gorids, gigantic heads and
streamers of wax have been allotted. Those possessing the former
rejoice in the name of Lantern Flies, but they are at present
unfaithful vestal bugs, though it is extremely doubtful if their wicks
were ever trimmed or lighted. To see a big wax bug flying with
trailing ribbons slowly from tree to tree in the jungle is to recall
the streaming trains of a flock of peacocks on the wing.

The membracids must of all deserve the name of "bugges" for no elf or
hobgoblin was ever more bizarre. Their legs and heads and bodies are
small and aphid-like, but aloft there spring minarets and handles and
towers and thorns and groups of hairy balls, out of all reason and
sense. Only Stegosaurus and Triceratops bear comparison. Another group
of five-sided bugs are the skunks and civet-cats among insects,
guarding themselves from danger by an aura of obnoxious scent.

Not the least strange of this assemblage is the author of our rainbow
in the stump. My awkwardness had broken into a hollow which opened to
the light on the other side of the rotten bole. A vine had tendriled
its way into the crevice where the little weaver of rainbows had
found board and lodging. We may call him toad-hopper or spittle-bug,
or as Fabre says, "_Contentons-nous de Cicadelle, qui respecte le
tympan._" Like all of its kindred, the Bubble Bug finds Nirvana in a
sappy green stem. It has neither strong flight, nor sticky wax, thorny
armature nor gas barrage, so it proceeds to fashion an armor of
bubbles, a cuirass of liquid film. This, in brief, was the rainbow
which caught my eye when I broke open the stump. Up to that moment no
rainbow had existed, only a little light sifting through from the
vine-clad side. But now a ray of sun shattered itself on the pile of
bubbles, and sprayed itself out into a curved glory.

Bubble Bugs blow their froth only when immature, and their bodies are
a distillery or home-brew of sorts. No matter what the color, or
viscosity or chemical properties of sap, regardless of whether it
flows in liana, shrub, or vine, yet the Bug's artesian product is
clear, tasteless and wholly without the possibility of being blown
into bubbles. When a large drop has collected, the tip of the abdomen
encloses a retort of air, inserts this in the drop and forces it out.
In some way an imponderable amount of oil or dissolved wax is
extruded and mixed with the drop, an invisible shellac which toughens
the bubble and gives it a