in quest of water-beetles, and the passers-by
if they notice you at all, will invariably think
you are fishing; or, if they see what you are
taking, will ask you if your captures are for
baits. If you say Yes, they will think yours
a profitable employment; if you say No,
you may add as much more in exculpation as
you like, you will only pass for a fool. So
much for the popular appreciation of natural
history—and for your encouragement.
Crabbe's allusion to insects as "untax'd and
undisputed game," is no longer correct as
regards its second epithet; you cannot enter
a wood anywhere without fear of being as
unceremoniously dealt with as a felon. For
example, Coombe Wood, formerly one of the
great localities for insects of all kinds, and
the grand resort of the London collectors, is
now sacred to game alone, under the protection
of a royal duke. A collector dare no
more set foot within its hallowed precincts
than a poacher; it is possible even that, on
what was a public road quite through the
wood, a sly poacher might be more leniently
dealt with than an indiscreet entomologist.
A keeper cannot believe that any man would
go about in search of insects only; he thinks
that an insect-net is only a blind for attacks
upon the nests of pheasants, and has a strong
suspicion that beneath the pill-boxes in your
coat pocket you have a gin for a hare.

Mr. Douglas gives various British localities
that are rich in curious and rare insects. If
the student is inclined to peep at a few easily-
reached and well-stocked insect preserves on
the other side of the Channel, where he will
not be exposed to the insolence of Coombe
Wood guardian angels, let him try the tops
of the cliff's at Etretât, near Havre, taking
good care not to break his neck—the sandy
warren which lies between the camps of
Wimereux and Ambleteuse, near Boulogne-
sur-Mer—the forest of Guinea and Licques,
on calcareous hills—the forest south of
Hazebrouck, on an alluvial, loamy, clayey plain;
the oaks alone are worth going to see—the
forest of Watteu, I think, on gravel—and the
track of marsh, pasture, ponds, ditches, cultivated
land, and silted-up estuary, which lies
within the irregular triangle whose three
corners are Calais, St. Omer, and Dunkerque.
In three weeks or a month, he will capture
as many novelties as will take him a twelve-
month to examine and investigate, unless he
be a very learned and practised hand.

For house-flies in abundance, the reader is
recommended to go to Brixeu, in the Tyrol.
" Never saw so many flies in my life! " was
the most striking entry in the travellers'
book at the Grand Hotel of something or
other. One fine September's afternoon I had
to beg for dinner there; but, on being shown
into the dining-room, objected to the landlord
that I did not like eating in a room hung
with black. Tablecloth, curtains, and everything
else that should have been white, was
black. His answer was a flourish with his
napkin, when the dark coating arose in
buzzing swarms, and filled the air with a living
cloud, whose density almost impeded vision
across the room. This pleasing travelling
souvenir reminds me that a popular account
of the early life of house-flies (not blue-bottle
blow-flies) is a desideratum. Many people
believe that little flies grow into big ones,
just as lambs become sheep in the course of
time. If you want extra-sized flies, go to the
German forests; they will astonish you,
especially if you do not wear gloves. The
only insects to which they can be likened are
Hood's famous pair of moths—Mam-moth
and Behe-rooth.

THE CHAIN.

THE bond that links our souls together
Will it last through stormy weather?
Will it moulder and decay
As the long hours fleet away?
Will it stretch when Time divide us,
When dark weary hours have tried us?
If it look too poor and slight
Let us break the links to-night.

It was not forged by mortal hands,
Or clasped with golden bars and bands,
Save thine and mine, no other eyes
The slender link can recognise:
In the bright light it seems to fade—
And it is hidden in the shade;
While Heaven or Earth have never heard,
Or solemn vow, or plighted word.

Yet what no mortal hand could make,
No mortal power can ever break;
What words or vows could never do,
No words or vows can make untrue;
And if to other hearts unknown
The dearer and the more our own,
Because too sacred and divine
For other eyes save thine and mine.

And see, though slender, it is made
Of Love and Trust, and can they fade?
While, if too slight it seem, to bear
The breathings of the summer air,
We know that it could bear the weight
Of a most heavy heart of late,
And as each day and hour has flown
Stronger for its great burden grown.

And, too, we know and feel again
It has been sanctified by pain ,
For what God deigns to try with sorrow
He means not to decay to-morrow;
But though that fiery trial last
When earthly ties and bonds are past,
What slighter things dare not endure
Will make our Love more safe and pure.

Love shall be purified by Pain,
And Pain be soothed by Love again;
So let us now take heart and go
Cheerfully on, through joy and woe ;