeav- 

 ouring to escape from the darkness. Repeatedly they 

 leap far above the shadow, as though wishful to feel 

 for one brief moment the pleasurable glow of autumn 

 sunshine beyond the gloom of their little world. 



A spider, when viewed closely beneath a powerful 

 glass, wears a sinister and forbidding aspect, befitting 

 the cruel life she leads. But the [grasshopper, a harm- 

 less vegetarian, possesses an almost owlish countenance 

 suggestive of sober wisdom and grave responsibilities, 

 as if she had heard every secret of Nature whispered by 

 the passing wind in the grass. As I watch intently a 

 female grasshopper nibbling quietly and carefully a 

 single blade of grass I cannot fail to smile. Her an- 

 tennae project before her face almost like quill pens 

 stuck forward in the ears of some village schoolmistress. 

 Her big, bulging eyes ; her long-drawn visage fringed 

 with the palpi, or lips, that continually move as she 

 feeds ; and the blunt, beak-like mouth, all combine to 

 render her appearance curious and antiquated. I can 

 hardly imagine a suitor for the affections of this queer 

 little dame. Nevertheless, he presently appears, peep- 

 ing from behind a twig, and approaches cautiously 



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