and leave wondering comprehension far behind.  And having seized its prey, it may, haply, seek as it booms along the nearest support on which to enjoy its meal.  Then you see what a terrific creature it is.  One favoured me with a minute’s close observation.  By a hook on one of the anterior legs (it possesses the regulation half-dozen) it had attached itself to a tiny splinter on the under-side of the verandah rail, and so hung, the body being at right angles to its support.  Thus stretched, the leg appeared fully two inches long, and with the rest of its legs it clasped to its bosom the unfortunate little fly, shrunken with distress, the very embodiment of hopeless dismay.  No sight which comes to memory’s call equals for utter despair that of the little insect, which no doubt in its day had provoked a big lump of irritation and strong but ineffective language.  Hugged by its great enemy, it seemed aware of its fate, yet unreconciled to it.  Pendant by the one long, slender leg, as if hung by a thread, the blond monster seemed quite at ease over its repast.  That was its customary pose and attitude at meal-times.  As far as observation permitted, it was pumping out the blood of its prey, but before the operation was finished it forbade closer scrutiny by humming away with a note of savage resentment—­a rumble, a grumble and a growl, ending in a swelling shriek.

It would be interesting to know how many flies of the common vexing kind such a ferocious creature disposes of during the day.  He preys upon the lustrous bluish-green fly, which draws blood almost on the moment of alighting, and also on the sluggish “march” fly, which goes about the business of blood-sucking in a lazy, dreamy, lackadaisical style; and I am inclined to acknowledge him as a friend and as a blessing to humanity generally.

A TRAGEDY IN YELLOW

Quite a distinct tragedy occurred the other day.  The little yellow diurnal moth commonly known as “the wanderer” has a partiality for the nectar of the “bachelor’s button,” as yellow as itself.  The morning was gay with butterflies.  A “wanderer” poised over a yellow cushion fluttered spasmodically, and remained fixed and steadfast with tightly-closed wings.  It allowed itself to be touched without showing uneasiness, and when a brisk movement was made to frighten it to flight it was still steady as a statue.  Closer inspection revealed the cause.  The body was tightly-gripped in the mandibles of a spider, a yellow rotund spider with long, slender, greeny-yellowy legs.  Under cover of the yellow flower the yellow spider had seized the yellow moth.  A general inspection showed that the tragedy was almost as universal as the flowers.  There were few flowers which did not conceal a spider, and few spiders which had not murdered a moth.  The conspiracy between the flower and the spider for the undoing of the moth (a conspiracy from which both profited) was repeated thousands of times this bright morning, and it illustrated the profundity of Nature’s lesser tragedies, the sternness with which she adjusts her equilibriums.