Twelve rounds of a gruelling bout for the heavy-weight cricket championship. Note the seconds and spectators roaming over the sawdust while the battlers are clenched 
into the upper ropes 
derful changes are taking place. Limbs are growing, delicately 
feathered antennae or “‘feelers" are forming, and a growth of 
soft and fluffy hair gradually separates the internal body from 
its shell. During these changes a winter wind may rock the 
branch on which the cocoon is attached. It is frost-proof and 
waterproof and so tough that birds do not care to undertake the 
labor of extricating the tempting morsel within. With the warm 
sun of the early summer the 
transformation is hastened 
and there comes a day when 
the pupa skin is split and a 
delicate soft-bodied creature, 
coated with feathery down, 
moves about in the cocoon. 
The shell of the cocoon is so 
tough that a man’s fingers 
could not tear it: moreover, 
its inside coating is smooth 
and polished. How is this 
delicate creature, with no 
mouth parts but a thread-like 
tongue—or it may have no 
vestiges of mouth parts—to 
free itself from its prison? 
It ejects a wonderful fluid 
that Nature has designed to 
break down the strength of 
the silk. The end of the co¬ 
coon becomes saturated with 
this and with dexterous but 
feeble limbs the weakened 
silken strands are disinte¬ 
grated and pushed aside and 
.a wingless fluffy body emerges. Tiny capes hang from the 
shoulders where the wings should be, and, as we watch 
them, they droop and enlarge. We wonder whether 
these crumpled fragments can expand into wings, but 
in twenty minutes or so wings are unfurled, though they 
hang limp and useless. A half hour more and they have 
expanded into full form. They are slowly waved back 
and forth to dry. Not long after the moth launches the 
body in flight. 
The life history of the butterfly parallels that of the 
moth with the exception of the cocoons. The interme¬ 
diate or mummy state of the butterflv is called the chry¬ 
salis stage, and when the caterpillar is ready for this it 
attaches the body to a leaf or twig by means of a heavy 
strand of silk, wriggles off its skin, and the grotesque object re¬ 
sulting stares dumbly at nothing, like the figure-head of a ship, 
until the perfect insect emerges. The transformation of beetles 
is somewhat like that of the butterfly. The young dragon fly 
begins its life in the water as a voracious hunter of small forms 
of life. Ants, bees, wasps and flies begin life as grubs, but the 
young members of several insect orders look much like the 
parents. The infants of the order containing most of the sing¬ 
ing insects are quite like the parents except in the absence of 
wings, which are suddenly uncovered in moulting the skin. This 
is also the life history of many species of the true bugs. 
The writer has been particularly interested in those species of 
insects that “sing"; and here is a study that is extremely fas¬ 
cinating, for the different species are hardy, readily maintained 
as captives, and the student may derive both entertainment and 
instruction in assembling a varied orchestra. It is possible to 
collect certain species that sing by day and others that begin their 
cheery serenades at night. Thus the diurnal orchestra ceases 
about sundown and the concert for the evening soon begins 
and with quite different effect in tone and cadence. The 
very loudest of our singing insects is an exception to the 
far greater number, as it will not live in captivity. How¬ 
ever, the student would probably not care to maintain this 
species for a pet, as its piercing call is intermittent and 
deafening. I his is the cicade or harvest fly, improperly 
called the "locust. ’ It produces the loud buzz heard in the 
tree tops when the sun is at its height in sweltering weather. 
It is alleged to usher in the “dog-days," and is really a spe¬ 
cies of true bug, or suctional insect. On each side of this 
insect s body is a deep pit covered with a membrane—a 
miniature kettle-drum. The drum head is vibrated bv mus¬ 
cles, and at such a rate that 
the sound produced by these 
organs — each of them less 
than a quarter of an inch in 
diameter- — can be heard a fair 
fraction of a mile. If an in¬ 
strument the size of the drum 
employed by human musi¬ 
cians were to produce propor¬ 
tionately as much noise as 
that of the cicada, its vibra¬ 
tions would jar stone build¬ 
ings from their foundations. 
Among insects these extreme 
feats of noise and strength 
are the rule. 
If we are to make a col¬ 
lection of singing insects we 
must look for them among 
the true locusts (the grass¬ 
hopper group) and the crick¬ 
ets. The Japanese are very 
fond of these insects and 
build beautiful cages for 
them. These are set upon 
decorative bamboo tables, 
which give rise to an interesting condition. The writer's friend. 
Dr. Ishakava, of the University of Tokio, explained that the 
slenderly-built bamboo table is a quite essential part of the outfit. 
From one of the members of our party came the natural question: 
“But why is a light bamboo table so necessary?" 
“Because," explained Dr. Ishakava, “the houses in Japan are 
rather lightly built. Any one walking over a floor at night disturbs 
the sensitive insects and they stop singing." 
“But we do not follow you, doctor.” 
“It is this way,” seriously continued the Japanese scientist. 
-it opens and discloses the pupa and the shed 
skin of the former caterpillar 
