end by the natural pith
of the bamboo. I now find them _all_ either open or otherwise tampered
with, and the surrounding surface of the table littered with tiny balls,
apparently of sawdust. I picked up one of the nearest brushes, and upon
inverting it and giving it a slight tap, a tiny green worm fell out of
the opening. From the next one I managed to shake out seven of the
caterpillars, while the third had passed beyond this stage, the aperture
having been carefully plugged with a mud cork, which was even now moist.
Two or three others were in the same plugged condition, and
investigation showed that no single brush had escaped similar tampering
to a greater or less extent. One brush had apparently not given entire
satisfaction, for the plug had been removed, and the caterpillars, eight
or ten in number, were scattered about the opening. But the
dissatisfaction probably lay with one of these caterpillars rather than
with the maternal wasp, who had apparently failed in the full dose of
anaesthetic, for one of her victims which I observed was quite lively,
and had probably forced out the soft plug, and in his squirming had
ousted his luckless companions.

[Illustration]

The caterpillars were all of the same kind, though varying in size,
their length being from one-half to three-quarters of an inch. To all
appearances they were dead, but more careful observation revealed signs
of slight vitality. Recognizing the species as one which I had long
known, from its larva to its moth, it was not difficult to understand
how my brushes might thus have been expeditiously packed with them. Not
far from my studio door is a small thicket of wild rose, which should
alone be sufficient to account for all those victimized caterpillars.
This species is a regular dependent on the rose, dwelling within its
cocoon-like canopy of leaves, which are drawn together with a few silken
webs, and in which it is commonly concealed by day. A little persuasion
upon either end of its leafy case, however, soon brings the little
tenant to view as he wriggles out, backward or forward, as the case may
be, and in a twinkling, spider-like, hangs suspended by a web, which
never fails him even in the most sudden emergency.

I can readily fancy the tiny hornet making a commotion at one end of
this leafy domicile and the next instant catching the evicted
caterpillar "on a fly" at the other. Grasping her prey with her legs and
jaws, in another moment the wrig