Insects. 4473 



Extract from a Letter of a Gold- Digger. 

 By Edward T. Ingpen, Esq.* 



Whatever good fortune the gold-digger may meet with, believe 

 me he well deserves it. To say nothing of the separation of domestic 

 ties and the want of the comforts of civilized life, and such like small 

 matters, he is the victim of continual persecutions. Take Zoology as 

 an instance ; he is a martyr from day to day ; he rises in the morning 

 unrefreshed (I will tell you why presently), and the flies begin to pes- 

 ter him. Some blow the meat, others swann into the sugar-basin (of 

 milk the festive board is quite innocent), tumble into the tea, fly into 

 his eyes, and not unfrequently into his mouth aud throat, almost 

 choking him, and thereby teaching the wisdom of keeping the mouth 

 shut in a strange land. They torment him in every conceivable way 

 during his walk to work through the bush, and until he dives into the 

 depths of his hole, where — as the common sort do not venture far 

 below the surface and confine themselves to vigorous attempts to 

 effect a rapid descent of the digger by making him lose his hold 

 of the sides or the rope — he hopes for a little peace : vain hope ! 

 deluded digger ! A race of demons has lately sprung up in the shape 

 of black flies, an inch in length, which buzz around him in the shades 

 below, and sting or bite most confoundedly, even to the drawing of 

 blood ; and he may possibly find, if the hole be damp, a snake or two 

 coiled up snugly in a corner; a circumstance which occurred only 

 about a week ago. As the digger generally works at some distance 

 from his tent, to save time he takes his lunch or dinner with him, 

 and about mid-day " knocks off" to find a spot where, " recubans 

 sub tegm'trie" gum-tree, he may enjoy it, but the deuce a bit of shade 

 do the trees afford from the rays of the sun, the leaves are all vertical ! 

 However, he sits down, taking care not to do so on a nest of lively 

 young scorpions, and his old enemies the flies are at him again. 

 Presently the ants, red and black, come out to investigate his 

 proceedings, staring at him with their big saucer-like eyes, in a way 

 to make a timid man feel rather nervous. These beauties vary 

 in size, from half-an-inch to an inch and a quarter in length, and are 

 armed with formidable jaws, and a sting far worse than any wasp it has 

 been my fortune to become acquainted with. I am no draughtsman; 

 but, as well as my pen will take it, I send a portrait of an individual 



* Our readers will be grieved to hear that that most estimable naturalist Mr. Abel 

 Ingpen (who eommunicaled these amusing extracts from the letters of his son) died 

 of cholera, on the 14th inst. 



